Children of Enchantment

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  There was another pause. And then she said: “Why not?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why not marry me?”

  It was Roderic’s turn to stare.

  “Are there objections? Another candidate?”

  He searched his memory. Except for Peregrine—and that was a candidate of his own choosing. He could not remember that Abelard—or anyone else— had ever mentioned his marriage. “No,”’ he admitted.

  “Then why not?”

  Because I don’t trust you, he wanted to say. You frighten me with your unearthly beauty. When I am with you, I am like a man lost in a desert, panting for water. He pushed that thought aside with effort and spoke slowly, haltingly. “Your mother showed me a fate worse than anything I ever imagined in my bleakest nightmares and said you were proof against it. But nothing, nothing I’ve ever been taught, nothing I’ve ever encountered, prepared me for you. The day I found you there was an icestorm in the middle of a spring day, and the night I brought you here an earthshake brought down the walls of Ahga. Was that a natural earthshake, or did your mother’s Magic have something to do with that? Was it a result of my bringing you here? What am I to believe?”

  She stood up. “I cannot tell you what to believe. Lord Prince. My mother used the Magic to make the storm to bring you to the tower. But I can only assure you that the earthshake was nothing in comparison to what the Magic can do. Neither you, nor the King, nor Phineas, nor all the Senadors understand what can happen. So the question is not why you should not marry me. The question is can you trust the word of a woman?” She inclined her head in a brief, graceful bow and was gone before he could even think of an answer.

  That afternoon, after a long session with Phineas and the emissaries of the two Senadors, Roderic held up his hand to Phineas’s litter-bearers when they came to take him from the room and told them to wait outside.

  Phineas sat quietly as they left, and then he said: “Is there something you need to discuss with me, Roderic?”

  “Yes. I think you know what it is.”

  “Your marriage.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s been almost two months since you brought her here. You’ve had time to get to know her and to watch her among the court. What do you think?”

  “There’s been no trouble with her. But I keep coming to the same question. Why? Why should I marry her? Why did my father choose her for me?” He looked out the windows into the green expanse of the gardens. “And I still don’t feel I really know her.”

  “That’s been your choice, has it not?”

  Roderic glared, knowing Phineas was right. “I suppose.”

  “You’ve avoided her, Roderic.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Roderic ignored the question. “There’s been no word from Alexander about Amanander. No one has seen him, heard from him. Phineas, have you heard of anything odd happening in the realm? Anywhere?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean by odd?”

  “I don’t know—anything not—usual. Like that earthshake in Ahga—that wasn’t normal.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I haven’t told you all that happened that day. The witch— she showed me a vision in the flames, what would happen if I were not to return from that place.”

  “Yes, so you did say.”

  “That vision haunts my sleep—it was worse than any nightmare—and the most frightening part was that she said the only chance I had to overcome it was if I married the girl.”

  “I see.”

  “She said war would rise in the four corners of the country, that I would be beset on all sides and at once, and that only with the help of Annandale was there a possibility for a victory.”

  Phineas said nothing.

  “I don’t know what to believe, Phineas. If Dad knew something like this would happen, why didn’t he warn us? And you didn’t see the witch, and you can’t see the girl, Phineas. She has the face of a—when I am with her, I cannot tear my eyes away. What Magic is this?”

  “Why do you think it’s Magic?”

  “Because no woman is that beautiful! She has a beauty beneath the skin; it draws me like a magnet.”

  “It may not be Magic, Roderic.”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Perhaps it is nothing more than what you see. I cannot answer your questions. I know your father believed it was imperative you marry her. If you do not, and the King returns, I would not want to answer to the consequences.”

  “But, Phineas.” He sank into one of the chairs and raked his fingers through his hair. “She doesn’t even know how to run the household—Peregrine must remain here as First Lady. She brings me no land, no men, nothing—not even clothes on her back. And that day in the witch’s tower, that day was not the first day I saw her. In the spring, some Wildings asked me to hunt a lycat that had taken to killing their children. I killed that lycat, but not before it had harmed a child. The child was nearly dead, and she—Annandale-—she took the child.”

  “What do you mean, took the child?”

  Roderic explained the events of the day he had slain the lycat. “There,” he finished. “What do you think of that? She tricked me. What happened to that child? What do you think she did with it?”

  “What do you think she did with it?”

  Roderic stared at the old man. The question was unanswerable. “I don’t know,” he said grudgingly.

  “Lord Prince.” A maidservant peered around the door. “Lady Peregrine requests your presence in the Lady Tavia’s chambers at once.”

  “Now, we’ll sec,” he said to Phineas. “You wait here.” Not waiting for an answer to any of his questions, he pushed past the maid and took the steps two and three at a time. “Peregrine? Tavia?”

  They stood by the window, side by side, Peregrine’s arm around Tavia’s waist.

  At the sound of Roderic’s voice, they turned. “Roderic,” Tavia said. Her voice was hoarse, and she had changed. She was no longer so young looking; her face had lines and wrinkles, and she looked almost as old as Brand. But her eyes were focused on him and no longer stared past and through him into some place he could not follow. She smiled broadly and stepped forward, arms outstretched.

  “Tavia?” Roderic could not believe his eyes.

  “Thank you for your care.” Her smile made her face beautiful and inexplicably reminded him of Annandale’s.

  He drew Tavia close, wondering, and looked at Peregrine over the top of Tavia’s head. “How did this happen?”

  Peregrine shook her head. “I have been here maybe three or four hours, since you sent Annandale away, and she woke just now, as you see her.”

  He held Tavia at arm’s length. “How do you feel?”

  “As if I had walked from darkness into light.” She turned to Peregrine. “I don’t know how or why, but when I woke from that last sleep, it was as if I woke from the grave.” She laughed. “Is it not wonderful?”

  “Do you remember anything?”

  The smile faded and she reached for his hands. “I remember it all. But it’s over, and I’m alive, and—Roderic, I feel as if the sun has risen after a long, long night.”

  He thought he would never forget the wonder and the disbelief of that day. His sister declared herself hungry and in need of a bath, and as the servants were sent scurrying to fulfill her wishes, Roderic stumbled, almost in a daze, back to the council room where Phineas waited.

  “What has happened?”

  “It’s—it’s Tavia. She’s herself again.”

  Phineas said nothing.

  “I don’t know what’s happened, but Annandale was involved in some way, I know it.”

  “How?”

  “She was last with her.”

  “Is Tavia harmed in any way?”

  “Oh no, far to the contrary. She’s better than ever.” Roderic gave a short laugh. “If this is Magic, perhaps we need it after all.”

  Roderic open
ed the door to call for the litter-bearers, and as they lifted Phineas to carry him out, he held up his hand and the men paused in the doorway. “I made a mistake once, Roderic, a very long time ago. It was the worst mistake I have ever made, and everything which I have done, or has happened to me since, is a result of it.” He faltered, his voice breaking with emotion, and Roderic waited, stunned. “I, too, distrusted a beautiful woman—a woman who was more than beautiful, whose beauty was like a sword, it cut so deep. I was afraid of her, I was afraid of myself, of the way she made me feel.” Phineas took a deep breath and went on in a rush. “If I had ever been able to love her as much as I wanted her, things might have turned out so very differently than they did.”

  “What do you mean?” Roderic asked, struggling to imagine Phineas as a young man, in love.

  Phineas shook his head. “Only that the King might still be with us, and that I might have been a much happier man.” He motioned the litter-bearers to proceed.

  As they were taking him up the steps, Roderic spoke softly. “I make no promises, Phineas, but I will try to know her better.”

  Tavia joined them in the hall for dinner that evening, and ate and talked and laughed with such energy that Roderic was amused just watching her. After dinner, he tried to excuse himself as usual, but Tavia caught his arm and begged him to stay for the singing and dancing. There was not much he could say.

  Roderic settled back in his chair, allowed himself to be coaxed onto the floor by both Peregrine and Tavia, and then, pleading exhaustion, he was about to make another excuse when the King’s Harper, Rordan, stopped him. “Lord Prince,” cried the harper in a voice that carried into every corner of the room, “will you not honor us yet a while longer?”

  Roderic paused, hoping he wouldn’t be expected to sing.

  “In honor of the Lady Tavia, I would sing a favorite song of your father the King. It is one Tavia heard often in these halls.”

  Roderic gave a short nod and a shrug and sat down. Rordan smiled and seated himself on a low stool and struck a few chords on his harp. “We are fortunate, too, Lord Prince, that there is a lady of the court whose voice does justice to the second part.”

  Roderic’s heart began to pound as Annandale rose to stand beside the harper. Rordan smiled up at her, and she down at him, and Roderic shifted in his chair. The harp’s music rippled like liquid silver, and Rordan’s voice was deep and resonant as it filled the hall:

  “I must away, love, I can no longer tarry,

  This morning’s tempest I have to cross,

  I must be guided without a stumble

  Into the arms I love the most.

  “And when he came to his true love’s dwelling,

  He knelt down gently upon a stone,

  And through the window, he whispered lowly

  Is my true love within at home?”

  Annandale took a breath and he tensed as her voice spilled like a waterfall over the company:

  “She raised her head up, from her down soft pillow,

  She raised the blanket from off her breast,

  And through the window, she whispered lowly,

  Who’s that disturbing me at my nights rest?”

  The harp’s music fell like the crystalline water of a mountain stream, and Roderic realized how little he had really known of his father. He had never heard this song played before.

  Rordan’s eyes never left Annandale’s face.

  Roderic felt the blood pulse in his veins, a heat which centered in his groin and grew with each heartbeat. Annandale raised her eyes and as her voice and Rordan’s entwined like lovers, Roderic’s eyes held hers across the space which separated them.

  “And when the long night was passed and over,

  And when the small clouds began to grow,

  He took her hand, they kissed and parted,

  Then he saddled and mounted, and away did go.”

  As the court applauded with whistles and claps and quite a few suggestions of what sort of entertainment they might like to have next, Roderic held out his hand and beckoned. “1 never heard this song before, Rordan, and yet you say it was one of my father’s favorites?”

  “Indeed, Lord Prince, it was. But after your lady mother the Queen died, he only wanted to hear it in private. And he did, almost every night.”

  “Why? Why only in private?”

  “It made him weep, Lord Prince.”

  Roderic turned to Annandale. “Your voice is as fair as your face.”

  She blushed. “Thank you, Lord Prince.”

  “Did Rordan teach you that?”

  “No, Lord Prince.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “It was one of my mother’s favorite songs. She sang it all the time, until—” Her voice faltered and she looked down at the floor.

  “Until?”

  “Until she could sing no more.” Slowly she raised her eyes to his, and tears laced her lashes, clinging like pearls.

  Desire, and something more, something stronger and deeper that he had ever felt before, made him clench the arms of his chair. More than anything else, he wanted to take this woman and make her his, only his. Every other woman he had ever known seemed to pale and fade, even Peregrine, in the face of the feelings this strange, sad girl roused in him. If they had been alone, nothing would have kept him back. “Will you dine with me tomorrow noon?”

  “Tomorrow. Oh, I—“

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Peregrine—Lady Peregrine—has arranged for a picnic.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, but if you—“

  “Not at all! Another time perhaps. Enjoy your expedition.” He got to his feet and held his hand out to Peregrine. “Come, I’m tired and want my bed.” As he led Peregrine from the hall, he could feel Annandale standing as he had left her beside the chair.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The day following Tavia’s recovery was cold and rainy, and Roderic was certain there was no picnic. But rather than find Annandale and repeat his invitation, he abruptly decided to return to Ahga. It was easy to plead the press of business, although he knew Phineas saw his excuse for what it was. He stayed away a little more than a month, and as Gost faded into Tember, in a tangle of sweltering days and sleepless nights, he knew he should return. It would be his last possible chance for a respite.

  In the fields bordering the highway, the farmers tended their crops, the trees hung heavy with fruit, and the land lay like a ripe peach under the warm sun. The sky was clear and very blue. Roderic’s party camped in a stand of trees by a rushing stream. Roderic looked up at the sky as he lay on his blanket, and watched the stars wheel in their orbits, listening to the sounds of the night creatures calling through the trees. He took his turn that night, keeping watch over the rest as they slept. He crouched beside the fire, and a deep sense of peace pervaded the sleeping camp. A stick broke suddenly, sending up a shower of sparks, and he looked up and saw a star shoot across the sky. It left a trail of light. He stood up and watched it blaze into the eastern horizon. Momentarily, the sky was black once more, and then, as though the star’s light had been dispersed and diffused, the first light of day brightened the sky.

  He had been running away, he thought suddenly, running away from something he didn’t want to understand. No, he corrected himself, not something—someone. The circumstances surrounding their meeting were so fantastic, so unbelievable, he had a hard time comprehending the fact that the girl existed, let alone that he should marry her. The Magic Vere described was the stuff of stories, and yet, that was countered by the evidence of his own experiences, and Brand’s. Brand’s advice to let the girl stay, to let things go on as they were and devote his energy to the kingdom was countered by Phineas’s insistence that he should marry her as soon as possible. He understood a little why Annandale should be protected from Amanander; there was something so fragile and unsullied about her that just the thought of her in Amanander’s presence made him shudder. But that same indefin
able quality frightened him, too. Those eyes of hers—so large and clear and blue—appeared to look all the way through him. He didn’t like to think what she might see.

  Something else about her eyes tugged at him, something familiar. He didn’t want to trust her, didn’t want to let himself give in to the undeniable attraction he had for her. He wondered what Phineas had meant—that he had distrusted a beautiful woman and so had made a terrible mistake? Did he refer to Nydia? What could possibly have changed Nydia from the beautiful woman every man remembered into the monster she now was? Had her beauty been a disguise all along?

  He shook his head, disgusted with his own thoughts. I’m behaving just as Brand feared. A bird twittered on the branch above his head, scolding, and the rising breeze stirred the campfire. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and bent to roll up his blanket. It was time to travel on.

  From her window in the eastern tower, Annandale watched the comet streak across the sky. It disappeared into the west just as the first light of dawn broke over the trees. She shifted the baby’s head against her shoulder. Silky wisps of dark hair tickled her cheek. The child stirred, whimpered, and was still.

  Melisande was teething. Her gums were swollen and sore, the tooth buds just visible beneath the skin like tiny pearls. During the day there were more distractions, more hands willing to help and hold and soothe. But in the night, the pain intensified, and now these vigils had become a habit.

  Annandale sat down once more in the rocking chair. She tucked the blanket closer around the baby’s shoulders. Her own gums ached and throbbed in a constant flux of pain and relief. She leaned back against the chair, shut her eyes, and listened to the rising chorus of birdsong.

  Behind the chair, the door opened. “Is the baby all right?” Peregrine spoke in a sharp whisper.

  Annandale took a deep breath and braced her shoulders against the abrupt blast of Peregrine’s jealousy. “She’s fine. She was in some pain last night—I don’t think the medicine did much—“

  “That’s what my mother always used on the children at our estate.” Peregrine swept over to the chair, her lips tightly pressed together, but her expression softened as she gazed at her sleeping daughter. The two women’s eyes met, and with a sigh, Peregrine dropped hers and turned away. “I want to hate you, you know.”