Children of Enchantment

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  With a grunt, the soldier swung out of his saddle. He turned, looking at Tavia with a blank stare. Hastily, Tavia slid out of her saddle as best she could while encumbered by Melisande. She set the squirming child on the ground and reached across the saddle for the pack tied across it. She fumbled with the bindings and finally worked it open. Except for a folded blanket, and a few stones to simulate the-weight of equipment, it was empty.

  “By the One,” she breathed, as understanding dawned. Swiftly she scooped up the baby and turned to grab the reins. The horse whickered and stamped a protest at her awkward treatment, and the soldier, as though galvanized, drew his sword and advanced.

  “Please … I beg you…” Tavia panted, trapped between the soldier and the horse. She sought to escape sideways, but the animal blocked her path. She feinted right and the soldier followed with stumbling gait, his sword trembling in his hands. Sweat had broken out across his forehead and poured down his face. In spite of her fear, Tavia had never seen anyone sweat so profusely. He swung, a clumsy stroke that missed Melisande’s little head by inches, and Tavia scrambled backward into the animal’s flank. The horse dodged, and Tavia saw her opening. She gathered her skirts in one hand and, clutching Melisande around the waist, broke into an awkward run. Her heart pounded, and the forest seemed quiet, far too quiet.

  Abruptly the path ended in a chasm about twenty feet deep. She muttered a curse she never thought she knew. Melisande squalled. “Hush, child.”

  Behind her the soldier crashed through the underbrush and she turned as the man broke into the clearing. He shambled, a weird sideways run, his sword weaving unsteadily before him. “Please…” She held her hand in supplication as the child squirmed against her hip, her little face twisted.

  The soldier approached, sword raised.

  “No!” she screamed, seizing a rock. She threw it as hard as she could. It struck him squarely on the temple. He dropped his sword, covering the bleeding gash with one hand. He fell to his knees, his face hidden. Tavia’s heart pounded and Melisande wailed louder.

  He raised his face, and his sword dropped to the ground out of his suddenly slack grip. “Forgive me,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Forgive me, lady. I know not what I did.”

  She stared in disbelief, not quite trusting what she heard. “You were sent to kill me and the child. He had no intention of letting us go.”

  “No.” He shook his head, tears coursing down his face. “I don’t know what he did to me. He has some accursed hold upon us all. But I know the further away we rode, the looser his grip became. I am sorry, lady. I would not harm you or the child for the world. Please, forgive me.”

  He struggled to his knees, still holding his head. Blood seeped through his fingers and trickled down the side of his face. Tavia tore her kerchief from around her neck and handed it to him. “Down there, I think there’s likely to be a stream. We have no supplies.”

  “No. We weren’t expected to need them. Don’t worry, though. I can get us to Ahga.” He raised his head, staring north, toward Minnis. “We’ll have to travel as quickly as we can. Lord Amanander will know something’s amiss when I don’t return. He’ll likely send someone after us, if he thinks he can spare it.”

  “Then maybe you’d better go back.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t leave you in these woods. There’s lycats and worse on the prowl. It would be impossible for you and a child to reach Ahga. And the sooner we get there, the sooner we can warn Lord Phineas what has happened.”

  “Then let’s go to one of the farms. I have this—” She held out her hand and her wedding ring threw off sparks of reflected light. “Surely we can trade this for supplies, horses, whatever we need. Roderic will reward whoever helps us with whatever they wish.”

  “No doubt, lady,” he answered, staring at the emerald. “That stone is worth a King’s ransom.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Tavia. “Or a Queen’s.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The great hall of Minnis Saul was bright with noon sun when Annandale was escorted in by one of Amanander’s personal guards. She shied away from his loathsome touch, trying to concentrate on keeping her wits about her. It was apparent that Amanander’s troops were few, that he had a rudimentary, though incomplete, grasp of the Magic, that there was much he did not fully understand. But she also knew that Minnis was built to be impregnable, and that Amanander knew enough about the Magic to recognize her usefulness. She hoped she could control her terror.

  Light reflected off the polished surfaces of the wooden floors and glinted off the glass doors leading out to the gardens. The unseasonable heat had diminished somewhat after last night’s storm, and inside the great hall, the air was pleasantly cool. Amanander stood, just inside one of the wide glass doors, his arms folded across his chest.

  He was dressed, as always, impeccably, his white linen shirt embellished at neck and wrists with complicated black embroidery, his black trousers tucked into high leather boots. His dark hair was drawn back from his face and held at the nape of his neck in a silver clasp, and the length of it cascaded down his back, as lustrous as a woman’s. His eyes swept up and down the length of her body as the soldiers urged her forward, a violating look which made her cross her arms over her breasts.

  “Good day,” he said, when she stood before him. A little smile played across his face, and she knew he sensed her discomfort and enjoyed it. “Will you talk with me, lady?”

  “What for?” she blurted.

  “The day is fine. You would not want to waste it indoors, surely? You spent much of your life roaming beneath the trees of the forest outside the walls, did you not?”

  At that, a chill went through her. She shuddered involuntarily, but he did not notice her reaction. Instead, he continued, “I regret I can’t let you out, so instead, will you walk with me in the gardens my father made for your mother?”

  She lowered her eyes and nodded her assent, walking past him quickly onto the wide terrace and down the broad shallow sweep of the steps. As her feet touched the graveled path, she was overcome with the desire to kick off her shoes and curl her toes in the green shoots of the spring grass. Instead, she turned and looked at him, a question in her eyes.

  He indicated a stone bench where Peregrine and Gartred sat before a small table which held four goblets and a flagon. “Shall we sit?”

  “What do you want of me, Amanander?”

  He caught her under the elbow, and she realized that once again, he wore those tight black leather gloves. He traced the line of her cheeks down her jaw, and below, all the way to her throat, and a shudder of revulsion went through her. He chuckled. “So enamored of my little brother you don’t find me in the least attractive, my dear? Pity. I find you most desirable.” His dark gaze fell to her bosom, following the rounded swell of her breasts, dropping to her waist. “Such a delectable captive I have, it would almost be a shame not to enjoy you. And then you could compare—and decide which brother you preferred.”

  At the thought of Amanander’s embrace, nausea swept through her, and as they reached the bench, she sank down, feeling dizzy and weak. If he forced her—rape was bad enough, but incest… the thought made her shudder. And she would have no choice but to submit, because she would die before she revealed the secret of her birth to Amanander.

  He touched her hair, and she pulled away, drawing herself up. “Is this why you summoned me? To paw at me?”

  He dropped his hand and raised his eyebrow. “I know what you are. An empath.”

  She met his stare and did not waver. “What of it?”

  “You will help me.”

  She gathered the strands of her will about her like a cloak and stared as directly into his eyes as she could, ignoring the other women. “No.”

  A smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Of course you will.”

  “No.”

  They stared at each other while the breeze blew softly in the trees and the scent of the early roses twined about them. Amanan
der drew a deep breath. “I was afraid you’d refuse.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “Because I wanted to spare you, if I could. I wanted to see if perhaps you would come to your senses of your own volition—but I see you are as stubborn as my twin in your own way.” He shrugged. “As you say, lady. I had hoped we would avoid this, but…” He let his voice trail off, looked toward the door, and clapped loudly.

  Annandale followed his gaze and saw two of Amanander’s guards dragging out the wine steward and his wife, plump, middle-aged, and obviously terrified. “What do you mean to do?”

  “Watch.”

  The soldiers dragged the two of them to the broad expanse of the lawn in front of where they sat. As they came closer, their fear reached out to her like the arms of drowning men. She glanced at Amanander.

  A little smile played across his face, and with one brief nod, he gestured to his soldiers. While the first held the woman pinioned, the second threw the man on the ground so hard that the air was knocked out of his lungs, and he lay there, looking stunned. Before he could recover, the soldier hauled him up and tore the tunic he wore from collar to waist. The woman screamed, and the soldier who held her backhanded her across the face with a casual cruelty that wrenched Annandale as surely as if she had been the one hit.

  When the steward’s clothes hung in rags about his waist, the soldier threw him down on the ground like a rag doll. His head struck a stone, and Annandale screamed, “Stop it!”

  Amanander looked at her, amusement playing on his face. “So you’ll agree to help me?”

  “No,” she whispered. The residual echo of the steward’s pain clutched at her, filtering through her defenses.

  Amanander nodded at his soldier, and the guard drew his short sword. Grasping the steward’s arm, he carefully peeled the flesh off his arm from his wrist to his elbow, allowing it to hang in shreds. The pain roused the man from his unconscious stupor, and when he saw what was happening, he began to wail, high and thin, the sound a rabbit makes when a hawk’s talons pierce its flesh.

  Annandale resisted the urge to cover her ears. “Stop it,” she said through clenched teeth. “Stop it, now.”

  “Of course, lady,” said Amanander pleasantly. He waved the guard back, and the poor, terrified steward rocked forward and back, that low keening wail issuing from his throat.

  Without another thought, Annandale leaned forward and touched the man’s uninjured fingertips. Instantly, blue light flared, brighter than sunlight, and beneath the fabric of her gown, her own flesh peeled and split in strips. Before the man’s shocked gaze, his skin readhered, the blood bubbling and congealing.

  She closed her eyes as the pain lanced through her, hot and white and searing as a flame. The steward fell back in a faint, and Annandale met the shocked, staring eyes of his wife.

  “In the name of the One,” the woman breathed.

  Annandale looked at Amanander, sweat beading her forehead, and Amanander smiled, a cruel thin smile. “Will you help me, lady?”

  She shook her head as she felt the familiar, cleansing surge.

  Amanander met her eyes with another thin, cruel smile, and he beckoned to the guard. “Again. But this time, take the woman.”

  It was close to dusk when Amanander finally ordered the steward and his wife taken away. Annandale raised her head, watching them stumble across the lawn, the red marks of their healing wounds fading into pink with every step.

  Sweat rolled down her face, tinged with blood, and every bone, every nerve in her body ached and screamed with residual pain. She slumped upon the ground, pressing one hand against her face, the other gripping the grass, white-knuckled in distress.

  She closed her eyes and sought to block out every distraction. The grass seemed to push itself up against her open palm, and beneath the grass, she sensed the surging pulse of the earth itself, alive with insects and earthworms and creatures too small to be seen by the naked eye.

  She let her shoulders sag and bowed her head, giving herself over to the peace within. The blast roared out of nowhere, it seemed, a mental assault that ripped through the strained defenses of her mind. She cried out, her body tensing under the onslaught.

  Like stinging wasps, Amanander’s energy penetrated her mind seeking access to the most protected core of her, the core she thought of as her own, her very deepest self.

  Annandale panicked. This had been his intention, she realized, to force her to heal again and again, until, weakened and vulernable, she could no longer resist. Involuntarily, she gripped the grass with both white hands, as though the very earth could help her.

  Let go. The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, within and without, over and around, above and below. Let go. Surrender. Give yourself to the Pattern. You are of the Pattern—your strength is of the Pattern. And the Pattern is All.

  A clear white light seemed to flood her mind, an understanding and a comprehension beyond anything she had ever experienced before. The voice was her own and the words seemed to be as much a part of her as her body. Like a child, she obeyed, willfully relaxing, even though Amanander’s assault swirled like a maelstrom around the edges of her awareness.

  Her panic subsided, borne away by the light, washed away by the words, and Amanander’s Magic faded into the frustrated buzzing of a trapped housefly. She raised her face and met his gaze, for the first time unafraid. “You can’t win,” she whispered.

  He was on his feet and moving toward her, murder in his eyes, when a movement in the doorway distracted him. Annandale did not shrink. The knowledge which the voice imparted had given her more courage than she had ever thought she possessed, and detachedly, she recognized the Captain of Amanander’s guard.

  “What do you want?” Amanander snarled, as the man walked woodenly across the grass.

  “Lord Prince, the soldier you sent out with the prisoners this morning has not returned. Is it your will that a search party be sent?”

  Rage distorted Amanander’s face. “Fool,” he muttered. “Fool.” Annandale saw him glance at Peregrine, and in that split second, she understood what was meant to have happened.

  Amanander had had no intentions of allowing Tavia and Melisande go free. The guard who’d gone had instructions to kill them and return. But something had gone wrong. She closed her eyes and murmured a silent prayer that Tavia and the child were safe.

  Peregrine had risen to her feet. “My baby—” she choked out. “You intended to kill her.”

  Amanander reached across the bench, dragging her to her feet and flung her away. She fell onto the grass not far from Annandale, covered her face in her hands and began to weep. “Oh, lady,” she sobbed, “what have I done? What have I done?”

  Annandale reached out and drew Peregrine close, cradling her head against her bosom. She raised her chin and addressed Amanander once again. “Something went wrong, didn’t it? You aren’t in as much control as you’d like us to believe you are.”

  Gartred squawked, her eyes darting from the two women on the grass to Amanander and the guard.

  “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” Annandale went on, as the implications of the one soldier’s defection came clear. “You think you have us trapped, but you’re wrong. You’re the one who’s in danger here, you with all your plans. Roderic will come, and when he does, there’s no way out for you.”

  She got to her feet, pulling Peregrine up with her, and, wrapping an arm around the other woman’s waist, turned on her heel, leaving both Amanander and Gartred staring after them in the falling dark.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Roderic stared in dismay across what served him as a council table, twisting the little pearl ring between his fingers, as though it offered reassurance. Less than an hour had gone by since the messenger’s arrival, who, between bites of food and long gulps of water, told a story Roderic did not want to hear. At the far end of the table, Brand listened with a grave expression, his arms folded across his chest, and Alexander stood by the window,
his eyes closed as he listened. His face was creased as though he were in pain, but Roderic had no thoughts to spare for what Alexander might be feeling.

  “How long has Amanander held Minnis?”

  The messenger shook his head as he bit into a chicken leg. “At least a month. Your lady has been there three weeks.”

  “But Tavia escaped?” Roderic clutched the little pearl ring tightly.

  “He allowed Lady Tavia to leave with your daughter, supposedly as a gesture of good will to the women. But he sent a guard with them, who had instructions to kill them once they got deep in the woods. Luckily, that guard changed his mind. Instead, he helped them get to Ahga.” The messenger gulped his food, drinking as he swallowed, and wine ran out the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

  Brand frowned in disgust. “All right, messenger. Get some rest. Doubtless we’ll have a dispatch for you to take back soon enough.” The messenger grabbed plate and goblet and bowed his way awkwardly out of the room. As the door swung softly shut, Brand swore beneath his breath, a soldier’s oath so uncharacteristically coarse that even Roderic was surprised.

  Alexander closed his eyes and pressed his face against his windowpane.

  “He has my wife, too,” Brand said.

  Roderic leaned back in his chair, knotted his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “And that’s not all—even if it is the worst. Phineas says that the Senador of Atland’s second son has raised an army against his father. If we can’t get some kind of reinforcements to him, and Atland falls, we will lose more than an ally.”

  Brand was silent, tracing patterns on the table with the tip of one index finger. He shot a glance at Alexander, who had not moved.