She smiled, her wrinkled face crinkled around her faded blue eyes. “It is not every day an heir to Meriga is born.”
He gripped her under the elbow and guided her to the antechamber. “How is Amanander? Has there been any other change?”
Tavia glanced into the bedroom and pulled the door shut. “No—not really.”
“Not really? What do you mean by that?”
“This morning, before I was summoned here, Gartred was allowed to see him—you know, her weekly visit—and I could have sworn I saw him open his eyes and look at her.”
“He opens his eyes all the time.” Roderic frowned.
“But this time—” Tavia broke off. “Perhaps it was a trick of the light. It was so dark—we had candles lit well into the morning.”
“What do you think you saw?” Roderic asked gently, aware that this sister hated Amanander with a passion and lived for the day when he would answer for his crimes before the Congress.
“I thought he looked at her as though he knew her. I thought I saw recognition in his eyes.”
Roderic tapped a finger on his chin, considering. “Who’s with him now?”
“Jaboa. She’s been with him since—”
Roderic nodded. Jaboa, Brand’s wife, was as trusted a nurse as Tavia. She could well confirm or deny anything that Tavia thought she might have seen. “Well. I’ll have the servants bring you all dinner. And I’ll speak to Jaboa. Perhaps she noticed some change, too. I’m going to see Phineas, now. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He leaned down and pecked another kiss on her plump cheek.
If Amanander were to wake out of his unnatural sleep, and stood trial before the Congress, it would without a doubt contribute to a speedy end to the rebellion in Missiluse. He went down the staircase to Phineas’s chambers with a light heart and an easier step.
Chapter Three
Down dark and winding corridors Amanander roamed, heels tapping, tapping, tapping on the faded wooden floor. He rounded corners, strode up and down dusty staircases, lost in a haphazard maze. He knew he searched, but why and for what he had forgotten, and that awareness gnawed as annoying as an itch.
Sometimes he thought he heard voices, a blurred buzz that rose and fell just at the periphery of his hearing. Sometimes he thought he heard his name, but each time he paused and tried to listen, the voices maddeningly faded.
Debris was piled in the corners, along the corridors, broken spears and swords which crumbled into dust when he touched them. Room after room was full of mismatched crockery, ragged clothes, and phantom chairs and beds and tables that vanished at his approach. He felt with frustrating certainty that someone searched for him, but where, or how to reach that person beyond the walls of this grim prison, he did not know.
And there was another, another he knew he ought to know, another so similar to himself that their thoughts sometimes intertwined. The random words meant nothing, for he could discern no sense in them. And there was a woman, too, or was there more than one—a woman with black hair and pale skin, who taunted him in language he did not understand as he restlessly roamed the corridors, who sometimes wore another face, a face of such unearthly ugliness he was tempted to shut his eyes until the apparition passed.
But that only lent strength to the apparition, and the only way he had discovered to make it go was to turn the full force of his will upon it, staring at it with every ounce of strength which he possessed, pouring it through his eyes. And when he did that, the vision vanished without a sound, leaving no trace.
He was getting better at it; if he caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, he could prevent it from manifesting entirely if he turned the full force of his glare upon it. It was good practice, he knew, for something that he used to know how to do and had forgotten.
There was no night or day within the shadowed walls, no candles burned to tell the passing of the hours, but Amanander knew that time, precious time, was passing, pouring out through his fingers like gold dust. Only his footsteps, echoing in the empty halls, lingering on the dusty air, gave him a measure of the hours and the days.
He counted his time in footsteps, and as the numbers grew, he knew that within the numbers were the secrets he’d forgotten. If only he could remember, he thought, just the very first, the very barest trace… but he wandered on and on, trapped within the labyrinth.
At the bottom of a crumbling staircase, he heard a name—his name—spoken with such clarity, he scarcely recognized it.
AMANANDER.
He stopped. Nothing had changed. He touched a black-gloved hand to the wall of flaking stone, and the stone left a whitish smear across the leather. He curled his lip in automatic disgust and wiped it fastidiously on the inner hem of his black tunic. Then he paused. When had he put on the gloves?
AMANANDER.
The voice echoed again, louder, more insistent. Amanander looked up the staircase, then down the corridor over his shoulder. The voice seemed to be all around him, echoing off the dusty walls, again and again and again. He glanced down, realizing with a start that his boots were black and polished to a high gloss, and that he could see his own face looking back at him. He stared, jolted by the recognition of himself.
AMANANDER. This time there was the finest edge of pain in the intensity of the voice, as though he’d sliced his finger on a razor’s edge. He looked up.
“Where are you?” It was the first time in weeks, months, years, since he’d heard his own voice, and it startled him, more than his reflection. The sound echoed and spun with a power all its own, cracking the walls of the corridor.
HERE.
A shower of fine powder fell from the ceiling, and he looked up, shocked to see a crack a handspan wide, and growing wider. He bolted up the steps, and the floor shuddered beneath his feet. At the top of the staircase, a figure robed in white stood waiting.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said as he reached the top step.
The figure pointed to a room off the corridor.
“In there? You think we’ll be safe in there?”
The figure inclined its head and stepped aside, allowing Amanander to go first.
The room was nothing like the dusty empty halls he had left. Afire burned in a highly polished grate. Beside the fire, two chairs, with high, cushioned backs, invited. Amanander sniffed. There was the scent of something cooking—roasting meat, the tang of herbs, bread baking—and suddenly saliva exploded in his mouth. Before the fire, a cushioned stool held a thin circlet of gold.
He turned to see the figure shut the door. “Who are you? Do I know you? Why have you brought me here?”
The figure swept the hood off his face, and in the firelight, three black eyes looked back at him with a feral gleam. “Lord Prince,” said Ferad-lugz, “don’t you know me?”
“Ferad.” Pieces of memory came filtering back. This was his teacher, his tutor, his—his mind rejected the word master. Ferad was the one who’d taught him to use the Old Magic, who’d warned him against trying to use it before he was ready. “Where are we? What is this place?”
“I am here only in semblance. And you should know this place. It’s your own mind.”
Taken off guard, Amanander stumbled back a few paces. “My mind?”
“The witch Nydia sent you flying here, after the day at Minnis, when the battle was lost. You don’t remember? You will, in time.”
“How are you here?” Amanander whispered. The fire made a crackling noise in the grate, and he whipped his head around. “This—all this—isn’t real?”
“Real? You ask me what’s real? Philosophers have argued for centuries over the meaning of what’s real. Some would say that this is far more real than anything in the material world. But no, this place is not part of any physical reality as one normally defines it.”
“The fire—it doesn’t burn?”
Ferad waved his hand impatiently, and from the folds of his loose white garment, his secondary arms, tiny, useless appendages no larger than
a human infant’s, twitched involuntarily. “It burns because you believe it burns. I haven’t time to explain all this.”
“The hallway—the corridor—began to collapse when I heard your voice—why—?”
“Because once I got through to you, your madness began to collapse.” Ferad advanced, eyes burning with that unnatural light, and Amanander took a step backward.
“I’m mad?”
“Unconscious. You’ve lain as though asleep for more than nine months. Much has changed in the world, little Prince, while you’ve lain oblivious. And unless you want the world to forget all about you, and go on about its business by itself, then I suggest you’d better come to your senses.”
Amanander sank into one of the chairs. The flames reflected in the highly polished surface of his boots; the fabric was warm and rough beneath his palms. He touched the arms, and the wood was smooth and beautifully carved, and suddenly he recognized it. “This is my desk chair. From the garrison at Dlas.”
“Was your desk chair. Another sits in your place.”
“Who?” He sat bolt upright as Ferad took the chair opposite.
“Your brother Brand’s son, Barran. Roderic sent him there.”
“Roderic.” He whispered the name, and the room seemed to resonate, the flames leap higher, the arms of the chair seemed to expand beneath his grasp. His eyes fell on the gold circlet. He shot a glance at Ferad and reached out to take the crown, seize it and put it on his head, and his hands passed through it as though it were hollow, a shell, a semblance, something which wasn’t quite there. “What have you done with it?”
Ferad chuckled. “You haven’t won it yet, my Prince.”
Amanander leaned forward, suddenly conscious that he was much larger than the Muten. “It’s mine. Give it to me.”
“It isn’t mine to give you,” answered Ferad softly. “Don’t you remember?”
Across the empty space, Amanander stared at Ferad as memory after memory fell into place, like the layers of an onion. The disappearance of his father, Abelard, Roderic’s regency, the Muten revolt, Alexander’s betrayal, the discovery of Nydia’s daughter, the empath, Annandale, whose very nature was the key to the control of the Magic. In the depths of the dark, startling eyes, Amanander saw the past unfurl, his own core of memories restored. “My father?”
“I’ve kept him alive. He’s with me, now.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ve moved east of Dlas—into the Missiluse lowlands. My brotherhood has been on the move; we have successfully infiltrated the College of the Elders and annihilated at least fifteen of the oldest. And the most powerful.”
“And Roderic?”
“Well within your reach. He’s here, at Ahga. The empath has borne him a son.”
“An heir.” Amanander rose to his feet with a curse. “So much time has passed—I’ve lain here like a cripple—what can I do? Can we kill him?”
“Not so easily, my Prince. Do you think this trick is easy? I only broke through you because you were completely weak, defenseless. Your body is not what you remember. You’re a wasted shell compared to what you once were. Even to get you out of the bed you lie in will require the Magic, and to get you out of Ahga and back to me—”
“Why should I come back to you?”
Ferad leaned against the chair. “Your impatience has cost you dearly, my Prince. I would have thought you’d have learned some lessons in all these months, but I see the time has been wasted. Allow me to instruct you. You have no power here. You can’t even summon a jar to piss in. The moment you wake, Roderic will have you arrested, taken from this relatively comfortable room, and placed in a decidedly uncomfortable cell under heavy guard. And then he will call a Convening, and you will stand trial for the crimes of your sister Jesselyn’s murder, the trouble in the Settle Islands, where you masqueraded so successfully as your twin, Alexander, and for inciting a rebellion against the throne.” Ferad smiled as understanding at his predicament washed over Amanander’s face. “Now you begin to see.”
“What’s your solution?”
“You will listen to me very carefully. And you will do exactly what I say.”
The lone candle cast a gentle gleam across the room as Annandale gently disengaged the sleeping baby from her breast. A drop of milk seeped from the corner of the tiny mouth, and the child gave a deep satisfied sigh. She brushed a kiss on his round, pink cheek with the back of one finger, caressed the comical thatch of dark hair which stuck up in all directions from his head. The door opened and shut, and without looking up, she knew at once that Roderic had come. She raised her finger to her mouth in a warning.
Roderic halted just inside the door. “Is he asleep?”
She nodded, drew her nightrobe together, and rose. With a few quick strides, Roderic was beside her, gazing down at the infant in her arms with such tenderness it made her want to weep. She nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He drew her chin up to his face, and bent to kiss her, when he saw her tears.
“Why do you weep?” he whispered.
She shook her head. She placed the baby in his cradle and picked up the candle. When she had shut the door behind them, he repeated the question.
“It’s nothing—no reason.” She brushed at her eyes. “Just a silly thing—women get this way, you know, after childbirth.”
“No,” he said gravely, watching her closely, “I didn’t know.”
“Your expression when you looked at Rhodri—you looked as though you would fight a thousand men rather than let one hair of his be harmed.”
“I would,” he said, “for you both.”
He reached for her, and she leaned into him, catching the flavor of his desire, his need. She nuzzled against him, savoring the closeness of his body, the warm masculine scent so different from the baby’s. But there was something else, some sense of uneasiness, and she drew back, even as he pressed her closer against him, and she heard the unmistakable crinkle of parchment beneath his tunic.
“Is it too soon?” he murmured.
She pulled back, searching his eyes, so soft and green in the shadows, so different from Abelard’s eyes, and wondered once more why no one had ever realized the total lack of resemblance between the King and his heir. “No.” She reached up and drew his face down to hers. “Not at all. But what is wrong? Something is bothering you.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “By the One, love, I will never have a secret from you, will I?” He sighed heavily and withdrew to sink into one of the chairs beside the hearth.
“What is it?” she asked again, as his disquiet wound itself about her like the tendrils of a clinging vine.
“A messenger came in from Brand just now. Things are going badly in Atland. Old Kranak’s younger sons destroyed Grenvill garrison. That was one of our more strategic outposts. Our men are cut off from supplies… they have little choice but to fall back into the Highlands and try to regroup. I need to find reinforcements. I know Phillip is likely to refuse—courteously, of course, and Everard is so far away….” His voice trailed off.
She listened in growing dismay, watching the flames flicker over his narrow face. She felt the burden of his regency as a tangible thing. The charge the King had laid upon him was a weight that grew more heavy with each passing day. He sighed once more, and the sound reverberated deep in her chest.
“What else?”
He raised his head and met her eyes squarely, and from the recesses of his tunic he withdrew a scrap of paper. He held it out to her, and with trembling fingers she reached and took it. At once the impression of pain—torment beyond her comprehension—lanced through her body and she gasped, the paper fluttering from her grip.
“Annandale!” He was on his feet and beside her, his arms supporting as her knees weakened.
“Who-whoever wrote that died in great agony,” she muttered, clutching his sleeve.
He shook his head. “I cannot say—”
“I can,” she said.
“But Vere s
ent it—he found it on some poor wretch by the roadside, said Brand—and you know what it means.”
Annandale stared at the shaky lines, the black script which snaked the lancets of pain into the very marrow of her bones. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
He bent his head to gather her mouth to his, and she froze in his embrace as foreboding swept over and through her as though something had doused her with ice water. Momentarily the room seemed to darken, the shadows to grow and deepen, reaching from the corners with grasping tentacles. The candles guttered as though a chilling wind blew through the room.
“What is it?” He tilted her chin up, a puzzled expression on his face. “Sweet, what I can do about these things tonight has been done. Put it from your mind. But if it’s too soon for you—”
“No.” She twisted her hands in the fabric of his tunic, clutching him closer. “It’s not that—it—” Her eyes darted around the room.
“What, then?” His gaze followed hers, every muscle suddenly tense. Beneath her hands she felt his heart begin to beat faster.
She hesitated. She wanted to say nothing was wrong, and yet she had the profoundest sense that something was more than wrong, something was out of synchrony. The air itself was too thick to breathe— “By the One,” she whispered, as understanding dawned. “It’s the Magic. Someone is using the Magic.”
Without another word, she flung the door to the inner chamber wide and darted into the baby’s room. The room was quiet, peaceful, the infant’s breathing deep and even in the stillness. Instinct made her reach for him, cradle him close to her breast, and behind her, Roderic spoke from the doorway. “What can we do?”
She turned to face him, and her words were drowned out by a thunderous crack, and the whole building—all twenty-five stories—shuddered on its foundations. There was an enormous roaring screech as, on the opposite side of the wide inner ward, one of the five towers of Ahga sank into a massive heap of rubble. Over the rumbling crash, she heard the screams of men and animals. Roderic reached for them both and wrapped his arms around her, bracing himself in the doorway, shielding her with his own body. The baby stirred and whimpered in her frantic grip. Roderic pressed her head against his chest as the whole building heaved once more like an animal in its death throes, and then was still.
The Misbegotten King Page 4
