The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  At the word “Dad,” Roderic gasped and grabbed Alexander by the shoulders. “Amanander does have Dad.” Alexander sagged and nodded. A tear streaked down his wrinkled face. Roderic placed him gently back against his pillows, and looked at Annandale. “Oh, my love,” he whispered. “What are we to do?”

  Alexander’s ragged breathing filled the room. Finally, Annandale bent over Alexander and picked up his withered hand. Her face softened with pity and she gently stroked his brow. “He’s dying, Roderic.”

  “Can you save him?”

  “I—I can try.”

  “Don’t do anything to harm yourself.” He caught her arm and gazed into her eyes with alarm.

  “I won’t.” She pressed Alexander’s hand between both of hers. “Alex.”

  Alexander stirred and groaned. “Lady.” His laboring chest heaved with his effort to breathe.

  Roderic glanced down, staring at the old man’s claw held between Annandale’s small hands. Before his eyes, the supple skin of her fingers cracked and dried, like a leaf withering in the glare of a merciless sun. Her nails shriveled and turned yellow. He did not dare look up at her face. The air seemed to shimmer, rippling with the faintest gleam of gossamer light, like spun strands of purest silver. And then, like the opening of a flower, her flesh plumped and pinkened, the nails grew straight and rosy once more. Roderic dared to look at Alexander’s face.

  His breathing deepened. He had fallen into a sound sleep.

  Annandale sagged and Roderic caught her before she could topple over. Sweat tinged with blood rolled down her face. He cradled her against his chest and reached for a linen square. “By the One, what have you done? Are you all right?” He dabbed at the pale pink drops.

  She nodded weakly. “He was very close to death— closer than I realized. It took more for me to heal him than I thought it would.”

  He pushed her hair away from her face, holding her close against him. “Oh, love, I don’t want you to risk yourself that way—”

  “Roderic.”

  Roderic looked up. Alexander’s voice was stronger than he had heard it in a long time. He was sitting straight up.

  “There isn’t much time.”

  “Time for what, Alex?”

  “To stop Amanander.”

  Roderic stared at his brother as Annandale nestled her head against his shoulder.

  Alexander drew a deep breath. “You have my deepest thanks, lady. You saved my life.”

  From the shelter of Roderic’s arms, Annandale nodded. “I think I understand how he got away, Roderic.”

  The two men stared at her. “How?” they asked, nearly in unison.

  “Somehow, Amanander was able to use the Magic to link you to him.” She wiped a shaking hand over her face and tried to straighten her shoulders. “He drew upon your—your self, in some way I cannot understand. That is what weakened you to the point of death. He will be able to do this again, and he may not need Alexander as his victim. He has always been able to control minds, at least in some limited, circumscribed way. But this—” She broke off and bit her lip, the shadows beneath her eyes dark smudges on her pale skin. “This seems to indicate that not only can he manipulate matter as well as human minds, he can—”

  “He can drain a person of some part of their very selves,” Alexander finished for her.

  She nodded. “I-I don’t know if I could do this again. If his hold on you had been any stronger—if he had taken any more than he did—I think it would have been beyond my ability to help.”

  “Can he do it again?” Roderic asked, more to himself than to Alexander or Annandale.

  Alexander nodded slowly. “I think he can, Roderic. There’s a bond between us—even your lady can’t break that. We are linked more closely than blood, he and I.”

  “I wish Vere were here.” Roderic sighed. “When I go to Ithan—” Abruptly he pulled back and gazed into Annandale’s dark blue eyes. “I think you must all come with me. You, the children, Tavia, Alex.”

  “You would move us all to Ithan?” Annandale sat up.

  “I cannot risk leaving you here. Ferad and Amanander have proven they can reach into the very heart of Ahga itself. There’s no place I could send you where you would be safe. I want Vere to talk to you, Alex. Perhaps there is some way to break this monstrous bond you share with Amanander. But we won’t know that until you speak to him, and you, my lady, you and my heir must be protected. If I must keep you by my side always, then so be it.”

  “Rhodri is so young,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he said. “But I swore to keep you safe.”

  She only pressed her lips together. Alexander coughed, and Roderic looked over at him.

  “What’s the situation at Ithan, Roderic?”

  “Not good. It looks as though Reginald has allied with the lesser lords in the South. I know—you warned me months ago in the Settle Islands, but when Amanander was injured, Reginald must have decided to stay his hand. It looks as though he has thrown his allegiance in with them. I must consolidate our allies. And talk to Vere, now that Amanander has escaped.

  “But there’s another reason I need you to come, Alex. You have to help us find Dad. You said something, just now. The King lies beneath a mountain. Can you tell us anything else? Do you think you would know the mountain, if you saw it?”

  Alexander spread his hands. “I’m not sure.” A shadow crossed his face and he looked away. “I would sooner face an army single-handed than dwell upon those visions, Roderic. But if I must, I shall. I can tell you this… Dad is either dying, or he should be.” He leaned upon the bed, shaking his head. “You know I will do whatever you wish.”

  “Roderic—” Annandale tugged at his arm. “It may be dangerous for Alex to come. Amanander has a—a way in, so to speak. If Alex comes closer to him, this—this may happen again.”

  Roderic looked from his wife to his brother and drew a deep breath. “Alex? What do you say?”

  Alex met his eyes squarely. “In any of the dispatches, does Deirdre mention Brea?”

  Roderic hesitated. Brea M’Callaster was Deirdre’s younger sister, the woman Alexander had loved, and another victim of Amanander’s charade when he had pretended to be his twin. “No, Alex. There’s been no word of her—not since her daughter was born.”

  “His daughter,” Alexander said through clenched teeth. He met Rodericks eyes squarely. “I’m coming with you. I’ll do what I can to find Dad. I have a score to settle with Aman all my own. If going to Ithan brings us closer, so be it. Use me as bait, if you will. Amanander will find me a trap—with teeth.”

  Chapter Six

  Rain dripped from the overhanging branches of the trees and beaded on the tightly woven plaid of Deirdre’s cloak like shimmering pearls. Mist swirled at her feet, and the dull thud of the hooves of her mount was curiously muffled. She glanced over her shoulder at the ragged line of men who trudged behind her mount. These trees, barely misted with the first faint green haze of spring, disturbed her—their misshapen trunks taunted her with memories of the twisted wreckage of the dead she had seen too many times in the last weeks. Just ahead of her, she caught a glimpse of Vere moving silently through the trees, his gray, tattered cloak blending into the surrounding terrain almost too perfectly. A Muten trick, she remembered, and immediately she scanned the area around the perimeter of her vision.

  Her instincts told her to trust Vere, but her fear of betrayal made her wary. She hoped that by the end of the six days march which Vere had said would bring them to Ithan, they would find that Roderic had arrived as well. It was past time for planning. Kye and Brand and the main body of their forces were moving from the south. She could well imagine Kye’s reaction to the news that they were to retire to Ithan. But she understood the necessity of the need to regroup. Vere was silent, worried about the situation more than he let on, but she knew he paced the perimeter of their campsites at night, knew he watched anxiously as he led them over the ancient roadway which wound across the foothil
ls of the Pulatchian Highlands. Although there had been no more ghastly sights like the bodies she had found some weeks ago, she knew the incident was still in his mind.

  She glanced up just in time to see Vere pause and hold up his hand in silent warning. Instantly she tensed, holding up her own hand and pulling at the reins so that her horse halted. She slipped out of the saddle, tightening her grip on the sword at her hip. Instinctively she drew a deep breath and choked. The air felt denser, thicker, as though suddenly it had changed to a liquid. She felt her lungs struggle to pull it in, and in that moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the trees on the periphery shudder as though something shook the trunks like sticks. Her eyes darted frantically from side to side, and beside her, the horse threw its head back, caught in the same struggle to breathe. She saw the tree closest vibrate as though some unseen force passed through it. With a jerk, something had been released, and she could breathe again. She took a deep breath and the trees on either side of the path burst into flames, like great burning torches.

  With a shriek, she turned, and in that instant, a cloud of Mutens dropped from the trees, silent as the falling rain. A cry arose from the men, and she reacted instantly, pulling the sword from its sheath, and crouching as the first opponent jabbed a vicious side blow to her unprotected flank.

  Behind her she could hear the sergeant try to rally the men into some semblance of order. The burning trees hemmed them in tightly, and the Mutens cut through the ranks as cleanly as a scythe through corn. Beneath the shouts of the frightened men, the screams of the wounded and the dying, the Mutens fought with silent, eerie precision.

  Deirdre sliced her sword across a Muten’s throat and it fell, blood fountaining across her in wide spray, blinding her temporarily as another sprang up in front. In the confusion she could see nothing but the red mist before her eyes, hear nothing but the hoarse shouts and high-pitched screams.

  Her horse reared and neighed, hooves flailing, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a razor spear whistle through the air, slicing through the animal’s throat cleanly as butter. “No!” she cried, turning her back blindly, momentarily forgetting everything but the loss of the animal she had reared from childhood. And then Vere was there, swinging his quarter stave, knocking opponents off their feet, dodging blows with complicated twists and turns of his body. In the press of battle, he grabbed at her arm. “Come,” he cried, “run.”

  “What?” she screamed back.

  “We’re outnumbered—there’re more of them than you can imagine—this way—”

  Deirdre glanced over her shoulder. The forest path was a mass of men and Mutens, white and gray shapes moving with deadly proficiency through the ranks of men.

  “I can get you out—now.”

  The moment seemed to collapse, then expand, and the decision was made for her. To stay meant certain death. The furious flames hissed and snapped as the wet wood burned, leaping out with long tongues as though to snatch the hapless company. She cast a last desperate glance over her shoulder. Her men crumpled beneath the onslaught. She was less expendable than they.

  She pulled her battle-plaid closer about her shoulders and nodded. Vere grasped her arm, and four white-garbed forms dropped in front of them. With one mighty stroke, Deirdre swung her sword and thrust simultaneously with her dagger as Vere slashed with his quarter stave. The Mutens fell, howling, into a burning tree. Vere grabbed her arm again and pulled her through the underbrush. They ran.

  The stench of burning flesh, the cries of her abandoned men pursued them through the trees, the branches catching at her plaid like grasping hands. Finally, Vere paused, his breath coming in hard gasps.

  She leaned against the black-ribbed trunk of an ancient tree, her own breathing ragged, her chest pounding. Her upper arm and her shoulder throbbed with a dull ache. She closed her eyes, seeing once again the mound of white forms writhing on the bodies of her men, like a thick mass of maggots. Bile rose in her throat, and she opened her eyes to see Vere staring into the distance, his gray hair blowing across his shoulders. “How did that happen?”

  He turned to face her, the lines of his face etched deeply. “I don’t know. I have never seen anything like that.”

  “You don’t know…” she echoed. She gazed at Vere, at the Muten dress he wore, the gray cloak held at his throat by an iron clasp of Muten make, at the faded Muten tattoos which swirled upon his thin cheeks. “You don’t know.”

  With a motion so fast he didn’t have time to flinch, she was on him, her dagger held to his throat. He stumbled back, taken completely by surprise, as she twisted her hands in the fabric of his tunic. She felt his body go limp beneath her as she pressed the edge of the weapon beneath his chin, the pain in her upper arm and shoulder entirely forgotten.

  “Kill me if you wish, M’Callaster.” His eyes were steady and dark in the shadowed light. “But I swear I had nothing to do with the ambush.”

  For a moment she hesitated, tightening her grip in the fabric of his tunic. She felt his body relax beneath her, and he moved only slightly, tilting his chin up in a gesture of submission. With a sigh, she let go and moved back, sheathing the dagger as she did so. “I’m sorry,” she spoke over her shoulder. “I know there’s a traitor—even if Brand refuses to believe me—and now—”

  “I assure you that attack had nothing to do with either Atland or the traitor.” Vere rose to his feet, brushing debris off his clothes. “It is as well that Roderic has called this Convening—Atland’s sons had better give up this nonsense of rebellion, or there will be nothing for them to fight over.”

  “What do you mean?” Deirdre gathered her cloak around her, thankful that the heavy wool stayed dry despite the steady drip of the rain beneath the thick branches.

  “Come, M’Callaster—with some luck, I can get us to Ithan. We may be able to travel more quickly—now.” He paused, and his face was grim. “We have a few hours of daylight left. I know a place not far from here where we can spend the night.”

  “Tell me what the ambush means to you,” she said as she hastened after him.

  Vere paused and looked around, squinting through the trees. “This way. And not now. The forest may hide more secrets… and sharper ears than you might imagine may be listening.”

  Deirdre glanced over her shoulder. Nothing moved but the steady drip of the rain. A breeze made the leaves shiver on the branches. The forest was still. “Lead on.”

  Through the still and silent afternoon he led her, easing under branches, over underbrush, treading as carefully as a lycat in his boots of smooth leather. She followed as quietly as she could, cursing more than once the life she had spent in the saddle. As the light began to fade, Vere emerged into a clearing. “Here,” he said, his voice low. “See there—we can shelter there for the night.”

  Over his shoulder, Deirdre saw the shell of an abandoned building. She looked down and abruptly realized they had been following the remains of an old road, heavy with undergrowth, the black surface nearly obscured by the forest around it, but the ghost of which had been sufficient for Vere to follow. A wind whined through the branches, and abruptly she shivered.

  “There will be dry wood inside,” Vere said, as if he had noticed her shudder. “Come, M’Callaster.”

  Silently he led her through the falling dark, into the crumbling shell of the building. With a dubious eye, she surveyed the crumbling mortar and stone blocks. Such sights were common all over Meriga. Vere fumbled in a corner and emerged carrying what looked like a clear-faced, shiny cylinder. He pressed a button on its side and abruptly light flooded the space. Deirdre jumped. “What’s that?”

  “Cold fire torch,” he said shortly, as though he didn’t want to be questioned further. “You should understand, M’Callaster, that there are things here you may not understand. It would be better if you kept your questions to a minimum… I would prefer not to lie.”

  “Why would you lie?”

  “There are things here I am sworn not to reveal.”


  Another flick of the wrist, it seemed, and Vere had a fire burning in a battered grate. Curiously, in spite of herself, Deirdre watched him amongst the rubble. It occurred to her that the rubble was carefully placed; the whole place was artfully arranged so as to appear no more than what it appeared to be: an abandoned shell of an old building. As the flames flickered in the dark night, Deirdre ate the stew he handed her, forbearing to ask where he had gotten it. Finally, she set her bowl aside and winced as she straightened her arm.

  “I’d better dress that wound for you, M’Callaster.” Vere rummaged in one of the caches, and as she stripped off her tunic and her shirt, she could feel that he deliberately averted his eyes.

  Silently he bandaged the wound, and she noticed detachedly that the wound was serious, that a razor spear had slashed nearly all the way to the bone. It would be a long time healing. But she saw, too, that his fingers trembled as they brushed her flesh, and she smiled to herself. Surprised, she felt an answering response in her belly.

  “You saved my life,” she said, watching him as he busied himself with the utensils.

  “I did.”

  “Look at me.”

  Reluctantly, she thought, he raised his eyes to hers. The resemblance to Roderic was fleeting, she thought. There was nothing of the Prince in the narrow face, in the set of the eyes, or the long jutting nose.

  “What happened back there?”

  He dropped his eyes once more. Was it possible, she wondered, that any man could be more transparent than Vere?

  “I don’t give a damn about your Muten secrets, Vere. I just lost nearly three hundred men, and I have a right to know how they died. What happened back there wasn’t natural and you know it. There’s something gone terribly wrong that has nothing to do with human treachery. Now… are you going to answer my question?”