The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  “So what do you require of me, Roderic?” asked Obayana.

  Roderic squared his shoulders. “Full complements of troops. As many supplies as you can muster. Your men, my lord, will be needed to reinforce the garrisons across the Arkan Plains against the Harley threat.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gredahl nod with satisfaction. He suppressed a sigh. That answered Gredahl’s problem, but how to reinforce his own dwindling supplies was going to be another matter.

  Filem cleared his throat. “I can offer you little in the way of supplies, but Mondana sent me to say that he is sending you a wagon train of supplies. It may even have reached Ahga by now. He told me to tell you he has not forgotten the aid you gave when Koralane burned.”

  Roderic raised an eyebrow. The lords of Mondana had suffered greatly in the fire which had swept through the Forest of Koralane just a little over a year ago. Those supplies had to cost the depleted lords dearly. “I will send him a message tonight, with my thanks, Filem.”

  “Well, there’s always Vada,” said Brand. “We might not be able to compel Owen to send his men, but we can take his grain. And Reez of Rissona is good for a couple thousand men at least—there’re more troops to shore up the garrisons in western Arkan.”

  Roderic nodded slowly. He had desperately hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary to compel anyone to do anything, and yet, despite his invitations, it seemed that nothing was going to change.

  “I say we do compel him,” put in Kye. “Why should Mortmain and the rest of the Western lords sit behind the Saranevas and grow fat while we bear the brunt of this war?”

  “Because as a practical matter, we cannot force him to send his men,” replied Brand. “We barely have the numbers we need now. And there is another matter. If the West were to know how desperate the situation is here, they might be tempted to rise again.”

  Roderic stared at his brother. That was a possibility he had never even considered. Involuntarily his eyes went to Deirdre. Her face was unreadable, and he knew doubts concerning the recent treaties with Mondana gnawed at her.

  “Brand is right about Rissona,” said Obayana. “Old Ezram is still alive and he never leaves his estate anymore, but young Reez can be counted on.”

  Roderic drew a deep breath and frowned down at the hide map of Meriga on the table. “If we deploy your troops and Rissona’s in Arkan, that will free the main body of the army to concentrate on the main threat. At this point, it looks as though we will have to rely on Everard and Phillip to hold the Northern Tribes in check.” He raised his head and looked at Miles. “It seems, Lord Senador, that this war will be fought from Ithan.” He cleared his throat. “Is it by your leave?”

  Miles nodded. “You have my permission, Lord Prince, to move whatever is required into Ithan. The Tennessy Fall stands with the throne of Meriga.” He spread his hands.

  Brand cocked his head, frowning at the map. “There’s a weak link, Roderic. Do you see it?”

  Roderic looked down at the map once more. The outpost garrisons were marked in circles, the larger ones with squares, and the largest of all with stars, all of them scattered across Meriga in a seemingly random pattern. “If we fortify the garrisons in Arkan—”

  “It’s Dlas, don’t you see?” Brand stabbed a finger on the map. “Look—Missiluse is just to the east—the Harleyriders are going to go right through if what we think is true.”

  Roderic looked up quickly. There was another reason Brand was concerned. Barran, Brand’s son, just a few years older than Roderic, was in command of the garrison.

  “The garrison must be strengthened. Immediately.” Brand folded his arms across his chest.

  Roderic glanced at Phineas. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Deirdre raise an eyebrow questioningly. Brand was right. Even if one forgot that it was his son in potential danger, Brand was right. He nodded. “I think you’re right, Brand. I will send out troops immediately to reinforce the garrison—you’ll see that a messenger goes on ahead?”

  Brand nodded, and a look of understanding passed between the two brothers. “All right. Now—” Roderic folded his arms over his chest. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?”

  The door opened and a servant peered timidly into the room. “I-I beg your pardon, Lord Senador, but the Lady Norah sent me to tell you the feast is ready. She would prefer you to come and eat it now.”

  Roderic glanced at Miles, who shook his head. “All right, we’ll be right there. I’m sorry, Lord Prince.”

  Roderic smiled. “It’s all right. I’d like to meet again later, after the food. I need a better idea of what our strengths are, and our weaknesses.” The men got to their feet. Brand and Vere picked up Phineas’s litter. As they filed out, Deirdre hung back. He smiled at her as he plucked at the edges of the hide map.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He shrugged and shook his head. “I hoped this would be a true Convening, Deirdre. Instead—” He broke off and stared down at the map, reading the potential disaster in its faded lines and circles. He ran a hand through his hair. “Well. You’ve been wounded. Are you all right?” That this was the first time he had been alone with her in months ran through his mind, and abruptly he wondered why that mattered.

  It was her turn to shrug. “Tis nothing that won’t heal.”

  “But that’s your sword arm—will you be able—”

  “Aye,” she snapped.

  Taken aback, they stared at each other. Roderic was suddenly conscious of the exact distance of the space between them, of the fire which smoldered in the depths of her eyes. He nodded slowly, fearing to risk offending her pride. “As you say, Deirdre. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to doubt your ability.”

  “No,” she said, looking away. “I know.” She took a deep breath and tossed the end of her plaid over her shoulder. “The feast awaits, Lord Prince. If we don’t go to eat it, I think we’ll have battle with Lady Norah, and she’s not one to cross. Shall we go?” She opened the door and stood aside, waiting for him to go first.

  He caught a whiff of her scent, a blend of leather and soap and something indefinable that was uniquely her, as he walked past, and he wondered what words went unspoken between them.

  Chapter Ten

  A full moon had risen above the walls, pale and flat as the eye of a dead fish, Deirdre noticed as she stepped onto the terrace. She stared moodily at the moon, plucking at the frayed edges of her plaid.

  From the hall, music filtered out, and the song the harper sang seemed to speak to her:

  Farewell to fame and fortune

  Farewell to arms and strife

  I lay down all my weapons

  And offer up my life.

  For all my years of fighting

  And all the arts of war

  Are nothing if my lady

  Will love with me no more.

  And all my restless wanderings

  They never brought me home;

  If I cannot have my lady

  I’d rather die alone.

  The melody faded into the night and the raucous sounds of feasting continued. Her head ached and her healing wounds itched and restlessness gnawed at a place deep inside. Her arm was stiff and sore, and she knew it would be many days before she would be able to wield any kind of weapon again. Roderic’s concern had been justified. There had been no reason for her to snap at him like an untried girl in the presence of her first love.

  The thought that she might not be able to fight troubled her. Roderic didn’t need her lagging behind. At the thought of Roderic, a wave of longing swept over her and she tightened her broad hands around the rough stone of the low wall before her. She felt a sharp edge prick her hand, slicing through flesh, but she didn’t care. She shut her eyes.

  Honesty compelled her to admit that the sight of Roderic with his wife seared her to the very marrow of her bones. The Lady Annandale was more than everything she could never be: a woman more beautiful than any she had ever seen before, and those eyes—those sea-
blue eyes that seemed to look through her, into the deepest places where Deirdre kept the secrets of her soul. Had the lady guessed, Deirdre wondered. Had she been able to see that Deirdre loved Roderic?

  A sudden noise made Deirdre turn with heightened reflexes. Annandale stood on the threshold of the door, a slight figure with a white shawl held to her throat against the late spring chill.

  “Lady Annandale!” Deirdre whispered in disbelief. It was as if her thoughts had called the lady here.

  “M’Callaster,” Annandale replied with grave courtesy. She held out her hand. “The hall is hot—I came for a breath of air.”

  There was such sincere simplicity in those words, Deirdre relaxed in spite of herself. “Then join me, lady. If you don’t mind my company.”

  Deirdre heard the soft intake of breath and the slap of her thin leather slippers on the rough surface of the stone as Annandale walked to stand beside her. Deirdre glanced down. The top of the other woman’s head came to her shoulder. For a moment, Deirdre felt large and gawky, like an untrained colt. She shifted on her feet, wondering why the presence of this woman at once unnerved and soothed her.

  “You’re in pain.”

  The sound of Annandale’s voice startled her almost as much as the words. It was not a question, it was a statement.

  “Yes—no—’tis not so bad.‘Twill heal.”

  Annandale turned to face Deirdre, her head cocked to one side. “Roderic is lucky you are here.”

  Deirdre felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well,” she said, gruffly. What did one say to the wife of the man one wished to bed? Such a thing had never happened to her before. The Settle Islanders made little fuss of such matters, and as the M’Callaster, it was understood that she had her pick of the men, as her father had had his pick of the women.

  Annandale reached out and took Deirdre’s hand, and Deirdre started and tried to pull back. But the other woman’s grasp was firm, and in that very instant, a thin blue light flared between them at the point of contact. She gasped at the sight of that supernatural light, unable to move or react. On the pale skin of Annandale’s face, beads of sweat appeared over her lower lip and laced her forehead. Inexplicably, a red line blossomed through her shawl, staining the fine white wool. And as Deirdre watched, transfixed, the pain drained from her body like water through a sieve. A feeling of wholeness, of health, swept over and through her like a tide. Her knotted muscles relaxed, the thick scabs flaked away. She moved her arm and the motion was smooth, unencumbered. She stared in disbelief at Annandale.

  The other woman opened her eyes, and for a moment the two women only gazed at each other. Then Deirdre spoke in a hoarse, breathless voice: “Lady, what did you do? How have you done this?”

  Annandale looked down, her cheeks still pale, her face wet with sweat in the moonlight. “It is a gift I have. To heal.”

  Deirdre shook her head as though to clear it. “By the One, lady, what manner of woman are you?”

  “I am,” said Annandale with a little rueful smile, “what the priests consider a witch.” She cocked her head and gazed up at Deirdre.

  Does she expect me to cry for the priests? wondered Deirdre. “A witch? Lady, how could anyone think that you of all people—surely not—”

  Annandale nodded. “A legacy of the Armageddon, I’m afraid. The Old Magic made me as surely as it made Meriga what it is today.” She turned away to stare over the heavy balustrade at the walls before them.

  “Old Magic,” repeated Deirdre. A vision of the Muten attack rose before her eyes, white forms moving like ghosts through the skeletal shapes of the trees, and involuntarily she shuddered, remembering the heat of the flames, the screams of her dying men. “I know it’s real, lady.”

  “I know you do.” Suddenly Annandale gripped her forearm with a hand not much larger than a child’s. “I need your help.”

  “My help?” Deirdre echoed, beginning to understand why this woman unnerved her so. “How can I help you?”

  “You must help me convince Roderic to let me go with Vere to the College of the Muten Elders. Please.”

  Deirdre stared down at her, uncomprehending. This whole conversation had a tinge of the absurd, the unbelievable. Here she stood on the crumbling terrace of this forsaken outpost castle, side by side with the wife of the man she loved, a woman who had just performed a miracle, speaking of Magic and Mutens—she shook her head to clear it. “Go with Vere where?”

  Annandale sighed. “There is a place—they call it the College—where the Muten Elders study the Magic. And in order to learn as much about it as they can, they need me. Vere has offered to take me there, but Roderic will never agree—”

  “As well he shouldn’t, lady. Have you any idea how many enemies await beyond these walls? And Vere— Vere is a fine enough man, but he is no soldier. He wouldn’t be able to protect you if you met any real trouble along the way. Where is this place you want to go?”

  Annandale sighed again. “I don’t know.”

  “Lady—” Deirdre broke off, wondering what she could possibly say to convince this woman of the madness of her proposal. How did men ever deal with women like this?

  “M’Callaster—Deirdre.” In Annandale’s voice was a ring of such quiet conviction, Deirdre looked up in spite of herself. “I know you love him.”

  At once her cheeks flushed painfully. “Lady, I—”

  “I know you do. And I know he’s quite taken with you, too, although he doesn’t know it yet.” There was a trace of amusement in her voice, and a touch of sadness, too, and suddenly Deirdre felt terribly guilty.

  “It’s not my intention—”

  “Deirdre, listen to me.” Annandale’s face was pale in the moonlight, but her eyes glowed with an intensity that kept Deirdre’s eyes focused upon her face. “I know you love him and I am glad. He needs you—he will need you—will need your strength, your courage, your spirit. The days ahead are dark, and as for me—” She stopped speaking and looked toward the horizon. “As for me—” Again she stopped. “We all have our parts to play. And mine—my most important part is done.”

  “He loves you,” Deirdre whispered, still not quite comprehending what she heard.

  “And I love him.” Annandale looked up at Deirdre. “But sometimes love isn’t enough, and sometimes love requires that we do things which the other person doesn’t understand. I have a gift which will enable the ones with the right knowledge to use the Magic without fear of destroying the world and all we know.

  “It isn’t my choice to leave, but I can’t remain here behind these walls, wrapped in some cocoon, while Roderic and you and all the brave men fight a battle which but for me might well be lost. I’ve given Roderic his heir. But what use to him is an heir when his throne is so shaky? I cannot hide behind such courage as yours, when—”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “I will speak with Roderic myself, and if it becomes necessary, I might need you to add your voice to help me convince him.”

  “You will need an escort, lady. There is no way Roderic will ever let the two of you step one foot outside these walls alone.”

  “He needs you here.”

  Deirdre startled. Had the woman read her thoughts?

  “But perhaps one or two of your most trusted men? He has come to rely upon your Islanders as he does no others.”

  “Only one or two?” Deirdre shook her head. “To protect the person he holds most dear? No, lady, surely—”

  “I doubt that a full complement of men will be allowed to get close enough to the College to do any good.”

  There was a long pause as Deirdre cast a considering look at the woman who stood beside her. “That’s why you’ve come to me, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t need my help if Roderic gives his consent. You need it in case he doesn’t.”

  Annandale flushed and dropped her eyes. “You are indeed perceptive, M’Callaster.”

  “But why to me? Why did you co
me to me? All of these men have retainers—”

  “But would any of them understand that sometimes a woman must play a larger part than sitting and waiting for the wounded?”

  The arrow hit home. Deirdre stared at Annandale. In the depths of those blue eyes, she saw a will forged of pain and suffering beyond even her experience, and though Deirdre knew that Annandale was years younger, she suddenly felt as though she stood in the presence of something ageless. She took a deep breath. “Go to Roderic. And when he says no, come back to me.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Annandale.

  Deirdre glanced up at the bone-white moon. “No,lady…” Her words stopped Annandale at the door. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The found Roderic by the window, staring out at the same moon as Deirdre, his face gaunt in the moonlight. He did not turn when he heard her step across the threshold.

  “Roderic?”

  “Yes.” There was such resignation in his tone, her heart ached.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, still looking out the window. “Just tired. I didn’t get a nap.” It was said without reproach, and she knew he only meant to tease, but his voice held a trace of bitterness, of weariness beyond his years. Was it possible, she wondered, that they were both but twenty-two?

  He turned to face her, and in the wavering candlelight, he looked like a stranger. His face was lined, his mouth drawn tight and grim.

  “This—situation—is bad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Potentially, it is worse than anything my father ever faced.” He stripped off his shirt, and she saw the ripple of his muscles beneath the skin, and the scars which bore silent testimony to the battles he had fought. Only she could read the scars which lurked beneath his skin, the ones he bore upon his soul.

  “Come, then, let’s get to bed. The morning comes early, and—” Here she paused, wondering if this was the opening she needed. “I didn’t get a nap, either.”