“No—” He picked up the gold piece and handed it back to her. “They can’t spend that here. We’ll leave this, instead.” From a pocket, he pulled out three silver pennies. “It’s not quite the equivalent, but it will go further.” He picked up a last piece of cheese. “And thank you. Once again.”
She gave him a wry smile as she slung her plaid over her shoulder, adjusting her swordbelt at her hip.
He narrowed his eyes at the ease with which she moved, and suddenly he realized that her arm was no longer in a sling. “Deirdre—your arm. You aren’t—your wound—”
“Your wife.” She met his eyes. “Consider my promise to escort her my payment of the debt I owe to her.”
Dawn was a pale pink streak across the eastern sky as Roderic and Deirdre cantered across the drawbridge, into the inner ward of Ithan Ford. The sleepy sentries stared at them in disbelief. He tossed the reins of his mount to a yawning stable boy, and with a last nod, he took off up the steps to his chambers. He saw her wink out of the corner of his eye.
In the doorway of his bedroom, he paused. Annandale lay across the rumpled bed, her arms wrapped around her pillow. He shut the door and bolted it. The floor creaked beneath his weight as he walked to the bed, and instantly she sprang awake. “Roderic.”
“Forgive me, lady,” he said as he knelt beside the bed. “I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry, too. I should not have told you so abruptly, but I could not let you think—you thought we were brother and sister. I saw it in your face.”
“It’s hard for me to believe what you tell me.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t matter what we believe.”
“Yes.” He laughed bitterly. “Do you know Phineas said something like that to me, once? On the night I brought you to Minnis, and he told me my father—” He stumbled over the word. “When he told me the King wanted me to marry you.” He paused, searching her face, and she looked at him so lovingly he wanted to weep. “I nearly did a terrible thing last night.”
She gave a great sigh and held out her hand. “Oh, Roderic.”
He buried his head in the crumpled fabric of her skirts. The early light gave her skin a pale grayish cast; for the first time since he had ever known her, she looked old, tired, as worn as he. A dull ache spread a low throb from the base of his skull to his temples. The intense rage was gone, and he was only tired beyond endurance. He sat down heavily in a chair beside the bed. “You had better begin at the beginning.”
She nodded gravely. Her gaze went to the window and then back to him. “It began in the twelfth year of your father’s reign. On his way to Ahga, he rode through a little town where there was about to be a public execution. The crime was witchcraft and the condemned woman was my mother. The King stopped the execution. He ordered them to take her off the stake, and when they pulled the hood off her face, he—”
“Everyone says your mother was beautiful.”
“Do you think I am beautiful?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Do you?”
“You know I do.”
“When she was young—before everything—she was even more beautiful than I. When Abelard saw her, he took her away with him. He used her gift, you see. When the village priest, the one who wanted to burn her, was made the Bishop of Ahga, he took her away to the North Woods, and there—”
“That’s why he built Minnis.”
“Yes. He meant to keep her safe, you see, at least as safe as he could make her. In the beginning, when the Bishop first came to Ahga, she had a great deal of power because she allied herself with Agara, Abelard’s mother. And the King had married your mother, ending Mortmain’s Rebellion and consolidating the realm.”
“Hadn’t he sworn a vow of fidelity to her, to the Queen?”
“Of course. But Abelard didn’t love her. He treated her shamefully. She didn’t want to marry him, I don’t think. He forced her, as he forced everyone around him, to do his will. And it was that marriage that brought all the trouble about.
“You know my mother could see the future. There were certain limitations to her power. She couldn’t see her own future, and she couldn’t see past a choice. But once a choice was made, she could see what the outcome of the choice would be.”
He frowned, trying to understand.
“Think of it this way. Imagine you stand at the highest tower of Ahga. From there you can see all the markets and all the roads leading to them. Suppose you see a farmer, leading his stock to slaughter. From where you are, you can see not only the farmer, but where he is going. You, in effect, see his future.”
She paused. When Roderic nodded, she continued. “Now, suppose, there is an overturned cart around a corner. The way is blocked. You know that, and you know the farmer will have to turn around and make a decision to go another way, but he doesn’t know that until he gets there, and you have no way of knowing what way he will decide to go once he does.”
“So your mother saw the future as a series of possibilities?”
“Yes. Her ability could not interfere with anyone’s will to decide for themselves, however. When you stood before her in her tower, she showed you what would have happened if you had left without me. Once you agreed to take me with you, the vision in the flames would have been different. But, as you have seen, some of what she showed you has already come to pass.”
“So she used this ability to help my fa—the King?”
“She swore a pledge of allegiance to him, her foresight, in exchange for his protection. She was, according to the definition of the priests, most definitely a witch.”
He nodded and she continued, “Shortly after she came to Ahga, Owen Mortmain and the other Western lords rebelled. Abelard forced Owen to give him his daughter. He threatened to rape her, and then let his men use her, if Owen did not agree.”
Roderic flinched. “Go on.”
“So Abelard married Melisande. But he didn’t ask my mother before he did it, and Melisande turned out to be barren. After it was done, my mother told him the outcome. No son of his would ever reign in Ahga, she said.”
The words shivered down his spine with the weight of prophecy. “Why not?”
“By that time, Abelard had seven sons. Agara, his mother, had a clear favorite, Amanander. But Abelard feared that a son born outside of a lawful marriage would give the Congress an excuse to dissolve the kingdom. And so it became critical to Abelard that his Queen have a son.”
“My mother was a pawn.”
Annandale nodded sadly. “He went to my mother and demanded she use the Magic to help him. She had sworn to uphold the Kingdom by any means at her disposal. By her own oath, he compelled her to use the Magic. And so, in the twentieth year of his reign, two children were conceived. One was you—the other was me.”
“Who, then, is my father?”
“Phineas.”
“Phineas?”
“Yes. He was the Captain of the King’s Guard.”
He stared back at her, memories of the old man rushing through his mind. For as long as he could remember, Phineas had been an invalid, honored and revered, but an invalid nonetheless, helpless, crippled, blind. But who else had answered his questions so patiently, who else had explained strategies more readily than even his tutors, who else had taught him to play chess, over the longest and dullest of the winter evenings? Who had never turned him away, always listened, never interrupted, always responded with interest, with kindness, with advice?
He rocked back on his heels, remembering a thousand times when others had been too busy, when the King had been away, when a servant had come looking for him, with the request that Lord Phineas desired the presence of the young Prince. And how much he had looked forward to the chats with Phineas beside the hearths, how often he had listened, entranced, to the old man’s tales. How eagerly he had gone.
He thrust the memories aside. “Why did your mother change? What made her become the monster she was at the end?”
“Becau
se she used the Magic, Roderic. All four of them were subject to it. Your mother died giving birth to you, Phineas was wounded, lamed and blind. My mother became the creature you saw. And Abelard—it was by his will that the Magic was used. I don’t like to think about what might be happening to him. But you see, Roderic, if Amanander truly has discovered a way to use the Magic without the consequences—”
“Yes. I understand.” He knitted his fingers together. “Deirdre says she will take you there herself, so that I need have no fear for your safety. How long have you known this? Have you always known?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not always. Shortly before we met, you and I, the King came riding through the woods. His horse injured, killed, and he was hurt. I was watching, you see, and my mother came—told me to heal him, that it was time he learned who I was. and so I did.”
“You met the King then?”
“The first and only time.”
“And he knew you were his daughter?”
“My mother told him who I was.” She twisted her hands in her gown.
He reached up and brushed the curls which tumbled over her shoulders off her cheeks. “What did you think of him?”
She smiled a little sadly. “I was afraid of him. He didn’t look as though he would be an easy man to love.”
Roderic nodded, his hands straying to her shoulders. “Neither am I,” he whispered.
At that, she drew him close, to nestle his head against her breasts. “None of us are,” she murmured. “None of us are.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
She pulled away and turned his chin up to hers. “Nor do I… but I think I must.”
“What about Rhodri?”
She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “He must stay here. He will be safer here, and though the One forbid anything should happen to us on the way, an infant will only be a danger—to the entire party.”
He gazed into her eyes. He had not realized before the depth of her commitment to see that the kingdom was preserved. Tears gathered on her lashes, clung like pearls, and as the first spilled over and trailed down her cheek, he gathered her in his arms and held her tightly, as though for the last time. There were no more words between them.
Chapter Thirteen
On an early morning in that cold June, Roderic watched from the steps of the entrance of Ithan’s keep as the little party prepared to leave the sheltering walls of the fortress. He held tightly to Annandale’s hands, loathe to let her go. “Promise me you’ll do nothing foolish, lady—”
“Bah!” Deirdre cut him off with a snort. “Is the lady in the habit of foolishness?” The early morning light glinted off the short sword strapped to her thigh, the polished brass of her bridle. At her shoulder, an intricate pin held her brown-and-red battle-plaid securely in place. Roderic gazed up into her square-jawed, strong-featured face and was not comforted.
“Swear to me, M’Callaster—”
“I’ve already sworn to you, Prince.‘Tis not the time for oaths. Today’s the time to act.” Deirdre’s horse pawed impatiently, as though some of his mistress’s own impatience was communicated to him through the saddle.
With a heavy sigh, Roderic looked again at Annandale. Her dark blue cloak was pulled high against her throat, her hair was bound in a plain white coif. Her hood was pulled low, and from the shadows of her hood, he could see her eyes, that same extraordinary blue he remembered as his father’s—the same as his son’s—and a lump rose in his throat. “Be well, lady.”
She leaned down in her saddle and brushed her gloved fingers against his cheek. “And you, my love.”
Beside her, Deirdre wheeled her horse, her hand raised, her voice shouting the first commands to the guards who were to accompany Vere and Annandale.
“Vere,” said Roderic, looking over at his brother, where he sat calmly upon a gray gelding, “she is my life.”
Vere’s eyes flickered over him, up and down, and he nodded. “I shall see her safely to the College, Roderic.”
Roderic nodded and cast one last look at the dozen or so riders who clustered by the gates. Deirdre had handpicked the very best of her men. He recognized all of them by sight, at least, except for one, who he noticed was heavily cloaked. The rider seemed to be the most impatient of the lot to be off. He narrowed his eyes and then glanced at Deirdre. She knew what she was doing. To question her choices in front of her men would be most unseemly.
With a final nod, he stepped back. He waved his hand at the guards by the gates, and the heavy gates swung open, with a low groan of ancient hinges. He watched the little party ride across the drawbridge, down to the ancient highway. They turned their horses east and they were gone from his view.
He hooked his thumbs in his belt. A servant approached. “Yes?”
“Lord Phineas requests a word with you, Lord Prince, before the meeting this morning.” The servant bowed.
“Very well.” He hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt and climbed the low steps. It was time to talk to Phineas.
He found Phineas waiting in what he had come to think of as the council room. He cleared his throat in the open doorway. “You wanted to speak to me, Phineas?”
The old man nodded, his sightless eyes turning in the direction of Roderic’s voice. “Has she gone?” His voice had an unfamiliar quaver.
“Yes.” Roderic drew a deep breath and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “I want to talk to you. Before she left, Annandale told me the truth.”
“The truth?”
“About my birth—about her birth. I am not really the true heir of Meriga, am I?”
“No, Roderic!” Phineas pushed at the arms of his litter as though he would leap to his feet. “Never doubt that. You are indeed the Prince of Meriga. You were born for no other reason.”
“Do you deny you are my father?”
Phineas seemed to grope for words. “This much is true. It was my seed which grew in the Queen’s womb. But you were conceived for one purpose, and one purpose alone. And that was to reign in Ahga after Abelard was gone. You were born to be King.”
“It was that prophecy of Nydia’s. And you let him use you—he used my mother—Nydia. How could you agree? Didn’t you know there were bound to be consequences? Didn’t anyone explain how the Magic worked?”
“Oh.” Phineas ran a hand over his chin. “Yes. I knew. I knew there would be repercussions. What happened to me didn’t matter. I was sworn to uphold the kingdom— in nearly thirty years I had never violated that oath. At the time Abelard came to me, I couldn’t see any other way.” He took a deep breath and sighed.
“So—” Roderic sat down in a chair near the litter. “So you’ve been maimed, blinded—all in the name of loyalty?”
Phineas gave a bitter laugh. “You think this is hard to bear? I would have borne twice this and more if I could have saved your mother—saved Nydia. I lost both the woman I loved and the woman I should have loved, Roderic. That is what made these years so empty.”
“What do you mean? You loved my mother?”
“As much as any man can love a woman, I think. She was an extraordinary woman—Melisande Mortmain. She deserved much better than she got. The four of us gave Meriga an heir, Roderic, but the price we paid was dear.”
“What do you mean, the woman you should have loved?”
Phineas was silent. “Life is a series of choices, Roderic. I cannot deny that Nydia stirred my blood. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen— to this day her memory haunts my dreams. And sometimes—” He laughed again, that same harsh, sound that seemed torn from his throat. “Sometimes I think if it had been me who loved her—instead of Abelard— that things may have turned out so much differently than they did.”
“You chose not to love her?’
“I knew the King wanted her. She was so vulnerable, Roderic, so achingly vulnerable. She had this knowledge, and this ability which would have damned her to the stake, and did—twice. But Abelard wanted her, and I—�
�� He paused. “I was not in the habit of competing with my King.”
“Would she have loved you?”
Phineas shrugged and shook his head. “Who knows? Perhaps it is only an old man’s wishful fancy. But I was young once, tall, strong, not unpleasant of face. The Queen loved me.
“Nydia and the King—well, it seemed clear to me from the day we found her in that forsaken little village that she would be his. And I fell in love with your mother almost from the first day I met her in her father’s estate when I was held prisoner there.”
“But, why then did Dad marry her? Didn’t you tell him how you felt?”
“Abelard married Melisande to consolidate the kingdom. He knew. It didn’t matter to him how we felt.”
“But then—didn’t she swear fidelity to him?”
“Of course. It was a foolish, forbidden love.”
“What did you do?”
“Tried to forget at first. Stayed away from Ahga for more than seven years. Oh, it was easy to stay away, believe me. Those were the years the Harleyriders invaded Arkan. But then, after the danger had passed, and the Harleys were pushed back into the deep deserts south of Dlas, he came to me. He had a scheme to circumvent the prophecy. And all it required of me was to spend one night in the arms of the woman I had loved for nearly ten years.” He turned his head to Roderic. “What would you have done?”
Unbidden, an image of Annandale rose before him. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”
“It seemed an easy thing at the time. How could I know it was to cost her life? I had no idea the Magic could exact so harsh a price.”
“But—but why, Phineas? Why did Dad—why did the King use you so?”
“Don’t you understand? It was Abelard’s answer to Nydia’s prophecy. Do you think Abelard was a man to accept fate’s decree?”
The Misbegotten King Page 12
