She looked at Annandale and gave her a crooked smile. “And to you, lady. I honor my oath to the Prince.”
Annandale nodded, tears in her eyes. “Roderic is lucky to count you his friend, lady. You are the bravest woman I have ever met.”
Deirdre shook her head. “No. Not I. You are.” She backed away and offered her hand to Vere. “Farewell, my friend. Take care of the lady. She is well loved.”
Vere nodded, and, motioning to Alexander, led Annandale’s mare through the pass. Deirdre stood aside, surrounded by her men as she watched the three disappear into the dusk. She adjusted her plaid around her shoulders with a sigh.
“M’Callaster?” One of her men intruded on her thoughts. “We make camp here?”
Deirdre scanned the hills, the thickly wooded valley. An owl hooted deep in the forest, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. “Aye, Donner. By the goddess I’ll be glad to see the last of this place.” And I don’t know why, she added silently.
Vere was silent as he led Annandale’s mare down the steeply curving path. In the deepening dusk, the shadows lay beneath the trees in dark pools and nothing moved in the branches. Doves cooed invisibly, and pale white flowers shone like stars in the shadows beneath the trees. A hush seemed to hang over the place. The only sounds were the clop of the horses’ shoes on the broken surface of the ancient road.
Annandale looked over at Alexander. He took a deep breath and gave her a tight smile. Suddenly Vere stopped. Annandale looked up. In the road, silent as wraiths, three white-wrapped figures stood, arms tucked into the wide sleeves of their robes. Their hoods were pulled low over their faces, revealing nothing. Annandale gasped.
Fear not, said a musical voice in her mind. Be welcome here at the College of the Elders, Daughter of the Greatest Magic. Annandale glanced wonderingly at Alexander, knowing from the expression on his face that he had heard a voice, as well. A dove cooed again, and a soft breeze brought the scent of honeysuckle. May the Power which orders the universe keep you in Its care.
The words seemed to echo, reverberate into the deepest recesses of her mind and beyond, into the very core of her being, and an intrinsic rightness, almost a recognition, surged through her. Annandale smiled, feeling more at ease, more welcomed than she had ever felt in her entire life. This, she thought, this is what it feels like to come home.
Vere made a motion and the horses began to move down the path. The three hooded figures turned as one and led the way, their white robes gleaming in the twilight. The road seemed to fork off abruptly, but the three walked straight between two trees and disappeared.
Alexander gasped. “No,” murmured Vere, “it’s only an illusion. You will see.”
He turned to Annandale, holding out his arms, and indicated she should dismount. As she slid from the saddle, two squat figures appeared from the trees. They took the reins from Vere, and Alexander slowly swung out of his saddle. Annandale winced as she heard his joints creak. He walked stiffly to join them. Vere gave them a tight-lipped smile. “Come.”
He walked between the trunks of two of the great trees and reached out and pushed. A doorway materialized where none had been before, and Annandale gasped. She raised questioning eyes to Vere. He smiled. “I told you— the Elders are well hidden.”
She followed Vere through the doorway and found herself on a landing at the top of a staircase. The air was stale and musty, the floor beneath her feet covered in a material of ancient manufacture. Torches burned in makeshift sockets, and Annandale shivered in the dampness.
Vere gestured toward the staircase. “Lady, I should warn you. The Elders are in hiding for their lives. There is not much comfort here, especially not the sort you are used to in Ahga, but what there is, you are welcome to.”
Annandale raised her eyes to Vere. “I didn’t come for comfort, Vere. Lead on.”
Alexander coughed. Vere looked at him, an expression of sympathy and concern on his face. “Come on, Alex. We can rest here.” Vere led the way down the steps and finally they reached the bottom.
“Vere, what is this place?” Alexander asked.
“The foundations of a high tower,” Vere replied. “In the Armageddon, all this landscape changed. These are new mountains, raised by the earthshakes. There are many such places in these hills, if you know what to look for.” He led the way down a long corridor. The floor was cracked in many places, and water dripped through the low ceiling to form shallow pools on the uneven surface. Finally, Vere paused before a door. He gave them both a crooked smile and opened it.
Annandale stepped over the threshold. The room extended further than she could see in the dim light, but she could see white-robed figures clustered around small fires. Near the doorway, a small cooking fire burned in the center of the floor. The woman who bent over the steaming iron pot which hung from a trivet looked up. “Vere,” she said, a smile of welcome creasing her face in a web of wrinkles, “just in time for dinner. As always.” The woman looked at Annandale as though she knew her. “I am glad to see you at last, my dear. I knew your mother. My name is J’lin.”
Annandale blinked. More and more of the white-robed figures were coming forward, shuffling toward them, their backs bent, their faces hooded. In her mind, she seemed to hear whispers, and a myriad of emotion swept over and through her: welcome, trepidation, relief. She raised her eyes to Vere. He touched her arm.
“This is the Lady Annandale, J’lin.” He touched Annandale’s arm gently and led her forward to where a small, nearly child-sized figure sat hunched before a battered grate. He sat upon a carefully folded pile of threadbare blankets. “My Father,” he murmured, bending down. “The Lady Annandale.”
Annandale gasped as the figure on the ground looked up and she saw that, except for the one eye in the center of his forehead, his other eyes were gone, the sockets thick twists of scars.
Did you not warn her, my son? The voice which shivered through her mind was soft, kind, achingly gentle, and Annandale stared at the ruined face before her. Fear not, daughter. This is but one of the precautions we take to ensure that our Magic will be safe.
Annandale raised questioning eyes to Vere. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, lady. I forgot to warn you. When the Pr’fessors take their final vows, they give up their hands, their eyes and their tongues. It keeps the secrets safe. This is Sirak. He is the oldest of the Pr’fessors.”
Annandale gazed down and the Muten’s thin mouth curved in a smile. Be welcome here, daughter. You are long awaited.
But-but how, she thought.
Ah, you already know how to reach the mind of another. So effortless your gift. We shall do well together, you and I. Rest now, and eat. Tomorrow comes in its time.
He turned away, and Annandale knew she was dismissed. She looked at Vere once more. He gave her a crooked smile. “Let’s eat.”
Chapter Sixteen
Annandale opened her eyes. A long shaft of light streamed through a window set close to the ceiling of the underground room. She lay on the narrow cot watching the dust motes twine like a ribbon through the gold light. Her thoughts were a jumble.
For the first time, she understood something of the grinding poverty the Mutens endured, the terrible chasm which separated them from the human population. Their deformities were not so appalling or disgusting once one became accustomed to them. Was it simply that humans were taught to find the Mutens repulsive and therefore did? She rolled on her side, her head pillowed on her arm.
The thin quilt which covered her was adequate for the cool June nights, but in the winter— She fingered the neat patches and hoped they had more blankets than these.
Her breasts ached, her nipples swollen and taut. She sighed. Rhodri, she thought. She closed her eyes and thoughts of her baby brought a rush of milk, the hot liquid gushing from her engorged breasts, soaking the front of her nightgown. She pressed her lips together as a tear slipped beneath her lashes. She thought of the last sight she had had of him, one tiny fist tucked securely in his mo
uth, the other beneath his chin. His lashes were small crescents over his plump rosy cheeks, his thatch of dark hair as downy as a baby bird. She remembered how Roderic had looked at her as she had turned away from the cradle, his mouth compressed and grim.
Let me go home, she prayed instinctively, knowing that someone, something listened. Give me strength to do whatever is required and then let me go home. For I do not want to die. I want to hold my baby again—lie in Roderic’s arms again. Do not deny me. She shut her eyes as power from an unnamable source seemed to pour through her. The long shaft of light seemed to glow, until it seemed to be a living, shimmering thing, shifting into a million prisms of every shade of color. A voice seemed to fill her mind, a voice which spoke without words and yet seemed to be the embodiment of all that was good and right and true.
Your time of trial is upon you, daughter. Hold fast to the Pattern, for the Power of it will bring you home. Annandale sobbed. The light was unlike anything she had ever seen before, and yet she knew she had a place in it, knew she belonged to it, and it to her. She wanted to crawl into it and rest.
Not yet, soothed the awareness in the light. Not yet. But soon you shall rest in the Pattern, for the Power which orders the universe holds you dear.
Annandale took a deep breath and opened her eyes to see J’lin standing over her. “Child,” whispered the Muten woman. “What is it?”
She swallowed hard and shook her head. How to explain what she had felt? The overwhelming sense of Power, of knowing, of something greater far than she, and yet, something to which she belonged, something she was of, and yet was not—her thoughts swirled.
“Ah, child.” J’lin knelt by the cot, gathering her in her arms. “Dark days indeed these are that take a mother from her child, a woman from her husband.”
Annandale sighed, sensing the kindness, the gentle acceptance. She pulled away and smiled. “You—you knew my mother?”
J’lin nodded, reaching up with a gnarled hand to smooth the tangled curls away from Annandale’s face. “For a little while.”
“She died.”
J’lin nodded once more. “Too many have died.”
Annandale drew a deep breath. “Was—was this her fault? All of this?”
“Nydia’s fault?” J’lin frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If she hadn’t used the Magic—if she had not agreed to bear me—to cause Roderic—”
J’lin shook her head. “Child. Listen to me.” Dark eyes peered from the wrinkled face, kind and wise and knowing. “Each of us is responsible for what we do. Each of us bears the consequences of what we do here, in this life. But we do not live alone. Tell me, though, child. What do you mean, caused Roderic?”
With a halting voice, Annandale told the story. J’lin listened, her eyes troubled. When Annandale finished, J’lin breathed a soft sigh. “I see.”
Annandale looked up. “Do you?”
J’lin nodded. “It wasn’t just that Nydia enabled the Queen to conceive a son. We knew that, you see, guessed that. It was only a matter of time before Abelard convinced her that was necessary. But I did not know… the rest.”
Annandale shifted her position.
J’lin pursed her lips. “I see now, more clearly, some of what has happened and why.”
“Can you explain it to me?”
“You know that the Magic is a disruption in the natural order of the Pattern? That it enables one to control things which normally cannot be controlled?”
Annandale nodded.
“The Pattern always works to right itself, to restore the order of the universe. It cannot be changed, only disrupted, only tangled like a skein of yarn, but never altered. But the degree to which it is disrupted, the degree to which it is tangled… ah, this is where much of the pain of the world comes from. So many of us spend our lives at cross purposes to the Great Pattern, working for what we think we want, rather than allowing it to work through us….” Her voice trailed off.
“Abelard didn’t just want an heir. He wanted to twist the future itself. With what he did, what your mother did, they set into motion a knot which coils through time, space, every dimension. It is not for mortal men to control the future,” J’lin finished sadly.
“So—so it was my mother’s fault?”
J’lin shook her head. “Child, blame not your mother. There was nothing evil about her. She had choices, true, and maybe she did not choose wisely, but she did what she believed she had to. And she paid the price, did she not?”
Annandale nodded slowly.
“As have we all. As we will continue to, until the Power which orders the universe restores the Pattern.” She drew a deep breath and a high wailing scream shattered the silence.
Annandale rose up on one elbow. “What’s that?”
J’lin’s terra-cotta face drained of color. “I—I don’t know—stay here, child.”
Without another word she rose to her feet, slipping away, and Annandale rose and tugged her clothes on, hastily lacing and tucking them into some semblance of order. A louder cry echoed down the long corridor and Annandale froze as a thunderous pounding charged down the corridor. The door was flung wide.
She gasped as six armed Muten soldiers rushed in, razor spears flashing in the light. The first one turned and looked over his shoulder, gobbling something in a language she didn’t understand, the rest crowding in the door, grinning at her. The razor spears dripped with blood, and on their gray-green tunics blood was smeared. A shout echoed down the corridor, a brief order. The leader turned back to her, his broken teeth flashing in his wide grin. He raised the spear and reached for her, and Annandale felt her knees buckle, smelled the rank stink of their sweat and the coppery reek of the blood as they dragged her out of the room.
On the opposite side of the valley, Deirdre raised her head, turning back to look at the high mountain peaks which marked the entrance of the pass. She swore softly beneath her breath.
“M’Callaster?” Donner looked over at her. The sun had ridden just above the treetops, and the weather was fair. The day promised to be fine—with luck they could cover many miles.
“Just a feeling, Donner. Damn these mountains.”
“I don’t like them, either, M’Callaster.” Donner caught her eye and grinned. He was a big man, broad in the shoulder, long in the leg. His beard was rough across his chin, his hair curled around his ears. “Do you want to go back?”
For a moment she hesitated, wishing she could shake the overwhelming sense that something was wrong. “No,” she said finally. “We’ll never reach Vada if we dally after mind-monsters.” She looked over her men, assessing them thoughtfully. “You, Kell. At the crossroads, the rest of us will go west. You and Irec will go back to Ithan. Tell Roderic we delivered his lady safe— well, as safe as we could. Tell him his brother refused to let us go down into the College.”
“Shall I tell him where you’ve gone, M’Callaster?” asked Kell.
“Aye.” She flapped at the reins. “But don’t be surprised if he doesn’t believe you. Come, lads. We ride.”
They led her down the corridor, thrusting her roughly into the main room. Soldiers milled, and here and there she caught a glimpse of a still, white-clad figure stained with blood. She bit down on her lip, hard, and moaned a little with relief when she saw Vere. Bruises darkened his cheek, and blood ran down one temple. Another stain spread down his sleeve. Alexander sat on the floor, arms bound behind his back, his head resting on his knees. Vere looked up when he saw her, the tattoos on his face startling against his pale skin.
The invaders grabbed her arms and tied her hands behind her back, then gave her a shove which sent her stumbling into Vere.
“Vere,” she whispered. “What has happened? Where’s J’lin, the Pr’fessors? What is—”
“Silence!” The Muten guard raised his hand as though to strike and she cringed.
Vere gazed up at him, contempt in his eyes. “You would strike a woman?”
The Muten spat. “Your k
ind do.” He raised the butt of his spear at Vere.
“Hold!”
Annandale recognized the order more by the tone in which it was given than in the heavily accented words. The guard stared at a young Muten, who wore plain white robes, much as the Pr’fessors did. His thumbs were hooked in his swordbelt, and a long dagger slapped against his thigh. His secondary arms were crossed over his chest. He spoke harshly in the Muten tongue.
The guard lowered his spear and backed away, a sneer still curling his lip.
The newcomer strode over to the three captives. He stared down at them, and Annandale saw that he was very young. His gaze lingered on her face, as though transfixed, and she felt a slow blush creep up her cheeks. She looked down as another Muten, this one taller and heavier, with an immense barrel-chest and secondary arms that seemed larger than most of the creatures’, walked up behind him. He made a low comment and a gesture of contempt.
In reply, the younger Muten shook his head. He looked at Vere. “Do you know me?”
Vere nodded slowly. “You are Jama-taw. Son of Ebram, the one the Children call the Hope. Why have you done this shameful thing?”
A sudden flush suffused Jama’s face. “No shame to rid the Children of the shackles which have bound us for generations.”
Vere looked at him with something like pity. “These weren’t the shackles, and you know it. Why have you done this? And how shall you answer before the Nine Tribes?”
“The Nine Tribes shall answer to me.” Jama met Vere’s eyes squarely, his chest thrust out. From the folds of his robe, Annandale saw the tiny secondary arms clench into deliberate fists.
“You may well make the Nine Tribes answer to you,” Vere murmured, still with the look of pity. “And you may annihilate all of the College, until every Elder is dead. But you shall not make your children answer to you… someday, you will answer to them.”
The burly Muten said something which could only be a curse, and Vere raised his head and looked beyond Jama’s shoulder at him. “You, as well, Adanijah—oh, yes, I know you, too.”
The Misbegotten King Page 15
