Vere tightened his grip on the fragile King. “Home? What are you talking about?”
“I’m sending him back to Roderic,” Amanander answered. “He’s served his purpose here. And I want Roderic to understand just exactly what I am capable of, dear brother. Because the next one I send back will be you. Or maybe even you, my dear.” His dark eyes flickered with an inhuman light as they glanced over Annandale. “Pity we’re brother and sister.”
“Brother and sister?” blurted Vere. “What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you know, Vere?” Amanander spoke as casually as if he might have been discussing the weather. “Roderic isn’t our father’s get. She is. By the witch. There isn’t a drop of Ridenau blood in him. He’s a pretender. And yes, Dad knows. In fact, it was by his command the misbegotten Prince was conceived. So you see, Vere, I am the rightful heir of Meriga.” Without waiting to see what sort of reaction this revelation drew from Vere, Amanander snapped his fingers. Instantly a dozen dark shapes emerged from the night. “Take the King and place him in the cart just outside the gates. You’ll find it in a stand of trees, hidden from view. As for my brothers and my sister, take them to the keep and place them in the room near mine. I need to keep a closer eye upon them.”
Jama trembled. Amanander’s gaze fell upon him.
“The Muten?” asked one of the soldiers in a dull voice.
“I’ll take care of him myself.” Amanander snapped his fingers once more. “Don’t resist them, Vere. Let them take the King.”
Vere’s shoulders went rigid. He allowed one of the leather-clad soldiers to take the King from his arms, and in the flickering light of the torches, Annandale saw tears on his face. She turned to the King with a little cry and placed both hands on his skeletal arm. Instantly, a bright blue light flared in the dark night, illuminating the whole scene with a luminous, unearthly light. Strength poured through her hands, and her whole body convulsed as Abelard’s body went rigid beneath her hands.
“Stop her!” commanded Amanander, and two of the guards dragged her some paces away. She struggled helplessly, sweat rolling down her face, her frame still trembling.
Some residue of the light still limned Abelard’s face, and he turned to gaze at Amanander. “You—” he whispered, his voice only marginally stronger than before. “You will never reign in Ahga.”
For the first time, Amanander showed some emotion. Scorn twisted his mouth. “That’s an old prophecy, Lord King. It lost its meaning long ago. Soon Ahga will be mine, and all Meriga with it. And it’s curious, Dad.” The sarcastic edge in his tone cut like a knife. “I used to want you to live to see that day. But now—” He shrugged. “I don’t care anymore. So go back to Roderic and give him whatever warning you think you can. But tell him I am coming for him. Soon.”
Abelard made a sound that might have been a curse.
“Save your breath, Lord King, what’s left of it. It’s too late to damn me.” Amanander looked from Abelard to Jama, who stood beside Alexander. His arm snaked out, and he wrapped his fist in the Muten’s robe. Jama stumbled and fell, and Amanander hauled him close. With a swift upthrust, Amanander stabbed his dagger deep into Jama’s chest. The boy died with a gurgle and a look of shocked surprise on his face.
Amanander let the body fall to the ground. “Now. Do we understand each other?”
Annandale pressed her fist against her mouth. It was not the first time she had seen Amanander kill in cold blood, but there seemed to be something so effortless about the killing, no hesitation whatsoever, that chilled her to the very marrow of her bones. She swallowed hard.
“Good.” He spun on his heel and faded into the night, his black garments blending so easily with the shadows it was as if he had never been there. Silently the guards guided Annandale, Vere and Alexander to the steps of the keep, while the others carried the King to the gates. Jama’s cooling body lay untended in the dust.
Chapter Twenty-six
The dust upon the wooden floor was thick enough to leave footprints, noticed Annandale, as she was escorted into the room by one of the black-clad soldiers who served Amanander. She clasped her hands and looked around, grateful to be left alone for even the briefest span of time. Although the guard had not touched her, or made the least lewd or threatening gesture, still his presence was anathema. She had felt soiled, sticky, and generally unclean as he had escorted her down the hall to this room which looked like a private office of sorts. At least, the large desk against one wall and the rickety wooden chair which stood before it seemed to indicate that it was.
She clasped her hands and walked to the window. Dust was thick upon the pane and grime smudged the peeling paint. The smell of mildew reached her nostrils. Everywhere in this accursed fortress was decay.
She gazed outside. Despite the heat, the men-at-arms drilled, and the servants scurried back and forth across the crowded courtyard. To what purpose? she wondered. She shivered despite the stuffy air. The black-garbed figures reminded her of termites, and the entire garrison reminded her of nothing so much as a hive.
She drew a deep breath and sat gingerly in the rickety chair. Only Amanander would have had her brought here. Only Amanander would wish something of her. But what? A kind of weary resignation filled her mind. The walls of the garrison seemed so high, the outer world so remote. Jama had offered their only chance of escape, and now he was dead. What chance did any of them have?
She heard soft footsteps outside the room, and she raised her head in time to see Amanander enter, dressed in the same unrelieved black as his soldiers. He paused in the doorway, and she raised her chin, meeting his gaze with all the defiance she could muster.
“So lovely,” he murmured, and his voice shivered through her and down her spine like a cold raindrop.
She swallowed hard. “What do you want of me, Amanander?”
He smiled, a travesty of a smile which stretched his lips and raised his cheekbones and did not quite reach his eyes. “I’ve come to offer you a chance to change your mind, my dear.”
“Change my mind? What do I have to change my mind about?”
He shook his head and gave a soft laugh. “Ever the defiant one, aren’t you? So small, so soft, so brave.”
She dropped her eyes. “You don’t scare me, Amanander.”
“Oh—” he advanced further into the room and she stifled the impulse to gag “—but I do.”
She twisted her fingers in the filthy fabric of her dress. He was right. His very presence terrified her, his nearness sickened her. She raised her head but could not bring herself to meet his eyes. “What do you want of me?”
“I’ve come to offer you a chance, my dear. To change your mind. To renounce Roderic, and to take your place at my side—”
“As your Queen?” she spat.
“No,” he answered, evenly. “As my sister. Cherished. Loved. Adored.” He allowed his voice to slide over the last word, and she shuddered.
“You sicken me, Amanander. I would never renounce Roderic—never. You know that.”
“Then are you prepared to watch him die?”
“You’ll kill him if you have the chance whether I change my mind or not. Don’t imply you’ll let him live.”
He shrugged. “I imply no such thing, my dear. Of course Roderic has to die. But you don’t have to watch.”
Bile rose in her throat and she nearly gagged. “You’d make me—”
“Yes. Of course. His death wouldn’t have the same sense of purposelessness, and utter defeat, if you weren’t there to watch. But if you agree to renounce him—as well as your own claim to the throne—then I shall excuse you.”
“You disgust me, Amanander. You make me want to vomit.”
“I know.” He smiled then, and this time the smile did reach the dark depths of his eyes. He walked closer and reached out one gloved hand. She forced herself to stay absolutely still as he stroked her cheek. “But you are still the loveliest creature I have ever seen in my life. And that includes your o
wn mother.”
She closed her eyes, pressing the lids shut tight against her cheeks. She thought about Roderic, about the gentle expression in his eyes when he looked at her, the loving expression he wore when he kissed her—abruptly the image shifted and Roderic’s expression changed to the look of disgust he had worn on the night she had told him the truth of his parentage. She blinked and another image rose before her: little Rhodri, his small body white and still on bloodstained sheets. She gasped and jerked away from Amanander’s touch. “Leave me alone!”
He chuckled softly. “As you wish, my dear.” He leaned back against the edge of the desk, stretched out his long legs, and crossed his arms over his chest. “You simply don’t understand what Roderic faces.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in spite of herself.
“Don’t you understand, my dear? I can use the Magic at will. I have discovered the key of controlling the consequences—I no longer am bound by the constraints of the threat of what might be unleashed. I can work my Magic when and where I please.”
“You lie.”
He raised a brow. “You are brave. Foolishly so, I think. You want a demonstration?”
She swallowed hard and bit her lip. “I don’t believe you. You’re only trying to make me give up hope, give up believing that there is any escape, any way out. I know Roderic is coming—”
“Yes,” he said, so softly she had to strain to hear him. “Of course he’s coming. But can he save you this time? That’s the question, isn’t it?” Before she could speak, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. She looked from him to the door questioningly. “Just wait, my dear. You’ll see.”
She eyed him suspiciously. From the corridor came the clump of heavy footsteps. The door swung open and two men-at-arms dragged a white-wrapped body into the center of the room. Amanander snapped his fingers once more, and the guards left.
He smiled at Annandale almost pityingly. “Now. Watch.” He closed his eyes. A second might have passed, or maybe a minute or two, and something snaked through the room, slithering and coiling around Annandale. She startled in alarm. The hair on her arms rose, and gooseflesh prickled her skin. Deep within her being, the healing impulse flared, a surge that took her breath away. What Magic was this?
She stared at Amanander, gripping the splintered arms of the chair, and felt as though from a distance the sharp wood dig into her palms. The shape on the floor at their feet quivered.
She looked down to see a pale hand reach out, the nails blue, the flesh mottled. The hand tore at the covering, and Jama-taw sat up, his eyes dull and unfocused. The reek of the grave was on him, and she pressed the back of one bleeding hand to her mouth. “The One save us,” she whispered.
Amanander snorted. “The One save you, indeed, my dear. Now do you see? How can you expect Roderic to save you when he won’t be able to save himself?”
The sound of his soft chuckle lingered in her ears long into the night.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“This way.” The servant’s clipped tones made clear in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of the Islanders. Deirdre slung her travel-stained plaid over one shoulder and pushed her sword further behind her hip. Her dagger slapped against her thigh with each step. Her boots clicked against the polished tiles of Owen Mortmain’s castle. She stared around her curiously and wondered what Prince the keep of Lost Vegas was had been built for. Unlike most of the structures which predated the Armageddon, it was clear to her that whoever had ordered the construction of this place had had in mind a palace.
Two sets of broad staircases swept gracefully from the central hall beneath huge windows which still, despite the passing of centuries and the ravages of time, opened to the cloudless blue of the Vada sky. The hall itself was cavernous, enormous, the central floor some feet below the ground, so that one had to step down almost half a flight of steps in order to reach the great feasting hall. Traces of former magnificence were evident in the crystal lights which hung from the ceilings, thousands of beeswax candles set into the arms.
Deirdre looked back over her shoulder at her men, huddled in a tired and weary-looking little band around a long table, hungrily gnawing on the first cooked meal they had had in weeks. After they had seen the first set of crucifixes, they had become even warier and decided fire was something that was likely to call attention to themselves, and something they could all live without.
From across the long space, she caught Donner’s eye. He grinned as he raised a knife laden with meat to his lips. Something in her quivered in response. It had been so long since she’d taken a man. She thought of Donner once more, the hard muscles of his arms, his merry grin, his eyes which seemed to dance, even under danger. She could do much worse. Why not? she thought. Roderic was so far away. Instantly she bit her lip as the servant indicated a long corridor at the top of the steps which led down to another staircase, this one smaller but nearly as ornate. Why did she automatically think of Roderic every time she thought of bedding anyone?
She suppressed a sigh as the servant led her to a door on the floor above. The evidence of the Armageddon was clearer here, the walls showed signs of patching, of repairs. She looked up at the roof. Even a child knew the stories of the fearsome ravages the Armageddon had brought to the lands west of the Saranevas. The wrath of the One, the priests of the Church all said. The Island Keepers, who in general espoused a much more gentle and forgiving goddess, were hard put to understand the ways of their deity.
There was no discernible response to the servant’s knock, but the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and the servant stepped to one side, allowing Deirdre to enter the room ahead of him.
“Lord Senador.” The servant bowed. “Deirdre M’Callaster of the Settle Islands.”
She stepped past the servant and into the room, where the light momentarily blinded her. As her eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunlight which streamed unimpeded through a sheer wall of glass, she gradually focused on a short, dark figure seated beside the window.
“Deirdre M’Callaster?” whispered the voice from the figure by the window. “Old Cormall’s daughter?”
“Aye, Lord.” She crossed the space across the room in several long strides and swept a low bow. Something stuck in her craw about bowing to this man—any man— but one didn’t come begging for troops and not show respect.
“Cormall’s daughter?” The voice rose in disbelief. “You don’t even look like a woman.”
She raised her eyes and met the faded hazel stare of Owen Mortmain. So this, she thought, is what it looks like to be broken.
His face was lined, his hair white, although a good lot of it still clung to his scalp. He wore it clipped close about his ears, in a soldier’s fashion. There was nothing of the dandy about Mortmain. His body was soft, gone to fat long ago, the body of a man forced by infirmity or age to surrender an active life. But it was his eyes, more than anything else, in which Deirdre read defeat. There was no light in them, no sparkle, no grace. He simply looked her up and down with the dumb mute gaze of a beast.
“Not just Cormall’s daughter,” she said, wondering how to broach the subject. Now that she stood in his presence, she wondered if Mortmain had the spirit to order anyone to do anything. “His heir.”
“You?” Mortmain’s voice rose sharply. “You are the M’Callaster in his place?”
“Aye.” She nodded gruffly. “Chief of all the Chiefs of the Settle Islands.”
He ran his eyes over her frame, measuring and assessing, and Deirdre was half surprised. She hadn’t thought the man had it in him to care.
To her further surprise, he looked past her to the servant, who still hovered in the doorway. “Wine, Jem, if you please. And something to eat. Our guest has traveled a long way.”
She fancied she could hear the servant’s muttered comments despite the audible assent. The door closed softly and Mortmain folded his hands loosely on his chest.
“Come, sit.” He turned to look back out the win
dow. “See this, lady? It pleases me greatly to watch the tending of my orchards.”
With a wave of his hand he indicated the scene beneath the window, and Deirdre, leaning over from the chair he offered her, saw the servants in the fruit trees, with baskets and shears and other implements. They moved slowly, deliberately, as though each knew exactly what it was that needed doing, and each was wholly devoted to the task of seeing it done. “Tis a pretty sight, Lord Senador.”
He shot her a quick look from under silvery brows. “Very pretty. But I don’t fancy you rode all the way from the Settle Islands to Vada to look at fruit trees. Why have you come?”
“I didn’t come from the Islands. I’ve ridden from Ithan Ford—”
“Tennessy? What are you doing there?”
“The country’s at war, Lord Senador. Roderic’s gone to Tennessy to consolidate a position there—”
Mortmain waved a hand. “There is something very comforting about growing old, my dear. One finds one need no longer concern oneself with petty quarrels.”
“Tis much more than a petty quarrel. The lesser lords of the Southern estates have risen against the throne; the Mutens rebel in the mountains. The Harleyriders move across Arkan. Oh, no, Lord Senador,‘tis so much more than just a petty quarrel.”
Mortmain shrugged. “For an old man like me, that is indeed all it is. The length of Meriga is between me and the Pulatchian Mountains. If the Harleys come, let them come. I will be dead soon, anyway.”
Deirdre narrowed her eyes. “You surprise me, Lord Senador. You aren’t the man I thought you’d be.”
“Oh?” His gaze was fixed on the scene outside the window. “And what sort of man was that?”
“The Settle Islands is far from Vada, but even when I was a girl, the Keepers told the tales of your exploits, how you rose against the power of the Ridenau Kings and sought to make a place for yourself independent of the central power.” He shot her a surprised look. “That surprises you, does it? Do you think we Islanders care any more for the Ridenau Kings than you do?”
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