The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  Mortmain narrowed his eyes. “But you fight for them—old Cormall fought for them—”

  “Aye.” Deirdre waved her hand in the same dismissive gesture Mortmain had used. “Of course. Tis a way to balance the power in the North. But we heard of you—I heard of you, even as a child. And the stories that are told are grand.”

  Mortmain snorted softly. “Grand.” He shook his head. “Grand in defeat, I suppose.” He glanced out the window and then back at Deirdre. “So now you have seen the fallen idol. You still haven’t told me why you have come.”

  “I come on Roderic’s behalf.” She wet her lips and cursed herself for sudden cowardice. There was a presence about this little man, defeated though he might be, or was it simply the tales of the Keepers reverberating through her childhood memories, ghostly voices rising from the firesides, telling the tales of warriors, ancient and new?

  Mortmain shook his head. “His sheriffs take all they please.”

  Deirdre wet her lips and began again. “Tis not supplies I come to beg you for. “Tis men.”

  “Men?” Mortmain’s disbelief was plain. “I would not ask my men to fight for the Ridenau cause—”

  “Lord Senador, the country verges on chaos. Roderic has done all he can—is doing all he can—but the lines are stretched to the limit and beyond. I saw the Harleys ride across the plains on my way here—greater doings are afoot than any of us knew or realized. They have taken to crucifying their own women—please, Lord Senador, you must understand me.”

  “I do understand you, child,” Mortmain said gently, staring at her impassioned face with something like pity. “But I swore long ago never to ride to the defense of the Ridenau, and I will not risk my men’s lives to do what I will not. Abelard has his pound of flesh. But he’ll not have one drop of Vada blood.”

  “Abelard is gone.” Deirdre resisted the urge to leap to her feet. “Tis not Abelard you aid. Tis your grandson— the son of your daughter. Will you turn your back on him?”

  The arrow hit home. Mortmain dropped his eyes. “I know whose grandson he is—” Abruptly she saw his mouth work and he brushed a hand over his eyes. “Why do you come to me now?”

  “Because Roderic needs your help. Because no one else would dare. And because Roderic is not Abelard’s son at all.”

  “What?” Mortmain whispered.

  “You heard me, Lord Senador. I don’t know who’s son he is—but he discovered the truth just before I left. He is the Queen’s son—of that there is no doubt. But someone else fathered him—someone else with Abelard’s blessing.”

  “Explain this.” Mortmain’s gaze fastened on her face and Deirdre felt the full force of his faded will. For the first time she could nearly believe this man was capable of a rebellion against the throne.

  With halting words, she told the story as Roderic had told her, and when she was finished, she looked carefully at the old man. He was no longer staring at her. He was watching the gardeners among the fruit trees. A bee buzzed and butted against the windowpane. Mortmain wet his lips. “Phineas,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Is Phineas still alive?”

  “The King’s chief councilor? Lord Phineas? Aye— very old and sick, but still alive. He is Roderic’s main advisor.”

  Mortmain nodded. “I knew him, you see—long ago.” He squared his shoulders and looked Deirdre full in the face. “You tell a fairly unbelievable tale.”

  “Aye.” There was no point denying it.

  “And on the strength of this tale, you expect me to send regiments of troops with you? Back to Ithan?”

  Deirdre nodded. “Aye. I do.”

  “You honor more than your oath, Lord Senador.” It was Mortmain’s turn to strike a sore spot.

  Deirdre gritted her teeth. “Aye.” She nodded. “I do.”

  “Tell me how you came to be the M’Callaster—how you came to rule in your father’s stead. I never heard that the Settle Islanders ever accepted the rule of a woman.”

  “They don’t, as a general rule.” Deirdre grinned in spite of herself. “But when the woman beats every man who challenges her, they have no choice. Even their heads aren’t quite that thick.”

  Mortmain laughed softly. “Go on.”

  Deirdre clasped her hands over her knee and launched into the tale, her voice falling into the cadence of the Keepers, who told the stories of her people. Mortmain nodded, his eyes never leaving her face as she spoke, and when the tale was finished, he nodded.

  “I see.”

  “What do you see, Lord Senador?” Deirdre tried not to bristle.

  “More than you might believe.” He got to his feet, and Deirdre was struck by how short Mortmain was. Sitting, he had the appearance of a man much taller. “Let me send you off to rest, M’Callaster. I will think on this and give you my answer within a day.”

  Deirdre recognized the dismissal and rose to her feet, adjusting her plaid. “Time grows short, Lord Mortmain.”

  Owen nodded. “I understand. Your faith serves Roderic well. I hope he knows just how well.”

  Deirdre grinned. “He will, Lord Mortmain. Believe me, he will.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The reserves from Ahga arrived in record time, their march aided in some part by the unseasonably cool weather. “A man can go further when he’s not burdened by the sun, Lord Prince,” cheerfully explained one of the sergeant’s of the regiments as Roderic strode up and down the lines, inspecting the new arrivals.

  Roderic forced himself to return the man’s grin. It wouldn’t do to let these new arrivals see the toll the stress and strain of the last weeks had taken upon him. Every day that went by without word of Deirdre, every hour which passed without any sign of Vere or word of Annandale, only made the burden heavier. He exchanged a few more pleasantries with the rest of the men, but his eyes automatically scanned the road leading up to the opened gates every few minutes. It had rapidly become a habit with him every time he found himself out in the inner ward.

  He was conferring with the captains of the regiments when he noticed it. A cart was coming up from the main road, drawn by two horses which stumbled and seemed to stagger, driven by a figure wrapped in a shapeless gray cloak. He realized, as he squinted his eyes against the sun, that it was the same color as the Muten camouflage Vere usually wore. He broke off in midsentence and stared.

  The captains followed his gaze.

  “Looks like a farmer, Lord Prince?” asked one, glancing back at Roderic’s face curiously.

  Roderic narrowed his eyes and took a few steps closer to the gate. “No,” he murmured, half to himself, “that’s no farmer’s wagon, that’s a military supply wagon—see the broad base? The cover’s off, but—” He peered over the men. Was that a bloodstain on the front of the driver’s cloak? “Excuse me, will you, gentlemen?”

  Foreboding descended as he walked toward the gates. The driver had a hood pulled down over his face, but there was no doubt that the cloak he wore was of Muten weave. A sunbeam struck the clasp at his shoulder and glinted off it, and Roderic’s heart leapt in his chest. It was Vere. It had to be Vere. He broke into a trot, calling to a guard at the gates, and ran down to meet the wagon. A few yards away, he stopped.

  The reins hung loosely in the driver’s hands, so loosely it was clear to Roderic that the figure in the wagon did not control the horses. The horses themselves wheezed up the rise, their massive ribs showing through dry, unhealthy coats. A chill went up and down his spine. The guard halted by his side, and his hand automatically fingered his spear. “Careful, Lord Prince—that might be a trap.”

  Roderic nodded, watching the horses stagger up the slight incline. A few paces from where they stood, one of the animals fell to its knees. The entire wagon shuddered and the driver fell sideways, tumbling off the seat to lie in the road. The guard put a restraining hand on Roderic’s arm. “Allow me, Lord Prince.”

  Cautiously, the man approached the still figure. A few people had ga
thered to watch the unusual progress of the strange cart, and now they crept closer, whispering warily to themselves. Roderic edged closer to the dying animal. The guard nudged the still driver with the butt of his spear gently. There was no reaction at all from the form. Gently, the guard edged the hood back off the face, and gasped.

  Roderic craned his head. The Muten was dead, his face blotted and pale. He walked to stand beside the guard. Despite the wave of disgust and pity he felt, his primary emotion was one of relief. The unfortunate driver had clearly been a Muten. “By the One,” he muttered. From the state of decomposition, it appeared that it had been dead for at least a week. Flies buzzed and crawled from the neck of the corpse’s garment. The guard eased the body over on its back, and Roderic saw that death had most likely been caused by whatever had made the wound in the Muten’s chest.

  “Burn this thing,” he said. “And do what must be done for the animals.” He swiped his hair off his face.

  “Lord Prince,” asked the guard, as he leaned upon his spear, his eyes scanning the horizon, “how do you suppose a Muten got one of our wagons? Or why was he on his way here?”

  Roderic shrugged. “Not likely he was on his way here. The One knows we’ve lost enough wagons in these mountains, and probably the horses drew it here after this wretch was killed—” A low moan from the cart interrupted him.

  He turned slowly and peered into the cart. The world seemed to spin and tilt, and he grasped at the rough wooden sides with shaking hands. On a bed of straw, a long figure lay beneath a moth-eaten purple cloak. The hair and beard were long and filthy and lay in matted locks over his chest and shoulders. But there was no denying the jutting nose, the high cheekbones, now as stark as a skull’s in the sunken face. Roderic whispered, “Dad.”

  Unbelievably, the red-rimmed eyes opened, blinked, and focused. “Roderic?” The King’s voice was a harsh, hoarse rasp. “My son?”

  Roderic jerked his face toward the keep. “Summon the physicians,” he cried. “Guards—bring a litter—now! The King’s returned!”

  Galvanized by Roderic’s words, the soldiers sprang into action. He gazed down at his father’s face. “You’ll be all right, Dad. We’ll get you cleaned up, fed, don’t worry—” He raised his head to see guards running down the path, removing the bridles from the two dying animals, ready to pull the cart themselves into the inner ward. Roderic stood back, watching as they dragged the wagon up the hill.

  On the steps of the keep, Tavia stood waiting. “Roderic!” she cried, when she saw him coming behind the cart. “Is it true?”

  He nodded. “Get the physicians. He must be seen to at once.”

  As the wagon was brought to a halt beside the steps, Tavia gathered her skirts and gazed down at her father. “Dad,” she whispered.

  His blue eyes fluttered open and closed.

  “He’s very weak,” said Roderic.

  “Let’s get him inside,” Tavia said.

  Roderic reached into the wagon and gathered Abelard in his arms. He cringed when he felt how light the King was, not much more than skin and bones, not much heavier than Melisande. He carried the King into the hall, where a crowd of servants and retainers were fluttering at the entrances. Gently Roderic laid him on a low, fur-covered bench beside one of the hearths. A gray-bearded physician stepped forward. He touched Roderic’s shoulder.

  “Can you do something for him?” Roderic asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Norah bustle into the hall, followed by Phineas on his litter.

  “I can try, Lord Prince.”

  Roderic stepped back. The physician touched the King’s cheek with the back of one hand, felt at his throat for a pulse. He raised troubled eyes to Roderic. “He should be taken to a room where I can examine him properly, Lord Prince.”

  Lady Norah pressed through the crowd, two burly menservants at her heels. “Come, I have a room prepared.” She snapped her fingers and the servants moved to lift the King. Roderic stopped them with a glance.

  “I’ll take him,” he said. Once more he gathered the King in his arms and carried him out of the hall. He passed Phineas on his litter. “Wait in the council room for me, Phineas,” he said as he went past. He thought he saw a shadow of a reaction cross Abelard’s face at the mention of Phineas’ name.

  In the cool, white bedroom, he placed Abelard on the clean linen sheets and slowly straightened. “Everything—” He felt his throat thicken with emotion. No matter what this man was, he was the man Roderic had always thought of as a father, the man who had always treated Roderic as a son. “Everything will be fine, Dad.”

  The King stirred and his swollen tongue touched his cracked and leathery lips. He groaned.

  “It will be all right, Dad.”

  The physician touched his arm. “If I may have a few moments alone with the King, Lord Prince?”

  Grimly, Roderic nodded. “I’ll be in the council room with Phineas.” He nodded at Tavia and Norah, who stood in the doorway, and pushed through the servants crowding the corridor.

  On the threshold of the council room, he paused. Phineas lay beside the window, his face turned to the light as though he could see the view. Phineas turned his head.

  “Phineas?”

  “Roderic, how is the King?”

  Roderic shook his head and sighed. “Very weak, to say the least. He’s—he’s so thin, Phineas. It feels as though he doesn’t weigh more than Melisande.”

  “You understand it is all still up to you?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Phineas drew a deep breath. “I suppose we have to ask ourselves the larger question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What this means—where he’s been—why he’s come back now. All those answers may have some bearing on the war.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to hope he recovers enough to tell us.”

  Phineas shook his head. “Roderic—Abelard won’t recover.”

  “Why do you say that?” Roderic stared at the old man.

  “Since I’ve been blind, my other senses have grown more acute—including my sense of smell. I could smell death as Abelard went by me. He will be dead soon, I know it.”

  “No.” Roderic sank into a chair. That wasn’t possible. Abelard had returned. Surely he would recover at least something of his old strength, the Congress would rally around him, and surely Amanander would be beaten once and forever. And then Annandale would come back and they would live with Rhodri—

  “What happens next, then?”

  “After Abelard dies, you mean?” Phineas shifted uncomfortably on his litter. “There must be a Convening of the Congress. Abelard’s will will be read—the same as when you were acclaimed Regent. And the Congress will vote whether to accept you as King. It will be very much like before, Roderic.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Roderic plucked at the frayed fabric of his sleeve. “I meant what happens when it is brought before the Congress that I am not his son.”

  “What makes you think that’s going to happen?”

  “What if it does?”

  “Roderic.” The old man’s voice was firm. “Much of this—all of this—depends upon you. If you stop believing that you are the rightful heir of Meriga, and someday the rightful King, then we have already lost.”

  “But, by what right, Phineas? Not by blood—”

  “Think you blood is the only way to earn something, Roderic? If you do, I am sorely disappointed in you.”

  “Roderic?” Tavia’s voice from the doorway shattered his concentration.

  “Yes?” Roderic looked up, almost glad for the interruption.

  “Dad’s asking for you. You better come now.” Something in the low urgency of her tone made him bolt out of the chair.

  “I’ll be waiting,” said Phineas softly.

  He followed his sister down the corridor, back to the room in which the King lay, and he saw at once from the look on the physician’s face, from the tears on Norah’s cheeks, that Phineas had spoken the tr
uth. He pushed past them all and went at once to Abelard’s side.

  The papery lids fluttered and the King drew a deep gasping breath. “Leave us,” he breathed.

  With a wave of his hand, Roderic dismissed them all, and when they were alone, he turned back to the King. “Dad—”

  “Listen,” the King gasped. “Annan—your wife— Aman has her. Mutens betrayed—” He seemed to choke on the air. “Aman had me all this time—I was sent back to show you what he can do—his power is great. Yours must be greater.”

  Roderic stared down at the dying man. “What can I do?”

  “He survives on—” Abelard choked. “On fear. Fear him not, my son—be strong—” A skeletal claw plucked at the white blanket which covered his withered frame.

  “It hasn’t been easy, Dad.”

  “No,” rasped the King, as his laboring chest heaved with the effort to speak. “Faith shall finish what hope begins—never forget.” Abelard’s bloodshot eyes slid shut.

  Roderic took a deep breath. There was so much he wanted to say to the King, so much he wanted to ask. Suddenly he felt defeated. Abelard had returned only to die. In the filtered afternoon light, he saw the ruined frame of the man Abelard had been, the great arms and chest now sunken and withered, the long legs which had walked so firmly through the halls of Ahga now little more than bone. Roderic touched his cheek. “Good-bye, Dad,” he whispered.

  The blue eyes opened once more, and in the watery depths, Roderic read a father’s love and pride. “Have faith—” His voice trailed off into labored breathing.

  Roderic closed his eyes against the tears. He pressed a kiss against the King’s forehead and went to call for Tavia. Abelard would not recover. Except for Phineas, he truly was alone.

  Chapter Twenty-nine