Children of Enchantment (36 page)

“You thought Everard might be able to help maintain the peace?”

Phineas nodded. “But it seems that even Everard is unable. I have begun to think that something more is at work, though I
cannot put my finger on the problem.” He sighed. “I have written to all the Senadors—as well as the garrison commanders—asking
for status reports. And the answers I’m getting back are troublesome, because they don’t agree.”

“So something is going on?”

“I have begun to think so.”

“When Roderic does come back, he’ll have to go away again.”

Phineas patted her hand. “I’m afraid so, child. But perhaps this time, he could take you with him. It would be wise, I think,
to call a Convening of sorts—perhaps at Ithan Ford. Thank the One we can trust young Miles. After all, if you two don’t spend
any time together, there will never be an heir.”

She knew he meant to joke, but his words alarmed her. There was more truth in that statement, and more importance attached
to it, than either of them wished to admit. Abruptly she asked: “Roderic has no inkling, does he?”

“About his parentage? No. As I told you before, until you came, Abelard and I were the only ones who knew the truth.”

“Has anyone ever considered what would happen if Amanander were to learn the truth? If everyone learned the truth?”

“I’ve never spoken of it to anyone, except you.”

“But what if Amanander ever discovered that Roderic was the Queen’s son, but not the King’s?”

“That’s not something I care to contemplate.”

“But Amanander does have the better claim. He is Abelard’s son, not Roderic. It’s not just what Amanander would do were he
to discover the truth. I think Roderic might renounce the throne if he thought it were the right thing to do.”

Phineas sat bolt upright, wincing as his old bones creaked in protest. “That is a possibility I never considered.”

“I have not my mother’s gift, Phineas. I cannot see the future, but I feel things—and I don’t like what I’ve been feeling
lately. The thought of going to Minnis makes my blood cold, and I have no reason to think there’s anything wrong at all.”

“I think you miss Roderic.” Phineas smiled. “Go to Minnis, child. The change will do you good. Write him tonight, tell him
you will do as he asks—I’ll see the message goes out at dawn. He only wants to protect you. When I know he’s on his way home,
I’ll come there myself. And if you wish, I can order a scouting party to go to your mother’s tower and make sure she’s all
right.”

“No.” Annandale shook her head. “I know she wants to be left in peace. She’s owed that, at least.”

Phineas shrugged. “As you wish child. It’s your decision. Believe me, you’ll likely be safer at Minnis than anywhere else.
The walls of Minnis have never been breached.”

*   *   *

Never been breached. The words echoed over and over through Annandale’s skull as the heavily encumbered party trundled along
the forest road. Even here, where the plowed fields gave way to the thickly forested countryside approaching Minnis Saul,
the unseasonable heat was intense.

Sweat ran down her back, and her coif was a tight, confining stricture around her face. In the wagon behind her, she heard
Melisande’s querulous wail, a cry of boredom rather than one of distress.

Annandale’s head throbbed. Her joints ached from the nights spent on the road and her back itched. She had no comfort to offer
anyone. Peregrine’s voice rose among the babble of the women, sharp and complaining, an unconscious echo of her daughter’s.

The sun hammered across Annandale’s shoulders as she stared ahead at the rigid backs of the small regiment of the King’s Guard
who served as their only protection on the journey north. There had not been many troops to spare, but surely, she reassured
herself, such a thing was unnecessary. Even the Harleyriders had never penetrated so far into the Ridenau domain. Old Garrick,
his back ramrod straight despite his years, guided his horse at an easy jog over to her side.

“Not much longer now, Lady Princess.” He spoke cheerfully, but Annandale could see the exhaustion which ringed his eyes and
the sweat stains which marked his clothes.

“I shall be glad of that,” she answered. “I cannot wait for a bath, to sleep in a proper bed.”

“This heat’s the worst I can remember. Not even in Missiluse, in the swamps—well, maybe it was worse, but I was a younger
man then.” A drop of perspiration ran down the bridge of his nose, and he wiped it with an impatient hand, swiping away a
fly. “And the bugs! By the One, lady, I think this year we’ll go after them with bow and arrow.”

Annandale nodded. She did not envy those who had been left behind: Phineas, his scribes, the soldiers of the garrison, and
the servants. And surely, surely, the heat which hung like a miasma over the trees could not last here in the North Woods.
“How much farther?”

“To Minnis? We will be there by nightfall, lady. I have sent a messenger on ahead; they will have our dinner and our baths
waiting.”

“Thanks to the One,” she breathed. She roused herself from her heat-induced stupor and smiled. Garrick was a good man, she
could sense his loyalty to his King and to Roderic, his adherence to the rigid code Abelard had demanded of all who followed
him. Garrick, too, had had a hand in shaping the prince.

She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as the walls of Minnis rose before them a few hours later. The rough gravel road opened
up to the high narrow gates, and though those gates were open, no guard was visible upon the ramparts of the high towers before
them. Garrick reined his gelding beside her. “Is there a problem, General?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, lady,” he replied, frowning at the keep. “I don’t see the guards—surely they have not become so lax—“

“It’s the heat, General Garrick,” interrupted Peregrine from her perch beside the wagon driver. She shifted the heavy child
in her arms. “Probably they watch from the shade—look there—I see a guard.” She raised her arm and pointed, and Annandale,
following the line of vision, caught sight of a thin dark shape above the top of the wall. A cold sliver of fear and loathing
sliced through her—a reaction so strong it nauseated her and took her breath away. She pulled hard involuntarily on the reins,
and her horse shied and whined a protest.

“General—” she stammered. “General, we must turn back—“

“Turn back?” He stared at her as though she had suddenly taken leave of her senses. “Turn back from Minnis? Lady, the heat
affects us all—we will be fine once we arrive.”

“No!” She caught his arm, and this time his horse nickered and her mare pranced. “We must not go—“

The walls of Minnis loomed closer and closer. The deep shadows at the base of the structure seemed like inky pools in which
terrible things writhed and swarmed. The nausea grew, snaking through and around her, comprised of fear beyond all reason,
and complete and utter despair. Without another word, she leaned over her saddle and vomited into the road.

“Lady, dear lady,” cried Garrick. “Lady Peregrine—Lady Tavia, Lady Jaboa, please, come here—” He called back over his shoulder,
gesturing wildly, and caught at Annandale’s reins, forcing the mare to halt.

Sweat beaded her forehead and laced her upper lip, and her skin was clammy. She was vaguely aware of Tavia helping her from
the saddle, of the other women clucking and chirping amongst themselves. They helped her into the shade of the covered wagon
and placed a damp cloth on her head. With a jerk, the wagon started forward. Annandale struggled to sit up. “No, no,” she
said weakly, but firm hands pushed her back.

She struggled away from the women, crouched in the opening and peered over the high front seat of the wagon behind the driver.
The gates of Minnis swung wider, and the guards marched into the outer ward, the dust of the road swirling in a cloud about
their feet, the wagons lurching behind them.

“Lie back, dear,” urged Jaboa.

“Leave me be!” she cried, and knelt over the seat. Her blood turned to ice at the sight of the tall man dressed all in black
who stood on the steps in the center of the gate which led into the inner ward. She heard Peregrine gasp, saw Tavia turn white.
As the driver reined the team of horses to a halt, Annandale forced her way onto the seat of the wagon in time to hear Garrick
demand: “What is the meaning of this?”

But the man on the steps ignored Garrick, and instead strode unerringly to the wagon where Annandale sat stricken.

He extended his hand, and Annandale saw he wore leather gloves so finely fit they might have been a second skin. “Lady Annandale?
I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Amanander.”

H
is voice was like the leathery scuttle of a large insect across old parchment, and his eyes were flat and very black, as though
they trapped and absorbed light within their depths. Deep within, her internal impulse to heal fluttered, ready to right the
balance this man so dangerously tipped.

This was the man who wanted the throne of Meriga so much, who, if ever it were possible, would kill Roderic with no more thought
than he might a flea. This man was the result of Abelard Ridenau’s singleminded insistence that the future be hammered into
a form shaped by his desires, irrational and unjust though they might be. Amanander and his thwarted ambition was like a knot
upon a tree, and her healing impulse flared and wavered. This was a blight beyond her ability, and despite her fear and her
revulsion, pity for him stirred deep within. And this was the man who should be King. She understood in an instant why the
Magic was wrong, what happened when one man’s will was brought to bear upon the eternal order.

She paused only a moment before she accepted his hand. When she stood before him on the ground, she raised her chin and their
eyes met and locked. Something flickered in those inky depths, some vestige of the man he could have been, and for a fleeting
moment, Annandale thought there might yet be hope. Then something else replaced that momentary gleam, something blacker than
the color of his eyes and harder than obsidian, something which would swallow her pity whole. For the first time in her life,
she was truly terrified.

She struggled not to flinch as Amanander traced the back of his hand down the side of her face to her jaw. “By the One, lady,
you are fair. The fairest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Lord Amanander.” Garrick had dismounted and now he strode up beside the taller man, his thumbs hooked in his sword belt,
his shoulders rigid. The sheath of his dagger slapped against his thigh, and his footsteps raised small puffs of dust. “What’s
the meaning of this? Where is the garrison commander?”

Amanander’s expression did not change as he slid his eyes off Annandale’s face. She felt as if she’d been released as his
relentless stare fell on Garrick. “He’s indisposed, General Garrick.”

“Why aren’t you in Dlas?”

Amanander drew a deep breath and turned his eyes back to Annandale. “I had other plans.”

“What other plans?” Garrick’s hand slid over his dagger, pulling and tugging at it as though he’d like to remove it from his
sheath, and out of the corner of her eye, Annandale saw the soldiers of the King’s Guard come to attention, slowly reaching
for the weapons they wore at their belts.

Amanander held up his black-gloved hand, beckoning. Immediately, dark shapes coalesced out of the shadows around the walls,
tall and slim, soldiers dressed in black leather armor, who bore broadswords. The sight of those guards made the breath stop
in her throat and for a terrible moment, she thought she might vomit once more. Then the feeling passed as the King’s men
drew closer together, muttering to themselves, and Amanander extended his hand to Garrick. “My plans don’t concern you in
the least. However,” he continued, turning to look at Annandale, “they do most assuredly concern you, my dear.”

Annandale drew herself up and met his eyes with the same defiance as Garrick. “I very truly doubt that, lord.”

“Do you?” He raised his left eyebrow a fraction. “We’ll see, my dear.”

“Don’t take that tone with her, you insolent puppy.” Garrick said. “You must—“

In less than a breath, Amanander was upon him, his hand wrapped in the fabric of Garrick’s tunic. “Little man, remember to
whom you speak. ‘Must’ is not a word used to princes.” He gave the older man a shake, and Garrick pulled away, his shaking
hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger.

“I insist that you take me to the garrison commander.”

Amanander narrowed his eyes. “As you say, General.” Before anyone could move, or react, Amanander thrust his dagger into the
space between the old man’s ribs. Garrick’s eyes widened in shock and terror, and Amanander pulled the blade out. “Give him
my regards.”

As Garrick’s body crumpled into a heap, Amanander wiped his dagger on Garrick’s cloak. Amanander resheathed the dagger.

There was a silence, complete, shocked, broken only when Tavia, leaning out of the wagon, Melisande cradled in her arms, spat
in the dirt at his feet. “You despicable monster. I’m ashamed to think you’re my brother.”