The Misbegotten King (2 page)

“Wait, M’Callaster,” Brand called, just as she touched the tip of one boot to the first rock.

She ignored him, too. Although Brand, unlike some of the men who served Prince Roderic, never forgot to address her correctly,
he still had a tendency to behave like an old woman when it came to letting her go first into any situation he perceived as
dangerous. As did Roderic, for that matter. She shoved the thought of Roderic aside. When he had left for Ahga, to await the
birth of his hoped-for heir, she had told herself she would not dwell on his absence.

She tried instead to concentrate on the matter at hand: the campaign against the rebellious younger sons of the old Senador
of Atland. Instead of returning with her men to the Settle Islands after the successful siege of Minnis Saul last summer,
Deirdre had agreed to stay and aid Prince Roderic’s struggle to guarantee the inheritance of Atland’s oldest son and heir,
Kye. So here she was on this muddy highway, which looped over the Pulatchian Mountains like a ragged ribbon, accompanied by
Brand and a contingent of the Prince’s Army, intent on rendezvousing with Kye by sunset at a garrison town still many miles
away. But it seemed that no matter how hard
Deirdre tried to concentrate on plans to bring the rebellion to a speedy and successful conclusion, thoughts of Roderic had
an annoying way of intruding when she least expected them.

She bit down on her lip as she reached for the pile of rags, searching with a gloved hand. It was a body all right. She tugged,
and the thing slipped off the top of the rock, tumbling and sliding, to lie face-up like a rag doll, staring blindly at the
lowering sky. She shoved a balled fist into her mouth and looked away. Despite the mutilations, the third eye, centered in
the forehead above and between what remained of the other two, and the terracotta-colored skin made it clear that the creature
had been a Muten.

Beside her, Brand stifled a gagging noise. “By the One,” he managed at last. “What kind of monster did this?”

“It’s—it was a Muten,” she said. “Get Vere.”

“Boy—” Brand spoke to the standard bearer, who was vainly trying to control both his own animal and Deirdre’s, “call for Lord
Vere. At once.”

There was an immediate stir through the ranks as the boy slipped out of his saddle and ran down the column of men. Deirdre
stared at the ruin at her feet. Something—someone—had seared the eyes from the Muten’s head, wielding a pointed iron so deeply
that the rubbery, grayish white matter of the brain lay revealed under the blackened flesh. Its mouth hung open, the jaw wrenched
apart, and the remains of the tongue protruded from the jellied mass of clotting blood. The arms ended in bloodied stumps
about three inches beneath the elbows. “Mother
goddess,” she muttered. No matter what anyone might think of the Mutens, who swarmed like vermin through the hills and hollows
of the Pulatchian Mountains, none of them deserved to die like this.

She glanced up to see Vere striding forward, his long, green cloak billowing around his knees. She still did not quite understand
Vere’s role. She knew he was the second of all the missing King’s illegitimate children, born to some Mayher’s daughter from
a village near Ahga when Abelard was no more than fifteen or sixteen. She knew that Vere had run away from Ahga years before,
in his own youth, long before Abelard had married Roderic’s mother. She knew that he had returned to the court last summer,
and that it was common knowledge that he had lived among the Mutens. It was also common knowledge that Roderic relied upon
Vere in his dealings with the Mutens. Once again, Roderic’s face flashed before her, the familiar shock of fawn brown hair
falling across his brow, lean cheeks and squared jaw rough with the faintest haze of beard. With a curse, she forced herself
to think only of the situation at hand.

Without a word, Vere dropped to his knees, his cheeks pale behind the swirling tattoos—Muten markings—which were visible above
his gray beard. Beads of sweat laced his forehead, despite the damp breeze. His hand rested briefly on the matted locks of
blood-clotted hair, then he heaved a heavy sigh and rose to his feet. “Any others?”

“There’s another one there—” Brand nodded at a body lying in a misshapen heap near another rock and pointed to another still,
ragged form lying a little distance
away. “At least one more there. You think the Pulatchian Highlanders did this?” He gripped his swordbelt with both hands and
looked around, scanning the forest on either side of the road, his dark brows knit. Droplets of water off the trees gleamed
silver in his steel-streaked hair. At forty-nine, Brand, the eldest of all of Abelard’s children, was the Captain of the King’s
Guard, the commander of the elite corps of troops who were charged with the protection of the King’s person, as well as the
second-in-command of the Armies of the King. No other man in Meriga, save Roderic himself, wielded so much power, and Brand’s
loyalty to his father and his half-brother was absolute.

The men who dwelled in the Pulatchian Mountains and called themselves Highlanders hated the Muten Tribes and fought endless
squabbles with them over the scarce patches of arable land in the mountains. If anyone was responsible for this breach of
the peace, surely it was one of their factions. The thought that anyone could conceive of such a horrible killing made Deirdre,
hardened as she was to the sights of battle, nauseated.

She glanced from one brother to the other and flung her brown-and-red battle-plaid over her shoulder impatiently. “We haven’t
the time to worry about who’s responsible for this if we’re to rendezvous with Atland’s son at dusk. Leave a detail to bury
these poor wretches.”

Vere dragged the toe of a worn boot through the mud. “I’ll stay. There’re things which ought to be said over them. I’ll see
to that, then catch up.”

Brand nodded and Deirdre shrugged. The first drops of rain stung her cheek. The warm wind blew harder,
through the tangled mass of long gray locks on Vere’s shoulder. As Brand turned on his heel, motioning for the sergeant, Vere
tapped his brother on the shoulder. “I don’t know why this happened, but I can tell you it wasn’t the Highlanders who did
this.”

Brand frowned. “Why are you so certain?”

“What was done here was a parody—a travesty—of a secret ritual. This was done by other Mutens.”

“You’re sure?” Brand shot back. “If the Highlanders have violated the treaty, Roderic needs to know immediately.”

Vere only nodded, hanging his head as though in shame. As Deirdre swung back into her saddle, she saw him admonish the soldiers
to treat the body gently. Poor misfit Prince, she thought, not quite one of them, not quite one of us. Like me, she thought,
not one of the men, not one of the women. Not that it made any difference now. She had fought and won her title six years
ago, when she was barely twenty-two, and no man dared challenge her right to rule her father’s estate, or to ride to war with
the lords of the kingdom.

She flapped her reins and the horse trotted off down the road, eager to be away from the stench. “Why would anyone do something
like that?” she asked Brand as he rode up.

“Who knows why the Mutens do anything? Just as long as it doesn’t complicate things for us. This situation is bad enough already.”
His mouth was set and grim.

There wasn’t much to smile about, thought Deirdre as the road dipped down into a slight valley, and the light rain spattered
the black surface. Two and a half years
ago, Abelard Ridenau had disappeared on a journey across the Arkan Plains. At the time, Roderic had been in the middle of
his first command, the first Muten rebellion in more than ten years. Repeated searches across Arkan and Loma had proved fruitless.
Abelard had simply vanished, leaving his eighteen-year-old heir to deal as best he could with a country smoldering under an
uneasy peace.

Although Amanander, Roderic’s traitor brother, had lain since the previous summer an unconscious prisoner in Ahga, there had
been rumors that he showed signs of waking from his unnatural sleep, and Deirdre suspected it wasn’t Roderic’s concern for
his wife and the impending birth alone that had prompted him to return to his capital more than a month ago. At least, she
preferred to think it wasn’t.

If that child were a son, thought Deirdre as she tightened her grip on the reins, Roderic would be released from his vow of
fidelity to his wife and free to fulfill the bargain they had made between them—that in exchange for ten thousand of her men
to be used in his struggle against Amanander to secure the throne of Meriga, he would attempt to give her a child. The Chiefs
of the Settle Islands were so contentious Deirdre knew that only with the support of the throne would her son succeed her
in relative peace.

Amanander lay helpless as a newborn in Ahga, no longer a threat, and while Roderic might always need extra troops, her side
of the bargain had been fulfilled with the fall of the fortress of Minnis Saul last summer. She knew she couldn’t expect Roderic
to father a child
when his attention was so taken up with the worst uprising in nearly twenty years, and she had decided it was better for all
concerned if she went back to her own country to await him.

When they reached Grenvill garrison, she would leave her troops under the command of her second, Grefith. And between Brand
and Vere and Atland’s heir, Kye, who remained loyal to the Ridenau cause, and who would all continue to fight for peace in
the South, Roderic had no need of her. She had fallen back into a half drowse when a shout went up from the troops riding
just ahead. Brand half rose in his stirrups. “What is it?” he called, his voice terse and weary.

“Soldiers, Captain. Coming this way.”

“Can you see their colors?” Deirdre craned her neck. The approaching horses were lathered, and they stumbled over the even
roadway with the shambling gait of exhaustion.

“See there—” The scout pointed a long arm. “That blue, that green? That’s Atland’s colors—reversed. His heir comes to meet
us.”

Deirdre and Brand exchanged frowns. Brand held up his hand, and the company slowed to a halt. As the riders came closer, Deirdre
saw that the men’s uniforms were stained with mud, torn and filthy, and all of them bore bloody bandages. The leader, his
head wrapped in a piece of linen so dirty it hardly qualified as a bandage, reined his horse just a few paces from where they
had halted.

“Captain Brand?” His shoulders slumped in obvious relief, his mouth drooping. “Thank the One we met you. Grenvill garrison
is no more.”

***

In the light of the fitful fire, Deirdre watched the exhausted men accept bowls of stew from the hands of the cooks, dipping
into them as though it were the first warm food they’d tasted in days. Which, she realized as she listened to their sorry
tale, was exactly what it was.

Kye, the eldest son of the ancient Senador of Atland, held out his goblet as she lifted up the wineskin. “My thanks,” he muttered,
not quite looking at her. She was used to that reaction, although her lips twitched as she hid a smile.

She took a place next to Brand. Kye was not as tall as he had appeared in the saddle, for his torso was disproportionately
longer than his legs, and his arms and legs were thin, while his chest looked as though it belonged to a man who did hard
labor for a living. But though his body appeared to be constructed from spare parts, there was a weary spark of intelligence
in his light brown eyes. The gash across his forehead was deep, and more than once he cradled his head in one hand, eyes shut.

Brand stared at a hide map, motioning his serving boy to hold the lamp first one way, then another. He wore a deep frown.

Deirdre looked down at the map, at the black double lines which marked the roads, the circles which marked the hills, and
the truth leapt at her like an arrow. “Betrayed,” she muttered. The ugly word dangled in the silence like a spider from a
thread. She flung her thick braid over her shoulder and shifted on the low camp stool which was all that kept her out of the
mud. She gave a soft snort and toyed with a loose thread in the sleeve of
her tunic, meeting the stricken looks of the men with contempt. “Don’t tell me the thought hadn’t occurred to anyone else.”

The men exchanged furtive glances, bulky shoulders shifting under heavy cloaks, for the wind whistled in the trees, and the
night was cold. Spring in the Pulatchian Mountains was a long time coming.

Finally Kye raised his head and looked her in the eye for the first time since their meeting. “I can’t believe that.”

Brand said nothing, but the expression on his face did not change. Deirdre lowered her head and wondered why she wasted her
time with these mainlanders, who refused to see treachery when it yanked them by the hair and stared them in the eyes. Then
a vision of Roderic flashed before her, his gray-green gaze steady in the face of even the most calculated of risks. She swallowed
hard and forced herself to speak calmly. “Do you think it was luck? Good fortune? How else could your brothers have known
about our rendezvous at Grenvill garrison?” Impatiently, she shoved the map toward Kye, and the serving boy jumped. His lantern
cast weird dancing shadows on the flimsy walls of the tent.

“They have scouts, as well—” Kye began, but stopped when he realized the route Deirdre traced.

She spread her hands flat on her knees, large hands, knuckles red and knotted, skin chapped and calloused as a man’s, and
stretched her long legs out to the side. “There’s a traitor in your midst.”

“You’re saying one of my men—?” Kye threw back his cloak, pushing it away to reveal the hilt of the dagger.

Deirdre recognized the challenge and shook her head
in disgust. “No, lord, I am not. But someone—somewhere, between here and Atland garrison—gave the enemy your precise route.
It was more than luck that put the equivalent of two armies between your men and ours.” She raised her chin and met Brand’s
steady eyes. “What say you, Captain Brand?”

Brand nodded slowly. “I agree with you, M’Callaster. There is a traitor. But I’m afraid we have neither the time nor the resources
to worry who he is. We have to plan what our next move will be. We can’t afford to wait until Roderic returns.”