The Misbegotten King (23 page)

She smiled. Not even the sudden frantic calls for the ranks disturbed her, though out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jama
speak sharply to the wagon driver. He reined in as a soldier ran up beside him, the bridle of a horse clutched in his hands.
The rider slumped over the neck of the horse, his hands hanging slack by his side.

Jama looked stricken. He raised his hand and shouted an order to halt. The cart jolted to a stop. Annandale looked at him
curiously. His face was creased in a mixture of fear, concern, and some nameless grief. He slid off his horse and went at
once to the rider.

He tugged at the prone body, and the heavy form slipped out of the saddle and tumbled into his arms. She heard the quick intake
of his breath.

The face of his second-in-command, Adanijah, was marred by purplish lesions that oozed a greenish yellow pus. Blood ran from
the corners of his eyes like red tears,
and a thin line of blood-tinged mucous spooled from one nostril.

The soldier who brought Adanijah up to the front fell back, crossing himself in a gesture. Annandale had seen the Pr’fessors
make, and as she looked back, she saw fear ripple down the long line of troops behind the cart like a wave.

“The purple sickness,” Vere whispered.

Instantly she understood. Nothing was so virulent as the purple sickness among the Mutens. Humans were immune, but it could
kill whole villages of Mutens within hours. It arose suddenly, silently, killing fiercely and fast. Once the contagion was
sparked, there was nothing to do but to let it run its course. The entire Muten force was certain to die all around them.
Jama raised a stricken face to the sky even as he slowly let Adanijah fall to the ground. Annandale peered over the edge.
The Muten still lived. His chest rose and fell sporadically, and she could hear a phlegmy rattle in his throat.

Jama dropped his head and sobbed like a child, his shoulders heaving.

She looked at Vere. There was no pity on his face, only a certain grim satisfaction. The Mutens would die very quickly, she
knew, and then they could escape. As her eyes met Vere’s, something spoke, deep in her mind.

Right the balance.

She gasped. Surely the Voice was mistaken. This couldn’t be—this was the chance for escape.

Right the balance.

She bowed her head, her body quivering. While part of her rebelled, another part responded instinctively,
gladly. She swallowed hard. “Jama-taw,” she said, her voice as clear and firm as a bell in the stricken silence. “Let me touch
him.”

Jama raised his head, meeting her eyes uncompre-hendingly. “What?”

Vere looked at her in shock. “Lady, do you know what you do?”

Annandale nodded. “I must. Don’t ask me why—I only know I must.”

“Untie her,” put in Vere. “And let her touch him, quickly before he dies.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have the time to ask these questions,” Vere spit out in Muten, the harsh syllables falling from his tongue like
acid, and with a start, Annandale realized she understood what he said.

With a gesture from Jama, one of the guards untied her bonds and helped Annandale slip from the cart. She gathered her skirts
and gently touched Jama on the shoulder. Immediately a wave of grief swept over and through her. He loves him like a brother,
she thought. But she sank to her knees beside him, willfully ignoring his grief. She reached over him and gathered the heavy
Muten in her arms.

Instantly, as their skin made contact, agony roared through her, pain unlike any she had ever felt before, ripping at every
nerve and sinew. Her blood seemed to boil and she felt the horrible lesions burst forth on every surface of her skin, blood
leaking from her eyes and nose. She tasted it on her tongue. She closed her eyes and moaned. Her muscles seemed to turn to
jelly, her bones
felt like fiery brands. This was unlike anything she had ever healed in her life.

She drew a deep quivering breath as the pain began to fade, draining out of her body. She opened her eyes. Adanijah lay in
her arms, his head pillowed on her breast. His breathing was firm and steady, and the awful lesions were gone. Only a few
traces of blood on his face showed that he had ever been ill.

“Lady,” breathed Jama. “By the Power—”

“A bit late to swear by that Power,” snapped Vere, in Merigan.

Annandale gently disengaged herself from the heavy body and shakily rose to her feet, gripping the wheel of the cart as she
rose.

Jama was looking at her with something like awe. “What are you, lady? How—how—”

Annandale shook her head wearily. “It doesn’t matter, Jama. It doesn’t matter.”

She raised her head and looked down the road, her shoulders bowed beneath a nameless weight. Jama looked up, following her
gaze. Six black-garbed soldiers were bearing down upon the company. A familiar fear constricted her throat. Despite the hot
sun, they were fully uniformed in leather armor, their tunics emblazoned with an inverted triangle topped by a silver crescent.
A new moon, she wondered, and then she realized that the image on their chests reminded her more than anything of an animal
skull left to bleach in the merciless sun.

“By the One.” The ragged whisper seem to tear out of Alexander’s throat.

“Steady, Alex,” muttered Vere.

“You—you don’t understand.” Alexander turned to look at them both, his dark eyes shadowed by the huge shadows beneath his
eyes. “That emblem—that badge— in all the dreams I’ve had of Dad, that was the badge his guards wore.”

His eyes met Annandale’s, and despite the heat an icy finger of fear traced a cold path down her spine. Her eyes locked on
his. Could it be possible, after all the missing years, that Abelard was alive? The shadows around the bases of the trees
seemed to congeal into pools of bottomless blackness, and the air grew more oppressive. She whispered a prayer to that nameless
source for strength.

The soldiers reined their horses several yards from where the Muten party had stopped. Jama cleared his throat and addressed
the center rider. “We come at the bidding of Prince Amanander.”

The horseman said nothing. Jama frowned and began again. “I am Jama-taw. I bring—”

The rider cocked his head as though listening intently, then raised his arm and pulled on the reins so that his stallion wheeled.
“You are known to the Prince. Come with me.”

Adanijah struggled to sit, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He muttered something beneath his breath in the Muten tongue
that Annandale did not hear, but which made Vere whip his head around to stare at him.

Jama nodded slowly.

“Vere?” whispered Annandale. “What did they say?”

Vere’s tattooed cheeks were pale, his gray eyes dark. “He said—” Vere paused as though struggling with the
translation. “Un-dead—or not live. Either one—and both.”

“Undead?” Alexander muttered, his shoulders bent as an old man’s. “Not live? What does that mean?”

Annandale took a deep breath. They knew, she thought. All of them, whether they wished to deny it or not. They knew exactly
what it meant.

As the cart jolted through the gates, Annandale gazed around at the frenzied activity. Men swarmed over the walls, constructing
watchtowers, mortaring the walls, engaged in hundreds of tasks, scurrying like ants with some intent purpose. The courtyard
teemed with activity, and yet she had never had such a sense of death in her life. It was as though she sat in the middle
of a graveyard. A dark shape loomed in the doorway of the central keep and Annandale looked up as Vere hissed and Alexander
moaned softly.

Her belly contracted with fear. Annandale ran her parched tongue over dry lips. This was the man who had staked everything
on his ability to bend her to his will and who had tortured innocent people in the attempt to break her resistance to him.
He had killed without thought, without remorse, all in his effort to force her to allow him to use her. What did he want with
her now? she wondered as she stared up at him. What did he want with any of them now?

Amanander gazed down at them, his face registering no emotion whatsoever, not even surprise. It was as if, Annandale thought,
they were expected. His eyes flickered over to Jama-taw. “Well?”

“The College of the Elders is no more,” Jama said, his voice low.

Annandale turned to look at him. Was that an undercurrent of shame she heard?

Amanander snapped his fingers and spoke to one of the soldiers who hovered by his elbow. “Take the prisoners to the cells
beneath the keep.” His eyes flitted over each of them in turn, not pausing, as though they had no more interest to him than
cattle brought for inspection. His very detachment made Annandale shiver and wonder what Amanander intended for them. Briefly
his gaze rested on Alexander. “I would bid you welcome, brother, but I don’t think any of you are glad to see me. So I will
spare you all the trouble of unmeant courtesy.” He turned on his heel and paused, thoughtfully, as though considering something.
“Oh, yes,” he said, with a smile which did nothing to warm the chill which went down Annandale’s spine, “you’ll find the very
person you’ve been looking for, Alexander. Though I doubt he will be able to express just how glad he will be to see you all
once more.”

C
aptain Barran?”

The deep voice of his lieutenant interrupted Barran’s thoughts as he struggled to put his jumbled fears into words on the
parchment before him. He laid the pen down and looked up. “Yes, Rone?”

The lieutenant wet his lips. “The scouts, sir. They are reporting increasing numbers of Harleyriders gathering just to the
west.”

Barran frowned. “Which direction are they traveling?”

Rone shook his head. “They aren’t. They’ve made a camp, sir, and it appears they intend to stay.”

At that Barran pushed away from his desk, biting back a curse. He strode to the window and stared out into the inner courtyard
of the desert garrison. In the heat of the noon sun, the guards drowsed at their posts, and the men off duty lounged in the
small pockets of shade. He could hear the low murmur of their voices, the soft rattle of the dice as they cast lots. Barran
turned back to Rone. “Exactly how far west?”

“A day’s ride.”

Barran swore softly beneath his breath. “Numbers?”

“Between five or six hundred. But really, Captain—” Rone cleared his throat before continuing “—you don’t think it likely
they plan to attack the garrison?”

There was the faintest trace of condescension in Rone’s voice. He was nearly twenty years older than Barran and had not at
all been happy to be sent to Dlas when Barran had assumed command. He much preferred the easy life in Ahga, and made no secret
of the fact that he thought his talents wasted. Barran plopped back into his chair. He was used to Rone’s attitude. “You tell
me. Six hundred Harleyriders gathered to the west—just within striking distance. A kingdom messenger comes from Roderic, telling
me my uncle and his cousin have likely formed an alliance with the Harleyriders, and that I am to watch any unusual movements
closely and to prepare for an attack.”

Rone raised one eyebrow. “Harleys don’t attack garrisons. Not in the last twenty years.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how, or don’t plan to try again. I don’t intend to take any chances. Make sure the outer
perimeter is secure. Double the watch. And send me a messenger. This should be reported back to Ithan at once.”

When Rone had gone, Barran rose once more and walked to the window. He didn’t like this news. Foreboding swept through him,
he narrowed his eyes and watched as the guard changed. The desert garrison was a long, low structure. Only the watchtowers
rose above the high walls. He had been in charge of the desert garrison for more than a year, an unusual command for one so
young, but not unheard of given who
his father was, and where he potentially could expect to rise.

Someday, thought Barran, someday, I will sit in Ahga at Roderic’s right hand, the captain of the King’s Guard. A grim smile
did little to soften his face as he thought about Roderic, about the annoying, pesky child he’d always treated more as a brother
than as a royal heir. Just old enough to be thrown together constantly, just young enough to be annoying was how he had always
thought of Roderic. He had had to share his mother— Abruptly he swallowed hard and blinked back unexpected tears. His mother.
His mother who had never harmed a living soul, now dead in the earthshake which had enabled Amanander to escape. The more
rational part of him knew it was futile to blame Amanander for the earth-shake, that no mortal man could have caused such
a thing to happen, and yet, despite all the warnings of his rational mind, Barran did just that.

He drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. His father would not allow his grief to interfere with his adherence to duty.
Brand was devoted, trustworthy, utterly loyal, the best of all the soldiers in the army and the Guard. He had earned the honor
of his position not by blood, but by years of hard fighting across the miles of Meriga. If he wished to someday take his father’s
place, he must not let his own grief interfere.