The Misbegotten King (24 page)

He gripped the rough wooden windowframe, mentally ticking off the preparations he had made. The guards, the supplies, the
weapons polished and ready, the rations carefully allotted, the water cisterns full to overflowing. He wondered where the
promised reinforcements from
Roderic were. The messenger had come nearly a month ago; he was expecting them to arrive any day, but so far there had been
no signs of them.

He thought about all the stories his father had told him about his years in Arkan fighting the Harleys, when he was just an
infant and Roderic was not even yet born, trying to draw on every scrap of information he could remember. Something crossed
his mind, something so small and yet significant, he wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask it before.

In a few quick strides he was across the room, bounding into the outer room so suddenly that the guard at the door was surprised
in mid-yawn. The soldier immediately snapped to attention.

“Find the scouts who just came in,” he barked.

“As you say, sir.” The soldier saluted and took off.

He was back in less than five minutes with a bare-chested man who clutched a tunic in one hand. Soap froth still clung to
his half-shaven chin. Barran ignored the details of his appearance.

“Sir.” Both men saluted and the guard took his post.

Barran met the dark eyes of the scout. “Tell me,” he began slowly, “in the Harley camp, were there any signs of women or children?”

Without hesitation the scout shook his head. “No, sir. None.”

“Why didn’t you report this to Rone?”

“I did, sir.”

Barran turned away with a soldier’s curse. Damn the man. How could he fail to see the importance of that detail. “Put your
shirt on, soldier. I think I need to speak
with you myself. And you—” He looked at the guard in the doorway, standing motionless once more. “Find Lieutenant Rone and
tell him I want to see him immediately.”

With another quick salute, the man was gone, trotting away in little clouds of dusty sand across the sunny yard. Barran met
the eyes of the scout, who was just finishing lacing his shirt.

“It’s been more than twenty years since the Harleys attacked a garrison, Captain.”

“Indeed,” said Barran as he stalked into his office. “But do you care to wager your life on history?”

Barran fled. The sand was thick and ankle deep, the gently quivering surface giving way beneath his boots. Sweat rolled down
his back, made the gritty grains cling to his skin beneath his thick leather armor and the soaked linen shirt. He bore a sword
three times heavier than it should be, and all around him he heard the cries of his men, screaming in the flame-filled night
for mercy. But there was no mercy, and as he turned at the sound of his own name, a dark shape bore down upon him, a Harleyrider
in black leathers, shiny with blood, and chains which gleamed red in the awful light. He glimpsed crosses being erected upon
the walls, his own men writhing in agony. Barran threw up his arms, his sword quivering in his trembling hands, and the Rider
bore down, driving the shaggy short-legged horse across the sand.

Light flashed off the edge of the weapon, a weird unearthly light, and as the Rider threw back his head, the
heavy fall of hair fell back over its shoulder, and Barran looked up into the face of Amanander.

“Uncle!” he cried, more out of surprise than fright.

Amanander laughed, low and long, and the sound made the gooseflesh rise on Barran’s arms. A shiver ran down his spine and
his bowels loosened. Every ounce of will he had was required to stand against that awful sound, and Barran stared into the
face of his kinsman, who was and somehow was not the man he remembered. “Uncle?” he whispered.

Amanander raised his hand and the scene seemed to swirl, the landscape wheeled as though on a giant revolving plate, and Barran
saw the gates of the desert garrison, one gate torn off the huge hinges, the other—

A sob rose in his throat.

A figure was nailed to the great crosspiece, his face a rictus of agony, his body twisted in a final death throe. Barran stared
at the dark head, the blood which streamed down the tortured cheeks, the bluish tinge which colored the hawk-nose and the
grimacing lips.

“Dad,” he whispered. He raised his eyes to Amanander. “Why—how—please—”

“Open the gates,” said Amanander, his black-gloved hands caressing the leather reins like a lover. “Open the gates.”

The landscape wheeled, a crazy kaleidoscope of stone and light, blood and sand, bone and sinews stretched to the point of
breaking. “Never,” whispered Barran as he stared into a face which was suddenly hideous. “Never.”

“Then so be it,” said Amanander with a smile.

The world spun once more and Barran fell to the
ground, his cheek pressed against the warm, gritty sand. He struggled to cling to earth which writhed beneath his hands like
a beast in its death agony.

“Captain, Captain—”

The voices seemed to come from a long way off. Barran opened his eyes. Immediately he heard the clang of metal on metal and
smelled the acrid stink of burning pitch, the unmistakable sounds and smells of battle.

A young recruit stood by his bed, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, fear as plain as dawn in the desert on his face.
Before the words were out of his mouth, Barran knew what he would say. “Wake up, sir, please, wake up. The garrison’s under
attack.”

R
deric paused in the doorway of the nursery. Unobserved, he watched Tavia change Rhodri’s soiled linen, while Melisande, now
more than two, kept up a running commentary. Her hair and eyes were dark, reminding him of her mother, Peregrine. She had
been one of the first, he thought, one of the first casualties in this war, one of the first of the women whom he had loved
to die in the cause of the heir of Meriga. Now the child extended both arms over her head and pirouetted into the center of
the room, humming a little tune. When she caught sight of him in the doorway, she stopped and beamed. “Dada!”

With a little shriek of delight, she launched herself into his arms, her white petticoats flashing around her plump legs.
He lifted her up and hugged her tightly, gazing over her shoulder to the baby, who had been alerted by his sister’s shriek.
“Hello, Meli,” he whispered against the thick fall of her dark curls. “How’s my sweetest girl today?”

Melisande giggled and took his face in both of her hands. “I’m a good girl, Dada. Rhodri, he’s been bad!”

“Bad?” Roderic smiled, in spite of himself. Tavia
wrapped the infant in a light cotton blanket and raised him to her shoulder, where his head bobbed in the direction of his
sister’s voice, like a heavy tulip on a too-fragile stem.

Melisande giggled and whispered something in his ear, something breathy and indistinguishable, and Roderic shook his head.
“My, my. Extra guard duty for him, don’t you think?”

Melisande shrieked with giggles. “Oh, Dada, he can’t even walk.” She struggled in his embrace. “Watch me dance.”

Obligingly he set her down, and she stood on her tiptoes, humming a tuneless little song. As Tavia crossed the room, Melisande
jumped and kicked, her arms held high over her head, and Roderic realized she imitated the Islanders and their energetic dances.
Abruptly he was reminded that Deirdre should have returned by now. He frowned.

Tavia spoke softly. “Say hello to your Dada, young Prince.”

In spite of everything, Roderic had to smile back as the baby, as though obedient to his aunt’s order, broke out into a wreath
of toothless grins. His deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners and he made a soft coo. Roderic stroked the back of the baby’s
downy head, where the hair still stuck up in all directions. “He’s doing well.”

“Yes.” Tavia nodded. “They both are.” She looked at Roderic sharply and her motherly face was wreathed with concern.

“Dada.” Melisande tugged at the hem of his tunic. “When’s Nanny coming home?”

Roderic drew a sharp breath and tried to suppress a sigh. Everyone missed Annandale, especially Meli, for Annandale was the
closest to a mother she had ever known. “Soon, sweetheart. Nanny will be home as soon as she can.”

“Meli,” Tavia said, “go and find Kaitlan. She’s right next door sorting laundry.”

“Is it time for cakes?” asked Melisande, her cheeks pink.

“Nearly,” replied Tavia. “When you find her it will be.”

“Bye, Dada!”

The child disappeared through a door. Tavia gave Roderic a long, considering look. “Come.” She led the way onto a balcony,
where two chairs were placed side by side in the shade. A soft breeze stirred the baby’s hair. Roderic sat in one of the chairs
and Tavia placed the infant in his arms, smiling down at him. “He’s growing beautifully, Roderic.”

The child looked at him with a grave expression in those blue, blue eyes. His little mouth was rosy, his cheeks softly plump.
His hands were clasped loosely on his chest. He looked for all the world like an old man at peace with the world. Roderic
touched his fingertip to the very tip of the tiny nose and smiled sadly. He drew a deep breath.

“You miss her.”

He nodded, his eyes not leaving the baby’s face. “I hope she made it there all right. I expected Deirdre back by now. I’m
sure Alexander convinced Vere to go off on some wild goose chase after Dad.” He raised his head
and sighed. He had been tempted to go off after Alexander when it was discovered his brother was missing, but Brand had quickly
convinced him of the folly that would be. Alexander might be an invalid, but he was a grown man and an experienced soldier.
If he insisted on traipsing alone through enemy territory and Vere was foolish enough to go with him… well, there wasn’t really
anything Roderic could do about it.

“You don’t look happy, Roderic.” Tavia spoke as gently as she might to the child in his arms.

“I have a bad feeling.” He did not take his eyes off the infant, but a frown deepened the new furrow between his brows. “I
can’t explain it, but I have a terrible feeling.”

“Tell me.” She leaned back in her chair.

“There’s a border garrison south of here, called God’s Deen. It’s right at the border of Missiluse and Atland. You know Kye
has gone to secure a position there. Frankly I expected Deirdre to return by now…” His voice trailed off, and he raised his
eyes to the horizon, where the mountains rose purple against the clear blue sky.

“What about Dlas?”

He shot her a sharp look. “Have you been talking to Brand?”

“He’s worried about his son, Roderic.”

Roderic sighed. “I know and I understand. The reinforcements left here a month ago. They should be there by now. I expect
dispatches soon.”

“And Everard?”

“The fighting in the North seems to have abated.” Roderic shrugged. “So here we wait, like pieces on a
chess board. Kye is to march east to Atland garrison. Depending on the resistance he encounters, I expect to send Brand with
more troops. And once we secure Atland, we will turn on Missiluse.”

“Do you have the troops to send?”

Roderic nodded slowly, holding out one finger for the infant to grasp. “Barely.” He gazed at the baby. “Do you think I was
right to let her go, Tavvy?”

Tavia sighed. “I—I don’t know, Roderic. I know Annandale is—special. But it seems that all the world’s at war right now.”
Tavia shook her head. “She was very brave to leave these walls. I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“I almost felt I had no choice but to let her go.”

“Perhaps you didn’t,” Tavia said gently.

Roderic sighed again. “So many decisions, Tavvy. So many variables.”

“So many depending upon you to do what is best.”

He looked up then and met his sister’s gentle eyes. What would she say, he wondered, if he told her the truth? Would she tell
him to stop the fighting? Tell him to open negotiations with Amanander for the throne? And even if Amanander was not the rightful
King, there was still Brand, still Alexander or Everard or Phillip or Vere. His mind rejected Phillip outright—in all the
years of fighting, Phillip had offered nothing but excuses. He was safe behind the walls of Nourk and he intended to stay
there. Vere would have no part of the throne, of that he was certain. But Brand, or Alexander or Everard— any of them—they
were fit to rule. What did an ancient prophecy matter now? Nydia was dead and gone, and so was Abelard, too, for all they
knew.

The baby screwed up his face and mewed, waving his fists. Roderic instinctively raised the child to his shoulder and patted
his back. The infant quieted momentarily, and Tavia looked at him with motherly concern. “We all miss her, Roderic.”

Roderic nodded. “I wish—”

“Yes?”

He handed the baby to Tavia and rose to pace the length of the balcony. The wind ruffled the shock of hair which fell across
his brow. “I wish I could shake this feeling, Tavvy. I keep feeling that something very bad has happened. And I just can’t
say what it is.”

In the room there was a knocking on the door and a nursery maid opened it as Roderic peered into the interior of the room.
A soldier stood in the doorway. “I was told that the Lord Prince was here,” he said to the maidservant.