The Misbegotten King (32 page)

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 gathered 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 truth. 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.

“
D
ead?” The word slipped from his lips as Roderic stared uncomprehending at the man who knelt before him. His uniform, or what
was left of it, was tattered and torn. A wound had opened in his back and blood spread in a slow stain, darkening the already
bloodstained fabric. The messenger raised tortured eyes to Roderic.

“Yes, Lord Prince. I saw it with these eyes.” A tear slipped down his weathered cheek.

Roderic turned away and raised his eyes as Tavia rushed into the hall. “Roderic! What word?”

“He’s dead,” Roderic said, scarcely believing the words as he said them. “Brand. Brand is dead.”

“Dead?” Tavia pressed her fist to her mouth. “How?”

The soldier rose awkwardly to his feet. “In Dlas, lady. They were waiting for us. I have never seen their like before and
I have served twenty years in this army. They fell upon us like locusts, Lord Prince. We had no chance at all.”

“And you—only you—escaped?”

“There were a few of us, Lord Prince. But the others died on the way back.”

“Go—eat, rest. You’ve earned it, soldier.” Roderic met Tavia’s troubled eyes.

“What will you do, Roderic?” Tavia asked.

Roderic shook his head. “Talk to Phineas. What else can I do?”

With a heavy heart and a slow step, Roderic walked down the corridor to Phineas’ chambers. The servant who opened the door
raised his eyebrow as he saw Roderic’s expression, but knew better than to dare question him. “Lord Phineas is resting, Lord
Prince.” With a quick gesture, he indicated the inner room.

Without a word, Roderic walked into Phineas’ bedroom and paused. The old man lay on the bed, beneath a white sheet, his hands
loosely clasped on his chest. His chest moved so faintly Roderic feared he might be dead. Then Phineas shifted. “Phineas,”
Roderic said gently. “Phineas. We must talk.”

The old man turned his head at once in the direction of Roderic’s voice. “What’s happened?”

Momentarily Roderic marveled at the speed with which the old man awoke, and then he remembered that Phineas, too, was once
a soldier. “It’s Brand. He’s dead. His whole force slaughtered with him. Only one survivor made it back.”

The color drained from Phineas’ face. “Brand dead?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“By the One.”

“What are we to do, Phineas?”

“Come, Roderic.” Phineas spread his hands and indicated the chair beside his bed. “Come and sit.”

“This—this— Phineas,” Roderic said as he moved to take the place the old man motioned to, “I can’t replace those troops. Shall
I call the men in Atland to fall back? If Amanander launches another such attack on Atland, there is no hope. They are in
danger of being completely cut off—I need the men here—”

“Roderic.” Phineas spoke softly but sharply. “This is a great blow. We can summon troops from Arkan. The Harleyriders have
not invaded as Gredahl feared. There are troops in reserve at all the outpost garrisons. If messengers go out today, we can
field an army within—”

“Within two months if we are lucky, Phineas. You know as well as I that to send word—”