The Misbegotten King (36 page)

On the border of Missiluse, Roderic turned toward Arkan. He would see her buried as she had requested, beneath the tree where
the empaths were buried. Vere rode beside him, silent, pale; Alexander so fully restored to health he looked ten years younger.

Roderic watched numbly as they dug the grave and placed Annandale’s coffin in it. A few of the soldiers offered to stay and
guard the grave. He accepted their gift with a shrug.

News reached him as he neared Ithan of the great
changes which had been wrought upon the land. On the day of that last battle, a great earthshake had once more rocked the
length of Meriga. What had been blocked was opened, and a mighty river had roared out of the southern mountains of the Northern
Plains all the way to Missiluse. The Misspy Gorge was again the Misspy River.

At the gates of Ithan, the flags flew at half staff, and the towers were draped in black. The street was lined with silent
people who watched Roderic ride with shoulders straight and back upright. The burden of his loss weighed like lead upon his
heart.

At the steps of the keep, he dismounted and walked up to where the household waited. Norah stood in the center, the welcome
cup in her hand, steaming with spices. She raised her face to his, and in her eyes, he saw only the greatest of sorrow. He
glanced past her to Tavia’s tear-stained face.

Then a small figure detached itself from the haven of Tavia’s skirts and launched itself into his arms. “Dada!” Melisande
cried.

He hugged her tightly, unable to speak, as the little arms wound themselves fiercely around his neck. She gave him a loud
smack of a kiss on one cheek. “Pooh! Dada, you smell like a horse.”

Roderic smiled through the haze of tears and patted her back. He shifted her weight to one arm and looked back at Tavia.

Norah offered the cup once more, and as he took it, she sank in a deep curtsy. “Welcome to Ithan.” She hesitated the fraction
of an instant and then looked him full in the eyes. “Lord King.”

He drank deeply of the hot wine and passed it on to Vere. “Thank you. Tavia, I would see my son.”

“He’s well, Roderic. He’s in the nursery.”

“I’ll take you there, Dada.” Melisande wriggled in his arms. “Come on.”

As Roderic stepped past the women, he came to Phineas’ litter. He looked old, older than he had ever seemed. His shoulders
were stooped, and the lines in his face were deep crevices. “Lord King.” He bowed his head.

“I’m glad to see you, Phineas.”

“And I, you, Lord King.” He raised his head, and Roderic was so startled he nearly dropped Melisande. Phineas’ eyes were clear,
as clear as his, the deep rings of scar tissue gone.

“Phineas?”

“We’ll talk about it later, Lord King.”

He clapped one hand on the old man’s shoulder and went on. As he passed, the household bowed and curtsied, like willows bending
before a great wind. Melisande led him to the nursery, where Rhodri slept, uncaring, in his cradle.

“I must talk to you, Meli,” Roderic said when he finally put her down. “About Nanny.”

She clasped her small hands in front of her. “Oh, yes, Dada. I know you’re very sad.”

“Did Tavvy tell you that? That I’d be sad?”

“No. Not Tavvy. Nanny did. She said you’d be very sad for a while, and that I would be sad, too, because she would not be
with us for a while, but that—”

“Wait, Meli. What do you mean, Nanny told you?”

“She told me last night, when she came to say goodbye.”

“Last night? Meli, sweet, that’s not possible.”

“She said you’d say that. But that’s all right, Dada.”

“What else did she say?”

“She said she loved me very much, and that I would grow up to be very beautiful… Dada, do you think that’s right? Am I going
to be very beautiful?”

“You’re very beautiful now, little one. What else did Nanny tell you?”

“She said you’d be sad, and that we must be very kind to each other and take good care of Rhodri, because he was to grow up
to be King someday after you went to her.”

“Melisande.” Roderic knelt in front of her, looking in her deep gray eyes. “Nanny can’t be with us anymore. It isn’t possible
to talk to her—when you are older, I’ll take you to see the place where she is.”

“She said you wouldn’t listen. She isn’t under that tree. She’s with us. She said so, and I believe her.” Tears of frustration
were forming in the wide eyes, and he saw a miniature version of his own frown spread across the little face. “Besides, last
night wasn’t the only time I saw her.”

“When else did you see her?”

Melisande’s frown grew deeper. “It was the day of the big earthshake. The sky was dark, and the wind blew so hard, I thought
it would blow us all away. And then we saw a great flash of lightning, and then came the earth-shake, and Tavvy fell down
the steps and landed in the hall.”

“Tavvy was hurt?”

“Yes, and I thought she must be very hurt, because her neck was twisted wrong, and the next thing, I saw Nanny standing over
her, and she touched her, and looked at me, and went‘Sshh,’ you know, like I wasn’t supposed to tell, and Tavvy’s neck was
straight, and she sat up and asked what happened and was I all right. And I said I was, but I didn’t say anything about Nanny.”

Roderic picked Melisande up again and looked down at the sleeping baby. Soft, dark curls covered his head. “Come, sweet, we
don’t want to wake your brother.”

“Dada, you do believe me, don’t you?”

“I want to believe you, sweet. I hope someday I can.”

He went, then, to his rooms, the ones which he had shared with her. He could not look at the bed. The coverlet drawn over
the pillows reminded him of the sheet drawn over the face of the dead. He leaned against the hearth, and his eyes fell on
the basket which contained her needlework. He pulled a silk square from the top, shook it out, touching the careful stitches
her hands had wrought. It was a design of the shield of the Ridenaus, mostly unfinished, except for the lettering at the bottom.
“Faith shall finish what hope begins.” The “s” was missing. He held the square to his face, and the silk reminded him of the
touch of her hand. And finally, for the first time, he wept.

S
ix months he mourned his lady, and one year they mourned the King. How can I tell you of his grief? I have never heard the
like before. He could not even conjure her in dreams. But slowly the land healed, and his children grew, and life became once
more the bits and pieces of ordinary things in an ordinary time.

He remembered the bargain he had with me, but he couldn’t bear the thought. It rubbed against the memory of his love like
a burr on a wound. But as the anniversary day of her death drew closer, he decided to ride down into Arkan and visit her grave,
taking only a few of his most trusted guards with him.

They traveled quickly, easily, and he told me how much the land had changed in the course of that one year. With the elimination
of most of the Harleyriders, Arkan was changing from a wasteland into a wide plain where crops could once more be cultivated.

At last, they reached the little town which had sprung up around the tree. He found the beginnings of farms, fields newly
under cultivation, and stands selling what looked like jewelry made from pearls. “Where did they get all the pearls?” he wondered
as they guided their horses to the one
inn, which was so small it seemed hardly worthy of the name.

But the innkeeper was so overwhelmed by his appearance, babbled greetings and bowed so earnestly, Roderic was amused. He asked
him, when they were seated in the common room with food and drink, where the people were getting all the pearls.

“They grow, Lord King.”

“Grow? Where do pearls grow here?” The men listened and guffawed amongst themselves.

A hurt look spread over the innkeeper’s honest face. “It’s the flowers, Lord King.”

“What flowers?”

“They grow, Lord King, near the grave of your lady. Some people call them Annandale’s roses, but they aren’t roses, not really.
But they are very pretty, I’ll say that.”

“But where are the pearls?”

“Inside, Lord King. They aren’t really pearls, I guess, though they look as good as any I’ve ever heard about. It’s the seeds,
you know, the seeds of the flowers. In every flower, there’re always exactly nine.”

Roderic drained his mug and rose. “I think I’ll go see this marvel for myself.”

The captain of the guards stood up. “Shall we accompany you, Lord King?”

“No. No, I want to go alone.”

He bowed. “As you say, Lord King.”

And so, he told me, he rode out past the winding streets of the village to find if what the innkeeper said was true. On the
grassy knoll beneath the
spreading branches of the tree, where they had buried Annandale, was a thick carpet of leaves, dark green with a fine tracing
of veins like a delicate silver overlay. No flowers bloomed, but he fancied something of their scent clung, sweet, but not
cloying, in the chilly air.

He sat down upon the ground beside her grave and leaned against the great trunk of the tree. He was tired from the journey.
He looked at the clear blue sky through the branches. It was very still.

A wave of longing came over him, then, and he bent his head while slow tears dripped through his fingers. He says he slept
then, but I am not so sure.

For suddenly, she stood before him, fairer than ever, he said, smiling down with eyes like the summer sea under a cloudless
sky. About her was an incandescent quality, as though a brilliant light shone through her, from within. Her garments were
so pure and white they almost looked blue. “Annandale!” He bolted upright against the trunk.

“My dearest love.” She settled next to him on the ground and picked up his hand, and her flesh seemed as firm and substantial
as his own.

“Are you real?”

“Those who are part of the Pattern are the realest of all.”

“I’ve missed you so much.” He wrapped his arms around her and drew her against his chest. She touched his cheek in that old,
familiar way, and he pressed a kiss into her palm. “Will you come back with me?”

She shook her head sadly. “I have no place here, now.”

“Annandale, how can I bear it without you?”

She smiled. “We’ll be together again. Your task is just beginning. There are many who need you.”

“I miss you.”

“We will never be apart.” She took his hands in hers, and his sorrow ebbed at her touch.

“Rhodri is so like you—”

She took his face in her hands and kissed his lips. “You need a woman worthy to sit by your side,” she said.

“There is no one who can take your place.”

“There is one who loves you with her life. Go to her, Roderic, and give her the son she longs for.”

“How can I let anyone take your place? I wear the crown of Meriga, but it is nothing to me without you. What is any of this
for, if I cannot have you with me?”

“Do you remember the words on the shield of the Ridenaus?”

“Faith? Hope? What of our love?” Tears ran down his face.

“Oh, my one beloved. Remember this: hope begins, faith finishes, but it is love that sustains.”

“I cannot go on without you.”

He said, then, that she cupped his wet face in her hands and kissed away his tears. Her mouth on his was warm and real, nothing
like the stuff of dreams. “I shall be with you always, until Time itself has ended.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I await you when your part in the Pattern is complete.”

He woke from the dream clutching a crushed flower. In the palm of his hand were nine perfect pearls.

And in the morning, when the first rays of the rising sun pinkened the sky and the last clouds of night gathered in purple
masses on the horizon, they saddled, and mounted, and rode at last, to me.

THE MISBEGOTTEN KING is Anne Kelleher Bush’s third novel, the sequel to
Daughter of Prophecy
and
Children of Enchantment.
She is now writing a new novel to be published by Warner Aspect in early 1998. Anne Bush holds a degree in medieval studies
from Johns Hopkins University, and lives with her children in Farmington, Connecticut.

“B
USH DISPLAYS A VIVID IMAGINATION
.”

—Publishers Weekly

“F
ASCINATING
.”

—Marion Zimmer Bradley

“O
UTSTANDING
.”

—Andre Norton

In a battle-scarred future America of seduction and sorcery, a final prophecy unfolds…

A SECRET LEGACY WILL BAIT THE TRAP. A TWISTED FATE WILL SPRING IT.

P
RINCE RODERIC RIDENAU
: Charged with the preservation of the old order, he must overcome the darkest magic of all.

A
NNANDALE RIDENAU
: Roderic’s beloved wife, mother of the Ridenau heir, she has yet a final destiny to fulfill.

A
MANANDER RIDENAU
: Challenger to the throne he threatens the stability of a nation.

Their impassioned rivalry will ignite a brutal war, awaken a dreadful magic, and bring a bitter, fratricidal struggle to its
searing conclusion.