The Misbegotten King (9 page)

For a moment she hesitated, tightening her grip in the fabric of his tunic. She felt his body relax beneath her, and he moved
only slightly, tilting his chin up in a gesture of submission. With a sigh, she let go and moved back, sheathing the dagger
as she did so. “I’m sorry,” she spoke over her shoulder. “I know there’s a traitor—even if Brand refuses to believe me—and
now—”

“I assure you that attack had nothing to do with either Atland or the traitor.” Vere rose to his feet, brushing debris off
his clothes. “It is as well that Roderic has called this Convening—Atland’s sons had better give up this nonsense of rebellion,
or there will be nothing for them to fight over.”

“What do you mean?” Deirdre gathered her cloak around her, thankful that the heavy wool stayed dry despite the steady drip
of the rain beneath the thick branches.

“Come, M’Callaster—with some luck, I can get us to Ithan. We may be able to travel more quickly—now.” He
paused, and his face was grim. “We have a few hours of daylight left. I know a place not far from here where we can spend
the night.”

“Tell me what the ambush means to you,” she said as she hastened after him.

Vere paused and looked around, squinting through the trees. “This way. And not now. The forest may hide more secrets… and
sharper ears than you might imagine may be listening.”

Deirdre glanced over her shoulder. Nothing moved but the steady drip of the rain. A breeze made the leaves shiver on the branches.
The forest was still. “Lead on.”

Through the still and silent afternoon he led her, easing under branches, over underbrush, treading as carefully as a lycat
in his boots of smooth leather. She followed as quietly as she could, cursing more than once the life she had spent in the
saddle. As the light began to fade, Vere emerged into a clearing. “Here,” he said, his voice low. “See there—we can shelter
there for the night.”

Over his shoulder, Deirdre saw the shell of an abandoned building. She looked down and abruptly realized they had been following
the remains of an old road, heavy with undergrowth, the black surface nearly obscured by the forest around it, but the ghost
of which had been sufficient for Vere to follow. A wind whined through the branches, and abruptly she shivered.

“There will be dry wood inside,” Vere said, as if he had noticed her shudder. “Come, M’Callaster.”

Silently he led her through the falling dark, into the crumbling shell of the building. With a dubious eye, she surveyed the
crumbling mortar and stone blocks. Such sights were common all over Meriga. Vere fumbled in a
corner and emerged carrying what looked like a clear-faced, shiny cylinder. He pressed a button on its side and abruptly light
flooded the space. Deirdre jumped. “What’s that?”

“Cold fire torch,” he said shortly, as though he didn’t want to be questioned further. “You should understand, M’Callaster,
that there are things here you may not understand. It would be better if you kept your questions to a minimum… I would prefer
not to lie.”

“Why would you lie?”

“There are things here I am sworn not to reveal.”

Another flick of the wrist, it seemed, and Vere had a fire burning in a battered grate. Curiously, in spite of herself, Deirdre
watched him amongst the rubble. It occurred to her that the rubble was carefully placed; the whole place was artfully arranged
so as to appear no more than what it appeared to be: an abandoned shell of an old building. As the flames flickered in the
dark night, Deirdre ate the stew he handed her, forbearing to ask where he had gotten it. Finally, she set her bowl aside
and winced as she straightened her arm.

“I’d better dress that wound for you, M’Callaster.” Vere rummaged in one of the caches, and as she stripped off her tunic
and her shirt, she could feel that he deliberately averted his eyes.

Silently he bandaged the wound, and she noticed detachedly that the wound was serious, that a razor spear had slashed nearly
all the way to the bone. It would be a long time healing. But she saw, too, that his fingers trembled as they brushed her
flesh, and she smiled to herself. Surprised, she felt an answering response in her belly.

“You saved my life,” she said, watching him as he busied himself with the utensils.

“I did.”

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, she thought, he raised his eyes to hers. The resemblance to Roderic was fleeting, she thought. There was nothing
of the Prince in the narrow face, in the set of the eyes, or the long jutting nose.

“What happened back there?”

He dropped his eyes once more. Was it possible, she wondered, that any man could be more transparent than Vere?

“I don’t give a damn about your Muten secrets, Vere. I just lost nearly three hundred men, and I have a right to know how
they died. What happened back there wasn’t natural and you know it. There’s something gone terribly wrong that has nothing
to do with human treachery. Now… are you going to answer my question?”

Vere took a deep breath. Even in the shadows the struggle was plain on his face. He sighed and slowly nodded. “You may not
believe me if I tell you the truth.”

“Try,” she said dryly.

“Do you know what the old Magic is?”

“Old Magic?” She shrugged. The wind blew harder and she shivered. Her clothes were damp, and the falling dark had lowered
the temperature. Vere held out a blanket. “The Keepers tell these tales… of men who could bend steel with their minds, who
could shift the earth with a thought… but what have they to do with us?”

“You know what mathematics is… the study of numbers?”

She shrugged. “Tis forbidden by the Church.”

“Yes,” he said, the flames leaping high as the wind blew through the low hanging of the branches of the tree overhead. “For
good reason, I suppose. The old Magic is a series of mathematical equations which enable one to manipulate the fabric of the
material world with the force of the human will.”

Deirdre sucked in a deep breath, not certain she understood. “You mean that with the Magic a person can do anything he sets
his mind to do?”

Vere nodded. “More or less. Did you feel how the air seemed to thicken before the trees burst into flame? That’s one of the
warning signs of the Magic about to manifest. It doesn’t always happen, but—but often enough.” He took another deep breath
and stared moodily into the night. “But it isn’t as it seems. For everything that one does—any changes one makes—there is
always a price. Something else happens… something you can’t control or predict.”

Deirdre listened, digesting the information. “Then what was the price?”

Vere shook his head. “There is no way to know that. But someone—and I believe I know who—is becoming very bold in the use
of the Magic—and is taking carefully calculated risks.”

“Who?” Deirdre asked.

“The name will mean nothing to you. And I would rather not say it—there are too many variables at work here. It is impossible
to say whether he or one of his minions is about—”

“You think there is someone near?” Instantly Deirdre
was alert. Her hand reached for her sword where it lay by her side, discarded.

Vere reached out and gripped her arm. “Relax, M’Callaster. No one is nearby. I only meant that this person has ways of listening—ways
of finding things out. There is no doubt in my mind that the attack today was aimed at you.”

“At me? What quarrel does a Muten have with me?”

Vere studied her face. “You are one of Roderic’s allies.”

“And what does this Muten want of Roderic?”

“His wife, for one thing.”

A sudden gust of wind made the flames leap higher and Deirdre pulled her blanket tighter about her bare shoulders. Roderic’s
name triggered a vision of Roderic’s face, and she gazed into the center of the fire.

She stared moodily into the black night. Vere crouched beside the fire, tending it. “Vere.”

“M’Callaster?”

“You know my name’s Deirdre.” She tossed her thick braid over her shoulder. “I don’t think I thanked you for saving my life”

He shrugged. “You saved mine.”

She raised her brow, and he nodded. “It was your skill with that—” he pointed to the sword lying sheathed by her side “—that
saved us.” Suddenly he took a deep breath and looked at her. “I am glad you decided to stay.”

She glanced pointedly around the surroundings and smiled ruefully. “I am not sure I feel the same way at the moment.”

“You know what I mean.” The intensity in his glance took her breath away.

“Yes.” She nodded slowly. “I believe I do.” For a moment they stared at each other, and she was suddenly conscious that the
wind had died, that the only noises were the slow drip of the rain through the trees and the snap and hiss of the fire. To
her astonishment color rose in his cheeks, staining the faded tattoos. “What are you thinking?”

He dropped his eyes and turned away, shaking his head, mumbling something indistinguishable.

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Shall I tell you what you are thinking?”

He looked up, suspicion narrowing the corners of his eyes.

“You’re thinking that you’re a man and I’m a woman—and that by the grace of the goddess we escaped with our lives today and
the night is cold and you wonder if I am warm—” She paused, not letting her eyes stray from his face. “And if we would not
be warmer together.”

“M’Callaster—Deirdre—” he whispered. “I-I have— haven’t—”

“Hush.” She reached for him, cupping her hand around his chin, drawing her face close to his. “When there has been dying,
there must be living.‘Tis the way of it, the Keepers say—the balance must be kept.‘Tis no surprise.”

He made a little noise in his throat just as she pressed her mouth on his, and then his arms went around her, carefully, mindful
of her wounds. As the flames leapt higher, they shuddered together in the orange light.

T
he stench from the poison pit burned his nostrils. Amanander curled his lip and turned his head, pulling his cloak closer
against his face. A warm, damp wind shook the trees, heavy with oily droplets, and the sky overhead roiled with lowering clouds.
He shifted in his saddle, less from impatience than from discomfort, and his companions paused in their deliberations, glancing
at him over their shoulders. Their voices were barely audible, for they spoke in low guttural tones, their twisted speech
falling in unfamiliar cadences upon his ear. Here and there he heard a word he understood, and again and again, he heard a
name repeated: Jama.

Amanander flexed his hands. It had been three weeks since his escape from the confines of Ahga and his own mind, but his body
was weak, his muscles wasted and diminished. It would take a long time for him to recuperate the strength which had been his,
and he forced his shoulders square. But his mind—oh, that was another story. Through the process of sapping Alexander’s energy,
Amanander had felt himself renewed and replenished in a way he had never thought possible. Whatever force had been drained
from his twin, it existed within
Amanander now, part of him and yet not part of him—a source of strength that allowed him to think with acute perceptions despite
his weakened body.

He watched his tutor with a measuring stare. Ferad had raised the Magic to another level. That much was obvious. Amanander
stared into the distance and considered the problem of how to make the knowledge his. He doubted Ferad would share the secret
willingly.

“Are you in pain?” Gartred interrupted his thoughts, her voice a persistent whine as annoying as the beetles which swarmed
through the campsites at night.

Amanander looked at the woman as though seeing her for the first time. The journey had been hard on her. Her hair was scraped
back under her hood, and her eyes had dark shadows beneath them. Without the aid of her customary cosmetics, her skin was
pasty. But her mind was as easily read as a child’s primer, and he smiled slowly at her. She would make an excellent object
for his experiments. “No.” He slid his eyes away from her and fixed his gaze on Ferad. Deep within his mind, he was aware
of some residual echo of Ferad’s presence there. More out of idleness, he turned the focus of his thoughts inward, aimed upon
that tenuous thread.

Amanander was surprised when Ferad turned as if in answer to a summons. An odd expression crossed the Muten’s disfigured face,
one almost of fear—definitely one of surprise. A ghost of a memory flitted through his mind.
Philosophers have argued for centuries over what is real
—
some would argue this is more real than the material world.
The words floated to the surface, twisting and beckoning like a ribbon of road at twilight, lead ing
down to— To what? Amanander wondered. What was real—and what did that mean?

Before Amanander could continue to ponder this any longer, the whole group seemed to reach some kind of assent, for they grunted,
and nodded, patched gray robes fluttering as the group dispersed.

A squat figure approached and reached for the bridle of Amanander’s horse. “Come,” the Muten grunted in its fractured accent.
“Jama-taw awaits.”