Read Children of Enchantment Online
Authors: Anne Kelleher Bush
Children of Enchantment
He stepped forward. “You know who I am?”
The black-garbed figure crouched like a spider before a blazing hearth. Roderic could hear the wind howl outside the building.
“Who would not know the Heir of all Meriga?”
“I do not know you, Lady.”
She laughed, a hoarse, pitiful laugh. “You are the first to call me that in an age, Prince. I am Nydia, and this dark place
is my home.” Her arms extended in a wide sweep. Where fingers should be, three curved digits ended in long claws.
“Strong Arthurian themes thread their way through this novel… an interesting story with intriguing concepts.”
—Kliatt
on
Daughter of Prophecy
“An engaging and powerful tale of kingship, prophecy and friendship.”
—VOYA
on
Daughter of Prophecy
A
LSO BY
A
NNE
K
ELLEHER
B
USH
Daughter of Prophecy
P
UBLISHED BY
W
ARNER
B
OOKS
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1996 by Anne Kelleher Bush
All rights reserved.
Aspect is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2659-4
Contents
For Josephine Putnam Vernon
—
Josie, dearest of friends—
Your imagination fed my dreams.
The original incarnation of this book was the first thing I attempted after a writing hiatus of eleven years. My sincere gratitude
goes to the members of the Stroudsburg Writer’s Group: Charlie Rineheimer, Pat Knoll, Mitzi Flyte, Juilene Osborne-McKnight,
and Christine Whittemore Papa for their long-suffering patience with my numerous drafts while I struggled to get it right.
Carol Svec, Lorraine Stanton, and Nancy McMichael were particularly generous with their time and unstinting in their constructive
criticism. Without the support of their love and their friendship, this book would not exist, and I wouldn’t be a writer.
Karen Lee, Lin Norsworthy, Betsey Massee, and Judith Warner were kind enough to give me readers’ impressions. Betsy Mitchell
finally got this manuscript pointed in the right direction. Special thanks also to Kathy Tomaszewski, who helped me keep my
house and my sanity while I rewrote the book, and, last, but never, never least, to my children, Katie, Jamie, Meg, and Libby,
for having accepted the fact that their mother spends more time than they do playing make-believe.
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
May, 1995
Gost, 74th Year in the reign of the Ridenau Kings (2746 Muten Old Calendar)
T
he girl hovered, hesitant, behind the oak tree at the edge of the forest glade. Her patched tunic, all shades of green and
brown and black, and bare, tanned legs rendered her nearly invisible in the shadows. She watched the wounded man lean his
head wearily against the ribbed trunk of another ancient tree, his shattered leg at a rigid angle to his body.
The barest breeze ruffled his hair, gray as the steel of the dagger he clutched in one white-knuckled hand. Despite his age,
which must be more than sixty, his back was as straight as the broadsword strapped across it. His leathery cheeks were pale,
his lips thinned in a grimace, and he clenched his teeth to hold back another moan. It had been some time since his companion
had ridden off in the direction of the fortress called Minnis Saul.
A black-and-yellow bee buzzed close to her ear. Thin needles of light penetrated the leafy canopy overhead, suffusing the
whole glade with a green glow. A bird trilled once, twice, and was silent. Annandale gripped the rough bark. Life pulsed beneath
her fingertips in steady, sweeping waves, and her heart slowed of its own accord as it adjusted to the tree’s rhythm. She
breathed in the sweet scent of the sap and clung to the tree’s deep-rooted strength.
The man groaned, a low, animal sound deep in his chest, his brow furrowed with age and pain. She knew who he was. He was the
King—the King of all Meriga. Abelard Ridenau. She had often watched him riding through the forest at the hunt. But this day,
his horse had stumbled into a hidden sinkhole left by an uprooted tree, and the animal lay dead some feet away from the King,
its neck broken in the fall.
She shifted uneasily as the echo of his anguish reached across the glade, licking at her like the tendrils of ghostly flames.
A twig snapped beneath her foot and instantly he was alert.
“Who is it?” He pulled himself straighter and raised his dagger, the other hand reaching behind his head for the hilt of his
sword. “Show yourself.”
She flattened against the trunk. Now what? Her mother had forbidden her to speak to anyone who might invade the forest. She
could try to run, but she had often seen the King throw his dagger with frightening accuracy at even the smallest prey.
“Go on, child.” The rasp startled her even more than the King’s realization of her presence. She turned, back pinned to the
tree, and gasped at the sight of her mother’s squat figure wrapped, as always, in dense layers of black veiling despite the
late summer heat. Her mother never ventured so far from the safety of their remote tower.
“Mother?” she mouthed.
“Go on.” The figure gestured awkwardly beneath her wraps. “You’re eighteen. The time has come for you to meet your father,
and for him to understand what you are.”
Annandale peered around the tree. The King had risen into a partial crouch on his uninjured leg. His eyes darted back and
forth.
“My father? The King is my father?” This time she spoke more loudly, and beneath Abelard’s repeated command to show herself,
her mother answered.
“You know he needs you.”
Annandale swallowed hard. Questions swirled through her mind and were discarded, meaningless, as the tendrils of pain twined
ever more insistently about her, as if she were caught in a spider’s web. Uncertainly, she sidled around the sheltering tree.
She glanced back at her mother, her heart pounding in expectation. Only once before had she healed—a messenger, riding hard
and alone, who had begged for a drink of water, and a bandage to bind his arm. She would never forget how she had been drawn
to that man, just as she was now to this one, not simply by the pain, but by the sense of brokenness, the overwhelming knowledge
that something was out of order and the certainty that she, and she alone, had the power to set things right.
But at what cost?
whispered a voice in her mind.
At what cost to you?
Her gaze dropped from the King’s rigid face to his leg, where the broken bones gleamed whitely through the torn skin and
the fabric of his riding breeches was dark with clotting blood.
Abelard frowned as she appeared. Wary amazement washed over his face, but he did not relax his guard. “Girl. Who are you?
Where did you come from?”
She pushed a lock of her long, dark hair back from her face, wishing suddenly she was dressed like her mother in protective
wraps, or anything more substantial than her ragged, shapeless tunic. “From our tower in the forest.”
“Put down your dagger, Lord King. He who lives by the sword, dies by it.” Her mother’s voice was a guttural croak. She stepped
into the center of the glade, her black draperies slithering through the underbrush. “Would you cut your own daughter’s throat,
Lord King?”
At that, Abelard fell back, but he still clutched the dagger defensively. “This is my daughter? Who are you?”
“Don’t you remember me, Lord King? You knew me well enough, once.”
“Nydia?” he whispered. “Is it you?” The dagger fell to the ground as he extended his hand. “Why are you veiled so?”
“To spare my daughter—our daughter, Lord King—from the pain of what I’ve become. But no matter. I thought it time you learned
what she is.”
“Have you forgotten my name in all these years, Nydia?” Regret and something that might have been hope flickered across his
face.
“Your name? Your name’s nothing but a curse. Annandale will help you, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Help me?” he repeated. He looked at Annandale. “Come closer, child. Let me see you.” He spoke more gently this time, but
his authority was clear.
Annandale advanced. The strands of pain felt as if they had turned to shards of glass, which burrowed deeper the closer she
came. Her own leg began to throb; her own bones seemed to be perilously close to splintering beneath the fragile skin, where
it seemed her own blood bubbled at the bursting point. Part of her recoiled from the pain, scrabbling back like a hunted animal.
Mother, let this pass, she screamed silently, let me turn away, let me go home. What is this man to me?
