Children of Enchantment (10 page)

“I’m sworn to go if he summons me.”

“But—“

Everard held up his hand. “Peace, Jessie. He’s the Regent. We’re all sworn to obey him.”

“I’m not.” Jesselyn folded her arms and leaned her cheek against the cool glass. “I’m not, nor will I ever swear anything
to him or to any man.”

Everard nodded and drew a long breath. “Forgive me for saying so, Jess, but it strikes me you always were a trifle loose about
keeping vows.” He gave her a brief bow, stalked to the door, and yanked it open. Speechless, she watched as he nearly tripped
over a small figure huddled by the door. “What are you doing?” Everard hauled the figure up by the scruff of the neck, and
Jesselyn realized with another shock that Sera must have overheard their entire conversation.

“Sera. Why are you here?”

“My turn to serve, Rever’d Lady.” The Muten cringed, holding up her scarf to hide her face.

Everard set her down, though none too gently. He let out a long sigh of relief. “Go on, get about your work.” He turned back
to Jesselyn as Sera scurried away. “Please. Jessie. Please do as I ask.”

Silently, Jesselyn nodded, wondering why she felt she ought to follow Sera into the dark night.

A
t noon on the last day of March, Roderic, followed by his brothers Brand and Amanander, crossed the lowered drawbridge, and
guided his tired horse through the ancient towers of the gates, into the first ward of Ahga Castle. Behind him, the weary
army tramped through the winding streets lined with a subdued crowd of citizens. Sitting straight in the saddle, wearing his
battle-scarred leather armor, Roderic met their grim expressions as evenly as he could. He did not blame the people. Their
King, the man they had cherished and cheered and supported, with their blood and their gold and their own hopes and dreams,
for more than forty years was gone. And yet there was no concrete finality of death—he had simply vanished, snatched away
by some enemy even he had not had the foresight to anticipate. No wonder the people of Ahga were frightened. The heavy supply
wagons lurched across the uneven pavestones, the low rumbling of their wheels the only chorus of welcome in those silent streets.

As they emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse into the outer ward of the great keep, Roderic looked up to see the entire
household waiting on the steps which led into the inner ward. Above him, the great stables rose ten stories, with grooms and
stable boys assembled on the rising curve of the entrance ramp. A long line of soldiers in the uniform of the King’s Guard
snapped to attention. A cheer rang out from the household, loud and welcoming, and behind him, he heard the flap of a standard.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a blue, white-bordered pennant, emblazoned with the eagle of Meriga as
it fluttered to the top of the gatehouse: his own standard, announcing to the world that the heir of Meriga was once more
in residence. He realized with a start that for the first time his colors would tly alone above Ahga. He drew the reins, and
a stable boy ran forward. With a tired smile, Roderic relinquished the horse to the boy. “My thanks,” he murmured, beneath
the cheers.

The boy ducked his head in an awkward, embarrassed bow and led the horse away. As other boys ran forward to take the reins
from Brand, Amanander, and the officers of the regiments, Roderic tugged his tunic into place and threw his cloak over one
shoulder. He was home, at last. But how different was this homecoming from what he had imagined on that autumn day when he
had ridden off to war with Abelard’s blessings ringing in his ears, his hand still tingling from the strength of Abelard’s
clasp. He did not return the favored son, the cherished heir. Now, he was the master of the massive structure which rose around
them all, the highest towers soaring twenty-five impossible floors above the ground. And although he had known the day was
coming, when all of Meriga would be his, somehow it had always seemed a part of some far-off, distant future, which even his
imagination could not quite encompass.

He started forward, aware that he would be expected to assume his father’s place immediately and wondering if he would have
to answer for his actions in Atland to his father’s council. He shifted his broadsword across his back, searching the crowd
for some glimpse of Peregrine. He saw Garrick, smiling broadly, Jaboa, her face soft with welcome, her eyes fastened on Brand.

In the center of the top step which led into the castle proper, Gartred, the King’s Consort, held the gold welcome cup, steaming
with spices, in her hands. Phineas lay on his litter at her side, his lids closed over his sightless eyes, his scarred hands
plucking restlessly at the blanket which covered him from chest to feet.

As Roderic reached the bottom of the shallow steps, the entire household bowed and curtseyed and Gartred raised the golden
goblet. “Welcome home, Lord Prince.” Her husky voice was a low murmur, and he had to bend closer to hear her. “I trust your
journey was easy.” She bowed her head, and her lowered lashes were dark crescents against her creamy cheeks. A scent, as heady
as twice-fermented wine, rose from her skin. As he reached for the cup, the tips of their fingers brushed. He looked down
and noticed that she wore a dark red gown cut so low that the tops of her areolas were visible. Automatically, he averted
his eyes and scanned the women near her for Peregrine.

Gartred rose from her curtsey and caught his eyes once more, as though she knew whom he sought. “You look well, Lord Prince.”

Her mouth was very full and very red, and a rope of pearls nestled in the hollow of her bosom. Despite his discomfort, his
attention was diverted by the blatant display. “Thank you, lady,” he managed, and he gulped the wine so clumsily that a little
spilled over the edge, and one bloodred drop ran down the side.

She caught the drop with one long finger as it edged down the curve of the cup. Deliberately, a little smile lacing the corners
of her mouth, she licked her finger with the very tip of her tongue.

Beside Roderic, Brand coughed. Roderic passed the cup to his brother and bowed. “Thank you,” he said again, a little perplexed
by her overt suggestiveness. The consort was twenty years or more his senior and, until this moment, had never behaved as
though he were worthy of her notice. He stepped past her, glancing through the crowd once more, and finally paused in front
of Phineas’s litter. “Lord Phineas,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“Roderic.” Although the body was frail and the face scarred with old wounds, the voice was the same as he remembered— the
voice of a man who knew his words would be obeyed without question. There was another tone, an undercurrent, as though Phineas
struggled to speak over some emotion he could not quite suppress. “Welcome home, Lord Prince.”

“I’m glad to be home.” It was the first time Phineas had ever addressed him by the title of the heir of Meriga. Roderic paused,
wishing he could throw himself on the old man’s chest and bury his face in the blankets, as he had when he was very small
and his tutors had seemed so harsh. He remembered the dream of his father. “I wish it were under happier circumstances. There’s
been no word, no sign, of Dad?”

“We must talk as soon as you are settled.”

“As you say, Lor—“

“At your convenience, Lord Prince,” Phineas interrupted gently, and with those words, Roderic understood just how truly different
everything was.

He looked around. Brand was enveloped in his wife’s embrace, the other officers surrounded by wives and children and friends.
The courtyard was completely crowded now, men and horses and wagons all milling in organized confusion.

Garrick pressed forward, reaching for his hand. “Welcome home, Lord Prince. You look as if campaigning agreed with you.”

Roderic’s words of welcome faded as he stared at his tutor. Had he grown so much over the winter? Garrick seemed smaller,
thinner, as though in the months of Roderic’s absence, the tutor had somehow shrunk. Only his iron gray beard was the same,
closely clipped about his mouth and chin with the old military precision. “I’m glad to see you, Garrick,” he managed. He glanced
away, into the crowd, and saw Amanander deep in conversation with a Senador. “Garrick, isn’t that Harland of Missiluse?”

Garrick followed Roderic’s line of vision. “Indeed it is. Those two spell trouble. And only yesterday Phineas got word that
Alexander is on his way and expects to be here in time for the Convening.”

As they watched, Harland drew Amanander apart, listening, with an inscrutable expression on his face. Amanander looked up
just as Roderic glanced in his direction. Their eyes met and held, and Roderic was the first to break the contact. As he looked
away, he saw Amanander smile.

Gartred materialized out of the crowd, blocking Roderic’s path into the castle. “Allow me to show you to your chambers, Lord
Prince. There’ve been many changes while you were away—I had them completely redone. In keeping with your new status, of course.”
She seized Roderic’s arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the swirl of a forest green gown, and he craned
his head, hoping to see Peregrine. He was disappointed when he realized it was only a serving maid, who curtseyed and simpered
in response.

The household pressed upon him, men and women of all ranks bowing and murmuring words of welcome, and Gartred pulled him forward,
his upper arm held hard against her breast, her perfume as insistent as her flesh.

At last they stood before the door of the chambers which had been his since birth, in the eastern tower which faced the sea.
Gartred looked up at him with a smile, her eyes long and slanting, and Roderic suppressed a shudder. Her expression made him
feel as if he were a choice cut of meat on a platter. She stepped aside and let him pass.

He walked into the room and stared in astonishment. She had indeed been busy over the winter. The outer chamber, once nursery,
then schoolroom, had been completely refurbished. Instead of the scarred table and mismatched chairs which had served his
boyhood needs, a massive desk, ornately carved, dominated one end of the room. Behind it was a high-backed chair thickly padded
and meticulously covered in leather. It looked like the sort of chair one could sit in comfortably for a long time. To the
side was a smaller desk, with another chair, this one not as ornate, nor as elaborately covered, more serviceable and obviously
meant for a scribe.

The scarred wooden chest which had once held his toys and more lately his ragged maps and tattered scrolls had been replaced
with a cabinet fronted in precious glass which could only predate the Armageddon, and within it, he could plainly see long
wooden chests and fine-tooled leather rolls.

Before the hearth, a new rug woven of costly shades of red and purple and black covered the floor, and fat cushions invited
him to lounge in comfort. A low table place to one side of the hearth held a flagon of wine and two goblets.

Through the door which led into his bedroom, he could see that the hangings and the coverlet of his bed had been replaced
as well. Everything was so new, so strange, he felt as though he did not quite belong. He took a few steps, peered further
into his bedroom, and turned to see Gartred on her knees before the hearth.

“Will you take a cup of wine, Lord Prince?”

He did not reply. She poured a little of the dark red liquid into a goblet, and as she did so, he noticed it was one of the
silver ones used at the king’s table. He took the proffered goblet dumbly, still too amazed by the transformation of his rooms
to speak.

“Well, Lord Prince? What do you think of my efforts?”

“I don’t know what to say. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble—it’s—“

“Still nothing like the King’s suite.”

“But I didn’t expect—“

“You didn’t expect everything to be the same as when you left?” She cocked her head and gave him another long-eyed smile.
“Not after all—everything that’s happened.”

“Yes.” Automatically he took a sip of wine. The taste lingered on his tongue. “I suppose it has.”

She rocked back on her heels. “Shall I light your fire, Lord Prince?” Suddenly Roderic noticed how the late afternoon sun
illuminated the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, how the line of her jaw was marred ever so slightly by the shadow
of a jowl. She’s old enough to be my mother, he thought. Suddenly he understood the source of his discomfort. It was not the
surprise of seeing his rooms so suddenly altered, nor the shock of seeing the change which had affected all the court. It
was the behavior of the woman who knelt before him, her breasts threatening to spill out of her low bodice, her eyes shadowed
by cosmetics, her lips artificially reddened. She’s my father’s consort, he thought; she might as well be my mother.

He banged the goblet down on the nearest available surface and gestured to the door. “No, lady. If you will call for my servants,
I won’t require anything else of you.”

She rose to her feet, her full lip pursed in a pout. “But if there’s anything you do require? Anything at all?”