Children of Enchantment (13 page)

Alexander nodded, with a glance at Amanander. “Go to Roderic. Convey my greetings.”

“Should I apologize for our late arrival, lord?”

Amanander snorted. Alexander nodded slowly.

When the door had closed behind the servant, Amanander made another sound of derision. “Apologize? Ahga is as much our home
as it is his.”

“But in our father’s absence, Roderic is its master, is he not?” Amanander’s boots made no sound as he stalked to stand beside
his twin, and involuntarily Alexander drew back. “You do realize, don’t you, that what you are proposing could be construed
as treason?”

“Not if the Congress supports me.”

Alexander sighed. “But that would require them to break the pledges they swore to Dad.” When Amanander did not reply, Alexander
swore softly beneath his breath. “Whose support can you count on?”

“Missiluse. Harland hasn’t forgotten how Dad humiliated his father. He’ll stand with us. And Reginald—we can count on him.
As for Phillip, he’s too fat in Nourk. He’ll not stir himself either way.”

“In order to nullify Dad’s will you’ll need the votes of two-thirds of the Senadors. Who else?”

“Ragonn. Mondana. Vada. Atland. All of them recognize the children of contracted marriages as equal heirs.”

“By the One, Aman. Has the hot sun in Dlas addled your brains? Ragonn may support you, but what does he have to support you
with? The army in Ragonn is Dad’s army—they even fight under his colors. The lords of Mondana are among Dad’s staunchest supporters,
and always have been. Roderic’s just been in Atland—the Senador’s not about to forget—“

“That’s where Reginald and Harland will be of use. They’ll foment rebellion among the lesser lords in Atland, Tennessey, the
rest of the South—the ones who’ll be feeling the brunt of this new peace.”

“Reginald? You mean to say he’ll deliberately incite the lesser lords to rebel? He’ll deliberately break the treaties he’s
just helped to make?”

Amanander’s mouth folded into a straight line and he met Alexander’s challenge with a raised brow. “Reginald will stand with
us. He gave me his assurances in Atland—he has no wish to rule in the shadow of a puppet princeling. Don’t you think he’d
like more than that forsaken garrison Dad so generously bestowed?”

Alexander rubbed a hand across his face, scarcely comprehending the bitter sarcasm. His eyes felt gritty, swollen, as though
the dust in the road had found a way beneath his lids. Although he had always known that Amanander believed the throne of
Meriga should be his, the blatant scheming shocked him. “And Vada,” he said, trying desperately to comprehend how far Amanander
believed he could go, “Roderic is the old Senador’s grandson. No matter what Mortmain thought of Dad, do you really think
the lesser lords there will march against Melisande Mortmain’s blood?”

Amanander’s eyes, fastened on the far horizon, were two dark slits. “And you?”

The question lay like a rock at the bottom of a still pond. Alexander swallowed hard. “I cannot break my oath.”

Amanander did not even blink. For some reason the lack of a reaction made Alexander flinch more than if his brother had raised
his fist. “And what of your blood?”

Alexander took a deep breath. How could he explain to Amanander the lessons he’d learned all these years in Spogan, wrestling
with the Chiefs of the Settle Islands, keeping the peace between Mondana and Ragonn and the Chiefs, balancing the interests
of Meriga against the Sascatch Tribes just beyond the northern borders? “I’ve seen too much blood spilled when men don’t honor
their oaths, Aman.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. It hurt him to disappoint his brother, for he knew that Aman had counted
on his support most dearly. “Perhaps things have been different for you in Dlas. You’ve only the Harleyriders and the sand
to deal with—in Spogan, I must balance the Chiefs and the lords, and the Sascatch—” He broke off. “I’ve seen what happens
if one man breaks his word. I’ve seen tens of hundreds die as a result. I cannot break the pledge I swore to Dad—to uphold
the kingdom—”

“Ah.” Amanander faced Alexander, his face as blank as stone. “And yet you would countenance handing the regency to an untried
boy—“

“Is he untried? I heard he acquitted himself well in Atland.” Alexander met his brother’s eyes and wondered why a chill ran
down his spine.

“Oh, he acquitted himself admirably, if you find butchery admirable. Have you heard how he brought the Muten chief to his
knees at last? He ordered fifty or more hostages tortured to death, one by one—had them flayed and hacked to death with blunted
swords. You should have seen the blood spilt that day.”

Alexander frowned. “No,” he said slowly, “I had not heard. You were there? You saw this?”

“With my own eyes. Of course, it was only Muten vermin, and the Congress will not care, but—“

“If Roderic should prove to be an unworthy ruler, Aman, I will without hesitation support your claim. As undoubtedly will
the others you’ve named. Perhaps we’ll be able to bring together a coalition—”

Amanander turned away, but not before Alexander caught the curl of scorn which twisted his mouth. “I see what you’ve become,
dear brother. You’ve become a peacekeeper—at any price. You forget how our father treated us—abandoned us, ignored us—“

“I remember how Grandmother dragged us off to the South when Dad banished her, and he let us go in order to prevent civil
war.”

“In order to prevent having to fight an enemy on his flank, you mean.”

Alexander hesitated. He remembered the years spent in the Estate of Missiluse, remembered the Muten who had come to live in
the highest tower of the keep. It was then that there had been a change in Amanander, but Alexander had always preferred to
think that Aman had simply begun to mature, to become the man he now was. And what sort of a man was that? he asked himself.
His mind veered away from the question. But there had been a change in their relationship, even though he wanted to deny it,
and would have denied it still to anyone who asked. He only vaguely remembered the day their father had come for them, but
he knew that was the day he had been afraid of Aman for the first time.

And he was afraid of Amanander now, he realized, afraid for some reason he could not articulate in any sane way. Perhaps he
was only exhausted. He shook his head and took a deep breath. There was only one way to deal with the situation. He had to
be as honest with Amanander as he tried to be with the factions in the northwest. “I see we remember events differently. But
I cannot raise my hand against Roderic. The country is too unsettled—Dad’s disappearance has caused shock waves from the Settle
Islands to Atland. Unless and until Roderic shows himself to be unfit to rule, I am bound by my Pledge of Allegiance to serve
him. As, I might remind you, are you.”

Amanander gave him a hard stare. “I counted on you, brother.” Alexander recoiled, as their eyes met. Whoever, or whatever,
it was that glared out of Aman’s eyes wasn’t the brother he knew. Actually afraid, he glanced instinctively away, out the
window. Outside, the sky was a uniform blank gray, as though the sun had been erased. “Very well, brother,” continued Amanander,
his voice cold as a cutting wind. “I will not raise my voice at this Convening, and I will not forget anything you’ve said
to me this morning.” Startled at the implicit threat, Alexander looked over his shoulder and saw that Amanander was no longer
in the room.

T
he great hall of Ahga Castle was bright with the light of more than a thousand candles, and the voices of more than a thousand
people rose and fell beneath the gentle melody of the music played on the mezzanine above. From his place at the high table,
Roderic surveyed the hall, which was packed to overflowing with not only all the usual residents of Ahga Castle, but the Senadors
and their retinues as well. Servants scurried between the tightly packed benches and tables, carrying trays and baskets filled
with steaming food, or rolling great barrels filled with wine and ale and mead up from the cellars below the kitchens.

Brand sat at his left hand, Obayana, Senador of Kora-lado was placed at his right. Gartred had obviously understood Roderic’s
message of the previous night, for she sat three or four places away, between Amanander and Phillip. But no matter what he
might think of her personally, Roderic had to admit that the woman knew her duties well. The seating of nearly fifty Senadors,
who were as jealous of any privilege, and sensitive to any perceived slight, as the most petty matron, required the strategic
genius of a General. If Peregrine were to replace her, her responsibilities would be formidable indeed.

Peregrine sat at a table just below the dais, the downy head of his daughter bobbing against her shoulder, the wine-flushed
faces of the women nearby soft with smiles for the infant. He leaned back in his chair. Although the day had been as long
as any he could remember, he was curiously exhilarated. The men who had always addressed him by name, or as “boy” or “son,”
now called him “lord,” rose when he entered the room, and did not sit until he gave permission. It was his first taste of
the honor given the King. No wonder Abelard had seemed to bask like a lycat in the sun.

The day had been full of unspoken tensions, but even Phineas was pleased that the Convening had gone as well as it had. Although
Roderic had been worried that the incident in Atland would be raised, there had only been one tense moment, when Harland of
Missiluse had risen to contend that Amanander should be Abelard’s rightful heir. But even in his absence, the King cast a
long shadow, and most of the Senadors seemed to believe that Abelard would return alive and well. Amanander himself had stayed
notably in the background, coming forward in turn to kneel and swear the Pledge of Allegiance with the rest.

Beside Roderic, Obayana quietly sipped his wine, as he listened to young Nevin Vantigorn, the heir of the First of the Lords
of Mondana. Old Niklas was dying and Nevin was sure to be confirmed as the new Senador by the time of the next Convening.
Obayana’s face was the color of the southern desert sands, and his eyes were dark and slanted in the manner of many in western
Meriga. But about the man was a quiet alertness and Roderic sensed the man missed nothing. His fortress high above the Kora-lado
Pass was one of the most impregnable in Meriga, and one of the most strategic, for it guarded the main trade route between
the West and the rest of the country. Abelard had gone there for succor during Mort-main’s Rebellion, and the bond between
the two men had never been strained.

Roderic beckoned to the boy who stood behind his chair, and obediently he refilled Roderic’s goblet. Brand paused in peeling
an apple for his wife and murmured beneath the cover of conversation, “I’d like a few words, Lord Prince.”

“Please, Brand. There’s no need—“

“Perhaps not in private.” Brand’s dark eyes were full of meaning, but his face was carefully blank.

Roderic glanced around. Obayana was still engaged in conversation with Nevin. Roderic shrugged. “Well?”

“It’s about the men in Amanander’s retinue—the four who are his personal bodyguards.” Brand hesitated, and Roderic narrowed
his eyes. It was unlike his brother to search for words. “I’ve had complaints from some of the men in the barracks where they
are housed—nothing specific, nothing of a disciplinary nature. So I sent my son to speak with them, to try to draw them out.
I told him to report back to me any impressions he had—anything at all. I even sent them some of the best of the honey mead—”
here he gave an apologetic shrug “—but according to Barran, they would not drink. They almost would not talk.”

“Not at all?”

“Oh, they answered questions readily enough, but wouldn’t say anything otherwise.” Brand frowned. “Barran wasn’t able to tell
me anything specific. Finally I went to talk to them myself. I had the strangest feeling.” He stared at Roderic, and in the
candlelight, Roderic was amazed to see Brand still struggling to find the words. “It was as if—as if I did not exist for them,
except when I spoke. As if they were in another place.” He broke off and shook his head. “I am sorry, Roderic, that’s the
best I can do. But I must tell you this. My flesh crawled while I was in the presence of those men. If I did not know better,
I’d say they weren’t men at all. I’ve never felt anything like it—even touching a Muten didn’t make me feel that way.”

“You were afraid?”

Brand hesitated once more, and in that long moment, Roderic felt a touch of inexplicable fear. “Not for my life,” he said
finally. “For my very self.”

Roderic stared at his brother. It was nearly inconceivable that Brand, who had led men into battle for more years than Roderic
had been alive, should be afraid of anything which walked on two legs.

“But that’s not all.” Brand drew slow circles on the linen with his goblet. “Amanander has been asking a lot of questions.
Not about anything you might expect. About a woman Dad was involved with once, a long time ago, before you were born. Her
name was Nydia Farhallen.”