Children of Enchantment (2 page)

But something else kept her walking forward, her shoulders squared, her chin high. It didn’t matter that he was the King,
or her father. Misery was stamped in every line of his body, and she could feel that misery, that pain, as though it were
her own.

She sank to her knees beside him, more from need than from choice, and scarcely noted his reaction, though she thought he
studied her face. He glanced up at Nydia and brushed one finger down the curve of Annandale’s cheek.

She never knew what he meant to say. The agony overtook her instantly at his touch, racing through her body from her face
to her leg. The pain was a communion more intimate than anything else she had ever experienced. She gasped and clutched for
his hand. A thin blue light flared between them, clearer and purer than starlight, and in that momcnt, she knew her leg shattered,
and her skin split. Her blood spilled out onto the mossy ground, even as his bones knit and his sinews healed and his leg
was once again made whole.

As the light faded, her pain ebbed.

The King sagged against the tree, breathing hard, and Annandale released his hand. She rocked back on her knees, testing her
leg, and found it, too, was whole. She felt curiously lightened, purified, as though she had walked unscathed through searing
flames. The pain was truly gone, and with that knowledge came an exuberance so great, she looked at the King, her father,
and laughed.

“Child,” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. “What did you do?”

At once, she felt another pain, but this time a different sort. This time it was like a thin stream of water leading to a
great pool. It tantalized her, unmistakably seductive, and slowly, she reached out to take his hand.

“Stop!” Nydia stood over them poised like a hawk. “You cannot, child. You’re too young yet. Such a thing would kill you. His
grief goes too deep.” With her black-wrapped hands, she pushed Annandale back from the King.

Annandalc scrambled to her feet, while Abelard and Nydia faced each other like a pair of old adversaries.

“Now do you have some idea of her worth?” Even muffled by the black shrouds of her draperies, Nydia’s voice was venomous.

“Let me take her with me.” Although the words themselves were a request, his tone shaped them into a command.

“The time is not yet.”

“Then why did you allow her to help me?”

“I wanted you to understand.”

The King rose, cautiously testing his weight on his now-sound leg. Annandale was struck by his height, by the breadth of his
shoulders, undiminished by age. Only the wrinkles which ringed his eyes and the lines which extended from his hawkish nose
down the sides of his mouth betrayed that the King was long past his prime. “What will I tell my men? A rescue party should
be coming along quite soon now.”

“Tell them anything you like.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Tell them you met the witch.”

“I asked you all those years ago if you were a witch.” His smile reminded Annandale of an old lycat she’d seen once, set upon
by a younger male, too weakened by age to defend itself, too battlescarred not to try.

“I never lied to you.” It was as much an accusation as a statement.

“When will you send her to marry my heir?”

“You won’t be there to see it.”

At that, he raised his head. “Will you tell me what you can?”

Nydia threw back her head and stared just over Abelard’s shoulder. The glade darkened imperceptibly as a stray cloud wandered
across the sun. “You’re planning a journey south.”

“Yes. Next month. First to Arkan, then on to Ithan Ford in Tennessey Fall. There’re rumors of rebellion among the Mutens in
Atland—I intend to cement certain alliances.”

Another long moment passed, and finally Nydia shrugged. “I see nothing. Nothing you don’t already know. Come, daughter.”

“Wait.” The King’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “Tell me how it will end.”

Nydia shook her head. “It ended nineteen years ago, with the choices you—we all—made then.” Decisively Nydia turned her back
and grabbed Annandale’s wrist.

“What happened to you?” he called when they were just at the edge of the clearing.

Nydia paused, and Annandale thought she might turn to face the King and throw back her ragged veils. Instead she spoke over
her shoulder, and her muffled voice was thick with unshed tears. “I’ve but paid the price of the Magic, Lord King. As did
your Queen. As did Phineas. As will you.”

Sember, 74th Year in the Reign of the Ridenau Kings (2746 Muten Old Calendar)

S
now fell, white as the wings of the gulls which huddled beneath the gray stone battlements of Ahga Castle, steady as the measured
paces of the guards who kept the watch. Bounded by walls of crushed rubble, five towers rose twenty-five stories above the
cobbled courtyards, black against the pale gray sky, their squared precision testimony to an age and a knowledge long lost.
Within the wide inner wards, the sound of the sea as it washed against the foundations was only a muted roar, and even the
wind was still.

Peregrine Anuriel eased her way through the massive doors of ancient steel and stepped out onto the terrace of the central
tower. With a deep sigh as the air cooled her hot cheeks, she ripped the white linen coif off her head, revealing her dark
brown braids. She mopped at her forehead, then let the cloth flutter heedlessly to the pavement. Sweat stung her armpits,
and her green woolen dress itched through her chemise. She balled both fists into the small of her back and arched backward.
The low swell of her belly was thrust forward, and her pregnancy was abruptly more obvious. She stared up at the structure
looming overhead, the downy flakes of snow feathering her dark lashes and thick black brows. The twelve days of New Year’s
were less than ten days away, and it seemed as if every resident of the castle, like a hive of mindless hornets, swarmed through
the great hall at the bidding of Gartred, King’s Consort and the First Lady of the household.

A sudden gust made the snow swirl about her. Its fresh salt tang was a welcome relief from the cloying odors of the evergreen
boughs, the bayberry candles, and the dried herbs used to decorate the hall, the rancid smell of sweat and manure which clung
to the grooms who had been pressed into service, and the heavy aroma of the roasting meats and baking breads which wafted
up from the kitchens. Under ordinary circumstances, the sights and sounds and smells of the preparations would not have bothered
her at all. But this year was different. She was five months gone with child, and the baby was not her only burden. Gartred
cared only that the work be done.

It mattered nothing to Gartred that the child Peregrine carried had been fathered by Roderic, Abelard’s only legitimate son,
the child of his dead Queen and the King’s acknowledged heir. It mattered nothing to Gartred that the child, if a boy, could,
quite possibly, one day reign in Ahga. And it certainly mattered nothing that Peregrine herself might one day enjoy the very
same honor Gartred enjoyed now. Gartred only cared about the King and the power her position enabled her to exercise over
everyone in the castle.

“Peregrine? Lady Peregrine?” The stealthy voice pierced the quiet twilight, and Peregrine jumped, feeling a stab of guilt.
If Gartred had noticed her absence, someone else had suffered the bitter side of the First Lady’s tongue.

The door swung open smoothly on well-oiled hinges. An older woman peered out, her furrowed brow wrinkled, her round cheeks
flushed, her hair swathed in a white coif and a pale blue shawl held close to her throat. Peregrine breathed a sigh of relief
as she recognized Jaboa Ridenau, wife of the King’s eldest son, Brand. With the exception of the Consort, Jaboa was the lady
of highest rank at court. When she caught sight of Peregrine, she beckoned with one hand. “Whatever are you doing out here,
child? You’ll catch your death, and Lady Gartred—“

“—is not likely to consider that any excuse to shirk my duties,” Peregrine finished the sentence. “Come stand a moment, Jaboa.
It’s so blessedly quiet out here, and calm.”

With a backward glance over her shoulder, Jaboa stepped out onto the terrace, letting the door swing silently shut behind
her. “It’s cold.”

“But so peaceful. Here.” Peregrine wiped away the snow on the stone guard rails of the terrace. “Let’s sit a moment.”

Jaboa glanced around again, as though she expected the Consort to appear at the door, and reluctantly perched on the edge
of the rail. Her cheeks were damp and little curls of graying hair stuck out from beneath her coif. Pine needles were caught
in the folds of her clothes, and a twist of red ribbon was twined about her wrist. Jaboa closed her eyes and sighed. “You’d
think that with the King gone to Tennessey Fall and Roderic away fighting this year, she wouldn’t go to so much trouble. But
no, the lady must have things just so. This is how the New Year’s always been celebrated in Ahga, she says, and so that’s
the way it’s going to be.”

“As if she’d know,” mused Peregrine. “She’s only been here—four years? Five?”

“She’s been here much longer, my dear. It will be sixteen years in the spring. It was the year Captain—well, now he’s Lord
Phineas—was wounded. I remember how upset the King was when he brought Phineas home, blinded—lamed— it was so clear he’d never
ride to war again. And then a few months later, just when everything had begun to settle, he brought her.”

“What could the King ever have seen in her?” asked Peregrine, holding out her hand to catch the snow.

“Who knows what men see? She was carrying his child—little Lady Elsemone. Gartred was, and still is, very beautiful. The King’s
eye for women—some say it will be his downfall.” Jaboa shook her head and chuckled. “As if anything could bring him down.”

Peregrine did not answer. In the time she’d been in Ahga, she’d had very little to do with the King. This year, the court
had not even been back from the summer residence at Minnis Saul two weeks when Abelard had left on his journey south. She
couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken to him.

The King was her guardian of necessity, nothing more. If only the Consort could be the same. She watched the flakes drift
onto her upturned palm, soft as a lover’s kiss. She thought of Roderic again and brushed the snow away. Where was he? she
wondered. Was it snowing in Atland? Was he warm and safe and dry? Or even now, was he in the midst of some battle, dodging
razor spears, fighting the hideously deformed Muten hordes?

Peregrine shuddered. She had never seen a Muten, and she hoped she never would. She had heard the stories told around the
hearths in Ahga since she had come to live there three years ago as a sixteen-year-old orphan, her father’s lands and title
forfeit as dictated by the terms of surrender imposed by the King after Mortmain’s Rebellion so many years ago. If she had
been a boy, Abelard would have allowed her to return to the fog-bound coast and gently shivering sands of her father’s tiny
estate on the very edges of the Vada Valley when she turned eighteen. She had thought when she had come here that the best
she could hope for was marriage with some retainer of the King, her hand and her father’s title reward for some service well
rendered.

But now, she thought as she shifted her weight on the cold stone, now she’d had these last few months with Roderic, and she
preferred not to think about the distant future. It was possible that the King might look favorably on a marriage with his
heir—what need did Roderic have of great estates? And if this baby were a boy … ? Only let him come home safe and whole, she
prayed to the One and the Three. Let him see his child’s face. Let me lie with him once more. If only he’d send some word.
But although messengers came and went from distant Atland with some regularity, there had been no message at all for her.

“Are you cold, child? We ought to go in.” Jaboa stood up, brushing the snow off her gray skirts, flapping her shawl so that
she reminded Peregrine of a fat, full-breasted pigeon.

Peregrine heaved herself to her feet, wondering if Jaboa, so long married, had learned not to miss Brand. “I suppose we must.”
She would have preferred to freeze in the still evening than return to the hot chaos of the great hall, where Gartred strode
back and forth across the dais, blaring orders to anyone hapless enough to stray within hearing, no matter what their duties
or their rank. Even Roderic’s old tutor, iron-bearded General Garrick, had been pressed into service, forced to raise and
lower the garlands decorating the mantels as Gartred snapped her fingers impatiently. Garrick had never looked submissive
when he dealt with Roderic. Sudden tears stung her eyes. Why must everything remind her of Roderic? Even this courtyard—this
was the very place she had stood on the day he had first noticed her. “I wish—” she began, and broke off with a little catch
in her throat.

“Now, now. There, there. He’ll come home. Don’t you worry.” Jaboa reached over and squeezed Peregrine’s hand.

“If he’d only send me a letter—something, anything. Even just a line or two, to let me know he’s all right.”