Children of Enchantment (21 page)

“Why?”

“The child of a prescient is always an empath. Never mind what that is—you won’t believe me, anyway. But the empath is the
key to controlling the consequences of the Magic. If an empath exists, believe me, Ferad—or Amanander—will try and get her.”

“Her?” repeated Roderic.

“Empaths are almost always female. I have only heard of two males in all of history. Who they were is not important. But you
must trust what I say, Roderic. I know it sounds absurd, I know it violates everything you’ve been taught. But you must believe
me.”

Roderic did not reply. This information was unbelievable—it was the stuff of legends and dreams. He understood why Brand scoffed,
and yet—he could not afford to take chances. It would be a simple enough thing to go to the dark tower. It was no more than
a few hours ride. But he could not go in search of Amanander himself, and the regiments of the King’s Guard were already depleted
by the search for the King. “You’re a tracker, Vere. Could you find Amanander?”

“If he’s rejoined his troops going to Dlas—” began Brand.

“I doubt that Amanander’s going to Dlas,” said Roderic. He walked to the window and stared out over the trees.

Vere’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I cannot search for Amanander for you. Much as I understand your need, I serve other
masters. But I will go back to the College and ask the Elders to send you aid in the event that Amanander decides to use the
Magic against you. I think it’s likely, given all you’ve told me, that he will. Eventually.”

Brand shook his head. “And in the meantime? We allow Amanander to go free?”

“We’ll send our scouts out to look for him,” answered Roderic. “But I’m not worried that he might be lost. If we don’t find
him, Amanander most assuredly will find us.”

V
ere left the very next day, striding out of Minnis with nothing more than the clothes he had worn, a walking stick, and a
worn pack on his back filled with only the barest minimum of supplies. Peregrine shook her head at his leaving, saying that
he was sure to open his wounds and likely bleed to death or be eaten in the wild. Roderic watched the easy, confident stride
as his brother disappeared beneath the trees and doubted that her dire predictions would prove true.

Tavia was pliant and silent, crooning to the rag doll no more. She ate and slept and stared out the window all the day long,
not responding to any human touch or voice. Peregrine, out of desperation, brought her a kitten, and Tavia sat stroking the
little beast hour after hour, staring into some bleak place where no one else could follow.

A messenger arrived from Ahga, bearing dispatches and the news that the court would arrive within a day. Roderic sifted through
the documents and tried to concentrate, but the dark tower seemed to call to him, insisting that he stare at it over the trees.
He spent a restless night, tossing and turning beside Peregrine. Before dawn broke, his mind was made up. He would not wait
for Phineas. He would go to the dark tower as soon as he could.

At misty daybreak, he ordered horses made ready, and with only one companion, Brand’s son, Barran, rode out ostensibly to
the hunt. He seemed to have a preternatural awareness of his surroundings: the feel of the horse’s muscles beneath him as
he galloped along the forest paths, the twigs and dry leaves which crunched underfoot, the falling petals which drifted into
his hair. The damp leaves had a musty smell, faintly sweet. As the sun rose higher, they paused by a lake to eat. “Where are
we going, Lord Prince?” asked his kinsman. Barran was actually Roderic’s nephew, but they were so close in age, Roderic thought
of Barran as a cousin.

“You’re going to wait for me, Barran. I’m going to the tower.”

“The dark tower? Where the witch lives?” Barran actually crossed himself in the superstitious gesture the priests made against
evil and clutched the iron cross he wore around his neck. “Roderic, are you mad? I can’t let you go there—my Sergeant would
have my head and my father would have the rest.”

Roderic had been expecting that. He tossed the core of his apple into the lake, and it sank without a sound. “It isn’t a question
of your letting me, Barran. Your orders are to wait for me—I have no intention of taking you any closer than we are already.”

Barran raised his head. He was only twenty-one years old—he had pledged allegiance in the service of the King’s Guard nearly
six years ago. He grinned. “Do you want to wrestle for it?”

Roderic grinned back and shook his head. “Those days are gone. I won’t be long.”

“No, Roderic. I’ll come with you—I must. Surely you understand that? If I can’t keep you out of danger, I can’t let you walk
into it alone.”

Roderic considered. “Very well,” he said at last. He got to his feet and shook out his cloak. “It’s not much further.”

The forest was quiet, unnaturally so, the closer they came to the tower. It was as if they were the only living things beneath
the trees. Roderic peered at the ground, searching for signs of some animal’s passing. There were none. At last, the sun was
at its height. The light filtered through the leafy branches, casting odd shadows on the ground. Roderic stretched in his
saddle. He was getting tired. They had been riding more than five hours. Surely they should have been there by now.

He signaled to Barran to dismount. The grass was the color of emeralds, as soft as moss, and suddenly a bone-weary exhaustion
made him stumble against the horse. The stallion whickered a protest and stepped aside. Barran was yawning unashamedly. “We’ll
rest.” From some rational part of his brain, he was astonished to hear how he slurred the words.

Without further prompting, they rolled in their cloaks and slept. The next thing Roderic knew, he was being shaken awake,
and there was a frantic urgency in Barran’s voice. “Roderic, Lord Prince, for the love of the One, wake up. The wind’s changed:
it’s in the north and the sun is gone.”

He started awake, still groggy, his head full of dreams he could not name. He sat up and looked around. A cold wind was beginning
to stir the leaves, and the sky had darkened. Clouds had formed while they slept, and the gray underbellies hung low and threatening.
“We’d better get back.” Roderic shook his head to clear it and leaped to his feet.

Like men in a dream, they fumbled with the horses and finally were mounted and ready to ride. The wind blew harder and the
leaves rustled a warning.

“Let’s go!” Roderic cried above the wind as the first drops of rain touched his cheek.

“It’s ice! Roderic, this shouldn’t be—it’s too late in the year for weather like this!” cried Barran above the increasing
whine of the wind. The drops stung and Roderic shivered, unable to answer as the full fury of the storm broke upon them. The
horses reared and neighed. Fighting both weather and animals, they finally brought the horses under control.

“We should seek shelter,” Roderic managed.

“I can’t see where I’m going,” shouted Barran.

Stumbling like blind men, they led their horses on foot through the driving sleet. “I think I see something,” Roderic called,
as he peered through the wildly dipping branches.

“Roderic!” Barran cried.

Behind Roderic there was a loud crash and a horse’s scream. Roderic turned, trying to see through the weather. “What is it?”

“My leg—it’s—“

“I can’t hear you.”

Roderic led his horse back to see Barran fallen by a log lying across the forest floor.

“My leg,” Barran said above the wind. “I heard the bone snap.”

Roderic rubbed his hands together and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “I’ll put you on your horse,” he shouted above
the wind. He managed to put Barran on his skittish mount. His face was twisted in pain. Roderic looked at the leg and saw
the white edge of bone through the raw edges of torn flesh and ragged fabric. “You’ve done a job there, Barran.” He tied the
horses together, swung up into the saddle behind his kinsman, and put Barran’s head against his shoulder.

Barran sagged. “It’s bad, Roderic.” His hair was plastered against his head. His lips were thin with pain.

“We’ll look for shelter.”

Blinded by the driving storm, trees bending low and slashing at their faces, the icy sleet pounding through their cloaks,
they emerged into a clearing at the very base of the dark tower.

“Roderic? Not here, surely?” cried Barran.

“We must,” Roderic answered. “We must have shelter. We can’t go on.” He dismounted as carefully as he could, and Barran slumped
forward across the horse’s neck. Roderic bent his head and ran up the great stone steps to the heavy carved doors. He wrapped
his wet hands around the icy handles and pushed, then pulled with all his strength. The door would not budge. He pounded with
both fists. The door shuddered. He raised his voice and cried “Open!” as loud as he could, and again there was no response.
At his back, the wind howled in renewed fury and the horses huddled together in the little clearing. Roderic had raised his
fists again when the doors swung open with a loud creak of the ancient hinges. He narrowed his eyes and squinted into the
darkness.

A slight figure, wrapped in a shapeless garment made out of an odd assortment of varicolored rags, stood in the center. “I
am Roderic, Prince of Meriga,” he gasped above the weather. “I seek shelter for my companion and my animals.”

The figure bowed and stood to one side, motioning him to enter. “What about the horses?” Roderic peered through sleet. Something
about the way the figure moved told him she was a woman. For reply, she gestured again, motioning him to bring them inside
as well.

“My man is injured. We need a fire and something to bind his wound,” he said as he turned away to lead the horses into the
dark space beyond the door. The figure nodded and inclined her head.

Slowly, Roderic guided the horses up the slippery steps. Barran had slumped forward across the saddle in a faint. Roderic
looked around as he stepped over the threshold. The place was ancient, the ceilings vast and cavernous. Corridors led off
from the back and sides. The floor was dull, broken squares of black-and-white marble, and the columns holding up the ceiling
were webbed with cracks, clumsily patched. The windows, which once had held great panes of priceless glass, were covered over
with planks of wood, and little light penetrated the gloom. He stood between the horses, shivering, for a moment. Then Roderic
eased Barran off the horse, cradling him in his arms. “He’s hurt badly,” he repeated to the woman. “Please, is there a place
I can let him rest?”

“What comfort we have, you are welcome to, Prince,“rasped a voice above them, too deep for a woman’s, too soft for a man’s.
Roderic craned his neck around, and on a wide sweeping staircase, another figure crouched, swathed in black garments from
head to toe. Roderic squinted in the dark, trying to see. “Carry him above, Prince,” instructed the voice, “and follow me.”
It turned, moving ponderously, and he heard a curious rustle and click as it moved up the steps.

Roderic looked at the woman standing silently by in her multicolored rags. “Lead on.”

“But, Lord Prince,” Barran said, in a weak whisper, “that’s the witch.”

“Would you rather bleed to death here?” Roderic hissed between clenched teeth. Barran was heavy and Roderic was beginning
to feel the strain in his arms. “We have no choice.”

“Come, Prince, and fear not.” The raspy voice floated down from a great height.

The woman gestured toward the steps. Roderic hoisted Barran again and started up the steps, acutely conscious of the presence
of the woman following. The place had once been beautiful, he thought, as he concentrated on getting up the wide, shallow
steps. They led in a broad arc to a graceful balcony, and in the rushlight, he saw the squat, black form of the witch in the
corridor. Halfway down the corridor, the woman touched his sleeve. She gestured to a room off to the side. Roderic entered,
somewhat hesitant. To the side was a low bed, covered in furs, and a small fire burned in a primitive hearth. He realized
that, like the central keep of Ahga, the place had been built in the days when the heat came from furnaces in the cellars,
blasted through pipes in the walls. She indicated that he should put Barran down.

He looked at Barran’s white face. She touched his hand, a brief, fleeting caress, and inexplicably, his fear and suspicion
ebbed. With newborn confidence, he put Barran on the bed. The woman gestured to the door.

“Come, Prince,” came the hoarse whisper.

Roderic hesitated. Barran lay on the low bed with his eyes closed, his breathing slow and ragged.

“Prince.” The whisper was seductive in its call. With another backward glance, Roderic started down the corridor in the direction
of the voice. At the end of the corridor, he paused before a great wooden door.

“Prince.”

He pushed the door open and stepped into a warm, brightly lit room. Once this room had been walled with windows on two sides
with great panes of precious glass, but now all four walls were hung with tapestries. These were as finely wrought as anything
in Ahga. The threadbare furnishings looked as though they, too, had once been covered in rich fabrics, for the wood was carved
in intricate designs which could only predate the Armageddon.