Children of Enchantment (38 page)

“I would rather not speak of it.”

Peregrine craned her neck around to Gartred, sitting quiescent in her corner. “What? What happened?”

Amanander shrugged. “He tortured the Mutens to death. And their deaths were neither easy nor clean. That’s how he brought
about the peace there. That’s why it’s so tenuous. You see, my dear, even Phineas knew that Roderic’s not really capable.
And when I saw with my own eyes what he did, and how callously, how cruelly he did it, I knew that if I were to honor my oath,
I had to oppose Roderic’s taking the throne.”

Peregrine shifted in the chair, sinking deeper into the high cushioned back as Amanander continued, lulling, soothing, explaining.
The rain had ended, long ago, and somehow, the window was open once more and a soft breeze, tender as a lover’s caress, fluttered
over her skin. When he touched her, she stirred, frightened, opening her eyes, gazing into the darkness she could not fight.
“Melisande,” she whispered. “Melisande.”

He smiled, a slow, gentle smile, which spread across his face as easily as the last drops of rainwater slid down the windowpanes.
“Of course we’ll send her away. This is no place for a child—not your child. But you do see, you do understand, how very much
I need you? How much I need your help?”

She stared at him, mesmerized. “Annandale,” she murmured. “I can tell you what she is.”

“Yes?”

She wasn’t certain if he actually spoke. “She’s—she’s a witch. No one’s supposed to know, but the servants all talk. She worked
her Magic on Tavia, and on Roderic, too. He was never the same after that. After she uses it, she’s weak. You could make her
use her Magic. And when she’s weak, maybe she’d help you then.”

“Yes.” The word shivered through her and she pressed her eyes closed, giving herself up to the dark. When he reached for her,
her bones felt disconnected from her flesh, so that she hung as limp as a ragdoll in his embrace. She scarcely knew that Gartred
had come forward, had drawn the coif off her head and pulled the pins holding her braids in place. She let the hands hold
her, feel her, touch her. She gasped when she felt the air on her breasts and realized that somehow she had moved from the
antechamber to a softly lit bedroom, where the windows were opened to the cloudless, moonlit sky, and the insects chirped
a chorus. She was naked and she twisted around, her mouth shaping a protest, but Amanander was there, easing her down on the
yielding mattress, drawing her breast into his mouth, even as Gartred loosed the bindings of her underlinens. She was floating,
falling, giving in to searing sensations, powerless to resist. She arched her back, offering herself up to the intoxication
of it, as another mouth, another tongue, encircled her other nipple. Peregrine moaned, wrapping her arms around both dark
heads, spreading her legs to both sets of questing hands. This was where she belonged, beloved, cherished, not the cast-off
of a puppet princeling. As readily as an unpleasant dream, all thoughts of Roderic and Annandale vanished, while above her,
Amanander and Gartred chuckled with shared delight.

I
t was close to dawn when the voices roused Annandale from fitful sleep. She opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented. Jaboa
slept fully clothed on the other side of the great bed, and between them, Melisande was curled in a little bundle, her tiny
fist securely tucked in her mouth. With Tavia and Jaboa, Annandale had whispered late into the night, mulling over their predicament,
at last explaining her ability, half-afraid of their reactions. But they had only listened, and when she was finished, Jaboa
had gathered her in her arms as if she were no older than Melisande, murmuring words of comfort and support. Now Annandale
sat up, listening to the heavy tramp outside the door, the rough voices of men, the softer answering tones of a woman.

As the door swung wide, Tavia bolted upright from the hearth rug, her dress creased, her coif askew. “What is it?” she asked,
even as Peregrine stood on the threshold.

In the grayish light, Annandale saw that the girl’s gown had been laced carelessly, that her lips were swollen and purplish,
like overripe fruit. Deep shadows smudged the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and her coif was crumpled carelessly in one
hand. “Peregrine?” whispered Annandale, afraid to wake the baby. “Are you all right? What’s he done to you?”

Peregrine came closer. There were reddish marks on the creamy skin of her throat, and she moved slowly, Ianguorously, as if
through water. “Melisande? Is she with you? Give her to me. He’s going to let her go.”

“Go?” echoed Tavia, getting to her feet. “Go where? With whom? What happened to you last night? Are you all right?”

“Amanander’s going to let you leave?” Annandale tried to hide the revulsion she felt as Peregrine came nearer. There was a
smell about the woman, a musky, salty odor, and with a start, Annandale recognized it. It was the smell of lovemaking, the
smell of sex, of hot bodies pressed together, of the sticky fluids binding them together.

Peregrine’s eyes flicked over Annandale, hatred so clear her gaze was like a whip. “Not me. Melisande. He’s going to let her
go. And you, Tavia. You’re going to take her.”

Tavia put a hand on Peregrine’s arm. “How can you trust him? You saw him kill Garrick last night. This is Roderic’s child.
Her life means less to him than Garrick’s did.”

Peregrine’s face did not change expression. “Get ready. He’s going to let her go.”

All three women exchanged glances.

“All right,” said Tavia softly. “Tell him we’re getting her ready. Go on.” She gave Peregrine a little push out the door,
and with a venomous glance at Annandale, Peregrine went.

Annandale looked at the other two with fear in her eyes.

“What do you make of that?” asked Jaboa as Melisande whimpered and stirred.

“Amanander seduced her last night,” said Annandale. “He must have promised her Melisande’s safety in exchange for her cooperation.”
She looked out the window, where the sun was rising over the treetops. The heat had forced an early spring, and the forest
was in full leaf. Why Tavia? Amanander had not been able to hide his shock. She had surprised him with her presence. Was it
only that she was a reminder of Jesselyn, or was there another reason?

The door shuddered under a sudden blow, and Annandale pulled the pearl ring off her finger. “Here,” she said, holding it out.
“Take this, Tavia. Take the baby and get to Phineas. Tell him to send this ring to Roderic. He must not come here unaware.”

Tavia nodded, placing the ring in the bosom of her gown as Melisande began to cry. “I’ll do my best.”

“It’s our only chance,” said Annandale. “You have to try.”

A merciless sun beat down on the ramparts as Amanander, flanked by Gartred and Peregrine, watched the little party leave the
shelter of the garrison walls. Tavia clutched the child to her breast, her face stoic. She did not glance back, her eyes fixed
on the back of the black-clad guard who guided her horse away from the shadowed walls. They headed south down the gravel-covered
road, toward Ahga and freedom. And death, thought Amanander, smiling inwardly. He glanced at the two women by his side. Gartred’s
mouth had the self-satisfied smirk she always wore when she found their love-making particularly satisfying. She had enjoyed
their escapade with Peregrine last night very much, though he thought she was more pleased with the thought of debauching
Roderic’s woman than the sexual pleasure it gave her. Peregrine stared after the diminishing figures, disappearing now beneath
the cover of the forest, her fingers white-knuckled as she gripped the battlements. He touched her cheek with the back of
his gloved hand and chuckled when she flinched. She had been horrified when she had awakened before to find herself in the
midst of one of his more exotic plays. But he had tapped deep into the well of jealousy which had festered in her for a long,
long time, and her protests hadn’t lasted very long. Besides, she had given him an excellent idea.

It pleased him to think that Roderic’s woman, Roderic’s child, and Tavia, whom he thought of as Roderic’s sister, were all
so totally lost. Three down, he thought, employing the parlance of ancient Meriga, as Ferad sometimes did. One to go.

The thought of Annandale, naked and helpless beneath him, completely at his mercy, as Peregrine had been the night before,
gave him the beginnings of an erection. He breathed deeply, enjoying the fantasy.

“… shall we, Lord Prince?”

How like the hen to interrupt his most pleasurable thoughts. “What?”

She met his eyes calmly, a spark of amusement deep within. He knew that sometimes, more times than he liked to think, the
mindlink between them enabled her to catch a flavor of his thoughts. “I asked you if you had any ideas as to how to force
the little wife to your service.”

He smiled at Gartred, good humor restored. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “Peregrine gave me a wonderful idea. I can’t wait
to get it started.”

“Are you going to share it with us?” asked Gartred, as Peregrine glanced at him with surprise.

“Force her to heal,” Amanander began, and in the bright hot light of the noonday sun, he outlined a plan so diabolical in
conception it made him smile just to think of it. Peregrine had proven her worth already.

Under the shade of the trees, the air was cooler than in the brutal glare of the open road. Tavia rocked Melisande, murmuring
as the child twisted and squirmed. Melisande was a healthy toddler, and she did not understand why she should have to stay
on the gently swaying horse. The shadows deepened beneath the trees, and Tavia grew concerned. “Sir.” She leaned forward in
the saddle. “Are you certain this path will take us to the road to Ahga?”

The guard did not reply. He had not said one word all morning, not since she had first seen him in the courtyard, not since
they had mounted the horses Amanander had provided, not since they had ridden from the fortress. She wondered if he were one
of the garrison guards Amanander had corrupted to his own use, or if he were a recruit from somewhere else.

There did not seem to be many guards at Minnis, and Tavia suspected that a fair number of men had elected to join their commander
in death, though whether by choice or by default, she couldn’t say.

Debris crunched underfoot, and the branches of the trees reached out like twisted fingers, grasping arms to tangle in her
hair. As the morning wore on, deeper and deeper into the forest they rode. Melisande fussed, then slept. Finally, as the sun
was beginning to dip down in the sky, Tavia reined her horse abruptly. Melisande woke and began to cry. “Soldier, we have
to stop. The child needs food, water, dry clothes. And I need a rest.”

With a grunt, the soldier swung out of his saddle. He turned, looking at Tavia with a blank stare. Hastily, Tavia slid out
of her saddle as best she could while encumbered by Melisande. She set the squirming child on the ground and reached across
the saddle for the pack tied across it. She fumbled with the bindings and finally worked it open. Except for a folded blanket,
and a few stones to simulate the-weight of equipment, it was empty.

“By the One,” she breathed, as understanding dawned. Swiftly she scooped up the baby and turned to grab the reins. The horse
whickered and stamped a protest at her awkward treatment, and the soldier, as though galvanized, drew his sword and advanced.

“Please … I beg you…” Tavia panted, trapped between the soldier and the horse. She sought to escape sideways, but the animal
blocked her path. She feinted right and the soldier followed with stumbling gait, his sword trembling in his hands. Sweat
had broken out across his forehead and poured down his face. In spite of her fear, Tavia had never seen anyone sweat so profusely.
He swung, a clumsy stroke that missed Melisande’s little head by inches, and Tavia scrambled backward into the animal’s flank.
The horse dodged, and Tavia saw her opening. She gathered her skirts in one hand and, clutching Melisande around the waist,
broke into an awkward run. Her heart pounded, and the forest seemed quiet, far too quiet.

Abruptly the path ended in a chasm about twenty feet deep. She muttered a curse she never thought she knew. Melisande squalled.
“Hush, child.”

Behind her the soldier crashed through the underbrush and she turned as the man broke into the clearing. He shambled, a weird
sideways run, his sword weaving unsteadily before him. “Please…” She held her hand in supplication as the child squirmed against
her hip, her little face twisted.

The soldier approached, sword raised.

“No!” she screamed, seizing a rock. She threw it as hard as she could. It struck him squarely on the temple. He dropped his
sword, covering the bleeding gash with one hand. He fell to his knees, his face hidden. Tavia’s heart pounded and Melisande
wailed louder.

He raised his face, and his sword dropped to the ground out of his suddenly slack grip. “Forgive me,” he said in a hoarse
voice. “Forgive me, lady. I know not what I did.”

She stared in disbelief, not quite trusting what she heard. “You were sent to kill me and the child. He had no intention of
letting us go.”