Children of Enchantment (5 page)

“Yes.” The word was a hiss. “I heard him say I would never be King—not with Magic or without it—and I swear I’ll make him
live to see the day he regrets those words. I’ll kill him with his own sword and I’ll wear his own crown when I do it. But
think of the confusion. No one knows whether he’s dead or alive. There will have to be a regency. Roderic’s just eighteen
years old and he’s surrounded by old men like Phineas, who’ve grown soft in the peace of the last twenty years or more. He’s
already run into trouble in Atland. What if the Senadors fail to support him? And there’s my twin—“

“Are you so certain of Alexander?”

“We are one. I don’t expect you to understand. From the beginning, we were one flesh. It was always so with us. Why do you
think my father sent me to this godforsaken outpost, and him all the way to the Settle Islands? He thought to put the length
of Meriga between us—“

“Timing will be all, my Prince.” The Muten’s voice was soft. “Don’t forget the lessons Senadors like Owen Mortmain learned
to their detriment—“

“My father had the witch-woman by his side then, did he not? She used her Magic for him. She even used it to ensure he’d have
a son by his Queen when all of Meriga knew she was barren. If he can use the Magic to disinherit me, what’s to stop me from
using it against him?”

The Muten’s face was inscrutable in the shadows. “And if you go to Atland, my Prince? What then?”

“It will enable me to take Roderic’s measure. I’ve learned enough of the Magic for that. There’s Reginald—I have good reason
to think that he will be more than sympathetic for the right price. Once I’m there, I’ll be able to gauge how much assistance
he’s likely to be. And then what would be more natural than that I accompany my little brother back to the ancestral home?
When the Congress convenes, the Senadors—“

“Bah!” Ferad cut him off with a snort. “There is another way.”

Amanander leaned across the desk. His eyes were like pools of water beneath a night sky, so black that light seemed trapped
within their depths. “What are you talking about?”

“Intrigue is all well and fine, my Prince. And you may be successful—who am I to judge? But the West was beaten long ago,
and even though certain factions may rise against the young Regent, there is no reason why any of them should support you
over him. Let Roderic have the regency. For a time. There’s something else you can discover in Ahga. You must find out Nydia
Farhallen’s fate.”

“My father’s witch? She’s been dead for years.”

“And you believe that?”

“He certainly had nothing to do with her since before Roderic was born. They say she used her Magic to help the Queen conceive
a son, and then, consumed by jealousy, she took her own life. Personally, I think it killed her. That’s possible, isn’t it?
Couldn’t that have been the result of causing a life to come into existence?”

Ferad didn’t answer.

“So you think Nydia may be alive?”

“There were many rumors concerning her fate, my Prince.”

“I’m not so naive I believe those stories about Phineas getting a child on her. Do you?”

Ferad was silent. Finally he said, “She either died or disappeared before Roderic was born. Besides the Magic she had other
gifts which made her invaluable to Abelard. They say he never looked at another woman from the day she walked into his court.”

It was Amanander’s turn to shrug. “He looked at Melisande Mortmain, didn’t he? Long enough to get a son off her. And while
Roderic may be grandson to the old Senador in Vada, I’d wager half this kingdom Owen’ll not lift a finger to help.”

“Forget Vada. Listen to me. You must find out if Nydia Farhallen bore a child. In all probability, that child would have been
a daughter. And you must find that daughter and bring her to me.”

“Why?”

“Nydia was a prescient. She could see the future. Why do you think Abelard was so successful? So long as he had her, none
of his enemies could ever surprise him. But something must have happened between them. Abelard would never have sent her away
voluntarily.”

“So that makes it likely that she died.”

“But if she did not—if she bore another’s child—surely you know your father well enough to imagine his reaction to that?”

“Well, what if she did?”

“Listen, you fool. You play for high stakes at long odds, but there may be a way to even them. If you can find the daughter
Nydia Farhallen bore, we will have the key to control the Magic—all Magic. We will have the power to do what even the men
of Old Meriga couldn’t with their toys and their machines and their technologies which very nearly destroyed the whole world.

“For the problem is not with the Magic. It is in the reaction caused by the Magic as the universe seeks to right itself. If
we can find Nydia’s daughter, our victory will be assured, for the child of a prescient is always an empath. By an empath’s
very nature, the imbalance caused by the Magic is corrected, even as it occurs. The empath need not know the Magic. One only
need touch her. Think of what that would mean for both of us.”

Amanander sat back. “So if we find this empath—“

“We will have the means to realize everything we’ve ever wanted. Anything the Magic can be made to do… anything you or I can
think of will be within our grasp. We need but think it… I will drag those sanctimonious fools of the College to their knees,
and you, my Prince—you will reign in Ahga more securely than any Ridenau before or since.”

Amanander listened, eyes fastened on Ferad’s face. An ugly flush darkened Ferad’s deformed features. He had never seen the
Muten so animated.

“But you must find her, Prince,” Ferad went on in his whispery rasp. “I’ve worked all these years to discover another way
to control the consequences of the Magic and it eludes me still. And now, with your father in our hands, every day which dawns
is another risk.”

“Then I have much work to do, if I’m to reach the point where I can use the Magic as I please.”

“Are you suggesting I’m not to be trusted?”

“You would be content to be a tool, Ferad? I don’t believe that. After all, tools break.” There was something in the tone
of Amanander’s voice, something in the way he stared at the Muten, that made Ferad drop his eyes.

“I know you wish to use the Magic yourself, my Prince.” Ferad’s voice had a silky lilt. “But you realize it may take years
before you know enough to challenge Roderic? Before this empath, if she exists, will do you any good?”

“Roderic will have more than enough to keep him busy. The country will be thrown into chaos. He can’t be King—only Regent.
And the pledges of allegiance are all sworn to my father. It’s quite possible that more than a few of the Senadors can be
persuaded that in order to keep the pledge they swore to my father, they should not support Roderic. And if he survives the
Mutens, the Chiefs in the Settle Islands are always ripe for war against the mainlanders, and the Harleyriders will surely
use my father’s absence to try to settle old scores in Arkan. I do have time. If there’s anything I’ve learned in all my years
in this wasteland, it’s how to wait.”

“You like to think of yourself as patient, my Prince. But I still say this move against the King was precipitous and may in
the end prove our undoing. When will you leave for At-land?”

“One week.”

“You must not linger in Atland long. You must go to Ahga as quickly as you can. I will see that my brothers who support our
cause give you information which will enable you to bring this rebellion to a speedy conclusion.”

“Why not simply ask my father?”

The Muten’s eyes darted to the shadowed corner. For the briefest moment, something like fear flickered across the twisted
features. Then it was replaced by something else, something hard and cruel, and Amanander narrowed his eyes, suddenly wary.
“You don’t think that’s wise, Ferad?”

Ferad shrugged with calculated indifference not lost on Amanander. “See for yourself, my Prince.”

Amanander drew a deep breath and rose to his feet. Without taking his eyes off the Muten, he crossed to the door and paused.
“Not coming?”

“As my Prince commands.” Ferad gathered the folds of his robe around his shoulders and scuttled across the floor, his uneven
gait the result of old injuries.

The door creaked as together they stepped into a dimly lit cell. The long form wrapped in a dark cloak stirred as their shadows
fell across the battered cot. Amanander hesitated on the threshold.

“What do you want?”

The power of that voice, the ring of absolute authority, startled Amanander. No one ever questioned Abelard Ridenau and no
one ever thwarted him. Involuntarily, Amanander stepped backward and collided with Ferad.

“I want to talk to you.”

“YOU!” Abelard leaped into a sitting position, turning and twisting with a heavy clatter of chains.

“Welcome to Dlas, Dad.”

“And what do you think you’ll get from me?”

Even in captivity, stripped of weapons and every friend, Abelard’s vitality was palpable. Amanander forced himself to step
closer.

“Right now I want information.”

“If you think to force me to make you heir…”

Amanander laughed. “That’s an old story, Dad, and one told too long ago. I’ve no interest in being your heir.”

“You’ll never reign in Ahga.” Anger simmered through the King’s voice like summer heat. “Nydia said—“

“Nydia. Nydia Farhallen. Your witch. Yes, let’s talk about her.”

“What about Nydia?”

Amanander thought he detected a subtle change in tone, a suspicious wariness that made him confident he had hit a nerve. “Is
there a child?”

“No.”

Across the dusty space the two men stared, black eyes locked on blue, and Amanander cocked one brow. “I think you’re lying.”

“Really?”

Amanander forced himself to think clearly. “Ferad?”

“My Prince?”

“Get it out of him.”

In the gloom, Abelard raised his head, and Ferad gasped. “Fool! You would use the Magic with no thought at all—you could bring
the roof down upon us.”

“Then scurry back to your lair, Ferad,” Amanander spat. “I’ll try.”

He heard the rustle of Ferad’s robes over the broken tiles and drew a deep breath, sucking the stale air of the cavern into
his lungs. He placed his fingertips lightly together and shut his eyes.

Once again, he heard Ferad’s rasping instructions. “See in your mind how each equation builds upon the one before it— comprehension
of the greatest is dependent upon the comprehension of the least. Hold fast to that understanding—“

As if from very far away, Amanander heard Abelard’s snorted, “What dumbshow is this?”

Amanander ignored his father. His breathing quickened imperceptibly, and in his throat a pulse beat a rapid tatoo. Beads of
sweat threaded his forehead, and a deeper flush rose up his throat. The air within the cavern seemed to thicken, and the shadows
darkened. Amanander muttered, shut his eyes once more, groping with his mind for the way to penetrate the defenses of Abelard’s
will, as a single drop of sweat crept down his cheek.

The air heated within the chamber as Amanander built the equations, each upon the next, stripping the guise of solidity from
the form of reality, until he reached the place where conscious thought had shape. With one mighty effort, he reached across
his father’s mind, intent upon finding the chink he was certain existed in armor even so zealously guarded. But the defenses
of Abelard’s mind, the force of Abelard’s will, was like a wall, smoother than glass, slipperier than ice, harder than metal,
and though Amanander hurled every ounce of strength he possessed against it, nothing changed.

“Stop!” cried a voice, the voice of his tutor, and Amanander broke away, dimly aware that within the chamber the temperature
had risen to a nearly murderous degree. “You are not ready, my Prince … you will kill us all.”

Wrenched from the equations, Amanander sagged and fell to his knees, while the room spun and tilted on a dizzy axis. Abelard
laughed.

Amanander staggered to his feet and stumbled out of the room, Ferad following, Abelard’s derision stinging in his ears, sweat
pouring off his body.

Amanander shut the door of the cell against that awful noise, and shut his eyes, drawing deep gasping breaths until his pulse
stopped pounding. “Let him laugh,” he said when he could. “Let him laugh for now. But I tell you, Ferad, by the time I have
finished with him, I will see him beg and cry and plead with me for what remains of his miserable life. And then, we’ll see
who laughs loudest.”

“I
tell you, you’re mistaken.” Reginald raised the flagon of ale to his mouth and took a long swallow. He wiped his sleeve across
his lips.

Amanander grimaced at the smacking noises his brother made and tried to ignore the heavy stench of sweat emanating from Reginald’s
clothes. He considered ignoring Reginald. But his brother, though Amanander flinched at calling him that, was nothing if not
stubborn and persistent. Probably an indication of that peasant blood he’d got from his farm-girl mother. “And I assure you,
Reginald, I am not.” As he stretched his long legs in front of the fire, he made a mental note to tell his serving boy to
polish his boots more carefully. The thinnest film of oil attracted the worst layer of dulling dust.