Children of Enchantment (9 page)

It was over. She knew as soon as she saw the looks on the faces of the Muten attendants. They had arranged themselves as far
away as possible from the door of the inner chamber where the newcomer had been placed. The occupants of the low white cots
stared up at her with frightened eyes. There was a sweetish smell in the air.

The Muten lay on the white bed, still and unmoving. Clearly he had died in agony, his back twisted and bowed in a convulsive
rictus, his skin marred by blotchy purplish lesions from which red-tinged mucus still dribbled. Dark blood spooled down his
chin from a corner of his mouth. Both of his secondary arms were splayed outward, his primary arms clenched in fists on his
chest. Sighing, she leaned against the door frame as her two human attendants peered around her.

“There was nothing you could have done for him, Rever’d Lady,” whispered Mharri, her pale eyes in her ancient face soft with
sympathy.

“No.” The old woman was right. But why did she feel so defeated, as though this were one more burden laid across her shoulders,
a burden which she had no way to bear? She looked around the cool white room. “The body will have to be burned—everything
he touched will have to be burned.” As she was speaking, she heard a new commotion outside—the sound of pounding hooves and
eager shouts of greeting. Everard had come.

“Rever’d Lady?” One of the Mutens across the room gestured toward the water buckets. “Our supplies of soap and clean linen
are very low. If we must see everything is washed, is it possible—“

“Of course. I’ll see more are sent over from the laundry.” Suddenly she felt very weary. There was so much to do, and so few
to do it. “Only humans handle the body, do you understand?” She spoke more harshly than she intended, and instantly she regretted
it. “I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular. “I’ll be back to say the rites after I’ve seen my brother.”

Later, as the sun slipped like a red disk behind the rounded western hills, Jesselyn stood within the circle of the firelight,
and recited the ancient burial rites of the Muten tribes in a language liquid with vowels and meaning. The wind-whipped flames
leaped high in all directions, obscuring the dark shape of the funeral pyre at the center.

Throughout the ceremony, she was conscious of Everard’s reassuring bulk beside her, his very presence comforting in a way
the old words could never be. As she lowered her arms from the final blessing, Everard shifted on his feet. He was a big man;
beside him the Mutens were dwarfed and she herself felt child-sized. Of all her many brothers and sisters, only Everard contacted
her. Her work among the poorest and the lowliest of the Mutens had made her a pariah among her own people. Abruptly she realized
she had no idea what the reason for his visit was, or where he might be going. He had come provisioned for a long trip. As
the crowd slowly dispersed, he tilted her chin up. “You look tired, Jessie,” he said, breaking the silence.

She shrugged. “A lot has happened lately—refugees of the rebellion arrive every day from the South, sometimes as many as two
or three dozen. It must be horrible down in At-land.”

There was another long silence, and finally Everard plucked at her sleeve. “Come. A cup of hot spiced cider will do you good.”

“I’m sorry. We’ve no spices—I traded the last of them to the Mayher of Bartertown to buy us a little peace.”

“I brought you more. And don’t worry—that lordling will not trouble you again. I encountered his minions on my way here, much
to their regret.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pressed her close to his side, and for a while she stood content.
At last she drew away and managed a smile in the flickering light.

“Spiced cider sounds good.”

As they turned to go, Mharri approached, her back bent beneath the ragged shawl she wore against the evening chill. “Rever’d
Lady, great lord.”

“What is it?” asked Jesselyn, preparing to ask the woman to wait until the morning. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought
she saw Sera pause in the shadows, just beyond the periphery of the light.

“There’s been no chance to give you this, Rever’d Lady. But the poor soul—he had this in a pouch around his neck. He was clutching
it when he died. We found it when we carried him out to the pyre. It looks like the sort of thing the Children use for their
messages.” Hesitantly, she held out a hide-bound package, greasy and worn from much handling.

“Have any of the Children touched this?” asked Jesselyn sharply.

“No, Rever’d Lady. But before it was burnt, we thought you’d better have it. It does look as if it’s come a long way.”

Jesselyn nodded and took the package. “That would explain who the poor wretch was.” She turned her face up to Everard. “Some
messenger—bringing this to one of the Northern tribes, no doubt. We’ll have a look and perhaps you’ll see it gets to wherever
it was to go.”

Everard was like a mother hen, Jesselyn thought as she leaned against the high back of the one comfortable chair in the room
which served her as sitting room and office and, if necessary, supply closet. She sipped at the cider he handed her. For a
man so big and burly, he moved lightly, even gracefully. His eyes watched her closely, and though they had not lost that glint
of humor, he looked as careworn as she felt. She closed her eyes and let the hot steam curl around her nose.

“Feel better?” He settled on the floor by the hearth near her feet.

“Much.”

“You’ve had a hard time.”

It was not a question, but she shrugged in response. “It has never been worse. The stream of refugees is nearly constant—
we’re always short of everything. If you hadn’t sent those supplies a month ago, I don’t know what I would have done. There’s
never enough food, enough clothing. I try to find them little plots of land, or settle them with some of the neighboring tribes,
but—” She broke off, suddenly too exhausted to continue.

“You do good work, Jessie.” For another long moment there was silence, while they sipped their cider, and the fire burned
merrily in the hearth. He poked at the logs with a long iron. “Better open that message while I’m here. I’ll take it with
me if needs be when I leave in the morning.”

With a start, she set her cup on the floor and pulled the packet from the pocket of her gown. In the confines of the room
it stank of a sick man’s sweat. Gingerly, she unwrapped it and removed several sheets of parchment. She leaned forward and
read it with growing disbelief.

“Well?” Everard asked finally.

She held it out to him. He glanced at the parchment and shook his head. “You know I don’t read Muten, Jessie.”

“No,” she said, beginning to tremble. “But look at the signature. It’s from Vere.”

“Vere?” Everard turned the parchment over. “I always wondered if that’s where the poor bastard had gone when he disappeared
all those years ago, during Mortmain’s Rebellion. You were probably too little to remember—“

“I remember Tavia telling me, when I’d got a little older.”

“So what does it say? Who’s it addressed to?”

Jesselyn took the sheets back from Everard and peered at them with a wrinkled brow. “It’s addressed to the Council of the
Elders—the Pr’fessors—at the College.”

“Vere moves in high circles.”

“Indeed. This messenger was to take this to their place of exile—do you know where that is?”

Everard only shook his head.

“Let me see—it says—‘To my brothers and sisters of the Council, I send greetings and the urgent wish that the recent unrest
among the Lesser Children has not affected the tranquility of your lives. I fear this message will have just that effect.
I believe I have found the traitor, Ferad-lugz, in the deep desert of Dlas-for’Torth. Our fears are justified that he has
continued in the study of the Magic and at this moment poses a greater threat not only to the Ruling Council and the Children,
but to the whole of Meriga itself. Despite the uncertainties of the present situation, I am sending my servant to you in the
hope that you, having taken counsel, will be able to advise what the next course of action should be. I intend to follow my
servant. However, due to the current troubles, my arrival may be delayed. May the Power which orders the Universe keep you
in care. Vere.’ “

Jesselyn looked up and stared at Everard. “We must see that the Elders receive this.”

“Is it dated?”

She turned the thick parchment over. “Febry first. Do you think that you will be able to find a way to get this to them?”

“I hope so. But you’d better make a copy. The Elders aren’t the only ones who must know what this message says.”

At that she looked up, a question clear in her blue eyes.

“Roderic must know, Jessie,” Everard said, trying to answer. “If this is something that may affect the whole of Meriga—“

“Bah!” She turned away, nearly crumpling the worn parchment in her hand. “Do you know what they call him? The Children, I
mean? They call him the Butcher.”

“Jessie—no matter what might have happened, he is, or will be very shortly, the acknowledged Regent of all Meriga—“

“And a fine beginning he’s had. Have you heard the tale first-hand? I have, Everard, and it still makes my stomach churn.
I see those poor creatures in my dreams—he ordered the skin peeled from their bodies—limbs hacked off slowly with blunted
blades—how can you even stand the thought that he is your brother?”

Everard was silent. He got to his feet, poured more cider, and leaned against the hearth. “Perhaps the tales are exaggerated.”

“That’s what I wanted to think—until I met one of those who was there and was spared. Roderic may be the Regent of all Meriga,
but he’s no man—“

“You’re right, Jessie. He’s a boy—an eighteen-year-old boy faced with one of the largest rebellions in living history, and
Dad gone. I’m not excusing what he did in Atland, I’m only saying that perhaps it was understandable under the circumstances.”

“Are you saying we should try to understand slaughter?”

Everard sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand—”

“Oh, spare me the helpless woman lecture.” She got to her feet and paced beside the fire.

“Have you forgotten that Dad disappeared somewhere in Arkan? That’s close enough to Dlas to make me think that perhaps this
Ferad had a hand in Dad’s disappearance.”

She paused and could not meet his eyes. “No. I didn’t think of that.”

“Then this is not just a matter for the Elders. This is a matter for Roderic, as Regent, and his advisors, if not the entire
Congress.” When Jesselyn was silent, he continued, “I’ll take this message. I’ll try to deliver it. But I think you must go
to Ahga.”

At that she stared at Everard in disbelief. “Are you mad? I can’t go to Ahga. I’m under interdict—the Bishop will have me
taken before the Council of Bishops and even Dad wouldn’t be able to protect me. There’s no way—“

“There must be a way, Jessie.”

“Why can’t you go to Ahga?”

“I’m on my way to Atland. Phineas contacted me and asked if I would assist Reginald in administering the terms of the peace.”

“Assist? You mean make sure he doesn’t break his word. He’s another in the same mold as Roderic—even though I’ll grant you
I’ve never heard he’s ever done anything quite so bad. But none of the Children trust Reginald.”

Everard motioned her to sit. “It’s not just Reginald. The Senador in Atland is old, and Phineas is counting on me to deal
with the lesser lords—the Mayhers and Govners. Reginald’s not much of a diplomat. So you see I can’t go back to Ahga. I’ll
make sure the message reaches the Elders, but you must go to Roderic.”

“Couldn’t someone else take the message? What about Phillip?” Even as she spoke, Jesselyn realized that Everard spoke the
truth. Phillip was probably in Ahga already, and if the message truly was as urgent as Vere implied, there was no time to
find out. And who else could be trusted? “Who is this Ferad-lugz?”

Everard shook his head, smiling as he acknowledged her capitulation. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never heard the name before, but
that’s not really surprising. You know a lot goes on at the College among the Pr’fessors that no one knows about, or understands.
It’s enough for me that Vere mentions the Old Magic, and the fact that this Ferad-lugz is a traitor to them. That could only
mean one thing. Ferad’s attempting to use the Magic for his own ends, whatever they may be. And think about it, Jessie. Think
about what that could mean for all of us.”

Jesselyn sighed. She walked to the window and stared out into the dark night. She could hear the slow beat of the hidebound
drums as the Mutens mourned the dead messenger, and the old glass felt cool beneath her cheek. “What if I just wrote a letter?”

“Stubborn, aren’t you? I wouldn’t suggest anyone cross these mountains if it weren’t necessary. But the Mutens do know and
respect you—where they won’t one of my messengers—and the human population will respect you as a priest, while they most assuredly
would not a Muten. If you think you’d have trouble getting into Ahga, what sort of difficulty do you think one of the Children
would have? And besides, you aren’t just one of the Bishop’s minion priests—you’re a Princess of the royal blood. You have
every right to go to Ahga. If you notify Roderic that you are on your way, surely he’ll send an escort for you.”

“I’d have to bring Tavia. There’s no one who can handle her as I do, and she won’t let me out of her sight on her bad days.”

“How is Tavia? I didn’t see her at dinner.”

“Today was one of the bad days. After what she’s been through, I can’t say I blame her. But I can’t leave her.”

“Then you may well have to take her with you. Have you ever thought that a trip back to Ahga might do her good? I would go
if I thought I could, Jessie. But the peace in Atland is too tenuous. I would not like to think those poor wretches died in
vain.” For a moment his shoulders seemed to sag and his eyes lost their customary gleam. “Under any other circumstances, I’d
take the message to Roderic myself.”

“You think you could stand his presence?”