The Misbegotten King (16 page)

“Have you any idea who fathered you upon the Queen?”

Roderic drew a deep breath and sighed. “Annandale said no blood—no ties between us—so that would mean someone… anyone…”

“No.” Deirdre shook her head. “This was planned. There was no accident to it. The Queen knew—but she’s dead. The King knew—but
he’s gone. Annandale— would she know?”

“She might. Her mother would have known… if this was a plan.”

“Her mother? Nydia? She’s dead, too.

“Then there’s only one person left who really knows what happened. And that’s the man who fathered you.”

“If he’s still alive.”

“Go to your lady and ask her, Roderic. It’s the only chance you have to make peace with this. You may not be the son of the
King’s body, but you are the Prince of Meriga, and there is no way this country will hold together unless you assume the command
the King left you. You can’t fall apart like this—none of us can afford for you to do that. Do you understand what I am telling
you?”

He dropped his eyes and stared at the backs of his hands, at the scars and nicks which crisscrossed the skin
like the pattern of Deirdre’s plaid. “Do you understand at all how I feel?”

She sat back, her arms folded across her chest. “In a land where a man’s whole identity is based upon his clan, his chief,
his father—yes. Of course I know how you must feel. But you must put that aside. We have a kingdom to keep—for your son.”

Rhodri. The thought of the infant brought him back. Those eyes, so like Abelard’s, so like Annandale’s… now he understood,
he thought. Now he realized what it was about her that had seemed so familiar to him at first. It was her resemblance to his
father. “Her eyes,” he muttered.

“What?” asked Deirdre sharply.

“It was her eyes that made me realize who she was,” he said. “She came to me tonight and wanted to leave Ithan, to go with
Vere—”

“I think you should let her go.”

“Let her go?”

Deirdre nodded. “She has another place in this, Roderic. There is more to this tale than you or I understand. I’ll take her
myself. But go on—”

“She looked at me with such determination—the expression was his when he had his mind made up— that’s how I knew. No one ever
looked quite like my fath—like the King when he was angry.”

“You have to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Correcting yourself. He was—is—your father. If he’s ever found he’ll tell you that himself, I have no doubt. But for now—”
She uncrossed her long legs and got to her feet, feeling in her pouch. She pulled out a gold coin,
and laid it on the bar. “That should be sufficient payment for the trouble which you caused.”

“No—” He picked up the gold piece and handed it back to her. “They can’t spend that here. We’ll leave this, instead.” From
a pocket, he pulled out three silver pennies. “It’s not quite the equivalent, but it will go further.” He picked up a last
piece of cheese. “And thank you. Once again.”

She gave him a wry smile as she slung her plaid over her shoulder, adjusting her swordbelt at her hip.

He narrowed his eyes at the ease with which she moved, and suddenly he realized that her arm was no longer in a sling. “Deirdre—your
arm. You aren’t—your wound—”

“Your wife.” She met his eyes. “Consider my promise to escort her my payment of the debt I owe to her.”

Dawn was a pale pink streak across the eastern sky as Roderic and Deirdre cantered across the drawbridge, into the inner ward
of Ithan Ford. The sleepy sentries stared at them in disbelief. He tossed the reins of his mount to a yawning stable boy,
and with a last nod, he took off up the steps to his chambers. He saw her wink out of the corner of his eye.

In the doorway of his bedroom, he paused. Annandale lay across the rumpled bed, her arms wrapped around her pillow. He shut
the door and bolted it. The floor creaked beneath his weight as he walked to the bed, and instantly she sprang awake. “Roderic.”

“Forgive me, lady,” he said as he knelt beside the bed. “I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry, too. I should not have told you so abruptly, but I could not let you think—you thought we were brother and sister.
I saw it in your face.”

“It’s hard for me to believe what you tell me.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t matter what we believe.”

“Yes.” He laughed bitterly. “Do you know Phineas said something like that to me, once? On the night I brought you to Minnis,
and he told me my father—” He stumbled over the word. “When he told me the King wanted me to marry you.” He paused, searching
her face, and she looked at him so lovingly he wanted to weep. “I nearly did a terrible thing last night.”

She gave a great sigh and held out her hand. “Oh, Roderic.”

He buried his head in the crumpled fabric of her skirts. The early light gave her skin a pale grayish cast; for the first
time since he had ever known her, she looked old, tired, as worn as he. A dull ache spread a low throb from the base of his
skull to his temples. The intense rage was gone, and he was only tired beyond endurance. He sat down heavily in a chair beside
the bed. “You had better begin at the beginning.”

She nodded gravely. Her gaze went to the window and then back to him. “It began in the twelfth year of your father’s reign.
On his way to Ahga, he rode through a little town where there was about to be a public execution. The crime was witchcraft
and the condemned woman was my mother. The King stopped the execution. He ordered them to take her off the stake, and when
they pulled the hood off her face, he—”

“Everyone says your mother was beautiful.”

“Do you think I am beautiful?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Do you?”

“You know I do.”

“When she was young—before everything—she was even more beautiful than I. When Abelard saw her, he took her away with him.
He used her gift, you see. When the village priest, the one who wanted to burn her, was made the Bishop of Ahga, he took her
away to the North Woods, and there—”

“That’s why he built Minnis.”

“Yes. He meant to keep her safe, you see, at least as safe as he could make her. In the beginning, when the Bishop first came
to Ahga, she had a great deal of power because she allied herself with Agara, Abelard’s mother. And the King had married your
mother, ending Mortmain’s Rebellion and consolidating the realm.”

“Hadn’t he sworn a vow of fidelity to her, to the Queen?”

“Of course. But Abelard didn’t love her. He treated her shamefully. She didn’t want to marry him, I don’t think. He forced
her, as he forced everyone around him, to do his will. And it was that marriage that brought all the trouble about.

“You know my mother could see the future. There were certain limitations to her power. She couldn’t see her own future, and
she couldn’t see past a choice. But once a choice was made, she could see what the outcome of the choice would be.”

He frowned, trying to understand.

“Think of it this way. Imagine you stand at the highest
tower of Ahga. From there you can see all the markets and all the roads leading to them. Suppose you see a farmer, leading
his stock to slaughter. From where you are, you can see not only the farmer, but where he is going. You, in effect, see his
future.”

She paused. When Roderic nodded, she continued. “Now, suppose, there is an overturned cart around a corner. The way is blocked.
You know that, and you know the farmer will have to turn around and make a decision to go another way, but he doesn’t know
that until he gets there, and you have no way of knowing what way he will decide to go once he does.”

“So your mother saw the future as a series of possibilities?”

“Yes. Her ability could not interfere with anyone’s will to decide for themselves, however. When you stood before her in her
tower, she showed you what would have happened if you had left without me. Once you agreed to take me with you, the vision
in the flames would have been different. But, as you have seen, some of what she showed you has already come to pass.”

“So she used this ability to help my fa—the King?”

“She swore a pledge of allegiance to him, her foresight, in exchange for his protection. She was, according to the definition
of the priests, most definitely a witch.”

He nodded and she continued, “Shortly after she came to Ahga, Owen Mortmain and the other Western lords rebelled. Abelard
forced Owen to give him his daughter. He threatened to rape her, and then let his men use her, if Owen did not agree.”

Roderic flinched. “Go on.”

“So Abelard married Melisande. But he didn’t ask my mother before he did it, and Melisande turned out to be barren. After
it was done, my mother told him the outcome. No son of his would ever reign in Ahga, she said.”

The words shivered down his spine with the weight of prophecy. “Why not?”

“By that time, Abelard had seven sons. Agara, his mother, had a clear favorite, Amanander. But Abelard feared that a son born
outside of a lawful marriage would give the Congress an excuse to dissolve the kingdom. And so it became critical to Abelard
that his Queen have a son.”

“My mother was a pawn.”

Annandale nodded sadly. “He went to my mother and demanded she use the Magic to help him. She had sworn to uphold the Kingdom
by any means at her disposal. By her own oath, he compelled her to use the Magic. And so, in the twentieth year of his reign,
two children were conceived. One was you—the other was me.”

“Who, then, is my father?”

“Phineas.”

“Phineas?”

“Yes. He was the Captain of the King’s Guard.”

He stared back at her, memories of the old man rushing through his mind. For as long as he could remember, Phineas had been
an invalid, honored and revered, but an invalid nonetheless, helpless, crippled, blind. But who else had answered his questions
so patiently, who else had explained strategies more readily than even his
tutors, who else had taught him to play chess, over the longest and dullest of the winter evenings? Who had never turned him
away, always listened, never interrupted, always responded with interest, with kindness, with advice?

He rocked back on his heels, remembering a thousand times when others had been too busy, when the King had been away, when
a servant had come looking for him, with the request that Lord Phineas desired the presence of the young Prince. And how much
he had looked forward to the chats with Phineas beside the hearths, how often he had listened, entranced, to the old man’s
tales. How eagerly he had gone.

He thrust the memories aside. “Why did your mother change? What made her become the monster she was at the end?”

“Because she used the Magic, Roderic. All four of them were subject to it. Your mother died giving birth to you, Phineas was
wounded, lamed and blind. My mother became the creature you saw. And Abelard—it was by his will that the Magic was used. I
don’t like to think about what might be happening to him. But you see, Roderic, if Amanander truly has discovered a way to
use the Magic without the consequences—”

“Yes. I understand.” He knitted his fingers together. “Deirdre says she will take you there herself, so that I need have no
fear for your safety. How long have you known this? Have you always known?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not always. Shortly before we met, you and I, the King came riding through
the woods. His horse injured, killed, and he was hurt. I was watching, you see, and my mother came—told me to heal him, that
it was time he learned who I was. and so I did.”

“You met the King then?”

“The first and only time.”

“And he knew you were his daughter?”

“My mother told him who I was.” She twisted her hands in her gown.

He reached up and brushed the curls which tumbled over her shoulders off her cheeks. “What did you think of him?”

She smiled a little sadly. “I was afraid of him. He didn’t look as though he would be an easy man to love.”

Roderic nodded, his hands straying to her shoulders. “Neither am I,” he whispered.

At that, she drew him close, to nestle his head against her breasts. “None of us are,” she murmured. “None of us are.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

She pulled away and turned his chin up to hers. “Nor do I… but I think I must.”

“What about Rhodri?”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “He must stay here. He will be safer here, and though the One forbid anything should happen
to us on the way, an infant will only be a danger—to the entire party.”

He gazed into her eyes. He had not realized before the depth of her commitment to see that the kingdom was preserved. Tears
gathered on her lashes, clung like
pearls, and as the first spilled over and trailed down her cheek, he gathered her in his arms and held her tightly, as though
for the last time. There were no more words between them.

O
n an early morning in that cold June, Roderic watched from the steps of the entrance of Ithan’s keep as the little party prepared
to leave the sheltering walls of the fortress. He held tightly to Annandale’s hands, loathe to let her go. “Promise me you’ll
do nothing foolish, lady—”