The Misbegotten King (21 page)

“Ah, child.” J’lin knelt by the cot, gathering her in her arms. “Dark days indeed these are that take a mother from her child,
a woman from her husband.”

Annandale sighed, sensing the kindness, the gentle acceptance. She pulled away and smiled. “You—you knew my mother?”

J’lin nodded, reaching up with a gnarled hand to smooth the tangled curls away from Annandale’s face. “For a little while.”

“She died.”

J’lin nodded once more. “Too many have died.”

Annandale drew a deep breath. “Was—was this her fault? All of this?”

“Nydia’s fault?” J’lin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If she hadn’t used the Magic—if she had not agreed to bear me—to cause Roderic—”

J’lin shook her head. “Child. Listen to me.” Dark eyes peered from the wrinkled face, kind and wise and knowing. “Each of
us is responsible for what we do. Each of us bears the consequences of what we do here, in this life. But we do not live alone.
Tell me, though, child. What do you mean, caused Roderic?”

With a halting voice, Annandale told the story. J’lin listened, her eyes troubled. When Annandale finished, J’lin breathed
a soft sigh. “I see.”

Annandale looked up. “Do you?”

J’lin nodded. “It wasn’t just that Nydia enabled the Queen to conceive a son. We knew that, you see, guessed that. It was
only a matter of time before Abelard convinced her that was necessary. But I did not know… the rest.”

Annandale shifted her position.

J’lin pursed her lips. “I see now, more clearly, some of what has happened and why.”

“Can you explain it to me?”

“You know that the Magic is a disruption in the natural order of the Pattern? That it enables one to control things which
normally cannot be controlled?”

Annandale nodded.

“The Pattern always works to right itself, to restore the order of the universe. It cannot be changed, only disrupted, only
tangled like a skein of yarn, but never altered. But the degree to which it is disrupted, the degree to which it is tangled…
ah, this is where much of the pain of the world comes from. So many of us spend our lives at cross purposes to the Great Pattern,
working for what we think we want, rather than allowing it to work through us….” Her voice trailed off.

“Abelard didn’t just want an heir. He wanted to twist the future itself. With what he did, what your mother did, they set
into motion a knot which coils through time, space, every dimension. It is not for mortal men to control the future,” J’lin
finished sadly.

“So—so it was my mother’s fault?”

J’lin shook her head. “Child, blame not your mother. There was nothing evil about her. She had choices, true, and maybe she
did not choose wisely, but she did what
she believed she had to. And she paid the price, did she not?”

Annandale nodded slowly.

“As have we all. As we will continue to, until the Power which orders the universe restores the Pattern.” She drew a deep
breath and a high wailing scream shattered the silence.

Annandale rose up on one elbow. “What’s that?”

J’lin’s terra-cotta face drained of color. “I—I don’t know—stay here, child.”

Without another word she rose to her feet, slipping away, and Annandale rose and tugged her clothes on, hastily lacing and
tucking them into some semblance of order. A louder cry echoed down the long corridor and Annandale froze as a thunderous
pounding charged down the corridor. The door was flung wide.

She gasped as six armed Muten soldiers rushed in, razor spears flashing in the light. The first one turned and looked over
his shoulder, gobbling something in a language she didn’t understand, the rest crowding in the door, grinning at her. The
razor spears dripped with blood, and on their gray-green tunics blood was smeared. A shout echoed down the corridor, a brief
order. The leader turned back to her, his broken teeth flashing in his wide grin. He raised the spear and reached for her,
and Annandale felt her knees buckle, smelled the rank stink of their sweat and the coppery reek of the blood as they dragged
her out of the room.

On the opposite side of the valley, Deirdre raised her head, turning back to look at the high mountain peaks
which marked the entrance of the pass. She swore softly beneath her breath.

“M’Callaster?” Donner looked over at her. The sun had ridden just above the treetops, and the weather was fair. The day promised
to be fine—with luck they could cover many miles.

“Just a feeling, Donner. Damn these mountains.”

“I don’t like them, either, M’Callaster.” Donner caught her eye and grinned. He was a big man, broad in the shoulder, long
in the leg. His beard was rough across his chin, his hair curled around his ears. “Do you want to go back?”

For a moment she hesitated, wishing she could shake the overwhelming sense that something was wrong. “No,” she said finally.
“We’ll never reach Vada if we dally after mind-monsters.” She looked over her men, assessing them thoughtfully. “You, Kell.
At the crossroads, the rest of us will go west. You and Irec will go back to Ithan. Tell Roderic we delivered his lady safe—
well, as safe as we could. Tell him his brother refused to let us go down into the College.”

“Shall I tell him where you’ve gone, M’Callaster?” asked Kell.

“Aye.” She flapped at the reins. “But don’t be surprised if he doesn’t believe you. Come, lads. We ride.”

They led her down the corridor, thrusting her roughly into the main room. Soldiers milled, and here and there she caught a
glimpse of a still, white-clad figure stained with blood. She bit down on her lip, hard, and moaned a little with relief when
she saw Vere. Bruises darkened his
cheek, and blood ran down one temple. Another stain spread down his sleeve. Alexander sat on the floor, arms bound behind
his back, his head resting on his knees. Vere looked up when he saw her, the tattoos on his face startling against his pale
skin.

The invaders grabbed her arms and tied her hands behind her back, then gave her a shove which sent her stumbling into Vere.

“Vere,” she whispered. “What has happened? Where’s J’lin, the Pr’fessors? What is—”

“Silence!” The Muten guard raised his hand as though to strike and she cringed.

Vere gazed up at him, contempt in his eyes. “You would strike a woman?”

The Muten spat. “Your kind do.” He raised the butt of his spear at Vere.

“Hold!”

Annandale recognized the order more by the tone in which it was given than in the heavily accented words. The guard stared
at a young Muten, who wore plain white robes, much as the Pr’fessors did. His thumbs were hooked in his swordbelt, and a long
dagger slapped against his thigh. His secondary arms were crossed over his chest. He spoke harshly in the Muten tongue.

The guard lowered his spear and backed away, a sneer still curling his lip.

The newcomer strode over to the three captives. He stared down at them, and Annandale saw that he was very young. His gaze
lingered on her face, as though transfixed, and she felt a slow blush creep up her cheeks. She looked down as another Muten,
this one taller and
heavier, with an immense barrel-chest and secondary arms that seemed larger than most of the creatures’, walked up behind
him. He made a low comment and a gesture of contempt.

In reply, the younger Muten shook his head. He looked at Vere. “Do you know me?”

Vere nodded slowly. “You are Jama-taw. Son of Ebram, the one the Children call the Hope. Why have you done this shameful thing?”

A sudden flush suffused Jama’s face. “No shame to rid the Children of the shackles which have bound us for generations.”

Vere looked at him with something like pity. “These weren’t the shackles, and you know it. Why have you done this? And how
shall you answer before the Nine Tribes?”

“The Nine Tribes shall answer to me.” Jama met Vere’s eyes squarely, his chest thrust out. From the folds of his robe, Annandale
saw the tiny secondary arms clench into deliberate fists.

“You may well make the Nine Tribes answer to you,” Vere murmured, still with the look of pity. “And you may annihilate all
of the College, until every Elder is dead. But you shall not make your children answer to you… someday, you will answer to
them.”

The burly Muten said something which could only be a curse, and Vere raised his head and looked beyond Jama’s shoulder at
him. “You, as well, Adanijah—oh, yes, I know you, too.”

Adanijah looked down at Vere, shock plain on his face. “What will you do with the humans, Lord Jama?”

“We will take them to the Ridenau Prince and allow him to decide what to do with them,” said Jama as he spun on his heel.

“He’ll take us to Roderic,” Alexander whispered, hope breaking on his face. A cold chill ran down Annandale’s spine at the
look Jama turned upon them all.

“No,” he answered. “Not the Butcher. To Amanander Ridenau. The true Ridenau Prince.”

A
manander watched with satisfaction the relentless activity in the courtyard below his window. The outpost garrison, only a
few weeks ago nothing more than a small fortified hill, now hummed with activity as the soldiers of the Southern Alliance
and the Harleyriders prepared for war. In only the space of a few weeks, barracks had been erected, the inner ward enlarged,
the outer walls torn down and rebuilt.

He stood with folded arms, watching the infantry drill with short swords, the Harleyriders beyond the perimeter of the walls
raising clouds of dust as they rode their shaggy ponies at straw targets, their chilling whoops penetrating the glass. It
was well, he thought, satisfied. The Southern lords had no history of enmity against the Harleyriders; their lands were not
part of any territory the Harleys were likely to claim.

Behind him Reginald droned on, his voice a dull monotone as he recited the reports of the scouts who monitored Roderic’s presence
at Ithan. A fairly sizable force had left Ithan and was moving southwest; messengers came and went with predictable regularity.
Nothing unexpected.

Amanander smiled as he listened, Reginald’s words echoing in his mind before being spoken aloud. Like a thin thread, the connection
to Reginald wound inexorably tighter. Or maybe, thought Amanander, pleased with his own imagery, like a vein, slowly bleeding.
Harland and Reginald shared more with him than blood. He had realized that the longer the men were held in his thrall, the
stronger he grew, the easier he found it to control minds at greater and greater distances. Ferad had missed the link with
emotion altogether. Poor Ferad.

As an exercise, he focused upon the drill sergeant shouting orders to the men below.

The sergeant suddenly closed his mouth in midsentence. A few of the men paused in the drill, glancing over at the change in
the sergeant. Even from this distance, Amanander could see that his face had gone slack. The man’s mind slid open before his
will, like soft cheese yielding to a knife. In the jumble of memories, some sweet, some bitter, he found a face, a name, and
pulled up a half-forgotten memory. A first love.

Delicately as a spider, he twisted the sergeant’s memory of the face, wrenching the features into a misshapen lump of tortured
clay. The battle-hardened face crumpled as the backlash of horror roared into his mind. The sergeant fell to his knees in
the dusty yard, covering his eyes with his hands, mouth working, tears streaming down his cheeks. The men muttered amongst
themselves.

Abruptly, Amanander pulled out. The sergeant collapsed in a heap. He turned away from the window as the first shouts filtered
through the humid air for help. He
felt nourished, satisfied, as though he had just helped himself to a succulent peach. These men had such simple minds. It
was so easy to pluck from them anything he wanted.

A short, hard knock on the door disturbed his reverie. With a scowl, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Enter.”

The door swung open and Gerik, the second son of the Senador of Atland, strode into the room. His face was twisted in a scowl.

Amanander raised his eyebrow. “Yes?” Gerik was supposed to be overseeing the inventorying of supplies.

Gerik strode into the room, his thumbs hooked in his swordbelt. “Word has come from Cort in Atland,” he began, ignoring Reginald’s
drone. “My brother says that Kye and more than ten thousand men are marching toward Atland garrison. The war begins.”

“Yes.” Amanander held up a hand and Reginald silenced.

Gerik glanced at Reginald with narrowed eyes, then looked at Amanander, his chin thrust forward. “Well?”

“Well?”

Gerik lowered his head. He was a huge man, well over six feet, his reddish brown hair clumsily hacked away above his ears.
He looked like a bull about to charge. “You summon us here, while Roderic begins to position his troops. You risk placing
us in a vulnerable position. He could trap us in this place, close the gap. And what will we have to show for it?”

Amanander raised an eyebrow and looked at Harland. Harland stirred to life. “Gerik…” he began.

Gerik’s eyes narrowed even further. “You know this
land as well as I do, Harry. If Kye is able to take the high ground running from the old gorge, our forces will be split in
half.”