The Misbegotten King (22 page)

“And then we will crush him, like a vise,” replied Harland, his speech slurred. “See here, Gerik.” With a shaking finger,
Harland began to trace a line down the center of the map.

With a restlessness borne of frustration, Gerik seized a chair away from the table. The wood creaked in protest as he slammed
it down again. “Crush him? In order to do that, we have to have the men in position. And here the main body of our force sits.
I say we ride now and strengthen our position on the border between Missiluse and Atland. If he takes the garrison at God’s
Deen, he will use it to establish a base for himself—”

“If,” Amanander whispered. He glanced once more at Harland and Harland blinked, his face as blank as a frog’s on a lily pad.

“What?” Gerik looked at Amanander with an expression of intense dislike.

Amanander smiled at Gerik. “I said‘if.’”

“I heard you.” Gerik folded his arms over his chest. “I know your game. You intend to use my men to bleed for your cause.
You’re no more than a dispossessed Prince, without land or men, or title either, for that matter, and you seem to think you
can assume command here without so much as a by-your-leave. You’ve nothing but promises to offer any of us. And I’m not so
sure I want to buy what you have to offer, especially when the price is the blood of myself and my—” Abruptly his words ended
in a choked sound.

Amanander looked Gerik up and down. Reginald and Harland stared at him impassively. Gerik’s eyes darted from side to side,
his hands worked in impotent fists at his sides. Amanander sat down at the table. He crossed his long legs at the knee and
leaned back in the wooden chair. The whites of Gerik’s eyes were shot through with pale red veins. The man was like a bull,
he thought, in more ways than one.

He probed cautiously around the edges of Gerik’s awareness. His mind was like thick syrup, the kind of mind which, once made
up, clung to an idea with stubborn determination. Deftly, with an ease that was becoming second nature, Amanander closed his
eyes, envisioning a hot brand burning deep into the core of Gerik’s very self. He could almost smell the sickly sweet odor,
feeling the surge of power as the man’s defenses melted under the assault.

When at last he opened his eyes, Gerik’s face was laced with sweat, his breathing deep and slow. Time to return to the troops,
thought Amanander.

“Must return,” whispered Gerik. “Your pardon, Lord Prince.”

With a little smile, Amanander waved him away. Gerik fumbled with the door. Amanander watched indifferently. Such was the
price one paid for disobedience.

As Gerik slipped out of the room, Amanander drew a deep breath as another awareness flickered through his mind, sharp with
anger and spiced with the least bit of fear. Ferad, he thought.

He deliberately turned to look out the window as the
door swung open and Ferad stepped over the threshold, his robes rustling around his squat frame.

Unbidden an image of the Kahn exploded into Amanander’s mind. So, he thought, that’s what he wants. Still apparently ignoring
Ferad, Amanander closed his eyes, allowing his mind to roam. He could feel the soldiers in the courtyard and in the barracks,
the servants in the kitchens and in the stables. There were so few he couldn’t touch. His mind glanced over Gartred, where
she huddled in their bedchamber, and whispered over the prisoner in the dungeons beneath the keep. Only a few of the Harleyriders
were beyond his reach, and even those numbers shrank as his sphere of influence grew. Only the Kahn truly eluded him.

“My Prince.” Ferad’s voice was oily. “What do you hope to gain by this alliance with the Harleyriders?” The door slammed shut
behind him and suppressed anger pulsed through every word.

Amanander swung back to look at his former tutor. Ever since the Harleys had begun arriving, Ferad had been on edge. He cocked
his head. He had expected Ferad to be less than pleased by the news of the alliance he had made with the Harleyriders, but
he had not expected him to come barging into his inner chamber without so much as a knock on the door. He wondered, not for
the first time, if perhaps Ferad had outlived his usefulness.

“Well?” Ferad sat without waiting for permission.

Would it matter what he said? Amanander wondered. He no longer relied upon Ferad, no longer cared for Ferad. It was odd, he
reflected, that with this new use for
the Magic, he had felt himself becoming more and more detached from those around him, even as he became more and more adept
at gauging the emotions of others.

The boy Jama, for whom he had entertained a brief moment of respect, Harland, for whom he had never had anything but contempt,
even Ferad, who had for a long time been the closest Amanander had ever had to a friend, was slowly slipping away in some
sense. All forms of connection seemed to have less and less meaning, the more he put this new ability of his into play.

Now he noted the grime around the cuffs of Ferad’s robes, the tattered neckline, the patched folds. The Muten’s hair was nearly
completely the color of steel, the three eyes lost in folds of wrinkles. “This alliance with the Harleyriders has nothing
to do with you, Ferad.”

“I beg to differ with you, my Prince. The Harleyriders have always held my people in utmost contempt… more so even than yours.
This alliance with them jeopardizes everything Jama and his forces hope to accomplish. How can you trust these men who have
betrayed every treaty, every agreement ever made with them? Did your history tutor teach you nothing?”

“I will take my chances. Now, if you don’t mind, Ferad, I have work to do.” Amanander nodded a dismissal.

Ferad stared at him with something like surprise. “What?”

“I don’t wish to discuss this with you, Ferad.”

“Jama will hear of this.”

Amanander shrugged. “I’m sure he will as soon as he gets here. But it isn’t any of my concern if my alliance
with the Harleys jeopardizes what the Muten faction seeks to accomplish. I doubt the Harleys are interested in being bounded
by mountains in far-off Nourk. They want free access to the Plains. How does that jeopardize everything Jama hopes to accomplish?”
Amanander leaned back in his chair, pinning Ferad with his gaze as surely as with an arrow to the wall.

Ferad only shifted his eyes.

“Or is it possible, Ferad, that you and your Brotherhood have other goals? Goals which Jama isn’t aware of—or maybe he is
aware of them and only I am not. Let me think.” Amanander steepled his fingertips. “What goals could those be? You don’t seek
to reign in Ahga, do you, Ferad? You surely wouldn’t be so foolish as to think that you could use me to get yourself a safe
position, and then at some point strike at the very hand that fed you? You wouldn’t have that in your mind to do, would you?

“Because if you did, I can certainly see why the Harley alliance would interfere with plans like those. I might be able to
call upon the Harleys once again, and use them to wipe your miserable backsides from the face of the earth, or at least send
you screaming back to your warrens.”

Ferad’s skin flushed an ugly shade of dark red. “You forget yourself, Prince.”

“Do I, Ferad?” Amanander sat perfectly still. Fear flickered in Ferad’s eyes, and Amanander saw his opening. Into the mind
of his master, Amanander surged, like a snake through slippery reeds, insinuating himself into the dark crevices of Ferad’s
mind. With no more thought
than he would give to crushing an insect, Amanander ripped through the defenses of Ferad’s mind, laying waste the mind of
his former tutor, exposing every secret he’d ever had.

Images swirled through his mind: faces, places, names, words in languages that had no meaning to him. Memories rose, chaotic
glimpses into the dregs of Ferad’s self.

With every ounce of power he could summon, Amanander ripped through the fibers which held Ferad’s conscious mind together.
In a place so closely hidden, even Amanander nearly missed it, he found the plan. He had not been far from the truth. In less
time than it took to shape the thought, Amanander destroyed the last vestiges of the man who had been his tutor, and who had
so very nearly betrayed him.

At last, Amanander leaned his head back against his chair, sweat pouring down his face. Ferad had collapsed into a heap on
the floor, gazing up at the ceiling with blank eyes. A thin thread of spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth and drooled
down his chin. Amanander rose, and with the tip of one toe, he prodded Ferad. The Muten did not move, only gurgled as more
saliva bubbled from his mouth.

Amanander smiled. He felt as though he had eaten an extremely satisfying meal, without the heaviness that accompanies such
an act of physical fulfillment.

He sank down in a chair, his long legs stretched before him. He sensed the presence of the servant at the door before the
man knocked. “Come in,” he called.

“My lord,” the man entered, looking perplexed. “The Khan begs a word.”

Amanander looked the man up and down, reading into his mind as easily as through a clear glass. The Khan had not begged for
a word; he had demanded it at full bellow. Well, thought Amanander, let him have it. He smiled at the servant. “Of course,”
he said. “Of course. Send him to me. And—” Amanander paused. “But first summon another servant or two. My poor tutor has met
with an unfortunate illness. He is no longer quite himself. Remove him, please.”

The man looked at the wreck of Ferad huddled on the floor over by the window, and his face drained of color. “Yes, my lord,”
he whispered. “It shall be done.”

“Good.” Amanander smiled. “I know I can trust you to see it done properly.”

The man swallowed hard and withdrew, his hand shaking as he closed the door. Amanander turned back to the window, where a
fresh squad of soldiers practiced relentless drills. He smiled. Oh, yes. He could trust everyone around him. They no longer
had any choice.

A
nnandale glanced at the boy who rode so easily beside the wagon. She squinted overhead at the harsh sun. Mid-Year. In Ahga
a holiday, celebrated with feasting and dancing, at Minnis a day of picnics beneath the oaks on the dappled lawns of the great
gardens. Would she ever see Ahga again?

The thought of the four towers, the precision of the design altered now forever by Ferad’s Magic, brought thoughts of her
son. Rhodri, she thought with sudden longing, so intense it took her breath away. Rhodri. She bent her head and wept.

On the opposite side of the wagon, Vere stared into the distance, wisps of gray hair straggling down the sides of his tattooed
cheeks. Although his hands were bound behind his back even as hers were, his shoulders were squared, his eyes steady on the
moving horizon as the cart lurched over the uneven road. Next to him, Alexander’s iron gray head rested on his knees. Although
his face was turned away from her, Annandale knew that his eyes were closed, his mouth compressed into that thin line that
emphasized his resemblance to Amanander.
She could hear the wheezing pull of breath as his lungs labored to breathe in the hot, humid air.

She raised her face and stared at Jama. The days following their capture had stretched into two weeks, and as inexorably as
the cart bore them closer to Amanander, she knew that Jama’s lieutenants argued nightly for their murder. What perverse streak
was it in the Muten youth, she wondered, that kept them alive? He of all people had reason to hate Roderic with a passion.
Did he understand that to take them to Amanander was in some way a worse fate than death?

As if he heard an echo of her thoughts, he turned to her, his three dark eyes meeting hers with a hesitancy she had come to
expect. Something about her unnerved him, she thought. Instead of breaking the look and glancing away, she kept her eyes focused
steadily on him. A slow flush crept up his throat, and Annandale understood. He thinks I am beautiful, she thought. Does he
truly believe that to bring us to Amanander is a kindness?

The cart lumbered over the potholed surface of the road with a jerk, up a small rise, and down again. On either side of the
road, great trees hung with weird gray-green shrouds bent like widows in mourning weeds. A miasma was in the air, the stench
of poison pits, open sewers bare beneath the burning sky. No wind, no breeze eased the heat, and Annandale felt a trickle
of sweat between her shoulders. Her thin cotton gown was dirty and reeked of days and nights of constant wearing. She bowed
her head, searching for that peace, that sense of something greater than herself. Even here, even in this benighted land of
swamps and evil-smelling fens, even
here she should be able to feel it. She drew a deep breath, though her lungs burned as they filled with the noxious fumes,
and shut her eyes. The blight ran deep into the land. She forced herself to breathe evenly, and gradually she felt the same
peace fill her. Slowly she raised her head and opened her eyes. The twisted trees, the blistering air, the landscape itself,
all were the results of the efforts of the Pattern to heal itself of the Armageddon. There was nothing evil, no dark or sinister
purpose to the oppression she sensed all around her. In time, the land would be restored, and all of this would be some half-remembered
nightmare. She looked up and saw, on a low hanging branch, a pale pink flower, its waxy petals incandescent in the murky light.