The Misbegotten King (30 page)

“Brother and sister?” blurted Vere. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you know, Vere?” Amanander spoke as casually as if he might have been discussing the weather. “Roderic isn’t our father’s
get.
She
is. By the witch. There isn’t a drop of Ridenau blood in him. He’s a pretender. And yes, Dad knows. In fact, it was by his
command the misbegotten Prince was conceived. So you see, Vere, I am the rightful heir of Meriga.” Without waiting to see
what sort of reaction this revelation drew from Vere, Amanander snapped his fingers. Instantly a dozen dark shapes emerged
from the night. “Take the King and place him in the cart just outside the gates. You’ll find it in a stand of trees, hidden
from view. As for my brothers and my sister, take them to the keep and place them in the room near mine. I need to keep a
closer eye upon them.”

Jama trembled. Amanander’s gaze fell upon him.

“The Muten?” asked one of the soldiers in a dull voice.

“I’ll take care of him myself.” Amanander snapped his fingers once more. “Don’t resist them, Vere. Let them take the King.”

Vere’s shoulders went rigid. He allowed one of the leather-clad soldiers to take the King from his arms, and in the flickering
light of the torches, Annandale saw tears on his face. She turned to the King with a little cry and placed both hands on his
skeletal arm. Instantly, a bright blue light flared in the dark night, illuminating the whole scene with a luminous, unearthly
light. Strength poured through her hands, and her whole body convulsed as Abelard’s body went rigid beneath her hands.

“Stop her!” commanded Amanander, and two of the guards dragged her some paces away. She struggled helplessly, sweat rolling
down her face, her frame still trembling.

Some residue of the light still limned Abelard’s face, and he turned to gaze at Amanander. “You—” he whispered, his voice
only marginally stronger than before. “You will never reign in Ahga.”

For the first time, Amanander showed some emotion. Scorn twisted his mouth. “That’s an old prophecy, Lord King. It lost its
meaning long ago. Soon Ahga will be mine, and all Meriga with it. And it’s curious, Dad.” The sarcastic edge in his tone cut
like a knife. “I used to want you to live to see that day. But now—” He shrugged. “I don’t care anymore. So go back to Roderic
and give him whatever warning you think you can. But tell him I am coming for him. Soon.”

Abelard made a sound that might have been a curse.

“Save your breath, Lord King, what’s left of it. It’s too late to damn me.” Amanander looked from Abelard to Jama, who stood
beside Alexander. His arm snaked out, and he wrapped his fist in the Muten’s robe. Jama stumbled and fell, and Amanander hauled
him close. With a swift upthrust, Amanander stabbed his dagger deep into Jama’s chest. The boy died with a gurgle and a look
of shocked surprise on his face.

Amanander let the body fall to the ground. “Now. Do we understand each other?”

Annandale pressed her fist against her mouth. It was not the first time she had seen Amanander kill in cold blood, but there
seemed to be something so effortless
about the killing, no hesitation whatsoever, that chilled her to the very marrow of her bones. She swallowed hard.

“Good.” He spun on his heel and faded into the night, his black garments blending so easily with the shadows it was as if
he had never been there. Silently the guards guided Annandale, Vere and Alexander to the steps of the keep, while the others
carried the King to the gates. Jama’s cooling body lay untended in the dust.

T
he dust upon the wooden floor was thick enough to leave footprints, noticed Annandale, as she was escorted into the room by
one of the black-clad soldiers who served Amanander. She clasped her hands and looked around, grateful to be left alone for
even the briefest span of time. Although the guard had not touched her, or made the least lewd or threatening gesture, still
his presence was anathema. She had felt soiled, sticky, and generally unclean as he had escorted her down the hall to this
room which looked like a private office of sorts. At least, the large desk against one wall and the rickety wooden chair which
stood before it seemed to indicate that it was.

She clasped her hands and walked to the window. Dust was thick upon the pane and grime smudged the peeling paint. The smell
of mildew reached her nostrils. Everywhere in this accursed fortress was decay.

She gazed outside. Despite the heat, the men-at-arms drilled, and the servants scurried back and forth across the crowded
courtyard. To what purpose? she wondered. She shivered despite the stuffy air. The black-garbed figures reminded her of termites,
and the entire garrison reminded her of nothing so much as a hive.

She drew a deep breath and sat gingerly in the rickety chair. Only Amanander would have had her brought here. Only Amanander
would wish something of her. But what? A kind of weary resignation filled her mind. The walls of the garrison seemed so high,
the outer world so remote. Jama had offered their only chance of escape, and now he was dead. What chance did any of them
have?

She heard soft footsteps outside the room, and she raised her head in time to see Amanander enter, dressed in the same unrelieved
black as his soldiers. He paused in the doorway, and she raised her chin, meeting his gaze with all the defiance she could
muster.

“So lovely,” he murmured, and his voice shivered through her and down her spine like a cold raindrop.

She swallowed hard. “What do you want of me, Amanander?”

He smiled, a travesty of a smile which stretched his lips and raised his cheekbones and did not quite reach his eyes. “I’ve
come to offer you a chance to change your mind, my dear.”

“Change my mind? What do I have to change my mind about?”

He shook his head and gave a soft laugh. “Ever the defiant one, aren’t you? So small, so soft, so brave.”

She dropped her eyes. “You don’t scare me, Amanander.”

“Oh—” he advanced further into the room and she stifled the impulse to gag “—but I do.”

She twisted her fingers in the filthy fabric of her dress. He was right. His very presence terrified her, his nearness
sickened her. She raised her head but could not bring herself to meet his eyes. “What do you want of me?”

“I’ve come to offer you a chance, my dear. To change your mind. To renounce Roderic, and to take your place at my side—”

“As your Queen?” she spat.

“No,” he answered, evenly. “As my sister. Cherished. Loved. Adored.” He allowed his voice to slide over the last word, and
she shuddered.

“You sicken me, Amanander. I would never renounce Roderic—never. You know that.”

“Then are you prepared to watch him die?”

“You’ll kill him if you have the chance whether I change my mind or not. Don’t imply you’ll let him live.”

He shrugged. “I imply no such thing, my dear. Of course Roderic has to die. But you don’t have to watch.”

Bile rose in her throat and she nearly gagged. “You’d make me—”

“Yes. Of course. His death wouldn’t have the same sense of purposelessness, and utter defeat, if you weren’t there to watch.
But if you agree to renounce him—as well as your own claim to the throne—then I shall excuse you.”

“You disgust me, Amanander. You make me want to vomit.”

“I know.” He smiled then, and this time the smile did reach the dark depths of his eyes. He walked closer and reached out
one gloved hand. She forced herself to stay absolutely still as he stroked her cheek. “But you are still the loveliest creature
I have ever seen in my life. And that includes your own mother.”

She closed her eyes, pressing the lids shut tight against her cheeks. She thought about Roderic, about the gentle expression
in his eyes when he looked at her, the loving expression he wore when he kissed her—abruptly the image shifted and Roderic’s
expression changed to the look of disgust he had worn on the night she had told him the truth of his parentage. She blinked
and another image rose before her: little Rhodri, his small body white and still on bloodstained sheets. She gasped and jerked
away from Amanander’s touch. “Leave me alone!”

He chuckled softly. “As you wish, my dear.” He leaned back against the edge of the desk, stretched out his long legs, and
crossed his arms over his chest. “You simply don’t understand what Roderic faces.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in spite of herself.

“Don’t you understand, my dear? I can use the Magic at will. I have discovered the key of controlling the consequences—I no
longer am bound by the constraints of the threat of what might be unleashed. I can work my Magic when and where I please.”

“You lie.”

He raised a brow. “You are brave. Foolishly so, I think. You want a demonstration?”

She swallowed hard and bit her lip. “I don’t believe you. You’re only trying to make me give up hope, give up believing that
there is any escape, any way out. I know Roderic is coming—”

“Yes,” he said, so softly she had to strain to hear him. “Of course he’s coming. But can he save you this time? That’s the
question, isn’t it?” Before she could speak, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. She looked from
him to the door questioningly. “Just wait, my dear. You’ll see.”

She eyed him suspiciously. From the corridor came the clump of heavy footsteps. The door swung open and two men-at-arms dragged
a white-wrapped body into the center of the room. Amanander snapped his fingers once more, and the guards left.

He smiled at Annandale almost pityingly. “Now. Watch.” He closed his eyes. A second might have passed, or maybe a minute or
two, and something snaked through the room, slithering and coiling around Annandale. She startled in alarm. The hair on her
arms rose, and gooseflesh prickled her skin. Deep within her being, the healing impulse flared, a surge that took her breath
away. What Magic was this?

She stared at Amanander, gripping the splintered arms of the chair, and felt as though from a distance the sharp wood dig
into her palms. The shape on the floor at their feet quivered.

She looked down to see a pale hand reach out, the nails blue, the flesh mottled. The hand tore at the covering, and Jama-taw
sat up, his eyes dull and unfocused. The reek of the grave was on him, and she pressed the back of one bleeding hand to her
mouth. “The One save us,” she whispered.

Amanander snorted. “The One save you, indeed, my dear. Now do you see? How can you expect Roderic to save you when he won’t
be able to save himself?”

The sound of his soft chuckle lingered in her ears long into the night.

“
T
his way.” The servant’s clipped tones made clear in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of the Islanders. Deirdre slung
her travel-stained plaid over one shoulder and pushed her sword further behind her hip. Her dagger slapped against her thigh
with each step. Her boots clicked against the polished tiles of Owen Mortmain’s castle. She stared around her curiously and
wondered what Prince the keep of Lost Vegas was had been built for. Unlike most of the structures which predated the Armageddon,
it was clear to her that whoever had ordered the construction of this place had had in mind a palace.

Two sets of broad staircases swept gracefully from the central hall beneath huge windows which still, despite the passing
of centuries and the ravages of time, opened to the cloudless blue of the Vada sky. The hall itself was cavernous, enormous,
the central floor some feet below the ground, so that one had to step down almost half a flight of steps in order to reach
the great feasting hall. Traces of former magnificence were evident in the crystal lights which hung from the ceilings, thousands
of beeswax candles set into the arms.

Deirdre looked back over her shoulder at her men, huddled in a tired and weary-looking little band around a long table, hungrily
gnawing on the first cooked meal they had had in weeks. After they had seen the first set of crucifixes, they had become even
warier and decided fire was something that was likely to call attention to themselves, and something they could all live without.