The Misbegotten King (31 page)

From across the long space, she caught Donner’s eye. He grinned as he raised a knife laden with meat to his lips. Something
in her quivered in response. It had been so long since she’d taken a man. She thought of Donner once more, the hard muscles
of his arms, his merry grin, his eyes which seemed to dance, even under danger. She could do much worse. Why not? she thought.
Roderic was so far away. Instantly she bit her lip as the servant indicated a long corridor at the top of the steps which
led down to another staircase, this one smaller but nearly as ornate. Why did she automatically think of Roderic every time
she thought of bedding anyone?

She suppressed a sigh as the servant led her to a door on the floor above. The evidence of the Armageddon was clearer here,
the walls showed signs of patching, of repairs. She looked up at the roof. Even a child knew the stories of the fearsome ravages
the Armageddon had brought to the lands west of the Saranevas. The wrath of the One, the priests of the Church all said. The
Island Keepers, who in general espoused a much more gentle and forgiving goddess, were hard put to understand the ways of
their deity.

There was no discernible response to the servant’s knock, but the door swung open on well-oiled hinges,
and the servant stepped to one side, allowing Deirdre to enter the room ahead of him.

“Lord Senador.” The servant bowed. “Deirdre M’Callaster of the Settle Islands.”

She stepped past the servant and into the room, where the light momentarily blinded her. As her eyes adjusted to the brilliant
sunlight which streamed unimpeded through a sheer wall of glass, she gradually focused on a short, dark figure seated beside
the window.

“Deirdre M’Callaster?” whispered the voice from the figure by the window. “Old Cormall’s daughter?”

“Aye, Lord.” She crossed the space across the room in several long strides and swept a low bow. Something stuck in her craw
about bowing to this man—any man— but one didn’t come begging for troops and not show respect.

“Cormall’s daughter?” The voice rose in disbelief. “You don’t even look like a woman.”

She raised her eyes and met the faded hazel stare of Owen Mortmain. So this, she thought, is what it looks like to be broken.

His face was lined, his hair white, although a good lot of it still clung to his scalp. He wore it clipped close about his
ears, in a soldier’s fashion. There was nothing of the dandy about Mortmain. His body was soft, gone to fat long ago, the
body of a man forced by infirmity or age to surrender an active life. But it was his eyes, more than anything else, in which
Deirdre read defeat. There was no light in them, no sparkle, no grace. He simply looked her up and down with the dumb mute
gaze of a beast.

“Not just Cormall’s daughter,” she said, wondering how to broach the subject. Now that she stood in his presence, she wondered
if Mortmain had the spirit to order anyone to do anything. “His heir.”

“You?” Mortmain’s voice rose sharply. “You are the M’Callaster in his place?”

“Aye.” She nodded gruffly. “Chief of all the Chiefs of the Settle Islands.”

He ran his eyes over her frame, measuring and assessing, and Deirdre was half surprised. She hadn’t thought the man had it
in him to care.

To her further surprise, he looked past her to the servant, who still hovered in the doorway. “Wine, Jem, if you please. And
something to eat. Our guest has traveled a long way.”

She fancied she could hear the servant’s muttered comments despite the audible assent. The door closed softly and Mortmain
folded his hands loosely on his chest.

“Come, sit.” He turned to look back out the window. “See this, lady? It pleases me greatly to watch the tending of my orchards.”

With a wave of his hand he indicated the scene beneath the window, and Deirdre, leaning over from the chair he offered her,
saw the servants in the fruit trees, with baskets and shears and other implements. They moved slowly, deliberately, as though
each knew exactly what it was that needed doing, and each was wholly devoted to the task of seeing it done. “Tis a pretty
sight, Lord Senador.”

He shot her a quick look from under silvery brows.
“Very pretty. But I don’t fancy you rode all the way from the Settle Islands to Vada to look at fruit trees. Why have you
come?”

“I didn’t come from the Islands. I’ve ridden from Ithan Ford—”

“Tennessy? What are you doing there?”

“The country’s at war, Lord Senador. Roderic’s gone to Tennessy to consolidate a position there—”

Mortmain waved a hand. “There is something very comforting about growing old, my dear. One finds one need no longer concern
oneself with petty quarrels.”

“Tis much more than a petty quarrel. The lesser lords of the Southern estates have risen against the throne; the Mutens rebel
in the mountains. The Harleyriders move across Arkan. Oh, no, Lord Senador,‘tis so much more than just a petty quarrel.”

Mortmain shrugged. “For an old man like me, that is indeed all it is. The length of Meriga is between me and the Pulatchian
Mountains. If the Harleys come, let them come. I will be dead soon, anyway.”

Deirdre narrowed her eyes. “You surprise me, Lord Senador. You aren’t the man I thought you’d be.”

“Oh?” His gaze was fixed on the scene outside the window. “And what sort of man was that?”

“The Settle Islands is far from Vada, but even when I was a girl, the Keepers told the tales of your exploits, how you rose
against the power of the Ridenau Kings and sought to make a place for yourself independent of the central power.” He shot
her a surprised look. “That surprises you, does it? Do you think we Islanders care any more for the Ridenau Kings than you
do?”

Mortmain narrowed his eyes. “But you fight for them—old Cormall fought for them—”

“Aye.” Deirdre waved her hand in the same dismissive gesture Mortmain had used. “Of course. Tis a way to balance the power
in the North. But we heard of you—I heard of you, even as a child. And the stories that are told are grand.”

Mortmain snorted softly. “Grand.” He shook his head. “Grand in defeat, I suppose.” He glanced out the window and then back
at Deirdre. “So now you have seen the fallen idol. You still haven’t told me why you have come.”

“I come on Roderic’s behalf.” She wet her lips and cursed herself for sudden cowardice. There was a presence about this little
man, defeated though he might be, or was it simply the tales of the Keepers reverberating through her childhood memories,
ghostly voices rising from the firesides, telling the tales of warriors, ancient and new?

Mortmain shook his head. “His sheriffs take all they please.”

Deirdre wet her lips and began again. “Tis not supplies I come to beg you for. “Tis men.”

“Men?” Mortmain’s disbelief was plain. “I would not ask my men to fight for the Ridenau cause—”

“Lord Senador, the country verges on chaos. Roderic has done all he can—is doing all he can—but the lines are stretched to
the limit and beyond. I saw the Harleys ride across the plains on my way here—greater doings are afoot than any of us knew
or realized. They have taken to crucifying their own women—please, Lord Senador, you must understand me.”

“I do understand you, child,” Mortmain said gently, staring at her impassioned face with something like pity. “But I swore
long ago never to ride to the defense of the Ridenau, and I will not risk my men’s lives to do what I will not. Abelard has
his pound of flesh. But he’ll not have one drop of Vada blood.”

“Abelard is gone.” Deirdre resisted the urge to leap to her feet. “Tis not Abelard you aid. Tis your grandson— the son of
your daughter. Will you turn your back on him?”

The arrow hit home. Mortmain dropped his eyes. “I know whose grandson he is—” Abruptly she saw his mouth work and he brushed
a hand over his eyes. “Why do you come to me now?”

“Because Roderic needs your help. Because no one else would dare. And because Roderic is not Abelard’s son at all.”

“What?” Mortmain whispered.

“You heard me, Lord Senador. I don’t know who’s son he is—but he discovered the truth just before I left. He is the Queen’s
son—of that there is no doubt. But someone else fathered him—someone else with Abelard’s blessing.”

“Explain this.” Mortmain’s gaze fastened on her face and Deirdre felt the full force of his faded will. For the first time
she could nearly believe this man was capable of a rebellion against the throne.

With halting words, she told the story as Roderic had told her, and when she was finished, she looked carefully at the old
man. He was no longer staring at her. He was watching the gardeners among the fruit trees. A bee
buzzed and butted against the windowpane. Mortmain wet his lips. “Phineas,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Is Phineas still alive?”

“The King’s chief councilor? Lord Phineas? Aye— very old and sick, but still alive. He is Roderic’s main advisor.”

Mortmain nodded. “I knew him, you see—long ago.” He squared his shoulders and looked Deirdre full in the face. “You tell a
fairly unbelievable tale.”

“Aye.” There was no point denying it.

“And on the strength of this tale, you expect me to send regiments of troops with you? Back to Ithan?”

Deirdre nodded. “Aye. I do.”

“You honor more than your oath, Lord Senador.” It was Mortmain’s turn to strike a sore spot.

Deirdre gritted her teeth. “Aye.” She nodded. “I do.”

“Tell me how you came to be the M’Callaster—how you came to rule in your father’s stead. I never heard that the Settle Islanders
ever accepted the rule of a woman.”

“They don’t, as a general rule.” Deirdre grinned in spite of herself. “But when the woman beats every man who challenges her,
they have no choice. Even their heads aren’t quite that thick.”

Mortmain laughed softly. “Go on.”

Deirdre clasped her hands over her knee and launched into the tale, her voice falling into the cadence of the Keepers, who
told the stories of her people. Mortmain nodded, his eyes never leaving her face as she spoke, and when the tale was finished,
he nodded.

“I see.”

“What do you see, Lord Senador?” Deirdre tried not to bristle.

“More than you might believe.” He got to his feet, and Deirdre was struck by how short Mortmain was. Sitting, he had the appearance
of a man much taller. “Let me send you off to rest, M’Callaster. I will think on this and give you my answer within a day.”

Deirdre recognized the dismissal and rose to her feet, adjusting her plaid. “Time grows short, Lord Mortmain.”

Owen nodded. “I understand. Your faith serves Roderic well. I hope he knows just how well.”

Deirdre grinned. “He will, Lord Mortmain. Believe me, he will.”

T
he reserves from Ahga arrived in record time, their march aided in some part by the unseasonably cool weather. “A man can
go further when he’s not burdened by the sun, Lord Prince,” cheerfully explained one of the sergeant’s of the regiments as
Roderic strode up and down the lines, inspecting the new arrivals.

Roderic forced himself to return the man’s grin. It wouldn’t do to let these new arrivals see the toll the stress and strain
of the last weeks had taken upon him. Every day that went by without word of Deirdre, every hour which passed without any
sign of Vere or word of Annandale, only made the burden heavier. He exchanged a few more pleasantries with the rest of the
men, but his eyes automatically scanned the road leading up to the opened gates every few minutes. It had rapidly become a
habit with him every time he found himself out in the inner ward.

He was conferring with the captains of the regiments when he noticed it. A cart was coming up from the main road, drawn by
two horses which stumbled and seemed to stagger, driven by a figure wrapped in a shapeless gray cloak. He realized, as he
squinted his eyes against the
sun, that it was the same color as the Muten camouflage Vere usually wore. He broke off in midsentence and stared.

The captains followed his gaze.

“Looks like a farmer, Lord Prince?” asked one, glancing back at Roderic’s face curiously.

Roderic narrowed his eyes and took a few steps closer to the gate. “No,” he murmured, half to himself, “that’s no farmer’s
wagon, that’s a military supply wagon—see the broad base? The cover’s off, but—” He peered over the men. Was that a bloodstain
on the front of the driver’s cloak? “Excuse me, will you, gentlemen?”

Foreboding descended as he walked toward the gates. The driver had a hood pulled down over his face, but there was no doubt
that the cloak he wore was of Muten weave. A sunbeam struck the clasp at his shoulder and glinted off it, and Roderic’s heart
leapt in his chest. It was Vere. It had to be Vere. He broke into a trot, calling to a guard at the gates, and ran down to
meet the wagon. A few yards away, he stopped.

The reins hung loosely in the driver’s hands, so loosely it was clear to Roderic that the figure in the wagon did not control
the horses. The horses themselves wheezed up the rise, their massive ribs showing through dry, unhealthy coats. A chill went
up and down his spine. The guard halted by his side, and his hand automatically fingered his spear. “Careful, Lord Prince—that
might be a trap.”