Children of Enchantment

by Anne Kelleher Bush

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

In a sequel to Daughter of Prophecy, two young strangers discover the love they were preordained to share, and a fratricidal war for the crown is loosed upon the kingdom.

Release date: December 30, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 366

Sample

Gost, 74th Year in the reign of the Ridenau Kings (2746 Muten Old Calendar)

The girl hovered, hesitant, behind the oak tree at the edge of the forest glade. Her patched tunic, all shades of green and
brown and black, and bare, tanned legs rendered her nearly invisible in the shadows. She watched the wounded man lean his
head wearily against the ribbed trunk of another ancient tree, his shattered leg at a rigid angle to his body.


The barest breeze ruffled his hair, gray as the steel of the dagger he clutched in one white-knuckled hand. Despite his age,
which must be more than sixty, his back was as straight as the broadsword strapped across it. His leathery cheeks were pale,
his lips thinned in a grimace, and he clenched his teeth to hold back another moan. It had been some time since his companion
had ridden off in the direction of the fortress called Minnis Saul.


A black-and-yellow bee buzzed close to her ear. Thin needles of light penetrated the leafy canopy overhead, suffusing the
whole glade with a green glow. A bird trilled once, twice, and was silent. Annandale gripped the rough bark. Life pulsed beneath
her fingertips in steady, sweeping waves, and her heart slowed of its own accord as it adjusted to the tree’s rhythm. She
breathed in the sweet scent of the sap and clung to the tree’s deep-rooted strength.


The man groaned, a low, animal sound deep in his chest, his brow furrowed with age and pain. She knew who he was. He was the
King—the King of all Meriga. Abelard Ridenau. She had often watched him riding through the forest at the hunt. But this day,
his horse had stumbled into a hidden sinkhole left by an uprooted tree, and the animal lay dead some feet away from the King,
its neck broken in the fall.


She shifted uneasily as the echo of his anguish reached across the glade, licking at her like the tendrils of ghostly flames.
A twig snapped beneath her foot and instantly he was alert.


“Who is it?” He pulled himself straighter and raised his dagger, the other hand reaching behind his head for the hilt of his
sword. “Show yourself.”


She flattened against the trunk. Now what? Her mother had forbidden her to speak to anyone who might invade the forest. She
could try to run, but she had often seen the King throw his dagger with frightening accuracy at even the smallest prey.


“Go on, child.” The rasp startled her even more than the King’s realization of her presence. She turned, back pinned to the
tree, and gasped at the sight of her mother’s squat figure wrapped, as always, in dense layers of black veiling despite the
late summer heat. Her mother never ventured so far from the safety of their remote tower.


“Mother?” she mouthed.

“Go on.” The figure gestured awkwardly beneath her wraps. “You’re eighteen. The time has come for you to meet your father,
and for him to understand what you are.”


Annandale peered around the tree. The King had risen into a partial crouch on his uninjured leg. His eyes darted back and
forth.


“My father? The King is my father?” This time she spoke more loudly, and beneath Abelard’s repeated command to show herself,
her mother answered.


“You know he needs you.”

Annandale swallowed hard. Questions swirled through her mind and were discarded, meaningless, as the tendrils of pain twined
ever more insistently about her, as if she were caught in a spider’s web. Uncertainly, she sidled around the sheltering tree.
She glanced back at her mother, her heart pounding in expectation. Only once before had she healed—a messenger, riding hard
and alone, who had begged for a drink of water, and a bandage to bind his arm. She would never forget how she had been drawn
to that man, just as she was now to this one, not simply by the pain, but by the sense of brokenness, the overwhelming knowledge
that something was out of order and the certainty that she, and she alone, had the power to set things right. But at what cost? whispered a voice in her mind. At what cost to you? Her gaze dropped from the King’s rigid face to his leg, where the broken bones gleamed whitely through the torn skin and
the fabric of his riding breeches was dark with clotting blood.


Abelard frowned as she appeared. Wary amazement washed over his face, but he did not relax his guard. “Girl. Who are you?
Where did you come from?”


She pushed a lock of her long, dark hair back from her face, wishing suddenly she was dressed like her mother in protective
wraps, or anything more substantial than her ragged, shapeless tunic. “From our tower in the forest.”


“Put down your dagger, Lord King. He who lives by the sword, dies by it.” Her mother’s voice was a guttural croak. She stepped
into the center of the glade, her black draperies slithering through the underbrush. “Would you cut your own daughter’s throat,
Lord King?”


At that, Abelard fell back, but he still clutched the dagger defensively. “This is my daughter? Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember me, Lord King? You knew me well enough, once.”

“Nydia?” he whispered. “Is it you?” The dagger fell to the ground as he extended his hand. “Why are you veiled so?”

“To spare my daughter—our daughter, Lord King—from the pain of what I’ve become. But no matter. I thought it time you learned
what she is.”


“Have you forgotten my name in all these years, Nydia?” Regret and something that might have been hope flickered across his
face.


“Your name? Your name’s nothing but a curse. Annandale will help you, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Help me?” he repeated. He looked at Annandale. “Come closer, child. Let me see you.” He spoke more gently this time, but
his authority was clear.


Annandale advanced. The strands of pain felt as if they had turned to shards of glass, which burrowed deeper the closer she
came. Her own leg began to throb; her own bones seemed to be perilously close to splintering beneath the fragile skin, where
it seemed her own blood bubbled at the bursting point. Part of her recoiled from the pain, scrabbling back like a hunted animal.
Mother, let this pass, she screamed silently, let me turn away, let me go home. What is this man to me?


But something else kept her walking forward, her shoulders squared, her chin high. It didn’t matter that he was the King,
or her father. Misery was stamped in every line of his body, and she could feel that misery, that pain, as though it were
her own.


She sank to her knees beside him, more from need than from choice, and scarcely noted his reaction, though she thought he
studied her face. He glanced up at Nydia and brushed one finger down the curve of Annandale’s cheek.


She never knew what he meant to say. The agony overtook her instantly at his touch, racing through her body from her face
to her leg. The pain was a communion more intimate than anything else she had ever experienced. She gasped and clutched for
his hand. A thin blue light flared between them, clearer and purer than starlight, and in that momcnt, she knew her leg shattered,
and her skin split. Her blood spilled out onto the mossy ground, even as his bones knit and his sinews healed and his leg
was once again made whole.


As the light faded, her pain ebbed.

The King sagged against the tree, breathing hard, and Annandale released his hand. She rocked back on her knees, testing her
leg, and found it, too, was whole. She felt curiously lightened, purified, as though she had walked unscathed through searing
flames. The pain was truly gone, and with that knowledge came an exuberance so great, she looked at the King, her father,
and laughed.


“Child,” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. “What did you do?”

At once, she felt another pain, but this time a different sort. This time it was like a thin stream of water leading to a
great pool. It tantalized her, unmistakably seductive, and slowly, she reached out to take his hand.


“Stop!” Nydia stood over them poised like a hawk. “You cannot, child. You’re too young yet. Such a thing would kill you. His
grief goes too deep.” With her black-wrapped hands, she pushed Annandale back from the King.


Annandalc scrambled to her feet, while Abelard and Nydia faced each other like a pair of old adversaries.

“Now do you have some idea of her worth?” Even muffled by the black shrouds of her draperies, Nydia’s voice was venomous.

“Let me take her with me.” Although the words themselves were a request, his tone shaped them into a command.

“The time is not yet.”

“Then why did you allow her to help me?”

“I wanted you to understand.”

The King rose, cautiously testing his weight on his now-sound leg. Annandale was struck by his height, by the breadth of his
shoulders, undiminished by age. Only the wrinkles which ringed his eyes and the lines which extended from his hawkish nose
down the sides of his mouth betrayed that the King was long past his prime. “What will I tell my men? A rescue party should
be coming along quite soon now.”


“Tell them anything you like.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Tell them you met the witch.”

“I asked you all those years ago if you were a witch.” His smile reminded Annandale of an old lycat she’d seen once, set upon
by a younger male, too weakened by age to defend itself, too battlescarred not to try.


“I never lied to you.” It was as much an accusation as a statement.

“When will you send her to marry my heir?”

“You won’t be there to see it.”

At that, he raised his head. “Will you tell me what you can?”

Nydia threw back her head and stared just over Abelard’s shoulder. The glade darkened imperceptibly as a stray cloud wandered
across the sun. “You’re planning a journey south.”


“Yes. Next month. First to Arkan, then on to Ithan Ford in Tennessey Fall. There’re rumors of rebellion among the Mutens in
Atland—I intend to cement certain alliances.”


Another long moment passed, and finally Nydia shrugged. “I see nothing. Nothing you don’t already know. Come, daughter.”

“Wait.” The King’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “Tell me how it will end.”

Nydia shook her head. “It ended nineteen years ago, with the choices you—we all—made then.” Decisively Nydia turned her back
and grabbed Annandale’s wrist.


“What happened to you?” he called when they were just at the edge of the clearing.

Nydia paused, and Annandale thought she might turn to face the King and throw back her ragged veils. Instead she spoke over
her shoulder, and her muffled voice was thick with unshed tears. “I’ve but paid the price of the Magic, Lord King. As did
your Queen. As did Phineas. As will you.”




Sember, 74th Year in the Reign of the Ridenau Kings (2746 Muten Old Calendar)

Snow fell, white as the wings of the gulls which huddled beneath the gray stone battlements of Ahga Castle, steady as the measured
paces of the guards who kept the watch. Bounded by walls of crushed rubble, five towers rose twenty-five stories above the
cobbled courtyards, black against the pale gray sky, their squared precision testimony to an age and a knowledge long lost.
Within the wide inner wards, the sound of the sea as it washed against the foundations was only a muted roar, and even the
wind was still.


Peregrine Anuriel eased her way through the massive doors of ancient steel and stepped out onto the terrace of the central
tower. With a deep sigh as the air cooled her hot cheeks, she ripped the white linen coif off her head, revealing her dark
brown braids. She mopped at her forehead, then let the cloth flutter heedlessly to the pavement. Sweat stung her armpits,
and her green woolen dress itched through her chemise. She balled both fists into the small of her back and arched backward.
The low swell of her belly was thrust forward, and her pregnancy was abruptly more obvious. She stared up at the structure
looming overhead, the downy flakes of snow feathering her dark lashes and thick black brows. The twelve days of New Year’s
were less than ten days away, and it seemed as if every resident of the castle, like a hive of mindless hornets, swarmed through
the great hall at the bidding of Gartred, King’s Consort and the First Lady of the household.


A sudden gust made the snow swirl about her. Its fresh salt tang was a welcome relief from the cloying odors of the evergreen
boughs, the bayberry candles, and the dried herbs used to decorate the hall, the rancid smell of sweat and manure which clung
to the grooms who had been pressed into service, and the heavy aroma of the roasting meats and baking breads which wafted
up from the kitchens. Under ordinary circumstances, the sights and sounds and smells of the preparations would not have bothered
her at all. But this year was different. She was five months gone with child, and the baby was not her only burden. Gartred
cared only that the work be done.


It mattered nothing to Gartred that the child Peregrine carried had been fathered by Roderic, Abelard’s only legitimate son,
the child of his dead Queen and the King’s acknowledged heir. It mattered nothing to Gartred that the child, if a boy, could,
quite possibly, one day reign in Ahga. And it certainly mattered nothing that Peregrine herself might one day enjoy the very
same honor Gartred enjoyed now. Gartred only cared about the King and the power her position enabled her to exercise over
everyone in the castle.


“Peregrine? Lady Peregrine?” The stealthy voice pierced the quiet twilight, and Peregrine jumped, feeling a stab of guilt.
If Gartred had noticed her absence, someone else had suffered the bitter side of the First Lady’s tongue.


The door swung open smoothly on well-oiled hinges. An older woman peered out, her furrowed brow wrinkled, her round cheeks
flushed, her hair swathed in a white coif and a pale blue shawl held close to her throat. Peregrine breathed a sigh of relief
as she recognized Jaboa Ridenau, wife of the King’s eldest son, Brand. With the exception of the Consort, Jaboa was the lady
of highest rank at court. When she caught sight of Peregrine, she beckoned with one hand. “Whatever are you doing out here,
child? You’ll catch your death, and Lady Gartred—“


“—is not likely to consider that any excuse to shirk my duties,” Peregrine finished the sentence. “Come stand a moment, Jaboa.
It’s so blessedly quiet out here, and calm.”


With a backward glance over her shoulder, Jaboa stepped out onto the terrace, letting the door swing silently shut behind
her. “It’s cold.”


“But so peaceful. Here.” Peregrine wiped away the snow on the stone guard rails of the terrace. “Let’s sit a moment.”

Jaboa glanced around again, as though she expected the Consort to appear at the door, and reluctantly perched on the edge
of the rail. Her cheeks were damp and little curls of graying hair stuck out from beneath her coif. Pine needles were caught
in the folds of her clothes, and a twist of red ribbon was twined about her wrist. Jaboa closed her eyes and sighed. “You’d
think that with the King gone to Tennessey Fall and Roderic away fighting this year, she wouldn’t go to so much trouble. But
no, the lady must have things just so. This is how the New Year’s always been celebrated in Ahga, she says, and so that’s
the way it’s going to be.”


“As if she’d know,” mused Peregrine. “She’s only been here—four years? Five?”

“She’s been here much longer, my dear. It will be sixteen years in the spring. It was the year Captain—well, now he’s Lord
Phineas—was wounded. I remember how upset the King was when he brought Phineas home, blinded—lamed— it was so clear he’d never
ride to war again. And then a few months later, just when everything had begun to settle, he brought her.”


“What could the King ever have seen in her?” asked Peregrine, holding out her hand to catch the snow.

“Who knows what men see? She was carrying his child—little Lady Elsemone. Gartred was, and still is, very beautiful. The King’s
eye for women—some say it will be his downfall.” Jaboa shook her head and chuckled. “As if anything could bring him down.”


Peregrine did not answer. In the time she’d been in Ahga, she’d had very little to do with the King. This year, the court
had not even been back from the summer residence at Minnis Saul two weeks when Abelard had left on his journey south. She
couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken to him.


The King was her guardian of necessity, nothing more. If only the Consort could be the same. She watched the flakes drift
onto her upturned palm, soft as a lover’s kiss. She thought of Roderic again and brushed the snow away. Where was he? she
wondered. Was it snowing in Atland? Was he warm and safe and dry? Or even now, was he in the midst of some battle, dodging
razor spears, fighting the hideously deformed Muten hordes?


Peregrine shuddered. She had never seen a Muten, and she hoped she never would. She had heard the stories told around the
hearths in Ahga since she had come to live there three years ago as a sixteen-year-old orphan, her father’s lands and title
forfeit as dictated by the terms of surrender imposed by the King after Mortmain’s Rebellion so many years ago. If she had
been a boy, Abelard would have allowed her to return to the fog-bound coast and gently shivering sands of her father’s tiny
estate on the very edges of the Vada Valley when she turned eighteen. She had thought when she had come here that the best
she could hope for was marriage with some retainer of the King, her hand and her father’s title reward for some service well
rendered.


But now, she thought as she shifted her weight on the cold stone, now she’d had these last few months with Roderic, and she
preferred not to think about the distant future. It was possible that the King might look favorably on a marriage with his
heir—what need did Roderic have of great estates? And if this baby were a boy … ? Only let him come home safe and whole, she
prayed to the One and the Three. Let him see his child’s face. Let me lie with him once more. If only he’d send some word.
But although messengers came and went from distant Atland with some regularity, there had been no message at all for her.


“Are you cold, child? We ought to go in.” Jaboa stood up, brushing the snow off her gray skirts, flapping her shawl so that
she reminded Peregrine of a fat, full-breasted pigeon.


Peregrine heaved herself to her feet, wondering if Jaboa, so long married, had learned not to miss Brand. “I suppose we must.”
She would have preferred to freeze in the still evening than return to the hot chaos of the great hall, where Gartred strode
back and forth across the dais, blaring orders to anyone hapless enough to stray within hearing, no matter what their duties
or their rank. Even Roderic’s old tutor, iron-bearded General Garrick, had been pressed into service, forced to raise and
lower the garlands decorating the mantels as Gartred snapped her fingers impatiently. Garrick had never looked submissive
when he dealt with Roderic. Sudden tears stung her eyes. Why must everything remind her of Roderic? Even this courtyard—this
was the very place she had stood on the day he had first noticed her. “I wish—” she began, and broke off with a little catch
in her throat.


“Now, now. There, there. He’ll come home. Don’t you worry.” Jaboa reached over and squeezed Peregrine’s hand.

“If he’d only send me a letter—something, anything. Even just a line or two, to let me know he’s all right.”

“Tsk, tsk. Don’t fret. That’s the way they all are, even my Brand. Why do you suppose our high and mighty lady is so out of
sorts? It’s been weeks since she’s had word from the King. Never you mind. Your prince will come home, and when he does, everything
will be just fine.”


“But, Jaboa—” Peregrine turned to face the older woman “—what if she sends me away like—“

“Oh, child, don’t believe those tales.”

“But it’s not a tale, Jaboa, you know it isn’t. She could send me away—me and my baby, both. What if she convinces the King
to marry me off before Roderic comes home? Then we might never see—“


“Don’t you think he’d come looking for you? And the baby? He’s none too fond of her. You know that as well as I.”

“But he doesn’t know, you see. I wasn’t sure—before he left. So I didn’t tell him about the baby. And now—“

Jaboa’s faded blue eyes were soft with sympathy, and Peregrine remembered that, throughout the years, the maintenance of Meriga’s
fragile peace required Brand’s absence from Ahga far more often than his presence. “And now Roderic has other things to think
about. But, really, you mustn’t fret. Brand will bring him home. I promise.” She gave Peregrine’s hand another gentle squeeze.
“Now come along. It’s getting much too cold out here.”


Peregrine met Jaboa’s eyes and was startled to see the merry expression.

“Besides,” Jaboa said, leaning forward to whisper in Peregrine’s ear, even though no one was about, “you don’t want to miss
the surprise we’ve brewed for my lady. Old Mag put—“


Sudden shouts drowned out the secret. Peregrine looked up and frowned. In the outer ward, men were calling for grooms, for
a doctor, and before she could move, a horse and rider burst through the opened gate which led into the outer ward, followed
by at least half a dozen of the guards on duty.


The rider slid off the horse and stumbled as his leather boots slipped in the snow. A groom dashed forward to catch the animal’s
bridle. Blood-streaked foam flecked the horse’s mouth, as it shied and tried to rear, slipping and sliding on the snow-slick
cobbles. With a curse, the man waved away the others who offered aid or escort, and Peregrine saw that he wore the uniform
of the King’s Guard. The lower half of his face was obscured by a matted beard, and his hair was plastered against his skull.
His cloak was torn and splattered with mud, and he looked as if he had been in the saddle for many days.


He staggered toward them, ignoring the guards who called for the sergeant of the watch.

“Lord Phineas,” the man cried, his face red and raw with windburn. Peregrine glanced at Jaboa. Was the man insane?

“Take me—Lord Phineas—at once,” panted the soldier. “Take me, lady—must speak with him—“

Peregrine’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. Was it Roderic? Was the messenger from him? She sprang to the door. “Come,
soldier. I’ll take you there myself.”


“But—” began Jaboa. One look from Peregrine stopped her protest. “I’ll—I’ll just let Gartred know a messenger’s come.”

Peregrine caught at the soldier’s arm as he heaved himself up the shallow steps, breathing hard, snow frosting his brows and
beard. “Please, just tell me, is it the Prince? Does he live?”


The man paused, narrowing his eyes as if he’d not quite understood. “The Prince? I know nothing of the Prince, lady. It’s
the King. King Abelard has disappeared.”




Janry, 75th Year in the Reign of the Ridenau Kings (2747 Muten Old Calendar)

“Lost? My father is lost?” The parchment scroll fell to the floor unheeded as Roderic Ridenau, eighteen-year-old heir to the
throne of Meriga, stared at the messenger in disbelief. An unruly shock of light brown hair, silky as a tassel of wheat, fell
across his forehead, and he swiped it back automatically. “Phineas expects me to believe that the King has just disappeared?”


The messenger, one of the special corps who rode the length and breadth of Meriga in the service of the King, twisted his
gloved hands together, his shoulders shifting beneath his dark blue cloak. “Lord Phineas has sent out three regiments of the
King’s Guard to search.”


Roderic sank onto one of the long wooden benches beside the rough-hewn council table, feeling as if the air had been punched
from his lungs. He stared at the hide map of Atland pinned to the surface, as though it might hold a clue to the King’s whereabouts.


On the opposite side of the room, his eldest half-brother, Brand, stood with arms crossed over the insignia of the King’s
Guard emblazoned on his tunic. “When exactly was it realized that the King was missing?”


“He was expected at Ithan Ford by Thanksgiven Day, Captain. When he didn’t arrive by the fifth of Sember, Lord Senador Miles
sent word to Lord Phineas in Ahga and Lord Senador Gredahl in Arkan.”


“And?” asked Roderic.

“The King had left Lord Gredahl’s holding in Arkan at the beginning of Vember, Lord Prince. He should have arrived in Ithan
in plenty of time for Thanksgiven.”


Brand gestured a dismissal. “That will be all for now. Tell the master of supplies to give you dry clothes and a place to
sleep. We may need to talk to you again before we send you back to Phineas.”


As the messenger bowed out of the door, Roderic looked up, the dismay plain on his narrow face, with its high, slanting cheekbones,
his light brown brows furrowed above his gray-green eyes. Brand walked around the table, and stooped to pick up the discarded
scroll. “Well, little brother. It’s a fine coil we have here.”


“What are we to do?” Roderic twisted restlessly on the bench and stared over Brand’s head at the narrow window. Outside, sleet
spattered the rippled panes of smoky glass, and the wind howled between the low stone buildings of Atland garrison.


Brand paused in his reading, his lips pressed tight in an expression which reminded Roderic of their father. Finally, Brand
looked up, and concern flickered in the depths of his dark eyes. “We don’t have a choice.” He shook his head, and the protest
died in Roderic’s throat. “Right now, we don’t have a choice.”


Roderic stared at his brother. At forty-five, Brand was not only the eldest of all of the King’s illegitimate children, but
the Captain of the King’s Guard as well. The King’s Guard were the elite troops charged with the responsibility for the King’s
safety, and the Captain of the King’s Guard outranked every other soldier in all the Armies of the King. Abelard trusted Brand
as he trusted few others. Only Abelard’s insistence that Brand accompany his heir had prevented Brand from going with their
father on what should have been a routine tour of the Arkan Estates. Now, in the orange glow of the fire, Brand’s face was
closed and grim, his jutting hawk nose so like Abelard’s looking pinched in his square-jawed face. His hair, clipped close
about his temples, was more silver than black, and the stubble on his chin was nearly all gray.


He blames himself, thought Roderic. He got up with a sigh, hooked his thumbs in his belt and paced to the window.

The rain was falling in fat, steady drops, regular as the muffled beat of a funeral drum. The guards huddled at their posts,
wrapped against the weather in heavy cloaks of olive drab, crouched over low braziers of smoking charcoal. He gazed over the
walls into the dark mountains rising up, stretching off into the distance as far as he could see. Beyond the garrison walls,
the land lay ravaged beneath the lowering sky. Here and there, the black, bare trees rose like twisted skeletons, reminding
him of the charred bodies he’d seen too often in the course of this wretched campaign.


This was his first command, and he had hoped to make his father proud. Now, he wondered bitterly if Abelard would ever know.
And what would Abelard’s disappearance mean for him? He was the heir of Meriga, the only child of Abelard’s dead Queen. So
far, h