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  Amanander sat back. “So if we find this empath—“

  “We will have the means to realize everything we’ve ever wanted. Anything the Magic can be made to do… anything you or I can think of will be within our grasp. We need but think it… I will drag those sanctimonious fools of the College to their knees, and you, my Prince—you will reign in Ahga more securely than any Ridenau before or since.”

  Amanander listened, eyes fastened on Ferad’s face. An ugly flush darkened Ferad’s deformed features. He had never seen the Muten so animated.

  “But you must find her, Prince,” Ferad went on in his whispery rasp. “I’ve worked all these years to discover another way to control the consequences of the Magic and it eludes me still. And now, with your father in our hands, every day which dawns is another risk.”

  “Then I have much work to do, if I’m to reach the point where I can use the Magic as I please.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m not to be trusted?”

  “You would be content to be a tool, Ferad? I don’t believe that. After all, tools break.” There was something in the tone of Amanander’s voice, something in the way he stared at the Muten, that made Ferad drop his eyes.

  “I know you wish to use the Magic yourself, my Prince.” Ferad’s voice had a silky lilt. “But you realize it may take years before you know enough to challenge Roderic? Before this empath, if she exists, will do you any good?”

  “Roderic will have more than enough to keep him busy. The country will be thrown into chaos. He can’t be King—only Regent. And the pledges of allegiance are all sworn to my father. It’s quite possible that more than a few of the Senadors can be persuaded that in order to keep the pledge they swore to my father, they should not support Roderic. And if he survives the Mutens, the Chiefs in the Settle Islands are always ripe for war against the mainlanders, and the Harleyriders will surely use my father’s absence to try to settle old scores in Arkan. I do have time. If there’s anything I’ve learned in all my years in this wasteland, it’s how to wait.”

  “You like to think of yourself as patient, my Prince. But I still say this move against the King was precipitous and may in the end prove our undoing. When will you leave for At-land?”

  “One week.”

  “You must not linger in Atland long. You must go to Ahga as quickly as you can. I will see that my brothers who support our cause give you information which will enable you to bring this rebellion to a speedy conclusion.”

  “Why not simply ask my father?”

  The Muten’s eyes darted to the shadowed corner. For the briefest moment, something like fear flickered across the twisted features. Then it was replaced by something else, something hard and cruel, and Amanander narrowed his eyes, suddenly wary. “You don’t think that’s wise, Ferad?”

  Ferad shrugged with calculated indifference not lost on Amanander. “See for yourself, my Prince.”

  Amanander drew a deep breath and rose to his feet. Without taking his eyes off the Muten, he crossed to the door and paused. “Not coming?”

  “As my Prince commands.” Ferad gathered the folds of his robe around his shoulders and scuttled across the floor, his uneven gait the result of old injuries.

  The door creaked as together they stepped into a dimly lit cell. The long form wrapped in a dark cloak stirred as their shadows fell across the battered cot. Amanander hesitated on the threshold.

  “What do you want?”

  The power of that voice, the ring of absolute authority, startled Amanander. No one ever questioned Abelard Ridenau and no one ever thwarted him. Involuntarily, Amanander stepped backward and collided with Ferad.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “YOU!” Abelard leaped into a sitting position, turning and twisting with a heavy clatter of chains.

  “Welcome to Dlas, Dad.”

  “And what do you think you’ll get from me?”

  Even in captivity, stripped of weapons and every friend, Abelard’s vitality was palpable. Amanander forced himself to step closer.

  “Right now I want information.”

  “If you think to force me to make you heir…”

  Amanander laughed. “That’s an old story, Dad, and one told too long ago. I’ve no interest in being your heir.”

  “You’ll never reign in Ahga.” Anger simmered through the King’s voice like summer heat. “Nydia said—“

  “Nydia. Nydia Farhallen. Your witch. Yes, let’s talk about her.”

  “What about Nydia?”

  Amanander thought he detected a subtle change in tone, a suspicious wariness that made him confident he had hit a nerve. “Is there a child?”

  “No.”

  Across the dusty space the two men stared, black eyes locked on blue, and Amanander cocked one brow. “I think you’re lying.”

  “Really?”

  Amanander forced himself to think clearly. “Ferad?”

  “My Prince?”

  “Get it out of him.”

  In the gloom, Abelard raised his head, and Ferad gasped. “Fool! You would use the Magic with no thought at all—you could bring the roof down upon us.”

  “Then scurry back to your lair, Ferad,” Amanander spat. “I’ll try.”

  He heard the rustle of Ferad’s robes over the broken tiles and drew a deep breath, sucking the stale air of the cavern into his lungs. He placed his fingertips lightly together and shut his eyes.

  Once again, he heard Ferad’s rasping instructions. “See in your mind how each equation builds upon the one before it— comprehension of the greatest is dependent upon the comprehension of the least. Hold fast to that understanding—“

  As if from very far away, Amanander heard Abelard’s snorted, “What dumbshow is this?”

  Amanander ignored his father. His breathing quickened imperceptibly, and in his throat a pulse beat a rapid tatoo. Beads of sweat threaded his forehead, and a deeper flush rose up his throat. The air within the cavern seemed to thicken, and the shadows darkened. Amanander muttered, shut his eyes once more, groping with his mind for the way to penetrate the defenses of Abelard’s will, as a single drop of sweat crept down his cheek.

  The air heated within the chamber as Amanander built the equations, each upon the next, stripping the guise of solidity from the form of reality, until he reached the place where conscious thought had shape. With one mighty effort, he reached across his father’s mind, intent upon finding the chink he was certain existed in armor even so zealously guarded. But the defenses of Abelard’s mind, the force of Abelard’s will, was like a wall, smoother than glass, slipperier than ice, harder than metal, and though Amanander hurled every ounce of strength he possessed against it, nothing changed.

  “Stop!” cried a voice, the voice of his tutor, and Amanander broke away, dimly aware that within the chamber the temperature had risen to a nearly murderous degree. “You are not ready, my Prince … you will kill us all.”

  Wrenched from the equations, Amanander sagged and fell to his knees, while the room spun and tilted on a dizzy axis. Abelard laughed.

  Amanander staggered to his feet and stumbled out of the room, Ferad following, Abelard’s derision stinging in his ears, sweat pouring off his body.

  Amanander shut the door of the cell against that awful noise, and shut his eyes, drawing deep gasping breaths until his pulse stopped pounding. “Let him laugh,” he said when he could. “Let him laugh for now. But I tell you, Ferad, by the time I have finished with him, I will see him beg and cry and plead with me for what remains of his miserable life. And then, we’ll see who laughs loudest.”

  Chapter Four

  “I tell you, you’re mistaken.” Reginald raised the flagon of ale to his mouth and took a long swallow. He wiped his sleeve across his lips.

  Amanander grimaced at the smacking noises his brother made and tried to ignore the heavy stench of sweat emanating from Reginald’s clothes. He considered ignoring Reginald. But his brother, though Amanander flinched at calling him that, was no
thing if not stubborn and persistent. Probably an indication of that peasant blood he’d got from his farm-girl mother. “And I assure you, Reginald, I am not.” As he stretched his long legs in front of the fire, he made a mental note to tell his serving boy to polish his boots more carefully. The thinnest film of oil attracted the worst layer of dulling dust.

  Reginald hefted his drink with a snort. “You mean to tell me that in all the months we’ve been fighting in this godforsaken wilderness, just as we need something—anything—to break these four-armed dogs—all of a sudden, you show up with information you say will change the tide of this campaign? Roderic might believe that explanation, but do you really expect me to believe you just stumbled upon this information on the way here? Just by luck?”

  Amanander avoided looking at Reginald. There was too much about this stocky, ham-fisted brother with stubbled chin and lank, thinning hair hanging around his broad face that repulsed him. And he certainly did not intend to explain how he got his information or his reasons for wanting a speedy end to the campaign to Reginald. Not yet.

  Instead, he rose and pulled the tent flap open wider. The damp night air blew some of Reginald’s stench out into the mist. Fog swirled, obscuring almost everything except the black smudges of the nearby tents. Even sound was muted. It was a perfect night for a raid.

  Thin lines of light shone from underneath the closest tent, where Roderic labored long into the night, awaiting Brand’s return and the outcome of the foray which Amanander sincerely hoped would be the last of the entire campaign. But Rodcric always kept late hours for one so young. At the thought of Roderic, safely cocooned with Brand and the loyal soldiers of the King’s Guard, a line deepened between Amanander’s brows. Ferad had been more correct than Amanander wanted to admit. This would not be easy.

  He had not been prepared for the youth who had greeted him with such cool appraisal in his light grey-green eyes. It was not insolence, far from it. In fact, in council, Roderic spoke only seldom, deferring to all his brothers, in a manner which would have bordered on the obsequious had it been any less sincere. But there was something in the way he carried himself, something in the lift of his head and the set of his shoulders, that spoke louder than any words and which rasped like steel over slate across Amanander’s nerves. It was the assurance which clung to Roderic like a cloak, the certainty that he indeed was the heir of Meriga, and that, no matter how much more competent the others were, the land they fought to preserve was his; his and his alone. And even Reginald responded to this instinctively, while Amanander hung back and gritted his teeth.

  Even now, while most in the camp slept, or took their ease, he knew that Roderic could be found poring over a map or a list of supplies, making endless calculations, studying the notes his scribe made from the reports of the scouts. It was unnatural that one so young should be so diligent. And it angered Amanander, for it confirmed his growing realization that young though Roderic might be, he would very shortly be a formidable foe. He had even tried, once or twice, to find a way into the youth’s mind, as Ferad had taught him, but Roderic was so focused, and so intent, that such a thing had proven impossible.

  He had considered killing Roderic outright, though he was so completely surrounded by guards, and so constantly in the company of Brand, or one of his lieutenants, that such an opportunity never arose. Besides, a murder would only rouse the Congress, and he could not yet afford to discount the Senadors’ wrath. So Amanander had quickly come to the conclusion that Ferad’s advice to let Roderic have the regency was sound. But forced to bide his time, that patience was most sorely tested, and he was determined that this foray into At-land would end as soon as possible. He had to get to Ahga and try to discover the fate of Abelard’s witch.

  But Reginald was speaking, and Amanander let the tent flap fall shut. “… if this fails?”

  Amanander turned back with a thin smile. “It won’t.”

  Shouts coming from the perimeter of the camp awakened Roderic out of a sound sleep. It seemed that he had only just laid his head upon the pillow, but he opened his eyes to a grayish, predawn gloom, and the realization that the stub of the candle he had left burning in the crude stone cup had long ago smoked away.

  Months of campaigning had taught him to come instantly alert, and with one hand he reached for the boots beneath his cot, and with the other for the sword which hung on a hook just within his grasp.

  “Lord Prince!” The guard who burst into the tent made only the briefest bow and gestured wildly into the dawn. “The Muten leader—we have him—“

  “What? Already?” Roderic did not quite believe what he thought he heard. He pulled his boots on and strightened his tunic. The guard did not have time to reply, for Brand’s tall shape loomed in the opening.

  He pushed past the guard, who snapped to attention and saluted. “Let’s go, Roderic.”

  “Is it possible you found—” He paused over the foreign name. The early morning air was thick with dampness. Mist swirled around their ankles, and the breeze which ruffled his hair did not cool.

  “Ebram-taw,” Brand answered shortly. “We got him. The information Aman gave us was right. We brought him in with about thirty of his fellows. It looks as though our luck has finally turned.”

  Brand stepped aside and held open the flap of the command tent, allowing Roderic to pass in front of him. The tallow lamps added to the rank smell of unwashed men, horses, and sour ale. As Roderic’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Reginald and Amanander already there, in chairs on the periphery.

  Roderic sat down behind the rough wooden table which served as a desk as well as a council table. Usually he found Amanander’s presence unnerving, but he was so excited at the prospect of this confrontation, he forgot him. He gripped the arms of the chair as the Muten was dragged in, heavy chains dangling from its wrists.

  The men-at-arms threw him on his knees. He lay unmoving on the dirt floor and met Roderic’s eyes unblinking. No one spoke for what seemed a long time.

  Finally, his heart thudding in his chest, in a voice he hoped did not quiver, Roderic said, “Bring a chair for our guest.”

  The Muten spat in the dirt before the table when he was seated.

  Roderic startled back by reflex. It was the first chance he’d had to observe an adult Muten so closely. His powerful primary arms were bound before him, the heavy steel chains glinting in the shadowy half-light. His small secondary arms were folded firmly across his chest, and Roderic was reminded that in the ruling families, these appendages were fully functional. The tiny hands were clenched in defiant fists. His skin was the terra-cotta color of raw clay, and his eyes were black and glared with unconcealed hatred. The third eye, above and centered between the other two, seemed to stare past and through him.

  Involuntarily, Roderic shuddered. It was said that with that third eye, the Mutens could look into a man’s soul and suck it out. He wore only leather trousers, and black, soft skin boots. His hair was long and gray, and his face was marked in deep lines cut into swirls and triangles on his cheeks.

  Brand leaned down, spoke close into his brother’s ear. “Dad knew this one well. He’s the leader of the whole Southern Alliance of Tribes. I knew him as soon as I saw him, even though it’s been a dozen years since he was brought before the King.”

  Roderic cocked his head. “So you are known to my father.”

  The Muten spat again.

  One of the men-at-arms raised the butt of his spear and would have struck the Muten, but Roderic stopped him with a wave of his hand. “How long must we continue this, Ebramtaw?”

  “Your peace is not ours.” His voice was low and deep, and his accent fractured the words, but Roderic understood his speech.

  “I will not debate you. Take this message back to your brethren. Either lay down your spears and swords by daybreak tomorrow, or—“

  “You are a boy. We do not deal with children. Where is the one who calls himself King of all Meriga?”

  “My father’s o
f no concern to you. I am Prince of Meriga, and his armies are mine.”

  “Claim all the armies you wish. We are the Children of the Magic, and we do not call your father King.”

  “You lie, Ebram-taw.” Brand spoke up. “A dozen years ago, the King of Meriga received your tribute and your pledge, and you promised not to raise arms against your neighbors or your King.”

  “We paid tribute that our women not be slaughtered.”

  “You have broken your pledge.”

  “We made no pledge.”

  “You lying, four-armed louse.” Reginald swaggered into the center of the tent, thumbs hooked in his belt. The Muten flinched, but one small arm flailed out. Reginald caught it and gave it a cruel twist.

  “Hold, Reginald.” Roderic held up one hand.

  Reginald turned to face his brother. “Nothing’s to be gained from speaking with this vermin, Lord Prince. Let my men beat the spirit out of it. It’s the only thing it understands.”

  Roderic looked from his sweating, red-faced brother to the Muten who sat as still as the thick air in the tent. “I’ll consider that. But I must speak to this—this person before I decide.”

  Reginald’s mouth tightened. “As you say.” He stumped out of the tent, hand clenched on the hilt of his dagger.

  Roderic watched him go, then looked at the Muten. “Shall we have peace?”

  “There can be no peace so long as the son of the Ridenau sits in Alant-Jorja. You stumble in the dark, and see not with your two blind eyes. You take our land, you burn our crops so that our children starve and yours grow fat. You invade our sacred places, bring your herds to foul our sacred ground. You are people without souls or spirit. You are already dead.”

  Roderic leaned forward. He wanted desperately to understand this Muten, to end the fighting rather than drag the campaign on. The latest dispatch from Phineas set the date of the Convening for the first day of Prill, and the beginning of the spring rains made for miserable conditions. “We Ridenaus brought peace—“