Free The Misbegotten King by Anne Kelleher Bush Page B

sworn not to reveal.”
    Another flick of the wrist, it seemed, and Vere had a fire burning in a battered grate. Curiously, in spite of herself, Deirdre
     watched him amongst the rubble. It occurred to her that the rubble was carefully placed; the whole place was artfully arranged
     so as to appear no more than what it appeared to be: an abandoned shell of an old building. As the flames flickered in the
     dark night, Deirdre ate the stew he handed her, forbearing to ask where he had gotten it. Finally, she set her bowl aside
     and winced as she straightened her arm.
    “I’d better dress that wound for you, M’Callaster.” Vere rummaged in one of the caches, and as she stripped off her tunic
     and her shirt, she could feel that he deliberately averted his eyes.
    Silently he bandaged the wound, and she noticed detachedly that the wound was serious, that a razor spear had slashed nearly
     all the way to the bone. It would be a long time healing. But she saw, too, that his fingers trembled as they brushed her
     flesh, and she smiled to herself. Surprised, she felt an answering response in her belly.
    “You saved my life,” she said, watching him as he busied himself with the utensils.
    “I did.”
    “Look at me.”
    Reluctantly, she thought, he raised his eyes to hers. The resemblance to Roderic was fleeting, she thought. There was nothing
     of the Prince in the narrow face, in the set of the eyes, or the long jutting nose.
    “What happened back there?”
    He dropped his eyes once more. Was it possible, she wondered, that any man could be more transparent than Vere?
    “I don’t give a damn about your Muten secrets, Vere. I just lost nearly three hundred men, and I have a right to know how
     they died. What happened back there wasn’t natural and you know it. There’s something gone terribly wrong that has nothing
     to do with human treachery. Now… are you going to answer my question?”
    Vere took a deep breath. Even in the shadows the struggle was plain on his face. He sighed and slowly nodded. “You may not
     believe me if I tell you the truth.”
    “Try,” she said dryly.
    “Do you know what the old Magic is?”
    “Old Magic?” She shrugged. The wind blew harder and she shivered. Her clothes were damp, and the falling dark had lowered
     the temperature. Vere held out a blanket. “The Keepers tell these tales… of men who could bend steel with their minds, who
     could shift the earth with a thought… but what have they to do with us?”
    “You know what mathematics is… the study of numbers?”
    She shrugged. “Tis forbidden by the Church.”
    “Yes,” he said, the flames leaping high as the wind blew through the low hanging of the branches of the tree overhead. “For
     good reason, I suppose. The old Magic is a series of mathematical equations which enable one to manipulate the fabric of the
     material world with the force of the human will.”
    Deirdre sucked in a deep breath, not certain she understood. “You mean that with the Magic a person can do anything he sets
     his mind to do?”
    Vere nodded. “More or less. Did you feel how the air seemed to thicken before the trees burst into flame? That’s one of the
     warning signs of the Magic about to manifest. It doesn’t always happen, but—but often enough.” He took another deep breath
     and stared moodily into the night. “But it isn’t as it seems. For everything that one does—any changes one makes—there is
     always a price. Something else happens… something you can’t control or predict.”
    Deirdre listened, digesting the information. “Then what was the price?”
    Vere shook his head. “There is no way to know that. But someone—and I believe I know who—is becoming very bold in the use
     of the Magic—and is taking carefully calculated risks.”
    “Who?” Deirdre asked.
    “The name will mean nothing to you. And I would rather not say it—there are too many variables at work here. It is impossible
     to say whether he