The Misbegotten King Read Online Free Page A

Plains and call for someone to light the candles, or to wait for the inevitable summons to dinner
     to end Gredahl’s long monologue. Roderic fidgeted in the hard seat, torn by the demands of cramped limbs and those of the
     Senador whose tired voice held him as much a prisoner as the rigid wooden back of the chair.
    He glanced past Gredahl’s hulking shape to the window, where the fog obscured everything but a glimpse of the winking torches
     in the guardhouses on the crushed rubble walls of Ahga. The rain pelted down the glass with grim monotony, wearying as Gredahl’s
     voice. He wondered how his father had managed to control his restlessness, remembering all the hours Abelard had spent listening
     patiently to the ceaseless demands, petitions, and complaints of the Senadors who comprised the Congress, as well as those
     of the lesser lords of the various holdings of the Ridenau estates, the merchants, the traders, and the farmers who made up
     most of the population of Meriga. No voicewas ever denied the King’s ear, no petitioner a chance of the King’s justice.
    He drew a deep breath, realizing abruptly that Gredahl had finished speaking and was looking at him curiously, waiting for
     a response. “Lord Prince?”
    He shifted once more in the chair, stifled another sigh, and thought quickly of how to answer Gredahl, who had been his father’s
     ally for more years than Roderic had been alive. “I understand your concerns about the Harleyriders—”
    “Concerns? You call these concerns? More than a hundred men and women died last month on my border—an entire harvest was destroyed
     or taken. I do all I can, but by the One, Lord Prince, who are we to look to?”
    “Lord Senador,” Roderic began again, weighing each word, “in all honesty, I have not the men right now to increase the garrisons
     in Arkan—even the garrison at Dlas has been dangerously depleted. All I can assure you is that the troops at Ithan are alerted
     and ready.”
    He was glad he could not see Gredahl’s face clearly in the gloom. The Senador’s huge shoulders heaved like an earthshake,
     the long gray curls spilling over his furs like a flood tide. “You know what you condemn my people to, boy?”
    Roderic fought the impulse to hang his head. The two years of his regency had taught him more about men and leadership than
     he had ever thought possible to learn. He spread his hands flat on the tabletop of smooth glass which protected the ancient
     maps flattened beneath it. “Lord Senador—” He stopped, wet his lips and began again. “I understand your fear. And while I
     don’t discountwhat you say, I can assure you that the scouts report no more activity south of Loma than is usual in the spring, when the
     Harleys leave their winter camps.” He drew a slow line down one ancient border. What he said was the truth. It might not be
     sufficient to allay the fears of the Arkan lords, who had lived with the threat of the Harleys for generations, but it was
     the truth. So far, there was no evidence at all that the Harleys planned to take advantage of the dangerously chaotic situation
     to the east.
    “You listen to me, boy.” The old Senador leaned forward over the table with a snort. “The last time your father’s attention
     was diverted by a rebellion among the lords, the Harleys rose and ran all over the central Plains. It took years to push them
     out of Arkan, and more men than I care to remember died. The rivers ran red with their blood. It took more men than I can
     count to get the Kahn and his Riders out of Missiluse when that fool Eldred let them in. I’m old enough to be your grandfather,
     boy, and I’ve seen more battles than you’ve heard tell of. And I’m warning you that the whole country is on the brink of disaster.
     And what about your father, boy? Have you forgotten him?”
    “No, my lord,” Roderic answered quietly. “I have not. Why do you think I’m so sure of what I know about the Harleys?