The Misbegotten King Read Online Free Page B

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     men than I can count have combed Loma and Arkan for the last two years in search of my father.” He saw the old Senador’s eyes
     gleam. What little light there was reflected off the glass under his hands, and beneath it, the faded outlines of estates
     long vanished into history peered up at him, taunting him like silentaccusing ghosts. If we can fade out of history, the old maps seemed to say, so can you. So can you. He moved his thumb, and
     a name caught his eye, raising the pale specter of hope.
    New York. Nourk. Phillip. Dandified, fat, rich Phillip. Abelard’s fourth son, whom he had married to the Senador of Nourk’s
     daughter, hoping to bring the independent estate more firmly into the sphere of Ridenau control. Roderic took a deep breath.
     Two years ago, at the Convening which confirmed Roderic’s regency, Philip had been less than eager to commit troops. And yet,
     Phillip was bound by the same Pledge of Allegiance all the Senadors swore, to uphold the kingdom and the King by any means
     at his disposal. Perhaps it was time to call him on it.
    Roderic’s gaze swept across the ancient map, glancing over territories vast and long forgotten. “Are you implying I’ve not
     spent enough men on the search for my father, Lord Senador?” He heard the bitter edge in his voice and forced himself to speak
     calmly. “But how many regiments do you expect me to send when they’re needed elsewhere? How many shall I devote?” Roderic
     met the old man’s eyes steadily, refusing to be intimidated. He was twenty-one on his next birthday, and he felt at least
     three times that old.
    Without waiting for an answer, he pushed away from the table and paced to stare unseeing out the window, knowing Gredahl watched
     his every move. “I am sorry for your losses. But the numbers you give me are no greater than they have ever been—the borders
     of Arkan and Loma are dangerous places even at the best of times,you know that. I can give you no guarantees, Lord Senador. Not even my father could give you a guarantee when it came to the
     Harleyriders. But I will tell you this. My kinsman, Barran, my brother Brand’s son, is in Dlas—commander of the garrison there.
     I will send a messenger to him tonight, warning him to watch the Harleys closely. If there are any signs that more than their
     usual raiding parties are approaching the border of Loma, he will alert my troops at Ithan. I will summon reserves from my
     brother in Nourk. Depending upon the number of his forces, I may be able to increase the garrisons. But more than that, Lord
     Gredahl, I cannot give.”
    Gredahl rose from the chair, his joints protesting audibly. “I mean you no disrespect, Lord Prince.”
    In the gloom, Roderic smiled. That was the closest thing to apology the old man was ever likely to offer. “You’ve been a good
     friend, Gredahl—I count on your influence in the Congress, even as my father did. I do not discount your concern. I will alert
     Obayana as well—between Ithan to the east, and Kora-lado to the west, if the Harleys invade Arkan, they will ride into a vise.”
    “And I will return to my people and prepare for war. It may never come, Lord Prince, but better to be prepared.”
    “As you say, Lord Senador.” Roderic watched the old man haul himself heavily across the room, limping from the effect of wounds
     and age.
    At the door Gredahl paused. “There is no word of the King?”
    Roderic shook his head before he realized that in the faded light, the Senador might not be able to see the gesture.“No. It is as if the earth opened and swallowed him whole. There has been no sign of him in two years.”
    “Lord Prince,” Gredahl began awkwardly.
    Pity warred with respect for the old warrior as Roderic held up his hand. The Arkan lords were tough and proud and bent the
     knee to few, but they had always been utterly loyal to the king. “If I could give you more than those assurances, Gredahl,
     I would.”
    The old