Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  Brastigan snorted. “When has our father ever called us to court for something good?” he shot back.

  “We've grown up,” Lottres argued. “We aren't a couple of trouble making brats any more.”

  “Yes, and have you noticed how boring it is around here?” Brastigan retorted. He had always hated court, and he made no secret of it. It didn't help that court was the only time he ever saw the king. Bad enough to be a bastard, ignored by his father. The pompous formality of such occasions only grated on his nerves.

  They emerged at the top of the stairs. The great hall, where the king and queen held court, was directly ahead. The crowd made it impossible to see into the chamber.

  “I hope there's someplace to sit down,” Brastigan grumbled. Lottres merely sighed in response.

  After much nagging on the part of Queen Alustra, the great hall had recently been enlarged and rebuilt. The rest of the keep was constructed in true Cruthan style: simple, massive and defensible. This hall, by contrast, looked as though it had been built for pixies. Its ceiling arched high, with long, thin, elegant pillars and fancy windows. The stonework was elaborately dressed in the style of Tanix, Alustra's homeland. Even the entrance was carved to look like a bower. There was a gallery from which the court could be viewed, too. Brilliantly colored banners hung along the length of the great central chamber. It was ridiculous, if you asked Brastigan. Totally indefensible.

  From the angle of the sunlight pouring in those egotistical windows, it was late afternoon. Even so, the hall was crowded. Brastigan used his height shamelessly to seek a path. Most of the people, he noted, were dressed like himself, in sober and practical colors. Only a minority had given in to pressure, adopting the bright hues and elaborate costumes Queen Alustra encouraged. Brastigan tried not to sneer as he shouldered a way through for Lottres and himself. Such fancies might be bearable in Tanix and Forix, rival kingdoms in the warmer lands across the sea. Crutham was cold a good part of the year, and her people ought to dress for the climate.

  King Unferth and Queen Alustra sat on a dais, raised several steps and canopied in the Tanixan style. The canopy was of pale gold satin, brocaded with a pattern of black towers. Beneath it were the thrones, of dark wood carved and inlaid with gold. Brastigan glanced at his father, and then quickly looked away. It wouldn't do for him to be seen wearing such an unfilial expression of contempt.

  King Unferth lived well, as everyone knew. It showed. His beard was still golden, but it flowed down over a belly that strained against the fabric of his purple tunic. His face was red, and he sipped frequently from a golden cup. Still, the old man's eyes were keen as he watched the guildman making his presentation before the thrones. They were bright blue, like Habrok's. His crown was a band of beaten gold, etched with the symbols of his various provinces. As Brastigan looked again, Unferth shifted the coronet. He rubbed his temples briefly, as if the weight troubled him.

  Beside him was Queen Alustra, his first lady in name only. She was a plump woman, dressed in a brilliant blue gown with the huge sleeves and upstanding collar of the Tanixan style. It was an unfortunate choice. Instead of making her look young, as she doubtless intended, the over-done garb only emphasized that she was aging. Alustra's crown wasn't permitted to outshine the king's, but she made up the lack with a jeweled net covering her pale hair. Queen Alustra sat very straight. She, too, paid close attention to the prating merchant. Unlike King Unferth, she seemed to actively enjoy sitting on a throne, in the eyes of all the watchers. She often, and ostentatiously, advised her husband on matters of state.

  Near Alustra, Brastigan glimpsed two of her children. Therula loitered near Unferth's chair, eyeing Brastigan and Lottres with curiosity and a trace of concern. Closer to Alustra as another of Brastigan's unloved ones. Oskar, her only son, strolled through the first rank of courtiers with a self-satisfied air. As Unferth's legitimate heir, Crown Prince Oskar had a clear advantage over his baggle of brothers. He was fair enough in his dealings with them, but with a condescending kindliness that made Brastigan grit his teeth and gag. He knew he wasn't the only one who felt that way. Brastigan might not have much in common with most of his siblings, but they could at lease trade jibes or ride together. Oskar, he just stayed away from.

  Today, it was hard to miss him. For one thing, Oskar's pacing created a constant swirl of movement that drew the eye. For another, he was garbed in a doublet of dark red velvet that made him seem to smoulder in the sunlight from the windows. The big shoulders looked swollen, Brastigan thought sourly, and the doublet was short enough to show a bit too much leg clad in black hose. His red velvet shoes had toes that curled absurdly upward.

  Oskar was handsome enough, so the ladies said, with the sleek look of a well-fed feline. He accepted the flattery of the court with smug aplomb, but his eyes were like his mother's: heartless and cold. Like a cat, he felt no true affection for anyone but himself. Brastigan had good reason to know that.

  How much longer would the idiot tradesman drone on? Brastigan held his place with difficulty. Why had they been summoned, if they weren't wanted?

  Lottres must have sensed his agitation, for he murmured, “It won't be long now.”

  “Will that be before I've died of old age?” Brastigan hissed back.

  He tried to keep his voice down, but the queen turned her head. Their eyes met, and her expression hardened into a familiar, prudish sniff. Moving her lips as little as possible, she mouthed a few words to her husband. As Therula watched, Unferth briefly glanced toward them and then returned his gaze to the petitioner before him.

  The dark prince stiffened, stung by the slighting appraisal. It was all he could do not to turn and stalk out. Why, if the old man weren't king... But he was, and even Brastigan knew better to ignore his summons, however much the old man ignored him. So he waited, and fumed, and it seemed an eternity before the guildman finished his over worded and pompous request for an exemption from some tax or other. Which the king, in a mere handful of syllables, denied. Then the queen, showing off her influence, laid her hand on his arm and craved him to reconsider. And so the matter was set aside until a week hence.

  By this time Brastigan was grinding his teeth to keep back a shriek at the tediousness of it all. As the merchant withdrew, trying to look properly meek, a scream did ring in the palatial hall—but no human voiced it.

  Brastigan wasn't the only one who started at the shrill echoes among the banner hung arches. A snap of movement made him look up, where the largest falcon he had ever seen unfurled its wings atop the royal canopy. The strong sunlight turned its tawny breast to gold. Its wings, barred with rusty brown, made a striking pattern, blood and gold, against the shadowed gallery.

  The bird kicked away from the canopy and dove into flight with a motion so graceful and economical that Brastigan thought of a dancer—a dancer of the air. Yet it was swift. In but a moment, it stooped upon them. He instinctively stepped back and raised his arm, but the great bird flared its wings wide and dropped, lightly as a bit of thistledown, onto Lottres's shoulder. The crowd shank back, murmuring what this must portend. They were left, at last, with room enough to breathe. The falcon closed its wings with a matter-of-fact rustle. Its claws curved cruelly, but did not so much as pin the cloth of Lottres's tunic together. The eyes it turned upon the bystanders were pale as gold coins.

  If the bird hadn't been so intimidating, Brastigan would have laughed at his brother's stunned expression. Or, he might have cried warning. For Oskar, across the court, was smiling in a way Brastigan didn't like at all.

  Then, in a quiet thick with whispers, came the rustle of movement. King Unferth arose and handed his cup to a page, who sprang forth to receive it, then descended the low stairs to the floor of the chamber. He crossed the broad floor with a dignity at odds with his girth, until he drew near his two sons.

  It was the closest Unferth had been to Brastigan in years. He had gained weight, and his face had a pouchiness about the nose and eyes. However, his gaze wasn't on Lottr
es or Brastigan. Instead, he bowed to the falcon, showing his sons a wide pink spot of bare skin parting his hair. Many strands of silver glinted among the gold.

  A fresh wave of whispers washed over the hall as the great bird inclined its head in return. Then it spoke, in a shrill, strange voice like the squeak of a whistle you could make by splitting a blade of grass. The sound of it made the hairs rise on the back of Brastigan's neck.

  “Unferth of Crutham,” it said. The words were clear despite their weird pitch. “In accordance with the ancient pact, my mistress Yriatt now calls upon you for aid.”

  Though Lottress appeared entranced, Brastigan felt his stomach sink. Aid? What pact?

  “Crutham shall not forget our debt of honor,” the king replied. His voice wasn't quite as deep as Habrok's, but a lifetime of political practice made it sonorous, cultivated. “Thus I shall send to the Lady of Hawkwing House these two of my sons.”

  For Brastigan the room seemed to fall silent, save for the echo of those callous words: “I shall send... shall send these two... send these two of my sons.”

  Rage scalded in his veins. Sent away, banished maybe, on the whim of a bird?

  The tramp of booted feet drew him back to himself. A column of ten liveried and armored men marched to a halt before the king and princes.

  Their leader dropped to one knee with a rattle of chain mail on plate legs. “My lord king.”

  “Pikarus,” Unferth intoned. “You will accompany my sons to Hawkwing House. Guard them and serve them well.”

  “Aye, your majesty.”

  “And you, my sons...” Now, at last, the king looked at Lottres and Brastigan. His face was calm and without expression. The pause lengthened. It seemed he awaited something. Over his shoulder Oskar smiled, showing many teeth, while the queen looked as though she smelled something sour. For her part, Therula watched with barely concealed anxiety.

  Lottres shook himself. He also dropped to one knee, and Brastigan followed with a rebellions jerk. The anonymous knife poked him in the ribs as he did so.

  Unferth told them, “You shall accompany this messenger to Hawkwing House, and do whatever Lady Yriatt requires of you. Do not return until you have her leave.” As if he didn't even wish to look at them, his gaze shifted to the falcon. “Is that acceptable to the noble lady?”

  The great bird nodded. “It is.”

  “Then so be it.”

  Brastigan swallowed, keeping back angry words. The old man didn't even ask for their agreement, just packed them off like unwanted luggage!

  Unferth was saying, “Go forth, my sons, for the honor of Crutham.”

  If the king thought Brastigan was going to mouth some prettiness in agreement, he was mistaken. Lottres did find his tongue. “It shall be as you say, Father.”

  He rose, and Brastigan, stiffly, as well. What he really wanted was to spit in the old man's face, but that would give Oskar and his toadies too much satisfaction.

  “We shall depart at once.” Brastigan couldn't quite keep the snarl from his tone, so he contented himself with that and a curt bow. Then he stalked from the room as quickly as his long legs could carry him. After him came Lottres, with the men at arms behind.

  They were a good ways out in the courtyard before Brastigan's fury cooled enough that his pace began to lag. Even Lottres didn't try to calm him. They simply concentrated on keeping up.

  Brastigan stopped as quickly as he had started. Lottres regarded him anxiously, with the falcon, like some unnatural growth, on his shoulder. The men fell into military lines. There was an awkward pause as everyone waited to see who would take charge of the situation.

  “All right, you heard him,” Brastigan snapped. “Get your stuff together, if you haven't already.”

  He knew the squad leader well, for they often trained together. Pikarus was too good a soldier to reveal his thoughts, but some of his squad were less experienced. Their expressions confirmed his suspicion, that King Unferth had planned this eviction well in advance.

  Before he could question them, Pikarus ventured, “Your highness, I must point out that you are not permitted to carry an unsheathed weapon in the castle.”

  He was looking at the unidentified dagger, still braced in Brastigan's belt. The dark prince had forgotten about it, but he wasn't about to admit that.

  “Too late now,” he sneered.

  Ordinarily he liked Pikarus, but at the moment he didn't like anything at all. What he really wanted was to punch someone, but he knew better. Bare knuckles against armored men would only hurt him, and the king would feel no pain at all. Anyway, the brawl earlier nearly came to a bad end for him. He was in no mood to press his luck. Brastigan swallowed the fire in his chest and consciously diverted himself back to the matter he had been pursuing before King Unferth pronounced his sentence of exile.

  “I'll get rid of the knife,” Brastigan told Pikarus. “We meet at the stables at dawn.” He spun and stalked off, hoping the crowd would stay behind for once.

  In his wake, Lottres was smoothing ruffled feathers. “Let me talk to him.”

  “Very good, your highness,” Pikarus said, his bland voice fainter with distance.

  “Brastigan...” The younger man puffed, hurrying after him.

  A weird, thin voice advised, “Let him sulk. It's best he get it out of his system early.”

  Brastigan whirled with a hot cry: “Iamnotsulking!”

  He knew he shouldn't let the king's “deed of honor” bother him so much. After all, he should be used to Unferth's rejection by now. It shouldn't have mattered. Yet still, his pride smarted. After all the years of boredom, something interesting was finally happening in Harburg—an attempt on his life, no less—and the old fool had to send him off on some idiot quest. Instead of defending himself, he'd be at the beck and call of... What? The Lady of Hawkwing House? He'd never heard of her, but the talking falcon alone made him wary. There was witchcraft at work, and that was bad news for sure.

  But he wasn't going to argue with some stupid bird. “Come on, Pup.” Brastigan turned to walk on, but at a reasonable pace, and he did his best not to shuffle like a sulky boy.

  “Where are we going?” Lottres asked patiently.

  “To see Eben, remember? Before I lose the chance. Or,” he mocked, “get arrested for bearing naked steel in the castle.” Tarther, the captain of the keep's guard, would love to have the chance, too.

  “A wise choice,” observed the falcon.

  He didn't want its advice. “Why don't you go catch a mouse or something?”

  The bird blinked at that. Had he annoyed it? Good.

  “All right, Bras,” Lottres agreed. No doubt he thought he should go with his brother and keep him out of trouble. “But why are you so angry?”

  “Father always makes me mad,” Brastigan growled with a renewed surge of irritation. How dare he, the old man... Just because he was king... Why did he have so many kids, if he didn't want them around?

  “I know,” Lottres answered. He sighed. “Maybe I'm so used to being a disappointment to him, it just doesn't surprise me any more.”

  “That is untrue,” the falcon told them.

  “What do you know about it?” Brastigan snarled.

  Archly, the great bird answered, “I think I will go catch a mouse.”

  “Wait!” cried Lottres, but it was already flapping away from his shoulder. It passed over the wall, from the shadows of the courtyard into the evening sunlight, and glided out of sight.

  Lottres turned to Brastigan, sighing again. Brastigan wished he would stop doing that.

  “What did you do that for?” The creature must have caught Lottres with its claws, for he rubbed his neck and winced.

  “Because it isn't natural,” Brastigan snapped. “How can I talk to you with that thing listening to us?”

  “I wanted to hear what it was saying,” his brother complained. “The information could be useful.”

  “Or it could be feeding you a cock and bull story. Don't get sucke
d into this romantic garbage, Pup. Ancient pact, my eye! Sorcery is nothing but bad news to plain folks like us.”

  “Bras,” Lottres began to argue, then stopped. “It's only for a little while. We'll see what Lady Yriatt wants and be back before you know it.”

  But Brastigan wasn't sure he wanted to return. Not after this.

  * * *

  Eben lived in the northernmost tower on the inner ward. It was the also highest, built more for spying out invaders than defense. Still, its slender column contained more private space than even the king and queen had. That in itself was odd, since Eben wasn't an official of the court. He was the king's close friend, however, and he had been there for so long that nobody questioned it any more.

  Like a good brother, Lottres trailed after Brastigan. He was left behind, as usual, but his mind was as much in a hurry as his legs, thinking about Eben and the falcon, and their quest.

  Brastigan might be too caught up in his temper to see the advantages, but Lottres wasn't. A talking falcon! It was the most exciting thing to happen in years—and they got to be part of it. Lottres looked forward to the brotherhood of the road, new places, thrilling exploits. He could have danced for joy, if his brother would just slow down a moment.

  Because he was good with numbers, Lottres spent his days in a fusty port office, calculating tariffs and the like. He never saw anything interesting, aside from the occasional transposed number. Lottres felt so bored and cooped-up, he was ready for any adventure. Even Brastigan felt the same way. He'd said it himself, “Have you noticed how boring it is around here?” Brastigan didn't like being surprised, that was all. Surely he'd come around once he got over the shock.

  Meanwhile, Lottres could never pass up a chance to see Eben. He felt a shiver of anticipation. Eben was a wizard. He seldom showed it off, but everyone knew. If you wanted to know somebody's secrets, Eben was the one to ask.

  Ah, how Lottres would love to do that! It would set him apart from all his burly brothers, and no mistake. Of course, he was already set apart just by being so short. What Lottres wanted was to choose the difference for himself.