To reach Eben, they had to pass through the massive gate to the inner ward and cross the narrow courtyard beyond. As a child, Lottres remembered hearing the stone walls echo with voices of the king's offspring, for the children and their mothers had lived directly across from the royal chambers. Sometimes they could see their father watching them, smiling when they waved to him. Alustra hadn't liked it, not the noise or the proximity of the other women, with the result that the current living quarters had been constructed away from her sight. Since then, none of them saw Unferth often enough. Lottres suspected that weighed on Brastigan, as it did on him.
The vacant rooms had since been converted into royal archives and the offices of various functionaries. It was a strange feeling to pass through his old quarters, which had seemed so large, and find them stuffy and cramped.
The two princes began to climb upward, into territory that had been forbidden them as youngsters. The castle watchmen still used the two lower stories. Eben had the upper three and the roof. That was where they found him, leaning between two crenels to watch the sunset. Amber light ran like syrup over the slate roofs of Harburg. Far below, a mote of bright gold glided against the weathered gray of the mountains. The falcon?
“Welcome,” said Eben in his dry, smooth voice. He smiled and nodded to Lottres, who felt a flutter of pleasure. He could see why Brastigan, too, trusted Eben. He was a lot like Joal.
The king's unofficial advisor was not elderly. Still, he had a timeless, leathery look. Hair and eyes were dark brown, the hue of well-worn hide. His garb was simple, a woolen robe of deep blue with a hood to raise against foul weather.
It didn't take long for Brastigan to explain what had happened. The wizard's eyes lit with delight when Brastigan showed him the dagger. Lottres felt a squirming jealousy, deep inside.
Eben took the weapon, supporting the pommel and point with his fingertips, and held it up in the light. “Ah,” he breathed, as if it were beautiful. “At last, something I can work with. You have no idea how long I've been waiting. Excellent work, Prince Brastigan.”
“Actually, since my brothers keep dying, I think I do know,” Brastigan retorted.
“Of course,” Eben said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Thank you for sharing this with me, your highness.”
Brastigan shrugged, and Eben went back to gazing at the dagger, turning it thoughtfully from side to side. The two princes waited and exchanged glances. Lottres wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next, but he felt disappointed somehow.
“Master Eben,” he suddenly said, “may I ask a question?”
Eben blinked. He seemed surprised they were still there, but he nodded. “Of course, your highness.”
“Who is the Lady of Hawkwing House?”
Eben's face, his whole body, went still. Only his eyes, hooded suddenly, flicked to Brastigan for a moment and then returned to Lottres.
“So the message has come,” he mused.
“Message?” Lottres pressed. A surge of excitement returned to his belly.
“You knew about this?” Brastigan interrupted.
“I was aware of the possibility,” Eben admitted, “but there are many possibilities. Not all become realities. I truly hoped this one wouldn't.”
Despite the suggestion of an apology, Brastigan wasn't mollified.
“I'm sure,” he snapped. “Well, let me know what you find out. If it's possible.”
“Bras!” Lottres gasped. Even as well as he knew his brother, Brastigan's rudeness still shocked him sometimes.
“You must learn to trust your father's counsel,” Eben answered, unruffled. Meaning that they should trust him. Lottres did trust Eben, but Brastigan seemed determined to view this as a personal betrayal.
“Leave me alone!” He stalked across the flat roof and stared at the darkening mountains.
Lottres tried to swallow his own irritation and concentrate on his question.
“Master Eben,” Lottres persisted, “who is the Lady of Hawkwing House?”
“Mistress Yriatt is an ally to Crutham,” Eben replied, “just as I am. The rest is for the king to explain.”
Brastigan gave a sharp bark of laughter. Lottres winced.
“Your highness?” Eben asked politely.
Brastigan tossed his raven hair over his shoulder. “That would mean he'd have to talk to us,” he explained caustically.
Eben gave Brastigan a probing stare. “Shall I suggest it?”
“Don't bother,” he answered bitterly. To Lottres, he snapped, “You might as well give up, Pup. He isn't going to tell you anything. He's part of the whole scheme.”
“You assume I mean you ill,” Eben countered, though he didn't deny Brastigan's accusation.
“What else can I believe?” was Brastigan's scathing reply. With a snort, he told Lottres, “I'll be downstairs packing.”
“Bras, wait!” Lottres cried as Brastigan started down the stairs. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but Eben interceded.
“Prince Lottres, if I may have your attention for a moment longer.”
“Yes, Eben. I'm sorry, he's…” Lottres began, then stopped. He shouldn't have to apologize for Brastigan. Let him do it himself, or not.
“This isn't your fault,” Eben said quietly. “Nevertheless, your queries speak well of you. I can tell you that I know Mistress Yriatt well. She has my deepest trust. You need fear no evil of her.”
“I never said I feared it,” Lottres reassured him. Then, hopefully, “Do you at least have a map to Hawkwing House? I'd never heard of it before today.”
“Not many have,” Eben said, “and that is as she desires.” She being the mysterious Yriatt, Lottres assumed. He was already anxious to meet her. The king's wizard continued, “I fear I do not have a map, for I do not need one. A copy may exist in the royal archive. You should seek there.”
“Very well, I will.” Lottres nodded. He had used the archive before, and thought he might even have an idea where to look first. Lottres glanced at the lowering sun, trying to gauge his time for a search before supper. Then he realized Eben was still watching him with a strange, penetrating gaze.
Belatedly, Lottres asked, “Is there something else?”
“Perhaps,” Eben said. “It has seemed, of late, that you grow restless, Prince Lottres. That you wish for more in your life. Am I correct?”
Lottres stared for a moment. He had no idea how Eben knew this when he hadn't even told Brastigan about it. Yet Eben spoke Lottres's heart exactly. Wishing for more was undeniably how he felt.
“Yes,” Lottres answered, fumbling for words. “I realize that, as a royal prince, service is expected of me. Yet... just because I can add, doesn't mean I want to spend all my days in a counting house.”
Eben's leathery face creased with gentle humor. “Or a scribe's copy house,” he said, nodding. “I, too, once felt the same. Only it was no falcon that landed on my shoulder.” Lottres listened with intense interest, but Eben retreated from whatever tale he had to tell. He went on, “I have sensed your interest in my arts, your highness. What is more, I believe you do have an aptitude.”
“I do?” Once again Lottres felt a thrill go through him. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You mean, be a wizard, like you?”
“I am not wise enough, myself, to be your teacher,” Eben said firmly. “It would be foolish of me to try, and dangerous for you. Yet there is one who could.”
Lottres became aware that his mouth was open. He closed it, and swallowed. “You mean, Lady Yriatt?”
Eben nodded. “I have already spoken of this to Unferth, but in truth the choice is yours. Do not decide too soon,” he cautioned. “Do not choose what is new, only because of the novelty. It is lonely, also, to be set apart from other men.”
Lottres scarcely heard Eben speaking. He was so excited, he found it hard to breathe. Lottres almost expected to wake up and find he had dreamt it all, down to the stinging cut on his neck.
“If you wish,” Eben was saying, “I
can demonstrate the first exercise, which will begin to train your mind for the rigors ahead. You may practice on your journey, as time allows. Mistress Yriatt would then have a basis for judgment when you arrive.”
“That sounds logical,” Lottres agreed. In his heart he was begging, “Oh, show me. Yes, please, show me.”
THE KING'S CONSPIRACY
Brastigan lay on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, and stared at the ceiling while daylight faded from the window. Out in the hallway, muffled footsteps approached his door. Lottres? After a lengthy pause, they moved on.
Fine, thought Brastigan. He wanted to be alone anyway. He liked it here, in his familiar room, where he could brood—not sulk!—without anyone commenting. It seemed to him he had reason enough. The whole situation was ridiculous, unfair. Anyone would brood. Anyone.
When the chamber was almost completely dark, Brastigan took a candle out into the corridor and lit it from a wall lamp. By that light he shoved some clothes into a canvas bag and gave his armor a careful inspection. The hauberk was of stout chain mail, worn over a gambeson of thick, padded cloth. Unlike Habrok, Brastigan didn't rate a pair of steel plates to cover his chest and back. He did have vambraces for his arms, and demi-greaves for his legs. Brastigan flexed the joints dispiritedly, making sure they didn'tt stick or squeak.
It was all in good order, not that he got to use it much. Crutham was at peace, and there were at least ten princes champing at the bit whenever a bandit got too bold for his own good. Brastigan laid the whole harness out on his bed. It was one of the few real expenditures Unferth had devoted to him, but it was no more than any of his brothers had, and far less than some, like Habrok and Oskar. Even Victory had come to Brastigan by other hands. He had chosen it from the armory because it had once belonged to Unferth. Such things had mattered when he was a young lad.
Finally he'd have the chance to ride out again. That should have pleased him, bored as he was with court life, but the circumstances chafed worse than leather straps on bare skin. For the honor of Crutham? They were being kicked out, that was all. Everyone, from Eben to Pikarus, was in on it. That was hard to stomach.
Brastigan straightened, frowning to himself. What if..? No. Eben couldn't be involved in the murder attempt. He had been too happy to receive the dagger. That was a separate problem, and the king's wizard was still the best one to find out who was behind it. At least, he'd better hope so. Brastigan had left the weapon with Eben, and there was little chance he'd get it back soon.
A rap came at the outside door, which opened before Brastigan even had a chance to respond. “Your highness?” called a familiar soft voice.
Appetizing odors of roast meat and vegetables reached him even as he strode, scowling, into the main chamber. There was Margura with a tray of food. The shapely blonde dipped a curtsey at his approach.
She adopted a soothing tone on seeing his frown. “I heard what happened. When I saw you weren't at dinner, I thought I'd bring you something privately.” She smiled coyly.
Privately. Right. Margura was one of the queen’s wellborn attendants, though she clearly hoped to find a more permanent position in Harburg. Since four or five of the various princes' wives had once been royal attendants, there was some reason for optimism. Brastigan knew she spent time, beyond her official duties, with more than one of the bachelor princes and noblemen. Margura was a slut and a leech, but that could be said of most court women. He didn't hold it against her.
Indeed, he appreciated her charms as much as any man would, and the low curve of her bodice certainly showed them. Besides, the food did smell good.
“I won't be much company,” he warned as he sat at the table.
Margura set down the tray with a shrug. “You'll always be good enough for me.”
He had to smile, obvious though the flattery was. Brastigan began to eat with real appetite. Kitchen-cooked meals would be few after tomorrow morning.
Margura sat across from him, leaning forward slightly to pour ale. It was a favorite ploy to secure his attention.
“I'm sorry you're going,” she said softly.
“So am I. But when the old man says go...”
“Did the falcon really talk?” Margura asked eagerly.
Brastigan grunted at that.
“Do you know where you'll be?”
His shoulders jerked in a shrug. He should have asked Eben, but other things had distracted him. Lottres probably knew. Pikarus must have been told, anyway.
Margura rose and came to stand behind Brastigan, rubbing his neck and shoulders with skillful hands.
“I'll miss you,” she purred.
“You'll be the only one.” Brastigan was feeling sorry for himself now, and his ale wasn't nearly strong enough.
She leaned to whisper in his ear, “As long as I am the only one.”
“Since when do you pick favorites?” Brastigan asked mockingly. He turned, and found his eyes on a level with Margura's bodice.
“Just don't forget me,” she said, and slipped into his lap. The scent of rose water clung to her skin. Of their own accord, his arms circled her waist. Her teasing kiss quickly turned passionate.
Before things could get really interesting, there was another knock at the door. Brastigan held Margura a moment longer, hoping whoever it was would go away. The sound came again, and it annoyed him enough to break the mood. Margura murmured a protest, but rose from his lap when she had to.
With an irritable sigh, Brastigan strode to the door. Somebody short squeaked in dismay as he yanked it open. Brastigan looked down into a pair of wide blue eyes and forced himself to relax.
“Hello, Princess,” he said.
Cliodora was the youngest Cruthan princess and the very last of Unferth's offspring. She had two long pale braids, a cute freckled face, and the coltish form of a girl about to emerge into womanhood. Despite being ten years younger, Cliodora had a special place in his heart.
She seemed to realize she was interrupting, for she hesitantly glanced behind him. “Did I come at a bad time?”
“Nah,” he answered genially.
“Well,” she said in her sweet little voice, “Therula and Agiatta asked if you could come see us tonight. Before you go away, I mean.”
Brastigan felt a touch of guilt. He had forgotten about saying good-bye to his sisters, and he would have felt badly about that. That they hadn't forgotten made him happier than all of Margura’s ministrations.
Still, there are things you can let your sisters see, and some you can't. One of those was waiting for him. Glancing over his shoulder, Brastigan could see Margura busying herself with the supper dishes. Her pouting face was slightly turned away.
Leech, he reminded himself. She just wants you for what she can get.
On the other hand, home cooking wasn’t the only thing that would be in short supply while he was on the road.
“How about if I stop by a little later?” he suggested.
Clio smiled shyly, a bit of pink misting her cheeks beneath the tawny freckles. “I’ll tell them,” she giggled, and started back down the hallway.
Brastigan closed the door and locked it. He quickly got back to what he had been doing.
* * *
After a good meal and some delightful private entertainment, Brastigan left his chambers in a much better frame of mind and began to make his way toward the women’s wing. He proceeded slowly because, it seemed, he was destined to meet each one of his sisters and brothers, and also most of their hangers-on and toadies, and they all wanted to say something to him on the eve of his glorious quest. Especially Agiatta and Orlyse, who were full of advice even though they knew nothing of wilderness travel.
Still, Brastigan managed to keep his sense of humor. When at last he reached Therula’s apartment he greeted her with a brisk kiss on the cheek. She regarded him suspiciously.
“What are you so happy about?” When Therula saw his grin, she corrected herself. “No, never mind. I don't want to know.”
T
herula was Unferth's youngest daughter by Alustra. She was near to Brastigan's own age and probably should have been married away, but the king seemed to be in no hurry for that. For all that she resembled her mother, she was a comely enough maid. Alone among Alustra's children, Therula made the effort to be friendly with her many half-siblings and treat them like true family. Unfortunately, she did follow the queen's gaudy taste in clothing, and her golden hair was done in a fanciful coil on the top of her head. A cap of silver filigree covered this, almost like a crown.
Therula's chambers were similar to his own, except that her suite was on the inside of the building and had a fireplace rather than a window. A merry blaze crackled behind the iron grate, though it wasn't really necessary to warm the room. Like her clothing, Therula's apartment had always struck Brastigan as being overly adorned. Elaborate tapestries, most woven with her own hands, covered every patch of wall. Silver sconces held wall lamps that amply lit the room. The cushions on the furniture were so fine and fancy, they looked like they weren't actually meant to be sat on.
“Fire Rose and I missed you this afternoon,” Therula went on with barbed sweetness.
Brastigan shrugged, keeping his opinion of the horse to himself. “I guess I won't be able to help train him after all,” he said, trying to sound as if he felt badly about it.
“Apparently not.” Therula smiled tightly around her annoyance.
Brastigan strolled on into the room. He was met by Cliodora, who stood up to her tallest to kiss his cheek. He picked her up and swung her around, which evoked fresh giggles.
“You're so tall! What have they been feeding you?”
“Bread and water,” said Therula teasingly.
“Liver,” Cliodora retorted, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust.
“Well, no more liver for you,” he scolded, “or you'll be married and gone before I get back.”
Therula snorted at that, but Cliodora looked stricken. “You won’t be gone that long, will you?”
“I don't know, Princess,” he answered, recalling their open-ended instructions. “I guess it depends on how hard this hawk lady is to please.”
Too Many Princes Page 4