Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  Brastigan now saw that Lottres was sitting in a wooden chair near the fireplace, staring at the flames. He was slouched over in a way that must have been uncomfortable and seemed completely unaware of it.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Brastigan asked. He seated himself on a cushioned settee opposite Lottres and stretched out his long legs. Cliodora curled up against his side like a kitten. “Hey, Pup!”

  Lottres started out of his thoughts. “What?”

  “This Hawkwing place,” Brastigan repeated. “Eben told you where it is, right?”

  “Oh. No,” Lottres said, “I found it in the archive, on a battle map from the last Silletsian invasion. I sketched us a copy.”

  “Good.” Brastigan grew thoughtful himself. It wasn't on the current maps, not heard of since the last big war. Which was, what, 70 years ago? “You're sure it's still there?”

  “Eben says it is,” Lottres said.

  “Someone must live there, since you've been summoned,” Therula pointed out. She sat, making a great production of smoothing her skirts, and reached into a bag beside her chair for an embroidery hoop. One fair brow arched when she saw him make a wry face. “You'd better mind your manners there. That would be my advice.”

  Though irritated, he forced a smile. “More advice, dear sister, is not what I want. A little more concrete information would be nice.”

  Cliodora stirred restlessly. “Well, it doesn't have to be all that bad, does it?”

  Brastigan laughed. When she winced, he added gently, “I suppose not.” He was old enough to know that any court scheme boded ill. He was also old enough to envy his little sister her innocence.

  The girl murmured restlessly, “At least you get to go somewhere. I never get to do anything except sewing.” She made a face.

  “It's a useful skill for a lady,” put in Therula as she sat, serenely sewing.

  “You, too, eh?” Brastigan smiled ruefully. First Lottres, now Cliodora. Everyone wanted an adventure. He hugged her lightly. “Well, I'd love to have you with us.”

  She brightened. “You would?”

  “Sure! You'd —.”

  “The queen would never hear of it,” Therula interrupted severely.

  “I know,” Cliodora sighed.

  “Oh, come on. A princess needs to know practical things. Right?” Brastigan turned to Lottres for support, and found him again deep in thought. It didn't look like he was mooning over the forthcoming noble mission, but still...

  “Hey, Pup.” Brastigan reached out to kick the leg of his brother's chair.

  Lottres again started. “Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry, Clio. What were you saying?”

  “Nothing,” she answered softly, pouting.

  Therula relented. “It is a bit dull here in the castle. Perhaps Lionor and I can come up with something suitable for an all girls excursion. For now, I want you to run along, Cliodora. Your mother will be worried about you.”

  “She's just down the hall,” the girl protested.

  “Cliodora.” Her older sister fixed her with a stern gaze.

  Reluctantly, Cliodora turned to hug Brastigan, burying her face in his chest. “Be careful,” she said to his tunic. “And come back soon.”

  “Of course I’ll be careful!” He laughed to reassure her. “Why are you going on about this? Sure, the talking bird is weird, but I'll be in no danger.”

  “I hope not.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Besides, I’m the greatest swordsman in Crutham,” he boasted cheerfully. “Come on, now. Nothing is going to happen.”

  Both Lottres and Therula rolled their eyes at his bravado.

  Perhaps it was paranoia, but Clio's distress seemed off to him. So did Therula's bossiness and Lottres's distraction. What else was going on that he didn't know about?

  Another prim glance from Therula herded the younger girl from the room.

  “You wouldn’t really bring her along, would you?” Lottres asked doubtfully as the door swung shut.

  “No,” Brastigan drawled scornfully. Then he darted a glance at Therula. “But don't you tell her that. Just because she's youngest, she gets left out of everything.”

  “As if I would,” Therula sniffed, but then she smiled. “And since when are you the concerned older brother?”

  “Maybe you don't know me as well as you think,” he retorted.

  “Well, don't tease her,” his sister advised.

  “How could I take her with us when I don't even know where we're going?” Brastigan added, shooting another glance at his brother. Lottres was staring at the fire and didn't answer.

  Brastigan didn't care much for book learning, but he knew vaguely that Sillets was an empire across the high mountains of Verelay, to the north. Crutham and Sillets warred periodically. In fact, Joal had once told Brastigan that Sillets had invaded Urland because its attempts to conquer Crutham kept failing. The invasion of Urland had had a much more satisfactory result for Sillets, though it took ten years to finish. Since then the northern border had been quiet. Perhaps a bit too quiet, one might think.

  Logically, Hawkwing House must be somewhere along the Silletsian border. Wonderful. The talking falcon would fit right in with the dragons, griffins, and other fell beasts he heard rumor of. And he was supposed to lead a band of men into that? With a sketched map and a bird for a guide?

  True, no one had said he was in charge, but Pikarus would follow military order, and that meant he wouldn't issue commands to a royal prince. Brastigan was the elder of the two princes, not to mention Lottres's lack of field experience. That left it to him. He was beginning to think ten men might not be enough. The lofty peaks, and the dragons, formed a protective barrier, it was true, but who knew what might be lurking in those mountains—and beyond, in Sillets, where black magic was said to reign?

  In the quiet room, the rattle of the door knob sounded abnormally loud. Brastigan heard Lottres's sudden catch of breath. His heart was already thumping at the sound of a tread he hadn't heard for years and yet recognized instantly. By force of will, he kept his eyes focused on the flames crackling behind the fireplace grate.

  “Father,” Lottres said, surprised.

  “Good evening, Father,” Therula said tranquilly. “I was wondering where you were.”

  Brastigan bit his tongue to keep back harsh words. What did the old man want here? Wasn't it enough he was sending them off to nowhere?

  Unferth was saying, “I meant to be here sooner.” It wasn't his usual tone of voice, the public proclamation that commanded immediate obedience. Despite himself, Brastigan looked around to see Unferth bend and kiss the top of Therula’s head. His stomach clenched at the sight. “I was wondering where you were?” So this was another plot, and Therula had contrived to bring them here. Was Cliodora part of it, too?

  Therula must have guessed his thought. “Don't look at me like that,” she said coolly. Her needle flashed as she sewed.

  “Fine,” Brastigan said between his teeth.

  The old man was gazing at them with an expression Brastigan didn't recognize. Lottres stood up. Brastigan looked back at the fire, unable to believe the gall of the man. First banishing them, and now sneaking in to see them. He heard the rustle of fabric and slap of hands as Unferth embraced Lottres.

  It seemed the old man regarded Brastigan for a while before sighing. Then, to his infinite annoyance, the king came and sat down beside him.

  “Well, lad.” Unferth laid a broad hand on Brastigan's knee. “You're taking this personally, aren't you?”

  “Shouldn't I?” Brastigan wanted to knock the offending hand away, but he couldn't seem to move.

  “No, of course not,” Lottres answered. Brastigan glared at him. “Affairs of state aren't personal. If Father believes we're the best suited for whatever the noble lady wants, then I will do my best.”

  Unferth and Therula seemed to exchange a glance, and the king said, “Well, son, it isn't quite like that, either.”

  “See?” Brastigan growled with bitter t
riumph. “It's all a scheme. I knew it. You just want to get rid of us.” Unable to sit still any longer, he jumped up and began to prowl the room with fierce energy.

  “Bras,” Lottres protested. “Stop it!”

  And Therula chided, “Brastigan, that tongue of yours will get you in real trouble one day.”

  Unferth hadn't yet answered, and Brastigan saw that he was sitting still, eyes closed. Then his shoulders gave a jerk, and he made a noise that Brastigan had never heard before. It took a moment to recognize that the old man was laughing. Hearty guffaws shook his fat belly, his whiskers swayed, and he leaned back on the settee to make more room for it. His three children looked on silently. Brastigan, in particular, stood with hands on hips, wondering what he had said that was so very amusing.

  “Father?” Lottres finally ventured.

  “Ah,” sighed the king. His eyes twinkled merrily at Brastigan. “Now I remember why I kept you around for so long. You make me laugh. You have no idea how your escapades have kept me entertained over the years.”

  “How nice,” his son snapped. “I wasn't aware I was providing such a valuable service.”

  “Of course not.” Unferth still smiled, but with a trace of melancholy. “Alustra wanted me to be stern and discipline your misconduct. I have tried not to disappoint her.” Then he chuckled again, shaking his head. “You made it hard, you rascal. I'll never forget the time you snuck that frog into Bettonie's bed.” He leaned back to laugh again.

  “Rascal?” The childish word was almost an insult. Brastigan felt an unaccustomed tightness in his chest. He drew deep breaths to keep his composure.

  “That was you?” Therula demanded indignantly.

  “Maybe.” Brastigan was too upset to take pleasure in such an ancient exploit.

  “Now, look. Sit down.” The king patted the cushion beside his. “I need to talk to you both before you go.”

  Lottres obediently seated himself, but Brastigan tossed his dark hair restlessly.

  “I feel better standing up.”

  And he did. There was too much anger inside him, years' worth. The king's uncharacteristic warmth only churned up more.

  “As you wish,” Unferth answered mildly. “I know it hasn't been easy, but I couldn't favor you, either one of you, in front of Alustra. It's been hard enough for her.”

  “Her,” Brastigan snorted. “You had half a dozen kids before she married you. Didn't she know what she was getting into?”

  Therula frowned sharply, but the king answered with guarded equanimity. “It was discussed at length in the prenuptial negotiations, yes. However, you will learn, if you should survive long enough, that living in a situation is different than talking about it. There were other factors involved, such as the political need of Tanix for alliances to balance Forix.”

  “It wouldn't hurt you to think of others' feelings from time to time, Brastigan,” Therula put in. Normally she favored the king's temperament, but she could convey all her mother's cold hauteur when she wished—as she was now demonstrating.

  “I've already told you,” Brastigan snapped back. “I don't need any more advice.”

  The king chuckled wryly at that, but said with a trace of sternness, “It hasn't been easy for any of us, you know. It hurt Alustra to see me with other women, and more, to see my crowd of youngsters running through the castle when she had so few of her own. It was easier for her to permit me affection toward my daughters, but it galled her to see me with you boys. So I restrained myself, and gave you to the care of strangers.”

  Brastigan stood still, not even realizing he had stopped pacing. All his life he'd thought he was Unferth's least favored son, the misfit, the disgrace, the wastrel to be ignored whenever possible. Now the old man said they were actually the favorites, he and Lottres. Everything he had believed was wrong. Brastigan was used to being angry all the time. Now he didn't know how he felt. Numb, maybe.

  Then Lottres asked, greatly daring, “Father, why do you have so many of us? I mean, it's got to be a burden on the treasury...”

  “The people you love,” Unferth interrupted, “are never a burden. Make no mistake, I do love you. All of you.”

  Brastigan's habitual sarcasm took over. Here was another amazing statement, considering they hardly ever saw him. He began to pace again.

  “I'm glad you asked, for this touches on the matter I wished to discuss.” Unferth's voice now took on the courtly ring they were accustomed to. “Long ago, before I was even your age, I was privileged to receive information from a very wise man which I have kept to myself all these years.”

  “You mean Eben?” Therula asked, so confidently that Brastigan wondered how much she already knew. He had thought from time to time that she might not be quite as vain and self-involved as she made herself out to be. It seemed his suspicions were well founded.

  Yet Therula was disappointed, for the king answered, “No, although Eben was present at that time. I speak of Ymell, he who was Eben's master.”

  “Never heard of him,” Brastigan muttered.

  “Bras...” Lottres hissed reprovingly.

  “Would you please shut up?” Therula added in a way that made Brastigan think she might not be quite as much in the king's confidence as she had supposed.

  “You wouldn't know Master Ymell. He has his own domain and seldom visits us,” Unferth said. Now his voice was strange, strained. “On this occasion, he came to Harburg to tell me that if I did not have at least twenty sons, there would be no heir to survive me.”

  Therula gasped, and Lottres sat up straighter. Brastigan stared, intrigued.

  “And so, I began to beget. Despite what you may think, Brastigan, fatherhood has never been a game. Habrok taught me that. As you noted, he and Haraldine had already been born at the time of my marriage. Meranca arrived soon after.”

  “But that prophecy...” Therula breathed.

  “For a long time, I thought our family was safe. Now I fear his prediction is proving true,” the king said grimly. “When Rickard and Aric died, it seemed mere chance. Such things happen.” Despite his effort to sound calm, there was a tremor in Unferth's voice. “Now that Luvan is gone, I know Ymell's words were correct. With Eben's assistance, I have begun making other arrangements to protect my remaining family. We are too vulnerable, living so close together in Harburg. I plan to settle as many as I can elsewhere.”

  This wasn't welcome news, though Brastigan had to admit it was in line with his own suspicions. If some unknown enemy had a grudge against the royal family, they were all in danger.

  “Did you know someone tried to kill Brastigan today?” Lottres asked, tautly.

  Unferth and Therula stared at Brastigan in shock. He shrugged uncomfortably. “I ducked.”

  “No,” Unferth breathed, suddenly shaken. He seemed to gather himself. “This tells me my instincts were correct. I will miss the others, but you, my clever boy,” he smiled wanly at Lottres, “and you, you rascal,” he looked to Brastigan, “you two, I want safe.

  “So, Brastigan, you are quite correct in thinking I arranged for your departure. Eben was very helpful in passing a message to his good friend, Mistress Yriatt. Coincidentally, she requires the assistance of the crown in a matter of legitimate concern to Crutham. Nevertheless, I am sending you to her in hopes you will be safe. I would appreciate it if you'd waste a bit of time there, until Eben can figure out who's behind these murders.”

  It seemed too good to be true. Brastigan regarded his father warily.

  “Do you think we'll be safe out in the wilderness?” he sneered. “Oh, good idea.”

  “The Lady of Hawkwing House is puissant and wise,” was the king's patient reply.

  “You mean she's a witch.”

  “Brastigan,” Therula warned. He made a face at her.

  “That is such a coarse and vulgar term,” the king smiled. It took Brastigan a moment to realize he was mimicking Alustra.

  Lottres said, “Do you trust her, father?”

  Unferth no
dded. “I do. It isn't widely spoken of, but Mistress Yriatt and her household play an integral part in Crutham's defense, as do Eben and Master Ymell. That could not be so if I didn't trust in their loyalty and judgment.”

  The room was silent for a time, save for the crackle of the fire. The flames had begun to sink low. For lack of anything better to do, Brastigan stabbed at the fire with the poker.

  “I guess we'll have to watch each other, then,” Lottres said. “We'll do our duty by the noble lady. Have no fear of that, Father.”

  He sounded very certain. Oddly, Brastigan felt just the opposite. The sound of steel biting into a wooden wall sounded loud in his memory.

  “I know you will.” At the tenderness and pride of Unferth's tone, Brastigan's vision suddenly blurred. He blinked fiercely, hating himself for his wayward emotions. “I have faith in both of you, but I do hope you'll be careful and avoid any unnecessary risks.”

  He looked straight at Brastigan, who retorted, “How much fun would that be?”

  “You,” the king growled. “I mean it. Be careful.”

  “I'll tell you what I told Clio,” Brastigan snapped, annoyed by the fussing. “I'm the greatest swordsman in Crutham, and nothing is going to happen to me.”

  “Braggart.” Therula smiled fondly.

  “It's true,” he smirked. The familiar banter was far preferable to dwelling on his unaccustomed emotions.

  “So I hear,” Unferth chuckled, “and that's another reason to get you out of here. Not everyone enjoys how you hone your skills.”

  “Ha!” Brastigan gave a bark of laughter. “So Tarther's been whining, has he?”

  “Actually, yes, and I have to agree with him. How can his men respect him when they see him get thrashed?” the king asked reasonably. “It would be one thing if you were interested in leading the guard yourself. We all know that isn't the place for you.”

  “What do you mean?” Brastigan demanded. “I have the skill —.”

  Then he closed his mouth. An endless round of patrols, watch posts, honorary guards, always ready for action but never seeing any? The old man was right. He would hate it.

  “What do you mean? You'd die of boredom,” Therula laughed mockingly.