“No!” his brother protested. “I just...” He shut his mouth angrily.
Brastigan poked his shoulder. “Don't get mad. I don't care which way we go. I just don't like the idea of all this magic in the first place. You know that.”
“All right, then,” Lottres mumbled.
“What I really wonder,” Brastigan said slowly, picking out his own thoughts with the words, “is what Father would say. He wants us to go to a place of safety. If we take a dangerous route to get there, doesn't that defeat the purpose?”
“What, you—frightened?” Lottres mocked.
It was Brastigan's turn to glare at him. “Iamnotscared!”
Pikarus considered the two of them. “I, too, dislike being followed,” he offered tactfully, “and it's been my experience that a man should trust his instincts at times like these. If Prince Brastigan doesn't object to turning north...”
“I've slept outdoors before,” Brastigan assured him.
Pikarus nodded and continued. “Also, I hesitated to suggest it, knowing how you feel —” he glanced apologetically at Brastigan —”but perhaps we should consult the falcon.”
Lottres's face lit up. “I forgot about that! It must have flown to Harburg from Hawkwing House. Maybe it saw things on the ground.”
Brastigan grimaced sourly, but then shrugged in deference to his brother. “I don't have to be there, do I?” he asked hopefully.
* * *
They were up at cock-crow the next day. Lottres made good and sure of that. He sprang out of bed and had the drapes open at first light, then bustled around the room packing. Brastigan couldn't have slept long if he wanted to.
The morning meal passed in silence, but that was busy with glances darting across the boards. From Lottres to Pikarus they flashed, and from Pikarus to Javes, a kind of wordless swordplay. Brastigan, watching sardonically, had to wonder how much the men had been told. Yet that was a petty concern when the real problem, Wulfram, sat just a few seats down, chewing his eggs and bread. They had all gone back to pretending they didn't see him. Wulfram drained his morning ale and shouldered his pack. Many watchful eyes followed as he tramped out the door.
The words they had been holding in broke loose the moment their backsides touched the saddle. Brastigan heard low rumbles of talk along the line as the horses clattered down a cobbled lane between shops and houses. He and Lottres took the head of the column, with Pikarus and Javes close behind. The squad followed in what seemed a much tighter line than the day before. Since they all rode so near, it was easy to talk. That they did.
The plan that emerged was simple: they would change mounts at Caulteit and head north before sunrise. Later in the morning, a party of soldiers from the fort would ride out with their steeds. If luck held, these would lure Wulfram on after them.
Lottres was much pleased by the acceptance of his ploy, and eager to consult the falcon at their first rest. As if he needed some excuse for that, Brastigan thought sourly. He strolled around, stretching saddle-stiff legs, and left his brother to it.
Brastigan hadn't bothered to keep track of the falcon's whereabouts. It hunted for itself and that contented him. Now he watched with veiled amusement as Lottres waved and shouted up to the sky. After much exercise, he succeeded in catching the falcon's attention. It streaked downward on folded wings. Brastigan could faintly hear his brother explaining their intent, and see the tawny head jerk in what served as its nod. No other approached that council. From their expressions, Javes and the other men shared Brastigan's misgivings.
Yet there was a thought he had, one that wouldn't leave his mind. He didn't like it, but this was his command. Even Brastigan knew better than to put selfish feelings before safety. He kicked his way through the grass toward Lottres.
The falcon's beaky face snapped around as Brastigan approached, but he didn't speak to it. Instead, he told Lottres, “Ask it if it can follow Wulf tomorrow.”
“Why?” came his brother's wary demand. Lottres turned away, as if shielding something precious.
The falcon regarded Brastigan over Lottres's head. Dark lids ran down and up over its pale eyes, but it said nothing.
“Wulf's not stupid,” he snapped, unnerved by that feral regard. “The bird's been with us all the way so far. If it doesn't follow the decoys, he'll know it's a trick.”
The falcon cocked its head, blinked again. Then came the strange voice: “That is well thought of.”
“I didn't ask you,” Brastigan snarled.
“But we'll need him!” Lottres protested as if they were boys again, and some bigger child was about to pry a wonderful new toy from his hands.
“It can fly,” Brastigan reminded his brother with patient sarcasm, “and it can see long distances. Let it keep high enough to be out of bowshot, and stay long enough to see if Wulf follows them.”
“We shouldn't get separated,” Lottres insisted.
“I agree with Brastigan,” the falcon said. Brastigan clenched his teeth at the sound of his name coming from such a source. “It is the wiser course.”
“But...”
“Pup, the bird flies faster than we can ride.” Brastigan linked his thumbs and made flapping motions on the air. “As long as we stay on the road, it will find us.”
“It is even so.” The falcon dipped its curved beak toward Brastigan. “Tomorrow, then.”
It launched from Lottres's shoulder, barred wings beating swiftly upward. Brastigan watched it away and Lottres watched him, and both of them were scowling. The younger prince rubbed his shoulder and muttered rebelliously.
Brastigan was in no mood for dissent now. “What was that?”
“I said,” Lottres answered, speaking as slowly as Brastigan had a moment ago, “why am I always the one who gets scratched? You're the one who can't be polite.”
“Sorry,” Brastigan shrugged. Manners were irrelevant as far as that witch-thing was concerned. “If you don't like it, don't let it sit on you. You're not a tree, you know.”
“You...”
Brastigan looked around sharply. He scarcely recognized his brother's voice, but his hackles were still up from the parley with that cursed bird. Their glances caught like crossed swords.
“You just want to get rid of it!” Lottres burst out, eyes blazing and fists clenched white at his sides.
“Oh, do you think so?” Brastigan widened his eyes with feigned astonishment. Then, “Of course I do! It's unnatural!”
His brother stepped back from him, as if the words were blows, and his face above the curly beard was ashen.
“You don't even know —.” Lottres began hotly.
Then Javes's loud whistle cut between them, summoning the riders back to the saddle. Brastigan didn't move, didn't blink, but Lottres let an angry breath hiss between his teeth and stalked off to join the others.
There was little talk thereafter. Lottres rode fuming, and Brastigan rode aloof, determined to ignore his brother's temper. He had nothing to apologize for. A commander had to make decisions sometimes, that was all.
Still, he found himself chewing on the problem as the column trotted between pastures and fields. It irked him that Lottres set such a great store by the falcon. As if it were an honor to be perched on by a creature that might bloody him at any moment. Brastigan glanced aside, taking in his brother's frowning profile. Lottres was such a sensible lad, normally. How could he be so smitten with the romance of wizardry? Worse, how could Brastigan save him if he willingly ran after danger?
For the moment, Brastigan let Lottres keep his silence. At last the waning day showed them the blunt gray towers of Caulteit Keep. A goodly town clustered near the fortress. Behind them all the mountains of Carthell loomed closer now than not. As the convoy approached the castle walls, Brastigan hoped tomorrow's exploits would cure whatever ailed his brother.
DIVIDED ROADS
All the way to the north tower Therula told herself she was being an idiot, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. She nod
ded, acknowledging the guardsman who swung the heavy oaken door open before her. As soon as her feet touched the ancient stone steps, she lifted her skirts and ran upward.
Part of the problem was her father. The king seemed distracted in court. Granted, he had once told Therula it was only the pleasant haze of wine that made the long-winded presentations bearable. Yet he didn't seem sleepy to her. Instead, he was edgy and alert. He had been for several days. When Therula attempted to raise the subject, Unferth merely shook his head, silencing her.
There wasn't much in the realm of public policy that Unferth didn't share with Therula. Nor of private matters, either. His silence now suggested this might have something to do with Oskar. Since Unferth had declared an end to his pursuit of younger women years ago, Therula couldn't think what else it might be.
In an interesting coincidence, Oskar was also behaving oddly. Ordinarily, he liked to make himself visible at court, but Therula hadn't seen him for several days. Not since the morning of Brastigan and Lottres's departure, in fact. When he did appear, his merriment seemed slightly forced.
Just because the king wasn't talking didn't mean Therula couldn't ask Oskar about it. They had never been close—Oskar was nearly twice her age—but Therula didn't think he would lie to her. Still, it seemed more suitable to consult her mother. Alustra would know what was happening, especially if Oskar was involved. It wouldn't have been the first time Therula acted as peace-bearer between her two parents.
Even so, Therula knew, it wasn't her family's maneuvering that troubled her. It just seemed that something was wrong, somehow. As if the sea air suddenly smelled of dust. With the utter paranoia of true love, Therula was sure it all had something to do with Pikarus.
Pikarus. He had only been gone a few days, but Therula missed him so much she sometimes felt she could hardly breathe. That was what finally drove her to Eben's door. She could wait for whatever news her father might have, if she only knew her beloved was safe.
The lowest level of the tower, where she had entered, held Eben's sitting room, where he gave formal consultations. With supper just over, Therula didn't expect to find him there. She climbed to the second level and Eben's personal chambers. By the time she reached the door, her legs ached and she really was fighting for breath.
Therula stopped on the landing to compose herself. When her heart had stopped hammering against her lungs, she adopted an expression of regal calm and raised her hand. The plain wooden door swung open before she even touched it.
“Oskar,” she said, surprised. “I didn't expect to see you here.”
Her older brother wore a tense expression, which he quickly turned into a genial smile.
“I was just leaving,” Oskar said. “You are free to drink from the fountain of wisdom.” He took Therula's shoulders, kissed her cheek lightly, and then swung her around as if they were dancing on a feast night.
“Warn me, brother,” Therula protested. Dizzy, she leaned on the inner wall. Oskar merely chuckled and was off down the stairs. Therula watched him for a moment, wondering at his sarcastic tone.
When she turned to enter Eben's chamber, her dizziness suddenly returned. Therula's knees wobbled, and she clutched at the door handle to keep from falling into Eben's chamber. As she caught her balance, she had the confused impression of a stranger inside. His features were distorted, and he was crowned with something like tree branches. Candles, burning behind him, made Therula blink and shield her eyes.
Then it was only Eben, in his plain blue robe, hurrying forward to steady her.
“Your highness, are you well?” Eben asked.
“Oh, that Oskar,” Therula managed to laugh although her heart was beating hard. “He put me off balance.”
“Then do come in, your highness,” Eben said. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
“I...” Therula found herself tongue-tied. For a moment, she couldn't remember why she had come here. Oskar's prank must have startled her more than she knew.
Eben guided Therula forward with a gentle hand on her elbow. He showed her to a seat and offered a cup, which steamed invitingly. Then he waited, all patience and consideration.
Therula sipped at the cup, and tasted spearmint tea. “My favorite,” she murmured. Somehow it seemed she had forgotten that, too.
Eben's smile widened, and he said, “You are always welcome to drink my tea.”
Therula drank again, savoring the warmth of the tea and Eben's presence. She remembered now why she had come to see him. He was so wise, so kind. She felt she could tell him anything.
“I came to ask about Pikarus,” Therula said.
“Pikarus?” Eben repeated.
“Yes.” She hesitated, then asked, “Were you aware of our feelings for each other?”
“No,” Eben admitted. “Your father hadn't mentioned it.”
“Well, it's true,” Therula said. “Since Pikarus left, I've felt... I don't know, that something is wrong. I can't help worrying. Can you tell me if he is all right?”
“I can try, certainly,” Eben said. Then he cautioned, “It may take me some time. Perhaps a few hours, or even a day or two. Shall I send a message when I have the information?”
“Of course.” Therula sipped her tea again, trying to hide her disappointment. Days? She had never asked Eben for anything before, but she had been hoping for more immediate results.
“Tell me, before you go,” Eben went on. “What do you mean that something is wrong?”
“Oh, it may be nothing,” Therula said. “I feel something is out of place. You know how it is, when the staff cleans your room and they don't put things back right where they were?”
Eben nodded, cupping his chin in his hand thoughtfully. “When did you first notice this?”
“After they left,” Therula said. “Pikarus went with Brastigan and Lottres to Hawkwing house. You knew that?”
Eben's eyes narrowed, glinted thoughtfully. Then he said, “Perhaps that is what is out of place, as you put it. Simply that you are accustomed to seeing Pikarus and now he is absent.”
“No,” Therula said. She shook her head impatiently. “I know something is happening. Father seems distracted to me. So is Oskar.” Therula looked toward the doorway for a moment, remembering how Oskar had swung her around. She asked, “Have either of them mentioned anything to you?”
“If they had, I couldn't break confidence,” Eben said gravely. “You understand.”
“Yes, of course,” Therula murmured, feeling rebellious in her heart.
“I think,” Eben went on gently, “the heart of the matter is that you miss your dear friend. There is no shame in this. At such times, it is easy for imagination to run wild.” Eben pressed Therula's hands gently. He took the empty cup and drew her toward the door. “Let me see what I can learn, princess. I will send word as soon as I know anything of his whereabouts.”
“Very well,” Therula sighed, wishing for more but knowing she couldn't demand it. “Thank you, Eben.”
“It is no trouble, your highness,” Eben assured her.
He closed his door, and Therula was left alone in the stairwell. It seemed very dark after Eben's lighted room. She descended slowly, measuring her steps with care, but felt no more dizziness on the way down.
What she did feel was a sharper confusion than she had before. Could she be imagining it all—Unferth's distraction, Oskar's forced good humor? Therula didn't think of herself as being prone to flights of fancy. Yet Eben thought she did. He was so wise. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, Eben would let her know Pikarus was all right. When he did, Therula would laugh at herself and her silly fears.
She would.
* * *
It didn't seem to matter that Lottres wasn't speaking to Brastigan. Captain Morbern, the commander of Caulteit Keep, was willing to talk enough for all of them together. Before the end of supper, everyone knew more than they wished of Morbern's life. He was a local man, proud indeed of how well he'd done in the king's service. A wife and childre
n dwelt in the town and, by his wide grin, he adored them all.
Morbern's broad good humor made Lottre's own anger into an anti-climax. No one even noticed that he wasn't talking, because no one could get a word in.
“I wonder if he's even seen combat,” Brastigan muttered, while Morbern had the whole table roaring with laughter at his older son's escapades.
Lottres shrugged. Who was he to judge? He hadn't seen combat himself. He couldn't help wondering if Brastigan had forgotten that, or if he was reminding Lottres of it. Trying to prove how much more he knew. When Lottres didn't answer, Brastigan shrugged himself, irritably.
At least Morbern did give a satisfactory response when Brastigan finally got him to focus on their situation. He dispatched a message to Carthell at once, then applied himself to the business of detaching the unwanted camp follower. Morbern also offered the squad mules in exchange for their horses, a suggestion Brastigan was quick to approve.
Pikarus looked askance at the loss of the valuable horses, but Brastigan insisted. He said the mules would be sure-footed and hardy, an asset in rough country. Despite their greater size, the chargers were delicate by comparison. They needed more water and special care, and they were no faster once you left the high road. Morbern assured them the mules were war-trained, not as skittish as horses, and they were easily strong enough to bear the weight of armored men.
“Besides,” Brastigan said, “I don't fancy us being set apart by the color of our steeds. You might as well shout, “Look! I'm important! Shoot me first!”“
At this, Pikarus reluctantly agreed. Not that it really mattered, Lottres thought bitterly. Brastigan thought he knew so much about horses, and he wouldn't listen to anyone else, anyhow. He had to have everything his own way.
Lottres slept poorly that night, despite Brastigan badgering him to an early bedtime. He hadn't been able to practice the second form, and it made him irritable. Lottres was sure that tonight he would have heard something in the fire. Instead, he turned over and over, shifting between sleep and wakefulness.
Too Many Princes Page 9