A looming form interrupted them. The two princes looked up to see a weather-worn, younger version of the old man standing over them.
“Come on, Gramps,” he ordered curtly. “Time to go. You know how Ma worries.”
“Aye, she does, aye.” Reluctantly, the old man let his hulking grandson stand him up and guide him from the room. Brastigan watched them hobble out, shaking off the sense he had been dozing in his seat.
The old man and his grandson weren't the first to leave. The room was emptying quickly as the locals sought their own homes. There wasn't much life in Rowbeck after dark, it seemed. Without women, why would there be? Pikarus, still seated nearby, seemed fully involved with his dice, but Brastigan saw his wary gaze following the farmers from the room.
Lottres, however, sat quiet and thoughtful beside him. The crackling of the fire, unnoticed moments ago, now sounded unusually loud. Brastigan remembered the old man saying the stone made a sound like voices in fire, and he felt the fine hairs rise at the back of his neck.
Brastigan clapped his brother on the shoulder, declaring cheerfully, “No mountain climbing in the dark, Pup. We've a long road ahead of us yet.”
Lottres screwed up his face and stuck out his tongue. “Bleah for you.”
A PASSING OF POWER
“Where are you going?” came Cliodora's indignant demand.
Therula smiled at her younger sister. “I just need to see Father for a moment.”
“But we were supposed to go riding!” Clodora followed Therula, dancing with agitation. “You said we can gather shells at the seaside, and see the galleys go by.”
“We will,” Therula answered.
The two princesses crossed the great court and passed bowing guardsmen at the gate to the inner keep. They were both dressed for riding, in simple gowns with divided skirts and warm cloaks against the sea wind. The excursion included some half dozen of Unferth's youngest daughters—Cliodora, Frella, Leoda, Alista, Agiatta and Orlyse—plus guards and grooms to help Therula keep a rein on the younger ones.
“You promised,” Cliodora grumbled.
“I did promise, and I meant it.” Therula did her best not to be annoyed by her little sister's fixation.
Cliodora had been reminding her about the promised outing all week. In truth, Therula looked forward to it. She liked spending time with her sisters, and it would take her mind off her worries. She couldn't have known Eben's message would reach her just before their departure.
The two princesses were inside the keep now. Soft steps echoed off stone walls as they approached Unferth's door.
“Is my father in?” Therula asked as the guard bowed to them.
“I believe so, Princess,” the guard replied. “He may still be sleeping. He hasn't called for his manservant yet.”
“Then you can come back later,” Cliodora said eagerly. “Come, sister, let's go.”
Therula hesitated. She couldn't remember any court feasts or carousing that would have kept Unferth up late last night—but she did remember the bright sunshine in the courtyard outside. Even kings couldn't lie abed all day long. It set a bad example.
She set her hand on the latch. “I'll just look in,” Therula said. “If Father is asleep, I'll be right back out.”
The guard didn't try to stop her, though Cliodora gave a dramatic, impatient moan before dragging her feet in after Therula.
“Father?” Therula called softly. She let Cliodora enter, then closed the door behind them. “It's Therula. Are you awake?”
The room was very dark. Cautiously, Therula made her way to the narrow window, where heavy drapes were tightly drawn to shut out the day. She stubbed her toe only once in progress.
“He's not awake,” Cliodora complained from the shadows near the door. “Can we go now?”
“I have news, Father,” Therula went on, ignoring her. “Eben found Pikarus. He's with Brastigan and Lottres in a town called Rowbeck. They're doing just fine. I know it's silly, but I can't help worrying about them. I'm so glad to know they're all right, aren't you?”
As she spoke, Therula pulled on the edge of the drapes. The rich fabric slid aside, admitting a shaft of light that cut through the gloom like a sword blade. It fell across the bed, where Unferth lay on his side. A green bottle glinted on the bedside table, liquid like a shadow within it. The king's face was pale against the darkness, his expression serene.
“You're being rude, Therula,” Cliodora scolded, “talking to Father when he just wants to sleep.”
Therula stared at Unferth, wondering why he didn't blink against the bright light. She felt a sudden chill of fear.
“Father?” Therula called more loudly. He didn't respond.
Therula's knees didn't want to move, but she forced herself to walk the few steps to the bedside. She could see, as she drew closer, that her father's eyes were partly open. They glinted dully, and he wasn't breathing.
“Fa... Father?” she stammered.
Therula reached out, hesitated, and drew back. Then she forced herself to touch him. Unferth's cheek was dry and cool. Even his hair felt stiff under her fingers. Therula jerked her hand away. She took a step backward, rubbing her two hands together in a vain effort to warm them.
Unferth was dead. She didn't understand how this could have happened. His calm expression gave no hint of pain or fear. He must have died in his sleep. Therula turned away with a choked cry, trying to shut out the sight. How could he look so peaceful when something terrible had happened!
“Sister, what's wrong?” Cliodora's voice at Therula's side startled her. Then the younger one was staring, too, transfixed by the sight of their father's calm, dead face. Cliodora's blue eyes were pale as glass in the dim light.
“Go get my mother,” Therula said quietly. Panic churned in her stomach, until she felt she would vomit it out. She had no idea what to do. Alustra would know. Therula felt sure of that.
“I...” Cliodora backed away, still staring at Unferth with her hands pressed to her mouth.
Therula grabbed Cliodora's shoulders. It wasn't fair, she knew, but she was glad to have someone to yell at.
“The queen,” Therula insisted fiercely. “Go quickly, go quietly. Tell no one else, but bring my mother here. She deserves to know first.”
Cliodora nodded and stood up straight. A measure of clarity returned to her eyes as the effect of this simple, important duty took hold. She whispered, “You can count on me.”
The younger princess left, walking with her arms held stiffly to her sides and her hands clenched into little white fists.
Therula returned to the window. Defiantly, she flung the curtains wide. It seemed wrong to admit the pitiless light, and yet she couldn't bear to be alone in the silence and gloom.
The waiting seemed endless, an agony of her own fears magnified by the terrible stillness. Finally, the door flung open from the outside. Therula turned, longing to rush into her mother's arms. She stopped before she had even lifted a foot.
“Oskar?” she choked.
Her brother ignored her. He strode into the chamber, leaving the door open. Therula could see the guard looking in, his mouth agape. Oskar went to the bedside and bent over the dead man, his expression as stunned as Therula's must have been.
“So it's true.” Oskar spoke softly, almost to himself. “I didn't want to believe it.”
Therula watched, too numb to move. How could Cliodora have told Oskar, after Therula ordered her not to tell anyone except Alustra? But she was too stunned to feel the rage she should have.
Oskar looked up, then. He seemed surprised, as if he hadn't known Therula was there. Then he said, “Sister, dear, you're shaking.”
He was right. Therula was trembling, and she couldn't seem to stop. Oskar crossed the room and reached to embrace her, but she jerked away. She wanted her mother, and she didn't want anyone else to touch her.
“I was... I was waiting for Mother,” Therula mumbled.
Oskar frowned, but he let his hands fall to hi
s sides. “You found him? Oh, dear.”
“I'm fine,” Therula lied. With a conscious effort she straightened, folding her hands before her to keep them still.
“You are a strong woman,” Oskar said. Carefully, moving slowly, he reached out to squeeze her two hands. “I will need your support, my sister. You and Mother are all I have now. I know I can depend on you.”
Therula nodded with a jerk, though she was feeling the opposite of strong. She watched as Oskar returned to the bedside. He knelt there, head bowed, in a classic pose of grief, yet he shed no tears. Instead, he posed for the audience, making sure everyone saw him as a loyal, grieving son.
And his words, “I can depend on you.” As king to subject, he meant. Therula looked out the window again. She was ashamed of her disloyal thoughts. Oskar was her brother. Even so, she had the feeling his grief was just that, a pose. She wondered who he posed for.
Therula blinked away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. She forced herself to view her brother dispassionately, as an outsider would. Oskar wasn't a living image of Unferth. He favored their mother too much. Yet he did look like a king, she thought with a start. In fact, he was a king. Oskar was the heir. With Unferth dead, he was king already.
She couldn't believe it, couldn't imagine anyone but her father sitting on Crutham's throne. Oskar would, of course. It was what he had been waiting for. All his life, waiting for the chance to rule Crutham and justify their mother's many humiliations.
Therula looked out the window again, trying to hold back the tears that blurred her vision. She turned with a start at the sound of rapid footsteps. This time Alustra did enter the room. It was the first time Therula had ever seen her regal mother run. Alustra's cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes wide with shock. Two attendants came behind her, and Cliodora last of all.
Alustra rushed to the bedside, where Oskar rose to greet her.
“Mother,” he said mournfully.
Therula's knees wobbled with relief as she went to join them. Alustra was here now. She was in charge, and everything would be all right. But she was not to experience the comfort of her mother's embrace. Alustra kissed Oskar's cheek briefly, but her eyes never left the bed. She moved past him, ignoring Therula, and sank down on the soft coverlet. Alustra reached out slowly, just as Therula had done, and brushed Unferth's forehead. Therula heard her mother sigh, saw her shoulders bowed as she bent forward to kiss her husband's cold forehead.
Margura, one of Alustra's attendants, now stepped forward. She sank in a low curtsey. “Your majesty, is there anything I can do?”
Her voice was husky, kind and thoughtful, yet Therula realized Margura wasn't speaking to Alustra. She was looking at Oskar. And he was smiling back at her.
“Leave me for a time,” Alustra answered, for she didn't see them behind her. “Return to my chambers, and see that suitable raiment is prepared.”
“Yes, my lady.” Margura curtseyed again, and followed the other young woman out. Cliodora, left alone, drifted uncertainly toward Therula. Abandoning pretense, Therula embraced her little sister tightly, let her sob on her shoulder.
“We were to have gone riding with our sisters, Mother.” Therula managed to speak, though her throat felt tight and hard. “They are waiting at the stables. I'll go tell them what's happened.”
“That is well thought of,” Oskar added smoothly. “I will summon our brothers and do the same. If that is what you want, Mother?”
“Yes,” Alustra said. Her voice was as calm as Unferth's dead face. “Now, leave me.”
Oskar went first. Therula made sure to close the door behind them, though the guard was no longer staring. She patted Cliodora's shoulders soothingly, but her eyes followed her brother as he strode away from them.
Oskar wasn't married, though he had been once. His wife, the delicate Cyrille of Erlixen, had died in childbed, taking their son with her. Oskar hadn't remarried, despite Alustra's best efforts. Therula had the impression that Oskar hadn't liked being married, having to share his quarters and answer to another. Cyrille had been one of the most docile creatures Therula had ever known, and she couldn't imagine what restrictions the girl might have placed on Oskar.
Whatever the reason, Oskar was an eligible king who lacked an heir. Besides their brothers, of course, but Therula knew very well he wouldn't settle for that. No, Oskar would be looking for a wife, and there were plenty of women willing to take that part. Margura was only the first. Crutham Keep was going to be a circus until Oskar chose a wife. Just thinking of it gave Therula a headache.
The two princesses left the inner keep and made for the stables. Therula walked slowly and let Cliodora cry. As they went, wellborn and servants alike passed them, running the other way. All the court was learning that Unferth had died. They were all in a hurry to speak to Oskar, Therula thought bitterly, wanting to keep their positions or even improve on them.
Meanwhile, she couldn't think what she could say to their sisters. “Father is dead” was truthful, yet it seemed so harsh. Perhaps she could start with something like “I have some bad news,” or “I'm sorry to tell you...”
Cliodora stopped crying long enough to sniffle out, “We aren't going to go riding today, are we?”
Therula laughed sadly at the lesser loss among greater tragedies. “I'm afraid not, little sister. Oh, but I do wish I had listened to you.”
“Me, too,” Cliodora whimpered.
* * *
The beds of the Rowbeck inn were as hard as Brastigan feared, and lumpy as well. Even so, he and Lottres were lucky. Others slept on a floor not swept for months. With such comforts to goad them, the whole squad was up and ready to be away in the chilly dawn. None cared to try the kitchen's mercy in breaking his fast.
In leaving Rowbeck behind, they also left the open spaces and easy trails. The road abandoned the river, which now lay in a chasm roaring with foam and spray. Wooded heights beckoned from above, and the road answered with sharp turns that challenged even the sure-footed mules. The beasts earned their fodder as they moved into true mountains, which must be crossed to reach their next goal of Glawern. Rests for them were fewer, for there were few level places for resting.
If the beasts labored harder, Brastigan relaxed as he breathed the earthy scents of trail dust and cedar. He had always felt at home in the woods. The trees covered him like a blanket, warm against the piercing chill of the mountain air. After the noise of the town, the sense of peace was welcome. There was little talk among the men, just the thump of hooves and creak of harness, the jingle of armor and the deep breath of the mules. The forest about them was dense and shadowed. It was all conifers now—pine, spruce and fir—dripping with dew like murmurs of strange voices. The mist lingered beneath those boughs well into midday.
The land between Rowbeck and Glawern was mining country, mating iron ore from the mountains and charcoal from the woods to make steel. Ever, as they passed, were small signs of human industry: tailings banked on either side, or wood and stone waterworks, or the black slots of mine openings. Rusty streaks leaked down the mountainsides, as if the earth bled. Nor was all the mist in the woods mere water vapor. Some carried the bitter tang of smoke from charcoal kilns. Often, too, they crossed foul smelling rivulets which Javes said flowed from mines unseen in the peaks above.
The trail could no longer be glorified as a road. Still, there were places to camp along the way. Most of these were too small for tents. The men slept beneath the trees, with stars winking at them through the boughs. With plentiful small game, they continued to eat well. There was deer sign, too, and sometimes, in deepest night, the distant scream of a panther.
Though they saw the works of men, the makers were visible only at a distance, and that began to weight on Brastigan. Lottres had reported no rumors of trouble in the town, but Pikarus and Javes often spoke between them in low tones, falling silent when others walked near. Even the falcon stayed close. Brastigan often glimpsed it gliding above the treetops or perched on some snag as it wai
ted on their coming.
Only the mules seemed unconcerned, laboring on with stolid patience. Brastigan wanted to take reassurance from their indifference, but that failed him as the days went on. He couldn't help sneering at his own fears. Was he such a soft city boy, dependent on walls to feel safe? No, he loved the wilderness too much for this whining. What lay before them, the unknown of Hawkwing House, was what unnerved him. That, and what might come behind—Wulfram, or another of his ilk. Time and again Brastigan thought to ask the bird if any strangers rode the trail behind them. Pride stopped him. Anyone would be a stranger, here. He wouldn't show such a dependence on their guide, not in front of Lottres.
So passed a string of days. By the end of the ninth, Brastigan felt as grubby as he was nervous. He longed for hot water, a shave, and the shelter of stone walls against the night's biting cold. Late that afternoon, they crested a ridge and gained sight of their goal. A narrow valley lay below, shockingly bare among the forested peaks. In the center was a walled town, and beside it the gaping sore of an open pit mine. Dust belched into the air, laying a pall over the landscape.
A mining town might be dirty, but it promised many comforts for bachelor men. Brastigan looked upon it with longing. They soon dropped from their vantage, and the paradise was lost to sight. It still gave him heart. One more safe place awaited before they must leap into the unknown.
* * *
The passing days only added to Therula's depression. Kinfolk came to Harburg for Unferth's funeral and Oskar's coronation. Therula knew every one of her full- and half-siblings, but she had forgotten, somehow, just how many of them there were. It was hopeless to find room for everyone in Crutham Keep, even with the recent deaths and the fosterings Unferth had arranged. Alustra struggled to find suitable accommodations in the town below. Therula worked alongside her, fulfilling the duty of hostess when the press of events was too much for her mother.
In a way, Therula was glad of the distraction. It kept her from dwelling on her own grief and fears. Yet she felt isolated among the influx of visitors. Therula hadn't been included in organizing either the funeral or the coronation. She was accustomed to being a part of such plans, and she didn't appreciate being left out. Especially in the funeral. Eben's eulogy had been lovely, but Unferth was her father. She would have liked to help say good-bye.
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