Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  Passing wooden bowls from hand to hand, the men armed each other. Unasked, Lottres assisted Brastigan. He returned the favor. The silence was thick with things unsaid. With the last bits scraped off the side of his bowl, he stacked it with the others beside the door. Then, with Victory belted at his side, Brastigan swept his duffel over his shoulder.

  The mules were waiting in the large chamber where they had entered Hawkwing House. Someone had groomed the beasts, and bulging saddlebags showed they had been re-supplied. With them... Brastigan stopped, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest.

  Two tall beasts, ghostly gray, stood near the head of the line. Urulai horses—he knew them at once. Sturdy blankets covered their backs, instead of saddles, and a familiar falcon stood on one of those. The proud beasts wore no reins, but their pale manes and tails were braided and decked with beads.

  Memories crowded Brastigan's mind, things half forgotten, and a sudden longing. Who would want a bulky Cruthan charger, having seen one of these lissome beasts? The line was backing up behind him again. Reluctantly, he spurred himself forward, making for the mere mule that awaited him.

  He tore his eyes away from the horses long enough to lash his duffel behind the saddle. In doing so he noted that the mule's bit and the buckles on its tack had all been darkened with charcoal. The two gray horses wore wooden beads, which wouldn't reflect sunlight. A wise precaution, maybe, for skulking behind enemy lines.

  Across his beast's back, he saw a cluster of the female archers. Yriatt was at the center, identified by her horned head-dress. She had removed the veils and gewgaws, but the upstanding horns remained. Why she retained those escaped Brastigan. They seemed impractical for travel. Not that he cared for her comfort.

  The low voiced discussion was unintelligible, but it sounded serious. No doubt the witch was coaching the archers to guard the walls in her absence. With their men gone, the women had no choice but to defend the keep. Brastigan still found it slightly perverse that women took up arms.

  The witch turned from the circle of archers, who melted into the shadows of the antechamber. Together with Lottres, she helped the girl-ghost onto the falconless horse. And Brastigan made a quick decision. He swallowed his pride and took up the reins, leading his mule toward the front of the line. He might have no love for his aunt, but in the interest of solidarity, he would ride close to his brother.

  Lottres was at the head of the column. Yriatt's horse was to his left, the girl's pack-tied behind it. Pikarus, seeing Brastigan, fell back at once. This left open the spot behind Lottres, beside the girl. At least Brastigan was near one of the Urulai horses, he thought sourly.

  A moment later Lottres mounted his mule. Brastigan and the others did the same. Sitting on her horse, Yriatt raised her hands above her head. Lottres watched, tilting his head slightly as if he listened to something. The mules began to whicker nervously, and candle flames fluttered. Brastigan felt his muscles tighten. After a short while, the witch lowered her hands. Nothing else seemed to happen.

  Yriatt called a single word into the shadows. A low, mechanical groan echoed in the chamber and a sliver of light appeared high along the outer wall. It widened swiftly as the gate was let down. Cold air blew into the room and made the candle flames lean over, as if they would flee.

  Brastigan shook himself, trying to relieve his tension. What was that performance for, anyway?

  It was light outside, but foggy. The wind pushed mists from the heights into the chamber. As the near half of the bridge descended to level, the column moved forward. Hooves made hollow thumps on the planks as they approached the fog-shrouded wall. The dense mist hid the defenders even from knowing eyes as they passed beneath the outer arch. Then came the scrape of cobbles under hooves, and they were back on the stony field.

  No path was marked, but Yriatt led them sharply to the left. The fog might hide them from enemy eyes, but any foe with hearing still could find them. Nor could they hurry, lest a beast lose its footing and fall. Bits of sound hinted at the surroundings: the chatter of the brook fading behind them, and the airy whisper of wind over the rocks. The farther they went, the more Brastigan wished the fog would lift. He badly wanted to know where the edge of the hanging valley was. The fog clung to them, damp and slightly sticky, like an overlarge garment.

  It was a great relief to see the stunted spruce trees loom out of the mist before them. A narrow game trail led down toward the valley below. The hillside was steep, though not as bad as the stony track of the day before. This time, at least, the fog provided shelter from hostile eyes. As they descended, the trees grew thicker and the mist finally thinned out.

  Through the branches, the Cruthans glimpsed a deceptively peaceful scene—rugged peaks above pine green slopes, with the white streak of a cascade here and there. A brisk breeze sent dark-tinged clouds scurrying across the sky. It stirred the treetops, so the branches murmured like people talking about them after they had passed. Occasional bird calls punctuated the susurrus.

  The falcon soon rose from Yriatt's saddle. It glided above them as it had done before, playing the spy. Time and again, Brastigan turned in the saddle. He saw no hint of danger. By all appearances, the land was deserted. Perversely, that made him more tense. If the land had been invaded, as everyone said, there should be some sign of the enemy. Yet he saw only treetops and mountain peaks and swift moving, gray tinged clouds.

  In a way, Brastigan was disappointed. Bad news had come after bad at Hawkwing House, too fast to really follow it. His body felt tight with frustration. He needed a good fight to clear his head, and an enemy he could kill without remorse.

  Instead, he had too much time to think about what might be happening in Crutham. Unferth, Therula, little Cliodora... News of the invasion might not even have reached them. Would they reach the safety of Crutham Keep before the attack came?

  It was so hard to judge the danger. He would have to see the enemy army to judge its power, but Sillets had a fearsome reputation. Would even Habrok's prodigious strength be enough to keep them safe? More than that, why didn't Eben answer Yriatt's call? Crutham would need his powers to counter the sorcery of Sillets. They had better hope nothing had happened to him.

  * * *

  Other men might relax on the ride down, or keep a watch for danger, but Lottres was too busy. His training had begun in earnest the night before. Yriatt's physical presence wasn't necessary, as Lottres had learned when she spoke to him from across the holding.

  First had been a series of tests—if he could hear her, or make her hear him—that left him exhausted but exhilarated, although Yriatt had deflated Lottres's pride at being able to hear Brastigan's thoughts by pointing out that their long friendship made it easier. Before leaving Hawkwing House, she had assigned him to practice hearing other men, as well.

  “You are to listen only,” Yriatt told Lottres with daunting strictness. “Do not speak to anyone. Do nothing else until I show you how. Our enemies know I must come. They will be watching for any hint of my power. I am able to conceal myself, but you may yet betray me.”

  “I will never do that,” Lottres had vowed.

  He meant to keep his word, so while the soldiers rode through the dim woodlands he used the first form. Relaxing, Lottres located the riders around him. Focusing on one after the other, he picked out the hum of their thoughts. Lottres reveled in his secret abilities. It was fun to eavesdrop, especially since no one else could catch him.

  Lottres listened to Javes wondering if Egger had reached Glawern in time, and if he was on his way to Carthell yet. He sensed Pikarus's focus on guarding the princes and Yriatt. To Lottres's surprise, the source of Pikarus's calm assurance was a woman—Therula! Pikarus believed that Therula loved him. Lottres would have loved to whisper this into Brastigan's mind, but his promise restrained him.

  Besides, Brastigan was still grousing. In fact, Lottres soon discovered that most of the men did nothing but complain to themselves. Yugo was hungry. Aglend's back hurt from his mule's rough g
ait. Roari was bored. As time passed, the novelty of eavesdropping wore off. Lottres itched for something more interesting to do.

  Tentatively, he reached for Yriatt. “Noble lady?”

  He sensed Yriatt's disapproval, though her back was to him, but she didn't lecture Lottres for breaking silence, as he expected.

  “You may address me as maess,” she answered crisply. “You shall be my thaeme.”

  “Not eppagadrocca?” Lottres asked.

  “We do not keep slaves,” Yriatt replied with asperity. “That is what eppagadrocca means—a mind slave. When my father and I take a student, he is thaeme, a child of one's heart. We seek to create bonds of affection, not servitude.”

  Lottres was silent, relieved and slightly flattered. Though he admired Yriatt, he couldn't have hoped she felt any affection in the short time she had known him.

  Yriatt went on, “You are improving, thaeme, but there is another skill I must teach you. This is the third form, which is a defense. You must learn to guard your own thoughts.” She continued darkly, “Soon enough, we will encounter eppagadrocca, or worse —their master. You must be able to block them, lest you yourself become a danger to me.”

  “I would never...” Lottres protested.

  “Do you think you would be given a choice?” Yriatt retorted, not unkindly. “You mean well, but you have barely begun to learn. Now, thaeme, hold your breath.”

  Chastened, Lottres did as he was told. He immediately felt a tightness in his throat as muscles, accustomed to working on their own, abruptly ceased. It was amazingly difficult to hold them still.

  “Breathe,” Yriatt told him.

  Lottres breathed, trying not to gasp like a fish out of water.

  “Again,” Yriatt said.

  Lottres held his breath. His chest ached with the effort to keep his diaphragm stiff.

  “Now feel,” Yriatt said, “how your will forms a barrier between the body and its functions. This is what you must learn to do. Breathe.”

  Gratefully, Lottres obeyed.

  “Try it now,” Yriatt urged. “Make your will firm, just as your muscles were.”

  Lottres did. He could feel Yriatt prodding, almost as if she turned around and poked him with a stick.

  “Relax,” she instructed. Then, “Again.”

  “Noble... maess,” Lottres stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

  “You may breathe while we do this,” Yriatt said with a suggestion of dry humor.

  Lottres chuckled softly. He didn't think he laughed aloud until he felt Brastigan's suspicious thoughts. Lottres stiffened his mental barrier, trying to shut his brother out. Then Yriatt jabbed at him. It felt a little like being punched in the stomach. Lottres closed his mouth to keep back a grunt of pain.

  “Ignore him, thaeme,” Yriatt said sternly. “I am the one you must guard against.”

  “Yes, maess,” Lottres whispered back to her.

  “We will continue, then. You will hold your barrier. I will test it. If you wish to avoid further pain, concentrate only on your lessons.”

  “I understand,” Lottres said, though a part of him resented Brastigan for the interruption.

  “Begin,” Yriatt said crisply.

  * * *

  Though the steep terrain lent some speed, the descent from Hawkwing House seemed to take all day. In reality, it was just after noon when the trail leveled off. They took a hasty meal in the dense shade of a fir grove, where a waterfall tumbled down a sharp incline. The lower limbs had been cut away from some of the trees, creating a cavelike space. The packed earth of its floor suggested people often rested here. Neatly trimmed logs provided seating, but there was no hearth, so this wasn't a permanent camp. It could be a staging area for pack trains preparing to mount the steep trail.

  This was the first sign of habitation, besides the trail itself. Yet Brastigan couldn't imagine the Urulai consenting to live at Hawkwing House, no matter how much Yriatt resembled her dead sister. Everything Joal ever taught Brastigan had to do with the mountains and forests. It wasn't normal to dwell in tunnels and darkness. There ought to be a village somewhere, exposed to the natural rhythm of the sun and seasons.

  Brastigan chewed on trail bread and frowned as his eyes fell on the strange girl. Speaking of unnatural things... Lottres and Yriatt were seated in a close conference, as Brastigan guessed would become usual, and the men gave them as much space as the small tree-cave permitted. The girl sat beside them, forgotten. She seldom did so much as blink, let alone ask for food or drink. Neither had she made any effort to defend herself against stray branches whipped back by those riding before her. A red weal crossed her cheek, seeping crimson, as evidence of her apathy.

  Brastigan frowned again. He didn't expect Yriatt to show much kindness, but this was a human, of whatever sort. It wasn't right to ignore her. He jammed the last of his trail bread into his mouth and went to retrieve a waterskin from his saddlehorn. Both Lottres and Yriatt turned sharply as he approached them.

  “Yes?” the witch asked coolly.

  He ignored her, kneeling before the nameless girl and offering the waterskin. She didn't respond, of course. Well, he'd fed water to injured men on the trail before. He cupped her chin, pressing with her thumb and middle fingers on her cheeks to press on her jaw joint. She responded by parting her lips slightly, and he trickled a few drops into her mouth.

  Lottres asked irritably. “What are you doing?”

  “What?” Brastigan snapped back. “We're watering the beasts, but the people go without?”

  The girl swallowed the liquid, and even licked her lips afterward. Taking that as an expression of interest, Brastigan tipped his skin to give her more.

  Lottres opened his mouth to protest, but Yriatt gave a curt laugh. “It doesn't matter,” she said, turning her shoulder toward Brastigan to show her lack of concern for his opinion. Lottres closed his mouth, the words unsaid, and did likewise.

  Brastigan gave the young girl several drinks and then took a close look at her face. Crusted blood brushed away beneath his fingertips, and no fresh blood appeared. The welt was only superficial, it seemed. Two or three smaller cuts were visible, none as serious as the one. The girl gave no response to his crude medicking.

  Most of the soldiers had finished their meals and were walking back toward their mules. Hastily, Brastigan snapped off a corner of trail bread. He rubbed it gently against the girl's lower lip, as he'd seen his sister Estarra do when teaching her babes to eat solid food. The girl obediently opened her mouth. She chewed slowly, as if it took great concentration. Brastigan stuffed more bread into her mouth as quickly as she would take it. Still, most of the wafer remained in his hand when Pikarus called, “Saddle up!”

  He found the girl would stand when he gripped her elbow, so he led her to her horse. The animal turned its head, clearly recognizing Brastigan as a stranger. He would have loved to probe its intelligence, but the troop was forming up. Since the girl couldn't mount by herself, Brastigan lifted her by the waist to set her in the saddle. He nearly tossed her over the horse's back. The girl weighed nothing. She might be no more than cobwebs and air.

  By now Brastigan was the only one not mounted, so he pushed the remainder of the trail bread into her hand and trotted to his mule.

  As he passed, Javes leaned over and tapped his shoulder. “You make a fine nursemaid,” he muttered.

  Brastigan scowled at the jest. “I was taught it's wrong to ignore one who's in your care,” he retorted, loudly enough for Yriatt to hear. To Javes, he added, “Anyway, it's her horse I like, not her.”

  He stalked on, the soldier's answering laughter ringing behind him. Still, the joking nettled. Until now, only Lottres had been so bold, but Lottres rode ahead of him with two strange women between them. Everything else was different. Why not that, too?

  The land still sloped downward, but more gently now. The path from the tree-cave roughly paralleled the watercourse. The cataract soon joined a larger creek and the path bent to follow.


  This was ancient forest, grown thick with massive trees whose overlapping branches created a dense shade. Off the path, the ground was hoof-deep with fallen needles and branches. Even the occasional percussion of armored men did not ring far. Moss covered the tree trunks and forest floor, and it drank up sound as a thirsty man drinks water.

  The path was free of large obstructions and well beaten into the forest floor, yet a layer of fallen needles suggested it hadn't seen much use of late. It skirted the largest trees, but still stayed close to them. The lowest branches of these forest giants were high above, and little brush grew in the green dusk, so no branches whipped their faces now. Even the witch had room for her horns under the natural vault. This forest was a far grander hall than any men could make, in Brastigan's mind.

  The tame groves of the lowlands were often raided for timber and hunted for game. Not so this wild land. Humans were strangers here. Brastigan tried to relax, breathing in the earthy scent of the forest. He found he couldn't. Instead, the hollow feeling grew in his heart. After all, he was not the Urulai he had thought himself. For the first time, he felt like a stranger in the wilderness.

  Water ran downhill, as it must, and their path followed. Spears of light slanted through gaps in the canopy here and there. At times they skirted meadows where beaver ponds drowsed in the bright sun, but the path stayed under the trees.

  They made a good speed on the winding trail, changing from a trot to a gallop at intervals. The earth was damp enough to raise little dust, but there would be no more fresh mounts, so they had to spare the beasts. The spears of light had changed their angle when bright flashes came to them through the trees. Lottres slowed to a cautious walk as they approached an edge to the woods. The troop stopped, blinking against the unaccustomed daylight.

  On their right, the creek they had been following roared down toward a wide lake whose waters seemed twice as blue as the sky above. Another rocky vista was mirrored in the glassy lake. To their left was a broad semi-circle of bank grown with tall grass and wildflowers. Brastigan's mule wheezed eagerly at the smell of it, but something else caught his eye. The green skirts of the trees ended well above ground, and at a uniform height. That wasn't natural. The clearing was ringed with tree-caves.