Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  Partof Therula felt she was being silly and overly dramatic, letting her fears play with her mind. The other part felt utterly convinced. She knew she couldn't go making any hysterical accusations. Not yet. Not even to her mother, although she was frantic to tell Alustra what she thought. She had to know more, much more.

  That meant she could no longer avoid her brother. She must face him and his ugly bargain. In fact, Therula would have to be with Oskar as much as she could, watching for some clue about what had happened to him.

  More immediately, it meant she had to hurry up and get ready for supper.

  * * *

  Brastigan felt stiff all over, from sitting down on the sand or maybe just from being so angry for so long. The day had been waning even before Shaelen and her unwanted company. Now the sky outside was the color of a wet dog, with only hints of daylight hues in its inky pelt.

  It was darker still beneath the stone shelter. The only light came from a lantern in Yriatt's hand. The shutters were closed, but amber streaks found their way between the slats. Faces stood out in that faint glow when little else could be seen.

  “We have no time for bickering,” Yriatt said. Her horns, above her, were like ripples on the night. “Move away from the shadow, Brastigan. For your own protection, stay at a distance.”

  Brastigan stared at her, wishing for something to say. There was nothing new; nothing he hadn't already said. With intentional slowness, Brastigan scooted away until he was just beyond arm's reach of the girl. Lottres settled beside Brastigan, on the opposite side from her. Shaelen composed herself, hands on her knees and eyes closed, while Yriatt loomed behind her.

  The girl watched with dismay as a circle cleared around her. She still held the bit of bread Shaelen had given her, as if she didn't know what to do with it. Blue eyes fixed on Brastigan, full of urgent questions.

  “No, stay there,” he growled when she leaned toward him.

  The girl stared at him. Her lips parted and she made a squeak of fear.

  Then came a metallic creak as the lantern snapped open. Brastigan tensed, shielding his eyes against the sudden glare. Squinting, he saw Shaelen in a stark silhouette. Every hair stood out, blood red against the lantern's white glare. Her shadow flowed out before her. It rolled across the sand like hot tar and swallowed the blinking, blinded girl. Her bird's cry of panic was suddenly cut off.

  Brastigan couldn't help himself. He lunged into the darkness, hands seeking the warmth that had been at his side.

  “Come back!” he cried in the blackness.

  For the merest instant Brastigan's groping hands felt something as insubstantial as a cobweb or a dream. Then a lurch, and he fell right through it. He should have struck the floor, but he didn't. He fell and fell and fell, and thought he would drop into that blackness forever.

  Something grabbed his shoulder. Then vertigo had him and he landed on packed sand. He fell on his right elbow and lay gasping. His bruised arm throbbed as if it would burst. But that wasn't what really pained him.

  “What were you going to do?” Lottres raged beside him. “You idiot! If you weren't my brother...”

  “Thaeme, be quiet,” came Yriatt's stern voice.

  Brastigan managed to sit up. Clutching his elbow, he saw that Shaelen was down too. The curly crown of her head faced him. The half-blood moaned as Yriatt rolled her over.

  Brastigan didn't want to look at them. His eyes saw only the empty place where someone had been sitting and no longer was. For Shaelen's vivid black shadow was gone, taking with it that other pale, unwanted one. Among the kick marks in the sand was a bit of bread, dropped in the confusion. He stared at it and wondered how such a small thing could be all that was left of someone's life.

  The world blurred around him. His head pounded, and his eyes burned. Somewhere nearby he heard a barking cry that became spastic coughing. It was only Shaelen.

  “Brastigan.” Lottres shook his shoulder. “Answer me.”

  Brastigan refused. He didn't trust his voice, and anyway, there was nothing to say. Or maybe there was.

  “Get away from me,” he muttered, and turned just enough to shove at Lottres. The traitor who tore away everything he held dear. His own brother.

  “Hey!” Lottres lost his balance and fell on his backside. It should have been funny, but Brastigan couldn't bring himself to laugh.

  Across the sandy floor, Yriatt helped Shaelen to sit up. Her coughing had subsided. Yriatt bent close to Shaelen, who croaked, “Maess, you must hurry.”

  For a moment the witch's cold face softened. “You are right, Thaeme.” Brastigan thought he must have imagined something like warmth in her voice. Then she straightened, resuming her imperious nature. “Sergeant, prepare your men.”

  Behind them, Pikarus's voice echoed faintly. “Aye, lady.”

  As Yriatt vanished into darkness, Lottres tried again. “It isn't her fault, Bras. You shouldn't have jumped in like that. Say something.”

  Oh, now he used the familiar nickname. Well, it was too late to be making friends. Brastigan clenched his fists in the sand, feeling the harsh grains under his fingernails. He barely restrained himself from tackling Lottres and pounding that innocent, injured expression off his face.

  “She tried,” Lottres persisted. “It just didn't work.”

  “Let him be, Lottres. Let him have time.” That was Shaelen, sounding stronger now. Her compassion turned Brastigan's stomach. “You have wounded men here. I'll be tending them, if you want to see how it's done.”

  Lottres hesitated, and then stood. “Yes, I do.” He sounded angry again, as if he had any right to be.

  Brastigan closed his eyes and drew his knees tightly against his chest. Two pairs of feet went crunching away over the sand. Let them go. Shaelen was right about one thing. He didn't want to see anyone.

  He heard, though, with half an ear. Javes directed the men in dumping out their duffels and saddle bags and filling them with sand from the cavern floor. For a makeshift barrier, it seemed. He could hear Shaelen speaking, her words indistinct, and a question from Lottres. Then came a muffled cry—Henrick's voice—followed by soothing words.

  Just like them, Brastigan thought. Healing would have to involve pain.

  Hissing and crackling told him when a fire was kindled in the stone ring. Light reflected from the pale ceiling, flooding the shelter. Only Brastigan remained in darkness. Though his right arm ached, the rest of him felt numb and cold. All day he fought and hated and hung onto that girl, and still she was snatched away. Without even one kiss. Just that fast, the love he had been waiting for was lost. And now, so was he.

  Footsteps came shifting back over the sand, together with a rhythmic tapping of demi-greaves. That ended in a squeak as the man knelt beside him.

  “Your highness,” came Pikarus's quiet voice. “We're going to need you soon.”

  “I'll be there,” Brastigan mumbled between his knees. He was intensely grateful that Pikarus did not touch him.

  Now that Yriatt had revealed herself, the bone men would be coming at them again. Or maybe something even worse. It would be an ugly fight, probably a losing one. It just didn't seem to matter.

  Why couldn't he sit this one out, Brastigan wondered. After all, Lottres and Yriatt withheld their power during the first battle. But he knew he wouldn't really do that. He owed the men his duty, whether he had anything left to live for or not.

  Pikarus waited, but Brastigan didn't move. Finally he said, “Aye, your highness.”

  Pikarus was just standing when the men laboring at the front of the cave gave out with startled curses. Javes's voice rang higher than the others. “What's that?”

  Pikarus jumped up, and Brastigan raised his head incuriously. Over the tops of his greaves, he saw movement on the night's dark surface. Something black crossed the darkness, just where the crown of the hill would be. Then, from nowhere, a column of burning gold poured out of the night. It struck the Silletsian camp and spattered back upward, outlining an immense shape.
Details came and went in the flickering blaze. Black leathery wings broad as ship sails. Spikes and spines to rival the rocky hills. An eye larger than the sinking moon gleamed above a hot orange maw that poured out ever more fire. Horns, black and twisted as old tree trunks, were wreathed in smoke and sparks.

  Sounds reached them next. The beating of those enormous wings. A roar that sounded like tempest waves crashing to shore. Brastigan stared, its sheer size diverting him from his grief. Where did this thing come from? There was nowhere in the valley for a creature that size to hide.

  “A dragon,” Pikarus said with foreboding.

  Someone asked, “Do we fight that?”

  “No,” Shaelen answered as she added wood to the bonfire. “She is on our side.”

  “Thanks for small favors,” Javes responded ironically.

  Nobody asked how Shaelen knew the monster was friendly, let alone that it was a female, but her matter-of-fact attitude seemed to break the spell that gripped them. The soldiers hurried to throw up the last saddle bags into a low wall partly blocking the shelter's open side. Pikarus went to join them, leaving Brastigan alone.

  The serpent beat its wings, fanning the flames that engulfed the enemy camp. Then the black sails furled and it glided downward to vanish into the inferno.

  The dragon's appearance made Brastigan's mourning seem pointless. He got up and hobbled to where he left his duffle. In its place he found a heap of crumpled and soiled laundry. His baggage had been emptied along with the rest. Brastigan extracted his sword, shield and helmet from the pile. Then he strolled forward to join the Cruthan line. There seemed no reason to rush.

  Lottres and Shaelen were at the fireside. She had her bow out, and they were doing something with the arrows. Brastigan heard more of their gibberish—exciting the air, of all things—and passed without speaking. The soldiers lined up along the wall of sandbags and stared into the night, waiting. Counting their armored backs, he could see the two wounded were back in ranks. Shaelen was good for her word. Too bad her mistress couldn't say the same.

  Brastigan stopped at Pikarus's side, wondering if the bone men would come. With their camp in flames, they might turn back. Still, they seemed pretty single-minded. Brastigan didn't feel fear. He was just very tired. For a moment he closed his eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness. Behind his eyelids something gleamed. A human form, pale as a wisp of smoke, the after-image of a life now gone.

  He felt his throat close up with grief and jerked his eyes open, banishing that ghostly image. Then he saw the bone men coming. Not so fast this time, for the hillside was steeper. Or maybe their speed just didn't surprise him any more. Firelight, from behind the Cruthans, brought the foemen into high relief against the night. Conversely, the enemy would have the fire's glare in their eyes. Not that it was likely to bother them much.

  “Here we go again,” Brastigan breathed through his teeth.

  On they came, with haggard faces at once pathetic and deadly. Their blank expressions, so like what the girl had been, filled Brastigan with horror. Then rage ignited, hot as the fires down below. How dare these monstrosities be up and walking around when his girl was gone? All his hate and grief, the punishments he wished he could inflict on Yriatt, found a focus. Around him, men began to shout, waving their swords and pounding their shields. But they were behind the wall, seeking its doubtful shelter. They still wanted to live. Brastigan didn't care if he lived or not. He gave a roar of his own and charged.

  “Wait!” Pikarus cried, but Brastigan plunged into the first rank. He was soon surrounded, but he felt no fear. He trusted to instinct, letting his body dodge and parry and strike in the deadly dance he knew so well. Victory hummed through the air, singing her own song of power. Bone men fell like cut hay. Let the witches try their wishy-swishy spells. This was Brastigan's magic: sword magic.

  Arrows came whistling over the battling throng. Some fell around him in booming flashes. Others, like lightning, seared the very air with a lesser form of the girl's blazing attack. Bone men fell, twitching, or burned as they stood and fought. So the wizards gave some account of themselves at last.

  Brastigan's rage gave way to a strange exhilaration. For the first time in days, he felt relaxed and powerful. The enchanted arrows only added excitement.

  But the bone men were endless in their numbers. However many he cut down, yet more came on. Brastigan lost track of time. It could have been hours later, or just a few minutes, when a powerful wind whipped sand into his face. He looked up to see the endless black expanse of a dragon's belly. Ebony claws gripped the top of the slanted rock that roofed the shelter, and an eye the exact color of flame blazed down on him. With a toss of its crooked horns, the dragon indicated he should get out of its way.

  Under that malevolent regard, some vestige of self-preservation returned. Brastigan dispatched his current opponent and ran toward the rock shelter, stumbling over pieces and parts of the fallen. Bone men swarmed after him, but even as he cut around the makeshift wall, a deafening roar made the very earth tremble.

  Once more fire came from the sky, blasting the enemy back down the hill. The dead on the ground were set alight. Black billows of smoke rose to join the night. Over the sheet of dancing gold, Brastigan saw a second dragon gliding on the air. It, too, bellowed out a blazing breath to scour the hillside.

  Pikarus appeared at Brastigan's shoulder, raising his voice to be heard over the roaring flames. “Your highness, you could have been killed!”

  Brastigan shrugged. “So what?”

  He brushed past Pikarus to join his fellows as they all eased back from the heat and fumes. The soldiers regarded him with a kind of horrified awe. He cared no more for their regard than he did for the boot-lickers at Harburg. Farther back, he saw Shaelen and Lottres at the fire. Shaelen stood poised and confident, an arrow ready to pull. Her eyes roved restlessly, seeking any other targets. Lottres knelt, panting, a sheen of sweat on his face in the fire's unsteady light. Strangely, he looked happier than Brastigan had seen him in days.

  Looking at his brother, Brastigan felt his energy desert him. His head was suddenly heavy, shoulders burning with exhaustion. His bruised elbow throbbed in time to his heartbeat, the minor injury inflamed by too much hard use. Brastigan glanced at Victory. The blade was clean, of course. He gratefully slid her into her sheath.

  Aimlessly, then, he shuffled to the rear of the shelter, circling wide around the two witchlings. What was the point of all this, anyway? He'd laid dozens of the bone men low, giving them the clean death they deserved, but all the bloodletting in the world couldn't bring the girl back to him. If you could even call it bloodletting, when the victims didn't bleed.

  He found his way to the Urulai horse that had been the girl's. The shadowy gray pricked its ears, recognizing him. Brastigan let his shield and helmet drop to the sand. He leaned on the dumb beast, longing to sit down but knowing if he did he might not have the strength to get up again. He felt the prickling of its hair under his cheek, and the hard round shapes of beads woven into its mane. The horse turned its head. Brastigan felt the warmth of breath as a soft muzzle brushed his hair. He let go a harsh breath.

  There was a stirring, as of swords suddenly drawn, and Javes barked, “Who goes there?”

  “I do,” a familiar voice answered. Brastigan looked around to see Yriatt stride into the shelter. Just behind her came a man who looked Cruthan except for the high, wavy horns on his head. Shaelen and Lottres fairly ran to meet them. Pikarus advanced more slowly.

  “My father, Ymell,” the witch said with a curt gesture. “Make him welcome.”

  Ymell bowed to the soldiers with such grace they might have been standing in a royal court rather than a crudely fortified redoubt. “I am indebted to you all,” he said.

  Brastigan held his place and watched. He could see no mark of Ymell's imprisonment, though Yriatt commended Shaelen for discovering how it was done. There was little resemblance between the dark haired sorceress and her blond father. Ymell
looked like a man of Crutham, with a blocky build and yellow hair falling to his shoulders. Only his horns set him apart. Oddly, he seemed no older than Yriatt. You'd think her father would be older than she was.

  This was Leithan's father, too. That made him Brastigan's grandfather. He shook his head with an angry jerk. He couldn't think of this stranger in such intimate terms.

  Ymell was undeniably charismatic. Brastigan could sense that, and the man hadn't even spoken to him yet. Still, like Yriatt, he had a reserve as well. After all, they weren't really humans. What was it Lottres had said about the girl? Oh, yes. That she only looked human.

  Yriatt and Ymell might look normal, but Brastigan knew better. Yriatt had said it herself, that humanity was just a shape she wore. Brastigan hadn't understood what she meant, then. Now he knew. Father and daughter didn't have to resemble each other. They could make themselves look like whatever they wanted. They weren't wearing hats with dragon horns attached, either. They had horns because they were dragons.

  Legend told of dragons, the most powerful creatures in the world. Brastigan would have bet that Ysislaw was a dragon, too. Who else would Yriatt fear but another dragon?

  And what did that make Brastigan? Not really Urulai, not really Cruthan, but no horns on his head, either. He was nothing but a patchwork of a man, and none of the pieces matched.

  Yriatt turned toward him, saying something to Shaelen. Her eyes met Brastigan's across the chamber. For a moment he saw an expression that might have been guilt, but more likely was contempt. Lottres, beside her, mirrored her expression. Then Brastigan was glad he had no horns, because that would have meant he was like Yriatt, a creature without conscience or compassion. Someone who would take an innocent life without a second thought.