Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  All these brave preparations should have lifted Brastigan's heart. They didn't. He remembered all too well the forces Yriatt and Ymell wielded so casually. Why, the dragons were big enough to stand up against the walls. A simple breath, and the city would be in flames. That didn't even consider their ability to fly, or their magic.

  Brastigan shook his head, scolding himself for these fancies. Trouble enough was coming without him inventing any more in his mind.

  Pikarus caught the motion and spurred up beside Brastigan. “Your highness?”

  “Nothing,” Brastigan said.

  Jitters before combat, that's all it was. Ysislaw wouldn't come at the walls himself. He had an army of bone men and eppagadrocca. They would do the menial work for him.

  Once past Bloody Square, the troop moved more quickly. The city's cobbled streets were quiet. Not surprising, with the populace being shut out. Many shops were closed. A few commoners hurried along with shoulders hunched, starting at shadows and strange travelers. The inns were busy, but not noisy. The only crowds were at the wells, where women drew water. They would hoard it, if they were smart.

  They reached the ramp leading up to Crutham Keep. After answering another challenge, they started the ascent. Hoardings were up here, too. Wooden faggots were stacked beside barrels of oil, with great cauldrons in place to be used. Brastigan's sense of disorientation grew as they turned switchbacks and passed beneath spyholes. He knew these walls well, yet they seemed strange now, as if they had changed during his absence.

  He didn't think he was the only one who was worried, either. The Cruthan forces seemed to be in good order, proud in their polished harness, but these men weren't sure of themselves. They were too quiet, not strutting and bragging as warriors should. Their eyes, under helms of steel, were shadowed and afraid.

  Then they were back under the yawning portcullis. Brastigan's return was the opposite of his dramatic leave taking. In fact, it was distinctly anti-climactic. Grooms scurried from the stables to meet them, but the keep's grand courtyard was empty otherwise. It seemed that they and their noble quest had been forgotten.

  Pikarus moved up beside Brastigan. “It seems quiet,” he observed, not quite asking the question Brastigan was sure he had in mind.

  “I know what you mean,” Brastigan answered. “Get the mules unloaded. Then take your gear back to the barracks. My things to my quarters as well, please. Let the men wash up and find their families. I'll go to Father, or he'll send someone for me. You go see Tarther, or... whoever it is you report to.” He let his lips twitch into a grin, remembering Pikarus's fond farewells to Therula.

  The man-at-arms didn't acknowledge the jest. “Very good, your highness.”

  “Oh,” Brastigan paused, remembering. “Let me know if Duale's a daddy yet.”

  Pikarus did smile at that. “Of course. I'll send word.”

  A groom stood near Brastigan. He was a skinny adolescent with a pronounced Adam's apple. The lad stared at Shadow as if he had never seen her like before. Maybe he hadn't.

  “This one is mine,” Brastigan told him. “I'll see to her, and I don't want anyone else fooling with her. Got it?”

  “Yes, your highness.” The lad's voice cracked, and he ducked his head with humiliation. Except for the pale hair, he reminded Brastigan of himself at the same age.

  “But you can send someone to let my father know I'm here,” Brastigan added as he led his horse toward the stable.

  The groom tore his eyes away from Shadow to stare at Brastigan. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

  “Yes, your highness,” he squeaked.

  The groom walked off. A moment later, he glanced over his shoulder and broke into a run. Brastigan watched after him, unable to understand his reaction. Then he led Shadow into the stables. He watered the mare and rubbed her down well. Shadow accepted his attentions with a regal bearing, as if this were her natural due.

  Brastigan didn't hurry at his work. He was measuring grain for Shadow when the stable boy scuttled back in. Shortly afterward, a page approached Brastigan.

  “The king will receive you, your grace,” the man said in a soft, neutral tone.

  Brastigan eyed the fellow as he washed his hands in Shadow's trough. This wasn't a mere page, as he had thought, but a court gentleman. Rodrec, that was his name. He wore a sober robe of dark blue velvet, its shoulders puffed up in the Tanixan style. A very tall hat with a square crown perched precariously over his long yellow hair.

  “Lead on,” Brastigan said.

  He let his helmet dangle from his hand and gave Shadow a final brisk pat before following his guide. Behind Rodrec's back, he made a face. If the hat represented a new style, he was glad he'd been gone for a while.

  Down the courtyard then. Brastigan longed to wash up, as Pikarus's men must be doing by now. But even more, he wanted to see Unferth. It was ironic, Brastigan thought. This was probably the first time he ever went gladly to see the king. It was a shock to think he truly needed Unferth. Of all people in the world, only a father would listen to Brastigan's tale without arguing, and sympathize with all his woes.

  They approached the great hall, and Brastigan felt a stroke of disappointment. He had been hoping for a private conversation. Well, it wouldn't do for people to think he was getting sentimental over the old man, anyway. So what if he went before the king in dirty harness? Call it a reference to his past misdeeds. Unferth would recognize the jest. Alustra wouldn't approve at all, of course, which made it all the better.

  They passed by windows as big as the queen's ego and turned into the ornamental archway. It was crowded inside. The air smelled sweaty. Everyone but Brastigan was dressed in their most fine and formal, but a lot more of the Tanixan puffery was showing these days. Lots of the new, tall hats stood up from the crowd. They made it harder for Brastigan to see over heads, as he was used to. When Rodrec stopped, his hat blocked most of Brastigan's view into the room.

  He quickly realized he wasn't the only armored man in the hall. No merchants and supplicants came before the court today. These were military men, even the ones in velvet. Before the throne, an aide was reading a summary of the troops gathered to defend Crutham's capital.

  Brastigan frowned as he picked out faces in the watching crowd. There was Habrok at the base of the steps. Not unusual, with battle coming, but he didn't so often see his other brothers, Calitar and Axenar, Leolin, Eskelon and Sebbelon. Brastigan hadn't seen so many of his older half-brothers together in years. In fact, almost all of Unferth's adult sons were here. The invasion had turned into a family reunion.

  Rodrec shifted in place. He gave Brastigan a brief bow. “I'm sure the king will be with you momentarily,” he murmured. Then he slithered away.

  “Thanks.” Brastigan didn't bother to lower his voice.

  When he could see past the obnoxious hat, Brastigan's eyes fell on something that banished all trivial speculation from his mind.

  The canopy was draped over the dais, gold stitched with black towers, just as it always was. Only, there were no longer two thrones beneath it. There was just one. Alustra's throne was gone. Unferth's throne sat alone at the center of the dais, but Unferth wasn't sitting on it. Oskar was.

  THE TRAITOR'S TRAP

  For a few hours, Lottres virtually was a griffin, but in time the thrill of flight gave way to monotony as the green-and-gray mountains of Verelay rolled beneath him. They were like waves of the sea, Lottres thought. Supposedly no two were alike, yet there was little to distinguish one from another. Only the tiny mountain lakes had any individuality. Lottres counted them as a way to pass time. Riding along on his stomach meant that his neck hurt whenever he tried to look ahead. He could only look down, and play games to pass the time.

  It was quiet, high in the air. Perhaps that was what made the voice seem so loud. Lottres tensed. It wasn't so much words he heard, but a kind of shout. Someone had sensed their approach. An alarm was being passed.

  Slowly, taking care not to unbalance
his winged steed, Lottres raised himself on his elbows. Just ahead of him, Shaelen was doing the same. Her griffin angled its wings, dropping back to pace Lottres's mount.

  “You heard that?” Shaelen called across the air.

  “Yes,” Lottres called back. “It looks like Brastigan was right.”

  He understood why she spoke aloud, rather than directly to his mind. Yriatt hadn't mentioned any wizards waiting for them in Carthell. If there were sorcerers ahead, they must be eppagadrocca.

  “Keep your guard up,” Shaelen cautioned. Then her griffin beat its wings and surged ahead.

  Lottres could feel more probes now. Subtle touches, as Yriatt did before one of her assaults. He held his breath and stayed calm. No need to reveal himself with panicked bleating. After a moment more, the seeking passed. The two dragons flew onward, unhurried and unconcerned. Lottres reminded himself that he was their thaeme now. They would protect him. He kept his defenses up and scanned the passing mountains. Far below, a little lake winked at him, but he had lost interest in that game.

  The land below was changing at last. The mountains fell away abruptly, in broad terraces. It looked as if the rocks had been shaped into steps for a giant to tread. A huge lake lapped at the base. In some places, rocky cliffs fell straight to the water. In others, pebbled beaches lined the shore. Ymell and Yriatt turned southward, following the water's edge.

  Lottres had never seen it before, but he knew this must be the Sea of Carthell. It was a freshwater lake, vast and deep. Strange peoples lived on the opposite shore in cities too far off to see even from the air. Reeds clad the Carthellan shore, but farther out the lake was glossy and still, so dark it was impenetrable even at midday.

  Even Lottres, with his weak human senses, could smell the water. He sensed his griffin's restlessness. It had flown hard and wanted to drink. Lottres was thirsty, too. He hoped they would land soon. Mindful that hostile wizards might hear, he quieted his thoughts.

  Instead, he looked below for signs of habitation. He first saw small boats, some of reeds and some of wood. Fishermen gaped upward as the two magnificent dragons winged past. Lottres saw no nets in the boats. Instead, he glimpsed something that resembled a lobster pot.

  Boats became more numerous. Soon houses and piers stood along the shore, and wagon trails wound among the trees. The shoreline bent sharply. When they glided around the curve, a city lay before them.

  Carthell was smaller than Lottres had expected. The city lay in a natural bowl beneath the terraced mountains. Protective towers ranged along the step above. These, and the town walls, were built of an unusual, reddish stone. Lottres could see no such tint to the mountains behind Carthell, so the stones must have been imported. As they drew near, he could see that the buildings had rounded roofs, some of wood and others of weathered metal.

  Carthell Keep stood on a small island, connected to the city by a heavily fortified bridge. Its walls were laid in alternating courses of red and gray stone. The striking pattern was a navigational marker as well as a symbol of prestige. As Lottres recalled, his brothers, Rickard and Albrett, had always been quick to point out that Carthell was once an independent state. They claimed their uncle's capital was far older and grander than Harburg. Lottres had never had time to search the archives and refute these assertions. After seeing Carthell, he had to admit a good argument could be made for the grandeur.

  Yriatt and Ymell swooped low across the water as they approached the keep. Their presence had definitely been noted. Horn calls echoed from the keep and city walls, like angry bulls confronting an intruder. Lottres could feel his griffin's agitation. The clear air was muddied by city smells, and the beast didn't want to be so close to people.

  There was a small landing just at the base of the keep's walls. Lake waters lapped at the sides of a large and ornate barge moored there. Something for the duke's private pleasures, Lottres assumed. The dock wasn't large enough for all of them to land at once. Ymell glided in while Yriatt and the two griffins circled over the lake. When Ymell had shrunk to his human form, Yriatt landed.

  Lottres could see men running in the courtyards as his griffin folded its wings to follow Yriatt. The dock was in easy arrow shot of both the walls and bridge, he noted, though there was no sign of hostility. He sensed plenty from the eppagadrocca, however. Lottres had felt no more probes as they drew nearer to Carthell, but he could feel them now. They must have some way to conceal themselves, for he could hear only indistinct murmurs. Some came from the castle and some from the town. There were at least three eppagadrocca. Too much talk was going on for just two men.

  The griffin's talons gouged the wood as it alighted on the dock. Lottres rolled off, landing in a crouch. His former steed flung itself skyward with an angry shriek. Lottres stood slowly, recovering his sense of balance after so many prone hours. With regret, he watched the two griffins retreat. They deserved thanks, but he didn't dare speak to them now.

  “I have sent the griffins to the mountains,” Yriatt said as Shaelen and Lottres joined her and Ymell. “They will wait a few days in case we need them again.”

  “We will wait, too,” Ymell added with a wry smile. “Someone will come to collect us, I'm sure.”

  Lottres opened his mouth, but Shaelen spoke first.

  “You heard the eppagadrocca?” she asked.

  “We did.” Ymell wore a hooded expression. “I believe it would be best, Lottres, if you did not reveal yourself. Maintain your barriers, and let them think you a mere man.”

  “They will know of Shaelen as my thaeme,” Yriatt added. “They may not know of you.”

  Lottres nodded. He could see that the element of surprise might be useful. He said, “With the two of you to worry about, they might not pay much attention to me at all.”

  Both wizards smiled.

  “What do you plan to do, Maen?” Shaelen asked. “Surely they cannot hope to ambush us. We are all aware of each other.”

  “Why, we will bring Duke Johanz our warning,” Ymell said. “What happens after will depend on his response.”

  “It's possible he does not know the eppagadrocca are here,” Yriatt said. “Perhaps he will help us defeat them.”

  From her tone of voice, Yriatt didn't think this was likely. Lottres agreed with her. Unferth wouldn't have tolerated such people in Harburg without his knowing about it. There was no reason to think Johanz was any less vigilant. Lottres felt his heart grow cold. If Carthell was an accomplice, it cast the invasion in a much more treacherous light.

  “Do not think too far ahead, Thaeme,” Yriatt said. “Remember to guard your thoughts. You are still inexperienced. The eppagadrocca may strike at you first, seeking to learn what you know of our intentions.”

  “Don't worry about me, Maess,” Lottres answered stoutly.

  At the end of the dock, a small tower guarded a flight of steps up to the fortress. Its gate now opened with a rattle of chains. The boards of the dock quivered in time to marching feet as a column of soldiers emerged. Their surcoats were purple and white, the colors of Carthell. Their captain wore stiff plumes of the same hues on his helm. When he stopped, with his men ranged behind him, his eyes darted nervously, taking in the four of them.

  “Halt in the name of Duke Johanz,” the captain said, although no one was moving. He spoke a dialect of Cruthan, somewhat nasal but easy enough to understand. “State your names and your purpose.”

  Somewhere in the keep, Lottres could feel strangers straining to hear their reply.

  “I am Ymell, a wizard,” Ymell replied smoothly. He made a half-bow to the wary captain. “I have with me my daughter, Yriatt, and her companion, Shaelen. We are escorting Prince Lottres of Crutham, who comes bearing grave tidings. Duke Johanz will want to hear what we have to say. Will you please lead us to him?”

  The captain's eyes had been fixed on Ymell and Yriatt. At the mention of Lottres's name, his head turned sharply. Their eyes met, and Lottres had the impression of some strong emotion. However, the man's face gave noth
ing away.

  “Then, we are kinsmen,” the captain said. “I am Dietrick, son of Johanz. Well met, cousin Lottres.”

  Lottres stepped forward, extending a hand in greeting. “I thank you for your courtesy, cousin. I only wish the circumstances were different.”

  So this was Johanz's own son? Now that he said it, Lottres did see some suggestion of Albrett in Dietrick's square jaw and deep-set eyes. Dietrick's nose hadn't been broken, as Albrett's had, and he was far too young to wear such a pinched, weary expression.

  To Lottres's surprise, Dietrick took his shoulders in a brief, strong hug.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father,” Dietrick said. “He was a good king.”

  Lottres staggered a little as Dietrick let go. “My father?” he repeated blankly. “What do you mean?”

  Now Dietrick's face was all too easy to read. With stunned pity, he asked, “What, did you not know?”

  Lottres shook his head. “We've been traveling for several weeks. What has happened?”

  “King Unferth passed away some ten days or more gone,” Dietrick said quietly. “King Oskar rules Crutham now.”

  “No!” Lottres murmured. It couldn't be true. Ymell stepped up beside Lottres, steadying him with a gentle hand.

  “These are evil tidings,” Ymell said. “Please tell us more, Lord Dietrick.”

  Dietrick stepped back. His voice was tense now. “I think my father should explain what has happened since then. Please come with me. I will bring you to the duke.”

  The two lines of soldiers edged backward, making room on the narrow dock. Their captain strode back between them. Lottres cast a panic-stricken look at Yriatt as he followed Dietrick. Soldiers fell in on either side of them, silent except for the rhythmic tramping of feet.

  The stairway was long, and wider than it had looked. There was plenty of room for the soldiers, but they stuck close anyway. Lottres followed Dietrick beneath one of the rounded towers and directly into the keep. Servants stood aside, pretending not to stare as the horned wizards passed.