“I don't know if she had a name,” Pikarus said. “I never heard one.”
“She didn't have a name?” Cliodora scowled, as if she was sure Pikarus was teasing her.
“Let it be, Cliodora,” Therula warned. Pikarus had been using only past tense in speaking of this mystery woman. Something must have happened to her. For one thing, if she were still alive, Brastigan wouldn't have her horse.
Cliodora walked along, pouting. Therula heard her muttering that she would ask him about it herself. Walking like this wasn't exactly togetherness, but Therula had no intention of being alone again. Reminding herself that she wanted to enjoy Pikarus's company, the elder princess asked, “What kind of horse is it?”
“Urulai,” Pikarus said.
“Really?” Therula demanded. For a moment, her love smiled into her eyes, just as in days gone by.
“It is a fine mare,” Pikarus said. “I can understand why Brastigan is so attached.”
They had crossed the courtyard at last. Therula pushed into the stables, eager for a sight of the rare breed. It was easy to pick out the Urulai horse by her height alone. Her coat seemed to gleam in the dim light of the stable, a gray as pale as moonlight. The mare had her nose buried in a pouch of grain, but lifted her head with a snap as they approached.
A groom appeared, bowing to both princesses. “Did you want to ride, your highnesses? I'm afraid Fire Rose still isn't ready to ride, but there is the bay...”
“Bring me an apple,” Therula answered absently. Her full attention was on the beautiful horse.
The lad cleared his throat. “Your highness, Prince Brastigan didn't want anyone to be near this horse.”
His Adam's apple bobbed nervously when Therula turned, frowning. Then she realized he was probably right. The Urulai horse had backed to the far end of her stall and fixed them with a wary regard. Strangers clearly made her uneasy, and a frightened horse was a dangerous horse.
“It's all right,” Therula told the groom. She stepped back to give the animal room. It seemed she would have to be content with admiring the mare from a distance. She had an elegant, arched neck and dark eyes that reminded Therula of a wild deer. It was hard to estimate her height without getting closer, but the Urulai horse clearly overtopped the other beasts in the stable, just as Brastigan stood tall among men.
“She's beautiful.” Cliodora sighed with longing.
“I can see why Brastigan wanted her,” Therula agreed.
“Sergeant!” A call made them all look around. Javes trotted into the stables.
“No one's seen hide or hair of him,” Javes reported, breathing lightly. “I don't like this.”
“Nor do I,” Pikarus said. He turned to Therula. “We may still have time before dinner.”
“Time for what?” Therula asked. She had the feeling there was something she was supposed to know, something obvious, but she didn't know, and it chafed like a woolen cloak against her skin.
“To find Brastigan,” Pikarus answered impatiently. “He must still be in his room. Can you summon the housekeeper to let us in?”
“Of course.” Therula turned away before her face betrayed her, but her heart was a storm of hurt and rage. Why was Brastigan so important? Pikarus had had weeks to talk to Brastigan! He should have wanted to spend time with her, Therula. To reassure her there was hope for their love. Instead, he was obsessed with her rascal brother.
Pikarus had said that Oskar's wager didn't matter, but maybe that wasn't how he really felt. For the first time, Therula was willing to consider that Oskar, with his odious assumptions, might have been right.
* * *
Someone was knocking on the door. A man's voice came muffled from the corridor. It might have been Pikarus. Or it might not.
Brastigan roused just enough to realize that he didn't care who it was or what they wanted. His head felt too heavy to lift. He let it rest on the tabletop and waited for the noise to stop so he could go back to sleep.
* * *
Brastigan snapped awake as rough hands caught at his elbows. Reflex, honed by too many days spent at the Dead Donkey, moved him before his mind was fully awake.
Brastigan caught the edge of the table, where he had been sleeping. He pushed with his hands and kicked with his feet. Table legs grated over the floor as the force sent him crashing into someone on his right.
“Yoh!” the fellow yelled. There was a crash and a thud as Brastigan's chair and the man went to the floor together. Another man laughed coarsely.
Brastigan tottered backward, giving himself room. There were two men, one on either side of him. They wore the hauberks and helms of the palace guard.
“Who are you?” Brastigan demanded. His voice was thick with drink. “Get out of here—I'm sleeping!”
He was still in his quarters. Fading daylight in the window showed that he had been passed out for some while. His two visitors looked like Cruthan soldiers. There was the familiar black surcoat with the tower insignia on the breast. But that definitely wasn't Cruthan they were grunting at each other. They ignored his orders and advanced, grinning unpleasantly.
Unfortunately, Brastigan was still staggering drunk. At least, he hoped he was drunk. How else to explain the whirling black tunnel where the archway into his bedroom should be?
There was no time to think about that. The two men separated, coming at him from different angles. Brastigan had witnessed enough robberies to know what could happen next.
“Get out of here!” he shouted. Brastigan was suddenly furious at these oafs for barging into his peaceful binge. They didn't listen.
He lunged at the man on his left. He used his foot instead of his fist, a spinning kick that blended into his dizziness. He was too slow. The fellow caught his foot and pulled, dragging him forward. Brastigan fell, but he managed to twist his foot free. He landed rolling and would have come to his feet, but the other one swung Margura's bottle in a swift green arc.
Light and pain exploded in Brastigan's head. He lay twitching, desperate to move. His legs wouldn't obey him. He was kicked onto his face. His arms were jerked behind him. Then came the cold click of manacles. And the world went away again.
FREE AND YET TRAPPED
Dietrick advanced down the steps, drawing his sword as he came. Reluctantly, Lottres raised his own weapon in response. From the moment they left their prison cells, this fight had been inevitable. Still, he wished it didn't have to happen.
“I don't want to fight you,” Lottres said. He eased back, eyeing the archers on one side and Dietrick on the other. Ymell and Shaelen were striding across the courtyard, but they were probably too far off to help.
“I see you have discovered the rats in our cellar,” Dietrick answered. “These vermin have infested Carthell for too long. I'm in your debt for destroying them.”
Dietrick spoke almost cheerfully, and he wasn't even looking at Lottres. His gaze was fixed on the fallen Silletsian. The eppagadrocca stopped struggling as Dietrick approached. Lottres could see no sign of Shaelen's energy arrow, save for a small hole in his tunic and a dark blot soaking through the fabric.
“Get away from me,” the eppagadrocca panted with shrill panic. “I have the Duke's favor! If you touch me, your father will...”
He suddenly fell silent. The point of Dietrick's sword was at his throat.
“I think not.” Dietrick's voice was thick. Lottres felt his mind boiling with frustration. “For months, I have been forced to endure your blight upon Carthell. You offered my father victory, but you have only led him to dishonor. Perhaps to his death. I have had to stand by, watching, but now —.” Dietrick drew back his sword.
“No!” shrieked the Silletsian.
“My lord!” Ymell called. “A moment, if you please.”
Dietrick's shoulders trembled with the effort of restraining himself. “A moment only.”
“Please allow me to handle this,” Ymell said as he reached Lottres's side. “You must not bloody your sword, Lord Dietrick.”
“Even if I wish to?” Dietrick smiled, showing his teeth.
“I can guess how this has troubled you,” Ymell answered. “You, a man of honor, have been forced to cooperate with scoundrels. When you objected, your father sent you to command the walls rather than heeding your counsel. Is this not true?”
Ymell's words were soothing, all reason. He didn't use magic to compel Dietrick's obedience. As far as Lottres could tell, Ymell relied on logic alone. Dietrick nodded with an angry jerk, reluctant to concede the argument.
“Do not judge the duke too harshly,” Ymell said. “The sorcerers of Sillets can entice a man to their way of thinking, even against his own will.”
“That wouldn't take any great persuasion,” Dietrick snapped back. “The duke's ambitions are well known here.”
“Now we come, upsetting the apple cart.” Ymell spread his hands with wry humor. “This is, indeed, a chance to reverse your father's unwise policies, but your sword must be clean, my lord, lest your motives be placed in doubt.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Dietrick demanded. “As long as these sorcerers live, my father is bound to them. Only when they die can he see past their lies.”
“You need not strike the blow yourself,” Ymell reasoned. “If you permit me, I can assure that he dies quickly and painlessly, with no blame upon you.”
“A painless death is more than he deserves,” Dietrick said, but the moment of crisis had passed. Dietrick's sword point sagged toward the cobblestones. He would no longer strike in the heat of rage.
Then, from behind him, Lottres felt a surge of power—Shaelen's power. The eppagadrocca gave a choked cry and lay still, a pool of darker red spreading around him. Dietrick watched dispassionately, as if the man were no more than a rat caught in the storerooms of the keep.
Lottres couldn't help wincing, though he knew the man would gladly have killed him if their places had been reversed. If Ymell disapproved of Shaelen's deed, he gave no sign.
“It seems the question has been settled,” Ymell observed. “Perhaps this is for the best.”
Dietrick slid his sword into its sheath with an irritated motion. This may have been a signal, for the soldiers on the walls relaxed. The archers unstrung their bows and began to file back into the tower.
“All that remains,” Dietrick said, “is to decide what to do about the three of you.”
“We were just on our way to speak to the duke,” Ymell answered mildly, yet with a hint of steel. “There are matters we have to discuss. Will you escort us? I'm sure he would feel safer.”
“No doubt,” Dietrick said, but he made no move to lead them anywhere. “One of you is absent. Your daughter was with you earlier, I believe. Did she remain in her chamber, while the rest of you stepped out for this adventure?”
“Not at all,” Ymell replied. “Yriatt has gone to hunt the other rats beyond these walls. Fear not—my daughter is very discreet.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Lottres thought. While Ymell stayed in the keep, attracting attention to himself, Yriatt had gone to find the last eppagadrocca.
“In good time,” Dietrick said, “I would like an accounting of those rats. For the moment, I will do as you ask. Please come with me.”
Dietrick strode off, stiff-legged. Lottres waited until Ymell had passed, and fell in beside Shaelen. As they climbed the steps toward the massive gate, some of Dietrick's guardsmen emerged. At his curt motion, half of them continued into the courtyard. Glancing back, Lottres saw them preparing to remove the bodies from public view. The remaining soldiers fell in around Dietrick and Ymell.
Dietrick led them upward, into the heart of the keep, and this time Lottres watched carefully where they were going. Soon they approached a pair of big wooden doors, carved with figures of sailing vessels. The two guards there looked askance at Ymell, but they saluted Dietrick and allowed him to pass.
The room beyond was a large council chamber. Ruddy sunset light flowed in at a broad window. Beyond the glass lay a stunning landscape of mountains and water. Nearer at hand, a group of men were gathered around something on the council table. Lottres immediately recognized Duke Johanz and Albrett.
“Father,” Dietrick said. “May I speak with you?”
“What was all that noise?” Johanz demanded, looking up. When he saw Ymell, he closed his mouth with a snap. Albrett, at the duke's elbow, stood straighter. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Lottres.
“I'm afraid that is my fault,” Ymell said in a self-deprecating tone. “I must speak with your grace on an urgent matter. In my impatience, I left my chambers and was waylaid by those whom I know as my enemies.”
Johanz put on an expression of concern. “As I feared. I cannot guarantee your safety, Lord Ymell, if you won't accept my protection.”
“There is no need for any concern,” Ymell answered with a stern gleam in his eye now. “The eppagadrocca will trouble you no longer.”
Johanz couldn't quite hide his scowl at this news, but he turned his anger on Dietrick.
“And what do you say to this?” Johanz demanded. “Are chance travelers permitted to assault my invited guests?”
“How was I to stop them, Father?” Dietrick asked. His voice was strained and posture stiff. “The noises you heard were cyclones from the heavens and lightning they summoned to their hands. We are mere archers and swordsmen.”
“If these guests couldn't defend themselves,” Shaelen said quietly, “perhaps they were never as powerful as they claimed.”
As one, the Carthellans bristled at her words.
“Please,” Ymell interposed. “I have little time for nonsense, your grace, so I will speak plainly. My companion —” Ymell nodded to Lottres, who was suddenly aware of sharp eyes on himself “— has reminded me that you are a man of experience and not a callow fool. Therefore I will not insult you by suggesting you do not know who your guests were and what their purpose was. Nor will I bother to warn you that the Emperor of Sillets is a practiced deceiver. That many others before you have sat down at his table, only to find themselves and their lands as the main remove.”
Johanz sat calmly enough, though his hands, folded on the table, showed his anger in their white-fingered grip. On closer viewing, Lottres saw his face was seamed with fine lines of age. Ymell, who must be far the elder, appeared youthful in contrast.
“Then what are you here for?” Albrett demanded. His fleshy face was red with anger.
“Merely to advise,” Ymell replied. He didn't deign to look upon Albrett, but focused his mild regard on Johanz. “Those who were sent to foment rebellion are gone. No longer do they control you, or spy on you. If you choose, you may now reconsider this perilous alliance.”
“Why should we wish to do that?” Johanz countered. “We who were once free...”
“Your bond with Crutham may be irksome,” Ymell interrupted, “but the yoke of slavery to Sillets would be far worse, I promise. For this moment only, Carthell is free. Whether it remains so is your decision.”
“What do you care for Carthell's freedom?” demanded one of the other young men at the table.
And Albrett puffed out his chest. “If Carthell is to be part of Crutham, why shouldn't one of us rule the whole? I have an equal claim to the throne of Crutham.”
So that was it! Lottres couldn't help laughing. He shouldn't have been surprised by Albrett's claim. The Carthellans scowled at his mirth.
“Come, brother,” Lottres mocked Albrett. “You couldn't stand up to Calitar or Axenar, let alone challenge Habrok in battle. Or did you think our cousin Dietrick would fight in your place?”
Even as he said it, Lottres felt Albrett flinch inside. The fat fraud must have hoped to avoid fighting for the throne at all. Perhaps Albrett hoped Habrok would simply die in the war, and spare him the effort.
“A king need not dirty his hands,” Albrett said, in what he must have hoped was a lofty tone. Even Johanz's face showed a trace of disgust.
“On the contrary, young man,” Ymell
said, so kindly that Lottres flinched from the depth of the insult. “Above all else, a ruler must be willing to do what is needful, not only for himself but for the sake of his people.” Then the horned wizard's eyes returned to Johanz. “Even if it means stepping back from his heart's desire. Your grace, I urge you to consider your position. An invasion has been launched, open war declared—but not by you. There is still time, if you have the wisdom to seize it. Put aside your pride. Lead your troops to Crutham's defense. If you aid him now, King Oskar may be willing to overlook your tardiness.”
“If I don't?” Johanz did not flinch when meeting Ymell's gaze. “Will you summon your lightning to blast us all?”
“I will not apologize for defending myself,” Ymell replied. Even now, Lottres was amazed that he didn't use his powers to force his will on Johanz. “Nor would I threaten you, your grace. What I offer is an honorable compromise. To accept would be the wiser course.”
“Father.” Yriatt's voice came suddenly, vibrant with excitement.
Ymell broke off, and both Shaelen and Lottres started at her call. No one else seemed to notice. There were gasps in the room, men cursing and hands falling to sword hilts. A huge, black form soared outside the window. Yriatt turned in the air, making a purposeful display of her wings and talons.
Two of the duke's advisors leaned forward, speaking into his ears. They meant to whisper, but Lottres heard them clearly.
“It's the monster we saw before,” one said. “How do we fight such a creature?”
“Don't listen to the wizard, your grace,” another was saying. “You have committed yourself to Sillets. You cannot step back, for the sake of our freedom.”
While they murmured, Ymell asked, “You disposed of the last eppagadrocca?”
“I did,” Yriatt replied. “In dying, his mind was laid bare to me. I know where he is.”
Lottres felt his heart skip. He had no doubt who Yriatt meant.
“Return to me,” Ymell said. Aloud, he said to Johanz, “If you wish to confer, your grace, I will be happy to wait for a moment.”
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