“You are too kind,” Johanz answered. His eyes were hot with resentment, but his manner changed as Yriatt banked outside the window. With leisurely power, the dragon glided toward the castle walls. Men murmured as she disappeared from view. Then the Carthellans drew into a tight huddle around their duke. Dietrick hesitated before going to join them.
Lottres and Shaelen followed Ymell as he slowly walked away from the Carthellans. They made their own cluster just inside the door.
Joined mind to mind, Lottres silently asked, “Where do you think he is?”
“I don't know,” Shaelen answered quickly, “but there's something else.” Lottres could sense her tension in the tightness of his own knees. Even before she said it, he guessed. “Brastigan is in trouble. I feel it.”
“Brastigan?” Ymell asked with quick concern.
“Are you still linked to him?” Lottres asked. “I thought...”
“It must be because of her,” Shaelen said. Lottres could feel her frustration. “My shadow self was so connected to Brastigan, I - I just know something is wrong!”
“My grandson should have been in Harburg for several hours by now,” Ymell said. Lottres was surprised at the wizard's tone of affection and concern.
“I know,” Shaelen said. “I don't understand what could be wrong.”
“With Brastigan?” Lottres couldn't help smiling. “It could be anything.”
Behind them, he caught rumbles from the Carthellan circle. “...I never touched him, Father,” came Dietrick's set voice. Albrett whined something, and Johanz snapped, “That has changed.”
“Brastigan should be safe,” Ymell murmured. Lottres had the impression he was trying to reassure himself more than anyone else.
“No one in Harburg is safe,” Yriatt cut in. Lottres could sense her in the corridor outside. “For that is where Ysislaw is.”
Ymell responded with an almost physical jerk, restraining such a powerful hate that Lottres felt scorched by its fury. The door opened and Yriatt entered. Her face was composed, but her eyes blazed with emotion.
“Then we go to Harburg,” Ymell said. Not that there was really any question, Lottres thought.
“And these fools?” Yriatt glanced at the murmuring circle of Carthellans.
“If we win, it will not matter what they do,” Ymell responded.
But Lottres wondered if this was true. Now that Shaelen had spoken of her fears, Lottres did feel a lurking dread. He pictured Brastigan in his mind, seeking some sense of his brother, a way to convince himself all was well. He felt only emptiness. Just as when Yriatt tried to find Eben, Lottres thought. There was simply nothing. Only now, knowing that Ysislaw was in Harburg, did he guess the enemy wizard must have been blocking all probes in order to conceal his presence.
“We'll look for Brastigan as soon as we reach Harburg,” Lottres said, speaking to Shaelen alone.
Her chin twitched in an unhappy nod. “I shouldn't feel this way,” she said, a resentful grumble. “I don't even like him.”
“Sometimes I don't, either,” Lottres confessed.
“Enough.” The Duke's voice came clear and strong. He stood up at the table, while his advisors scurried back to make a united front around him. The four wizards, too, turned to give Johanz their attention.
“I thank you for your guidance, Master Ymell.” Johanz spoke in a conciliatory, even obsequious, tone of voice. “Although Carthell is under no obligation to King Oskar, it is true we have historic ties. I shall send my army to Crutham. Perhaps, as you have said, gratitude will strengthen our position in later negotiations.”
As clearly as if Johanz had spoken aloud, Lottres heard him think, “And if Crutham is weakened by battle, we may be able to defeat them without the aid of any allies. Then Albrett will see his wish granted, and so will I.”
Lottres glanced at Ymell and Yriatt, but neither of them gave any indication they had heard Johanz. Ymell made a sweeping bow.
“You are indeed a wise and foresighted leader,” Ymell said. His flattery was as obviously false as Johanz's had been. “Now I must take my leave. There is another pressing matter before me, but I will look forward to seeing the banner of Carthell on the field of battle.”
“That you shall,” Duke Johanz affirmed. “Dietrick, my son—see to this.”
“At once, Father.” Dietrick saluted and left. For the first time since they arrived, Lottres thought, he didn't look as if his teeth hurt.
The four wizards bowed as well and took their leave. Lottres watched Dietrick walking ahead of them. Dietrick didn't seem to suspect his father's duplicity. His thoughts were full of materials to be gathered and orders to be given.
Yriatt asked, “Do we permit Johanz to do this, Father?”
“I have done what I can,” Ymell answered. His thoughts were remote, and probably focused on his old enemy, Ysislaw. “The Cruthans will have to deal with Carthell. Even we cannot be everywhere, daughter.”
But Lottres wasn't certain Oskar could deal with Johanz, not while Ysislaw lurked in Harburg. This one exchange illustrated just how useful mind-magic could be—and how dangerous. Just as Lottres knew Johanz's intentions, Ysislaw could know his enemies' every thought and see their strategies before they took shape. How could Oskar, or Brastigan, or anyone else, hope to defeat him?
* * *
“Housekeeping,” called Nerona. She knocked gently on Brastigan's door. “May I come in?”
There was no reply from inside the room. Nerona, the head maid, glanced anxiously at Therula. The princess nodded with an assurance she didn't feel.
The housekeeper turned the key in the lock. It creaked and then opened with a heavy snap. The lock worked as reluctantly as the housekeeper did, Therula thought. Not that she blamed Nerona. Brastigan wasn't likely to be glad of the disturbance.
The chamber beyond the doorway was dark. Undeterred, Pikarus pushed right in with Javes at his heels. Therula and Cliodora lingered in the doorway.
“Will there be anything else, your highness?” Nerona asked.
“No, thank you. This will do,” Therula replied. Nerona bowed and walked away. Only then did Therula murmur to Cliodora, “Come on.”
Feeling like an intruder, Therula led her younger sister into Brastigan's small suite. She could hear Pikarus's voice, muffled, from the bedchamber.
“You were right about the drink,” Therula murmured to Cliodora. She waved a hand before her face to dispel the fruity aroma. “It smells like apple brandy in here.”
Javes came out, carrying a candle. He lit this at the nearest cresset. The two young women waited until Javes had returned with the light before venturing past the doorway.
“He was sitting right there,” Cliodora said. She pointed to the small table and chairs under the narrow window. The table stood at an odd angle from the wall, and one of the chairs lay tipped over in the corner farthest from the door.
“He isn't here now,” Pikarus said as he returned from the bedchamber. “But I found this on the bed.” Pikarus lifted his hand, displaying a sword in its sheath. Therula immediately recognized Brastigan's weapon, Victory. Like most men she knew, he seldom went anywhere without it.
Except for Pikarus's voice, the room was very quiet. It was also rather chilly. Therula had the impression no one had been here for a good while. She felt colder, wondering about Brastigan's absence.
“Where could he be?” Cliodora asked, sidling closer to Therula.
“Take a look at this,” Javes said.
He set the candle on the table and knelt to reach under it. Javes straightened with a small, dark green bottle in his hand. Pikarus held the bottle near the candle. Glass gleamed as he turned it from side to side. Therula saw something on the bottle, a brown smear clouding the shining smoothness. A long black hair curled away from it.
The two soldiers passed a grim look between them. Therula swallowed heavily, and went to join the two men. Cliodora followed close behind.
Therula made herself ask, “Is that blood?”
Pikarus stared at the bottle, his eyes narrowed in thought. Almost absently, he reached out to draw Therula to his side.
“Yes, it is blood,” he said quietly. “Someone has been here, and Brastigan is gone.”
“Who would want to attack him?” Therula asked. “Why now, instead of while you were on the road?”
“I want to find him,” Cliodora whimpered. “What can we do?”
The silent room was full of portent. Shadows, thrown by the candle flame, loomed on all sides of them. Therula could almost have thought the silhouettes were leaning closer, listening.
“There is only one person who can help us now,” Pikarus answered softly. He looked into Therula's eyes. “We need to see your mother.”
It looked like there was good reason for Pikarus to be worried about Brastigan, but Therula still felt confused. She didn't like not knowing what was going on.
“If we do,” she asked, “will you explain what's happening?”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “I will explain it to the queen, and to you.”
As best she could, Therula drew strength from her beloved's nearness. She straightened her back and lifted her chin.
“Let's go see Mother,” she said.
* * *
He felt his head first, pounding like waves against the shore. Then he felt his stomach, churning in time with the spinning of his head. Brastigan came to himself by painful degrees, and wished every moment that he could return to oblivion.
He was lying down. The surface beneath him was too hard for any bed. His shoulders felt stiff and cramped. Brastigan tried to turn over, but he couldn't move his arms. He struggled, kicking and swearing. The burst of panic did nothing to help his situation. It did, however, bring him fully awake.
He was in chains, of course. In a small, dark room. The feeble light of a wall torch sent fresh torment blazing through his eyes. Brastigan squinted and blinked. As the pain faded he saw curved walls, a steel chamber pot, a straw pallet where he had been lying. A stout wooden door was opposite him, well beyond reach.
Brastigan twisted in place, trying to see the manacles behind him. Iron chains ran from his wrists to a fitting in the wall. These held his hands behind him. However, he was relieved to discover that his wrists weren't fastened together. The chains were merely twisted around each other. Rolling carefully, out of respect for the protests of his stomach, he managed to untangle them. With great relief, Brastigan stretched his arms to loosen his shoulders.
Reaching behind his head, he found a painful welt and a damp stickiness on his hair. The bump felt huge. No wonder his head was pounding. He was still wearing the same clothes he had had on earlier, including his boots and sword belt, but Victory was missing.
Whoever did this had been in a hurry, Brastigan thought. He felt his lips twitch in a dark grin. You could tell he had been attacked in the castle—on the streets of Crutham, his boots would have been the first thing stolen. Patting his chest, he determined that Leithan's jeup was still there, too.
The stonework looked familiar, so he was still in Crutham Keep. This wasn't the main dungeon, though. He must be in one of the tower rooms. From the size of it, probably Eben's tower. They hadn't moved him far—another suggestion of haste in his abduction. The floor was suspiciously dry and clean, and the links had the sheen of new metal. Someone had made all this recently, then. But why?
Brastigan sat up, straw crackling as he moved. He leaned forward and propped his head on his knees. His memory was patchy. He recalled talking to Margura, and something about Cliodora, and drinking until he passed out. Then there was a little bit of a fight. Which, obviously, he had lost.
He should have known better than to drink what Margura had given him, especially right after he broke off their relationship, but it had felt so good to be drunk. It was what he wanted most in the world, to just pass out and not have to think for a while. Margura's parting gift had seemed a miracle.
He'd let that need blind him. Now he wasn't feeling quite so good. Locked up, hung over, and a horrible taste in his mouth. Brastigan didn't doubt Margura had betrayed him. What he couldn't figure out was why. She didn't have the resources to construct a prison for the punishment of her former lovers, either. If she did, he thought, it would be a lot more crowded. Margura must have been acting for someone else. But who, and why?
The lock turned in the door. The quiet sound startled him. Brastigan didn't move, kept his forehead against his knees. His temples pounded in time with his anxious heartbeat as the door opened, admitting another painful stream of light. Through slitted eyes, he looked up.
A man swept in, silhouetted against the torchlight from outside. A heavily cloaked form followed at a careful distance. The man was Oskar. It had to be. Who else would wear that enormous hat?
Then Brastigan saw, really saw, the shape of Oskar's hat. In that moment, he realized several things. He understood the new fashion in headwear. He knew why Oskar hadn't seemed to care that he belittled Alustra. Why Oskar hadn't asked after Lottres. How Eben had vanished so suddenly. And Brastigan knew he was in even worse trouble than he had thought.
He also knew why Ymell couldn't find Ysislaw with his armies. The evil dragon wasn't with his armies. He was here, in Crutham, wearing another man's face: Oskar's face, the face of the king.
The door clicked shut. Footsteps drew closer, grating over the floor. Brastigan cursed himself for not recognizing the horns sooner. He was so tired, he'd let the shock of his father's death blind him. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to think. What could he do now? If Ymell was right, Ysislaw might well kill him. He had no way to protect himself.
Brastigan let go a shuddering breath. He was a warrior. He would face his enemy, not hide. Brastigan opened his eyes.
To every appearance, Oskar strolled toward him. There were the rich mourning robes, the crown of gold and big velvet hat. It wasn't a bad imposture at all. Ysislaw looked every bit as pleased with himself as Oskar usually did.
“Well met, noble brother.” Ysislaw's voice was rich with gloating as he tossed Brastigan's words back at him from earlier that day.
Brastigan gritted his teeth and made a decision. “No brother of mine,” he answered, a flat challenge. He was sure he would regret speaking out. Didn't he always?
“So you know me?” The stranger who wore Oskar's face smiled. “Excellent. It saves me the bother of explaining.”
“Glad to be of help,” Brastigan growled sarcastically.
Ysislaw's smile widened with malice. “It would be too bad to think poor old Ymell had an idiot for a grandson.”
Who said he didn't?
“You killed my father,” Brastigan charged. He sounded calmer than he felt.
Ysislaw shrugged. “A mere trifle.” His smile vanished, leaving Oskar's eyes cold and remote, utterly divorced from humanity. “Kings come and go, but we endure.”
Brastigan knew all too well what he was referring to, and he was pretty sure his dubious birthright didn't extend to a dragon's immortality. Brastigan looked away, and his eyes fell on Ysislaw's companion, who had stopped well behind him. A voluminous black cloak concealed most of her face, but Brastigan caught the wink of a yellow gem in the cleft of her deep green gown.
It was Margura, of course. He'd never doubted her treachery, really, yet the betrayal stung. She was Cruthan. How could she ally herself with the tyrant of Sillets?
“You are ignoring me,” Ysislaw said abruptly.
“So sorry,” Brastigan retorted. “It's just that I could never keep my eyes off a pretty girl.”
Ysislaw made a flicking motion of the wrist. Brastigan gasped against a sudden pain. It felt like a lightning bolt had entered through his eyes, passed through his skull, and ricocheted off the bump on his head. Brastigan gave a choked cry, and another. He felt he couldn't breathe past the agony.
“Never ignore me,” Ysislaw told him with cold hate, “and never be so bold again. I may need you alive, but it does not have to be pleasant fo
r you.”
The pain seemed to go on for hours. Soon enough Brastigan leaned back, panting and trying to keep his gorge down.
“So I'm your hostage?” Brastigan managed to choke out.
“Do not forget it,” Ysislaw said.
For the first time, Margura spoke. Her voice was low and submissive, her eyes downcast. “Your majesty, there was your pledge to me, also?”
Tensely, Ysislaw turned toward her. He smiled again, but carefully, as if he must remember how to do it.
“Oh, that?” He turned a sneering glance on Brastigan. “I don't know why you chose this mongrel.”
“No other is suited to my need,” she murmured.
Brastigan could hardly recognize the bold minx he had known. Margura's treachery was truly complete. She hadn't been duped into thinking she served Oskar. She knew who Ysislaw really was, or she wouldn't be so respectful.
“It means nothing to me. A bargain is a bargain, and I do appreciate all your efforts, Lady Margura.” Ysislaw spoke indulgently, but then added, “This won't spare him, you know.”
She sank in a deep curtsey. “I would never ask it. I am deeply grateful to your majesty's help. My only wish is to serve you in return.”
Brastigan watched, feeling his headache ease. Better to concentrate on their conversation than on his pain. Any thought of escape or revenge would have to wait. Whatever he knew to save Crutham would have to stay buried, at least until Ysislaw was gone. Then Ysislaw turned toward Brastigan with narrowed eyes.
Brastigan quickly muttered, “I'm not ignoring you.”
“Good.” Ysislaw's grin was all teeth. “Then let me be the first to congratulate you.”
Brastigan asked, because it seemed to be expected, “For what?”
“Oh, didn't your mistress tell you?” Ysislaw asked with cheerful malice. “You and Margura are to wed.”
Brastigan stared at them. This was so alien to what he expected, he could do nothing else. Margura tensed, flushed with humiliation, and Brastigan understood a whole new set of things.
“Alemin,” he managed. “You're the one who... And he ran out on you. That's why you were so friendly right before I left. You wanted me to think the babe was mine.”
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