Her arms full of musty sea otter, Tirza wheeled and stared at her. Tirza’s first thought was that someone would hear them and the second that Mervaly was making a mistake, and she shook her head hard at her.
“Don’t argue with me,” Mervaly said. “Go back. I’ll be right there.”
Tirza said, “No, don’t. Please.”
“Ssssh! You sound like a bear.” Mervaly pushed her away. “I’m your oldest sister. Do as I say.” She backed up a step, toward the open stairway behind her. Tirza stood motionless, watching. Mervaly went quickly around the corner and up into the tower, out of sight.
* * *
It would only take a few moments. She would feed the birds and bid them fly away. Otherwise they would wait for her; they would suffer. Mervaly slid through the wall into her room.
The seagull rose off the sill, screaming at her, flapping its wings, circled her head, and all around the other birds screeched and fluttered, a deafening cacophony, a mad glitter of eyes. The owlet even woke to screech at her. She laughed. She imagined what had happened when the Imperials burst in, how the birds would have greeted that. She crossed the room toward the bin where she kept their food in crocks, saying, “You must all go, at once; we are—” And one step before she reached the bin, her foot struck against something on the floor and a net fell from the ceiling all around her.
The birds hushed at once. Too late, she saw they had been trying to warn her. She twisted around, toward the wall, thinking surely Tirza had not abandoned her, had followed her, would save her now. And there Tirza was, in the stone, but even then the door burst open, three soldiers rushed in, and Tirza vanished.
* * *
Casea had found bread and cheese and a ewer of wine, and they sat together in the room of the dead, wrapped in the old fur robes and picking morosely at the food. The lamp spread its steady green light around them. It was probably still night but perhaps not. Tirza was worn down and wanted to sleep and she leaned on Casea, who put her arm around her.
“We have to find Mervaly,” Casea said. “We can’t just leave her with them.”
Tirza yawned. She wondered where Mervaly was; remembering the net falling on her made Tirza shudder. She was more afraid of Oto now, who had done that, and she hated him.
“But we have to be careful. We can’t let them catch us all,” Casea said. “I wish I knew what Luka is doing.”
Tirza straightened up, awake again, thinking of Jeon also. She said, “They will come back.” Her voice made groans and barks.
Casea said, “I think one of us should go to find him.” She hugged Tirza against her. “And the other go keep watch on Mervaly, somehow.”
Tirza moved her head a little, where it rested on Casea’s shoulder, nestling in. She saw the edge of a story, how a Princess became an outlaw and rescued her two sisters. But Tirza could only tell it to herself; Casea was out of reach, and Casea had already made up her mind.
“I’ll go find Luka,” Casea said. “You find Mervaly.” She began to settle herself in the rugs of fur, holding Tirza against her, so when they were both lying down Tirza was in Casea’s arms. “After we get some sleep.”
Tirza stiffened, resisting that; she had the story now, even if it was different. But Casea stroked Tirza’s face again. “Sleep. Sleep.” Tirza yawned, and shut her eyes.
* * *
When Tirza woke, Casea was already on her feet, shaking out her crumpled skirts. “It’s daylight now,” Casea said, although Tirza did not see how she knew that. “I’m going to find Luka. You must look for Mervaly and stay near her.” Casea raked her thick red hair back, and tied it in a knot at the nape of her neck. “But don’t get caught.” She bent, and placed a kiss on Tirza’s forehead. “Be careful. I’ll come right back.” She went off across the chamber, and disappeared into the wall.
Tirza folded her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. She wished she knew what to do. In the niches all around her the old ones slumbered, or stared, or smiled to themselves; not one of them would do anything to help her.
She bit her teeth together, angry. There had to be a way to make them help her. If she knew the right words, surely she could summon them. She struggled to imagine them bound to her will, an army of the dead. Maybe if she made a story about them she would discover what she needed to know to command them.
Her mind slipped, reversing that. They had come first. They had always been here. Maybe they were making up a story about her.
That bothered her and she pushed it away. Now she did not want them to help her. Suddenly she felt better. She got up and began to look for Mervaly.
* * *
The long wind off the sea raked the grass back on the top of the cliff. Dawd grounded his pike and stared down the path toward Undercastle. The sun was well up now, but the beach was still in shadow; from high up here, he could see the whole town, and the quiet startled him.
“Where are they? It’s full daylight; they should be busy down there.”
Marwin took a long drink from his water skin. “Inside. Hiding.” He slapped the cork into the skin’s mouth.
“Then where is the Lord Broga?”
“Out there, somewhere.” The corporal waved a hand vaguely to the south. “He’ll be here soon, and these bumpkins will never know what hit them.” He chuckled, and stretched. “Still, now that I’m off duty, I would like to go down to that alehouse.”
“Go back to the castle.” Dawd was searching the beach with his eyes. The place was quiet, the four boats drawn up on the shore, the space empty where usually the awnings of the shops flapped. But there came an old woman trudging up from the stream, hauling a bucket, and some small children were playing near the cypress. They were certainly not hiding. And Broga had left almost a day ago: he should have shown up by now. Then, from the near end of the beach, from the shadow of the castle, a woman walked along the sand.
Dawd knew her at once, her way of walking, the carriage of her head, the color of her abundant hair. He glanced around at Marwin, who was packing up his gear. His squadron was already lined up on the road to the castle, waiting for him. Dawd moved, drawing the attention of his men away from the beach, and began to give orders, so they would not see the Princess Casea, sauntering off along the edge of the surf.
It struck him this was disloyalty, probably even treason of some kind. He could not do otherwise. Betraying her was worse. The uneasy feeling in his belly deepened into a sour gripe. He was a soldier. He was supposed to obey orders. He went in among his men to tell them where to stand, what to do, who could not decide himself where he stood or what he should do.
* * *
Tirza could not find Mervaly. In the great hall Tirza saw no one except a few men trying to build a wall across the edge of the terrace. The birds were still flying in and out of the window of the sisters’ room at the top of the south tower, but she saw no sign that Mervaly had been there since the net fell on her. Tirza went in and tipped over the jars of food, so that the birds could eat when they willed.
She went up and down the walls until there was nowhere left to look except the new tower.
She avoided the new tower, with its smell of stone dust and its blank walls. She had always hated it. Where its stair rose from the round antechamber, a fingertip’s width of a gap opened between the living rock and the quarried grey stone of the tower, another mark that it didn’t really belong. She was afraid to go up there; all its space was fixed and there was nowhere to hide. She crept into the wall in the big, round antechamber, and watched Oto for a while. The Imperial man spent almost all his time in the new tower, even to eat there. The antechamber was always full of soldiers, coming and going, and she could not see a way to get up into his chambers. She was sure that Mervaly was there. Tirza went around the castle, gathering up all the knives she could find, and hid them in the walls, every point aimed at that room where Oto was. Then she went out to the Jawbone and waited.
* * *
Mervaly sat with her arms folded over her
chest, staring at Oto; she said nothing. She had said nothing much since they had brought her here, tangled in the rope net, and dropped her at his feet. He said, “My brother is vengeful. Only I can save you from his wrath, when he comes back. With Luka out of the way, you and your brother and sisters will be meat in his hands.”
Her expression never changed; her eyes never wavered. She said nothing. Oto walked off around the room, swinging his arms. He decided on a shift in tone. Wheeling, he faced her across the room, one hand out, imploring.
“You do not know that I care about you. Deeply. I have watched you—learned to admire you. Give me the honor of defending you. You cannot know the danger you are in, and your two young—”
Outside, a horn blasted. He jerked up straighter, his head swiveling; that was the gate. He leapt to the window and leaned out to see the road.
“Broga,” he said. He could see only a dark swarm moving along the road, but that was certainly his brother, coming back in triumph, marching like a King. Oto had no time left; he had to make do with what was actually here. “Guards! To me!” He stared back at Mervaly. “For this next part, lady, you don’t have to speak. Let’s go.”
* * *
He was ready for Broga riding at the head of a victorious army. He was not ready for what he saw as they came nearer.
The Imperial soldiers walked in the midst of the crowd, footsore and weary, their striped doublets filthy, their heads bare and their hands empty. All around them the townspeople swarmed, singing, arm in arm, brandishing the pikes, wearing the helmets. Whatever had happened, it was clear who had won.
And who had lost. Oto picked out his brother, Broga, trudging in their midst, head down, beaten, the lout, well beaten. Oto covered his face with his hand a moment, to mask his pleasure at this.
As the great unruly crowd reached the land end of the bridge, all but a few of the townspeople swung off to the meadow on the cliff where the soldiers had their camp, shoving their exhausted prisoners along with them. The dozen leaders strode up toward the castle. Oto glanced back into the outer gateway. There stood Mervaly, in a white lace dress, her hands clasped together before her, a guard on either arm. Oto gave her a friendly smile and moved a step to the side, so that she could see more clearly. He faced the bridge again. There had to be something he could make of this.
First Luka walked toward him, with a long hooked pole over his shoulder. After him came his little brother and, to Oto’s amazement, his tall sister Casea. Then Broga Erdhartsson, his hands bound, a collar around his neck.
Broga’s horse paced along behind him, a brawny girl in the saddle, holding the rope to Broga’s collar. Oto surged with fury, that an Imperial high lord, a man of the golden blood, was treated so, but also delight, that his brother had failed so miserably.
Broga was covered all over with a patina of sand, in his clothes and beard and hair, crusted on his skin. He was staring at the ground, his shoulders hunched. Oto went forward now, out onto the hump of the bridge, to meet Luka in the bright sunlight.
He did not let Luka speak first. Oto bowed, and said, “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve beaten us. You have my fullest admiration.”
Luka had brought the butt of his fishing hook down to the ground, and he leaned on it. He looked Oto up and down, and said, “Tell me why I should not command you to take all these and go.”
Oto gave him another bow, to give himself time to assess this: Luka was not actually demanding that he surrender. “I have your castle,” he said, “and your sister.”
Luka said amiably, “I have your brother and your army.”
Oto straightened, meeting the other man’s clear green eyes. He had misjudged Luka; he made himself see that—no fool, this one. Oto nodded his head. “You are a master of the craft of war. How you defeated trained soldiers with this”—he veered away from calling them a rabble—“I shall need to hear at length.” He took in a deep breath, seeing a way forward. “But let me warn you. Do not lose in the peace what you have gained in the war.”
“Ah,” Luka said. Behind him, his brother, Jeon, gave a violent twitch.
“There is still the Emperor,” said Oto. “I can help you with him.”
“The Emperor! He can give up any thought of Castle Ocean. He will never hold Castle Ocean.”
Oto spread his hands, smiling, nodding. “Yet his reach is very long, and he forgets nothing. Let me help you. You are the King, by right and by battle. But I can be of use to you—working things out with the Emperor. Because, you know, otherwise—” His voice flattened a little, edged. “It will all happen, all over again.”
Their eyes met. For a moment Luka was silent; Oto thought, He will kill me, or I will have him.
Luka said, “Let me think about this.” He looked over Oto’s shoulder, toward the gateway, and smiled. “I see my sister, and I will greet her.”
“At once,” said Oto. “Let us all come into the castle together, give up quarreling, and be friends.” He stretched out his hand. “I give you my word of honor.”
Luka gave a low laugh; his gaze was piercing. He let Oto shake his hand, and went on down the bridge toward the gate. Mervaly was coming toward him, her arms out. Oto turned, and faced Broga, standing there, scowling. The rope still led from his collar to the girl on the horse behind him.
Broga said, “Bah. You grovel.”
Oto reached out and untied the leash from the collar; he tossed the rope at the girl on the horse. Eagerly he turned back to Broga.
“You seem quite wretched. How did he manage to destroy you like this?”
Broga’s face was red as a coxcomb under the grime of sand, his lips twisting back from his teeth. “I’ll kill him.” He wrenched at his arms; his hands were still tied behind him.
“Well, you didn’t.” Oto smiled. His gaze flicked from side to side, making sure no one overheard him. The girl with the horse had gone. All the red Princes and Princesses had gone into the castle. Drawing his knife, he went behind Broga to slit his bonds. As he did he spoke into his brother’s ear.
“Your way failed. I am in command here. Do as I will.” His voice fell to a hiss. “Keep your hands off them. Our time will come.”
Broga snarled something. Head down, he plowed across the gate yard toward the castle; Oto followed him.
8
Luka walked up the main steps into the castle, and in the dark corridor Jeon came up close behind him, his voice a harsh whisper.
“Why did you let them back in here? Do you really think they have given up?”
Luka kept walking. “I’d rather have them here, where I can see them, than off somewhere making trouble.” He gave his brother half a glance. “Consider them hostages.”
Jeon snorted. Luka went ahead of him toward the hall; beyond the open doors the sun was blazing into the room from the ocean side, and the great roaring of the surf reached his ears. Luka was enjoying his victory and had no intention of worrying now. He thought Jeon did not see this well: there was no ignoring the Emperor, far away, and yet always there.
“Then kill them,” Jeon snarled at Luka. “We can do this. Come out of the walls. They would have no defense.”
“Am I to use my castle to do murder?”
In the hall, the light was different, and he stopped and looked around. A wall, knee-high, made of squared-off stone fitted together, bounded the rim of the terrace. Luka laughed; they thought they would stop Erdhart going over a second time. “I’ll knock that down. Tomorrow. Hafgavra has to breathe.” Luka spread his arms out, looking around, here for the first time in his kingly hall.
He went across the great room, to the high table, and his King’s seat, carved out of the black rock. He turned, and sat, and could not keep the broad smile from his face. Through the door on his right hand the hall was filling up with people, and each one stopped as he came in and bowed to Luka. The old ones were appearing around the lower tables. He was glad to see them, although he knew that what they bowed to was the King’s seat and
not the phantom on it. That thought amused him, and he laughed again. That was what he had to live up to.
The servants had not yet come back. Most lived in Undercastle, which was still celebrating. Therefore, Oto’s Imperials in their striped doublets were attending the tables. Oto walked in through the big doors and stopped, his gaze on Luka, his face stiffly smiling, the courtier’s face he wore like a mask. He was splendidly dressed in tissue of red and gold. Beside him Broga, well tidied up and packed into the same colors, hung back also, looking elsewhere. Oto bowed to Luka with many flourishes and mouthed some phrases. Broga simply lowered his head, his eyes still directed away. They crossed to the far end of the high table.
Now Mervaly and Casea walked down the room toward Luka, and as she came Mervaly, trailing veils of lace, danced this way and that. Casea in a dark gown was like her solemn shadow. Mervaly swept him a lavish courtesy.
“Luka, my brother, well seen, well honored, I salute you.”
Casea bent her knee also, and came around the end of the table to his right side, and kissed him. “Thank you. You saved us.”
He knew that they had expected him to fail, to lose to Broga, to deliver them all into the Empire. They would have more faith in him now. The two girls sat on his right side at the table, and Jeon appeared on Luka’s left, the place of the King’s brother. A soldier brought a goosenecked pitcher and poured their wine.
Luka took his cup in his hand, and stood, and at once the whole room hushed. Dozens of people here now. He had waited a long time to do this, and he swelled with the pleasure and the power. He lifted the cup and said, “Remember Reymarro, King of Castle Ocean, who gave his life for us. Hail, Reymarro!”
Everybody shouted, even the old ones, and drank. Only the two Erdhartssons stood silent in the uproar, their heads bowed. Luka sat down again. That was well done, but he would not see Reymarro here among them until his body lay within the castle walls.
His body would be bones, now, if anything at all was left.
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