Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

  King Brutan and Queen Magritt were unmissable in their crimson robes. The king stroked his beard, expressionless. The queen dipped her head, but, instead of a smile on her face, Gulph thought he saw a frown.

  A cloud cast its shadow overhead and the golden light faded. Suddenly Gulph saw the Great Hall for what it was: a once-grand chamber grown old and tired. Paint was peeling from the thick supporting columns, and the uniforms of the various servants and orderlies were patched and in ill repair.

  Castle Tor might have been the heart of the kingdom, but the heart was sick.

  There was a particular face in the royal box Gulph wished he’d never set eyes on: that of General Elrick. This pompous military man with the face of a weasel looked very pleased with his place beside the king and queen, and took every opportunity to chatter to them, seemingly oblivious to their obvious dislike of him.

  It was Elrick who’d brought the Tangletree Players to Idilliam. Weary from the war, he’d clearly been delighted to discover Gulph and his troupe of wandering entertainers performing for Brutan’s soldiers in the nearby forests of Isur. He’d promised them riches and full bellies, warm quarters, and the king’s protection.

  The reality had been different. General Elrick had paraded the players before the king as spoils of war, then introduced them to their new home—one freezing cell between all twelve of them. Life on the road—sleeping under hedges wondering where their next meal was coming from, or whether they’d wake to find their throat being cut by some wandering ruffian—had been hard. But as far as Gulph was concerned, at least he had been free.

  As an encore, Gulph went into a series of backflips. The crowd roared. After every flip, he paused and took another bow, exploiting the extraordinary flexibility of his body to the limit . . . and taking the opportunity to throw another glance at Queen Magritt.

  Every time he looked at her, her expression grew more ferocious.

  Stare at me all you like. I’m used to it.

  Many people saw Gulph’s contortionist skills as a kind of deformity, along with his bulging eyes and the crook in his back. But this was different.

  So intense was the queen’s glare that, on his final backflip, Gulph stumbled. Ankles tangled, he fell heavily on his backside in a puff of dust. Laughter pealed through the audience.

  Queen Magritt rose to her feet. Her fists were clenched. On her cheeks, bright red spots stood out like beacons against her pale skin. The king raised his hand to pull her down but she shook him aside.

  “Take him out of my sight!” she shrieked, pointing directly at Gulph. Instantly the crowd fell silent. Gulph stared at the queen, bewildered, as her words echoed through the Great Hall. “This . . . this malformed monster will bring nothing but ill fortune to the realm.”

  “But, Your Majesty . . .” said General Elrick, rising to his feet. The king shoved him down, then turned to regard his queen with one bushy eyebrow raised quizzically.

  “The Vault of Heaven!” said Queen Magritt. Astonished cries rose from the audience. She waved a group of legionnaires forward. “Take him there. Take him there now. I won’t have him in my sight a moment longer!”

  As the soldiers strode toward him, Gulph looked up at the shocked faces of his friends.

  “They won’t take you!” called Sidebottom John.

  “Tangletree stays together,” said Willum, the bright-eyed piper. He ran toward Gulph; after a moment’s hesitation, the other players followed suit.

  Pip, the juggler, was much closer than the rest. Seizing Gulph’s hand, she hauled him to his feet.

  “What’s the Vault of Heaven?” said Gulph, dazed.

  “I don’t know.” Pip’s hold turned into an embrace. “I won’t let them take you, Gulph!”

  The legionnaires reached Gulph before the rest of his friends. Grabbing Pip, they shoved her aside. As they surrounded Gulph, she beat against their backs. The rest of the Tangletree Players halted, uncertain in the face of such force.

  “Get back,” said Gulph, anxious for Pip’s safety. “You can’t help me!”

  “Yes, I can!” Pip replied.

  She raced across the arena to the royal box. Skidding to a halt, she fell to her knees before the king.

  “Please, sire, I beg you,” she cried. “Show my friend mercy. He only wants to entertain you. He’s done nothing wrong.”

  The king leaned forward, smiling. “Such loyalty toward such a grotesque creature.” His grin became a scowl. “Do you know what happens to little girls who question a royal command?”

  Peering past the heads of his captors, Gulph watched in horror as a legionnaire struck Pip square in the chest with the blunt end of his spear. Pip fell backward onto the sandy floor.

  “Leave her alone!” shouted Gulph, trying to force his way through the legionnaires. “I don’t care where you take me. Just leave my friends alone!”

  Hands clamped around Gulph’s arms and shoulders. He struggled in vain as Queen Magritt beckoned to a tall, gray-haired man dressed in the bronze armor of the King’s Legion.

  “Captain Ossilius,” she said. “Come to me.”

  The crowd hushed as she murmured to the legionnaire. Giving up the struggle, Gulph waited. He listened to the blood thumping in his ears.

  When the queen had finished speaking, Captain Ossilius nodded and marched over to Gulph. The soldiers fell back, leaving Gulph standing alone and exposed.

  “Will you defy me, boy?” said Captain Ossilius.

  Gulph stared into the man’s eyes. He looked tired and a little sad.

  Gulph glanced at Pip, who was being helped to her feet by Sidebottom John. A pair of legionnaires loomed over them.

  “No, sir,” he said. He had no idea why this was happening—or even what had happened. He just knew that to save his friends he had to obey.

  “Very well,” said Captain Ossilius. Seizing Gulph’s arm, he dragged the young contortionist out of the Great Hall. As they passed the royal box, King Brutan turned his rage on General Elrick.

  “You fool!” the king bellowed as the general cowered. “How dare you upset my queen? The day is ruined!”

  His voice was drowned out by the clamor in Gulph’s head. The Vault of Heaven, he thought wildly, wondering what his destination could be. The name was strangely beautiful but did nothing to lessen his fear.

  Outside the castle, the narrow streets were packed with peasants putting up rickety tables and erecting makeshift stalls. Captain Ossilius hauled Gulph through the labyrinth without saying a word. The captain’s grip on his arm was like iron.

  I can’t wriggle my way out of this one.

  As they passed a vegetable stall, a woman behind it threw a cabbage at Gulph. It struck him on the side of the head and slid onto his shoulder in a mass of pulpy, rotten leaves. The stench was overwhelming; so was Gulph’s misery. He tugged at his captor’s arm, wanting to explain to the stallholder that he wasn’t a criminal, that it was all a mistake.

  Then he saw that all the vegetables on the stall were rotten, not just the one the woman had thrown. He realized the clothes for sale in the adjacent stall had been thrice mended and were ready to fall apart. Even through his despair, Gulph saw that Idilliam was not a happy place.

  Turning a corner, they left the market and entered an open yard. Here Captain Ossilius stopped.

  “We are here,” he said.

  Gulph didn’t understand. He’d been expecting some kind of prison, but all he could see was a forest of tree trunks stripped of their branches. They rose from the cobbled yard like the legs of some enormous beast.

  “What . . . ?” he began. Then he looked up.

  The trunks were stilts. Perched on top of them was what looked like a gigantic bird’s nest. It appeared big enough to contain the entire Great Hall, where the Tangletree Players had just been performing.

  What Gulph had thought were branches were in fact iron bars, bent and woven into an intricate mesh. Between them he saw the occasional flicker of an orange flame. But for the most par
t, the nest’s interior was utterly black.

  “Come, boy,” said Captain Ossilius.

  A narrow set of steps led up through the massive stilts. Suspended from creaking ropes, the steps swayed as they climbed. At the top was a square iron door. Beside it was a row of rusted gibbets—small metal cages each just big enough to hold a man.

  Captain Ossilius thrust Gulph inside one of the gibbets and snapped the lock shut. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the door and disappeared inside the iron nest.

  Gulph stared through the bars he was standing on, to the ground below. It was a very long way down. He looked sideways into the next gibbet and saw a pile of bones.

  Was this it? Was he to be left here to die of thirst and starvation? And for what? Because the sight of his deformed body offended the queen?

  Gulph pinched his eyes shut. He would not cry.

  The door clanged open. Someone fumbled with the gibbet’s lock. Gulph opened his eyes to see Captain Ossilius standing before him. He searched the man’s face for some sign of hope.

  “Forgive me,” said the captain, and Gulph’s heart lifted. It had all been a mistake after all! But Ossilius said, “I had to restrain you while I made arrangements. Come!”

  The captain’s hand clamped once more around Gulph’s arm. He was dragged through the door and into darkness. The door slammed shut, and out of the black void ahead came a gravelly voice.

  “Ah, here you are,” it said. “Welcome to the Vault of Heaven.”

  CHAPTER 2

  A wave of hot air washed over Gulph, thick with the stench of smoke and sweat. Somewhere in the distance, people were shouting and screaming, their voices ringing off the woven bars that made up the Vault’s walls.

  “What is this place?” he said.

  “Be quiet,” said Captain Ossilius as he marched Gulph down a long, winding corridor. Orange light bloomed ahead; the nearer they got to it, the louder the uproar became.

  “It’s the Vault,” came the same coarse voice that had greeted him.

  Looking back, Gulph saw a short, fat man hurrying behind them. A huge bunch of keys jangled at his prodigious waist, and sweat sprayed from his bald head.

  “What’s . . . ?” he began, but his words trailed away as they reached the end of the corridor and emerged into a vast, echoing chamber. Directly ahead was the source of the light Gulph had glimpsed: a giant sphere of metal pierced through with countless circular holes from which tongues of flame licked out. This brazier hung suspended from cables and swung slowly, spitting sparks over the uneven floor.

  The walls! They’re moving!

  Blinking, Gulph slowly understood what he was seeing. They weren’t walls at all, but cages crammed full of people. A spider’s web of iron bars, intricately knotted together, behind which squirmed a tangle of arms and legs and writhing bodies. The prisoners of the Vault of Heaven.

  “Any more questions?” growled the fat man, breathing rotten meat and garlic into Gulph’s face. “The Vault looks crowded, don’t it? But there’s always room for a little one.”

  He pulled Gulph away from Captain Ossilius and dragged him past the brazier toward a cell in which the shrieking prisoners were packed like fish in a barrel. As they approached, a scrawny man wearing only rags around his waist thrust a pipe-thin arm through the bars.

  “Give us the freak!” he shouted. “We’ll look after him!”

  “Freak’s more skinny than you, Shankers!” cackled a woman with hair like a rat’s nest.

  “Looks like a frog with them bulging eyes,” called another.

  “Frog’s legs for dinner,” said the man called Shankers. “Frog’s legs! Frog’s legs!”

  The other prisoners took up the chant. Gulph dug in his heels and tried to free himself from the guard, but the fat man’s grip was even stronger than that of Captain Ossilius.

  “Back from the bars!” he bellowed. “Wretched rebels, the lot of you! Think you can fight the crown? Look at you now! You make me want to puke!”

  The fat man raised his arms. The keys dangled from one hand; Gulph dangled from the other. The tremendous heat thumped inside his head. He wanted to scream. Scream and run. Then he noticed the bars weren’t as closely spaced as he’d first thought. Once inside, there was a chance he’d be able to squeeze back out.

  If I survive long enough.

  “Stop!” Suddenly Captain Ossilius was there, planting himself squarely in front of the cage. He glared down at the man, his face like stone. “You have your orders, Blist. Now carry them out!”

  Blist’s round face quivered with uncertainty. “I thought you was jesting.”

  “I never jest. And you will call me ‘sir.’”

  “But . . . the Black Cell? You don’t mean it. Sir.”

  Ossilius bent close. “These are not my orders, Blist. These are the orders of the queen herself. Shall I explain to her that you would not carry them out?”

  “No, sir,” said Blist. His eyes, which up to now had been shining, turned cold and dead. “I would no more betray the queen than a captain of the Legion.”

  “Very well. Discharge your duty, jailer, and I will discharge mine.”

  Captain Ossilius swung on his heels and marched away. As he passed into the exit corridor, he paused and looked back at Gulph. He opened his mouth, about to speak, before changing his mind and stepping out of the Vault, into the dazzling day outside.

  “Can you put me down, please?” said Gulph. “My arm hurts.”

  Blist’s other hand clenched around the bunch of keys, and for a moment, Gulph thought the jailer would drive them into his face. Then the fat man’s shoulders slumped, and he lowered Gulph to the floor.

  “Not another sound from you, you little freak,” he growled, before dragging Gulph back past the brazier and into a narrow tunnel that wound upward in a tight spiral. As they climbed, the sounds of screaming faded, although the heat increased. By the time they reached the top, Gulph’s whole body was slick with sweat.

  Before them was a low door. Without speaking, Blist selected a long, black key from his bunch and jabbed it into the lock. He twisted it, and with a drawn-out screech, the door opened. Releasing his grip on Gulph’s arm, the jailer delivered a tremendous kick to the small of his back. Gulph tumbled through the doorway, rolling instinctively and coming up on his feet.

  The door slammed shut. The key rattled in the lock and Blist’s heavy footsteps echoed briefly before melting into the background roar of the prison.

  Gulph turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. The room was awkward, with an uneven floor and oddly angled walls . . . but it was a room, not a cell. A desk stood in one corner, covered in books and scrolls, beside which an oil lamp flickered.

  High above, the ceiling was a steep slope of iron beams; Gulph felt as though he’d stepped into a strange metal attic. There were no windows, and the only daylight filtered in a thin stream from a slit between two of the rafters. Opposite the desk was a chair with embroidered cushions, and a simple bed piled high with blankets. On the floor was a thick rug.

  Something rushed out of the shadows beside the bed: a billowing shape topped by a pale face.

  A ghost!

  Clapping his hand to his mouth to stifle a scream, Gulph backed away, tripping on the edge of the rug and nearly falling. The shape emerged fully into the light, revealing itself to be not a ghost at all but a tall boy dressed in a flowing gray robe. His skin was whiter than any Gulph had seen, and his pale blue eyes were wide. But he was grinning.

  “Welcome,” the boy cried, extending trembling hands. “Oh, welcome!”

  Gulph had retreated as far as the door. There was nowhere else to go. The boy was a little older than him, and although he looked sickly, he carried himself with an air of confidence.

  “Who are you?” said Gulph.

  “I’m Nynus. What’s your name?”

  “Gulph.”

  The grin became manic. “Pleased to meet you, Gulph. You’ve no idea how happy I am to have company ag
ain. I’ve been locked in this cell since I was six and . . .” The boy’s face collapsed suddenly into grief. “Ten years. Can it really be that long?”

  “Cell?” said Gulph. “You call this a cell?”

  “I suppose it could be worse.” The grin was back, the gloom having left Nynus as quickly as it had come. “But I do get bored reading the same old books, and pacing the same old circle.”

  Gulph smiled back uneasily. “Well, it’s luxurious compared to the rest of this place.” His eyes strayed over the fine needlework of Nynus’s robe, the gold trim at the hems. “So how does this work? Are you rich or something?”

  “Yes.” Nynus nodded happily.

  “Oh. All right. But I’m not. I don’t understand why they’ve put me in here too. Queen Magritt ordered it, but . . .”

  “Well, I’m only here because King Brutan doesn’t like me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “That doesn’t sound very fair.”

  “It isn’t. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  The smile had vanished again and all the energy seemed to drain from Nynus’s body. He looked even paler than when he’d first jumped out of the shadows. Gulph had never seen anyone look sadder or more wretched.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be terrible, being shut away from your family all these years.”

  Nynus shrugged. “I don’t even remember what they look like.” He started humming what sounded like a lullaby. At the same time, his hand crept up to his face and started stroking his cheek.

  Gulph shifted awkwardly. Should he try to comfort him, and tell this strange, pale boy that he knew what it was like to grow up without a family? With a shiver, he wondered if this place would eventually make him like Nynus too.

  A drop of water landed on Gulph’s cheek. He looked up at the slit in the rafters. The daylight had turned gray—a cloud passing in front of the sun, he supposed. More water splashed on his upturned face; outside, it was raining.

  Hope stirred inside him.

  “Have you ever tried to escape?” he said.