Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

  “We’re under the butchery,” whispered Nynus.

  Tomas led the boys between the hanging carcasses. Gulph shuddered each time he brushed against one of the cold slabs of flesh. On a shelf was a pile of sheep’s heads, stripped of their skin, eyeless, the ghastly skulls staring at them with the vacancy of the dead.

  Is that how we’ll end up? Gulph thought in horror. Is that why they’ve brought us in here? Beside him, Nynus had stopped talking, his face even paler than usual.

  Reaching the other side of the chamber, Tomas shoved aside a butchered pig to reveal a wooden door. He opened it, and between them the two legionnaires flung Gulph and Nynus inside. Before either boy could pick himself up, the door had been slammed shut. There was a solid click as a key was turned in the lock.

  Gulph took in their surroundings. They were in a room no bigger than the Black Cell. A set of bunk beds stood against one wall; leaning against another was a low desk on which a pair of candles burned. There were no windows, and the room smelled of rats and damp.

  “I think we were better off in the Vault of Heaven,” said Gulph. All the same, it was strangely convenient that this room should have been waiting for them. Stranger still that its entrance was hidden in a butcher’s pantry.

  “I think you may be right.” Nynus’s pale eyes were wide and scared. “Did you see their tunics? Those soldiers are men of the Legion. The King’s Legion.” He reached a shaking hand to his own face, stroking the cheek. “Oh, Gulph. When they come back, my father will be with them!”

  The key clicked in the lock once more and the handle turned. Nynus gave a yelp. Mouth dry, Gulph backed against the desk, knocking it so that one of the candles sputtered and died.

  Grabbing the smoking candlestick, Gulph held it in front of him like a sword.

  You won’t take me without a fight!

  Two figures loomed in the dark doorway.

  “Mother!” cried Nynus. He lunged toward the first figure, then checked himself, the joy on his face dissolving into uncertainty. “Mother?”

  Queen Magritt opened her arms and smiled through sudden tears. “My boy,” she said. “My dear, poor boy.”

  She gathered him up, hugging him tight and enveloping him in her long, voluminous dress. While the prince sobbed against her breast, she stared over his head and straight into Gulph’s eyes.

  Gulph realized he was still brandishing the candlestick. He supposed he looked foolish, but he couldn’t bring himself to lower it. The last time he’d seen the queen, she’d called him a malformed monster and had him locked up in the most hateful place he’d seen in his life.

  And yet . . . Queen Magritt looked different from the way he remembered her from the arena: less regal, somehow softer. Kinder. Had it all been a ruse after all? Had her cruel words really been part of a complex plot to deliver a savior to her son?

  To his astonishment, she smiled at him.

  Putting down the candlestick, Gulph gave a cautious nod.

  The queen’s companion stepped into the light of the remaining candle, and Gulph gasped. It was Captain Ossilius, the very man who’d taken him to be locked up in the Vault of Heaven.

  “You are a resourceful young man,” the captain said. He touched one finger to his temple: a small salute. Not quite able to believe what was happening, all Gulph could do was stare at him.

  At last Queen Magritt released her hold and stood away from her son. She gazed at him long and hard, as if unable to believe what she was seeing.

  “My boy,” she said again. Then she turned to Gulph. “The minute I saw you performing at court, I knew you were the one. Clever. Agile. I knew if anyone could help my son escape that terrible place, it was you. So I thank you, truly, with all of my heart.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Gulph. “Although, I’m not sure I really understand. . . .”

  “I know. I’m sorry for what I said to you yesterday. I called you some terrible things. But it was just an act. You understand acting. I had to make it look real; otherwise the king would have become suspicious. You see that, don’t you?”

  It was strange, having a queen plead forgiveness. But not really any stranger than everything else that had happened to Gulph since he’d arrived in Idilliam.

  “I don’t . . . I mean, I think I understand,” he stammered. “And I suppose . . . it all came out for the best.”

  Bending a little, the queen kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft, and her breath held a faint scent of strawberries. She was a little older than Gulph had first thought, with tiny lines crowding the corners of her eyes. A little sadder, too.

  Not for the first time, he wondered what his own mother had looked like.

  “My men have been watching for you all night,” said Captain Ossilius, closing the door softly behind him. “We thought you would come to the castle, and had this room prepared. You will be safe here. Nobody will find you.”

  “What about Blist?” said Gulph. “I stole his keys. I don’t think he’ll be very happy.”

  “He’ll be happy enough with the purse of silver I’ll give him,” said Ossilius. “He’ll keep his silence.”

  “Or lose his head,” said Queen Magritt, so abruptly that Gulph flinched.

  While she’d been talking to Gulph, Nynus had retreated to the corner of the room. He was crouched there now, rocking back and forth and looking exactly like the lost, forgotten boy Gulph had first met in the Vault of Heaven. Queen Magritt went over to him.

  “Now, my darling son,” she gushed, “we must make plans. You’ll be safe here for a while, but I do not intend for you to remain a prisoner any longer than is necessary, however comfortable the cell.”

  She pulled Nynus onto his feet.

  “First, King Brutan,” the queen went on. “I hate him for locking you up. I want you to know that, Nynus, and I want you to believe it. Your imprisonment was none of my doing. You do believe it?”

  “I do, Mother,” Nynus replied.

  “Good. But you are not the only one Brutan betrayed.” Her lip curled a little, and she clasped her hands to still the trembling that had overtaken them. “There is also the matter of Kalia. What he did with that witch . . . his affair . . . I will never forgive him for that. Never! To choose her over me . . .” She stopped, swallowed, went on. “So. Plans. You must take the throne, Nynus. It is yours by right, and by all I hold dear, it will be yours in truth. King Brutan will be brought down, and you will take his place!”

  She stopped, breathing hard in the sudden silence.

  “Your mother has the Legion’s support in this,” said Captain Ossilius. “Brutan’s reign of terror must end.”

  Gulph stared at them. Nynus might have been Brutan’s heir, but surely they didn’t believe this wretched boy was fit to rule? Gulph couldn’t imagine Nynus in charge of a puppy, let alone a kingdom.

  But the idea seemed to appeal to the prince. His shoulders—broader than Gulph’s, but hardly muscular—were squared, and his chin jutted with newfound pride.

  “I . . . I’ll be a good king,” said Nynus, nodding seriously. “I will be merciful to my father. He will have his own castle—a small one—in the Toronian hinterlands. He can live out his days there.”

  “Whatever you choose,” said the queen.

  “And the Thousand Year War,” said Nynus, warming to his subject. He held up a hand as if he were giving a speech to an eager crowd. “I’ll end it. My people need peace. There will be fine foods for everyone, and parties every night, and I’ll ride through the realms so everyone can see their king.” He whirled around and clapped Gulph on the back. “And you, Gulph, will be at my side the whole time. My chief courtier! I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you!”

  Gulph didn’t know what to say. He was growing used to the speed with which Nynus changed his mood, but this was extreme, even for him: from downtrodden prisoner to future king, all in the blink of an eye.

  “Nynus is quite right,” said Queen Magritt. “When he sits upon the throne, you must be by his s
ide. You are such a good friend to us, Gulph.”

  Gulph ran his hand over his acrobat’s clothes, soiled and ragged at the seams. His becoming a courtier was even more ridiculous than Nynus becoming king. And yet . . . If Magritt was right, and it somehow came true, things would be different. No more jeers, no more sly comments about his appearance, no more laughter behind his back. It was an incredible thought.

  The others were watching him expectantly. “Of course, Nynus,” Gulph said. “I’d be honored.”

  There was a gentle knock at the door. Half drawing his sword, Captain Ossilius eased it open a crack. Gulph heard muttered words, then the door opened fully to admit a young blond woman wearing a white apron and carrying a tray of food. Instead of the Vault’s metal bowls, there were porcelain plates; instead of tough meat and gruel, there was shining fruit and bread so fresh it was steaming.

  “This is Limmoni,” said the queen. “Apart from myself and Captain Ossilius, she is the only other person who knows you are here. She will bring you food each day and keep your room clean. If you want to send me a message, give it to Limmoni.”

  Snapping her fingers, the queen ushered Captain Ossilius farther into the room.

  “And now, let us make them look respectable,” she said.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” said Ossilius. He took a bag from his shoulder and emptied a heap of clothes onto the bottom bunk. Nynus gasped and ran his hands over the finely woven fabric.

  “Later, Limmoni will bring water so you can wash,” said the queen, with a slight sniff of distaste, “but let us at least dress you smartly. You first, Nynus. Limmoni—please escort our guest outside until it’s his turn.”

  Limmoni put down the tray and led Gulph back into the butchery. He flinched as he brushed against the pig carcass that hid the door; Limmoni squeezed his hand.

  “Don’t fear the dead,” she said. She was smiling, but the expression didn’t look entirely comfortable on her face. The dim light seemed to strike her brow and cheeks at odd angles. Gulph had the peculiar sensation that he was seeing her from many directions at once.

  “Here,” she said, producing an apple from the pocket of her apron. “These are wonderful.”

  Gulph took the bright green fruit and bit into it. Juice ran down his chin; he’d never tasted anything so delicious.

  Under her breath, Limmoni said, “They are using you.”

  Gulph stopped chewing, not sure he’d heard her correctly. “Pardon?”

  “The queen used you to rescue her son.”

  “I know.”

  “She will have need for you again. Soon. Do not trust her. Do not trust any of them.”

  Gulph swallowed, nearly choking on the unchewed apple. As he coughed, he felt Limmoni slip something into his hand.

  “This is yours,” she whispered. “Keep it close to you. And keep it hidden. It is your friend.” She tilted her head. Light cascaded down the strange angles of her face. “So am I.”

  She began to slip away through the rows of carcasses.

  “Wait!” called Gulph. “Won’t they ask where you’ve got to?”

  Limmoni looked back at him over her shoulder. “Their memory that I was here is already fading,” she said. “Be careful, Gulph.” And she was gone.

  Gulph blinked in confusion. What was that supposed to mean? He turned her name over in his mind. Limmoni. Who was she? Why was she trying to help him?

  He opened his hand to reveal a coil of gold chain, on which hung a green gemstone. The jewel was curiously shaped, smoothly faceted on one side but jagged on the other, as if it were not a whole gem, but only part of one. It was strange and beautiful, just like the young woman.

  She said she was my friend.

  He slipped the chain around his neck, tucking it under his acrobat’s clothes to ensure it was hidden. When his turn came to change, he would do it in private. He was sure nobody would object.

  He knocked on the door. As Queen Magritt called for him to come back inside, Limmoni’s words echoed in his head.

  Do not trust her. Do not trust any of them.

  CHAPTER 7

  T hud. Thud. Thud.

  The chopping sound was sharp, repetitive, hypnotic. It penetrated Tarlan’s dream, pulling him up from a deep, dark ocean filled with vague sensations of flying. And falling.

  He opened his bleary eyes, and the darkness was replaced by a white glare. The light was too much, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes, but his hands wouldn’t obey him. He tried again, this time feeling the coarse tug of the ropes that bound his wrists behind his back.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Gradually his eyes adjusted. White clouds filled his vision, racing on a gale through gray sky. Around him, white walls rose. A castle? Tarlan blinked and saw that the walls were made not of stone but ice, enormous sharp-edged slabs stacked one on top of another to form crude towers and bastions.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Bunching his stomach muscles—and ignoring the pain from the wound in his shoulder—Tarlan sat up. His vision blurred and for a moment he thought he was going to faint. Then it cleared, revealing a crowd of fur-clad men and a corral filled with huge antlered creatures. To the side, large joints of meat sizzled over a blazing fire. The smell was rich and tantalizing, and Tarlan’s mouth began to water.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  The elk-hunters were crowded around something Tarlan couldn’t quite see: a heap of something red and silver piled in the snow. As he watched, they parted, and he saw at last where the chopping sound was coming from.

  The thing piled in the snow was Seethan. The once mighty thorrod was now a bloody mass of flesh and burned feathers. One of the hunters was hacking at the corpse with a huge ax, slicing off hunks of meat and handing them to his companions, who carried them to the fire.

  The meaty smell curdled in his throat. Anger came in an instant, like storm clouds rolling over a mountain.

  Seethan is dead.

  “Leave him alone!” he bellowed. He yanked at his bonds, but the more he tugged the tighter they became. He kicked his feet in the snow, trying to pick himself up. He shouted again, and the shout became first a sob, then an incoherent cry of rage.

  The hunter who’d been cutting up Seethan’s corpse strode over to Tarlan, swinging his ax. As he walked, the huge wooden antlers adorning his helmet nodded back and forth. Two men accompanied him; their helmets were bare.

  “Pick him up,” said the man with the ax.

  Tarlan continued to roar and wriggle, but the men were strong, and his body still ached after its fall through the trees. Worst of all was the wound in his shoulder, where the burning arrow had opened a deep gash. He remembered everything about the fight in the forest—faced with the remains of Seethan, he could hardly forget. He could only hope the other thorrods had escaped and returned to Mirith.

  Mirith . . .

  Is she even still alive?

  When it became clear he wasn’t going to escape, Tarlan forced his muscles into stillness. With more difficulty, he managed to suppress his rage. It boiled inside him, volcano hot. He savored the feeling. When the chance came to vent his anger, he’d make these men pay for what they’d done.

  “The bird is dead,” said the hunter. He wiped the blood-covered head of his ax on the thick furs covering his body. He wore an iron torque around his neck, a dented metal thing that was half necklace, half breastplate. Tarlan supposed he was their leader. Very well. He would be the first to die.

  “He wasn’t a bird,” said Tarlan. “He was a thorrod.”

  The elk-leader shrugged. “Times are hard. The king has forgotten Yalasti and its people. We must take what we can, and this bird will feed my men for many days.” He held out a fistful of dripping flesh. “Care for a bite?”

  Tarlan hawked back saliva and spat in his face. One of the men holding him cuffed his head, hard, twice. Laughing, the elk-leader lifted his ax and pressed the blade against Tarlan’s throat. Tarlan flinched, not at the touch of the cold metal, bu
t at the unspeakable sensation of Seethan’s blood running down his neck.

  “If you’re friends with the thorrods,” the elk-leader said, “you’re no friend to me. I don’t like witch boys. I was going to keep you, but now . . . I’ve changed my mind.”

  He gave a curt nod to his companions, who braced themselves against Tarlan, ensuring there was no chance of escape. The elk-leader drew back his ax. The blade flashed white, reflecting the racing clouds, the blank ice walls. Tarlan set his face in a snarl; he wasn’t going to let this brute see he was scared.

  The ax reached the end of its arc. The elk-leader paused, grinned, and swung it toward Tarlan’s exposed throat.

  As he prepared to die, Tarlan could think of only one thing.

  I’m sorry, Mirith. I’ve failed you.

  There was a sudden gust of cold wind, and a shadow passed over them.

  The ax flew past Tarlan, missing his neck completely and spinning erratically through the air to land in a distant mound of snow. The elk-leader’s hand was still gripping the wooden haft; the rest of his arm went with the weapon too, torn off at the root.

  The elk-leader grunted and raised his remaining hand to the red pulp of his shoulder. Blood jetted in a fountain, staining the snow crimson. The shadow came again, and the wind, and this time Tarlan saw what had caused it: a great gold bird, flying fast and low, almost too fast to be seen.

  “Theeta!” he cried.

  The thorrod’s beak snapped shut on the elk-leader’s waist, slicing him in two. Beating her enormous wings, Theeta pulled out of her dive and tossed the top half of his body out and over the walls of ice. The man’s legs crumpled to the ground.

  One of Tarlan’s captors released his grip. Tarlan shoulder-charged the other; free at last, he started running through the snow toward the fallen ax.

  Theeta’s shadow returned, along with another. Tarlan looked up to see Nasheen wheeling down from the sky. With her white breast, she was almost invisible against the clouds. Her beak was wide open, ready to attack. The long feathers on her outstretched wings rippled like liquid gold. Like Theeta, she made no sound whatsoever.