Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  She smoothed his face with her gloved hand and Nynus’s eyelids half closed. So that’s where he gets it from, thought Gulph, remembering the prince’s cheek-stroking habit. Magritt probably did that before he was locked up.

  Gulph smothered a flash of envy. What had happened to his own mother? Had she ever comforted him like that? Sometimes he wondered if she’d abandoned him, as disgusted by his deformities as so many others had been.

  He cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon,” Gulph said, eyeing the door. “Does this mean you’re going to let us out?”

  “You speak as if you are a prisoner. But to answer your question, yes. Today, everything will change. And you, my little trouper, will have an important part to play.”

  “I will?”

  The queen drew what looked like an animal skin from the sack. She shook it out, and it unfurled into a gaudy costume of red fur and orange frills. Copper claws jangled on a series of interlocking straps and belts. Perched on top was a mask that was half bird, half lizard. It was both beautiful and terrifying; Gulph couldn’t decide whether he wanted to run from it or put it on.

  “You will wear this,” said the queen, as if she’d read his mind. “Nobody will know you behind the mask. Here, let me help you.”

  They are using you. Limmoni’s words echoed in his head as Magritt helped him step into the costume. It was hot and heavy; Gulph started sweating almost immediately.

  “What am I?” he said, shrugging the furs up over his shoulders. “I mean, what am I supposed to be?”

  “The bakaliss,” said Queen Magritt. She turned the mask over in her hands. Its scaly surface contrasted with her soft white gloves. “It is one of the oldest legends of Toronia.”

  “I read that story,” said Nynus. He turned on Gulph, his face suddenly ferocious. “It was in that book that got spoiled.”

  Gulph stared at him, startled. “I . . . I’m sorry about your book,” he said.

  Nynus’s snarl turned instantly to a grin. “I’m only teasing you. When I’m king, I’ll have all the books I want.”

  Gulph smiled weakly back. If anything, Nynus’s mood swings seemed to be getting worse since their escape. “So what’s this story?” he said lamely.

  “The bakaliss was a serpent that slept under a mountain,” said Nynus. “One day a king came to kill it. But the serpent woke.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The serpent bit off the king’s head,” said the queen, “and swallowed it whole.”

  She pressed the mask over Gulph’s face. He shuddered: The story hadn’t ended quite the way he’d expected. Even worse, wearing the mask felt a little like entering another prison.

  It’s just a costume, he told himself. If doing his old job was the most Magritt would ask of him, maybe he needn’t heed Limmoni’s warning after all.

  Peering out through the mask’s narrow eye slits, he watched as the queen carefully lifted a small crown from the sack. Like the claws hanging from his waist, it was made of copper, though she handled it as if it were made of fragile crystal.

  “Take this,” she said, slipping it gently into a pouch hidden inside the costume’s furs. “Keep it hidden until the time comes to use it.”

  “Use it for what?”

  “You will perform with your friends, the Tanglewood Players.”

  “Tangletree.”

  “You will keep the mask on at all times. Nobody must see your face. When the performance ends, you will place the crown on King Brutan’s head. That will be the signal.”

  “Signal?”

  “That his reign is over. Will you do this for me, Gulph? Will you do it for us?”

  The crown pressed against Gulph’s chest, hard and unyielding. He didn’t know what to say.

  Do not trust her.

  Nynus’s white face appeared in front of the mask, bright with excitement. “You’re such a true friend,” said Nynus. “Just think, when I’m on the throne you’ll have everything you ever wanted: money, a grand chamber of your own. And your friends. I’ll look after them, too. You saved me, Gulph,” he went on. “Why would I not repay my debt?”

  Gulph hesitated. It was such a silly thing: to put a fake crown on the head of a king. He imagined it was Pip asking. Would he refuse her such a request? Of course not: She was his friend, and that was what friends did. And yet . . .

  “He’ll do it,” said Magritt. “Won’t you, Gulph?”

  Her eyes were steely. Unease pooled in the bottom of Gulph’s stomach as he realized the queen didn’t plan on allowing him to refuse.

  Come on, Gulph, play along. You know how to do that, at least.

  He forced a laugh. “Of course I will!” he said brightly. For good measure he gave a spin, the claws of the costume rattling.

  “Very good,” said the queen with a thin smile. “Now, we must be quick. The banquet begins shortly and you must be in your place. We must all be in our places.”

  “Wait,” said Nynus. “His hands.”

  “What about my hands?”

  Magritt and Nynus exchanged a glance.

  “Of course,” said the queen quickly. “Hands are like faces. People recognize them. Your friends will know you if we don’t cover them up. Here.” She peeled off her long silk gloves and handed them to Gulph. He pulled them on, bunching the fine material up inside his sleeves.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m ready.”

  Nynus’s beaming smile appeared through the eye slits. “Oh, I can’t wait to see their faces,” the prince cried. “A bakaliss has come to Idilliam!”

  • • •

  The banqueting hall lay deep inside the castle. It was very grand, its walls and columns encrusted with ornate carvings and filigrees of gold. High at one end, on a minstrel’s gallery, a small band of pipers played. Polished tables ran the entire length of the hall, piled high with food. From where he stood near the kitchen doors, it seemed to Gulph that he could hear them groaning under the weight. More tables filled the hall’s central space. Seated around them were people wearing rich clothes, laughing and chatting. The swing doors beside him were in constant motion as countless bustling servants carried out trays of breads and wine and steaming meats. The smell of the food, and the rumbling chatter of the crowd, and the weight of the bakaliss costume, all conspired to make Gulph feel dizzy.

  Queen Magritt and Nynus were nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you all right?”

  Someone tugged at Gulph’s furs. He turned clumsily and found himself staring straight into the upturned face of Pip. She looked so sweet and familiar, with her freckled face and her patchwork outfit of blue and green, that it was as much as Gulph could do not to throw his arms around her. But the queen’s orders had been clear.

  “Yes,” he said, adopting a gruff tone that would, he hoped, fool his oldest friend.

  “It’s just that, well, you were swaying a bit. I thought you were going to faint. I bet it’s hot in there.”

  “Yes.” It was all Gulph dared to say.

  “I suppose they sent you to make up our numbers. I was wondering if . . . Well, we lost someone. He was, um, taken away to somewhere they call the Vault of Heaven. You don’t know anything about it, do you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just . . . I’m worried about him.”

  Even through the mask’s eye slits, Pip’s anguish was plain to see. Gulph wanted to strip off the costume, to explain to her everything that had happened to him, and that it would be all right.

  Instead, he told himself that he had no choice but to follow the plan. As soon as King Brutan was brought down and Nynus was on the throne, he and Pip would be reunited. Until then, he just had to be patient.

  The pipers stopped playing. Horns sounded a fanfare. Servants scattered to the four corners of the hall, and a hush descended over the throng. Everyone stood.

  King Brutan strode in.

  He was tall and broad, a big man for a big hall. At h
is side walked Queen Magritt, dressed all in crimson. Would the king see she was no longer wearing her gloves? Gulph doubted it. Brutan didn’t look like the kind of man who noticed such things.

  The royal couple walked between the tables to the platform that held two thrones, a table already crammed with food in front of them. Brutan helped Magritt into the smaller one, then took the Toronian throne, sculpted with eagles and lions, for himself. As he sank down onto the blood-colored cushions, another fanfare echoed through the hall, and the rest of the diners seated themselves again.

  King Brutan ripped the leg from a roasted pheasant and raised it over his head.

  “Let us eat!” he roared, cramming the meat into his mouth.

  “We’re on,” said Pip. “Follow me. And try to keep up!”

  As they trotted to their places before the king’s table, a small band of minstrels appeared in a gallery overlooking the hall. A drumbeat began; a fiddle player took up the rhythm and suddenly the entire hall was filled with raucous music. Grinning through a mouthful of half-chewed meat, Brutan started thumping the table.

  Pip began to dance, the bells on her outfit ringing merrily. Around her, the other members of the Tangletree Players launched into their routines of juggling and mime. Gulph watched dumbly for a moment, temporarily lost.

  “Do something!” hissed Pip as she cavorted past.

  Snapping out of his reverie, Gulph spread his arms and skipped down the hall. The diners roared, apparently pleased to see this creature of legend come to life. When he reached the royal table, he clicked his shoulders out of their sockets, preparing to perform one of the impossible contortions that always went down so well.

  He stopped. Nothing would give him away more quickly than one of his usual moves. Spinning wildly, he restored his bones to their proper places and started doing backflips instead. The weight of the costume made it difficult, but his wiry body was strong.

  “Faster! Faster!” roared the king, banging the table again.

  Gulph complied, forcing extra speed from his sweating limbs. Each time he returned to an upright position, it seemed the king’s mouth was stuffed with more food, his cloak was more stained with wine, and the servants scurrying around him were more bent and afraid.

  I bet no one will miss him, thought Gulph. Toronia can’t be any worse off with Nynus on that throne instead.

  As Gulph continued with his antics, he spotted a tall figure taking up station beside the throne platform. It was Captain Ossilius, scanning the room with keen eyes. Behind him, a whole troop of legionnaires stood at attention in their shining bronze armor. More soldiers had appeared down the length of the banqueting hall.

  One of the legionnaires in Ossilius’s troop was shorter than the others. His helmet covered most of his face, leaving exposed only a pale, beardless jaw.

  Nynus.

  The time to act was nearly here.

  The music reached a crescendo. Gulph accelerated his pace, turning the backflips into stationary cartwheels. The red furs flapped against his legs; the copper claws clashed like swords. The crowd cheered.

  With a final rattle of drums, the music crashed to a halt. With a rousing cheer, the Tangletree Players formed themselves into a line and bowed before the king. Gulph was only dimly aware of them concluding their act. He’d been performing in a world of his own.

  Silence descended on the banqueting hall. Through the mask, Gulph saw that Captain Ossilius was staring straight at him. Slowly, the captain nodded his head, the tiniest movement.

  After his acrobatics, Gulph’s heart was racing. Now it started to hammer. Sweat poured down his face, dripping into his eyes. In a fog, he stepped up onto the platform. Brutan’s laughter was loud, and his breath was terrible. The king’s face was a red blur.

  Reaching inside his costume, Gulph pulled out the copper crown. He raised his gloved hands above his head and turned a slow circle. The diners cheered. The king guffawed.

  “King Brutan!” Gulph cried, no longer caring who recognized his voice. “It is not enough to be king of Toronia!”

  Through the film of sweat, Gulph saw Brutan lower his brow into a deadly frown.

  “What did you say?” he rumbled ominously.

  “I say that you are also the king of merriment!” cried Gulph, dancing round the table to the throne. Now the crown was poised directly above the king’s head.

  Brutan looked up at the crown. Gulph’s vision cleared at last, and their eyes locked.

  “And I say so too!” shouted Brutan, squirming on the throne like a little boy about to receive a treat.

  Hands shaking, Gulph placed the crown on his head.

  The crowd erupted. Gulph stepped back. The uproar continued, but nobody moved.

  Gulph looked at Captain Ossilius. What was going on? With the signal given, surely the legionnaires should draw their weapons and lead the king away. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to work? Why wasn’t anything happening?

  What had he done wrong?

  A choking sound came from the throne. Brutan clutched at the sides of his head. Then his hands dropped to his throat. His eyes bulged. His red face turned purple, thick veins throbbing at his temples. His tongue lolled from his mouth, swelling visibly, like a balloon.

  The cheering subsided. People started to scream. Servants and courtiers rushed to the throne, some of them clambering over the table in an effort to reach the king quickly.

  Horrified, Gulph took a faltering step backward. The costume seemed suddenly twice as heavy, the sweat on his body twice as slick. Something was terribly wrong.

  Captain Ossilius barked a command and the legionnaires moved, spreading out across the floor with fast efficiency, holding back the throng and blocking the exits.

  Foam bubbled from Brutan’s mouth. His arms thrashed, throwing off the servants who were trying to hold him down.

  Where the crown touched his head was a ring of bubbling flesh, as if the copper had been dipped in fire just before Gulph had set it in place.

  In fire or . . . in poison.

  Gulph tore off the gloves and threw them down; they lay coiled on the wine-soaked floor like dead snakes. Suddenly he understood why Nynus had insisted he wear them. As the realization came, Brutan reared up from the throne, his swollen mouth gaping in a silent scream. The servants fell away, their expressions confused and distraught.

  Queen Magritt stood slowly and took her husband’s twitching arm.

  “Yes, my dear,” she said with soft menace. “The time has come for you to leave the throne for good. But do not worry. There is someone here ready to take your place.”

  Nynus appeared at her side. He’d removed his helmet. His pale face was contorted into what Gulph supposed was a smile. It looked more like the cold and haunted grin of a skeleton.

  Gulph looked again at the gloves strewn on the floor. This was what the queen had planned all along. And Nynus, his friend, had known too. Everything he’d said about wanting to spare his father, giving him his own castle in which to live out the rest of his life. . . .

  All lies.

  Limmoni had been right.

  With a final, agonized gasp, King Brutan fell dead across the table. The poisoned crown rolled from his head and toppled to the floor, where it spun and spun, ringing like a metal coin for what seemed like hours, until it finally settled to a stop. Silence fell again, and all was still.

  One thought thundered inside Gulph’s head. I have killed the king.

  CHAPTER 11

  Gulph’s mouth was dry. His heart juddered as if it were pumping hot sand around his veins. Wind howled in his head like a wolf. He’d felt fear before, but never anything like this. It was as if his entire body—no, his entire being—was shriveling to nothing.

  They will kill me, he thought.

  Stricken with panic, he staggered backward through the crowds of confused and frightened people. Nobody paid him any heed; some even seemed to stare right through him. How could they be so blind to someone in such an absurd costum
e?

  His stumbling feet tripped on a pile of fallen dinner plates, and he fell. A split opened in the furs he was wearing, and his beaked and scaly mask slipped. He threw it aside, starting to tear off the whole hideous costume. Had dressing him as a king-killing monster been Magritt and Nynus’s idea of a joke?

  “What’s happening?” The voice was Pip’s. She was right beside him, fallen too, and gazing up at the confused activity around the throne. She blinked, and seemed to see Gulph for the first time.

  “You!” she cried. “Gulph! It’s you!” Her eyes were wide with surprise.

  “Pip! I’ve so much to . . .” Gulph broke off. The expression on Pip’s face wasn’t surprise after all. It was horror.

  She was staring at the remains of his costume. “What have you done?”

  “Wait, Pip. Let me explain.”

  But she was hurrying away. He set off after her until her way was blocked by a fallen table. She backed against it, shaking her head.

  “Don’t come any nearer.”

  Gulph stopped and held out his hands. The hands of a killer. “Pip, please, just let me—”

  She was shaking. “I thought you were my friend! How could you? You . . . you’re a murderer!”

  “I didn’t . . . Pip, I’m still me. I’m still Gulph.”

  “No, you’re not. Get away from me!”

  Cries rose from the end of the hall. A gap opened in the crowd of servants and courtiers, creating a clear line of sight to the platform. The table had been pushed aside to reveal the throne. Nynus was sitting on it, his white face bright and alert. Beside him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, stood his mother.

  “The king is dead!” cried Queen Magritt. “May the new king live long! Kneel now before him! Kneel before Nynus, king of Toronia!”

  Something like a wave passed down the length of the hall as, one after the other, everyone present dropped to one knee. The servants surrounding the throne did so with fearful expressions on their faces; many of the courtiers too looked afraid, although some looked pleased; the majority of the diners simply looked stunned.