The wave reached the spot where Gulph and Pip were crouched. Gulph shuffled himself into a kneeling position, and was relieved to see Pip do the same. What else could they do?
At Magritt’s command, several of Captain Ossilius’s legionnaires dragged Brutan’s body from the table and spirited it away out of sight, treating it with no more care than one of the sides of beef in the butcher’s store. Waving her arms, the queen cleared the last lingering servants from the platform, leaving herself and her son alone in their place of honor.
“Toronia is broken,” she said, her voice echoing around the enormous hall. “King Nynus will rebuild it. He will crush the rebel forces with his strength. With his wisdom, he will make new laws to ensure that Toronia will never again be divided. Heed his first command as your sovereign.”
The watching assembly listened in silence. Some shifted awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable on their knees. But their king hadn’t yet given them permission to stand.
“The king’s command concerns a witch called Kalia,” Magritt continued. “Kalia seduced King Brutan, and corrupted him. Thirteen years ago she bore him three children—triplets indeed.”
Gasps rose up. Some of those watching turned to each other and started whispering. Gulph heard several mutter the word “prophecy.” It made him think of the Prophecy Song, an old tune he’d heard in the taverns of Isur, bawled by drunks at the end of a night. How was that connected with what he’d been forced to do to King Brutan?
Nynus raised one hand. Silence fell.
“Be quiet!” he called, his voice thin and clear. “Listen to what my mother has to say.”
“Brutan was deceived,” the queen went on. “Kalia tricked him into believing these thrice-cursed brats had died at birth. Then, years later, a man was brought to him, a pathetic drunkard who went by the name of Sir Brax.
“Although Sir Brax’s mind was ruined by drink, on one point he was very clear: the three children were still alive.”
More gasps. Gulph glanced at Pip. She held her slender body taut, not looking at him, just staring straight ahead at Queen Magritt and the new king.
“Kalia confessed the truth,” said the queen. “In the end. But where the triplets were, she would not tell. Even when she was tied to the stake and set aflame, her mouth remained sealed. Their whereabouts is a mystery.”
The gasps turned to cries. Gulph couldn’t tell if people were outraged that Kalia had been burned to death or concerned that these three children still wandered the kingdom.
“Silence!” roared Nynus, standing from the throne. His face was red, like that of a child about to have a tantrum. “The next person who interrupts will find themselves in the Vault of Heaven. Do I make myself clear?”
Nobody made a sound.
“No doubt many of you are thinking about the prophecy,” said the queen. “King Nynus says to you now that the prophecy is proved false! According to the legend, Brutan’s death would be caused by one of these wretched triplets. But as you have seen for yourselves, it is Nynus, my son, and the one true heir to the throne of Toronia, who brought him down. So here is the truth of it: Nynus is king, and as for this so-called prophecy”—she paused, scanning the hall with glittering eyes—“it has no more life in it than Brutan himself.”
Except you didn’t have the guts to do it yourselves, Gulph thought bitterly. The plan might have been set in motion by Queen Magritt, and Nynus might be the one to benefit from it, but Gulph’s were the hands that had set the crown on the head of the king.
“But a thread remains untied,” said the queen. “Or, to be precise, three threads. As long as these three brats remain alive, they will attract all those opposed to the fair rule of Toronia. Rebels, ingrates, and criminals, all will flock to their call. Unless we wish the current conflicts to escalate into an all-consuming war, they must be eliminated.”
“There will be rewards,” said Nynus, spreading his hands generously. “Rich rewards. Anyone who brings me the head of one of these wretched triplets will receive great wealth and a permanent place in my court.” His eyes found Gulph’s, and fixed on them. He gave him one of his beaming smiles. “Indeed, all those who serve the crown will find themselves in my favor.”
A knot tightened in Gulph’s stomach. He wanted to turn and run, but instead, he forced an answering smile onto his face.
Nynus’s voice rose to a shout. He took a step forward, scanning the banqueting hall with narrowed eyes. “You of the King’s Legion—close the shutters. I would not have sunlight in this place!”
Captain Ossilius, who had taken up station beside the throne, frowned at this odd request. However, Gulph knew exactly what was going on inside Nynus’s head. Ten years inside the Vault of Heaven. Ten years without sunlight. Without companionship. None of this was really Nynus’s fault. Was it any wonder the boy’s mind had turned as dark as the cell in which he’d been incarcerated?
Captain Ossilius’s obvious puzzlement didn’t stop him obeying the command of the new king of Toronia. Under his direction, two soldiers hurried to opposite sides of the hall and turned the large cranked handles that operated the roof shutters. Slowly the shutters descended, canvas unfurling over long wooden slats. Shadows slid over the crowd, plunging the banqueting hall into a dim twilight.
Gulph waited with the rest of the assembly, but both Nynus and his mother had spoken their fill. Guards opened the doors and began to usher the diners away; servants were dispatched to clear the tables. Slowly, silently, the banqueting hall began to empty.
He looked around for Pip, but she’d gone. He returned to the kitchen doors, where he’d first bumped into her, but neither she nor any of the Tangletree Players were anywhere in sight.
Disconsolate, Gulph turned a slow circle, scanning the hall for a familiar face. But despite the crowd, he was alone.
“This way,” whispered a voice.
Startled, Gulph spun around. One of the doors was just swinging closed. He pushed through it and into a long room filled with steam. The figure of a woman darted across his vision, beckoned, and disappeared down a corridor . . . but not before flicking her face in his direction.
Limmoni!
Gulph hurried after her. The corridor twisted and turned, delivering him finally into a small vaulted room. Wooden chests were stacked high against one wall, piles of linen against the other.
Limmoni stood in the middle of the room. As he entered, she took a step toward him, moving with an easy grace. Her servant’s clothes flowed strangely against her body as she moved. “Have you heard of the wizard Melchior?”
Gulph frowned. He knew the name from the stories Sidebottom John used to tell around the fire, back in Isur. “Yes. But I thought all the wizards were—”
“I am Melchior’s apprentice.” Limmoni’s eyes were a deep violet, their softness a curious contrast to the sharp, angular lines of her face. Her gaze seemed to bore through him. “Or rather, I was, until he disappeared. Now the time has come for me to find him again. He must be told about Nynus.”
Gulph’s head swam. “You’re . . . a magician?” So that was how she’d faded from the minds of Magritt and Nynus—magic.
Limmoni nodded.
He sat heavily on one of the chests. Belatedly, he shrugged off the remnants of the ridiculous bakaliss costume. It pooled on the floor, the red fur spreading on the flagstones like blood.
“What’s all this got to do with me?” he said. “Why did you give me this jewel? I mean, why bother? I’m just a nobody. You know what I’m really worth? The cost of a barrel of ale! Yes! That’s how I came to be with the players. My father swapped me for a cask of Isur’s finest brew—”
“He was not your father,” said Limmoni.
“I was lucky they didn’t leave me in a ditch there and then. . . . What? What did you say?”
“The man who gave you away. He was not your father.”
“How do you . . . ? Who was he?”
“He was your protector. A duty he utterly failed to fulfill. His
name was Sir Brax.”
Gulph blinked. “Queen Magritt talked about a knight called Sir Brax.”
“It was the same man.”
For an instant, the strange sensation of dryness washed over Gulph again. His pulse pounded against his temples. His skin felt cracked and old. Limmoni peered at him, her eyes narrowed in curiosity.
Gulph ran his hands down his face. His thoughts were a storm.
“Sir Brax was my protector. Are you saying . . . Limmoni, are you saying that he . . . that I was . . . am one of the children from the prophecy? One of the triplets?” He swallowed. “The son of King Brutan?”
Limmoni clasped her hands behind her back. “Yes, Gulph. It is true. That gem I gave you? It is but one of three, just as you are but one of three who will rule Toronia.”
“How did you get it?” Gulph’s hand went to the green jewel. It felt suddenly heavier around his neck. No wonder.
It is filled with fate.
“Melchior gave it to Sir Brax to guard with you, but he sold it to a pawnbroker. But I followed his tracks and recovered it. I have been keeping it ever since.”
Gulph held out the green gem on its long, gold chain. It felt more than merely heavy. It felt toxic. Poison. “I don’t want it! I don’t want this jewel, or the crown. . . . I don’t want any of it! I just want things the way they were.”
“Hiding away from the war? Being laughed at?” There was no malice in Limmoni’s voice, just simple truth.
“You might not think it was much of a life, but it was better than this!’’
“Gulph, I am sorry, but you have no choice. You cannot deny your destiny.”
“I don’t care about destiny.”
“But destiny cares about you. What Magritt and Nynus made you do to Brutan was terrible, but it had to be done. He was meant to die by your hand.”
At this, Gulph stared at her, shaking, breathing hard.
“You will be safe here, for a time,” said Limmoni. “But you must continue to let Nynus believe you are his friend. Everything depends on that.”
“I could just run.”
“He would follow. He would have you killed.”
Gulph shook his head with vigor. “He wouldn’t. He’s my friend.”
“But his mother is not,” said Limmoni gently.
“So it’s stay and live. Or leave and die. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
All the strength left Gulph’s body. His arm dropped to his side. He felt completely spent.
“What happens next?” he said.
“The future is a mystery, Agulphus, even to me.”
“What did you call me?” Strange as it was, the name she’d used seemed to echo in his head, as if he’d heard it spoken long ago.
“Agulphus. It is your true name, the name of a king.”
A shiver ran down Gulph’s back.
“Hear me now,” Limmoni went on. “Change is coming—coming like the winter wind. We cannot change the weather, Agulphus. But we can stand before the storm.”
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Gulph turned to look. A shadow was moving toward him.
“Limmoni . . .” he began, looking back. But she’d already gone.
“Gulph?” The voice belonged to Nynus. “Gulph! I know you’re there. I saw you scurry away. Are you trying to avoid me?”
With shaking hands, Gulph slipped the chain over his neck and tucked the jewel under his tunic.
“I’m in here, Nynus,” he called. Then he added, “I mean, Your Majesty.”
The footsteps grew louder.
My half brother! Gulph’s mind bent in an effort to accommodate the truth. The thought made him feel sick. If only Sir Brax hadn’t been a drunkard, if only he hadn’t been found by the Tangletree Players, if only they hadn’t been captured and brought to Idilliam. . . .
If only.
The sickness receded, leaving just three thoughts drifting through Gulph’s head. Three.
My name is Agulphus.
My future is bound by fate.
And:
I have killed the king, my father.
Nynus’s white face appeared at the door.
“Ah, there you are, Gulph. Thought you could get away from me, eh?”
Somehow, from somewhere, Gulph found a smile.
“Me, King Nynus?” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
CT TWO
CHAPTER 12
Tarlan stared down at the featureless white landscape rolling past below Theeta’s wings. How long was it since he’d last seen a village? A day? Two? He didn’t know. The freezing air had numbed his mind as well as his body. His injured arm ached, despite the black leaf he’d rubbed on it.
I thought Yalasti was cold. It’s nothing compared to the Icy Wastes.
Wind gusted down from the north, blasting directly into Tarlan’s face. It was the same wind they’d been fighting against all the way here. At first, its bitter touch had scoured his cheeks; now he couldn’t feel it at all. The wind blew over his tangled hair, his black robe, but neither hair nor robe moved: both were frozen solid.
Tarlan could hear something: a vague, chattering sound. Tiny dancing shapes materialized in the air ahead of him, like fireflies or falling stars. They were beautiful. Fighting the lethargy that had overpowered his limbs, Tarlan reached toward the glittering cloud, but it was still far, far away.
“Storm,” said Theeta.
“Always storm,” said Nasheen, weaving in the air to their left.
Kitheen, as usual, said nothing.
Tarlan tried to remember what Mirith had told him about the Icy Wastes. But his thoughts were frozen, just like his hair and cloak. All he knew was that it was a dangerous place, and that few who ventured there ever returned.
The glittering shapes grew bigger and more beautiful. Tarlan still had no idea what he was looking at. But he couldn’t ignore the thorrods’ unease.
“Take me down,” he said. “You’ve come far enough. I’ll go on alone. There’s no need for you to risk your lives for me.”
“We fly,” said Theeta.
Tarlan bowed his head. These giant birds were his dearest friends. But he couldn’t bear the thought of leading them into danger.
“I’ll be all right,” he said. “It’s what Mirith would have wanted.”
“Thorrod is sky,” said Nasheen.
“What do you mean?”
Nasheen’s golden head twitched with frustration. When he was younger, Tarlan had thought the thorrods stupid. Now he knew that beneath their simple language lay profound wisdom.
“Sky above,” said Nasheen. “Land below. Thorrod is sky. Mirith is land.”
“But Mirith is dead.” Tarlan pressed down his grief in his efforts to understand what Nasheen was trying to say.
“Yes, yes,” said the thorrod, tossing her head. “Now Tarlan is Mirith.”
“Sky needs land,” said Theeta gently. “Thorrod needs Tarlan.”
“It is,” added Nasheen. Tarlan waited for her to complete the statement, then realized she’d said everything she wanted to say.
It is.
The loyalty of these majestic birds took his breath away. Wherever he went, they would follow.
If it weren’t for Mirith, I’d never have known you, he thought with a pang of grief.
Tarlan had a sudden sense of his own place in the great flow of history. The thorrods were old, he knew that, and Mirith had told him there had been frost witches in the mountains of Yalasti for thousands of years. He had no doubt the alliance between the two extended far, far back in time.
“Then I say to you now that Tarlan needs thorrod. As you are mine, so I am yours. I will be here for you, always. I will never let you down.”
The glittering shapes turned out to be ice crystals, torn up from the winter landscape and whirled into a frenzy by the howling wind. As the thorrods flew into the storm, Tarlan hunched over, burying his head as best he could under his frozen cloak. When the ice penet
rated his defense—as it frequently did—it cut like a thousand tiny knives.
The veil of cloud and flying ice swallowed the sun. It was like flying into the thickest—and deadliest—fog Tarlan had ever known. Nor could he tell in which direction they were headed; he just hoped the thorrods knew where they were going.
“Low!” shouted Theeta, dipping her wings.
She led their tiny flock closer to the ground. Here the wind was just as strong, but the air was filled more with snow than ice. Tarlan clung on as the thorrods plowed their way through the blizzard, afraid they might be forced to return to Yalasti, where the elk-hunters would be waiting for him.
Never mind the elk-hunters, he thought. Turning back means failing Mirith. I promised her I would bring the jewel to Melchior. And I will. . . .
He was about to touch his fingers to where it hung frozen around his neck, when something loomed out of the fog of swirling snowflakes: a gigantic shape like a huge, twisted tree arching high above Tarlan’s head. As the thorrods flew beneath its curve, he saw it wasn’t a tree at all, but a huge, bleached bone.
More bones rose from the murk, row upon row. They were flying through the rib cage of some unimaginable beast. Tarlan felt his fingers tighten in Theeta’s neck ruff, felt his frozen jaw creak open. Ice filled his mouth, but he was hardly aware of it, so astonishing was the sight.
They flew on through the vast boneyard. Far to the left, Tarlan glimpsed something mountainous that might have been a skull. Dark shadows set deep in its contours hinted at eye sockets the size of the cave he’d shared with Mirith.
Unsettling though the huge skeletons were, they did at least afford some protection from the wind. Theeta dipped lower, skimming the ground so that her wing beats raised fountains of snow. The other thorrods followed, their keen eyes scanning constantly for any sign of danger. Tarlan stared ahead, wondering what they would do if they encountered one of these unimaginable monsters still living.
Eventually they left the bones behind. Though the storm continued, the air felt a little warmer. Tarlan rubbed his hands over his body, his face, encouraging the blood to circulate. For the first time in this long flight, he began to feel optimistic.
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