Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

  Then again, given what Gulph knew of the Dowager Queen Magritt, perhaps it wasn’t.

  Captain Ossilius stood impassively, his face an unmoving mask, as Nynus summoned more men from his Legion. At the king’s command, the captain’s wrists were locked in iron manacles; more manacles hobbled his ankles.

  You can’t do that! thought Gulph, balling his hands into fists.

  But of course, Nynus could.

  As Nynus gave the order to take Ossilius to the Vault of Heaven, the captain’s eyes found Gulph’s, and held them. Startled by the intensity of his gaze, Gulph looked away.

  Does he know?

  As soon as Captain Ossilius had been led away, Nynus returned to his throne. His white face was furious. He gnawed at his fingernails. His heels beat a tattoo against the ancient foot rest. The soldiers, still holding the sobbing twins, shifted uneasily on their feet, looking to Gulph in the hope he might know what to do next.

  “King Nynus,” said Gulph. “Shall I . . . ?”

  “Take them away,” said Nynus with a listless wave of his hand. “Take them to the Vault of Heaven. Do not trouble me further today.”

  The legionnaires looked relieved to be making their exit. When they’d gone, Gulph approached the throne. His mouth was dry. Nynus’s behavior was so unpredictable these days. There was no telling how he might respond to even the most innocent request.

  What Gulph was about to ask was far from innocent.

  “Will you permit me to escort the prisoners?” he said, licking his lips. “It would be a great honor. They are such a valuable prize.”

  Nynus said nothing, merely waved his hand again. Good enough. Gulph hurried after the legionnaires, catching them in the corridor beyond the throne room.

  “There’s been a mistake,” he said, trying desperately to make himself sound authoritative. “These are not the children we seek. They’re to be released into my custody at once.”

  “I’m not sure,” said the first legionnaires.

  “We should check,” said the second.

  “Certainly you may check,” said Gulph. “By all means return to the king and tell him you doubt the word of his chief courtier.”

  The soldiers stared first at each other, then back at Gulph. In perfect unison, their shoulders slumped.

  “Take them,” said the first legionnaire.

  “I’m not going back in there,” muttered the second.

  The legionnaires left, leaving the whimpering twins alone with Gulph. They stared at him fearfully, their blistered hands clutched to their chests.

  “You’re safe now,” Gulph said gently. “But you have to keep quiet, and we have to move fast. Do you understand?”

  The boys nodded dumbly.

  Gulph led them through the maze of narrow service corridors that ran parallel to the main castle passageways, hoping they wouldn’t meet anyone along the way. Luck was with them, and soon they were at one of the outer doors. Directly opposite, across a busy courtyard, the main castle gate stood open.

  Gulph watched as an endless stream of horse-drawn carts trundled through the gate. Those leaving the castle were piled high with sacks and barrels. The previous day, Gulph had overheard the kitchen staff discussing the campaign being fought by the king’s soldiers against rebel landowners in Ritherlee; he guessed this supply train was meant for them.

  The Thousand Year War, he thought as he watched the long line of vehicles trundling out of the castle. Has it really lasted as long as they say?

  The arriving carts were empty. Many were damaged, hacked by swords or studded with arrows. The horses pulling them looked weary and were foamed with sweat.

  Everything’s going out. Gulph looked at the tired, hungry faces of the Toronian citizens who’d gathered to watch the parade. And nothing’s coming in.

  “Go through the gate with them,” he said to the boys, picking out a line of smiths and farriers walking alongside one of the departing wagons. Several young boys—their short aprons marking them out as apprentice blacksmiths—hurried behind them. “After that, you’ll have to find your own way. I’m sorry. I wish there was more I could do.”

  “You done lots, sir,” said one of the twins.

  “Thank you,” said the other.

  Gulph held his breath as they made their escape, scuttling behind the smiths in the shadow of a hay cart. When he could see them no longer, he returned to the castle keep. He’d thought he would feel relieved, but he didn’t.

  Glancing up, he saw a window, high above. A woman stood there, looking down.

  Magritt.

  Gulph hurried inside. Had she been looking at him? Had she seen what he’d done?

  • • •

  Gulph spent the rest of the day waiting for a gloved hand to clamp down on his shoulder, and for a soldier from the King’s Legion to march him first before the king, then back to the Vault of Heaven. Perhaps he would be put in a cell with Captain Ossilius. They would have a lot to talk about.

  But nothing happened. Gulph busied himself with his duties; as chief courtier he was expected to make three security inspections a day (though never actually to make any changes to the watch), to cast his eye over the many letters that came in and out of the keep (though not actually to answer any of them), and to attend to the king whenever required. His responsibilities were vague at best, and Gulph had most of the day to himself. So one afternoon, once he had filed the unanswered letters in the castle scroll room, Gulph had rummaged through the moldering parchments, eager to find whatever he could about his fate. Finally, he’d opened a gossamer-thin scroll to reveal the prophecy written down in a faded hand. A possible future outlined in ink and paper . . . Was it really true? For now, all he could do was wait until Magritt and Nynus decided what to do with him. It was as if, now that they’d elevated him to court, they didn’t know what his role should be.

  Or as if they were simply biding their time.

  Waiting for the chance to get rid of me.

  At nightfall, Gulph made his usual circuit of the castle grounds. When he’d finished, he kept walking. The sky was black as velvet, the stars crisp and clean. Directly overhead, brightest of all, shone three stars in a perfect triangular constellation. The prophecy constellation. One green star, one red, one gold. Gulph walked with his head tilted back, fascinated by the blazing trio.

  Which star am I?

  The packed earth under his feet turned to smooth stone. Bringing his gaze from the heavens, he looked down at the Royal Mausoleum. This great stone building had been constructed on the very edge of the vast chasm separating Idilliam from Isur. Thick pillars jutted at an angle from the canyon wall, supporting a circular platform on which the main structure stood. Its walls were solid granite; its roof was domed. Between carved pillars was set a heavy iron door.

  Nearby was the Idilliam Bridge, a huge finger of rock extending from the city wall and stretching all the way across the chasm. The bridge was the only way in and out of the city. When he’d built the mausoleum, Brutan must have known the building would be the first thing visitors would see as they crossed the great span of stone to enter the royal capital.

  So vain, Gulph thought.

  A flock of crows was circling the mausoleum. Every so often, one of the birds landed on the roof to pick at what was lying there. Gulph didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help himself.

  The thing on the roof was Brutan’s body.

  Gulph watched as the crows pecked at the old king’s corpse. It had been Nynus’s decision to pin the body to the roof instead of placing it inside. That had been three days ago; already Brutan’s remains were rich with stink and squirming with maggots.

  Gulph’s dinner surged up from his stomach. He turned aside, convinced he was going to throw up. Somehow he kept it down. As he straightened, the thing he’d been dreading all day finally happened.

  “Here you are, Gulph.” A hand closed on his shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?”

  Swallowi
ng down bile, Gulph turned to face Nynus.

  “I’ve being doing my duty, Your Majesty,” he said.

  Grinning, Nynus slapped his arm. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Call me Nynus!”

  “Yes, Nynus.”

  Nynus plucked a napkin from a pouch at his belt and handed it to Gulph. “Here. You look a little green. Must be the stench from that animal on the roof!”

  “Thank you, Nynus.” Gulph pressed the napkin to his mouth, grateful for the chance to hide his expression. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can listen—that’s what you can do. I’ve had the most wonderful idea, and I simply had to tell someone.” Nynus walked to the edge of the chasm and spread his arms. “This! This is the future!”

  Gulph stared at Nynus’s back. Just one push. That’s all it would take. Given Nynus’s cruel treatment of the two boys, it was what he deserved. And it would be so easy. After all, when you’ve killed one king, what difference does another one make?

  Gulph took a deliberate step back, shocked by his own thoughts.

  “The future?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

  “This chasm is our greatest asset. It keeps our enemies at bay. Even now, Isur is filled with rebel traitors plotting to bring me down. And that’s only one small part of it. The western baronies have fallen to some warlord they call The Hammer; the feuding families of the Isle of Bones have finally united, and say they want to break away from Toronia; and barbarian tribes are massing in the foothills of the Unpassable Mountains. Traitors, the lot of them.”

  “The Thousand Year War continues,” agreed Gulph, unsure of where this was going.

  “Then there’s Ritherlee. Today I heard from my spies that Lord Vicerin’s army has called in the laborers from the fields and handed them swords instead of plowshares. His army is doubled in size; soon it will march on Idilliam itself.”

  “Idilliam is well defended.”

  “Not well enough.”

  “What about the chasm?” Gulph glanced at the abyss into which he’d so nearly pushed his brother.

  “It’s effective. Better than an ordinary moat—there’s no water to swim across!” Nynus laughed—a little shrieking sound that rasped against Gulph’s ears. “But it isn’t perfect.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Nynus pointed past the mausoleum, past the swooping crows, past the rotting remains of his murdered father. Pointed straight at the Idilliam Bridge.

  “That.”

  “The bridge?” Gulph couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What are you saying, Nynus?”

  “I’m saying it has to go.”

  “Go? You mean . . . destroy it?”

  “Yes.”

  Gulph stared at the ribbon of rock connecting Idilliam to Isur and beyond. He’d looked out on the Idilliam Bridge from the Black Cell, yearning for the clear passage it promised from the royal city, out to the rest of the kingdom. It was the single, vital route by which supplies were brought into the city. By destroying it, Nynus would instantly place Idilliam under siege.

  Before long, the city would starve.

  And I will be trapped here with Nynus and Magritt.

  Nynus spun around, laughing. In that moment, his pale face bright under the light of the prophecy stars, he looked utterly insane.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ritherlee was overwhelming. If Tarlan had been a bird, he’d have swooped in drunken delight, basking in the heat of the sun, inhaling the myriad scents of flower and herb, and gazing down on field after field of windblown crops. It was warm and rich and vibrant, truly a land of plenty.

  “It’s so different from Yalasti,” he said in Theeta’s ear. “Different from . . . from anything I’ve ever seen!”

  “Green,” replied the thorrod.

  “Yes.” Tarlan laughed. “It’s green all right!”

  Beneath his cloak, Filos shifted her weight. Tarlan’s laughter died as he stroked the tigron cub. He was worried about her: She’d said nothing since they’d left the Icy Wastes—hadn’t so much as growled. The black leaf he’d applied to her wound had flaked away, revealing an angry-looking gash of red.

  Tarlan felt in his pouch, hoping he might still have some shreds of the precious medicine. But the black leaf was all gone. During the fight with the Wastelanders, Nasheen had been slashed across the breast, and feathers had been torn from her left wing. Tarlan had used the last of the black leaf to soothe her pain, ignoring the increasing ache from his own injured left arm. But Nasheen’s wings were beginning to labor, and she was clearly suffering. Tarlan didn’t think she’d be able to stay in the air much longer. Though she made no complaint, Theeta was clearly exhausted, and even Kitheen’s strong wings were beginning to falter.

  As pack leader, it was up to Tarlan to make a decision.

  “We’re going to land,” he announced. “We all need rest, and Nasheen and Filos need help.”

  The three birds dipped their heads wearily.

  “Rest,” said Theeta.

  “Help,” said Nasheen.

  A line of low hills rose ahead. Beyond it, plumes of smoke towered into the air: There must be a village, Tarlan supposed. He could also see the tops of trees crowding the skyline. If there was a forest, his pack could hide while he scouted for help.

  And after that, their search for Melchior could begin.

  To Tarlan’s dismay, as they crested the hills, he saw the smoke was coming from burning buildings. There was a village all right . . . but it was on fire. People ran across the open ground between flaming barns and homesteads, shouting and screaming. Some carried pails of water; others carried farm tools, waving them as if they were weapons.

  They were low now, committed to their approach. Nasheen’s eyes flickered shut, then opened, then closed again.

  “Nasheen!” shouted Tarlan. “Head for the trees!”

  The little flock of thorrods made a clumsy turn over the ravaged village. A few frightened faces turned up to look at the huge birds, but most people were too concerned with fighting the fires.

  The forest Tarlan had anticipated turned out to be just a ragged copse. Still, it would give them shelter and a chance to stay out of the sight of humans. They landed hard at the tree line and stumbled together under a thin canopy of oak and birch. As soon as they were in the shade, Nasheen slumped awkwardly, her chest shuddering as she struggled to breathe. Theeta nuzzled her; behind them, Kitheen was forcing his way through the trees toward a small stream running down from the hillside.

  Sliding off Theeta’s back, Tarlan nestled Filos into a clump of ferns and covered her with his black cloak. He checked she was still breathing and that her wound wasn’t bleeding. Then he stood back. There was nothing more he could do for her.

  He stared into the thicket. It was a poor place to hide. If Mirith were here, she would no doubt have been able to dig up all the curative herbs they needed. If only he’d paid more attention to her lessons! What was it she’d used to soothe tired limbs? Something with ground-up bones? Well, there were no bones around here and, even if there were, Tarlan wouldn’t know what to do with them.

  “We need help,” he said.

  “Help,” croaked Nasheen without opening her eyes. Kitheen, having returned from the stream, spilled the water he’d carried in his beak down her throat.

  Tarlan gazed at the burning village. He could just make out the heads of the people as they dashed around, trying to save their homes.

  “We need help,” he said again, quietly and to himself.

  Theeta nudged him with one golden wing. “Theeta comes,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Tarlan. “I think I might need you.”

  Side by side, they crossed the field separating the trees from the village. Tarlan kept his good hand on his bow and tried to forget about the pain in his left shoulder. Did he even have the strength to draw an arrow? He didn’t know.

  One of the barns on the outskirts of the settlement was still intact. A battle was raging before it: Villagers ar
med with rakes and scythes tried to defend their homes against soldiers wearing blue sashes over chain mail. It looked like a very uneven contest.

  “What do you think, Theeta?” said Tarlan. “Should we get involved?”

  “On,” the thorrod replied.

  Tarlan grabbed her feathers and swung himself onto her back. Spreading her wings, Theeta accelerated toward the barn, flying so low that her talons raked a furrow in the grass. As they neared the two opposing forces, she steered a little to the right, aiming herself at the soldiers.

  “How do you know they’re the enemy?” said Tarlan.

  “Took child,” said Theeta.

  The faces of the combatants turned toward Tarlan and Theeta. One of the soldiers cried out and dropped the little girl he’d been carrying. Grim-faced, his comrades backed away from the farmers and formed a hasty wall against the oncoming thorrod. A woman rushed forward and scooped her up.

  “Look out!” said Tarlan, as two of the soldiers lifted spears. “Go left!”

  Theeta changed direction at once, her pounding wings raising clouds of dust from the yard in front of the barn. As the soldiers retreated farther, coughing and spluttering, Tarlan steered the thorrod directly into their midst and waited for her claws to come out.

  But they didn’t. Theeta was flying so low, and so fast, that her momentum alone knocked the soldiers aside, just as Tarlan might have scattered a line of wooden pegs with a thrown rock.

  Hardly had the soldiers picked themselves up than the villagers, sensing an advantage, pressed forward with their attack. Dazed and confused, the enemy started to re-form their ranks.

  As soon as they saw the thorrod lining up for a second attack, the soldiers dropped their weapons and fled. A ragged cheer rose from the villagers as Tarlan brought Theeta in to land in the meadow beyond the barnyard.

  No sooner had they touched down than the woman whose child they’d saved rushed up to them.

  “Thank you,” she cried. Still cradling her little girl, she looked up in awe at the thorrod. “Did Lady Darrand send you to save us?”

  “Uh, no,” said Tarlan, untangling the complex speech of the woman. Without Mirith to talk to, he was out of practice. Animal languages were so much more straightforward. “I don’t know who Lady Darrand is. I don’t know anything about what’s going on here. I just need—”