Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

  A trumpeting horn cut off his words. With a thunder of wheels and hooves, a chariot drawn by two white horses burst from behind the barn. Running behind it was a troop of twelve men wearing brown leather armor and carrying broadswords. Driving the chariot was a woman clad in metal armor. Where it wasn’t splattered with mud, it shone as bright as silver under the Ritherlee sun.

  The woman cracked a whip, urging the horses across the field to where Tarlan and Theeta stood. As the chariot skidded to a halt, she pulled off her helm. Black hair spilled down her back.

  “I am Lady Sora Darrand,” she said. Like the other woman, her gaze was fixed not on Tarlan but on his giant winged companion. “This village is under the protection of my family. State your business here.”

  “I have no business,” said Tarlan. “I just want help.”

  Lady Darrand raised one black eyebrow. “Indeed? And yet help is what you have given. Is that not right, Amalie?”

  The woman with the child nodded.

  “What’s going on here?” said Tarlan. Now that the attacking soldiers had departed, the villagers dropped their weapons. A man opened a faucet set in a wall and people ran to it with buckets, bowls, and barrels, filling them with water and sloshing it over the flames.

  Lady Darrand pursed her lips. Tarlan felt her eyes scrutinizing him. Judging him. At last she spoke.

  “This land is mine. It has been in my family for generations. For all that time we have lived in peace with our neighbors, the Vicerins. Ever since we played together as children, Lord Vicerin and I have been friends. We fought together as allies against the corrupt crown.”

  It meant nothing to Tarlan. Lords and ladies? Battles against the crown? None of it interested him at all, but Lady Darrand was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a response.

  “Oh. So what went wrong?”

  “For a young man who knows nothing of our affairs, you seem astute.”

  Tarlan shrugged. “I’ve got eyes. I can see that something bad happened here.”

  “Something bad. Yes. A few days ago, Lord Vicerin’s daughter was kidnapped. Now his army is on the rampage, seizing land, killing livestock. Villages are being burned to the ground.” Lady Darrand’s expression grew hard. “And he is taking our children.”

  It made no sense to Tarlan. “Revenge?” he hazarded.

  “No,” said Lady Darrand. “Bargaining power.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It is complicated.” A shadow fell over her face. “Two days ago, my own daughter was snatched from her sleep. My own dear little Sorelle . . .”

  For the first time, Tarlan found himself interested in what this woman had to say. He had no time for armies and kingdoms. But he knew what it was to be a child alone in the world.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Lady Darrand shook herself. Stern as her face was, her eyes sparkled too.

  “This is a thorrod, is it not?” she said, looking up.

  “Her name is Theeta.”

  “And your name?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Tarlan.”

  “Such a beast would be a great advantage in battle.”

  “I suppose so.” Something about this woman’s strength reminded Tarlan of Mirith, yet he knew he had to be cautious. The little he’d seen of other humans had taught him that much.

  “You say you need help. I will give you that help, if I can.”

  At last Tarlan understood what she was saying. “In return, you want us to fight for you.”

  Lady Darrand raised her eyebrow again and smiled. “As I said: astute.”

  Tarlan looked up at Theeta. She returned his gaze. His thorrod friend would do whatever he asked, he knew that—as would the rest of his pack.

  But is it something I should ask of them?

  “Do you need time to think?” said Lady Darrand.

  Tarlan thought of Nasheen, suffering under the trees. He thought of Filos, who was perhaps dying. He felt the heat in his own injured arm, spreading slowly with the ache through the rest of his body.

  “No,” he said. “We’ll help you, but you have to help us first. I have three other companions. They’re just over there, in the woods. We need a healer. We’ve had . . . a long ordeal. Make us well, and we’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “Your companions,” said Lady Darrand, her eyes narrowing. “Are they warriors?”

  “Two are thorrods.” Tarlan enjoyed seeing the expression of wonder overtake her face. “The other is a tigron. She’s young, but her claws are sharp.” He squared his shoulders. “They are all loyal to me. They will do whatever I ask.”

  “They obey you?” Her surprise was evident in her expression.

  “I talk to them.”

  She stared at him for a long time before finally summoning one of her soldiers. They conferred, then he trotted away, returning moments later with an old man. The man was so laden with packs and pouches that he resembled a walking market stall.

  “My lady?” he said in a hoarse, dry voice.

  “Caraway, go with this young man. Do what you can to help him and his . . . companions.”

  The old man bowed low. “Many of your men lie injured, my lady. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “I am sure, Caraway. Now stop wasting time and do as you are told!”

  The old man flinched under the sharpness of her tongue. Lady Darrand nodded at Tarlan in dismissal, but he wasn’t finished.

  “This is not our war, Lady Darrand. We’ll help remove the threat to this village, but that’s all. As soon as your people are safe, we’re leaving. Do you understand?”

  Lady Darrand looked taken aback. Tarlan imagined she wasn’t used to being given orders—but then, neither was he. For a moment, he thought she’d refuse. Then she stepped down from her chariot and offered him her hand. “I accept your terms, thorrod rider,” she said.

  Tarlan shook it.

  “Lead the way, young man,” said Caraway.

  “I can do better than that,” replied Tarlan.

  Despite her exhaustion, Theeta made no complaint when both Tarlan and the healer settled onto her back. It was a short flight back to the copse, during which Caraway clung tightly to Theeta’s feathers and kept his mouth shut in a thin line. In the far distance, Tarlan could see the blue sashes of the Vicerin army massing for another attack. This wasn’t over yet.

  As they stepped under the trees, Kitheen lunged out of the shadows, his golden beak wide, the black feathers on his breast standing erect. The old man drew back fearfully, scattering his bags on the ground.

  “Easy, Kitheen!” Tarlan soothed. “Easy, everyone. He means you no harm.”

  Kitheen folded his wings, almost knocking the old man over.

  “It’s not me doing the harm I’m worried about,” grumbled Caraway, eyeing the three thorrods and the cub.

  Tarlan smothered a grin as he helped gather the fallen bags. Caraway opened them up and, despite his shaking hands, quickly mixed together a bewildering array of herbs and ointments. Tarlan watched in fascination. For Mirith, the art of healing had been a slow, sacred ritual. He supposed the fighting had given Caraway practiced speed.

  “You first,” said the old man, standing suddenly with a clay bowl in his wrinkled hands. “It’s your left arm, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Surprised, Tarlan eased his tunic away from his shoulder. “How did you know?”

  “I wouldn’t be much of a healer if I didn’t.”

  Caraway smeared a foul-smelling poultice onto Tarlan’s wound. It was warm and unspeakably slimy but, within a few breaths, he felt the pain subside. The effect was so sudden, and so complete, that he couldn’t help but think of Mirith again. Of witchcraft.

  Of magic.

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Melchior?” he said. At once he cursed himself. It was one thing seeking a wizard, quite another blurting out his name to a stranger.

  “Melchior?” said the healer. He was leaning over Filos, his long fingers
hesitantly exploring her injuries. “You mean the wizard? Yes, of course I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t?”

  “Is he famous?”

  “I suppose you could say that.” Caraway began rubbing ointment into the tigron’s flank. Almost immediately, the little cub started to purr.

  “Does he live around here?” Tarlan could feel the jewel pressing into his chest, as if urging him on. Was Melchior really going to be this easy to find?

  “Why do you want to know?” Caraway’s eyes were keen and searching.

  Tarlan shrugged. “Just curious.” He stroked Filos’s head.

  “Mmm. Well, it’s common knowledge. Melchior died years ago. His was the last magic in the world, you know. It’s all gone now. All of it.”

  The healer’s words hit Tarlan like a landslide. All the breath rushed from his body, leaving his chest tight and his mind numb.

  What am I supposed to do now?

  It was over. The mission he’d embarked on had proved a fool’s errand. There were no wizards, and the jewel he carried was just a cold green stone, a memory of Mirith. There was no destiny waiting for him. He was just Tarlan.

  Apparently unaware of the impact his words had had, Caraway turned from Filos to Nasheen. He looked very small against the huge bulk of the unconscious thorrod.

  Tarlan forced himself to breathe again. To his amazement, the shock was replaced with relief. He grieved Mirith bitterly, but he was no longer bound by the path she had set for him. He was free to do as he pleased—and he already knew what that was. Once he had paid his debt to Lady Darrand, he would find somewhere safe to live with his pack, far from humans.

  What more could I want? he thought.

  CHAPTER 16

  We cannot wait for Melchior,” said Fessan.

  Elodie had lost count of how many times he’d said this. It was an argument he’d been pressing all afternoon as the debate went on in the Trident camp. Many agreed with him. But not all.

  She looked at Stown, certain he would trot out his own familiar point of view. He didn’t disappoint her.

  “What if Limmoni finds the wizard?” Stown demanded. “You saw the look on her face when she left. I swear that girl knows where he is.”

  “Limmoni is determined,” Fessan agreed. “But she works magic, not miracles.”

  “We need his guidance,” said an old woman.

  “We will make do without it.” Fessan stood, his fists clenched.

  Elodie rose from the crude wooden stool on which she’d been perched. This wasn’t going anywhere and it was driving her mad. She might as well take one more walk around the clearing before the sun finally disappeared behind the trees. It might clear her head.

  Palenie laid a concerned hand on her arm. “Princess, are you all right?”

  “You’ve been on the move all afternoon, Elodie,” said Fessan. “Are you staying or going? You might as well decide.”

  His question startled Elodie. Stay or go? Did he mean the meeting? Or Trident itself?

  “I don’t know,” she said, picking at the hem of the uncomfortable green tunic.

  “Won’t she just sit down?” grumbled Stown. “It’s wearing me out just watching her.”

  Elodie realized that in fact everyone was watching her—the whole of Trident, crowded around in a rough circle in the center of the clearing. Fessan sat among them, just another face in the throng. The only person who wasn’t staring at her was the blond young man beside Fessan—Rotho, who had joined Trident just that morning. His eyes flickered around the meeting and Elodie wondered if he was as confused by what was happening as she felt.

  “Very well,” she said stiffly, sitting on the stool again. She glanced at Fessan. “I’ll stay. But I still don’t know what to do.”

  “Well,” said Fessan, “you are in the right place. Please help us decide.”

  “We’re not deciding anything,” grumbled Stown under his breath.

  Ignoring him, Fessan went on, speaking once more to the crowd at large. “Do you not see? The time is right. Limmoni said one of the triplets is already in Idilliam—in the castle itself, no less. The second”—he gestured toward Elodie—“is here among us. If we march now, we can bring two of the three together before the moon is full.”

  “What of the third child?” said a man.

  “He will be found. He must be found. Regardless of that, the first triplet—Agulphus—needs our support. He is in the tigron’s den, in danger as long as he draws breath. We have to go.”

  Stown snorted. “You really think now’s the time to go against the crown? Think we’re ready to go up against the entire King’s Legion?”

  “My father is there,” said Fessan. “And he is not alone.”

  Elodie groaned as the bickering voices flew back and forth. Before, when she’d heard Fessan and the other members of Trident arguing, it had infuriated her as she’d felt so remote and far from home. Now it was because she desperately cared about the outcome.

  Thin clouds parted, revealing three stars flickering in the twilight sky. Elodie gazed up at them, struck by how close they seemed. Not stars at all, but bright jewels hanging just out of reach.

  All I have to do is stretch up, and they will be mine.

  “There,” said Fessan, standing and pointing at the sky. “Do you not see the prophecy stars?”

  Elodie shivered. It was as if he’d been listening to her thoughts.

  “So what?” said Stown.

  “They are the proof!” Fessan’s normally calm demeanor was cracking. Elodie could hear the passion in his voice. The scar on his face twitched. She wondered how he’d got it. Was it fighting for Trident—for her and her brothers?

  “Can you not see it?” Fessan was striding in front of the crowd now. “The wheels are turning. All the pieces of this great puzzle are coming together. This is happening. It is happening now!”

  “Fine words,” grunted Stown. “But the truth is that Melchior’s abandoned us. Fessan thinks he can command Trident, but he can’t even command the spoiled brat he’s saddled us with for a princess.”

  Fessan’s face clouded with rage. “How dare you insult your future queen? On your knees, Stown, and beg forgiveness!”

  Stown just spat on the ground.

  That did it. Elodie rose once more from the stool. A hush descended as she stepped into the middle of the circle. She felt suddenly taller, just that little bit closer to the watching stars.

  “Stown is right,” she said. Fessan frowned. Stown’s face creased into a sneer. “I was like that. When I first arrived here, I was spoiled and ungrateful. I’m sorry.”

  “More words,” said Stown. “If I were you, little girl—”

  “Princess,” corrected Elodie. “Now be quiet while I speak.”

  The burly man looked furious, but closed his mouth all the same.

  “Since I’ve been here,” Elodie went on, “I’ve learned a lot about myself. I’ve learned that until now I’ve lived in a very small world. I’ve learned that I have two brothers, and that I want them by my side more than anything—even on the throne.”

  She walked across the circle to Fessan, who immediately dropped to one knee. Elodie’s spine tingled. “One of my brothers is in Idilliam,” she said, looking down at Fessan’s upturned face, “probably in danger. I say we march to be by his side.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. Fessan stood again. His eyes were shining.

  “Are there any who doubt that our queen is among us?” he shouted.

  The murmur became a rumble.

  “She says she will march to Idilliam!” Fessan went on.

  The rumble became a roar. Rotho leaped up, his hands raised in applause, and the others followed.

  “Let us draw our own courage!” Fessan cried. “I say it is not Elodie who will march with us! It is we who will march with her!”

  The combined voices of Trident crashed against Elodie like waves against the shore. It was more than a roar; it was a storm.

  A storm for
her.

  We’re coming for you, Gulph, she thought, gazing around at the cheering faces. We’re coming.

  • • •

  The whole camp was in an uproar. Tents were torn down, supplies were packed into sacks and crates, horses were harnessed, fires were dampened. Fessan was everywhere, supervising the preparations for departure. Whenever he passed Elodie, he gave her a smile that seemed to say he’d always known he was right to believe in her. I hope I don’t let him down, she thought.

  Not quite knowing what to do, Elodie returned to her tent, only to find Palenie in the process of rolling up the canvas and packing away the poles.

  “Can I help?” said Elodie.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Palenie replied, tossing her bearskin cloak onto the pile. “That’s the last of it. We’ll be on the road before the moon’s up.”

  Elodie nodded. Everything was happening so quickly, and she was the one who’d triggered this avalanche of activity. It was overwhelming.

  Palenie stepped over to her. “It’s going to be all right.” She smiled. “You were wonderful earlier. You sounded like a queen.”

  Elodie grinned back. “Really?”

  “Really, Princess. You should have seen Stown’s face. He looked like he’d swallowed something rotten.”

  The two girls laughed. Elodie felt warmth rising inside her, and she realized it was the first time she’d felt happy since she’d left Ritherlee. The only other person who’d made her laugh was Samial.

  Samial.

  “There’s something I’ve got to do,” Elodie said. “I won’t be long!”

  Leaving the tent, she hurried toward the Weeping Woods.

  He’ll come with me, she thought. He has to.

  On the way, she passed Rotho, who was busy piling spears into a low wagon. When he saw Elodie, he put down the spear he was holding and strode over. He was lean, his shoulders broad, and the breastplate he wore gleamed in the late-afternoon sun. From his waist hung a slender blade.