Except . . . last time he’d had the thorrods to help him.
Now he was on his own.
The cart had stopped beneath a high castle wall built from fine red stone. Slender towers punctuated the wall’s gentle curve at regular intervals. Patterned blue flags flew from masts set high on their sloping roofs.
The soldiers dragged Tarlan through a small gate in the castle wall. Beyond it was a narrow thoroughfare, and then another wall. A second gate led to a yard where rows and rows of vegetables grew. Tired-looking gardeners tended the plants; none looked up as the soldiers hauled Tarlan past. But the sentry standing in the corner watched their every move.
So much food! Tarlan thought, unable to take his eyes off the bounty of crops.
Through a decorative wrought-iron gate set in an arched doorway, Tarlan glimpsed a group of children playing some kind of chase game. Elegant women stood nearby, talking as they watched over their brood. They held parasols and fanned themselves. A servant stood to one side holding a silver tray laden with goblets.
Tarlan couldn’t imagine a scene more different from the simple rustic reality of the village he’d been helping to defend. And it was a whole world away from what he’d known in icy, barren Yalasti. The deeper he delved into the affairs of humans, the more complex they became. So much for keeping his distance.
At the far end of the kitchen garden was another wall, this one overgrown with ivy. The soldiers took him through a narrow door and into a dark corridor. Here, the walls were black and smelled of damp. For the first time since arriving in Ritherlee, Tarlan shivered with cold.
The deeper the soldiers led him into the castle, the more Tarlan felt the impulse to escape. He wondered if Theeta and the rest of his pack were searching for him.
If so, they’ll never find me in here.
The corridor opened onto a long room lined with cells. In the middle of the room, with his back to Tarlan, a man was sitting on a stool. His clothes were fine: purple robes and white furs. But it wasn’t he who caught Tarlan’s attention.
There were children in the cells.
They huddled in small groups, perhaps a dozen in total. Their faces were dirty and many of them looked as if they’d been crying. So these were the hostages his captors had mentioned. Tarlan wondered if Sorelle, Lady Darrand’s daughter, was among them.
Near the door, chained to the wall, lay a wolf. It looked bony, with patchy fur, and was clearly malnourished. As they entered, it sat up and whined pitifully, tugging listlessly at the chain, which was far too tight. One of the guards kicked it aside; Tarlan bit his lip, barely restraining himself from lashing out in retaliation.
The man on the stool spoke.
“Is anyone going to answer my question?” His voice was high for a man’s. His head turned slowly from one side to the other. Tarlan wished he could see the man’s face. “What do you think Gretiana found at the end of the path?”
The trapped children stared listlessly back at him.
“Very well—I will tell you.” The man raised a scroll from his lap and read from it. “‘At the end of the path, Gretiana found a cottage made of bread and bones. Green smoke rose from the chimney, and a black cat sat on the step. After wandering in the woods for a day and a night, she was right back where she had started: in the clutches of the evil witch.’”
One of the boys began to cry.
Spotting Tarlan and the soldiers, the man stopped reading and rolled up the scroll.
“Enough for today, children,” he said.
A single groan of disappointment came from the cells. All the other children looked relieved. Tarlan saw one small girl elbow another in the ribs. Her companion piped up:
“Please, sir, can we go out today?”
The man who’d been reading smiled indulgently. “I am sorry, children, but you know the rules. I would love to let you play outside in the sunshine, but I have to keep you safe. No, it is better—far better—that you are protected. You have food. You have stories. Nothing can harm you here. And you are happy, are you not?”
“Yes, Lord Vicerin,” chorused several of the children. The others glowered.
So that’s him! thought Tarlan. He’d been expecting some kind of warlord or tyrant, not a finely dressed dandy.
“Why are you keeping them prisoner?” Tarlan demanded, unable to stop himself.
Lord Vicerin turned slowly to face him. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not hear your name.”
“Never mind my name. You can’t keep them here like this!”
The guards tightened their grip on his arms.
“The children are happy. Did you not hear?”
Tarlan regarded the line of anxious faces pressed up against the bars.
“They don’t look very happy to me.”
Lord Vicerin came close. His skin was smooth, and smelled faintly of flowers. “I suppose you do not know fear?”
He nodded to the soldiers, who shoved Tarlan to his knees in front of the wolf. At once, the mangy creature lurched to its feet and bared a vicious set of yellow teeth. Several of the children cried out.
“No creature scares me.” Tarlan leaned in close to the snapping wolf. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Everything’s all right.”
Just as the tigron had, the wolf seemed to understand his words. It stopped snarling. Tarlan could sense the creature’s pain, its hunger. Looking into its eyes, he knew it sensed something of him, too.
Remaining still, he allowed the animal to sniff his face. It nuzzled his hair and licked his cheek. Tarlan heard one of the children gasp.
Theeta. Filos. Now you.
Finally, the wolf curled up with its muzzle resting on its paws, staring up at Tarlan intently.
I have a way with animals, he thought, marveling at how natural this new bond felt.
The scent of flowers wafted past his face, and he looked up to find Lord Vicerin standing over him.
“Well, this is a curious thing,” said the lord of the castle. “What is your name? Or shall I just call you ‘wolf boy’?”
Tarlan said nothing.
The guards held him still as the lord’s hands lifted his black cloak. They turned it over, revealing the vivid red lining. Compared to the man’s finery, the cloak looked grimy and threadbare. The hands moved up to Tarlan’s neck, where they found the green jewel hanging on its gold chain. Tarlan endured the contact, though he could feel his muscles clench. He could sense the wolf quivering at his side, making ready to pounce.
You better not think about taking Mirith’s jewel, he thought.
Slowly, Lord Vicerin’s eyes opened wide. His fingers reached for Tarlan’s face, then pulled back, as if in fear of being burned. He tried to speak, but emitted only a croak. His tongue flicked out over his lips, then retreated inside his mouth again.
“So here you are,” he said at last. “Black eyes. Hair like copper. You look so much like . . .”
He raised one hand. Tarlan prepared himself for the blow.
To his astonishment, Lord Vicerin knelt. The hand he’d raised made a complex gesture in the air, then the man bowed his head. When he raised it again, his eyes were glistening with tears.
“You are come to us, Prince,” he said softly. “Welcome.”
CHAPTER 19
Tarlan was still in a daze when they emerged into the kitchen garden. His head felt thick and heavy. As the two soldiers escorted him between the rows of vegetables, he realized he was no longer chained. When had they freed him? He couldn’t remember.
Lord Vicerin, who was striding ahead of them, reached the iron gate and unlocked it with a large key. Tarlan followed him into the garden he’d glimpsed earlier. The children had gone, leaving the expanse of smooth grass and neatly trimmed hedges empty but for a pair of extraordinary birds, each with a fan of colorful tail feathers spread wide in the sun.
Peacocks, he thought absently, dragging up a memory of a word Mirith had once used.
Tarlan’s nose filled with the scent of flo
wers. Feeling dizzy, he stopped, bent over, and planted his hands on his knees.
“Come, Prince,” said Vicerin. “This is not a day to dally.”
“I’m not a prince,” said Tarlan, standing up straight again. “I told you. My name is Tarlan. I come from Yalasti. You can’t keep me here—I’m nothing to do with this stupid war of yours. I just want to be back with my friends.”
“Friends?” Vicerin frowned. “If you are a friend of Lady Darrand, then you are involved with this ‘stupid war,’ as you call it, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t mean her.”
Vicerin’s frown turned to puzzlement. He waved his hand in front of his face, banishing the expression. “It is tragic,” he said, “that you know so little. It has been hidden from you, no doubt, by well-meaning individuals. But now you will know the truth.”
Tarlan eyed the gate. The soldiers hadn’t followed them into the garden; he was essentially free. But there would be other soldiers beyond. If only they hadn’t taken his weapons.
Could I make it?
If he could only get beyond the castle gate, he was confident he could trace the route the cart had taken. If they hadn’t already set out in search for him, Theeta and the rest of his pack would be waiting there.
Three things stopped him from making his bid for freedom. The first was the thought of leaving all those children locked in the dungeon. The second was his desire to free the wolf.
The third was simple curiosity.
“What do you mean?” he said. “What’s been hidden?”
“Your destiny.” Lord Vicerin’s smile flashed on like a beacon flame, revealing large white teeth.
“I don’t understand.”
“Where did you get that?” Vicerin pointed to Tarlan’s cloak.
“I’ve always had it.”
“Mmm. That cloak was once the property of a man called Captain Leom. When you were a baby, he carried you away from certain death and into . . . well, I suppose some might consider it exile. I prefer to think of it as a place to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For the time to be right.” The smile broadened. “As it now so clearly is.”
The dizziness came again. Tarlan pushed it away. He didn’t know if he could trust what this man said. But why would he lie? And had Mirith not told him stories about how she’d found him in the forest, wrapped in the very cloak Vicerin was talking about?
His heart stirred. He’d never given much thought to his past before.
“Then there is the jewel you wear around your neck,” Vicerin went on. “A very beautiful thing. Just like you, it has a destiny.”
“Destiny?” The word faltered on Tarlan’s lips. “What do you mean?”
“Only that you are in the right place at last, my young prince.”
Tarlan’s newly awoken curiosity was like an itch. All he wanted to do now was scratch it.
“What do you know about the jewel?” he demanded. “Tell me!”
Lord Vicerin waved his hand airily. “Never mind. All you need to know is that one day, that jewel will be set into a crown. The crown you yourself shall wear when you sit on the throne of Toronia.”
A gust of wind blew past Tarlan’s face, momentarily ridding the air of the cloying smell of grass and flowers.
“Why should I believe you?” he said. “You’re just a fancy thug who keeps children and animals locked up!”
Vicerin’s expression turned to one of horror. To Tarlan’s surprise, he fell to his knees and held out his manicured hands, pleading.
“Forgive me, Prince!” he exclaimed. “This is a shock to you, and I have failed to explain everything. The cells you saw . . . The Darrands are snatching youngsters from all corners of Ritherlee. No child is safe. It looks barbaric, I know—and it breaks my heart to confine them—but it is truly for their own good. You must believe me.”
“What about the wolf?”
“A savage beast. We hope to tame it. Wolves make good castle guards. Would you rather it was killed?”
Tarlan folded his arms, staring down at this finely dressed lord who was inexplicably crouched before him.
“Lady Darrand told me you were the one stealing children,” he said slowly.
Vicerin nodded. “That does not surprise me. Her capacity to lie is matched only by her charm. The two combined make her a very dangerous woman.” Climbing to his feet, he brought his powdered face close to Tarlan’s. “‘Too much virtuous blood has spilt in this accursed age. When the stars increase by three, the kingdom shall be saved.”’
“What? What is that?”
“A prophecy. Or part of one. You, Tarlan, are part of it. You are a triplet, one of three heirs to the throne of Toronia, sired by Brutan and hidden in the far reaches of the kingdom, awaiting your day. I say to you now that I, Lord Vicerin of Ritherlee, will bring you to your inheritance. The Vicerins will not stop until the prophecy has been fulfilled.”
“Triplets?” Tarlan spluttered. His heart quickened. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Instead of crowns and kingdoms, however, all he could think of was brothers and sisters. Suddenly, after being raised an only child and orphan, he was being told he had a family. “Where are the others?”
Lord Vicerin’s hand settled on his shoulder, his face a mask of tragedy. “Alas, Tarlan, they are lost. This is why you are so important to us. To Toronia.”
He led him to a tall stone tower rising from one of the castle’s inner walls. A sense of unreality washed over Tarlan as they passed from the garden into a high hallway lined with dark wood panels and draped with colorful banners. Silver swords were fixed to the walls, the polished metal shimmering in the light of a dozen blazing torches.
I could run, he thought again. But his mind was too full of questions, so he stayed.
As they entered the hall, a pair of maids wearing white aprons appeared from a low doorway, as if they’d been waiting all this time for their lord to approach. Lord Vicerin snapped his fingers.
“Hot water,” he said. “Clean clothes. In the top chamber. Now.”
The maids scurried away, leaving Vicerin to lead Tarlan up a steep staircase. By the time they reached the top, the muscles in Tarlan’s thighs felt tight and strange.
He’d never climbed stairs before.
“This will be your room,” said Lord Vicerin, ushering Tarlan into a large chamber.
The room was like nothing Tarlan had ever seen. Lilac silks lined the walls; beneath the window stood a dressing table piled high with gold and jewelry. An enormous bed sat beneath a canopy supported by four oak posts, covered by embroidered pillows and coverlets. Everything smelled of flowers.
“Fit for a prince!” Vicerin pronounced, setting an ornate chair straight against the wall.
Tarlan eyed the sturdy bolts on the door—the outside of the door. The room bore an unsettling resemblance to a prison cell.
“It’s very big,” he said. He waved an arm at the other side of the room. “What’s through there?”
Vicerin went over and opened the door, revealing a large closet in which rows of colorful dresses hung. As his back was turned, Tarlan started edging toward the door. He felt trapped. He didn’t want this. He wanted his friends, his freedom, and the wide-open sky.
His escape plan was foiled when the maids bustled in. One carried a big bowl of steaming water, the other a stack of neatly folded linen. Behind them came yet more servants—a virtual stream of them. Between them they filled the bedchamber with plates of fruit and cooked meat, goblets of wine and water, and piles of books.
Tarlan was bemused by the sudden flurry of activity, and intoxicated by the mouthwatering smells coming from the food. By the time he’d come to his senses, the servants had left and Lord Vicerin was standing between him and the door. Which was now closed.
“Please, make yourself at home,” said Vicerin. “You are safe here, Tarlan. You are surrounded by loyal followers, all of whom are prepared to lay down their lives if it will he
lp you take your rightful place on the throne of Toronia.”
“I don’t want anyone to die,” said Tarlan. “And I don’t care who you think I am. I just want my pack.”
Vicerin’s eyes narrowed. “You mean your friends?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, that may be. But you are here now, and here you will stay. Your mind will change, Prince Tarlan. I will make sure of it.”
Bowing slightly, Vicerin departed, closing the door quickly behind him.
The clunk of the bolts being drawn was very loud.
Furious both with Vicerin and himself, Tarlan kicked over the bowl. Hot water sluiced across the stone floor, filling the room with steam. He grabbed the nearest plate of food, intending to fling it out the window. But the slices of roast chicken and ripe berries looked and smelled so succulent that he relented.
Putting the plate on the bed, he devoured everything he could see, washing it down with copious drafts of cold water. When he’d finished, he let out a tremendous belch.
Now, how am I going to get out of here?
Tarlan lay down on the bed, his head filled with half-formed plans.
Moments later, he was asleep.
• • •
Tarlan woke with a start from a dream he couldn’t remember. He rose from the bed, found his head was aching, and flopped back again. A plate rolled from a pillow and smashed on the floor.
He sat up again, more gingerly this time. His mouth tasted of stale food. His stomach felt stretched. He stood, swinging his arms, and crossed the room to the window.
Night had fallen, but the castle was ablaze with light. Everywhere Tarlan looked, torches burned. Bright windows stared back at him like probing eyes. He turned away, not wanting to be watched.
Clasping his hands to the back of his neck, he tried to stretch the tension out of his back. His fingers touched bare skin. He froze, his stomach writhing with dread. Bending, he stared into the mirror on the dressing table.
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