Crown of Three

by J. D. Rinehart

“I’m sorry. Where’s your son now?”

  “He escaped,” said Ossilius with fierce pride. “I receive word from him now and again, through secret channels. He has raised an army of outlaws, rebels with one mind: to storm Idilliam and see the prophecy fulfilled. He believes in the tale of the triplets, you see. He has devoted his life to them. He is a strong man, my son. My Fessan.”

  Later, with Ossilius snoring beside him, Gulph wrestled with the idea of telling him the truth: that he himself was one of the triplets. The secret was stuck inside him, like a lump of food lodged in his throat. If only he could cough it out, perhaps he could start breathing properly again.

  More than once he found himself reaching out to Ossilius, hand poised to shake the man from his slumber, lips ready to spill their secret. Each time he stopped himself. Telling the truth would be like releasing a caged animal. There was no telling what damage it might cause.

  Gulph wrestled with his thoughts long into the night. He thought he would never get to sleep.

  But in the end, he did.

  Now, as they stood together at the mesh of bars making up the walls of the prison, looking out over the city at the damaged bridge, Gulph discovered that his new companion wasn’t as broken as he’d seemed the previous night.

  “Fessan will come,” Ossilius hissed. “I know it. I will soon see my son again.”

  “He’ll have to be quick,” Gulph replied.

  They watched in silence as another gang of laborers was marched out of the castle, their legs in chains. Men had been toiling all night to complete the work Nynus had begun but, as far as Gulph could see, the gap between the two ends of the broken bridge had grown no wider. Like the roots of a mighty oak tree, the jutting stonework held fast to the sides of the chasm, showing little sign of further collapse.

  “The gap can be crossed,” Ossilius insisted. “Fessan will bring woodsmen, siege engines. He will find a way.” His face fell. “But you are right, Gulph. It cannot hold forever. Sooner or later the rest of the Idilliam Bridge will fall, and the city will be cut off from Toronia. Then it will all be over.”

  Gulph suspected it might be over already, but he clapped Ossilius on the back. “Then let’s hope Fessan comes sooner.”

  There was a commotion at the entrance to the cell. The other prisoners surged toward the noise, then immediately fell back, creating a space around the door. The lock clicked and the door opened with a hideous metallic squeal to reveal Blist standing in full armor, a barbed whip dangling from his hand. Behind him stood six other guards, all heavily armed.

  Gulph shrank back against the bars, wondering what violence was about to ensue.

  “It’s your lucky day!” Blist boomed. “You’ve all got a free pass out of this stinking hole. Are you ready to step outside?”

  Muttered conversation broke out, but it died away as the guards dropped great lengths of chain onto the floor. Leg irons were set at regular intervals along the coils. This didn’t look like freedom to Gulph.

  “The king is impatient,” Blist went on. “He wants the bridge destroyed, and he wants it done quick. So you lot are going to help.”

  “I’d rather stay here,” growled one of Gulph’s cell mates. “That bridge goes down, we all go down.”

  Blist cracked his whip. The sound echoed like an explosion around the cell. Gulph flinched.

  “If you do”—he laughed—“you won’t be missed.”

  Under the watchful gaze of the armed guard, Gulph, Ossilius, and the others were marched out of the cell and split into several groups. The prisoners in each group were tethered together. Gulph moved his feet, testing the weight of the irons around his ankles. They were incredibly heavy; walking was going to be agony.

  “You!” A hand clamped around the back of Gulph’s neck and pulled him violently around. Gulph found himself staring at a grubby man with a face like a weasel. At first he didn’t recognize his assailant. Then it came to him.

  “Elrick?” he gasped. “General Elrick?”

  The last time Gulph had seen him was at the fateful performance in the Great Hall, when he’d first been taken from his friends and thrown into the Vault of Heaven. Memories of that awful day flooded back, not least the tearful expression on Pip’s face as they’d been parted. Where was Pip now? And what of the rest of the Tangletree Players?

  Gulph’s stomach tightened as he contemplated the idea that he might never see his friends again.

  Or worse: that they were dead.

  “It’s your fault I’m in here!” General Elrick was crazed, a scrawny shadow of the smartly dressed soldier Gulph remembered. Yet another loyal servant of whom Magritt had grown tired. “You and your ragamuffin friends! I’m going to kill you!”

  Elrick’s hands closed around Gulph’s throat, cutting off his windpipe. Gulph pawed uselessly at the man’s arms, but Elrick was strong. The more Gulph tried to breathe, the more his lungs protested. His breath turned to hot iron. Eyes bulging, he tried to call to the guards, but they were just standing back and enjoying the show.

  Suddenly, Captain Ossilius was there, drawing back his fist and punching Gulph’s assailant square in the face. There was a crunch. Elrick flew backward, his hands releasing Gulph to clamp themselves against his nose.

  Gulph reeled backward, drawing in agonizing breaths through a throat that felt no bigger than a hollow reed.

  “You broke my face!” Elrick yelped, tottering against the pull of the leg irons. Blood squirted between his fingers.

  “Try that again and I’ll break more!” snapped Ossilius. “You’re a snake, Elrick. The reason you’re in here is all the years you spent sucking up to Brutan. Now he’s crow bait, and you’re in the Vault of Heaven. I’d call that justice.”

  “You don’t scare me,” Elrick whimpered.

  “I rather think I do. If you ever lay a finger on my friend here again, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  As the guards marched them past the giant brazier and away from the cell bay, Gulph gradually recovered his breath. He rubbed his aching neck. My friend, he thought. He was glad to have Captain Ossilius with him.

  • • •

  By the time they reached the Idilliam Bridge, Gulph’s legs were in agony and his ankles were rubbed raw and bleeding. Walking with the chains was like wading through thick mud—except the mud had teeth.

  The sun lanced down through swirling gray clouds of dust. Shadows floated in the murk: long lines of men pounding the rock with sledgehammers. The ground shook with each blow, and each blow was accompanied by a chorus of grunts. Some of the men chanted workhouse songs. It was a scene of muscle and barely contained chaos.

  Prowling among the chain gangs was a figure Gulph didn’t recognize: a slender man dressed in fine robes. On his head was a ring of gold.

  The crown of Toronia.

  Nynus!

  When Nynus drew near to them, he turned his face fully into the light and Gulph saw it wasn’t just the crown Nynus was wearing. His entire face was covered by a mask, shielding him from the sun he hated so much.

  The mask bore human features, sculpted from gold, their contours smoothed and simplified. The closer Gulph looked, however, the more he felt chilled. There was something wrong with the fierce angle of the eyes, something too angular about the heavy brow. The golden lips curled in a sneer, revealing ferocious teeth. It looked nightmarish.

  Nonetheless, as the king strode toward the prisoners, Gulph shuffled out of the line. Nynus had thought him his friend once. If he could just talk to him, maybe he could persuade the king to let them go. . . .

  Nynus drew level with Gulph. The golden mask swiveled to face him. Gulph opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, the sun burst through the floating dust, bathing the mask with light. The gold seemed to catch fire, a dazzling explosion in the hazy air. Staring at the unwavering eyes inside the mask, Gulph saw that Nynus hadn’t just retreated from the sun—he’d retreated from everything. The young king, the wretched boy he’d saved from the Black Cell
, was now entirely out of reach.

  Gulph shuffled back into line.

  “Show me what you can break!” Nynus said. The mask muffled his voice. “If all you men work together, there is no reason we cannot break the world!”

  Several of the prisoners exchanged uneasy glances at this. Nynus walked on past, showing no sign of recognizing Gulph as he did so.

  I don’t recognize you either, thought Gulph sadly.

  At Blist’s command, the guards escorted Gulph’s gang to the place where the end of the bridge met the chasm’s edge. To their left and right, similar gangs were hammering at the rock. Their bodies and faces were caked with dust.

  A pickax was thrust into Gulph’s hand. He thought briefly of using it to cut through the chains around his ankles. It was more likely he’d cut off his foot. Bracing himself, he swung the ax over his shoulder and began to hack at the ground.

  The sharp metal head made little impression on the hard rock, and the blows sent painful shock waves through his back and arms. The prisoners were like ants nibbling at a mountain.

  Yet, little by little, Gulph could see that progress was being made. Each time he looked up, fresh cracks had appeared in the ground. Sooner or later, what remained of the bridge would be destroyed.

  A scream rang out. Gulph looked up in time to see a section of rock break away from the rest and slide into the chasm. Four prisoners from the Vault were clinging to it, scrabbling frantically in their desperate attempts to reach safety. Back on solid ground, their companions were shouting and clawing at their leg irons.

  The men’s chains drew tight. One by one, the remaining members of the gang were dragged over the edge and into the abyss, where they fell shrieking to their deaths.

  Gulph felt the blood drain from his face. Around him, the other members of his gang had stopped to watch too. Shared glances confirmed that they all understood the terrible situation: if one died, they all died.

  Blist’s whip cracked and they bent to their labors again. Smaller and lighter than the men around him, Gulph stumbled constantly as the sweating bodies of his fellow workers slammed into him. Every time he fell, Ossilius was there.

  “Stay strong, little one,” Ossilius said as he picked up Gulph yet again. “Fessan will come.”

  Gulph admired his fortitude, but there seemed little hope of rescue now. Nynus had commanded them to break the world. And that, it seemed, was exactly what they were bound to do.

  CHAPTER 24

  Tarlan didn’t think he would ever get used to how green the world was beyond Yalasti. Flying over Ritherlee, he’d been constantly amazed by the countless subtle changes in color and tone of the landscape below him: young crops shining with sap; steep meadows edged with yellow where the soil supporting them slid slowly off the underlying bedrock; the cloudy masses of woodland leaves.

  Then the broad mirror of the mighty Isurian River and, beyond it, a world that was greener still. Thick forest sprawled as far as Tarlan could see: a tangled carpet of intertwined needles and reaching branches.

  Somewhere far to the north lay Idilliam and the throne of Toronia. However, Tarlan’s eyes were fixed not on the far distance but on the ground.

  “Fly lower, Theeta,” he urged, tugging at the neck feathers of his thorrod steed. “Our scouts have got ahead of us again. I don’t want to lose them.”

  Theeta tucked in her wings and dived toward the forest canopy. The wind blasted against Tarlan’s face, blowing his long hair back over his shoulders. He whooped. The wind seemed to be blowing right through him. He was here, now, in the sky, where he belonged. Just Tarlan and his pack.

  “There!” he shouted, spying movement along a narrow trail, just visible through a gap in the trees. It was Filos, her blue-and-white-striped pelt unmistakable against the overwhelming green of the forest. As Theeta and Tarlan swooped overhead, the tigron cub lifted her head and roared: a high, excited sound.

  The drably colored Graythorn was harder to spot. Instinct told Tarlan the wolf would be following a little way behind Filos. A few moments of searching confirmed his suspicion. When Graythorn saw them, he too looked up, gave a single brief “Yip!” and returned his nose to the ground.

  Sighting his two earthbound companions filled Tarlan with fierce pride. It also drove away his elation. He was not here to have fun in the air, and this was no child’s adventure.

  He was on a mission to find his sister.

  The more he thought about Elodie, the more he hated the idea of her trapped inside that awful tower room in Castle Vicerin. Even a closet full of beautiful dresses couldn’t disguise the fact that she’d been as much a prisoner as he had.

  Where are you now? he thought. Just what do these Trident people want with you?

  The idea that Elodie was still a captive filled Tarlan with rage.

  She and his brother were part of his pack too.

  It’s time we were all together, he thought.

  Up ahead, Filos roared again. Tarlan spurred Theeta down to meet her. Filos bounded up to them as the giant thorrod landed on the soft bracken covering the floor of the glade.

  “Humans have traveled here,” the tigron panted. “Lots of them!”

  Sure enough, something had cut a long swathe through the low-lying undergrowth. Tarlan inspected the ground, identifying hoofprints and footprints alike. Wheel ruts carved a long, meandering line through the glade and back into the trees, where the trail widened significantly.

  “It looks like an army,” he said. “It must be them!”

  Graythorn trotted up, tongue lolling. “We saw ashes,” the wolf said in his guttural way. “Humans made fire. They left things behind. Humans are so messy.”

  “These tracks are fresh,” said Tarlan. “Theeta—call back the others. I think we’re close.”

  Tipping back her head, Theeta opened her beak wide. Her chest convulsed. Both Graythorn and Filos flinched—the wolf in particular looked distressed, his ears flattened against his head—but Tarlan heard nothing. This was the thorrod long-cry, a sound so high-pitched that few animals could hear it. But it traveled for miles, and it carried a single, undeniable message:

  Come quick!

  They didn’t have to wait long. Nasheen and Kitheen—who had been scouting far and wide so as to spread the search pattern—flew in on silent wings. Theeta and Tarlan met them in the air, drawing the whole formation high enough to look out over the forest again.

  The trail they’d seen from the ground was unmistakable from the air. Wide enough to be called a road, it cut a broad furrow northward through the trees. Something was moving along it: a long, snaking formation of men and horses, green flags bright against the darker shade of the leaves.

  An army.

  Trident.

  Tarlan felt the excitement bubbling up inside him. After three days of searching, they’d found her!

  “Stay here!” he called down to Filos and Graythorn. “Keep out of sight. Theeta, Nasheen, Kitheen—come on!”

  “They see,” warned Nasheen as Theeta surged forward.

  “We’ll circle in behind that row of pines,” said Tarlan. “If we stay low, we can scout the terrain without them seeing us.”

  Theeta steered a course behind as much cover as she could find, on occasion flying so low that her wingtips brushed the ground. The other two thorrods followed, their feathers plumped so as to reduce the noise of their flight to nothing. Tarlan held his breath as they drew near, peering through the screen of woven branches that lay between them and the marching army. Where was she?

  “Hie!” cried a voice directly ahead. A horn sounded, its piercing blast shocking in the silence of the forest. Two men wearing camouflaged jerkins covered in leaves ran across their path. Seeing the thorrods nearly stopped them in their tracks, but they urged each other on.

  The army column came to a halt. Soldiers raced to form a vanguard. Horses spread out in a circle, their riders drawing swords and raising spears in anticipation of attack.

  “No use hiding now
,” said Tarlan. “Let’s see what we’re really up against.”

  Urging Theeta up and over the screen of trees, Tarlan led the thorrods out into the open air above the army. Having learned from his experience with the elk-hunters of Yalasti, he made sure to keep them high and out of range of arrows. Moments later, he was glad he had: a line of archers emerged from the middle of the column, their longbows drawn and aimed directly at the thorrod flock.

  “Many men,” said Theeta. “Many horse.”

  Tarlan had to agree. Trident was much bigger than he’d imagined. Apprehension fluttered in his stomach—the thorrods had been instrumental in beating back Lord Vicerin’s soldiers from the village, but this . . .

  There was a flurry of movement near the front of the column. Armed men on horseback were gathering around a single rider, forming a protective cordon around him.

  Or her.

  “Go lower, Theeta,” said Tarlan. “I have to see. Nasheen, Kitheen—stay here.”

  As the thorrod flew down, Tarlan spread his arms to show he carried no weapon. His mouth went dry as the bowmen tracked their descent.

  Just as they drew close enough to see, the mysterious rider’s face tilted back, and Tarlan found himself looking into the keen black eyes of a girl about his age.

  No, he thought, she is exactly my age.

  Though she wore the same green uniform as the rest of Trident, there was something different about the girl. There was haughtiness about the way she sat in the saddle. Her face glowed with a curious mix of fear and courage. Her red-gold hair—the same shade as Tarlan’s—moved in the wind with a life of its own.

  “Girl you,” said Theeta. Normally the thorrod’s voices were dry and expressionless. In those two simple words, Tarlan heard the sound of wonder.

  “Elodie!” he cried. “Elodie! Elodie!”

  Her name flew from his lips as if it had been bottled inside him for years. And so it had, but it was more than that: He’d been waiting to shout it his whole life.

  They were close enough now to hear the creak of the longbows as the archers prepared to fire.

  “I mean you no harm!” Tarlan shouted, not sure if it was entirely true. “All I want is my sister!”