Heir Apparent

by Vivian Vande Velde

  Again my brothers moved faster than I could—one of the disadvantages of wearing a dress, particularly a dress that's five sizes too big. But I was ahead of Andreanna, Deming, and Orielle, and way ahead of Sister Mary Ursula and, once again, Uldemar.

  Looking over the parapet, I saw the barbarian messenger had walked this time, and he had one of our guards as prisoner. The guard was holding a sack, and a pile of gold was poured out at his feet—proof that the man was not a simple deserter but one of the group that had been accompanying the gold.

  I called down, "If you think that's Prince Wulfgar, you're mistaken."

  The barbarian spat. People in this world seemed fond of spitting. He said, "Wulfgar is being the one what can be changing his self into a wolf. He is being our captive."

  "We take your word for that?" I asked.

  The barbarian gave his prisoner a shake. "Tell," he commanded.

  The guard was nodding. "The prince is alive," he assured us. "He was asleep in one of the wagons when the barbarians surrounded us. He changed into a wolf but was struck in the shoulder by an arrow. Though he's injured, he will recover."

  Sure, one of us got some rest, I thought grumpily, though it was hardly a fair grievance considering that now he was captive and wounded. I also thought, Am I the only one in this kingdom who DIDN'T know Wulfgar could take on the shape of a wolf?

  Meanwhile, I called down to the barbarian, "What are you offering?"

  "The life of the prince for the life of the princess."

  To my surprise—and gratification—there was a roar of protest from my men on the battlements.

  Before I could get too smug, Abas, sentimental softy that he was, nudged me and said, "Ask if that trade includes the gold, too."

  Deming said, "The situation is more emotionally wrenching than before, but we cannot give in to their demands."

  Thank you, Deming.

  I was glad to have a refusal that sounded like a political stance rather than cowardice. I yelled down, "We do not bargain with extortioners. But remember this: Harm Wulfgar and you lose any chance to negotiate later."

  The barbarian spat—which came as no surprise—and slit the throat of his hostage—which was a surprise.

  Our men released a flurry of arrows, deeming he had broken the truce first, but he was at the border of their range and quickly sprinted back to his own lines.

  Andreanna said to me, "That's what they'll do to Wulfgar, too. And it's all your fault."

  I half expected her to spit, too, but fortunately she didn't. She turned and headed for the stairs. "Out of my way, you old fool," I heard her say.

  Sister Mary Ursula hefted herself up the last step, huffing like a beached whale. Andreanna pushed past her, and Abas and Kenric followed, with Orielle close behind, and Deming behind her. Sister Mary Ursula asked, "Did I miss anything?"

  I ignored her and asked Penrod, "Did you see Xenos come walking out of the castle—through the walls—a short while ago?"

  Though that should have been hard to miss, he said, "'Through the walls,' Princess?" and shook his head. "No, Princess."

  "Or did you notice a bat, maybe?"

  "A..."—Penrod hesitated—"bat?"

  I waved my arms to indicate flapping wings.

  "Hard to say, Princess," Penrod said. "Usually bats don't come out till dusk."

  It didn't make any difference. I doubted Uldemar could get Xenos to return—even if, as a bat using his sonar sense instead of eyes, Uldemar could find him.

  Perhaps thinking I'd become mentally unbalanced, Penrod said, "You should take what rest you can now, Princess. "When the sun sets, they will resume their attack."

  Would a two-hour nap make me feel like a new person, or would it just give all my overworked muscles time to stiffen? Better, I thought, to stay in the guards' view, helping—getting their attention in a good way lest they reconsider how much they had to gain by turning me over to the barbarians.

  "Let's get these men fed," I told Penrod. "There'll be little enough time for that later."

  Sister Mary Ursula said, "Oh no, not the stairs again."

  "Sorry," I told her. I tried to think of something useful to occupy her. "Could you organize the ladies into making bandages?"

  "I am One with the chickadee," she answered. "I am mother and sister and child of the deer the moment before the hunter's arrow pierces its heart."

  I had no idea if that meant yes or no, or if she was simply declaring that she was a vegetarian.

  THE GUARDS stayed on the walls, in case the barbarian attack came sooner than we expected, so their food had to be brought up to them.

  I tried to help the pages, but frankly I was more bother than benefit because I had to hold my skirts up out of the way going up those stairs—and that's hard to do while carrying a heavy tray of food—and because the ghosts kept getting in everybody's way in the crowded stairwell.

  "Maybe," the head page suggested, "it would be best if you stayed up here, helping to distribute the food."

  I ended up doling out the mead, which had to be the best job I could have to make them appreciate me, for they seemed to like drinking better than eating.

  But all the while, the shadows were lengthening and the edge of the sky got pink, and the pages scurried to clean up before the battle began and the trays and barrels and dishes became a hazard to the men who would be defending our lives.

  I pounded the lid back onto the barrel of mead with the butt of a knife one of the men loaned me for that purpose.

  "And did you take time to eat?" someone asked from behind me.

  I turned to see Kenric, but my happiness at his concern was diminished by the sight of Orielle standing by him. He was carrying a huge wicker laundry basket filled with rags, and he put this down by my feet.

  Ah, I thought, Sister Mary Ursula's bandage brigade has ' been at work.

  Kenric said, "Orielle, go fetch Janine something to eat before they bring everything back to the kitchen, will you?"

  I thought she might bristle at being spoken to as though she were a servant, but she only said, "Certainly," and went to intercept one of the pages.

  Kenric nodded toward the bandages and said, "Orielle has doused these in a potion that will help promote healing."

  "That was kind of her," I said.

  Kenric grinned. "Orielle doesn't do things out of kindness," he said. "She works for pay."

  Well. So maybe the two of them weren't as cozy as I'd thought.

  Orielle came back bearing a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. "You aren't being very kind," she complained to Kenric. "I don't always demand to be paid." She handed me. the bowl. "I very much admire how you're handling yourself," she told me. "To go from the quiet life you've been used to ... I can't imagine. My father ran out on us when I was born with the witch mark on me." Another no-account father, I thought as she held up her palm, showing a pentagram that seemed etched into her skin. "My mother tried to drown me when I was seven, and I was raised in the gutter. I'm used to betrayal and deception and people trying to use me. But you're doing this all on your own, not needing anybody, not having to play men's games..." She drifted off, and I knew she meant "not having to flirt and act sexy," which I figured I couldn't have done, anyway, but I didn't think she was putting me down for not looking like a cover girl. It didn't sound as though her fabulous looks had given her a happy life. In fact, she said, "I envy you so much."

  Somebody who looked like Orielle envied me?

  "I've got an idea," Orielle said. "How about if we send Kenric away, and then we can discuss what's wrong with men and the way they run the world?"

  "I beg your pardon," Kenric said. "What's wrong with men?"

  "Nothing," Orielle said. "Nothing is ever wrong with a man—it's always someone else's fault."

  "That's a stereotype," Kenric pointed out.

  It was, but I couldn't help throwing in a joke I'd heard: "If a man is all alone in the forest with no one to hear him ... is he still wrong?"


  Orielle laughed.

  "So," Kenric said, "should I just leave the two of you on your own, then?"

  We waved him away and sat down on the battlement. "This stew," I said, "is the best thing I've eaten all day."

  "It's the only thing you've eaten all day," she pointed out.

  It was venison, which I wouldn't have chosen even before Sister Mary Ursula's comment about poor hunted deer. But I was hungry enough that I was willing to eat Bambi's mother.

  Watching Kenric, who had gone to stand by Abas, Orielle said, "I'll admit those three are good-looking..."

  "They are that," I agreed.

  "But if I hear Abas brag one more time about how many roast ducks he can eat in one sitting or how many cows he can lift with one arm..."

  I said, "Do the words Spanish steel mean anything to you?"

  In unison and with a great deal of pomposity we both said, "Toledo," then giggled as though we were safe in a school cafeteria.

  Orielle said, "And, of course, you can't trust Kenric."

  "So I've heard," I said, thinking of Nigel Rasmussem's warning.

  "And Wulfgar—come the full moon and he's impossible."

  "I can imagine."

  Orielle sighed. "But their looks are distracting."

  I nodded, but I shifted uncomfortably. The stew seemed to be sitting in a lump somewhere between my throat and my stomach.

  "Is something wrong?" Orielle asked.

  I set down the bowl of stew. "I think I ate too fist after not eating for so long." I tugged on the neckline of my dress. "And I really should change out of this velvet monstrosity. I'm so hot." The day was ending. Shouldn't it be cooling off? My lips felt parched, and I went to lick them, but my tongue was so dry and heavy, I couldn't move it. I tried to say, "Isn't it getting awfully hot?" but my voice came out thick and garbled. Besides, I could see that it wasn't hot. Some of the men had put on cloaks against the evening chill.

  Though my body was still hot, my heart went cold.

  It's not fair! I thought. I'm doing well. I'm going to finish this game in this lifetime.

  But I'd taken too long to get here.

  The damaged Rasmussem computers were overloading my brain. I was beginning to die.

  "No!" I tried to cry defiantly, but it was little more than a moan.

  "Let me get you something to drink," Orielle offered.

  I saw her stand, but I felt as though I were looking through the wrong end of a telescope. And either she was tipping, or I was. Must be me, I reasoned, for the parapet was at an odd angle, too.

  Kenric came up to Orielle and put his arm around her waist. "Not feeling well, is she?" he asked.

  "Fevered," Orielle said, "and delirious."

  "Ah, what a pity," Kenric said, not looking or sounding the least bit pitying.

  Neither did Orielle, come to think of it.

  Captain Penrod came rushing over. He did look distressed. "Princess!" he cried. He took hold of me and sat me up straight—I know only because I could see him do it. I couldn't feel his hands on my arms. My neck was no longer strong enough to hold my head up.

  I couldn't feel anything, and I told myself, Don't panic. It could be worse. Not feeling anything is better than feeling pain. But that didn't truly help.

  Abas must have joined the group. "What's the matter with her?" I heard him ask.

  "Fevered and delirious," Kenric said.

  "Just like Father," Abas commented dryly.

  "Just like Father," Kenric echoed.

  And then I did feel something. I felt fizziness engulf my body.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Did Someone Say Déjà Vu?

  They'd poisoned me, dammit. Probably to trade my dead body to the barbarians for Wulfgar's safe return. Or maybe just for the fun of it. Both Sir Deming and Queen Andreanna had insisted King Cynric had been fevered and delirious before he died. They'd brought it up as a rationale for why the king had named me his heir, but now I wondered what had killed him.

  And Kenric. Deming had declared him much too interested in magic. Yeah, right. Much too interested in a certain user of magic. I should have asked Orielle why her mother had tried to drown her.

  I stood up on the hillside overlooking St. Jehan and screamed in frustration—which scared Dusty, though she still came up to me, just slower than usual, her tail giving a tentative little wag. I Was glad that I wasn't being deep-fried by the computer, but I would be if I didn't figure my way out of this convoluted, backstabbing, mean-spirited game.

  "Is everything all right, dear?" my mother asked when I got to the bottom of the hill.

  "I am One with the morning," I told her. "And my chosen adviser knows her meats."

  "That's nice," my mother said, and she introduced me to Sir Deming, and I met my father—who was my favorite person in this game—and I went to the shrine of Saint Bruce the Warrior Poet.

  I spent my travel time working on remembering the poem I'd recited last time. I was beginning to suspect that Saint Bruce would accept any poem a player made up, but I knew for a fact that he had accepted "An Ode to Saint Bruce." I didn't think it was good poetry, but who was I to argue with a Saint with a sword in his hand? So I recited it again:

  "Saint Bruce was a warrior poet.

  He lived in a cave, don't you know it?

  He wrote sonnets and verses,

  But never said curses.

  He'll give you one chance—please don't blow it."

  Feordina whimpered and flung herself out of the way, but then she always did.

  I was waiting for her to say, "He must be in a good mood. Lucky you; he's accepted your poem," when I saw the sword begin its fatal swing down.

  SUBJ: URGENT—Deadline

  DATE: 5/25 04:17:06 P.M. US eastern daylight time

  FROM: Nigel Rasmussem

 

  TO: dept. heads distribution list

  Our numbers concur with Japan's: Giannine may or may not have time to complete one more lifetime. There definitely won't be another chance.

  She is making a valiant effort but may not be able to make up for time lost in her initial attempts to break through level 1.

  Medical personnel standing by.

  Members of the press are aware that there is a situation but do not have details. Please remain calm and refer all questions to Jim in PR, who is preparing a statement.

  I will try to remain calm, too, but I am sick at heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Will the Guilty Party Please Step Forward?

  OK, so apparently when Feordina warned that Saint Bruce had a good memory, she didn't just mean he would recognize published poetry—apparently she meant a player had to make up a new poem each time.

  Thanks a lot, Nigel Rasmussem.

  OK: hill, Deming, Dad, shrine ... The next time I stood in front of the statue, I recited:

  "A poem in a cave:

  Offering up all my hopes

  On butterfly wings."

  Feordina didn't wince and duck. She smiled and said, "Haiku."

  "Yes," I said.

  "Saint Bruce likes haiku."

  "Well, good."

  "Except..."

  How had I known there'd be an "Except..."?

  "Except, haiku's so very short..."

  "Succinct," I corrected.

  "Good word," she told me. "Haiku's so very short that if a poet offers up haiku poetry, Bruce does like two." She smiled her brown-toothed smile at me.

  A second poem?

  "Did I mention the time limit?"

  So, on the spot, I made up another haiku:

  "The statue of Bruce,

  Silent but waiting to strike:

  Poem, do not fail me."

  Feordina and I watched the sword.

  "Not quite as good as the first one," she said. "But he must be in a good mood. Lucky you."

  If I were lucky, my father would have forgotten my birthday.

  But apparently, I thought as I hid the r
ing in my bodice, I had to make my own luck one step at a time.

  So when, at the castle, Rawdon introduced himself) I wouldn't let him go. "No, you come into the Great Hall with me," I told him.

  "Oh, but you're meeting your family for the first time," he said. "This should be a joyous private occasion."

  I could have said, "Yeah, well, we both know it's not going to be and, anyway, I know where you're off to, you larcenous little weasel, you." But I didn't. I just said, pleasantly, "I insist. As your new king."

  The royal family didn't care that I brought a witness with me; they were just as irritable and snide as ever.

  I'd been thinking about which family member I needed to choose as an ally. They'd each had a crack at killing me: Abas had taken my head off in this very room; Wulfgar, in his wolf shape, had killed me both in the topiary maze and in the barbarian camp; and I was sure Kenric had arranged for me to be poisoned—whether or not he was also behind the death of King Cynric.

  So, who to choose this time?

  Wulfgar was unpredictable unless I used the ring on him; so if I needed the ring later on, I'd be out of luck.

  Abas had prevented the barbarians from kidnapping me—which I had to believe was a good thing—except that, in saving me, he had killed King Grimbold, which the barbarians seemed exceptionally reluctant to forgive. Was there a way to get Abas to fight off the barbarians more ... gently?

  "Abas" and "gently" in the same sentence: Right.

  Bringing me back to Kenric, who had been my first choice all those tries ago, based on his good looks—which were, come to think of it, what had gotten me into this game to begin with. Kenric. Well, Mr. Rasmussem had warned me away from him. Or maybe not. "Kenric and Sister Mary Ursula don't work well together," he'd said. Maybe all he had meant was that that pairing needed extra work.