All his life, Brastigan had been a misfit. He wasn't one of them; he didn't belong. Oh, he hadn't been told in so many words. No one dared insult a prince that way. But any reasonably intelligent boy would have taken their meaning. His mother had been a foreigner, Leithan by name. A wellborn lady, or what passed for it among the Urulai. Accepting concubinage to King Unferth had been the price of safety for the tattered remnant of her people who'd fought their way free when Sillets conquered Urland.
Leithan had died when he was young. Some said she had been poisoned by Queen Alustra. Personally, Brastigan didn't believe it. He couldn't imagine stuffy Alustra being so overcome by jealousy that she plotted against another woman's life. That would have required emotion, of which he doubted the bitch was capable. Except where matters touched Oskar, her only son—but he was a different problem.
All of this was meaningless, of course. Brastigan's mother was so long dead he had never known her. His father was, to put it kindly, a loving man who had sired so many offspring he probably couldn't remember all their names. And Brastigan was a half-breed misfit who didn't have the sense to be ashamed of his differences.
His upbringing had been left to Joal, an old Urulai who'd been Leithan's servant during her life. In that respect, Brastigan had to admit he'd been luckier than he deserved. Joal had been both father and mother, had wiped his nose and his behind, washed his cuts, and paddled him when he needed it. It couldn't have been easy. Brastigan had been a wild brat, more beast than boy, but Joal had been like the mountains, everywhere and immovable. He was the one obstacle Brastigan could never get around.
Always, he'd been teaching. Oh, not reading, or any of that nonsense. On important subjects, Joal had taught Brastigan everything. Not just how to ride, but how to gentle a horse so that it served him out of love. Not just how to shoot from horseback, but how to make the bow he shot with. How to move silently, leaving no trace, and how to track one who didn't wish to be followed. How to hold his own against boys—and later men—twice his size. Brastigan was arguably the best swordsman in Crutham: maybe the best in the world. That was only part of the debt he owed to Joal.
Oh, there had been complaints. Queen Alustra, for one, hadn't approved of a savage Urulai being brought up in her court. Unferth hadn't seemed to care what Joal did, except when Brastigan was in trouble for one thing or another. Fortunately, he'd been all but eighteen when Joal stopped breathing one night. Brastigan scowled, remembering. Those had been bitter days. Then, despite himself, Brastigan's lips twitched into a smirk. It was lucky he'd been too old for any more fostering by then. He could have been stuck with some stodgy old lump of a nursemaid, like the one who'd badgered Lottres half to death, poor pup. Neither of them would have survived his adolescence!
A clatter of hooves on cobblestone jarred his thoughts. Brastigan looked around quickly, then relaxed as he remembered he hadn't done anything blameworthy. At least, not today. He was at the base of the ramp that led up to the keep, and a mounted patrol was coming down. Around him, commoners hurried out of the way. Brastigan toyed with the idea of standing where he was, forcing the riders to break around him. But no, he recognized the troop leader. The man had no sense of humor. Grudgingly, Brastigan stepped to the side of the road, concealing the dagger he still carried behind his arm. He shook his head at the ugliness of the passing chargers. Those weren't horses. They were barrels with legs! Finally they were gone, leaving only a few heaps of steaming dung to mark their passing. The waiting populace surged out into the street, and Brastigan with them.
The ramp wove twice across the face of the bluff below the keep. The rock walls were sheer, to prevent any attackers climbing up from below. At the first bend was a guardhouse, where Brastigan passed unchallenged. They knew him—there weren't many Urulai left in Harburg.
From that point, the ramp was walled. Anyone foolish enough to try fighting his way through would face a host of defenders and a dozen dirty tricks: concealed archers, boiling oil, caltrops, or worse. Siege warfare wasn't a pretty business. Brastigan hoped to avoid it for many years to come.
The ramp was steep. Brastigan kept an even pace, but he was sweating by the time he reached the top. Guards at the gatehouse questioned him about the dagger, although, being a prince, he could fairly well do what he wanted. Then it was into the gatehouse, under the barbed portcullis and the murder holes, and out into the yard.
Within the keep was a wide rectangle of packed earth, oriented west to east. The low dwellings of the servants were tucked under the northern wall. A planted garden occupied most of the western end, along with penned animals. Those provided the fresh morsels Queen Alustra demanded. Along the southern wall were interior barracks for the soldiers on duty. All roofs were of slate, a ward against fire.
On the eastern side was the high walled inner ward, where the king and queen dwelt with their personal attendants. Their quarters were finer than the rest, but not much larger. There wasn't enough room inside for all of the king's offspring, so additional housing had been constructed inside the southern wall. Brastigan made his way toward this.
At Queen Alustra's insistence, one wing of the two-storied dwelling was occupied only by men, including the princes and gentlemen of the court. The other wing was reserved for the king's daughters, who, since Luvan's untimely passing, outnumbered his sons.
Along the northern wall, the new Great Hall thrust out into the courtyard. Brastigan avoided that, since the royal court conducted most of its business there and it was always crowded. He toyed with the idea of cutting through the women's wing and seeing how much fuss he could stir up. Grinning, he reluctantly decided not. He angled his long strides toward the men's wing.
There always seemed to be someone loitering beneath the high, arched entry. Courtiers and toadies, Brastigan thought with an unconscious sneer. Today one of them hurried out to meet him. To his surprise and pleasure, he recognized a friend.
Lottres was another of Unferth's bastards, but he too was an odd one among them. Perhaps that was why he and Brastigan had become such friends. Brastigan's lanky height often outstripped that of the burly Cruthans, and he had his striking good looks to add insult to injury. No such good fortune had visited Lottres.
Folks said he had the look of Merowen, his dam. She had been a foreigner, too, the daughter of a diplomatic envoy from Forix. Lottres was shorter than almost everyone at court, including the ladies, and frankly scrawny. He had reddish brown hair that curled far too much. Muddy brown eyes were set in a face too finely drawn to be a man's. Even a thick fleece of beard couldn't hide that. At twenty, Lottres still had the gawky, unfinished look of a half-grown pup. He'd followed Brastigan around like one, too, starting when he was three and Brastigan five. Brastigan hadn't been too happy about it, but Joal had taken a liking to the younger lad. Under his patient tutelage, Lottres had slowly learned to manage his unruly limbs. He would never be a great swordsman, but he could defend himself. And in other ways, he was as gifted as Brastigan. If not for Lottres, Brastigan wouldn't have been able to do more than scrawl his own name.
So he genuinely smiled as Lottres scurried up to him. “Hello, Pup.”
He hadn't slackened his pace, so Lottres was forced to whip around and follow. “Bras, we've been looking high and low. Where were you?”
Brastigan shrugged. “Well, first I was at arms practice this morning.” He smirked. “Whipped the snot out of Tarther again, too. Then I had to try gentling that colt of Therula's.” He grimaced, and shook his head to toss black hair over his shoulders. “That nag isn't worth a heap of dung, but it's pretty, so she won't let go of it. After that, I needed some relaxation, so I went down to the low-town. Ran into a little trouble.”
Brastigan flipped the dagger into the air, spun on his heel and caught it. Lottres ducked nervously. The courtiers by the door applauded politely. Brastigan managed not to sneer at them.
“Worthless toadies,” he told Lottres in an undertone. “Come on. Let's go somewhere we can talk.”
/> “But Brastigan, Father wants us. Now!”
“He'll like me better when I've bathed,” Brastigan promised.
“True,” Lottres retorted. Brastigan grinned and punched his shoulder lightly.
The courtiers bowed as they passed, a habit which never failed to grate on Brastigan's nerves. He swept through without acknowledging them as Lottres jogged to keep up. Just inside was a steep stairwell. One flight led downward, to the subterranean bath-house and stores. They took the other, upward, to the quarters of the junior princes and gentlemen of the king's household.
“Brastigan, would you please slow down?” Lottres sounded slightly winded. “You know I can't keep up.”
“The exercise will make you strong,” Brastigan teased, but he did wait.
The long corridor was hushed, since most of the suites were empty at this time of day. At the far end, a lone servant went scurrying about some errand. The two men had adjoining chambers near the center of the wing. Brastigan unlocked the wooden door to his own suite and pushed through.
Since he wasn't one of the legitimate or important princes, he had only a pair of middle sized rooms, linked by an arched portal. One was a sitting room, the other his bed chamber. They were furnished not richly but comfortably and, he noted with irritation, had been tidied during his absence.
“Now tell me what really happened,” Lottres said, following Brastigan through to the bedchamber.
“I don't know,” Brastigan replied, voice muffled as he rummaged through a chest of clothing. “I was at the Dead Donkey having a drink, and I was looking at one of the alewives. Some big fellow saw me and didn't like it. Seems she was his girl.” He emerged long enough to toss a garment onto the bed.
“What happened?” Lottres picked up the dagger, which Brastigan had left atop another chest.
Brastigan shrugged. “Nothing much. We were clinching hands, and a fight broke out at one of the gaming tables. Nothing I couldn't deal with,” he insisted, seeing Lottres's worried expression. “Then, in the middle of the fight, someone threw that at me. I couldn't see who it was. Let me tell you, it's a good thing Joal trained me. One of Tarther's whelps would've been dead for sure.”
“You never saw who threw it?”
“Habrok and his bully-boys showed up before I had a chance to ask any questions. As if I could have, with a brawl going on.” He dug deeper in the chest, this time bringing out a pair of dress boots. “I kept the knife, though. Eben might be able to learn something from it.”
Lottres frowned slightly, leaning in the door. “Eben can't work miracles.”
“Well, we have to start somewhere. Be assured, I have no intention of ending up like Aric.” By this time Brastigan had found what he needed. He gathered the armload of clothing. “Come on. I just need a quick rub down, and then we'll go see what Father wants. Bring that, would you?” he added, meaning the dagger.
Lottres stuck it through his belt and stood aside to let Brastigan pass. Together they moved down the corridor and descended the stairs. The lower level was dimly lit by smoky candles set on wall brackets. Widely spaced doorways hinted at storage rooms beyond. The lower hall took a sharp turn and gave out into the main bath. Again, the room was nearly empty except for a single manservant who bowed at their approach. Arrel was a wizened little scrap of an old man: toothless, bald, and deaf as a post. He had worked in the baths as long as either of them could recall. Brastigan waved him away.
There was a main pool, rimmed with tile, and beyond it a row of partly enclosed stone basins. The pool was drawn directly from subterranean springs. Its water was cold at best. In the basins, one could draw hot water from a tank heated behind the main ovens in the kitchen. Queen Alustra had insisted on many innovations, when she was newly come from Tanix. Hot water for bathing was probably the only one that had been accepted gladly.
Brastigan set his clean clothes on a low bench, and quickly stripped to the waist. Arrel shuffled after them with towels and a bucket of cold water from the pool. This Brastigan accepted, motioning the man to leave. The servant bobbed his hairless skull several times before obeying. A smaller basin was cut into a rock ledge at the back of the cubicle. Brastigan drew hot water until it was half full, and added a dollop of cold. Lottres settled on the bench.
“Your turn,” Brastigan told him. “Any idea what Father wants? I assume he sent for both of us, since you're all dressed up, too.”
“No and yes,” Lottres replied, examining his good clothing carefully. He wore traditional Crutham garb, that being a simple, long sleeved tunic over close fitting trews. The tunic was of finely made cloth, embroidered about the cuffs and t-slot collar. Polished boots gleamed softly. This particular shade of blue was one of the few that went well with his rusty hair. Lottres carefully straightened his belt. “Yes, he sent for both of us. No, I don't know why. I think there was an emissary of some kind. The men were telling me about it when you arrived.”
Brastigan snorted as he washed. “I don't know why you waste your time with those fellows.”
Lottres shrugged. “They like to gossip, and sometimes they know things. Rodrec said a falcon landed in the courtyard, calling Father's name. 'Uh-herh!'“ he said in a shrill, high voice, trying to imitate the bird's speaking. “It sounded like that, Rodrec said. There was a message of some kind in its talons, but it wouldn't let anyone touch it. They took it in to Father and he read it. That's when he sent for us.”
Brastigan stopped and twisted around to stare at Lottres. “That sounds like a winter tale,” he remarked, but he didn't feel sure. Magic was a force in the world, as real as the tides on the Great Bay—and potentially as dangerous.
“I don't think they were joking.” Lottres shook his head soberly.
“I don't like the sound of it.” Brastigan scrubbed his back with a long-handled brush, holding his hair aside to keep it dry. “Sounds like witch work.”
“It could be.” Lottres sounded interested. “I've never met a witch. I wonder what they're like.”
“Dangerous, if you listen to the tales.” Brastigan reached for a towel. “At least for normal folk like us. People who get involved with them come to bad ends.”
“Or become heroes,” Lottres argued.
“Heroes!” Brastigan gave a bark of laughter. “I've been on raids, Pup, and let me tell you, it isn't as much fun as you think. Trust me—you don't want to be a hero.”
“That's easy for you to say,” Lottres murmured resentfully.
Startled, Brastigan twisted around to look at him. They traded stares for just a moment, Lottres's brown eyes betraying old hurt and resentment. Then the younger man looked away, shrugging uncomfortably. Brastigan shifted restlessly as the silence stretched between them. Despite their friendship, he knew Lottres must sometimes envy him, wishing he could be as handsome, as quick with a sword. Well, there was no way for either of them to change what they had been born with.
Brastigan reached to clap him on the shoulder. “Pup,” he said gruffly, “for every live hero, there's a dozen dead fools. I'd rather have you alive.”
Lottres managed a smile in response.
THE VOICE OF THE FALCON
Lottres said nothing more as his brother changed into court clothes. When Brastigan was in this mood, you couldn't say anything that didn't set him off. Lottres was feeling nervous enough without being sniped at.
Instead, he watched as Brastigan dressed. First were the trews, replacing dusty leather ones. He stamped his good boots on over them. Then a shirt of fine, soft cloth, tied at the wrists and throat. Lottres would have offered to help with that, but he knew Brastigan wouldn't accept it. Next, the tunic. It had long sleeves and came to mid-thigh. The fabric was dark green, embroidered in a pattern of yellow and red. Over this, Brastigan belted on Victory. The ends of his long hair were caught behind the sword belt. He pulled them free.
“Too bad I didn't know I would be in court today,” Brastigan said, mostly to himself. “I would have put on something more colorful.”
“There's more to life than annoying the queen,” Lottres pointed out. Brastigan snorted at that, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Brastigan was always saying how he detested the bright colors some of the courtiers wore. For all that, Lottres thought, he always made sure he looked good. He went out of his way to be noticed, too, whether that meant showing off in the practice arena or pulling some juvenile prank on their sisters. It was a kind of revenge, Lottres guessed. Brastigan had to be better than everyone else, because it was so painful to be different.
Truthfully, it wasn't all bad for Lottres. Brastigan had always been quick to jump in when one of the bigger brothers, like Albrett or Rickard, sat on Lottres and wouldn't get off. Sometimes, when you were the smallest, it was good to have a shadow to hide in. Lottres knew Brastigan didn't mean to overshadow him so completely.
Still they weren't boys any more. No one sat on Lottres, not literally, and Rickard wouldn't be bothering anyone, ever again. Lottres was fully grown. He didn't need a champion to defend him, and he couldn't help resenting that it was all so easy for Brastigan. So easy, he never considered it might be hard for others.
“Well, how do I look?” Brastigan asked. He straightened the hem of his tunic and struck a pose.
Lottres stood, eyeing his brother critically. “They'll never know it's you,” he joked.
* * *
If the jest was a peace offering, Brastigan was willing to accept it. He grinned and punched Lottres's shoulder lightly, extending a hand to take back the mysterious dagger. He tucked it into his belt again.
“Come on. Let's get this over with.”
“It doesn't have to be something bad, you know,” Lottres remarked, following Brastigan out of the bath. Just beyond the arched portal was a broad stairway, curving upward. They began to ascend.
Too Many Princes Page 2
