“And you'd have to work with Captain Tarther,” Lottres added slyly.
“Take orders from that dull blade?” Brastigan gagged dramatically, and set them all laughing, but he didn't smile for long.
“Really,” he said to no one in particular, “these quests are all well and good, but I'm still twelfth or thirteenth in line for the throne, and Lottres is behind me. Oskar's got the position secured anyway. What are we supposed to do with the rest of our lives?” It wasn't a question that had occurred to him before, and it sat on his stomach like a stone.
“Maybe,” Lottres suggested quietly, “we'll find something else to do on this trip.”
“Perhaps,” Unferth agreed. He gazed at Lottres fondly.
Therula glanced sharply between them, and Brastigan was left wondering what he had missed. Then the king leaned to one side, drawing something from his belt. He extended it toward Brastigan. “Here.”
“What is it?” Brastigan asked suspiciously.
“I'm not sure,” the old man confessed. “It belonged to Leithan. I want you to have it before you go.”
This was low. First Unferth got all fatherly, then he brought up Brastigan's mother. Still, how could he refuse? Brastigan took the small, dangling object and turned it over in his palm.
It was a flat disc of dark stone, perhaps black, perhaps blue, with a dull sheen on its surface. It was about half the length of his thumb and fastened to a leather thong with a simple knot. Roughness caught at his fingertips, and he angled it against the light. On one side a dogwood flower was carved, and on the other side, a snowflake.
Slowly, drawing on memories from twenty years ago or more, Brastigan recognized it. Leithan had worn this token about her neck. She was never without it. It seemed distinctly strange to see it, now, without her. Joal had worn one, too, but his had been a rusty color, perhaps red jasper. Brastigan couldn't remember exactly, but he was sure the carving had been different. A pine cone, maybe.
Unferth spoke with old sadness. “I always wondered who she really was. She said she wasn't wellborn, that they had no such rank as king among their folk. And yet, as long as she was here, the Urulai stayed. There were quite a lot of them, you know, down in the town. They kept to themselves, kept together.”
“I remember them,” Therula put in thoughtfully. “And their horses.”
Brastigan remembered, too. The lanky steeds, always gray or white, with a shy dignity and lively spirit. Their milky manes were braided and beaded like those of their riders. He remembered looking up at the proud strangers, so dark and tall among the heavier, blond Cruthans. All of them had worn these necklaces. What could they mean?
“Once Leithan died, they all just left,” Unferth was saying, “We thought nothing of it then, though I recall Eben made mention of it. It's been fifteen years. I don't know where they would be. But as to your question, son, I believe the answer must lie with the Urulai. You should find them if you can.”
Brastigan stared at the incised flower in his hand and said nothing. He couldn't remember much of his mother. She had had fair skin and dark eyes, with fine black hair trimmed to shoulder length. Each morning, Joal had bound it for her in a brief stub of white cloth. No other Urulai he had ever seen wore her hair that way. Leithan had been tender with him, but she seldom smiled. In a soft voice, she sang words he didn't understand. Urulai, it must be. He regretted, now, that he didn't know their tongue. Joal had never offered to teach him.
Who was she? A leader of some sort, it seemed, among the ragtag exiles. What must she have thought of the tame farmland, the thick city walls? She had not been old when she died. How did she feel about exchanging her body for the safety of her landless people?
“Didn't Joal know who she was?” Lottres asked.
“Of course. I asked him once, but he didn't answer.” Unferth shrugged. “I think he felt that it wasn't my business.”
“You are the king,” Therula objected, frowning.
“Not their king,” Unferth answered.
“I doesn't matter,” Brastigan said. He tied on the necklace and stood, feeling stiff all over. “Thank you, Father.”
It felt strange to say those words. He was so accustomed to bitterness instead of gratitude, and he had never called the man father before. Yet it had to be said. Too much was going on, and he didn't know when they would speak again.
“Of course, son.”
Brastigan merely nodded. There was so much more to say, and yet, suddenly, he couldn't bear any more talking. More than anything, he wanted to get out of Therula's chambers. There was too much new insight, too many unfamiliar words. He had to get away, to walk and walk and walk and think.
“Pup, we'd best get going. We ride out early.” Brastigan kissed Therula again, quickly, and strode from the room without waiting for an answer.
Truly, he should try to get some rest. The road before them was long, his destination uncertain, but somehow he didn't think he would sleep much that night.
FORWARD AND FAREWELL
“Shouldn't they be here?” Therula wondered aloud.
“They will come,” Pikarus replied.
Therula looked up at her companion. Their eyes met, and his smile filled her with warmth. She didn't speak for a moment, just drank in the sight of him against the long drought ahead.
There was so much she was going to miss when Pikarus was gone. His quiet strength, as he stood watch at mother's door. His courage, for he didn't quail in the practice ring, not even when facing Brastigan. Nor did he later complain of the results. Most of all, that he kept his own dignity while surrounded by men of higher rank. No groveling from Pikarus, no jealous posturing, and never a sly remark. Oh, how she was going to miss him!
Therula couldn't remember, any more, when or how she had recognized his virtues. It seemed she had always known him. Their love had grown as naturally as green grass under the sun. Now duty was taking Pikarus away from her. Perhaps, in truth, Therula didn't mind so much if her brothers were late.
A light mist from the bay mingled with fumes from the castle ovens to form a tinny haze. The cool air was ripe with scents of the sea and oiled metal. All around them came the muted rustle of men in armor, the thump of horses' hooves, and the creak of leather. Pikarus's squad had gathered just outside the stables. A small group of women mingled with the men, wives and lovers who gave hugs and small parcels of food. A few sleepy-eyed children, too, took kisses from fathers who were leaving. Therula saw one woman, heavy with child, clinging to the arm of a doting soldier. Soft voices, here and there, urged the men to do their best, to be careful. One or two couples embraced passionately, speaking no words at all.
Therula was dressed simply, as one of them, in a long-sleeved gown fitted close through the body and flowing down to a full skirt. Her golden hair was braided and pinned in a circle around her head. Over her shoulders, a hooded cloak kept the damp air out of her hair. Only the elaborate stitchery set her apart. That was as she wished. This was no time for her to flaunt her rank. For the moment, she was merely a woman like the rest of them, sending her loved one off to places unknown.
Some shadow must have shown on Therula's face, for Pikarus said, “Try not to worry.”
“I'm not worried,” Therula said, though it was only partly true.
She envied the soldiers' wives their simple farewells, for she was too much a princess to give any public displays. Yet neither would she send her beloved off with nothing. Therula reached under her cloak and drew out a pair of fine leather gloves. Embroidered lilies and roses surrounded her own initial, T, on the cuffs.
“This is for you,” she said. “You shall keep one, and I shall have the other. I won't wear them until you have come back to me.”
Pikarus made a solemn bow. “I will keep it near me always.” He stood quite still as she tucked the glove into his sword belt, making sure the initial hung on the outside, for all to see.
Softly, Therula said, “When you meet those other girls on your journey, I want the
m to know...” She couldn't finish. It was hard to even think that her beloved might betray her, but considering her father's example, she had to be realistic.
“There are no other women for me,” Pikarus answered quietly. “This I swear.”
Therula wanted desperately to believe him. She leaned against his shoulder, searching for warmth through the stiff mail hauberk.
“I will miss you,” Pikarus said. From his voice, she could tell he understood how small a comfort he offered.
“It is what we must do,” Therula answered. She didn't look at him, now. “It will be worthwhile, when it is over.”
“For you, I would do a thousand times more,” Pikarus said.
Before Therula could answer, a new voice among the many caught at her ear. It was Lottres, out of breath.
“Hurry up!” he panted.
“Why?” came Brastigan's lazy retort. “They won't leave without us.”
Reluctantly, Therula stepped a little away from Pikarus. Her two brothers emerged from the mist, wearing full harnesses and swords. Like all the soldiers, they wore black surcoats with yellow badges bearing the black tower of Crutham. Lottres stopped near the horses, turning in a circle as he searched for someone. Despite his frequent protests at being called bookish, Therula noted Lottres clutched a roll of parchment in his hand.
Brastigan was fussing with his hair under the heavy leather aventail behind his helm. On top of his surcoat, Therula saw the dark disc of Leithan's pendant. Despite his many annoying habits, Therula had always felt sympathy for Brastigan, separated from his mother so young. She wondered, sometimes, what kind of man he would have been if Leithan had lived longer. Would he still show off and take foolish chances? Would someone still want him dead?
Unaware of Therula's scrutiny, Brastigan brushed past Lottres and approached the line of horses. Most of them were bay with white faces or stockings. The pair of white chargers near the head of the line stood out with their shining liveries. As Therula watched, Brastigan's lips twitched in self-mockery. Therula couldn't help smiling, too.
“What is it?” Pikarus asked.
“Why did you choose a white horse for Brastigan?” Therula asked. The virtuous color certainly did contrast with her half-brother's rough ways.
“They were the only two that matched,” Pikarus replied with a trace of humor. “Prince Lottres deserves it, at least.”
“I suppose you're right,” she said.
Lottres had spotted who he was looking for. He trotted over, calling, “Pikarus!”
“Good morning, your highness,” Pikarus answered.
“Good morning, brother,” Therula echoed.
“Oh, good morning.” Lottres kissed Therula's cheek, then unconsciously shouldered her aside so he could unroll his map in front of Pikarus. “Sergeant, do we have enough pack beasts? We're going all the way to Glawern, aren't we?”
“There's no need for concern, your highness,” Pikarus patiently reassured him. “We won't be away from shelter for more than one night at a time until we reach Carthell. We will acquire additional pack mules there.”
There was something symbolic, Therula thought, in the way Lottres came between her and Pikarus. She tried not to hold it against him. Over Lottres's shoulder, she caught sight of Brastigan. He looked at Pikarus and then at her. One eyebrow twitched, and he smiled knowingly. Therula returned his gaze coolly. Still grinning, Brastigan sauntered toward them.
“You've studied the map?” Lottres fretted.
“Yes, your highness,” If Pikarus was annoyed, he didn't show it. “Princes Eskalon and Sebbelon added their observations, as well. They recommend we ride over Daraine, and thence into Carthell. From Carthell Keep, we will turn north into the mountains. Would that be acceptable?”
“Yes,” Lottres said, but he continued to scan his map as if it were telling him something else.
Brastigan gave his brother a casual clout on the shoulder as he joined them. “We'll be fine. I'm sure it's all been planned out for us.” He turned to Therula with a ribald smirk. “Come to see us off, dear sister?”
“Of course, dear brother. We don't often have such valiant deeds to tell of.” Therula spoke smoothly, sweetly. She offered her hand, and when he took it, she pinched him. Brastigan's grin broadened.
“Indeed!” trumpeted another voice.
A hush fell over the crowded staging area. There was a flurry of salutes from the armsmen, and the women sank in deep curtseys. Therula did, too, hoping it would hide her surprise.
She couldn't think why Oskar had come here. He never did anything without some gain to himself. Perhaps he wanted to show everyone he was still the most royal of the princes. Oskar was sensitive about that, Therula knew. He certainly spoke loudly enough to draw all eyes.
While Therula and Lottres made their obeisances, Brastigan stood tall and nodded pleasantly to Oskar.
“You go with the gratitude of our nation!” Oskar proclaimed. He stopped and made a broad gesture which took in the soldiers and horses. “My heart is full of pride at this gallant sight, and that you, my good brothers, have sworn your service to our kingdom.”
Therula tried not to wince as Brastigan proclaimed right back at Oskar: “If only you knew what that means to me, my brother!”
Oskar's eyes narrowed, but he held his smile. He had definitely come dressed to be looked at, Therula thought, in a short tunic quartered with Crutham's black and bright yellow. The two legs of his hose were of opposite colors to the tunic, and the shoes were of opposite colors to the hose. Even his hat and its feathers were parti-colored.
Behind Oskar stood Captain Tarther, the commander of the palace guard and Pikarus's immediate superior. He was the only soldier present who didn't wear armor. Instead, he wore a full length robe, dark gray, with Tanixan styled shoulders. A highly ornamented sword was belted over it. Tarther had come to Crutham as Queen Alustra's liegeman, and made no secret that his loyalty was to her and her son, rather than to Crutham. Ignoring Brastigan and Lottres, Tarther nodded to Pikarus with a military jerk.
“You have your orders,” he grated out. “Fulfill them well, and your service will be rewarded.”
Pikarus saluted. “Aye, Captain.”
“Take good care of my brothers, Sergeant,” Therula added.
“I will, your highness.” Pikarus's voice gave no hint of his feelings now.
“And you,” Therula's eyes strayed to Lottres, and then Brastigan. “Guard each other well.”
Brastigan rolled his eyes and opened his mouth for some scornful reply, but Oskar must have realized people weren't looking at him, for he began to expound again.
“Great is the glory of Crutham!” he declared. “Great is the honor of her sons. Go forth, my good brothers, to seek your destiny. We shall remember you daily, and our every wish shall be for your speedy and safe return.”
Not to be outdone, Brastigan then cried, “Come, my comrades! Mount your steeds!”
With a sweep, Brastigan turned his back on Oskar and Therula. He strode toward the two white chargers. Lottres hurried after. With a leap, Brastigan was in the saddle. He whipped out his sword and flourished its bright length over his head.
Brastigan cried, “The hour is at hand! Farewell, my noble brother! My sister, farewell!”
Therula did her best not to laugh at his outrageous showing off. Oskar wouldn't like it, she knew. Then, suddenly, it was very easy not to laugh. Pikarus delivered a smart salute, taking in Oskar, Tarther and Therula at once. Then he, too, went to take his place in line.
All about Therula, there was a flurry of last kisses and murmured farewells. Some of the women were weeping now, the pregnant one especially. Therula concentrated on maintaining a facade of royal grace, even as she felt her heart tear in two.
Therula and Pikarus had kept their feelings quiet, not out of shame but to protect him from the envy of others. However, they hadn't made the mistake of trying to hide it from her parents. Unferth made no secret, either, that he didn't want to see
Therula leave, and Alustra, for all her pride, was still a woman. Therula knew she grieved that her older daughters had married so far away. This gave Therula and Pikarus a chance, however slight.
Alustra herself had pointed out that a political alliance could be internal as well as external, and Pikarus's family, in Gerfalkan, had proven their loyalty to Crutham many times over. If Pikarus did well on this mission, Therula was sure her father would sanction their marriage.
Even that left too many questions. Therula didn't believe the quest would be as simple as it sounded, and Pikarus was going to be right in the middle of it. Therula could only hope the fates would be kind and bring her beloved back soon.
* * *
Brastigan held Victory aloft until his shoulder started to throb, waiting for Lottres and the others to mount up. A casual glance through the thinning mist showed no one outside the immediate circle of onlookers. Brastigan hadn't expected Unferth to attend, but it would have been good to see Habrok or some of their other brothers.
There was someone else he hadn't seen yet today—or something. Brastigan stood in the stirrups, frowning over Oskar's head. Where was the falcon? His restless gaze searched the castle roofs, but there wasn't a feather to be seen.
Once Lottres and most of the soldiers were up, Brastigan flourished Victory once again. “Now we shall ride, my valiant men! We shall never return until our deed is accomplished. Forward!”
Therula waved to them, smiling and yet serious. Tarther glowered his disapproval. And Oskar must have known he was being mocked, for his expression was more snarl than smile. Brastigan felt his own resentment burning like hot coals in his chest. Pale eyes and dark eyes met, across the noise and hurry, in a moment of understanding. He raised his free hand in salute, acknowledging their mutual hatred.
Then he tapped his horse with a booted heel. The white charger lumbered forward, and the rest fell in behind it. The racket of so many hooves absorbed all other sound as they trotted toward the castle gate. The portcullis rose as they drew near. With a final shake of his sword, Brastigan passed beneath the bars and left his childhood home. He was not, after all, sorry to be going.
Too Many Princes Page 6
