Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  “There is one thing,” Brastigan went on, keeping his face and voice bland. “If you're all so convinced that Sillets is invading, I want a rider sent to Glawern with warning, and then on to Carthell. I want another sent back to Harburg. My father will need time to gather his forces.”

  It wouldn't be an easy trip in such rough country, nor was it safe for a man to ride alone. Worse, it would reduce the strength of the main party. The faces turned toward him reflected all these doubts.

  Brastigan pushed on, “Are there any volunteers, or should I just choose?”

  Pikarus looked as if he had something to say, but a new voice cut him off. “I know the road from Glawern to Carthell. I'd take that trip.”

  That was the fellow who had spoken of the other mysterious mounds. Egger, his name was. Another hand went up at the rear of the file.

  “I'll ride for Harburg,” Duale said. His wife, at their parting, had been great with child. By now he must be a father, so it was no surprise he offered for the homeward duty.

  Brastigan looked again to Pikarus, waiting for some argument. Whatever the soldier had to say, he kept his peace. Brastigan nodded to the departing armsmen.

  “Good speed, then.”

  “Aye, your highness.”

  There was little more in farewell, just salutes along the line and the thump of hooves on the trail. Then Lottres started off. He didn't choose a gentle path. They went first by miner's tracks, and then on game trails angling ever farther up the mountains. On some stretches they had to ride bent forward, with their faces in their mounts' manes, to avoid low-hanging branches.

  Brastigan gave little heed to that. He watched his brother riding ahead of him, and couldn't decide just what he felt. Frustration, certainly. Annoyance, too. He had never held Lottres back, and didn't like the accusation. If he often led, it was because Lottres was the laggard, so awkward and unsure. Why should Brastigan wait while another man wavered? Now Lottres made a grudge of that.

  But beyond those things... What?

  For certain, the two of them hadn't argued as much in ten years as they did on this trip. Lottres's sudden anger left Brastigan bewildered. He didn't like this feeling he had, that even while they rode on the same trail, they no longer rode together. That, in fact, his closest friend was disappearing on some other road where he couldn't go.

  The cold thought touched him: what would he do without his brother?

  Brastigan rode without seeing, let his mule shuffle after the beast before it. The reins were knotted in his fist hard enough to make his shoulders ache. A nudge from behind made him turn from his thoughts, and glad he was to do it. Over his shoulder, Javes offered a short hank of summer sausage. The soldier wore an expression as if to say he would listen to whatever the prince might tell him. Brastigan turned from that, but took the food. With sausage, cold water, and trail bread, they broke their fast in the saddle.

  While he chewed, Brastigan looked around him. It was an erratic trail they rode, the country too broken for a straighter course. As for the falcon, the bird flitted forward and back above them. Brastigan soon saw that the bird was indicating, by its perch, where a branching path lay. From time to time, two sharp calls would drift down from above. At that, Lottres would find them some shelter—a stand of dense trees or a rocky overhang—where they halted for what seemed a long time. Not until the falcon gave a single long cry would he let them move again. There seemed no purpose to this, and the delays made Brastigan's stomach grow tight with frustration.

  At the third halt they dismounted, crowding men and mules into the shadows of an abandoned mine shaft. With his height, Brastigan had a good view out the cavern mouth. He saw the falcon making itself small against the trunk of a tree nearby, and a narrow valley spread out below them with a glittering thread of water in the bottom. Something was moving in the air. Large, dark shapes gliding on powerful wings, hunched-backs and bald heads with a ruff of black feathers behind them. They were condors from the highest mountain peaks, but these didn't spin above some dying thing. No, they flew in a straight line, three of them in a file just like the soldiers if they could ride on air. After the condors came perhaps a dozen crows, laboring to keep pace with their larger companions.

  From the quality of the silence in the mine, it was obvious everyone saw the passing formation. Brastigan couldn't help wondering if this had to do with Lottres's rumored crow migration. He leaned over his mule's saddle and muttered to Pikarus, “What do you make of that?”

  He was instantly aware of a sharp glance from Lottres. Pikarus seemed to consider before replying, as softly, “Sillets has black magic. If there is an army, I'd call those the advance scouts.”

  “I was afraid you'd say that.”

  The squad waited out a long, tense time before the falcon spread its wings. Its piercing cry said they could move again.

  There followed more hours of punishing travel. Progress seemed slow, since they must go and stop, skulk and hide. The sun, as it arced across the sky, told Brastigan they were heading as much straight north as they could. Sightings of the aerial patrols continued, though not as frequently and more often composed of crows than condors. Brastigan marked the time in his mind, and wondered where Egger and Duale might be. They were both hardy fellows, and he was sorry to lose them from his company. Watching a flight of ravens pass, he hoped he hadn't sent them into the jaws of some evil thing.

  Not that they would complain of it, being soldiers, but a commander might have such regrets.

  Night found them sleeping behind a tangle of deadfall. Camp was cold, without fire that might betray them. Brastigan felt chilled to his core, but the colder heart was in Lottres. His brother seemed intent on whatever goal he had, and thus immune to temperature. They seldom spoke.

  Staying to cover became more difficult the next day, as the mountains jutted ever taller. Trees could grow only so high and they fell ever lower on their flanks. The upper reaches were left bare, spires of dark gray rock patched here and there with snow.

  That evening found them riding a mere goat track, which showed signs of travel despite its difficulty. They topped a sheer ridge and saw below them a hanging valley where some glacier used to live. Far below lay yet another spectacular vista of deep green forest and barren peaks.

  Drawing the eye was a fortress wall and a pair of watchtowers cupped between two rocky horns of the mountains. The snow had melted or blown away, exposing a field of gravel mottled with stunted vegetation. This was divided by a running stream that fell from the lip of the hanging valley in a gossamer cascade. The dwelling seemed small with distance, a desolate aerie indeed. The falcon, their guide, descended before them in slow spirals.

  This, it seemed, was Hawkwing House.

  The bitter air was making Brastigan's nose run, and he drew a gloved hand across his face to blot wind-stung tears. More bothersome was their exposed position on the crown of the ridge. Anyone in the world could see them up there.

  “Let's get going,” he called, his voice a cross bark.

  Lottres, forgetting his anger at last, flashed a smile of triumph. With the sun already dropping, Brastigan was even willing to enter this inhospitable place if it meant avoiding another night outdoors.

  Eagerly, then, they began to inch their way down toward their goal.

  * * *

  “Good day, Oskar.” Therula curtseyed as she entered her brother's chambers.

  Oskar inclined his head, indicating a small table near the window. “Sit down, dear sister.”

  There hadn't been time to refurbish the royal apartments yet. Oskar was still using his private chambers. One couldn't call this a private meeting, with black-clad servants flitting around them. One laid out plates and knives, another cups and saucers, while still others poured tea or offered trays of pastries. Yet it was the first time Therula had seen the new king since the coronation. She found herself scrutinizing him, seeking any small sign of change.

  Sunlight from the nearby window gilded Oskar's sleek
face, turned details of stitchery to fire. He wore a red-brown tunic with the usual Tanixan shoulders, but he had also adopted the Silletsian's tall, straight hat. Its crown puffed out, echoing the tunic's rounded shoulders. At the base, circling his head, was a thinner band of gold: a modified crown. Given the height of his headgear, Therula thought, he might need the weight to secure it.

  She had noticed in the past two days that Oskar never seemed to take the crown off. Perhaps he could be forgiven if he enjoyed wearing it. It might be that the novelty hadn't worn off yet. Still, she didn't remember Unferth and Alustra wearing theirs so much. In fact, Unferth had taken his off at every chance he got.

  Oskar returned her gaze now with a hint of a smirk. Therula had the feeling he knew something she didn't. She didn't like that feeling. Therula tried to push her speculations to the back of her mind and waited while the servants poured tea.

  Only when they had withdrawn did she ask, “You sent for me, brother?”

  “You seem troubled,” Oskar replied. He gestured genially, offering a sweet, flaky pastry. “Since my position has changed somewhat, is there any way I can help you?”

  “I...” Therula hesitated a moment, surprised by his preening. “I miss Father,” she managed to say.

  “Yes, this is a big change,” Oskar said smoothly. Therula noticed he didn't say he regretted it, or that he missed Unferth. “It will take time for all of us to adjust.”

  Therula nibbled at her pastry, barely tasting the strawberries inside it.

  “Have you learned any more from Eben?” she asked.

  A trace of some expression passed over Oskar's face, too quickly for Therula to really see. Eben had been the last person to see Unferth alive. They had supped together, as they often did. There was no reason to suspect Eben of anything, though Oskar and Tarther had spent several hours the day before in Eben's tower.

  “Eben has requested time away for contemplation,” Oskar said with the appearance of regret. “To tell the truth, I don't think he wishes to remain in Harburg.”

  That was odd; Therula had thought Eben and Oskar were getting on very well. Then she felt a pang. Eben was her only connection to Pikarus.

  “He must do as he thinks best,” she murmured. “Father always relied upon him. You should, too.”

  “I can't constrain him,” Oskar said with a trace of impatience.

  “I suppose not,” Therula sighed.

  “There is one thing Eben mentioned,” Oskar said, “and Mother, as well.” He spoke carefully, calmly, but he was watching her closely. Therula felt her throat go dry as he left her to ask the dangling question.

  “What is it?”

  “There is a young man you fancy, I hear.” Oskar smirked over the rim of his teacup. His mockery wasn't reassuring.

  “It isn't a fancy,” Therula answered in what she hoped was a composed tone. “I've known Pikarus for years. We care for each other...”

  “Yes, I'm sure,” Oskar interrupted. “His love is as pure as wine and as deep as your purse.”

  Therula felt her mouth drop open. She closed it, and swallowed hard. Her mind whirled with hot words—”He isn't like that,” or “Pikarus would never betray me”—and she cast around for ones that couldn't be twisted.

  “That is cruel!” she finally blurted. “It isn't true!”

  “I know men, dear sister,” Oskar answered with steely amusement. “Who wouldn't desire a maid like yourself—one whose wealth and position are as lovely as she is?”

  Therula twisted her hands in her lap to hide their trembling. A calfskin glove was tucked under her belt, mate of the one she had given Pikarus. She felt its soft edge and summoned a cold smile.

  “Pikarus knows well how crowded Harburg is, and how little of Crutham's wealth belongs to me,” Therula said. She thought she might have an argument that would sway Oskar. “Think of this, brother. In Harburg are five princes, and twice that in the provinces. Pikarus would be the least among them. In Harburg also are twenty princesses, and a queen besides.

  “Now consider Gerfalkan, where there is a mere hand-count of wellborn men. Pikarus stands high there. In Gerfalkan also there are a duchess and just four of her daughters. Where, my brother, would I shine more brightly? Where could my husband best advance our fortunes—here, or in Gerfalkan?”

  Oskar leaned back in his chair, brows raised in amusement. Therula went on.

  “Gerfalkan is loyal to Crutham, a suitable match to stabilize internal allegiances. Mother thinks so, and no one knew when we spoke of it that Carthell might rebel. You are preparing for that, I assume?”

  Oskar nodded, his eyes narrowed.

  “It is wise to court new friends,” Therula said, “in Sillets or elsewhere, but you must not forget to reward your old and faithful supporters, as well. You may need such alliances as Gerfalkan in times to come. Now, since we are speaking of this, what of your own plans?”

  Oskar put his fork down abruptly and reached for his tea to clear his mouth.

  Therula pressed, “You will marry, brother. You must, for I know you won't be content when your heir is...”

  She broke off when Oskar burst out laughing.

  “Enough, my sister!” he chuckled. “You and Mother are of one mind, but I must beg more time. I am still grieving.” Oskar leaned back in his chair, striking a pose like a widow in a drama.

  “I, too, am in mourning,” Therula said softly, “but I know my own heart.”

  If she hoped to seize on Oskar's sympathy in this playful mood, it didn't work.

  “I merely wish to spare you pain,” he said, so sincerely that she knew he was lying. “As I have told you, a handsome man is least to be trusted.”

  “I believe in Pikarus,” Therula said without hesitation. “I fear no pain from him.” From Oskar—oh, yes, she did fear him.

  “Ah, my poor sister,” Oskar murmured. Therula frowned at his feigned sorrow. “Perhaps we can agree to a test, of sorts.”

  “What kind of test?” Therula asked. She sipped at her tea, though her heart was jumping like a young hare. Brastigan's quest was a test, but if Oskar didn't know that, Therula wouldn't tell him.

  “Let us wager,” Oskar said. “You believe your sweetheart is faithful. I say he may not be. When he returns—or should I say, if that fool Brastigan brings him back alive...”

  “Don't mock him,” Therula interrupted, for Oskar touched on a matter she had been longing to speak of. “Brastigan is no fool. Nor is Habrok, or the others. Even when you snubbed them, they still swore their faith with you.”

  “Not all of them,” Oskar answered in a clipped voice. “But I was saying, when Pikarus returns I will investigate his conduct during the journey. If you are right, dear sister, then I won't oppose Pikarus's suit if he brings this to our mother. But if I'm right...” He trailed off with a shrug.

  “If you are right,” Therula snapped, “then I won't marry him, regardless of any wager.”

  Even as she spoke, she caught the gleam in Oskar's eye. Immediately Therula paused. Did she really want to commit to this... this wager of Oskar's?

  “There can be no tricks,” she said. “No hiring a whore to tempt him, or any such a thing.”

  Oskar didn't even pretend to be hurt by her accusation. “Of course not, sister,” he purred. “If I'm right, you will permit me to choose the husband I think best.”

  “You can do that anyway,” Therula was forced to admit.

  “I would prefer your cooperation,” Oskar said. “Once you see that I am right about him, I'm sure you will.”

  For a moment, Therula didn't listen to Oskar. Her mind was crowded with questions. She didn't trust her brother's smile. She did trust Pikarus. Therula didn't need proof of his love. This gamble seemed unnecessary, when all she had to do was wait. Worse, it was insulting to treat her lover as a plaything.

  But, another voice whispered to her, what would it all mean if Oskar forbade them to marry? Here was a chance to assure that he wouldn't interfere. Shouldn't she seize the o
pportunity, if Pikarus was the man she really wanted?

  “Sister?” Oskar's voice called her back to herself.

  “I want to witness the questioning,” Therula said. Her voice was tight. “So that we both will have no doubts.”

  “Very well,” Oskar nodded. “Is it agreed?”

  Oskar extended his hand across the table. His mocking gaze challenged her. Therula longed with all her heart to slap that smile from his face. She felt a moment's vertigo, and then her own hand was reaching back. Oskar's fingers were hard and cold. Her own felt hot and limp, like cooked sausages. Unexpectedly, Oskar patted Therula's hand gently.

  “If you are right,” he said, “there is nothing to fear.”

  Therula fought the reflex to tear her hand away. Oskar murmured something she didn't hear, stood up, and left her sitting alone.

  Therula leaned her elbows on the table. She still felt dizzy, and the smell of strawberries was nauseating. In her heart, she knew she had done the wrong thing. She had betrayed her lover by playing Oskar's game. How could she explain this to Pikarus, even if she won?

  HAWKWING HOUSE

  The way down was long, and it was not friendly. The mules moved slowly on a track that descended so sharply it seemed they might topple right off. Brastigan thought he wasn't the only one who leaned inward, away from the dizzying height. He resisted his vertigo by focusing on the signs of other riders who had passed before them. Hooves left no mark on the bare stone, but pale fibers clung to the rocks on the sharper corners. It wasn't cloth. Horse hairs, maybe.

  While the animals inched downward, the day was quickly waning. Shadows lengthened as they reached the gravel field below. Larger spruce trees grew on the sheltered flanks of the mountain, with patches of snow stark white in shady places. The riders hurried deeper into the shadow of the peak, crossing the brook despite the protests of their thirsty mules.

  “We're nearly there. Come on!” Lottres sounded eager as a child at midwinter, Brastigan thought sourly.

  Himself, the dark prince watched the approaching keep with wary eyes. It stood squat and solid, similar to Cruthan construction, but rather than being level, the towers were crowned with conical slate roofs.