Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  He followed his brother to their assigned quarters, a square hall with a raised hearth at its center. A series of chiseled alcoves held leather pads stuffed with rushes, where the soldiers could lay out their bedrolls. At present, baggage was piled outside the bunks, making it hard to move through the room without tripping. There was no fire on the hearth, and the few candles gave little heat.

  Lottres crouched, partly dressed, beside his bags. The damp towel lay discarded on his bunk. He looked up when Brastigan entered and quickly turned away, shoulders hunched.

  Brastigan's mind whirled with things he wanted to say, but his tongue seemed numb. Kneeling beside his own baggage, he ordered gruffly, “I don't want you going off by yourself, Pup.”

  “I'm not a pup!” Lottres barked back. “Don't try to put me on a leash.”

  Brastigan felt his veins tingle with fury. He yanked clothing out of his duffel without really looking at it. “It's not like that.”

  “Yes, it is.” Lottres's voice came muffled as he pulled on a dress tunic. “You came here to put me back in my place. I know it.”

  “I never put you any place,” Brastigan snapped. He dried his body with angry strokes of his towel. “I never stood in your way, so quit making this stuff up.”

  “Then why are you here?” Lottres demanded, as if his presence somehow proved a point.

  Trying to control his fury, Brastigan slouched on his bunk and yanked at his trousers. They stuck against his damp legs. He pulled harder. “Because you're my brother. I'm worried about you.”

  Lottres gave a brittle laugh. “You don't have to treat me like a baby. I know what I'm doing.”

  “Oh, yes. You and Pikarus. He must follow his own road,” Brastigan intoned, imitating the soldier's unwanted advice. He stood, pulling his pants up the rest of the way.

  “Well, I'm going to.” Lottres fastened his belt with a defiant snap.

  Brastigan stared at him, wishing it could be some other way. He knew what he must do, but it scared him. That made him mad again. He all but snarled, “Fine, but who says you have to do it alone?” Lottres regarded him suspiciously, and Brastigan went on, “You know I don't like this. I think it's dangerous, but you aren't going to listen.”

  “Guilt won't change my mind,” his brother interrupted.

  “Would you listen?” Brastigan stopped just short of saying “Pup.” It felt strange to censor the habitual nickname, and he resented it, but he had to make Lottres accept his presence. Otherwise, he would never know what he was up to. “Maybe I can't stop you, but I will back you up. Just quit trying to make me out as your enemy.”

  Clearly Lottres didn't believe it, but he said, “Then hurry up. I'm going to see Yriatt.”

  There was a gleam in the younger man's eyes, as if he dared Brastigan to make his word good.

  Brastigan rolled his eyes. “Dinner wouldn't be soon enough?” His brother's scowl warned he wasn't forgiven yet. “How do you know she's got time to see you? If she's in charge here, there might be other things —.”

  “She'll talk to me,” Lottres answered confidently.

  Why, Brastigan wondered. Because Eben had chosen him? For what? He shut his mouth on the question. Brastigan's hair fell into his face, tangled and wet, as he bent to close his duffel. He pulled a comb out and tucked Victory under his arm.

  “Coming,” he muttered, and added, “I wanted to ask her a question, anyway.”

  “What question?” Lottres frowned, jealous again.

  “Oh, get off yourself.” Brastigan pulled his mother's pendant out from under his tunic, dangling it by its cord. “She might know what this is for.”

  “We're wasting time,” Lottres snapped, not giving in on the point. He yanked a candle from the nearest antler. “Let's go.”

  So saying, he stalked from the room—and now it was Brastigan who hurried to keep up.

  A TESTING

  The inner ways were as black as Brastigan's hair, lit only by the feeble flame of the candle Lottres carried. Despite this, he strode along without hesitation. The cool air held many scents built up in the closed caverns, but Lottres smelled more than cooking smoke and stabled beasts. He smelled possibilities, thick and ripe.

  Yriatt's presence was everywhere in the tunnels. Lottres followed as it drew him onward. Partly, he wanted to test himself and see if he could find his way to Yriatt without help. Partly, he admitted to himself, he did it to tweak Brastigan's nose.

  For his part, Brastigan followed so closely that Lottres caught an anxious grumble: “...Hope he knows where we're going...”

  Lottres turned to snap at Brastigan, only to see his brother's eyes veer away. It was then he realized Brastigan hadn't said anything. At least, not out loud. He was hearing Brastigan's thoughts. Lottres held back an excited smile. For a moment he concentrated on Brastigan rather than Yriatt.

  “...Can't stand this, trusting his gut instead of my own,” Brastigan's inner voice complained. “I like this place less the longer I'm in it.”

  Scowling, Lottres broke contact. That was Brastigan all over, so surly when things didn't go his way.

  They passed many side tunnels and work rooms while Lottres struggled to find his way to Yriatt again. The corridors were all alike, save for the occasional pebble pattern to relieve the monotony.

  Just as Lottres was starting to worry, he found the spiral ramp. As they climbed, Lottres felt a sudden pressure at his temples. She was aware of them! He hesitated, started to form words in his mind, but the presence withdrew. It seemed Yriatt had only wanted to know who was approaching.

  “What?” Brastigan demanded in a low voice, and his thoughts whispered, “I knew it. There's something wrong...”

  “Nothing,” Lottres said. He climbed on, heart fluttering with nerves and exertion.

  Yriatt was at the hearth. The falcon still rested on its antler perch, eyes closed and feathers fluffed, but Lottres hadn't expected to see someone else with them under the glittering rock dome.

  It was another woman. Lottres had heard Javes and Brastigan muttering to each other about all women and no men at Hawkwing House. As if Brastigan wouldn't enjoy the situation, given a chance! This was a Cruthan girl, slim and pale as an icicle in the shadows of the chamber. She sat quietly near the hearth while Yriatt, standing behind her, combed out her fair hair.

  Lottres paused in the doorway, drinking in the power of Yriatt's presence. From the moment of their first meeting, he knew he wanted to be just like her. The sorceress scarcely looked up as they entered, and the nameless girl didn't so much as blink. She was pretty, in a bland way, but even with eyes open her expression was of deep slumber. She sat tamely, oblivious to the twists and tugs that made her head rock.

  “Feeling more yourself?” Yriatt looked past Lottres to address Brastigan with a hint of mockery.

  Lottres drew a tense breath. This interview was supposed to be about him, not bratty Brastigan.

  “I was always feeling like myself, noble lady,” he replied. Lottres marched to the hearth and turned his candle over, snuffing it on the stones.

  For his part, Brastigan dragged a bentwood chair a little away from the fire and slid into it with Victory propped at his right hand. Ignoring Yriatt's question, he began to work his comb through the tangles of his wet hair.

  “Were you?” Yriatt mused. Her hands drew a comb through the girl's tresses, but her gray eyes were now fixed on Lottres. That was what he wanted—except that his confidence suddenly wavered.

  “I had been content as I was, but...” he faltered.

  She angled her head in cool curiosity, and gems winked in the flickering firelight. Lottres knew she would interrupt a moment before she spoke.

  “Ordinarily, you see,” Yriatt said, “Eben would send someone to me who is... unwell. They come to me for curing.”

  “No, I'm not unwell.” Lottres hastened to correct her. “My life has never lacked in comfort, but I've felt lately that I could be more, do more.”

  “More what? More pow
erful?” Yriatt's eyes were sharp beneath the spiral horns, though her hands wove golden locks into neat plaits. “Would you command the clouds to rain, and lightning to smite your foes? Would you send plagues upon your enemies, or summon wealth for yourself alone?”

  Lottres felt the pressure again, her latent disapproval making the very air weigh down on him. With difficulty, he drew breath to protest, “Lady, I am a king's son! I could have wealth if I wanted it. I could manipulate affairs of state.” He had certainly seen enough of his brothers pushing themselves to the fore. “I don't need your teachings to get what I already have.”

  “Her what?” Brastigan's horrified thought came clearly to Lottres. The younger prince shrugged irritably, trying to shut out the distracting protest.

  “Do you assume my teachings are for all?” came Yriatt's whip-crack reply. “You would demand this of me?”

  Lottres floundered momentarily. He was only doing what Eben had told him, and she had said earlier that Eben chose well. But Lottres knew he must win this argument on his own merits. Whining and crying Eben's name wouldn't be enough.

  “I do not demand, no. Of course not.” Lottres tried to keep his voice calm, while fear felt near to choking him. “Yet, noble lady, I will beg if I must. I have never been quick or strong. I'm not suited to war, but neither do I wish to spend my days in a stronghouse, counting out coins to serve the realm. I had felt I was wasting my talents, but I didn't know what else to do. The moment Eben said the words, I knew.” Lottres clenched his fists in the air before him. “I want to be greater than a king's son. I want to feel that power within myself. Power like his— like yours. He said he wasn't wise enough to teach me, and sent me to you.”

  Brastigan had stopped pretending to comb his hair. He gave Lottres a black stare, and Lottres heard the whisper, “...a score I'll settle with Eben one day...”

  Lottres gave Brastigan a scornful glance, but his words were for the sorceress. “Perhaps I am unwell, noble lady. Will you cure me?”

  Yriatt gave a low laugh. Lottres sensed her approval, that he turned her own words back on her.

  “We shall see,” she said. “Did Eben teach you the first form, then?”

  “Yes, and the second, as well.” Lottres's words came in a fretful rush. “I tried it with fire, at first, and also with water. Nothing worked, until two days ago. I did what he told me, the breathing and all, but I don't understand it.”

  “Of course you don't,” the witch answered with equanimity. “Do you need to understand it, to pick it apart and measure each portion? Can you not take it on faith, and simply believe?”

  “I already believe,” Lottres answered, confused by her challenge. Or, maybe just afraid to say the wrong thing and face rejection. “I thought... That is, the forces you summon, there must be consequences. Hadn't you better understand what you're doing?”

  It seemed he had passed some sort of test, for Yriatt smiled. Lottres felt a rush of relief at her approval.

  “The mind is stubborn,” Yriatt said. “It knows only the physical. It is filled with reasons why magic cannot be real, and what you know cannot be true. Remember this, young man: what seems solid is an illusion, just as distance and silence. Spirit and body are both the same.”

  Her words were baffling, yet Lottres felt that he understood them. They resonated in his heart. Lottres groped for a chair to sit down in, never taking his eyes from Yriatt.

  “To become what you desire, you must put aside the mind's insistence on the barriers of the physical,” Yriatt said. “Fire, wind or water are merely tools to do that. Working late at night also helps to break the grip of rationality. All of these provide a means to release your inborn power. Soon you will not need them.”

  Yriatt had finished with the girl's hair, and now fastened it into a crown with a brisk pat. She sat down at the hearth, assessing Lottres across the fire.

  “I haven't heard anyone else but you, that one time,” Lottres confessed. “Since then, I...” He hesitated. Brastigan wouldn't like it if he found out Lottres knew what he was thinking. Awkwardly, he concluded, “Sometimes, it seems I can almost hear people around me.”

  She didn't seem impressed. “When one is beginning, those nearby are easier to find than those distant. This simply shows that your gift has begun to blossom. Did you say you had tried both fire and water?”

  “Mostly fire,” Lottres said. “We weren't near water most nights, but there was always a fire.”

  “Interesting,” Yriatt said. “Wind is often the more difficult tool. Still, it has succeeded for you. It's best to continue with that.”

  Lottres leaned forward, afraid to ask what he most wanted to know. He blurted, “Then, I am your student?”

  Brastigan snorted to himself. Lottres turned to glare at him, felt his fists tighten with rage. This was his moment, a precious validation. Leave it to Brastigan to spoil it.

  * * *

  He didn't mean to do it. He just couldn't help himself. After all, he had been sitting quietly through all Yriatt's drivel. Barriers of the physical, indeed. She sounded like a marketplace fortune-teller. Next the witch would be telling Lottres the lines on his palm betokened a long journey—as if they weren't already in the middle of one.

  But there was no taking back that one ill timed sound.

  Brastigan drawled, “Why would she be telling you all this blabber, if you weren't her student?”

  “It isn't blabber!” Lottres protested.

  Yriatt merely appeared amused. “What is your interest in this?”

  “I'm not interested,” Brastigan retorted. His comb jabbed in the air, pointing at Lottres. “I'm here because he's here.”

  “Your mother would be disappointed,” Yriatt said.

  Brastigan felt his brows tighten in a scowl. Still, she had given him an excuse to avoid hearing any more of her gibberish.

  “Speaking of her,” Brastigan lifted the pendant he wore about his neck, “Father gave me this just before we left Harburg. He said it was hers. Any idea what it is?”

  Yriatt didn't even look closely before answering, “It's called a jeup.”

  “Joop?” he repeated.

  “Jeup,” she corrected, stressing a slide on the J that gave it almost a Z sound. “They cast the stones at birth, so I'm told. One side represents the spirit and the other is destiny.”

  Still frowning, Brastigan turned the smooth sphere, looking at the snowflake, the flower. “How do you know which one is which?”

  Yriatt shrugged. “I do not know. I did not think she wore one, though I suppose it should not surprise me. They were very precious to her, the Urulai. She sacrificed much for them.” The witch gave Brastigan an inscrutable, dark look.

  Brastigan stared for a moment, trying to take in what she had said. Yriatt spoke of his people as strangers. That didn't make sense.

  Lottres heard that, too, for he asked, “Aren't you also..?”

  She cut him off with a sharp laugh. “No! Remember, Thaeme, the things of the physical world are illusion. I wear this seeming because it comforts those who share my dwelling. It reminds them of her, and I would not deprive them of any solace, but I have never been one of them.”

  Brastigan felt his stomach grow tight and sour again. Roughly, he demanded, “Are you saying my mother wasn't Urulai?”

  “She became one,” Yriatt corrected soberly, “and that was a very sad day. Even the name, Leithan, was given to her afterward. Her name at birth was Yrien, if you wish to know.”

  Brastigan stared at his mother's jeup, trying to absorb this new knowledge. If Leithan wasn't Urulai, then he wasn't really half Cruthan and half Urulai—he wasn't any part Urulai. Joal must have known this. No wonder he had never taught Brastigan their tongue.

  That left the question, if Yriatt and Leithan weren't Urulai, what were they? Did his mother once wear dragon horns on her hat? He stuffed the pendant under his tunic, not wanting to look at it any more.

  For the first time in days, Lottres regarded Brastigan wi
th sympathy, but this latest news had thrown any thought of his brother or his foolish ambitions right out of Brastigan's mind. He gazed into the empty eyes of Yriatt's pet girl and felt exactly that hollow and numb.

  * * *

  One never shouted in Urulai, it seemed, but murmured and whispered. So it seemed to Brastigan as he sat at Yriatt's table.

  The entire community gathered for the evening meal, in a long hall with a raised hearth running down the center. Spits and kettles hung at regular intervals, but no smoke stung the eyes. The smoke-blackened ceiling must hide air vents. The tables were set near enough to feel the fire's warmth, but far enough to give the cooks working room.

  The Cruthan men were seated at a head table, along with Yriatt. Small roast fowl had been set before them, one for each man. There was also a strange vegetable rather like thick blades of grass but with a sharp flavor. The plates and utensils were of polished wood. The goblets had the curl of carved sheep horns. Brastigan ate slowly, out of habit rather than hunger. He scarcely tasted what had been set before him. Lottres sat on Brastigan's right, but he didn't speak. Lottres's training had continued after Brastigan left, and his mind was probably busy picking out meanings from some vague word of Yriatt's.

  Pikarus sat on Brastigan's other side, with Javes next over. Their bracketing him might have been a gesture of support, but Brastigan didn't take it so. More likely, they were positioned to jump on him if he spoke out of turn again. It didn't seem to matter. Brastigan wondered if even Lottres could understand the black gloom he felt. His outland heritage was the core of his pride, of everything he believed about himself. How could he not be Urulai?

  The breathy cadence of Urulai speech came from tables around them, where the women and children were seated. Brastigan felt more conspicuous than he had in all his years at Harburg. With his braided hair, he looked like an Urulai man, the only one here. He should have felt at home. He didn't.