Seek the Urulai, Unferth had said. Brastigan looked down the ranks of tables, counting heads. Had the old man known how little there was to seek?
Two distinct generations sat there. The majority were elders, with silver streaked hair and faces lined by their suffering and exile. A sizable minority were girls Brastigan's age or younger, whose giggles and bright eyes somewhat relieved the glum atmosphere. Many of these had babes or young children, squirming in their seats and kicking each other under the benches.
There must have been young men here to sire these whelps, but even accounting for their absence the Urulai numbered well under three hundred. That was shockingly scant. Urland was a large country. Could this be all that was left?
From his youth, Brastigan remembered the exiles being mostly women and children. The warriors, as he understood it, had remained behind to fight the invaders. And what of those who didn't escape? The red dogs of Sillets must be lording it over the lofty peaks these days. What Brastigan didn't know was if they had exterminated their captives, or kept them as chattel. Sillets kept a ruthless hold on its provinces, and it was sure death to try the borders. Rumors of Urland were more rare now than snow in summer.
There was movement to Brastigan's right as Lottres stirred from his thoughts. The younger prince turned to his right, where Yriatt was seated. That was a deal too close for Brastigan's liking. On the other side of her was the strange, silent girl. At intervals, the witch gave her plain bread, without butter or jam, and helped her sip from a bowl that might contain water or broth.
Brastigan braced himself for more drivel as Lottres opened his mouth. For once, he was pleasantly surprised.
“Noble lady,” Lottres frowned, as in puzzlement, “when I heard you calling for Eben that night, it sounded like he wasn't answering. Was I mistaken?”
There was a flicker of emotion in Yriatt's slate colored eyes. “You were not mistaken. I have been unable to reach Eben for some days.” Coolly, she drank from her cup. “For some while before that, I could not reach my father, Ymell, who holds the vale of Altannath. That was how I guessed Sillets might be preparing to move. To enter Crutham they must pass Altannath, and to pass Altannath they must first overcome Ymell.”
She spoke so blandly, it was hard to credit the disaster she spoke of. Brastigan remembered how he had thought, during their journey, that Crutham was ill prepared for war. The country had been at peace for many years. The garrisons were poorly staffed and their commanders, like Morbern of Caulteit, inexperienced. All along the tables, Cruthan men who were close enough to hear were muttering this news to those who couldn't.
Lottres frowned more deeply. “If he doesn't answer you...”
“It is more than that,” Yriatt interrupted. She glanced along the table, at the eyes on her, and beyond, where even the Urulai grew still. The dark eyed women might not understand the language of their visitors, but their expressions made it clear they knew what was being spoken of.
The witch seemed to reach a decision. “If this is a council, so be it. Then I will tell you plainly, I can sense nothing from Altannath. Spying into Sillets has always been difficult, but it was sometimes possible. Now, I am as one blind.”
“Then your father...” Lottres blanched and chewed his beard, unable to bring forth the words.
Brastigan was not so hobbled. Baldly, he asked, “Do you think he's dead?”
Lottres let go an exasperated breath, and dug an elbow into Brastigan's side. Yriatt's brows bent just enough to let him know he had annoyed her. Well, good.
“If I knew that, I would not have sent for you,” came the crisp reply. “There is reason to believe my father yet lives. Our enemy will not kill one who may be useful, not even his sworn foe.”
Quietly, Pikarus asked, “We'll be going to Altannath, then?”
“We will begin there,” Yriatt said.
“Wait a minute!” Brastigan cut in. Her words implied a journey even beyond Altannath, and he didn't like the sound of that. “You just said Eben doesn't know the invasion has started.”
“Eben has his own resources,” she answered. “Still, it is troubling, I agree.”
“Troubling?” Brastigan all but shouted. Obviously, Lottres would go along with whatever the witch suggested, so it was up to him to demand some sanity. “They'll be caught flat-footed. We must return to Harburg. Father needs us!”
Some of the men murmured agreement, but Lottres argued, “No, if Mistress Yriatt is correct and Master Ymell has been captured, we should free him first.”
The witch nodded, swinging her horns for emphasis. “Ysislaw is the ruler of Sillets. He has trained some of his vassals in our arts—his eppagadrocca—but no more than he can keep under a watch for signs of rebellion. With Ymell's power removed from opposition —.”
“Wait a minute,” Brastigan interrupted. He knew little enough of geography, but he did remember the emperors of Sillets always had the same name. “I thought his name was Silester. Silester the Tenth.”
“Twelfth,” Lottres corrected, though reluctant to concede the point.
Yriatt said, “What is a name but another illusion?” Brastigan groaned out loud. This wasn't the time for more of her nonsense. “Call him what you will. It is the same individual. He takes whatever seeming serves his purpose.”
Just as Yriatt did, Brastigan thought. Before he could say so, Lottres asked, “The same man has ruled Sillets for all this time?”
“Since the very beginning,” she answered.
A man who lived forever? Now that was something to think about. And Yriatt had said “our arts.” Did that include Leithan, as well?
In the silence that filled the hall, Yriatt said, “Ysislaw can be defeated, but only if —.”
“Meanwhile, Crutham lies open to destruction. By the time we find this Ymell, it may be too late,” Brastigan argued. He didn't need any magical powers to know how bad this news was.
“Do not think me cold,” she answered softly, coldly. “Eben is near to my heart. Yet we must determine what's happened to my father. I have already taken the steps I could to aid Crutham.”
Lottres let his shoulders sag with relief, and Pikarus asked, “What steps, noble lady?”
“Ysislaw's eppagadrocca are not strong enough to conceal the invaders movements from me,” Yriatt explained. “A small force has besieged Glawern, while the main army passes by. Presumably, they will be going on to Harburg.”
This sounded logical, so Brastigan didn't question it. Her next words surprised him.
“I asked the Urulai for their aid. Because they are grateful to Crutham, and because they hate Sillets, they have agreed. The Urulai warriors have gone past Glawern and will hold Carthell Cleft against an incursion toward that province. If no attack occurs, they will attempt to raise the siege on Glawern.”
At least that explained where the men were. They had the satisfaction of honest bloodshed, it seemed. Brastigan heartily longed for the same.
“This ensures that Sillets won't come up behind us,” Pikarus remarked, pleased.
“Correct. There is also another who depends on me. We will join her at Altannath.”
“Who?” Brastigan demanded suspiciously. The witch seemed to have planned well, and that annoyed him. He wanted something to find fault with.
“My thaeme, Shaelen,” Yriatt said. Lottres twitched beside Brastigan, perhaps reacting to the knowledge there was another student—a potential rival. The witch continued, “She is wise in the ways of the forest. When I could not see into Altannath, Shaelen offered to go there and find Ymell. When we meet again, I will know what must be done to save my father.” She gestured to the pale girl on her right. “This one will come with us as well.”
“Oh, a girl!” Brastigan sneered. “Well, a pretty girl makes all the difference.” Some along the table chuckled, but Lottres was intent on persuading him.
“There are too few of us to make any difference in Harburg, if we can even get there,” he said. “We must heed the no
ble lady's counsel.”
Yriatt said, “I have not survived so long with Ysislaw as my enemy by making foolish errors. I need Ymell, and Shaelen needs me.”
Brastigan slouched, bracing his elbows on the table. “I guess you're not so powerful, then.”
The witch regarded him with impatience, and Lottres hissed into Brastigan's ear, “Is this your idea of support? You said you would back me up, but all you've done is —.”
“I'm trying to point out the problems with what she's suggesting,” Brastigan answered loudly, mocking his brother's whisper.
“Your highness,” Pikarus put in, and both princes turned. “I've been considering the options ever since we learned of the invasion. Every man here has.” He glanced down the line, drawing murmurs of support. “Glawern may be taken by now, and possibly even Carthell. There is no easy, safe way. I don't see how a group so small can defeat an army, but the noble lady says she does. We must listen to her.”
“Must?” Brastigan retorted. Even with Urulai opposition, Glawern and Carthell would make a third of the nation in enemy hands. There was no time for mistakes.
“Yes, we must.” Lottres spoke more calmly, but forcefully. “Father trusted her, and I trust her.”
Just because he wanted her precious training, Brastigan thought bitterly. Yriatt could turn into a snake and bite him, and still the fool wouldn't hear a word against her. Glancing at the tables where the soldiers sat, he saw many doubts, but no one seemed to agree with him.
Yriatt's broke the impasse. She dabbed at her mouth with a cloth and rose purposefully from the table. “I will depart in the morning. It is your choice to accompany me, or not.”
She took her strange ward by the elbow. At her touch, the girl meekly followed.
Lottres stood, too. Looking down on his brother, he said, “Remember what you told me.” Then, looking over Brastigan's head, he said to Pikarus, “I will ride with Yriatt.”
Pikarus paused, waiting for Brastigan's response. When none came, he answered, “Yes, your highness.”
Once again, Brastigan felt like the stranger among them. He had the right of primacy, and he knew the men would follow if he demanded it. Brastigan knew what he should do, what he wanted to do. He also knew that if he did it, he might never see his brother again. Brastigan's own words trapped him. He'd told Lottres, “I'll back you up.” He hadn't realized he would be backing himself into a corner.
THE SILENCE OF THE ANCIENTS
Brastigan lay awake, restless. His bunk felt hard as rock, which was what it was. At least it was long enough to stretch out his full length. Most inns were not so suited. A part of him knew he should appreciate being indoors, out of the icy wind, but all around him were the snorts and snores of sleeping men. Even after so many days on the road, the unfamiliar sounds disturbed him. It was as if the echoing halls had breath of their own.
Time and again he turned over, looking at the single candle left burning on its antler rack. The walls of the chamber were adorned with more mosaics, but no amount of decoration could relieve the gloom of the windowless chamber. The lonely stub of candle burned as low as his spirits.
The fight at the Dead Donkey, the mysterious knife—those events seemed a lifetime ago. Yet they were why Brastigan was in this weird place. He rolled over and punched the rolled up cloak that served as his pillow. He should have been in Harburg, working with Eben. The assassin might have been caught by now, and Lottres needn't have these delusions. Then Brastigan would be able to defend Crutham Keep, instead of larking off on Yriatt's fool excursion.
Even more troubling was the blind obedience of Pikarus and his men. Pikarus should have supported Brastigan, as the older prince. Instead, by saying nothing, he lent his weight to Lottres's position. Javes and the rest held mum. Were they just too well trained to wonder? Or maybe he didn't know Pikarus as well as he thought. Brastigan couldn't believe he was the only one to doubt the witch's motives, but nobody else was asking any questions. They went along with her and Lottres like a pack of hounds on leashes.
Brastigan's thoughts chased each other in circles, like a dog biting at its own tail. Their yapping kept sleep at bay for a long, dark time.
* * *
Therula came out of a nightmare, thrashing and moaning. She wanted to run, as she had in the dream, but something trapped her feet. She kicked and struggled. Her fist struck a bedside table. The crash and the pain of impact brought her fully awake.
It was only the bedclothes that tangled her feet, Therula realized. She stood up to loosen the clinging fabric of her nightgown. Instantly her head began to reel. Her body was bathed in icy sweat, and her jaw vibrated with chills. She sat down abruptly to keep from falling.
This vertigo was becoming all too common. She had felt it the day she encountered Oskar near Eben's chamber, and again during that awful breakfast meeting. Therula rubbed her aching hand and tried to dismiss the connection from her mind.
Sickened by the gamble Oskar had pushed her into, she had been doing her best to avoid him. After this latest nightmare, she could no longer deny the depth of her fear.
Therula stood up again, carefully. When she was sure she wouldn't faint, she began to pace her darkened bedchamber. Something was terribly wrong. She felt it as strongly as she had before her meeting with Eben. In her mind, Therula recited a list of odd incidents: Oskar and Eben being so friendly, an unusual attitude for both of them. Oskar knowing Unferth was dead before anyone had told him. Eben departing, having told no one but Oskar his intentions. The addition of new palace guards, strangers Oskar had hired to replace Pikarus's squadron. And her repeated dizzy spells, which occurred only when Oskar was present. Or during nightmares; Therula couldn't remember exactly what her dream had been about, but she was sure Oskar had been in it.
By themselves, these things seemed innocuous, yet Therula was sure there was a pattern. She groped toward understanding, but it slipped from her mind just as the nightmare had.
Clearly, however, Oskar was the connecting piece to this puzzle. If she questioned his relationship with Eben, then she must also question Unferth's death. But Oskar was her brother. No, her king—supreme and untouchable. That was the true nightmare.
* * *
Hours later, Brastigan's stomach woke him. The air of the caverns now held a musty, sweet odor: porridge. Though his head felt heavy and his eyes burned with sleeplessness, the teasing scent of food wouldn't let him rest. He turned over and saw Lottres's bed lying empty. That did rouse him.
The moment he sat up, Pikarus's eyes were open. Brastigan looked away from his wary, calm regard. He was sick to death of wondering where that one's loyalties lay. He got up and turned his back, kneeling to pull fresh clothing from his duffel. If Pikarus put his game face on this early, why, Brastigan would, too.
Others stirred, hearing him move. Soon the room was full of soft sounds of men packing up to move out. Brastigan dressed quickly and left.
Back to the long hall, then, where the hearths blazed and cauldrons steamed. Lottres was seated next to Yriatt, their heads close together. The pale girl was with them, too, her bewildered stare fixed on the nearest fire. Brastigan scowled at them as one of the Urulai women handed him a horn and a wooden bowl.
Sitting close to Yriatt was near the top of Brastigan's least favored things, but the line was backing up behind him. He walked stiffly toward Lottres. Strange, how the things he took for granted had suddenly become thorny issues. Still, there was no need to flaunt his humiliation by sitting alone, and it would steady the men if the two princes at least attempted to show unity.
Lottres eyed Brastigan as he approached. His tense face showed a mixture of resentment and relief. He shifted just enough to permit Brastigan to sit. The dark prince bit his lips to keep back a sarcastic thanks for the privilege of his brother's company. Lottres's bowl was already empty, he saw. A map was spread between him and Yriatt. Fortunately, the witch had turned away, tipping a spoonful of gruel into the girl's lips.
Brastig
an's horn held cider, slightly sour in his mouth but pleasantly hot. The bowl contained thick porridge with dried berries scattered on top. Brown rolls were neatly stacked on the table. There was comfort in the familiar meal. His head began to clear after the first few bites, and he ate with real appetite. It was good to feel his accustomed energy. Or maybe he was just too tired of fretting to worry any more.
The meal was brief and mostly silent. The soldiers ate quickly, knowing they must move soon, yet there was a current of suppressed excitement among them. Maybe, Brastigan thought suddenly, Lottres wasn't the only one who craved adventure. Pikarus's squad would gain more glory as a small group, moving behind enemy lines, than as one unit of the larger Cruthan army. Of course, they were more likely to die that way, too. Brastigan turned his head, eyeing their sergeant. If, as it seemed, there were some connection between Pikarus and Therula, maybe the risk seemed worthwhile. A man who returned as a war hero stood more chance of gaining a princess' favor.
Brastigan put his spoon in his mouth and found it empty. He was still hungry, so he stood up. Beside him, Lottres seemed to jump. Brastigan felt his lips curl in a sneer as he strolled back toward the kettles. Even when he gave way, he could still make his brother flinch.
He sauntered back to his place, fragrant steam curling upward from his bowl, but before he could sit down, one of the female archers hurried into the chamber. Brastigan hadn't seen them since their arrival. He watched curiously as she bent her head to speak softly into Yriatt's ear.
Yriatt, in her turn, told Lottres, “It is time we moved.”
They both rose from the table, Lottres telling Pikarus, “Sergeant.”
And Pikarus said, loudly enough for all the men to hear, “Eat up and let's go.”
Along the table, men gulped the remains of their meal in great bites even as they stood. Brastigan, who had just bent his knees to sit, straightened with an exasperated sigh. He downed the dregs from his horn in a long pull and followed Lottres with his bowl in his hand. Nor was he the only one to eat as he walked. They had all missed having warm meals during the past strange days.
Too Many Princes Page 17
