“Don't give me that,” Lottres hissed. His eyes fixed on the girl, who sat waiting at the fireside. “You've never been one to concern yourself with a creature like that. Why do it now?”
Brastigan rebelled at the slighting description of the girl as a creature. He shut his mouth on that, too. Lottres would run to Yriatt in a heartbeat if he knew the truth.
“It gives me something to do, all right?” he answered sharply. “In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly in charge around here.”
Lottres stared at him, narrow eyed, and then said, “You're hiding something.”
Brastigan stared back, wondering if Lottres really knew his thoughts. Then he sneered. “So that's what this was about. You're jealous.”
“What?” Lottres frowned.
Well, Brastigan wasn't about to be lectured. If this was a fight, he would give worse than he got. Lottres had had this coming for days now.
“There's something magical about her,” Brastigan said. Had to be, for her to touch him so. “You don't know what it is, but you can't stand for me to be near it, because magic is supposed to be just for you. Not lowly, insensitive me—only for you.”
“No, it's...” Lottres broke off, and tried again. “That's not it. You're tampering with something you don't understand.”
“And you do?” Brastigan challenged.
Lottres's thin lipped silence gave the answer to that.
“Well, for your information, I'm not tampering with anything.” Brastigan knelt to tie off the reins with a hard jerk, releasing the anger his brother always seemed to provoke these days. “It just gives me something else to think of besides the invasion.”
When he straightened Lottres was merely staring at him, doubting and wondering. “That's all?”
“What else?” Brastigan snorted.
At this moment Javes appeared, leading the rest of the pack mules. Brastigan took the reins and indicated, with a jerk of his chin, that the man should find other duties. Which, being a good soldier, he did.
The moment he was clear, Lottres started again. “I just don't want to see you turn that poor creature into your doxy.”
Now it was Brastigan's turn to stare in disgust. It was true the girl was pretty, and it had been weeks since he had a woman. He couldn't deny the need, but to think he would vent it on someone so helpless... How could his own brother think of such a thing?
“Not every woman I spend time with is my girlfriend,” Brastigan answered coldly, emphasizing the polite word. “She is a nice girl. She does everything I tell her. It's so refreshing. The rest of you don't listen to a word I say, but she does. In return, I treat her like a human being.”
Lottres released an exasperated breath. “But she might not be a human being. She might only look like one.”
“And your witch,” Brastigan retorted. “Is she human?”
Again Lottres was silent, unable to answer him.
Brastigan tied the mules' reins with the others. He began yanking on cinch straps, dropping laden saddle bags to the ground. He deliberately let one fall near Lottres's foot, forcing him to step back.
“Don't try to tell me about relationships when you're after that one,” he snapped.
“I'm not after her —.” Lottres stuttered, flustered.
“Sure,” Brastigan sneered. He straightened, looking down on his shorter brother. “You chase your woman and I'll chase mine.”
Lottres stood a moment longer, too insulted to speak. Then he let out a hiss of breath between his teeth, and stalked off.
Brastigan glared at his brother's retreating back. If Lottres didn't like the truth, too bad. It was only what he deserved. Now he knew how it felt to have his advice ignored. Turn the girl into a doxy, indeed! Brastigan continued dragging saddles and bags off the tired mules. As he worked he glanced around the latest camp, where the men made busy with such comforts as they could have. Was that what they all thought, that he would use the girl and abandon her?
A shrill cry caught his attention. Brastigan looked up to see a screeching flurry in the evening air, beating wings and tearing claws. The falcon was fighting a raven! It wasn't a fair fight, since the raven bulked larger, but the falcon showed no fear. The two birds tumbled toward the ground and vanished into the treetops.
They reappeared moments later, wings beating upward again. Black feathers spiraled down, but the raven showed no sign of weakness. It gave a harsh shriek of hatred, and the falcon screamed in reply. Once again they dove at each other with talons outstretched.
Brastigan tore his eyes from the aerial battle. In the bags he was moving, he'd just seen... There! He yanked at the twine, tearing free a short bow from its wrapping of oiled canvas. These weren't weapons of war. The men had used them to hunt rabbits, in the leisurely days before they reached Hawkwing House. With one eye on the feather fight above, Brastigan strung the bow and grabbed a pair of arrows.
Pikarus must have had the same thought, for he appeared beside Brastigan. The dark prince stepped back, giving him room to find his own weapons. Then he planted his feet and nocked an arrow. Just as he drew the bowstring back to his ear, the raven and the falcon tumbled into the treetops again.
Brastigan waited, though his arms ached and his fingers burned where the cord dug into them. Branches waved wildly. Then a single winged shape emerged. Brastigan glimpsed black feathers, saw the raven's blade shaped beak. He loosed his arrow. Pikarus's bow snapped a heartbeat later. The raven swerved, but too late. The first arrow sent it spinning into the path of the second. It cartwheeled into the treetops, and then no movement was seen.
Pikarus and Brastigan shared glances, but with little triumph in them. The falcon hadn't reappeared. In a rare display of urgency, Yriatt picked up her skirts and ran into the forest. The two men jogged toward the center of camp, where the soldiers had gathered into a murmuring huddle.
Brastigan shouldered his way to Lottres's side, and demanded, “Does this mean what I think it does?”
Still clinging to his anger, Lottres answered with a terse nod. Brastigan felt his gut grow tight. The enemy they had been dodging had spied them out at last.
Pikarus was all business. “What should we do now?”
Lottres shrugged. His eyes were fixed on the shadowed trees. “Wait.”
Pikarus didn't seem to like this evidence of his prince's dependence on the witch. Nor did Brastigan. They were soldiers, and didn't need some female telling them what to do.
While Lottres delayed, Brastigan looked around them. The evening's camp was in a shallow dell between two rounded hills. Large chunks of shale had broken away from the exposed faces, giving each a skirt of stones. Before them was a small meadow, where the tethered mules tore at tall grass. There was water, a tiny spring in the meadow, but it was very exposed. That could be a problem if an enemy force trapped them. The day was growing late. If they were going to move away from here, they didn't have much time to do it.
The men suddenly stopped talking, and Brastigan turned. Yriatt emerged from the trees, a bundle of bloody feathers cradled in the crook of one arm. Several men moved aside to let her pass, for she walked with her face downward, seeming not to care what lay before her. When she reached the place where the fire pit had been dug, she sank to her knees. Jarred by the motion, the falcon gave forth a pathetic creak of pain.
Despite himself, Brastigan felt pity to look on the once-proud thing. It panted and trembled. Deep gouges on its neck and breast poured real blood over the false gold of its feathers. Its wild mystique gone, it was just a wounded and helpless creature.
Surrounded by silent troops, Yriatt spoke no word, but gazed upon her wounded pet with a terrible calm.
Lottres knelt beside her to ask, softly, “Maess, is there nothing you can do?”
The witch's face seemed suddenly pinched and old. “Of course I could, but I must not.”
Lottres straightened slightly. Brastigan shook his head. The falcon was obviously dying, and the witch didn't seem to care. Yet sh
e hadn't taken her eyes from the stricken bird, either. Gently she stroked its stained feathers, ignoring the blood on her hands.
Both Pikarus and Javes shifted restlessly, and Lottres bent forward to try again.
Anticipating the question, Yriatt said, “There is no need to flee. We are not in immediate danger.”
“Are you certain?” Pikarus asked.
“They will not be upon us so quickly as that,” she answered in a flat voice. “They, too, require daylight to move.”
The soldiers around them looked relieved to have even that much of a clear answer.
“Very well. We'll carry on here,” Pikarus declared.
At his words the men began to disburse, returning to their duties with a haste borne of anxiety. Brastigan lingered a moment near the fire, where Lottres murmured something to Yriatt.
“I dare not reveal myself,” Yriatt said in that same cold voice. “With my father held captive, Ysislaw's slaves will be watching for me to aid him. They may now suspect I am here, but since the raven was killed by arrows rather than magic, they will not be sure. Therefore Ysislaw will not turn from his course. If I were to act openly, with all my powers, he would sense it. It is not often he finds me with so few defenders. He would come at once to take me while I am vulnerable.”
So all the witches and wizards could sense each other? They had to take her word for that, of course. Her concern seemed real enough, though fixated on herself. That must be why Yriatt sent her student, Shaelen, to Altannath: to shield herself from discovery.
“And if I were to act?” Lottres asked.
Yriatt shrugged. “The eppagadrocca would not recognize you. This would make them curious, but since they are already busy, they might not be able to investigate soon. I, however, would be known at once.” Implacable eyes fixed on Lottres. “Above all, Ysislaw must not suspect I am here.”
She turned back to her pet, and gave a kind of start. The falcon no longer panted, but lay limp in her arms. Its fierce gaze was fixed on emptiness. Just for a moment, Brastigan saw Yriatt's fingers tighten. Head bowed, she leaned forward and placed the falcon on the sticks that had been laid for the fire. She knelt close, as if for a kiss. The witch blew a soft breath into the kindling. There was an answering hiss, and the whole burst into flames.
Brastigan stepped backward. He was surprised to feel a genuine emotion for the falcon. For all it had turned his life upside down, he had to admit it had been useful in the past days. Then he told himself it was just one less problem, and turned away. With that on the fire, it would be a while before any cooking was done.
Brastigan strode back to his own duties, unloading the mules and staking them closer to the camp. As he carried in the baggage, he saw Yriatt methodically adding wood to the blaze. The horns on her head looked crooked as dead snags against the firelight. Lottres sat beside her, loyal in her loss. The girl was there, too. The faintest frown creased her forehead as she watched Yriatt. Brastigan wondered how much she understood of what had happened.
Above them, a sooty plume rose like raven feathers against the sunset sky. That could serve as a marker, bringing the enemy to them all the sooner. Seeing the rigid set of Yriatt's shoulders, Brastigan decided not to mention it. He gave the two horses an extra rub down.
After a cursory meal, for Yriatt maintained her vigil and no cooking got done after all, Brastigan took the girl over where his bedroll was laid out. The braids Yriatt had put in her hair were getting fuzzy, so he took them out and put in new ones. This time, he used the Urulai style.
Braiding the hair was a social ritual, a time to talk over past events and plan things to come. Or, as Brastigan recalled, for Joal to warn him against repeating some infraction or other. The girl was no talker, but at least he had the pleasure of stroking her silken hair. Brastigan used a set of spare beads from his pack, red ones. The girl seemed entranced.
Then, defying his brother's disapproval, Brastigan laid out a place for the girl beside his own bedroll. No matter what anyone thought, he wanted her nearby. He was troubled by the sense that she might be snatched away just as abruptly as the falcon. Or he might die. After all, they were at war.
The girl seemed excited to be resting beside him. She wouldn't lie still, but insisted on feeling over his face and hair the way she had done with his hands a few days before. First she fingered the beads in his hair, and then the ones in hers.
This was something Yriatt might notice, so Brastigan brushed her hands away. “Lie down,” he growled. “Go to sleep.”
She obeyed, and then he felt sorry for himself.
* * *
“Mother?” Therula hesitated in the doorway to Alustra's chambers. She blinked in the darkness.
The curtains were drawn, leaving the room dimly lit, and the air had a faint, musty odor. Therula shuddered, reminded all too clearly of the last time she entered a darkened chamber at mid-morning. Yet she also knew it was wrong for Alustra to immure herself here, as if she had died, too.
“Mother, where are you?” Therula called anxiously.
“Here,” Alustra's voice answered faintly.
Therula should have felt better hearing her mother's voice, but she didn't. Anger made her heels pound harder as she swept across the room and wrenched at the draperies. The heavy brocade fabric seemed to actively resist being pulled aside. Once she had the curtains open, Therula turned the window latch and pushed the pane outward. She could fairly hear the rush of stale air leaving the room.
Blinking against the brilliant daylight, Therula turned back to the room. Alustra sat up in bed, still wearing a linen nightgown. The fine, white fabric only emphasized the redness around the queen's eyes. Her dark hair, too, was spun through with a lacework of silver.
“Are you all right, Mother?” Therula dragged a chair to the bedside and sat in it.
“I am fine,“ Alustra answered. It didn't sound as if she meant it.
“Then what are you doing, lying in bed?“ Therula demanded, more sharply than she intended. “Just because Father is gone doesn't mean your duty is over. The people need to see you.”
Alustra's eyes veered away. Therula swallowed what she meant to say next. Instead, she caught her mother in a fierce hug.
It wasn't just mourning that kept the queen shut up in her apartments. At least, not for Unferth alone. Two days ago, another terrible blow had fallen. Alustra's most faithful retainer, Tarther, was dead. He had been knocked from his horse during a training exercise and broken his neck. His body was being returned to Tanix on a fast galley, as of yesterday's tide.
It was a stupid accident, really. Coming so soon after the loss of Alustra's royal station, Therula knew it made everything much harder. No one had ever had cause to think there was anything more between them than servant and master, yet Tarther had been closer to Alustra in some ways than Unferth himself.
The queen's silent decline was evident in the pitiless daylight flooding the chamber. Even the rich furnishings seemed to have lost some of their luster. The handmaidens who waited on a queen's every breath had drifted away. Perhaps that was to be expected. It still seemed unfair. Alustra had lived in Crutham for more than thirty-five years. Despite countless indignities, she steadfastly ministered to a nation she often despised. After all this, she was left alone.
A rustling in the doorway announced the arrival of Alustra's lone remaining attendant. Margura bowed briefly to Alustra and Therula, then carried a covered tray to a small table near the bed.
“I have brought your majesty a light breakfast.” Margura spoke gently, as if she addressed a child. “Will you take it now?”
Alustra nodded. “Bring it here.”
“And your highness?” Margura looked to Therula.
“No, thank you.”
Margura uncovered the tray, revealing sliced bread, soft cheese, and smoked fish. She poured tea for Alustra and deftly laid fish and cheese over the bread.
Seeing that Therula watched her, Margura murmured apologetically, “The queen slee
ps often. I try not to disturb her during these difficult times.”
“Don't let her sleep all day,” Therula said curtly. She didn't like the implication that her mother was growing frail. Margura regarded her with innocent surprise. Therula told her mother, “You are still a queen. You must act like one.”
Alustra regarded her dully. “My dear, I must be realistic.”
“Realistic?” Therula bit back. Never had she heard her proud mother sound so tired, so... defeated.
Alustra ate what Margura gave her and didn't answer. Oh, what Therula wanted to say! Especially to Oskar, who never deigned to visit and console his own mother. But Therula knew she was little better. Far from confronting Oskar with his neglect, she could hardly bring herself to sit in the same room with him.
“You do have the right to request your own residence,” Margura murmured consolingly. “Someplace quiet, where you can take time for yourself.”
The words startled Therula from her distraction.
“Leave Harburg?” Therula fairly shouted. “Absurd! A queen doesn't leave her capital.”
“It is her majesty's right.” Margura looked wounded, as if she couldn't believe Therula misunderstood her loyalties. “Hasn't she earned a bit of privacy?”
Therula merely glared at Margura. How could this... this strumpet pretend to be faithful, all the while trying to isolate Alustra further?
“A small manor would be nice,” Alustra mused, as if she hadn't heard what Therula said.
“It is beautiful in Firice,” Margura quickly suggested. “Have you seen the waterfalls along the River Tharow? They are lovely. In spring, when the orchards are in bloom —.”
“That's much too close to Carthell,” Therula argued. With war likely, what could the girl be thinking?
“There are other places,” Margura demurred. “Your majesty must have seen many restful places as you traveled through the countryside.”
“Gerfalkan,” Therula thought. She couldn't help it. Let Alustra choose a new home in Gerfalkan, and Therula would beg to come with her. Anything to be farther from Oskar and her own guilt.
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