“But she didn't die,” Brastigan said. Obviously, or he would never have been born.
Ymell nodded. “Although Yrien had given up most of her power, she did not lose all. She was able to warm herself and call out to us. I returned her to her people. She was given a birth ceremony and a new name, Leithan. So I have been told. I was not there.”
Brastigan could imagine not. Ymell would have been out looking for Ysislaw, the beast who had maimed his daughter. Any father would, no matter the species. Under his hauberk, Brastigan felt the flat lump of Leithan's jeup, hot and sticky against his skin.
“I think I know the rest,” he said.
Brastigan had heard it all his life, how the exiled princess led her people to safety in Crutham. Now he saw the paradox, that Leithan had given the lecher king Unferth what she refused Ysislaw: her body, her son.
Reluctantly, Brastigan asked the question that had been biting at him from the moment Yriatt said she was his aunt. “What does that make me, then?”
“You are not a dragon,” Ymell said quickly, perhaps sensing his need for reassurance. “There can be no cross breeding. You are human. An exceptional man, perhaps, but no more than that.”
“Exceptional is right,” Brastigan replied, lifting his chin in a caricature of his usual vanity. “I'm the greatest swordsman in the world!”
“As to that, I do not know.” Ymell smiled gravely. “Do you understand, now, why you must beware Ysislaw? In his eyes, you should be his son. He wishes to destroy you, the living symbol of his humiliation.”
“He can try,” Brastigan retorted amiably. Inside, he felt his heart harden with anger. All that had happened—losing his home, his brother, his love—was Ysislaw's fault even more than Yriatt's. Ymell's tale only gave Brastigan a more compelling reason to destroy the evil dragon. Unexpectedly, he found himself casting about for any rumor of a poisoned spear or some other trick that might bring the mighty dragon low.
Of course, it was Lottres who could have told him that.
“Do not think of it,” Ymell interrupted. “Ysislaw forced my dear daughter to make a terrible choice. Indeed, he deserves to die. It is my right, mine alone, to pass judgment on the evil of my kind.”
“If you say so.” Brastigan shrugged, putting this aside as a pointless argument. If Ymell wanted to take the risk, he was welcome to it. But if Ymell wasn't there and Brastigan was, why, that might be a different story.
They stood in silence for a time, Brastigan and the wizard he had to force himself to think of as his grandfather. Some of the tightness had left Ymell's face. The relief of having finished his sad tale, maybe.
But the tale wasn't really over. Everything Ymell had said made that more clear. All it had done was make Brastigan feel worse. Even his grief for the girl seemed trivial, and he resented that. A man should have a right to mourn without being upstaged by the events of years past.
The bitter scent of smoke drifted past him again. Voices, vague as the dawn light, echoed under the rock shelter. Brastigan glanced over his shoulder, feeling doubly tired now that the tension of Ymell's tale was fading. Yriatt was awake—he could tell it was her by the horns. She had a fire burning in the fire ring. Its cheery crackling mocked Brastigan's exhaustion. Javes set a blackened kettle on the stones. He measured water and crushed oats together, and began to stir. All around them, soldiers were getting up. No few of them groaned over their aches and pains.
Brastigan glanced at Ymell again, and then away. For what seemed like the tenth time in a day, he felt that he should say something but didn't know what. He barely knew Ymell, and that was Ymell's own choice. With his powers, the dragon wizard could have come to Harburg whenever he wanted. He could have spent time with Leithan and her boy, Brastigan. Would it have hurt him so much to make the effort? Yet he waited until now, when everything was happening at once and no one had time to think.
Brastigan glanced back to the fireside. Pikarus crouched there. His hands were busy feeding the fire, but he was watching Brastigan and Ymell warily. Waiting for an argument to break out, maybe.
“Let us call council,” Yriatt announced from the center of the gathering. Her clear, calm tone made Brastigan feel even more lethargic.
Ymell, in turn, had been watching Brastigan. His pale eyes glinted with emotion. At his daughter's voice, he sighed to himself. Brastigan felt a lump rise in his throat. There was so much to say, yet his mind was a blank. So many words, he couldn't sort them all out. Ymell was turning away.
“Thanks,” Brastigan managed, before the horned wizard could go. “For telling me the truth, I mean.”
Ymell smiled with real warmth unshadowed by past sorrows. “You're welcome.”
Together they walked back into the shade of the rock roof. The men were busy dressing, some of them shaving before they armed up. Still, Brastigan felt the eyes on him. He knew he didn't look good, and that was unusual. Brastigan wasn't vain, but he did make the most of his dark good looks to stand out from the crowd. No matter what happened, he came back with a sarcastic retort, confidence intact. Today he walked with a shambling gait, his proud hair tangled, and he didn't care what he looked like or who saw him. The long journey had stripped away such pretense.
The soldiers were sitting down in two ranks, Pikarus at their head. Javes, at the fireside, passed bowls of steaming mush along the lines. Brastigan murmured a greeting and dropped to the sand beside Pikarus, just in time to receive a bowl of his own. It was their first hot meal in days. Brastigan looked at the creamy porridge, smelled its musky warmth. He set the bowl down beside him. The ache in his middle had little to do with hunger.
Yriatt, Shaelen, Lottres and Ymell sat facing the soldiers. Once Javes had his own meal, Shaelen served for the wizards. While she did so, Yriatt declared, “Let us begin.”
“Very well,” Ymell said. “Although I am grateful for the efforts that restored me to myself, we now stand at a crossroads. Crutham has been invaded by her old enemy, and mine. We must choose where to spend our efforts to best effect, to turn back the invaders and destroy their tyrant ruler.”
Pikarus followed this ringing challenge with a simple question: “Do we know where the emperor of Sillets is now, or how far the invaders have advanced?”
Ymell looked to Yriatt, who answered for him.
“On this morning's wind, Lottres heard sounds of battle. Glawern still holds, though hard pressed. We can conclude that neither Ysislaw nor his eppagadrocca are there. Such a small fortress could not have resisted them.”
Shaelen added, “I have seen the Urulai warriors in place on Carthell Cleft. They have made a landslide and blocked the road. It will be long before the invaders cross there.”
“The cleft isn't the only way into Carthell,” Javes pointed out.
“True,” Shaelen agreed, “but my people know these mountains and the Silletsians don't. We must trust they will be delayed in seeking another pass. If our warriors aren't spread too thin, they may be able to hold them back entirely.”
“Even if they are,” Pikarus said, “Mistress Yriatt told us at Hawkwing House that the main force is moving south toward Harburg. Wouldn't their ruler be with them?”
“Logically, yes,” Ymell replied. “He will want to bring Harburg low with his own hand, and see for himself when the king must cry mercy.”
“Although the mountains will have slowed them, I fear Rowbeck has already been taken,” Yriatt went on. “They had no real means to resist.”
“If they follow the pattern of past invasions,” Lottres said, “they will divide forces again at Caulteit. One column will strike for Carthell, while the other rushes on to Harburg.”
“If that strategy failed before, would they use it again?” Pikarus asked.
“It is still the most logical approach,” Ymell answered. “To take Crutham, they must take Harburg. Moving toward Carthell serves to keep those forces from coming to Unferth's aid.”
Brastigan sat silent, listening to all this and wondering why it didn'
t seem to matter. Yet something did bother him about what the wizards were saying. They were dancing around Pikarus's question. That's what it was.
“Wait,” Brastigan interrupted. “Are you saying you don't know where Ysislaw is? You're only guessing?”
The four wizards glanced among themselves. Reluctantly, Ymell answered. “Correct. We know he is in Crutham. We do not know his precise location.”
“We have overheard the reports of his eppagadrocca,” Shaelen explained. “These are given each day at sunset. That is why we waited until last night to strike, and also why Maess was careful to silence them before she released Maen Ymell. We can act freely until sunset tonight. Then he will know Maen is free.”
“You can't tell where he is from the reports?” Brastigan pressed.
“No, he conceals himself,” Lottres answered impatiently.
Brastigan blew out a sigh. What good were wizards if they couldn't do something as simple as finding the enemy? Then he felt a nudge at his side. Javes frowned sternly at Brastigan, then nodded toward the bowl of porridge that sat cooling on the ground. Brastigan sneered back at him, but he did take a bite. The tepid mush tasted surprisingly good, after days of cold rations. He took another bite, and another.
“It is more than that, I believe,” Yriatt said with steely softness. “I have already explained that we can sense nothing from Harburg. We cannot see into Carthell, either. I had not realized this because there was no one there I needed to speak to. Shaelen can sense the Urulai in Carthell Cleft because she knows them well. The rest of us cannot hear beyond Glawern.”
“What would cause this?” Pikarus asked.
“We do not know,” Ymell admitted. “Most likely, it was part of Ysislaw's invasion strategy. He may have sought to hamper Crutham's defense by preventing Eben from perceiving what happens in the provinces.”
“Then do we know for certain if Egger and Duale were able to give our warning?” Pikarus asked. “Are Harburg and Carthell defended?”
“I do sense troops moving toward Harburg,” Lottres said, “so Father must know. What concerns me more is that none of us can reach Eben. With rumors of war, he should be trying to contact us, but there has been nothing.”
“I agree,” Ymell said. “This is of great concern. Eben was my thaeme for many years. I should be able to reach him even in his sleep.”
Brastigan took another bite of porridge and kept his opinion to himself.
“Could Ysislaw have sent one of his underlings ahead to Harburg?” Javes asked in a dry, pragmatic tone. “Maybe they already got rid of Eben.”
“It would be like Ysislaw to place an agent in Harburg, to provide information that would aid in his plans,” Ymell said.
Lottres looked at Brastigan, his brown eyes intense. Brastigan thought of their brothers who had died, and how this might have distracted Eben and Unferth at a crucial time. But to think that Eben was dead?
Shaelen asked quietly, “Maen, could Eben have fallen under the same spell that held you in thrall?”
“Ysislaw knows the value of a hostage all too well,” Ymell said. Yriatt shifted suddenly in her place, and Brastigan saw her dark eyes were narrowed with hate. It was obvious who Ysislaw would have used Ymell to bargain with. Ymell continued, “No one would concede a point for Eben, I fear. It is more likely he is dead.”
Brastigan swallowed the last of his breakfast in a hard lump. No warmer than his daughter, Ymell. He simply acted more civilized.
“Then we are left with three goals,” Pikarus said. “One is to stop the Silletsian advance. The others are to learn what has become of Eben and Carthell. Which of those is most important?”
“Carthell is closer,” Javes responded.
“Destroy Ysislaw and the invasion will collapse,” Ymell countered.
“What if Ysislaw is already in Carthell?” Brastigan asked. “Maybe that's why they're blocking you there.”
Yriatt and Ymell exchanged uncertain glances.
Lottres asked, “Maess, how is it possible to kill Ysislaw? For us, I mean.” He gestured to take in the soldiers, who were only men despite their weapons and harness.
“You cannot,” Yriatt answered decisively.
“This is my task.” Ymell's tone was softer, yet more terrible. “I have confronted Ysislaw many times, always to no avail. I would like this to be the last time I must duel with him.”
“I shall aid you,” said Yriatt. Something in her voice said she expected this request to be denied.
“Only if I fall,” her father answered sternly. “The risk is too great, my daughter. To you most of all.”
The two dragons traded eye-darts, ignoring the mere humans who sat around them. Yriatt bowed her head at last, but her lips were set in a thin line of anger.
Brastigan's mind had cleared as he ate, but his stomach churned as he listened to the worthless debate. Fighting a dragon didn't interest him. He wanted to get away from the ones he was already with. Yriatt had destroyed any reason he had to linger in her company.
Javes cleared his throat. “Do we pursue the invaders, then?”
“You're forgetting something.” Brastigan answered before Ymell could. “Our duty was to serve her —” he jerked his spoon at Yriatt “— to her satisfaction. Her goal was to free her father. Well, he's free now.” Brastigan looked to Yriatt. “Are you satisfied? Because if you are, we have a duty to our king and homeland, and they're in Harburg.”
The witch gave him a long stare. “Perhaps that would be best.” Her voice was taut, as if he had insulted her for no reason at all.
“We can't leave now!” Lottres protested.
“Why not?” Brastigan snapped back. “Let the dragons deal with their own. The rest of us would just get in their way.”
“But...” Lottres choked.
Ymell considered the two brothers. “Perhaps both ends can be served by dividing our forces,” he suggested. “Those who wish to return to Crutham may accompany Brastigan. The others come with me.”
“I go with Maess,” Lottres announced petulantly. As if there had been any doubt.
There was a moment's silence, heavy with the discomfort of choosing between the two princes. Maybe no one would follow him, Brastigan thought. He couldn't let it stop him. His desire to be away from Yriatt was so strong now, he could hardly breathe around it. Every time he looked at her he felt his loss again, sharp as Victory's blade.
Slowly, carefully, Pikarus said, “Our orders are to protect both princes, not just one. However, we are soldiers. As Prince Brastigan says, our king is in Harburg. We have fought the bone men and know how to defeat them. This information will be vital to Prince Habrok.
“Further,” Pikarus went on, “I agree with Lord Ymell that the four of you will be able to move more quickly without having to watch over us.” And, though he tactfully didn't say it, the troop's morale would improve without the constant arguing of the two princes. Pikarus concluded, “I believe Prince Lottres will be safe with Lord Ymell and Lady Yriatt. Or as safe as a man can be, in wartime. If we do divide forces, our squad will follow Prince Brastigan.”
Yriatt and Ymell regarded each other silently, and Brastigan knew some kind of communication was passing between them. Lottres stared at Brastigan, his features lined with guilt and relief, triumph and accusation. The dark prince said nothing.
“Even if we all agree to that, the Silletsians have a long start on us,” Javes pointed out. “How will we get to Harburg before them?”
“There is a way,” Ymell answered quietly. “You can be in Harburg by noon, if that is what you want.”
Brastigan glanced along the lines of soldiers, already fewer by two than when they started. As Pikarus had reminded him, these men depended on Brastigan for leadership. Whatever Ymell's way was, it was worth it if it got them all back to Harburg and something like a normal life.
“Yes, it's what we want,” Brastigan said.
“Then,” Ymell said, his voice betraying no emotion, “we wizards will go fi
rst to Carthell. Javes is correct—Carthell is within easy reach, and Ysislaw could indeed be hiding there. The possibility should be investigated.”
“Very well.” Brastigan gathered himself to rise. “Let's get packed and get moving.”
Pikarus nodded. “Yes, your highness.”
Returning to the improvised wall at the cave mouth, Brastigan located his duffel and yanked it out. Three others came down with it. Gritty dust billowed into his face as he poured sand out of the canvas bag. Then a soft breeze carried the dust away. Brastigan didn't bother asking who he had to thank for that.
Other men soon joined Brastigan. While they emptied the rest of the bags, he returned to his bedroll and began stuffing his things back where they had been. His right elbow no longer hurt, he noticed. Brastigan wondered if Ymell had healed it while they were talking. He hadn't asked for help.
Brastigan worked with renewed energy now that he had a goal more to his liking. Yet he felt no pleasure in it. Shame had joined the grief that weighed on his heart. Maybe he'd found a valid excuse, but he knew he was running away. Just like a dog, tail between his legs. Running home to daddy, and wasn't that a joke? With Crutham at war, it wasn't likely Unferth would have time to console his broken heart.
He punched down the last of his clothes and yanked on the drawstring with more than necessary force. From where Brastigan stood, there was only one thing he could salvage now. He left his duffel and stalked across the shelter, through the scurry of men packing and preparing to move. Javes was bringing the mules into line, but Brastigan continued on past them.
The Urulai horses raised their heads at his approach. The newest of the three, Shaelen's mare, regarded him warily. Then the gray mare, the girl's horse, stepped toward Brastigan. Gratefully, he took the reins. Maybe he deserved to be called Urulai and maybe he didn't, but he had never forgotten these magnificent animals. It felt like a morbid validation that the mare came forward to meet him.
“Who's that?” Shaelen stepped from behind her own horse. When she saw Brastigan, she murmured, “Oh.”
Too Many Princes Page 27
