Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  They traded stares, the two half-blooded Urulai, and a sarcastic retort died on Brastigan's lips. Shaelen had found time to comb and braid her hair. With a sick start he recognized the beads she had used to tame her fiery locks. Red beads, the same ones he'd given to the girl on that last morning.

  Shaelen gazed at Brastigan silently. Her round face was so like the girl's, and her lips moved, as if she wanted to speak but didn't remember how. Brastigan wound the reins around and around his hand, pulling so tight the blood throbbed in his fist.

  Shaelen blinked first. “I'm so sorry,” she faltered.

  “Save it,” Brastigan choked. He pivoted away, unable to face this dark reflection of his perfect lover.

  A part of him raged that he should demand those beads back, tear them from her hair if she wouldn't give them freely. He didn't have the heart, not when she looked at him like that. Anyway, it didn't matter. He could never wear them himself. Brastigan forced himself to walk slowly, leading Shadow—well, what else could he call her?—back to his bedroll.

  Of course, the problem with Urulai horses was they were broken to a light blanket, not the heavier Cruthan saddle. Shadow's blanket had a horn of carved antler, and he could hang Victory from that, but there was no place to tie baggage on. He'd have to think of something. Brastigan knelt with his knee on his blankets to roll them into a tight coil, an outlet for his frustration and grief.

  As he worked, he heard footsteps approaching over the sand behind him. Brastigan turned, expecting Pikarus had come to tell him the troop could move out. It wasn't Pikarus. Brastigan turned away, shoulders hunched.

  Lottres knelt beside him and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  Feel? Brastigan closed his lips against the withering rejoinders that came to mind.

  “Don't ask me that now,” Brastigan grunted.

  For once, Lottres didn't retreat. Leaning closer, he asked, “What's wrong with you, Bras?” Brastigan raised his head to glare at his brother. Lottres flushed. “Okay, wait. I know what it is now, but you haven't smiled since we left home. It isn't like you.”

  Brastigan stared down at the bedroll he was crushing beneath his knee. How to explain it? He'd hated Yriatt from the moment he heard her name, because her summons had turned his life topsy-turvy. He had never wondered if his feelings were justified. But Lottres was waiting for his answer.

  “Well, the falcon, to start with.” Brastigan felt his hackles rise, remembering the bird's thin little voice. “Showing up out of nowhere, acting like it knew us, and then just dragging us off. It would ruin anyone's sense of humor.”

  “The falcon is dead,” Lottres said gently.

  So was the girl, Brastigan thought bitterly. Of course, the falcon had been Lottres's talisman, a physical symbol of deep need, just as the shadow girl was to Brastigan.

  “Then you started acting that way,” Brastigan hurried on. He felt defensive, and didn't like it. “Your fire-gazing and all that. What was I supposed to think?”

  Brastigan expected Lottres to stammer, just like old times, but his voice held steady.

  “I was so excited when Eben said I could be a wizard, but I was afraid to tell you. I thought you would laugh.” Lottres's gaze wasn't on his brother now, but focused on something within himself. Then he smiled with a trace of sadness. “I just wanted to do something nobody else could. Not our brothers, and not even you.”

  “You don't have to compete with me,” Brastigan scowled.

  “Easy for you to say,” Lottres parried without malice. “I was trying so hard to hear through the fire, the way Eben said I should. When I finally did, I was really happy. I wanted you to be as glad as I was, but you weren't.”

  Because, Brastigan recalled, the farther they got from Harburg, the more his fears grew. It seemed the quest would cost him the only person he could count on in the ferment of Crutham's royal household. But, after all, it wasn't Yriatt who did that. It was Brastigan's own stubbornness, his cruel words, that drove Lottres away.

  He shrugged awkwardly. “I was a fool. I know it. We've always been friends, but all of a sudden you were changing. You weren't who I thought you were.” Brastigan gave a low, harsh laugh. “Neither am I. My mother wasn't even a human being.”

  “Did Ymell answer some of your questions, at least?” Lottres asked tentatively.

  “He did,” Brastigan said. But knowing the story of Leithan's travails wouldn't bring his lost love back. Brastigan straightened and kicked his bedroll over beside his duffel. Sounds of the camp breaking up suddenly closed around them, and the moment of privacy evaporated like dew in the sun.

  “Then let me help another way,” Lottres offered.

  Brastigan's gambeson lay where it had been set the night before. Lottres picked it up, and Brastigan could see the padded garment had dried as stiff as wood. Lottres shook it lightly and then gave it a vigorous snap. Shadow snorted uneasily. A cloud of fine particles drifted around Lottres, and the gambeson hung limp from his hands.

  “Shaelen showed me that,” Lottres reported with pride. He handed the gambeson back to Brastigan.

  “Thanks.” Brastigan took off his shirt and pulled the gambeson on over his head. While not exactly clean, it was certainly more pleasant to wear than it had been. Lottres bent down to retrieve the hauberk. He helped Brastigan into his harness, just as they had done so many times. It was strange to think they would be going in different directions now.

  “I'll tell Father where you are,” Brastigan said in a level tone. “He'll want to know.”

  “Let him know Maen is going to Carthell,” Lottres added. “It might help him to plan.”

  Just as Brastigan stuffed the last of his clothing into his duffel, Javes approached. Brastigan gave the bag and his bedroll to Javes.

  “Just tie these on my mule and put it in the pack train,” Brastigan said.

  Javes nodded. “Aye, your highness.”

  “Well,” Lottres began.

  “Go do what you have to do,” Brastigan told him. “You can't be half a wizard—even I know that. You've got to finish what you started. Just remember, we're still at war. No more daydreaming. Mind you watch what's going on around you.”

  Lottres summoned a weak smile. “And you.”

  Brastigan punched his brother's shoulder lightly, and watched as Lottres went to join Yriatt and Shaelen at the fireside. He saw his brother for the last time, and felt as if it was the first. Lottres moved with real confidence. No longer the gawky pup, Brastigan had to admit.

  He donned his helmet and took up Shadow's reins. For the first time in weeks, Brastigan led his horse to the head of the column. But this time he would ride alone.

  THE WIZARD'S GATE

  No sooner was Brastigan in the saddle than Ymell appeared beside him. “Ride to the top of my mound, and I'll meet you there.”

  “To send us home?” Brastigan asked wearily.

  “Yes. I removed a part from the apparatus some time ago, as a precaution,” Ymell explained. “I must restore this before it can be used.”

  “If you say so,” Brastigan shrugged. He turned in the saddle, scanning the line of riders behind him. Pikarus nodded to indicate all was ready. Brastigan said, “We'll be there.”

  He sat a moment longer, watching as the horned wizard strolled off toward the rock shelter's side entrance. At a slight pressure of his knees, Shadow moved forward. Brastigan blinked against the daylight as they left the shelter. Shadow's hooves kicked up black char as she crossed the seared earth of last night's battlefield.

  A trampled path led straight down the steep slope. The bone men must have taken the most direct approach in last night's assault, rather than the safest. Since the last thing he needed was an accident, Brastigan turned left to make a long, slanted descent between the rocky fins of the hillside. Shadow moved slowly, picking her way, and he didn't hurry her.

  It felt strange to ride boldly in daylight, after days of clinging to tree cover. Looking skyward,
Brastigan saw no black feathered birds in the air. Of course, they hadn't seen the raven before it killed the falcon. There seemed little alternative, in any case.

  Brastigan had just turned a switchback to the right when a shadow passed over them. The rush of wings followed. Shadow snorted, and muffled oaths came from behind him. Brastigan knew he wasn't the only soldier whose hand sprang to sword his sword hilt.

  The dragon looked smaller in daylight. Perhaps its dark hide had blended with the gloom of night, thus giving an impression of greater size. Ymell's back and flanks were a deep red-brown, shading to tan on his belly and chest. Brastigan didn't remember seeing the paler colors, which would have stood out in darkness. It seemed Ymell could change his colors on a whim, just as he did the rest of himself.

  The horns, talons and serrated back-ridge hadn't changed, nor the great sweep of wings which carried Ymell forward. Here and there, scales glinted as he moved. Under him, Brastigan saw, the dragon supported a long, gray stone in his four huge paws. It must be the very one he had noticed missing the day before.

  Ymell swooped down toward the top of the mound, raising clouds of dust as his wings beat the air. When he could see through the haze, Brastigan watched Ymell turn the stone until it stood on end. Then he folded his wings and dropped to the ground, where he sat up on his haunches like a hungry dog. Ymell seemed to be rotating the stone, setting it just so.

  The riders came to a patch of scree at the base of an old rock slide and Brastigan had to concentrate on urging Shadow onward. When he looked back up, the dragon had vanished, though the stone was still visible.

  By now the Cruthans were moving past Ymell's fire-blackened mound. Between the jutting rocks, Brastigan could see a great dark hole in the northern flank of the hill. A ramp of packed earth rose toward it. There was no such colossal doorway in the Dragon's Candle. Brastigan wondered what lay beyond it.

  It seemed they had been picking their way down switchbacks for hours, though the sun had scarcely moved when Brastigan cocked an eye at it. At last they reached the base of the slope. Crossing a gentle saddle, they began to angle up the grassy mound. Brastigan urged Shadow higher, avoiding the ruins of the Silletsian camp. He felt no need to look on what was left of the occupants after last night's conflagration.

  Instead, he thought about what awaited them at the summit of the mound. Half remembered words teased at Brastigan's memory as Shadow kicked up black swirls of ash. The old man, back in Rowbeck, had spoken of something. A stone that sang, wasn't it? No, it had been too long. He couldn't remember.

  The wizard's mound had an easier slant than the rugged hills. Shadow and the mules kept a good pace. They didn't take switchbacks now, but circled ever higher on the conical mound. Soon enough they reached the top, and the familiar oddities resting there.

  The oval pool glinted among the parched grasses like a diamond in a band of gold. Beyond that was the upright stone, black blotched with green and yellow lichen. Only a slight disturbance of the earth hinted that the stone had ever been moved. Another thing was new: a series of enormous gouges in the soil at the edge of the mound, overlooking the burned camp. Yriatt had left her footprints on the dry turf.

  Ymell stood waiting beside the tall stone. He stepped forward as Brastigan drew near.

  “So what's this one called?” Brastigan asked blandly. “There's a Dragon's Candle and a Dragon's Tooth.”

  Ymell seemed genuinely confused. “Who calls them by such names?”

  “We do,” Brastigan answered. “I'll call this one the Dragon's Chimney,” he decided.

  “That name will do as well as any,” Ymell answered, amused.

  “What happens now?” Brastigan asked warily.

  Before Ymell could respond, Pikarus cried, “Your highness!”

  Pikarus kicked his mule and rushed to Brastigan's side, sword drawn. Following his gesture, Brastigan saw movement to the east. There among the rocks was the black scar where they had fought the night before. A tiny figure stood atop the great stone slab that roofed the rock shelter. It looked like Yriatt, arms extended skyward. And descending toward her... Brastigan caught his breath. Griffins!

  There was no mistaking the long bodies and dark gold wings. Around him, mules scuffed their hooves anxiously and the men muttered in their ranks. Leave it to Yriatt, Brastigan thought, to find herself a creature just like the falcon, only bigger and meaner.

  “Fear not,” Ymell soothed the men, who had drawn into a protective huddle around Brastigan. “My daughter has tamed griffins before. We haven't time to ride over land. Shaelen and Lottres must have such steeds if they are to keep pace with us.”

  Lottres would ride a griffin? Absurdly, Brastigan had to quell his envy. What a ride that would be! If you could trust your steed not to rip out your throat, of course. Brastigan squinted across the distance. Yriatt lowered her hands and confronted the two fierce beasts which paced restlessly before her. Griffins—tame? Those two words didn't even belong in the same sentence. Maybe, after all, Brastigan was happy enough astride Shadow, with her four hooves on solid ground.

  “What about us?” Brastigan prodded. “What do we have to do to get home?”

  “Be patient,” Ymell said, though he regarded Brastigan thoughtfully. Whatever he had to say, he kept it to himself.

  Feet hissing through the dry grass, the wizard strode toward the tall stone. Without fanfare, he placed both hands on the stone. Nothing seemed to happen. That was the problem with these wizards, Brastigan thought. There was never any thunder, nothing to tell you magic was happening except their own say-so.

  Then he felt a tickling in his ears. Brastigan clapped a hand to his helmet, but it didn't ease the sense of pressure. The deep, pure note went on, like the fog horns they sounded on the great bay in winter.

  The sound came from the stone. It wasn't so very loud, yet the vibration made Brastigan's bones itch. Ymell lowered his hands, but it didn't stop. Then a wavering light came up from the pool. Waves lapped at the banks, though there was no wind to tease the water—nor to cool the sweat collecting under Brastigan's helmet. Streaks and sparkles lit the dust in the air. That was what the old man of Rowbeck had said, he remembered: that there were lights in the water.

  Ymell stepped behind the stone. He must have done something they couldn't see, for the rock began to move. It rotated forward in a controlled motion, not falling. The weathered stone lowered slowly to make a kind of bridge across the shimmering pool. As its tip touched the far bank, the foghorn hooting died away. The lights in the air made a constantly moving cloud of brilliant, gleaming particles.

  “Come.” Ymell beckoned. His face was fixed on the sparkling mist with intense concentration. “This is your way, now.”

  Brastigan paused, staring at that shimmering haze above the pool. Reluctantly he tightened his knees. Shadow moved forward. The soft thumping of hooves sounded behind him as Pikarus and the others followed.

  “Simply ride across the bridge.” Ymell said. He stepped backward, giving them space.

  “Right.” That was all? It sounded too good to be true, but this spell was what Brastigan had asked for. He couldn't back down in front of the soldiers.

  Pikarus suddenly drew even with him. “Your highness, let me go first.”

  “No.” Brastigan waved him back. “This was my idea. I'll do it.”

  Pikarus might have argued, but Brastigan looked away to find Ymell gazing at him. The horned wizard was calm, yet sad. Brastigan wondered what Ymell saw in him. Was it the ghost of his lost daughter? Or just a human who happened—impossibly, tragically—to be related to him? Brastigan squirmed inside, uncertain what he wanted Ymell to see. Or what he wanted this stranger, his grandfather, to mean to him.

  Ymell clapped Brastigan's knee briefly. “I'm glad to have met you,” was all he said.

  Brastigan could find no words to express all he was thinking. Yet he couldn't bear all this grim foreboding.

  “It won't be the last time.” Brastigan urged Shadow forward
with a swagger he didn't feel. Pikarus followed close behind.

  Brastigan could now see that the column wasn't completely round. The upper side was slightly flattened, creating a better surface for riding. The dull thud of hooves on soil turned to crisp clicks as Shadow stepped onto the stone bridge. The mare moved cautiously, neck extended and ears twitching side to side. Brastigan didn't rush her, and soon enough she moved into the mist.

  A weird sensation passed over him, like a breeze caressing his skin. Brastigan felt it even under his armor. Daylight dimmed within the cloud, yet he could see his way easily enough. Hoofbeats echoed strangely around them. After the full sunlight on his helm, the air was pleasantly cool and damp.

  The bridge should have been just a few paces across, yet Shadow didn't come to its end. Brastigan was just beginning to be concerned when the mist suddenly cleared. Shadow pricked her ears and raised her head, and trotted into daylight.

  Brastigan kept the horse moving to make room for others following, but he looked around sharply. Gone were the dry valley and bone-pale rocks. Farm fields lay on every side in a patchwork of green and gold. The king's highway was clearly visibly, lined with inns and cottages.

  They were back in Daraine, and no mistake. In fact, Brastigan knew exactly where they were. This was the Dragon's Candle. He drew Shadow up and watched Javes lead the last of the mules out of the mist. Already the dancing motes faded from the air. The low sound they had heard at the Dragon's Chimney began again as the stone slowly rose toward a vertical position. This time, Brastigan thought its groaning sounded like a rusty gate swinging shut.

  In fact, that was what it must be. Some kind of wizard's gate, secret to all but the dragons and their friends. They could skip around the countryside at will, bypassing days and weeks of travel. It didn't seem fair.

  “That was strange,” Pikarus murmured close on his left.

  “Yeah,” Brastigan muttered.

  His attention was caught by another familiar sight. Crutham Keep was majestic, frowning over the city at its knees. The massive fortress always had looked best from a distance. Brastigan felt a moment's vertigo, as if he had done Lottres's trick and fallen asleep in the saddle. Emotions surged within him. Home-sickness. Weeks' worth of loneliness. The aching losses of his brother and the girl. The new knowledge of his mother's sacrifice, a sickening weight on his heart. After all that had happened, the citadel on its promontory seemed small and irrelevant.