Lottres hardly noticed where they went. His mind was still whirling. Surely this talk of Unferth being dead was a mistake, or some ghastly joke. Dietrick was clearly hiding something from them. Was it his father's treachery, or something else?
The great hall of Carthell Keep was a vast chamber, nearly circular even to the weathered bronze arches overhead. Round windows in the dome sent bars of daylight to pierce the gloom. The feeling of magic was thick in the air, like incense burned to cover a foul odor. Between that and his grief, Lottres felt he must struggle to breathe.
The hall was crowded, as daily court was in session. The ducal throne stood on a dais, just like Unferth's. The man sitting in it had to be Duke Johanz. He seemed to ignore the newcomers, concentrating on the petitioner before him. Loitering nearby was a group of young men who might have been his sons. Lottres glimpsed Albrett among them. These men stared openly, raising hands to cover their mouths as they whispered among themselves.
The banner over the dais told Lottres more of what was wrong in Carthell. There should have been a Cruthan flag there, either side by side with Carthell's or sewn in quarters on a single banner. Lottres could even pick out hooks on the plaster where such an emblem might have hung. It wasn't there now.
Dietrick stopped, and Lottres nearly ran into his back. All soldier now, Dietrick murmured to Lottres, “We must wait just a moment, cousin.”
“Of course,” Lottres said.
Dietrick's eyes stayed on Lottres's face. Again, there was a gleam of emotion in Dietrick's eyes. Sympathy, perhaps, or just plain curiosity. Lottres badly wanted to know what his cousin was thinking. Only the memory of Yriatt's warning restrained him from plundering Dietrick's memory. Lottres tried to school his features and show less emotion himself.
Shaelen shook his resolve when she slipped up beside him. Her fingers were cold as she clasped Lottres's hand.
“I'm sorry,” she murmured.
“Your grief is as our own,” Yriatt added softly.
Lottres felt his throat tighten, his eyes sting. Yet a part of him wondered how his mistress could say such a thing. She and her father were dragons. They wouldn't die, would never face such a loss as this.
He must have been broadcasting his feelings, for Ymell smiled sadly. “But we have,” he said quietly. “Even a dragon can be killed. My own wife and one of my daughters are both gone.”
Yriatt added, with hurt sharpness, “To live so long is all loss, Thaeme. It is our burden, seldom our joy.”
“Forgive me, Maess,” Lottres stammered.
Perhaps all of them were glad when a loud voice called, “Who comes before this worthy court?”
There was a great stirring and muttering in the hall, as everyone was free to stare at these strangers with their horned heads. Dietrick moved forward and Lottres followed again, with Ymell, Yriatt and Shaelen coming after. The soldiers remained where they were. At the base of the platform, Dietrick stopped and saluted.
“Noble father,” he intoned with what seemed to Lottres like an excess of formality. “This day I present to you our cousin, Lottres, son of Unferth. Cousin Lottres brings us news which you must hear. With him are Lord Ymell, a wizard, his daughter, Lady Yriatt, and her companion, Lady Shaelen.”
They all bowed in turn. Lottres understood now why Dietrick kept calling him cousin and not prince. With Unferth gone, all titles were uncertain. Albrett didn't seem worried, though. He smirked when he caught Lottres's eye. Albrett had gained weight since he left Harburg. The tight collar of his tunic pushed his jowls up against his face, giving him a bloated look.
Dietrick went on, “Our cousin has only now learned of King Unferth's passing.”
“We mourn with you, noble cousin.” Yohanz spoke in the same nasal accent as his son. Cautiously, Lottres looked up into the duke's face.
Johanz of Carthell was much like Unferth, though a decade younger. Both had light hair and eyes and thick beards, though Johanz's beard was cut off short and square. They shared a certain girth, the result of days spent sitting in council chairs. Even their royal robes were similar. Lottres noted the Carthellans wore plain, close-fitting garb in darker colors. Ironically, they looked more Cruthan than most Cruthans did these days.
Yet there was no mistaking the shrewdness in the duke's eyes. He looked on his guests with deliberate calculation, something Unferth had always tried to conceal beneath a jovial facade. The silver coronet he wore was set with many amethysts. It gleamed with newness.
“I thank you for your kindness, your grace,” Lottres replied. He couldn't quite bring himself to call the duke cousin, when so many questions hovered in the air. “I fear we have no time to mourn. The news I bring is dire. Crutham has been invaded. We come to warn you of Silletsian soldiers who even now attempt the Carthell Cleft.”
Then Lottres fell silent as Johanz raised his hand.
“This is no news to us,” Johanz said. “I believe it was one of your brothers who dispatched a messenger to bring us warning. He reached us some days ago.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Lottres said. “We didn't know of his fate. Is Egger here now, and safe?”
“Alas, he came to us sorely wounded,” Johanz answered. “He did not live long beyond his arrival. We honor his sacrifice by taking his warning to heart, and are well prepared for war.”
Egger, dead? Lottres did his best not to show his suspicions. Johanz's tone implied something more than what he said aloud. Considering the absence of a Cruthan banner and the duke's new coronet, Lottres thought he knew what it was.
Carefully, Lottres inquired, “Then, you ride to the defense of Crutham?”
Johanz smiled tightly. “That is a more complex question.”
“Oh?” Lottres asked, as if he didn't understand. “What is complicated about duty to your king?”
Albrett fairly snickered at that.
“It is true, I swore loyalty to King Unferth,” Johanz said. He spoke slowly and precisely, as if this changed his betrayal. “Yet we of Carthell have always felt this arrangement was one-sided. It is an unfair burden, with little reward to us. With King Unferth's passing, our duty too has passed away.”
Johanz paused, and murmurs of support rumbled through the great hall. Lottres tried to ignore Albrett's cruel grin.
“Will you abandon past loyalties?” he asked directly.
Johanz maintained his smile. “It is simply that we wish to renegotiate some of the terms before we swear allegiance to King Oskar. The time is not yet right to open discussions.”
Meaning that Johanz planned to wait until Crutham was in real trouble and Oskar was desperate before he started talking.
“Shall I convey that message to my brother, King Oskar?” Lottres asked. He couldn't keep the strain from his voice. Albrett chuckled again. Lottres didn't look at him. Albrett always had enjoyed watching someone else squirm.
“A generous offer,” Johanz said. “In due time, perhaps, I will ask you to carry my terms. I wish you no ill, cousin, but I cannot permit you to travel at this time. It is far too dangerous,” he added sanctimoniously.
“Not at all dangerous, for us,” Ymell interjected, speaking for the first time.
“No, you must remain as my guests,” Johanz replied, pretending not to hear the wizard. “I assure you, every comfort will be provided. You will come to no harm in my house.”
Egger must have thought so, too, Lottres said to himself.
“Dietrick, escort our kinsman and his companions to their chambers,” Johanz concluded.
“Yes, Father,” Dietrick answered. His voice held undertones of bitterness and reproach, but he turned stiffly and marched away.
The soldiers of Dietrick's squad stepped forward. They were clearly prepared to use force if Lottres didn't go with their captain. With two wizards at his back, Lottres wasn't afraid of them, but he didn't need Yriatt's compelling stare to remind him that they, not he, would decide when to act. Lottres bowed curtly to the duke, and followed.
Dietric
k strode ahead with long, angry paces. Lottres had the absurd sensation that he was back in Harburg again, trying to keep up with Brastigan. A lump rose in his throat. Without his father, nothing in Harburg would ever be the same.
Dietrick led them up stairs and around corners. By the time he stopped, Lottres had no idea where they were. That must have been part of Johanz's plan. The corridor ended in a blank wall. Four doors stood open, two on either side.
“Cousin Lottres.” Dietrick made a curt gesture, indicating one of the rooms. He spoke on, in clipped tones. “Master Ymell, Mistress Yriatt, Mistress Shaelen.”
Lottres stared at Dietrick for a moment. He still couldn't believe what was happening. Instead of welcome and shelter, they were imprisoned! It was little consolation that Dietrick couldn't meet his eyes.
“Forgive me,” Dietrick said, still speaking with strained formality, “but I must ask for your weapons, Lady Shaelen. And your sword, cousin.”
Silently, Lottres and Shaelen complied. Each of them entered their assigned room and soldiers closed the doors. Lottres found himself in a windowless, cramped chamber. A bed and small dresser nearly filled the space. He dropped his small bundle on the bed and slumped beside it, at a loss. Johanz's betrayal was infuriating. His imprisonment was humiliating. No one would dare treat Unferth's son this way if he were still alive! But he wasn't.
In a way, Lottres was surprised Johanz had found four rooms to use as their prisons. Even in a large keep, every inch was dear. The traitor duke must mean to keep them apart, unable to make plans. This really was no impediment to communication, but if they spoke mind-to-mind the enemy would surely hear.
Perhaps, he thought gloomily, that was the eppagadrocca's plan: force them to use telepathy, so they could be spied on more easily. Lottres wondered exactly what the Silletsian magicians were doing here. He could only assume they encouraged Johanz's rebellion as a way of weakening Crutham for their own conquest. He hadn't been able to tell who they were, or where, among the press of the Carthellan court.
The door opened, and Lottres straightened with a jerk. Dietrick stood framed in the wooden arch.
“Cousin, I am truly sorry.” Dietrick spoke furtively. “Not all men of Carthell are renegades and cowards. I hope you will remember this, when times change.”
Before Lottres could respond, Dietrick stepped back. He closed the door. The bolt turned with a note of finality.
* * *
Brastigan felt his chest contract. His throat tightened as if someone were choking him. His mind grappled with this impossible sight. He couldn't seem to understand what it meant.
Oskar wore a robe of black brocade with big, pointed shoulders. On his head was a high, black hat. A crown clasped its base, balancing the ridiculous height of the hat. Oskar wore the crown of Crutham with poise, listening to the emergency preparations with focused intelligence. As if he thought he deserved the crown. But where was Unferth? Was the king ill? Maybe Oskar had taken his place temporarily.
Even as he thought it, Brastigan knew in his gut that was wrong. Unferth was dead. He had to be. Alustra would never suffer her precious throne to be removed. Nor would Oskar tolerate such an insult to his mother under any other circumstances.
Unferth, dead? It was impossible, so wrong. The old man had said... He had told Brastigan... “Stay away just for a while. Keep yourself safe...”
Unferth, dead! How dare the old man die before hearing what Brastigan had to tell him? About Lottres, about the girl, even about Leithan. This wasn't what Brastigan had agreed to, not at all!
Now Brastigan was aware of a nearby courtier watching him. Cold, uncaring eyes analyzed his reaction. Brastigan held back the impulse to punch the man. All the way through town they came. Every guard who stopped them must have known Unferth was dead. Even the groom had known. And not one of them saw fit to mention it?
Brastigan eased back toward the doorway, seeking the cover of shadows as he had done on so many previous visits to the great hall. His dark eyes narrowed, focused on Oskar with all the rage he couldn't express. Look at him up there, posing like a leader. Big shoulders, big crown, big head—that was Oskar. Oskar was no king. He was an over-dressed idiot.
Then Oskar looked up sharply. His pale eyes found Brastigan through the throng. With a curt gesture, he interrupted the speaker.
“Brastigan,” he called with a kind of grandiose benevolence. “Why do you hide? Come forward and join our company.”
Still playing the kindly sibling, was he? Brastigan couldn't refuse a royal command, but he could obey in his own style. The court shifted nervously, clearing an aisle. Slowly Brastigan strolled between the ranks. He greeted each of his brothers in turn, some with a brief handshake, others with a friendly punch on the shoulder.
“Nice to see you again,” he murmured to Sebbelon. And to Axenar, “It's been too long.”
In the corner of his eye, Brastigan could see Oskar frowning at his slow progress. Inside himself, he grinned. It was a familiar boyhood ritual, tweaking his brothers. In truth, he didn't know how to talk to half of them without it.
Calitar must have seen Oskar's displeasure, too. He quietly growled, “Quit fooling around.”
“What fun is that?” Brastigan smirked back at him.
He stopped when he came to Habrok. Of all the sons, Habrok looked most like Unferth, so square and solid. Their eyes met, and Brastigan felt his jaw tremble. Habrok pulled him close in a crushing hug, pounded his back with numbing force. For some reason, Brastigan breathed easier afterward. He turned to face Oskar with a confident showing of teeth.
“I have returned, my good brother!” Brastigan trumpeted, taking up Oskar's own words on their parting. The new king didn't seem to recognize the satire.
“Welcome, Brastigan,” he said, a smooth purr of satisfaction. “Well met, indeed. You have been away too long.”
Brastigan might have agreed with that, but he couldn't bring himself to take Oskar's side in anything. Instead, he bowed with a mocking snap and spoke the words he couldn't avoid.
“It looks like there have been some changes. Where is our father, pray tell?”
Oskar's face, under the crown, twisted in an exaggerated display of surprise. “Alas, did you not know? Our dear father is gone. He passed peacefully in his sleep.” Oskar bent his head for a moment.
It was a convincing show, and yet... Brastigan felt his throat tighten again. He knew Oskar too well. Alustra's son felt no grief over his father's death. No, he was well pleased with this turn of events.
Brastigan forced a similar expression of sorrow. “My deepest condolences to Queen Alustra.”
That slight should have sent Oskar into fits. It certainly sent a flurry of dismay among their brothers. Yet, again, Oskar didn't seem to notice the barb.
“I shall tell her of your sympathies,” he answered smoothly. “But you have been carrying out our father's wishes as well. Tell me, Brastigan, how fared your quest? What did the Lady of Hawkwing House seek from you?”
There was so much to say, but those were all confidences he had meant to share with Unferth. Maybe he could tell Habrok or Calitar about Lottres, about the girl. Never Oskar.
“If you want the whole story, I'll need ale,” Brastigan said with humor he didn't feel. “Lots of ale. The short of it is, we went to Hawkwing House. We met the witch. We ducked griffins. We went to Altannath. We fought the Silletsian army. They're all cursed, by the way. We...”
“Cursed?” Habrok interrupted.
“Just the kind of tale I'd expect from you, Brastigan,” Leolin snorted.
“I'm not making it up!” Brastigan told him. “We called them bone men. They look like men, but they're not. They're some kind of monster.”
Leolin snorted again, rolling his eyes, and Sebbelon said, “Brastigan's no liar.”
Brastigan nodded gratefully to Sebbelon, who was only a little older than he.
“Tell us more,” Habrok said.
“As near as we could tell, they're what's l
eft of the Urulai,” Brastigan admitted reluctantly. “Tall and straight and dark, like me, but so skinny they were like walking bones. They're dead, you see. Yet they walk. They're pretty fast, abnormally strong, but not too smart. Luckily, they have lousy weapons and no armor to speak of.”
“Black magic?” Calitar asked grimly.
“The evil of Sillets,” Brastigan agreed. “They don't die. You have to hack their arms and legs off to stop them coming at you. We lost a couple of men figuring out how to handle them. Oh, and they do burn. Problem is, there could be thousands of them. Nobody knows how many warriors were captured in Urland.”
The soldiers in the room stirred restlessly, glancing among themselves to see who believed Brastigan's tale. The princes looked worried, but Oskar didn't seem interested in the enemy forces.
“You said you went to Altannath,” he asked with quiet intensity. “What did you do there?”
“Oh, we set the dragon free,” Brastigan said with mocking good cheer. “That was what Yriatt wanted us for.”
“Indeed,” Oskar murmured. He sat back, eyes lowered in thought.
More nervous glances passed among the men, and anxious murmurs. Brastigan grinned tightly, remembering his own reaction.
“Don't worry, he's on our side. The dragon, I mean,” Brastigan told them. “They headed for Carthell, to see if Johanz needs help. Our squad came home, soon as the witch said we were done.”
“Is Lottres with them?” Axenar asked.
“Oh.” Brastigan rolled his eyes. “That's another long story, but, yeah. He's with the witch and the dragon. There are also some Urulai—live ones,” he smiled without humor, “holding Carthell Cleft against the enemy. We had to give up on Glawern, I'm afraid.”
As one, Unferth's sons relaxed. Brastigan realized they had been waiting to hear if another of their number was gone.
“I thank you for this crucial information,” Oskar said smoothly. “We shall use it well. It is good to know you carried out our father's commands on your journey.”
Too Many Princes Page 31
