Brastigan frowned at his condescending tone. As if Brastigan had known Sillets would invade and taken it upon himself to go jaunting off anyway. It was just like Oskar to dismiss what he hadd done. After all, you couldn't have anyone else in the spotlight.
“It wasn't my idea to go on that fool quest,” he snapped. “I did what I was told because I'm loyal. Loyal to my home. As long as I have breath, I'll fight for Crutham!”
“Hear, hear!” Calitar cried.
A spontaneous cheer went up in the hall. Brastigan was left feeling the fool, but he raised his hands in mockery of Oskar's grand posing. Then Brastigan turned to Habrok. He laid his hand on Victory's hilt.
“You just tell me where to go, and I'll be there,” Brastigan proclaimed. “We'll chop those bone men to bits, and feed them to our hogs!”
Habrok returned a crooked smile. “Now I know our kingdom is safe.”
“Well spoken,” Oskar interrupted. Brastigan noticed he hadn't been clapping as loudly as many others. “Well said, indeed, Brastigan.”
It had to gall Oskar to flatter him. Oh, he made a good show, but Oskar hadn't missed that Brastigan offered his sword to Habrok first. Oskar was good at hiding his malice, but Brastigan knew they still loathed each other as much as they ever had. In a funny way, it was almost comforting. Lottres was gone, and Unferth was gone, but he could still rely on Oskar's hatred.
The new king smiled through his teeth and said, “You must be weary from your long journey. You may retire now, and rest. I will provide you the ale another time, and you will tell me all about your adventures.”
“I await the day,” Brastigan lied with great sincerity. He bowed, covering his disgust.
He continued bowing, turning in a circle to acknowledge each of his brothers. Some smiled at the display, some frowned, and Sebbelon aimed a mocking kick at his backside.
“Go on, you fool,” Sebbelon chuckled. “Get out of here. You smell like a horse.”
Brastigan did as he was told, but he didn't hurry. In a way, he felt he was leaving the last of his father behind.
Unferth was dead. No longer would he sit on the throne and wear the golden crown. A despised sibling had taken his place. No amount of ale could ease the bitter sting of that knowledge.
THE TRUE GOLD OF CRUTHAM
Despite her resolution, Therula didn't attend court, but it wasn't because she feared the stranger Oskar had become. Rather, she sought out her half-sisters and their mothers, hoping to learn what they knew about it. Without raising any questions about herself, of course. She did this by feigning a deep concern for Oskar.
“Rulership must be such a burden, at a time like this,” Therula sighed, over and over, for most of the day.
She learned nothing relevant except that Leoda's mother, Jenne, a seamstress, had made the first Silletsian hat Oskar wore. Eben had ordered it from Jenne two days before the coronation. Jenne grumbled that she had had to stop working on Leoda's coronation gown and make the hat instead. Now Eben had left, and she hadn't even been paid for the work.
Therula returned to her own apartment, puzzling over this morsel of information. Eben had always helped protect Crutham. It seemed unthinkable, but could his absence be a defection?
A knock came at the chamber door. Cliodora burst in without waiting for permission. The younger princess was pink-cheeked, panting.
“Sister, sister!” Cliodora squealed. “They're back! Brastigan is back!”
Therula managed a weak, “Oh.” If Brastigan was here, then Pikarus had returned as well.
Cliodora didn't seem to notice Therula's reaction. She was too busy bouncing on her toes. “Will he come to see us?” the girl asked eagerly. “Oh, I can't wait.”
“Of course he will,” Therula said, more primly than she intended. How she longed to have feelings as uncomplicated as Cliodora's! “Stop your dancing. I need you to do something for me.”
“Go find Brastigan?” Cliodora demanded happily.
Therula hugged the girl to conceal her annoyance. “Later,” she said. “First, find Pikarus. Say that I must see him immediately.”
Cliodora's mouth made an O and then she giggled. “Pikarus?”
“Yes, Pikarus,” Therula answered irritably. “Before he reports to Oskar or Garican or anyone else, he must speak to me. Understand?”
“Yes!” Cliodora squeaked. Therula realized she was squeezing her little sister's shoulders with a fierce grip.
“I'm sorry.” Therula hugged Cliodora again, trying to mean what she said. “This is terribly important. You must tell Pikarus exactly what I said. And don't let anyone stop you. Remember, you're a princess, too.”
Cliodora's shoulders hunched. Her young face grew shadowed. “No, I'm not. Not any more,” she whispered.
“Don't say that!” Therula exclaimed. She let go of Cliodora's shoulders so she wouldn't shake the girl. “It isn't true. You are the daughter of a king.”
“But he's dead!” Cliodora wailed suddenly. “Papa's dead, sister. Everyone looks at us differently now. All the courtiers sniff, and some of the servants ignore us. Orlyse and Frella and Leoda—we all think so.”
“Who are the servants to decide?” Therula retorted. She hated to admit, even for a moment, that Bettonie's haughty attitude might prevail. “It's not all about them, apple blossom. It's about you, too. This is your birthright. You mustn't let anyone take it from you.”
Cliodora straightened her back and summoned a wobbly smile. She lifted her chin and marched out the door with the intensity of a soldier going to battle.
When she had gone, Therula let her knees go soft. She sank into her chair and stared at the burned out ashes in the fireplace. Cliodora's fragile smile tore at her heart. What must it feel like, to be so afraid and so young? Therula had to acknowledge their situations were very different. No one was going to repudiate Therula, a full sibling to the reigning king. But Cliodora? Oh, the poor girl was so young to be facing such things!
Yet Therula had her own fears. The mere mention of Pikarus's name made her feel as if she had eaten something horrible. She could neither swallow it nor spit it out. Of course she was glad to know he was safe, but guilt tarnished her joy. How could she tell him what she had done? She knew she couldn't hide it. Oskar would make certain of that.
She had summoned Pikarus to her, but she had no idea what she would tell him. The waiting dragged at her, a crushing weight on her heart. It seemed hours since Cliodora left her chambers. Therula told herself not to be silly. It took time to carry a message across a castle as large as Crutham Keep. But soon the passing minutes told her it really had been a long time.
Therula jumped up from her chair, pacing the room. Her own anxiety mocked her. What if Cliodora was too late? Oskar could be questioning Pikarus even now, taunting him with her lack of faith in him. What would he think of her?
The door latch rattled. Therula froze, her fingers tied in a nervous knot before her. She wrenched them apart, held her hands at her sides... But it was only Cliodora who slipped through the door.
“I gave him your message,” Cliodora hurried to say, “but I had to wait to see him. Two of the men didn't come back. Pikarus was talking to their families.” Her voice trailed off on the mournful news.
“I see,” Therula murmured. “Thank you, sister.”
Without thinking, she resumed her pacing. So Pikarus had to comfort grieving relatives? That would put him in an even worse mood. Then Therula shook her head, chiding herself for being selfish. Pikarus had to do his duty. He had things to worry about besides her.
Cliodora was at the door, half the time watching Therula pace and half the time peeking out. At last she gave a delighted squeak.
“He's coming!”
Therula froze again. As before, she had to force herself to relax. Cliodora seemed to have forgotten her troubles, for she was bouncing on her toes again.
“Can I hide in your room and listen?” Cliodora teased.
“No!” Therula had to make herself laugh. “Go on, sil
ly. There won't be much to hear.”
“Oh, really?” Cliodora giggled.
“Just go!” Therula said. She opened the door to push the girl out, and Pikarus was there.
Time seemed to stop as Therula looked into his face. So did her breathing, her heartbeat. Somehow she had forgotten how blue his eyes were. Pikarus looked tired, but his soldier's reserve softened into gentleness at the sight of her. Therula trembled. She nearly turned and ran. Pikarus stepped back, allowing Cliodora to leave, before he entered the room and closed the door.
“You wanted to see me?” His voice held a special meaning for her alone.
Therula she stepped forward and hugged him fiercely. She wanted to kiss him, but she couldn't bring herself to try. It was such a relief to feel Pikarus's strong arms around her. Familiar scents of dust and horses clung to his surcoat. If only this sense of peace could last.
When she didn't speak, Pikarus asked, “Has something happened?”
Therula shook her head. “No, but it could.”
Reluctantly, she stood away. Therula led Pikarus away from the door, in case Cliodora had decided to eavesdrop after all.
“While you were gone, I...” she faltered. “That is, Oskar...”
Pikarus watched quietly. His military stiffness was back, watching for nuances as Therula floundered.
“I'm sorry. I'm babbling.” Therula stopped talking. She felt like an idiot instead of a princess. Taking a deep breath, she tried again.
“A few days after the coronation, Oskar sent for me. He knew about us. It's hard keeping secrets, I suppose. He said... He thinks...” She swallowed, forcing the odious words out. “Oskar thinks you only love me for my position. I said he was wrong, that I didn't believe it, but he...” Therula spoke in a rush now, but when she looked at Pikarus he was all soldier, as silent as the settee which stood between them.
Miserable, unable to face him, she went on, “Oskar wanted to test your love. He offered a wager. He said you wouldn't be faithful to me on your journey. He said...”
“He would have lost that bet,” Pikarus cut in, calm and sure.
“Of course, I know that,” Therula said desperately. “I never doubted you, not for a moment. But he insisted on it.”
Now came the moment she had been dreading. Pikarus's jaw tightened as he realized she had taken Oskar's wager. His fingers, on the back of the settee, grew white.
“I never should have listened to him.” Therula was babbling again. “You're not a race horse! But he said... He promised he wouldn't interfere with us. I thought, when you won... If you were true to me... It seemed worth it, to get his blessing. I...” The torrent of words slowed at last. Therula faltered, “I'm so sorry.”
She couldn't bear to look at Pikarus any longer, to see the hurt and disappointment in his eyes. Therula turned away, biting her lip to keep back tears. Her fingers were knotted in the air before her, and she couldn't make them let go.
After much too long, Pikarus spoke.
“I'm glad I heard this from you,” he said, too quietly. “You are right, I don't appreciate being gambled on. It was a cruel demand that Oskar made of you. But...” Therula dared to look around, saw his fingers relax their grip on the settee. “You did win. If your brother honors his bargain, perhaps it will bring us peace in the end.”
At once, Therula found she could breathe again, though her chest still ached.
“Now I must ask you about something else,” Pikarus went on. “Please try to think clearly.”
Therula nodded, swallowing against her tension. What could Pikarus mean? Did he want to know about Unferth's death? Or where Tarther was? Or Oskar's leadership?
“I've noticed the new style in hats since we returned,” Pikarus said.
The irrelevance surprised her into laughter. “I'm sorry,” Therula apologized. She was well aware her mirth was tinged with hysteria. “Yes, the Silletsian representative wore a hat like that at Oskar's coronation. They've been all the style since.”
“Sillets?” Pikarus asked.
Therula nodded. She didn't wonder at his frown.
“An ambassador attended the coronation, talking about increased trade with us. Oskar was quite taken with the idea. Or perhaps, simply taken in.” Therula didn't try to hide her irritation. She wondered if she should tell Pikarus what she suspected. No, her suspicions would only add to the tension between them. “No one seems to see the paradox, that they've invaded our country and we still wear their styles. Oskar hardly ever takes his off.”
“Oskar?” Pikarus repeated, more quietly still.
Now it was Therula's turn to ask, “Is something wrong?”
She winced at the awkward question, but Pikarus didn't seem to notice. He stood silently, hands clasped behind him and eyes nearly closed. Finally he said, “I must speak to Brastigan. Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Therula said. “Cliodora is probably out looking for him, but...”
“I will search for him, too. If Cliodora finds him first, you must send him to me.” Pikarus went to the door, lecturing Therula like captain to soldier. At least he wasn't looking at her the way he had before.
“But I wanted to tell you...” Therula said, following him.
“This can't wait.” Pikarus paused with his hand on the latch. With a trace of his old warmth, he said, “I'll see you again soon.”
The door closed. Therula stood helplessly, feeling terribly alone. When her beloved was with her, she could hardly think what to say. Now a hundred words crowded her mind. She leaned backward, slinging to the back of the settee for support. The wood was still warm from Pikarus's hands.
Therula had thought, earlier, that she could never be repudiated. Now she wondered how she could have been so wrong.
* * *
He had left the court for his own rooms, but the chambers seemed small and stuffy after so long away. Once Brastigan was out of his filthy harness, and in control of his emotions, the baths were the first place he wanted to go. Not even the wonderful sensation of cleanliness could lift Brastigan's spirits. Bathed and washed and famished, he prowled his quarters, waiting for the meal he had ordered.
The bath had been empty by the time Brastigan got there. It was too bad. He had hoped to find Pikarus, or even Javes. It seemed they had something more to talk about, after all.
Oskar's taking the throne did explain a few things. Like why the men on the walls seemed so bewildered. Losing your king on the eve of battle would do that. Oskar was well known, but he had always kept himself to Harburg, letting Habrok handle the bloody stuff. The soldiers didn't know Oskar as a battlefield commander.
Well, maybe they didn't have to. It looked like Oskar planned to keep Habrok on as Champion of Crutham. That was basic good sense. Good politics, too, making a point of family unity by summoning their brothers during the crisis. Then Brastigan snorted to himself. It also brought a convenient force to hand, if Oskar needed someone to do his fighting for him. Unferth's sons were a small army in their own right. The risk was that one of them might make a hero of himself—a potential rival.
Still no supper. Frustrated, Brastigan found a comb and dragged it through his damp hair. He smiled without humor. Oh, Alustra had to be furious with Unferth for widowing her! A dowager queen was nowhere near the same as a reigning monarch. The fact that Oskar had removed his mother's throne told that tale. But he had to do it, of course. A man couldn't rule when he was ruled by another, not even a doting mother.
Absently, he began to braid his hair. Transitions of power were always a time of vulnerability. Brastigan had to wonder if Sillets was somehow involved in Unferth's passing. The timing of their invasion seemed a little too convenient.
A tap at the door distracted Brastigan from his brooding. He turned to call, “If you have food, come in! Otherwise, go away.”
The door opened softly. Margura entered, balancing a tray loaded with covered dishes. A delightful aroma came with her as she glided to the table where Brastigan sat. Despite the
welcome presence of food, he felt his stomach drop. Why Margura? Why now?
The contrast with the shadow girl was like a blow to his gut. Maybe it wasn't fair to compare them, but he couldn't help it. They were both blonde beauties—the true gold of Crutham, as poets would say. That was the only thing the two women had in common. Margura seemed brazen and sensual after the silent, gentle girl-child. Only now that he'd been away from her did he understand how much more there could be. It was hard to believe she had ever attracted him.
As always, Margura smiled coyly. She bent forward to slide the tray onto the table.
“I wanted to see you,” she murmured softly.
Brastigan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I'll bet.”
Margura hadn't changed a bit, but her gown had. It was deep green velvet, still low cut but the shoulders and waist puffed out more. A delicate golden chain dangled a fiery yellow gem into the garment's plunging neckline. Although she was still lovely, her face had a sallow tone beneath the cosmetics.
A slight frown puckered Margura's smooth brow when Brastigan failed to greet her as she must have expected. He glanced toward the door.
“Shut it,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
It wouldn't be easy to tell Margura he had no interest in her any more, especially when she had a romantic reunion planned. Still, he didn't want to alienate her too soon. She might be useful.
The courtier's blue eyes glinted with suspicion, but she dipped in a curtsey. Her gown rustled as she went to the door, which creaked as it swung closed. Brastigan didn't watch her. He took lids off dishes, revealing half of a cold roast chicken, buttered bread, baked apples drizzled with cream. The bread tasted wonderful, though his stomach still churned with tension.
Margura slid another tray onto the table. This one held a flagon and a short brown bottle. Ale!
“Ah, that's what I need!” It wasn't so hard to smile now.
His companion poured smoothly, raising little foam. Her measuring gaze was fixed on Brastigan as she gave him the glass and sank into the chair opposite him.
“Was it a difficult journey?” she asked.
Too Many Princes Page 32
