“Frustrating.” Brastigan took a long, bitter draft. “A lot of time wasted running hither and yon, when I really wanted to be here.” For a moment, Margura's expression lightened. Brastigan decided to prepare her for disappointment. “The last few days have been tough. We fought hard, and I'm dead tired.”
Margura glanced aside momentarily. “It's been difficult here, too.” She spoke defensively.
“Yeah, tell me about that.” Brastigan fixed his dark eyes on Margura. “We came all the way through town, and no one bothered to mention that my father had died. I had to walk into the hall and see Oskar sitting on the throne.” It wasn't her fault, but Brastigan couldn't keep the anger from his voice.
“An unpleasant surprise, I'm sure.” Margura smiled with sympathy, but also, he thought, a trace of mockery.
“It was.” Brastigan swallowed his bread and took another long drink. Then he started picking the roast fowl apart. “So when did he die?”
“Seven days after you left,” she answered, “give or take a day.”
“And he just died in his sleep?” Brastigan tried to keep the suspicion from his tone. “No reason whatsoever?”
“I heard that he complained of indigestion to his valet, Jesprey,” she said. “He retired early. Princess Therula found him the next morning.”
Brastigan winced. Therula must have taken it hard. “Who examined his body?”
“Eben was summoned, but the king had already been dead for several hours.” Margura seemed to study him. “At his age, it didn't seem unusual.”
“What's he been doing since then?” Brastigan remembered Yriatt complaining that she couldn't contact the wizard.
“Eben?” Margura seemed surprised by the question.
“Yes, Eben. The king's own wizard,” Brastigan retorted. “What does he say about the invasion?”
Margura frowned, as if she had to think hard about this. “I haven't seen him,” she finally said.
“You haven't seen him?” Scowling, Brastigan took a bite from his chicken leg. He wasn't paying attention, and bit his own finger. “Ow!”
“What's wrong?” Margura asked, all concern.
“Nothing.” Brastigan brushed her worries away. “So you haven't seen Eben at all. Since when? Before or after Father died?”
“After. He was at the coronation.” From Margura's expression, she had no idea why Eben was so important.
Maybe he wasn't, but Yriatt and Ymell seemed to feel he was. Rather, his silence was. Brastigan wished, now, that he had some way to reach the two dragons, if only to let Lottres know what had happened. The pup shouldn't have to walk into the shock, as Brastigan had.
Margura was looking at Brastigan oddly. He waved a chicken bone at her. “So Oskar stepped right into the gap, did he?”
“He has, indeed,” she answered with a hint of emotion he couldn't identify.
“How's Alustra taking it?” Brastigan asked with some irony.
“The queen is devastated,” Margura answered sadly. “She supports Oskar, of course, but it is difficult to interest her in anything.”
“She misses the old man?” The sarcastic question went down with another draft. “Me, too.”
“Really?” she murmured. “I didn't think you were close.”
“Not as close as we should have been,” he muttered, and took another drink. “It wasn't my decision.”
“I am sorry, Brastigan.” Margura briefly laid her hand over his. Her touch felt heavy and sweaty.
It was the first overt expression of sympathy he had received from anyone. For a moment, Brastigan's grief threatened to choke him. He managed a smile. “Thanks.” Then he took his hand away and reached for more ale.
“The coronation was three days later,” Margura remarked with honeyed tartness. “It was quite interesting with all your brothers and sisters here at one time.”
Brastigan grunted. The details of Oskar's fete were of no interest whatsoever. What mattered was the count of days in Harburg as compared to his journey. Had Sillets invaded before Unferth died, or after? He was too tired to figure properly, but it nagged at him.
“The relay rider arrived from Caulteit a few days after.” Margura unknowingly answered his question.
He asked, “Are all of them still here? My brothers, I mean.”
“Only the oldest sons,” Margura said. “The king... That is, King Unferth, had sent some of the princes away for training just before he died. Kesper is in Praxium, Imric is in Fanglith, and Bartole is in Maduras. Tellek and Gorthar were both in Firice. I don't know if they will return to fight.”
Brastigan nodded. This accounted for the younger lads, and it held with Unferth's plans to spread his sons around for their safety. But it did leave out one brother.
“What about Alemin?” he asked. “I saw most of the older ones in the hall today, but not him.”
“Prince Alemin left suddenly. A sea voyage, they say.” Margura paused, fire in her eyes. She added in a brittle tone, “I heard he got a girl pregnant and had to get away from his wife's brothers.”
“Fool.” Brastigan shook his head and rolled his eyes. He never had thought much of that particular half-brother, but he hadn't realized Alemin was a coward. A man and a woman might part ways, but he should never abandon his child. It was probably the only thing Unferth had taught Brastigan that was worth anything.
Margura startled Brastigan by placing her hand over his. She pressed hard this time, and her mouth was thin with tension.
“Tell me the truth,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked, distracted by too many memories of Unferth, of his brothers.
“Did you think I wouldn't notice?” Margura accused. She leaned forward, and her nails dug crescents into the back of his hand. “You won't look at me or touch me. There's someone else, isn't there?”
“Yeah.” Such a small word, surprisingly easy to say. With a bleak elan, Brastigan added, “She's dead.”
Margura sat back then. Her lips trembled with anger and hurt, but she didn't try to hold Brastigan's hand any longer. He lifted his flagon and drained it.
“And my father is dead.” Brastigan stared at the foam on the bottom of his flagon. “And Lottres...”
“Lottres is dead?” Margura interrupted.
“Might as well be. He isn't here.” Brastigan glanced at the leavings on his plate. He pushed it away. Loneliness made a painful band around his chest, but even now he knew better than to tell Margura anything so personal. “I'm alone. Maybe that's the way I want it.”
“Just for a while?” Margura held onto her composure, but the yellow stone glittered in rhythm with her angry breathing.
“I don't know.”
That was a lie, of course. Brastigan could never desire heavy flesh and hot blood, not after a girl made of cobwebs and shadows.
“I understand,” Margura said. “Really, I do.” But there was that brittleness in her voice again, and Brastigan was pretty sure she didn't understand anything at all.
Proving him right, Margura continued, “The living can't compete with the dead.”
“You don't have to,” Brastigan told her with something like tenderness. “Don't be waiting for me to change my mind. Someone else will come along, and he'll be better for you than I am. Believe me, that won't be hard.”
He lifted his flagon again, but then remembered it was empty. Brastigan looked into its emptiness and sighed. All the weight of his grief and exhaustion returned, redoubled by Margura's disappointment. His head felt heavy with drink, yet he was too upset to just go to sleep. And he was out of ale.
Margura leaned back, watching Brastigan. She put on a smile as tight as the bodice of her gown. “You really have changed,” she said. “Next, you'll be telling me you aren't the greatest swordsman in Crutham, either.”
Brastigan's head snapped up, a reflex of his warrior's pride. Margura laughed at his reaction, thought it had a ragged edge. She leaned forward slightly, and produced a bottle from under her skirt. I
t was smaller than the ale bottle, a murky green with darker contents. Margura set it on the table between them.
“I was saving this for our reunion,” she said. “It will do for you to toast the dead.”
She stood up and stacked the two trays, then gathered the dishes. Brastigan lifted the bottle. It was warm from Margura's body heat, heavier than it looked. The cork squeaked as it came out. Margura carried the trays toward the door.
“You do know the way to a man's heart,” Brastigan said to her back. Liquid gurgled into his flagon.
Her voice trembled again. “If only I did.”
The latch rattled, and the door swung open. It closed hard. Brastigan was left in a silence ringing with regrets. He raised his flagon to no one.
“To the king!” he said, and drank deeply.
Margura's brew wasn't ale, as Brastigan had thought. Powerful sweetness burned its way down his throat. Apple brandy. It wasn't Brastigan's favorite, but he wouldn't refuse it. Anything that made him drunk would be good enough for this wretched day.
He raised his flagon again. “To the girl.”
A pleasant burning began in his stomach. Relaxing heat pulsed outward with every beat of his heart.
“To absent friends.” He drank once again, and thought of his brother. They should be in Carthell by now, Lottres and his mentors. Someone there must have enlightened them about Unferth's fate. Maybe he didn't need to worry about the pup after all.
That took care of the first round of toasts, but Brastigan had a lot of brandy left. He was about to salute the king again, when someone rapped at his door.
“Brastigan,” came a childish, muffled voice.
Margura's brew was strong, all right. Brastigan had to think past the fumes before he recognized the voice.
“Come in,” he called. The words were slurred and strange in his ears. Brastigan started to stand up, but the door flew open. A lithe blonde girl raced toward him.
“You're here!” Cliodora shrieked. “You're really here!”
Her enthusiastic greeting was almost too much. Brastigan stumbled backward as she crashed into him. He fell into his chair and hugged his little sister to him.
“Whoa!” he laughed. “Slow down!”
Cliodora threw her arms around Brastigan's neck. He kissed her bright gold hair. Then she stood back and wrinkled her nose at him. “Your face feels all scratchy.”
Brastigan rubbed his stubbly chin. “It was a long journey. Don't you like me with a beard?” he teased.
“You're no town elder,” she scoffed. Then Cliodora's eyes were downcast as she slid into the chair Margura had recently occupied. “Did you hear about Papa?”
Brastigan felt a surge of fresh grief, to hear Unferth described with such childish affection. “As a matter of fact, I have just been drinking to his memory.”
He raised his flagon to his lips in demonstration, tasted its sweet fire.
“I miss him,” Cliodora said softly, sadly.
Brastigan swallowed against the ache in his throat. “So do I, princess,” he said hoarsely.
Her fingertips drew an idle pattern on the table top. “Mama thinks we might have to leave soon.”
Brastigan frowned. “She does?”
“She says it's awkward for her, without Papa. We shouldn't be an embarrassment to the new king.” Cliodora pouted momentarily. “But Therula says I shouldn't give up my birthright.”
Brastigan blew out a breath. He would miss Cliodora if she left, but he had to admit Casiana might have a point.
“There's a war going on,” Brastigan said. “If your Mama knows someplace safe...” Cliodora regarded him so unhappily that he stumbled. “You have to do what you're told, princess.” And a strange thing that was for him to be saying!
Cliodora folded her arms on the table and sulked. Brastigan took another pull from the flagon. The brandy was stronger than he had thought. He was no stranger to drink, but his head was reeling. Which didn't matter. He was bone tired, sick inside with grief. He needed something to make him sleep, and sleep hard.
“I told Therula you're here, but she wanted to talk to Pikarus first,” Cliodora said, still petulant. Then she perked up. “Can I hear some of your stories?”
Stories? Brastigan wouldn't know where to begin. Still, Cliodora and Therula might be the only friendly audience left for his tales of woe.
“Not now,” Brastigan said. His voice was sounding slurred again. “I'm done in, princess. But later. Later, I promise.”
“You'd better,” Cliodora huffed as she jumped to her feet. Then she smiled again. “I'm so glad you're back. I missed you a lot.”
“Thanks, princess.” Her words brought warmth to Brastigan's heart, as none of Margura's had.
He walked with Cliodora as she pranced out of the room. Once she was gone, his smile vanished. Brastigan locked the door. He made it back to the table and emptied the bottle of apple brandy into his flagon. Once again he raised his cup to the vacant room.
“To the king.”
There was no one to notice if his tongue got tangled.
“To the girl.”
In fact, Brastigan thought, he might not even make it to bed before he passed out. It didn't seem to matter.
“To absent friends.”
Brastigan kept repeating the same three salutes. Soon enough, the brandy was gone. And so were his wits. And so was the world.
ESCAPES
Hours passed while Lottres lay in his windowless room. It felt like days. He tried to think of something useful to do, some way to use his powers and set everyone free—without giving them away. All he really thought of was how little he knew. Despite the powers he took such pride in, Lottres was helpless, trapped and alone.
Then he felt the tickle of a mind probe. It wasn't like Yriatt's sharp force, but he was sure someone was trying to insinuate into his thoughts. He held his breath for a moment, then forced himself to relax. Instead of blocking, Lottres concentrated on his emotions, showing what the spy would expect to see: shock and indignation at Carthell's betrayal, self-pity, grief over Unferth.
Nor was his mourning all for show. How could it be? He would never see his father again. A part of Lottres didn't want to believe it, though he knew he should. Johanz of Carthell certainly seemed to think it was true. He wouldn't have launched his rebellion if he didn't think Unferth was gone.
Lottres lay on the narrow bed and let his heart ache. What else was there to do?
Just as he was getting truly maudlin, the cool thrill of Yriatt's power brushed the unseen eavesdroppers away. Lottres sat up on the bed. The bare wall was rippling, like water when a stone is thrown in. Fascinated, Lottres watched, trying to feel how Yriatt did this. As he stared, she walked through the solid stone.
“Are you ready to leave, Thaeme?” she asked.
“Yes, but...” Lottres stammered. “Maess, won't they hear you?”
“I certainly hope so,” Yriatt answered with asperity. “I did not rescue my father from Altannath so we could be shut up in this little hole. Come, Thaeme.”
Yriatt approached the door. Her power went out before her. Lottres heard the bolt on the other side slide back. The door opened without her touching it. From beyond it, Lottres could feel Ymell doing something as well, though he couldn't tell what it was.
They were showing off their abilities on purpose, Lottres realized as he followed Yriatt. They were taunting the eppagadrocca, provoking them. She wanted them to come and confront her. Well, maybe Yriatt was right. Dangerous as it was, a wizard's battle would be better than sitting in a cramped tower, doing nothing.
They emerged into the corridor. Lottres blinked at the sight of an armored guard lying flat on the floor. He hadn't realized Dietrick left a guard, although it did make sense. Lottres felt a surge of panic, until he saw the man's peaceful expression. His chest slowly rose and fell. The guard wasn't dead, but deeply asleep.
Ymell opened Shaelen's door. He casually stepped over the prone watchman and asked, “Sh
all we go?”
“Yes, Father,” Yriatt said.
“Where do we go?” Lottres asked. “What will we do?”
“We'll think of something.” Ymell brushed past. Lottres must have been confused, for he thought he saw a spark of mischief in Ymell's eyes.
Lottres hesitated as the others set off down the corridor, remembering how helpless he had been feeling. Gingerly, he tugged at the sleeping man's sword. The guard showed no reaction as his weapon slid free.
Thus armed, Lottres hurried after the others. No plan, just going. It was exactly what Brastigan would have done. Lottres found himself laughing out loud.
“What is it?” Shaelen asked.
“Nothing,” Lottres quickly replied. It would be cruel to remind her of Brastigan, and an unnecessary distraction.
Yriatt must have caught Lottres's thought, for she snapped, “Do not compare us.”
“I never would,” Lottres hurried to say. “But, Maen, what is our goal? Do we try to take Carthell, or simply break for freedom?”
“I wouldn't turn my back on Carthell,” Shaelen said.
“We need no traitor knives at our throats,” Ymell agreed. He spoke without even the smallest trace of humor now. “Even if Johanz did not detain us, there are others to be dealt with. I will not leave Ysislaw's creatures to do as they wish.”
“We couldn't, anyway,” Yriatt said. “If they follow the pattern, they will report our presence to their master at sunset.”
“He will know Maen has escaped tonight,” Shaelen said, “when the eppagadrocca at Altannath don't report to him and don't answer his calls.”
“Even so,” Yriatt said, “it would help us a great deal if Ysislaw did not know exactly where we are.”
“Let him be the one to wonder, this time,” Ymell added with grim satisfaction.
They came to a stairway. Without hesitation, Ymell turned downward. Lottres, following, wondered how Ymell knew which way to go. He certainly didn't remember which way they had come in. And that wasn't the only thing bothering him. The sensible side of Lottres's nature balked at Ymell's careless attitude.
“Maen, how will this work?” Lottres found himself asking. “We came here to warn Carthell of the invasion. We can't just denounce Johanz as a traitor and...”
Too Many Princes Page 33
