“Even though he is?” Yriatt needled slyly.
“Of course he is,” Lottres said, flustered, but he knew too much about governance to keep quiet. “Johanz is the duke. He rules here. How will you defeat his armies without devastating the land just as badly as Ysislaw?”
“We can do more than start fires, Thaeme,” Ymell said gently.
“I know that,” Lottres said, “but even if you kill only the eppagadrocca, touching no one and nothing else, Johanz cannot sit still for that. He is the ruler here,” Lottres repeated urgently. “He can't just let you do whatever you want. No one would respect his laws. Maybe you could convince him to expel the Silletsians first. That would avoid humiliating him. Or did you plan to simply overthrow his regime? Who would take Johanz's place? You, Maen?”
“You are indeed a king's son,” Ymell murmured, but that answered nothing. Feigning injury, he said, “You think me unqualified?”
“You're not Carthellan,” Lottres replied. “They will resent any outsider, no matter who he is.”
“How do you know where we have lived?” Yriatt retorted. “Perhaps we have been Carthellan in the past.”
“They didn't greet you as if they knew you,” Lottres said. “Anyway, we have to get to Harburg.”
Ymell chuckled, perhaps at Lottres's stubbornness. “Let me explain, first,” he said, “that I am convinced Johanz is either a willing collaborator or he is the eppagadrocca's pawn.”
“Or both,” Yriatt put in with cool disdain. “Ysislaw has a way of using those who think they are using him.”
“How do you know?” Lottres asked.
“I have been trying to probe Johanz's mind,” Yriatt answered. “Someone is protecting him. Why would they do that, if he isn't involved with their plans?”
Ymell went on, “Whether Johanz is a fool or a schemer, we cannot leave him as he is. He must be deposed. I believe you should be able to speak for your brother Oskar on that account.”
“I suppose,” Lottres replied a little stiffly. He was being teased, and didn't like it. “Oskar doesn't appreciate people taking things upon themselves.”
“Would he permit a traitor to go unpunished?” Yriatt spoke sharply.
“No,” Lottres admitted, “but Oskar will want to make the decision himself.”
They had descended two levels as they talked, passing closed doors and layers of red and white stones. Before them was another stout wooden door. With an angry flick of Yriatt's wrist, it swung inward toward them.
Beyond the portal, Lottres glimpsed blue sky above the blunted teeth of castle walls. He caught a whiff of musty lake air. Long shadows of afternoon ran across a cobbled courtyard beyond.
“Maess, wait!” Shaelen suddenly cried.
A violent gale flung the door wide open. Billows of dust surged in, blinding them. The wind shrieked like an angry cat. Then came a boom that made the stones quiver underfoot. Lightning snaked in at the door, twisting in patterns too bright to look at.
Lottres stumbled backward up the stairs. He blinked the stinging grit from his eyes and cursed his own folly. What a fool he had been—so intent on arguing, he made everyone forget the dangers ahead of them.
Yriatt and Ymell stood firm in the stairwell. Their robes flapped against their bodies, but the white-hot serpents forked to pass harmlessly around them. Shaelen retreated, joining Lottres on the stairs as the wind wailed and lightning snapped in the air. Through the wooden haft, he felt his borrowed sword vibrate with electricity.
The two wizards exchanged some communication too quickly for Lottres to understand. Yriatt nodded to Ymell. Then the floor rippled beneath her. Swiftly and surely she sank through the stones. Ymell strode into the courtyard to confront his foes. Lightning followed him like a swarm of angry bees.
Lottres coughed against the burn of ozone in his throat. Dust was everywhere: in his nose, between his teeth. The thunderous crash of electricity made his ears drum in protest.
Shaelen shouted above the screaming wind, “I thought this was going too easily!”
Lottres wiped sand and tears from his eyes. He yelled back, “What should we do?”
Outside, he could feel three eppagadrocca as dull, throbbing points of malice. Faintly, he felt the panic of castle residents as they heard the erupting battle. He couldn't sense Yriatt at all, and that frightened him.
“Look, watch me,” Shaelen said. The wind still rushed into the stairwell, but it suddenly stopped beating at them. A stray bolt of lightning streaked in the door. It deflected from the shield of Shaelen's will.
“Can I...” Lottres began.
Shaelen was already nodding. She spoke quickly. “Make a fist. Feel how tight your shoulder gets? Just do that to the air in front of you.”
Lottres closed both hands, but all he felt was his fingertips pressing into his palms. Nothing happened to the air.
“Try again,” Shaelen urged. “I can't cover you, heart-brother. Maen needs my help. You must learn to do this for yourself.”
“I'm trying,” Lottres said. He squeezed his fingers until his wrists ached, but still nothing happened. When his chest began to ache, he realized he was holding his breath. He sucked in air with a gasp. Lottres's mental shields were rigid as steel, but what he wanted to happen wasn't happening.
“Make a picture in your mind,” Shaelen said with forced patience. “You have trained with sword and shield, haven't you? Think what a shield feels like. Then make a fist.”
She left him on the stairs, darting down to the open doorway. Buffeted once again by the wind, Lottres closed his eyes and tried to shut out the noise and rough gusts. He pictured the first shield Joal had given him to train with. It was wood covered with leather, round and flat and heavy. He raised his left hand, his shield hand, as if to guard himself. Lottres remembered the faint smell of leather, the way the straps cut into his forearm. He made a fist and willed the shield to be there.
The wind faltered. Lottres opened his eyes. Nothing was there. His will crumbled, and the cold air flung dirt into his face again.
Lottres sat on the steps, groaning with frustration as he rubbed his eyes. When he looked over his fingers, he saw Shaelen framed in the doorway. Her feet were set and her arm was braced as if she held a bow. She reached back, plucked nothing from the space above her shoulder, and drew back as if to shoot.
As Lottres watched, a fiery arrow leapt from Shaelen's hand. Then another, and another. Shaelen moved suddenly, and lightning flickered past her. She turned and fired toward where the lightning had come from.
“She can do it,” Lottres thought angrily. “So can I.”
He propped his elbow on his knee and drew the picture of a shield in his mind. He made it bigger this time, one of Habrok's great slabs that would cover a man from his knees to his chin. Lottres closed his fist. The wind stopped again.
“That's it,” Shaelen called over her shoulder. “Well done!”
Lottres stared at the shield he held. It was translucent, glowing white-gold like distant sunlight. He loosed his fingers a little, but the image of a shield remained steady. No more dust in his eyes!
With renewed confidence, Lottres went to join Shaelen in the doorway. Over her shoulder, he could see the wide courtyard. Ymell stood a few paces out from the tower. His back was to Lottres. Lightning raged around him, surging from the three eppagadrocca half hidden in the wind-whipped dust. Their attacks didn't seem to bother Ymell in the least.
Lottres squinted, trying to get a clear view of the Silletsian wizards. What he could see was vaguely disappointing. The eppagadrocca looked like ordinary men, with sober robes and beards cut square. From the malevolence Lottres sensed, he had expected they would be abnormal in some way, that such distorted minds must be reflected in their bodies.
“We don't seem able to hurt each other,” Shaelen said. She snapped off another fiery arrow. It flew straight at the left-hand eppagadrocca, but winked into nothingness before touching him.
“What can we do?” Lottres a
sked. Then he realized he was asking the wrong question. “What is Maen doing?”
“I think...” Shaelen said, then shook her head. “I don't know.”
One of the enemy wizards was staring at them, Lottres saw. He had no doubt the man would have heard whatever Shaelen told him. A moment later, lightning streaked toward them. Lottres and Shaelen stepped back, shielding themselves. The burst slid aside.
Lottres smiled without humor. He had been right that the eppagadrocca would focus on Ymell and Yriatt and ignore him. Lottres looked again at Ymell, attracting so many strikes and yet doing nothing. Why didn't he retaliate? For that matter, where was Yriatt? Lottres couldn't sense her nearby.
In a way, Lottres thought, the dragons and eppagadrocca knew each other almost too well. None had a tactic the others couldn't anticipate. What they needed was to surprise the eppagadrocca. Do something they wouldn't expect.
His heart beat faster, but Lottres had an idea. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his courage. He didn't know enough magic to help, but perhaps his sword would be enough.
“I can't just stand here,” Lottres said to Shaelen.
She turned, startled. “What will you do?”
“Surprise them, I hope.” Lottres was pleased that Shaelen didn't argue. It buoyed his confidence. “Can you give me covering fire?”
“Of course,” she said. “Good luck.”
Lottres didn't run. He probably couldn't have. The wind was even fiercer outside the sheltering tower. Lottres strode out into the maelstrom, his shield deflecting the worst of it. He made for the eppagadrocca on his right. The man was focused completely on Ymell. His teeth were gritted with effort and hate. Lottres crossed behind Ymell. He was almost upon the man when he turned with a startled jerk.
“For the Black Tower!” Lottres yelled.
The eppagadrocca raised his hands. Lottres lifted his sword. Lightning flared. He caught the blast with his shield, as he had seen Habrok do many number of times in practice. The jolt forced him back a step, but Lottres quickly caught his balance. He lunged forward, within striking distance. His sword struck the eppagadrocca's own shield. It hummed with the impact.
The enemy skipped backward, a hasty retreat. Now Lottres felt his enemy's mind power, and this time it didn't tickle. He sucked in a deep breath, knowing he couldn't hold both the mental and physical shields for long. Fire arrows fell around them, Shaelen's promised aid.
Lottres tried again, leaping to the attack. There was a brilliant flash as his energy shield struck the eppagadrocca's. His whole left side ached with the shock. Lottres could see pain in his enemy's face, too. They both stepped back.
“Fool,” the eppagadrocca snarled. “You are no more than a bother to me!”
The Silletsian struck again, with lightning and mental fire. Lottres felt his dual shields wavering, but he could also feel that his enemy was tiring. Shaelen continued firing her arrows, and Lottres had an idea.
“Crutham will never be yours,” he grunted.
Lottres took a step back, tottering as if weakened, and he shifted his stance to the right. The eppagadrocca automatically turned to face him. Lottres moved again, and again. The Silletsian wizard grinned wickedly.
“What do you say now, whelp?” he crowed.
Lottres had made the eppagadrocca turn around. His back was to Shaelen, and the sorceress didn't let the opportunity go to waste. Her fiery arrow pierced the Silletsian's shield. He toppled with a howl of pain.
Lottres stumbled forward as the eppagadrocca's physical shield collapsed. “I say good-bye,” he snarled. One hard thrust, and the Silletsian lay still.
Lottres turned away from the surprised expression on the dead man's face. He lifted his sword in thanks to Shaelen.
“Well done, Thaeme.” Ymell's voice came to Lottres clearly through the gale.
“Thank you, Maen.” Lottres tried not to swell with pride. There was too much still to do. Remembering that Ymell was supposed to be in charge, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“I was just letting them wear themselves down a bit,” Ymell answered with a shrug. “Your way works nicely, too.”
A crackling cloud of lightning surrounded Ymell, yet he seemed unconcerned. With a start, Lottres realized the dragon wizard was capturing all the power the three enemies threw at him.
While they were talking, the wind suddenly changed pitch. It was both deeper and louder. Lottres turned to see a cyclone racing across the courtyard. It was narrow, dirty gray with dust from the courtyard, and it writhed like a serpent. It was also heading right for him!
Lottres gasped for a moment, wondering how he could escape the sucking wind. Then he ran, circling to his right in the faint hope this newest enemy would make the mistake of putting his back to Shaelen. It didn't work. The cyclone snaked in front of Lottres, blocking his way. He stumbled aside, felt wind-claws even through his shield. The storm screamed with almost human fury. Lottres ran in earnest.
Then it caught him. Lottres felt himself lifted from his feet, spinning like a child's top. The wind sucked breath from his lungs. Lottres shut his eyes and clung to his shields, fighting for air, fighting the vertigo. Then a roar, a flash that dazzled even through closed eyelids. The cyclone vanished. Even with his shield, Lottres felt his hard jolt on the cobblestones.
Lottres struggled to his feet. Ymell came to help him up. No more lightning cloud around the wizard. Ymell must have released all the energy he had been holding. The second eppagadrocca lay twitching on the pavement. The last one turned and fled.
The eppagadrocca was heading for the huge, arched gate into the keep's inner ward. He didn't make it. Shaelen's arrow struck him squarely in the back. He fell with a yowl like a beast's. The eppagadrocca struggled onward, dragging himself with his hands. His legs trailed limp behind him.
Lottres sprinted toward him. The enemy couldn't be allowed to escape and warn Ysislaw. As Lottres caught up, a new voice rang out: “Hold!”
Lottres skidded to a halt. For the first time, he became aware of heavy running feet, the rattle of hauberks against demi-greaves. Soldiers poured from the keep. The wall above him was lined with archers. Lottres looked over his shoulder, knowing even Ymell and Shaelen couldn't help him against so many.
The only sound was panting and shuffling as the eppagadrocca struggled in the dust. Slowly, with a purposeful tread, Dietrick came down the steps from the gate.
“Good afternoon, cousin,” he said.
* * *
“I thought you said he was here,” Therula accused.
“He was,” Cliodora insisted. “I just talked to him a little while ago.”
“Then why doesn't he answer?” Therula gestured to Brastigan's stubbornly closed door.
The two princesses stood in the corridor of the men's wing. Passing servants cast curious glances at them. The fact that Pikarus and Javes escorted them was no excuse. Women weren't permitted here unless they were servants at work. Until a few weeks ago, Therula was certain this lapse would have been reported to her mother. She and Cliodora would both have faced the queen's censure. These days, Therula didn't think Alustra would bestir herself from her bed, even if someone did report them.
“He was drinking something.” Cliodora made a face, remembering. “I could smell it when I hugged him.”
Javes laughed curtly, and Therula leaned her forehead on the door. She groaned with frustration. Trust Brastigan to get blind drunk, just when they needed him.
“Why didn't you say so?” Therula demanded.
It wasn't fair to focus her anger on Cliodora, but Therula was angry and frightened. She had been feeling this way for days, wishing for Pikarus to come back and restore stability. Instead, everything was worse. Therula was no longer willing to suffer alone.
Then she saw the way Pikarus was looking at her. Therula turned from him, trying to swallow her shame. She pounded on Brastigan's door.
“Brastigan, open up!” Therula cried. “Brastigan!” She tried, really trie
d, not to shriek like a fishwife.
“Perhaps he's drunk himself to sleep?” suggested Javes, the only one not flustered.
“I didn't think that happened easily,” Pikarus countered. He gently caught Therula's wrist. “Stop. There is one other place he might have gone.”
“Where do you think he is?” Therula let him hold her throbbing hand. Too soon, he let go.
“In the stables,” Pikarus said. “Let's try there.”
“What's in the stables?” Cliodora asked fretfully as everyone trailed after Pikarus.
“He got a new horse on our journey,” Pikarus said.
“You may be right there,” Javes said cheerfully. “Brastigan could be walking around, looking for us, too. If you're for the stables, I'll take another pass through the barracks.”
“Do that,” Pikarus said.
The brief phrases gave Therula the impression Pikarus wasn't telling them something. She thought about it as they went down the stairs and into the vast courtyard. Javes trotted off, and Therula found she couldn't bear the silence.
“Where did he get a horse?” Therula asked. She liked horses.
The silence stretched, until Therula feared Pikarus wouldn't answer her at all. He cleared his throat.
“There was a young lady we encountered,” Pikarus began awkwardly. “The horse was hers.”
“A young lady?” Therula laughed. With Brastigan, there were always women around. It was so normal, she felt relieved.
Cliodora was less tactful. “He got a girlfriend?” she bubbled happily. “Ooh, that must be why Margura was looking so frosty! What's her name? What's she like? Where is she now?”
“Cliodora,” Therula chided.
There was another long pause. Therula studied Pikarus's face. He was uncomfortable, she realized. Something was wrong, or complicated. Knowing Brastigan, it was both.
“I'm sorry, your highness,” Pikarus told Cliodora. “I believe Prince Brastigan must be the one to tell you about her.”
“At least tell me her name!” Cliodora begged.
Pikarus paused again. This time, he looked surprised.
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