Margura merely glared at him, her eyes brilliant with rage and shame. After trying so hard to get pregnant and trap a prince, she had finally succeeded—but with the wrong prince. Alemin was already married. He couldn't make an honest woman of her. Margura must be desperate for a legitimate union to conceal her shame.
“Alas,” Ysislaw went on mockingly, “it will be a brief marriage. Despite your boasting, Brastigan, I fear you will fall beside your brothers. The walking dead, in their vast numbers, will overwhelm you. Your widow will be left with your rank to console her.”
His mock sorrow couldn't cover the chilling fact. Brastigan and his brothers had been gathered to destroy them. Ysislaw needed to get rid of Unferth's heirs even more than Oskar did. A conqueror wouldn't want legitimate successors challenging his supremacy.
“Can you at least untie me for the honeymoon?” Brastigan asked with a pretense of hope.
“As I understand it, the marriage has already been consummated.” Ysislaw's mocking leer left his eyes hollow. Margura sulked, but didn't dare express her feelings.
“Where's the real Oskar?” Brastigan asked. He couldn't believe he cared, but he did.
“Oh, do not worry about him,” came Ysislaw's bland reply. “He is alive and well, for as long as I may need to enforce his mother's cooperation. She hasn't figured it out yet, but that sister of yours, Therula, suspects something.”
Good for her, Brastigan thought, but Alustra's cooperation might not be needed much longer if Brastigan understood Ysislaw's plan. He only hoped Ymell would be able to delay the Silletsian army until he got out of here and warned Habrok.
Ysislaw chuckled softly. Brastigan's stomach turned over at the sound of it.
“Dear old Ymell. He cannot defeat me,” Ysislaw said. “I have had nothing but time to plan this campaign. Nor have I any lack of allies. Your own dear Oskar, for instance. Did you know, he asked for my help himself. That's right! He invited me here. And he was not the first.”
Ysislaw began pacing, laughing at the dark jest. “It was Johanz of Carthell who started it. It seems some ancestor of his once ruled Crutham. He thought it time to restore his dynasty, and he had his nephews, Rickard and Albrett, make the claim for him. Johanz requested my assistance in removing the obstacles before Rickard, especially Prince Oskar.”
Brastigan tried to stay calm, just put aside his feelings, listen, and later think about what it all meant.
“It was a rare opportunity,” Ysislaw went on. “I did not fail to exploit it. Oskar was anxious to work with me when he learned of Johanz's plan. However, since I did not reveal exactly who had been cooperating with Rickard, he decided the time was right to dispose of all the extraneous heirs.”
Brastigan sat silently, his heart pounding. He could easily believe in Rickard's ambition, and Oskar's duplicity was no surprise, either. Carthell's was. That was where Lottres was supposed to be.
He tried to bury that thought, hide it from Ysislaw by looking to Margura. “And her?”
“Oh, Lady Margura has been instrumental,” Ysislaw smirked. “She knows everyone's bad habits. When her situation changed, I naturally wanted to help her.” He patted Margura's shoulder, much as a man might pet a favorite dog. She flinched at his touch.
“Once the fighting is over, I am sure she will find another mate,” Ysislaw said. “One more suited to her new station.”
“Someone just as rotten as she is?” Brastigan retorted.
Margura flushed angrily, but Ysislaw said, “Oh, I hope so. I can always use more servants with her talents.”
Margura smiled, preening at this praise.
“It was really Eben who helped put it all together,” Ysislaw was saying. When he saw Brastigan's face, he chuckled. “Yes! Eben, of all people. He somehow learned of Oskar's role in the royal slayings.”
Through the dagger, Brastigan guessed—the one that had nearly killed him. “Was that your doing?” he asked.
“Oskar handled those arrangements himself, I believe,” Ysislaw answered casually. “Once Eben realized what he was up to, Unferth threatened to disown him. Suddenly, the noble prince was desperately in need of my help. I was only too happy to assist him.”
Ysislaw glanced at Brastigan. He seemed to expect some reply.
“By taking his place,” Brastigan guessed.
“Precisely,” Ysislaw hissed with satisfaction.
“What did you do to Eben?” Brastigan asked.
“Oh, he's at the bottom of the bay. Unferth never suspected the replacement.” Ysislaw smiled cruelly. “When his dear friend gave him a potion to help him sleep, he drank without question. That cleared the way for Oskar—and me.”
So Ysislaw must have poisoned Unferth. Brastigan leaned against the wall for a moment, felt its cool solidity bracing his back. Some day he would learn not to ask questions when the answers were better left unknown. As he tried to shake off his morbid imaginings, Ysislaw suddenly knelt. He knotted his hand in Brastigan's hair and yanked his head up.
“As for your precious little brother,” he whispered, “your pup, I'm afraid he will find a surprise waiting for him in Carthell. Johanz is still in my tent, you see. He blames Oskar for Rickard's death, and he thinks the throne will pass to Albrett when all is done. Johanz will do everything he can to assist my agents there, including laying a trap for Ymell and his paltry band.”
Brastigan kept his face as far from Ysislaw's as he could, though the pulling of his hair stung. He could smell his enemy's breath, heavy with wine and food.
He found himself squeaking like the stable hand. “Why are you telling me this?”
Ysislaw didn't move his face, nor relax his grip. “Because,” he said, as calm as ice on the mountaintops, “I want you to know there is no hope. I have won. For all your bragging, your brave heroics, you have lost.”
“Not yet,” Brastigan said, a feeble threat.
“Did you think I would not know where Lottres and Ymell are?” Ysislaw sneered. “Everything you think and feel is open to me. You can have no secrets. I shall kill your brothers and take my pick of your pretty sisters. None shall escape me.” He bent even closer, though Brastigan leaned frantically away from his overwhelming presence. “You are doomed. Just like your mother.”
“You did enough to her!” Brastigan cried. Fury overcame his sense of self-preservation. He kicked out at Ysislaw and had the satisfaction of seeing his enemy reel backward.
Then the pain returned, as sudden as a thunderclap. Lights flashed before his eyes, sickly greens and yellows. Brastigan fell to his side and screamed with the agony, with his rage and, yes, his hopelessness.
“Oh, shut up,” Ysislaw said with casual spite. Brastigan's throat seemed to lock, robbing him of breath. “An exceptional female, Yrien. I would have grown fond of her,” Ysislaw mused.
Behind Ysislaw, Brastigan glimpsed Margura watching them. Her eyes gleamed with the acquisition of new knowledge.
Panting, Brastigan rasped out, “I'll bet you thought Yrien couldn't escape, either.”
To his amazement, Ysislaw was calm again, remote and alien. He knelt again and smiled, a terrible cruel smile. “But she didn't. Nor will you. Your homeland is mine, and all who you love are doomed. Think on that, “greatest swordsman in Crutham.”“
Blue eyes, so like Oskar's eyes, bored into Brastigan's dark ones. In that moment he believed Ysislaw was right, that there was no safety anywhere. The fear gripped his stomach, twisted it into a knot of bile. Gagging, Brastigan had to turn from his foe. He lunged toward the chamber pot and barely reached it in time.
Ysislaw let him go. To Margura, he said dryly, “There is still time to find another bridegroom.”
“Pathetic,” Margura murmured scornfully, “but my time is short, your majesty. I fear I must decline.”
Brastigan glared up at them through eyes blurry with sickness. He wanted to say something to Margura, something that would hurt her as much as her betrayal hurt him. He couldn't think of a thing.
T
he two were already walking away, tyrant and traitress together. The door swung open before they touched it, and shut behind them with a solid bang.
Brastigan was left alone in the pitiless prison room. His hair was soaked with cold, sticky sweat. His head pounded like smith's anvil. His knees, folded under him, ached against the hard stone floor.
Not until the last of his nausea passed did he move away from the chamber pot. Brastigan staggered back to the pallet and dropped onto it with a groan.
He had considered hiding his thoughts, maybe pretending to be frightened and seeing if Ysislaw would lose interest when he thought he'd won. In the end, there was no need to feign terror. That was real enough.
The pain dulled after Ysislaw left, but shame burned like a hot iron within him. Because he knew, just for that moment, that Ysislaw had truly beaten him. They locked eyes, and it was Brastigan who blinked. He gave way. Now he sat, cowed, and wondered how he could ever escape Ysislaw's prison.
COUNCILS OF WAR
“I know what you are thinking, Father,” Yriatt said with calm ferocity, “but I will not stay behind. I refuse.”
The sun was sinking in earnest, casting its red glare over the walls of the keep and the town beyond. The Sea of Carthell had turned a strange, murky brown as it lapped at the duke's private pier. The four wizards had returned there to wait for the griffins, which Yriatt had summoned.
They had to get to Harburg right away, Lottres knew. Now that they knew where Ysislaw was, speed was of the essence. Just knowing his location didn't solve all their problems, however.
“You must stay behind,” Ymell said, matching Yriatt's urgency. “I will not have you going anywhere near Ysislaw. He has already taken too many of my loved ones. Further, now that Carthell is mobilizing, someone must fly to Firice and assure their troops are marching. I cannot do it. You must.”
“If you feel it is so dangerous, I will not leave your side,” Yriatt answered with a fiery sweetness.
“The risk is too great,” Ymell insisted.
“No, Father,” Yriatt said.
Lottres watched with embarrassment as the two dragons clashed. He didn't know whose side to take. What he did know, with a wrenching certainty, was that Brastigan was in terrible danger. Like Shaelen, he couldn't bear to wait around while his brother was alone, suffering.
“Cousin!”
With relief, Lottres turned away from the confrontation. Dietrick had emerged from the water gate. Lottres strode back to meet him. Dietrick carried one large canvas bag over his shoulder and a smaller one at his side.
“Before you go, I must return these,” Dietrick said. He set down the small bundle and rolled the larger one over his shoulder. Unknotting a drawstring, Dietrick presented Lottres's sword. Lottres accepted it, and passed back the sword he had borrowed. Then, with a small bow, Dietrick offered Shaelen her bow and arrows.
“It seems you didn't need them,” Dietrick added wryly, “but we shouldn't keep what isn't ours. There is also this.” He lifted the smaller bundle. “Food for your journey, since you haven't eaten with us and now must travel again.”
“My thanks.” Lottres accepted the package eagerly. His stomach gurgled in agreement.
“No, it is I who must thank you,” Dietrick answered. “It will be good to have a clear purpose again.”
Lottres found he had to look away from the emotion in his kinsman's eyes. It seemed impossible that a man of Dietrick's integrity could spring from the court of Carthell, where the duke had such slippery morals. Lottres wondered if Johanz understood what a prize he had in his son. Recalling how Ymell and Yriatt were locked in their contest of wills, Lottres thought perhaps some fathers never did fully appreciate their children.
“Maess! Why must we wait?” Shaelen cried. Her face was pale, her expression agitated. Shaelen, even more than Lottres, was attuned to Brastigan and aware of his distress. “He needs us!”
Lottres was sure he saw a trace of pity on Yriatt's face, but she answered with steely patience, “As we already have discussed, the gateways are no longer open to us. Ysislaw controls too many of them.”
“He would know at once where we are,” Ymell said. “We must surprise him, if we can.”
“I know, Maen, but why can't we go?” Shaelen cut the air with an exasperated gesture, taking in Lottres and herself.
“Yes,” Lottres said with quick excitement. “Why can't we?”
“You would face Ysislaw alone?” Ymell asked, aghast.
“I know how to keep quiet,” Lottres answered defensively. “I did it all the way to Altannath, didn't I, Maess?”
Yriatt nodded, reluctant to agree.
“There's a gateway right near Harburg,” Lottres went on. “It's called the Dragon's Candle. Yes, he'll sense when we come through, but he'll be expecting the two of you. Shaelen and I should be able to deal with whatever guard he has on it. And there can't be much—nobody ever goes up there, and a guard would be noticed.” Lottres eyed the darkening sky. “We could get into Harburg before the gates close, if we hurry.”
“Then the two of you could fly to Firice together,” Shaelen said. “Maess wouldn't have to go by herself.”
“Or you could simply fly to Harburg,” Lottres added. “You both can change your eyes to see in the dark. Can the griffins do that?”
“I think this very ill advised,” Yriatt answered sternly. “You are still inexperienced, Thaeme, and you...” She trailed off, regarding Shaelen.
“I'm all right,” Shaelen answered stoutly.
Dietrick, standing forgotten, suddenly asked, “What are these gateways you speak of?”
“A magical construct,” Lottres answered. “A kind of wizard's gate. It would look like a tall mound with a stone on top, and a large pool of water.”
“Like that?” Dietrick pointed, and Lottres turned to follow with his eyes. To the south of Carthell's walls, a single hill rose smooth and dark against the ruddy sunset sky. “We call it the Dragon's Well. It's said if any man goes up there, he will never return.”
“In a sense, that is correct,” Ymell allowed. To Yriatt, he chuckled, “Where do they come up with these names?”
“Does it matter?” Yriatt snapped back. “We should not be using the gateways.”
“But it's so close,” Shaelen murmured, her eyes fixed on the distant mound. “Lord Dietrick, would we be able to borrow a pair of horses?”
“Of course,” Dietrick said, although he looked askance at Yriatt.
Ymell eyed the two of them thoughtfully, Lottres and Shaelen, each driven by the same need. A human need, which the dragons, however well intended, could never fully understand.
“We must go,” Lottres insisted.
“You are not our slaves,” Ymell said at length. “We will not forbid you to do what you must.”
“We can only hope you do not compromise our secrecy,” Yriatt said with angry tartness.
A part of Lottres cringed from her displeasure, but he couldn't be swayed. Despite all their disagreements, Lottres knew that nothing would stop Brastigan from coming to his aid if he were the one held prisoner.
“Maess, it doesn't matter. Ysislaw has Brastigan.” Shaelen's voice trembled, and her eyes gleamed with tears. Yriatt scowled. “Brastigan knew our plans. I can't think how Ysislaw would not acquire his knowledge.”
There was a thunderstruck silence. Lottres hadn't thought of Brastigan's trouble in those terms. He should have.
“You are certain Ysislaw has Brastigan?” Yriatt demanded.
“We both feel it,” Lottres said. “Even if he didn't, his eppagadrocca here won't answer when he calls them. I believe he must know where we are.”
The two dragons glanced at each other, abruptly reassessing the whole situation. Once again, Lottres sensed a communication between them too deep and swift for mere words.
“In my experience,” Dietrick said, “you should avoid doing the exact thing your enemy will expect you to do.” The silence stretched on. When no one answered, he
awkwardly asked, “Do you still need those horses?”
“Yes.” Ymell spoke slowly, with quiet portent. “I believe we do.”
* * *
In the fading daylight, Lottres and Shaelen trotted toward Harburg's south gate. The road was crowded with traffic, most of it going the other way. It was slow work to move against the tide, but Lottres pursued it with all the patience he could muster. They had to get inside the city before the gates closed with nightfall, and time was growing short.
“They're not letting anyone in,” grumbled the driver of a passing ox cart. “The inns are all full.”
Lottres glanced over, saw the hay wagon piled high with household goods. Half a dozen children, perched among the furniture, gazed back at him anxiously. The peasant farmer looked grim. His wife, seated beside him, was having a hard time holding back her tears.
As a royal prince, Lottres expected no difficulty gaining entrance to the capital once he reached the gate, but there was no way to say so without seeming arrogant or cruel—or both.
“I thank you for the warning,” Lottres said.
Even this reply seemed inadequate to the upheaval in the peasant family's life. However, there was nothing he could do to help them. Lottres turned away, to see sunset gilding the towers and hoarding on Harburg's city wall. It was his second sunset in one day, a novel experience that somewhat diverted Lottres from his worries.
From the moment they passed through the Dragon's Well, he had felt probes. Ysislaw's awareness followed them, seeking. In response, Lottres had been keeping his thoughts placid as the pool beside the Dragon's Candle. Nor did he and Shaelen speak to each other. Ysislaw would have heard them, and guessed who they were. Only now, as they approached the noisy crowds of Harburg, did he think it safe to speak at all.
Nor could Lottres sense anything of the mysterious barrier blocking probes into Harburg. Of course, he wasn't using his magic. Neither did he or Shaelen know where Yriatt and Ymell were now. They had left Carthell in purposeful ignorance. If Ysislaw caught them, they couldn't tell where their mentors were because they didn't know.
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