Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  All forward progress had stopped. The road into Harburg was solid with horses and riders, wagons and carts. Lottres stretched in the saddle, muffling a yawn. The slow pace had given them time to eat in the saddle, at least. They were near enough to see the gate guards now.

  “Where will we go, once we get inside?” Shaelen asked. Her soft voice was nearly lost among the welter of angry voices at the gate. Lottres, glancing aside, saw trepidation on his companion's face. Lottres wondered if Shaelen had often been inside a town like Harburg. Carthell keep, though impressive, was a single structure with a limited population. A walled city was a different situation.

  “We'll head for the keep,” Lottres answered reassuringly. “Don't worry. I know my way through the maze.”

  Shaelen's wan smile hinted that Lottres had been correct in guessing the source of her anxiety. The line shuffled slowly forward.

  “I have to tell you, I don't feel completely safe,” Lottres confessed. “Eben and Brastigan lived in the keep, where they should have been secure, yet they both disappeared. I can't think where else to look for them, though. What do you think?”

  Shaelen raised her head, staring at the keep over the gray walls of the city. She wasn't using her magic, only listening to whatever her heart told her.

  “I feel,” Shaelen said after a long hesitation, “that Brastigan is there.”

  “Then we have to go,” Lottres said simply, “but we won't announce ourselves too loudly, if you know what I mean. Maybe we should look for Pikarus first and see what he's heard.”

  “I don't need Pikarus to find Brastigan,” Shaelen said with astringent certainty.

  “I know,” Lottres said, “but we might need help to get him out of whatever mess he's in.”

  “My lord!” someone called.

  Lottres looked up. One of the guards was waving him forward. A frustrated growl went up from the line. It followed Lottres and Shaelen as they squeezed through to the gate.

  “Prince Lottres?” the guard asked, eager to please. “I thought I recognized you. Shall I sent a runner ahead to the keep and let them know you're coming?”

  “That's not necessary,” Lottres quickly assured him. “It looks like you need every man here.”

  “That we do,” the guard chuckled in wry agreement. “Very well, your highness. You may pass.”

  “Thank you,” Lottres said. He prodded his horse onward, into Harburg and the unknown.

  * * *

  “Good evening, your highness,” Margura murmured, bowing Therula and Pikarus into the queen's apartments.

  “And you,” Therula answered. “Thank you for helping to arrange this.”

  “Certainly, your highness,” Margura said.

  Alustra's attendant seemed to be in a very good mood. Her eyes lingered on Pikarus as he entered behind Therula. Something in the woman's expression made Therula reachec back, clasping her lover's hand. She wasn't jealous, Therula insisted to herself. It was just that Margura, with her clinging green gown, represented temptation. Even with the embroidered gloves she and Pikarus both wore, Therula felt she had to make a point.

  “Good evening, Mother,” Therula said, pulling Pikarus past Margura.

  “Good evening, my dear.” Alustra rose from a small dressing table. She crossed the room to greet Therula with a kiss and embrace. Alustra moved slowly, as if the effort was nearly too much for her. Pikarus bowed over Alustra's hand, and the queen barely summoned a smile. “Welcome back, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, your majesty,” Pikarus said.

  Alustra wore a gown of black brocade with a black satin snood over her hair. Over the gown she wore ropes of pearls whose gleam was hard and bright against the somber fabric. The outfit was too lovely to be called a widow's weeds, even though it was. The gown drained all color from Alustra's face, leaving her gray and wan.

  “Come, Pikarus,” Therula exclaimed, “you must tell us all about your journey.”

  Therula felt her cheerfulness was a bit forced. And who could blame her? This meeting with Queen Alustra—for Therula still regarded her mother as a queen, no matter what Oskar might say—was disguised as a private supper. Only Pikarus and Therula were attending. Javes and Cliodora had had to be excluded, much to the younger girl's outrage.

  “Very well,” Pikarus said. “We left Harburg, as you know...”

  He launched into a dry saga full of inconsequential details such as what the troop had eaten at every inn along the road. Therula couldn't understand it. Pikarus wasn't normally a dull speaker, and he'd hinted he had something important to talk about!

  Despite herself, Therula found her mind wandering. The room was busy with servants, laying a small table with white linen and silver utensils. Others carried covered platters which wafted delicious aromas after them. Margura, Therula noticed, was edging toward the chamber door. She had lost much of her self-satisfied air, and now appeared rather pale.

  “Margura,” Therula said, glad for a chance to interrupt Pikarus's droning. “You don't look well.”

  “It's nothing,” Margura demurred. “I'm simply a little tired.” But her face had a chalky color and gleamed with sweat.

  “Return to your quarters, then,” Alustra said. “Lie down and rest. I won't need you for some while.”

  “Thank you, your majesty.” Margura curtseyed with obvious gratitude and quickly left. Therula wondered if the queen's attendant was going to rest at all, or scuttle off to supper where she could ogle Oskar. Judging by her expression, though, Margura wasn't well enough to be around food.

  “I'm sorry she's not feeling well,” Pikarus said. Something in his voice made Therula look at him twice. Then she remembered how Cliodora had said she thought Margura had been with Brastigan earlier in the day. In fact, this was twice Margura had been with Brastigan and he had been late to meet Therula. Could Margura be involved with Brastigan's mysterious absence?

  But Pikarus continued with his infuriating lack of communication. He seemed about to carry on with his exhaustive travelogue when one of the servants stepped forward.

  “All is in readiness, your majesty,” he said with a bow.

  “Thank you, Walther,” Alustra replied, so hastily that Therula knew she also wasn't anxious to hear any more about the weather three weeks ago in northern Verelay. “You may bring the plates. Then leave us.”

  The servants complied. As soon as the door closed behind them, Pikarus gave a sigh.

  “My apologies,” he smiled as he helped Therula into her seat. “I didn't want to bore you, but some of the servants might have been listening.”

  Pikarus stepped over to hold Alustra's chair, as well. The queen glanced up at him, puzzled. “Why would anyone want to listen? Nothing of any consequence happens here.”

  The table was set with platters of white fish covered in mushrooms, onions, and a white cream sauce. Steam rose invitingly from the dishes, but Therula set her fork down with an angry click.

  “Yes, who?” Therula demanded. She wasn't sure what annoyed her more, Pikarus's silence or her mother's resigned self-pity. “You've been hiding something all afternoon. Now tell me what's going on. You promised you would.”

  Alustra looked between them, surprised out of her lassitude. “Eat, dear. You'll feel better,” she advised Therula. Then Alustra prodded Pikarus, “Is something interesting happening? Please tell me. I've been bored to death, shut up in here.”

  Therula obediently picked up her fork to sample the delicious, creamy fish. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Pikarus.

  “As you wish, your majesty,” he said. Pikarus was all business now. “You know, of course, that Prince Brastigan and Prince Lottres were summoned to Hawkwing House.”

  “I was there when Unferth sent them,” Alustra reminded him. She dabbed at her mouth with a cloth.

  “We arrived there and discovered that Mistress Yriatt, the noble lady who had sent for us, is a dragon,” Pikarus said.

  “A dragon?” Therula repeated blankly. Surely the old tales abou
t dragons were just that— fantastic stories, pretty to hear but empty of fact.

  “A dragon?” Alustra asked sharply. She didn't seem to doubt a dragon's existence.

  “Yes, your majesty,” Pikarus said. “Are you aware what that means?”

  “Legend says,” Alustra responded softly, “that the two islands, Forix and Tanix, were once ruled by a dragon wizard. Her name was Yllest, and she was a dreadful tyrant. She could change herself into anything she wished, and she had other powers besides. The people never knew when she was nearby, listening to their lamentations, for it is said she delighted in the suffering of others.” Alustra paused to sip her wine. “Yllest was overthrown by two brothers, Forix and Tanix, the namesakes of our lands. I cannot speak of Forixan custom, but to this day dragonkind are forbidden to cross the borders of Tanix. I didn't know such creatures existed here.”

  “It sounded as if Father knew,” Therula remarked, recalling the night of Unferth's farewell to Lottres and Brastigan.

  “He shouldn't have permitted them to dwell here,” Alustra insisted. “Those who live so long cannot understand the feelings and needs of humans. Whenever they intrude upon our affairs, it is we who suffer.”

  Alustra spoke with something of her usual, vigorous disapproval. That alone heartened Therula.

  “In that I fear you are correct,” Pikarus said. “What I must tell you, your majesty, is that there is already a dragon in Harburg. One far less benevolent than Mistress Yriatt.”

  Both women stared at Pikarus. Therula put her fork down again. She had lost all appetite. Therula's mind raced. She had known something was different, even since the day Pikarus left. Now he said there was a dragon in Harburg? She was afraid even to think who the imposter might be.

  “What makes you say that?” Alustra demanded.

  The queen had suddenly regained some of her color. No longer aged and drab, she stared at Pikarus as she would a merchant she was negotiating with, or a servant who was about to be flogged.

  “Partly, it's the hats,” Pikarus said. He chuckled at the expression on Therula's face. “As I understand from Master Ymell, dragons can indeed change their shapes, but when they do, they must always keep their horns. Javes and I noticed when we returned that everyone is wearing these new hats. They appear just the right size to cover a dragon's horns. Can you tell me when this new fashion began?”

  Alustra didn't immediately reply. She raised her glass to drink again. Even in the queen's practiced hands, the surface of the wine trembled. Alustra knew the answer, Therula thought, but she couldn't bring herself to speak the words.

  “With Oskar, of course,” Therula whispered. She didn't want to say it, but someone had to.

  “No.” Alustra turned her fierce gaze on Therula now. “How can you say that?”

  “Mother, it's obvious.” Therula did her best to speak steadily under Alustra's gimlet eye. “Although, strictly speaking, we might say the new style began with Eben. Jenne told me Eben ordered Oskar's hat from her, just before the coronation. I don't know if you remember, but Eben was wearing that marvelous headdress at the ceremony, the one with the dragon horns.” She raised her eyebrows at the significance. “I don't suppose it was really a headdress at all.”

  “Then Eben must be the imposter,” Alustra put in, too quickly.

  “Mistress Yriatt said she hadn't been able to reach Master Eben from Hawkwing House,” Pikarus answered.

  “And no one has seen Eben since the coronation,” Therula said. “Oskar told me he had left. He made it sound as if he asked Eben to stay, but he refused.”

  “Was Oskar bare-headed at the coronation?” Pikarus asked. Therula nodded. “Perhaps Ys...” He stopped, changing what he had been about to say. “Perhaps the enemy impersonated Eben first. He would have had to remove Eben anyhow. As a fellow wizard, Eben would have given him away.”

  “Then he would have had a free hand,” Therula said. “Eben had the king's favor. No one questioned him.”

  Pikarus nodded. “He must have changed places with Oskar later on. After Oskar had taken the throne, and he would have a king's power to use as he wished.”

  “Ridiculous,” Alustra insisted. “Oskar would never surrender the throne. It was his birthright.”

  It had been at the center of Alustra's life as well, Therula thought. Hadn't she seen her mother devote every effort to assuring that Oskar rose above the pack of bastards and won the crown? Perhaps that was why Alustra had been so withdrawn since the coronation. With Oskar safely on the throne—as it had seemed—what else was left for Alustra to do?

  “Think, Mother,” Therula said gently. “Haven't you and Oskar always been close? Yet he's done nothing but isolate you ever since he took power. Taking your throne down, sending Margura in here every day to tell you how old you are.”

  “I —.” Alustra began to defend Margura, but then closed her mouth again.

  “I don't believe Oskar would do that,” Therula pressed. “He respects you too much. But a stranger might, someone who regards you as a threat to his illicit scheme.”

  “Enough!” Alustra cried.

  Alustra stared down at her plate, eyes closed. The soft skin beneath her chin trembled. For a horrified moment, Therula thought she might see her mother cry. What would she do then? If Alustra cracked under the strain, what could anyone else do?

  Then Alustra straightened her back. Her eyes snapped open, fixed Pikarus with a calm and imperious stare. Alustra was a queen again.

  “I cannot believe this. Yet I must,” Alustra said. She sounded weary, but strong enough to face down a dragon herself. “Now I must ask you, Sergeant. Where is my son? Is he alive or dead?”

  Therula swallowed hard. Pikarus must expect Alustra to lead them in defeating the impostor. Therula was certainly counting on it! But if Oskar was dead, Alustra had nothing left to fight for.

  “Your majesty, I don’t know,” Pikarus answered. “I have heard that the enemy believes in holding hostages. Therefore, I think it likely King Oskar remains alive, but I have no way to know with any certainty.”

  “Are Habrok, or any of the others, involved in this plot?” Alustra asked.

  “Not Habrok,” Therula put in.

  “I would be very surprised if Prince Habrok was involved,” Pikarus agreed. Then he admitted, “With some of the other princes, it is harder to be sure.”

  Alustra shrugged. “Then the defense of Crutham may be left as it is, in Habrok's hands,” she said. “You, Sergeant, will be free to search for my son.”

  Before Pikarus could respond, the door opened. All three of them jumped. Therula saw Pikarus's hand grip his sword hilt as two figures scuttled into the room.

  “How dare you enter my chambers!” Alustra scolded.

  “Forgive me,” a familiar voice replied. Lottres closed the door furtively, and approached the table.

  “Lottres!” Therula exclaimed. “You're back, too?” With a guilty start, she realized she hadn't even noticed his absence. She quickly added, “Thank goodness you're safe.”

  Pikarus, too, relaxed. “Your highness. I thought you were in Carthell.”

  “We were. It's been a busy day,” Lottres answered with a wry smile. He bowed toward Alustra. “Your majesty, may we join you?”

  “Please do,” Alustra said. Her eyes were on Lottres, assessing him.

  Pikarus joined Lottres in bringing two more chairs to the table. Therula found that her appetite had suddenly returned. Because, she realized, her mother was in command again. The burden of uncertainty had been lifted from Therula's shoulders.

  As she belatedly began to eat, Therula eyed her half-brother and his companion curiously. Lottres had lost weight on his journey. His face was thinner and his beard was longer, but he walked with new energy. A woman was with him, tall and dark eyed, but so strangely dressed! Auburn hair was done in the Urulai beads Brastigan was so fond of. She wore a scandalous outfit, leather boots and trousers under some kind of jerkin that seemed to be stiffened with animal bone
s.

  Did all Urulai women dress like men, Therula wondered? How odd! She couldn't help wondering what Brastigan thought of it. Despite his outrageous behaviors, Therula knew Brastigan had conventional tastes in women.

  The strange woman seemed to flinch. She shot Therula a piercing look. Therula looked away, not wanting to acknowledge someone so unsuitable, but she couldn't forget the Urulai woman's hurt expression. It was almost as if she knew what Therula thought of her. No, that was impossible.

  “Your majesty, this is Shaelen of Hawkwing House. She is a student of Mistress Yriatt's.” Lottres spoke with careful formality.

  Therula didn't miss the reproachful glance he turned on her. She pretended to, though she had the mortifying feeling this Shaelen might have known what she was thinking, after all.

  “I see,” Alustra murmured, her expression neutral.

  “Shaelen, this is Queen Alustra and her daughter, Princess Therula, who is my half-sister,” Lottres went on.

  Shaelen nodded, saying nothing. It was going to be awkward if she didn't understand Cruthan. Or perhaps she was shy, Therula thought. If the stranger really was a sorceress, she would try to be charitable.

  “Are you aware of all that has been happening?” Alustra asked. Her voice, as she looked at Lottres, was almost accusing.

  Gravely, Lottres answered, “We did know that Sillets has invaded, and Duke Johanz was good enough to tell us that Father had died. I'm sorry.” He seemed to mean it, too.

  “We all miss him,” Alustra answered briefly, brushing his condolences aside. “Now tell me, what else happened in Carthell?”

  “Duke Johanz didn't make us very welcome,” Lottres said. “In fact, he imprisoned us under cover of hospitality. Johanz intended to collaborate with Sillets in conquering Crutham. He thought Albrett would take the throne afterward and then he could rule through Albrett.” Lottres made a face, giving his opinion of this scheme.

  “This is no surprise,” Therula said darkly, remembering the absence of a Carthellan representative at Oskar's coronation.

  “But?” Alustra prodded. The news didn't seem to shake her grim purpose.