“Answer, slave.”
The summons wasn't loud, but it startled Lottres into complete wakefulness. So smooth and reptilian in its cold force—that had to be Ysislaw!
A reply came almost instantly. “I am here, master. Rowbeck is ours. The portal has been repaired, as you instructed.”
“Do not tell me what I already know.” Ysislaw brushed the eppagadrocca's thoughts aside. “My enemies are moving. We must act first. Awaken the handlers and get the walking bones moving. You will come through immediately.”
“As you say, master.”
“Prepare yourselves. I go to open the way.”
Ysislaw's voice cut off, abruptly as the slam of a door. The silence in its wake roared like thunder. No, Lottres realized, what he heard was the drumbeat of his own heart.
When the sense of Ysislaw's message penetrated his surprise, Lottres sprang to his feet. He no longer felt even a little bit drowsy.
Shaelen was already up, moving in the dark. “I think he's going to leave the castle,” she said, a bare whisper in the inky blackness. “But if he brings the bone men through...”
“I know,” Lottres breathed in return. It sounded as though the military situation was about to get tense. “Stay here. Keep listening. I'll go to the barracks and warn Pikarus. We need to wait until Ysislaw leaves before we do anything.”
Sensing Shaelen's agreement, he turned toward the door. Lottres forced himself to move slowly. He'd better not make any noise. Ysislaw wasn't gone yet. Nevertheless, this was a priceless opportunity. With Ysislaw away, he and Shaelen could use their magic more openly. It was a stroke of luck they couldn't afford to let pass.
* * *
It seemed only a moment had passed when Brastigan snapped awake. It was sound that roused him. A key ground in the lock. The door groaned softly as it opened. Brastigan lay limp, listening to the sly whisper of shoes across the floor.
The lone torch on the wall was burning out. It gave only a sallow light. Brastigan's fists tightened over cold links of chain as the footsteps drew nearer. He narrowed his eyes to slits and forced himself to breathe deeply, feigning sleep. The footsteps stopped. A hand fell on his shoulder.
“Brastigan,” came a man's voice, a coarse whisper. “I know you're awake—No, wait!”
Brastigan rolled over and tackled whoever it was. They both crashed to the floor together. Brastigan threw a loop of the chain around the man's neck and jerked it tight.
“Shut up, you,” Brastigan snarled. “Just do what I say.”
The fellow made some coughing reply. Brastigan stared at him, suddenly recognizing Lottres's curly beard, his face growing red over the constricting chain.
For a moment, emotion threatened to choke Brastigan. He could hardly believe his brother was here, just when he needed him most. After all their arguments, too. It must have been magic that called Lottres to him. Brastigan was so glad to see him, he didn't much care.
“Get off, you idiot!” Lottres's voice came clearly, though he couldn't really have spoken.
“Oh.” Feeling stupid, Brastigan released the chain. He rolled off Lottres.
“Are you all right?” Pikarus called from the doorway. Another figure lurked behind Pikarus, someone Brastigan couldn't see.
“Yes,” Lottres answered, though he rubbed his neck irritably. Then he smiled at Brastigan. “Remind me not to wake you up again.”
“Welcome home,” Brastigan smirked, summoning his old humor. He tossed the chains aside and stood up, offering Lottres a hand.
Pikarus approached, offering a familiar sword in a well-worn sheath. He also carried Brastigan's duffel over his shoulder.
“Your highness,” Pikarus said, “you'll want these.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you!” Brastigan seized Victory eagerly. He gave the bright blade a quick inspection in the faint candlelight. Then he took his duffel. By the weight, it had his whole harness inside.
“Let me help you,” Pikarus offered.
“We need to hurry,” Lottres said.
“Really?” Brastigan snorted with mocking humor. “You think so?”
Lottres shoved at him with friendly anger. “Cut it out.”
Brastigan yanked at the duffle's laces. Metal pieces clattered down onto the pallet. There was no gambeson in the pile, so Brastigan dragged the hauberk on over his clothes.
“Do I need to tell you Father's dead?” Brastigan asked as he worked.
“No, I'd heard.” Lottres shook his head. He helped Brastigan get his hair clear of the metal links. “Things were lively in Carthell.”
“Rumor has it Johanz turned traitor,” Brastigan said. He stood up, allowing Pikarus to fasten his demi-greaves and Lottres to work on the vambraces.
“Who told you that?” Lottres asked.
“Ysislaw.”
“What?” Lottres nearly dropped the left vambrace as he buckled it to Brastigan's shoulder. Shaelen appeared from the hallway, silent as a ghost. Brastigan felt his heart grow cold at the sight of her. He forced himself back to the matter at hand.
“After I was jumped in my quarters, he came in here to gloat,” Brastigan explained. He did his best not to look at Shaelen. “Ysislaw's been disguised as Oskar—did you know?”
“As we feared,” Pikarus murmured. He had returned to his work. The second demi-greave was now securely fastened.
“Pikarus figured it out first,” Lottres said. “Shaelen and I got here a few hours ago. He told Alustra and Therula, too, although I'm not sure what they can do.”
“Her? She'll think of something,” Brastigan snorted. He shrugged his shoulders and stamped his feet to settle his harness in place. Pikarus approached with a clean surcoat. While Pikarus settled the folds, Brastigan tightened his sword belt. “So, Carthell?”
Lottres shrugged. “Ysislaw had left some of his eppagadrocca there. They weren't prepared to face both Ymell and Yriatt.”
Brastigan remembered the fires on the hillside about the Dragon's Chimney. “Is Carthell Keep still standing?” he quipped.
“Yes,” Lottres said with a smile. “There, all done, and we need to get out of here. Ysislaw has left, but we don't know how long he'll be gone. We want to be far away before he comes back.”
“Where did he go?” Brastigan asked as he stepped into the hallway. It was still dark, though Pikarus shielded a candle in a plain steel holder. The passage curved to follow the shape of the outside wall, and you couldn't see far. Anything could be lurking just around the bend.
“I'll show you,” Shaelen said.
Brastigan didn't want to be anywhere near the witch. Reluctantly, he followed her to the nearest arrow slit. The night sky was black marbled with gray as the usual fog drifted in from the sea. He could see the torch-lit walkways of Crutham Keep below, and farther off the parallel line of the city walls. From the angle of view, Brastigan could tell he had been right: this was Eben's tower.
But something else dominated the dark vista. Out beyond the battlements, a column of brilliant green light stood in midair. The light flickered erratically. Brastigan narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance.
“It's the Dragon's Candle.” Lottres answered Brastigan's question before he even spoke it. “The Silletsians have taken Rowbeck. I heard them say they fixed the Dragon's Tooth.”
Brastigan didn't bother to argue. He could tell Lottres was right. Then he drew a sharp breath. The light meant the wizard's gate was open. Someone was coming through. That was what made the light waver. In fact, judging by the constant flickering, a lot of someones were coming through.
Brastigan couldn't help noticing that Shaelen wasn't looking out the window. She was staring at him. Even in so short a time, he had forgotten she carried in her face a fire-toned reflection of the girl's lost beauty. She even acted like the girl. Shaelen stared at Brastigan with exactly the dumbstruck expression he had seen so often in the shadow's eyes. The pressure came back to his chest, fiercer and harder.
“Ysislaw is bringing his army through,” P
ikarus said. His words made Shaelen blink. Brastigan could breathe again.
“So we've got a problem,” Brastigan said. Not that he needed Pikarus to explain what was happening, but the distraction helped.
There was sure to be battle in the morning. Brastigan looked forward to it. He knew what to do in a fight. It was Shaelen he didn't know how to handle.
“Remember, we still have work to do,” Lottres said.
“Like what?” Brastigan asked. Hadn't they come here to rescue him?
“Oskar is missing, too,” Lottres told him. “Alustra wants him back, if we can find him.”
Brastigan rolled his eyes. “I suppose she would.”
“I think he's somewhere else in the tower,” Lottres went on. “I just don't know where.”
“You found me, didn't you?” Brastigan asked. A cold breeze was blowing in from the arrow slit. He stepped away from it and that baleful green pulse in the night.
“Ysislaw has some kind of spell over Harburg. It interferes with our senses,” Lottres explained. “We know you too well for him to hide you from us, but I'm not as close to Oskar and Shaelen has never met him. Since Oskar is the more important hostage, it makes sense he's more heavily concealed.”
We, he kept saying, like Shaelen had also been part of the search. Brastigan didn't want to accept that. Shaelen wasn't the girl. She didn't love him. And he sure didn't love her.
“We'll have to go room to room,” Pikarus said.
“Good thing it's not a very big tower,” Brastigan said.
The four of them hurried away from the arrow slit. Brastigan followed Pikarus, who still held the candle. Lottres came behind him, and Shaelen last, which was still too close for Brastigan's comfort.
Since Lottres was practically at his shoulder, Brastigan murmured, “So you know, Ysislaw claims the murders were Oskar's little project.”
“Of our brothers?” Lottres quickly asked. His expression darkened. “I guess that's no surprise, but I think we'll both have something to say to him, before he gets safely home to his mother.”
“Yeah,” Brastigan grunted, “just a few things. Eben is dead, too. Ysislaw took credit for that.”
“Ymell thought he must be,” Lottres answered heavily. “I'll miss him, all the same.”
They came to another door. It was wood clad with steel, just like the door to Brastigan's cell, but this one wasn’t locked. Beyond it, stairs slanted up and down in gloom.
“Which way?” Brastigan whispered, so the sound wouldn't carry in the stairwell.
“Down,” Lottres answered.
Footsteps echoed weirdly in the cramped stairwell. It made Brastigan think someone was following them. They soon reached a narrow landing and another doorway into the tower. As Brastigan recalled, this had led to Eben's personal quarters. Pikarus stopped there.
“You're sure he's in this tower?” Brastigan asked.
“He should be,” Lottres replied. “Its the only part of the keep where you could hide a prisoner and be sure he'd stay hidden.”
“The door is locked from the inside,” Pikarus reported.
“I can get it,” Brastigan said. He began to unfasten his belt, but Lottres laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Let Shaelen do it,” Lottres said. “She's faster.”
Though his heart boiled with rebellion, Brastigan stepped back. Shaelen slipped between him and Pikarus and knelt, placing her hands over the lock.
“The door is also barred from within,” Shaelen reported.
“Can you get them both?” Lottres asked.
“Of course.”
“How many guards down below?” Brastigan asked while they waited.
“Two on the landing below us,” Lottres answered. “We left them sleeping.”
“You shouldn't have,” Brastigan answered irritably. A distinct click sounded as Shaelen sprang the lock. “The men who grabbed me were Silletsians, but wearing Cruthan uniforms. Ysislaw's managed to infiltrate the palace guards. Or maybe he just killed a few and replaced them with his own men.”
Pikarus jerked back at this news. His mouth made a thin line. “I wouldn't be surprised if he did. I don't know if you heard, but Tarther also died while we were away. Garican is a weak replacement. It would be easy to bully him, especially for someone disguised as the king.”
“You might be assuming too much,” Lottres said. “I didn't notice any strangers —.”
He was interrupted by a muffled clatter on the other side of the door.
“It's open,” Shaelen announced, straightening, “but Ysislaw will have to return before sunrise, or risk being seen. Please, let's hurry.”
“You don't have to tell us,” Brastigan growled. He drew Victory, but Pikarus nudged him.
“Your highness, please let me go first.”
Without waiting for agreement, Pikarus stepped up to the door. He put his candle holder on the floor, drew his sword, and shoved the door open. Brastigan almost expected shouts of alarm from inside, but there was only silence. Pikarus retrieved the candle and beckoned. One by one, the four of them slipped inside.
It was dark in the tower, and very warm. Even Pikarus's candle could hardly penetrate the gloom. The air was thick with a cloying odor. As Brastigan's eyes adjusted, furnishings emerged from the darkness: a simple bed, a writing desk, a shelf of neatly ordered scrolls, a chest of drawers with an ewer and basin on top.
These appeared unchanged, but there were some new additions. Two tall stands of twisted iron supported massive candles at either side of the bed. Their flickering light gave the chamber a funereal atmosphere.
Someone was lying on the bed. Oskar? Brastigan stepped forward. He froze as one of the floor boards squealed under his weight. Brastigan eased back.
“Are we sure there's no one underneath us?” he murmured to Lottres. The lower level held a sitting room, where Eben had given his rare consultations.
“It was empty when we came up,” Lottres assured him.
“I hope you're right.” Waving Pikarus to join him, Brastigan shifted to the side. They advanced more carefully, and managed to reach the bedside this time.
Oskar lay on top of the blankets. He was so still, he didn't even seem to breathe. Brastigan stared down at the face he hated. Oskar didn't look so handsome with his eyes closed and his features slack. His skin had an unhealthy, waxy texture except where an unaccustomed growth of beard furred his chin. He'd been lying there a while, all right.
“Shaelen, do you feel it?” Lottres murmured.
“Yes,” the witch replied. Her face looked hollow as a skull's in the dim light. “If this is your King Oskar, I see him, but I don't sense his mind. Nor any of yours.” Her gaze touched Brastigan with something like relief. He looked away from her.
“Whatever is blocking us must be in this room. We simply have to find it,” Lottres said.
“I will meditate,” Shaelen said. “Perhaps I will learn something.”
She sat cross-legged beside the door, hands lying slack over her knees. Brastigan watched his brother walk slowly past the bed. Lottres looked from side to side, as if he searched for something.
“Don't touch anything,” Lottres murmured as he passed.
Brastigan snorted at that. “How long do we wait?”
“I don't know,” Lottres said.
Brastigan looked at Pikarus and rolled his eyes. Pikarus shrugged. He set his candle on the chest of drawers and folded his arms to wait. Brastigan prowled up and down at the bedside. In a moment, he remembered what Yriatt had said, that Ymell had been subdued by the scent of a poisoned flower. And here was this thick perfume in the air. It might be the same thing. Brastigan leaned over to the nearest candle. He inhaled deeply. His lips went numb.
Trying not to cough, Brastigan stepped back. “Hey, Pup,” he sputtered. “I think it's in the candles.”
“I'll be there in a moment,” came the distracted reply. Lottres seemed rapt in his magical search.
Brastigan glared at the two candles a
s they burned, innocently spewing their venom. They were thick as small tree trunks, made to burn a good while before you had to replace them. That must be exactly what Ysislaw intended, to keep his prisoner helpless and not have to worry about him.
Brastigan gritted his teeth as he stared down at Oskar. The candles' overly sweet fragrance sickened him, but not as much as the sight of his half-brother's face. It was so tempting to leave the fool there. Let him suffer the penalty for his idiocy in making deals with Sillets. It was what Oskar deserved for turning on his brothers.
But it wasn't what Crutham deserved. Nor could Brastigan accept the idea of Ysislaw winning this war. Outside, the Dragon's Candle burned in the night. Ysislaw was out there somewhere. He might be coming back at any moment. Brastigan looked impatiently toward Lottres. His brother stood still, his back toward Brastigan and Pikarus.
It didn't look like Lottres would be any help. Frustrated, Brastigan bent over Oskar's bed.
“Hey, wake up,” he hissed.
Brastigan jabbed at Oskar's shoulder. There was nothing there, yet the air around Oskar's body had a kind of icy solidity. It was like sticking his fingers into a snow bank. His whole arm tingled and throbbed. Brastigan jerked back.
“Ow,” Brastigan complained. He shook his stinging hand.
“Perhaps we should wait for Prince Lottres,” Pikarus rebuked him.
“What was that?” Lottres suddenly demanded.
All at once, the two candles shuddered. Their steadily burning wicks erupted into jets of crackling flame. Thick smoke billowed into the air. Both Brastigan and Pikarus jumped away from the bedside.
Lottres ran toward them. “What did you do?”
“I didn't touch it,” Brastigan protested.
“Don't give me that,” his brother snarled.
Smoke was quickly filling the chamber. The cloud spread in thick strands, gray as ash in the darkness. It burned in Brastigan's eyes. Coughing, he reeled backward.
“It must be some kind of trap,” he said.
“Shaelen, open the door,” Lottres cried. “We need air!”
Too Many Princes Page 40
