Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  “I can't,” she called back. “It's sealed itself.”

  “Crouch down, where the air is clear,” said Pikarus. His voice already sounded near the floor.

  It wasn't hard to follow those instructions. The fumes were already making Brastigan light-headed. On his knees, he stumbled toward Pikarus's voice. Somewhere nearby, he heard Lottres coughing.

  “I guess we should have expected something like this,” Brastigan said.

  “We can't leave the king here,” Pikarus said. “Prince Brastigan, if you would please help me. Prince Lottres, help Shaelen get the door open.”

  “Right,” Lottres said. His voice moved off toward the doorway.

  Brastigan groaned inwardly, but he followed Pikarus. What other choice was there? They should have known Ysislaw would cast a spell to guard Oskar. He was too important a prisoner. Alas, he was also too important to leave behind.

  Even with the two candles blazing, it was hard to see through the dense smoke. Brastigan rubbed tears from his eyes. Almost by chance, he found one end of the bed.

  “Try to get a few good breaths,” Pikarus said. His voice was near, but Brastigan couldn't see him. “We'll stand together and try to get him off the bed.”

  “Can I drop him?” Brastigan joked.

  Pikarus didn't bother to answer that. “Ready? Go,” he ordered.

  Brastigan caught a last, deep breath and shut his eyes against the stinging fumes. He jumped up and hearly fell across the bed. Once again, it was like trying to reach through a snow bank. He gritted his teeth and grabbed what might have been Oskar's knees.

  “Pull!” Brastigan shouted, wasting precious air. He suited words to action and hauled desperately at the prone man. Oskar's body half rolled, half fell off the bed. Brastigan staggered as the weight landed against his knees. He sat down hard, kicking to free his trapped legs.

  “Well, we got him,” Brastigan said. “Pikarus, did you hear me?”

  Pikarus answered only with violent coughing. Gasping, Brastigan rolled over. He couldn't seem to get a breath of clean air. His whole body felt numb, and it was getting hard to think clearly.

  “Pikarus?” Brastigan's voice came out a sickly wheeze. “Lottres, we could use a hand over here.”

  Lottres screamed.

  “Pup!” Brastigan felt a rush of energy. He left Oskar for Pikarus to move—or not, as seemed more likely—and dragged himself over the floor toward the sound of his brother's voice. He didn't get far.

  * * *

  “Of all the idiots!” Lottres heartily cursed Brastigan, not caring if his brother might hear. “I didn't touch anything, he says. Did he think I wouldn't know?”

  A bout of racking coughs interrupted his angry litany. Then he crawled on. The air was slightly clearer as he got away from the bedside. Not that it mattered. The chamber was filling with smoke so quickly, they would all smother soon if they didn't get out.

  Lottres could sense Shaelen ahead of him, but something was terribly wrong. She lay still beneath the blanketing smoke. So still—and he couldn't sense her thoughts!

  “Shaelen?” Lottres reached her side. He shook her shoulder. “Wake up, I need you.”

  Then, all at once, Ysislaw was in his mind. The attack was so sudden, so savage he didn't have time to shield himself. Like a sword-thrust, the enemy's thoughts shattered his defenses. Lottres screamed. He felt himself trapped in an instant, a mouse pinned down by a cat. Ysislaw absorbed his name and his innermost being. All that he was, all that he knew, was swallowed in the maw of his enemy's power, and then spit out with utmost contempt.

  “So, another of Unferth's whelps,” Ysislaw said. His words were like knives, slashing at Lottres's mind. “And you think yourself a wizard. Pah.”

  Lottres was too stunned to summon a response, but it seemed that none was needed.

  “You thought you were so clever and careful,” Ysislaw sneered. “I merely allowed you to go free so that I could observe your movements.”

  Lottres writhed on the floor, struggling in mind and body. Ysislaw's horrible, malevolent laughter filled his consciousness.

  “And you, the loyal son, sought to rescue your brothers, including the very king who ordered you killed in Carthell. What a fool. But, if that is your wish, so be it. You sought poor, captive Oskar. I think it only fitting that you share his fate.”

  Lottres had the terrible feeling that Ysislaw enjoyed his helpless struggles. He lay still, panting.

  “I'll send someone along to collect you,” Ysislaw sneered. “Or your bodies, at least.”

  As suddenly as it had come, the evil presence was gone. The cessation of pain left Lottres limp, clammy with sweat. Exhaustion seemed to crush him to the floor, but the knowledge in his heart was worse. Ysislaw had set his trap with Oskar as the bait, and Lottres had led them right into it.

  Lottres knew he should do something. If only he had more training, his magic might set them free, but he couldn't summon the strength to move. The smoke closed in around him, and with it, oblivion.

  * * *

  Hours had passed since Pikarus and Lottres went on their search. Hours, and still no word. Therula had tried to sleep, but it was no use. The more time passed, the more certain she became that something had gone terribly wrong.

  It was dawn now. The maidservant had already been in to start her fire. Therula dressed herself in a formal gown, since she planned to be in court again after breakfast. She sat before the fireplace and stared at the flames without seeing them. Waiting. Just waiting. She had been doing this for weeks. It seemed much longer. Therula felt like a statue, stiff with the weight of lost time. A marble statue, with blue agates inlaid for her eyes and an elaborate dress painted onto the lifeless stone.

  How ironic that Pikarus's longed-for return had made things worse, not better! No matter what happened, Therula had assumed she could rely on her status to protect her. Now she knew that for a hollow dream. If the king himself was a mockery, there was no safety for anyone. Therula's high rank was suddenly meaningless. She had only her wits to protect her. Now she knew how Brastigan felt.

  If Brastigan still lived. Therula's mind swerved from that awful idea. If Brastigan was dead, Pikarus would be, too, and she couldn't bear to think of that. Therula didn't want to face life without him.

  Yet she knew all too well she might have to, and not because of mere politics. No, there was a darker, more terrible possibility. Therula didn't know if Pikarus had considered it, but she must. If the Silletsians won, Unferth's daughters would be easy prey for the invaders. With Therula alone, Ysislaw could establish a regime with the appearance of legitimacy. She would be made a queen of ashes and rubble.

  Such a thing must never be tolerated. And yet, what could she do? If this dragon had the black magic Pikarus and Alustra said, what hope of escape did Therula have?

  Outside, trumpets echoed from the towers of the keep. As Therula heard their shrill command, her heart gave a sickening lurch. Soldiers were being summoned. The battle was about to begin. Therula couldn't understand it. How could the Silletsians be here so soon? It should have taken them days more to cross Daraine! Yet there was no denying the trumpets' cruel message.

  Therula's knees creaked like a beldame's as she stood. With icy hands she lifted her cloak, tying it on as she strode along the corridor. Outside, it was a dreary, cloudy morning. A faint, foul odor rode a fitful wind from off the bay.

  There was a controlled chaos under that gloomy sky. Men poured from the barracks, buckling swords as they came. Horses, catching the fever, neighed and pawed the ground fretfully. Therula had never seen such a sight before. Crutham had been at peace all her life.

  Therula scanned the crowd, hoping against hope to see Pikarus or Lottres among the soldiers. She didn't, of course. She did see women running from the kitchens to bid their men farewell. The leave-takings had an element of hysteria, for the soldiers weren't merely going on a journey this time. They marched to war. Last time, Therula hadn't deigned to join them. She wis
hed, now, that she had.

  Miraculously, the confusion suddenly cleared into orderly ranks. Voices died away. Soldiers were looking toward the inner keep. Then, with a metallic whisper, the armored men knelt en masse.

  Their king descended the ramp from the inner keep. His brothers came after in a solemn file, Habrok and Calitar and the rest in surcoats of black. Someone among them carried the battle standard, but Therula couldn’t see who had been granted the honor.

  Oskar wore a magnificent harness. Therula had never seen her brother wear armor, although she knew he must own some. She had to admit he looked every inch a king. Silvery steel blazed, even under the heavy overcast. The vambraces and demi-greaves were inlaid with towers of jet and gold. The sword of Crutham hung at his side. On the helmet, two dragon horns made a magnificent display. Except that she knew those were no mere decorations.

  It was obvious this wasn't truly Oskar, now that she knew it. Therula could see the veiled laughter in the stranger's face as he received the homage of the assembled soldiers. He walked differently, too. Not strutting, as Oskar would, but almost prowling, like a snake that might strike at any moment.

  A white horse was led forward, draped in livery of Crutham's black and gold. The pretender sprang to its back, a bold move Therula guessed was calculated to impress the soldiers with his vigor and confidence. The horse snorted and hopped, as if it sensed what kind of creature bestrode it.

  “Men of Crutham!” the false king proclaimed. His voice echoed weirdly from the walls of the keep behind him. “How glad my heart is to see your brave faces. I have no fear of battle, for my dear brothers and you brave warriors ride with me. We shall be triumphant today!”

  Habrok led the assembly in a deafening cheer. Therula winced. Oskar spoke the absolute opposite of the truth, and was acclaimed for it. She could hardly bear to listen to him.

  “Come forth, Captain Garican!” cried Oskar.

  “I am here, your majesty.” Garican's voice cracked with nervousness. He stood straighter, as if that might conceal his lapse.

  “To you, loyal servant,” Oskar intoned, “I entrust my most precious loved ones, the flower of my realm. I leave them in your hands.”

  “I shall protect them with my life!” Garican vowed.

  “Of that I am certain,” Oskar responded. “Now we ride, men of Crutham. You know what we must do. Forward, my brothers. For Crutham, and victory!”

  Oskar urged his horse forward, though he moved slowly enough that he wouldn't leave anyone behind. Habrok and the others were also mounting. The soldiers were surging to their feet. Therula watched with helpless rage as the impostor led her brothers away. How brave they all were, how strangely beautiful. Her heart ached for them, deceived into following a traitor's orders. Most of them didn't even like Oskar, yet they stood at his side in this crisis. They would do what was right for Crutham, and the likely reward of their loyalty was death.

  “Are they really going?” A quavering voice startled Therula. She spun, to find Cliodora at her elbow. The youngest princess shivered in her nightgown. Her flaxen hair was unbound for sleep. Behind Cliodora were other shadowy figures. Unferth's daughters crowded the doorway with terrified curiosity.

  “Yes, they're going.” Therula extended her cloak to cover Cliodora, drawing her into a kind of embrace. Then she stepped back under the arch. The young women formed a circle around her.

  “It seems the fighting has reached Harburg,” Therula said. She did her best to sound calm about it. “The soldiers will go to defend us. Our own brothers lead them, so try not to be afraid. Now, all of you, go find your mothers. Get dressed and get into the keep. You'll be safe there.”

  “Can we bring a few things with us?” Orlyse asked. From her expression, Therula was certain she meant jewelry.

  “A few things.” Therula stressed the qualifier. “Then go to my mother. She will know what to do next.”

  The girls began to disperse, whispering among themselves. It was a sign of the crisis that they didn't argue about reporting to the queen. At any other time, this instruction would have brought a storm of protests.

  “What about you?” Cliodora whimpered.

  Therula turned deftly, so that her cloak was left on Cliodora's shoulders. The girl clutched it to her, still shivering.

  “Don't worry, apple blossom,” Therula assured her. “I'll be there, too. But first, can you do something for me?”

  “Of course!” Cliodora straightened slightly.

  “The queen wasn't here, I noticed,” Therula said. She could understand why Alustra would stay away, but she wished she hadn't. Alustra's failure to bid her own son farewell was sure to raise questions—and not the right ones. “When you get inside, you must tell my mother what the king said. Give her his exact words.”

  “I can do that.” Cliodora seemed relieved to have a job to do.

  “I know you can. Hurry now.” Therula gave her little sister a gentle push. Cliodora hurried inside.

  Therula turned back to the courtyard. She stared after the departing soldiers, with the banner of Crutham floating so bravely above their heads. She thought again about Oskar's speech.

  “I leave them in your hands,” he had said, meaning the royal women—Alustra, Therula, and all the others. In Therula's experience that phrase, “I leave it in your hands,” was a kind of code. The lords in council used it when they wished to be absolved of blame afterward. Oskar might as well have said, “If anything happens to them, it will be your fault, not mine.”

  Which implied that something was going to happen. Maybe the false king counted on Garican being too inexperienced to lead an effective defense, or maybe it was something else, but Therula knew in her gut he had some kind of surprise planned. After putting up with these intuitions for the past few weeks, she found she was coming to trust them.

  Under the circumstances, then, Therula thought she had better undertake a precaution of her own. She just hoped Captain Garican would be as easy to browbeat as he looked.

  RACING TO DISASTER

  He lay, unable to move, for what seemed a very long time. Awareness came and went. Lottres felt hard floor boards. His temples throbbed against them. Then he felt he was falling through the floor. He wanted to struggle, to fight for his life, but he had no energy, no will.

  A consciousness intruded into his dazed mind. Lottres shied from it, fearing Ysislaw's return, and fell into darkness. The being pursued him, steadied him. With relief, Lottres recognized Shaelen.

  “Come back to me, heart-brother,” Shaelen said. “You must return to your body.”

  “How?” Lottres managed.

  “Let me guide you,” Shaelen said. “I spoke of a spell to banish fatigue. Do you remember? This will also clear the poison from your lungs. I will show you how.”

  “All right.” Lottres was too disoriented to argue.

  Shaelen's presence enfolded Lottres with the security of a mother's embrace. He felt they were floating like thistle puffs, down and up and in and out, all at the same time. Yet his thoughts were coming clearer.

  They had been in Eben's tower. Brastigan had triggered a trap. Lottres remembered Ysislaw's boasting, and the horror of realizing the only person who knew where they were had left them to die. Smoke had overcome him. Shaelen, too. He remembered her lying terribly still. How could she be helping him now?

  “That was a ruse.” Lottres sensed gentle laughter as Shaelen answered him. “Remember, I was already meditating. I used that to protect myself. I heard Ysislaw say we were to share your king's fate, and I knew he was merely immobilized, not dead. I guessed that we wouldn't be killed, either.”

  “You're right.” Lottres had known it himself, that Oskar was still alive. He felt foolish for assuming the worst.

  “I'm sorry for your fear,” Shaelen said. “Tormenting you is what kept Ysislaw from sensing that I wasn't as unconscious as I pretended to be. I waited and listened. Ysislaw has left the keep again. The battle will soon begin. I don't think he has any eppa
gadrocca here. We can try once more to escape.”

  “This time, we'd better succeed,” Lottres said.

  * * *

  Therula leaned on the stone archway, watching the soldiers depart. She waited, considering how best to handle Garican. Trampling on Garican might be the most efficient approach, but it was exactly what the false king would have done. She didn't want to be like him. Besides, Garican still needed the little credibility he had.

  The soldiers were gone. The keep's outer gate closed with a thunderous clang. Therula missed her cloak's warmth as she moved toward where Garican was speaking with his squad leaders. The group broke up just as she reached them. Therula nodded in response to bows from soldiers hurrying away.

  “Captain Garican,” she called.

  “What—Oh, your highness!” Garican sounded rattled. Maybe he had understood more of what Oskar said than she thought. “Princess, you must get to the inner keep. That would be the safest place for you.”

  “Of course, Captain, but I need a favor,” Therula smiled winningly. “I know that Sergeant Pikarus's squad has returned from their journey. I would like to borrow them.”

  “Borrow?” Garican hesitated. “Your highness, we need every man on the walls.”

  “But Mother is concerned,” Therula said. It was only a little lie, she told herself. Alustra would never know how Therula had used her name.

  “Two squads have already been assigned to the keep, your highness,” Garican said. She supposed he meant that to sound reassuring. It came off a stuttering parody.

  “But we don't know them, and the king,” Therula couldn't bring herself to call him brother, “said you were to take the greatest care with our safety. Mother trusts Sergeant Pikarus more than most.”

  Garican paused again. Therula let her lower lip roll out, and fixed him with an earnest pout. She watched a dull redness creep up Garican's neck and into his cheeks. Therula took a step toward him, laid a hand on his arm.

  “Please, Captain,” she begged in a low, dramatic tone.

  Garican jumped as if her touch burned him. In an instant, his resolve crumbled. “If... I... Of course. Very well, your highness. Sergeant Pikarus and his men will report to you right away.”