“Oh, thank you so much!” Therula beamed with breathless gratitude. “I'll go tell him.”
“I can send someone, “ Garican faltered.
“Oh, you're much too busy,” Therula insisted. In truth, she didn't want Garican to start searching for Pikarus, and realize he wasn't in the barracks with his squad.
“Thank you again, Captain,” she fluttered. “You've saved us.”
* * *
Peace flowed from Shaelen, washing through Lottres like a river. He was on the floor again, feeling faintly ill. As his senses returned he instinctively copied Shaelen, summoning that same cool cleanliness from within himself. The swirling current carried away poison and fatigue. He was left calm and rested.
Lottres opened his eyes in darkness. The thick smoke was still there, but it didn't seem to matter. Lottres rolled to his feet. He sensed the furnishings and faint warmth from three unconscious men. The lightless surroundings were no more important than the drugged haze in the air. Others, however, didn't have such an advantage.
“I'll look for a candle.” Lottres spoke softly, knowing Ysislaw might hear no matter how far off he was.
“And I'll get this door open,” Shaelen said. Lottres could feel her stand by the stirring of the air. “The others will need to breathe when we wake them.”
Pikarus had had the candle when they entered the room, so Lottres walked toward the bed. Once again, he noticed that it was harder to extend his senses as he drew nearer. Whatever the source of Ysislaw's blocking spell, it must be nearby. He could barely sense Shaelen at the door, to say nothing of the sluggish pulse of Brastigan's unconscious mind. Frustrated, Lottres resigned himself to relying on his normal sense of touch.
Fumbling fingers located Eben's headboard. He found the stand of twisted iron and a hollow shell of wax where one of the poisoned candles had been. No trace of heat lingered there. Lottres didn't trust himself not to trip over someone, so he circled behind the bed. A basin and pitcher rested on the flat top of the chest of drawers. At last, there was the candle.
Lottres sat on the edge of the cold mattress. His fingers traced the shape of the tarnished metal holder. The candle was a short stub, slightly greasy, with a brittle curve of wick on top. Lottres touched that gently, lest it crumble beneath his touch.
He held the candle before him and pictured it in his mind with the shapes his fingers reported. Then he imagined the flame, a yellow flower opening. Lottres focused his power and willed the fire to life. A little hiss, a brief crackle. A tiny round spark appeared like a golden pearl amid the false night. As it grew steadily, Eben's room emerged from nothingness.
Shaelen swung the door wide. She knelt and placed the wooden bar to block it open. Then her power gently stirred the air, trying to clear the fumes. It did little good.
“There's a trap door at the top of the tower,” Lottres said. “If you open that, it should set up a draft.”
Shaelen paused in the doorway, looking up the dark stairwell. “I don't sense any more guards,” she said. “This won't take long.”
Lottres nodded, and she slipped up the stairs. He carried his light around the bed again, and looked down on his fallen comrades. Two of them were right at the bedside. Pikarus lay half across Oskar, as if he had been trying to rouse the comatose king when the smoke overcame him. Brastigan was a little farther off, pointing toward the door. He must have been crawling toward Lottres when he collapsed.
“Like you could have done anything to help me,” Lottres murmured. Nevertheless, he felt touched that Brastigan had put his safety first.
A distant thump echoed down the stairwell. Shaelen had the trap door open. Almost at once, Lottres could feel air moving. Slowly, it carried the smoke from the room.
He looked down at the three of them a moment longer, trying to decide who to wake first. Oskar looked worst of the three. His face was a sickly color. But, Lottres thought, Oskar might not be able to walk right away. He might need the other two to help him along. Brastigan wasn't likely to be enthusiastic about such a chore—not that Lottres blamed him.
All in all, Pikarus seemed a sensible first choice. Lottres knelt so he could place both hands on Pikarus's back. As he set the candle down, a flicker of movement under the bed caught his eye.
Curiously, Lottres moved the candle up and down. Nothing. He waved it from side to side. Now he saw clearly: something under the bed was casting a shadow. He probed with his mind and felt nothing. Yet there it was, a regular black shape against the glow of candlelight.
Lottres put the candle aside. He groped under the bed and emerged with what looked like a brick. It was dark gray, roughly hewn, with a coarse, abrasive texture, yet it was strangely light. Even with his hands, Lottres hardly felt the weight.
He felt his pulse quicken. Could this brick be hollow? And did it hold inside it the spell Ysislaw used to block their senses? A crucial element of his plan, and Ysislaw had hidden it under the bed. Lottres let go a whisper of laughter. Why, any child in Crutham could have devised a better hiding place than that!
“Can't you wake them?” Shaelen asked.
Lottres started. He hadn't realized she had returned. Shaelen knelt beside Brastigan, feeling under his chin for a pulse.
“Can you feel this?” Lottres asked.
“Feel what?” Shaelen frowned.
“This was under the bed.” Lottres held up the brick. From her quick catch of breath, Lottres could tell she was thinking exactly what he was.
“May I see it?” Shaelen asked.
There was no closure on the outside. Lottres shook it, hoping to feel or hear something inside. Nothing. He held the brick up for Shaelen.
“It could be a type of puzzle,” she said, frowning thoughtfully. “Maess has one like it. In fact, I may be able to open this.”
“If you try that,” Lottres offered, “I'll start rousing them.”
Shaelen nodded, all her attention focused on the mysterious brick. Lottres turned back to Pikarus. Placing his hands on the soldier's back, he summoned peace and healing within himself.
* * *
The barracks were eerily silent as Therula entered. She was accustomed to a buzz of men and activity, but now found only beds and foot lockers along the walls. Untidy bedclothes and a scattered handful of darts hinted at a sudden departure.
“Javes!” Therula called. Her voice rang like a bell in the emptiness.
“Your highness?” Javes's voice floated down a flight of stairs to her left. She heard rapid footsteps above her.
Therula hurried up the stairs. She met Javes at the top landing. The rest of the squad stood in a loose cluster, watching them.
“He's not back yet,” Javes reported in a low voice. “I guess we'll be assigned to the walls, but I'm not sure how to explain —.”
“No, you're not,” Therula interrupted. “I've persuaded Garican to send you to the inner keep instead.” Javes opened his mouth to respond, but Therula raised her hand to silence him. “Do you know where Pikarus and Lottres went?”
Javes nodded.
“Go look for them,” Therula said. “I'll let Mother know what's happening, in case Garican asks her about it. We need to know if they've found Oskar.”
“At once, your highness.” Javes turned to beckon. The soldiers gathered their weapons and began to come over.
Javes sounded calm, but Therula saw in his face the depth of his loyalty to Pikarus. He understood what she wasn't saying, the intense need to know her beloved was safe. Therula swallowed against a hard knot in her throat.
“Please find him,” she whispered.
* * *
It was a surprise to wake up feeling refreshed and alert. Then again, he was surprised to wake up at all. After passing out in the choking darkness, Brastigan hadn't expected it. He blinked up at Lottres. His brother smiled at an unspoken jest.
“Yes, this is real,” Lottres assured him. “Another useful spell Shaelen taught me.”
“Thanks, then,” Brastigan said, and he
meant it.
He sat up slowly and raked the dark hair out of his eyes. Brastigan looked around warily. They were still in Eben's chamber. Pikarus stood at the door, sword drawn, listening for trouble outside. Shaelen sat cross-legged nearby. For once, she ignored Brastigan as she turned some kind of rock over in her hands with an air of complete concentration. Oskar lay on the floor beside the bed, as sickly and still as he had been when he was on it. As Brastigan watched, Lottres scooted over the floor to sit beside Oskar.
“Is he alive?” Brastigan asked.
Lottres nodded. He laid his hands on Oskar's chest.
“He lives,” Lottres said, “but...”
“Dung,” Brastigan put in.
Lottres smiled at that. “He's been imprisoned for a long time. You and Pikarus woke right up, but you'd only been asleep a few hours. Oskar may take some time to rouse.”
Time, Brastigan thought. Time—and Ysislaw could be anywhere, doing anything, all the while.
“How long have we been in here?” he asked.
“I'm not sure.”
Lottres's voice had taken on a vague, dreaming tone. If he was busy with his magic, Brastigan decided, he'd better just let him work. Shaelen looked preoccupied, too. Brastigan stood up, marveling again that he felt neither weakness nor nausea. He went to join Pikarus at the door.
“What time is it?” Brastigan asked.
“Well into daylight,” Pikarus answered. “I don't know for certain, but Lady Shaelen said the battle has already begun at the city gates.” His eyes turned to the two wizards, each rapt in their own magical problem. Pikarus murmured, “We need to go.”
“I'm with you.” Brastigan watched Lottres sitting beside Oskar. Nothing seemed to be happening, but Brastigan was learning that appearances were deceptive. Nothing happening could be everything happening.
Oskar showed no sign of rousing. Brastigan leaned against the door jamb and sighed. Then his eyes fell on the chest of drawers, with the ewer and basin on it. He stalked over and lifted the container. Something sloshed inside it.
Brastigan continued around the bed to kneel on the other side of Oskar from Lottres. “Mind if I try this the old fashioned way?” he asked.
Lottres's eyes focused briefly on the pitcher. “Fine,” he murmured. “Just don't drown him.”
“You take all the fun out of it,” Brastigan smirked. He dipped his hand into the ewer and splashed a handful of stale water into Oskar's face.
Oskar caught his breath. His eyebrows and hands twitched. With a perverse joy, Brastigan continued flicking water into Oskar's face.
“Rise and shine, you worthless —.”
“That's enough,” Lottres cautioned.
Oskar's head jerked. His eyes flickered open. In the wan candle light, their color seemed as muddled as day-old soup.
“Wuz goin' on?” Oskar raised a feeble hand to rub his wet face.
“We're trying to save your backside,” Brastigan snapped. “Wake up, or do you want more help?”
“Bras, stop,” Lottres lectured sternly. “Oskar, you've been under a spell.”
“I remember that.” Oskar sounded confused, like a frightened boy. “I was awake sometimes, but I couldn't... Why couldn't I move?”
“Because you were under a spell?” Brastigan suggested acidly.
“If you're going to act like this, I'll send you to wait with Pikarus,” Lottres warned.
“Good luck making me,” Brastigan retorted, but he did stand up and take the ewer back to its place.
Lottres gently told Oskar, “I've just released you from the spell. Can you sit up?”
Oskar clasped Lottres's hand. He groaned as he pulled himself up, shuddered, and leaned back against the bed. Oskar's skin had a bloodless, pearlescent quality in the dim light. He swallowed heavily and asked, “How did this happen?”
Brastigan felt a pulse of rage in his chest. It was all Oskar's fault, everything that had happened, and he had the nerve to play the pitiful invalid!
“Your partner played a little trick on you,” Brastigan bit out.
“Brastigan, go away.” Lottres pointed at the door.
“No, let him speak.” Oskar's voice was a little stronger, with some of its accustomed, lofty tone. “I must know the truth.”
Brastigan didn't wait for Lottres's permission. He dropped to his knees, so his face was mere inches from Oskar's.
“While you've been getting your beauty sleep, Ysislaw took your place. He's wearing your crown, sitting on your throne. Crutham is right in the palm of his hand. And you gave it to him,” Brastigan snarled.
He watched Oskar's face shift between arrogance and bewilderment, horror and shock. Oskar's eyes darted, assessing what this meant. Then he let them slide shut.
“He tricked me,” Oskar groaned, too weak to generate the righteous fury Brastigan knew he must be searching for.
“I already said that,” Brastigan replied without sympathy. “By the way, we know all about your plan to kill off our brothers.”
Oskar's eyes snapped open. “That is ridiculous.” He sounded sanctimonious, but his eyes were cat-cold.
Brastigan's heart seethed with fury, yet he felt perfectly calm as he aimed a punch at his brother's face. Lottres leaned forward to intercept his fist.
“You can't lie to me, Oskar,” Lottres said. “I'm a wizard, too, and I hear the truth in your heart.”
Brastigan jerked away. At least Lottres didn't bother to scold him this time.
“You?” Oskar gave a rusty laugh. Brastigan watched Lottres's face redden.
“Yes, me,” Lottres retorted. “How did you think I revived you?”
“Your highness! Your majesty!” Pikarus called from the doorway. “Please, we should move away from here.”
The three princes glared at each other. Then Oskar said, “I'll try.”
He extended a hand, clearly expecting someone to help him stand. Brastigan sprang to his feet and stalked away. Oskar was a traitor, both to Crutham and his own kin. Lottres could help the fool if he wanted to, but Brastigan would have none of it.
Before Oskar could respond, Shaelen exclaimed softly, “Ha.”
Brastigan pivoted toward her. Lottres's head turned, too. Shaelen had managed to push out a section of stone along one narrow side of her brick. She twisted the opposite end, and it slipped right off. As they watched, Shaelen shook the stone upside-down. A small, black object fell into her waiting hand.
“Is that it?” Lottres demanded. He turned completely away from Oskar, who let his hand drop with an annoyed expression. Brastigan prowled around the bed to where he could see what Shaelen held.
Shaelen nodded. “Yes, this is the center of the spell.”
It was a small thing, a bundle of coarse black thread twisted into a complicated knot. No, Brastigan saw as he bent closer, it wasn't thread. It looked like dried grass.
“Are you sure?” Brastigan asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” both Lottres and Shaelen answered together. Then Lottres asked, “Can you dispel it?”
“I don't know how,” Shaelen said. She turned the knotted grass in her palm, barely touching it with her fingers.
“If you ask me, you should just burn it,” Brastigan said.
“We could do that.” Shaelen looked up at him. For once, she didn't flinch. She actually seemed to be considering his idea.
“We might be able to learn from it,” Lottres protested.
“What Ysislaw has to teach, you don't want to learn,” Brastigan said. Lottres glared up at him.
“The problem is,” Shaelen said, “if we destroy this, the spell may become permanent. That is, no one would ever be able to see into Harburg with magic again.”
“The queen wouldn't mind that,” Pikarus remarked. Brastigan hadn't realized he had approached.
“I would,” Lottres objected.
While they hesitated, Oskar sighed dramatically, drawing all eyes back to himself. Immediately, Pikarus knelt beside him.
“Your maj
esty,” Pikarus said, “let me help you up.”
Oskar nodded and extended his hand. Pikarus dipped his neck, allowing Oskar to rest an arm across his shoulders. They straightened slowly, Oskar balancing against the soldier. His face was still ashen, but he seemed in control of his legs. Pikarus, who was slightly taller, had to walk bent over.
Lottres and Shaelen scrambled to their feet, she with the twisted grass still balanced on her palm. “Maybe I should just bring this with us for now,” Shaelen said.
Brastigan shrugged. He followed Oskar and Pikarus, making sure he didn't get too close so they couldn't demand his help. He was close enough to hear Oskar speak, though.
“Is it true?” Oskar asked, panting a little with the effort of walking. “Did Ysislaw take my place?”
As if Pikarus would tell him something else, Brastigan thought with disgust. Then he could ignore Brastigan and Lottres if he wanted to. But Pikarus gave Oskar no such satisfaction.
“I'm afraid it is true,” Pikarus said.
“Did you know he killed Father, too?” Brastigan interrupted. Despite the danger, he wanted to hear Oskar admit his guilt. It might not change anything, but he wanted to hear it anyhow.
“He did not.” Oskar dismissed the suggestion, but his voice held a tremor of uncertainty.
“Of course he did,” Lottres said, striding up beside Brastigan. “And you knew—but it was all to your benefit, wasn't it? It put you on the throne. That's why you didn't ask questions.”
“He was only supposed to kill Eben,” Oskar said.
Brastigan remembered all too well Ysislaw's bragging, how Oskar had begged for help when Eben revealed Oskar's conspiracy to Unferth.
“Oh, he did that,” Brastigan said grimly. “He just didn't stop there. You see, Ysislaw agrees with you that the royal heirs should be eliminated. It's just that you're one of us, too. He only kept you alive so he could control Alustra if she got any notions.”
Oskar didn't answer. Maybe he had to concentrate just on walking. Still, the less he said, the angrier Brastigan became.
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