“You know, I can understand why you'd take Rickard down,” Brastigan went on. “He did plot against you with his uncle. And Mathas was always better looking, so maybe you were jealous of him. But why kill Luvan? He was just a boy.”
“He was a threat to me,” Oskar replied absently.
“He was a poet!” Brastigan choked, fists clenched at his sides.
Oskar stopped, swaying as he leaned on Pikarus.
“You're all threats to me.” Oskar met Brastigan's eyes without flinching. In that moment, he looked very much like Alustra and nothing at all like Unferth. Oskar said, “I could never be secure in my position with a pack of mongrels lurking around. You attract intrigues like flies. There was always someone looking at you, wondering who was the strongest and scheming to bring me down.”
Oskar spoke with outrage, as if he considered himself the victim.
“You are so full of it,” Brastigan snarled.
“We're your brothers,” Lottres added sternly. “We came when you needed us. If we hadn't...”
Oskar laughed at him. “I never knew you were such a dreamer.” There was color in his face again, and his eyes blazed with years of concealed fury. It seemed his hatred gave him renewed strength, in spirit if not in body. “I did what I had to for the stability of the kingdom. I only regret that my man-of-work missed his mark.”
Brastigan stopped short. It was impossible to miss his meaning, that Oskar had hired the assassin in the Dead Donkey. He supposed he should have known it from the beginning.
“Your majesty, please save your energy.” Pikarus spoke with perfect courtesy. You had to know him as well as Brastigan did to sense his complete contempt.
Pikarus started walking, half pushing Oskar along with him. His action had kept Brastigan from swinging at Oskar, king or not. Maybe he knew it. Pikarus shot Brastigan a warning look over his shoulder. The two princes trailed after, walking stiff-legged with fury.
“Is it too late to put him back to sleep?” Brastigan muttered to Lottres without real hope.
“Don't tempt me,” Lottres answered.
“Wait!” Shaelen cried just as they reached the door.
She spoke too late. Brastigan heard shuffling steps in the stairwell. A moment later, armed men burst in the door. Brastigan glimpsed black surcoats, and the gleam of metal from hauberks and helms. Pikarus gave a cry of alarm. Brastigan jumped forward, drawing Victory. He heard Lottres coming after. They were helping Pikarus, Brastigan told himself. Pikarus deserved it, even if Oskar didn't.
It turned out not to matter. The lead attacker stopped, flung out an arm to hold the others back.
“Sergeant!” A familiar voice exclaimed.
“Javes.” Pikarus looked around from trying to steady Oskar and draw his own weapon at the same time.
Javes sheathed his sword and stepped forward. A group of Crutham soldiers filed in behind him. Javes nodded to Brastigan and Lottres. “I see you found them.”
“Yeah.” Brastigan let Victory slide back into her sheath. “Give Pikarus a hand, would you?”
Javes beckoned, and two of his men stepped forward to support Oskar. Pikarus straightened gratefully.
“Is that the king?” another soldier murmured.
“Yes,” Lottres said. “This is the true king.”
As the soldiers began to kneel, Oskar snapped crossly, “Don't do that! Form up, and let's get out of here.”
“Oh, yes, your majesty,” Brastigan sneered. “I would never have thought of escaping by myself.”
Some of soldiers looked at Brastigan uncertainly, but they did as Oskar said. Soon they were moving down the stairs. Pikarus, Javes and Brastigan went first. Most of the soldiers came next, surrounding Oskar, and then Lottres and Shaelen.
“It's good to see you,” Pikarus said to Javes, “but what are you doing here?”
“Princess Therula sent us,” Javes replied. “She was worried when she hadn't heard from you and then everybody left.”
“She was right to worry,” Pikarus said. “We fell into a magical trap. Did you say everyone left?”
“Yes. The Silletsian army appeared during the night, pfft—” Javes made an upward gesture “— like mushrooms. They were hammering at the town gates before dawn. King Oskar led the princes and our armies down there. At least, we thought it was him.” He glanced uncertainly over his shoulder.
They had reached the lower landing. The door stood open. Brastigan motioned to Pikarus, and they went through with swords drawn. No guards were in sight. An empty passage stretched before them. A short way down, another stairway opened to the left, leading down. Distant noises suggested the panicked evacuation of the keep.
“All right,” Pikarus called. Javes and his men filed out slowly, with Oskar in their midst. Brastigan drew Pikarus to the side. Ymell had warned him, less than a day ago, to stay away from Ysislaw and let the dragons handle their own. With Ymell absent, it looked like Brastigan got the duty after all.
“If Ysislaw's gone to the gates,” Brastigan said, “that's where I'll go, too. Someone has to warn Habrok. Pup,” he called, “are you with me?”
“Yes.” Lottres's reply came ringing down the stairway. He didn't even ask what they were talking about.
“Do you want my squad?” Pikarus asked.
Brastigan shook his head. “I'd love to have you, but you'd better stay here. Remember what I said? There are at least two Silletsians running around in Cruthan uniforms. Probably more than that. You'd better get Oskar to his chambers and block yourselves in.”
“The princess wants us to guard Queen Alustra,” Javes remarked from across the corridor.
“They're probably together,” Pikarus said. “If we take his majesty to Alustra, we can defend all of them at once.”
“Good,” Brastigan said. The last of the soldiers emerged from the stairwell. Lottres and Shaelen came out last. He said, “Let's go, Pup.”
“What should I do?” Shaelen asked.
Brastigan paused, staring at her. There was no more time for holding grudges, he knew, but he still felt a familiar ache inside.
“Bras,” Lottres began to scold.
“If I may,” Pikarus interposed, as usual. “I'd like to have a witch with us, too. Lady Shaelen, would you mind?”
She shrugged, trying to pretend the rebuff didn't bother her. Brastigan turned from her hurt-doe eyes to clout Pikarus on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” he said. “Take care.”
Brastigan strode past Oskar without a word and started down stairs at a run. He immediately had to stop at the bottom of the flight. The level below was crowded as servants and nobles evacuated into the inner keep from the outer parts of the fortress. Brastigan paused, waiting impatiently, to let a pair of heavily laden serving men pass by. Lottres caught up with him.
“You know it's not her fault,” Lottres began, aggrievedly.
“Don't start on me,” Brastigan said. “I just can't deal with her right now. We have one big problem in front of us. I have to worry about him. Anything else will have to wait.”
“How long?” Lottres persisted.
Brastigan didn't answer. He darted across the corridor when a clear spot offered itself, and started down the next flight of stairs. As they descended, they passed a half -dozen soldiers coming up the other way.
The one good thing about the situation was that Brastigan and Lottres should be able to move freely, just two more armored men among many. If someone was looking for them, they should be hard to spot.
“I hope you're right,” Lottres said, following Brastigan's thought as usual. “We don't have time for any more delays.”
Tangles and Ties
“Let go of me!”
Both Therula and her mother turned sharply as Oskar's strained voice cut through the babble in Alustra's chamber. The two women had been standing near Alustra's fireplace, trying to look calm and in control while surrounded by the tumult of evacuation.
“I tell you, I can walk!” Oskar insist
ed irritably. His voice came from the corridor just outside the queen's chambers.
Heads turned all over the room, now. Alustra abruptly strode away, leaving Therula flat-footed. Therula couldn't see her brother through the crowd of courtiers and servants. Still, her heart thudded in her chest. If Oskar was back, then...
“Your majesty, please let us help you,” Pikarus said.
“I'm not an invalid,” Oskar snapped.
Therula sank down on the warmth of the hearth, ignoring a serving maid who was trying to put wood on the fire. She had been standing stiff all day, as if that could really make her stronger. Now Pikarus was back. He sounded so like himself that she knew he wasn’t injured. Relief left Therula weak. Her heart pounded with the force of panic she had been holding at bay.
“Sister, what's wrong?” Cliodora, who had been holding hands with her mother in a girlish gesture of dependence, rushed to Therula's side. Casiana was dragged behind, barely able to keep pace. Questions tumbled from Cliodora's lips: “Is that Oskar? Is he hurt? Are they already fighting outside?”
“Shush!” Casiana said. “It's too soon for that.” Casiana was fair and delicate, pretty as a flower and about as sturdy. In this crisis she looked little older than her daughter, and nearly as fearful.
Therula opened her mouth, but then closed it, no word spoken. Faces all around her were pinched with worry. Princesses, concubines and servants, looked to her for reassurance, and she didn't know what to say. Alustra wouldn't want her to burst out with news of the imposter in Oskar's place, yet it would be hard to avoid questions. Oskar had just left to fight at the city walls. Now he was back again. How was Therula supposed to explain it?
Meanwhile, everyone interpreted her relief as a terrified swoon. That, at least, she couldn't allow. Therula stood up.
“I'll have to ask Mother,” she announced. Truth to tell, she couldn't bear another moment without seeing Pikarus.
Therula made her way toward the door, though the crowd made swift movement impossible. Servants were bringing in furniture and baggage for the six princesses who had gathered in the queen's chambers. In addition to Casiana, Jenne and Tioma were there with their daughters. These were the last of Unferth's paramours who hadn't married and still lived in Harburg.
It had always been difficult for Alustra to accept her rivals, yet she tolerated their presence thus far. Perhaps Unferth's death made their rivalry meaningless. Whatever the reason, Therula was glad. She had no heart for her usual responsibility of pacifying jealous tempers.
Therula arrived in the doorway to see Alustra and Oskar in the hallway. Oskar stood between two soldiers, wobbling as he resisted their efforts to support him. Pikarus stood behind them. Shaelen was with him, but Therula hardly noticed. Her eyes were fixed on her beloved.
“Oskar.” Alustra's voice, choked with emotion, drew Therula back to the drama before her. The queen had her hands on Oskar's shoulders. She stared into his face, as if she could see that he was who he seemed.
“Mother, please.” Oskar's face was pale, almost grayish. His eyes burned a fevered blue. Only they seemed truly alive.
“My son.” Alustra's hands trembled as she drew Oskar to her, kissed him briefly.
Just for a moment, Oskar leaned on her. The faintest tremor was in his voice. “I'm fine, Mother, but please, I've got to sit down.”
“Of course. We have much to talk about.” Alustra drew Oskar down the corridor, gesturing for someone to open the door ahead of them.
Therula stood aside, letting the soldiers pass, before she edged her way to Pikarus's side. She embraced her beloved, not caring any more who saw or what they thought.
“Javes found you?” she murmured.
“It's good you sent him,” Pikarus said. “We ran into some problems. Once the king is comfortable, I will make good on your word and prepare to defend these chambers. Lady Shaelen has agreed to aid us.”
He clasped Therula's hand briefly and stepped away. Reluctantly, she allowed him to go. For the moment, Therula was satisfied to know Pikarus was alive. Of future perils she would not think too deeply. Therula turned to Shaelen.
“We appreciate your help,” she said. “We have gathered in my mother's chambers. Please join us.”
“Very well.” Shaelen's dark eyes darted, taking in her surroundings. Princesses and paramours crowded the doorway. Among them, Therula saw Margura.
“Was that... the king?” Margura asked. Ever the hopeful sycophant, Therula thought.
“Yes,” Therula said. She spoke clearly, for all to hear. “So far as I could see, my brother isn't wounded. However, the queen is with him to give her counsel. I am sure she will advise us when the king can take visitors.”
The anxious crowd pushed back slowly. Margura went with them, wearing a petulant expression. Since Oskar's chamber was adjacent to Alustra's, Therula had no doubt Margura would contrive to slip away. Remembering Pikarus's suspicions, Therula resolved to find the queen's brazen attendant some pressing duty.
Unexpectedly, Shaelen leaned closer to murmur, “You cannot trust that one.”
Therula nodded, trying to conceal her surprise. She gestured toward the doorway. “Will you please join us?”
There was a lot of worried chatter about Oskar's haggard appearance, but Shaelen's entrance created a further scandal. With so much happening, Therula had almost forgotten the Urulai woman's unkempt hair, her barbaric leathers and weapons. The courtiers gawked. Some curled their lips in disgust. Margura, who had the least reason for pride, edged away as if the brush of Shaelen's arm might soil her clothing.
Recalling her own first reaction, Therula didn't blame anyone for their shock. Nevertheless, it was wrong to scorn somebody who had come to help them.
“This is Lady Shaelen, from Hawkwing House,” Therula announced. Her throat felt tight with loud speech and emotion. “She has come to aid us in our time of need.”
A few of the bystanders made scanty curtseys toward Shaelen. Others looked ashamed of their staring, or merely returned to their fretful conversations. For her part, Shaelen's stiff shoulders showed her discomfort at being the center of attention. After a moment's hesitation, she crossed the room to sit on the hearth where Therula had been just moments ago.
More serving women entered the room, carrying trays of rolls, sliced fruits and cheeses. Therula stood aside to let them pass. This would be all the breakfast most of them had, until an emergency kitchen could be set up. Therula accepted a bit of cheese and nibbled without tasting it. She glanced behind her, making certain Margura was accounted for. Then she strolled slowly back toward the hearth.
Shaelen ignored the food offered by a passing servant. Her hands, cupped before her, held something small that Therula couldn't see. Whatever it was, Shaelen was concentrating hard on it. Nearby, Therula noticed Cliodora edging over toward the hearth. The youngest princess still held her mother's hand, but her face was alight with curiosity.
Therula moved to intercept her little sister, but Shaelen looked up. Her dark eyes warily examined the intruder.
“Excuse us,” Casiana murmured. She tried without success to pull her daughter away. Rather than being abashed, Cliodora took Shaelen's notice as an invitation.
“Are you going to fight?” the girl asked, leaning still closer.
“If the battle comes here, I will,” Shaelen answered.
“Why?” Casiana burst out, appalled. “Let the men do it. It's their job!”
“They will do it,” Therula interrupted, aware of those who lingered nearby, listening. “Captain Garican will do his duty. Sergeant Pikarus is here, too. You need have no fear.”
Shaelen glanced between Therula and Cliodora, who regarded her with great admiration. She seemed to weigh her words carefully.
“Cruthan ships once carried the exiles from Urland after its fall,” Shaelen finally said. “Honor demands that we help you now.”
“And we appreciate it,” Therula reiterated, in case anyone was in doubt of Shaelen's welcome.
Casiana seemed little mollified, but Cliodora continued leaning forward as far as their linked hands would permit.
“What is that?” she asked, nodding to whatever Shaelen held in her two hands.
“There is magic in it,” Shaelen replied. She pitched her voice lower, though Therula doubted she was hiding anything. The room was too small, too crowded. “If I can undo the knot and break the spell, that would be of great help.”
Magic? Despite her intention to set a good example, Therula had to take a look herself. In the sorceress' calloused hands lay a twisted strand of some coarse, prickly-looking twine. It was dark, almost scorched. The strands curled in on themselves until you couldn't make out one end from the other.
Without thinking, Therula said, “If it's tangled, perhaps Jenne could help. She is a seamstress.”
“That's right,” Cliodora exclaimed. She turned to call out, “Auntie Jen, Auntie Jen!”
“Yes, I'm right here,” Jenne said. She and Frella were standing just on the other side of Casiana. Jenne had her sewing basket over her arm, as always.
“Calm down,” Casiana scolded. Cliodora, of course, didn't listen.
“Can you undo this?” she asked Jenne, gesturing toward Shaelen's knot.
“Let me see it.”
Therula stepped back, allowing Jenne to come closer. Jenne leaned forward to see what Shaelen held, fishing absently in her sewing basket. Meanwhile, Therula had the sudden feeling she had been distracted by something trivial. She glanced around sharply, relaxing only when she caught sight of Margura assisting some of the servants in spreading sheets on the temporary beds.
Then she turned, eyeing the small door that connected Alustra's chamber to Unferth's—now Oskar's chamber. It was ironic to be keeping Margura away when she longed to slip through herself. Therula wanted to talk to Oskar, to find out what had happened to him and how it affected Crutham's defense, but she was trapped here along with the others. Trapped by her own words.
* * *
Brastigan worked furiously, throwing saddle and bridle onto his Urulai horse, while an agitated groom prepared a spare mount for Lottres. Except for the jingle of harness and slither of feet over straw, the stable was very quiet. Lottres rubbed his ears, though it did little good. Ysislaw's spell, which blocked his clairvoyance, was stronger than before. He felt as if he had a head cold, with congestion turning his head to a solid block of wood.
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