The groom had told them the false king went out in a group with the other princes. Those were the ones Lottres needed to find. Habrok or Calitar must be warned of the treachery to come. Lottres longed for the pressure to ease, for his second sight to return. Without his clairvoyance, he had no idea where in the warring city they might be.
Frustrated, he broke his silence. “Where should we look first?” Lottres asked.
“What?” Brastigan snapped, distracted.
“Where should we look for Habrok?” Lottres amended.
“You tell me,” Brastigan shrugged. When Lottres gave an irritated sigh, he said, “No, I mean it. You can find them.”
“I've been trying, but I can't,” Lottres confessed. “It's driving me mad.”
The groom led Lottres's horse over to him. It was a knob-kneed bay with a white splotch down its nose. Left behind for good reason, Lottres thought. He took the reins anyway. It wasn't like he had his choice of horses.
“Do what you can.” Brastigan led his gray mare past, and Lottres followed. “We'll search the whole city if we have to. Let's hope your bag o'bones can keep up with Shadow.”
Outside the stables, weak daylight filtered through a layer of low clouds. Brastigan swung into the saddle. Lottres was about to do the same when he suddenly stumbled. Merciless pressure crushed his skull, as if he had put on a helmet that was too heavy for him. Then it stopped. Ysislaw's spell was gone!
“What's wrong?” Brastigan demanded.
From the inner keep came Shaelen's exultant call: “We got it! One of your sisters' maids untied the knot. The spell is broken.”
“I felt that,” Lottres answered.
“Pup?” Brastigan leaned over to shake his shoulder, but Lottres moved aside.
“They broke the spell,” Lottres told Brastigan. He climbed into the saddle and told Shaelen, “We're just leaving the castle.”
“Good luck to you.” Shaelen broke contact.
“So you can find Habrok?” Brastigan asked.
“I think so.”
Truth to tell, the sudden return of his clairvoyance left Lottres a little dizzy. He had been trying so hard, straining against Ysislaw's power. Now it was too much, too fast. Lottres urged his bay after Brastigan's gray and tried to sort through the din.
There was a roar of voices, coming and going like waves of the sea. It was broken now and then by horn calls, or the shrill cry of steel, or a lone man's voice. The darkness wasn't just clouds, Lottres sensed with growing dismay. Sheets of smoke drifted over the walls. Harburg was in flames, and magic was all around him, foul spells assaulting the walls. It seemed to come from everywhere.
“Who goes there?” a man called from the wall above them. Lottres could hardly pick out his voice from the chaos.
“It's us,” Brastigan yelled back. “Let us out!”
“The king has ordered these gates barred,” the man answered. That was Garican, Lottres realized. The newly made guard captain was trying to be a stickler for the rules, as if that could protect him from the approaching horror.
“I just woke up,” Brastigan cried, making an effort at humor. “They left without me, and I don't want to miss any of the fun!”
For once, Brastigan's reputation worked in his favor. Lottres saw men grinning above the gate. He chimed in, “Besides, Oskar said to keep the invaders out, right? He didn't say no one could leave. We're going to go fight at his side.”
Garican frowned. Lottres heard him thinking, “Here they come again, all these royal brats telling me how to do my job.” He caught an image of Therula in Garican's mind.
“I'm the greatest swordsman in Crutham,” Brastigan boasted, but his voice held an edge of desperation. “You can't keep me here at a time like this. My place is with my brothers!”
Remembering that Ymell had not compelled Johanz's cooperation, Lottres resisted the urge to force Garican's obedience. The captain relented on his own.
“On your own heads be it.” Garican turned away, irritably gesturing for men to raise the portcullis. “One less worry for me.”
Lottres tried not to hold that sour sentiment against Garican as they urged their horses forward. On the opposite side of the gate, Brastigan turned Shadow to face its towers.
“No, it will be on their heads!” he shouted back up at the walls. He gave a jaunty wave.
While Brastigan was strutting, Lottres looked out over beleaguered Harburg. Outside the keep, the overcast was even more oppressive. The very heavens seemed to press down like the lid over a boiling pot. Through veils of smoke, Lottres picked out the thick belt of walls. Beyond the battlements, the Silletsian army covered the fields like a dark, moving quilt. So many of them, Lottres thought with alarm. Even in the best of times, he didn't think Harburg's defenders equaled those numbers.
“What's burning?” Brastigan checked his horse beside Lottres.
“I think it's the harbor,” Lottres replied, for the smoke over Harburg was moving on a brisk sea wind.
Indeed, there was movement on the sea walls. The battle had been joined. Black smoke billowed up where ships burned at the piers. Others had shoved off, trying for safety. Lottres could hear the frantic slap of their oars. But dozens of long, lean galleys cruised the choppy water of the great bay, like sharks waiting to feed. There would be no escape from Harburg by sea.
“Where do we go?” Brastigan asked.
“I'm trying to figure that out,” Lottres answered.
Lottres didn't think Habrok would be at the harbor. He would have sent some of their brothers, perhaps Sebbelon and Eskelon. Habrok himself would be at the king's side, at one of the two gates—but which?
Then Lottres felt a surge of malevolent power. It was centered on the south gate. A queer glow lit the haze of battle. There was a rippling in the air. Then came a sucking gasp. One of the gate's towers sagged. At the gate, a commander was screaming orders. The voice might have been Axenar's.
“What's going on?” Brastigan demanded.
“They're turning it to sand,” was Lottres's grim reply.
Brastigan cursed. Lottres's stomach churned. Then the whole gate collapsed. Men screamed as they were swallowed in a tide of debris. Lottres felt as if he were being dragged down, too, into the cacophony of war.
“We can't stay here,” Brastigan growled.
Lottres clung to his brother's voice for stability. “I can't...” he gasped. “It's too much. I can't tell!”
“Steady up!” Brastigan shook Lottres's shoulder. “We'll have to make a guess.”
Strangely, his words helped. If it came down to logic, Lottres was good at that.
“What do you bet,” Lottres said, “Ysislaw has Habrok with him? He'll want to be sure what happens. Keep him in reach, just in case.”
“I'd take that bet,” Brastigan said. “Where's he, then?”
Lottres looked over the town again, feeling for the dull horror of his enemy's presence. Unlike Habrok, Ysislaw was easy to find.
“Bloody Square,” Lottres said.
“Naturally.” Brastigan urged Shadow forward. Lottres followed.
* * *
The peculiar cord Jenne had untied slowly burned to ash in the fireplace. Shaelen sat and watched it blaze for so long that even Cliodora got bored and drifted away. Suddenly, Shaelen stood up.
“They are coming,” she announced.
Therula practically felt the chill in the room at the portent of Shaelen's words.
“That can't be,” cried Agiatta from the window overlooking the inner courtyard. She babbled in her fear, “There's no one out there at the gate. We're safe, aren't we?”
Calm and purposeful, Shaelen strung her bow. Therula glanced at her, and then moved to lay a comforting arm over Agiatta's shoulder.
“It's best not to take chances,” Therula said.
“But...” Agiatta began to argue.
“What's the point of having a sorceress, if we don't listen to her?” Diona snapped. Shaelen walked toward the door, and Diona ca
lled, “Let her through, there!”
“It's all right,” Therula said. “Sergeant Pikarus and Lady Shaelen are here to protect us. We'll be quite safe.”
Hoping to cut off the discussion, Therula turned to look out the window. The sky outside remained just as gloomy as the atmosphere of fear in the queen's chambers. In the uncertain light, Therula saw a group of soldiers emerge from the arched portal that led up toward Eben's tower.
“Here they come,” Agiatta murmured fearfully.
With military precision, the soldiers jogged over to form ranks before the gate to the outer courtyard. Therula counted thirty men, including their officers. She tried to draw comfort from the familiar black surcoats with their tower device clearly visible. Thirty men wasn't a great number, but over a hundred more were positioned on the outer wall. Even if they took losses in combat, the remaining soldiers would retreat to the keep, bolstering the force within.
The soldiers' leader stood before them briefly. He must have been speaking, but Therula couldn't hear through the closed window. At his curt gesture, a handful of men trotted into the gate towers. The rest began to move toward the ground entrance to the keep. This brought them almost directly under the window where Therula and Agiatta stood.
“Those are our troops,” Agiatta muttered irritably. “Some sorceress. Huh!”
Something about their grim faces and the way they hefted their shields made Therula anxious. Then she heard a faint, rhythmic clicking. The iron bars of the portcullis began to drop toward the ground.
Why was the gate closing? The men outside wouldn't be able to retreat. Therula's heartbeat quickened as a terrible idea sprang into her mind.
“Shaelen?” Therula turned, hoping the Urulai woman would refute her, but the door to the corridor was closed.
Trying to hide her fear, Therula pushed through the crowded room. She had trouble getting into the hallway because it was full of Pikarus's men. Barrels and spare furniture were stacked high in a barricade. The gleam of polished wood and fine fabric seemed out of place beside crates full of turnips and cabbages.
“Princess, stay inside,” Javes began.
“Where's Pikarus?” Therula asked, but she did stop in the doorway.
“Here.” The reply drifted to her through a wall of armored men.
“I saw them,” Therula called. She tried to stay calm, not just blurt it out like Cliodora would. “They're wearing our uniforms!”
Javes's expression remained grim, but he didn't seem surprised.
“Ysislaw's brought in his own men,” Pikarus answered. “We knew from what Brastigan told us.”
“Did you see how many?” Javes asked.
“About thirty.” Therula felt a little better that she could help at least this much. “Some of them stayed at the gate. And you should know, they've shut us in. Even if Garican figures out what's happening, he'll have to fight through them before he can help us.”
The soldiers nearby exchanged grim glances. These odds weren't in their favor. They all heard the tramp of armored footsteps approaching.
“Get back inside,” Pikarus said. “Keep everybody calm, but block the doors.”
“I will.” Therula shut the door with ominous footsteps thrumming in her ears.
Once again, all eyes were on Therula as she slipped back into the queen's chamber. She reflected on the grim reality as she bolted the door. This room held only women. There were no men at all. If Pikarus fell, they had only themselves to rely on. Therula wished her mother would come back, but Alustra was still in Oskar's room.
“We will barricade this door,” Therula announced. She gestured to the servants. “Bring those beds over here.”
Moments of chaos followed as the servants hurried forward to obey. One of the older women, Giselle, took charge and started them all pushing Alustra's armoire toward the door. It was the largest piece of furniture, and heavy with the clothing inside. Claw feet moaned in protest as they moved it. The remaining courtiers and princesses stood back, murmuring among themselves.
Therula jumped as muffled shouts came from the hallway behind her. There was a great clatter, like hailstones against the window, but she knew it was the beat of steel on steel. Everyone froze for a moment. Then the servants redoubled their efforts, stacking temporary beds in the front of the armoire.
“What if they come in here?” Cliodora quavered, clinging to Casiana, who looked nearly as frightened. “What can we do?”
Therula didn't know how to answer. What were they supposed to do, if Pikarus and his men failed?
“Grab something heavy,” Diona answered darkly.
Then, through the hurry and noise, she caught a furtive movement. The door to Oskar's chamber had just been open. It closed slowly, as if someone wished to avoid being seen. Therula felt her heart skip again. Her eyes darted, searching the throng. She didn't see her mother coming into the room with news. Margura wasn't there, either.
For moment, Therula felt foolish for her anxiety. Margura was Alustra's attendant. She might have gone in to tell the queen what was happening. Besides, her link with Oskar was clear enough.
Then Therula swallowed heavily. Margura's link was with the other Oskar—the pretender. That must be what Shaelen had meant.
“Sister?” Cliodora asked again.
“In a minute,” Therula called over her shoulder. She ran to the connecting door. Resisting the urge to fling it wide, she opened it just enough to see through.
Except for the thunder of battle just outside, the room was very quiet. Oskar lay on the grand bed. Pillows propped him up. The glow of many candles gave his face the look of parchment, so pale and lined. Alustra stood on the opposite side of the bed, hands clenched at her sides. Margura was there, as Therula had suspected. She held a basket, and was just rising from a curtsey.
“I don't know, madam,” Margura said demurely, apparently answering a question from Alustra.
It all seemed innocent, yet Therula found herself stiff-legged with rage as she stalked into the room.
“I do,” Therula said. Her voice was brittle. “They are Silletsians, disguised as our own men. Pikarus and his squad are holding them off.”
“Silletsians,” Oskar said bitterly. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the candlelight troubled him. Alustra looked as if she had something to say, but held her peace.
Meanwhile, Margura bent forward over her basket. She drew a dark green bottle from its depths and poured a flagon, which she offered to Oskar.
“Drink this, your majesty,” she murmured soothingly. “You will feel better.”
“What is that?” Therula demanded.
With gentle patience, Margura said, “I have merely brought a share of the food the staff provided. I thought his majesty might like some breakfast.”
Therula stared at Margura, trying to find something sinister in her words.
“Close the door, daughter,” Alustra murmured tightly.
Frustrated, Therula turned to obey. Looking toward the door, she realized this room was unprotected if the enemy broke through. Maybe that was something she could use, Therula thought. Bring in a bunch of servants to block the door, and Margura couldn't do whatever it was she had planned.
“Mother, we should —.” Therula began. Then she saw Oskar listlessly accept Margura's cup. He raised it to his lips. “No!”
Startled, Alustra and Margura turned to Therula. She ran to the bedside.
“Don't drink it!” Therula cried. “You can't trust her!”
Oskar swallowed what was in his mouth. “Of course I can,” he answered with a shadow of his former arrogance. “Margura works for me, dear sister.”
Alustra began to scold, “Therula...”
“Oskar, listen to me.” Therula trembled, controlling the impulse to slap the green bottle out of Margura's hand. “You cannot trust this woman. She serves the enemy!”
Margura ignored Therula. She offered Alustra a second flagon. “Your majesty?”
Alustra didn't tak
e it. She stared at Margura, perhaps wondering if her loyal attendant could really be a traitor.
“Think, Mother,” Therula urged. “As soon as Father was gone, she turned to Oskar. I'll bet they were very close.” Therula glared at her brother. Oskar sat still. The flagon Margura had given him was poised at his lips.
“Then somehow Oskar was replaced,” Therula went on, “and she started telling you how old you were, that nobody needed you. She kept you in your rooms, all to help the usurper push you out of public view.”
“Your highness is overwrought,” Margura reasoned. “You speak without thinking.”
“I do not,” Therula faltered, a weak rejoinder. She longed to shout that Margura had been with Brastigan as soon as he returned, and he had been in chains before the day was out. She swallowed those words, knowing it would be a mistake to mention any of their half-brothers.
“Your majesty,” Margura turned, appealing to king and queen as one. “I beg you not to listen to this. Can you truly credit me with such sinister designs?”
“I don't know what to think,” Oskar said. He sounded very tired as he put Margura's flagon down on a bedside table.
“In his hour of emergency, can you afford to take chances?” Alustra asked with cool pragmatism.
“No,” Oskar agreed. His expression was set. “Leave us, Margura.”
“Your majesty!” Margura gasped. Trembling, she clutched the flagon Alustra hadn't taken in one hand and the empty bottle in the other.
“Come, you heard the king.” Therula spoke sharply in her relief. “Out with you!”
Therula reached for Margura's elbow, prepared to pull her away, but Margura whirled and dashed the contents of the flagon right in Therula's face.
“Oh!” Whatever was in the glass, it burned Therula's eyes like fire. She blotted her face with her sleeve and cleared her eyes just in time to see Margura swing the empty bottle at Alustra's head. There was a horrible thud. Alustra fell to her knees with a groan.
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