Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  “Do you care for these children?” Ysislaw gloated. “Surrender, Ymell. Crutham is mine. Your grandson and your eppagadrocca are mine. You have no hope.”

  Ymell stood silent, struggling with feelings Lottres could only guess at.

  The gray mare lurched to her feet. She limped a few steps and stood with ears flattened, one rear hoof raised in the threat of a kick. Brastigan rolled on the pavement, groping for Victory, but Lottres felt Ysislaw's power reach out with brutal force. His will pinned Brastigan to the pavement.

  “What shall be their fate?” Ysislaw taunted. “I hold their lives in my hands. Choose, Ymell.”

  Lottres, suspended in the air, felt his chest constrict ever tighter. Darkness closed in on his vision. Yet no matter what happened, Ymell had to protect Crutham.

  “Maen, don't listen!” Lottres cried.

  “Oh, be quiet,” Ysislaw said with casual malice.

  Lottres reached out frantically for the only one who could help them.

  “Maess!” he cried. Yriatt must be here. He had seen her flying.

  Lottres was surprised to hear an answering roar from very nearby. He looked up through another gust of smoky wind. Yriatt glided behind the towers of the gate. Flames leaped from the opposite side of the wall, putting Yriatt and the gate into silhouette. The ram's drumming suddenly stopped.

  Yriatt landed on the wall, exactly where Ymell had been. Fire billowing from her mouth.

  “Die,” she said.

  Ysislaw turned toward her, raising a protective shield. As he did, he let the two princes go. With a startled cry, Lottres dropped toward the pavement. He fell hard, struck his head, and knew no more.

  * * *

  Brastigan fought the irresistible force that pressed him down against the cobblestones. He felt like an insect beneath a man's boot. It seemed impossible to free himself. Then, suddenly, he could move again. Brastigan rolled over, snatching Victory from the pavement. He stayed low and looked around.

  Ysislaw stood black against the dragon's flames, which stopped against an unseen barrier. Incredibly, he was laughing. Yriatt's fires died away, and Ymell's lightning crashed against the barrier. It didn't penetrate, either.

  Lottres lay on the pavement, face up, eyes closed. A trickle of blood ran into his beard. Brastigan felt his throat constrict. Lottres was all he had left.

  Dragon's fire exploded in his blood. Brastigan didn't plan. He lunged without thinking. Victory slashed in a high arc. Ysislaw started to turn, but too late. Brastigan felt the impact, heard a dull snap. The tip of Ysislaw's left horn flew off, spinning in the air.

  “You...” Ysislaw grated. One gauntlet groped at the broken stub of his horn. “Do you know what you've done?”

  “Yes, I do,” Brastigan grinned, giddy with success, mad with rage that Ysislaw had hurt Lottres. “Your horns are your power, and I've broken yours. You're nothing but a man, just like me.”

  “I will kill you,” Ysislaw said, a harsh whisper.

  “You've told me that before.” Brastigan laughed. “Come on and try it!”

  He raised Victory in defiance, but Ymell struck first. Lightning snarled in the air. Ysislaw's barrier shattered with a shriek like broken glass. The evil wizard staggered beneath the onslaught. For the first time in millennia, maybe, Ysislaw the conqueror screamed in pain and fear.

  “Well struck, Brastigan,” Yriatt's voice said in Brastigan's mind. She projected warmth and pride, which abruptly turned to ice. “Now get out of our way.”

  Prudence overcame pride. Brastigan retreated to Lottres's side. He bent over his brother, and was enormously relieved to hear a moan of pain. Lottres's eyelids fluttered—he lived!

  Yriatt landed, somehow making her dragon form fit into the courtyard. Ysislaw staggered as if trying to flee, but Yriatt sprang like a cat. Her talons slashed Ysislaw's steel hauberk like cotton cloth. She flipped him into the air, just as a cat tosses a mouse. He flew, spinning and screaming and shattered. Lightning roared upward from Ymell's outstretched hands. Then Yriatt's black head snaked up. She snatched Ysislaw from the air with a snap and a crunch. Then she shook her head and flung the limp body over the wall and out of sight. Ymell looked ready to follow and savage the corpse some more.

  “Hey!” Brastigan called to them. “I don't want to seem ungrateful, but this doesn't solve all our problems.”

  He gestured toward the barricades, where Habrok's fighters were being overwhelmed. The banner still stood, but you couldn't guess how long. The walking skeletons had gotten in with the archers, too. Even with Ysislaw dead, the Cruthans could still lose the war.

  “You are correct.” Ymell inclined his head to Brastigan. “Come, daughter. There is much to do.”

  Yriatt folded her wings, which became her robe. Black scales blanched into fair skin. She and Ymell strode toward the barricades. Lottres sat up, wiping blood from his chin.

  “I bit my tongue,” came his mumbled complaint.

  “What a crybaby,” Brastigan jeered, but he was quick to offer his hand. If Lottres had died, Brastigan might as well be dead, too. “Heal it and come on. This day isn't over, Pup.”

  * * *

  “Out of the way, girl!” Diona pushed Cliodora out of the connecting doorway, admitting a rush of servants and courtiers.

  “Stay back,” another voice commanded. Shaelen strode in from the corridor through the main door, which they never had managed to block off. “She is only stunned.”

  “Thank you,” Therula said. Her heart hammered in her throat, now that the emergency was past. “I didn't know what I would have... Mother!”

  Alustra pushed up on her elbow. Half her face was coated with blood. With a trembling hand, the queen wiped her eyes. She stared at her smeared fingers with horror. Therula's arms and legs felt shaky, too, but she managed to reach her mother's side.

  “It's all right,” Therula said. “Shaelen saved us. But come, let's move away.”

  “She struck me,” Alustra murmured. Her voice sounded strange and thick. “I remember that. The bottle...”

  “Come,” Therula urged. She took Alustra's arm and helped her stand.

  “How could she?” Alustra's voice was plaintive as a child's.

  “You can ask her later,” Therula said. “Help us, someone.”

  “Yes, Princess.” Servants stepped forward, led by Giselle, who took Therula's place.

  “This way,” Casiana fluttered anxiously. “Oh, Cliodora, do stop your screeching!”

  Cliodora did her best to obey, covering her mouth as she watched the servants lead Alustra toward the door. Therula let them go, looking anxiously toward Shaelen.

  “Is it safe?” Therula asked in a low voice. She glanced anxiously toward the outer corridor, for battle cries and the clash of steel came much louder through the half open door. “Do they need you?”

  “In a moment,” Shaelen said. Her eyes were fixed on Margura with strange intensity. “I want a word with this one.”

  “Why?” Therula asked. “Oskar isn't your king.”

  Before Shaelen could reply, Cliodora gave a yip of fear. Margura came to her feet, wild-eyed, her fingers crooked into claws. She looked ready to rush at Shaelen with her bare hands.

  “You witch! You've ruined everything,” Margura screamed.

  Margura sprang toward the knife, and staggered back as another blazing arc of lightning leaped from Shaelen's hands. Therula quickly put herself between Margura and Oskar.

  “This is on your own head,” Therula cried. How dare the faithless servant put blame on someone else?

  Margura ignored her. She glared at Shaelen. The Urulai woman's dark eyes gleamed with some emotion Therula couldn't name. Sorrow, perhaps, or bitter humor.

  “I spare you,” Shaelen said quietly, “for the sake of the life within you, but I warn you now to leave Brastigan alone.”

  “Him.” Shame and fury twisted Margura's face. “You would defend him? After he abandoned me? That miserable excuse for a man —.”

  “D
o not call him a traitor,” Shaelen replied. “After all he had endured, you met him with betrayal. You put him in the hands of his mortal enemy.”

  “He betrayed me first,” Margura shrieked back at her. “He gave his heart to someone else, after I told him not to forget me. So what if the wench is dead? I'm glad—she deserved it!”

  Shaelen took a step backward, her face reflecting incredulous shock. Her lips parted, but no words came. Therula stood wondering why Shaelen was so angry on Brastigan's behalf. Then Therula heard voices behind her. Some of the courtiers still watched from the doorway.

  “What, she's pregnant? Is that what this is all about?” Diona demanded.

  Therula remembered how sick Margura had looked the night before. Just now, she had complained of being maltreated and abandoned. Therula wondered if her mother knew of Margura's condition. Alustra hadn't acted like she knew.

  “Is this true?” Therula asked. “Margura, are you pregnant?”

  Margura's crimson cheeks gave the answer even before she hissed, “Yes.”

  “Well, if Brastigan got her with child...” Jenne began.

  “No,” Shaelen interrupted. “The father is someone named Alemin.”

  “Alemin?” Cliodora squeaked.

  “Isn't he married?” Diona laughed coarsely.

  “Diona!” Casiana rebuked. “The girls are here.”

  “So what?” Diona cackled. “It's nothing they don't know already.” Then she turned on Margura with fury. “So you've got a brat in your belly, and that means the kingdom must fall?”

  “Diona, stop,” Casiana pleaded. She tried in vain to push Cliodora out the door after Alustra. Now it was Lioda, Orlyse and Agiatta who stood gawking, blocking the exit.

  “Dear child, look around you.” Jenne stepped toward Margura, speaking gently. “There are four of us here who know exactly how you feel, and more down in the town. You could have come to any one of us.”

  “For what?” Margura straightened, sneering at them. “To be paid for and kept as a pet, while my children are pushed into the shadows? Maybe that was enough for you...”

  “We would have helped,” Jenne said, though she flushed at Margura's ungrateful words. “You had but to ask.”

  “She did ask,” Shaelen put in. “She asked the help of Ysislaw of Sillets, who offered a position of power when he had conquered Crutham.”

  “Shut up, you witch!” Margura screamed.

  She did leap at Shaelen then, but she met a wall of light before she touched her foe. Margura hung in the air for a moment, arms and legs jerking. Then she fell again, and this time she lay still.

  “Fool,” Shaelen said quietly.

  Diona stalked past the bed to rummage in Oskar's armoire. She emerged with a belt, and quickly began to bind Margura's hands. Meanwhile, Casiana and Jenne were murmuring together. Casiana seemed to gather her resolve. Then she stepped forward.

  “Let us care for her,” Casiana said to Therula. “With all respect, you don't understand how it is. Leave this to us.”

  “Perhaps I don't understand,” Therula acknowledged. “Keep her in her quarters for now. She must pay for what she's done, but since she was my mother's attendant I will let Mother decide what to do.”

  “Thank you,” Jenne said quietly. She and Casiana stood back while Diona directed the servants in carrying Margura from the room. As Therula watched them go, she almost felt sorry for Margura. The woman must have come to Harburg with high ambitions, willing to do anything to get what she wanted, but she had chosen the wrong path to advancement and now it was all ashes.

  Then Therula heard Oskar's breath catch as awareness began to return. She remembered her mother's bloody face. Therula felt no pity at all. She hoped Margura would have another of Diona's tongue-lashings before it all ended. Maybe more than one.

  Oskar voiced a painful moan. Therula turned to Shaelen again.

  “Can you help him?” Therula asked.

  The Urulai woman had been watching after Margura. Her expression didn't show vindictive triumph, as Therula might have expected, but rather a kind of startled joy. Shaelen started when Therula spoke. She made as if to join Therula at the bedside, but then stopped.

  “No,” Shaelen said, her face grave. “I will not help him.”

  “But...” Therula began to argue.

  “He is in no danger of dying,” Shaelen said.

  “We need him,” Therula insisted. “He is our king.”

  “Perhaps, but this man is as much a traitor as Margura,” Shaelen said. Her voice was calm, without malice, and her gaze was steady. “He conspired to kill his own brothers. Even the very men who saved him.”

  “No,” Therula murmured.

  “He said so in my hearing.”

  Something made Therula turn toward the bed. Oskar was awake, watching her. Instantly, Therula knew Shaelen was correct. Oskar showed neither guilt nor regret, only the defiant belief in his own righteousness.

  “He lied to your mother,” Shaelen went on, while Therula struggled for words. “He will try to lie again. You must not permit it. Accept nothing less than the truth.”

  Therula felt her heart drop, but she forced herself to stand straight. “I won't.”

  “I must go,” Shaelen said, and she returned to the battle in the corridor.

  Therula stared at Oskar with a strange sense of disconnection. He was her brother, fully blooded, and yet she felt she had never known him at all.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Their presence is an insult to our mother, and to me,” Oskar said, as if that made it all right. He extended his hand imperiously. “Help me sit up.”

  Suddenly Therula was too tired even to summon the proper feeling of indignation.

  “You really are a liar,” she said.

  Therula turned away to find Cliodora still lingering in the doorway. Her eyes were round as marbles. Cliodora moved to answer Oskar's demand, but Therula caught her arm and guided her out the door.

  “Therula!” Oskar cried, greatly wounded.

  Therula closed the door and left him there, alone, as he deserved to be.

  FACING THE FUTURE

  Shadow munched her grain and swished her tail, but her ears twitched restlessly as Brastigan gave her a rub down. Outside the stables, all was noise and hurry. Inside, it was quieter. The soothing ritual of water and curry comb helped to calm them both after the confusion of recent days.

  The past week had been tense, as Brastigan sat on Shadow's back and kept watch over the captured Silletsians. The bone men had fought mindlessly until destroyed, but there were other soldiers, humans from various Silletsian territories. Few of them had offered any resistance once Ysislaw was gone. They had been rounded up into hastily built stockades in the nearby fields. It was a greater task to keep back the vengeful townsfolk than it was to watch over those cowed and defeated men. The prisoners hunkered down, refusing to look at each other or their captors. Only those from the provinces had asked when they could go home. None who came from Sillets itself wanted to return there.

  None of the eppagadrocca had been captured, however. That could be because Yriatt, following her usual tactic, had made sure to burn them before going to aid Ymell against Ysislaw. Still, there were sure to be others left behind in Sillets. Without Ysislaw's control, who knew what they might do? The problem would have to be dealt with one day, Brastigan was sure. Personally, he thought it would be a boon to the world if the lot of them saw to each other. Crutham had already paid too dearly for her safety.

  For Ymell's prophecy had nearly come true. A year ago, Unferth had had twenty-two sons. Only eight now survived—if the younger lads hadn’t been picked off by assassins. Alemin's ship was overdue in Forix and presumed lost. Miswald had lost his sword arm, Leolin an eye. Calitar and Axenar's bodies had never been found in the muddy soup of the south wall. Eskelon lay as one dead, never knowing Sebbelon had gone before him. Even Ymell couldn't say when Eskelon might open his eyes again. Albrett remained in Carthell, and
they were welcome to have him.

  Oskar survived, though he would never walk without a cane. To Brastigan, that was the cruelest blow. Oskar, who had opened the door to this whole disaster, got to keep his throne and honors when so many others lost all. He complained of being tricked and held captive, but none of Unferth's other sons believed Oskar had suffered enough for his sins.

  Shadow tossed her head and stepped on Brastigan's foot, just hard enough to get his attention. Only then did he realize how harshly he had been brushing her.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Brastigan eased his toes out from under the mare's hoof. He finished his work quickly and gently. Shadow's ears and tail worked impatiently the whole time.

  “You're bored with Harburg,” Brastigan murmured. He patted her neck. “I know how you feel. I wish I could say we ride out tomorrow. We won't, but it will be soon. I promise.”

  “Bras?” Lottres's voice came into his mind, a sensation that no longer startled him. “Remember, you promised Therula you'd be on time.”

  “I will be,” Brastigan answered. He spoke out loud, and it felt funny, like he was talking to himself. Lottres's presence withdrew.

  Shadow whickered mournfully as Brastigan left the stables. It was late afternoon. The lowering sun slanted amber rays across the courtyard, where soldiers and servants went about their duties. Brastigan headed for the downstairs bath, to clean himself up now that his horse was cared for.

  Used to be, he would show up smelly just to bother Alustra. He didn't have the heart for it any more. Besides, this was Pikarus's and Therula's day. He owed those two his best behavior.

  * * *

  “I'm so excited,” Cliodora whispered, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

  Therula smiled patiently. “I know.”

  Golden sunlight streamed into Alustra's chambers, where the bridal party had gathered. Therula was aware of her younger sisters cooing over each other's finery, while a flock of servants dressed them and put up their hair. The eldest princess eyed herself in the mirror, taking in the details of her own appearance. Her hair was still bright gold, her eyes blue as the sea. You couldn't say she had changed, and yet she felt very different.