Too Many Princes

by Deby Fredericks

  Therula wore a simple gown for her wedding, creamy pink with an overdress of lavender velvet. An embroidered pattern of blackberries and doves ran along the sleeves and skirts as a unifying theme. Therula had deliberately chosen these gowns for the simple lines of the Cruthan style. No more foreign influences for her! As a last touch, Therula tucked her embroidered glove through her belt. At last she could wear it as the symbol of fidelity she had meant it to be, before Ysislaw's odious bet.

  “Aren't you happy?” Cliodora asked, picking up Therula's somber mood. “You should be!”

  “Of course I'm happy,” Therula said. “After everything that's happened, I can't believe it's finally real.”

  Therula admitted to herself what she couldn't say aloud, that she feared Oskar might still change his mind. What if he refused to let her marry Pikarus? Until the ceremony was complete, she could not relax.

  “All right, young ladies,” Alustra called. “Line up and let me see you.”

  Cliodora gave Therula a quick hug, and ran to her place. The six princesses, Orlyse, Leoda, Alista, Agiatta, Frella and Cliodora, formed a line from oldest to youngest. They tried to stand quiet and demure while the queen inspected them, but the young women couldn't help exchanging excited glances and giggles of anticipation.

  Even Alustra, Therula thought, couldn't find anything to criticize in the girls' attire or their presentation. With a war just over, no one was wearing anything really extravagant. They had all adapted existing garments, even Therula, who had been working on her gown with Jenne before Pikarus and Brastigan even left on their journey.

  It was all quite proper. Still, Alustra's expression was clouded as she reached her own daughter. They stood uneasily for a moment, neither speaking. Alustra's eyes searched Therula's face. The queen's expression showed regret, imminent sorrow—everything Oskar ought to show, but never deigned to. Since he didn't compromise, neither would Therula.

  Slowly, Alustra lifted the veil attached to the coronet in Therula's hair. She let the filmy black fabric fall over her daughter's face. Along the line, the girls began to whisper excitedly as the servants did likewise for them.

  Alustra and Therula turned together, no word spoken. They left together, followed by the procession of princesses. The corridor had been scrubbed clean of blood stains. Its floor and walls practically glowed. However, the servants hadn't yet been able to remove the scorch marks that snaked along the ceiling, showing how Shaelen's lightning had decided the battle.

  Now that she and Alustra weren't looking at each other, Therula felt a surge of her own regret. Matters hadn't been easy between them since the war's conclusion. Alustra had returned to full alertness, devoting all her resources to aiding Oskar during the reconstruction. After defending her son's interests for so many years, Alustra seemed all too willing to overlook certain uncomfortable truths—such as Oskar's lying to her, painting himself as the victim of Margura's machinations and minimizing his own misdeeds.

  The surviving princes had convened a series of tense councils, which Therula and Alustra had both attended, where Brastigan and Lottres laid out the painful facts. For her part, Therula had abandoned her life long habit of placating everyone to support the effort to hold Oskar accountable. Her mother couldn't accept this.

  It was Alustra who had said, after the last of these sessions, “If you are such a trouble to Oskar, why should he permit you to marry a man of your own choosing?”

  This had raised every fear in Therula's own heart, for she knew a royal princess seldom had such a luxury, but she wouldn't show weakness, not even before her own mother. Therula had snapped right back, “If he doesn't permit it, then he will see how troublesome I can be!”

  The two women had scarcely spoken since then. Still, Therula and Pikarus would be leaving for Gerfalkan within a few days. They would take up residence with his parents, at least for a while. It was Therula's first real separation from her mother. She didn't want it to have this sense of grim finality.

  Impulsively, Therula reached over, putting an arm around her mother's waist. Alustra gave a kind of sigh. At once, she raised her arm to circle her daughter's shoulders. Something relaxed inside Therula. She blinked away tears as they descended the stairs and passed beneath the arch leading into the courtyard.

  Soldiers saluted as the royal procession passed beneath the fortified gate. Above, the banner of Crutham fluttered quietly in the breeze. Below was the beautifully carved entrance to the great hall. At the doorway, Alustra paused. Therula could hear the susurrus of voices within. The two women gazed at each other through their veils, sharing a kind of farewell.

  “I hope it will be all you wish for.” Alustra spoke softly so Orlyse, behind them, wouldn't hear.

  Therula hesitated a moment. A jumble of thoughts passed through her mind at once, especially the memory of how difficult her parents' marriage had been. Unferth had visited so many disappointments upon Alustra. Even though Therula had loved him, she knew it wasn't fair.

  Quickly, before embarrassment overcame her, Therula whispered, “I hope you find someone else, too, Mother. Someone who treats you as you deserve.”

  Alustra blinked in surprise, then shook her head and gave a faltering laugh. “Oh, I long ago gave up on men to make me happy.”

  Therula wondered if that meant Oskar, too, but Orlyse was crowding closer, her face alight with curiosity. Alustra faced the doorway. Her shoulders straightened and her chin came up. Every inch a queen, Alustra signaled the herald to announce them.

  Trumpets sounded, and Alustra stepped forward. The younger women followed. After the brightness of daylight, Therula felt she had entered a cave, dim and gloomy. As her eyes adjusted, the ranks of courtiers took shape. Some faces were smiling, some speculative, and all were watching her.

  The next moment they were nothing but a backdrop, blurred and meaningless. Ahead of her, in a circle of candlelight, Pikarus stood with his family. All of Therula's fears dropped away. She smiled with confidence and anticipation.

  Would this marriage be all she hoped for? Therula knew it would be. Soon Pikarus would be hers, as she would be his. No one could ever threaten to separate them again.

  * * *

  The four wizards stood together, yet isolated, among the crowd in the great hall. Yriatt and Shaelen had both borrowed gowns for the occasion, while Ymell and Lottres wore plain, dark blue robes. The dragons' horns set them apart all the same.

  Brastigan had been quick to tease Lottres about his attire—”Have you been getting into Eben's things?”—and Lottres was aware of other whispered comments around them. Nevertheless, he felt more comfortable in the simple sorcerer's robe that he ever had in court garb. All those years, Lottres had been disguising himself, trying to be someone he wasn't. It was a relief to give up the pretense at last.

  Looking around the hall, it hardly seemed they were waiting for a wedding to take place. Men had once outnumbered women in this hall. Now that was reversed. The throng was almost all women draped with black mourning veils. The few men present wore the black surcoats of military service. So many had died, so recently, the survivors were hard put to celebrate anything. So many of the dead were Lottres's brothers. Their absences made the crowd seem strangely thin, the room almost empty.

  In a marked departure, Therula had declined to invite her two older sisters, who might have objected to her union with a lesser nobleman. The haughty Bessara and the abrasive Praxia had never spared a kind word for Lottres, yet he found that he missed them. Too many others were absent.

  At the rear of the chamber, Lottres sensed Therula waiting with her mother and younger sisters. Pikarus, his parents and siblings formed a separate cluster nearby. Trumpets sang out again, raising echoes in the half empty chamber. Usually, the groom's father entered first, but since Alustra held the higher rank she claimed the right. The queen stepped forward, walking down the center aisle with dignified aplomb. Therula followed, and her sisters trailed after in a line.

  Even as they d
rew left, forming a semi-circle to face the dais, Pikarus's father and mother came down the aisle together. Pikarus followed, and then his two younger sisters.

  Before them all, Oskar's throne stood above the room. The king sat alone beneath a magnificent cloth-of-gold banner which fairly lit the room with reflected glory. Habrok and Brastigan and the others stood nearby, but none joined Oskar on the platform. They all maintained an uneasy distance these days. Oskar still depended on Habrok to lead his armies. Privately, Lottres had to wonder how long a king's reign could last when it had been so profoundly compromised by deceit.

  Then Pikarus's clan had assumed its place, and Oskar leaned forward to address them.

  “Welcome, Mother.” He projected warmth and affection, but Lottres could feel his distaste. “What is your business this day?”

  Alustra bowed, and her dark veils swayed with the movement. “I bring a petition to your majesty. My daughter, your sister, Therula of Crutham, desires to wed.”

  “With whom?” Oskar asked, as if the whole Gerfalkan family wasn’t standing before him.

  “With the son of your loyal subject, Perhalon of Gerfalkan.” Alustra made a sweeping gesture. Pikarus's father stepped forward and bowed.

  “I am Perhalon of Gerfalkan,” he intoned, “come before you to join her majesty, Queen Alustra, in requesting the privilege of a marriage between Princess Therula and my eldest son, Pikarus of Gerfalkan. Our line is connected to the Dukes of Gerfalkan, although distantly.”

  “Does the Duke acknowledge the relationship?” Oskar interrupted.

  “He does.” Perhalon bowed again, and continued, “My son must already be known to your majesty, as he has served seven years or more among the guards of Crutham Keep.”

  “Both the couple are well known to me,” Oskar said. “I do not question their fitness to marry. Mother,” and perhaps he gritted his teeth just a bit, “what is the dowry?”

  Perhalon retreated, and Alustra again stepped to the fore. She began to recite a long list of dower items, including silver coins, gold and pearl jewelry, horses, weapons, armor and even, to Lottres's surprise, a small estate between Gerfalkan and Begatt. Therula had grumbled to Lottres and Brastigan, that the dowry was mostly things she already owned. Due to the wartime emergency, she wouldn't receive the lavish gifts her older sisters had enjoyed.

  Alustra's list went on, but it seemed Yriatt was bored with the ceremony. Silently, mind to mind, she inquired, “Father, have you considered when you will move against Sillets?”

  “Yes, I have considered it,” Ymell replied.

  He said no more. Glancing aside, Lottres saw Ymell apparently giving all his attention to the wedding. Yriatt's head turned toward him. A trace of a frown betrayed her impatience. On the other side of Yriatt, Shaelen stood pensive, not listening to her mentors' debate. Her thoughts were shielded, but Lottres thought he knew well enough what she must be feeling.

  “Don't tease me, Father,” Yriatt said sternly.

  “The time is not right to invade Sillets,” Ymell answered. From his smugness, Lottres could tell Ymell had indeed been teasing Yriatt. And enjoying it, too. You could tell he was related to Brastigan—but Lottres made sure that thought stayed behind his own shields.

  Ymell went on, “They still have their ranks, their supply lines, and familiar means of communication. We must wait for the empire to collapse upon itself. The smaller kingdoms will be easier to manage.”

  “There is one province isolated from the others,” Yriatt countered, as if she had had a goal in mind all along. “Our first assault could be against Urland.”

  “Urland?” That got Shaelen's attention.

  “True,” Ymell said. “The Urulai warriors have already gathered. Because they helped raise the siege of Glawern, they have the support of popular sentiment.”

  “There are also the galleys we captured,” Yriatt said. “With them, we need not beg for transportation.”

  Lottres turned his eyes toward Brastigan for a moment. He was sure this news would please his brother. Brastigan would want to help free Urland. If Yriatt took part in that, Lottres would go, too. They could travel together a while longer.

  What Lottres sensed in Brastigan's mind made his attention snap back to the dais. Lottres had missed a good bit of the ceremony. Therula and Pikarus now stood facing each other. Their parents had joined their hands, and they were reciting the traditional wedding vow.

  “...As our hands are joined, so our hearts are joined. Though distance may divide us, we shall remain united in body and spirit.”

  As they spoke, Lottres saw Oskar's face, pinched and bored. Lottres couldn't see Alustra, but Pikarus's parents stood nearby gazing into each other's eyes with undisguised love and pride. That reassured Lottres more than any mere words.

  Hands clasped between them, Pikarus and Therula turned to face the audience. Cheers and applause began slowly, but soon filled the great hall. Therula was embraced by her mother-in-law, while Alustra gave Pikarus a more restrained kiss on the cheek. The newlyweds moved back down the aisle, greeting well-wishers who pressed in from both sides.

  Through the din, Lottres felt the hollow ache in Brastigan's heart. Shaelen was a blank spot nearby, determined to conceal her emotions. It struck Lottres as sad, even a little silly, that those two stood alone. He slipped behind Yriatt and Ymell, who clapped politely, to touch Shaelen's elbow. The tall woman glanced around, then bent her head slightly toward him.

  “You should tell Brastigan the news,” Lottres suggested. “Tell him we're going to Urland.”

  Shaelen jerked away. She almost turned toward Brastigan, but then shook her head.

  “He won't want to hear it from me,” she answered bitterly.

  “Is there another Urulai here to tell him?” Lottres challenged.

  Shaelen gazed down at Lottres with an expression of betrayal. “You know what he thinks of me,” she said.

  “No, I don't,” Lottres answered. “We haven't talked about you.” He spoke softly, only for Shaelen, though he was aware when Yriatt turned slightly, listening.

  “Don't assume you know what Brastigan will do,” Lottres told her. If he had learned one thing, it was this. “People think all kinds of things, but they don't say it all. They keep some things to themselves for all kinds of reasons—like when they don't want to hurt someone's feelings. What they say out loud is what matters.”

  “I've never known Brastigan to hold anything back,” Shaelen said with a curt laugh.

  “Believe it or not, he does,” Lottres said, though he smiled wryly. “Remember, he's not one of us. He can't guard his thoughts. Out of common respect, I try not to pick things out of Brastigan's mind. Or anyone's. We have to let them choose their own words. It's not fair, otherwise.”

  “I know, but...” Shaelen stopped and sighed. “You just don't understand.”

  All at once she looked tired, bewildered. Lottres felt a welling of sympathy. Being separated into two parts and then rejoined had affected her in ways nobody could understand, maybe not even Yriatt, who had performed the changes.

  Lottres laid a gentle hand on her sleeve. “It's true, I don't know how you feel, but I know Brastigan doesn't like standing alone while Pikarus and Therula are overflowing with happiness. Just tell him. You might have more of a chance than you think.”

  “I thought you weren't reading minds,” Shaelen accused, though she would have sensed it instantly if he tried to penetrate her shields.

  “That was an educated guess,” Lottres retorted, smiling. “You have to talk to him sometime, you know, if we're all going to Urland together.”

  Lottres felt Shaelen's flash of panic. He quickly lifted his hand from her arm, breaking the contact. Then he turned away, looking for a chance to congratulate Therula and giving Shaelen time to make up her mind. Lottres found himself under the level gaze of two dragons.

  “You're quite the manipulator,” Ymell said, but he clearly meant it as a compliment.

  “Nobody ever listens
to me,” Lottres demurred.

  “You've already learned not to abuse your powers by spying on your loved ones,” Yriatt said with a hint of fondness. “You will have a good future with us.”

  Lottres nodded, feeling his chest swell with pride. He felt more confident with magic than he ever had with sword and shield. Magic was right for him. He knew it in his heart. So, whatever the future held, he was ready to face it.

  * * *

  “This isn't about me,” Brastigan told himself. “It's their day, Therula's and Pikarus's. I'm happy for them.”

  Maybe he even managed to look happy. Brastigan pounded Pikarus on the back, glad to welcome the man who was no longer a mere brother-at-arms but a brother-in-law. Brastigan shared a bawdy joke with Habrok and did an impromptu dance with Cliodora, who was too elated to stand still. All the while, a big grin stretched his face in unnatural ways. It did nothing to ease the sick emptiness inside him.

  He didn't even realize, at first, that he was working his way toward the door. Yet there was no denying his relief as long strides carried him up the stairs to the outer wall. The din of celebration had left him with a throbbing headache. He needed fresh air and room to move.

  Out of habit, Brastigan headed for Eben's tower with its expansive view. Then he remembered that the dragons had taken over the tower, at least temporarily. It wouldn't feel right to go there now. Brastigan reluctantly changed directions, following the long wall toward the west, where the setting sun turned the sea to fire. He nodded to a sentry walking the other way. At the southwest tower, Brastigan stopped. He leaned his elbows in the recess of a crenel and gazed out over the capital city.

  From here, you could see how badly Harburg had been hit, how close they had come to losing all. The harbor wall was intact, though its gates were too badly burned to shut, and the Butcher's Gate still stood to the east, but the south wall was a mere line of rubble. The moat was completely filled with muddy debris, which hardened daily into a kind of crude cement. No one was sure yet if they would have to clear the moat. Oskar might opt to expand his capital by moving the wall farther out and having a new moat dug.