Too Many Princes (22 page)

“
Me, too,
”
Cliodora whimpered.

* * *

The beds of the Rowbeck inn were as hard as Brastigan feared, and lumpy as well. Even so, he and Lottres were lucky. Others slept on a floor not swept for months. With such comforts to goad them, the whole squad was up and ready to be away in the chilly dawn. None cared to try the kitchen's mercy in breaking his fast.

In leaving Rowbeck behind, they also left the open spaces and easy trails. The road abandoned the river, which now lay in a chasm roaring with foam and spray. Wooded heights beckoned from above, and the road answered with sharp turns that challenged even the sure-footed mules. The beasts earned their fodder as they moved into true mountains, which must be crossed to reach their next goal of Glawern. Rests for them were fewer, for there were few level places for resting.

If the beasts labored harder, Brastigan relaxed as he breathed the earthy scents of trail dust and cedar. He had always felt at home in the woods. The trees covered him like a blanket, warm against the piercing chill of the mountain air. After the noise of the town, the sense of peace was welcome. There was little talk among the men, just the thump of hooves and creak of harness, the jingle of armor and the deep breath of the mules. The forest about them was dense and shadowed. It was all conifers now—pine, spruce and fir—dripping with dew like murmurs of strange voices. The mist lingered beneath those boughs well into midday.

The land between Rowbeck and Glawern was mining country, mating iron ore from the mountains and charcoal from the woods to make steel. Ever, as they passed, were small signs of human industry: tailings banked on either side, or wood and stone waterworks, or the black slots of mine openings. Rusty streaks leaked down the mountainsides, as if the earth bled. Nor was all the mist in the woods mere water vapor. Some carried the bitter tang of smoke from charcoal kilns. Often, too, they crossed foul smelling rivulets which Javes said flowed from mines unseen in the peaks above.

The trail could no longer be glorified as a road. Still, there were places to camp along the way. Most of these were too small for tents. The men slept beneath the trees, with stars winking at them through the boughs. With plentiful small game, they continued to eat well. There was deer sign, too, and sometimes, in deepest night, the distant scream of a panther.

Though they saw the works of men, the makers were visible only at a distance, and that began to weigh
t
on Brastigan. Lottres had reported no rumors of trouble in the town, but Pikarus and Javes often spoke between them in low tones, falling silent when others walked near. Even the falcon stayed close. Brastigan often glimpsed it gliding above the treetops or perched on some snag as it waited on their coming.

Only the mules seemed unconcerned, laboring on with stolid patience. Brastigan wanted to take reassurance from their indifference, but that failed him as the days went on. He couldn't help sneering at his own fears. Was he such a soft city boy, dependent on walls to feel safe? No, he loved the wilderness too much for this whining. What lay before them, the unknown of Hawkwing House, was what unnerved him. That, and what might come behind—Wulfram, or another of his ilk. Time and again Brastigan thought to ask the bird if any strangers rode the trail behind them. Pride stopped him. Anyone would be a stranger, here. He wouldn't show such a dependence on their guide, not in front of Lottres.

So passed a string of days. By the end of the ninth, Brastigan felt as grubby as he was nervous. He longed for hot water, a shave, and the shelter of stone walls against the night's biting cold. Late that afternoon, they crested a ridge and gained sight of their goal. A narrow valley lay below, shockingly bare among the forested peaks. In the center was a walled town, and beside it the gaping sore of an open pit mine. Dust belched into the air, laying a pall over the landscape.

A mining town might be dirty, but it promised many comforts for bachelor men. Brastigan looked upon it with longing. They soon dropped from their vantage, and the paradise was lost to sight. It still gave him heart. One more safe place awaited before they must leap into the unknown.

* * *

The passing days only added to Therula's depression. Kinfolk came to Harburg for Unferth's funeral and Oskar's coronation. Therula knew every one of her full- and half-siblings, but she had forgotten, somehow, just how many of them there were. It was hopeless to find room for everyone in Crutham Keep, even with the recent deaths and the fosterings Unferth had arranged. Alustra struggled to find suitable accommodations in the town below. Therula worked alongside her, fulfilling the duty of hostess when the press of events was too much for her mother.

In a way, Therula was glad of the distraction. It kept her from dwelling on her own grief and fears. Yet she felt isolated among the influx of visitors. Therula hadn't been included in organizing either the funeral or the coronation. She was accustomed to being a part of such plans, and she didn't appreciate being left out. Especially in the funeral. Eben's eulogy had been lovely, but Unferth was her father. She would have liked to help say good-bye.

By custom, they did not eat before a funeral, and the feast for Oskar's coronation was some while away. Therula's empty stomach gnawed at her ribs, even as her fears did on her heart. Perhaps it was merely this that made her so irritable. Therula reminded herself to keep a cool head as she entered the great hall. Later, she would be able to compare observations with her mother.

It was, of course, crowded and noisy beyond the elaborately carved lintel. The wellborn folk of Crutham were crammed together. Weaving through their voices, a somber melody wafted down from the balconies. The ladies wore mourning black with shoulder-length veils, while the men wore heraldic colors to signify their loyalties.

Above them all, a single throne stood on the dais, draped with a gold-and-black state cloak. It was empty, waiting to be filled. Therula felt her throat tighten with emotion. She had always seen two thrones for Unferth and Alustra. Now there was just Oskar, until he chose his own queen.

Nor was that the only change she noted. Right away, Therula could see how the courtiers's garb reflected the change in power. There were fewer of the plain Cruthan robes and tunics now, more puffed shoulders and full skirts. Knowing of Oskar's honor for his mother, everyone wished to emulate her Tanixan influences.

It didn't take long to pick out Oskar. Therula's brother stood at the foot of the dais, receiving a throng of well-wishers. He looked magnificent in a knee-length tunic and hose, both black and stitched with golden towers in a deliberate reprise of the state cloak. He was bare-headed, a practical choice since he would soon enough wear the crown.

Although he looked solemn, as befitted the occasion, it struck Therula that Oskar was happier than she had seen him for some while. He always did enjoy being the center of attention, and this was unmistakably
his
day.

Then again, it might have to do with the number of young women in the press around Oskar. Each noble man or woman who came to give condolences had a comely daughter to be presented, it seemed. Even though they wore the proper black, some of the gowns were quite daring, especially in the bodices.

Perhaps that was why Therula's older sister, Bettonie, was standing so close at Oskar's shoulder. The eldest daughter of Unferth and Alustra had always taken her position seriously. Her cold stare made more than one of the approaching maidens flinch, however much their fathers might flatter the new king.

Therula nodded in response to a curtsey, but didn't stop to talk. She wanted to look around more, assessing the situation as her mother had taught her to do. The fine nuances of who spoke to whom, and how, gave her something to think about besides her fears. She soon found that she had a good deal to think about.

Eben stood near Oskar, a rare venture into public life for him. The wizard wore a full-length robe of midnight blue, and a striking dragon horn headdress that Therula had never seen before. Eben was speaking with some of the ambassadors who had been invited to attend the coronation, including a representative from Tanix, whose extravagant attire made some of Alustra's most elaborate gowns seem plain in comparison. Near them, keeping a little apart, was a more surprising arrival: an emissary from Sillets.

Therula knew she wasn't the only one who eyed the man with curiosity and distrust. He wore a very tall hat with a flat crown, a close-fitted jacket and trousers in a handsome, dark brown. The arms of Sillets were sewn over the breast, a red dragon on a white field. By contrast, his hair was bright red and very curly. Therula longed to know if this was natural, or if he somehow had it styled that way. The whole outfit gave the Silletsian a straight standing look, broken only by the line of a thin moustache over his thin mouth.

Alustra had told Therula that Oskar had expected his invitation to be rebuffed. It was true, the Silletsian was not wellborn, but a mere merchant. Still, it would be a hopeful sign if Sillets sought increased trade, rather than the warfare that had held sway for generations.

And yet, there was something unsettling in his presence here. And in Eben's demeanor, chatting so casually. Eben looked rather pleased with himself, Therula thought. He should have been mourning his close friend, Unferth. Shouldn't he?

A harsh echo of voices distracted Therula. She glanced over in time to see Bettonie imperiously dismiss their younger sister, Frella. Therula winced. She had noticed this during the funeral: that Bettonie was trying to push aside those she deemed unsuitable—in particular, the illegitimate siblings.

Perhaps it was inevitable that Oskar would treat the others as rivals rather than allies. Particularly their brothers. It seemed unnecessary, a waste of true loyalty to Crutham. Bettonie preened smugly, as if she had done a brave and noble deed. Therula felt uneasy watching her. This wasn't what Unferth would have wanted, especially on this day, when they all had one thing in common: the loss of a father.

Nor had she any intention of giving up life long friendships just because of her sister's pride. Therula made her way through the press, trying to find Frella. The girl had looked crushed, and Therula wanted to reassure her. After a few minutes, she began to wonder if Frella had fled the Great Hall.

It took effort and persistence, but she did find Frella, sobbing in her mother's arms. Nearby, Cliodora looked stricken and helpless. Therula hesitated, hoping her presence wouldn't add to Frella's distress. Then she raised her chin and strode forward.

Frella's mother, Diona, turned slightly away, shielding her daughter, as Therula approached. Softly, Therula said,
“
I'm sorry about Bettonie. I didn't hear what she said to you, but she doesn't speak for all of us.
”

“
You have always been kind to us, your highness,
”
Diona answered, though her voice was strained. Frella sniffled, peering over the velvet of her mother's sleeve.
“
I know you mean well, but Princess Bettonie may have the right of it. Mayhap our time here is at an end.
”

“
Bettonie is a guest in this house,
”
Therula said, more sharply than she intended.
“
She no longer lives here, and she has no right to speak for Crutham. I assure you, I will speak to my mother after the coronation and do my best to ensure you're not displaced.
”
More gently, Therula squeezed Frella's shoulder. Glancing at Cliodora, too, she said,
“
You will always be my sisters.
”

Cliodora smiled, but she too was red-eyed beneath her veil. Therula felt a surge of pity for all her younger sisters. Most of them, like Cliodora, were daughters of the common houses, merchants and sea traders. If Oskar chose to vent his ill will on these young women, their families could do little to protect them.

Timidly, Cliodora asked,
“
Are you still angry, sister?
”

“
Oh, no,
”
Therula said. Even she knew she spoke too quickly. Cliodora sighed, and hugged her tightly.

The youngest princess insisted she hadn't told Oskar that Unferth was dead. She said she hadn't even seen him that morning. Which raised the question, how had Oskar known? That question haunted her. So did the memory of Oskar smiling at Margura. Unferth had died of old age, nothing more—that had been Eben's announcement. Yet he didn't seem to miss Unferth. He was so friendly with Oskar now. Therula tried not to dwell on these things, since they changed nothing.

Therula gazed at Oskar over the top of Cliodora's head. During the long, sleepless night after their father's death, she had realized her future with Pikarus was now in question. Their unspoken agreement had been with Unferth, a king secure in his realm and his alliances. A new ruler changed everything. Oskar would want to make his own alliances. Therula had already seen that her desires mattered little.

She hadn't yet dared to mention this to Oskar. Dread of the future soured every bite she ate, squeezed her lungs with every breath. Therula had been right all along, she thought bitterly. Something was wrong. She just hadn't imagined that disaster might fall upon her, safe at home, instead of on Pikarus, far away on his mysterious quest.

Cliodora tugged at her elbow.
“
I think Calitar wants you.
”

“
Oh? Where?
”
Obediently, Therula looked around. The noise of the gathering suddenly swelled around her. She hadn't even realized she wasn't hearing it.

“
I'll take you.
”
Cliodora dragged on Therula's arm. She barely had time to nod in farewell to Frella and Diona before the crowd swallowed them.

Calitar stood talking with Axenar, his full brother, and Habrok and his wife, Gunnheld. Calitar and Habrok were the true leaders among Unferth's sons. Therula knew they had prevented many quarrels when the boys were all younger. Both Calitar and Axenar had married into the household of the Duke of Daraine, and Therula seldom saw them now.