Too Many Princes (32 page)

THE SILENCE OF THE ANCIENTS

Brastigan lay awake, restless. His bunk felt hard as rock, which was what it was. At least it was long enough to stretch out his full length. Most inns were not so suited. A part of him knew he should appreciate being indoors, out of the icy wind, but all around him were the snorts and snores of sleeping men. Even after so many days on the road, the unfamiliar sounds disturbed him. It was as if the echoing halls had breath of their own.

Time and again he turned over, looking at the single candle left burning on its antler rack. The walls of the chamber were adorned with more mosaics, but no amount of decoration could relieve the gloom of the windowless chamber. The lonely stub of candle burned as low as his spirits.

The fight at the Dead Donkey, the mysterious knife—those events seemed a lifetime ago. Yet they were why Brastigan was in this weird place. He rolled over and punched the rolled up cloak that served as his pillow. He should have been in Harburg, working with Eben. The assassin might have been caught by now, and Lottres needn't have these delusions. Then Brastigan would be able to defend Crutham Keep, instead of larking off on Yriatt's fool excursion.

Even more troubling was the blind obedience of Pikarus and his men. Pikarus should have supported Brastigan, as the older prince. Instead, by saying nothing, he lent his weight to Lottres's position. Javes and the rest held mum. Were they just too well trained to wonder? Or maybe he didn't know Pikarus as well as he thought. Brastigan couldn't believe he was the only one to doubt the witch's motives, but nobody else was asking any questions. They went along with her and Lottres like a pack of hounds on leashes.

Brastigan's thoughts chased each other in circles, like a dog biting at its own tail. Their yapping kept sleep at bay for a long, dark time.

* * *

Therula came out of a nightmare, thrashing and moaning. She wanted to run, as she had in the dream, but something trapped her feet. She kicked and struggled. Her fist struck a bedside table. The crash and the pain of impact brought her fully awake.

It was only the bedclothes that tangled her feet, Therula realized. She stood up to loosen the clinging fabric of her nightgown. Instantly her head began to reel. Her body was bathed in icy sweat, and her jaw vibrated with chills. She sat down abruptly to keep from falling.

This vertigo was becoming all too common. She had felt it the day she encountered Oskar near Eben's chamber, and again during that awful breakfast meeting. Therula rubbed her aching hand and tried to dismiss the connection from her mind.

Sickened by the gamble Oskar had pushed her into, she had been doing her best to avoid him. After this latest nightmare, she could no longer deny the depth of her fear.

Therula stood up again, carefully. When she was sure she wouldn't faint, she began to pace her darkened bedchamber. Something was terribly wrong. She felt it as strongly as she had before her meeting with Eben. In her mind, Therula recited a list of odd incidents: Oskar and Eben being so friendly, an unusual attitude for both of them. Oskar knowing Unferth was dead before anyone had told him. Eben departing, having told no one but Oskar his intentions. The addition of new palace guards, strangers Oskar had hired to replace Pikarus's squadron. And her repeated dizzy spells, which occurred only when Oskar was present. Or during nightmares; Therula couldn't remember exactly what her dream had been about, but she was sure Oskar had been in it.

By themselves, these things seemed innocuous, yet Therula was sure there was a pattern. She groped toward understanding, but it slipped from her mind just as the nightmare had.

Clearly, however, Oskar was the connecting piece to this puzzle. If she questioned his relationship with Eben, then she must also question Unferth's death. But Oskar was her brother. No, her king—supreme and untouchable. That was the true nightmare.

* * *

Hours later, Brastigan's stomach woke him. The air of the caverns now held a musty, sweet odor: porridge. Though his head felt heavy and his eyes burned with sleeplessness, the teasing scent of food wouldn't let him rest. He turned over and saw Lottres's bed lying empty. That did rouse him.

The moment he sat up, Pikarus's eyes were open. Brastigan looked away from his wary, calm regard. He was sick to death of wondering where that one's loyalties lay. He got up and turned his back, kneeling to pull fresh clothing from his duffel. If Pikarus put his game face on this early, why, Brastigan would, too.

Others stirred, hearing him move. Soon the room was full of soft sounds of men packing up to move out. Brastigan dressed quickly and left.

Back to the long hall, then, where the hearths blazed and cauldrons steamed. Lottres was seated next to Yriatt, their heads close together. The pale girl was with them, too, her bewildered stare fixed on the nearest fire. Brastigan scowled at them as one of the Urulai women handed him a horn and a wooden bowl.

Sitting close to Yriatt was near the top of Brastigan's least favored things, but the line was backing up behind him. He walked stiffly toward Lottres. Strange, how the things he took for granted had suddenly become thorny issues. Still, there was no need to flaunt his humiliation by sitting alone, and it would steady the men if the two princes at least attempted to show unity.

Lottres eyed Brastigan as he approached. His tense face showed a mixture of resentment and relief. He shifted just enough to permit Brastigan to sit. The dark prince bit his lips to keep back a sarcastic thanks for the privilege of his brother's company. Lottres's bowl was already empty, he saw. A map was spread between him and Yriatt. Fortunately, the witch had turned away, tipping a spoonful of gruel into the girl's lips.

Brastigan's horn held cider, slightly sour in his mouth but pleasantly hot. The bowl contained thick porridge with dried berries scattered on top. Brown rolls were neatly stacked on the table. There was comfort in the familiar meal. His head began to clear after the first few bites, and he ate with real appetite. It was good to feel his accustomed energy. Or maybe he was just too tired of fretting to worry any more.

The meal was brief and mostly silent. The soldiers ate quickly, knowing they must move soon, yet there was a current of suppressed excitement among them. Maybe, Brastigan thought suddenly, Lottres wasn't the only one who craved adventure. Pikarus's squad would gain more glory as a small group, moving behind enemy lines, than as one unit of the larger Cruthan army. Of course, they were more likely to die that way, too. Brastigan turned his head, eyeing their sergeant. If, as it seemed, there were some connection between Pikarus and Therula, maybe the risk seemed worthwhile. A man who returned as a war hero stood more chance of gaining a princess' favor.

Brastigan put his spoon in his mouth and found it empty. He was still hungry, so he stood up. Beside him, Lottres seemed to jump. Brastigan felt his lips curl in a sneer as he strolled back toward the kettles. Even when he gave way, he could still make his brother flinch.

He sauntered back to his place, fragrant steam curling upward from his bowl, but before he could sit down, one of the female archers hurried into the chamber. Brastigan hadn't seen them since their arrival. He watched curiously as she bent her head to speak softly into Yriatt's ear.

Yriatt, in her turn, told Lottres,
“
It is time we moved.
”

They both rose from the table, Lottres telling Pikarus,
“
Sergeant.
”

And Pikarus said, loudly enough for all the men to hear,
“
Eat up and let's go.
”

Along the table, men gulped the remains of their meal in great bites even as they stood. Brastigan, who had just bent his knees to sit, straightened with an exasperated sigh. He downed the dregs from his horn in a long pull and followed Lottres with his bowl in his hand. Nor was he the only one to eat as he walked. They had all missed having warm meals during the past strange days.

Passing wooden bowls from hand to hand, the men armed each other. Unasked, Lottres assisted Brastigan. He returned the favor. The silence was thick with things unsaid. With the last bits scraped off the side of his bowl, he stacked it with the others beside the door. Then, with Victory belted at his side, Brastigan swept his duffel over his shoulder.

The mules were waiting in the large chamber where they had entered Hawkwing House. Someone had groomed the beasts, and bulging saddlebags showed they had been re-supplied. With them... Brastigan stopped, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest.

Two tall beasts, ghostly gray, stood near the head of the line. Urulai horses—he knew them at once. Sturdy blankets covered their backs, instead of saddles, and a familiar falcon stood on one of those. The proud beasts wore no reins, but their pale manes and tails were braided and decked with beads.

Memories crowded Brastigan's mind, things half forgotten, and a sudden longing. Who would want a bulky Cruthan charger, having seen one of these lissome beasts? The line was backing up behind him again. Reluctantly, he spurred himself forward, making for the mere mule that awaited him.

He tore his eyes away from the horses long enough to lash his duffel behind the saddle. In doing so he noted that the mule's bit and the buckles on its tack had all been darkened with charcoal. The two gray horses wore wooden beads, which wouldn't reflect sunlight. A wise precaution, maybe, for skulking behind enemy lines.

Across his beast's back, he saw a cluster of the female archers. Yriatt was at the center, identified by her horned head
-
dress. She had removed the veils and gewgaws, but the upstanding horns remained. Why she retained those escaped Brastigan. They seemed impractical for travel. Not that he cared for her comfort.

The low voiced discussion was unintelligible, but it sounded serious. No doubt the witch was coaching the archers to guard the walls in her absence. With their men gone, the women had no choice but to defend the keep. Brastigan still found it slightly perverse that women took up arms.

The witch turned from the circle of archers, who melted into the shadows of the antechamber. Together with Lottres, she helped the girl-ghost onto the falconless horse. And Brastigan made a quick decision. He swallowed his pride and took up the reins, leading his mule toward the front of the line. He might have no love for his aunt, but in the interest of solidarity, he would ride close to his brother.

Lottres was at the head of the column. Yriatt's horse was to his left, the girl's pack-tied behind it. Pikarus, seeing Brastigan, fell back at once. This left open the spot behind Lottres, beside the girl. At least Brastigan was near one of the Urulai horses, he thought sourly.

A moment later Lottres mounted his mule. Brastigan and the others did the same. Sitting on her horse, Yriatt raised her hands above her head. Lottres watched, tilting his head slightly as if he listened to something. The mules began to whicker nervously, and candle flames fluttered. Brastigan felt his muscles tighten. After a short while, the witch lowered her hands. Nothing else seemed to happen.

Yriatt called a single word into the shadows. A low, mechanical groan echoed in the chamber and a sliver of light appeared high along the outer wall. It widened swiftly as the gate was let down. Cold air blew into the room and made the candle flames lean over, as if they would flee.

Brastigan shook himself, trying to relieve his tension. What was that performance for, anyway?

It was light outside, but foggy. The wind pushed mists from the heights into the chamber. As the near half of the bridge descended to level, the column moved forward. Hooves made hollow thumps on the planks as they approached the fog-shrouded wall. The dense mist hid the defenders even from knowing eyes as they passed beneath the outer arch. Then came the scrape of cobbles under hooves, and they were back on the stony field.

No path was marked, but Yriatt led them sharply to the left. The fog might hide them from enemy eyes, but any foe with hearing still could find them. Nor could they hurry, lest a beast lose its footing and fall. Bits of sound hinted at the surroundings: the chatter of the brook fading behind them, and the airy whisper of wind over the rocks. The farther they went, the more Brastigan wished the fog would lift. He badly wanted to know where the edge of the hanging valley was. The fog clung to them, damp and slightly sticky, like an overlarge garment.

It was a great relief to see the stunted spruce trees loom out of the mist before them. A narrow game trail led down toward the valley below. The hillside was steep, though not as bad as the stony track of the day before. This time, at least, the fog provided shelter from hostile eyes. As they descended, the trees grew thicker and the mist finally thinned out.

Through the branches, the Cruthans glimpsed a deceptively peaceful scene—rugged peaks above pine green slopes, with the white streak of a cascade here and there. A brisk breeze sent dark-tinged clouds scurrying across the sky. It stirred the treetops, so the branches murmured like people talking about them after they had passed. Occasional bird calls punctuated the susurrus.

The falcon soon rose from Yriatt's saddle. It glided above them as it had done before, playing the spy. Time and again, Brastigan turned in the saddle. He saw no hint of danger. By all appearances, the land was deserted. Perversely, that made him more tense. If the land had been invaded, as everyone said, there should be some sign of the enemy. Yet he saw only treetops and mountain peaks and swift moving, gray tinged clouds.

In a way, Brastigan was disappointed. Bad news had come after bad at Hawkwing House, too fast to really follow it. His body felt tight with frustration. He needed a good fight to clear his head, and an enemy he could kill without remorse.

Instead, he had too much time to think about what might be happening in Crutham. Unferth, Therula, little Cliodora... News of the invasion might not even have reached them. Would they reach the safety of Crutham Keep before the attack came?