Too Many Princes (67 page)

Therula made herself ask,
“
Is that blood?
”

Pikarus stared at the bottle, his eyes narrowed in thought. Almost absently, he reached out to draw Therula to his side.

“
Yes, it is blood,
”
he said quietly.
“
Someone has been here, and Brastigan is gone.
”

“
Who would want to attack him?
”
Therula asked.
“
Why now, instead of while you were on the road?
”

“
I want to find him,
”
Cliodora whimpered.
“
What can we do?
”

The silent room was full of portent. Shadows, thrown by the candle flame, loomed on all sides of them. Therula could almost have thought the silhouettes were leaning closer, listening.

“
There is only one person who can help us now,
”
Pikarus answered softly. He looked into Therula's eyes.
“
We need to see your mother.
”

It looked like there was good reason for Pikarus to be worried about Brastigan, but Therula still felt confused. She didn't like not knowing what was going on.

“
If we do,
”
she asked,
“
will you explain what's happening?
”

Reluctantly, he nodded.
“
I will explain it to the queen, and to you.
”

As best she could, Therula drew strength from her beloved's nearness. She straightened her back and lifted her chin.

“
Let's go see Mother,
”
she said.

* * *

He felt his head first, pounding like waves against the shore. Then he felt his stomach, churning in time with the spinning of his head. Brastigan came to himself by painful degrees, and wished every moment that he could return to oblivion.

He was lying down. The surface beneath him was too hard for any bed. His shoulders felt stiff and cramped. Brastigan tried to turn over, but he couldn't move his arms. He struggled, kicking and swearing. The burst of panic did nothing to help his situation. It did, however, bring him fully awake.

He was in chains, of course. In a small, dark room. The feeble light of a wall torch sent fresh torment blazing through his eyes. Brastigan squinted and blinked. As the pain faded he saw curved walls, a steel chamber pot, a straw pallet where he had been lying. A stout wooden door was opposite him, well beyond reach.

Brastigan twisted in place, trying to see the manacles behind him. Iron chains ran from his wrists to a fitting in the wall. These held his hands behind him. However, he was relieved to discover that his wrists weren't fastened together. The chains were merely twisted around each other. Rolling carefully, out of respect for the protests of his stomach, he managed to untangle them. With great relief, Brastigan stretched his arms to loosen his shoulders.

Reaching behind his head, he found a painful welt and a damp stickiness on his hair. The bump felt huge. No wonder his head was pounding. He was still wearing the same clothes he had had on earlier, including his boots and sword belt, but Victory was missing.

Whoever did this had been in a hurry, Brastigan thought. He felt his lips twitch in a dark grin. You could tell he had been attacked in the castle—on the streets of Crutham, his boots would have been the first thing stolen. Patting his chest, he determined that Leithan's
jeup
was still there, too.

The stonework looked familiar, so he was still in Crutham Keep. This wasn't the main dungeon, though. He must be in one of the tower rooms. From the size of it, probably Eben's tower. They hadn't moved him far—another suggestion of haste in his abduction. The floor was suspiciously dry and clean, and the links had the sheen of new metal. Someone had made all this recently, then. But why?

Brastigan sat up, straw crackling as he moved. He leaned forward and propped his head on his knees. His memory was patchy. He recalled talking to Margura, and something about Cliodora, and drinking until he passed out. Then there was a little bit of a fight. Which, obviously, he had lost.

He should have known better than to drink what Margura had given him, especially right after he broke off their relationship, but it had felt so good to be drunk. It was what he wanted most in the world, to just pass out and not have to think for a while. Margura's parting gift had seemed a miracle.

He'd let that need blind him. Now he wasn't feeling quite so good. Locked up, hung over, and a horrible taste in his mouth. Brastigan didn't doubt Margura had betrayed him. What he couldn't figure out was why. She didn't have the resources to construct a prison for the punishment of her former lovers, either. If she did, he thought, it would be a lot more crowded. Margura must have been acting for someone else. But who, and why?

The lock turned in the door. The quiet sound startled him. Brastigan didn't move, kept his forehead against his knees. His temples pounded in time with his anxious heartbeat as the door opened, admitting another painful stream of light. Through slitted eyes, he looked up.

A man swept in, silhouetted against the torchlight from outside. A heavily cloaked form followed at a careful distance. The man was Oskar. It had to be. Who else would wear that enormous hat?

Then Brastigan saw, really saw, the shape of Oskar's hat. In that moment, he realized several things. He understood the new fashion in headwear. He knew why Oskar hadn't seemed to care that he belittled Alustra. Why Oskar hadn't asked after Lottres. How Eben had vanished so suddenly. And Brastigan knew he was in even worse trouble than he had thought.

He also knew why Ymell couldn't find Ysislaw with his armies. The evil dragon wasn't with his armies. He was here, in Crutham, wearing another man's face: Oskar's face, the face of the king.

The door clicked shut. Footsteps drew closer, grating over the floor. Brastigan cursed himself for not recognizing the horns sooner. He was so tired, he'd let the shock of his father's death blind him. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to think. What could he do now? If Ymell was right, Ysislaw might well kill him. He had no way to protect himself.

Brastigan let go a shuddering breath. He was a warrior. He would face his enemy, not hide. Brastigan opened his eyes.

To every appearance, Oskar strolled toward him. There were the rich mourning robes, the crown of gold and big velvet hat. It wasn't a bad imposture at all. Ysislaw looked every bit as pleased with himself as Oskar usually did.

“
Well met, noble brother.
”
Ysislaw's voice was rich with gloating as he tossed Brastigan's words back at him from earlier that day.

Brastigan gritted his teeth and made a decision.
“
No brother of mine,
”
he answered, a flat challenge. He was sure he would regret speaking out. Didn't he always?

“
So you know me?
”
The stranger who wore Oskar's face smiled.
“
Excellent. It saves me the bother of explaining.
”

“
Glad to be of help,
”
Brastigan growled sarcastically.

Ysislaw's smile widened with malice.
“
It would be too bad to think poor old Ymell had an idiot for a grandson.
”

Who said he didn't?

“
You killed my father,
”
Brastigan charged. He sounded calmer than he felt.

Ysislaw shrugged.
“
A mere trifle.
”
His smile vanished, leaving Oskar's eyes cold and remote, utterly divorced from humanity.
“
Kings come and go, but we endure.
”

Brastigan knew all too well what he was referring to, and he was pretty sure his dubious birthright didn't extend to a dragon's immortality. Brastigan looked away, and his eyes fell on Ysislaw's companion, who had stopped well behind him. A voluminous black cloak concealed most of her face, but Brastigan caught the wink of a yellow gem in the cleft of her deep green gown.

It was Margura, of course. He'd never doubted her treachery, really, yet the betrayal stung. She was Cruthan. How could she ally herself with the tyrant of Sillets?

“
You are ignoring me,
”
Ysislaw said abruptly.

“
So sorry,
”
Brastigan retorted.
“
It's just that I could never keep my eyes off a pretty girl.
”

Ysislaw made a flicking motion of the wrist. Brastigan gasped against a sudden pain. It felt like a lightning bolt had entered through his eyes, passed through his skull, and ricocheted off the bump on his head. Brastigan gave a choked cry, and another. He felt he couldn't breathe past the agony.

“
Never ignore me,
”
Ysislaw told him with cold hate,
“
and never be so bold again. I may need you alive, but it does not have to be pleasant for you.
”

The pain seemed to go on for hours. Soon enough Brastigan leaned back, panting and trying to keep his gorge down.

“
So I'm your hostage?
”
Brastigan managed to choke out.

“
Do not forget it,
”
Ysislaw said.

For the first time, Margura spoke. Her voice was low and submissive, her eyes downcast.
“
Your majesty, there was your pledge to me, also?
”

Tensely, Ysislaw turned toward her. He smiled again, but carefully, as if he must remember how to do it.

“
Oh, that?
”
He turned a sneering glance on Brastigan.
“
I don't know why you chose this mongrel.
”

“
No other is suited to my need,
”
she murmured.

Brastigan could hardly recognize the bold minx he had known. Margura's treachery was truly complete. She hadn't been duped into thinking she served Oskar. She knew who Ysislaw really was, or she wouldn't be so respectful.

“
It means nothing to me. A bargain is a bargain, and I do appreciate all your efforts, Lady Margura.
”
Ysislaw spoke indulgently, but then added,
“
This won't spare him, you know.
”

She sank in a deep curtsey.
“
I would never ask it. I am deeply grateful to your majesty's help. My only wish is to serve you in return.
”

Brastigan watched, feeling his headache ease. Better to concentrate on their conversation than on his pain. Any thought of escape or revenge would have to wait. Whatever he knew to save Crutham would have to stay buried, at least until Ysislaw was gone. Then Ysislaw turned toward Brastigan with narrowed eyes.

Brastigan quickly muttered,
“
I'm not ignoring you.
”

“
Good.
”
Ysislaw's grin was all teeth.
“
Then let me be the first to congratulate you.
”

Brastigan asked, because it seemed to be expected,
“
For what?
”

“
Oh, didn't your mistress tell you?
”
Ysislaw asked with cheerful malice.
“
You and Margura are to wed.
”

Brastigan stared at them. This was so alien to what he expected, he could do nothing else. Margura tensed, flushed with humiliation, and Brastigan understood a whole new set of things.

“
Alemin,
”
he managed.
“
You're the one who... And he ran out on you. That's why you were so friendly right before I left. You wanted me to think the babe was mine.
”

Margura merely glared at him, her eyes brilliant with rage and shame. After trying so hard to get pregnant and trap a prince, she had finally succeeded—but with the wrong prince. Alemin was already married. He couldn't make an honest woman of her. Margura must be desperate for a legitimate union to conceal her shame.

“
Alas,
”
Ysislaw went on mockingly,
“
it will be a brief marriage. Despite your boasting, Brastigan, I fear you will fall beside your brothers. The walking dead, in their vast numbers, will overwhelm you. Your widow will be left with your rank to console her.
”

His mock sorrow couldn't cover the chilling fact. Brastigan and his brothers had been gathered to destroy them. Ysislaw needed to get rid of Unferth's heirs even more than Oskar did. A conqueror wouldn't want legitimate successors challenging his supremacy.

“
Can you at least untie me for the honeymoon?
”
Brastigan asked with a pretense of hope.

“
As I understand it, the marriage has already been consummated.
”
Ysislaw's mocking leer left his eyes hollow. Margura sulked, but didn't dare express her feelings.

“
Where's the real Oskar?
”
Brastigan asked. He couldn't believe he cared, but he did.

“
Oh, do not worry about him,
”
came Ysislaw's bland reply.
“
He is alive and well, for as long as I may need to enforce his mother's cooperation. She hasn't figured it out yet, but that sister of yours, Therula, suspects something.
”

Good for her, Brastigan thought, but Alustra's cooperation might not be needed much longer if Brastigan understood Ysislaw's plan. He only hoped Ymell would be able to delay the Silletsian army until he got out of here and warned Habrok.

Ysislaw chuckled softly. Brastigan's stomach turned over at the sound of it.

“
Dear old Ymell. He cannot defeat me,
”
Ysislaw said.
“
I have had nothing but time to plan this campaign. Nor have I any lack of allies. Your own dear Oskar, for instance. Did you know, he asked for my help himself. That's right! He invited me here. And he was not the first.
”