Too Many Princes (75 page)

Trying not to cough, Brastigan stepped back.
“
Hey, Pup,
”
he sputtered.
“
I think it's in the candles.
”

“
I'll be there in a moment,
”
came the distracted reply. Lottres seemed rapt in his magical search.

Brastigan glared at the two candles as they burned, innocently spewing their venom. They were thick as small tree trunks, made to burn a good while before you had to replace them. That must be exactly what Ysislaw intended, to keep his prisoner helpless and not have to worry about him.

Brastigan gritted his teeth as he stared down at Oskar. The candles' overly sweet fragrance sickened him, but not as much as the sight of his half-brother's face. It was so tempting to leave the fool there. Let him suffer the penalty for his idiocy in making deals with Sillets. It was what Oskar deserved for turning on his brothers.

But it wasn't what Crutham deserved. Nor could Brastigan accept the idea of Ysislaw winning this war. Outside, the Dragon's Candle burned in the night. Ysislaw was out there somewhere. He might be coming back at any moment. Brastigan looked impatiently toward Lottres. His brother stood still, his back toward Brastigan and Pikarus.

It didn't look like Lottres would be any help. Frustrated, Brastigan bent over Oskar's bed.

“
Hey, wake up,
”
he hissed.

Brastigan jabbed at Oskar's shoulder. There was nothing there, yet the air around Oskar's body had a kind of icy solidity. It was like sticking his fingers into a snow bank. His whole arm tingled and throbbed. Brastigan jerked back.

“
Ow,
”
Brastigan complained. He shook his stinging hand.

“
Perhaps we should wait for Prince Lottres,
”
Pikarus rebuked him.

“
What was that?
”
Lottres suddenly demanded.

All at once, the two candles shuddered. Their steadily burning wicks erupted into jets of crackling flame. Thick smoke billowed into the air. Both Brastigan and Pikarus jumped away from the bedside.

Lottres ran toward them.
“
What did you do?
”

“
I didn't touch it,
”
Brastigan protested.

“
Don't give me that,
”
his brother snarled.

Smoke was quickly filling the chamber. The cloud spread in thick strands, gray as ash in the darkness. It burned in Brastigan's eyes. Coughing, he reeled backward.

“
It must be some kind of trap,
”
he said.

“
Shaelen, open the door,
”
Lottres cried.
“
We need air!
”

“
I can't,
”
she called back.
“
It's sealed itself.
”

“
Crouch down, where the air is clear,
”
said Pikarus. His voice already sounded near the floor.

It wasn't hard to follow those instructions. The fumes were already making Brastigan light-headed. On his knees, he stumbled toward Pikarus's voice. Somewhere nearby, he heard Lottres coughing.

“
I guess we should have expected something like this,
”
Brastigan said.

“
We can't leave the king here,
”
Pikarus said.
“
Prince Brastigan, if you would please help me. Prince Lottres, help Shaelen get the door open.
”

“
Right,
”
Lottres said. His voice moved off toward the doorway.

Brastigan groaned inwardly, but he followed Pikarus. What other choice was there? They should have known Ysislaw would cast a spell to guard Oskar. He was too important a prisoner. Alas, he was also too important to leave behind.

Even with the two candles blazing, it was hard to see through the dense smoke. Brastigan rubbed tears from his eyes. Almost by chance, he found one end of the bed.

“
Try to get a few good breaths,
”
Pikarus said. His voice was near, but Brastigan couldn't see him.
“
We'll stand together and try to get him off the bed.
”

“
Can I drop him?
”
Brastigan joked.

Pikarus didn't bother to answer that.
“
Ready? Go,
”
he ordered.

Brastigan caught a last, deep breath and shut his eyes against the stinging fumes. He jumped up and hearly fell across the bed. Once again, it was like trying to reach through a snow bank. He gritted his teeth and grabbed what might have been Oskar's knees.

“
Pull!
”
Brastigan shouted, wasting precious air. He suited words to action and hauled desperately at the prone man. Oskar's body half rolled, half fell off the bed. Brastigan staggered as the weight landed against his knees. He sat down hard, kicking to free his trapped legs.

“
Well, we got him,
”
Brastigan said.
“
Pikarus, did you hear me?
”

Pikarus answered only with violent coughing. Gasping, Brastigan rolled over. He couldn't seem to get a breath of clean air. His whole body felt numb, and it was getting hard to think clearly.

“
Pikarus?
”
Brastigan's voice came out a sickly wheeze.
“
Lottres, we could use a hand over here.
”

Lottres screamed.

“
Pup!
”
Brastigan felt a rush of energy. He left Oskar for Pikarus to move—or not, as seemed more likely—and dragged himself over the floor toward the sound of his brother's voice. He didn't get far.

* * *

“
Of all the idiots!
”
Lottres heartily cursed Brastigan, not caring if his brother might hear.
“
I didn't touch anything, he says. Did he think I wouldn't know?
”

A bout of racking coughs interrupted his angry litany. Then he crawled on. The air was slightly clearer as he got away from the bedside. Not that it mattered. The chamber was filling with smoke so quickly, they would all smother soon if they didn't get out.

Lottres could sense Shaelen ahead of him, but something was terribly wrong. She lay still beneath the blanketing smoke. So still—and he couldn't sense her thoughts!

“
Shaelen?
”
Lottres reached her side. He shook her shoulder.
“
Wake up, I need you.
”

Then, all at once, Ysislaw was in his mind. The attack was so sudden, so savage he didn't have time to shield himself. Like a sword-thrust, the enemy's thoughts shattered his defenses. Lottres screamed. He felt himself trapped in an instant, a mouse pinned down by a cat. Ysislaw absorbed his name and his innermost being. All that he was, all that he knew, was swallowed in the maw of his enemy's power, and then spit out with utmost contempt.

“
So, another of Unferth's whelps,
”
Ysislaw said. His words were like knives, slashing at Lottres's mind
.
“
And you think yourself a wizard. Pah.
”

Lottres was too stunned to summon a response, but it seemed that none was needed.

“
You thought you were so clever and careful,
”
Ysislaw sneered
.
“
I merely allowed you to go free so that I could observe your movements.
”

Lottres writhed on the floor, struggling in mind and body. Ysislaw's horrible, malevolent laughter filled his consciousness.

“
And you, the loyal son, sought to rescue your brothers, including the very king who ordered you killed in Carthell. What a fool. But, if that is your wish, so be it. You sought poor, captive Oskar. I think it only fitting that you share his fate.
”

Lottres had the terrible feeling that Ysislaw enjoyed his helpless struggles. He lay still, panting.

“
I'll send someone along to collect you,
”
Ysislaw sneered.
“
Or your bodies, at least.
”

As suddenly as it had come, the evil presence was gone. The cessation of pain left Lottres limp, clammy with sweat. Exhaustion seemed to crush him to the floor, but the knowledge in his heart was worse. Ysislaw had set his trap with Oskar as the bait, and Lottres had led them right into it.

Lottres knew he should do something. If only he had more training, his magic might set them free, but he couldn't summon the strength to move. The smoke closed in around him, and with it, oblivion.

* * *

Hours had passed since Pikarus and Lottres went on their search. Hours, and still no word. Therula had tried to sleep, but it was no use. The more time passed, the more certain she became that something had gone terribly wrong.

It was dawn now. The maidservant had already been in to start her fire. Therula dressed herself in a formal gown, since she planned to be in court again after breakfast. She sat before the fireplace and stared at the flames without seeing them. Waiting. Just waiting. She had been doing this for weeks. It seemed much longer. Therula felt like a statue, stiff with the weight of lost time. A marble statue, with blue agates inlaid for her eyes and an elaborate dress painted onto the lifeless stone.

How ironic that Pikarus's longed-for return had made things worse, not better! No matter what happened, Therula had assumed she could rely on her status to protect her. Now she knew that for a hollow dream. If the king himself was a mockery, there was no safety for anyone. Therula's high rank was suddenly meaningless. She had only her wits to protect her. Now she knew how Brastigan felt.

If Brastigan still lived. Therula's mind swerved from that awful idea. If Brastigan was dead, Pikarus would be, too, and she couldn't bear to think of that. Therula didn't want to face life without him.

Yet she knew all too well she might have to, and not because of mere politics. No, there was a darker, more terrible possibility. Therula didn't know if Pikarus had considered it, but she must. If the Silletsians won, Unferth's daughters would be easy prey for the invaders. With Therula alone, Ysislaw could establish a regime with the appearance of legitimacy. She would be made a queen of ashes and rubble.

Such a thing must never be tolerated. And yet, what could she do? If this dragon had the black magic Pikarus and Alustra said, what hope of escape did Therula have?

Outside, trumpets echoed from the towers of the keep. As Therula heard their shrill command, her heart gave a sickening lurch. Soldiers were being summoned. The battle was about to begin. Therula couldn't understand it. How could the Silletsians be here so soon? It should have taken them days more to cross Daraine! Yet there was no denying the trumpets' cruel message.

Therula's knees creaked like a beldame's as she stood. With icy hands she lifted her cloak, tying it on as she strode along the corridor. Outside, it was a dreary, cloudy morning. A faint, foul odor rode a fitful wind from off the bay.

There was a controlled chaos under that gloomy sky. Men poured from the barracks, buckling swords as they came. Horses, catching the fever, neighed and pawed the ground fretfully. Therula had never seen such a sight before. Crutham had been at peace all her life.

Therula scanned the crowd, hoping against hope to see Pikarus or Lottres among the soldiers. She didn't, of course. She did see women running from the kitchens to bid their men farewell. The leave-takings had an element of hysteria, for the soldiers weren't merely going on a journey this time. They marched to war. Last time, Therula hadn't deigned to join them. She wished, now, that she had.

Miraculously, the confusion suddenly cleared into orderly ranks. Voices died away. Soldiers were looking toward the inner keep. Then, with a metallic whisper, the armored men knelt en masse.

Their king descended the ramp from the inner keep. His brothers came after in a solemn file, Habrok and Calitar and the rest in surcoats of black. Someone among them carried the battle standard, but Therula couldn’t see who had been granted the honor.

Oskar wore a magnificent harness. Therula had never seen her brother wear armor, although she knew he must own some. She had to admit he looked every inch a king. Silvery steel blazed, even under the heavy overcast. The vambraces and demi-greaves were inlaid with towers of jet and gold. The sword of Crutham hung at his side. On the helmet, two dragon horns made a magnificent display. Except that she knew those were no mere decorations.

It was obvious this wasn't truly Oskar, now that she knew it. Therula could see the veiled laughter in the stranger's face as he received the homage of the assembled soldiers. He walked differently, too. Not strutting, as Oskar would, but almost prowling, like a snake that might strike at any moment.

A white horse was led forward, draped in livery of Crutham's black and gold. The pretender sprang to its back, a bold move Therula guessed was calculated to impress the soldiers with his vigor and confidence. The horse snorted and hopped, as if it sensed what kind of creature bestrode it.

“
Men of Crutham!
”
the false king proclaimed. His voice echoed weirdly from the walls of the keep behind him.
“
How glad my heart is to see your brave faces. I have no fear of battle, for my dear brothers and you brave warriors ride with me. We shall be triumphant today!
”

Habrok led the assembly in a deafening cheer. Therula winced. Oskar spoke the absolute opposite of the truth, and was acclaimed for it. She could hardly bear to listen to him.

“
Come forth, Captain Garican!
”
cried Oskar.

“
I am here, your majesty.
”
Garican's voice cracked with nervousness. He stood straighter, as if that might conceal his lapse.