Crown of Three

Special thanks to Graham Edwards

For Y. K.

In Toronia, realm of three,

A tempest has long raged.

By power's potent siren call,

Weak men are enslaved.

Too much virtuous blood has spilt

In this accursed age.

When the stars increase by three

The kingdom shall be saved.

Beneath these fresh celestial lights,

Three new heirs will enter in.

They shall summon unknown power,

They shall kill the cursed king.

With three crowns they shall ascend,

And true peace, they will bring.

—
Gryndor, first wizard of Toronia

M
elchior stood in the courtyard of Castle Tor, his wrinkled face turned up to the heavens. A million stars burned above him. Their light was old and cold, but Melchior's eyes were older.

Long ago, before the stars had kindled, the sky had been a barren, empty place. Beneath its shadow, the earth and the sea had been filled with darkness and strange magic.

Long ago, things had been different.

Melchior closed his ancient eyes and tried to summon a picture of that long-lost time and place. But his memory failed him. The past was gone.

Even a wizard cannot remember everything
, he thought.

When Melchior opened his eyes again, the sky had changed.

Directly overhead, framed by the hard stone of the castle battlements, three new stars blazed. The first was tinted faintly green, the second red, and the third gold. Each of them alone was brighter than anything else in the sky. Together they formed a tiny triangular constellation hanging in the blackness like an impossible jewel.

“The prophecy,” whispered Melchior.

His back—which had been bent—straightened. The weight of long years fell away. His gnarled fingers tightened on his staff. He turned and ran toward the tower steps, his worn yellow cloak spreading behind him like wings. He shot past the kitchens. In an open doorway, framed by orange oven light, a servant stood frozen in the act of throwing out the slops. As the white-haired wizard sprinted past, the young man dropped the copper pot, sending it clattering onto the flagstones.

Melchior took the steps two at a time. The stone stairs wound around the outer wall of the castle's central keep. The wizard's bare feet slapped on the narrow stone treads.

At an open doorway three floors up, he darted inside the tower. A dizzying series of passages carried him deep into the castle interior. The corridors were dark and deserted. With King Brutan's army busy fighting the rebels at Ritherlee, Castle Tor was all but empty. Melchior muttered arcane words and the tip of his staff sputtered with cold fire, lighting his path.

Ducking beneath a low arch, the wizard charged into a wide, circular chamber from which a spiral staircase rose. Beneath the stairs, on a rickety wooden table, three tallow candles were burning. Coincidence or another sign?

Melchior didn't believe in coincidence.

“Hey! Who goes there?” A round-bellied guard levered himself off the bench on which he'd been dozing. “You can't see Kalia. I've got orders, me.”

Without breaking stride, Melchior spun his staff in his hand. The fire at its tip became a circle of light. The light looped over the guard's head, where it contracted instantly to form a shining halo. As soon as the light touched the man's brow, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he slumped to the floor.

Melchior glanced through the window. The three stars were in clear view. The guard probably hadn't noticed them, but sooner or later somebody would and the alarm would be raised.

Melchior had lived for more years than he could count. Never had time felt so precious.

He bounded up the two hundred and ten steps to Kalia's chamber. Counting the steps was something he did without thinking. For Melchior, all magic was numbers.
Measure the world and you will be its master.
This was what he knew, and what he taught, although he was well aware that his spells were not the only way to wield power.

There was much more to magic than mere numbers.

At the top of the staircase was a stout oak door. Melchior crashed through it. Beyond was a large room with a high ceiling. Flames flickered in an open hearth. Tapestries lined the walls. A connecting corridor took him past a polished table and a single chair, into a chamber containing a four-poster bed draped with silk.

On the bed sat a woman. Her face was flushed. Her long, red-gold hair was tangled and matted with sweat.

“They have their father's eyes,” she said.

Melchior stopped in his tracks. He knelt at the side of the bed and placed his staff on the coverlet. The light at its tip faded to nothing. The wizard's breathing was soft and slow, even though he'd just run the length of the castle.

“Three,” he said.

“Yes,” Kalia replied.

On the bed before her were three bundles. At a glance, each might have been just a pile of laundry. But Melchior knew better.

He leaned forward, parting the flannel cloth and peering inside the bundles, one after the other. Inside each he saw a newborn baby. Each child was pink like its mother, and bore a dusting of her red-gold hair on its head. Each had eyes as black as the night sky.

“The prophecy.” Melchior pointed to the window, beyond which the three stars were just rising into view.

“All the time I was carrying them, I kept telling myself it wasn't true,” said Kalia. “Even now, I can hardly believe it.”

“This has nothing to do with belief,” Melchior said gently. “This is fate. For a thousand years, Toronia has known only war. Here”—he spread his hands before the babies—“here at last lies the promise of peace.”

“But sending them away . . . Melchior, it's just so hard.”

“Fate gives us no quarter, Kalia.” He pointed a finger at the window. The stars were already climbing toward the middle of the sky. “Three stars for three children, just as the prophecy foretold. Kalia, the king will see the stars too. I can no longer keep your children secret.”

Kalia turned her distraught face toward the newborns. “I've only just brought them into the world. How can I let them go?”

“If you do not let me take them, your babies will die.”

The words hit home. Melchior hated himself for being cruel.

But if we do not act swiftly, all will be lost.

“He wouldn't,” she said.

“He would. You know better than anyone what the prophecy says. Triplets will be born to the king. They will kill their father and rule in his place. Only when they have taken the throne will Toronia know peace.” He gestured toward the three babies. “What do you think King Brutan will do when he sees them? Do you think they will live to see the dawn?”

Kalia clutched Melchior's hand. “Then take me, too!”

“Kalia, I . . .”

Footsteps thundered on the stairs outside. Swords rang against the stone walls. A voice bellowed, unmistakable.

“King Brutan is here!” Melchior gave a silent curse. They'd waited too long! There was no other way out of the chambers. They were trapped.

Seizing his staff, the old wizard ran his sensitive fingertips down the runes carved into its age-worn surface. His fingers danced, playing the staff like a musical instrument, though it made no sound. He counted the beat of the silent song he was making, hoping he would finish it in time.

Four men, dressed in the bronze armor of the King's Legion, marched into the bedchamber. No sooner had they entered than a fifth man, taller and broader than the rest, forced his way through their ranks. He wore only a light sleeping robe, and his black hair and beard were disheveled, but still King Brutan was more imposing than any of his soldiers.

Kalia gasped and clutched her sweat-damp nightdress about her neck. “Brutan!” she cried. “I can explain. . . .”

“Explain?” Brutan's voice boomed through the bedchamber. “Can you explain that?” He pointed through the window, where the three stars were riding high. Kalia said nothing.

The king took a step closer to the bed. His broad brow was filmed with sweat. His black eyes were wide and wild. “You lied. You said there would be one child. But omens do not lie.”

He bent over the three bundles. Kalia clutched his arm but he threw her off. She fell back on the bed, sobbing. Brutan seized the blanket in which the first baby was wrapped and ripped it open.

Staring at what lay inside, the king grunted.

He opened the second bundle and grunted again.

Slowly, Brutan peeled apart the third tiny bundle of flannel, looking long and hard at what lay revealed.

He grunted once more.

Melchior stepped forward. His hands gripped his staff, his fingers carefully placed.

“As you can see, sire,” he said, “the children were not meant for this world.”

On the bed, the three newborn babies lay for all to see. Their arms and legs were splayed out. Their skin was blue and wrinkled. Their eyes were closed. Their little chests were motionless.

“Dead?” said Brutan.

Raising her head, Kalia screamed.

Melchior bowed. “Stillborn,” he said. “That is why I was summoned here—to see if my magic could help. Alas, I was too late.”

“And the prophecy?” said Brutan.

“Has failed.”

A long silence followed, broken only by Kalia's sobs as she threw herself over her dead babies. Then Brutan began to laugh.

“Failed!” he cried. “Failed! Was there ever a finer moment than this, Wizard? Well, was there?”

“No,” Melchior replied. “This is a fine moment indeed.”

Brutan seized Kalia's hair and yanked her head back. He planted his lips on hers. When she tried to pull away, he twisted her hair until she cried out. Finally he shoved her aside.

“If you ever lie to me again,” he hissed, “I will burn you for the witch you are.” He pointed to the babies. “Take them as far away from me as possible. That is an order. Do you understand, Wizard?”

“Perfectly, sire,” Melchior replied.

As soon as Brutan and his legionnaires had left, Melchior released his grip on his staff. The hot wood cooled. Something like an exhaled breath wafted through the bedchamber, although the air didn't move.

Immediately the skin of the babies transformed from blue to healthy pink. The wrinkles plumped out. One after the other, their little chests heaved. Their eyes opened. So did their mouths.

“Hush,” said Melchior, waving his hand. “Don't cry, little ones. Don't cry.”