Too Many Princes (6 page)

THE VOICE OF THE FALCON

Lottres said nothing more as his brother changed into court clothes. When Brastigan was in this mood, you couldn't say anything that didn't set him off. Lottres was feeling nervous enough without being sniped at.

Instead, he watched as Brastigan dressed. First were the trews, replacing dusty leather ones. He stamped his good boots on over them. Then a shirt of fine, soft cloth, tied at the wrists and throat. Lottres would have offered to help with that, but he knew Brastigan wouldn't accept it. Next, the tunic. It had long sleeves and came to mid-thigh. The fabric was dark green, embroidered in a pattern of yellow and red. Over this, Brastigan belted on Victory. The ends of his long hair were caught behind the sword belt. He pulled them free.

“
Too bad I didn't know I would be in court today,
”
Brastigan said, mostly to himself.
“
I would have put on something more colorful.
”

Lottres glanced at the beads in Brastigan's hair. They were simple, of dark wood.

“
There's more to life than annoying the queen,
”
Lottres pointed out. Brastigan snorted at that, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

 Brastigan was always saying how he detested the bright colors some of the courtiers wore. For all that, Lottres thought, he always made sure he looked good. He went out of his way to be noticed, too, whether that meant showing off in the practice arena or pulling some juvenile prank on their sisters. It was a kind of revenge, Lottres guessed. Brastigan had to be better than everyone else, because it was so painful to be different.

Truthfully, it wasn't all bad for Lottres. Brastigan had always been quick to jump in when one of the bigger brothers, like Albrett or Rickard, sat on Lottres and wouldn't get off. Sometimes, when you were the smallest, it was good to have a shadow to hide in. Lottres knew Brastigan didn't mean to overshadow him so completely.

     Still they weren't boys any more. No one sat on Lottres, not literally, and Rickard wouldn't be bothering anyone, ever again. Lottres was fully grown. He didn't need a champion to defend him, and he couldn't help resenting that it was all so easy for Brastigan. So easy, he never considered it might be hard for others.

“
Well, how do I look?
”
Brastigan asked. He straightened the hem of his tunic and struck a pose.

Lottres stood, eyeing his brother critically.
“
They'll never know it's you,
”
he joked.

* * *

If the jest was a peace offering, Brastigan was willing to accept it. He grinned and punched Lottres's shoulder lightly, extending a hand to take back the mysterious dagger. He tucked it into his belt again.

“
Come on. Let's get this over with.
”

“
It doesn't have to be something bad, you know,
”
Lottres remarked, following Brastigan out of the bath. Just beyond the arched portal was a broad stairway, curving upward. They began to ascend.

Brastigan snorted.
“
When has our father ever called us to court for something good?
”
he shot back.

“
We've grown up,
”
Lottres argued.
“
We aren't a couple of trouble making brats any more.
”

“
Yes, and have you noticed how boring it is around here?
”
Brastigan retorted. He had always hated court, and he made no secret of it. It didn't help that court was the only time he ever saw the king. Bad enough to be a bastard, ignored by his father. The pompous formality of such occasions only grated on his nerves.

They emerged at the top of the stairs. The great hall, where the king and queen held court, was directly ahead. The crowd made it impossible to see into the chamber.

“
I hope there's someplace to sit down,
”
Brastigan grumbled. Lottres merely sighed in response.

After much nagging on the part of Queen Alustra, the great hall had recently been enlarged and rebuilt. The rest of the keep was constructed in true Cruthan style: simple, massive and defensible. This hall, by contrast, looked as though it had been built for pixies. Its ceiling arched high, with long, thin, elegant pillars and fancy windows. The stonework was elaborately dressed in the style of Tanix, Alustra's homeland. Even the entrance was carved to look like a bower. There was a gallery from which the court could be viewed, too. Brilliantly colored banners hung along the length of the great central chamber. It was ridiculous, if you asked Brastigan. Totally indefensible.

From the angle of the sunlight pouring in those egotistical windows, it was late afternoon. Even so, the hall was crowded. Brastigan used his height shamelessly to seek a path. Most of the people, he noted, were dressed like himself, in sober and practical colors. Only a minority had given in to pressure, adopting the bright hues and elaborate costumes Queen Alustra encouraged. Brastigan tried not to sneer as he shouldered a way through for Lottres and himself. Such fancies might be bearable in Tanix and Forix, rival kingdoms in the warmer lands across the sea. Crutham was cold a good part of the year, and her people ought to dress for the climate.

King Unferth and Queen Alustra sat on a dais, raised several steps and canopied in the Tanixan style. The canopy was of pale gold satin, brocaded with a pattern of black towers. Beneath it were the thrones
,
of dark wood carved and inlaid with gold. Brastigan glanced at his father, and then quickly looked away. It wouldn't do for him to be seen wearing such an unfilial expression of contempt.

King Unferth lived well, as everyone knew. It showed. His beard was still golden, but it flowed down over a belly that strained against the fabric of his purple tunic. His face was red, and he sipped frequently from a golden cup. Still, the old man's eyes were keen as he watched the guildman making his presentation before the thrones. They were bright blue, like Habrok's. His crown was a band of beaten gold, etched with the symbols of his various provinces. As Brastigan looked again, Unferth shifted the coronet. He rubbed his temples briefly, as if the weight troubled him.

Beside him was Queen Alustra, his first lady in name only. She was a plump woman, dressed in a brilliant blue gown with the huge sleeves and upstanding collar of the Tanixan style. It was an unfortunate choice. Instead of making her look young, as she doubtless intended, the over
-
done garb only emphasized that she was aging. Alustra's crown wasn't permitted to outshine the king's, but she made up the lack with a jeweled net covering her pale hair. Queen Alustra sat very straight. She, too, paid close attention to the prating merchant. Unlike King Unferth, she seemed to actively enjoy sitting on a throne, in the eyes of all the watchers. She often, and ostentatiously, advised her husband on matters of state.

Near Alustra, Brastigan glimpsed two of her children. Therula loitered near Unferth's chair, eyeing Brastigan and Lottres with curiosity and a trace of concern. Closer to Alustra as another of Brastigan's unloved ones. Oskar, her only son, strolled through the first rank of courtiers with a self-satisfied air. As Unferth's legitimate heir, Crown Prince Oskar had a clear advantage over his baggle of brothers. He was fair enough in his dealings with them, but with a condescending kindliness that made Brastigan grit his teeth and gag. He knew he wasn't the only one who felt that way. Brastigan might not have much in common with most of his siblings, but they could at lease trade jibes or ride together. Oskar, he just stayed away from.

Today, it was hard to miss him. For one thing, Oskar's pacing created a constant swirl of movement that drew the eye. For another, he was garbed in a doublet of dark red velvet that made him seem to smo
u
lder in the sunlight from the windows. The big shoulders looked swollen, Brastigan thought sourly, and the doublet was short enough to show a bit too much leg clad in black hose. His red velvet shoes had toes that curled absurdly upward.

Oskar was handsome enough, so the ladies said, with the sleek look of a well-fed feline. He accepted the flattery of the court with smug aplomb, but his eyes were like his mother's: heartless and cold. Like a cat, he felt no true affection for anyone but himself. Brastigan had good reason to know that.

How much longer would the idiot tradesman drone on? Brastigan held his place with difficulty. Why had they been summoned, if they weren't wanted?

Lottres must have sensed his agitation, for he murmured,
“
It won't be long now.
”

“
Will that be before I've died of old age?
”
Brastigan hissed back.

He tried to keep his voice down, but the queen turned her head. Their eyes met, and her expression hardened into a familiar, prudish sniff. Moving her lips as little as possible, she mouthed a few words to her husband. As Therula watched, Unferth briefly glanced toward them and then returned his gaze to the petitioner before him.

The dark prince stiffened, stung by the slighting appraisal. It was all he could do not to turn and stalk out. Why, if the old man weren't king... But he was, and even Brastigan knew better to ignore his summons, however much the old man ignored him. So he waited, and fumed, and it seemed an eternity before the guildman finished his over worded and pompous request for an exemption from some tax or other. Which the king, in a mere handful of syllables, denied. Then the queen, showing off her influence, laid her hand on his arm and craved him to reconsider. And so the matter was set aside until a week hence.

By this time Brastigan was grinding his teeth to keep back a shriek at the tediousness of it all. As the merchant withdrew, trying to look properly meek, a scream did ring in the palatial hall—but no human voiced it.

Brastigan wasn't the only one who started at the shrill echoes among the banner hung arches. A snap of movement made him look up, where the largest falcon he had ever seen unfurled its wings atop the royal canopy. The strong sunlight turned its tawny breast to gold. Its wings, barred with rusty brown, made a striking pattern, blood and gold, against the shadowed gallery.

The bird kicked away from the canopy and dove into flight with a motion so graceful and economical that Brastigan thought of a dancer—a dancer of the air. Yet it was swift. In but a moment, it stooped upon them. He instinctively stepped back and raised his arm, but the great bird flared its wings wide and dropped, lightly as a bit of thistledown, onto Lottres's shoulder. The crowd shank back, murmuring what this must portend. They were left, at last, with room enough to breathe. The falcon closed its wings with a matter-of-fact rustle. Its claws curved cruelly, but did not so much as pin the cloth of Lottres's tunic together. The eyes it turned upon the bystanders were pale as gold coins.

 If the bird hadn't been so intimidating, Brastigan would have laughed at his brother's stunned expression. Or, he might have cried warning. For Oskar, across the court, was smiling in a way Brastigan didn't like at all.

Then, in a quiet thick with whispers, came the rustle of movement. King Unferth arose and handed his cup to a page, who sprang forth to receive it, then descended the low stairs to the floor of the chamber. He crossed the broad floor with a dignity at odds with his girth, until he drew near his two sons.

It was the closest Unferth had been to Brastigan in years. He had gained weight, and his face had a pouchiness about the nose and eyes. However, his gaze wasn't on Lottres or Brastigan. Instead, he bowed to the falcon, showing his sons a wide pink spot of bare skin parting his hair. Many strands of silver glinted among the gold.

A fresh wave of whispers washed over the hall as the great bird inclined its head in return. Then it spoke, in a shrill, strange voice like the squeak of a whistle you could make by splitting a blade of grass. The sound of it made the hairs rise on the back of Brastigan's neck.

“
Unferth of Crutham,
”
it said. The words were clear despite their weird pitch.
“
In accordance with the ancient pact, my mistress Yriatt now calls upon you for aid.
”

Though Lottres
s
appeared entranced, Brastigan felt his stomach sink. Aid? What pact?

“
Crutham shall not forget our debt of honor,
”
the king replied. His voice wasn't quite as deep as Habrok's, but a lifetime of political practice made it sonorous, cultivated.
“
Thus I shall send to the Lady of Hawkwing House these two of my sons.
”

For Brastigan the room seemed to fall silent, save for the echo of those callous words:
“
I shall send... shall send these two... send these two of my sons.
”

Rage scalded in his veins. Sent away, banished maybe, on the whim of a
bird?

The tramp of booted feet drew him back to himself. A column of ten liveried and armored men marched to a halt before the king and princes.

Their leader dropped to one knee with a rattle of chain mail on plate legs.
“
My lord king.
”

“
Pikarus,
”
Unferth intoned.
“
You will accompany my sons to Hawkwing House. Guard them and serve them well.
”

“
Aye, your majesty.
”

“
And you, my sons...
”
Now, at last, the king looked at Lottres and Brastigan. His face was calm and without expression. The pause lengthened. It seemed he awaited something. Over his shoulder Oskar smiled, showing many teeth, while the queen looked as though she smelled something sour. For her part, Therula watched with barely concealed anxiety.

Lottres shook himself. He also dropped to one knee, and Brastigan followed with a rebellions jerk. The anonymous knife poked him in the ribs as he did so.