Crown of Three (2 page)

One after the other, the little mouths closed. Three pairs of black eyes stared up at the wizard, wide and unafraid. Kalia gathered up the babies and hugged them to her, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Forgive me,” said Melchior. “It was the only way.”

“It's better than we could have hoped for,” said Kalia, hitching in her breaths between sobs. “He thinks the prophecy has come and gone. They'll be safe now, won't they? Only . . .”

“Yes?”

Kalia looked down sadly at the three newborns. They gazed back at her. “You're right—I can't go with them. If I do, Brutan will know something is wrong. He'll come after me and . . .”

“What will you do?”

Kalia's eyes grew hard. Melchior sensed her strength, and hoped at least a little of it had flowed into her children. They would need it.

“It's not up to me anymore. It's up to you, Melchior. Take them. Send them away. Send them where Brutan will never find them.”

She lifted the first child, a boy, and kissed his forehead. “You are Tarlan,” she whispered. Hands trembling a little, she handed him to Melchior.

The second child was a girl. Kalia kissed her cheek. “Elodie, my daughter.”

The third child was a boy. Kalia kissed the tip of his nose and said, “Your name is Agulphus.”

By the time the three babies were secured safely inside Melchior's capacious robes, Kalia's tears were flowing freely again.

“These names I bind to you, my loves,” she said. “It's all I have to give. I'm sorry. No child deserves your fate. Be strong, all three of you, and be true to yourselves. I hope one day we can . . .” She turned away, unable to speak further.

“My lady?” said Melchior.

“Go, Melchior. Before I change my mind.”

And he did.

  •  •  •  

The great south wall of Castle Tor stood tall and dark against the pale dawn sky. Melchior slipped through the shadow of the postern gatehouse—the least used of all the entrances to the castle—toward three men on horseback.

All three were staring up at the slender tower rising from the castle's southeast corner. A wisp of yellow smoke lingered at the top: the last remnant of the beacon Melchior had lit to summon the riders. Sending the signal without being spotted had been difficult; waiting for dawn to come, and the men to arrive, had been agonizing.

Fate is hard.

As one, the three men tore their gazes from the beacon and fixed their eyes on Melchior.

“We are ready,” said the first man. He was thickset, broader even than King Brutan, with a deeply furrowed brow. But behind the perpetual frown, his eyes were kind.

Without speaking, Melchior reached into his robes and drew out a small, white bundle. He handed it to the man.

“I will take the boy to my home in Yalasti,” the rider said. “The cold will make him strong.”

“That is well, Captain Leom,” said Melchior. He handed a second bundle to a tall man mounted on a glossy gray charger. “And you, Lord Vicerin?”

“She will live as one of my own family,” Vicerin replied. “She will want for nothing.”

Melchior presented the third child to the remaining rider, a gray-haired knight wearing battered armor. The warhorse he rode was scarred and ancient.

“Will you keep him safe, Sir Brax?”

“I know a tavern,” said the old knight. “It is hidden deep in the Isurian woods. The boy will not be found.”

The three horsemen turned their steeds and galloped into the dawn. At the end of the castle track, the road widened, taking them out across the great Idilliam Bridge and into the kingdom beyond.

Melchior watched them dwindle and merge to a single moving dot. When they reached the far end of the bridge, each rider chose his different path and the dot broke into three again. The dust kicked up by the horses' hooves thickened and spread. By the time it had cleared, they had vanished.

Weariness spread through Melchior's limbs. He felt old again, old and empty.

Have I done the right thing?

He hoped so. Triplets were unusual in Toronia. If they remained together, sooner or later Brutan would discover them, and all would be lost. Their only chance was to grow up in separate corners of the kingdom. If they survived, fate might one day bring them together again.

And once together, they might at last take the crown.

Melchior trudged back up the path to the castle. Just before passing through the gate, he paused long enough to look up at the sky. Most of the stars had faded. Three alone remained.

“You are Toronia's only hope,” he whispered, and went inside.

CT ONE

 
Thirteen Years Later
 

G
ulph stared at the crowd. An ocean of faces surrounded him, some expectant, some bored. There must have been hundreds of spectators—perhaps even a thousand—all dressed in finery the like of which Gulph had never seen. They filled the tiered seats of the Toronian Great Hall. Gulph used to daydream about playing to such a large audience but had never imagined that, when the time came, it would be as a captive of the king.

He inhaled, his empty belly gurgling at the tang of roasted pork wafting from trays carried by wandering servants. He listened to the low rumble of the audience as the king's guests murmured to each other, shifted in their seats, waved their fans against the heat. He watched airborne dust move through rays of light pouring down from the gold-tinted windows in the roof. Was it possible to make glass from gold? Gulph didn't know.

“Get on with it!” called a voice from the uppermost row of seats.

Not as if we've got any choice,
Gulph thought.

He bowed low, bending forward at the waist until his nose touched the tip of his left shoe. He waited as a ripple of amusement moved through the crowd. Then he stood up straight again, paused, and bent over backward. This time the crowd gasped. Gulph's spine folded over on itself. Gripping his ankles with his hands, he stuck his head through his legs and forced himself to grin his biggest grin.

With his body contorted in this seemingly impossible fashion, Gulph trotted from one end of the sand-covered floor to the other. On the way he passed Pip, who was juggling a selection of apples and pears and hopping from foot to foot. As Gulph circled her, she dropped him a wink, but there was no mistaking the sadness in her brown eyes. The other members of the Tangletree Players looked on and clapped their hands. The jester, Sidebottom John, went one step further by standing on his hands and jangling the bells attached to his ankles.

The crowd took up the applause. By the time Gulph had returned to the center of the hall, many of the audience were on their feet. He planted his hands on the floor and flipped his legs over his head. Landing on his feet, he bowed again, this time to the royal box.

King Brutan and Queen Magritt were unmissable in their crimson robes. The king stroked his beard, expressionless. The queen dipped her head, but, instead of a smile on her face, Gulph thought he saw a frown.

A cloud cast its shadow overhead and the golden light faded. Suddenly Gulph saw the Great Hall for what it was: a once-grand chamber grown old and tired. Paint was peeling from the thick supporting columns, and the uniforms of the various servants and orderlies were patched and in ill repair.

Castle Tor might have been the heart of the kingdom, but the heart was sick.

There was a particular face in the royal box Gulph wished he'd never set eyes on: that of General Elrick. This pompous military man with the face of a weasel looked very pleased with his place beside the king and queen, and took every opportunity to chatter to them, seemingly oblivious to their obvious dislike of him.

It was Elrick who'd brought the Tangletree Players to Idilliam. Weary from the war, he'd clearly been delighted to discover Gulph and his troupe of wandering entertainers performing for Brutan's soldiers in the nearby forests of Isur. He'd promised them riches and full bellies, warm quarters, and the king's protection.

The reality had been different. General Elrick had paraded the players before the king as spoils of war, then introduced them to their new home—one freezing cell between all twelve of them. Life on the road—sleeping under hedges wondering where their next meal was coming from, or whether they'd wake to find their throat being cut by some wandering ruffian—had been hard. But as far as Gulph was concerned, at least he had been free.

As an encore, Gulph went into a series of backflips. The crowd roared. After every flip, he paused and took another bow, exploiting the extraordinary flexibility of his body to the limit . . . and taking the opportunity to throw another glance at Queen Magritt.

Every time he looked at her, her expression grew more ferocious.

Stare at me all you like. I'm used to it.

Many people saw Gulph's contortionist skills as a kind of deformity, along with his bulging eyes and the crook in his back. But this was different.

So intense was the queen's glare that, on his final backflip, Gulph stumbled. Ankles tangled, he fell heavily on his backside in a puff of dust. Laughter pealed through the audience.

Queen Magritt rose to her feet. Her fists were clenched. On her cheeks, bright red spots stood out like beacons against her pale skin. The king raised his hand to pull her down but she shook him aside.

“Take him out of my sight!” she shrieked, pointing directly at Gulph. Instantly the crowd fell silent. Gulph stared at the queen, bewildered, as her words echoed through the Great Hall. “This . . . this malformed monster will bring nothing but ill fortune to the realm.”

“But, Your Majesty . . .” said General Elrick, rising to his feet. The king shoved him down, then turned to regard his queen with one bushy eyebrow raised quizzically.

“The Vault of Heaven!” said Queen Magritt. Astonished cries rose from the audience. She waved a group of legionnaires forward. “Take him there. Take him there now. I won't have him in my sight a moment longer!”

As the soldiers strode toward him, Gulph looked up at the shocked faces of his friends.