Crown of Three (26 page)

There they were: the three prophecy stars. She should have grown used to the sight by now, but every time she saw them her wonder only grew.

I am them
, she thought.
And they are me
.

Except that wasn't quite right. It wasn't “I.” It was “we,” and it was “us.” Would she be with Gulph soon? And what of her other brother? Wherever he was, she hoped he was safe.

“Three are stronger than one,” she murmured to Discus, running her hand down his gray mane.

The night deepened, and the air grew even colder. Elodie wrapped the cloak tightly around herself. A voice called, very far away, or else it whispered very close—Elodie couldn't be sure.

Just someone crying in the night
, she told herself.

Or a voice of someone dead. The thought gave her a chill.

Blowing on her hands, Elodie patted Discus's flank and headed back toward the tent. On the way she passed three watchmen, all of whom nodded to her. She had no doubt her every move had been observed.

She supposed that, once she was queen, it would be like that for the rest of her life. At least life at Castle Vicerin meant she was used to it.

“The princess throw you out?” asked one of the men. “Too high-and-mighty to share a tent?”

Elodie turned. He was one of Stown's cronies—Merrick, if she remembered rightly. She scowled at him. “What do you mean by that?”

Realization passed over Merrick's face. “Oh, it's you,” he said irritably. “Thought you were Palenie. That's her cloak, ain't it? And you've got the same hair and all.”

“My hair isn't red,” Elodie retorted. Did they look alike? It had never occurred to her.

“Oh yes, it is. With a bit of gold. You're nearly the same, I tell you.”

“Don't be daft, Merrick,” said his companion. “You're just seeing double, is all.”

“And being rude on top of it,” said Elodie. She felt her cheeks flushing. “You could just leave, if I annoy you that much.” Sweeping the cloak around her, she made her way back to the tent. Once there, she stopped. Strange sounds were coming from inside: a kind of heavy breathing, but muffled.

Palenie doesn't snore. . . .

Suddenly afraid, Elodie gripped the tent flap. Her hand was shaking; her heart scampered like a frightened rabbit in her chest. Steeling her nerves, she eased back the flap.

The starlight revealed Palenie. Her arms and legs were thrashing, thrown wide on the ground. Kneeling over her was a man. His back was turned to Elodie, so she couldn't see his face.

He was holding something around Palenie's throat.

E
lodie tried to move her arms, her legs. She wanted to cry out. But nothing happened; she was frozen beneath the tent flap. The edges of her vision blurred, leaving the shocking scene before her crisp and clear.

The intruder was choking Palenie to death. It was one of the thugs they'd encountered at the bridge, she was sure of it. Who else would dare to enter the camp and commit this horrifying crime?

Palenie arched her back and emitted a hideous gargling sound. For an instant, Elodie saw her friend's bloodshot eyes staring wildly back at her, pleading.

The sight spurred her into action. She lunged into the tent. Palenie's sword was hanging in its scabbard from the central support pole and Elodie grabbed the hilt, drawing the long blade in a single, fluid movement. The sword felt heavy and awkward. Why hadn't she paid more attention in the training sessions?

Use both hands.

The voice sounded like Samial's. But it couldn't have been: He was far away in the Weeping Woods.

Tightening both hands around the cold hilt, Elodie raised the sword over her head, preparing to bring it down on the man's neck. At the last moment, she reversed her grip and stabbed the weapon straight into his back. The sharp tip easily penetrated his leather jerkin, his skin, the flesh beneath. There was a hideous shuddering sensation as it grated over what Elodie could only assume were his ribs.

Instantly, the man went limp. Elodie could almost see the life leaving him, rising from his collapsing body like a cloud of vapor. He fell sideways, sliding off the sword and landing face-first on top of Palenie like a sack of meal. Dark blood spread from beneath his body, glistening in a thin beam of moonlight as it soaked into the furs covering Palenie.

“Palenie! It's all right! I'm here now!”

Staring at her bloodied sword, Elodie suddenly remembered the words of the white-haired man.

Blood will flow!

She'd never imagined the first drop would be by her hand.

Tossing the weapon aside, Elodie attempted to heave the dead man off her friend. He was impossibly heavy. She tried again, fighting the bile rising in her throat, trying not to think about what she'd just done. . . .

I have killed a man!

Putting all her weight into the effort, she finally managed to roll the corpse off Palenie's body. Now the dead man lay on his back, slack face staring sightless at the roof of the tent, framed with blond hair.

The man was Rotho.

Elodie couldn't believe it. Rotho was courtly, charming, a warrior who'd said he'd been honored to fight alongside her. . . . Why would he hurt her friend?

Then she noticed Palenie's long hair spread in a wide, red fan.

Red.
She looked down at the cloak she was wearing.

Palenie's.

Of course . . .

“He thought you were me!”

There was something around Palenie's neck. Elodie tore it away—a metal coil as fine as a spider's web, wrapped around the purple-bruised skin. Slipping one hand under Palenie's head, she touched the other to her friend's cheek. Her hands, slick with Rotho's blood, left long red trails on Palenie's skin.

“Palenie!” she cried. “Palenie—wake up!”

Elodie pressed her fingers against Palenie's neck. There was no pulse. She turned her cheek to Palenie's lips. There was no breath. She brushed Palenie's hair back from where it had fallen over her face.

Palenie's eyes stared past her, as lifeless as those of the man Elodie had just killed.

Her friend was dead.

Elodie stumbled backward out of the tent. Somewhere, someone was screaming. She held out her hands to the empty air. She tipped back her head and turned a slow, unsteady circle, all the while gazing up at the three prophecy stars. They glared down at her with their cold, uncaring light.

“Elodie!” The voice was Fessan's. “Elodie! What's wrong?”

She felt his hands catch her. She hadn't even known she'd been falling. His face hovered over hers, pale and shocked. Other people crowded behind him, their expressions equally startled. How had they known to come?

Elodie realized it was she who'd been screaming.

“She's dead!” she howled. “Palenie's dead and it's all my fault!”

“What? Tell me what happened!” As he spoke, Fessan snapped his fingers and pointed to the tent. Two men ran inside, leaving Fessan to lower Elodie gently to the ground.

“Rotho,” she sobbed. The ground was cold and hard. All her strength was pouring out of her, encased in her tears. “It was Rotho. He . . . he . . . he strangled her.”

“It wasn't your fault,” said Fessan, touching his hand to her brow.

“Yes, it was. If I hadn't come . . . if I wasn't here . . . Palenie would still be alive.”

“It was Rotho who killed her.”

“But he thought Palenie was me! It's all my fault! If it wasn't for me . . . if I wasn't here . . .”

Elodie curled up, her arms clutched around her knees. The sobbing racked her body from head to toe.

One of the men came out of the tent, his face ashen. He handed the metal coil to Fessan.

“A garotte,” spat Fessan in disgust. “I have heard these are used in other lands. This is no Toronian weapon.”

Stown had come hurrying over. He looked into the tent, then he marched toward Fessan, jabbing with a finger. “You did this,” he yelled. “You let an assassin among us!” He turned to the others. “For how long will we suffer this weakling as leader? Until we're all murdered in our sleep? How—”

A blow from Fessan's fist silenced him. Stown staggered back, clutching his jaw.

“Get him out of my sight,” said Fessan. “Now!”

Stown was dragged away, and all around, people began to make themselves busy—except Fessan, who stayed with Elodie, stroking her head.

“Leave me alone!” she said.

“Never, Princess,” he replied.

She tried to push him away, but he might as well have been made from rock. At last she gave up and simply leaned against him with her head thrown back, crying out her grief, her guilt, her pain, staring up at stars made blurs by her endlessly flowing tears.

And the stars stared back down.

  •  •  •  

Later that night—when Elodie's tears had stopped and her body had stiffened—a woman came up to Fessan and knelt by his side. They started whispering.

“What are you talking about?” said Elodie. “Tell me.”

“A grave's been dug,” said the woman. “We thought . . . we thought Fessan might want to say a few words.”

“Are you going to do it now?”

“It must be done,” Fessan replied. “We cannot stay here. And . . . she cannot come with us.”

Elodie wiped her face. “Wait for me.”

Rubbing the cold from her arms and legs, Elodie hurried back to the tent. Palenie's body was gone; so was Rotho's. Someone had covered the enormous bloodstain with a carpet of furs. But the tent still stank of death.

She picked up the garland of flowers she'd been given in the village, then accompanied Fessan to the hastily dug grave. She tried to listen as Fessan spoke to those watching about bravery and sacrifice, but none of the words seemed to mean very much.

All that mattered was the moment when she placed the flowers on Palenie's breast, just before her body was covered with earth. In memory of what Palenie had told her of the tree in her village, she'd found some chestnut leaves and woven them among the flowers.

“Farewell, true friend,” Elodie said through her tears. “Be at peace.”

It should have been her whose body was vanishing into the ground. She clenched her fists. She couldn't believe how easily Rotho had fooled her, with his bowing and compliments—she wished she could kill him all over again.

Afterward, Fessan took her back to his tent. He talked all the way there, and continued to talk once they were inside. All Elodie could do was stare at the flame flickering in the single oil lamp hanging from the tent's supporting frame.

“Elodie? Princess? Are you listening to me?”

His voice pierced her thoughts. What had he been saying? Something about rounding up Stown and his followers and ejecting them from Trident.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Please, carry on.”

“I tolerated their presence for too long,” Fessan growled. “I was too distracted by Stown's constant griping to notice the viper in our nest. To think I welcomed Rotho to our cause! I don't know where he came from, but we must be vigilant against others that might follow. No,
I
must be vigilant. If this tragedy is anybody's fault, Elodie, it is mine.”

Then, somehow, it was morning, and Elodie was sitting astride Discus near the head of the column. The camp had been struck and Trident was marching again. To the south, on the far side of a wide open meadow, a motley band of men trudged with their heads down back toward the river: Stown and his men, heading into exile.

“Are you all right?” said Fessan, riding up beside her.

Elodie had no idea how to reply, so she simply nodded.

“Would you prefer it if I left you alone?”

She nodded again, and Fessan rode forward, signaling to the other riders to pull back a little, and give her space.

As the day grew brighter, Elodie's thoughts cleared, although her head throbbed with a deep, pulsating ache that started at the back of her neck and ran all the way around to her forehead. She massaged her temples, trying to banish the tiredness. And the grief.

The pain eased a little, but the throbbing continued. Soon she realized the throbbing wasn't in her head after all, but in the air all around her. Gradually it condensed into a sound, quite close—a sound like . . .

Horses?

“Elodie?”

She turned—and flinched with such shock that her feet jerked from her stirrups and her hands let go of the reins. She teetered on her saddle, on the verge of falling.

Samial was beside her.

He was riding on a silver horse that matched Discus stride for stride. Under the bright sun's glare, both the boy and his steed seemed to shimmer, as if she were seeing them underwater.

“Careful,” Samial said with a laugh as she recovered herself. Then his grimy face became taut with concern. “Are you angry with me?”