Too Many Princes (25 page)

“
Who's we?
”
Brastigan asked through gritted teeth. He hugged his blankets around himself and found they did nothing to warm the chill in his heart.

Pikarus didn't answer directly.
“
Our commands have come from the falcon, since it is our link to the Lady of Hawkwing House. Since Prince Lottres also agrees, I believe we should give heed to its counsel.
”

Javes put in,
“
A force this size can't hold off an army. If your brother is right, shouldn't we move?
”

Lottres said nothing to that, but looked smug. All this while, the falcon looked upon Brastigan with inscrutable amber eyes.

The dark prince lay back again—carefully, this time—and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Green and yellow lights played against the darkness behind his eyelids. He didn't want to consider too deeply what it meant that Lottres was hearing things. He'd said he was listening to the fire, but Brastigan had hoped it was just some fireside fancy. If it wasn't... If some spell had snared his brother...

Aloud, he mumbled,
“
How long will it take us to reach Glawern?
”
Once there, perhaps the men could be persuaded to delay departing.

“
We can't go to Glawern!
”
Lottres sounded shocked at the idea.
“
We'd be trapped there.
”

Brastigan propped himself up with elbows behind him and glared at his brother.
“
Do you hate me now? All I want is a hot bath!
”

Lottres's face flushed a red that didn't blend well with the ruddy brown of his beard.
“
Just because you don't understand something, do you have to...
”

“
You don't know what you're playing at...
”

“
I know what I'm doing...
”

Words tumbled over each other, as fighting dogs roll in the dirt.

“
You're going to get yourself killed!
”

“
I'm trying to live!
”
Lottres exploded, momentarily silencing his brother.
“
And you keep standing in my way. Everything always has to be your idea, your way. You can't keep holding me back!
”

As Brastigan sat blinking at him, stunned by the ferocious accusation, Javes cleared his throat.
“
If there is an enemy nearby, they're sure to hear the two of you.
”

It was almost a relief to turn from Lottres's angry eyes to sneer at the soldier.
“
And you two are no help, playing along with his fancies like this.
”

“
Your highness,
”
Pikarus began in a distant, formal tone Brastigan had never heard him use before.

“
It isn't a
fancy!
”
Lottres hissed.
“
Don't mock me. I know what I heard.
”

Ignoring them, Brastigan appealed again to the falcon.
“
Can't you talk some sense into him?
”
he asked with dramatic despair.

“
Sillets is on the move,
”
it answered solemnly.

“
How do you know that?
”
Brastigan demanded.

The creature regarded him with no pity.
“
My mistress has seen such creatures as will only heed that command. It can be no other.
”

Brastigan's back was aching from how he sat. He straightened, rubbing his neck with one hand. Lottres's face, seen in profile, was stormy and unforgiving. Brastigan had the feeling he was supposed to apologize, but the words stuck in his throat.

Meanwhile, eyes were open all over camp. The men, awakened by the shouting, lay staring uncertainly. Javes and Pikarus waited, too, for some clear command. Brastigan felt suddenly helpless with his brother and both officers arrayed against him. As the silence lengthened, he realized he did have power, of a sort. Pikarus wouldn't leave a man alone in these mountains, even if he did believe Lottres. They would follow, if Brastigan insisted, to Glawern or anywhere else.

Of course, Lottres would never forgive him. Brastigan found that his nerve quailed from outright refusing what his brother was so set on. Lottres was caught, even as a fish on a line, and reason alone would not sway him. All Brastigan could do was stay close and try to save him. Or bury him, maybe.

Brastigan forced a laugh.
“
Well, we're commanded to Hawkwing House. As long as we end up there, one road is as good as another, I guess.
”

The words sounded strained, but Lottres let go a harsh breath.
“
All right, then.
”
The younger prince rose swiftly enough to make the falcon beat its wings for balance.

Pikarus stood, too.
“
Let's go.
”

Though he spoke softly, his voice carried over the camp. Lottres's agitation was catching. Within moments, the area was full of movement and noise. By the dull dawn light, men got into armor, rolled up their gear, loaded the mules in anxious haste. Lottres was in the thick of it, lending a hand wherever needed. The men, oddly enough, seemed to regard him with a new respect. Brastigan, watching, thought he no longer seemed such a gawky pup. And when, he wondered, had this transformation taken place?

For the first time in weeks, Brastigan was left to get into his gear without assistance. He took his time in combing out his hair, doing up the braids with bits of black leather, dragging on his hauberk over the leather gambeson. By this time the men were mostly in the saddle and Brastigan was aware of irritated glances from his brother. He deliberately worked more slowly as he rolled up his bedding, laid it over his shoulder, and sauntered toward the waiting riders.

The mule Brastigan rode was tethered at the head of the line, as usual. He tied his baggage on and casually led the beast back down the line. Just in front of Javes, he swung his long legs over the saddle. Lottres was left conspicuously alone at the head of the column.

There was a resounding silence before Pikarus said,
“
Your highness?
”

“
Don't look at me,
”
Brastigan drawled scornfully.
“
This was his idea. He can lead off.
”

Lottres turned sharply to glare at him. As their eyes met, Brastigan awarded his brother a mocking salute. No one could accuse him, now, of standing in Lottres's way. The younger man regarded him warily, as if reluctant to let go of his anger. Then he looked pleased.

“
There is one thing,
”
Brastigan went on, keeping his face and voice bland.
“
If you're all so convinced that Sillets is invading, I want a rider sent to Glawern with warning, and then on to Carthell. I want another sent back to Harburg. My father will need time to gather his forces.
”

It wouldn't be an easy trip in such rough country, nor was it safe for a man to ride alone. Worse, it would reduce the strength of the main party. The faces turned toward him reflected all these doubts.

Brastigan pushed on,
“
Are there any volunteers, or should I just choose?
”

Pikarus looked as if he had something to say, but a new voice cut him off.
“
I know the road from Glawern to Carthell. I'd take that trip.
”

That was the fellow who had spoken of the other mysterious mounds. Egger, his name was. Another hand went up at the rear of the file.

“
I'll ride for Harburg,
”
Duale said. His wife, at their parting, had been great with child. By now he must be a father, so it was no surprise he offered for the homeward duty.

Brastigan looked again to Pikarus, waiting for some argument. Whatever the soldier had to say, he kept his peace. Brastigan nodded to the departing armsmen.

“
Good speed, then.
”

“
Aye, your highness.
”

There was little more in farewell, just salutes along the line and the thump of hooves on the trail. Then Lottres started off. He didn't choose a gentle path. They went first by miner's tracks, and then on game trails angling ever farther up the mountains. On some stretches they had to ride bent forward, with their faces in their mounts' manes, to avoid low-hanging branches.

Brastigan gave little heed to that. He watched his brother riding ahead of him, and couldn't decide just what he felt. Frustration, certainly. Annoyance, too. He had never held Lottres back, and didn't like the accusation. If he often led, it was because Lottres was the laggard, so awkward and unsure. Why should Brastigan wait while another man wavered? Now Lottres made a grudge of that.

But beyond those things... What?

For certain, the two of them hadn't argued as much in ten years as they did on this trip. Lottres's sudden anger left Brastigan bewildered. He didn't like this feeling he had, that even while they rode on the same trail, they no longer rode together. That, in fact, his closest friend was disappearing on some other road where he couldn't go.

The cold thought touched him: what would he do without his brother?

Brastigan rode without seeing, let his mule shuffle after the beast before it. The reins were knotted in his fist hard enough to make his shoulders ache. A nudge from behind made him turn from his thoughts, and glad he was to do it. Over his shoulder, Javes offered a short hank of summer sausage. The soldier wore an expression as if to say he would listen to whatever the prince might tell him. Brastigan turned from that, but took the food. With sausage, cold water, and trail bread, they broke their fast in the saddle.

While he chewed, Brastigan looked around him. It was an erratic trail they rode, the country too broken for a straighter course. As for the falcon, the bird flitted forward and back above them. Brastigan soon saw that the bird was indicating, by its perch, where a branching path lay. From time to time, two sharp calls would drift down from above. At that, Lottres would find them some shelter—a stand of dense trees or a rocky overhang—where they halted for what seemed a long time. Not until the falcon gave a single long cry would he let them move again. There seemed no purpose to this, and the delays made Brastigan's stomach grow tight with frustration.

At the third halt they dismounted, crowding men and mules into the shadows of an abandoned mine shaft. With his height, Brastigan had a good view out the cavern mouth. He saw the falcon making itself small against the trunk of a tree nearby, and a narrow valley spread out below them with a glittering thread of water in the bottom. Something was moving in the air. Large, dark shapes gliding on powerful wings, hunched-backs and bald heads with a ruff of black feathers behind them. They were condors from the highest mountain peaks, but these didn't spin above some dying thing. No, they flew in a straight line, three of them in a file just like the soldiers if they could ride on air. After the condors came perhaps a dozen crows, laboring to keep pace with their larger companions.

From the quality of the silence in the mine, it was obvious everyone saw the passing formation. Brastigan couldn't help wondering if this had to do with Lottres's rumored crow migration. He leaned over his mule's saddle and muttered to Pikarus,
“
What do you make of that?
”

He was instantly aware of a sharp glance from Lottres. Pikarus seemed to consider before replying, as softly,
“
Sillets has black magic. If there is an army, I'd call those the advance scouts.
”

“
I was afraid you'd say that.
”

The squad waited out a long, tense time before the falcon spread its wings. Its piercing cry said they could move again.

There followed more hours of punishing travel. Progress seemed slow, since they must go and stop, skulk and hide. The sun, as it arced across the sky, told Brastigan they were heading as much straight north as they could. Sightings of the aerial patrols continued, though not as frequently and more often composed of crows than condors. Brastigan marked the time in his mind, and wondered where Egger and Duale might be. They were both hardy fellows, and he was sorry to lose them from his company. Watching a flight of ravens pass, he hoped he hadn't sent them into the jaws of some evil thing.

Not that they would complain of it, being soldiers, but a commander might have such regrets.

Night found them sleeping behind a tangle of deadfall. Camp was cold, without fire that might betray them. Brastigan felt chilled to his core, but the colder heart was in Lottres. His brother seemed intent on whatever goal he had, and thus immune to temperature. They seldom spoke.

Staying to cover became more difficult the next day, as the mountains jutted ever taller. Trees could grow only so high and they fell ever lower on their flanks. The upper reaches were left bare, spires of dark gray rock patched here and there with snow.

 That evening found them riding a mere goat track, which showed signs of travel despite its difficulty. They topped a sheer ridge and saw below them a hanging valley where some glacier used to live. Far below lay yet another spectacular vista of deep green forest and barren peaks.

Drawing the eye was a fortress wall and a pair of watchtowers cupped between two rocky horns of the mountains. The snow had melted or blown away, exposing a field of gravel mottled with stunted vegetation. This was divided by a running stream that fell from the lip of the hanging valley in a gossamer cascade. The dwelling seemed small with distance, a desolate aerie indeed. The falcon, their guide, descended before them in slow spirals.

This, it seemed, was Hawkwing House.

The bitter air was making Brastigan's nose run, and he drew a gloved hand across his face to blot wind-stung tears. More bothersome was their exposed position on the crown of the ridge. Anyone in the world could see them up there.