Crown of Three (27 page)

Elodie felt she ought to be. He'd let her believe he was real, let her think he was her friend. . . . Except, she realized now, it had all been true after all. He was as real to her as the Trident soldiers marching nearby. And he'd listened to her as carefully as any friend. For all the darkness of the previous night, her heart felt unexpectedly light.

“No, Samial,” she said. “I've never been more pleased to see anyone in my life!”

Samial beamed. “I have brought help,” he said.

He gestured across the field, and Elodie gasped.

Gliding through the grass alongside the Trident column was an army. Silver men rode on silver horses, their armor sheer like silk, their faces hard like steel. Glass spears stabbed the sky; banners of smoke flowed through the air. Their shields glowed with a dim and eerie phosphorescence that somehow outshone the sun, yet at the same time was as dark as shadow.

The throbbing that had filled Elodie's head was the muffled thunder of their passage, the unreal sound of a thousand otherworldly hooves beating time against the skin of the living world.

“A ghost army,” she whispered.

“Your army,” said Samial, and a tingle shivered its way down Elodie's spine.

“Where did they all come from?”

“You know where. The voices you heard among the trees—they were the voices of these men. These men who died. In the War of Blood, Brutan promised us a truce and freedom. But he had us surrounded in the woods and slaughtered.”

“Oh, Samial . . . My father was a monster.”

Samial nodded. “Our restless souls could not pass on without revenge. But nor could we leave the place where we died. We were trapped forever inside the Weeping Woods.”

“What set you all free?”

“You. Wherever you lead, we can follow.”

One ghostly horse peeled away and approached Elodie. On its back was an old man, very tall, with a straight back and a withered but kind face. He wore battered armor and a helmet split almost in two.

“I am Sir Jaken,” he said, bowing low in his saddle. “And I am honored to serve you, Princess.”

As Sir Jaken and Samial took up their places again, the other riders bowed too, one after the other. The motion began at the head of the army and flowed all the way down the line to the rear, an overwhelming wave of supplication.

Elodie thought her heart would burst with pride.

Fresh hoofbeats cut through the dull rumble of the ghost army, and suddenly Fessan was back. He rode his horse in a wide circle, finally ending up at Elodie's side.

“Something strange is going on,” he said. He pointed across the field, to where Elodie could clearly see Sir Jaken and his fellow knights keeping pace with the Trident column. “See there, the way the grass is moving, yet there is no wind?”

“Is that all you see?” said Elodie.

Fessan looked deep into her eyes. “You were talking, just as if there was somebody there. But I saw nobody. What do
you
see, Princess?”

Elodie gestured at the riders of Trident. “The same as you, Fessan. An army prepared to bring down King Nynus and set me on the throne in his place.”

Fessan shook his head. He smiled at her. “As you wish, Princess. There is more to you than meets the eye, but I will not ask for more.”

His gaze lingered on the grass for a few moments longer before he rode forward, leaving Elodie alone once more.

A cloud passed over the sun, sending a ripple of shadow through the army of ghosts. Elodie shivered.

Are you there, Palenie? There among the dead?

If she was, she wasn't showing herself.

Her friend had told her that her strange ability was a gift.
People won't think it's terrible
, she'd said.
They'll think it's powerful and wonderful. I know I do.
Perhaps Palenie was right, but for now Elodie would keep her secret—even from Fessan. Could Samial and the others fight alongside Trident? Could ghosts even fight the living? She had no idea, and if Fessan didn't believe her, it would be terrible.

Nonetheless, with an army of the dead at her side, she couldn't help feeling that she really did stand a chance of becoming queen of Toronia.

M
ore venison, Prince Tarlan?”

A servant hovered to the side of Tarlan's chair. The silver platter he held was stacked high with bite-sized pieces of succulent meat. He wore white gloves and, when Tarlan glanced around at his face, he looked away as if afraid to make eye contact.

Tarlan snatched a handful of meat from the platter, savoring the feel of the juices on his fingers. Just as satisfying was the thinly disguised look of disgust on Lord Vicerin's face as he dumped the food on his plate, pushed his cutlery aside, and started shoveling the tidbits one after the other into his mouth.

The conversation around the banqueting table died away as Tarlan continued to stuff himself. He thought their table manners ridiculous, with their dainty little mouthfuls and those foolish white napkins. As for having the food presented one morsel at a time by an army of servants—what was wrong with just sitting beside an open fire and helping yourself?

Most of the other diners—who consisted of Vicerin's cousins and assorted courtiers—shared their lord's look of disdain. The only one who seemed amused by Tarlan's behavior was the young woman sitting opposite him. A little older than him, she watched Tarlan with a wry smile on her pink face. By listening to the conversation, he'd learned her name was Sylva, though he wasn't yet sure where she fitted into the Vicerin court.

“Our princely guest is clearly hungry after his years in the wilderness,” said Lord Vicerin, dabbing his powdered face with his napkin. The other diners chuckled politely. “When we have made you king, you will be able to dine like this every day. What do you make of that?”

Tarlan stared at Vicerin and burped. Sylva stifled a giggle. Several of the courtiers seated nearby looked shocked. Lord Vicerin merely gave Tarlan an indulgent smile and returned his attention to his plate.

Like a snake
, Tarlan thought, remembering the white asps that used to crawl into Mirith's cave, seeking the warmth of the fire.
He seems slow, but sooner or later—when you least expect it—he will strike!

Tarlan grabbed his goblet and emptied its contents into his mouth. The others were drinking wine, but he'd refused it and asked for fresh water. As he drank, his elbow nudged the arm of the man beside him. The man shrank away, brushing at the sleeve of his frilled coat and regarding Tarlan's own garment with an expression of horror.

Looking down at his filthy Yalasti clothes, Tarlan was glad he hadn't bothered with the finery they'd laid out for him. Partly, he found it entertaining to upset these so-called civilized folk. Mostly, he thought it important simply to be himself.

You want to turn me into something I'm not
, he thought, regarding Lord Vicerin over the rim of his goblet.
Well, I have a mind of my own.

However, something still troubled Tarlan—something that prevented him from feeling wholly himself.

“I want my jewel back,” he said abruptly, thumping his goblet down on the table.

“All in good time,” Vicerin replied. “I have simply put it in a safe place.”

“Like you did with those children?”

One of the other diners gasped. A flicker of fear crossed Sylva's face. Vicerin's expression, however, remained serene.

“The jewel is safe,” he repeated.

Sensing it would do no good to pursue the subject, Tarlan tried a different tack. “Tell me about my brothers. Or is it sisters?”

Vicerin launched into a lengthy answer full of fancy words that told Tarlan precisely nothing. Again he caught Sylva's eye; this time her smile was kind and a little sad.

“Once we have placed you on the throne,” Vicerin concluded, “we may be in a better position to determine where your siblings are. Alas, as things stand, we know nothing.” He spread his hands in mock sympathy.

“I don't care about the throne!” said Tarlan, kicking his chair away from the table. “I just care about my pack. And that includes my siblings!”

Finally Vicerin's calmness cracked. Scowling, he called over a quartet of castle guards.

“The young prince has eaten his fill and is tired,” he snapped. “Escort him back to his chambers.”

Tarlan allowed the men to take him out of the dining hall. He'd grown used to being escorted this way: two guards in front, two behind. The men stayed far enough away to present the illusion that he was free, but Tarlan knew that the minute he tried to run, they would be upon him.

Halfway up the stairs leading to his tower room, he heard a soft padding sound. It was Sylva, falling into step beside him, having just emerged from a side passage.

“Keep walking,” she whispered. “They won't care I'm here.”

Tarlan gave her a curious glance and obeyed.

“My father lied to you,” Sylva went on in a hushed voice.

“Your father? You mean . . . Lord Vicerin is . . . ?” Tarlan stared at her, feeling stupid. Why hadn't he seen it? “He doesn't seem to like you very much. For a daughter, I mean.”

Sylva's shock turned rapidly to laughter. “You're very uncouth!” she whispered.

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind. The point is, your sister and I grew up together. I don't know about your brother, but . . . oh, Tarlan, she looks so much like you.”

“My . . . my sister? You've seen her?”

“Of course! The room they keep you in—that was hers, until she was kidnapped by Trident.” Her face flushed and her expression became pinched. “That was the worst day of my life. I should have done more.”

Tarlan was struggling to keep up. “Kidnapped?” he said weakly. “Who's Trident?”

“Not ‘who'—‘what.' Trident is an organization, a band of rebels. Outlaws. They want to bring you together, all three of you. The triplets of the prophecy. After Elodie was taken—”

“Elodie?” The name flashed sudden fire through Tarlan's thoughts. He had a sister! She had a name!

Sylva showed him the smile he was growing to like. “Yes. Her name is Elodie. As soon as she was kidnapped I raised the alarm and my father's men gave chase. But the trail went cold at the bridge on the border between Ritherlee and Isur.” She lowered her eyes. “In that respect, I suppose he was telling the truth. We don't know where she is.”

Tarlan glanced at the guards. They showed no sign of interest in their whispered conversation. All the same, he kept his voice pitched low.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he said. “I mean . . . thank you, but won't your father be angry?”

Sylva blushed a deeper pink. “Elodie was happy here. We were happy together. Like sisters. We
were
sisters. After my brother Cedric went away to war, Elodie was all I had left. But you . . . you don't belong here, Tarlan. You don't want to be here, and you shouldn't have to stay. Nobody should be kept against their will.”

They were nearing the top of the stairs. With a final smile, Sylva slipped away. Tarlan watched her pale dress swishing down a side passage and into shadow.

A sister
, he thought.
And a friend
.

The guards ushered him into the room that wasn't a room but a prison cell, and locked him away for the night.

  •  •  •  

Huge wings like golden clouds cast shadows over a land ablaze with fires. On the ground, people run screaming from the flames. Tarlan rides the clouds. He wants to call down to the people that everything is going to be all right, but someone has sewn his mouth shut.

“I cry!” cries a voice high above him.

He tries to look, but someone has wrapped chains around his neck. His whole body is in chains. He can't move a muscle.

“I cry!” says the voice again. “I cry!”

Tarlan struggles against his bonds, desperate to break free from . . .

  •  •  •  

The dream dissolved. Tarlan lurched from his bed, wide awake, every muscle twitching. He tried to keep hold of the images he'd seen in his sleep—the flames, the golden clouds—but they fled his thoughts even as he tried to tighten his fingers on them.

One thing remained, however.

“I cry!”

Raucous, the voice drifted on the thin night air. Tarlan recognized it instantly.

“Theeta!”

He stumbled to the window and peered out. It was long past midnight, and most of the windows in the castle were dark. The air was cold. Moonlight edged the battlements with silver.

Three golden shadows flew in front of the moon.

“I'm here!” Tarlan cried in the secret tongue only the thorrods knew.

His heart swelled as the three thorrods flew down to the window. He'd been right all along. He had no place among humans. These were his true friends; this was his pack. And they'd come for him!