Crown of Three (36 page)

Palenie's shield. Palenie's sword.

For what had Palenie died if not for this? Why were they here, if not to find Gulph and take Idilliam, the realm of the crown?

She looked her brother in the eye.

“Our father is not the only one with an undead army,” she announced.

Tarlan's eyes widened. He stared first at Elodie's face, then down at her feet. “I don't understand,” he said.

“You will, but in the meantime”—Elodie raised her sword—“
Trident attacks
!”

S
lowly, Gulph clambered to his feet. Equally slowly, he backed away from the swaying corpse of his father. The undead king stood with his arms outstretched and his ruined head cocked to one side, as if he were listening for something. Inside his exposed rib cage, unspeakable things squirmed. The red flames in his eyes pulsed.

Gulph took another step backward. Why had Brutan stopped? Those giant birds had beaten back the front ranks of his army, but the king himself had remained unchallenged. So why wasn't he closing in on Gulph, seizing his throat like he'd done to the others?

Why was Brutan now turning away from Gulph?

His feet struck the outstretched arm of a fallen soldier and he glanced down, anxious not to fall over his manacles again. He saw the dead man's clutching hand, the pale soil . . . and nothing else.

I can't see my feet.

Stunned, Gulph raised his arms. His eyes saw only empty air. He ran his fingers down his sleeves, staring at the place where his hands should have been.

His hands weren't there.

An undead warrior lurched past Brutan, heading straight for the fallen Captain Ossilius. But Ossilius was already standing, lifting up a shield he'd found on the ground and using it to fend off his attacker's blows. At the same time he looked around wildly.

“Gulph!” he shouted, staring right at the place where Gulph was standing. “Gulph! Where are you?”

Gulph thought back to the boy who'd been flying with the giant birds. Just as they'd swooped in, the bird he'd been riding had reached out its claws . . . then suddenly retracted them. Gulph hadn't gotten a good look at the boy's face as he'd flown past at speed, but he was sure the lad's jaw had been wide open in surprise.

He can't see me—none of them can! I'm invisible!

He spat. His mouth felt full of sand, although nothing came out. His head felt hot and dry. He'd felt like this before, back in the banqueting hall of Castle Tor, shortly after he'd . . .

. . . after I killed my father.

A moment of crisis.

An animal urge to run from danger.

To disappear.

He remembered the look on Pip's face as they'd met in those dreadful moments following the king's death. The look of surprise, as if she'd not noticed he was there.

He'd felt that way then, experienced that same peculiar desert feeling in his nose and throat.

The undead warrior was still raining blows on Ossilius. Little by little, he was being beaten back.

“Hey!” shouted Gulph. “Over here!”

As Ossilius's attacker looked up, Gulph grabbed a stone—so strange to see it floating in front of him, carried in invisible fingers—and hurled it at the warrior. It went straight through the undead creature's cheek, making a hideous squelching sound as it pierced its rotten flesh.

The warrior lifted its head and gave an unearthly shriek. It started lumbering toward Gulph, its red eyes blazing. Gulph held still . . . then saw in horror that his hand was materializing before his eyes. The bones of his arm appeared, then his veins and surrounding muscle. Finally his skin and clothes came into view.

Gulph shuddered. It was a hideous reminder that, underneath, he too was just a walking bag of flesh.

And entirely visible once more.

Disappear, disappear
, he thought frantically, but nothing happened.

The warrior opened its mouth to scream again, then paused. Its swollen tongue rolled and it spat out the stone Gulph had thrown. Gulph fought back the urge to be sick.

Then, with a loud crack, Captain Ossilius's sword sliced through the undead creature's neck. The thing's head lolled, then rolled to the ground. The rest of its body lumbered away, its arms waving blindly.

My father!

Gulph looked around with renewed fear. In saving Ossilius, had he left himself exposed?

To his relief, he saw that Brutan had retreated, forced back by a column of legionnaires. For the moment at least, they were safe.

“You!” Ossilius cried as he staggered toward Gulph. “The prophecy! At last I understand!”

“I don't know what you mean,” said Gulph uncertainly.

“I do!”

“Whatever you think you know, it isn't true. I'm just—”

“You are one of the three!” Grinning, Ossilius fell to his knees and clasped Gulph's hands—both now back to normal. “Oh, how I have waited for this day!”

“You have?”

The grin became a look of sober respect and humility. “I am your servant, Gulph. I always have been. It's just that neither of us knew it until now.”

“How did you know?”

Ossilius smiled. “It is not every young man who can make himself invisible.”

Gulph looked at his hands. “Oh. That.”

“There is little enough magic left in this world, Gulph. But you carry its legacy. Your mother was a witch, you know. When I think of your brother and sister . . . What powers might they have?” He shivered. “What powers might you have if the three of you are brought together?”

More legionnaires rushed past them as a small band of the undead closed in.

“Here,” said Ossilius, ushering Gulph behind the broken remains of a stone wall. “This will shelter us for a moment longer.”

“I just can't believe you're really on my side,” said Gulph as they crouched behind the shattered stonework. “I mean, I'm just a traveling player. I was never meant to be king.”

“But you were. You remember I mentioned my son, Fessan? He helped me keep my faith in the prophecy over the years. The day he left Idilliam to raise his rebel army was the day I renewed my vow to bring the triplets to the throne. Everything I have done since then—
everything
—has been toward that glorious end.”

“I knew you were never really on Nynus's side.”

Ossilius stared at the ground. “Do not be so quick to praise me. I helped Magritt and Nynus bring down Brutan. I truly believed it was an opportunity to rid the kingdom of his evil, once and for all.”

“You did what you thought was right.” To Gulph's relief, when Ossilius looked up again, he was smiling.

“And I believe now that it
was
right,” he said. “Magritt and Nynus's plot was terrible, but it ended with you placing that poisoned crown on Brutan's head. ‘
They shall kill the cursed king
 . . .' It set the prophecy in motion. I should have known from that moment who you truly were.”

Gulph shuddered to remember the dreadful scene in the Great Hall, but he couldn't deny the truth in Ossilius's words. Limmoni had told him much the same thing. “All I know is that, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here. I'm glad to have you as my friend, Ossilius.”

“Just as I will be glad to have you as my king.”

The sound of battle was coming closer again. The legionnaires who'd marched past them moments before were retreating before a fresh wave of the undead. Standing tall among the fearsome, flame-eyed warriors was the unmistakable figure of King Brutan.

“One enemy escapes, but there are more!” the undead king shrieked in his hideous, scratching voice. “Where is Nynus? The Vault of Heaven was too good for you! I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

Brutan was making for a knot of legionnaires near the base of a nearby tower. As he approached, swinging a sword he'd wrestled from one of his undead cohorts, the soldiers fell back, revealing none other than Nynus himself cowering against the stonework.

“Stay back!” Nynus screamed through his gold mask. “Help me! Somebody, help me!”

But nobody came. Gulph watched sadly as Nynus's own men fanned away from him. Their loyalty had been driven into them by cruelty and force. Now, in the face of death, they placed far more value on their own lives than on that of their king.

Gulph couldn't take his eyes off the mask and the gold crown perched above it. What had happened to the skinny, book-loving boy he'd befriended in the Black Cell?

All that remained was a monster.

“Defend him!” The voice was that of Dowager Queen Magritt. “Defend my son! Defend your king!”

Gulph saw her—or thought he saw her—floating ghostlike in her white dress at the periphery of the battle. Her voice came and went on the wind. Unlike her soldiers, she wanted her son to live.

But not enough to risk her own life.

“I have to help him,” said Gulph.

“No!” said Ossilius at once. “He brought this upon himself!”

“I don't care. I can't see him die like this.”

“You can't help!”

“I'll make myself invisible. They won't see me.”

Shaking off Ossilius's restraining hand, Gulph raced across the battlefield. The leg irons dragged along the ground, slowing his progress and chafing his bleeding ankles, but some things were more important than pain.

As he ran, he tried to summon those strange feelings of
hotness
and
dryness
. Nothing happened. He tried again.

Make me invisible!
he thought, desperately trying to invoke whatever powers had granted him the extraordinary ability.
What good is magic if I can't
use
it?

The trick continued to elude him. No matter how much he tried, his body remained resolutely visible.

A pair of undead warriors leaped out from behind a low wall. It was too late to stop, so Gulph threw himself into the air. Somersaulting above their heads, he flipped his legs over in time to land safely on the ground.

Glad my circus skills are still useful.

Ahead, a line of legionnaires had blocked his view of Nynus. Squeezing through their ranks, he burst into the arena that had formed at the foot of the tower. On one side stood the men of Idilliam; on the other, somehow understanding that their king required them to hold back, stood the undead.

Nynus was pressed against the tower wall, his pale hands splayed wide against the gray stones. His gold mask, with its curious blend of beauty and horror, stared with inhuman grace at the nightmare striding toward him.

From a balcony high above, at the top of a flight of stone steps winding its way up the tower's exterior, Dowager Queen Magritt looked down, her face a mask of its own.

A mask of anguish.

Step by step, King Brutan bore down on his whimpering son. His ravaged boots raised dust in his wake. A broadsword swung from his fleshless hand. His burning eyes projected red fire across the wall of the tower.

When he reached Nynus, Brutan stopped. He placed his free hand on top of the mask. Naked bone rattled against gleaming gold.

“Die,” he said simply, and thrust the sword into Nynus's chest.

Up on the balcony, Magritt screamed.

Withdrawing his sword, Brutan turned and marched back into the ranks of the undead.

Nynus slithered down the wall, leaving a trail of red blood on the stones.

Gulph rushed over and clamped his hand against the wound in Nynus's chest. With the other he pried the mask off the boy's face. Sunlight bathed Nynus's pale skin, but for once he didn't flinch. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, wide with fear, flicked from side to side.

“It's all right,” said Gulph, knowing it wasn't. “You're going to be all right.”

Nynus coughed, and a fresh gout of blood poured from between his lips.

“Too late . . . for me . . .” he gasped.

“Don't say that,” said Gulph.

He heard the clash of swords nearby, and turned to see Captain Ossilius, alone in the arena, fighting back a straggling contingent of the undead. None of the other soldiers came to his aid.

“Help him!” Gulph yelled. “Why don't you help him?”

His cries had no effect. The rotting warriors pressed forward, forcing Ossilius against the tower wall. Gulph was about to shout again when a loud bellow brought the enemy to a sudden halt.

“To me! To me! To arms!”

In the distance, Gulph could see Brutan standing on a mound of corpses, waving his gruesome arms, summoning his troops to some new conflict near the Idilliam Bridge. At the sound of his voice, the undead warriors turned their backs and left the arena. Exhausted, Ossilius collapsed against the wall.

The ensuing silence was sudden and immense.

“Why?” said Nynus. His voice was less than a whisper, less than a breath. Gulph bent close, struggling to hear.