Crown of Three (39 page)

As Gulph spoke his name, Nynus lurched in his arms. The young king's back arched and a thin spray of blood left his mouth.

Everything left Nynus then, all life fleeing his body as he finally succumbed to his wounds. Gulph felt the change, felt the limpness turn to nothingness, felt the essential soul that had been the king depart its mortal shell.

In his brother's warm embrace, Nynus died.

The crown slipped from his head. It hit the ground at Gulph's feet, spinning in the dust.

“NO!” screamed Magritt. “YOU KILLED HIM!”

Seizing the dagger from the belt of her dead son, she plunged it toward Gulph's throat. Frozen, he watched the blade descend and prepared to meet his brother in death.

So much for destiny
, he thought.
I die and Toronia falls. Who takes the crown, I wonder? The undead king or the evil queen?

The blade kissed his neck. Magritt froze, the look of shock on her face slackening to one of vacancy. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Looking down, Gulph saw a bloodied sword blade protruding from her chest. Ossilius had stabbed her, just as Limmoni had been stabbed. Unlike Limmoni, however, Magritt had no magic to sustain her against her wounds. Slipping off Ossilius's sword, she collapsed like a broken doll. She was dead before she hit the ground.

“I should have done that a long time ago,” said Ossilius, wiping his sword on his ruined uniform. “I had thought I would feel triumphant to see that harridan dead. But there is no victory here.”

Gulph dropped to his knees and gently placed Nynus's body next to that of his mother. Both looked as if they'd found peace. He hoped it was so.

“There's no time to bury them,” Gulph said, casting another look toward Brutan. Slowly but surely, the army of corpses was drawing nearer. “There's no time for anything.”

Standing unsteadily, he took a hesitant step toward Ossilius. His foot struck something heavy lying on the ground. He looked down. It was Nynus's gold crown.

The crown of Toronia.

Gulph stood in the dust, feeling very small and very lost and very alone.

Ossilius picked up the crown and blew the dust from it. He turned it in the sunlight. His eyes were very bright.

He sank to his knees.

“My king,” Ossilius said, holding out the crown.

Something rose up inside Gulph: a shout, or a storm. He tried to swallow it down, but it just kept coming. It rushed out of him, a silent howl, an invisible breath in which were mingled despair and hope in equal measure.

He looked out through the clearing air at the ruins of the battlefield. Brutan and his undead army had won the day. The Idilliam Bridge was broken. Cut off from the rest of Toronia, he and Ossilius—Gulph's only friend—were trapped on this great island of rock with no hope of escape. Death surrounded them. Sooner or later, death would find them. What could there possibly be left to live for?

“I don't know what to do,” he said.

“Yes, Gulph, you do,” Ossilius replied.

With trembling hands, Gulph took the crown. The instant his fingertips touched the cold metal, the shaking stopped. The crown felt heavy—as heavy as all the world. If he put it on, it would crush him.

“Go on,” said Ossilius. “It is yours.”

Slowly, with infinite care, Gulph lowered the crown onto his head. It was just as heavy as he'd imagined. Yet he bore its weight. It felt good to be wearing it, but it was more than that.

It felt right.

“Come on,” he said, extending his hand to Ossilius. “We have work to do.”

H
alt here!” said Fessan as they entered the clearing in the last light of day. “Rest! We will go no farther today!”

The stumbling soldiers of the Trident army obeyed without question. Battle-weary, and more exhausted still from having trekked into the Isurian forest, they threw down their packs and arms and fell to the ground. Nobody bothered to erect tents or set fires; they were glad simply to set their backs to the soil and fix their eyes on the darkening sky.

“Do you sleep?” said Elodie to Samial as the ghost army faded into the trees. The dead boy frowned.

“I don't know,” he said. “Sometimes my thoughts grow thin, as if they are preparing to leave this world for another. But they always come back. The night is a comfort.”

“Then go into the forest with the others, Samial, and find your comfort.”

“I will not be far away. Whenever you need me, Elodie, I will be there.”

Twilight fell. One by one the stars came out. Three shone brighter than the rest, casting their eerie light across the forest glade. Beneath their gaze, a few of the survivors began to stir, preparing food, tending wounds, making repairs to equipment. Muted conversation drifted through the darkness, a constant undercurrent of whispered sound.

On a boulder near the edge of the clearing, away from the others, sat Fessan. His chin rested on his fist, his elbow on his knee. His face was downturned, deep in shadow, his expression unreadable.

Behind Fessan hulked three giants: the thorrods, nested together in a scrape they'd made in the bracken. Nasheen and Kitheen slept, their gold beaks buried deep in the thick feathers on their breasts. Theeta sat a little to one side, her head upraised and alert.

Nestled against her flank were Filos and Graythorn.

“It's all right, Theeta,” said Tarlan, grimacing as he bandaged the stump where her claw had been severed at the root.

Elodie returned from the edge of the clearing carrying a bowl. She handed him a rag soaked in water from the spring they'd found nearby. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. Hold her while I tie this.”

Setting aside the bowl, she supported the thorrod's leg while Tarlan pulled the dressing tight. Throughout the procedure, Theeta uttered not a single sound.

Fragments of conversation floated past them from across the clearing:

“. . . should never have come . . .”

“. . . disaster . . .”

“. . . it's all over . . .”

Once his work was done, Tarlan rocked back on his heels and stroked Theeta's wing.

“Sleep, my friend,” he said.

Obediently, the huge thorrod closed her eyes and tucked her head out of sight.

“If only we could hide from the world so easily,” said Elodie.

“We're not hiding,” Tarlan replied fiercely.

“Then what are we doing?”

Lifting his head, Graythorn began to growl.

“Hush,” said Tarlan. “Rest now.”

Still growling, the wolf rose to his feet. Tarlan rubbed the back of the creature's neck; the hackles were standing at attention.

“What is it?” said Elodie.

Graythorn took three steps toward the edge of the clearing. Staring deep into the shadowy trees, he snarled.

Tarlan jumped up. “Who goes there?” he shouted.

At the sound of his cry, Fessan looked up. Several men ran to Tarlan's side. Their faces were lined with exhaustion, but their swords were drawn and their hands were steady.

Elodie stood alongside her brother. All three thorrods had woken and were staring along with Graythorn into the forest.

Something moved among the trees.

“Stop!” Tarlan called. “Identify yourself!”

The movement coalesced into the figure of a man. He stepped slowly out of the shadows, every footstep a slow, deliberate act. He was old and bent and bearded, dressed in a shabby yellow robe and leaning on a knobby staff of oak. His long hair was tangled with holly. Behind him trailed a garland of ivy.

“Hold fast your weapons,” the old man said. “I come in peace.”

“So you say!” said Tarlan.

Moving through the light of the prophecy stars, Fessan pushed past the soldiers to stand at Tarlan's side. He stared at the old man. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

“Do you not know me?” said the old man. His eyes twinkled.

“I do,” said Fessan, finding his voice at last. “By the crown of Toronia, I do.”

Elodie looked from one to the other. “Who are you?”

“Will you tell them,” said the old man to Fessan, “or shall I?”

“If somebody doesn't tell me what's going on . . .” began Tarlan with an angry snarl.

“Melchior!” blurted Fessan. He dropped to his knees, bowing before the old man. “It is Melchior. He has returned.”

“I have,” the wizard replied. His pale blue eyes sought out Tarlan and Elodie. “And it would seem I am just in time.”

Driving his staff into the ground, he placed one bony hand on Tarlan's shoulder, and the other on Elodie's. His movements were swift and sure.

“What do you mean?” said Tarlan and Elodie at the same time.

“The wheels of the prophecy are turning. One triplet has slain King Brutan, two others stand united.” Starlight flashed in the wizard's eyes. “My friends, we have much to do. The battle for Toronia has begun!”

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALADDIN

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First Aladdin hardcover edition June 2015

Text copyright © 2015 by Working Partners Limited

Jacket illustration copyright © 2015 by Iacopo Bruno

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Book design by Laura Lyn DiSiena

The text of this book was set in Oneleigh Pro.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rinehart, J. D.

Crown of three / by J. D. Rinehart. — First Aladdin hardcover edition.