Crown of Three (5 page)

“Here,” said Theeta.

Clinging to the trunk of a particularly massive tree was a plant that was all curling tendrils and drooping leaves. Black leaves.

“That's it!” cried Tarlan. “Get nearer!”

Theeta hovered as close to the tree as she was able. Tarlan stretched out, grabbing handfuls of the leaves and stuffing them into a pocket within his cloak. They stood out in sharp contrast to its bloodred lining.

Seethan, who had followed them down through the canopy, flew out from behind the vast trunk.

“Men,” the old bird hissed. “Many.”

Looking down, Tarlan saw a line of mounted hunters making their way through the trees. They were riding not horses but elks. The huge antlers of these great winter beasts nodded steadily as their riders drove them on through the snow. The riders had antlers too, sculpted from wood and fixed to their helmets.

“Elk-men!” said Theeta.

Tarlan's heart sank. Mirith had warned him about these merciless hunters who roamed the forest, not just hunting for food but chasing down and slaughtering anything that would run, simply for the sport of it.

Including people,
he thought grimly.

A cry rose up from below. Suddenly the line of elks was fanning out. Faces looked up. Mouths opened and began to shout. An arrow shot past Tarlan's face, then another.

“Quick, Theeta!” he cried. “Time to go.”

The giant thorrod wheeled in the air, screeching. Down on the ground, one of the hunters had dismounted and was running along the line of elks with a burning brand. As he passed each of his comrades, he used the brand to light the tip of a waiting arrowhead.

“Go!” called Seethan. His silvery wingtips blurred as he angled into a steep dive, heading straight toward the hunters. Six men drew their bows and fired at him. The old thorrod darted through the lethal onslaught, and the burning arrows slammed into the canopy above.

The resin-coated leaves exploded into flame. Fire leaped from one treetop to the next, quicker than Tarlan's eye could follow it. Within seconds, the entire roof of the forest was ablaze.

Fire above. Hunters below. No way out!

Shrieking, Theeta beat her mighty wings against the searing air and raced through the trees. Burning embers fell all around. Whenever they landed on her feathers, Tarlan beat them away. But the trees closed in, forcing Theeta to double back and fly straight toward the waiting hunters.

As they approached, one of the men stood up on the back of his elk steed and brandished a spear. “You tame the thorrods!” he shouted. “Witch boy! Your birds will feed us for a month!”

“Nobody catches the thorrod!” Tarlan yelled back, waving his own spear in fury. But the words caught in his throat.

How are we going to get out of this?

“This way!” It was Nasheen, dropping down in front of the gasping Theeta and leading the way toward a distant gap in the trees. The three thorrods sped toward it, Seethan bringing up the rear. The hunters followed, spurring on their elks with harsh cries and angry kicks. Burning arrows flew past, some falling harmlessly into the snow, others striking the trees and starting new blazes.

“Nearly there!” cried Tarlan as the gap opened up before them. Then, from behind came a dreadful scream.

Turning, Tarlan saw Seethan's great wings falter and fold, saw the old thorrod tip over onto his back. Saw the burning arrow jutting from his chest. As Seethan plunged toward the snow, flames engulfed him. By the time he hit the ground, his whole body was on fire.

Theeta faltered, letting out an anguished screech of her own. Below, the leader of the elk-men spurred his mount over Seethan's burning body and drew back his spear, aiming it upward, directly at Theeta's heart. Before Tarlan could bring his own spear to bear on the enemy, another arrow shot through the air directly in front of Theeta's face. He tugged at her feathers and she rolled aside. The arrow whipped past her beak, slicing through the upper part of Tarlan's right arm.

Pain seared through him. Losing his grip, he slipped from Theeta's back and plummeted toward the ground. As the white hump of a snowdrift rose up to meet him, all he could think of was Mirith, cold and alone in the mountain cave.

He'd failed her after all.

I
t's entirely the wrong color,” said Elodie, tossing aside the sample of blue silk she'd selected from the market stall.

“What do you mean?” sighed Lady Sylva Vicerin. “It's blue, isn't it?”

“But it's not the right blue. I want something more . . .” Elodie waved her hand impatiently.

“Like the sky?”

“No.”

“Like a river?”

“No.”

“Like what then, Elodie?”

“I'll know it when I see it!”

Elodie marched across the castle court to another row of stalls. A strong breeze caught the bolts of silks and linens, turning them into pennants. Sylva scurried in her wake.

“What about this one?” Sylva suggested, pointing to a roll of sapphire cloth on a nearby stall.

“It's cotton,” said Elodie, curling her lip. “Don't you want me to look nice at the banquet? Do you want Lord Vicerin to look like a miser?”

“My father says he might have to cancel it,” said Sylva.

“What?”
This was terrible news. Vicerin banquets were grand affairs, meticulously planned and talked about far and wide. Elodie had been dreaming about it for weeks. “He can't do that. The seamstresses are waiting to start on my dress. They've only got three days to make it and—”

“Elodie, I'm sorry. For once, my father has other things on his mind.”

“What do you mean?” Elodie found it hard to imagine anything more important than a banquet.

Sylva led her into a quiet space between two stalls. “Don't tell anyone, but I heard Father say the king's army has reached the Northwood Dale.”

“Oh, that's leagues away. Anyway, don't we have people out there to stop them?”

“Yes. But Father says that the crown troops already control lots of the main borderways. He thinks our allies are spread too thinly.” Sylva's gray eyes were serious. “Elodie, these traders were lucky to get through—next month, there may be no market at all. Who knows, if the fighting goes on much longer, Castle Vicerin itself might be under siege.”

Elodie looked up at the red stone walls and the battlements running along the top. The stalls huddled beneath them seemed very small. For all the color and noise, the market looked ramshackle, as if it had been set up in haste, and might be taken down at any moment. Several of the traders even wore light armor; Elodie didn't recall ever seeing that before. Did they really think King Brutan's men would bother attacking a few trestle tables?

“I don't know why everyone worries so much,” she said. “We're safe enough here. Anyway, Lord Vicerin always sets things right.”

She picked up a length of shimmering turquoise silk and draped it around her neck. “What do you think? Is it too green?”

“I think we've been out here long enough,” said Sylva, grabbing the silk and replacing it on the stall. The stallholder—a hungry-looking man with eager eyes—watched them closely. “My father wanted us back before midday.”

“I'm not leaving until I have my silk. Go home if you don't like shopping. I don't need a chaperone.”

Sylva sighed in frustration. Despite her irritation, Elodie couldn't help sympathizing. Sylva no more wanted to be her protector than Elodie wanted to be protected. She liked Sylva and wished their relationship could be simpler.

I wish you really were my sister,
she thought.

Elodie made her way along the row of stalls. As usual, Sylva shadowed her, matching her step for step. When Elodie went left, Sylva went left. When one stopped, they both stopped.

It was infuriating.

Elodie picked up her skirts and began to run, darting through the maze of stalls. She passed barrows laden with fresh produce harvested from the great fields of Ritherlee: potatoes and carrots and succulent greens. A large cart creaked under the weight of countless barrels filled with beer or molasses or both. Down one alley, sides of meat swung like great pendulums.

“Elodie!” came Sylva's cry. “Wait for me!”

Turning a corner, Elodie saw Lord Vicerin's daughter hurrying clumsily toward her on her fine shoes, her face red and anxious.

“Catch me if you can!” She laughed and dodged behind a stall piled high with pewter bowls and goblets.

The longer the pursuit went on, the more Elodie found it amusing . . . and ridiculous. Although Elodie's identity was a secret to all but the immediate Vicerin family, the truth was she was the daughter of King Brutan and thus destined, one day, to rule over all Toronia. Why else would Lord Vicerin be fighting the crown but for the right to put his adopted daughter on the throne? Did Sylva really think Elodie would run away from a destiny like that?

If only they would let me go, then they'd realize I want to stay
.

A flash of color stopped Elodie in her tracks. It was yet another silk stall, stacked high with bolts of fabric finer than any she'd seen. Running her fingers over the cloth, she dismissed one roll after another. This one was too coarse, this one too pale, this one too dark. . . .

“Is this all you have?” Elodie called to the old woman who ran the stall. She was busy serving a tall man in an elegant court outfit and ignored her. Affronted, Elodie put a hand on her hip. “I said—”

“Stop it!” said a voice in her ear. “Stop being such a greedy little brat!”

Whirling around, Elodie found herself staring straight into the flushed face of Sylva.

“How dare you speak like that to your future queen!” she snapped. She wanted to shake Sylva, or slap her. What had possessed Sylva to say such a thing? Why would she even think it?

And why had the words stung so badly?

“Hush, Elodie,” said Sylva. “Mind what you say. Nobody can know who you truly are.”

“Mind my tongue? Is that it? Well, perhaps you should mind yours before calling me a brat!”

“Brat?” said Sylva, looking confused. “Who called you a brat?”

“You did. You said—”

“Elodie, I didn't say anything. I just came up and you snapped at me. Who were you talking to?”

Just for a second, the hubbub of the market died away, leaving Elodie alone in a bubble of silence. Her ears throbbed. She stared at Sylva's pink, earnest face and saw only simple concern. Then the bubble burst, and the world rushed in again.

“I thought I heard someone,” Elodie muttered.

They made their way back through the stalls toward the south end of the market, where they'd first begun. Elodie was suddenly tired of shopping. Maybe the silk there hadn't been too bad, after all.

As they walked, she cast surreptitious glances into the shadows between the stalls. This wasn't the first time she'd heard a strange voice. Once, she'd been sitting in the grand Vicerin banqueting hall and an old man had whispered in her ear. But there had been no old man there. Another time, she'd heard laughter in the rose garden below her private chambers. At night, voices called to her from behind the dresses in her closet.

If Sylva worried about people learning that her adopted sister was a princess, Elodie had a far greater fear: that Lord Vicerin would find out she heard voices and decide she was mad. As soon as he knew the truth, he would send her away.

Isn't that what you do with people who are insane?

Might that not be what her real mother had done, all those years ago, when she'd discovered there was something wrong with her daughter?

Soon they found themselves back in front of the very first stall they'd looked at. Elodie pointed out the closest roll of blue. “This one,” she said dully to the stallholder. All her excitement about finding the correct shade had melted away with the mysterious voice.

While Elodie was searching in her purse for the right coins, a red-haired girl appeared from behind a nearby tent. She was tall and looked just a few years older than Elodie—perhaps the same age as Sylva. Her long skirt rippled in the breeze, and the high sun flashed off something hidden beneath: a short metal sword in an open scabbard strapped to her thigh. Staring straight at Elodie, the girl walked toward them.

Elodie put her purse away.

“What's the matter?” said Sylva.

“Something's wrong,” said Elodie. Heart racing, she grabbed Sylva's hand. “Come on.” Her other hand went instinctively to the emerald dangling on its gold chain around her neck, fingers clasping the green gem as they always did when she was nervous.

“Aren't you going to buy the silk?” said Sylva.

The approaching girl pulled her hair away from her face. Her eyes flicked sideways. Following her gaze, Elodie spotted a young man in a green tunic lurking beside a nearby ale tent. As the girl tossed her hair, he gave an almost imperceptible nod.