Too Many Princes (61 page)

“
Just for a while?
”
Margura held onto her composure, but the yellow stone glittered in rhythm with her angry breathing.

“
I don't know.
”

That was a lie, of course. Brastigan could never desire heavy flesh and hot blood, not after a girl made of cobwebs and shadows.

“
I understand,
”
Margura said.
“
Really, I do.
”
But there was that brittleness in her voice again, and Brastigan was pretty sure she didn't understand anything at all.

Proving him right, Margura continued,
“
The living can't compete with the dead.
”

“
You don't have to,
”
Brastigan told her with something like tenderness.
“
Don't be waiting for me to change my mind. Someone else will come along, and he'll be better for you than I am. Believe me, that won't be hard.
”

He lifted his flagon again, but then remembered it was empty. Brastigan looked into its emptiness and sighed. All the weight of his grief and exhaustion returned, redoubled by Margura's disappointment. His head felt heavy with drink, yet he was too upset to just go to sleep. And he was out of ale.

Margura leaned back, watching Brastigan. She put on a smile as tight as the bodice of her gown.
“
You really have changed,
”
she said.
“
Next, you'll be telling me you aren't the greatest swordsman in Crutham, either.
”

Brastigan's head snapped up, a reflex of his warrior's pride. Margura laughed at his reaction, thought it had a ragged edge. She leaned forward slightly, and produced a bottle from under her skirt. It was smaller than the ale bottle, a murky green with darker contents. Margura set it on the table between them.

“
I was saving this for our reunion,
”
she said.
“
It will do for you to toast the dead.
”

She stood up and stacked the two trays, then gathered the dishes. Brastigan lifted the bottle. It was warm from Margura's body heat, heavier than it looked. The cork squeaked as it came out. Margura carried the trays toward the door.

“
You do know the way to a man's heart,
”
Brastigan said to her back. Liquid gurgled into his flagon.

Her voice trembled again.
“
If only I did.
”

The latch rattled, and the door swung open. It closed hard. Brastigan was left in a silence ringing with regrets. He raised his flagon to no one.

“
To the king!
”
he said, and drank deeply.

Margura's brew wasn't ale, as Brastigan had thought. Powerful sweetness burned its way down his throat. Apple brandy. It wasn't Brastigan's favorite, but he wouldn't refuse it. Anything that made him drunk would be good enough for this wretched day.

He raised his flagon again.
“
To the girl.
”

A pleasant burning began in his stomach. Relaxing heat pulsed outward with every beat of his heart.

“
To absent friends.
”
He drank once again, and thought of his brother. They should be in Carthell by now, Lottres and his mentors. Someone there must have enlightened them about Unferth's fate. Maybe he didn't need to worry about the pup after all.

That took care of the first round of toasts, but Brastigan had a lot of brandy left. He was about to salute the king again, when someone rapped at his door.

“
Brastigan,
”
came a childish, muffled voice.

Margura's brew was strong, all right. Brastigan had to think past the fumes before he recognized the voice.

“
Come in,
”
he called. The words were slurred and strange in his ears. Brastigan started to stand up, but the door flew open. A lithe blonde girl raced toward him.

“
You're here!
”
Cliodora shrieked.
“
You're really here!
”

Her enthusiastic greeting was almost too much. Brastigan stumbled backward as she crashed into him. He fell into his chair and hugged his little sister to him.

“
Whoa!
”
he laughed.
“
Slow down!
”

Cliodora threw her arms around Brastigan's neck. He kissed her bright gold hair. Then she stood back and wrinkled her nose at him.
“
Your face feels all scratchy.
”

Brastigan rubbed his stubbly chin.
“
It was a long journey. Don't you like me with a beard?
”
he teased.

“
You're no town elder,
”
she scoffed. Then Cliodora's eyes were downcast as she slid into the chair Margura had recently occupied.
“
Did you hear about Papa?
”

Brastigan felt a surge of fresh grief, to hear Unferth described with such childish affection.
“
As a matter of fact, I have just been drinking to his memory.
”

He raised his flagon to his lips in demonstration, tasted its sweet fire.

“
I miss him,
”
Cliodora said softly, sadly.

Brastigan swallowed against the ache in his throat.
“
So do I, princess,
”
he said hoarsely.

Her fingertips drew an idle pattern on the table top.
“
Mama thinks we might have to leave soon.
”

Brastigan frowned.
“
She does?
”

“
She says it's awkward for her, without Papa. We shouldn't be an embarrassment to the new king.
”
Cliodora pouted momentarily.
“
But Therula says I shouldn't give up my birthright.
”

Brastigan blew out a breath. He would miss Cliodora if she left, but he had to admit Casiana might have a point.

“
There's a war going on,
”
Brastigan said.
“
If your Mama knows someplace safe...
”
Cliodora regarded him so unhappily that he stumbled.
“
You have to do what you're told, princess.
”
And a strange thing that was for him to be saying!

Cliodora folded her arms on the table and sulked. Brastigan took another pull from the flagon. The brandy was stronger than he had thought. He was no stranger to drink, but his head was reeling. Which didn't matter. He was bone tired, sick inside with grief. He needed something to make him sleep, and sleep hard.

“
I told Therula you're here, but she wanted to talk to Pikarus first,
”
Cliodora said, still petulant. Then she perked up.
“
Can I hear some of your stories?
”

Stories? Brastigan wouldn't know where to begin. Still, Cliodora and Therula might be the only friendly audience left for his tales of woe.

“
Not now,
”
Brastigan said. His voice was sounding slurred again.
“
I'm done in, princess. But later. Later, I promise.
”

“
You'd better,
”
Cliodora huffed as she jumped to her feet. Then she smiled again.
“
I'm so glad you're back. I missed you a lot.
”

“
Thanks, princess.
”
Her words brought warmth to Brastigan's heart, as none of Margura's had.

He walked with Cliodora as she pranced out of the room. Once she was gone, his smile vanished. Brastigan locked the door. He made it back to the table and emptied the bottle of apple brandy into his flagon. Once again he raised his cup to the vacant room.

“
To the king.
”

There was no one to notice if his tongue got tangled.

“
To the girl.
”

In fact, Brastigan thought, he might not even make it to bed before he passed out. It didn't seem to matter.

“
To absent friends.
”

Brastigan kept repeating the same three salutes. Soon enough, the brandy was gone. And so were his wits. And so was the world.