Too Many Princes Read Online Free PDF

Which the king, in a mere handful of syllables, denied. Then the queen, showing off her influence, laid her hand on his arm and craved him to reconsider. And so the matter was set aside until a week hence.
    By this time Brastigan was grinding his teeth to keep back a shriek at the tediousness of it all. As the merchant withdrew, trying to look properly meek, a scream did ring in the palatial hall—but no human voiced it.
    Brastigan wasn't the only one who started at the shrill echoes among the banner hung arches. A snap of movement made him look up, where the largest falcon he had ever seen unfurled its wings atop the royal canopy. The strong sunlight turned its tawny breast to gold. Its wings, barred with rusty brown, made a striking pattern, blood and gold, against the shadowed gallery.
    The bird kicked away from the canopy and dove into flight with a motion so graceful and economical that Brastigan thought of a dancer—a dancer of the air. Yet it was swift. In but a moment, it stooped upon them. He instinctively stepped back and raised his arm, but the great bird flared its wings wide and dropped, lightly as a bit of thistledown, onto Lottres's shoulder. The crowd shank back, murmuring what this must portend. They were left, at last, with room enough to breathe. The falcon closed its wings with a matter-of-fact rustle. Its claws curved cruelly, but did not so much as pin the cloth of Lottres's tunic together. The eyes it turned upon the bystanders were pale as gold coins.
     If the bird hadn't been so intimidating, Brastigan would have laughed at his brother's stunned expression. Or, he might have cried warning. For Oskar, across the court, was smiling in a way Brastigan didn't like at all.
    Then, in a quiet thick with whispers, came the rustle of movement. King Unferth arose and handed his cup to a page, who sprang forth to receive it, then descended the low stairs to the floor of the chamber. He crossed the broad floor with a dignity at odds with his girth, until he drew near his two sons.
    It was the closest Unferth had been to Brastigan in years. He had gained weight, and his face had a pouchiness about the nose and eyes. However, his gaze wasn't on Lottres or Brastigan. Instead, he bowed to the falcon, showing his sons a wide pink spot of bare skin parting his hair. Many strands of silver glinted among the gold.
    A fresh wave of whispers washed over the hall as the great bird inclined its head in return. Then it spoke, in a shrill, strange voice like the squeak of a whistle you could make by splitting a blade of grass. The sound of it made the hairs rise on the back of Brastigan's neck.
    “ Unferth of Crutham, ” it said. The words were clear despite their weird pitch. “ In accordance with the ancient pact, my mistress Yriatt now calls upon you for aid. ”
    Though Lottres s appeared entranced, Brastigan felt his stomach sink. Aid? What pact?
    “ Crutham shall not forget our debt of honor, ” the king replied. His voice wasn't quite as deep as Habrok's, but a lifetime of political practice made it sonorous, cultivated. “ Thus I shall send to the Lady of Hawkwing House these two of my sons. ”
    For Brastigan the room seemed to fall silent, save for the echo of those callous words: “ I shall send... shall send these two... send these two of my sons. ”
    Rage scalded in his veins. Sent away, banished maybe, on the whim of a bird?
    The tramp of booted feet drew him back to himself. A column of ten liveried and armored men marched to a halt before the king and princes.
    Their leader dropped to one knee with a rattle of chain mail on plate legs. “ My lord king. ”
    “ Pikarus, ” Unferth intoned. “ You will accompany my sons to Hawkwing House. Guard them and serve them well. ”
    “ Aye, your majesty. ”
    “ And you, my sons... ” Now, at last, the king looked at Lottres and Brastigan. His face was calm and without expression. The pause lengthened. It seemed he awaited something. Over his shoulder