Too Many Princes by Deby Fredericks

glowered his disapproval. And Oskar must have known he was being mocked, for his expression was more snarl than smile. Brastigan felt his own resentment burning like hot coals in his chest. Pale eyes and dark eyes met, across the noise and hurry, in a moment of understanding. He raised his free hand in salute, acknowledging their mutual hatred.
    Then he tapped his horse with a booted heel. The white charger lumbered forward, and the rest fell in behind it. The racket of so many hooves absorbed all other sound as they trotted toward the castle gate. The portcullis rose as they drew near. With a final shake of his sword, Brastigan passed beneath the bars and left his childhood home. He was not, after all, sorry to be going.
    A short way down the sloping ramp, Lottres drew up beside Brastigan. “ My valiant band? What's all that about? ” he called above the clatter of hooves over cobbles.
    “ He started it. ” Brastigan sheathed his sword and grinned at his brother.
    Lottres seemed to slump in the saddle. “ Does everything have to be a fight with you? ”
    He sat up straighter. “ It wasn't my idea, good brother. ”
    But Pikarus was of like mind, for he brought his bay up on Brastigan's other side. Over the bobbing ears he asked, “ Is it wise to antagonize Prince Oskar? ”
    “ Hah! ” Brastigan gave a bark of laughter. “ What a pair of old women! He'll have plenty of time to forget about it before we see each other again. Anyway, Pup... ” Brastigan reached over to give Lottres a playful shove. “ Relax! We haven't even left the shadow of the castle walls. ”
    Lottres winced from his roughness, and restlessly picked at his helmet's chin strap.
    “ You got your wish, ” Brastigan reminded him jauntily. “ We're off on an adventure. What's the point, if you don't enjoy it? ”
    Instead of cheering Lottres, the suggestion seemed to make him thoughtful again. Pikarus dropped back, and the two of them rounded the first switchback in silence. Slowly, one jolting step at a time, Harburg rose from the morning mist to greet them.
    “ Maybe you're right, ” Lottres murmured, long after Brastigan had forgotten what he said to be right about. “ Maybe I will. ”
    “ Will what? ”
    Lottres shrugged. Brastigan stared at him sidewise until his shoulders hunched defensively. “ Cut it out, Bras. I won't know until we get there. ”
    “ Won't know what? ”
    “ Nothing. ”
    By the time they rode through the Butcher's Gate on Harburg's heavily fortified eastern wall, the sun had turned the mist into butter and was melting it from the morning air. The rolling hills of Daraine were laid bare as an endless tapestry of farm fields stitched together with seams of stone fencing. Here and there were clusters of buildings: farm houses, barns and sheds. Groves of trees grew on any hillside too steep to plow. The patches of darker emerald suggested what wild land this must once have been.
    Southward, toward the mountains of Gerfalkan, a taller hill was adorned with a single great stone. At its base, unseen from the lands below, was a pool of clear water. No other structures marred the smooth sides of the mound. Whatever the season, that spring was ever flowing. Brastigan knew, because he often rode up to see it. The view from the height was so expansive, he could almost conceive of a future outside Harburg.
    The local people spoke of the place with vague suspicion and avoided visiting. The Dragon's Candle, they called it, though none knew why. Brastigan, who was neither sentimental nor superstitious, felt a little sorry there was no time, this trip, to ride up and see it again.
    The falcon unexpectedly swept from the sky and plucked some small, wriggling thing from beneath a dense carpet of turnip leaves. It glided to a roadside fence and stared at them with eyes like tarnished coins. Lottres raised his hand tentatively in greeting, but the falcon didn't speak. It bent its beak to peel off strips of gore and fur, and snapped