by Sally Green
“Good evening, general.” Edyon smiled, but then realized a personal guard would never leave the prince’s side unless the prince was dead. His face fell and he said, “But does that mean . . . the prince?”
Davyon frowned, which wasn’t much of a change of expression, as he looked like he’d never smiled in his life. “It means only that the prince has given me a special mission. Even though there was much to do to defend Rossarb in its final hours, he was thinking of his duty to protect the whole of Pitoria. The prince gave me a message that must be taken to Prince Thelonius, warning him of Aloysius’s plans for a boy army and asking for Thelonius to join him in the fight against the Brigantines. I cannot take the message myself as the prince has given me other duties—to protect the princess.”
Catherine held out the scroll to Edyon. “So I’ve suggested that you take the message to your father. Prince Thelonius needs to understand the gravity and the urgency of the situation, and the power of the demon smoke. If his army allies with the Pitorians, our joint victory will be more certain and swift.”
Edyon felt the responsibility and the honor of carrying this message, which itself reflected his own dual heritage—his mother being Pitorian and his father from Calidor. “I’ll do my best to deliver it to my father.” He took the scroll, but he could barely make out the writing in the dark, though he could see the prince’s seal.
Davyon said, “It grants whoever carries it free and safe passage through Pitoria and by ship to Calidor.”
“Excellent.” Though Edyon couldn’t resist adding, “All we’ve got to do is keep ahead of the Brigantine army and avoid any demons along the way.”
CATHERINE
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
Run and hide,
Run and hide,
The wolves are coming,
Get inside.
Brigantine nursery rhyme
“I CAN’T see them.” Catherine was squinting back over the glare of the snow.
“On the low point of the ridge. To the left of the highest peak.” Ambrose’s voice was measured, not alarmed, but there was something else there. He seemed to be hardened, like a layer of ice had frozen over him, as it froze over everything here.
The sky was pale gray and darkening and seemed to sway a little. Catherine leaned on the staff that Geratan, one of her soldiers, had made for her on the first morning, which seemed long ago, though was only yesterday . . . no, the day before. It was all blurring into one. They’d rested the first night in the shallow caves, but walked on through the second, and now it was almost midday on the third day since leaving Rossarb.
Catherine forced her eyes to focus on the far mountainside. Then she saw them: tiny, dark specks. They didn’t look like much, but more were appearing over the ridge, moving down and merging together against the white snow. Before, they’d been in the trees and harder to spot, and she’d hoped the fires she’d seen the last two nights had been lit to frighten them, to make the pursuers seem more numerous.
She asked Ambrose, “They’re definitely my father’s troops?”
“Yes. The one near the front is carrying a square pennant.”
The Brigantines had square pennants; the Pitorians’ were triangular. These men were Brigantines.
Ambrose added, “I’d say it’s just one battalion. Two hundred men.”
“Two hundred!” Catherine’s heart sank, and she looked round at her group. There were twenty of them. There was no chance of them winning in a fight against Brigantine troops at the best of times, and this was close to the worst.
“How far ahead of them are we?”
“Half a day at most.”
Half a day was nothing. It gave no time to slow or rest. But they couldn’t walk through the night again. They’d already walked faster and longer than she thought was possible, heading west across the plateau with the intention to turn south to safety. It was a desperate idea: the climate was harsh, this was demon territory, and their only guide was Tash, a girl of thirteen.
Tash, it had to be said, seemed to be coping with the journey, as were Rafyon and Geratan, Catherine’s most loyal white-hairs. General Davyon was as tough and determined as she’d have expected of Prince Tzsayn’s closest aide. There were ten ordinary soldiers: seven were her own, their hair dyed white to show their allegiance to her, and three were Tzsayn’s blue-hairs. Also in the group were a cook and an elderly servant who had stayed in Rossarb as long as he could before fleeing with them, though he looked close to collapse. Tanya, Catherine’s maid, who had been with her since her journey from Brigant, didn’t complain but was clearly struggling. Catherine’s own legs were close to buckling. And then there were Edyon and March, neither of whom were fighters. They were no older than Catherine and didn’t look much stronger.
Each of them had given what they could, but now their struggle seemed pointless—her father’s men would get to them before they reached the edge of the plateau, before they were even halfway there.
“What will they do?” she asked. Ambrose had been one of those Brigantine soldiers just months earlier. He’d trained with them, lived with them; he’d know what they’d be planning.
Ambrose shrugged. “We’re out of the trees—they can see exactly where we are. It’s nice and flat. They’ll send a small group of the fastest men after us.”
“How many of these fastest men?”
“Enough to be sure of winning.” Ambrose looked at the group and gave a short laugh. “Five should do it.”
The old Ambrose would never have said anything so cynical, but perhaps he’d welcome the fight. Indeed that was the Brigantine army’s unofficial motto: “Better to fight than to flee.” Better to fight your old comrades than freeze to death or be killed by a demon.
But Catherine didn’t want to fight; she didn’t want to lose. She thought back to the war books she’d read. She had never imagined while sitting for hours in her father’s library she’d ever make serious use of her self-made education, but it was satisfying to know her father wouldn’t have imagined it either, as educating a girl in anything—especially battle strategy—would seem pointless to him. “I imagine they’ll send double our number. As you say, they’ll want to be sure of a win.”
All in her group would be killed, even if they surrendered. She and Ambrose were traitors and would not be treated so kindly; they’d be taken back to Brigant to be tortured before being publicly executed.
“That’s why you have to go.” Ambrose turned to Catherine. Most of his face was covered by a scarf and hood and she could see only his eyes, tiny ice crystals speckling his eyebrows and long eyelashes. “You, Tash, and General Davyon together can make it to the south and off the plateau. Tash will guide you. General Davyon will keep you safe.”
“No. I’m not leaving everyone.” Catherine wanted to say, “I’m not leaving you,” but something stopped her. She had believed Ambrose to be dead just a few weeks ago and it nearly broke her. The thought of her leaving him to fight and die here was impossible. The alternative was that Ambrose came too . . . but then they’d be leaving the others to die. She shook her head. “I can’t do it.”
“There’s no alternative.”
And Catherine could see the pain in his eyes, but did he want to flee with her, or would he prefer to fight? She blustered, “There’s always an alternative.”
“Well, of course you’re right, Your Highness,” he said, and his tone changed to a cynical sneer she’d never heard before. “You have two choices: flee and live to see next week or stay and be caught, tortured, and executed in public. I’m sure your father will devise a particularly interesting contraption to display your head.”
Ambrose’s words chilled her heart. Her father had tortured Ambrose’s brother, Tarquin—for days, possibly weeks—before killing him, and had then sent Tarquin’s head and hands on a metal cross as a gift to Prince Tzsayn. Catherine was sure th
at Ambrose blamed himself in part for what had happened to his brother.
She put her hand on Ambrose’s chest and looked into his eyes, which seemed full of pain and anger. “What my father did to Tarquin and would do to me only shows how monstrous he is—but I can’t, and won’t, act out of fear. I don’t want to die, I don’t want you to die, nor do I want to leave my men to die. More than that, I have set myself up as a leader, someone that my men should follow. I have an obligation to them.”
“You don’t have an obligation to die with them. You have an obligation to live and continue the war after they’re gone.”
“I know these men would give their lives to allow me to escape. I know that you yourself would fight and die for me, Ambrose. And part of me wants to flee—I’m afraid, I admit it. I don’t want to be caught and tortured. But, still, I can’t leave my men.”
Ambrose took Catherine’s gloved hand. “If you’re to become a true leader, you must make hard choices. Sometimes you must sacrifice troops. You lose a battle to win a war. And always the leader must survive . . . that is your burden. You have their lives in your hands and some of those lives will be lost. If you can’t accept that, then you can’t lead them.”
“I just don’t believe we’re in that situation yet. You said yourself that we have half a day’s lead on them. Well, I’ll take that. It’s getting colder by the hour, and the cold is as hard for the Brigantines as it is for us. We’re hungry, but the Brigantines will be as well. Finding food for two hundred men will be a lot harder than finding enough for twenty. Our group might be attacked by demons, but so might the Brigantines. And we have Tash; she knows the Northern Plateau better than anyone, including our pursuers.”
“Which is why she can guide you and Davyon to safety,” Ambrose insisted. “Take Tzsayn’s letter from Edyon, deliver it safely to Thelonius. You need to ensure the message gets through.” And again there was a cynical edge to Ambrose’s voice, this time at Tzsayn’s name.
Catherine shook her head. She turned, swayed, and leaned on her staff again. “I’ll decide tonight. We all stay together until then.”
“We won’t see tonight unless we push on hard.”
“Then we push on hard.”
Catherine stomped through the snow to the front of the group. She felt light-headed and the ground seemed to sway. She needed food and water, and, even though her cloak was a mix of wool and fur, the cold seemed to find a way through. She joined General Davyon and told him, “I’ve just negotiated with Sir Ambrose that we push on hard until nightfall, general. So please help me prove to him that we can do it.”
Davyon glanced at Ambrose but then nodded to her, and with a muttered “Certainly, Your Highness,” he set off.
Catherine had to take large strides to keep in Davyon’s footsteps. She counted and looked down at the depth of the imprints his feet made, stepping into each.
One.
Two.
One.
Two.
One.
Two.
Catherine didn’t look up, only down at the footprints in the snow that she was following. It was like a dream. On and on and on.
Out of the dream someone shouted, “Look!” Catherine almost walked into Davyon, who had stopped. Ambrose pointed behind. “They’re sending their faster men ahead.”
Catherine stared but could hardly focus. “How many?”
“Forty,” Ambrose replied. “Double our number, as you foretold.”
“Being correct isn’t much of a comfort.”
“And will you accept that I’m correct too. You need to go ahead with Tash now. Not wait for tonight.”
“No, we all need to stop talking and keep moving. General, lead on.” And Catherine turned to set off again, but the ground seemed to move up to her, though she felt nothing but a floating sensation. Then she was looking up at Ambrose, who was carrying her in his arms. His body was warm against hers, his arms strong and firm yet gentle. She knew the exhaustion was playing tricks on her mind. And this was a delicious trick. How she’d love this to be real, to spend time in his arms. She rested her head against Ambrose’s chest, felt his breath on her cheek, and muttered, “This is better than walking.” It was better than anything she could think of.
“Are you awake, Your Highness? You fainted.”
“What? No!” It wasn’t a mind trick; it was real. He was carrying her. Catherine couldn’t be seen as being weak like this. “I can walk. Let me walk. Where’s my staff?”
“Tanya has it.”
“Get it for me and I’ll walk.”
Ambrose didn’t reply.
“Put me down. I can walk with the staff.”
“You fainted when you walked with the staff.”
But Catherine struggled against Ambrose. He stumbled and let her legs fall so that she was standing against him. She looked at the rest of her group. She was the weakest. And she looked back to the Brigantines and the smaller group that had been deployed from the main section, coming like an arrow to them.
She was slowing her group down. She was going to cause their deaths. It was laughable to think Ambrose had suggested she should run—but she could hardly stand.
Except there was one thing that would help. Ambrose still carried the bottle of purple demon smoke in a bag round his shoulder.
Catherine had taken the demon smoke in Rossarb and loved how strong it had made her feel. She’d thrown a spear farther than she’d ever thrown anything. Her technique was poor, but the strength she’d felt was wonderful. The smoke had made her giddy, but it also heightened her senses, allowing her to notice things: like the way Prince Tzsayn had touched her back, the way he carefully positioned her fingers on the spear, the way Ambrose looked at her, the way she wanted to caress the contours of his cheek.
“I need to be stronger. Faster,” she told Ambrose. “I need the demon smoke.”
“It’s a drug. It made Edyon collapse.”
“It made me strong. I’ll just take a small amount.”
“Then you’ll be strong enough to go ahead with Tash. You can escape. We’ll stay and fight.” It was as if Ambrose had been waiting for this opportunity, as if that was what he really wanted.
She shook her head. “We all stay together. And if I do ever leave the group, you leave with me.”
He stared at her. “I will fight them one day. You won’t prevent it.”
“When that happens, I’ll do all I can to ensure you win, Ambrose. But you won’t win here.”
Ambrose bowed his head as if he’d made a deal with her. He pulled the bottle of demon smoke from the leather bag. The purple smoke glowed brightly, emphasizing how gloomy the sky around them had become. Catherine took the bottle, which was heavy and warm, and the smoke in it swirled faster and seemed to gather more thickly near Catherine’s hands.
Catherine eased the cork up and to the side, allowing a small wisp of smoke to escape before forcing the cork back. And she quickly bent forward, putting her face into the smoke and inhaling. The smoke slid up her nose and into her mouth. It swirled over her tongue, down her throat, and seemed to heat her body from the inside. Her face was feeling warmer, tingling. She smiled. The pleasure of being warm was divine. She relaxed her shoulders. Already the strain seemed to be falling away, her tight, tense, weak body being filled by a stronger, more lithe and energized one.
She inhaled another wisp and turned to look at the army following her—she felt like she could take them on all by herself.
No! That was absurd.
The smoke was playing tricks on her. She had to concentrate. All she had to do was walk fast. She handed the bottle back to Ambrose, who slung it over his shoulder, his eyes scrutinizing her. “How are you feeling?”
“A lot warmer and much, much stronger. I’ll be able to carry you, I think, Sir Ambrose.” Catherine turned to Davyon. “We need to go. Where’s T
ash?”
“She’s gone ahead, Your Highness. She’s concerned about the weather.”
Catherine snorted a laugh. “And there we were worrying about the Brigantines.”
“She says there’s a storm coming. She wants to find somewhere to shelter.”
The sky had been gray and overcast all day, but now the clouds were darker and seemed almost black in the north. The small comfort was that a storm would hit the Brigantines just as hard as it would hit her group.
They set off again, following the trail left by Tash. Davyon led, while Geratan and Rafyon helped the slower ones. Mostly the group was silent. All the energy they had was needed for walking. Catherine took Tanya’s hand and almost pulled her along.
If only they all could take the smoke, but it didn’t work on Ambrose or Tanya as they were both too old. Though perhaps she should offer it to March and Edyon. She had seen Edyon successfully use the smoke to heal March, the wound sealing instantly before her eyes, so she knew that he was young enough to get its benefits. But then Edyon had collapsed on the floor when he’d last inhaled it, and she couldn’t risk that. Why did the smoke have different effects on different people? She didn’t feel like collapsing. She felt alive, full of energy. Powerful. She could walk for miles.
Walking and thinking—that was all she had to do, and she had a long way to walk and much to think about. The war was always on her mind. But sometimes it was a relief to recall happier times.
Catherine’s mind jumped back to her glorious procession through Pitoria, from the coast to the capital and the amazing white-towered castle in the capital, Tornia. She could see the procession now.
The horses, the dancers and musicians.
My white flower, the wissun.
My white dress and its jewels and how it sparkled in the sun.
The men who dyed their hair white to show they followed me.
And seeing Tzsayn for the first time.
She’d feared Tzsayn might be as cold and bored by her as her mother had warned. But he was never cold, never looked bored. Her mother was wrong about that.