by Sally Green
Catherine tried to smile. “Perhaps. I wonder if we can make more threads. Or make the threads we have stronger.”
“Perhaps if we bind our threads together they become stronger?” Ambrose reached out to take her hand, but she was holding the bottle of smoke. He paused and took the bottle. “It was Davyon’s idea to bring out the purple demon. He perhaps wanted to collect the smoke for Tzsayn. Though you beat him to it. Do you think it will make your threads stronger, your life safer?”
“Davyon is a general and soldier but also Prince Tzsayn’s personal guard. He knows the prince wants to learn about the smoke. The more we learn, the better. The smoke will be of use to us.”
“You’re going to use it yourself again?”
Catherine glanced up at him. “I’ve taken it to learn about it, and when I’ve been desperate for more strength.”
“So you don’t like it?”
“I like learning and I like having more strength. Or do you prefer me stupid and weak?”
“You know you’re neither—ever. And I despise anyone who would prefer you like that. You heard my thoughts in the demon world. I only say this because”—and here he lowered his voice and leaned forward to whisper to her—“I love you.” Then standing back a little he added, “But I fear for you too.”
“I fear our situation. I fear what my father is doing to his enemies.” She took Ambrose’s hand and whispered, “And I fear for you too. When you didn’t come out of the demon world with Rafyon, I felt that dread again that you were gone and I’d never see you again. Don’t leave me, Ambrose. But don’t try to control me either. You know I’ve had enough of that all my life.”
* * *
They decided to remain in their position that night. Two of the men sent to scout the surrounding area returned with news that they had seen no sight of anything human or demon. Wood was collected, a fire made, and food shared. While it wasn’t as warm as being in the demon world, it was good to be somewhere more familiar.
At first light they began the journey south through the forest. The ground was firm and the pace was steady. There were now just twelve in the group. Tarell, the injured soldier, was well enough to walk and too old for the purple smoke to help. By late afternoon the man scouting ahead gave a call of delight, and everyone hurried toward him as his shout surely had to mean good news.
Catherine joined Ambrose at the edge of the trees. The view was indeed a delight—below them was the undulating land of farms and woods of Pitoria. They were at the edge of the Northern Plateau.
Catherine smiled. “We’ve made it.”
“Even the breeze feels warm,” Tanya said.
They stood and gazed for a long while. Catherine basked in the warmth of the sun on her cheeks and stared at the sight of green fields far below.
Rafyon pointed to the distance. “There’s a town there. It’s walled with four towers. I think that must be Donnafon.”
And with that the problems of the civilized world were back on Catherine’s shoulders. Would the people of Donnafon welcome her? Would they see her as the enemy? If King Arell was alive and well, she would have his protection, whatever had happened to Prince Tzsayn. But if Arell was still ill from his wounds—and that was likely, as it was only two weeks since Tornia was attacked—then she was vulnerable. If Arell was dead, then she had lost her most powerful ally. Lord Farrow, as it was he who had pushed for Catherine’s arrest after the attack on King Arell and the Pitorian lords, was most likely still a force to be reckoned with.
Of course, if Tzsayn and his troops had managed to retreat from Rossarb, then he would help her, but Catherine had a bad feeling about that. The more she thought about the battle, the more it seemed that few would have survived the fire and the fighting, and her father’s tactics were to kill all. That was his methodology—kill all your enemies, destroy them, leave no survivors. That is the way to total victory, with no possibility of enemies or sons of enemies returning to exact revenge.
If Prince Tzsayn had been killed in the battle at Rossarb, then Catherine’s future was likely to be as precarious as her life had been in the demon world. She had to hope that Tzsayn had managed to make a controlled retreat from Rossarb and was holding his men nearby and that she could soon rejoin him.
Catherine turned to Rafyon and asked, “Are you familiar with Donnafon?”
He shook his head and said that he was not, but to her surprise Ambrose replied, “I’ve been there. I went with my sister a few years ago. We met Lord Donnell. He’s a good man.”
Rafyon now seemed to understand the real question and added, “Donnell is loyal to King Arell. He’s a northern lord, not one of Lord Farrow’s cronies. I believe he knows Prince Tzsayn. But perhaps General Davyon can tell us more.” Catherine hardly dared hope that Donnell would be supportive, but if so she could rest there, find out what had happened to Tzsayn and Arell, and decide her next move.
She asked Davyon, “So what can you tell us, general? Is Lord Donnell a friend of Tzsayn’s?”
“The prince has few friends, but they are acquainted. Lord Donnell is respected by the prince, and I believe the feeling is mutual.”
“You talk as if the prince is still alive. Do you truly believe this to be so?” she asked, and was surprised how good it felt to openly ask about Tzsayn. She hardly dared mention his name to Ambrose.
“I don’t want to think otherwise. He’s very resourceful and remarkably lucky. I’d rather not think him dead yet. The world would be a poorer place.”
“You’re very fond of him.”
“The prince is a unique man,” Davyon replied. “He takes his role seriously, and he cares for his people, but there are few individuals he cares for and trusts. In my time with him I’d say you are one of the rare few, princess.”
“I’m honored. Have you been with him for many years?”
“Since his troop was formed when he was sixteen. That was seven years ago. I have worked with him from soldier to general, personal guard and now finally to his dresser.”
The prince was fond of clothes and rather vain, but to have a soldier, a general no less, as his dresser was a surprise even to Catherine.
“You smile, Your Highness. Do you know the role?”
“It’s not one that we have in the Brigantine army, I don’t believe.”
“I’m sure you’re right, judging from what I’ve seen of Brigantines. However, in Pitoria, it’s an important position. Whoever holds the role is the most intimate with the prince. He helps him dress, yes, but also provides advice on all issues, from military to political and personal.”
“A powerful and trusted position then. It must have been difficult to leave his side.”
“More than you can know, Your Highness. But, as I told you on our first night after fleeing Rossarb, the prince gave me a task—to help and protect you—and I must do all I can to serve the prince, by serving you.”
“And, as I told you, I have Ambrose as my personal guard.”
“Indeed, he is a good soldier, but he is a Brigantine and may not be of much help for what lies ahead. Indeed, he may be a liability.”
Catherine had considered this herself. One Brigantine princess alone is not so threatening. A Brigantine princess and a Brigantine nobleman are harder to accept in times of war. Tzsayn would probably have considered this too, so he must have known his own survival was in doubt. He would only send his most trusted man if he feared he had no more use for him himself.
She looked at Davyon again. He was much older than the prince, and stiff. She’d never seen him show much expression, though he must be no fool if he worked closely with Tzsayn.
She asked, “Tzsayn told you about the purple demon smoke. That’s why you brought the demon’s body out of the tunnels, so I could collect the smoke?”
“Well, I was going to collect it myself, but you were faster. Tzsayn wants to understand
its power and what the enemy can achieve with it. To do that, we need some of it.”
Catherine nodded. “I agree.”
Davyon didn’t reply at first. His gaze was penetrating, though, and finally he said, “Sir Ambrose is less sure. But he’s a young soldier, and he doesn’t know how truly awful war can be and the things you end up having to do.”
“Perhaps,” said Catherine, “but he knows how bad peace can be in Brigant.”
* * *
The group set off again, slowly working their way down from the Northern Plateau. Ambrose stayed close to Catherine, guiding her and helping her over steep or slippery sections. She was exhausted and her toes were sore and her boots rubbing. She dreaded to think what her feet looked like. But soon they’d be in Donnafon. If Lord Donnell supported her, she’d have food and rest and a proper bed and, joy of joys, a bath.
However, by the time they reached the bottom of the slope it was almost dark. A wide and fast-flowing river blocked their path, and it was decided not to attempt to cross it until morning. It would be another night in the open.
That night Catherine slept and dreamed vivid dreams of running fast through purple demon smoke. Boris was hiding in the smoke, and she was chasing him, running faster than him and beating him as they ran across a sandy beach. She flopped onto the sand, victorious, and looked up to see Ambrose watching her from a distance, but the man lying next to her with a half-scarred face and blue skin was saying, I’ll let you choose whom to marry.
She woke. It was still dark. Stars filled the sky like white dust. The fire was a low heap of hot embers. Her companions were asleep and Ambrose on guard, standing to the side. It was almost exactly the position he had had in her dream, his blond hair long over his shoulders.
Catherine got to her feet and silently picked her way across to Ambrose. She stood near to him and wanted to speak but feared waking anyone, so she stepped closer and whispered, “This will be our last night in the open. Every other night has been full of fear and cold. It’s good to be able to take pleasure here, just this once.”
Ambrose smiled and whispered back, “And how do you take pleasure, Your Highness?”
“Looking at the stars. Having you near me. Talking to you.”
Ambrose reached for her hand. “And touching you, if I’m still allowed, even though we’re no longer in the demon world.”
Catherine let him take her hand. She couldn’t forbid it; she wanted it. “I remember in Brigant—how we couldn’t touch. How I hardly dared look at you for fear Noyes would interpret it some way. But perhaps because of that, you inspired me, gave me hope, and made me believe that not all men were monsters who hated women. You made me realize that men and women could really love one another—understand and respect each other. Because of your example, I am who I am.”
Ambrose bent forward and kissed her hand. “Because of you, I am who I am.”
Catherine enjoyed the warmth of his touch, the feel of his lips and his breath, but she knew it would be over all too soon. “Somehow this feels like a last night. A last night of simple pleasure. Tomorrow we’ll be back in the complicated world of politics and allegiances.”
“And war.”
Catherine shuddered at a chill wind that seemed to come off the plateau and wrap round her chest. Ambrose looked up at the skies and frowned.
“I should leave you to your guard duty,” Catherine said reluctantly and glanced back to see that Tanya was sitting up and looking their way—glaring their way.
“Tanya is concerned about your reputation,” Ambrose said. “You should go.” But he held her hand for a few more moments and then kissed it.
Catherine returned to her place by the fire and lay down. Tanya stared at her the whole way, then signed to Catherine, Making love in the moonlight for everyone to see.
Catherine signed, Go to sleep, Tanya. Ambrose kept his back to her and she resisted looking at him and stared up at the stars. She loved his touch, loved being with him. What might life be like if they could get through this war? Could they ever be together? Stranger things had happened and war changed everything.
EDYON
BOLLYN, NORTHERN PITORIA
EDYON CRAWLED out onto the riverbank and rolled onto his back, so numb with cold that he couldn’t stand. He turned his head to March, who was staggering out of the water.
March, shaking and pale, dropped to his knees beside Edyon.
“We didn’t drown,” Edyon said, his teeth chattering. “We didn’t break our legs. Or get caught by Brigantines. Or their dogs.”
March collapsed onto his back, arms spread, but he didn’t reply.
“We’ve made it, March. We’ve made it. We’re back in civilization.” Edyon sat up and looked around. They were on a grassy bank that led up to a field—a field of masticating cows. “If you can call cows civilization. And I think, given where we’ve been and what we’ve been through, we can do exactly that.”
March muttered, “Cows. Mean milk. Mean food.”
“They do indeed.” Edyon smiled at March, but his smile faded immediately. March had started to shake violently and was so pale that he was almost blue. “You need to get warm first. You’ll have to get out of those wet clothes. And for once I’m saying that with no innuendo intended.”
March tried to undo his jacket but his hands couldn’t even grasp the ties. Edyon helped by peeling March’s jacket off his shoulders, wringing it out, and hanging it on a tree branch. March sat up but seemed incapable of anything more. Edyon lifted March’s shirt, pulled it over his head, wrung it out, and hung that up too. Then he did the same with his own clothes and placed his boots upside down in the branches so they’d drip dry. He stripped off until all he was wearing was his gold chain. The metal was cold but he didn’t take it off—he always wore the chain his father had sent him when he was a child, and now, inside the intricately made pendant, there was the ring, the seal of Prince Thelonius, that showed who Edyon was. He wouldn’t risk laying it on the ground even for a moment.
March was only dressed in his trousers but he was still shaking. Edyon said, “You do need to take those off.” He wondered if March would resist, but he remained silent, moving to help Edyon pull the trousers off each leg, then sitting hunched, shivering slightly. Edyon sat by March and said, “I’m going to hold you. To get you warm. Can I do that?”
March nodded.
Edyon put his arm round March’s shoulder and then pulled himself close, holding March’s wet head to his neck and lying down, wrapping his legs round March’s. March shuddered and shivered but hugged back.
Edyon looked over March’s shoulder, to the sun glistening on the river. He began to feel hope, real hope. Madame Eruth’s prophecy that death was all around him had been true, but he’d escaped death each time. Now surely he would make it to his father in Calidor. Nothing could stop him now. He smiled to himself and said, “We’ve made it, March.”
March turned to look back at the Northern Plateau and said, “Maybe, but they’re Brigantines—they don’t give up.”
Edyon shook his head. “They won’t come down here.”
“Will the cows or the farmers stop them?”
Edyon looked around and had to admit to himself that there was no one to stop a few Brigantines. “I thought I was the one who was always feeling we were doomed.”
“We’re not doomed, but I think we should keep moving.”
“We need to get warm first.” Edyon hugged March to him. “At least you’re not shivering anymore. Feeling better?”
March mumbled a yes into Edyon’s shoulder.
Edyon stroked March’s back. Then kissed his wet hair, then down March’s face to his lips. They kissed each other. Mouths open, tongues licking. Edyon then kissed down March’s neck and across his shoulder, down and across his chest, then up to March’s mouth again. March groaned and arched and Edyon grinned. Finally March se
emed to be relaxing in his arms.
“I do love you,” Edyon said.
March tensed and went still.
Argh. No. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve ruined the moment. Declaring my love to March is fine when we were facing death but not when—
“There’s someone watching us,” March said.
Edyon turned to see a small girl holding a bucket and staring at them.
Edyon waved at her. “Hi there.” He stood.
She stared at Edyon, opened her mouth, and closed it again.
“We were just drying off. Been for a swim in the river. It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it? My name’s Edyon.” Edyon cupped his hands over his genitals and ran for his trousers, which he struggled to pull on as they were still very wet.
The girl was backing away, though staring at Edyon and smiling a little.
Edyon hopped around as he tried to pull his trousers up. “Don’t go. Don’t go. We won’t hurt you. Our clothes are wet, that’s all. And impossible to put on, it seems.”
The girl was giggling as Edyon had one leg in his trousers and the other leg stuck in a tangle of wet cloth. He smiled back and said, “We need food and a fire. And . . . and food. Directions too. Where are we, by the way?”
The girl looked around as if checking no one was watching her speak. “Bollyn.”
“Ah, yes, Bollyn. Famed for its wonderful friendly people.”
“Really?” March asked as he ran behind Edyon to retrieve his own trousers.
Edyon muttered to him, “I’ve never even heard of it.” To the girl he shouted, “Do you live nearby? Are your parents here? We have news.”
The girl pointed past the cows, then she ran that way.
Edyon shouted after her, “We’ll follow you shortly.”
March said, “I hope her father or brothers don’t greet us with pitchforks.”
“Why should they? Two handsome naked men won’t be a shock to her.”