The Demon World

by Sally Green

  Catherine sensed he was trying to keep the conversation on how unimportant they were to avoid being drawn into any issues. “I’m sure you’re being modest, Lord Donnell. Your history and your library are evidence of your family’s status. Though perhaps others don’t realize these things are of value. And it is different here in the north. When I was in Tornia I was struck by the interest so many lords and ladies showed in fashion and appearance.”

  Lady Donnell leaned forward. “They ridicule our conversation and treat us as fools, when all they fuss over are clothes and dancing, and most of them haven’t read a book in their life.”

  Catherine replied, “You’re not referring to the prince, are you?”

  “Goodness, no!” Lady Donnell glanced at her husband. “Of course not. He’s a good man. He is an . . . unusual person and . . . How can I put it? . . . He is extremely interested in his clothing, his fashions, his blue . . . body paint, which we find rather strange in the north, I admit, and I’m not afraid to say it, but for all that he’s an intelligent and thoughtful man. And he has had his problems, but fought against them.”

  “You know him well then?”

  “Not well. He’s a different generation, but we’ve been honored to have him as our guest—twice.”

  Catherine couldn’t imagine the prince finding anything to interest him here even once, but then he’d surprised her before with his knowledge and pursuits.

  “He studied in our library for a time with his assistants and doctors.”

  “Doctors?”

  Lady Donnell looked a little awkward and glanced at her husband and then Davyon, but still went on. “For his burns. It’s not a secret; everyone knows the story of how he was injured, as I’m sure do you, Princess Catherine. But it’s so awful, so sad. He was but a little boy when it happened, playing a game of chase, running through the kitchens, and a pot of hot oil fell on him. Half his body and face ruined.” She realized what she’d said and corrected herself: “I mean, not ruined, but . . . well . . . scarred. He had years of pain—and still does, I believe. He sought doctors from all over Pitoria and beyond to help him. Some of them came here to research plant cures in the books we have. And, when he was older, the prince himself visited in the hope of learning more.”

  It was a pity the prince hadn’t known of the purple demon smoke at the time of the accident. It might have sped up his healing in his teenage years, though the scars would have remained. “And did he find anything to help him?”

  “No. There was nothing to be done but endure—as we say in the north. The prince has endured and is a stronger and better man for it, I think.”

  “There is a similar saying in Brigant—‘The difficulties we endure make us stronger,’” Catherine said. “I agree with that. And there are certainly many difficulties for us all at the moment. And the prince is suffering again, but now at the hands of my father. I fear I will never see my husband again.” Catherine was sure Prince Tzsayn wouldn’t be released, at least not alive, and probably not in one piece. Her father never gave up prisoners and the chances of staging a rescue seemed remote.

  Lady Donnell interjected, “Oh, my dear. I mean, Your Highness, don’t despair. The ransom is huge but we can raise it.”

  “Ransom?” It took every effort for Catherine to hide her shock that she’d not been informed about this new development. Did Davyon know? Nevertheless, she had to remain composed. “My father has agreed to a ransom?”

  Lord Donnell nodded. “Farrow sent news this afternoon. Negotiations are progressing at last. The ransom Aloysius is demanding is enormous—five hundredweight in gold—and Farrow has asked each lord for a significant contribution, which we’ve gladly made.” And here he looked round the table at all present and called out to them, “My lords, please reassure Princess Catherine that we are all contributing what we can to pay Prince Tzsayn’s ransom, are we not?”

  The reply was a loud chorus of cheers and agreement.

  Catherine wondered if it could be true. She knew her father needed money desperately. Perhaps this would be the one time a prisoner would get out alive. What a relief that would be to see the prince again! But then she wondered what would happen to her for lying about her marriage. What would Tzsayn do?

  Davyon, having gained more information from the lords, leaned over to speak to her. He seemed buoyant about the ransom and was almost smiling. “The truce is holding while the negotiations for the prince’s release are ongoing. Aloysius is establishing a stronghold at Rossarb and holding some land to the south and along the River Ross as far as Hebdene. Farrow has his camp to the south of Rossarb, the other lords are south of him and the blue-hairs to the east. The total Pitorian army is greater than the Brigantines in numbers, but we are in a stalemate.”

  “A stalemate that my father is happy with. He will have Rossarb, the Northern Plateau, and much gold after the exchange of Prince Tzsayn. And we will have little hope of recovering the land, even when the prince is returned to us.”

  “In honesty, Your Highness,” replied Donnell, “your father doesn’t have the best reputation for acting honorably, so our current highest hope is that the negotiations are sincere and the prince will be returned to us.”

  Catherine nodded. “Well, I do know that my father needs the money. Much as he will enjoy having the prince prisoner, he’ll enjoy having a cartload of gold more. But, even when the prince is returned to us, Pitoria is vulnerable. My father and his army want war.”

  “And that brings us to the subject I was going to raise with you, Your Highness.” Donnell cleared his throat. “These are dangerous times and this is a dangerous place. It’s not a place for a princess and our Queen Apparent. It would be safer for you to go to Tornia. You can go there and wait in safety.”

  So Donnell was trying to get rid of her. Was she a liability or was he genuinely worried for her?

  “Thank you for your concern,” Catherine replied. “For the moment I stay in the north, if you’ll allow me to be your guest. I want to be near when Tzsayn is released, which you’ve given me hope of now. And I want to see the prince’s troops and speak with his generals—my generals—in case the truce does not hold.”

  “You intend to lead his men?” Lady Donnell leaned forward but her voice was loud. “You intend to take up the position of head of the army? I wish you good luck with that.”

  Catherine was conscious that the lords along the table had gone quiet and were listening in. She raised her voice so that all could hear. “The danger from the Brigantines is greater than you realize. I’m sure you’ve all wondered why my father has invaded Rossarb and not the southern ports.”

  “We have been wondering,” Donnell said. And there was a nodding and muttering round the table.

  Lady Donnell added, “Lord Farrow says it just shows that Brigantines will fight over any scrap of land and also shows Aloysius has no real ambition to take Pitoria.”

  Catherine shook her head. “My father has a lot of ambition. While Lord Farrow may be correct that Brigantines will fight over the smallest parcel of land, it is wise not to underestimate my father. He went to a great deal of trouble to create a diversion in the south, to lure all the lords of Pitoria together so that he could assassinate them along with King Arell. He arranged my marriage solely for that purpose. And with the money he gets for the exchange of Tzsayn he can finance his war. The money will pay for a conventional army, but he has plans for more than that. He wants the Northern Plateau because he wants to collect demon smoke.”

  Lord Donnell let out a laugh. “I thought you were being serious for a moment, Your Highness. You had me fooled.” And there were smiles on the faces of the lords.

  Catherine replied clearly, “I am serious, Lord Donnell. My father is building a boy army with exceptional strength.”

  “A boy army! Boys are no match for men.” Now there was laughter round the table.

  “They
are when they inhale purple demon smoke.”

  “Princess, the smoke is well known for being red and for making the smoker stupid and sleepy. I don’t know who has given you this notion, but the very idea is absurd.”

  “No one has given me the notion. I’ve seen the power of the purple smoke for myself. Sir Ambrose has seen the boys being trained at a camp in northern Brigant. They will be formidable when they have skills to match their strength.”

  Lord Donnell turned to Davyon and with a smile asked, “Do you fear a boy army, General Davyon?”

  Davyon addressed the table as much as Donnell in his reply. “I’ve seen something of the power of the purple smoke”—Catherine was relieved that he didn’t volunteer that he’d seen that power in her—“and Prince Tzsayn believes that Aloysius is going to use it. Ambrose has told me that it can give boys strength beyond that of any man.”

  Catherine said, “The boy army may be the most dangerous foe we will face.”

  “Brigantine boys fighting Pitorian men? I’d pay to see that,” someone shouted.

  “Brigantine babies will be fighting next. Born with a sword in their hands.”

  “Cutting themselves out of their mothers’ wombs. Dressed in full armor!”

  There was much drunken laughter and Catherine could see that no one was taking the smoke seriously—they probably thought she was drunk. Any more mention of it and she’d never live it down.

  She’d had enough; this wasn’t the time or place to discuss the smoke.

  Lord Donnell said, “Their gentlemanly banter hasn’t offended you, I hope.”

  Catherine forced a false smile. “It rather reminds me of the banter my brother Boris entered into with his friends in Brigane—it seems that gentlemen are the same the world over.” And she thanked her hosts for their hospitality and excused herself.

  Davyon was lingering, asking about Donnell’s own troops, and it was Rafyon who escorted her back to her rooms. Catherine couldn’t resist asking, “Is Sir Ambrose retired already?”

  “I assure you he’s working, Your Highness. He’s familiarizing himself with the building.”

  “He should know it intimately by now.”

  “I can send for him?”

  “No, I wouldn’t want to interrupt his process. But I need to see him in the morning. And you and Davyon as well. There’s much to plan.” She wanted Ambrose to support her, but there was no doubt he was avoiding her. She’d have to talk to him, have to find a way of reconciling with him.

  They crossed an internal courtyard with a central fountain. It was beautiful here in the moonlight. Perhaps she should send for Ambrose now? They needed to talk, and the sooner the better. She slowed and looked up to the moon but a movement on the roof caught her eye.

  And then something sharp hit her shoulder.

  She heard a scream.

  It sounded distant and yet she knew it was her own scream.

  Rafyon was shouting, “Get down!”

  And things seemed to move strangely slowly and yet fast too. But she was on the ground already, her face against a stone that cut into her cheekbone, her chest flattened, unable to breathe. Rafyon was lying on top of her, his voice breaking. “Keep down. Try . . . to shelter . . . get to the fountain.” And he crawled forward, dragging Catherine with him, her face scratching the ground, the burning in her shoulder spreading down to her chest.

  Catherine heard something that was familiar and yet strange. The sound of arrows hitting a target.

  The noise came again and again.

  The ground was cold and hard and Rafyon was heavy. And he was silent.

  AMBROSE

  DONNAFON, NORTHERN PITORIA

  AMBROSE HAD intended to make an appearance at Donnell’s dinner at some point even though he knew it was a bad idea—knew he’d say the wrong thing to a lord or to Catherine. But he’d heard the laughter from the hall and turned away. He just couldn’t face any of them. Instead he went out of the kitchen door.

  Looking at the night sky, he tried to work out where he belonged, or if he belonged anywhere. He didn’t feel like he belonged here and he didn’t belong in Brigant anymore. Perhaps he should just leave and travel, far away, to Illast maybe, and forget all this. He’d love to have done that with Tarquin when he still could. But Tarquin had had his own responsibilities helping their father, and Ambrose had joined the Royal Guard as soon as he could to annoy his father and prove his strength as a soldier. And now he and Tarquin would never travel anywhere; never again would they be together, never ride around their home fields, sit on the terrace and drink wine and talk for hours. Ambrose wiped the tears from his cheek.

  In his wildest fancies he’d imagined traveling with Catherine. They’d learn languages, eat strange foods, wear strange clothes, and make each other happy. Ambrose closed his eyes to think of her, of the laugh that would change her face completely, her voice so tender and soft. But this idyllic dream of travel and laughter would never happen either. Catherine wanted something quite different. She wanted to rule a kingdom. She wanted to head an army. She wanted to lead Tzsayn’s soldiers into war against her father. She wanted so many things—things that Ambrose could never give her.

  And it was while he was thinking of her that he heard distant panicked cries. “Assassins! Assassins!”

  For a moment Ambrose was back in Tornia castle the night King Arell was attacked, the night Catherine was nearly killed, and he had a similar feeling of dread as he sprinted to the dining hall. There it was all in confusion. Lord Donnell was standing with his wife, many lords and guards around them, but Ambrose couldn’t see Catherine. He shouted, “Where’s the princess?”

  Lady Donnell ran to him crying. “She just left. Just before the alarm was sounded.”

  Ambrose ran out of the hall and headed to her rooms. She’ll be safe. She has Rafyon and Davyon with her.

  Someone, somewhere shouted, “He’s up there. On the roof!”

  “Where’s the princess?” Ambrose shouted at a guard he passed. “Where is she?”

  “The courtyard! The courtyard!”

  Ambrose turned through the doorway to the courtyard and skidded to a halt. Davyon was kneeling by two bodies lying on the ground by the fountain.

  Rafyon had three arrows in his back and beneath his body was the silk of Catherine’s dress. Ambrose ran to them.

  Davyon said, “I just got here. One assassin on the roof, I think.”

  “You go after him. I’ll stay with the princess.” And Davyon was away, shouting at the guards to join him.

  Silence returned to the courtyard. “Rafyon?” Ambrose spoke quietly. “Rafyon?” Ambrose felt for his friend’s breath. But there was no breath, no movement. Rafyon had protected Catherine. He’d given his life for her.

  Ambrose pulled Rafyon’s body off Catherine’s, dreading that an arrow had gone through him to hit her—but, no, her back wasn’t injured. She was unconscious but, thankfully, still breathing.

  “Catherine, speak to me.”

  Her eyes fluttered open for a moment.

  “I’ve got you. I’m here now,” he said.

  There was blood and dirt on her face, shoulder, and neck, but that blood must be from Rafyon. It must be. It must be. The skin of her cheek was badly cut and bleeding, but that wouldn’t kill her; she’d just had the wind knocked out of her with Rafyon’s weight on her, and perhaps she’d broken a bone in the fall, but she’d not been shot. She’s not been shot. He’d have to be gentle with her but she wasn’t safe out here in the open.

  He scooped her up in his arms, protecting her body with his and carrying her inside. He looked down at her. “You’re safe now, princess. You’re safe.” Catherine’s head fell back and Ambrose saw that among the jewels on her shoulder was a feather. A row of finely trimmed feathers. The fletching of an arrow. And now the blood appeared on her dress.

  “Oh
no, oh no.” How could he be so stupid? She was shot. One arrow. In her shoulder.

  Ambrose ran with Catherine in his arms to the princess’s rooms. “Tanya! Tanya!” He’d never shouted so loud in his life. And yet Tanya was silent when she saw them. Catherine was limp in his arms. Her eyes were half open but unfocused. Her dress was red now at her shoulder. And all Ambrose could do was carry her and tell her, “You’ll be fine, Catherine. You’ll be fine.”

  Tanya was taking Catherine’s hand. “Princess, please. Look at me.”

  But Catherine neither moved nor looked. Her eyes stared at nothing. Tanya pulled the dress away. The arrow in her shoulder was pointing down into her chest. It had gone deep.

  Ambrose shouted, “Get the demon smoke, Tanya. Now!” Tanya hesitated and Ambrose shouted at her, “Tanya, hurry. We don’t have time for anything else.”

  Tanya ran to a cupboard, grabbed the bottle of purple smoke, and held it out to him. “Do you know what to do with it?”

  “I saw Edyon heal March’s wounds. If he can do it, I can do it.” Though Ambrose wasn’t so sure of that. Did he have to be young too? Was there a technique? He said, “We need to cut the arrow out and then heal it with smoke. She’ll bleed a lot but, if the smoke works, she’ll heal quickly. But I’m not sure I can cut her.”

  Tanya said, “We just need to get on with it. I’ll cut the arrow out, Ambrose, and you administer the smoke. I need a clean sharp knife. Your dagger will do it.”

  Hesitantly Ambrose held out his dagger.

  Tanya took it without a word and put the point into position on the flesh of Princess Catherine’s shoulder. “Ready?”

  “Yes. Do it.”

  Tanya pushed the knife in. Blood was pouring out so it was hard to see what was going on. But the knife was going in, cutting the skin and muscle and easing it back. Tanya pushed her fingers into the wound, feeling the arrow. “It’s gone right down, into her chest.” Her hand was covered in blood and the knife was slipping. She wiped her hands on her dress and Ambrose mopped away the blood. Tanya cut into Catherine’s shoulder again, and Ambrose took hold of the arrow and gently pulled on it, but it wouldn’t come out.