by Sally Green
A few of the men clapped, and Anlax shouted, “Thank you for your honesty, Sir Ambrose.”
Ambrose raised his hands for silence. “And that brings me to the most serious subject of all.” He surveyed the group with a smile. “Hair.”
“White—it has to be white!” someone shouted.
“No, fuck off, it’s got to be blue!” Anlax replied, shaking his own blue locks.
“I thought this might be a bone of contention,” Ambrose interrupted. “But we are a team, and we must be able to rec-ognize and trust each other. We are the Demon Troop and, by permission of the queen, we will have our own hair color.”
At this, Geratan pulled off his hat to reveal a shock of bright crimson.
There were a few wolf-whistles and cheers.
“After our mission is complete you may change your hair back to whatever you wish, but while we are working together, this is our color.”
Ambrose looked around the group and was pleased that they all appeared eager, already feeling part of a special team.
“Finally, I have one more thing to say and then I really can shut up. There will be situations in the demon world where we need to communicate when we can’t touch one another. The best way to do that is by hand signals. And, to help us, I’ve asked an expert to teach us all. She has also been into the demon world and come through it, so she knows exactly what we’ll have to face.”
And, with that, Tanya stepped forward.
EDYON
CALIA, CALIDOR
EDYON SLID slowly off the cool marble and sank down into his warm bath. He put his head back, feeling his hair float out in the water. On the ceiling was a painting of a garden full of flowers and fruit trees with distant, snowcapped mountains. It was beautiful. Everything around Edyon looked beautiful, sounded beautiful (there was the tinkling of chimes in the window), felt beautiful (warm, warm, warm), and even smelled beautiful (the almond oil in the bath had an aroma delicious enough to eat). Everything was designed with his comfort and security in mind. Or at least it was designed for someone’s security. This room was the same as the one next door. They had been the rooms for Thelonius’s two legitimate sons, Castor and Argentus, who had died earlier in the year. Were they still alive to inherit the throne, Edyon would never have come to know his father.
Had Castor lain back in the bath like Edyon was doing now?
Undoubtedly.
Had he, too, submerged and floated and breathed in the almond oil?
Possibly.
Castor had expected to be the next ruler of Calidor. Now he was gone, and who was bathing here?
A bastard son from another land.
Edyon felt sorry for them, his dead half brothers, and a little sorry for himself. He was now in their shoes—well, in their bath anyway—and though he was surrounded by riches, he was also surrounded by intrigue, doubt, gossip, and lies.
The lords were a constant problem. Thelonius relied on them: they provided income from taxes and men to fight in the army. Thelonius had sent a delegation of just two men to Pitoria, because none of the other lords would go. Thelonius had reassured Edyon, “Lord Darby is old and frail, but he’s experienced in war. I trust his judgment. He’ll advise us well.”
From his bath, Edyon could see out of the wide windows to the blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds. Even the sky was pretty.
Talin, his short, chubby personal servant, appeared hold-ing some towels. “It’s time, Your Highness.”
“Already?” Edyon felt a squirm of nerves in his stomach.
He stood, and while Talin patted his body dry with a large towel, Edyon dried the gold necklace that he wore round his neck. He never took it off, not even in his bath. The chain no longer held the gold ring that was the prince’s seal—the ring was lost somewhere in a river in Pitoria. But the necklace was all he had from his old life. The necklace re-minded him of his past and linked him to his future. It also reminded him of March, who had rescued the chain from the river. March, who should be drying him now. March, who should be dressing him. March should be massaging his shoulders and calming him with his witty conversation. March, his one friend.
But March had betrayed him. March had lied to him from the start.
And, anyway, who was Edyon kidding? “March was aw-ful at conversation.”
“I’m sorry, what was that, Your Highness?”
“Nothing, Talin. Nothing.”
But somehow March could always calm Edyon, had always helped him, had always . . . believed in him.
March wanted to kidnap you and sell you to the Brigantines. Stop thinking of that wretched boy!
“There’s a lot of oil in your hair still, sir,” Talin said. “I can rub it and wave it with my fingers. Your hair is at its most attractive when it’s waved.” And he set to work on Edyon’s hair, while Edyon allowed himself to be primped and clothed and positioned.
At the end of it, Edyon looked in the mirror and was surprised by what he saw. A handsome-ish young man with a soft face and a sad look in his eyes. His hair was waved and shiny. His clothes were beautiful—silk and soft suede.
There was a knock at the door.
“How exciting! They’re here for you,” Talin said. “But your boots are more important than them. They can wait a little.” He disappeared for a few moments before reappearing, carrying a new pair of black leather boots that had a gold trim at the top and round the ankle. They were beautiful too, of course.
Edyon sat and pulled them on as there was another knock on the door. Edyon’s stomach tightened. “You’d better let them in.”
Talin bowed his head and glided to the door. The chimes chinked, and the room seemed to be growing darker. Edyon glanced out of the window—the sky was filling with large, heavy clouds. A summer rainstorm would clear the air, but for the moment it was still hot.
Edyon checked his appearance in the large mirror again. His cream silk shirt was heavily embroidered in gold at the neck and cuffs. His tight jacket was black velvet and suede, with gold beads sewn onto it in a random, scattered design. His trousers were black suede and rather tight without looking absurd. The boots were shiny, soft, and comfortable. Edyon pulled out his gold necklace to hang at the front of his jacket. It was perfect—just the right amount of gold and just the right amount of black.
Talin said, “Prince Thelonius asks that you join him, Your Highness.”
Edyon swallowed and forced a smile. “Yes. Great. Thank you, Talin.”
His servant leaned closer and added quietly, “You look the part. Just believe in yourself, Your Highness. Your father will be proud of you.”
“Thank you, Talin.” Edyon pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin.
Think like a prince. Act like a prince. Walk like a prince.
He followed the guard of four men out of his quarters and along the wide, marble corridors to the Grand Hall. The dis-tant buzz of conversation grew as he approached. Through the large doorway ahead, Edyon could see his father, and by him, on a table, the crown Edyon would wear.
The crown was a symbol of position and power. The boy who’d not been allowed to study at university because of his birth would wear it. From now on, Edyon would be allowed anywhere.
The trumpets began to sound a fanfare. The guards moved forward and Edyon went with them into the Grand Hall. All eyes turned to him. Edyon’s heart was pounding so loud and hard it seemed to drum through his body in time with the trumpets.
For a moment Edyon thought he saw March at the far side of the room—that same profile and eyes of silver. Edyon strained to look again, but it was a trick of the light. The young lord he’d noticed was nothing like March.
The guard escorted Edyon all the way to Prince Thelo-nius. Edyon bowed to his father and took his place next to him, on his right side. They’d practiced all this the previous day, but then the hall had been empty and now i
t was full of strangers. Edyon looked out at the faces watching him and recognized only a few of them. He felt more alone than ever. He’d love his mother to be here, and March.
Stop thinking of March. Think of being with your father. Think of being a prince!
Thelonius addressed the room. “We’re here today to make right what should have happened years ago. My son, my firstborn, Edyon, stands with me now, and I couldn’t be prouder. His lineage has been confirmed. His position is clear. He is my only living son. He is my rightful heir. Today he will be crowned and will take the title Prince Edyon, Prince of Abask.”
A table was carried across to Thelonius and Edyon. Ink and quills were brought over on a cushion. The chancellor laid out the parchment, which Edyon had been shown the night before. It was beautifully written in swirling black ink with gold, silver, and red patterning. Edyon glanced through it again to the part where it said “son and heir to Prince Thelonius Melsor.” The prince signed it, and then Edyon signed it with his new name: Edyon Melsor. The chancellor poured out the wax, and Thelonius stamped it.
There was some polite clapping at this point and Edyon looked up. A number of young lords were watching intently, all smiling at him. All hoping for favors, all grateful that his claim to land hadn’t taken anything from them. His father had explained that he had to be careful to choose land to give to Edyon that took from no other lord, that offended no one. Abask, it seemed, would offend no one, except perhaps March, but March wasn’t here.
Stop thinking about that bloody boy!
The table had already been removed and replaced by a low, padded velvet stool. A servant approached, carrying a large cushion on which rested the finely wrought gold crown.
Edyon looked at the crowd. The smiling faces genuinely and falsely happy. All of them strangers.
Not all of them. There’s Byron. Byron, the handsomest of the young men in court, who had handled the smoke demon-stration so well, was far to the back.
Edyon knelt on the stool. His father took the gold crown and held it above Edyon’s head.
“I crown my son, Edyon Melsor, as Prince of Abask and the future prince and ruler and defender of Calidor.” And he lowered the crown onto Edyon’s head.
Edyon stood. The chancellor passed the symbolic sword and shield to Prince Thelonius, who in turn passed each one to Edyon.
Edyon had to hold the sword upright and the shield out while the trumpets blared. Edyon held his position firmly. The chancellor stepped forward and Edyon repeated the words the chancellor spoke, swearing his allegiance to truth, honor, and his father. And also swearing that he would guard the independence of Calidor with his life.
That done, Edyon just had to hold this position while each of the twenty-three lords were presented to him. Lord Regan’s name was called first. He strode forward quickly, bowed, turned, and moved away.
Lord Brook was next. He was the oldest of the lords and could barely walk. It seemed to take forever for him to arrive.
Good grief, hurry up, man!
Brook bowed and then slowly stepped back and walked away.
Twenty-one to go.
Edyon could feel the sweat building on his forehead. They hadn’t practiced this in full the night before, and already Edyon’s arm was aching and a small shake began that was only subdued by holding the sword even tighter.
This sword must be the heaviest in all Calidor.
Edyon lowered his sword arm for a brief, blissful rest, just as Lord Arnan was called, and almost immediately he had to raise the wavering sword again. His jacket was now feeling too tight and too warm. Sweat had broken out across his chest and he felt a drop roll down his forehead and into his eye. It stung horribly, and Edyon tried to blink it away. Then he realized it wasn’t just sweat but the oil from his bath. Even worse, the oil was making his crown slip down. And though Edyon was keeping his head as still as possible, the crown was a terrible shape and horribly heavy. Another dribble of oily sweat ran down the side of his face. And the crown seemed to slip even further.
By the sixth lord, the crown was down at Edyon’s eye-brows and the oil was running down his nose.
Edyon’s hands were full with the sword and shield, so all he could do was use willpower and his facial expression to halt the crown’s descent. He raised his eyebrows as high as possible, pausing the crown’s slide and diverting the oil’s track down the side of his face. Another few lords went by.
Where are we up to? Tenth? Twelfth?
Hurry up, you old fool.
By the time the twentieth lord, Lord Grantham, was presented, Edyon had his head tilted back, with his eyebrows at maximum strain.
By the time the twenty-third lord’s name—Lord Haydeen—was called, Edyon’s arm was shaking and his eyebrows were at the breaking point. Lord Haydeen moved forward smartly but then looked at Edyon and seemed surprised at Edyon’s expression. It took a moment for Edyon to realize that Lord Haydeen was imitating his own raised eyebrows. Was this an insult, a joke, or an effort to curry favor? Edyon didn’t know or care.
Just hurry up and bow for goodness’ sake!
Haydeen gave a stiff bow, holding his lowered position for an eternity as Edyon’s arm shook and his crown began to fall down over his eyes. He couldn’t hold his eyebrows up a moment longer. Haydeen stood and turned away just as Edyon dropped his arm and the crown slid down, bringing with it a pool of oil that ran into Edyon’s eyes. The stinging pain was nothing compared to the relief of lowering his eyebrows. Now Edyon had to get rid of the sword so that he could raise his crown.
He stood with his eyes closed and heard a muffled laugh before someone took the sword. At last! Edyon pushed the crown up off his face. But with the strain in his arm he pushed too hard, and, with the oil on the crown, it slid off his head and tumbled with a clatter to the ground.
There was a gasp and then silence.
But the silence didn’t last long, as it was filled with a low rumble of distant thunder.
MARCH
BRIGANT
MARCH LAY on the ground, staring up as stars filled the darkening sky. This was the position he was in most evenings—on his back, flat out and too exhausted to move. Around him the other members of the Bull Brigade were talking, and there was the occasional overly loud laugh from one boy or another. There was also a delicious smell of roast meat—some of the boys had successfully hunted down a boar. But it was quiet compared to what March had seen of army camps in Pitoria. There were no lords, no servants, no horses, no hangers-on—just boys, one hundred of them including Sam and March. It was small and contained but also violent and hard. There was huge pride in being a member of the Bull Brigade. March had no real memories of his Abask childhood, but this was how he imagined the Abask fighters to be. And March was surprised to find that he liked the brigade life. He wasn’t a servant or a lackey. He had to do the same work as everyone else and no one lorded it above him. He was called names, but no more than anyone else, and they were joking and admiring at heart.
Rashford, the leader, and Kellen, his second-in-command, were the ones who made the Bull Brigade the positive force it was. They were good fighters who led by example and gave the other boys encouragement and opportunities to shine. Rashford in particular was admired, if not actually worshiped, by some of the younger boys. He was broad-shouldered but wiry, without any fat on his body. Kellen was a little taller, with small dark eyes that seemed to be constantly surveying the group. They couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and yet they somehow seemed much older. March hadn’t enjoyed getting knocked unconscious by Rashford, but he respected why he’d done it. It was a rite of passage, a way of proving who belonged.
Most of the boys came from the west coast of Brigant, all from poor families or no families at all. The Bulls were their family now—and March could see why they liked it. They were brothers-in-arms.
Over the last few days, t
he Bulls had moved from place to place. The boys rarely used the smoke, as it was too precious. They knew the army leaders were working on securing more for them, but they didn’t know how long it would take. In the meantime, they were constantly practicing with swords, spears, and bows. The sword was the weapon that required the greatest skill and the one that most of the boys struggled with. Rashford was the best, though March wondered how even he would fare against someone like Sir Ambrose or King Tzsayn, nobles who’d trained with these weapons from childhood. March hated the sword, and today in practice he’d been beaten with that, and then twice more in boxing and wrestling. His nose, which had only just healed from Rashford’s blow, was bloodied and broken again, and he was fairly sure he had two black eyes to match.
Sam was a natural with most weapons. He was thriving as part of the Bulls, as if he’d truly found a home at last. Tonight he was, as usual, sitting with some of the younger boys. They formed a little unit. March sometimes sat with them, but mostly he formed his own unit of one, practicing with the one weapon he liked—the stones that he threw with increasing accuracy. Sometimes he imagined he was aiming at a particular face (the man who’d tortured him in Rossarb, Lord Regan, or the various people who’d insulted him over the years—but not Thelonius, as his face was too similar to Edyon’s).