The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

“But one of the first things you told me was that we must learn to balance the power of the lords—having them scorn me doesn’t seem the right way to go about it.”

  “They won’t scorn you when they get to know you a little better, and this tour will give the opportunity for just that.” Thelonius patted Edyon’s shoulder and then gripped it. “It’s also an opportunity for you to get to know your new country. I’m pleased beyond words that my son is riding with me.” He glanced at Edyon and added, “There is another purpose too. I’m sure you’re correct about the threat from Aloysius. We’ll inspect our defenses, the main ports, and the northern wall. The lords will see how serious we are about maintaining our strong borders and defenses.”

  Soon they arrived in the fortified harbor town of Gaross, the hometown of Lord Regan, which had the honor of being the first stop on the tour. It was only a short distance from Calia and renowned for being picturesque. The castle was impressive, set on numerous terraced levels looking out over the blue sea. The stonework was practical, forming a strong defense, but also attractive, as it was softened in appearance by plants and flowers. On each terrace there were ponds and fountains.

  Regan proudly showed a small group, including Edyon, around the main terrace. “It’s certainly very beautiful,” Edyon said.

  “My architect is a genius. We have excellent views along the coast. He has built beauty into functionality,” Regan replied. “We are a strong defense site, protecting the coast up to Calia and down to the South Stacks.”

  One of the other lords was looking back at the castle and commented, “Your famous architect hasn’t sorted out your ruin yet, Regan.”

  Edyon had noticed the crumbling stone walls covered with vines to one side of the castle but thought they looked quite attractive. “A ruin?”

  Regan smiled. “It’s a bit of a joke among some of the lords. The walls are not a ruin. I had begun extending the castle years ago, to add another meeting room, a gallery, a few bedchambers, and more servant quarters, but when the war intervened, building stopped. Then the stonemasons were needed to build the great wall at our borders, and I decided the extra rooms weren’t necessary—the workers and the money could be put to better use. One must make some sacrifices for one’s country.”

  Edyon looked at the extent of Regan’s home and thought that there weren’t too many sacrifices being made. But still, Edyon had to court the lords, and that included Lord Regan. A bit of flattery would do no harm, and on impulse Edyon said, “Well, I think it’s all wonderful. Perhaps your architect could design a home for me one day in Abask.”

  Regan smiled. “Of course. I’d like to see you tame that land. And I’m sure that would bring you much pleasure—bringing culture to the uncivilized Abask.”

  And somehow, from the way Regan looked at Edyon, he knew he was referring to March.

  I wasn’t trying to tame March or civilize him . . . He didn’t need me to. He didn’t need to change at all. He was perfect as he was. It’s you who needs taming. It’s you who’s barely civilized.

  Edyon had to get away from Regan. The man made his blood boil.

  March never had this wealth or position. He’d lost everything: home, family, friends. And now even Calidor has been forbidden to him. Yes, I know he tried to kill you, but . . . but . . . he lost everything . . . even me.

  Edyon stormed away, into the castle, escaping down a long corridor and snatching up a small vase from a cabinet that he passed. Holding it in his hands made him feel better. Calmer.

  This was the second time he’d taken something in the last few weeks—he’d stolen Regan’s gloves on that awful day when he’d seen March in Calia’s dungeons. Edyon was dismayed that the urge to steal had overwhelmed him again. But he didn’t put the vase back.

  Edyon went onto another terrace overlooking the sea. The view was framed by lemon trees and flowering plants that attracted birds that hovered around, darting in to taste the nectar. It was all beautiful and all Regan’s. He looked down at the vase in his hands. It was made of glass, blown so that it had bubbles within it, and the colors were the blue-green of the sea. It was beautiful. Edyon hated it. He threw the vase out over the terrace, and it disappeared onto the rocks below.

  That evening there was a banquet hosted by Regan in a magnificently decorated hall. The food was as beautiful and plentiful as it was delicious—and so was the wine, which Edyon sampled generously.

  The next morning Talin woke Edyon at dawn and dressed him. This day would be the same as the one before—a journey to the next castle and another assessment of the defenses there. However, today was different in that Edyon’s buttocks were sensitive from the previous day’s riding and his head was sensitive from the previous evening’s wine. He managed to mount his horse with some assistance, though he was horribly dizzy. He’d just got his reins untangled when a trumpet blared in his ear, and he almost slid out of his saddle in shock. Trumpets, Edyon had discovered, were a large part of royal life and one he’d happily get rid of.

  The sun was blinding, his jacket too hot, and his mouth was as dry as a baker’s oven. The trumpet blared behind Edyon again and he thought he couldn’t feel any worse. But then, just as the procession set off, his stomach began to revolt.

  Do not throw up. Puking is not princely.

  Edyon couldn’t turn his head or open his eyes more than slits. The only way to get through the morning would be to somehow ride and sleep at the same time, but the noise around him was unbearable.

  “May I ride with you, Your Highness?”

  It was Byron, the lord’s son who had taken part in the smoke demonstration.

  “If you get rid of that man with the blasted trumpet, then perhaps we could talk.”

  “It shall be done, Your Highness.”

  Byron had a word with the trumpeter and returned in relative quiet to ride beside Edyon. Byron was broad-shouldered, dark, and handsome; his beautiful long plait, which was woven with a silver thread, was hanging down his back. At the smoke demonstration Edyon had discovered he was also empathetic and brave, but, sitting on his black horse, Edyon could see that Byron’s thigh muscles were even more impressive.

  “How are you finding the tour so far, Your Highness?” Byron asked.

  “Better without the trumpet. I’ve got a stinking hangover, truth be told,” Edyon said. “And I can’t stand riding; I’d much rather walk. My buttocks feel like dough that’s been pummeled by a master baker.”

  Byron laughed. And it seemed he had a full set of perfect white teeth.

  “I’m afraid there will be much more riding before the tour is over,” Byron said. “Probably a hunt or two as well.”

  “I will not hunt anything. I might watch, from a distance, and cheer for the deer or the boar or whatever poor animal has to flee for its life.”

  Byron flashed a smile. “Then I shall join you and eat no meat, only turnips.”

  “No turnips. Ever. I have an aversion to them.” Edyon recounted his arrest in Pitoria just a couple of months earlier. “We’d fled across the Northern Plateau, fought demons and Brigantines, and then I was arrested and dragged in chains behind a horse very like this one by a sheriff’s man and had turnips thrown at me.”

  Byron laughed and frowned and squinted at Edyon. “I never know if you’re serious, Your Highness. Your speech last night amused us all, though most thought you were exaggerating your experiences.”

  “They did?” Edyon frowned. He vaguely remembered Regan boring on about pride in Calidor and the coastal defenses, though Edyon couldn’t remember much and could remember even less of his own speech—he had a feeling he’d spouted something about friends and neighbors, Calidor and Pitoria. He asked Byron, “Which parts in particular did they think I was making up?”

  “Well, I think sleeping with the body of a dead demon was the most surprising, but then you talked about other places you’ve slept—your vast exp
erience of prison cells. You compared the merits of each.”

  “Oh shits, did I?”

  “King Tzsayn’s was the most comfortable and Lord Farrow’s the most disgusting.”

  “Please, don’t say any more.” Edyon wondered if he’d mentioned March, but surely he hadn’t.

  “Perhaps I would be allowed to speak if we chose a different subject?” Byron asked.

  “Please. Take my mind off my awful hangover. Tell me about yourself, Byron.”

  So Byron spoke of his life as the third son of Lord Harris. A happy family living in some comfort, with sun and orchards, vines and river fishing. Byron’s stories did indeed help Edyon forget his headache and even his buttocks until they approached their next destination.

  * * *

  • • •

  That evening, as he entered the banqueting hall and saw another feast laid out, he muttered, “Shits, I’m going to have to do this every night?”

  Lord Regan was just behind him and replied, “Indeed, Your Highness. And I’m curious as to what subject you’ll educate us about this evening. Another treatise on prison life? Or another attempt to heap acclaim on your ‘friend’ who helped you face the trials of your journey?”

  Edyon winced. Byron hadn’t mentioned that, though perhaps only Regan noticed, as he knew who March was. He knew who March was, of course, because March had been part of a plot to kill him.

  Well, damn them both. Edyon poured himself a large goblet of wine. The hair of the dog will help, and I’ll make as many ridiculous speeches as I like.

  And that night he made another speech, this time passionately talking of the demons and their powerful smoke, how it can make boys strong and also heal. “The threat from Aloysius and his boy army is something we all must face one day,” he said.

  When he’d finished, their host, Lord Haydeen, thanked him with a smile. “The smoke certainly is powerful, as is this wine!”

  Edyon looked around the room and wondered if anyone had actually listened to him, if anyone believed anything about the demon smoke or the jails or anything at all.

  Edyon made his excuses about being tired after his jour-ney and left the hall to go to his bedchamber. As he got there, he saw a servant leaving the room next door with Regan’s boots. “What are you doing with those?” Edyon asked.

  “Taking them to be cleaned and polished, Your High-ness.”

  “Take mine too,” Edyon said, and he showed the servant to his room, where his riding boots were. All the time Edyon had that old feeling buzzing in his head, his arms, his fingers. “Shits,” he muttered to himself.

  He watched the servant leave. Regan’s room was a few steps down the corridor. He could be in it in a moment. No one would know.

  Edyon went to his bed, sat on it, and muttered to himself, “No. I mustn’t. I must resist. Stealing is bad. Even though it’s Lord ‘I’m curious as to what subject you’ll educate us about this evening’ Regan. He won’t even take the threat of the smoke and the boy army seriously! He’s got off lightly so far. He’s lost a pair of gloves and a shitty little vase. He could lose everything.” And, before he knew it, Edyon was out of his room and entering the one next door.

  Regan had been given a large room, with a seating area and the bed at the far side. Edyon wandered around, his fingers twitching.

  Regan’s clothes were laid over the stool and a very nicely embroidered nightshirt lay on the bed. “I somehow can’t imagine Regan in a nightshirt,” Edyon whispered to himself and held the shirt up. It was of fine fabric and very soft. “Who’d have thought it?” He threw the nightshirt to the floor, resisted the urge to stomp on it, and went to the stool. Regan’s riding trousers and jacket were there, as were his knives. Edyon drew one out, inspecting it—long and slender, it caught the candlelight brightly and looked to have the sharpest of blades. Had this knife fought against March?

  Edyon dropped the knife and it speared the floor. He picked it up and put it back in the sheath.

  There was a large, heavy chest of drawers, on which was a small mirror and two silver hairbrushes. The mirror was made for traveling, it seemed, as it folded apart to make a stand and then together again to be compact and to protect the mirror itself. The silver surround was finely engraved with the picture of a tree by a river.

  Edyon had to have it.

  “It’s too beautiful to belong to Regan.” With that, he slid it into his jacket’s inner pocket. He was opening the door to leave when he heard footsteps approaching. And a voice.

  Regan! Shits!

  Edyon shut the door quietly and ran back into the room. But now what?

  Under the bed? Out of the window?

  Too late. The door was opening and all Edyon could do was slide behind a large, solid wooden corner chair and crouch down, hoping the blankets that were draped over its back helped conceal him.

  Regan entered, followed by two others, and the door closed.

  Edyon curled up tightly and tried to breathe silently as Regan offered port to his guests, whom Edyon recognized from the smoke demonstration as Birtwistle and Hunt. Some-one sat heavily in the chair, pushing it farther back into the corner and trapping Edyon completely.

  “I’ll be brief.” Regan’s voice was curiously quiet, not his usual manner at all. “I’ve been thinking about your proposal, as I said I would. And, as I said before, this is not easy for me.”

  “We understand that, Regan. It’s not easy for any of us.”

  “I admit that I haven’t been happy for some time. Thelonius is . . . changed.”

  “Weaker,” Hunt added.

  “The death of his wife and children strained him,” Regan said. “It’s understandable.”

  “Understandable, but that doesn’t mean it’s acceptable. He has to be fit to rule. And putting that illegitimate fool in line for the throne is not acceptable.”

  “Nor is forcing you to perjure yourself, Regan.” That was Birtwistle’s voice.

  “That’s what hurts me the most,” Regan said in a pained voice. “Thelonius, my oldest, closest friend, asks me to lie under oath for him. He says it’s for Calidor, but at heart it’s for him.”

  “And for that fool of a boy.”

  “And you nearly got killed trying to bring the boy back.”

  “We all agree,” Hunt said. “We’d give our lives for Calidor. We’ve already given much: lost family and friends in the last war, paid huge taxes to build the wall and the sea defenses. None of us wants to lose more. And this alliance with Pitoria will be just the start of it. Mark my words.”

  “He’s sent boats. After promising to send nothing,” Regan said. “Contrived to do it with the help of the bastard boy, who seems to know about borrowing money better than anyone his age ought to.”

  “If Thelonius can’t be trusted to keep a promise such as that, a promise about the defense of our country, then what else will he renege on?” Hunt asked. “And what will the future hold for Calidor if a boy who’s born and raised in Pitoria, who’s half-Pitorian, takes the throne?”

  No one dared answer.

  “So, Regan?” Hunt asked. “What do you say? We need you. We’ve taken a bloody risk talking to you, but you know we’re loyal to Calidor in our bones.”

  “Yes, I know. And it gives me no pleasure to agree with you. I’m reluctant but I’m willing to accept your proposal.”

  Thanks and congratulations were given in muted tones, and then Hunt said in an even quieter voice, “So we agree on what. The next is how.”

  Regan said, “It’s difficult. Thelonius will still have many supporters.”

  “We’ve been thinking along the same lines,” Hunt said. “Force can be opposed; indeed it almost invites opposition, but an accident . . . Well, that leaves the future open to whoever is best able to take the country forward.”

  “An accident that removes Thelonius and his
ridiculous offspring in one simple and quick—and obviously tragic—manner.”

  What?!

  “No one will oppose it; no one can oppose it. The fates have stepped in . . .”

  “And put power into different hands.”

  “It’s for everyone’s benefit.”

  Except mine and my father’s. They really are plotting against us!

  “With Thelonius gone and no heirs, Calidor’s future lies with the lords. The chancellor will go along with anything as long as it keeps the money rolling in. And the money will keep rolling in.”

  “The people love Thelonius, though.”

  “They’ll forget him soon enough. The history books can be rewritten.”

  “But he saved Calidor.”

  “The lords saved Calidor. That is the history that should be told. We sacrificed our children and many gave their lives.”

  “So . . . the big question remains . . . How?”

  “We go to your castle as the final stop of our tour, Birtwistle,” Hunt said. “Isn’t it a little old, and isn’t the masonry a little weak in places? A balcony could collapse at any moment with the weight of people on it. A tragic accident for the perpetually unlucky Prince Edyon.”

  “And his father.”

  “The country will mourn briefly and then the lords will rule with you, Regan, as our leader.”

  MARCH

  BRIGANT

  RASHFORD, SAM, and March set off at dawn.

  “How far is it?” March asked.

  “We’ve only just left, and you’re already on with the questions?” Rashford joked.

  “Is there a law against asking questions in Brigant?”

  “Probably,” Rashford muttered.

  And March did have lots of questions, like: how did Rashford know where to go, and was Prince Harold really their commanding officer, and would he really be there?

  “Well, there can’t be a law against talking, and I’ve heard plenty of it in the camp over the last week,” Sam said. “Some talk is that Prince Harold is our commanding officer and heir to the throne of Brigant because Prince Boris was killed in battle against the Pitorians.”