by Sally Green
The prince was still staring at the man’s body. “It’s perfect. Quite beautiful. Imagine my uncle’s body being displayed like that—the cart being driven from town to town in Calidor. Carts for all his lords too, and that bastard son he’s claimed. It’ll be quite a parade.”
March shuddered. He’d not thought much of his original plan to help Edyon in the last few weeks, but this reminded him of his true aim. The Brigantines were not his friends. The idea of Edyon being treated like this was horrific. As much as March liked Rashford and being a member of the Bulls, they were part of the Brigantine army, and so too, it seemed, were horrors like this device. March would stay with the Bulls and help Edyon in any way if an opportunity arose to do so. But he couldn’t wait to get away from Harold.
The prince then raised his sword and shouted, “The Bull recruits have won! They worked fast and together. As a special honor they will be the first in my elite Gold Brigade. They will stay with me.”
TASH
DEMON TUNNELS
THE SPACE around Tash was bigger. Not much, but bigger. It was also lighter, as a faint red glow filled the air. Tash felt the warmth from the light and felt the light inside her too. She couldn’t make sense of it, but she was sure now that some of the red smoke from the dying demon had remained inside her, and it was allowing her to make a tunnel.
She’d started off on her back, gently rubbing the stone in front of her face. Slowly the space above her became bigger. Eventually she’d made enough room to sit up. Now the space was wide enough to stretch her arms out.
And it feels so, so, so good to stretch.
She took a break to roll her neck and her shoulders, then flex her legs and feet, but she had to get back to work. She leaned forward and breathed on the rock as she rubbed her hands over the surface. She was concentrating on the rock, thinking about making a tunnel, and slowly the rock dissipated and she edged forward. It was slow and difficult, her arms were aching, and the skin on her fingers was raw, but she was doing it.
At this rate, perhaps I’ll have tunneled out of here by the time I’m a hundred.
As she worked, Tash thought of her old freedoms that she’d taken for granted—running through the snow in sun-light, looking up at a starry sky, leaping over frozen streams.
The more she thought of good things, the faster she shuffled forward.
She tried to think of the human world, how beautiful it was, and how wonderful it would be to be back there, but as she got more tired, she could only think of the depth of rock between her and the world above, and how painful the raw skin on her fingers was.
It was too much to do, too far to go.
It’s impossible.
Her arms dropped to her sides, and Tash leaned her forehead against the stone and cried.
She wished Gravell was with her. She’d fall asleep in his arms and never wake up. Tears ran down her face as she imagined him holding her against his chest, his heart beating loud and steady as he put his arms round her. She imagined being on the Northern Plateau with him beneath a pale blue sky.
And then she was falling forward. The tunnel wall seemed to be receding without the use of her hands. But how?
Doesn’t matter how. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Think of Gravell.
She pictured Gravell standing in front of her, holding his spears.
Nothing happened.
She thought of Gravell in the snow, walking through trees.
The stone seemed to recede again.
That’s it! Think of the human world. Oh, I’ve got it. Think of where you want to go.
The stone dissipated, laying out a path for her to follow. She was doing it. Making a tunnel—a tunnel filled with a faint red glow. She raised her arms and the floor began to slope upward.
And Tash began to laugh as she walked up toward the world she knew.
CATHERINE
NORTHERN PITORIA
Ultimately you must choose: right or wrong, any choice is better than none.
The King, Nicolas Montell
CATHERINE TIPTOED into the king’s bedchamber.
“Is he sleeping?” she whispered to the doctor sitting at his bedside.
The doctor nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve slept enough.” Tzsayn’s voice was rough but weak. “And I’m bored out of my mind.” He tried to sit up while the doctor hurried to help. “I can do it myself,” Tzsayn muttered, though he clearly couldn’t. “Leave me alone.”
Catherine took a step back.
“No, not you, my darling.” Tzsayn gave her the briefest of weak smiles that turned into a grimace as the doctor pulled him upright. Finally the pillows were arranged to the king’s and the doctor’s satisfaction, and the doctor took his leave. Tzsayn put his head back and closed his eyes. His face was damp with sweat.
“Shall I sit here?” Catherine asked, stroking the bed beside Tzsayn.
“The chair is best. I wish you could be closer but . . . my leg is giving me a lot of pain. I’m starting to think I’d be better off without it.”
Catherine cast her eyes over the outline of the frame that had been put over Tzsayn’s leg, holding up the covers so nothing could touch the injured limb. She wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not.
“What does Savage say?”
Tzsayn mimicked the doctor’s deep, slow voice: “I will not let your leg defeat me, Your Majesty. If you would allow me to apply several lotions, an ice compress, a hot compress, a heavy compress, an herb compress.” He looked at Catherine. “He’s given me every kind of bloody compress going, and my leg’s just getting worse.”
“Should we get a different doctor?”
“He’s the best. I’m just tired.”
“Do you want to be left alone?”
“No!” Tzsayn seemed surprised by the strength of his own reply and repeated it more quietly. “No. Absolutely not. I’ve had enough of my own company. Just don’t come near me with a compress.”
Catherine held her hands out. “I’m unarmed, no compresses about my person.”
“And so you must stay. I command it!” Tzsayn said with a smile, then he added, “Is this visit about the marriage question?”
“You said you needed an answer soon, but it’s only been four days.”
Tzsayn looked a little sad. “Indeed. Don’t rush. Take longer.”
Catherine frowned. “Why do you say that? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Cheer me up. Tell me news.”
“That I can do.”
“Good news first, then the bad. I’m assuming there is some good news, of course—or is that presumptuous?” He looked sharply at her as he said this, as if to judge her expression rather than the words of her reply.
“Good news . . . well . . .” Though Catherine struggled to think of anything. “I’ve given Tanya a pay raise.”
“Good for Tanya.”
“And she’s spending her money on—well, I’ll give you three guesses.”
“Hmm, it won’t be ribbons or shoes—not Tanya things at all. How much of a raise did you give her?”
“More than I intended.”
“How so?”
“Somehow I was persuaded that, since she has the same title, she should be paid the same as General Davyon. I’m still not sure how that happened.”
“I’m beginning to think Tanya should be my chief negotiator.”
“She wouldn’t be a bad choice.”
“You are still my first choice—you evaded answering my question very neatly by pretending Tanya outsmarted you, which I’m absolutely sure she did not. Anyway, as you won’t answer my question, I guess she spent her money on . . . a horse.”
Catherine laughed. “She does like riding, but no.”
“Armor, like yours. She’d be terrifying.”
/> “I will ensure I never suggest it.”
“Am I even warm with that guess?”
“Freezing cold.”
Tzsayn frowned and shrugged. “Books.”
“Now you’re being absurd.”
“I give up.”
“Three words I’d never thought you’d say.”
“So put me out of my misery. What did she spend it on?”
“She gave it to the farm widows. Women who’ve lost their land, as well as husbands, to the war. Their children are destitute.”
“She puts us to shame with her generosity. But Lord Eddiscon should be caring for his people, not Tanya.”
“I’ve raised it with Eddiscon but there are always excuses—the lack of money he’s getting in taxes; the amount of money he’s paid to the crown. I have a certain sympathy, actually. I’m trying to raise money to pay for soldiers, food, horses, weapons, ships, repairs, tents . . . the list goes on. I don’t have enough for that, never mind helping those who are left behind in the wake of the war. I’m emptying your coffers faster than a Pitorian greyhound. We’ll soon have to borrow more.”
“I thought we were doing good news first.”
Catherine smiled. “My apologies. You’re correct. Let me think . . .” But she was at a loss.
“You’re a true Brigantine at heart still. There is no good news in your eyes.”
“We’re at war. There’s disease, there’s—”
“What about the sunshine? It’s sunny today—is that not good news?”
Catherine sighed dramatically. “Yes, but we Brigantines know only too well that sunshine brings flies, and with the sun comes heat, which means the meat and milk go off faster.”
“You sound more like a farmer than a queen.”
“I sound like a woman who hears farmers’ complaints all day.”
“Fine. So the sunshine is a problem. How about the war? Has your father sent his army against us?”
“No. He’s still holding back, building up his stockpile of smoke, no doubt.”
“It’s a grim situation indeed—sunshine and peace.”
Catherine snickered.
“And you laugh at this dire situation!” Tzsayn scolded her.
“My apologies again, Your Majesty.”
“So give me the really bad news then.” His face was serious now. “The red fever?”
“There have been no new deaths from it for three days now, and most are recovered, but some are still weak.”
“Is that almost good news or is there a punch line?”
“It’s almost good news. Just not all good yet.”
“Is Sir Ambrose ready to go?”
“The day after tomorrow. I was going to ask you about that. It would be useful if he attended the war briefing tomorrow, so that he understands the overall situation.” Catherine hesitated, then plunged on. “And I’d like to wish him well. He’s my oldest friend. He’s helped me and protected me for years. This mission is incredibly dangerous. There is a good chance he may not come back. I confess I’ve met him once . . . by chance. But I shouldn’t have to confess it. I need to set my own standard of behavior.”
“You think I’m a dictator? That I’ve gone too far in my concern about appearances?”
“No to the first question. And perhaps a little to the second.”
Tzsayn nodded. “You should see him. Give him my thanks for all he’s done.” But he couldn’t seem to resist adding, “But meet him in a public place. With Tanya, Davyon, and half the army . . . no, the whole army, present.”
Catherine smiled. “It’ll be Tanya, Davyon, and the generals at the war meeting—actually not that far off your request.”
“Good. Any more news? How are our friends the Calidorians?”
“Lord Darby and his aide are actually more experienced than I initially expected. They fought Aloysius in the last war and their insights are useful, but dealing with them is even harder than negotiating with the farmers. However, they have agreed to sell us some ships, though we’re having to pay for them at vastly inflated prices. I’m going to take delivery of them next week and sign Pitoria up for years of loan repayments.”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem,” Tzsayn said. “At least we’ll have the ships today. You’ve done well with the Calidorians. Thelonius has always had a problem trusting others. That comes from having a brother like Aloysius, I suppose.” Tzsayn held his hand out to her. His skin was hot and his fingers felt thin, but his tone was as comforting as ever. “You astound me, Catherine. To come from that family—to have Aloysius as a father, Boris as a brother—and to be so loving and caring. Not to have been corrupted by that shows how strong you are.”
“You’re too generous. I was lucky in one respect: being female, my father took no interest in me. I rarely saw him, was rarely in the company of Boris or any man. At the time I felt imprisoned, but now I’m glad I led a sheltered life. I was protected from the worst of my father’s ways. I fear for my younger brother, Harold.” She hesitated before adding, “He was on the battlefield after Boris died, and sent a message to me.”
“Really? I didn’t hear of this.”
“I didn’t want to bother you with it. He maimed a Pitorian—after the battle and for no reason other than his own evil pleasure—and left a message that I should flee before he leads the army against us.” Catherine recalled Harold before she’d left Brigant—standing on the quay, watching her ship leave, a small boy in the shadow of his older brother. “I try to imagine him now. But we spent so little time together. He was always trying to copy Boris or my father. He’s just turned fourteen. From what the soldiers say, he had the strength of a grown man, so I’m sure he must have taken some purple demon smoke. But I’m more concerned that he’s changed in his heart as much as in his body. He was a little boy just a few months ago, but I know my father will be training him—perverting the way he thinks.”
Tzsayn gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “At least you’re safe from your father now.”
“As are you.” Catherine leaned forward and kissed his hand.
“You have no idea how I hate him. A man like that doesn’t deserve to rule; he doesn’t deserve a family.”
She nodded, thinking of her mother, who had lost Boris and Catherine and probably no longer saw Harold.
“I’m sorry I’m not more help.” Tzsayn’s eyes began to close.
“You are a help. But you’re tired. Shall I leave you now? Do you want to sleep?”
“Stay for a while longer. Hold my hand. Tell me something good.”
And that’s when Catherine realized how much Tzsayn needed her to take his mind off what he’d been through at the hands of her father’s torturers. So she described the tree that grew outside her window in Brigane, how the breeze ruffled the leaves so they shimmered and the sun would change its leaves from pale to lime green, which reminded her of something else, and she described tasting a lime for the first time and how delighted she was with the flavor, and after that she talked about her favorite fruit—raspberries—and the berries she used to eat in Brigant. And by the time she’d described them all, Tzsayn was sleeping, his head turned to the side so she could see his old burn scars.
Catherine kissed his hand once more, laid it back down on the bed, and tiptoed out of the room.
AMBROSE
NORTHERN PITORIA
AMBROSE MARCHED across the camp, doing his best to walk without a limp. It was the day before he was due to leave for the Northern Plateau, and he’d finally been invited to the war council. But he took no pleasure in the summons. It undoubtedly meant Tzsayn would be there. The invitation must have come from him. There was no way Ambrose would be allowed near Catherine outside the king’s presence, not after being caught with her by Tanya.
The previous day he had tried the sympathy card on Catherine’s maid, but received shor
t shrift. “I might never see her again, Tanya. The mission is absurdly dangerous.”
“And you put Catherine in danger when you see her. She . . . she changes with you, Ambrose. She forgets herself.”
He had liked hearing that, though he preferred to think that it was her work and role that Catherine forgot. That with him, she was her truer self.
“You’re not good for her,” Tanya continued. “Her posi-tion is precarious. It would be best if you didn’t ‘accidentally’ meet her again.”
“Catherine came into that tent looking for you, I believe. I just happened to be there reminding myself of the army’s positions. If I was invited to the war council, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”
“Davyon briefs you personally. You’ve no need to go.”
And that was the end of it.
Until this morning, when Davyon had sent a message—Ambrose was invited to the council where, no doubt, Tzsayn would be pontificating and posing in one of his absurd blue outfits while Catherine was pushed into the background to deal with the bills like a good little housewife.
Ambrose strode past the guards and into the tent, his leg only bothering him slightly. Davyon greeted him with a for-mal bow and introduced Ambrose to General Hanov and General Ffyn.
“So, we’re just waiting for Tzsayn, are we?” Ambrose said.
Davyon opened his mouth to comment but then turned away.
Hanov replied, “No. Queen Catherine attends for him.”
“For herself, I’d say,” Ffyn muttered.
“Well, if Tzsayn won’t come, she has to, I suppose,” Am-brose countered, a little surprised. Would she be here? Why didn’t Tzsayn come? “Perhaps the king is too busy with his latest fashion, designing some new silk trousers.”
Davyon turned back, his body rigid with anger. “They’re going to amputate his leg, if you must know.”
What?
The general’s eyes seemed full of pain and anger. Ambrose started to apologize, but Davyon’s gaze had already moved past him, to the entrance of the tent. Ambrose turned and saw Catherine in the doorway, her face ashen.