by Sally Green
“Tell me, how did you make your choice, Regan?” Edyon asked. Regan’s wife had died young, Edyon had learned. She had been from a rich family—richer than Regan’s.
“Purely from my heart,” Regan said. “We had a short but happy time together.” And he put on a pained expression of grief, adding, “I wish all could be so happy as I was.”
“She sounds quite special. I wish I could have met her.”
“Indeed. Excuse me, Your Highness.” And Regan, overcome by his memories, bowed and left.
Edyon watched him go. “She must have been a remarkable woman, to have been able to make Regan happy.”
“She was remarkably rich, they say,” Byron replied.
“I sometimes wonder about Lord Regan. He’s given a lot of thought to the wealth of Abask.”
“He gives a lot of thought to his own wealth.”
“Do you trust him?”
Byron frowned. “I . . . in what way?”
“Is he loyal?”
“Yes. Undoubtedly, Your Highness. He’d die for Calidor.”
Edyon replied, “All the lords are loyal to Calidor. They know their future is tied to this country and their lands. They’d rather die than lose their land. So they fight to the death. It’s self-interest.”
Byron shook his head. “I think you do many of the lords a disservice, including my father. He loves his land, but also the people on it.”
“I’m sorry, Byron. I spoke rashly. Please forgive me. I meant no insult to you or your family.”
But Edyon looked around. This place didn’t feel like his land—he wouldn’t want to die for it. It felt like a lie. “I don’t know if I belong here. I could build a castle and a village, but the people who moved here wouldn’t be Abask people. I’m not Abask.”
“You’re the Prince of Abask, Edyon. It is your land. You can do with it what you want. Make it what you want.”
Edyon forced a smile. “You’re a good person, Byron. Sometimes I don’t know what to believe. I’m not sure what is the truth and what is a lie. But perhaps one day I’ll build a home here—a place to retreat from the world.”
“Whatever you choose, make it your truth, Edyon.” And Byron reached across and lifted Edyon’s hand and kissed it.
To Edyon’s surprise, tears filled his eyes. He felt that someone truly cared for him. And immediately his thoughts turned to March. What he’d have given for March to say that to him, to have March kiss his hand again.
CATHERINE
NORTHERN PITORIA
If the ship leaks, everyone gets wet.
Pitorian saying
CATHERINE RELEASED Tzsayn’s hand as dawn broke. She had spent the whole night with him, talking, kiss-ing, sharing their hopes and plans, but now she had to leave.
She whispered to him, “Be strong. Once this is over, we’ll be together.” Then she kissed him on the cheek, then on the lips.
Tzsayn caressed her neck. “I’m feeling stronger already, thanks to you. Savage knows what he’s doing. I’ll be glad to be rid of this darned leg if it means we can start our future life together.”
Catherine kissed him again. “I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Think of me some of the time, but also think about your own safety. Do as Ffyn says. He’s there to take possession of these ships but also to protect you.”
“Once I’ve signed a loan agreement so huge all the finan-ciers in Calidor will be cheering, and I’m totally safe, then I’ll think only of you. Is that acceptable?”
He smiled. “That is definitely acceptable.”
“I have to go. One more kiss, then I’m leaving.” But it was at least ten more before she managed to tear herself away.
Catherine left the camp on horseback with General Ffyn and a hundred soldiers, her white-hairs as well as Tzsayn’s blues. The men were immaculate, their armor and horses gleaming. Catherine’s own armor glinted in the sun and, with her white dress below it, she looked, according to Tanya, “like someone from another world, someone invincible.”
As they passed through villages along the way, people ran out to watch and cheer, and Catherine and the men waved back. It was all part of the performance of being a queen. So much of life seemed to be a performance that it was some-times hard to know where that ended and the real Catherine began. Here she was, dressed in armor and looking invincible, but inside she had never felt so afraid. Afraid for Tzsayn, the pain he was in and the pain yet to come. And yet very few people even knew he was ill.
“The people are delighted to see you, Your Majesty,” Ffyn said.
Catherine blinked her tears away and turned her thoughts from Tzsayn as she’d promised to do. “Yes. Incredible, isn’t it? The war front is only a day’s ride north and yet these people carry on with their lives.”
“They have no choice,” replied Ffyn. “Their farms and livelihoods are here. But seeing you gives them hope, Your Majesty.”
Catherine smiled tightly. “I want to give them more than hope. These ships had better be the answer we’re looking for.”
They joined the coast road and made their way south. This was the route Catherine had ridden with Ambrose weeks ago as they’d fled Tornia. How much had changed since then—King Arell had died, Aloysius had invaded the Northern Plateau, and so much more. And Catherine had changed too. She was older and wiser, and—she smiled to think of it—her heart was finally fixed on Tzsayn. And although she wasn’t supposed to think of him, she allowed herself a few happy memories of his smile.
* * *
• • •
It was noon the following day when they arrived at the coastal town of Crossea. The harbor was bustling with sailors, laborers, and tradesmen. A small delegation ran to meet Catherine’s group and guided them to the quay, where Lord Darby and his assistant were waiting. Catherine looked around as she approached, wondering where the ships were. There were many small boats in the harbor and two larger vessels, but no sign of fifteen Calidorian ships. Her heart sank. Had the ships been delayed or sunk by the Brigantines? Had her journey been wasted? Could she have stayed with Tzsayn after all?
But Lord Darby greeted Catherine with a smile. “Good day, Your Majesty. I’m delighted to report that the crossing went well. Your ships are ready, as are their crews, to train your soldiers and sailors.”
He stepped to the side and gestured grandly toward the dozen or so tiny vessels moored in the harbor. “It is a historic moment of cooperation.”
What? That can’t be them!
Catherine felt sick. No, she felt furious. Tears of rage and frustration filled her eyes. The things tied up to the dock were not ships. They were no more than fifteen paces long—they were barely boats. She stared and stared, as if by looking hard enough she might find a real ship hidden among them. It was a historic moment all right—a historic moment of foolishness on her part for ever trusting these Calidorians. She had no words.
General Ffyn, however, did. “Is this some sort of joke?”
Darby looked confused. “Joke? I’m not here to joke.”
General Ffyn stepped closer to the quay, his voice now dangerously level. “You promised us ships. These are . . . well, I don’t know what they are. But they are not ships.”
Darby smirked. “You have the same reaction as many who know little of the sea.”
“I have the same reaction as someone who has been duped!” Catherine exclaimed, finally finding her voice.
“Duped!” Darby’s eyes boggled in outrage. “We’re not here to trick you. We’re working together.”
“Ha! Not once have you offered unconditional support,” Catherine said, her voice rising. “Not once have you offered anything but words, not once have you offered anything real or free. You only agreed to giving us ships after we agreed to buy them, priced over the odds and at high interest rates. Everything has to be pulled from you like r
otting teeth, and these boats are the most rotten trick I’ve ever come across.”
“Those are strong words, Your Majesty,” Darby snapped.
“They match my feelings. This is an outrage. We’re at war. We need your help and you send us these . . . toys!”
Ffyn advanced on Darby. “Are you working with Aloysius? Planning on letting us fail—helping us fail? Because that’s what it looks like. I should have you thrown in the local dungeon and left to rot.”
Darby stepped forward to meet him, his bent back straightening. “You will do no such thing. Our ships can beat the Brigantine ships. Your problem is that your men can’t beat the Brigantine men.”
“Sedition! Sedition in front of Her Majesty. I can have you arrested for that!” Ffyn shouted.
Albert, Darby’s aide, stepped forward. “Please, Your Majesty, let us explain. These ships are called scullers. Yes, they are small. But they’re a special design that our navy has perfected over years. They’re lightning-fast, stable in all weathers, and incredibly maneuverable.”
“You forgot to mention that they are extremely expensive as well,” Catherine retorted.
Lord Darby cleared his throat. “You asked for vessels that will allow you to take control of the Pitorian Sea. And the scullers will allow you to do that,” Darby said. “That is what you’re paying for.”
“Let us at least prove to you what they can do,” said Albert. “I think you’ll be impressed when you see them in action.”
Catherine doubted it, but she had no other option, other than returning to the camp empty-handed. If the scullers were a disaster, then she’d wasted a lot of time, but at least she wouldn’t have to pay for them. But then how would they protect the Pitorian coast?
“This afternoon. And it’d better be very impressive.”
* * *
• • •
Later that day, Catherine rode with Ffyn and her men to a nearby headland, from which they could see a wide bay called Hell’s Mouth.
Lord Darby was already there, and, in frosty tones, he explained what was going to happen. “This bay is a good test for the scullers. The currents are strong, waves high, and winds variable. Most small boats would struggle, but you’ll see how they ride over the waves smoothly. Also, the beach is narrow and sandy, very like the beach west of Rossarb, so a landing there can be simulated here.”
Catherine wrinkled her brow. “Landing?”
“Scullers have multiple uses, Your Majesty. They can allow you to take back control of the Pitorian Sea, or at least prevent the Brigantines from dominating it. Their second use is as landing vessels to carry large numbers of soldiers short distances—across the Bay of Rossarb to land on the north shore, for example . . . That was your plan, wasn’t it?”
“It is our plan, Lord Darby,” Catherine replied cautiously, though she had rowboats that could do that job. And surely these boats couldn’t do both tasks? She looked at the bay, where the small ships were sailing up and down round one large ship. She had to admit they were swift and agile. “But what is happening at the moment?”
“There are to be two demonstrations, Your Majesty,” Darby said. “You need large ships that can patrol the Pitorian Sea, but you have no time, or indeed money, to build them. So my suggestion is that you take them.”
“Take them . . .” Catherine began to smile. “Take them from the Brigantines?”
“Indeed. Not easy, of course. But the scullers can do that for you. As long as your men can do the fighting.”
“Show me.”
Darby nodded to Albert, who waved a huge red flag. Darby pointed out to sea.
“You see the ship now sailing away? It’s called the Emerald. A large vessel, much like those used by the Brigantines. You might think it’s in no danger from such small vessels as the scullers. But now watch them speed past the Emerald and turn quickly.”
And they did turn quickly.
Then they converged on the Emerald.
“Because they are so maneuverable, they can coordinate their attack so they all reach the target at the same time.”
As he spoke, four scullers ran alongside the Emerald, the men on board throwing grappling hooks.
“The Emerald sits much higher in the water, so the men must be agile to board her quickly. This is the moment of danger. But with four boats attacking at the same time, the chances of failure are much reduced. One boat alone would easily be repelled, but four will overpower them.”
And already the men were climbing the ropes and swarming onto the deck of the Emerald.
“The scullers can carry fifty men and still operate at that speed. They are the best vessels for your tasks. They are not built for comfort—there are no sleeping quarters except for the deck—but they are the perfect attack boat.”
Catherine was smiling. “I like them.”
“With fifteen scullers and the element of surprise, you can defeat the Brigantines and build your own fleet in days.”
“And my father will hate it even more because it turns his own ships against him. I like your plan very much, Darby.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” replied Darby, thawing somewhat. “And now for the second part of the demonstration.”
Albert waved a yellow flag. The men who had boarded the Emerald quickly returned to the scullers as Lord Darby began his commentary again.
“As you see, the scullers are now sailing at speed directly to shore. There are fifty men on board each boat. Again, they coordinate their arrival for maximum protection of their own forces and maximum impact on the opposition.”
“It’s the impact on the shore I’m concerned about,” said Catherine. “Won’t they break up when they hit the beach? They’re going very fast.”
“Please keep watching, Your Majesty, and you’ll see . . .”
Racing to the shore, the boats rode smoothly up the beach, coming to a gentle stop as the men leaped out and into the shallows.
“The shallow draft and a liftable keel mean the scullers ride the surf and glide up the beach. Disembarking soldiers hardly get their knees wet.”
“Do they have no faults at all?” Catherine asked.
“Like all ships, they need wind. If there is no wind, they rely on oars, and if that happens near a Brigantine ship, your men will have to row fast in the opposite direction. But in all other circumstances the scullers are the better vessel.”
Catherine could see how quickly the men had landed and were running ashore, weapons in hand.
“What do you think, Ffyn?” she asked.
“They do seem better than I first thought.”
“Yes.” Catherine nodded. “I think so too. I want the scullers working immediately. I want to capture some Brigantine ships.”
Catherine felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach that she was surprised to recognize as hope. With these ships it was possible to turn the tide of the war, to beat her father at sea and then cut off his forces on land. And if Ambrose could cut off the supply of smoke to the boy army, they could beat Aloysius once and for all.
Catherine wished she could tell Tzsayn the good news. The sun was setting now, and Catherine allowed herself to think of Tzsayn. Had the operation been a success? She didn’t want to think of the pain he must be suffering, or—worse—that he might not have survived. For the moment, all she could do was assume the best. She looked at the sea, the unlikely beauty of the place called Hell’s Mouth, and hoped one day she could share it with Tzsayn in a time of peace. But she’d be leaving here at the first sign of dawn to ride back to the man she loved.
AMBROSE
NORTHERN PITORIA
THE DEMON Troop were ready to go. They’d trained intensively for a week in narrow, steep-walled ditches to simulate the demon tunnels, practicing close-quarters combat. Ambrose stood above their small training ground, watching his men go through one final
drill. They looked good, but still, a wave of doubt and depression was looming over Ambrose’s thoughts. It was the same feeling he’d had after the battle of Hawks Field, that feeling of hopelessness, of being alone and detached from the people around him.
He’d lost his sister, Anne, and had to stand by while his family denounced her, then he’d had to denounce her too before watching her execution. Then Ambrose had been accused of being a traitor and fled his homeland. Tarquin, the most honorable of men, Ambrose’s brother and closest friend, had been tortured and killed. Ambrose had no idea what had become of his father but suspected that he too was dead. Am-brose had lost all his family and his home, but throughout it all Catherine had been his shining light, the person that had kept him hopeful. He’d clung to Catherine as they’d escaped Tornia, and clung to her even more as they’d crossed the Northern Plateau after leaving Rossarb. She had been his rock when all else was lost. And now he couldn’t hold her anymore. He wasn’t sure what else he had to anchor him.
“May I join you?” Davyon came to stand beside him, his voice formal and his face expressionless as usual. They hadn’t spoken since the war council two days earlier.
“Of course, General Davyon.” Was Davyon here to see him or the men? Ambrose almost didn’t care. “How is the king?” he asked.
“The doctors are operating now. I couldn’t bear to be there. But Tzsayn is the strongest person I know. He’ll get through it.”
Ambrose nodded. “I sincerely hope so.” And that was true: he didn’t want Tzsayn to die; just didn’t want him around, and didn’t want him with Catherine. “I can only apologize again for my shameful remarks the other morning.”
“I accept your apology, Sir Ambrose. I think we were both at less than our best.”
Yes, Ambrose had been at less than his best. He’d been jealous and impulsive. Would things be different if he’d kept quiet? Ambrose felt wholly adrift. Tzsayn had Catherine. Ambrose had nothing. Nothing except a bunch of men with crimson hair and an almost impossible task ahead of them.