by Sally Green
Davyon nodded down at the men in the ditches. “They’re looking good. You’ve done well with them in a short time.”
The Demon Troop had already all been excellent fighters, but now they could communicate with hand signals and move silently at high speed. “I know it’s taken longer than you’d have liked, but it was necessary to give us the best chance of success.” Ambrose had agonized over this. A week of training was another week of smoke production, but Ambrose and Davyon both knew that the mission would be their only chance to cut off the supply. They needed to balance preparation with speed.
“Though really . . .” Ambrose shook his head, unable to stop himself from saying, “the whole mission is absurd—the Brigantine army is formidable, the demons are wild, and I’ve got fifty men.”
Davyon looked at Ambrose. “Are you saying you want to cancel the mission? That you shouldn’t lead it?”
“I’m saying . . .” Ambrose wasn’t sure what he was saying. “I’m sorry—it’s been a strange few days. We’ll do the task we’ve been given.” But he had a feeling of doom. “If . . . if I don’t return, I’d like to think that there will still be justice for my brother and sister, Tarquin and Anne. I’d like history to record how they fought for truth and died for it, and how lies have been told about them. Justice for them, and my hope that no one else suffers the same fate.” It hurt more than anything knowing that people might believe his brother and sister were criminals, when the real criminal was Aloysius, but Ambrose wasn’t sure he could deal with it anymore. It all seemed too much, and he seemed too small. “Can Tzsayn do that?”
Davyon nodded. “He knows of your sister and brother. He knows of their bravery and yours, Ambrose. And, when this is over, everyone will know it. They’ll learn the truth of each person’s bravery and sacrifice. I’ll tell Tzsayn and Catherine your thoughts, but I hope that you will speak with them yourself on your return.”
TASH
DEMON TUNNELS
THECAVERNTHECAVERNTHECAVERN . . .
Tash repeated the mantra in her head as she tunneled. She was moving at a slow walking pace. She’d no idea how long she’d been going, though it wasn’t her body that was tired but her mind. She had to keep thinking of the central cavern of the demon world and not let her mind drift, but it was beginning to get a little boring.
Boring—get it? Boring through stone.
That’s a joke.
Not very funny but it’s a joke.
Boringly boring through stone.
She came to a halt. The tunnel had stopped growing.
Shits. Concentrate! Think of the cavern.
Thecavernthecavernthecavern . . .
The tunnel started to move forward again.
Tash forced her brain to focus on an image of the mid-level terraces of the central cavern, the ones between the Brigantines and away from the demons. It wouldn’t do to come out among either of them.
That wouldn’t be boring. That would be a disaster. Mid-level, please. Direct route preferably. No twists, no turns. Just straight in.
Thecavernthecavernthecavern . . .
The light around her was red and the tunnel warm. Just like any other demon tunnel. In her chest she could feel the heat of the smoke from the dying demon—its desire to return to the core. It was like a living thing, and it wanted to get back. Tash might not be a demon herself, but while she had the red smoke in her, she had some of their powers.
Thecavernthecavernthecavern . . .
And suddenly the stone that was retreating in front of her dissipated altogether to reveal a huge, open space.
Shits. It worked. It shitting worked!
The hole was just large enough for her to stick her head through.
I’m on the shitting mid-level terrace too!
Tash jumped up and down with excitement, clamping a hand over her mouth to stop herself from shouting in glee.
Once she’d calmed down, she thought of moving the tunnel three paces forward and the remaining stone in front of her slowly dissolved. Tash dropped to her knees and crawled forward. Looking up to the stone bridges crossing the cavern above and to the terraces all around, she could see no one—either human or demon. Peering over the edge of the terrace, down to the core of purple smoke rising from the center of the cavern, she could see that the scene was the same as when she’d first seen it however many days or weeks ago that was—the Brigantine soldiers were still farming the demon smoke.
There was a body with blue hair lying on the lower terrace—presumably the next to be thrown into the core to be reborn as a demon. And, farther away, there was a larger pile of bodies—perhaps six or seven of them.
It’s shitting horrible.
There were a lot of Brigantines on the lower terraces. The ones not on duty seemed to be playing dice or sleeping. There were others on guard by the entrances to the various tunnels that opened onto the lower terrace. Tash had seen how these tunnels closed up when the demons who had made them died, and it looked like many more had closed since she was last here—most terraces, like the ones the off-duty soldiers were relaxing on, had no tunnels at all. Tash twisted round to check the terraces above her, but it was impossible to see from her position if the tunnels there had closed too.
And where are the demons?
Tash crawled back a little and got to her feet, keeping close to the wall and out of sight of the Brigantines below. She ran up a ramp to the terrace above and then up another, but there was still no sign of them. There were fewer tunnels here too.
Where are they?
She turned into the next tunnel she found, looking for the markings on the wall that would show where it led. She and Geratan had managed to decipher the signs that showed the way to the demon war room and to the human world. What would this tunnel’s sign be?
But there was no sign at all.
Strange . . .
Tash moved along the tunnel, wondering where it would lead, slowing as it turned sharply and descended. She moved down the slope, trying to creep forward and breathe without making a sound. And then she was in a small, open area— a room that was familiar but different.
This is the demon war room.
But it had shrunk. It still had a number of tunnels branching off it, but they were smaller too. There was a general air of abandonment.
Tash frowned. Had the demons left? Where could they have gone?
She checked each of the tunnels for signs but found only one—a sign Tash hadn’t seen before.
I’ve no idea what that means, but I’m betting this tunnel leads wherever the demons are.
Tash headed along this larger tunnel, which corkscrewed downward as if it was drilling into the center of the earth. Tash had a bad feeling about it, but also a strange urge to go on, her feet carrying her down the slope faster and faster until she finally forced herself to stop. She closed her eyes and realized she knew what was ahead. It was the core of smoke. The wisp she had inside her knew it. It wanted to go there. It needed to go there.
Was that what the new sign meant? That this was the way to the core?
Tash, slowly and silently, moved down the tunnel until it straightened, and she could see far ahead.
Shits.
At the end of the tunnel was a wide chamber filled with lots of demons. They all stood together in a line, holding hands, with their backs to her. The room sloped away from her and, at the very front, Tash could see a bright purple light.
It was the core—the base of it, the source of the smoke.
As Tash watched, the demon at the furthest end of the group let go of his neighbors’ hands, leaped into the core, and instantly vanished.
They’re returning to the core. Returning to the smoke.
And Tash could feel inside herself an urge to follow them.
No. Do not do that. Turn round and get out.
And
yet a part of her wanted to join the demons.
I’m not a demon. I’m human.
Tash put her hands on the stone walls and forced her body to turn. She ran back up to the terraces, only able to think clearly when she was away from the core.
What were the demons doing? It made no sense. They should be fighting the Brigantines, not giving up.
As she reached her tunnel entrance, she spotted a de-mon’s face peering over a ledge far above. Then she saw another. Then a third. She scanned for more but that was all—three.
So not all of them are going back into the core—at least not yet.
Had they spotted her? And if so, what would they do? Tash moved back out of sight, but as she did, another familiar figure came out of a tunnel far below.
Frost.
The girl who had been helping the Brigantines was with the same soldier Tash had seen her with the first time. They went to the central core and walked round it, the soldier touching Frost’s arm—communicating something. Then Frost pointed up, high above Tash. The soldier looked where she pointed and shook his head, then suddenly seized Frost and dragged her close to the edge, as if he was going to throw her into the core. She kicked and struggled, and the soldier laughed—a harsh, clanging sound—and threw her to the ground before walking away, back into the tunnel he’d come out of.
Frost sat on the ground and rubbed her face. Then she picked up a bottle and went to stand at the edge of the core, wafting her hands toward it, as if she was trying to capture the column of smoke in the bottle. But the smoke slipped away from her. For some reason it couldn’t be bottled up like that; it had to be caught as it escaped from the body of a demon.
But wait. That’s changed.
Tash stared at the core, thinking back to when she’d first seen it.
The smoke wasn’t anywhere near as high then.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember her first view of the cavern. It was huge—half of Rossarb could fit in it. And the hole in the center had had a red and purple swirling glow, with wisps of purple smoke rising from it.
Tash opened her eyes. The cavern was definitely smaller now. Still huge, but not nearly as big as it had been. The glow from the smoke was brighter too—and there was more of it, billowing from the core and rising far higher into the cavern.
Was that what Frost had been doing? Pointing out that the cavern was closing in?
More smoke means more dead demons. And if the cavern is closing in like the tunnels, that must be because the demons are dead too.
But why would the demons be doing this?
Tash looked down at Frost. If anyone had the answer, she did.
Right, missy. I’m coming to get you.
EDYON
BIRTWISTLE, CALIDOR
EDYON STILL hadn’t told his father about the assassina-tion plot, and now the tour was departing for Birtwistle. He’d hoped that he’d somehow find proof, but he’d found nothing and time was running out.
The tour wound its way along the coast road, arriving at Birtwistle in the early afternoon. The castle was built on the cliffside, and as they rode up to it, Edyon could see some balconies stretched out over the sea. Edyon remembered Lord Hunt’s words: “A balcony could collapse at any moment with the weight of people on it. A tragic accident . . .” A fall from any of them would mean certain death.
When they arrived at the castle, a tour of the building and its defenses had been arranged as usual. Birtwistle showed them from the hall, through the portrait gallery, along corridors with glimpses of the Birtwistle lands, and then he led them up one of the towers to see the coastline. On the highest turret was a small balcony.
The breeze here was strong, but the sound of waves crashing on the rocks below could still be heard. Birtwistle stood by the side of the balcony and said, “I believe the view from here is the best in Calidor. If you stand out there, you can see as far north as Brigane and as far south as Calia. Please, Your Highness, take a look at the view and give me your opinion.”
Thelonius took a step forward.
Edyon had waited too long. He had wanted to find the right time and the right way to tell his father what he knew. Instead, he had been a coward and told him nothing.
It was not very different from March never telling Edyon the truth about where he was taking him, even when he’d had so many chances to do so. There was never a good time to tell someone news that would hurt them. But Edyon could be silent no longer.
“No! Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t do it.”
Thelonius paused. The entire crowd, including the three traitors, turned to stare at Edyon.
“Father, the balcony will collapse if you step on it,” Edyon said, locking eyes with his father. “I know it.”
Birtwistle looked shocked. Regan looked impassive and said, “Perhaps Prince Edyon doesn’t have a head for heights?”
“I don’t have a head for treason. You and Hunt and Birtwistle are in on this. This is a plot to murder my father and myself.”
A few in the tour party frowned in confusion or surprise, while many looked from Edyon to Thelonius to Regan, but all remained silent.
Thelonius was frowning too. “What is this about? What are you saying, Edyon?”
“They plan to kill you. And me too.” Edyon’s words seemed to be carried away by the wind.
But Regan had heard them well enough, and his eyes blazed. “These are serious allegations, Your Highness. Perhaps you’ve had a little too much sun, or even more wine than usual, in which case, if you apologize now we can . . . accept your feelings of regret and move on.”
“No. I will not apologize. You are plotting my murder and that of my father.”
Regan’s face changed to a look of disgust. “Even too much wine cannot excuse that accusation. I demand that you retract that statement now, and apologize to Hunt, Birtwistle, and myself.”
Edyon didn’t care if Regan was furious with him. He cared only that he and his father were safe. “I stand by my words. You, Hunt, and Birtwistle are planning a coup, but without even the bravery to admit it or to attack us openly. You’re planning an ‘accident.’ My father and I will fall to our deaths, and you will take over Calidor.”
“These are wild accusations,” Hunt said. “Where’s your proof?”
“That’s my proof.” Edyon pointed to the platform. “The balcony will collapse if we stand on it.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Hunt replied.
“Then you step out on it,” Thelonius spoke up.
Hunt’s face seemed to quiver in fear.
“I support my son,” Thelonius said, coming back to stand beside him. “He would not make accusations without reason. You asked for proof? Well, let’s see who is telling the truth here.”
Hunt swallowed and stepped cautiously onto the small balcony, stood still for a moment, then began to return to Edyon.
“You don’t have the weight of two people,” Edyon shouted.
Regan said, “I’ll be the second, if it’s to clear my name.” And he strode onto the platform beside Hunt and held his arms out.
Now Birtwistle came forward. “I’m accused too. I’ll stand with my fellow lords to show we are innocent.” He was not a small man, and he joined the other two and jumped heavily up and down.
Nothing happened. The balcony didn’t move a fraction.
Edyon felt ill. Did I imagine the whole thing?
Thelonius looked horrified. “My lords. My friends. It seems that you are true and my son . . . my son has been misguided.” He turned now to Edyon, adding, “I’m sure he will apologize immediately and unreservedly. And explain himself completely to me later.”
All eyes were now on Edyon. His mouth was dry. He looked like a fool once again, but now a dangerous one. He held his head up and said, “I apologize only to you, Father, for not being able to prove my words.
” Then he turned and left. Byron stepped toward him, but Edyon ignored his friend. He fled to his rooms.
What have I done? How could I be so mistaken? Was it all a trap? Did Regan know I was hiding in his room and say wild things to lure me into disgracing myself?
Edyon got to his room, shut the door firmly, then sat, then got up, walked to the window and back. And then to the window again.
I should have apologized. Why didn’t I? What was I thinking?
I’m a fool. An absolute fool.
He’d messed up completely. He went to the washbowl, bent over, and threw up.
Edyon couldn’t sit. He paced around as the thoughts whirled in his mind. They were stopped only by a loud bang on his door. It was a guard.
Am I to be arrested for slander?
The guard carried a message that Edyon was required immediately in the presence of his father.
Oh shits. I’m going to be thrown in the dungeons.
“Just one moment,” Edyon said. He closed the door and went back to the washbowl to throw up again. He took a sip of water and turned to see that the guard had opened the door and was watching him.
Edyon was escorted to Thelonius’s rooms and was relieved to find that Regan, Hunt, and Birtwistle weren’t there. It was just his father and the chancellor, Lord Bruntwood.
“Prince Edyon, you have made the most serious allegation against three lords. Three of the most senior and powerful lords,” the chancellor began. “But it’s not too late to resolve the situation. An explanation to your father. A sincere and full apology to all concerned . . .”
“No,” Edyon said. “I will not apologize, but I will explain myself.”
The chancellor looked from Edyon to Thelonius. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. And I do have many questions, but perhaps we start with a simple one. Why did you accuse these three senior lords of plotting treason?”
And now Edyon saw what was happening: he was on trial.
“Why? Because it’s true. They believe my father is taking the country in the wrong direction by aligning too closely to Pitoria. They believe I’m ill-equipped to rule after him, and they believe themselves to be much better equipped. Regan’s feelings were hurt because my father had asked him to perjure himself. And, rather than saying no, he blames my father. I’m sure there are many more reasons too, but greed and evil natures seem to be at the base of it all.”