The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

  Throughout the castle, hacked bodies lay sprawled on the bloodied floors. Some rooms appeared untouched, and in one March stopped to get his breath—then he turned and spotted a body lying in the corner, the wavy brown hair exactly like Edyon’s.

  Oh, no. Please no.

  March stepped forward to see the face. It was another young lord. One who’d always scorned him, but March took no pleasure in seeing the man dead. March turned away. He had to think. Edyon must have escaped. There was a safe room, but there was also a secret tunnel from the castle out to the beach. Would he risk that route? Edyon would be exposed along the way.

  There was a staircase to the tunnel from one of Thelonius’s rooms. In his panic, March hadn’t checked it. He ran back there and pulled aside the silk to reveal the secret door; he turned the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the other side.

  He’s gone through it. He’s escaped to the beach.

  That was a start. But still, March had to ensure Edyon had got away. The quickest way to the end of the secret tunnel was down through the kitchens, the courtyard, and the side entrance to the town. March moved faster than he thought possible, but in the kitchens he slowed. He didn’t know where to look. He gagged at the sight before him.

  The kitchen was horribly still and silent. And yet it wasn’t empty. It was full of carnage. The servants here had tried to defend themselves with whatever was at hand—knives and pans, cauldrons and meat hooks. But the weapons had been turned on them and men, women, and children were now lying dead. March saw faces he recognized, people he’d grown up with—and he had to look away.

  Just find Edyon.

  But something made him turn back. There was a movement. One of the maids, a young girl, was looking at him. He didn’t know her name, but she clearly recognized him and looked at him with dread.

  March went to her slowly, crouching down to whisper, “I won’t hurt you. I can help if you let me.” And he pulled out his bottle of smoke. “Don’t say anything, just do what I say and do it quickly.”

  The girl stared and didn’t move.

  “Inhale the smoke. It’ll heal you and give you strength.”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Copy me.”

  March inhaled a wisp of smoke. And let another wisp out for the girl. She hesitated but then did it.

  “You’ll have to be careful. Hide here for a while. Then find a way out through the stables. Go through the fields. Stay away from buildings. Find some others—find adults.”

  The girl nodded. The bruise on her forehead was already fading.

  March could do no more for her. He had to find Edyon. He ran across the courtyard to a side door. It was barred, but newly powered by smoke, he ripped it open and sprinted down the alley to the town. He was dismayed to discover the boys had already been here. There was a body on the corner, and a few people, having escaped from the castle, were running away. They were heading toward the sea too, probably hoping to find a boat to escape in. Nearer the quay were more people rushing down the hill, all strangely and desperately quiet.

  Turning away from the road to the quayside and off to the far side of town, where the prince’s tunnel came out on the beach, March kept going. There would be a rowboat to take Edyon, and whoever else had escaped, to a ship anchored round the bay. All small, all distinctly not royal in appearance, all secret. He ran past the last house, then between the high rocks, his feet ankle-deep in seawater, then out of the rocks and onto the beach. There were two small rowboats pulled up on the sand and a ship anchored offshore. If Edyon was escaping this way, he hadn’t yet left. Along the beach, his feet slower on the soft sand, March made it to the small stone hut where the tunnel from the castle came out. He stopped to the side, hidden in the dark shadows, his chest heaving. He would have to wait. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Edyon to appear or not.

  Just let him be safe. Please.

  His breath had calmed completely when he heard the voices.

  “The beach is ahead.”

  “We’ll wait here. Let Byron go first.” It was Edyon’s voice.

  And a young man appeared. He had a long black plait down the side of his head. He looked around but didn’t see March. Then he beckoned the others behind him to come out.

  Edyon appeared, as did a soldier supporting a chubby man. Behind them were five or six others.

  March hesitated. He could just hide and watch Edyon escape. He had to speak. He stepped forward to Edyon. But the young man with the plait spotted him and darted forward, swinging his sword with such speed that March knew he’d taken smoke.

  EDYON

  CALIA, CALIDOR

  AFTER HIS father had ridden off to the border wall, Edyon had followed all the instructions he’d been given.

  “Stay in the castle”—he’d stayed in the castle.

  “Let Byron protect you”—he’d definitely let Byron protect him.

  “The castle is impregnable”—he’d heard that one before.

  “Only as the last resort, if the castle is taken—which won’t happen—then you use the secret staircase, follow the tunnel, and head to the ship.”

  Edyon had watched from the ramparts as the boy army drew near. Not a large army but not the few boys his father had thought might make an assassination attempt. It was clear that their intention was not just to attack swiftly and retreat, but to attack and hold the castle.

  His guard reported that over forty Brigantine boys had been killed. “They can’t scale the wall, Your Highness. We just have to hope they keep trying and we can keep picking them off.”

  Edyon had tried to eat, tried to sleep, but he could do neither. It was a dark night and he stared out from his terrace. He remembered the last time he had been in a castle under siege. Then, Rossarb had been surrounded by Aloysius’s huge army. This seemed quite a different battle, and yet Edyon had the same tension in his stomach and in his chest.

  Another difference was that Byron was with him and not March. Byron stayed quietly by Edyon’s side, looking out across the land. Edyon looked up to the sky and wondered where March was now. Hopefully he was somewhere safe, somewhere away from war and fighting.

  The chancellor stood behind Edyon, constantly talking, considering likely outcomes—Thelonius would send troops back to attack the boy army. The boy army would flee back north. This might have been a plan to draw the army from the wall and send the main Brigantine troops through. Edyon must have heard the chancellor come up with a hundred options of what might be happening.

  And, just as Edyon was beginning to believe that they might be safe for a while, a guard ran in. “The boys have scaled the walls to the lower level.”

  Edyon knew it was over. The boys would be too strong. If they’d scaled one wall, they could scale more. But still he was told to remain in his rooms. Byron stayed with him, as did the chancellor and Talin, who almost died of shame as his bowels couldn’t hold up to the tension.

  But it wasn’t long before the guard returned. “They’ve broken through to the upper levels. You must leave, Your Highness. Now. Immediately. There’s no time for hesitation.” And while Edyon was still trying to absorb this, Byron was leading him by the hand, following the guard, picking up speed as they heard shouts and screams, running through Thelonius’s rooms, sliding on the marble floors, Talin panting behind. The guard held up the silk curtain that hid the door and Byron pulled Edyon through. Edyon kept asking who was with them, and Byron was just saying, “Don’t worry about that, Edyon. The guards know what they’re doing. They’ll lock the door behind us. We must concentrate on moving as fast as possible.”

  And Edyon did have to concentrate. It was dark, and the stone spiral stairs were narrow and steep. Down and down and down they went. Edyon heard Talin cry out and the guards told him to be silent. As they descended, he heard other noises through the walls—the screams and shouts of f
ear and war. But then they were down on level ground in the damp darkness of a tunnel. It was silent except for the heavy breathing of the group. Everyone gathered together while torches were lit. There was urgency, but not panic.

  Talin was limping, as he’d fallen on the steps, but he took Edyon’s hand. “Thank you for not leaving me, Your High-ness. Thank you.” As if Edyon would leave anyone behind. He squeezed Talin’s hand, which was damp with sweat, and reassured him that they’d soon be on a ship sailing to safety.

  And then they were off again, running along the tunnel, the ground underfoot turning from stone to sand. At the end of the tunnel was a heavy wooden door, a key found hanging inside its lock. The door was stiff and it creaked open and they were out of a small building built into the cliff, and onto the sand and into the half-light—it was still well before dawn, but the dark blue sky seemed light after the tunnel.

  There was someone ahead—one of the boy army—and he was coming at Edyon. And then it all happened so fast. Byron leaped in front of Edyon to protect him, swinging his sword at the assailant. The other guards drew their swords, surrounding Edyon, expecting more attackers. Edyon couldn’t even see, but he heard a shout. “Edyon! I’m here to help!” It was a familiar voice. A voice Edyon would know anywhere.

  March?

  “Let me past,” Edyon shouted, forcing his way through his guards as Byron slashed his sword down toward March’s body.

  “No! March!” Edyon screamed. “He’s a friend, Byron! Don’t hurt him!”

  But it was too late. Byron’s sword was sweeping down.

  Edyon stumbled forward and Byron moved immediately to his side. He held Edyon back but kept his sword pointed at March’s prone body on the sand.

  “March?”

  And, to Edyon’s amazement, March raised his head. “Yes, it’s me.”

  Had Byron managed to divert his sword at the last moment? Or had March dodged to the side? It didn’t matter; March was safe.

  “I came to help. If I could,” March said falteringly, get-ting to his feet and glancing from Edyon to Byron and back. “But I see you have help. Just get away. There’s no hope for anyone here. Harold’s taken the castle. He’ll kill everyone.”

  Edyon tried to take it in. Calia was lost, people were being slaughtered, and yet somehow March was here. “But what about you, March? Are you in the boy army?”

  “Edyon. Your Highness. We don’t have time for this.” Byron took his arm. “You mustn’t stop. This could be a ruse.”

  Edyon looked at March, looked into his beautiful silver eyes. March had lied to him in the past. Their entire relationship was based on a lie. But March had also saved his life more than once and risked his own to do it. Edyon shook his head. “It’s no ruse.”

  “But we still can’t stop!”

  “Then we all go,” Edyon said, grabbing March’s arm. “March, come. Tell us what’s happening.”

  They set off again, running along the beach to a rowboat that was pulled up between some rocks. March spoke quickly: he’d joined the boy army; Harold had made him his servant; they attacked the wall on the border near Abask, then came south to Calia. But before March could explain further, they were at the boat. Edyon clambered in. “Hurry, March.”

  But March hesitated. “Where’s Thelonius?”

  Byron said, “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have time for this.”

  “My father’s with his army near the border, March. But get in the boat and we can talk more.” Edyon needed March to be with him.

  March didn’t move. “Thornlees is leading the conventional army south. Just his men, not the whole Brigantine army. Your father has a chance against them, but not against the boys.”

  “But the boys are here.”

  “They won’t be for long. Harold wants to take all of Calidor. He’ll do whatever he can to kill Thelonius. And all the nobles, including you, which is why you must flee. Get to Pitoria.”

  “Yes,” Byron said firmly. “That we agree on.”

  “No, we don’t,” Edyon replied. “Not until March gets in the boat.”

  “No.” March shook his head. “I can’t go. Harold’s mad. Worst of the lot of them. He has to be stopped. I think I can do it. Maybe. Anyway, I have more of a chance than most.”

  “March. You’re not a fighter. Not a soldier.”

  “I’m an Abask. I can do it.” And his eyes lit up. He looked terrified and yet defiant. “I have to do it. I can get close to him. Without Harold, there may be an end to this.”

  Edyon remembered Madame Eruth saying he’d meet a foreign man who was in pain. And March’s pain was so acute that it seemed to be radiating out of his eyes.

  “He’s destroying people. He won’t stop. I should have done it before now.”

  Edyon knew he’d not change March’s mind. He grabbed his hand. “Don’t let him kill you. Get through this, March. Please.” Tears filled his eyes; he pulled March to him into an embrace. “I loved you before and love you still. You’re my hero, always.”

  March buried his head in Edyon’s shoulder, then stood back, tears in his eyes too. “And I love you too. Always. And you are my hero, Edyon. Be a prince. Be whatever you want. But never change. You’re perfect as you are.”

  Edyon kissed March’s cheek, tasting the tears, and before he broke down entirely, he turned and stepped into the boat. Byron told them to push off and, when Edyon turned to look to shore, March was walking away.

  MARCH

  CALIA, CALIDOR

  MARCH WALKED away from Edyon and couldn’t bear to look back. He’d break if he saw Edyon leaving again. Edyon and his new companion—the most handsome young man in the world, it seemed, and clearly extremely protective of him. But that wasn’t even important. It was a good thing that Edyon had protection. He’d get away. He’d go on to live his life. March could have left with them, but he knew now that he had to do what he could to end this war. After seeing the bodies in the castle, he was certain that was his destiny. Perhaps all his life was coming to this point and to this realization.

  March despised Thelonius for keeping him as a servant, for betraying the Abasks, but he’d done it to protect others. What March hated most was that Thelonius never admitted it, never expressed regret, never said what an impossible choice it had been, never showed any humanity, only a regal certainty that what he’d done was for the best. It was an awful choice, but why not admit it?

  But, for all Thelonius’s faults, compared to his brother he was a saint. Abask and its people would still be there if it weren’t for Aloysius. And Harold was his father’s son, only worse—madder, badder, and on demon smoke. March had seen Harold was capable of pure evil, of doing to the Calidorians what his father had done to the Abasks. But Calidor wouldn’t be left empty like Abask; it would be colonized by Brigantines.

  March had to find a way to stop Harold. “I’d just rather not die in the process,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  March looked up. Rashford was standing ankle-deep in seawater, blocking the path between the huge rocks. March had been so caught up in his thoughts, he’d not even seen him. He glanced over Rashford’s shoulder. There was no one else with him. “Just thinking about life and death. What are you doing here?”

  “A question I was just about to ask you.”

  March looked back. Had Rashford seen Edyon? The beach was mostly out of sight.

  “Fancied a paddle to wash the blood off my boots,” March said.

  “Me too.”

  What was Rashford up to?

  “Is the fighting done yet?” March pushed past Rashford.

  “The fighting’s over. The castle is ours,” Rashford re-plied, following him. “The boys, however, have not stopped killing just yet.”

  “Or burning.” March nodded to the sky above Calia, which was beginning to lighten with dawn as fast as it fil
led with smoke from fires.

  “Whereas we’re just two boys who prefer a stroll on the beach to looting and killing.”

  March ignored the comment and walked on. “Where’s Harold?”

  “In the castle somewhere. Why?”

  “He’s my master. I should report to him.”

  “And what will you say you’ve done in Calia? How many have you killed?”

  March shrugged.

  “More than you’ve helped escape?” Rashford grabbed his arm, but March pulled away. “You’ve never been one of us, have you, March?”

  March turned to face Rashford. “And you? Are you really one of them, Rashford? I know you love the Bulls, but do you love your king? Do you love Harold? Do you love all this killing and destruction?”

  Rashford opened his mouth but no words came out.

  “If you were truly one of Harold’s followers, you’d have called your men by now and had me killed. Or you’d kill me yourself if you had even the slightest doubt about my devotion. I have access to Prince Harold, after all. I’m a danger to him.”

  March found that now he’d started, he couldn’t stop. All the anger and frustration of weeks—years possibly—was pouring out. “But you haven’t, have you, Rashford? You know all this is bad. It’s wrong. It’s evil. But you don’t want to starve; you want something from life other than a pile of shit and a beating. This smoke seems a good way to get it, but you know it won’t last. You know your days are numbered. And what will you have at the end of it? At best, a job as an ordinary soldier, fighting for Aloysius and probably dying of wounds or the shits, or just being killed in battle and forgotten. You want something more, and you think the smoke can give it you, but you’re not sure how.”