The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

  Catherine suddenly felt very small. It was a sensation she’d had before—like being a tiny red ant walking across a paving slab, watched by her father, only now she was a shining white ant. And she knew she was being watched—the Brigantines would surely have lookouts on the plateau.

  She felt a flicker of fear, but then she looked at the men around her and reminded herself, I’m not an ant, and I’m not alone. I have hundreds of men with me. And we’re not trying to hide. The Brigantines should see us, should see me, and they should be afraid.

  They advanced to the River Ross, then headed west all afternoon, seeing no sign of the enemy. After a bend in the river they climbed a small hill, which gave an excellent view of all sides. Catherine halted to take it in. Far in the distance was the dark blur of Rossarb, with the ruin of the castle spiking up from it. And on the plain before it was a mass of horses and men. The Brigantine army.

  It was vast.

  Once more Catherine felt fear threaten to overtake her, but she cast her eyes over her own troops and it was a reassuring sight. The white-hairs behind her were numerous enough, but away to her left she could see Davyon’s blue-hairs moving in from the coast. From this distance they also looked like ants—but thousands of them.

  “I’ll advance the white-hairs farther, Your Majesty,” said General Ffyn. “This is a good position for you to remain in—you’ll be visible to our men but protected from the enemy.”

  Catherine agreed, and her bodyguard set up a small camp on the hill as Ffyn led the main force of white-hairs farther forward. By early evening, the Pitorian army was ranged across from the coast to the river. At dawn the scullers would land on the north shore. The Brigantines would be surrounded and forced to give battle.

  By the light of a flickering candle, Catherine wrote and dispatched two messages—one to Tzsayn and one to Davyon. “Don’t mix them up, please,” she instructed as she handed them over, imagining Tzsayn receiving the formal notification that her forces were in position while Davyon opened the more intimate message meant for her husband.

  And then . . . nothing. Catherine remembered this from the battle of Rossarb, how the waiting was the worst of it. She paced around her small camp, talking to her men, trying to look relaxed, trying to think positively, but desperately wanting to get on with it.

  EDYON

  CALIA, CALIDOR

  ANOTHER DAY, another dungeon. Edyon would have laughed, except he felt that he would never laugh again. Not after seeing Byron and everyone else killed on the Pilar, and not after being dragged through the castle, seeing the bodies of nobles and servants lying in blood. Death literally was all around him. He couldn’t escape it.

  Is it me? Is it my fault?

  Maybe if I wasn’t here, death wouldn’t be either.

  Edyon sat in the dungeon of Calia Castle. It was dark, damp, and smelly. Not so bad as Lord Farrow’s hut, but worse than Tzsayn’s cells in Rossarb.

  At least this will be the last one I see.

  Edyon was sure of that.

  Just don’t let me die slowly and painfully. Make it quick.

  The boy who had locked Edyon in the cell had told him, “Harold will want a big audience for your execution. You might be on the cart.”

  “Cart?”

  “A cart pulled by donkeys, with a big blade on it for cutting people in two.”

  “Ah. Useful to have it mobile, I’m sure.”

  “He likes his contraptions.”

  “Shame that he doesn’t like peace, order, fairness, civilization, serving his people, a quiet glass of wine, and a good view, or just being nice.”

  “Who wants to be nice when you’ve got his power?” And the boy slammed the door on Edyon.

  I want to be nice. I want Byron alive and all the people of Calia alive and . . .

  Tears fell from Edyon’s eyes. There was nothing nice left at all, and the sooner he got away from it, the better.

  As it happened, Edyon wasn’t kept in the dungeon long, as the boys hated coming down to feed him. He’d not eaten a thing for a day when someone must have remembered him, and he was taken up to the Throne Room. Only a few weeks earlier he’d been crowned here. Now he was chained to the wall like a dog, with a bowl of water and some stale bread, and he was given a special guard—Broderick.

  Broderick, however, was less interested in Edyon and more interested in watching the other boys play dice. They were betting with boots, daggers, and coins—all plentiful and all of which, Edyon assumed, had been pillaged from the bodies of those in the castle. But what was not plentiful was food, which was becoming increasingly valuable. Edyon watched from the side. The boys were disorganized, aggressive, rude, and lazy, and they’d soon starve.

  And good riddance to the lot of them.

  Someone brought in a sack of apples that ended up being aggressively haggled over. Broderick, who had only two coins, managed to get a bruised apple.

  Edyon said, “I haven’t eaten anything but a crust of bread all day.”

  Broderick stood over him, eating his apple. “So?”

  “I thought I was going to be executed in a dramatic show, not starved to death in the corner of this room.”

  “You’re not starving; you’re just hungry. We’ve all been there. Get used to it,” Broderick said.

  “I’d love a slice of fresh bread, a cooked chicken—even a bowl of porridge would do. I don’t suppose the kitchen staff are still alive, are they?” Edyon asked, knowing the answer full well.

  “Even if they were, you wouldn’t get any food,” Broderick replied.

  “How much did you pay for that apple?”

  “None of your business,” Broderick replied, and began to walk away.

  “I have money. I could buy my own food.”

  Broderick stopped, turned, and came back. “Money?”

  “Not on me—that’s already been stolen—but in my strongbox. I can tell you where it is. It has more than enough to pay for food for both of us.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You’d better share the food you buy, Broderick.”

  “Tell me where it is, and then I’ll buy you some.”

  Edyon wasn’t sure Broderick could be trusted, but he was hungry, and he didn’t care about the things in the strongbox. He told Broderick, “There’s a secret cupboard behind the panel to the left of the desk in my room. Press the right-hand side and the panel opens. The key’s in the desk drawer.”

  A short while later Broderick returned, his pockets clinking and a smile on his face.

  “Can I have a pie and a chicken?” Edyon said. “And an apple, for starters.”

  Broderick replied, “Soon enough.” Then he went to sit in the corner counting coins.

  “I’m hungry,” Edyon shouted.

  Broderick returned to him and said, “And I’m tired of your whining.” And he kicked Edyon, saying, “You’ll get food when I say so.”

  The kicks hurt, but so did everything. Edyon thought of Byron lying in a pool of blood and wept for him. His only hope was that March was alive and would somehow get away from this mad mob and live a long life somewhere free of pain and cruelty, and that Thelonius’s army would crush Harold.

  His hope didn’t last more than two days, in which time he’d had a sliver of a rancid pie, two apples, and a chicken leg with more bone and gristle than meat. On the second day he was given a gentle kick by Broderick and told with a smile, “Harold’s here. News is, he killed your father himself.”

  Edyon wasn’t sure what to believe or even what to feel. Thelonius was his father, but Edyon couldn’t say that he loved him. He hardly knew him. But he had hoped to get to know him in time. Ever since childhood he had imagined someday meeting his father, and once he’d learned who his father was, he’d imagined so much more—becoming close to him, learning from him, making him proud. And he had started to.
He thought about how Thelonius had supported him even when Edyon had accused Regan of plotting his murder. Nothing in their relationship had been straightforward, but they had been getting to know each other; they had been father and son. He remembered Thelonius had said, I couldn’t hope for a better son, and Calidor couldn’t wish for a better future than with him.

  He looked at Broderick. “You’re sure of this? My father is dead?”

  “They fought one-on-one to decide the winner of the battle and Harold won easy. Chopped Thelonius’s leg off, then his head.”

  Edyon sat and stared and remembered his first dinner with Thelonius and how happy they had both been. That had been just a few weeks ago.

  A kick and Broderick’s boot in Edyon’s thigh jolted him back to the present. “I said, I don’t think Harold’ll want to fight you, though. You won’t be much of a challenge at all.”

  “For once we agree, Broderick.”

  “I reckon you’ll be chopped in two.”

  “So you’ve said,” Edyon remarked.

  “It might be a better way to go. Messy, I guess, but it’ll be quick.”

  “Thanks for your words of comfort, Broderick.”

  “Plenty of poor kids get strung up all the time in Brigant and no one minds.”

  “I imagine they mind. As will I.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have been a prince then, should you?”

  “Indeed. I could be a poor student back in Pitoria. But I’m here and so are you, Broderick. We’ve been thrown together by fate, and why should I fight against that? We are together for my last few days, and there must be a reason for it, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I’ve been told to guard you. That’s the reason.”

  “You have guarded me and you have stolen from me. You have failed to feed me as you said you would. We’ve been put together and that is why I will stay with you. Even when I’m dead, chopped in two, I’ll stay with you, Broderick. I’m going to haunt you for all your days. You won’t get away from me.”

  Broderick frowned. “You will not haunt me. You will not.”

  “Only on the darkest of nights. But I will come. You’re helping to kill me, so I can only return the favor. I will come back and scream my deathly screams in your head.” Edyon waved his hands and widened his eyes as he said this.

  Broderick looked genuinely fearful and dealt with it by kicking Edyon again. But he’d only landed his boot once when he was distracted by shouts from other boys entering the room.

  Edyon, curled up on the floor, lifted his head when he saw the boy in the center of the group. Dressed in armor, his hair plaited and tied with bows, small and delicate of body with a sweet-looking young face—it could only be Harold.

  And, behind him, another, much sweeter face. March—his eyes staring at Edyon. Sorrow and fear in them.

  And bravery and love and—at least I’ve seen him again before I die.

  Tears filled Edyon’s eyes for a moment, but he blinked them away as Harold came to stand over him.

  “So, this is the bastard who thinks he’s a prince?”

  Edyon got to his feet, a little unsteady, and said, “I’m never sure about this bowing business, who’s more senior and all that. But as you have me in chains and I’ve never really taken to the prince thing . . .” He bowed a deep bow. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”

  Harold’s face changed. “You speak well for a bastard.”

  “Thank you, cousin. Alas, conversation has been a little limited of late. My guard communicates mostly through his boot. I was wondering if this was, perhaps, a typical way Brigantine boys conversed?”

  “We kick dogs that don’t behave.”

  “I can assure you, Your Highness, that I have behaved like the perfect prisoner. A role I’m more familiar with than you might expect. In fact, it was your sister who last rescued me from a prison cell, releasing me to freedom. I hardly dare hope that you might be so generous.”

  “You can hope what you like, but you will be executed.” Harold smiled. “But you were with my sister? Tell me about Catherine. How was she?”

  “She was busy. Always busy. She led us across the North-ern Plateau. We fled Rossarb together and she went into the demon world.” He looked at March as he added, “Alas, I couldn’t get into the world to see its wonders—I escaped south with another—a brave man I came to love and trust deeply.” Edyon noticed a slight softening of March’s mouth.

  “Catherine went into the demon world?”

  “And came out alive. Leading her men.”

  Harold scowled. “I’ve not been in it myself. I will go soon. It’s not right that she does things I don’t.”

  “She takes smoke too, I believe. When necessary. I assume that’s what gave her the strength to kill your brother, Prince Boris.”

  Harold leaned closer to Edyon and whispered, “For which I’m extremely grateful.” He straightened up, adding, “But still, it’s not womanly at all. She’s escaped our father’s bonds and does as she will.”

  “Indeed. And she acted as judge when I was accused of a murder. She saw justice done.”

  “A judge? A woman as a judge! What’s going on in Pitoria?”

  “The world has indeed gone mad,” Edyon agreed.

  Harold paced away from Edyon and then back. “You’re not what I expected.”

  Edyon smiled. “I think I can say the same.” You’re smaller and even more of a shit.

  “You’re very much like your father in your face, though.”

  Edyon glanced at March, whose eyes told him that the news was bad.

  “Bring his father’s face in here.”

  And, to Edyon’s horror, a stake was brought in, Thelo-nius’s head on it.

  He turned away in disgust.

  “The question is what to do with you, the bastard son from Pitoria. Your father is dead, so you know what that makes you.”

  Edyon swallowed hard. “It’s true. I am Thelonius’s son. I am a prince and I am thus . . . now the ruler of Calidor.”

  Harold smiled. “Except now I am. And I wish to make a display of those I’ve defeated. It’s good that you look like your father. Your execution will go ahead after you’ve told me more about my sister’s exploits. But first I want a bath.” And, with that, Harold walked out, shouting, “March, don’t hang back. Get me a bath. Now.”

  March hesitated, gazing at Edyon, before following Harold out.

  Edyon looked at Broderick and said, “My head will be chopped off, my undernourished body put on display, but I’ll still come to you in your dreams and scream at you.”

  Broderick put his fingers in his ears and muttered, “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” as he kicked Edyon.

  * * *

  • • •

  Much later that day, when the sky was darkening to night, Harold returned to sit on the throne and hear from his boys. Edyon listened to the reports and proceedings from his corner. There were a lot of complaints, as there was little food and no one to cook it. The castle stank, and flies swarmed in the kitchens.

  Harold dismissed the complaints with an irritated wave of his hand. “I’m a prince. I’m not interested in this talk. What, do you expect me to clean up your mess?” He was cheered up when someone brought news that the strong room had been forced open and Thelonius’s treasure found.

  Harold disappeared for a time to look at his new wealth, then returned carrying a golden goblet and giving instructions about guarding the strong room. “A boy from each brigade to guard it, two from my Gold Brigade as well,” he said. He clearly trusted no one. But still, he was in a better mood than earlier. As March filled Harold’s goblet with wine, Edyon was finally dragged forward and made to kneel at Harold’s feet.

  “Prince Edyon, tell me more of what goes on in Pitoria with my sister.”

  “Well, Your Highness, let me think
where to begin. So much has happened.” Edyon wondered if he could talk forever and thus delay his execution. “When I was in Pitoria just weeks ago, Princess Catherine had been made Queen Apparent. She had married Tzsayn in Rossarb, before the castle fell. That’s where I first met her. I’d been arrested and was in a cell. It’s a complex story. But anyway, Tzsayn and Catherine were there. A happy couple, I believe.”

  “I met Tzsayn. He’s handsome on one side, ugly as sin on the other. Interesting man, though. I met him when my father was keeping him in chains.” Harold looked closer at Edyon as if assessing something. “You’re very different and yet . . . you’re like Tzsayn in one way.”

  “A good way, I hope.”

  “You’re . . . civilized.” Harold frowned as if not sure that was right. “No, perhaps not that . . .”

  “Perhaps it’s just that we both expect to die.”

  “Perhaps it’s because there’s a part of you that expects to live.” Harold laughed. “But you won’t.”

  “Though Tzsayn did.”

  At this, Harold frowned, but then he shrugged. “His days are numbered. Pitoria will fall soon enough.” And Harold couldn’t resist preening. “I have conquered Calia. I’m the youngest warrior to take this country or any other. I succeeded in a few days with what my father couldn’t do in years. Pitoria will be next, and then Savaant and Illast. The world lies open before me; all I have to do it take it.”

  “And what will happen here in Calia while you are conquering the world?”

  “I imagine my father will rule it—with an iron fist. And I will rule after him.”

  Edyon nodded. The world would be Harold’s in a short time. It would not be Edyon’s for much longer.

  But what of March? He was standing to Harold’s side, though Edyon could see he hated being there. Edyon knew that March would not leave him. He’d stayed with Edyon through all his trials, and, for good or ill, would be near him for this final one. And this gave him courage, made him want to do something rather than just give up.