“The north is the poorest part of the country. There’s nothing there but snow, trees, and demons.”
“Demons.” Catherine remembered Lady Anne again. “Demon smoke. Boys.” She paused. “Could my father want to use the demon smoke in some way?”
Tzsayn shook his head. “It relaxes you, makes you happy, makes you sleep. It’s not a tool for war.”
This was just as Sir Rowland had said. “But the demons themselves, they sound fearsome.”
“Yes, but they can’t be tamed . . . can’t be used in an army. Why do you ask about them?”
Catherine wanted to tell him about the execution of Lady Anne, but that would bring the subject around to Ambrose, so she shook her head.
“Just a thought.” But her father had bought the smoke. Lady Anne had made the sign. Could she have known about the invasion? Could that be what she was warning about? In that case, though, why not make the sign for war?
“Well, perhaps the only way to find out is to ride north,” said Tzsayn. “I must go, Catherine. My father’s guards are watching Boris and his men. Boris is on a hunt this afternoon and there’s a feast afterward, but he will hear of my “illness’ by tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t like to guess what he will do then. He cannot wait for me to recover, or he will be caught in Tornia when news of the invasion arrives. He may decide to leave, and try to take you with him.”
“Whatever I do,” vowed Catherine, “I am not going back to Brigant.”
“I am glad to hear it. My men will be outside your door at all times. If you need anything, think of anything that might help, if you need to send me a message—ask them.”
“One final question: where’s Ambrose?”
“Safe and comfortable. I won’t harm him.”
“I’d like to see him. He’s done nothing wrong and risked much to help us.”
“He has, but he is safer kept where he and Boris won’t meet. I don’t want to risk another fight.”
Catherine had a feeling that was not Tzsayn’s main concern, but she had no reason to demand to see Ambrose other than her desire to see him. She said, “I’m glad you’re concerned for his safety. It’s his information that is helping Pitoria.”
“And for that I will always be grateful. Once Boris has departed, you may see Ambrose, with your maids present, of course.”
Catherine curtsied. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Tzsayn took her hand and drew her to her feet. He pressed his lips to her fingers, turned, and was gone.
* * *
On the morning of the next day—her wedding day—the messages began arriving early: two from Boris, demanding to know what was happening, and one far more eloquent and polite from Sir Rowland, who, in essence, wanted to know the same thing.
Catherine sent a reply to each, saying that she had heard Tzsayn was ill and the wedding was delayed but nothing more. A short time later Sarah opened the door and said, “Your brother is here to see you, Your Highness.”
Catherine knew this was coming, knew Boris would blame her for any delay; she just had to ensure he didn’t suspect she knew of the invasion. She took a calming breath and said, “Show him in.” But Boris was already pushing past Sarah, his face red with fury.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Good morning, brother.”
“Don’t fucking good morning me. This is not a fucking good morning; it’s a fucking mess. Delaying the wedding—it’s unheard of! I’ve seen Arell. He’s all apologies and ‘you know my son has a delicate disposition.’ I’ve demanded to see Tzsayn and his bloody delicate disposition, but got no joy with that, of course.”
“If Tzsayn’s ill, there’s nothing we can do.”
“If being the operative word. He’d better be on his fucking deathbed.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s only a delay of a few days, brother. You told me yourself that Tzsayn has physical weaknesses. King Arell has been nothing but enthusiastic since we arrived and Tzsayn himself has seemed to warm to me too.”
Boris’s look changed and he eyed Catherine suspiciously. “And yet yesterday the husband-to-be found his bride with her lover.”
“No, brother. He found me thrown to the floor and your men with their swords drawn, spoiling for a brawl in the king’s home as if it was a roadside tavern.”
“Don’t try to deflect the blame. What did you tell Tzsayn about Norwend?”
Catherine sighed extravagantly; she’d rehearsed this speech and needed to get it right. “I told him the truth, of course, as we ladies must with our future husbands. I explained that Ambrose was considered a traitor in Brigant. That he had bested two of your men a few weeks ago and that you must carry the shame of that. Prince Tzsayn didn’t appear to have any problem believing the truth of it.”
Boris advanced on Catherine and she stepped back. “Going to throw me to the ground again?”
He stopped and snarled, “You haven’t answered my question. What did you tell Tzsayn about why Ambrose was here? Why was he here?”
Catherine smiled and flicked some invisible dust from her skirt before raising her eyes to meet Boris’s. “He loves me, brother. An emotion impossible for you to understand, I know. And he wanted to see me before my wedding. Love makes men do strange things. I believe Tzsayn is falling a little in love with me too. He believes nothing has happened between me and Ambrose, except that Ambrose has declared his love. So that leads me to believe that Tzsayn has delayed the wedding either because he is genuinely ill or because he is having second thoughts about having a brother-in-law who is rapidly becoming a joke in Pitorian society.”
Catherine advanced on Boris now, pointing at him as she hissed, “Why would I risk marriage to a prince for a love affair with a wanted man? I’m not the fool here, Boris. I’ve gone to great lengths to prove to the king, the prince, and the people of Pitoria that this marriage is my heart’s one true desire. If the marriage goes ahead, I’ll be the future queen of Pitoria; if it doesn’t, I’ll return to Brigant in shame. I should be marrying the prince of Pitoria today; instead I’m stuck here with you!”
Boris stepped back from Catherine’s tirade and she was pleased to see he was genuinely shocked. He went to the door. “If I find this delay is because of you . . .” Then he was gone. As the door slammed behind him, Sarah, Tanya, and Jane in unison gave the sign to “Go and keep going!”
Catherine turned from them and sighed with relief. Her heart was pounding, but it certainly didn’t seem as though Boris suspected that Ambrose had news of the invasion—for once she was pleased that Boris believed Ambrose was her lover.
Catherine had only just recovered herself when Sir Rowland arrived.
“I’m not sure what is happening, Your Highness. Prince Boris is furious. He insists that if the wedding doesn’t go ahead today, he must have assurances from Tzsayn, in person, that it will happen tomorrow.”
Because any longer than that and word of the invasion will be out, thought Catherine. His plans are crumbling, but what will he do about it?
“And if he doesn’t get those assurances?”
“The wedding will be off. He’ll leave and take you with him.”
Catherine felt weak at the thought of that. She was determined that she’d never go anywhere with Boris again.
“Well, I believe Tzsayn wants the wedding to go ahead, as does King Arell,” she said with false brightness.
“Perhaps, Your Highness. But I should tell you that there are rumours that Tzsayn is not ill but has fled the castle. Some say his men were seen leaving in the night.”
“Why would he do that? On the eve of his wedding!”
Catherine was sure her acting skills were not up to much and Sir Rowland’s reply—a flat “I don’t know, Your Highness”—convinced her that he wasn’t convinced. “But whatever is going on here, I’m concerned for you, Your Highness.”
&n
bsp; “Thank you again, Sir Rowland. However, I’m sure the wedding will go ahead. I trust Tzsayn. Though of course I’m sad about the delay and his illness. Perhaps you can use your influence to spread a positive tone about the situation among the wedding guests, that the wedding will happen soon.”
“I’ll overflow with positivity,” Sir Rowland replied with a smile. “I shall go and spread it around.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to leave but then added, “There is one other thing, Your Highness. I’ve made enquiries about the demon smoke, but I’ve learned nothing new.”
Catherine smiled. “Oh well. Perhaps it was nothing after all.”
But Catherine was sure Lady Anne’s message was linked to her father’s invasion. She just had to work out how.
AMBROSE
TORNIA, PITORIA
THE MORNING after Tzsayn left, Ambrose decided to test his promise that he’d be treated well, so he asked the soldier guarding the room for food, drink, clean clothes, and water to wash in. They were all brought quickly, along with soap and towels. He was even given his sword and daggers, taken from him after the fight with Boris’s men. At first Ambrose was amazed his weapons had been returned—until he realized there was nothing he could do with them. If he hurt or even threatened any of Tzsayn’s men, he’d have no future in Pitoria. He had no option but to stay where he was.
Tzsayn was irritatingly good at this. He was irritatingly good at a number of things, it seemed. The way he’d controlled Boris, the way he’d arrived in time to stop the fight, and—most irksome of all—the way he had helped Catherine to her feet, as if only he was entitled to do it. Tzsayn was a prince and behaved like it. He, Ambrose, was nothing in comparison: the second son of a provincial marquess. In fact, he had to remind himself, he could hardly even call himself that. He was a wanted man. A proclaimed traitor. And powerless.
But he was still a soldier. He felt that too. He’d much rather be up in the north than lying on a soft, warm bed, even if that meant fighting against Brigantines. He wasn’t sure he could call himself a Brigantine anymore, even if he wanted to. He was a man of no country, but that didn’t mean he had no honor or loyalties. His loyalty would always be to Princess Catherine. He could still fight for what he believed in. He could fight for her.
This should have been Catherine’s wedding day, but instead it would go down in history as the day Brigant invaded Pitoria. Tzsayn would still be two days from reaching the border, but Aloysius and his thousands of men would already be on Pitorian soil. All day, Ambrose stood at the window, staring north, as if his eyes could cross the hundreds of leagues to the border and catch a glimpse of the struggle unfolding there.
I should be there, damn it, not stuck in some guest room in Tornia.
As night fell, the sound of music echoed distantly through the castle.
Ambrose knocked on the door, and his guard stuck his head into the room.
“What’s happening with the music?”
“Some entertainment for the wedding guests,” the guard replied, closing the door again. “Got to keep them occupied somehow.”
Ambrose wondered what the guests were thinking. Did they believe Tzsayn was ill? Or did they imagine he’d just got cold feet? Did any of them suspect the truth—that something larger was afoot? Boris might, he supposed. Brutal and cruel the prince might be, but he was no fool. He had planned this wedding like a military operation. What would he do now it was all going wrong?
Ambrose frowned.
A military operation . . . The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed that Boris would be such a passive player in this great invasion plan. Boris was a warrior; his place, like Ambrose’s, was on the front line. And yet he had chosen to be the one to give his sister away in marriage. To sit at a feast while his father stood on the battlefield. It seemed . . . unlikely. Yes, the wedding was necessary as a diversion to get the northern lords of Pitoria away from their lands, but there was no honor in it. Not like the honor of combat. That was the honor Boris craved—the honor of spilled blood and fallen enemies.
And Noyes was here too; he was the king’s spymaster, but he also had a small team of elite fighters. Why had Noyes come to Tornia? He wasn’t needed for the wedding. So why could he be here?
Ambrose felt a chill settling upon him. Could there be another reason for Boris insisting that all the lords were here? So that he could make an attack on them? It would be risky—very risky—but Boris would love the idea of attacking noblemen, rather than ordinary soldiers. The prestige from such a fight, from a victory, would be huge, but what would be the tactical advantage?
And suddenly Ambrose understood Boris’s plan, as clearly as if the prince were whispering it into his ear: while the nobility of Pitoria gathered for the wedding of their prince, Aloysius’s army would cross the border, overrunning the north, which would be unprepared with its lords absent; and then, at the very moment when decisive leadership was needed in Tornia, Boris would strike, killing King Arell, Prince Tzsayn, and as many of the Pitorian lords as he could, before fleeing the city to join his father.
It was ambitious and a little insane, but what two words better described King Aloysius of Brigant?
Ambrose ran to the door, banged on it, and shouted to the guard, “I need to see the king.”
The guard opened the door and laughed. “The prince said to get you whatever you asked for, but that might be a little difficult.”
“There’s going to be an attack on the king’s life.”
The guard shook his head. “He has his guards around him. No one will get through.”
“Can you take a message to him?”
“Forget it.”
“What about taking a message to Princess Catherine?”
“One thing the prince was clear about was that you weren’t to see her.”
“I don’t want to see her; I want to give her a message. He didn’t forbid that, did he?”
“Fine. Write her a letter.”
Ambrose made his message short and to the point.
Boris is planning to kill the king tonight.
Warn him.
He handed it to the guard and said, “Make sure she gets it immediately.”
The guard left, locking the door behind him, and Ambrose went back to his post at the window. A while later the guard returned.
“Her maid took it and said she’d give it to her. I can’t do more than that, sir.”
Ambrose lay down but couldn’t rest. His mind was racing. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that tonight was the night Boris would attack. This would have been the wedding night, when everyone was drunk and tired and off their guard. But the situation had changed. There had been no wedding, not yet. Boris might wait a day if he believed the story that Tzsayn was ill, and that the wedding would happen tomorrow.
Or would he?
No. Not Boris. He wouldn’t delay. The schedule was set. Aloysius’s army would already be at the border—there would be no time to get a message to them to tell them to wait. The lords were here, so was the king. Boris and Noyes would have their escape plan worked out. The attack would go ahead tonight.
At that moment, Ambrose heard a shout. It was distant, muffled. Maybe someone had had too much to drink. There was another shout. Then another. Then more.
It was happening. The attack on the king.
And, to his horror, Ambrose remembered his letter to Catherine.
Boris is planning to kill the king tonight. Warn him.
He had sent her into danger.
Ambrose grabbed his sword and banged on the door. The guard opened it with an exasperated “What now?” and Ambrose pulled him into the room as he leapt past, slammed the door behind him, and ran toward the shouting.
CATHERINE
TORNIA, PITORIA
Killing the leader provoke
s chaos and fear: that’s always a good start.
War: The Art of Winning, M. Tatcher
AT SUNSET, Catherine retired to her bed but couldn’t sleep. If all had gone to plan, this would have been her wedding night. Instead she was there alone, Tzsayn was riding north, and Ambrose was somewhere “safe” in the castle. Her father was invading this peaceful country, and that had been his plan all along. She was nothing to him, at least no more than a pawn in his game. Tomorrow was her seventeenth birthday; it should mark the start of her new life. Well, it certainly was going to be that, though not the one she had always been envisaging. But then she had never wanted to be married to a man she’d never met, nor to be locked away from the world like her mother. She thought she wanted to be loved by the people, but one setback and she was already having doubts.
A scratch at the door and Sarah came in with a note. “From Ambrose, Your Highness.”
Catherine almost snatched the letter from Sarah’s hand.
Boris is planning to kill the king tonight.
Warn him.
Catherine dressed quickly and set off with Sarah to find the king. They had to go up numerous flights of stairs to reach his apartments, which were in the largest tower of the castle.
“Princess Catherine!” said the king’s chamberlain, a portly man with a waxed mustache, emerging from a side room. “It’s a rather late hour for visiting. Is something amiss?”
“I must speak with the king,” Catherine said, her voice pure princess.
The chamberlain looked puzzled but bowed. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Catherine and Sarah were ushered through to a huge marble-floored room. Large glazed doors opened onto a balcony. The king stood looking through them and out over the city of Tornia.
He turned and she curtsied. King Arell looked weary but dignified.
“I owe you thanks for your information about the invasion, Princess Catherine. I apologize for not seeing you before now, but there has been much to organize.”