“Abask? Isn’t that part of Brigant?” And the guard poked March’s chest again and said, “And what is it that you’re carrying under here?” He ripped open March’s jacket to reveal his knives.
“Armed to the teeth,” the guard said, “and from Brigant.” The guard nodded to his comrades. “You’re under arrest.”
“Arrest? What for?” protested Edyon. Surely word of the sheriff’s man’s death hadn’t reached all the way to Rossarb?
“Smelling like shit.”
Edyon tried to smile. “But that’s not a legal offense.”
The soldier leaned forward and said in an exaggeratedly innocent voice, “Oh, I’m sorry—isn’t it? Well, better add spying.” And he turned to March and poked him hard, saying, “And for being Brigantine. And for carrying weapons into the city.”
March smacked the soldier’s hand out of the way again and the soldier said, “And resisting arrest.”
And he punched March hard in the stomach, doubling him over.
Another soldier grabbed Edyon’s arms and tied them behind his back, ignoring his protest. As he was pushed down the road Edyon looked back to see March being dragged along behind.
Something had gone horribly wrong.
CATHERINE
ROSSARB, PITORIA
Rossarb was once the richest town in Pitoria, a home of gold miners and demon hunters.
A History of the North, Simion Saage
CATHERINE’S ROOMS in Rossarb were a sharp contrast to those in Zalyan Castle. There were three connecting chambers: a sitting room, bedroom, and study, all simply furnished and small. The sitting room was her favorite as it had tall, narrow windows on three sides. The views to the west were stunning, with the blue water of the bay and beyond that the distant hills of Brigant. The flat land around the bay was now occupied by the Brigantine army, which had swept over the border like a wave, to lap at the walls of Rossarb.
Her father’s army looked impressive, Catherine thought grimly. There were dozens of rows of tents, temporary stables, blacksmiths’ forges, and armorers. The bustle of the Brigantine war machine. And somewhere among them was her father. What was he doing now? Planning an attack? Eating his dinner? Thinking of her? Catherine had never been close to her father, but now more than ever he felt like a stranger, just a man she vaguely knew. And she was ashamed of him. He’d betrayed her, shown the worst side of the Brigantine character: warlike and devious.
Catherine turned away and crossed to the north-facing window. She’d glanced out of it earlier and only seen cloud, but now mountains were revealed, mountains like Catherine had never seen. They were dark, almost black, and snow-capped, and amid them rose an area of land that wasn’t peaked and pointed but flat and vast. The Northern Plateau. Demon country. Even from this distance it looked strange and wild and beautiful.
Did her father intend to go there? Did he want the demons for some reason? If so, Rossarb certainly seemed a good base of operations. But what was he really after? Lady Anne had signed “demon smoke,” “boy,” and something else. It made no sense, but Catherine could not shake off the feeling that she held almost all the clues needed to solve this puzzle, but just couldn’t put them together.
She had been in her rooms all day. From the window that looked east over the courtyard she had seen Tzsayn stride out into the courtyard, leave on horseback, and return a few hours later. The Brigantine army also had arrivals and departures. As well as the army that had invaded by land, her father seemed to be sending more troops by ship across the bay. Catherine couldn’t see where they were landing but felt certain they were the support troops for the soldiers her party had encountered on the road. They would be strengthening their beachhead to the south of Rossarb, threatening the coastal road she had ridden along from Tornia. Rossarb was surrounded by sea to the west and the Brigantine army to the north. Unless more Pitorian troops arrived soon to relieve the defenders, Rossarb would be encircled and cut off.
It was dark when there was a knock at the door. Catherine was hoping it would at last be a message from Tzsayn but was surprised to see not a messenger but the man himself. The eye on the scarred side of his face was red and half-closed. He looked exhausted. Catherine was certain she was not at her best either.
“Princess Catherine, I’m sorry I couldn’t see you sooner. It’s been a busy day. I hear you came through the battle to reach us.”
“Yes, we saw some of it. I lost one of my maids, and some of the men were killed too.”
“I heard that. I’m sorry. It’s not been a good day for us. Your father’s men have captured the beach and intend to cut us off and take Rossarb. They’d have taken her already, though, if it wasn’t for the warning you gave us.”
“And you can defend Rossarb?”
Tzsayn nodded. “It’s small but the walls are strong. We should be able to hold out until reinforcements arrive from Tornia. Even so, this is not a good place for you to be.”
“What drove us to leave Tornia was not good either. As well as the invasion, my father planned an assassination. Boris and his men aimed to kill you and your father on the night of the wedding. When the wedding was postponed, they attacked anyway. Your father was injured and a number of lords have been killed.”
“Yes, I’ve had the news by bird.”
Catherine hesitated. “And? Is your father, is the king . . . ?”
“Alive? Yes. But not out of danger.” Tzsayn sat down on one of the wooden chairs, suddenly looking much younger than his twenty-three years. “I hear you were with him when it happened, and that I have to thank Sir Ambrose for the fact that you and my father weren’t both killed. I wish I’d been there. I wish I was there now.”
Catherine sat next to Tzsayn. “I’m sorry for what has happened to your father. It seems I underestimated my own.”
Tzsayn grimaced. “He is quite special, isn’t he? He sends assassins to my wedding and his army into my land. He’s killed many of my people, tortured and maimed others, taken two forts, and now threatens to take Rossarb.”
“Special indeed.”
“But he won’t take it,” vowed Tzsayn, clenching his scarred hand into a fist. “I have the support of the people. They hate and fear your father.”
“You have my support too, for what it’s worth.”
“It is worth a great deal to me, Catherine.” Tzsayn smiled at her. Then his face fell. “But this invasion still makes no sense. The attack on my father makes no sense. Even if Boris had succeeded in killing him and half the lords of Pitoria, Aloysius couldn’t conquer the kingdom. His army here isn’t large enough, and there are no signs of another invasion farther south. He must want something here, but what? Why?”
“I still think it’s something to do with demon smoke,” said Catherine. “But I cannot fathom what that is.”
The prince stood. “Well, whatever he wants, I intend to stop him getting it. Now, alas, I have more issues to attend to before I retire.”
“One final question, Your Highness. May I ask about my men?”
“Your men?”
Catherine blushed. “I realize that Rafyon and the Prince’s Troop are yours, but they have looked after me well for the last few days.”
He smiled. “And I hear your own men chose to follow you out of the city. Well, they shall all be your men from now on. All your men are being housed in the barracks. Including Sir Ambrose.” He went to the door and then turned. “I think they should all have their hair dyed white. Short white hair would look good. Particularly on Ambrose. I can arrange for a barber.”
Catherine smiled, but, as ever, she wasn’t entirely sure that Tzsayn wasn’t being serious.
EDYON
ROSSARB, PITORIA
IT WAS dark and cold in the cells. And smelly: a mix of stale piss and worse. Edyon crouched with his back to the door, not wanting to encounter anything that might be lurking in the da
rk corners. The door was made of thick wood, but there was a tiny barred window in it, through which Edyon could see more doors. Though he’d shouted for March, there’d been no reply.
When they took Edyon from his cell the first time, he went meekly along. He was taken to the room at the end of the corridor. The interrogator was a slim man with blue hair and a thick scar across each cheek. He told Edyon, “All you have to do is answer my questions truthfully.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The questions started off reasonably enough: questions about his name, where he was from, and where he was going. Edyon wasn’t totally truthful, but really this was none of the man’s business.
Then came the less reasonable questions. “You’re a spy, aren’t you?”
“No. And who would I be a spy for anyway? Spying on what?”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me.”
“Who is in the Brigantine camp?”
“Um, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What are your orders?”
“I don’t have any orders. No one has given me orders. This is ridiculous!”
That was the first time the scarred man hit him: a punch to the stomach.
Edyon had managed to croak, “I demand to talk to your superior officer.”
The scarred man laughed and punched Edyon again. This time Edyon fell to the floor.
The scarred man bent low and hissed, “You’re a spy. Sent by the Brigantines.”
“And you’re a fool with blue hair, sent by the prince of fools!”
He’d been kicked for that, and punched some more. He was left on the floor for some time, then dragged back to his cell, where he fell into a strange sleep, full of dreams of Madame Eruth, swirling smoke, and the demon.
The second time they came for Edyon, he resisted as best he could, which only made his next beating worse. The questions were the same, and he couldn’t think of any other answer than: “I’m not a spy.”
When he was back in his cell, he shouted to March, desperate for the sound of a kind voice. But to no avail. Finally Edyon lay on the floor, shivering and listening, until sleep found him again.
The third time they came for him, he was too tired and cold to resist. It was pointless. He was taken down the corridor to the same room as before.
This time it wasn’t empty.
March hung in the center of the room from chains attached to his wrists. He was bare-chested and bloodied. His body was covered in cuts, blood pooling on the floor at his feet. His eyes were open but unfocused, his lips split and puffy.
The interrogator turned to Edyon. “Ready to tell me the truth this time?”
Edyon couldn’t tear his eyes off March.
He is in pain, so much pain. I cannot see if he lives or dies . . .
Damn Madame Eruth and damn her foretelling.
“I told you before: we’re not spies,” he forced himself to say. “We’re not even from Brigant. I’m from Pitoria. This is my country. March is from Calidor.”
“He’s Abask. All the Abasks were taken to Brigant after the last war.”
“He lives in Calidor. He’s a servant to Prince Thelonius. He’s not a spy. He’s with me. We’re traveling to Calidor.”
The interrogator walked to the table and picked up a large metal hook.
“What are you doing?” Edyon’s voice rose to squeaking pitch. He couldn’t believe this was happening. “Please! I’m sorry if I was rude. But I’m telling the truth. Do you think we’d have such a bad story if we were spies?”
“You’ve come from the Brigantine camp.”
“We came from Goldminster. We got the route wrong.”
“I thought you’d only just come across the border from Brigant? That’s what you told the guard on the gate.”
“I . . . I . . .” Edyon couldn’t think clearly, his lies tangling together around the point of the metal hook as the interrogator took a step toward March.
“Stop! Just stop, please! We . . . we were lost. We . . .”
Your future has many paths. You must make a choice. And thievery is not always the wrong one. But you must be honest.
Madame Eruth’s words now came back to him clearly, and he knew he had to tell the truth.
“We came from Dornan, from the fair. There was a fight. I . . . I hurt someone. We were trying to get to Rossarb, but they were following us, so we went onto the Northern Plateau. That’s where we were coming from when the guards caught us.”
“The only people who go into the Northern Plateau are demon hunters. You doing a bit of demon hunting on the side?”
Edyon almost laughed, but he knew he would sound hysterical. “Do I look like I hunt demons?”
“You’re just a spy then.”
“I’m not a spy. Please listen to me. Please!”
The scarred man shook his head and placed the point of the hook against the skin under March’s arm.
“No! No! Stop!” Edyon screamed, lunging forward, but he was pulled back by two guards.
March’s eyes fluttered open and he aimed a feeble kick at the interrogator, but there was no strength in it. The interrogator pressed down on the hook, and a tiny spot of blood beaded out against March’s skin. Edyon’s stomach turned and he thought he might be sick.
You must be honest . . .
“I’m the son of Prince Thelonius of Calidor,” Edyon found himself saying. “This man is helping me get back to my father. If you hurt him again, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” The man turned; the disdain in his voice silenced Edyon. “So now you’re from Calidor too? Not from Pitoria?”
And the interrogator turned back to March and sank the hook into his chest.
March howled.
“Stop it!” screamed Edyon. “I am the prince’s son! There were demon hunters on the Northern Plateau. They took my proof—the prince’s ring. I had it on a chain but they stole it, Gravell and the girl, they stole it.”
The room fell suddenly silent, apart from March’s low agonized moans. The interrogator’s face was calm. He appeared at last to be listening, to be believing.
“A ring . . . on a chain?”
“Yes,” said Edyon. “A gold seal. An eagle with a green emerald. Please. That is the truth. It’s the seal of Calidor. I am Prince Thelonius’s son.”
The interrogator turned to Edyon’s guards, his face still giving nothing away. “Take these two back to the cells. Find the men who arrested the demon hunters and bring them to me.”
“Gravell and the girl?” Edyon could hardly believe it. “They’re in here?”
But the man’s only reply was to throw the hook across the room so that it clattered to the floor.
MARCH
ROSSARB, PITORIA
IT WAS so dark and cold, but Edyon’s voice was soothing him and Edyon’s hand was holding his. March’s head was in Edyon’s lap, and he could tell Edyon was crying. His mouth was parched and he couldn’t move without making the pain worse. He was tired, so tired, but couldn’t sleep. He knew there was no hope. He could feel his life ebbing away.
At first he just wanted it to be over, to hurry up and die. But then he remembered all the lies he’d told Edyon. It was his fault that Edyon was here, in this dungeon, with these men and their fists and their boots and their hooks. If it wasn’t for him, Edyon would be on a ship now, on his way back to Calidor and the life of a prince. He needed to tell Edyon, to explain what he’d done and why. Maybe Edyon would forgive him. He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry. He didn’t have the strength. All he could manage was, “I’m sorry.”
Edyon told him not to be sorry and he talked about the journey they’d make together when they were released. He said something about a crossroads and how they’d soon be on the way to Calidor, and how when they were there they
’d be warm and well fed and lying on feather beds. They’d travel through Calidor together, seeing the whole country, and Edyon would meet his father, the prince, and do his best to be honest and not so cowardly, and March was angry at that so he forced more words out, not caring that they hurt.
“You’re not a coward.”
His voice was so wrecked he hardly made sense, but Edyon said, “You’re the brave one.”
And then Edyon carried on with his story. How they’d go to Abask and stay in the mountains there, and March would show Edyon all the places from his childhood. And March tried to remember them, but they were just fractured images of mountains and sky. But then he saw his brother, Julien, there and he felt relieved.
He was going home at last.
TASH
ROSSARB, PITORIA
TASH HAD been sitting in a cell for two days.
After all the years of avoiding sheriff’s men, it was soldiers that had got them. Tash felt there was something wrong as soon as she saw the checkpoint at the gate. There were never any checks in Rossarb; it was a tiny place, with a few bored soldiers normally. But now it seemed to have half the Pitorian army within its walls, and by the time they’d realized that, it was too late. The soldiers had stopped them, found the demon smoke, and that was that.
Gravell had tried to fight, but there’d been too many of them, even for him. Tash had tried to run, but the soldiers had been too close. One had grabbed her by her dreadlocks and pulled her back so hard she thought her head would come off. And, while her head had stayed on, the purse containing Edyon’s gold chain had fallen out. The soldiers had taken the smoke and the chain and dragged Gravell off somewhere. Then she’d been thrown into the cell with a load of other women who were in for theft or prostitution, Tash guessed. The cell stank. There was a bucket for pissing in that hadn’t been emptied for a day.
“So why are you here, sweetheart?” another prisoner called Nessa asked.
“For being stupid.”