Boris pointed at Catherine. “No, because of you. Stay with your maids then, and your lover. But Noyes will not be as merciful with him as I have been.”
And Boris kicked his horse and galloped off toward the castle, shouting, “Evan, tend to Lang.”
Sarah and Tanya pulled up their horses, staring in horror at the men on the ground.
Catherine looked around. Peter was on horseback behind her. Sir Evan was running to assist Lang. Ambrose dropped to his knees, exhausted. And in the center of all of them was the body of Hodgson. But Catherine had to think: Boris had called Ambrose her lover. Whether there was proof or not was irrelevant; Noyes would come for him. If Ambrose was taken, he would be killed.
Catherine slid off her horse and ran to Ambrose. He looked up at her. His cheek and forehead were splattered with flecks of blood. He looked lost. “I couldn’t give them my spurs.”
“I understand, Ambrose. You’ve proved your honor and my brother has proved he has none, but Boris will send Noyes and his men now.” She held her hand out to Ambrose, intending to help him up, but instead he took her hand in his and bent forward to kiss it.
Skin on skin. His soft lips, his warm breath on her skin. So gentle, so strong, and yet so vulnerable. She wavered, wanting to kneel next to him, to hold him, but she was aware of Sir Peter’s eyes on her. She forced herself upright and said, “Please, Ambrose. This is impossible.”
Ambrose closed his eyes. “Yes, Your Highness.”
And the way he spoke, with such emotion in those three words, Catherine had to bend to him again. “Please, Ambrose. Noyes will be on his way here soon. You must leave.”
“I’m your guard, Your Highness. I can’t run away.”
“I’m ordering you to go. It is not me who is in danger now. You are, and I’m ordering you to leave. Never to be caught. That is my order. Go!”
Ambrose gazed up at her, and Catherine noticed how his eyes were hazel, blended with green and gold. She wanted to remember them, but still Ambrose didn’t move.
“Please, Ambrose. If you stay you’ll end up in one of Noyes’s cells. I couldn’t bear that. There is no dishonor in leaving now. I want you to go. I want you to evade Noyes. Frustrate him and Boris by remaining free. Don’t be caught like your sister was.”
This final comment seemed to rouse Ambrose, and he rose to his feet. “I’ll go, but know that if you asked me to stay I would do that just as willingly.”
Tears were in Catherine’s eyes now and one ran down her cheek. Ambrose brushed it gently away with his fingertips.
“You will be a great queen one day, and I will do my best to live to hear of it, Your Highness.”
He took her hand again and kissed it. Another touch, but now the last time she would feel his breath and the warmth of his skin . . .
She closed her eyes to savor the feeling. Then his hand was gone; just the cool air remained. And he was on his horse looking back at her, and then he rode off, quickly disappearing into the trees.
Sarah came to Catherine and asked if she needed water. Catherine waved her away. She didn’t need water; she needed to know that Ambrose would be safe, but there was little she could do to help that. She went over to Lang, lying unconscious, and asked Evan, “Will he live?”
Evan rose and bowed formally. “Yes, Your Highness. I’ve stopped the blood. The prince will send a surgeon. I’ll stay here until he arrives.”
And Catherine found herself saying, “We’ll return to the castle and ensure the surgeon is sent promptly.”
And perhaps somehow delay the pursuit of Ambrose . . .
Catherine walked back to Saffron, every step dreamlike and unreal. She knew she could never have a life with Ambrose, that she’d have to live with Tzsayn. What made her angry was that all this fighting was unnecessary. If her father or brother knew her at all, if they had any understanding of her, they’d know she would marry Tzsayn. Were they really concerned that Prince Tzsayn would be put off because a man had looked at her? Or was this another excuse to persecute the Norwend family?
Now Peter, not Ambrose, held the stirrup for her, and Catherine was on her horse, her mind still not caught up with her body. Sarah and Tanya rode close to her, though they hardly spoke. Catherine dreaded seeing Noyes and his men. They would hunt Ambrose down without mercy. But the more time he had to get away, the more chance he would have of survival.
As Catherine rode into the castle, her heart sank. Noyes and five of his men were already riding out. Catherine waved them to a stop, anything to delay their departure, even for a short time. Noyes approached and inclined his head in the smallest approximation of a bow.
Catherine didn’t know what to say but asked, “Where are you going, Noyes?”
“I can’t reveal the king’s business, Your Highness. But I’m confident that I’ll soon catch the traitor I’m after. I always do. And I can assure you I’ll deal with him in the harshest manner.”
You always do, Catherine thought.
MARCH
JUST OUTSIDE CALIA, CALIDOR
MARCH STOOD on the grass and watched the stream run by. Waiting again. But this time not for the prince but for Holywell.
Since the death of the prince’s wife and sons, Holywell had insisted on seeing March once a week, and he always asked about the prince, who he met, and when he would remarry. Everyone expected that: a new bride for the prince and nine months later a new heir. Only a few weeks after the funeral, March had heard the chief counselor say to the prince, “We all grieve for your terrible loss, sire, but it’s never too soon to consider a new marriage. Without an heir, Calidor could fall back under Aloysius’s rule. No one wants that. The lords are already beginning to wonder when this mourning will end.”
But March had heard the prince’s reluctance in his voice as he replied, “How can I not mourn? My wife is dead. My sons are dead. I want an heir too, but who’s to say more of my children won’t die?”
The prince had fought a war with his brother, but the loss of his own family had taken a bigger toll on him. He had lost three girls before his sons, all from different illnesses, early in their lives. The two boys had been cared for as carefully as if they were precious jewels and still they had been struck with the fever, and this time his wife had been taken as well.
The prince had even blamed himself in a conversation with Lord Regan just a few days before.
“Is it my fault? Am I being punished?”
“It’s not punishment. It’s disease. The doctors are useless.”
“But all my family? Everyone dead except me. It has to be because of my blood, Regan.”
“The disease may attack the blood, but you are strong and you must stay strong, sire.”
“I’m not talking about disease, or doctors. I mean my blood.”
“You’re tired. The doctors were—”
“Can’t you listen! I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about my true blood. My s—”
“Out!” Regan had barked at March. “Leave us!”
March had hesitated and looked to the prince.
“I said, get out! Now!”
Regan had dragged March to the door and pushed him out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
March had remained there, his thoughts tripping over themselves.
“My blood” meant family, real family, by birth, not by marriage. So “my true blood” had to mean another blood relative. “True” because they were . . . what? Honest? First? And, before Lord Regan had cut him off, surely the prince had been about to say “my son.” Which meant . . . Prince Thelonius, the noble leader of civilized Calidor, the man who had wept for days over his dead wife, had fathered another son. A bastard!
March couldn’t stop smiling. No wonder Regan had wanted him out. Indeed, before he’d even had a chance to pass his suspicions to Holywell, yesterday’s meeting all but confirmed the
m. The prince had given his ring to Lord Regan along with instructions that Regan didn’t like. March had an idea what those were too: to find the prince’s son and bring him home. The lawyers would do the rest, legitimize the bastard. The prince wouldn’t have to remarry and father more children to die; the bastard would take the throne. The ring, the prince’s seal, was a sign of the truth of the message.
Was it too far-fetched? Could it be true?
“Brother, it’s good to see you. Though you need to keep a little more alert.” Holywell had arrived by his side while March was lost in thought. “You have news for me?”
March tried to look serious and not too keen. “I do,” he said. “Much news.”
The telling took little time, and at the end Holywell sat on the grass and thought for a few moments before saying, “You’ve done well, March. Very well. Your theory seems sound. Even if there is no son, Regan is up to something important, news of which has a value to my master in Brigant. But where is Regan now?”
March smiled inwardly at his opportunity to again prove his worth. “I followed Regan when he left the castle this morning. It was early, not even dawn. He went down to the docks. Alone. He boarded a ship bound for Pitoria.”
“Pitoria? You think that is where the prince’s bastard is?”
“Prince Thelonius went there as a young man. He talked about it once.”
Holywell gave a gentle laugh of surprise. “You know much, my friend. Did he mention fathering a child by any chance?” he added with a sly smile.
“No. He talked of the politics. He admired the country. Its wealth and tranquility. He was disappointed that they didn’t openly join in the fight against Aloysius, but he said they supported Calidor by sending food by sea. He told me that the soldiers color their hair to show which lord they are loyal to.”
“Ah yes, I’ve seen their colored hair.”
“You’ve been to Pitoria?”
“And it seems I must go again.”
Holywell was already standing as if he was going to leave there and then.
“What will you do?”
“Find the prince’s son, if I can. King Aloysius will pay handsomely for him. I will find him and”—Holywell smiled—“use my talents to prevent Regan bringing him back here, and instead find a means to take him to my Brigantine master.”
March wasn’t surprised by the answer. In fact, it was what he had been hoping to hear.
“I want to come with you.”
Holywell smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I want to help.”
“You are helping, my friend. You have a unique access to the prince. You have given me priceless information.”
“It has a price, and that is me coming with you.”
Holywell shook his head again.
March bunched his fists. “I can’t stay here any longer. I’m going mad. You know what it’s like to be a slave. Well, I’m no more than that, and a slave to a man I detest, my enemy, the man who caused the death of all my family and of my country.”
Holywell didn’t laugh as March thought he might, but he put his hand on March’s shoulder. “March. To work best against your enemy, our enemy, you need to stay here. No one else could do what you’ve done.”
March shoved off Holywell’s hand. “And now I’ve done it. But I won’t do more. Either I come with you or I’ll go somewhere else. I’m not going back there to pour more fucking wine.”
“You get very Abask when you’re angry.”
“Fuck you.”
Holywell chuckled. “I imagine you pour wine beautifully.”
“I pour it fucking perfectly all the fucking time but I’m not doing it anymore.”
“Working with me is a little harder than pouring wine and carrying a platter of fruit.”
March didn’t know what else to say. “I won’t go back there. I’ll follow you on my own if I have to.”
“March, brother. Calm yourself. I see you’re serious about this, so perhaps we can agree on something. I’m not used to working with anyone, but I admit it does occur to me from time to time that I could use an assistant. Following and watching is tiring work. Two can do it better than one. But only if the second person is quiet and quick and doesn’t talk too much.”
March looked at him and didn’t dare say anything. He could do not talking.
Holywell laughed.
“I won’t get in the way. I will help.”
Holywell now went quiet.
“I’ll do anything that needs to be done. Anything that fucks them up.”
“That look in your eye is quite dangerous, March. And I have to say it intrigues me. I wouldn’t work with any up-their-own-arse Calidorians or mad Brigantines, but you’re Abask. You’re Abask through to your bones. We are brothers.”
“So, I can come?”
“You can come. Though I warn you, March—you may be Abask, but I am too. I am not your master and I don’t expect you to pour me my wine, but I tell you now, working with me will be hard; it will not be civilized. I will expect you to risk everything to help me, and I will do the same for you. As I said, we’re brothers. And you may get hurt or you may get killed, but if you fuck up I’ll kill you myself.”
TASH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
“WE’LL BE at Dornan while the fair’s still on at this rate.”
Gravell was striding ahead, using two of his harpoons as walking sticks, the other three strapped to his back along with his huge pack of rope and skins. Tash followed behind.
They’d set off early the morning after the demon kill. Tash’s ankle was strong, and she was feeling good, very good. She kept thinking of the demon, though. He was beautiful, as an animal can be beautiful. He was fast too, but she’d outrun him. She, Tash, had outrun him, not just on a short dash but a long run through the forest. That was the fastest and farthest she’d ever run with a demon on her tail. She was an experienced demon hunter now, and she felt faster and stronger than ever before. Perhaps she was growing at last. She was thirteen, at least that’s what she thought she was, which was pretty much an adult, but everyone looked on her as a child. Some people in towns even treated her like a child. Just because she was small. One man in Dornan last time had even patted her head! She’d kicked him in the shins, punched him between the legs, and now as she thought of it she muttered, “He won’t do that again.”
“What’s that?” Gravell asked.
“Nothing . . . just thinking.”
“I’ve warned you about that before,” Gravell deadpanned, then added, “Not about bloody boots, I hope.”
Tash hesitated to ask but had to. “Do you think I’ve grown?”
“Grown?”
“Yes. Grown.”
“Taller, you mean?”
“Yes, taller. How else could I grow?”
Gravell’s pack moved up and down in a shrug.
“I think I’ve grown,” Tash said.
Gravell turned to face her, walking backward. “Funnily enough, you know what struck me this morning when I looked at you? Your height. It really did. I noticed a change and”—he held his hand out as if surveying her like a building—“yes, I’m certain of it. It’s remarkable. Astounding. I’d say you’ve shrunk by a whole hand’s width.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“Your sense of humor is shrinking too,” Gravell replied, turning to face ahead.
“Piss off.”
“Your language ain’t improving much neither.”
“Stop being in such a good mood. It doesn’t suit you.”
“We tall people are known for our good moods.”
“Hmm, more like you’re getting excited about drink and women.”
“Us tall men do attract the ladies, it has to be said.”
“Pah! I’ve never s
een you with a lady.”
“Small person, small mind.”
“You’re so annoying; probably because you’re so tall. I’ve noticed that about tall people. Think they’re above the rest of us.”
“That’s ’cause I am above you.”
“And don’t care about anyone but themselves.”
Gravell stopped and turned to Tash again.
“Fine then, my little friend. Stand against this. Let me measure you.”
He planted the harpoon on the ground. Tash stood by it. Gravell put his hand on the top of her head, which was still well below his armpit. “You come up to here. So, yes, you’ve grown.” Tash smiled. “You were here when I bought you.” Gravell pointed to the middle of the harpoon.
“Well, I know I’ve grown since then! I mean, have I grown in the last few weeks?”
Gravell pulled her to him. She was definitely still well below his armpit. “The honest truth? No. And don’t take this the wrong way, but your parents weren’t exactly giants. I think you might have reached as high as you’re ever going to get.”
Tash slumped inside. “But I feel taller.”
“How can you feel taller? You seeing things from a great height now?”
Tash thought about it. “Maybe I’m just feeling stronger. But much stronger. I feel so good today.”
Gravell smiled. “Stronger is good. It’s the food I give you. That stew last night was excellent, if I do say so myself. You need to be strong and fast. Don’t want another demon grabbing you.”
“But I’d like to grow just a little bit.”
“Nah, I want those spiked shoes I bought you to last a few years.”
“That’s a good point. The boots in Dornan were small. I need them to fit me.”
Gravell shook his head and set off again. “Them boots is all you think about.”
“And what’s wrong with that? They are the most beautiful boots in the whole world. And they’re going to be mine. They were probably designed with a petite person in mind.”