“Boris is planning your marriage like a military campaign. He’s sent details of the travel arrangements.”
Catherine was relieved that it was something relatively minor, though Boris considered his role anything but that and was organizing her marriage with remarkable assiduosity.
“Am I allowed to know what the plan is?”
The queen nodded. “You are to leave here in six days’ time, and travel by sea to Pitoria, under the protection of your brother. Once in Pitoria you will travel to the royal castle in Tornia and be introduced to the key families. You are to act under the guidance of your brother at all times. And on the twenty-third of May, the day before your seventeenth birthday, you are to be married to Prince Tzsayn.”
The queen held the scroll out for Catherine, saying, “Boris has been quite specific about the wedding festivities, naming all who are to attend the wedding, and to whom you are to be introduced. He’s put effort into this.”
Catherine scanned the letter. Among numerous details were these words: “Following tradition, the king requires that all the nobles of Pitoria be introduced to Catherine at her wedding and that she be given the respect that is her due as the daughter of King Aloysius and future queen of Pitoria.”
Catherine was surprised. All her life she’d been locked away in the castle, hardly allowed to see a soul, apart from certain courtiers and her guards. She’d never even been presented to any of her suitors.
But her father was ever practical. Locking Catherine away served the purpose of keeping her “safe” until her marriage and, once married, her father needed her to fulfill a new role as the bridge between Brigant and Pitoria.
The king’s aim was one her mother had taught her early: he wanted Calidor, he wanted to avenge his defeat and take his brother’s kingdom, which he felt was his by right. And everything he did was driven by that aim, including the marriage of his daughter. And the best use of Catherine was marrying her to the prince of Pitoria so that relations, and, most importantly, trade, could be improved and the black hole in the king’s treasury could be filled so that war with Calidor could be resumed.
Catherine smiled at her mother. “It certainly doesn’t look like I’m going to be locked away before my wedding.”
“Make the most of that time, Catherine, and, make of your marriage what you can.”
Catherine could make the most of it; she could help promote trade, promote other things, though she wasn’t sure what they would be, but she could have a life where she wasn’t shut away like her mother. She could help her father, his kingdom, and herself. She knew she could never be with Ambrose, she had always known that, but perhaps he would continue to evade Noyes and she could find freedom of her own in Pitoria.
MARCH
THE PITORIAN SEA
THE LOW faint green line of Pitoria was ahead on the horizon. March was standing with Holywell at the bow of the ship, enjoying the rise and fall and seeing the land before him take shape, as if he was riding into his own future. This was a future of his own making. His Abask life had been taken and he’d been given a servant’s life instead, but now he was on his way to reclaiming his destiny and to getting his revenge on Prince Thelonius. Holywell’s plan was simple: they would follow Regan to find Thelonius’s son and then kidnap the boy and take him to Brigant, to King Aloysius himself.
“Have you met Aloysius?” March asked Holywell.
“A few times. You’re not the only one familiar with royalty.”
“Is he as ruthless as they say?”
“Vicious is his nickname and it suits him well enough.”
“What will he do with Thelonius’s son?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Apart from the fact that he’ll pay us well for him.”
“I’m not doing this for money.”
“Well, my young brother, I imagine Aloysius will take great pleasure in making sure the prince knows his son is not in the lap of luxury but in a Brigantine dungeon.” Holywell looked at March. “He may kill him, though I doubt that; he’s more valuable alive. Is a son’s torture enough for you?”
March thought about it, and in truth all he wanted was to imagine the prince’s face when he discovered that not only had he lost a son, his blood, the first and last of his children, but that he had lost him because of March, because of how he had treated the Abask people and how he had betrayed them.
“I want him to know it’s because of what he did to us all.”
“Well, my angry young friend, you will have to tell him.”
March wasn’t sure how he’d do that, but he liked the thought of it.
“Maybe I will one day.”
“Have confidence,” Holywell said. “You’ll be surprised what we Abask nobodies can achieve.” He slapped March on the arm.
And March did have confidence, because Holywell had confidence. Holywell knew so much, more than March had expected. He spoke four languages, knew how the sails worked to move the ship and how it was steered, and he explained these things with surprising patience to March. Holywell spoke in Pitorian to March, teaching him and testing him. Holywell also taught him card tricks and dice and sometimes joined in the games with the sailors, but only enough to make a few friends and lose enough money to keep them. Just being with Holywell was enough to make him think that anything was possible.
March looked back toward Calidor. It had disappeared from sight on the afternoon of the first day, but March enjoyed knowing that the prince and his drinks table were still there, small and insignificant and far, far behind him.
March said to Holywell, “I went back to the castle before we left.”
Holywell raised his eyebrows. “When?”
“Early, before our ship sailed. I wanted to tell the prince that I was leaving.” He’d lain awake all night imagining what he’d say, the swear words he would use as he told the prince how he hated him, how he despised his supposedly civilized ways. How Thelonius’s fine manners and clothes couldn’t hide what he really was: a man who betrayed his promises, broke his oaths, a man no one should trust, and that he, March, could see the prince for the traitor he really was.
“And did you tell him?”
“He’d gone out riding at dawn. One of his old habits, but he’d stopped going since his wife’s death.”
“It seems the prince is recovering. So what did you do?”
“I poured myself a glass of wine—poured it beautifully, you’ll be pleased to hear—and sat in the prince’s chair in the bay window and looked out across the castle to the walls and city and sea beyond.”
“A pleasant breakfast.”
March shook his head. “I thought of my brother. Of when we were so hungry we had to eat grass and worms. I spat the wine out.”
“You’ll get your revenge soon, brother.” Holywell clamped his hand on March’s shoulder. “And afterward you’ll find wine tastes much sweeter.”
AMBROSE
FIELDING, BRIGANT
AMBROSE WAS sleeping at the edge of a clearing when he was attacked. The soldier ran at him from the trees across the clearing, sword aloft and footsteps thundering on the hard ground, shaking him awake. Ambrose now slept holding his sword, and he rolled to his side and rose to his feet as his assailant reached him and, in a smooth move, his sword entered the soldier’s chest just as easily as it had Hodgson’s. Then Ambrose realized the soldier was Hodgson. The dying man cursed him, blood pouring from his chest, as he brought his sword swooping down in an arc that Ambrose knew would slice his head off. He had to move, to parry, but he couldn’t. He was frozen. That’s when he woke.
Eyes wide open, Ambrose sat up, sweat on his back. He was breathing hard and grasping his neck where the sword would have struck him. The woodland around him was still. There were no attackers. There was no one here but himself. The only sound was his panicked breathing.
He swore and calmed his breath. Then he listened: he had dreamed the attack, but that didn’t mean Noyes’s men weren’t nearby.