“But, but . . . I was only trying to stop him hurting March. I didn’t want . . .”
“March’ll live. The wound’s not too bad. But we need to get moving.”
March said, “Edyon, sir. There’s nothing we can do here. This is my friend Holywell, another servant of the prince. He can keep you safe.”
Edyon was still standing with the spear and staring at the sheriff’s man.
The man called Holywell looked toward Tash and she sank out of sight.
“Who was the girl? Can we trust her to be quiet?”
“She’s . . . she’s a demon hunter,” replied Edyon. “She won’t be running to the sheriff.”
Holywell said in a loud voice, “If she does, she’ll have her guts cut open.” And Tash knew the message was meant for her to hear.
She risked one more peek over the bank. Edyon still seemed to be in a daze as Holywell took the spear from him and dropped it to the ground. Holywell virtually pushed Edyon onto a horse, saying, “Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get going.”
Tash watched them ride off and then stayed where she was for a few moments, ensuring everything was quiet. Nothing moved. She crept back along the river toward the sheriff’s man. She’d seen dead demons before, but never a dead man. The sheriff’s man was not so beautiful, but there was something about him that was the same as a dead demon: he was just a shell, the life gone out of him.
Tash ran. She needed to get away from that place. Running helped. Running took her mind off things. She ran as fast as she could, following Edyon and the others, but really she just wanted to go back to Gravell, to rewind everything to before she’d seen Gravell in the bathhouse and before she’d seen those stupid gray boots.
AMBROSE
THE BRIGANTINE–PITORIAN BORDER
“THIS IS madness!” exclaimed Ambrose. “It makes no sense. Why invade Pitoria? It’s Calidor that Aloysius wants—it’s always been Calidor.”
“Perhaps he learned his lesson after the last war and is looking for easier pickings,” Tarquin replied.
“But relations with Pitoria have been improving. Catherine is about to marry the heir to the throne!”
“Which means every lord in the kingdom will be in Tornia for the wedding. Perhaps Aloysius’s plan is not so ludicrous. What better time to invade? Get a foothold in the north, then move south. The marriage is a wonderful diversion.”
“But . . . they’ll think Catherine is part of the plot.”
“Are you sure she isn’t?”
Ambrose had to remind himself that Tarquin didn’t know Catherine at all. “She’s not. I’m sure of it. She’ll be imprisoned—or executed! I have to warn her!”
“Careful, brother. Communicating war plans to a foreign power is treason against Brigant.”
“I’ve no intention of communicating plans to a foreign power, only to Catherine. I swore an oath to protect her and that remains my duty and . . . and . . .”
“And you love her,” finished Tarquin simply.
There was no point denying it.
“I do.”
“Then you must go. Find her. Warn her. The invasion is set for the day before the wedding. That’s only a week away. You have to reach Tornia before then. Take the letter to show her.”
Ambrose nodded. “What about you? Noyes’s men will have noticed your absence from Tarasenth.”
“I’m carrying on my normal duties, making a tour of our villages,” said Tarquin, shrugging. “I’ll do so briefly, then return home and warn Father.”
“They’ll have a description of the man who stole the orders. I don’t think it will take much for them to realize it was me. That will lead them to you.”
“Stop worrying about me. I can handle their questions. But, Ambrose, whatever happens, even if you warn the princess, a war is coming. Aloysius will invade. I hope at the end of this you’ll be able to come home, but for now we must part, and I fear it will be a long time before we see each other again.” Tarquin embraced Ambrose. “Be careful, little brother.”
This parting was so sudden. Even if Ambrose succeeded in warning Catherine, he was fleeing his native country as a proclaimed traitor. It seemed unlikely he’d see Tarquin again, and at the thought of that he pulled his brother tighter. “You’re the best of brothers. The best. I will make you proud.”
He felt Tarquin kiss his forehead and then release him, saying, “Remember us. Remember Anne too.”
Ambrose nodded. He couldn’t speak.
Tarquin swung himself into his saddle. “I’ll miss you more than you realize. I know you’ll act with honor.” And he wheeled his horse round and rode away.
* * *
Ambrose cut east toward the coast, and soon the Bay of Rossarb lay huge before him and, across the water, Pitoria. The narrow road hugged the coast as it rolled toward the Brigantine castle of Nort, an ugly square stone building set back from the beach and following the steep slopes of the mountain foot. Beyond it, a small river bridge marked the actual border; on the other side of it lay a small Pitorian fort. In the far distance was the town of Rossarb, and behind it, the strange flat mountains of the Northern Plateau. It was a desolate place, still and silent, marked by a few straggly shrubs and stunted trees, and Ambrose struggled to imagine how, in just a few days’ time, thousands of men would be marching through it to invade Pitoria.
His hands tightened into fists on his reins. An invasion without warning by a king bereft of honor. A man who, to gain a tactical advantage, thought nothing of sacrificing his only daughter, a woman with more of the qualities of kingship—intelligence, compassion, justice—than her father would ever possess. She was alone in a foreign land, unaware of the danger that closed in around her.
Despite his impatience to keep moving, Ambrose had to wait for nightfall before striking out for the border. Nort Castle straddled the road. On the landward side, a steep, bare hillside sloped down to the castle, impossible to navigate on horseback. That left the shore. With the tide out, an expanse of sand offered the only clear way to the border.
His heart in his mouth, Ambrose rode out of the sandy grassland and onto the beach in full view of the castle. The night was dark, the moon obscured by clouds, but he still felt horribly exposed. Surely the castle would be on high alert with the invasion so close. With every moment he expected a shout of challenge or an arrow to come flying out of the darkness.
He was within bowshot of the castle, certainly, when the gates began to open. One rider came out, then another and another. Four in total, trotting toward him. Their horses would be fresh. His was not. Still, there was no going back, that was certain.
The soldiers drew themselves up in a line as Ambrose approached, smiling and shouting a cheery “Good evening, sirs!” But he was close enough now to see Boris’s badge on their tunics, and he knew he couldn’t bluff his way through. There was only one thing to do. He kicked hard and rode at a gallop directly at the men. The soldiers shouted for him to stop, but Ambrose drew his sword, his wild slashes forcing them apart. And then he was past them, his body bent forward, his eyes on the Pitorian fort in the distance, knowing that his horse hadn’t the strength to go far at speed.
“Come on!” he urged, as his horse skirted the castle and returned to the road on the far side. Ahead lay the bridge and the border, but his horse was tiring fast. He glanced back. The four soldiers were close, but not as close as he’d feared. Spurring his horse again, Ambrose forced a final burst of speed from the creature’s legs and clattered onto the bridge. Ahead, he could see a mounted soldier, roused by the disturbance, making his way out of the Pitorian fort.