March turned his head away. “Abask doesn’t exist now.”
Edyon looked at him. “But in the past?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I think you do know, but you don’t like talking about it.”
“What’s the point? It’s gone now.”
“What about your family? Do they serve the prince too?”
“They’re all dead, Your Highness.” That shut him up. “Shall we try aiming at that tree this time? Pretend it’s a demon.”
“We can aim, March, but whether I shall hit it is another matter . . .”
By the end of the day most of Edyon’s harpoons were at least landing point first, though he never did hit the tree he was aiming at.
“Well,” said Holywell, drawing out the word appraisingly. “March and I might be able to hit a demon, if it came to it.”
“Let’s hope they only attack in pairs.”
“Very funny, Your Highness.” Holywell sounded unamused. “Did your books tell you if they travel in groups?”
Edyon frowned. “Oh, hadn’t I told you that, Holywell? They always come in hordes.”
Edyon met Holywell’s gaze and, for once, didn’t look away.
March realized he was smiling.
* * *
They made camp as they had done each day so far. First getting a fire going and then eating, sleeping, and taking turns to watch for demons or bears or sheriff’s men. Whoever was on guard kept the fire going. Every morning, as it got light, they boiled water for porridge and Edyon cooked the eggs, which March thought he was good at, but Holywell scoffed his share down without comment. Then they packed the things on the pony and started out. The plateau was huge and featureless; the map was no use—all they could do was keep heading west. Holywell thought it would take a week to get to Rossarb if they kept at a decent pace. And Holywell’s idea of decent was tough. They stopped only at midday, for water and a snack of nuts and fruit. They collected dry wood as they walked, so that by evening there was enough for a fire.
Now March lay as close to the fire as he could, but despite his exhaustion it was hard to sleep for the biting cold. Holywell had taken the first watch, and he came over and shook him.
“Your turn.” He spoke in Abask.
March sat up. He might be on guard, but he wasn’t going to move away from the fire. Holywell sat down close to him. “How are you getting on with our charge?”
Edyon lay on the far side of the fire, asleep. His jacket bulged where he held the smoke bottle against his chest.
“Fine. He’ll be useless in a fight, but you know that.”
“I also know that he likes you.”
March felt an uncomfortable prickling in his scalp but forced a casual shrug. “Must be my winning personality.”
“You know what I mean. He likes men. Likes men a lot. It’s not right.”
“He’s the son of a prince. Princes do a lot of things that aren’t right, in my experience.”
Holywell spat. “He’s no prince. He’s a soft, spoiled bastard, and soon he’ll be a soft, spoiled prisoner. Don’t get too pally with him.”
March didn’t need Holywell to tell him what to do. “I’m a servant. Why would I be pally with him?”
“Servant be damned,” hissed Holywell fiercely. “You’re an Abask. Remember why we’re here and why he’s here. We don’t owe him anything. We haven’t made an oath to protect him, like Thelonius did to the Abask people. We are exacting our payment for his father’s treachery.”
“Yes. I know. Edyon is the son of our enemy. I’ll never be his friend.”
“Or anything else.”
“Or anything else.”
Holywell patted March on the shoulder. “Good, I’ll sleep now. Make sure His Royal Highness takes his share of the watch.”
March got up and stamped his feet as he paced around the fire. He remembered the fires he used to make with his brother, and the time they had streaked their faces with soot and hunted each other through the mountains outside their village, and how they had fallen asleep together that night in their father’s arms, in the fire glow of their simple home.
He looked at Edyon, his features golden in the light of the fire. Another face, another fire, another world.
All March’s family were dead because of this man’s father. No, he would never be Edyon’s friend.
AMBROSE
TORNIA, PITORIA
IN THE darkness of his cell, Ambrose was thinking about his sister. Anne would have been held in a similar cell before they executed her. She would have been cold and alone, as he was. Perhaps she had rats for companions too. And perhaps her fate would now be his. Would Prince Tzsayn see him as a man of honor who had brought news that might save his kingdom—or a rival to be gotten rid of? Had Princess Catherine even managed to share the news he’d risked so much to bring her? Would she be able to get away before the invasion?
His thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of the cell door. A soldier came in—one of Tzsayn’s men with the blue hair—and bowed.
“Would you kindly follow me, Sir Ambrose?”
Ambrose blinked, in surprise as much as at the sudden brightness of the soldier’s lantern. This wasn’t the sort of invitation he’d been expecting. But he certainly wasn’t going to let it pass.
“With pleasure.”
They climbed the winding stair from the cold, stone dungeons to a warmer place: a room that was finely furnished with a bed, table, and chair. There were windows, but they were barred and, after the soldier left, the door locked from the outside.
Still, Ambrose was pleased he didn’t have to share this room with his friends, the rats, and as he lay down on the bed he allowed the faint spark of hope within his heart to spread. This was a good sign, surely? Was it Catherine’s doing, somehow? Whoever was behind it, you didn’t move a prisoner from the dungeon to whatever this place was if you were just planning on cutting their head off.
And yet . . . the situation remained perilous. Aloysius’s invasion would be starting within a few hours. And who knew what would happen to anyone when the war began! His thoughts were again interrupted by the blue-haired soldier, who opened the door to let in a visitor.
“Prince Tzsayn.” Ambrose stood and bowed.
Tzsayn sat on the chair and motioned the guard to leave. There was a long pause.
“Sir Ambrose, I must thank you for the information you have brought us.” In his scarred hand Tzsayn held the orders that Ambrose had stolen from Lord Thornlee. “You have risked much.”
“And yet I appear to be your prisoner. Though this is a much more pleasant cell than the one I was in earlier.”
Tzsayn smiled. “I’m sure you understand that I needed to appear firm in front of Prince Boris. And afterward I needed to speak to Princess Catherine and find out more about you. Now I think I have your measure. So I should ask you what you wish to do. If I were to open that door, where would you go?”
Ambrose hesitated. He wanted to go to Catherine, of course, but he could hardly say that to the man to whom she was betrothed. So he said, “I’m not sure.”
“Well,” said Tzsayn, “you have some time to consider. I’m not going to open the door just yet.”
“So I’m still your prisoner.”
“You’re my guest,” Tzsayn demurred, “and in my home. You’ll have the best food and wine. There will, however, be rather limited freedom, at least while Boris is also in my home.”
“And may I ask what you are going to do with the information I gave to the princess?”
“I’m riding north tonight with a few hundred men. More will follow.”
“Aloysius has thousands.”
“Yes, but thanks to you, we know he’s coming. Messenger birds have been sent to all the northern forts, warning them of the attack. If they can’t check Aloysius at the border, they’ll fall back to Rossarb. The castle there can be held by a hundred men against a thousand. The important thing is for me to get there quickly. I can’t do that with a large army.”