“And what about Boris? Have you found out more about his involvement?”
Tzsayn shook his head. “I could confront him, but he’d deny everything. And it would alert him to the fact that we know their plan. He may have means of getting word to his father, and that would destroy any small advantage we may have. I assume his plan is to slip out of Tornia unnoticed during the wedding celebrations to join his forces in the north.”
“And what is your plan for him?”
“We have a watch on him and his men at all times. For the moment, that is all we can do. Until Brigantine troops cross the border, we are not at war, and he is still my guest and future brother-in-law.” Tzsayn stood to leave. “Which reminds me—you haven’t asked about the wedding.”
Ambrose couldn’t help but smile. “You’re riding north to do battle with Princess Catherine’s father. I assume the wedding is off.”
“Not at all. Delayed, that’s all. When this war is over—if war it is to be—we will be married. Catherine has proved her loyalty to me and to Pitoria. Once I have dealt with her father, I will return, and then the wedding can take place.”
“So the only thing standing between you and Princess Catherine is a war with her father.” Ambrose smiled again. “Good luck with that.”
CATHERINE
TORNIA, PITORIA
The marriage of Princess Catherine to Prince Tzsayn is to benefit both Brigant and Pitoria.
Betrothal agreement between King Aloysius of Brigant and King Arell of Pitoria
CATHERINE HAD been pacing her rooms since she had told Tzsayn about the invasion. He had gone to talk to King Arell and Ambrose, and now he returned, looking pale and tired.
“What news?”
“I’ve spoken with my father. He thinks delaying the wedding is appropriate. It can’t go ahead tomorrow.”
Catherine was less surprised by the news than by the flicker of disappointment it caused. Marriage had been her goal for so long. Now, in an instant, it was gone. She said, “I understand.”
“Obviously it’s impossible for us to marry until we know beyond doubt the truth about this invasion. Besides, there’s a practical consideration—I won’t be here to be married. I’m going to ride north with my troops tonight. We’ll hide the fact that I have left—an announcement will be made that I am ill. My health is known to be precarious, so most people will believe it. I miss numerous engagements, though missing my own wedding is extreme, even for me.” Tzsayn gave a rueful laugh.
“Catherine, what you have done today may have saved thousands of lives. It may have saved my kingdom. My father and I are grateful beyond words. You have proved beyond any doubt that you would make a great queen of Pitoria. But you have also earned the right to make your own decision about that. Once I have dealt with your father, I will return and offer you a choice. If you wish to marry me, I will gladly honor our betrothal. If not, I will release you to do as you will. If there is another man with a greater claim on your heart, I will not stand between you.”
Catherine’s mind whirled, and for an instant she thought she might faint. She felt free, freer than she had ever known, and yet at the same time strangely bereft. Tzsayn’s offer was extraordinary. To allow her to make her own choice—of husband, of country, of future—was beyond all her expectations. And yet, even as her heart sang out Ambrose, her head was full of Tzsayn and the pure and simple kindness of his words. She hadn’t ever considered wanting to marry him, but now, for the first time, she could see what sort of husband he might be—considerate, respectful, and wise—and how they might rule Pitoria together.
Faced suddenly with the prospect of a life that was entirely her own to decide, words failed Catherine. She could only nod and say, “I understand. Thank you.”
Tzsayn nodded too, a small furrow lining the uninjured half of his brow, as if he had been hoping for more. If so, he recovered quickly.
“Before I go, I wanted to ask if you can tell me anything further about what your father is planning. Why would he invade? Why in the north? Any information you have could be crucial.”
Catherine shook her head. “I have no other information, Your Highness. I wish I had. None of it makes sense to me. For so many reasons it makes no sense. My mother has always said my father’s only real ambition is to retake Calidor. That everything he does—everything—should be seen in that light. But I cannot see how this invasion might help that aim. If he wants Calidor, why waste men, money, and time on a war with Pitoria? Could he just want plunder? Brigant is . . . not as wealthy as it once was. Is there anything in northern Pitoria that is of value?”
“The north is the poorest part of the country. There’s nothing there but snow, trees, and demons.”
“Demons.” Catherine remembered Lady Anne again. “Demon smoke. Boys.” She paused. “Could my father want to use the demon smoke in some way?”
Tzsayn shook his head. “It relaxes you, makes you happy, makes you sleep. It’s not a tool for war.”
This was just as Sir Rowland had said. “But the demons themselves, they sound fearsome.”
“Yes, but they can’t be tamed . . . can’t be used in an army. Why do you ask about them?”
Catherine wanted to tell him about the execution of Lady Anne, but that would bring the subject around to Ambrose, so she shook her head.
“Just a thought.” But her father had bought the smoke. Lady Anne had made the sign. Could she have known about the invasion? Could that be what she was warning about? In that case, though, why not make the sign for war?
“Well, perhaps the only way to find out is to ride north,” said Tzsayn. “I must go, Catherine. My father’s guards are watching Boris and his men. Boris is on a hunt this afternoon and there’s a feast afterward, but he will hear of my “illness’ by tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t like to guess what he will do then. He cannot wait for me to recover, or he will be caught in Tornia when news of the invasion arrives. He may decide to leave, and try to take you with him.”
“Whatever I do,” vowed Catherine, “I am not going back to Brigant.”
“I am glad to hear it. My men will be outside your door at all times. If you need anything, think of anything that might help, if you need to send me a message—ask them.”
“One final question: where’s Ambrose?”
“Safe and comfortable. I won’t harm him.”
“I’d like to see him. He’s done nothing wrong and risked much to help us.”
“He has, but he is safer kept where he and Boris won’t meet. I don’t want to risk another fight.”
Catherine had a feeling that was not Tzsayn’s main concern, but she had no reason to demand to see Ambrose other than her desire to see him. She said, “I’m glad you’re concerned for his safety. It’s his information that is helping Pitoria.”
“And for that I will always be grateful. Once Boris has departed, you may see Ambrose, with your maids present, of course.”
Catherine curtsied. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Tzsayn took her hand and drew her to her feet. He pressed his lips to her fingers, turned, and was gone.
* * *
On the morning of the next day—her wedding day—the messages began arriving early: two from Boris, demanding to know what was happening, and one far more eloquent and polite from Sir Rowland, who, in essence, wanted to know the same thing.
Catherine sent a reply to each, saying that she had heard Tzsayn was ill and the wedding was delayed but nothing more. A short time later Sarah opened the door and said, “Your brother is here to see you, Your Highness.”
Catherine knew this was coming, knew Boris would blame her for any delay; she just had to ensure he didn’t suspect she knew of the invasion. She took a calming breath and said, “Show him in.” But Boris was already pushing past Sarah, his face red with fury.
“What the fuck is going on?”