Catherine turned away and crossed to the north-facing window. She’d glanced out of it earlier and only seen cloud, but now mountains were revealed, mountains like Catherine had never seen. They were dark, almost black, and snow-capped, and amid them rose an area of land that wasn’t peaked and pointed but flat and vast. The Northern Plateau. Demon country. Even from this distance it looked strange and wild and beautiful.
Did her father intend to go there? Did he want the demons for some reason? If so, Rossarb certainly seemed a good base of operations. But what was he really after? Lady Anne had signed “demon smoke,” “boy,” and something else. It made no sense, but Catherine could not shake off the feeling that she held almost all the clues needed to solve this puzzle, but just couldn’t put them together.
She had been in her rooms all day. From the window that looked east over the courtyard she had seen Tzsayn stride out into the courtyard, leave on horseback, and return a few hours later. The Brigantine army also had arrivals and departures. As well as the army that had invaded by land, her father seemed to be sending more troops by ship across the bay. Catherine couldn’t see where they were landing but felt certain they were the support troops for the soldiers her party had encountered on the road. They would be strengthening their beachhead to the south of Rossarb, threatening the coastal road she had ridden along from Tornia. Rossarb was surrounded by sea to the west and the Brigantine army to the north. Unless more Pitorian troops arrived soon to relieve the defenders, Rossarb would be encircled and cut off.
It was dark when there was a knock at the door. Catherine was hoping it would at last be a message from Tzsayn but was surprised to see not a messenger but the man himself. The eye on the scarred side of his face was red and half-closed. He looked exhausted. Catherine was certain she was not at her best either.
“Princess Catherine, I’m sorry I couldn’t see you sooner. It’s been a busy day. I hear you came through the battle to reach us.”
“Yes, we saw some of it. I lost one of my maids, and some of the men were killed too.”
“I heard that. I’m sorry. It’s not been a good day for us. Your father’s men have captured the beach and intend to cut us off and take Rossarb. They’d have taken her already, though, if it wasn’t for the warning you gave us.”
“And you can defend Rossarb?”
Tzsayn nodded. “It’s small but the walls are strong. We should be able to hold out until reinforcements arrive from Tornia. Even so, this is not a good place for you to be.”
“What drove us to leave Tornia was not good either. As well as the invasion, my father planned an assassination. Boris and his men aimed to kill you and your father on the night of the wedding. When the wedding was postponed, they attacked anyway. Your father was injured and a number of lords have been killed.”
“Yes, I’ve had the news by bird.”
Catherine hesitated. “And? Is your father, is the king . . . ?”
“Alive? Yes. But not out of danger.” Tzsayn sat down on one of the wooden chairs, suddenly looking much younger than his twenty-three years. “I hear you were with him when it happened, and that I have to thank Sir Ambrose for the fact that you and my father weren’t both killed. I wish I’d been there. I wish I was there now.”
Catherine sat next to Tzsayn. “I’m sorry for what has happened to your father. It seems I underestimated my own.”
Tzsayn grimaced. “He is quite special, isn’t he? He sends assassins to my wedding and his army into my land. He’s killed many of my people, tortured and maimed others, taken two forts, and now threatens to take Rossarb.”
“Special indeed.”
“But he won’t take it,” vowed Tzsayn, clenching his scarred hand into a fist. “I have the support of the people. They hate and fear your father.”
“You have my support too, for what it’s worth.”
“It is worth a great deal to me, Catherine.” Tzsayn smiled at her. Then his face fell. “But this invasion still makes no sense. The attack on my father makes no sense. Even if Boris had succeeded in killing him and half the lords of Pitoria, Aloysius couldn’t conquer the kingdom. His army here isn’t large enough, and there are no signs of another invasion farther south. He must want something here, but what? Why?”
“I still think it’s something to do with demon smoke,” said Catherine. “But I cannot fathom what that is.”
The prince stood. “Well, whatever he wants, I intend to stop him getting it. Now, alas, I have more issues to attend to before I retire.”
“One final question, Your Highness. May I ask about my men?”
“Your men?”
Catherine blushed. “I realize that Rafyon and the Prince’s Troop are yours, but they have looked after me well for the last few days.”
He smiled. “And I hear your own men chose to follow you out of the city. Well, they shall all be your men from now on. All your men are being housed in the barracks. Including Sir Ambrose.” He went to the door and then turned. “I think they should all have their hair dyed white. Short white hair would look good. Particularly on Ambrose. I can arrange for a barber.”
Catherine smiled, but, as ever, she wasn’t entirely sure that Tzsayn wasn’t being serious.
EDYON
ROSSARB, PITORIA
IT WAS dark and cold in the cells. And smelly: a mix of stale piss and worse. Edyon crouched with his back to the door, not wanting to encounter anything that might be lurking in the dark corners. The door was made of thick wood, but there was a tiny barred window in it, through which Edyon could see more doors. Though he’d shouted for March, there’d been no reply.
When they took Edyon from his cell the first time, he went meekly along. He was taken to the room at the end of the corridor. The interrogator was a slim man with blue hair and a thick scar across each cheek. He told Edyon, “All you have to do is answer my questions truthfully.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The questions started off reasonably enough: questions about his name, where he was from, and where he was going. Edyon wasn’t totally truthful, but really this was none of the man’s business.
Then came the less reasonable questions. “You’re a spy, aren’t you?”
“No. And who would I be a spy for anyway? Spying on what?”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me.”
“Who is in the Brigantine camp?”
“Um, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What are your orders?”
“I don’t have any orders. No one has given me orders. This is ridiculous!”
That was the first time the scarred man hit him: a punch to the stomach.
Edyon had managed to croak, “I demand to talk to your superior officer.”
The scarred man laughed and punched Edyon again. This time Edyon fell to the floor.
The scarred man bent low and hissed, “You’re a spy. Sent by the Brigantines.”
“And you’re a fool with blue hair, sent by the prince of fools!”
He’d been kicked for that, and punched some more. He was left on the floor for some time, then dragged back to his cell, where he fell into a strange sleep, full of dreams of Madame Eruth, swirling smoke, and the demon.
The second time they came for Edyon, he resisted as best he could, which only made his next beating worse. The questions were the same, and he couldn’t think of any other answer than: “I’m not a spy.”
When he was back in his cell, he shouted to March, desperate for the sound of a kind voice. But to no avail. Finally Edyon lay on the floor, shivering and listening, until sleep found him again.
The third time they came for him, he was too tired and cold to resist. It was pointless. He was taken down the corridor to the same room as before.
This time it wasn’t empty.
March hung in the center of the room from chains attached to his wrists. He was bare-chested and bloodied. His body was covered in cuts, blood pooling on the floor at his feet. His eyes were open but unfocused, his lips split and puffy.
The interrogator turned to Edyon. “Ready to tell me the truth this time?”
Edyon couldn’t tear his eyes off March.
He is in pain, so much pain. I cannot see if he lives or dies . . .
Damn Madame Eruth and damn her foretelling.
“I told you before: we’re not spies,” he forced himself to say. “We’re not even from Brigant. I’m from Pitoria. This is my country. March is from Calidor.”