Finally she was ready and Tzsayn stepped away from her. But Catherine said, “Ambrose should throw first. Then I’ll see if I can match him.”
Another spear was brought, and they moved to the far side of the courtyard. Ambrose threw the spear toward the far wall with all his strength. It struck the cobbles just in front of the wall.
“Not bad. Nice technique,” Tzsayn said. “Let’s see if the lady can beat you.”
Ambrose took a deep breath and managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
But then he was amazed. Catherine threw. Her technique was not perfect at all and the spear wobbled in the air, landing harmlessly tail first, but she had matched the distance that he had thrown—almost exactly, in fact.
Catherine laughed and clapped her hands. “With practice I think I could get it over the wall.”
“My turn!” Tash shouted.
Catherine, Tzsayn, and Ambrose turned to see Tash holding the bottle of smoke. “Gravell told me I shouldn’t ever inhale this stuff, but, well, the princess has . . . and anyway it’s just this once.” And she inhaled the smoke, held it in, and then breathed out a long stream of it. She picked up the spear, twirled it in her hand, banged its base on the paving, took a few steps, and launched it.
Ambrose gaped. Tash’s technique was good, but that could not account for the distance. The spear flew high across the courtyard and was still rising as it sailed over the battlements, thankfully to land harmlessly in the river or possibly even beyond it.
Catherine grinned. “I think the ladies have won the tournament.”
Ambrose said, “And I think I know my sister’s full message.” He looked at Catherine. “There were hundreds of boys at Fielding, all training to fight.”
Catherine said it: ““Demon smoke,’ “boy,’ “army.’”
Ambrose added, “Though it appears the smoke works on boys and girls.”
“My father would never have girls in his army. But it seems that the younger the boy or girl, the better the effects of the smoke. It doesn’t work on you, on grown men, at all.”
Ambrose thought back to the boys on the beach at Fielding. “Yes, the boys I saw ranged from twelve to fifteen or sixteen at the most. They clearly had great strength and speed but were developing technique. And with demon smoke they’d be more than a match for any army. They could take Calidor. And possibly Pitoria too.”
MARCH
ROSSARB, PITORIA
MARCH AWOKE to the touch of something cold on his back. He tensed, waiting for the bite of the hook, but instead a familiar warm, soothing tickle began to spread across his skin.
“Don’t move!” Edyon’s voice. “You’ve got a few cuts here that I missed this morning. I’m using a cup to hold the smoke. Seeing if it works better.”
“And?”
“Hard to tell.” March felt soft fingertips stroke his back, then Edyon said, “But I prefer the old-fashioned method.” And he pressed his lips against March’s skin.
When March woke again, it was to the sound of Edyon’s voice, saying, “He’s sleeping now, but much better, Your Highness, thank you.”
Your Highness? Was there another prince in the room?
March lifted his head a fraction from his blankets to see a petite and delicate, fair-skinned and fair-haired young woman dressed fashionably in the palest of gray silks, standing with a man dressed in a blue leather jacket. That had to be Prince Tzsayn. March rested his head back, closed his eyes, and listened.
“And I have to thank you,” said Tzsayn. “By bringing us the smoke, you’ve helped uncover the truth behind this invasion. However, the reason I’m here now is to properly introduce you to Princess Catherine, formerly of Brigant, now of Pitoria.”
“Oh. I mean, I’m honored, Your Highness.”
“And I’m honored and pleased to meet you . . . cousin.” The princess’s voice was light and musical. “Circumstances were rather . . . unusual earlier, so we couldn’t be introduced then.”
Edyon gave an embarrassed cough. “Yes, my apologies, I was a little worse for the effects of the smoke.”
“You weren’t the only one! But it seems you are recovered now.”
“Yes, thank you. Though I feel foolish, even without the smoke. I’m not really used to this. I’ve only just discovered who my father is. March was sent to take me back to him.”
“I’d like to hear about your life and your journey. It certainly sounds eventful.”
“And, from what I understand, I can say the same for you. Or can I? I’m not even sure what I can say to a princess.”
At that, the prince said, “And I’d like to hear from March. I wonder how his wounds feel. They’re certainly looking better.”
March thought back to the man who’d hit him and cut him, his stupid questions and ridiculous accusations. He remembered hanging from the ceiling. He remembered the hook. That man was working for this prince.
He opened his eyes.
“I’m feeling better,” he said. “Though, if I see the bastard who did this to me, I’ll gladly sink a metal hook into his chest.”
The prince nodded. “Then I’ll make sure your paths don’t cross again.”
It was that simple for a prince. But, March realized, nothing was truly simple.
The princess looked at March and smiled graciously. She was very beautiful. “March. We’ll let you recover in peace. Edyon, I hope we can talk more soon.”
After they’d gone, March watched Edyon plump up the pillows on his bed. Edyon had saved his life on the plateau and risked his own to do so. And then, somehow, he had saved him again. They were brothers now, but still that didn’t feel right. Edyon had held his hand in the cells. Touched him gently, more gently than he’d thought possible. Put his lips to his skin.
And March had liked it.
Edyon was sitting cross-legged on a small bed in the corner of the room, inspecting his chain and the ring it contained.
“Thank goodness they found this. It’s what convinced them we weren’t spies.”
March scoffed. “Common sense would have told them that in the first place.”
“History shows that in times of war, sense of any kind is thin on the ground.”
“And did the princess tell you how the war is going?”
“I genuinely forgot to ask, but there aren’t many cheerful faces around here.” He smiled at March. “Except for mine. You’re alive, I’m alive, we’re not in a cold cell.” He picked up an apple. “We have food, clean clothes.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m naked under here.”
Edyon raised an eyebrow. “I know. Who do you think undressed you? We may all be killed tomorrow, but at least we can enjoy today.” He bit into the apple.
“Well, I’d like some clothes. If Rossarb is going to be overrun by Brigantines, I can at least run away with my dignity intact.”
Edyon threw him some trousers and held up Holywell’s silver necklace. “I got them to bring this as well.” And he went to March and fastened it round his neck.
It was funny how quickly things changed. Three weeks ago, when he’d arrived in Pitoria, March had hated Edyon, even though they had never met. Two weeks ago he’d found him foolish, naive, and frivolous. Now . . . he wasn’t sure what he felt for Edyon, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t betray him to Aloysius. Edyon did not deserve that fate.
March and Holywell had tricked Edyon into leaving his home and his mother. Brought him to this town surrounded by danger. If they survived, March knew what he had to do: he had to help Edyon get to Calidor, even though March could never go with him. So March had a choice: to tell Edyon the truth and leave him, or tell him a lie and leave him.
No, nothing was simple. But he knew he should tell the truth. He wanted Edyon to be a true prince, and for that there should be no lies.
CATHERINE
ROSSARB, PITORIA
The sign for “traitor” is a vertical palm with all four fingers bent closed at the second joint, while the thumb stands out.