by Sally Green
“Then we get some food and directions and we can be on our way,” March said. But then he turned and added, “What are they doing there?”
And that’s when the two men with dyed red hair—hair the color of the sheriff’s men—rode into view. The older one called out, “Good morning to you. You’re visiting the area?”
“Just passing through,” Edyon said. “We’ve just been battling Brigantines with Tenny.”
“I imagine Tenny enjoyed that.”
“Indeed he did.”
“I’ve just seen his wife in town. She said they had visitors. One of them by the name of Edyon Foss. Is that you?”
“Um, is there a problem?” Edyon replied.
“Well? Is your name Edyon Foss?”
Edyon had a bad feeling about this. “Um . . . Why do you ask, sir?”
The soldier took from his jacket a parchment. Edyon frowned at it, wondering what it could be. Then the red top opened it up and held it out for him to see.
“Oh no. Not that.”
It was the poster with his name and picture. And below his likeness were the words:
WANTED FOR MURDER
TASH
DEMON TUNNELS
IN TASH’S dream, a demon leaned over her, his red eyes wide and glaring. Tash almost jumped into the air, but a tight grip on her arm held her still.
Argh! Shits!
Calm down. It’s me, Geratan.
Fucking shitting shits!
You swear a lot.
You creep up on me a lot.
It’s easy to creep up on someone who’s asleep.
I was resting, that’s all. Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you were going back to the surface.
It’s not right. You shouldn’t be alone here. You’re too young.
Tash shook Geratan’s hand off her, sat up, and scowled at him. Was she always going to be treated like a child?
Geratan turned back to look over the edge of the terrace, leaving his hand stuck out as if he expected Tash to grasp it again.
As if I need to communicate with him! As if I need him to watch over me!
Tash edged forward, making a point of not touching his hand. The cavern looked much the same as before: the demons were all at the lower-level terrace, and there was the naked body of the soldier on the ground. But it seemed that something was happening. The music was getting louder and the demons were linking hands.
And then, climbing up the terrace, out of the hole, appeared a demon. A purple one, slightly unstable and moving slowly, staggering at one point, as though these were his very first steps.
The singing reached a crescendo when the demon was at last at the level of the platform. One of the reddish-white demons went to him and took hold of the purple demon’s hands and they stood together. The music softened to silence. The purple demon looked around and then up, and Tash and Geratan instinctively ducked down. When Tash looked again, the new demon—for that seemed to be what he was—was still standing on the terrace with the reddish-white demon. And the two large red demons went down and picked up the body of the remaining soldier, carried it to the platform, and threw it in.
Geratan put his hand on Tash’s. That’s Jaredd. He was a good soldier. I saw them throw Aryn’s body in and I think that’s him who’s just come out, but he’s nothing like the old Aryn.
The smoke must change the human bodies and turn them into demons.
Yes, I think so. This must be how they breed. Geratan shook his head. Well, it’s a lot easier and quicker than giving birth the human way.
Tash frowned at Geratan. Not so easy for Jaredd and Aryn.
But Tash could see this was the way demons survived as a tribe. They needed human bodies to make more demons, and the tunnels led to the plateau where they killed humans. The bodies were thrown into the smoke-filled well and new, young purple demons came out.
Also, Tash noted, all the demons seemed to be male. Perhaps that was because only men had been thrown in.
I really, really don’t want to be the first girl demon.
EDYON
BOLLYN, NORTHERN PITORIA
THE RED-HAIRED man on the horse held up the poster. Edyon was wanted for the murder of the sheriff’s man who had caught Edyon and Tash with the bottle of purple demon smoke in the woods outside the fair at Dornan. Edyon had been high from inhaling the smoke; the whole series of events was like a hazy dream.
But he remembered parts of it vividly. March had told him that his father was Prince Thelonius and his mother had confirmed it. He had been waiting for March and Holywell, who were going to take him to meet his father in Calidor. But while he’d waited in the dark woods Tash had appeared, and all he’d wanted to do was get rid of the bottle of purple smoke that he’d stolen, the smoke that was the cause of all his problems. But the sheriff’s man had seen the glow from the smoke and tried to arrest them. Tash had run off, but March and Holywell had arrived. In the ensuing confrontation the sheriff’s man had stabbed March with his spear, Edyon had tried to help, and Holywell had killed the sheriff’s man. Edyon had fled with March and Holywell but had left his bag of clothes almost next to the body. Damn that purple smoke and the bag of clothes, damn his stupidity!
The sheriff’s man looked from the picture of Edyon to Edyon himself and said, “I asked you a question. Are you Edyon Foss?”
Edyon ruffled his hair and smiled, doing his best to look amiable and not at all like the picture on the poster. “Do I look like I could murder a fly, sir?”
“Gloria said you’d come over the Northern Plateau. That’s not for the faint-hearted.”
Edyon could feel his smile fading, but a discussion of anything other than who he was seemed like a good idea. “Sir, we fled from Rossarb pursued by Brigantines. We escaped with some of Prince Tzsayn’s men, who guided us on to the plateau. It was our only way out of Rossarb and we were lucky to survive it.”
“And where are they now, the prince’s men?”
“There was a storm and we got separated. We fled here to safety.”
“And led the Brigantines here!”
“I can assure you, sir, we did our best to lose them!”
The red top sniffed and scratched his neck. “And what were you doing in Rossarb?”
“Doing?”
“Yes, doing. What was your business in Rossarb? Do you come from there?”
Edyon couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Do I sound as though I come from Rossarb?”
“You, sir, sound like you come from some southern-arse town. So what was your business in Rossarb? Can you answer this simple question, or is it too difficult for your southern mind to grasp?”
Edyon decided to pull rank and said, “My southern mind was looking for a ship. I was also making the acquaintance of my cousin, Princess Catherine, and her fiancé, Prince Tzsayn, who I believe is also from southern Pitoria.”
The red top raised his eyebrows. “You’re related to royalty then?”
“Indeed I am. I was in Rossarb looking for a ship to take me to Calidor to see my father, Prince Thelonius.”
The red top laughed. “So your father is a prince, is he?”
Edyon nodded. “Indeed, sir. That is what I have just said.” And he reached for the gold chain that he always wore round his neck. “This is proof of my identity. The ring hanging from it is the seal of Prince Thelonius. It shows I’m his son.”
The red top looked at the chain, and for a moment he seemed to hesitate: the gold was clearly worth a fortune; this wasn’t the jewelry of a common man. Then he dismissed it. “Your cousin’s a princess, your father’s a prince, you’re mates with Prince Tzsayn. Well, it’s an honor to meet you, sir. What was your name again?”
March muttered, “Forget the ring. Where’s the letter from Tzsayn? It gives us free passage.”
Edyon went to r
each for it in his jacket, and then the truth crashed over him. “It was in the bag,” he whispered.
“What?” said March.
“The bag—it filled with water when I jumped in the river and . . . I let it go. It’s lost. Everything’s lost.”
March swore softly.
The letter had stated: “Whoever carries it is to be given all aid and free passage to Calidor at the request of Prince Tzsayn of Pitoria.” Without it, this sheriff’s man could delay them for as long as he saw fit.
“Answer my question,” the red top demanded. “What’s your name?”
“I have told you who I am. I’m the son of Prince Thelonius of Calidor, cousin to Princess Catherine, who is betrothed to Prince Tzsayn. I’m a friend of Prince Tzsayn.”
“And I, sir,” said the red top, “am the son of Basson of Dornan, cousin to Maria, who is betrothed to Starell the farrier, and I’m also a friend to all good men of Pitoria and an enemy of villains, thieves, and murderers. And I have here a document showing a man with a likeness to yourself who is wanted for the murder of Ronsard, the sheriff’s man in Dornan, an old friend of mine.”
“That picture is so badly drawn it could be said to be like half the young men in Pitoria.”
“You told Gloria that your name was Edyon Foss. Do you deny it now?”
Edyon backed away. “I deny that I murdered Ronsard.”
“Well, you can plead your case to the judge. You, Edyon Foss, are under arrest.”
“But this is ridiculous.”
The sheriff’s man jumped down from his horse, saying to his fellow red top, “Kill him if he tries to run.”
Edyon said, “I’m not going to run.”
The red top asked March, “And you? What’s with your eyes?”
“I’m from Abask. We have eyes too.”
“You’re not related to Abask royalty at all?”
“I’m servant to Prince Thelonius of Calidor and escorting his son, Edyon, to the prince.”
“Did you escort him from the murder?”
March hesitated. Edyon stepped forward. Whatever happened, March mustn’t be implicated. Someone must remain free to take the news of the Brigantine invasion and boy army to his father. “No, he wasn’t there. He knows nothing about it.”
The red top asked again, “Were you there? Did you see what happened?”
March replied, “I—”
Edyon interjected, “I told you. He wasn’t there. He met me after that. And anyway, he’s not on the wanted poster.”
The sheriff’s man pointed at March. “Then I suggest you escort yourself out of here.” Pointing at Edyon, he said, “You are coming with me.”
“But this is all wrong. This is absurd.”
They’d come all this way—avoided Brigantines, demons, and bloody hunting dogs—to be arrested on their first day, the first hour, of safety.
Manacles were put round Edyon’s wrists. And then the red top roughly grabbed the gold chain off Edyon’s neck and stuffed it in his jacket.
This couldn’t be. “You’re stealing that from me as you’re stealing my freedom?”
“I’m not stealing anything,” said the sheriff’s man. “Just keeping it safe for you. Who knows what the other prisoners might do to you for a piece of gold like that.”
He threaded the end of a long rope through Edyon’s manacles and attached it to his saddle. Then he mounted his horse and trotted off.
Edyon had to run to keep up, but he managed to shout, “That chain and pendant proves who I am and I think you know it.”
“You’re Edyon Foss, the murderer. That’s who you are.”
“Look. The gold on that chain is worth more than you’ll make in a year, in ten years. I’ll be released anyway. Just let me go now and—”
“And what? You’re the son of a trader who thinks he can buy his freedom. Well, I say you killed one of my fellow red tops. And this is what I think of you and your fancy ways.” And with that the sheriff’s man pulled the gold chain out of his jacket, swung it fast in the air over his head, and let go. The chain flew out in a high arc over the river where it fell with a splash and disappeared.
The chain sank and so did Edyon’s heart. He was doomed.
CATHERINE
DONNAFON, NORTHERN PITORIA
Rumors travel as fast as the wind.
The King, Nicolas Montell
TANYA LOOKED back up at the steep slope of the Northern Plateau and sent it a sign—the sort she used to give Boris when his back was turned. Catherine felt it would be unprincesslike to copy Tanya, but she did want to mark the occasion. She needed to thank her men and remind them of their loyalties as they headed into an unknown situation. She had her bedraggled group called to her.
“Just now, Tanya used her hands to send a sign to the plateau—a sign that said whatever you send my way I can fight it, I can match it, and I can withstand it. Or at least that’s the polite ladylike interpretation—I’m sure Tanya can give you further details should you need them.”
Some of the men laughed and Tanya said, “I’ve already taught it to them all.”
Catherine continued, “Tanya uses signs because the women of Brigant aren’t often allowed to speak in the company of men. Brigantines mock women and mock Pitorians, but together we have outrun, outthought, and outmaneuvered them. We are a small group, but we have won out against difficult odds—men and women working together. And you each have a special place in my heart.” She touched her hand to her heart then went on: “You have been loyal and honest with me, and I will be loyal and honest with you. We have made it against harsh weather, demons, and Brigantines, but now we have to face other enemies. Some Pitorians—your own countrymen—blame me for the war. They think that I’m involved in the invasion. King Arell and Prince Tzsayn know this isn’t true. You know it isn’t true. But I will be under suspicion because of who I am, because I’m the daughter of Aloysius, and because I’m a Brigantine by birth.
“But I’m more than those things. I’m now a Pitorian and a subject of King Arell, a survivor of the Northern Plateau, one of the few to have been into the demon world and come out to tell the tale, and most of all I am your friend and comrade. Thank you for your valiant support. I call on you to stay with me and remain strong with me.”
There was a small cheer and Rafyon took a step forward to reply. “I speak for all my men, Your Highness. We are proud to be your white-hairs. And it wouldn’t be a surprise if our hair had turned permanently white with the experiences we have been through! We have lost some of our group and mourn them, but we won’t forget them.
“We know you could have left us on the Northern Plateau and gone ahead alone, but you stayed with us and, though we didn’t all make it here, we did best by staying together. You have our confidence and our loyalty. I look forward to ensuring my hair is dyed the most brilliant white.”
The faces of those around her were all dirty, bloodied, and tired, but they were all smiling. Even Davyon was grinning, and Catherine went to him and he bowed his head to her when their eyes met. She said quietly, “General, you can rest assured that I don’t wish you to dye your hair white.”
“I thank you, Your Highness. I will always keep it blue. Actually, I think it grows that way now.”
“Well, I’m glad it does. Blue hair counts for much. We must go to Rossarb and find news of Prince Tzsayn. If he has managed to make a controlled retreat from Rossarb and is holding his men nearby, perhaps we can join him, but I fear that may not be the case—and, much as I hope for the support of my little group here, your support counts for a hundred times that.”
“You can be assured of it, Your Highness.”
Catherine nodded, but it was hard to judge Davyon as he was so formal—was he just saying the words? What would he do in a difficult situation?
The group made their way through the grassy mea
dows to a rough cart track and headed south toward Donnafon. They passed a farmer who stopped his work to stare at them, his jaw hanging limp. Certainly Catherine’s group must have been an interesting sight. The dyed hair of the men was partly grown out, and their clothes were dirty and torn. Catherine’s dress was a ragged mess, and she smiled at the thought of the new fashion she could set—though she suspected few would wish to follow this one.
Her smile faded when she saw four riders approaching, soldiers with green hair, a color she immediately recognized as belonging to Lord Farrow.
The soldiers rode up, their hands on their swords. The lead man demanded, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Rafyon started to reply but Davyon strode forward, shouting, “I am General Davyon, aide to Prince Tzsayn. Who are you? And what are you doing here?”
“Sir—” the soldier began, but Davyon interrupted.
“Don’t you know to get off your horse when you speak to me?”
The soldier apologized, dismounted, and almost ran to Davyon. “We’re with Lord Farrow. Tasked with patrolling this area to ensure that there are no Brigantine infiltrators.”
“We’re not infiltrators; we’re evacuees from Rossarb. Can’t you see that?”
“No, I mean, yes, of course, sir.”
“But tell me news. When we left Rossarb it was almost lost. We saw it burn. Is there news of my master, Prince Tzsayn?”
“It’s not good news, I’m afraid, sir. Rossarb fell. Many men were lost. Prince Tzsayn was taken prisoner by the Brigantines.”
Catherine felt like dropping to the ground and a groan went up around the group. Davyon’s stately demeanor wavered and his voice was uncertain, as if he feared knowing more. “You’re . . . you’re sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. Rossarb was surrounded; there was no way out, but the prince and some of his men were taken alive.”
A prisoner of her father: it meant the prince was as good as dead. Catherine dreaded what he would do to Tzsayn.
