The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

  “Can we discuss something other than hair?”

  “I wasn’t discussing hair, Sir Ambrose.”

  Ambrose eyed Tanya closely. “Did she send you? Why hasn’t she come herself?”

  “The queen knows that to be seen with you would be . . . disadvantageous to her position. But she consults with the doctors daily.”

  “She sent the doctors? Not Tzsayn?”

  “She sends doctors to many of her men—her white-hairs.”

  “You sound like a politician.”

  “Good. You have to be one round here.”

  “And is my mistress a politician too?”

  Tanya pursed her lips. “She is. But politics alone won’t win this war. She needs men who can show loyalty and take the fight to the Brigantines—even though they’ve lost much and may lose even more. She needs your support, Sir Ambrose.”

  “She will always have it, Tanya. You know that.”

  Tanya nodded but didn’t reply.

  “Can you tell me more?” asked Ambrose finally. “Is she well? Last time I saw her she was chained to a cart. Actually, last time I saw her she was throwing a spear at me . . . Well, not at me—at Boris. So let me rephrase that. Is the queen well? Last time I saw her she was in the act of killing her brother.”

  Tanya looked away for a moment. “She’s recovered from the wounds she received from being chained to the cart. Thank you for your concern about that. Her brother was a monster. I don’t think I’m speaking out of place to say so. And his death doesn’t weigh heavily on my mistress’s heart.”

  Thinking of Catherine’s heart, Ambrose wanted to know more and found himself asking, “And Tzsayn? How is he?”

  “Recovering from his injuries.”

  Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Injuries?”

  Tanya almost looked flustered as she replied, “Minor wounds from his imprisonment. But I don’t see him much; he’s a busy man. Being king is . . . a full-time job.”

  But did Catherine see Tzsayn? How often? Daily?

  Tanya seemed to have recovered as she said, “We’re still at war, Sir Ambrose. The king has many responsibilities, as does the queen. Catherine’s position depends on many things, including you. She needs your help. She needs people around her who can fight and lead and inspire.”

  “So I’m allowed to be around her, then? Can I meet with her?”

  Tanya shook her head. “She can’t be seen with you, Ambrose, and you know why. If you try to see her, you risk ruining her reputation—ruining her. If you care for her—and I know you do—she needs your support as a fighter, not a lover.”

  “Before, when we were fleeing across the Northern Plateau, she wanted me to be both.” Ambrose spoke quietly, uncertain if he should say this, even to Tanya.

  “Yes, she told me. And in Donnafon you both used every little trick to spend time together. And for that she nearly paid with her life. But the stakes are even higher now, Ambrose. It’s not just Catherine’s life in the balance but all our lives. She is our queen. Her honor has to be above reproach and her loyalty to Pitoria unquestionable.”

  “And I’m questionable?”

  “You’re a good man and a good soldier, Ambrose. And you need to prove it.”

  “Haven’t I done that already?”

  Tanya smiled. “We must all prove it again and again. Now eat your porridge before it gets cold.”

  EDYON

  CALIA, CALIDOR

  “HERE ARE the procedures for the day of your investiture.” Prince Thelonius handed a scroll to Edyon. “All is organized. There will be celebrations throughout Calidor. I couldn’t be happier. You’re the future of this country.”

  Edyon was already recognized as Thelonius’s son, but the investiture was a formal procedure to confirm his positions and titles: he was now a prince, the Prince of Abask, and, most importantly, heir to the throne of Calidor. Edyon glanced down the events listed on the scroll, but considering he was the country’s future, he wasn’t mentioned all that much.

  “Thank you, Father. I’ll ensure I follow it all to the letter. But, speaking of letters, may I raise an issue with you? When I arrived from Pitoria I carried with me an important message from King Tzsayn and Queen Catherine. That was a week ago. The letter was an urgent request for your assistance. I feel that we must reply, and soon.”

  It took all of Edyon’s willpower not to shout “Now!” but he didn’t think it likely that his father, whom he had met for the first time just last week, would take that well. However, now was what was needed. When Edyon left Pitoria, they had learned that Aloysius was farming demon smoke. Once he had enough smoke to power his boy army, there would be no stopping him. They had no time to waste. Thelonius had defeated his brother, Aloysius, in the last war, and everyone was counting on him to do it again.

  “You’re right, Edyon. And I’ve decided that we will send a delegation to Pitoria to ensure we’re fully aware of the situation there.”

  A delegation! It didn’t seem like much; Edyon had been imagining that his father would send in the entire army once he understood the threat. But a delegation had to be better than nothing, and at least it was a first step. Perhaps then the two countries could work closely together, sharing information, men, supplies . . .

  The Lord Chancellor, Lord Bruntwood, took a step forward and addressed Thelonius: “Your Highness, I feel it is my duty to remind you of the old issues relating to dealings with foreign lands, and also to raise your awareness of another, small problem.”

  The chancellor’s face never seemed to show any true emotion; his smile was obsequious, his frown aloof, his sorrow humdrum. And he always seemed to Edyon like he desperately needed to break wind but was holding it in.

  Perhaps that’s his small problem.

  “What problem?” Thelonius frowned.

  “Talk, Your Highness. Rumors. Tittle-tattle. Relating to Edyon.” The chancellor winced as if the wind was causing much internal discomfort.

  “Not more objections to Edyon being legitimized, I hope.” This came from Lord Regan, Thelonius’s dearest friend, the one man he’d entrusted to track down his son and deliver him safely to Calidor. Of course, that hadn’t gone according to plan, thanks to March . . .

  But Edyon wouldn’t think of March now.

  The chancellor turned to Regan and corrected him. “Actually, there were no objections to the legitimization, only concerns about a precedent being set.”

  Regan nodded. “Of course, yes, concerns, not objections.”

  “And we’ve resolved these already. We’ve set no precedent,” Thelonius interrupted.

  “Quite so, Your Highness,” the chancellor agreed.

  The first obstacle to Edyon’s legitimization was that Thelonius hadn’t been married to Edyon’s mother. A number of lords were concerned that putting Edyon next in line to the throne would allow all bastard sons to come forward, claiming lands and titles off the lords or off the lords’ sons. No one was safe. The system would crumble. Chaos would reign where there was now order.

  Edyon had wondered how his father would deal with this difficult situation and assumed it would take weeks or months to consider and argue the legal points, but his father had swept the issue aside with ease. Thelonius had claimed that he’d married Edyon’s mother in a ceremony in Pitoria when they’d met. He said that they’d married and quickly divorced. The papers had been lost, but Thelonius had a diary of the events. Lord Regan, who’d traveled with him in Pitoria those eighteen years ago, had been called upon to confirm it all. And, as easily and quickly as that, the lie had become truth.

  Edyon, however, found it less easy to confirm. He was surprised to discover that, although he could lie about most things, he couldn’t lie about his mother or his own birth. He was Thelonius’s illegitimate son. His parents had not been married, and his whole life had been shaped by that fact. It had made h
im who he was, and Edyon had always been determined not to be ashamed of it. When the chancellor had pressed him to confirm Thelonius’s lie, Edyon found that the most he could do was to not deny it. He’d argued, “I wasn’t there. I was in my mother’s womb. And she never spoke to me of it.” Edyon felt he could say only that, as none of it was an actual lie, but none of it was the whole truth either.

  Edyon’s father had no such qualms and even embellished the lie one evening, admittedly after a few glasses of wine, talking of the wedding as if it had happened: “a simple affair, promises made, a beach, the sea, young lovers, but we were married.” He had looked into Edyon’s eyes with a smile. “And everyone agrees that you are my image. Your face, your stature—you are just as I was twenty years ago. It’s obvious that you are my son.” And that was true. At least there were no arguments, concerns, or objections about that.

  “However, there are still apprehensions among the lords.” The chancellor’s voice interrupted Edyon’s thoughts.

  “Ah, so it’s apprehensions now,” Regan murmured.

  “The lords are always apprehensive.” Thelonius sighed and looked to Edyon, adding, “About money, about power, about the future.”

  And now about me.

  “And we must always be careful to soothe their concerns,” the chancellor continued. “The letter that Edyon brought from Pitoria, the request to join forces with Pitoria, again raises the fear that Calidor may lose its independence to a stronger neighbor. It’s an old fear but no less compelling for its age, Your Highness. There are concerns that any partnership with Pitoria would be unequal, as Pitoria, a far bigger and more populous country than Calidor, will dominate. What may start as aid may end with us being infiltrated and overpowered.”

  “An argument we had in the last war many times,” Thelonius said.

  “When we fought alone, stood firm alone, and were victorious alone,” Lord Regan added.

  “And these concerns have returned, stronger than ever. The lords need to know that Calidor will remain independent. They need to know their future is in safe hands.” The chancellor looked to Edyon and pulled a strange face; his trapped wind appeared to have returned. “There’s talk that Edyon has been sent by King Tzsayn of Pitoria, concern that Edyon’s Pitorian heritage may sway his allegiance.”

  “That Edyon is an infiltrator? A spy?” Thelonius looked appalled.

  “No one would go that far, Your Highness,” the chancel-lor replied. “But we must tread carefully. We need the lords to support Edyon. Fortunately, I believe a few simple steps will ensure this.”

  “And what are these simple steps, Lord Bruntwood?” Thelonius asked.

  “A clear declaration in Edyon’s investiture swearing to ensure Calidor retains its independence.”

  Thelonius nodded. “I don’t have a problem with that. It seems reasonable, and a neat solution. Please arrange it, Lord Bruntwood.”

  “Gladly, Your Highness.”

  “Is that it?”

  The chancellor’s wind appeared to get worse. “Alas, no. I believe as well as a declaration, we must ensure we’re not seen to be working with Pitoria. While your idea to send a delegation—a small delegation—would be understandable, no forces, no arms, no men, no equipment must be ex-changed.”

  “But what about the demon smoke?” Edyon asked. “The boy army?” The chancellor did not seem to be taking this seriously.

  “With all due respect, Your Highness, for us to agree to send even a small delegation seems like a strong overreaction to an untrained pack of boys calling themselves an ‘army.’”

  “But the smoke works,” Edyon insisted. He needed to make them understand the severity of the threat, the pressing need for action. “I brought a bottle with me from Pitoria. May I demonstrate its power? Perhaps if the lords see how it works, they would better understand what we’re up against.”

  Thelonius nodded. “A good suggestion, Edyon. I agree a demonstration to the lords would be helpful. Lord Regan will assist you in setting it up.”

  Regan did not look happy about this assignment, but he nodded his assent.

  “It all seems unnecessary,” the chancellor said. “They are attacking Pitoria. They are not attacking us.”

  “Not yet,” Edyon said. “But the Brigantines are our en-emy. Surely the lords agree on that!”

  “They most certainly do, Your Highness,” the chancellor replied. “But our enemy’s enemy is not necessarily our friend.”

  “Nor is he necessarily our enemy!” Edyon shot back. “Tzsayn is a good man; he wouldn’t betray us, infiltrate us, or overpower us. He’s not like Aloysius. And he’s asked for help. He’s offered us help in return. Together we can fight Aloysius and win.”

  Thelonius put a hand on Edyon’s arm. “I must balance your perspective with the views of the lords, Edyon. We must be seen to act carefully with and independent of Tzsayn.”

  “Exactly,” concurred the chancellor. “We must be seen to act purely for the good of Calidor. Pitorian troops on Calidorian lands, for example, would be seen as dangerous. The lords know what happened when just forty or fifty Brigantine soldiers were allowed into Tornia—many nobles were killed.”

  “Those were Brigantine soldiers, not Pitorian. Tzsayn doesn’t want to kill our nobles. This is nonsense!” Edyon ex-claimed.

  “Tzsayn is married to Aloysius’s daughter. A marriage arranged by Aloysius,” Regan interjected. “I wouldn’t trust her as far as . . . well, as far as any woman. She’s a puppet, for certain. And we’ve received news that Tzsayn was freed by Aloysius. Surely Tzsayn offered Aloysius something more than gold in exchange for his release. Perhaps he also prom-ised to betray us.”

  “No.” Edyon shook his head. “No. Tzsayn’s not like that. And Catherine hates her father.”

  “Catherine is immoral,” Regan said dismissively. “Rumor also has it that she killed her brother, Prince Boris.”

  “Then she’s hardly a puppet of Aloysius, is she?” Edyon replied.

  “Well, I’m not sure what to believe of that rumor, but if it’s true, it doesn’t make me trust her more,” Thelonius com-mented.

  “She’s as ruthless as her father,” Regan added with a sneer.

  “So you’ll do nothing?” Edyon looked from his father to the chancellor to Regan. “You’ll let the Pitorians fight and die, and you’ll let Aloysius continue to farm demon smoke until no army on this earth could overpower him, and you’ll sit and wait for him to attack us. That is how you want the future to go, that is how you’ll defend your country?”

  Thelonius turned to Edyon, stony-faced. “Do not accuse me of failing in my duty, Edyon. I fought with my countrymen against Aloysius in the last war. Many men perished. I won’t risk losing our country to Aloysius, but neither will I risk losing it to anyone else.”

  Edyon’s face flushed, and he looked down. This wasn’t how he’d imagined one of his first political meetings with his father would go.

  Thelonius turned from Edyon and addressed the chancellor, his voice still stiff with anger. “We will accept a small delegation of nonfighting men from Pitoria, and we’ll send our own small delegation to them. We will share information. You are correct that we must be sure of our friends. We must never be too trusting. I was hoping that that was a lesson my son had recently learned, but it appears he has already forgotten it.”

  Edyon knew his father was referring to March. March, who had been involved in the attempted murder of Lord Regan. March, who would have sold out Edyon to the Brigantines. March, who was now banished. Edyon had loved, trusted, and respected March, only to find that he had been lying all along. “No, Father, I haven’t forgotten it. Nor will I ever,” he replied sincerely.

  Thelonius turned back to Edyon. “Then trust me, and trust the lords for their support.” He added more quietly, so that only Edyon could hear, “Our lords are more vital to you than Tzsayn or Ca
therine or any other foreign power. You must be seen to be loyal to Calidor above all else.”

  Edyon nodded and bowed his head. “Of course, Father.”

  MARCH

  CALIDOR–BRIGANT BORDER

  “KEEP GOING. Your new home is straight ahead.”

  March barely had the energy to take another step. It had taken three days to walk from Calia to the border of Calidor, and the only food he’d had were scraps the guards had thrown on the ground. Ahead, all he could see was an impossibly high wall of stone with a lookout tower on it. The guard put the butt of his spear into March’s back and shoved him forward. As March got nearer to the wall, he saw there were stone steps built into it. Toward the top was a narrow ledge that led to the lookout tower where four soldiers stood, staring down at him.

  The wall had been built by Thelonius after the last war. It was made of solid stone, with forts and lookout points to keep watch and protect Calidor. There were gates too, one in the east and one in the west, though clearly March wasn’t going to be allowed to use either. He was a traitor. He’d been part of a plot to kill Regan and then Edyon. The gates were not for him.

  He started to climb. The stone steps were narrow, and he was dizzy with hunger and thirst.

  “Get a move on, shithead,” the guard below shouted.

  The wonderful thing about being this exhausted was that March really didn’t care about the guards. He didn’t care about much anymore. He almost didn’t care about falling; he just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

  And then he was there, at the top of the wall and looking over to the other side, to Brigant. It didn’t seem too bad—green with lush grass, bushes, and trees. Though getting there was not going to be straightforward. There were no steps on that side of the wall. Looking directly down, March saw the long drop ended in a tangle of brambles. On the far side of that was another, smaller wall that he’d have to scale to enter Brigant. He would have to try to find a way to climb down this large wall first, or he could just throw himself off and put an end to the torment. But for the moment, he didn’t go with either option; he looked back to Calidor . . . to Edyon.