The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

  In her head, Catherine saw again the spear leaving her arm, flying through the air low and fast, Boris turning to her, their eyes meeting at that last moment as the weapon pierced his chest.

  “I don’t regret what I did.”

  Tzsayn’s eyes were on hers, as if he was looking for some-thing. “Not at all?”

  Catherine shook her head. “He was my enemy. He would have killed me without hesitation. He would have tortured me and shamed me. When I think of that, I know that there is nothing wrong with me being glad he’s dead, glad I killed him. I’m sorry that he was a bad person. I’m sorry for my mother who loved him. But I have no regrets about my actions. I’d do it again. Sometimes I wonder if I should have done it sooner—found a way to kill my father and brother in their sleep.” Catherine looked at Tzsayn. “Do I shock you?”

  Tzsayn raised an ironic eyebrow. “With your Brigantine lust for blood?”

  “With my lack of femininity. The violence of my feelings. The brutality of them.”

  “I admire your honesty.” He smiled at her for a brief mo-ment, as if to reassure her. “I always have. And I’m grateful for it. Honesty is a rare commodity. As for what is supposed to be femininity, being gentle and kind toward someone who is a bully, a brute, and inhumanly evil in his treatment of others—well, being gentle and kind to someone like that seems more like stupidity. It’s weakness, it’s failing to support those who are suffering, and that sort of gentleness and kindness aren’t to be admired—certainly not in a queen.”

  Tzsayn kept doing this—surprising her. She’d half expected he’d be horrified at the coarseness of her feelings. Did she want him to be horrified, to push him away?

  “You’re not weak, Catherine, but I still worry about you, about what is required from you. The work, the war.”

  “Please, let’s not talk about that either. You’ve had enough discussion of your leg, and I’ve had enough about food supplies.”

  Tzsayn smiled. “I can tell you that, after lying in bed for weeks, the thought of a discussion about bushels of wheat is exciting.”

  “Well, you can talk to Tanya, then, because I will not say another word on the subject.”

  “So what shall we discuss?”

  “I was thinking about our first meeting—”

  “Ah, yes, I remember that day.”

  “How you scowled at me.” Catherine was teasing and was also vaguely aware that she was playing her usual trick of making light of her troubles, but realized that, for once, she was happy to play at being happy.

  “Scowl? I didn’t scowl once. I went to great lengths to show utter disdain for the whole charade. That was my look of disdain.” And he did a good imitation of it now.

  Catherine shook her head, smiling. “A fearsome scowl. It came shortly after your sneer.”

  “I never sneer. It’s an ugly look. And everyone knows that King Tzsayn of Pitoria is never ugly.” Tzsayn turned so she could only see the burned side of his face, the one that looked old and wizened, the skin drawn over his eye, and no eyebrow.

  Catherine leaned over and kissed it. “That’s true.”

  Tzsayn’s eyes met hers and she blushed, realizing she’d never kissed his face before. He cleared his throat and said, almost formally, “But now we must decide what to do about our little charade.”

  Catherine felt her blush deepen. She didn’t want Tzsayn to think of their marriage as a charade. It was a lie, yes, but a necessary one. After his capture, she’d had to declare that she’d secretly married Tzsayn, so that the Pitorian lords couldn’t put her aside, or send her back to her father— although it had only delayed the latter. Since his return, they’d been together—not exactly as man and wife, as they had separate bedchambers off their shared living quarters, but that could be explained by Tzsayn’s ill health, and Catherine knew that when he did improve, things would have to change.

  “It’s hardly a little charade.”

  He took her hand again. “And I’m not sorry about it. The lie kept you alive. But I don’t want our lives or our marriage to be a charade.”

  Catherine nodded. The dreaded question of love and marriage.

  “On most subjects you are quick to share your opinion with me, and yet as soon as I say the word ‘marriage,’ you go silent. But we can’t ignore it, Catherine. We can marry—make the lie true. Or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “You wait for me to die of my wounds.”

  “What? No! Don’t say such a thing.”

  “Why not? I’ve been close enough to death these last weeks. Felt it creep up on me and put its cold fingers round my heart.”

  “Why are you saying these things?” Catherine dropped his hand. “I never wanted that. And I have always wanted you to live and want that now, despite how heartless you are to me.”

  “I’m not heartless, Catherine.”

  “And neither am I.” She leaned over and looked into his eyes. “Please believe me when I say that while you were gone, I never once hoped for anything other than your safe return. And, while you have been ill, for nothing but your recovery. And I still want that.”

  “And if your hopes are fulfilled and I do recover? What then would you choose? To stay as my wife or divorce?”

  “Divorce? Is that even possible?”

  “It would be a first for the king of Pitoria, but given our countries are at war and your father has assassinated mine, I’m sure my lawyers could find a way. I want us to be married—I can say that simply and honestly. But I’d like a simple and honest reply.”

  “They’re simple options, but that doesn’t make the choice simple. And I’m not used to being given choices. I’m used to being told what to do with my life.”

  Tzsayn frowned. “Perhaps that was true once, but now you are clearly quite capable of making your own decisions.”

  Catherine knotted her fingers together. What was she to do? She wanted to be queen. She was ambitious to rule, to prove that she, a woman, was just as able as any man. But did she want to be a wife too? And, if so, to whom? It felt like the answer should be obvious, and yet . . . every time she thought about it, she was drawn in all directions.

  She’d been sent to Pitoria to marry Tzsayn, accepted that as her fate, and been pleasantly surprised when she met him. He was attractive, amusing, clever, kind, and nothing like any man—any person—she’d ever met. Would Tzsayn make her happy? Would this life make her happy? Was it the right choice? It seemed like the right choice until she thought of Ambrose. Just a few weeks ago her heart had been set on him.

  “This is my scowl,” Tzsayn said. “I reserve its use for when you sigh in that way.”

  “What way?”

  “That way that you do when you think of Sir Ambrose.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking about you.”

  “I praised you for your honesty earlier, so don’t lie now, Catherine.” Tzsayn frowned. “And don’t scowl at me either.” But now his frown turned to a wince.

  Catherine half rose. “Oh dear, I’m not good for you. I’m vexing you.”

  “You’re very good for me. My leg is throbbing that’s all.” He shifted position, wincing again. “Do you know what I want, Catherine? Apart from a good leg, of course. I want everything—peace, happiness, prosperity, love. I want them all and I want them with you. I believe I can give them to you. But can you give them to me? Or do you want to give them to someone else? I need to know, Catherine. Together we may rule this country and rule it well. We can defeat our enemies and live happily ever after. But you must decide if that is the life you want.”

  What was the alternative? Ambrose. A quieter life. Travel. Freedom. Which was right for her?

  “Another sigh,” Tzsayn commented. “Tell me, how is Sir Ambrose?”

  “As I’m sure Davyon has already told you, he’s recovered from his injuries and is
about to lead a mission to the demon world.”

  “And I genuinely am glad for his recovery and wish him success on his mission. He’s a good soldier and a good man. He’ll wait for you to make your decision, if he’s worthy. And I will too, Catherine. But neither of us will wait forever. Which brings me to another subject I wanted to discuss. I’m king now and I must have a coronation, the formalities must still be followed even in war. I should return to Tornia for the ceremony.”

  This time Catherine rose completely. “You cannot travel in your condition!”

  “Calm yourself, Catherine. I was about to say that I’ll have the ceremony here instead. It’ll be a good opportunity to bring together the people of the north in celebration and recognition of all they have done in the last few months.”

  “As long as you’re well enough.”

  “I’ll be fine. We can keep the ceremony short and simple. What’s there to arrange but a few words and a crown?”

  Catherine wasn’t totally convinced but she tried to joke. “Well, I suppose that’ll keep costs down, and we must watch every kopek.”

  “Apart from that, there is something else to consider,” Tzsayn said. “Should there be one crown or two? If I am crowned king, then you should be crowned queen at the same time. But for that we must be married. I mean really married. If that is what you wish, I would be honored for you to be my wife and my queen. But I need to know, Catherine. And soon.”

  TASH

  DEMON TUNNELS

  IT WAS still black, silent, and stone-cold. Tash had just enough space to turn over to lie on her front or her back, her shoulders and hips scraping the roof of her space. And she had to move regularly, as her legs kept cramping and her back was aching.

  At first she’d been afraid of running out of air, but somehow air was coming to her. And water was trickling in through a fine crack near her head. She could lick at the water like a dog.

  There wasn’t much else she could do, though.

  Except think—she could do a whole lot of thinking. She’d done more thinking here than in her whole life, it seemed. She’d gone right back to her earliest memories—of sitting in the rain in a muddy puddle, her brothers stomping around her so that the water splashed her face. She had other memories too—mostly miserable—of her father beating her brothers or her, of his shouting and cursing.

  Her memories of Gravell were different, though. Those felt real—they warmed her and made her smile and cry (why did thinking of Gravell always make her cry?). Yes, he’d shouted at her, but somehow even his angriest words never filled her with dread like her father’s footsteps had. Tash remembered the first night after Gravell had taken her from her family. He’d given her shoes and food, and an extra blanket when she’d begun to shiver and cry. Over the following weeks she’d cried lots more, not with fear or cold but with a mix of relief and sorrow—sorrow for her old self that had suffered and hadn’t known any different. Gravell was always a wonder to her. He was big and shouty on the outside, but inside he cared for her, and she knew that from the first day. No one had ever done that before and it had changed her world.

  Tash wished she’d hugged Gravell more and wished she could hug him again.

  Well, perhaps she’d see him again soon, if there was a life after this one. Gravell had never believed in that sort of thing, and perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she smiled at the thought of it.

  “But we won’t hunt no demons,” she muttered.

  And in her head, she wagged her finger at Gravell, stand-ing in front of him on the most beautiful part of the Northern Plateau, snow heavy on the branches of the conifer trees. “We can hunt for food, but nothing else. Not to sell stuff for money, not so you can have your women and your pruka.”

  And Gravell belched and said, “You just don’t appreciate the finer things in life. What is life without women and pruka . . . and pies?”

  “We can swap some meat and skins for a pie in Pravont.”

  Gravell grinned. “They have the best pies, the best food in the whole world.”

  “I’m not sure we’re in the world anymore, but I think we can have the pies.”

  Gravell picked up his harpoons and said, “Let’s go hunting, then.”

  And Tash was happy to imagine being with Gravell. Happy to have lived her life knowing a man who’d cared for her.

  She squirmed round to lie on her stomach, and wiped the tears from her face as she did. She carried on her daydream, imagining the hunt: running through the forest, finding deer tracks, and then closing in on the prey. Gravell sending her round to the right, to scare the deer toward him. She knew by instinct where to go and made her way forward, but to her surprise she didn’t see a deer. There was something else ahead of her.

  It was a demon. A huge red demon sitting on his haunches.

  Tash dropped to the ground.

  What was it doing?

  The demon was using his hand—no, his finger—to make marks in the earth.

  Tash crept closer, to get a better look.

  The demon glanced up. Tash expected it to be Twist, the demon she’d freed from the Brigantines, but it wasn’t him. It was another demon she recognized—the one that had at-tacked the group led by Princess Catherine. This was the de-mon that had tried to kill Geratan before Tash had intervened and stabbed the demon, which had then fallen on her. The red smoke that had escaped from the demon’s mouth as it was dying had seemed to travel through Tash’s body and, more than that, seemed to carry her to the center of the demon world—to the core where the smoke lived and where it all seemed to return. And, remembering that now, Tash felt something inside her chest stir. As if a small wisp of the smoke was somehow still inside her body.

  Could it be so? Was that what was keeping her alive? Preventing the stone from crushing her completely?

  She felt a connection with this demon, but would he be able to explain what the connection was? The demon had been as scary as shit when he was dying, but now he seemed quite calm and focused on what he was doing, which was making a hole in the ground by moving his finger across it. The hole was shallow and small, but now he used four finger-tips and the hole deepened, then he used the palm of his hand.

  Tash leaned forward and saw the hole went deep into the earth and was full of red smoke, and it looked like it was opening up beneath her. She screamed and jumped back—

  And hit the back of her head on the hard stone.

  She was surrounded by blackness again. There was no hole, no forest, no demon.

  It was a dream.

  Just a dream.

  She dropped her head back down. But now it fell into a dip in the stone.

  A dip that had not been there before. And . . .

  I can see my hands!

  There was a faint red glow in the space before her.

  Her hands were lying in a slight hollow, about the size of her head and as deep as her fist.

  Was the stone moving again?

  Or have I moved the stone?

  She’d dreamed that the demon was making a hole with its fingers. But her own fingers were sore, as if she’d been doing the same movement in her sleep.

  I must have made the hole.

  And, like any prisoner, her next thought was of escape.

  If I can make a hole, I can make a tunnel.

  EDYON

  CALIA, CALIDOR

  EDYON WAS late. He was supposed to be in the main courtyard for the procession, but he’d got himself lost in the castle’s corridors. A servant had given him directions, but somehow he’d ended up near the kitchens. He’d asked for guidance from there and ended up near the library. He was beginning to think the servants were doing it on purpose. But he could now hear noise from a crowd. He turned a corner, and ahead was the archway to the main courtyard, which was full of people. As Edyon drew nearer he heard some snippets of conversation. “He
’s late. Probably doing his hair.” “I wonder if he’s just a bit simple.”

  Edyon turned and went round the other way, hurrying as much as he could. He was aware that the whole procession was waiting for him, and aware that, yet again, he’d messed up. He walked as quickly as he could to his horse, which was being held for him, and did his best to mount smoothly. He hated riding and the cobbles in the courtyard were slippery with rain. The horse was the tamest thing in the royal stables, however, and Edyon was grateful that it stood solidly unmoving.

  And with the blast of a trumpet, the procession was off. Edyon rode beside his father at the head of the long line of lords, soldiers, horses, drummers, and trumpeters.

  “I’m sorry I was late.” He had to shout to be heard above the fanfare.

  Thelonius waved it off. “You’re a prince, Edyon. The people can wait for you. Now, let’s tour our country.”

  Edyon was supposed to wave to the crowd from his horse, but all he wanted to do was cling to the saddle. The last thing he needed was to fall from his horse and be even more of a laughingstock, even more of a disgrace. The lords were in the procession behind him, all staring at his back. Edyon could almost feel their gazes, all assessing him and all finding him wanting.

  When the procession had taken them out of the city, his father said, “You’re very quiet, Edyon.”

  “I was thinking of the lords. And the coronation ceremony.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was a disaster.”

  “No. You were crowned. You took the oath. You did all that was required.”

  “It looked like I threw the crown to the floor.”

  “I didn’t see it like that.”

  “The lords saw it. All of them. They had front-row seats. The chancellor has already warned us that my loyalties were being questioned. It doesn’t look good to throw the Cali-dorian crown to the floor.”

  “It was an accident.” Thelonius turned to look at Edyon. “You’re young and, yes, you’ll make a few mistakes— haven’t we all?”