The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

  Could it be that he’d got the wrong balcony?

  Could it be that he and his father weren’t going to be on a balcony as it collapsed, but under it?

  He looked across at Regan, who was drinking from his goblet, his eyes on Edyon.

  I can’t challenge him again. No one would believe me. I’m not sure I believe me.

  Had he even heard a noise? The sounds in the hall were a mix of talk and music.

  But then he heard it again.

  “Father, I’d like to continue this conversation with you outdoors in private.” Edyon began to stand. He had to get them both out. But then there was an unmistakable crack, and the balcony began to tilt toward Edyon’s head. Cries came from above as the stone began to fall. It was too late—Edyon and his father were trapped below. But Byron leaped onto the table and ran at Edyon as fast as the stone was falling. He launched himself at Edyon, shoving him and Thelonius back to the wall and standing on the table to hold up the falling balcony. There were screams from the musicians above, and Byron shouted for them to get off the balcony.

  “I can’t hold it much longer!”

  Guards ran up and dragged Thelonius and Edyon to safety, and Byron stepped back. The balcony gave way, and masonry and musical instruments fell, crushing the end of the table under a huge block of stone. A cloud of dust lifted as the noise and shouts continued.

  Edyon was gasping for air. He was alive. His father was alive. Incredibly, no one appeared to be harmed. “So that was why you wanted the demon smoke,” he said. “For Byron to take, in case he needed to save us. So you did believe me.”

  Thelonius shook his head. “I believe in being prepared.” Covered in gray dust, he bellowed out, “Hold my enemies! Hold Regan, Hunt, and Birtwistle.” And he pushed and scrambled his way over the rubble. There was much shouting from the other side of the dust cloud. By the time Edyon emerged, Thelonius was standing opposite Regan.

  “I have done absolutely nothing wrong here,” Regan said. “Thelonius, my friend. Do not let your son poison your mind against me.”

  “You haven’t even the honor to admit it!”

  “Admit what? The masonry in Birtwistle’s castle is old. The balcony collapsed. I’m grateful that you’re safe.”

  Byron shouted from the back of the room. “It collapsed because someone cut into the stone to weaken it. I can see a block has been removed from here.”

  More quietly to Thelonius, Regan said, “Even if that is correct, we don’t know who cut into the stone. It could have been anyone.”

  “It could have been anyone, but I know that it was you,” Thelonius snapped back. “Hunt and Birtwistle have been against me for a long time, but you, Regan, you have always seemed to be my friend. Well, enough of your lies.”

  “My lies? What about your lies?” And he pointed to Edyon. “What about him? Your son.”

  “This is not about Edyon.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s about your marriage. Or lack of one.”

  The silence in the room was palpable now.

  “Another lie, Regan. Another lie. No one can trust you.” Thelonius stepped back. “Guards,” he said. “Take Regan to the dungeon.”

  Regan drew a dagger from his belt and leaped at the first guard, stabbing him and taking his spear. Regan thrust the spear at Thelonius, who dodged it just in time, as another guard thrust his sword into Regan’s side.

  Regan took a step back, dropping the spear and putting his hands to his wound as blood ran through his fingers. The guards grabbed his arms, but he was no longer a threat—his knees were buckling; his face had paled. He stared at Thelonius and said, “I was your friend.”

  “You were my friend, but now you’re nothing to me. Your treachery shames you.” With that, Thelonius turned from him and told the guards to take the traitor away.

  Edyon watched, half expecting Regan to struggle, but he was weak from his wound, and Edyon wondered if he’d survive to face trial or even get through the night.

  Hunt and Birtwistle had been cornered but hadn’t resisted the guards, and they too were led away, with Hunt shouting, “We’re loyal to Calidor!”

  Thelonius came to Edyon and embraced him. He turned to the lords. “My son was brave enough to risk his reputation—and indeed his life—to stand with me. I couldn’t hope for a better son, and Calidor couldn’t want for a better future than with him. I owe him my life.”

  And Edyon stood with his father, his knees shaking with shock. As he looked around the room at the lords, his eyes fell on the bloody body of the guard Regan had killed, and Madame Eruth’s words came back to him.

  I see death all around you now.

  CATHERINE

  COAST ROAD, NORTHERN PITORIA

  Fly to your love, as your love flies to you.

  Pitorian saying

  THE RIDERS met Catherine on the road halfway between the coast and the camp, three blue-hairs from the king’s own household. Catherine slowed her horse as they approached. They carried urgent news; that much was clear. But was it good or bad? The lead rider came straight to her, nodded respectfully, and handed her a message.

  “From General Davyon, Your Majesty.”

  Catherine’s fingers were clumsy as she broke the seal and opened the letter.

  The operation went well. Savage is pleased. The king is resting, but his first waking thoughts were of you.

  Davyon

  AMBROSE

  NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA

  AMBROSE LED the Demon Troop out of the camp at first light and headed north. Their departure was low profile. Catherine had not yet returned from the coast, Davyon had already said his farewells, and hardly anyone else knew of their mission, which was just as Ambrose wanted.

  It had felt as if a wave of gloom had been towering over him in camp, like a huge weight of water was building up, ready to fall, but the wave receded the farther north Ambrose rode. The farther he was from camp, from Tzsayn, and from Catherine, the more he felt like he could breathe again.

  They rode fast to the River Ross and along the river road to Hebdene, where they left their horses, crossed the old wooden bridge, and began the steep climb up to the Northern Plateau, heading for the demon hollow that Geratan had located on his previous sortie.

  The men were fit and the weather was fair, and they made excellent time. Once on the plateau, Ambrose sent four men ahead to scout and arranged the rest in two parallel columns. They marched in silence, as they’d trained to do, but from reading their hand signals Ambrose knew that most of the men were hoping they would run into some Brigantines before reaching the hollow. They were spoiling for a fight, and who better to fight than the invaders of their homeland?

  “It’ll happen soon enough,” Ambrose muttered to himself. “Kill or be killed.” That was an old Brigantine motto. And he’d kill his fellow Brigantines; he’d kill anyone who stood with Aloysius.

  “Think of Tarquin,” he muttered to himself. Though he hated to picture Tarquin’s tortured body, he forced himself to do it. “I can’t be weak. I can’t let these bad moods swallow me up. I have to fight on. Think of Anne. Think of all the people Aloysius has hurt. Tarquin should be helping Father oversee the harvest now, guiding all the people who live on our land. Anne should be traveling, or studying, or falling in love.”

  Love . . .

  And Ambrose couldn’t help but think of what he felt he should be doing. “Protecting the woman I love. Protecting the princess. Except she’s a queen now, and she doesn’t want my protection.”

  Geratan fell into step beside him, a quizzical look on his face.

  “Was I talking to myself?” Ambrose asked.

  “Yes, but in Brigantine.”

  “Shits.” I tell the men they’ve got to stay silent, and I end up talking out loud to myself.

  “Do you want a rest?”

  �
�No. I want to go faster.”

  Geratan grinned. “Then let’s get moving.” And he set off at a gentle run. Ambrose followed. This was what he lived for—action, purpose. It was what he needed now more than ever.

  They made very good progress and rested the first night without lighting a fire. Ambrose shared the first watch, then lay down to sleep, but woke again just as it was getting light. His first thoughts were of the mission, not Catherine, which was a good sign. He also didn’t feel the wave of depression hanging over him, another good sign.

  He got to his feet and walked around the small camp, checking that the watch had changed as it should and that all was well, then went to the stream. He crouched down to scoop a handful of water when a small deer stepped into view. Ambrose froze. The deer eyed him. Perhaps it had never seen a human before. Ambrose remained motionless as the deer drank. Then the sudden noise of a dropped helmet came from the camp, and the deer leaped away.

  “So much for me and my silent soldiers,” Ambrose muttered.

  They set off again, and by afternoon they were approaching their destination. Geratan pointed and signaled to Ambrose:

  Demon hollow. Three hundred paces.

  Good, thought Ambrose. But now for the hard part . . .

  A demon hollow meant a demon. And Ambrose needed to get into the demon world without killing it. He intended to lure the demon out and use strong nets and ropes to trap it. This was how the Brigantines had gained access—captured a demon and caged it in the hollow to ensure the tunnel didn’t close. It didn’t feel good to be doing the same things as the Brigantines, but neither Ambrose nor Geratan could think of another way. The troop had practiced this, though never with a real demon, of course. But they needed to get it right—the tunnel had to remain open as an escape route for when their mission was over.

  “Set up the trap. You know what to do. Lure the demon this way, Geratan, and we’ll do our best not to hurt it.”

  Geratan nodded. He’d volunteered to lure the demon out—he knew how to get into the demon world and what to expect in there. But would he be able to run fast enough? Geratan was strong and agile, but not the quickest of men.

  The men set up the nets, and Geratan checked over everything. Then he shook hands with Ambrose, saying, “Seems like there’s nothing more for me to do except go and see this demon.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  The men waited silently in their positions as Geratan crept toward the demon hollow and out of sight.

  It was quiet. No birdsong. No wind.

  Ambrose waited. And waited.

  And waited.

  Why was it taking so long? Was Geratan struggling to get in?

  Perhaps he’s already been ripped in two by the demon.

  But then Ambrose heard footsteps.

  He’s done it!

  Geratan came into view at a jog. Not the sort of speed to flee from a demon. What was going on?

  “We’ve got a bit of a problem,” Geratan said. “The hollow isn’t there anymore. I’ve looked all around, thought perhaps I’d missed it, but I’ve checked the whole area. It’s gone.”

  Ambrose cursed. They’d have to find another way into the demon world.

  “How did you originally find the demon hollow that was here?”

  “We crisscrossed the whole of this part of the plateau until we came across one.”

  “How long did that take?”

  Geratan grimaced. “A week.”

  Ambrose cursed again, thinking of the week he had been so insistent on spending training the men before they set out. He hadn’t factored in the possibility that they might need to find a different hollow. Now they were up on the plateau with a few days’ rations and no idea where to start looking.

  TASH

  DEMON TUNNELS

  TASH WAS tunneling again.

  This time she was holding in her head an image of Frost alone and asleep. The tunnel grew differently now, in short bursts, as if it only worked when Frost was asleep or on her own. It was slow going.

  It’s not a race. The important thing is to get her on her own, not with half the Brigantine army around her.

  So Tash tunneled when Frost slept and rested while Frost was awake. And while Tash rested, she planned what she’d do when she found her.

  I’ll sneak up on her while she sleeps. Put my knife to her throat. Wake her. Question her. Find out what’s happening to the demons and why.

  It sounded unlikely to work, but then again, Tash reminded herself, she was tunneling through stone with the magic power of the demons, so who knew what she was capable of?

  The tunnel had wound steeply down at first but was flat now. Tash sensed she was close, the image in her head of Frost asleep changing as if the tunnel was showing her what really was ahead. In the new vision, Frost was asleep on a blanket on the ground, some sort of cage behind her, and—

  The stone before Tash opened up.

  It’s worked! She’s there!

  Tash took a step back; she needed to compose herself.

  Right. Take it slow. Check there’s no one else nearby.

  She slowly leaned forward to peer through her hole.

  It opened into a stone chamber of sorts, lit by the same glow as all the demon tunnels, but here it was purple rather than red. There was one small, low entrance on Tash’s right, and at the far left was a cage with thick bars and a massive lock. There were no soldiers. The only person there was Frost, lying asleep on her blanket, just as she had been in Tash’s vision. And stacked high inside the cage . . .

  Bottles. Bottles with a purple glow.

  Shits! This is their smoke store!

  Tash took another step back.

  Right. Keep calm. Think this through. This changes things. If I can get past her, I could get to the bottles and release the smoke.

  Tash imagined the hole in the stone expanding, and it im-mediately did so. She stepped slowly forward, checked right—no soldiers—and moved slowly and silently toward the cage.

  Frost lay in front of it, a thin blanket over her bony shoul-ders. Her face was relaxed, though she was pale and had dark circles under her eyes. Close up, she seemed older than Tash had thought—perhaps a bit older than Princess Catherine; she only looked young at a distance because she was so small and scrawny. She was lying close to the cage door, which had a huge padlock on it, and there wasn’t a key left handily on a hook nearby.

  I bet the commander has the key.

  Tash stood still, uncertain what to do.

  Even without opening the cage I could try to smash all the bottles from the outside.

  Or, if I take a bit of smoke first, I could get strong enough to force the bars open! That’d be easier. And helpful if any of those soldiers poke their noses in.

  She’d taken smoke only once before, in Rossarb Castle, when she’d thrown a spear farther than anyone else. The feeling of strength it had given her was amazing, but also strange and somehow unnatural. However, a small amount now would do no harm.

  Tash lifted her right foot over Frost and put it on one of the cage’s horizontal bars. She steadied herself and bent forward, stretching her arm as far as she could into the cage. Her fingertips grazed the nearest bottle.

  Just a bit farther!

  Tash stretched and touched the bottle again. It wobbled alarmingly.

  She pulled her arm back. She couldn’t reach from here.

  Carefully, she tried again and managed to get her fingers round the neck of a bottle. But she’d forgotten that the smoke was heavy, and her hands were sweaty with nerves and the heat. The bottle began to slip.

  Shits!

  Tash lowered the bottle gently to the ground inside the cage and tried again with a better grip on it. She pulled the bottle to her, but it wouldn’t fit through the bars.

  This isn’t funny.

>   She tried again, turning the bottle, but it was still just a bit too wide. And now the bottle was slipping out of her fingers again. She tried to lower it gently, but this time it touched the ground with a gentle chime.

  Tash froze.

  Frost turned in her sleep. And rolled into Tash’s left leg.

  In an instant Frost was sitting up, a cry that sounded like a bell coming from her lips. Tash fell on her, pushing her back to the ground and clamping one hand over her mouth, grabbing her knife with the other, and holding it to Frost’s throat.

  Tash shot a glance at the entrance, bracing herself for soldiers to come running in. But no one appeared. It was silent again.

  Tash turned back to Frost, who wasn’t resisting her, but merely staring at her and scowling. Her eyes were brilliant silver—more startling even than March’s.

  Who’s March?

  A cutesy, little-girl voice filled Tash’s head, almost making her drop her knife.

  Never you mind who March is. My name is Tash and I have a knife at your throat.

  I can see that, Pea-Brain.

  Make a sound and I’ll kill you. Tash moved her hand from Frost’s mouth to put her weight on Frost’s shoulder.

  Are you trying to get the smoke? Need a little fix, do you?

  No. I hate the stuff. I want the key to the cage. So that I can let the smoke out.

  Now why on earth would you want to do that?

  It’s not yours. It’s not for you to take.

  Tash waited for a reply, but there was only silence. She had to look down to check her hand was touching Frost’s shoulder. It was touching skin to skin. Why couldn’t she hear Frost’s thoughts?

  Strange, isn’t it? Silence? But you’re not silent at all. Your little pea-brain is racing around. You’re like a headless chicken.

  If I’m headless, I can’t have a pea-brain, so shut up about that.

  And suddenly a vision came to Tash—a headless chicken racing around in circles.