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