and you, dearest brother, underestimated our rather marvelous sister.”
Harold had watched Boris and Lang talk to Catherine when she was chained to the cart during the botched exchange of prisoners. Even in chains Catherine had looked stunning in white silk beneath shining armor. Boris had undoubtedly insulted her, but Lang had touched Catherine’s breastplate, right over her breast. Boris shouldn’t have allowed that; Lang was an oaf and a nobody, and Catherine was a princess. But Lang was dead now. And Boris too. Harold had had a perfect view of Boris’s final moments: the spear flying low from Catherine’s hand, the brief look of surprise and confusion on their brother’s face. Harold had almost laughed out loud at that look. And then there was the delight in seeing Boris falling back, mortally wounded.
And that was all it had taken to elevate Harold to heir apparent.
“Thank you, sister.” Harold smiled as he looked toward the Pitorian camp, where Catherine had escaped afterward. Harold had always liked her more than their brother. She was clever and crafty. But she must have taken some smoke to throw like that.
Harold had tried the purple demon smoke himself for the first time only a few days earlier. He’d been rather nervous. His father despised anything that “perverted” nature, even wine and beer, and Boris had warned Harold against it, saying, “It’ll addle your mind—and, let’s face it, your mind is not normal at the best of times.” Harold was very much aware that his mind wasn’t like those of ordinary people. But who wanted a normal mind, and who wanted to do as Boris ordered? And in the Brigantine camp there were a number of boys with smoke who were more than happy to share what they had with a son of the king.
Harold had inhaled only the smallest amount but immediately knew his old life was over. The smoke transformed him. Harold was small and slight—unfortunately more his mother’s build than his father’s—but with the smoke he was faster and stronger than even the best men in the army. That was why Boris hadn’t wanted Harold to have any—he’d been afraid that Harold would be stronger than him. But now it didn’t matter. Boris was dead, and Harold could do whatever he liked.
“And I’ll do it better than you ever did, brother,” he muttered. “I’ll have my own troop while I’m still fourteen.”
Boris hadn’t got his until fifteen.
Harold knew exactly which troop he wanted—and it certainly wasn’t Boris’s oafs. Harold wanted the boys’ brigades. He’d seen them training, seen how the demon smoke had transformed them from children into—
“Hey, you.”
It was one of the blue-haired Pitorian soldiers who had been looking for the wounded. He wasn’t alone, but the others were farther back.
Harold smiled and waved. “Hello.”
“What are you doing?”
Harold replied in his best Pitorian: “I’m admiring the view.” The man came closer, and Harold could see the face below the blue hair was unusually ugly, with fat lips and a broad, shallow forehead. “And you’re ruining it.”
“You’re Brigantine, aren’t you, boy? You shouldn’t be here. You should go.”
“I most certainly am Brigantine. I’m Harold Godolphin Reid Marcus Melsor, second son of Aloysius of Brigant and the future king of Brigant, Pitoria, Calidor, and any other place I fancy, and I’m in an exceptionally good mood, despite looking at the ugliest man in Pitoria. And I’ll go when I jolly well like. And this”—Harold drew his sword—“is why.”
With that, he ran at the Pitorian. He performed a low somersault, swinging his sword as he turned in the air, feeling the strength of the smoke, his blade as light and easy to control as a feather. It felt like a dance, and Harold wanted to laugh again as his sword severed the soldier’s leg cleanly, just above the knee. Harold landed firmly on both feet as the man toppled to the ground and lay on his back, staring at the sky, his fat-lipped mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a blue-finned fish gasping for air. The other two Pitorians shouted in alarm and ran toward their comrade, drawing their swords. Everything seemed to be moving slowly to Harold, and he grinned at them and held his arms out, wondering if they’d attack, but they came to a halt, glancing around nervously.
Harold shouted, “You were looking for wounded men, weren’t you? Well, now you’ve found one. You should help this fellow. He’ll bleed to death if you’re not quick.”