“You want help, Noyes?” Ambrose cried. “Here you are. You’re lucky to die so swiftly.” And he swung his sword and sliced across Noyes’s neck, severing his head. Noyes’s burning body fell. His head rolled to Ambrose’s feet.
The white-haired prisoners had seen their opportunity and were grappling with their captors. Some, already free, were racing to Catherine’s side, snatching up weapons from the boys who were now all in flames. The boys were no longer able to fight, but the white-hairs were hugely outnumbered by the Brigantine army.
There was only one way to win and Ambrose knew it too. He picked up a fallen spear and turned to Aloysius, who was still flailing at the flames that licked at his chest.
“For my sister, my brother, and all those you have killed and ruined!” Ambrose shouted, thrusting at the king. But, even burning, Aloysius fought back, using his sword to deflect the attack. Ambrose struck the spear hard and fast at the king’s chest again. The point hit the breastplate and this time Ambrose drove it upward, with all his force, into the king’s neck.
Aloysius staggered back, staring up at the sky, blood coursing from his throat. Then he collapsed, stiff and flaming, to the ground.
Catherine stared. Her father, the king, who had seemed eternal and immovable, was lying at her feet. Part of her wanted to grab a sword and stab and cut his body, but Ambrose caught her wrist and gently pulled her back.
“Stay away from the smoke. Don’t let it touch you.”
“He’s really dead?”
“He’s dead, Catherine.”
She looked up to see that the Brigantine army was in chaos. Boys were running among the soldiers in panic, sending flames from their mouths and bodies. Some soldiers were attacking the boys, others were themselves on fire. And hanging above them all was a low white cloud that seemed to be sending down long thin wisps of smoke that set fire to anything, or anyone, it touched.
Ambrose drew Catherine farther back and the white-hairs retreated from the Brigantines and the white cloud. Catherine stood at the head of her soldiers and watched the Brigantine army burn. The white cloud of smoke rose from the smoldering bodies, high into the sky, and drifted to the north. And there, above the Northern Plateau, was a larger cloud of white smoke. The two clouds seemed to join and then moved higher and farther north and out of sight.
Standing with Catherine, Ambrose said, “The demon world has closed. The smoke has gone. No more demon smoke and no more boy army. And no more Aloysius. I think it’s over.”
Catherine agreed. “The war’s over. My father’s days are over. But for us, it’s just the beginning.”
Epilogue
MARCH AND EDYON
CALIA, CALIDOR
THE EVENING sun was warm on March’s face as he walked along the terrace of Edyon’s private rooms in Calia Castle. The sky was turning red in the west and the sea was the darkest of blues. A few sails were still to be seen, but most boats had come into the safety of the harbor. The warmth of the autumn day was still with them, and wind chimes sounded in the gentle sea breeze.
It was a month since the boy army had attacked the city, and, on the surface, most areas outside the castle appeared to have returned to normalcy—the city of Calia was bustling and clean, trade had resumed, and the market and quaysides were busy. But inside the castle, things had changed. The building itself was burned and broken in places, but the hole in government was even more obvious. Prince Thelonius had been killed, as had the chancellor and many lords. Regan, too, had of course been killed, though Edyon told March that his death had occurred not on the field of battle, but because of his own treachery. It gave March some comfort to know that even though his plan to kidnap Edyon with Holywell had been wrong, it had actually, in the long run, saved Edyon’s life.
And Edyon himself had changed and blossomed. He was a leader to whom the Calidorians looked, a surprisingly stable pillar of the system—one of the few pillars left. But the other parts of the system were being replaced: most of the lords who had been killed had sons who would fill their shoes, and a new chancellor had been appointed. Rashford and Kellen had also been given jobs.
The main problem for March was knowing where he fitted in this society. What