You open your eyes. There is no red. There is only black.
Black envelops everything, blacker than the blackest night. But this is not night, not day, not anything.
And it’s cold. Stone, stone cold.
And silent. Not a sound.
Except . . . except for this sound, this voice in your head.
But do you even have a head?
Do you have a body?
Can you feel anything?
Are you alive?
How do you know what you are when there is nothing to see or hear or feel?
Perhaps this darkness, this coldness, this silence is death.
It’s certainly shitting bad enough.
CATHERINE
NORTHERN PITORIA
Money is as vital as swords in any war.
War: The Art of Winning, M. Tatcher
THE SIDES of Catherine’s tent were drawn back so that she could make use of the early morning sunshine as she sat at her desk. She could also look out over the camp, which had been moved to open, green meadows uphill from the old one. It lay between two streams, which provided clean water but no risk of flooding. Davyon had selected the location and organized the move, ensuring the prince was disturbed as little as possible and keeping Catherine informed of progress. At least that had gone well.
Catherine dragged her gaze from the view and back to her desk, which was covered with papers. She picked up the first and glanced through it—a bill for provisions. And underneath—another bill, more provisions. And another under that. Running a war wasn’t only about fighting and tactics; it depended on food to ensure all the men were well fed, and that depended on money.
And then there was the issue of the men’s health— so far the Pitorian army had lost more men to disease than to fighting. The red fever had spread through the camp quickly, killing several hundred. But the move had been the right decision. The new camp was cleaner and better organized, with animals and latrines away from the sleeping quarters. There were fewer new cases of fever reported every day. But no sooner was that problem dealt with than Catherine had to move on to the next one, and the next . . .
This was her job now—to take each problem, deal with it as well as she could, and then move on to the next. Logically, she knew that if she could just keep going, then—step by step—she’d get there. But the steps seemed never-ending and the problems needed solving two or three—or twenty—at a time. Catherine’s mind was overloaded. She needed help to think straight. She looked over to her maid.
“I’m going to give you a new job title, Tanya.”
“Lady Tanya of Tornia?” was the reply, said with a smile as she gave an elaborate curtsy.
Catherine smiled but shook her head. “No. I said job title.”
“Chief dogsbody? Head dogsbody?”
“You are the chief of my maids. In fact, you are much, much more than just a maid and you are definitely not a dogsbody. I want you to do what you’ve always done for me, only under a different title.”
“So what title will I receive?”
“Dresser.”
“Hairdresser? A vital role in a country so obsessed with hair as this one.”
Catherine smiled again. “No, Tanya, your new title is not hairdresser. I said dresser. The same title as General Davyon.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you.” Tanya nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Sounds like I’ll get a pay raise.”
“Why does everything come back to money?” Catherine snapped. “Do you want to take my last kopek too?” She felt tears of frustration fill her eyes. She wanted to knock the whole pile of papers on the floor and just walk out.
Tanya stepped closer. “I apologize, Your Majesty.”
“No, I apologize. I’m tired. But I shouldn’t take it out on you.” She’d been sitting with the king most of the night, but Tanya had hardly slept either.
“I’m honored that you’ve given me any thought at all,” Tanya continued. “And I’m honored to have a new job title. And dresser is a good one. If I can be thought of anywhere near as highly as Davyon, I’ll be doing well.”
“The point is that I already think of you as highly as him, and I want everyone to do the same. We have been through so much together, Tanya. I want the world to know how much I value you.”
“So, I’m your adviser?”
“Indeed.”
“On anything in particular?”
Catherine sighed and rolled her shoulders. Where to begin? “War . . . money . . . marriage . . . love.”