“Well, there can’t be a law against talking, and I’ve heard plenty of it in the camp over the last week,” Sam said. “Some talk is that Prince Harold is our commanding officer and heir to the throne of Brigant because Prince Boris was killed in battle against the Pitorians.”
“There should be a law against gossip,” Rashford replied. “That’ll be from Frank and Fitz, I’m guessing.”
“I can’t believe Boris is dead.” Sam shook his head. “I thought he was invincible. I saw him once. He was on the biggest, blackest stallion you’ve ever seen. I couldn’t hardly look at him for the shine on his armor. The Pitorians have to pay for killing him.”
“Aloysius will make them pay. Don’t you worry about that, Sam,” Rashford replied.
“So it’s true? Boris is dead?” March asked.
“I believe that the honorable Prince Boris was killed in battle,” Rashford said. “However, I don’t believe it was the pathetic Pitorian army that killed him. I have it on good authority that he was killed by a spear thrown by his own sister, Princess Catherine. And if that’s so, then I’m betting she took some purple smoke to do it.”
“I’ve met Catherine. She’s petite and delicate. She’d need the smoke for sure, and I know she uses it,” March replied.
Rashford laughed. “Well, of course you’re pals with her, March. Hang around in the same smoke den, did you?”
“Not actually, no.”
Rashford turned to Sam. “Do you believe March’s stories, Sam?”
Sam stared back, almost in surprise. “Sure. Why not?”
“Your innocence does you credit. Me, I’m not so innocent. And March sure ain’t. He’s poured wine for Prince Thelonius, slept with a dead demon, and now he’s taken smoke with Princess Catherine.”
“Actually, she watched while I was healed by the smoke. Prince Tzsayn was with her,” March interjected.
Sam gawped in delight.
“Oh, of course. I took that for granted.” Rashford smiled. “Who hasn’t hung out with Prince Tzsayn? Me and him go way back. But tell me, March, have you met Prince Harold of Brigant?”
“Not yet.”
Sam asked, “How old is Prince Harold? I thought he was just a little boy.”
Rashford laughed. “Like us all, he just keeps getting older.”
March tried to remember what he knew. “He’s three years younger than Princess Catherine, so that means he’s fourteen.”
“Younger than most of us Bulls,” Rashford said.
“I wonder if he likes a bit of purple smoke,” March said.
Sam looked shocked. “Not a prince!”
“Why not? Who wouldn’t want all that strength and power, Sam?”
“But he’s a prince. He doesn’t need it.”
March laughed. “Maybe he needs it more.”
Rashford agreed. “You might be right there, March. He’s head of the boys’ brigades now. He wouldn’t want us to show him up.”
It was midmorning when they saw smoke rising from a camp in the trees ahead. This wasn’t like the Bulls’ camp. It was bigger and noisier and a whole lot fancier. There were lots of grown men and horses, and also a few carts and some mules. One huge cart, which two blacksmiths were working on, had some kind of metal bars and chains on it. In the center of the camp were two large marquees with black, red, and gold pennants—the colors of royalty.
They made their way to an open area near the tents, where some other boys were already gathering. All were wearing the jerkins of the boys’ brigades. Rashford greeted some of the other boys as they stood and waited. Sam muttered, “I can see Bears, Foxes, Lions, Hawks, and even a few Wasps.”
Rashford nodded and added thoughtfully, “No Eagles or Stags, though.”
There were three, four, or more representatives from each brigade: their leaders and their new recruits. It was easy to tell them apart. The recruits were the ones who looked nervous.
Sam gasped and dug his elbow sharply into March’s ribs. “It’s him. It’s actually him! Prince Harold.”
It was, without doubt, the prince. He was wearing a fine golden crown that was woven with his hair to hold it in place. His immaculate clothes were black and gold—leather boots and trousers and a silk shirt, with a leather jerkin similar to that worn by all the boys, except that the prince’s had a black sheen, and over his heart he had a different badge—a golden sun.
Sam was muttering, “This is the best day of my life. Look at him. Look at him. He’s like a god!”
And it had to be said that Harold did look impressive. He stood with his legs apart in a patch of sun that pierced