to bother you with it. He maimed a Pitorian—after the battle and for no reason other than his own evil pleasure—and left a message that I should flee before he leads the army against us.” Catherine recalled Harold before she’d left Brigant—standing on the quay, watching her ship leave, a small boy in the shadow of his older brother. “I try to imagine him now. But we spent so little time together. He was always trying to copy Boris or my father. He’s just turned fourteen. From what the soldiers say, he had the strength of a grown man, so I’m sure he must have taken some purple demon smoke. But I’m more concerned that he’s changed in his heart as much as in his body. He was a little boy just a few months ago, but I know my father will be training him—perverting the way he thinks.”
Tzsayn gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “At least you’re safe from your father now.”
“As are you.” Catherine leaned forward and kissed his hand.
“You have no idea how I hate him. A man like that doesn’t deserve to rule; he doesn’t deserve a family.”
She nodded, thinking of her mother, who had lost Boris and Catherine and probably no longer saw Harold.
“I’m sorry I’m not more help.” Tzsayn’s eyes began to close.
“You are a help. But you’re tired. Shall I leave you now? Do you want to sleep?”
“Stay for a while longer. Hold my hand. Tell me something good.”
And that’s when Catherine realized how much Tzsayn needed her to take his mind off what he’d been through at the hands of her father’s torturers. So she described the tree that grew outside her window in Brigane, how the breeze ruffled the leaves so they shimmered and the sun would change its leaves from pale to lime green, which reminded her of something else, and she described tasting a lime for the first time and how delighted she was with the flavor, and after that she talked about her favorite fruit—raspberries—and the berries she used to eat in Brigant. And by the time she’d described them all, Tzsayn was sleeping, his head turned to the side so she could see his old burn scars.
Catherine kissed his hand once more, laid it back down on the bed, and tiptoed out of the room.
AMBROSE
NORTHERN PITORIA
AMBROSE MARCHED across the camp, doing his best to walk without a limp. It was the day before he was due to leave for the Northern Plateau, and he’d finally been invited to the war council. But he took no pleasure in the summons. It undoubtedly meant Tzsayn would be there. The invitation must have come from him. There was no way Ambrose would be allowed near Catherine outside the king’s presence, not after being caught with her by Tanya.
The previous day he had tried the sympathy card on Catherine’s maid, but received short shrift. “I might never see her again, Tanya. The mission is absurdly dangerous.”
“And you put Catherine in danger when you see her. She . . . she changes with you, Ambrose. She forgets herself.”
He had liked hearing that, though he preferred to think that it was her work and role that Catherine forgot. That with him, she was her truer self.
“You’re not good for her,” Tanya continued. “Her posi-tion is precarious. It would be best if you didn’t ‘accidentally’ meet her again.”
“Catherine came into that tent looking for you, I believe. I just happened to be there reminding myself of the army’s positions. If I was invited to the war council, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”
“Davyon briefs you personally. You’ve no need to go.”
And that was the end of it.
Until this morning, when Davyon had sent a message—Ambrose was invited to the council where, no doubt, Tzsayn would be pontificating and posing in one of his absurd blue outfits while Catherine was pushed into the background to deal with the bills like a good little housewife.
Ambrose strode past the guards and into the tent, his leg only bothering him slightly. Davyon greeted him with a for-mal bow and introduced Ambrose to General Hanov and General Ffyn.
“So, we’re just waiting for Tzsayn, are we?” Ambrose said.
Davyon opened his mouth to comment but then turned away.
Hanov replied, “No. Queen Catherine attends for him.”
“For herself, I’d say,” Ffyn muttered.
“Well, if Tzsayn won’t come, she has to, I suppose,” Am-brose countered, a little surprised. Would she be here? Why didn’t Tzsayn come? “Perhaps the king is too busy with his