when they hit the beach? They’re going very fast.”
“Please keep watching, Your Majesty, and you’ll see . . .”
Racing to the shore, the boats rode smoothly up the beach, coming to a gentle stop as the men leaped out and into the shallows.
“The shallow draft and a liftable keel mean the scullers ride the surf and glide up the beach. Disembarking soldiers hardly get their knees wet.”
“Do they have no faults at all?” Catherine asked.
“Like all ships, they need wind. If there is no wind, they rely on oars, and if that happens near a Brigantine ship, your men will have to row fast in the opposite direction. But in all other circumstances the scullers are the better vessel.”
Catherine could see how quickly the men had landed and were running ashore, weapons in hand.
“What do you think, Ffyn?” she asked.
“They do seem better than I first thought.”
“Yes.” Catherine nodded. “I think so too. I want the scullers working immediately. I want to capture some Brigantine ships.”
Catherine felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach that she was surprised to recognize as hope. With these ships it was possible to turn the tide of the war, to beat her father at sea and then cut off his forces on land. And if Ambrose could cut off the supply of smoke to the boy army, they could beat Aloysius once and for all.
Catherine wished she could tell Tzsayn the good news. The sun was setting now, and Catherine allowed herself to think of Tzsayn. Had the operation been a success? She didn’t want to think of the pain he must be suffering, or—worse—that he might not have survived. For the moment, all she could do was assume the best. She looked at the sea, the unlikely beauty of the place called Hell’s Mouth, and hoped one day she could share it with Tzsayn in a time of peace. But she’d be leaving here at the first sign of dawn to ride back to the man she loved.
AMBROSE
NORTHERN PITORIA
THE DEMON Troop were ready to go. They’d trained intensively for a week in narrow, steep-walled ditches to simulate the demon tunnels, practicing close-quarters combat. Ambrose stood above their small training ground, watching his men go through one final drill. They looked good, but still, a wave of doubt and depression was looming over Ambrose’s thoughts. It was the same feeling he’d had after the battle of Hawks Field, that feeling of hopelessness, of being alone and detached from the people around him.
He’d lost his sister, Anne, and had to stand by while his family denounced her, then he’d had to denounce her too before watching her execution. Then Ambrose had been accused of being a traitor and fled his homeland. Tarquin, the most honorable of men, Ambrose’s brother and closest friend, had been tortured and killed. Ambrose had no idea what had become of his father but suspected that he too was dead. Am-brose had lost all his family and his home, but throughout it all Catherine had been his shining light, the person that had kept him hopeful. He’d clung to Catherine as they’d escaped Tornia, and clung to her even more as they’d crossed the Northern Plateau after leaving Rossarb. She had been his rock when all else was lost. And now he couldn’t hold her anymore. He wasn’t sure what else he had to anchor him.
“May I join you?” Davyon came to stand beside him, his voice formal and his face expressionless as usual. They hadn’t spoken since the war council two days earlier.
“Of course, General Davyon.” Was Davyon here to see him or the men? Ambrose almost didn’t care. “How is the king?” he asked.
“The doctors are operating now. I couldn’t bear to be there. But Tzsayn is the strongest person I know. He’ll get through it.”
Ambrose nodded. “I sincerely hope so.” And that was true: he didn’t want Tzsayn to die; just didn’t want him around, and didn’t want him with Catherine. “I can only apologize again for my shameful remarks the other morning.”
“I accept your apology, Sir Ambrose. I think we were both at less than our best.”
Yes, Ambrose had been at less than his best. He’d been jealous and impulsive. Would things be different if he’d kept quiet? Ambrose felt wholly adrift. Tzsayn had Catherine. Ambrose had nothing. Nothing except a bunch of men with crimson hair and an almost impossible task ahead of them.
Davyon nodded down at the men in the ditches. “They’re looking