from Edyon to Byron and back. “But I see you have help. Just get away. There’s no hope for anyone here. Harold’s taken the castle. He’ll kill everyone.”
Edyon tried to take it in. Calia was lost, people were being slaughtered, and yet somehow March was here. “But what about you, March? Are you in the boy army?”
“Edyon. Your Highness. We don’t have time for this.” Byron took his arm. “You mustn’t stop. This could be a ruse.”
Edyon looked at March, looked into his beautiful silver eyes. March had lied to him in the past. Their entire relationship was based on a lie. But March had also saved his life more than once and risked his own to do it. Edyon shook his head. “It’s no ruse.”
“But we still can’t stop!”
“Then we all go,” Edyon said, grabbing March’s arm. “March, come. Tell us what’s happening.”
They set off again, running along the beach to a rowboat that was pulled up between some rocks. March spoke quickly: he’d joined the boy army; Harold had made him his servant; they attacked the wall on the border near Abask, then came south to Calia. But before March could explain further, they were at the boat. Edyon clambered in. “Hurry, March.”
But March hesitated. “Where’s Thelonius?”
Byron said, “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have time for this.”
“My father’s with his army near the border, March. But get in the boat and we can talk more.” Edyon needed March to be with him.
March didn’t move. “Thornlees is leading the conventional army south. Just his men, not the whole Brigantine army. Your father has a chance against them, but not against the boys.”
“But the boys are here.”
“They won’t be for long. Harold wants to take all of Calidor. He’ll do whatever he can to kill Thelonius. And all the nobles, including you, which is why you must flee. Get to Pitoria.”
“Yes,” Byron said firmly. “That we agree on.”
“No, we don’t,” Edyon replied. “Not until March gets in the boat.”
“No.” March shook his head. “I can’t go. Harold’s mad. Worst of the lot of them. He has to be stopped. I think I can do it. Maybe. Anyway, I have more of a chance than most.”
“March. You’re not a fighter. Not a soldier.”
“I’m an Abask. I can do it.” And his eyes lit up. He looked terrified and yet defiant. “I have to do it. I can get close to him. Without Harold, there may be an end to this.”
Edyon remembered Madame Eruth saying he’d meet a foreign man who was in pain. And March’s pain was so acute that it seemed to be radiating out of his eyes.
“He’s destroying people. He won’t stop. I should have done it before now.”
Edyon knew he’d not change March’s mind. He grabbed his hand. “Don’t let him kill you. Get through this, March. Please.” Tears filled his eyes; he pulled March to him into an embrace. “I loved you before and love you still. You’re my hero, always.”
March buried his head in Edyon’s shoulder, then stood back, tears in his eyes too. “And I love you too. Always. And you are my hero, Edyon. Be a prince. Be whatever you want. But never change. You’re perfect as you are.”
Edyon kissed March’s cheek, tasting the tears, and before he broke down entirely, he turned and stepped into the boat. Byron told them to push off and, when Edyon turned to look to shore, March was walking away.
MARCH
CALIA, CALIDOR
MARCH WALKED away from Edyon and couldn’t bear to look back. He’d break if he saw Edyon leaving again. Edyon and his new companion—the most handsome young man in the world, it seemed, and clearly extremely protective of him. But that wasn’t even important. It was a good thing that Edyon had protection. He’d get away. He’d go on to live his life. March could have left with them, but he knew now that he had to do what he could to end this war. After seeing the bodies in the castle, he was certain that was his destiny. Perhaps all his life was coming to this point and to this realization.
March despised Thelonius for keeping him as a servant, for betraying the Abasks, but he’d done it to protect others. What March hated most was that Thelonius never admitted it, never expressed regret, never said what an impossible choice it had been, never showed any humanity, only a regal certainty that what he’d done was for the best. It was an awful choice, but why not admit