March’s End

PRAISE FOR DANIEL POLANSKY“Daniel Polansky is one of my favorite new writers. Again and again, he manages to reinvent and invert well-worn genres.”David S. Goyer, screenwriter and director“Polansky is his own genre.”Delilah S. Dawson, New York Times-bestselling author of Star Wars: Phasma“Surges like a revelation.”Matt Fraction, Eisner Award-winning comic book writer“This f*cking guy. He’s too good to live…”John Hornor Jacobs, author of Southern Gods BY THE SAME AUTHORStraight Razor CureTomorrow, The KillingShe Who Waits BehindThose AboveThose BelowA City DreamingThe BuildersThe Seventh Perfection ANGRY ROBOTAn imprint of Watkins Media LtdUnit 11, Shepperton House89 Shepperton RoadLondon N1 3DFUKangryrobotbooks.comtwitter.com/angryrobotbooksMarch 31stAn Angry Robot paperback original, 2023Copyright © Daniel Polansky 2023Cover by Sarah O’FlahertyEdited by Paul Simpson and Andrew HookSet in MeridienAll rights reserved. Daniel Polansky asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.ISBN 978 1 91520 245 1Ebook ISBN 978 1 91520 250 5Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ Books Ltd.9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1d_r0 For my family, past and present. TABLE OF CONTENTSBOOK ONE 2000ONE2023TWOTHREEFOURFIVESIX2001SEVENEIGHTNINE2023TENELEVENTWELVE2001THIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEEN2023SIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEEN2001NINETEENTWENTYTWENTY-ONETWENTY-TWOTWENTY-THREEBOOK TWO 2005TWENTY-FOUR2023TWENTY-FIVETWENTY-SIXTWENTY-SEVENTWENTY-EIGHT2006TWENTY-NINETHIRTYTHIRTY-ONETHIRTY-TWO2023THIRTY-THREETHIRTY-FOURTHIRTY-FIVETHIRTY-SIXTHIRTY-SEVENTHIRTY-EIGHT2006THIRTY-NINEFORTYFORTY-ONE2023FORTY-TWOFORTY-THREEFORTY-FOURFORTY-FIVEFORTY-SIX2006FORTY-SEVENFORTY-EIGHTFORTY-NINEFIFTYBOOK THREE 2023FIFTY-ONEFIFTY-TWOFIFTY-THREEFIFTY-FOURFIFTY-FIVEFIFTY-SIXFIFTY-SEVENFIFTY-EIGHTFIFTY-NINESIXTYSIXTY-ONESIXTY-TWOSIXTY-THREESIXTY-FOURSIXTY-FIVESIXTY-SIXSIXTY-SEVENSIXTY-EIGHTSIXTY-NINE2024SEVENTYACKNOWLEDGEMENTS BOOK ONE2000 ONEThe children were in the attic. Mary Ann and John sat on the bed, with Constance in the big rocking chair beside them, flipping through the book. Watching through the window overlooking the old oak tree you would have thought she was reading them a story, but she was not.“T is for the Tower,” said Mary Ann. She was eleven, with red hair and a recently fastened set of braces. “From where the March is ruled with strength and wisdom.”“Good,” said Constance, turning the page, “keep going.”“U is for Under the Mountain, the kingdom of the petrousian, carved from rock and stone.”The book was bound with something like leather and lacked title, author, or colophon. The pages were ancient but neither yellowed nor brittle, shades of colored ink depicting a vast subterranean city, gravelly humanoids smelting ore and carrying iron and carving stalagmite.“From earth and stone,” she corrected. Constance was thirteen, big for her age, frowsy haired and friendly.“What’s the difference?”Constance wasn’t sure, but as the eldest she couldn’t say that. “It’s in the book.”“From earth and stone,” Mary Ann repeated unenthusiastically.Constance turned a page to reveal a troupe of knights – fox knights and owl knights and clockwork knights and knights that looked like jellyfish but with fewer tendrils – all marching or riding or flying in spotless armor, carrying shining weapons and fluttering banners.“V is for…” Mary Ann began but did not finish. “Oh, hell, I never remember this one. Can’t we just go to the party?”“Don’t say hell,” said Constance, “and not until we’re done with the book.”“Hell,” Mary Ann said again, “and who cares about the book? Why do we have to do homework on a holiday?”“Because we’re Harrow,” said Constance, wearing what was Mary Ann’s least favorite expression. “We’re special. Go again.”“V is for very boring,” said Mary Ann, “for vexing and for vile.”“You should know this by now. I memorized it when I was still in third grade.”“Of course, you did, you’re perfect.” Mary Ann crossed her arms.“Mother says–”“You’re not our Mother.”“No, Mother is our mother, and she said we had to finish with the book before we went to the party. Do you think I wouldn’t prefer being downstairs, rather than babysitting the two of you?”“I think you love it. I think it’s your absolute favorite thing.”“V is for the Valiant, who defend the March from evil,” said John, turning from the window. John was eight; you could tell by his height and his baby face and the children’s suit he had been forced to wear – but not always by his eyes, which were bright blue and strangely serious. “W is for the widdershins, nomads and wanderers, who walk with their hands and eat with their feet. X is for the xerophiles, lords of the western wastes, monarchs of the endless sand. Y is for the yearlings, the mounts of the mighty, who will not see a second spring. Z is for the zoaea, who guard the Southern oceans in argosy and galleass.”Constance turned to the final page of the book, which was black from margin to margin with something darker than ink. “What comes last?” she asked, with more than her usual seriousness.Even Mary Ann knew this one. “The End,” she said, matching her sister’s tone.Constance shut the book with a snap. “Now we can go to the party.”Which was already in full swing below, festive music echoing up the stairwell, the landing packed with revelers. Strings of colored lights twinkled over the mantle, a fire crackled in its corner, mistletoe hung hopeful over doorways, wine mulled, dips congealed. The Harrow’s Christmas party was an institution across the neighborhood. The living room and the dining room and the fancy room in the back where no one ever went were busy with friends and acquaintances, people who worked with Father and people Mother had once gone to school with and everyone fortunate enough to live in their development; except for the Wolfes who were out of town, and Mr Crowley who never came to anything and turned his lights off on Halloween.In the center of it, wearing a long evening dress with her hair up in a high crown, stood their mother. Sophia Harrow was a tall woman, with skin the color of fresh snow and the same blue