The Sleeping Prince

by Melinda Salisbury

  The first time the beast was on her, I’d gone in too soon after sunrise and she’d lunged, locking a hand around my ankle and pulling me to the floor. I’d chipped one of my teeth as my face smashed into the filthy rushes coating the old wood. If it had happened a few seconds before, if the sun hadn’t been as high over the horizon, if I hadn’t been wearing two pairs of woolen stockings—so many ifs and so much luck—maybe I’d be like her now, too.

  In the beginning, before I knew what I was dealing with, I’d tried to find a cure, scouring my old books for any mention of her symptoms. I thought it was a matter of finding the right page, finding the right recipe. I truly thought that this time I wouldn’t fail. But the only thing that matched was in a story inside the book I was too afraid to open until I was desperate and terrified, and when I finally did, I already knew that there was no cure.

  Then I hoped to quell the beast, to put it to sleep: chamomile, hops, lavender, lemon balm. But she burned through even my most powerful sedatives—even when the doses were dangerously high she’d be banging at the door again within an hour or two.

  Finally I became desperate and turned to the nastier plants: poppy; wormwood; even small, diluted tinctures of aconite. I broke the law time and again gathering dark weeds and berries, half terrified I’d kill her, half terrified she’d kill me first. You have to treat those plants the way you’d treat a beast; you shouldn’t seek them out, and if you do you must never take them for granted, or trust them; you have to respect them, fear them. I feared her more.

  None of them worked anyway. Her eyes followed me hungrily around the room as the full moon approached, her fingers curled like claws, and she sniffed me when I tucked her into bed. After realizing I’d failed, I stopped trying to help her any further than buying myself a few hours of respite. If my apothecary master, Master Pendie, could see me now, he’d be sickened.

  She still looks mostly like my mother when she tries to hurt me. She doesn’t howl; she whispers my name, begging me to open the door and hold her, imploring me to be with her, to comfort her.

  It’s the only time she speaks to me anymore.

  * * *

  I turn the page over and come face-to-face with the Sleeping Prince. I stare down at the illustration of him, his silver hair whipping out behind him and across the page. In his arms is a beautiful dark-skinned woman. He looks out of the page, his face proud and protective, and she gazes up at him. One of his hands rests on her face and she seems to lean into it, eyes half closed in pleasure.

  Until I started my apprenticeship, I didn’t know the Bringer was part of the Sleeping Prince’s story. I’d heard of him, of course: Be a good girl or the Bringer will come—it was a thing parents said. I never knew his origins were tied with the Sleeping Prince’s, until one day I was flicking through Master Pendie’s copy of the stories while I waited for a potion to brew. It was the first time I’d ever read the story myself—when I was a child, Mama, Papa, or Lief had read it to me—and as I grew up I stopped being so interested in the old tales, making up my own stories instead. But that day, I picked the book up and I read it all. Including the part where the Sleeping Prince became a father, and never knew it. I understand why my family left it out; I would have had nightmares for weeks, dreaming of girls—maybe even myself—being led to the Sleeping Prince by his cursed son, to have their hearts torn out. It was horrifying, after all that time, to discover the tragic story had an even darker ending.

  Even after I knew, though, I found it hard to believe that the smiling, shining prince from the book would ever eat a heart. I’d look at how he holds the rat catcher’s daughter as though she were made of glass; surely he’d cradle a heart and cherish it. His warm amber eyes would watch over it. I couldn’t reconcile, then, the pictures to the words, and I still can’t now, not properly. Even now I know it’s true and not a story at all.

  I wonder now if we’d paid more attention to the story, we might have been able to stop it. The Bringer was spotted in our woods with a dark-haired girl before it all began, and no one had thought anything of it. We’d put it down to a pair of lovers running from Lormere; it wouldn’t have been the first time, and we’d paid it no mind. Until it was too late. It was an old superstition: Every century the son of the Sleeping Prince would rise from his grave and roam the land for a heart to feed his father; nonsense, surely, an old wives’ tale. We’d all but forgotten the Sleeping Prince and his son were, or ever, had been real.

  * * *

  When dawn comes I go through the motions of making my mother’s breakfast, her tea, and cleaning her. I sweep out the stained rushes from her room and change some of the blankets on the bed. She lies back when I’m done, staring up at the ceiling, and I leave her, locking the door.

  As I make to leave I hear voices getting closer, and I panic, reaching for my knife. Then I remember that the evacuation is today, and peeping out of the window confirms it. Old Samm walks past, dragging a small cart filled with bulging burlap sacks, grumbling at a green-clad soldier at his side. If this were a different kind of place I might push the slats aside and wave, but I don’t. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, don’t want the soldiers here, telling us we need to go, too. I have to hope that Unwin accepts my story about my mother being ill and doesn’t try to force us out. It doesn’t matter so much if they come for us once the full moon has passed; I can sedate her and blame the illness, say she’s still weakened. If I can get us through the next few days, I’ll have three weeks to try to find somewhere else deserted enough to hide us, south maybe, to the mountains near the Penaluna River.

  I need to go to the well and collect enough water to last us so I don’t have to keep going out. The less anyone sees of me the better, and the more likely they are to assume we’ve left, too. And I need to go into the woods. I remember what Unwin said about people being killed on sight, and I shiver.

  It doesn’t matter, because I don’t have much choice. I need herbs, and also whatever berries, nuts, and tubers I can find. I need to make sure we have enough food to last for at least the next few days, and potions and remedies to sell on the road. Mostly I need enough poppy tea to make sure that the beast is kept at bay. I’ll just have to stay well away from the border, and out of sight of anyone else.

  * * *

  The woods feel unwelcoming as I ghost my way through them, keeping low and to the shadows. I know where to go for the poppy pods, and for nightshade, and I head there first, moving slowly, my ears alert for any sound. At the sight of a squirrel dashing into the branches of a pine I startle, then, without thinking, throw my knife at it. I’m too slow; I miss the squirrel and it disappears, but the crash of the knife handle against the bark is loud in the deserted woodland and I stop dead, listening intently, terrified I’ll hear shouts and footsteps running toward me because of my haste. I wait long moments before I feel safe enough to go and collect the knife, grateful for my luck as I sheathe it. Still, the missed opportunity grates; I wish my father had taught me how to hunt. I really would kill for some meat to make a stew with.

  Then I remember that I’ll need to be sparing with the fire so I don’t attract too much attention, and I hope I have the same luck evading the soldiers and Unwin as the squirrel had avoiding me.

  There is no sign of anyone as I gather the last of the poppy heads, and I’m making my way toward a patch of nightshade when I hear a low, rustling sound. It takes me a moment to place it, and when I move I realize what it is—a cloak dragging through leaves. Instantly I drop into a crouch, lifting the hem of my own cloak and moving as silently as I can to duck behind a holly bush, clutching my knife, my heart speeding inside my chest.

  If it wasn’t for the fact I’ve spent the last three moons learning how he moves, I might not have recognized Silas as he strides through the forest. His long legs are full of purpose as he crosses the path before me. Some twenty-five or thirty feet ahead of me he stops, tilting his head back to scan his surroundings, without removing his hood. My mouth falls ope
n, and I wonder if I’ve gone mad, because it’s as if I’m re-watching the first time we met, here, in these woods.

  When another cloaked figure emerges I nearly cry out, but the sound never reaches my lips, dying as soon as Silas spins and, spotting the newcomer, breaks into a wide, joyous grin. I almost cry out again when Silas, who I’ve always thought hated to be touched, throws his arms around the hooded figure as though they’re long-lost kin. They embrace for a long while, slapping each other lightly on the shoulder, before pulling back and looking at each other, still clasping each other’s forearms as they speak softly. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see that they are happy to be in each other’s company and again the bitter tang of jealousy rises up in the back of my throat. He’s never seemed so pleased to see me.

  They turn to leave together, heading back toward Almwyk, and I don’t hesitate to follow, forsaking my own tasks in order to trail them. Who is this person, that Silas would risk being seen—being killed? Is this part of why he’s here? As they walk I see the stranger is shorter than Silas; he has to move a little faster to keep up with the length of Silas’s stride, and my stomach twists as Silas flings an arm around the stranger’s shoulders, leaving it there casually as they continue on. They stop and start, pausing to talk earnestly before moving on, and I have to keep ducking behind bushes and hiding behind trees to keep from sight. I lose them in my care to not let them know I’m following, and panic when I reach the spot I’d seen them at last, to find no sign of them.

  I’m scanning the ground, looking for disturbed leaves, or even boot prints, when there is a strange swooping sound and a thunk behind me. Gooseflesh flares across my skin and my pulse begins to race, but it takes my brain a second longer to understand what the sound is. The sight of a second arrow burying itself in the tree trunk by my head confirms my fear.

  Soldiers.

  I forget Silas and his friend, drop my basket, and start to run.

  I move between the trees, zigzagging at random to make it harder for the soldiers I can hear crashing toward me, whooping and screaming, their bloodlust high as they give chase. I didn’t think they’d be so close to the town, expected them to be deeper in the forest, defending the border there. I don’t stop to see how many, don’t consider trying to surrender, knowing by the time I’d lowered my hood they will have shot me. Instead I fly over roots and skid on dead leaves, bolting blindly toward where I think home might be. I crash through bushes, twigs snapping off and catching in my hair, branches whipping my face and body.

  Another arrow flashes past me and the side of my right ear burns. I raise my hand to it and it comes away bloody. No, no, no. I race onward. My cloak catches on a fallen tree and I fall headlong over it, the impact of the ground making my teeth ring. When I look up it’s in time to see a rock land ten feet away. If I’d still been running …

  I roll and then scramble to the left, making for a dense thicket of larches, praying all the time that Silas, or someone, anyone, will come, as I hear the men gaining on me.

  When I break through the larches I almost crash into more of them, a wall of ten or so green tunics, swords raised, charging toward me, ignoring me, running past me, and I turn in confusion to see that my pursuers weren’t soldiers at all, but a group of men, fifteen or so, dressed in black and pressing forward, spears and swords held in their hands as they hack at the line of soldiers between me and them. Their faces are covered with scarves, their armor mismatched, but there’s no mistaking the malice in their intentions.

  One of the soldiers darts back to me, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the melee. The sounds of battle echo through the trees, screams and shouts, metal clanging on metal. The air smells metallic, too, and when I risk another glance back I see fire on the tips of some of the spears, fire raining down haphazardly from arrows; one of the soldiers is struck, and falls motionless into the dead leaves. I gasp, and then the ground is rising up toward my face and I have to throw my hands in front of me to stop from crashing for a second time into the mulch of the forest floor.

  “Get up, miss,” the soldier barks, “unless you wish to die here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I gasp, struggling to my feet. Then I look up and my jaw drops in shock. The soldier addressing me wears a blue sash, and he grips his sword so tightly that I can see the corded tendons in his wrist, stark beneath the raised scars made by the touch of hot metal. Last I saw him, four moons ago, he was a boy, like Lief. His dark cheeks were smooth, his brown eyes wide with fear and hope as he asked my best friend to go to the Harvest dance with him.

  The man before me wears a dented iron helmet, there is stubble on his chin, and even the planes of his face have altered, sharper and stronger somehow. His eyes are bright, but not with hope, with alertness, darting left to right over my head.

  “Is it you?” I ask, unable to believe this lost link to my past is right in front of me.

  Recognition blooms across his face and a smile begins to form. “Errin?” he asks and I nod.

  Then that terrible whirring sound again and he stumbles forward, landing on his stomach with a surprised groan.

  Protruding from the back of his leg is a flaming arrow.

  “Kirin? Kirin, no!” I scream, my hands outstretched toward the arrow already burning itself out. It’s then I realize my knife is still in my hand, that is has been all along, gripped so tightly the casing of the hilt has left welts across my palm.

  “Keep moving, Errin, don’t stop,” Kirin Doglass says, as he pushes himself back to his feet with a grunt and pulls me away, the action behind us getting louder, closer.

  Arrows still fly past us, landing in the earth, and I keep my head ducked, both of us stumbling left, then right, in a bid to stay out of their paths. He half hops, half limps, his eyes on the trees ahead. I don’t look back, though I’m desperate to see if the soldiers are holding their own. The sound of sword against sword now echoes through the forest and panic rises in me. What if they lose? I shake the thought away and move to Kirin’s side, putting my arm around his waist, helping him stagger through the now-endless forest, hardly daring to believe it when I see the end of the woods.

  Only when we’re clear of the tree line does he slump to the ground, his jaw set, his eyes burning in his pallid face, his pierced leg before him.

  “We have to keep going,” I say urgently, glancing behind me, sure at any moment we’ll be overrun.

  “Can’t.”

  “There might be golems.”

  “No,” he gasps.

  “You don’t know—”

  “Errin.” It’s a command. “I need you to pull the arrow out.” His teeth are gritted.

  “No. That’s not a good idea. While the arrow is in it acts as a plug; you need to leave it until you get to a physician.”

  He sighs. “Fine. Check to see if it came out of the back cleanly, will you?”

  “I think it did. Look,” I say and his jaw tightens.

  “I can’t.”

  “Kirin, it’s there—”

  “Errin. I can’t.” He says through clenched teeth. He pulls the helmet from his head and drops it beside him, then unfastens his cloak, ripping it from his shoulders and balling it atop the helmet. His short, tightly coiled hair glistens with sweat. He keeps his head turned away from his leg.

  I sheathe my knife and do as he asks, my stomach giving an odd lurch when I get closer to it; at least six inches of wood have cleared his flesh. Up close it’s horrific. The metal tip is remarkably clean.

  “Yes,” I tell him, swallowing.

  “Is the head attached still?”

  “Yes.”

  “With rope? Wire? Wax? Can you see how?”

  “Wax, I think. Possibly glue?” I lean forward and look. “Wax. From good candles.”

  He sighs softly. “Thank the gods. Could you snap the head off?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to look at it. Check it for poison.”

  “If I disturb the wound, I might tear
it.”

  He shakes his head. “Please, Errin. I have to know. It should come clean and easy.” He sounds terribly calm about it, but his hands are shaking, his face gray and strained, and my stomach drops again.

  I think back to when I was an apothecary in training, the times I watched physicians clean festering wounds, or dig shards of metal and wood out from injuries so my preparations could be used to treat them. I can do this.

  I rip the length of his trousers along the seam before I wrap my left hand around the shaft and brace it against the back of his knee, ignoring the sharp intake of breath it causes. Then, I grasp the tip in my other hand. I’m not a healer, I’ve never had to break a bone to reset it, but I can imagine it must be a little like this, this terrible responsibility, and the knowledge you are going to cause someone pain with your bare hands. My stomach lurches again as I look at the arrowhead. If it didn’t come off on impact, it has to be stuck on firmly. There’s no way he won’t feel this.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and jerk my right hand quickly, feeling sick as the head snaps cleanly away and Kirin screams.

  When I look at him sweat is streaming down his face.

  “Kirin,” I say, but he holds a hand up weakly.

  “Check the end of the arrow,” he says, his voice sounding strained and far away. “Is there any wax still attached? What about splinters, any loose bits of wood, or cracks?”

  “None. I’m sorry, Ki—”

  Without warning he grips the shaft of the arrow just above the fletching and pulls the arrow out. Then he collapses, rolling facedown on the mud, lifting himself a moment later to vomit.

  I leave him to it, pulling out my knife again and opening out his discarded cloak, cutting a strip from the top of it, where it’s cleaner, and tying a tourniquet below his knee. The flow of blood slows immediately and I rip a second strip free, using it to clean the wounds. They’re neat, thank the gods.

  “You’re lucky,” I say as I hack at the thick wool, cutting off two more strips to make pads and a third as a bandage. “And stupid.”