by Sally Green
“He’s right,” March said. “We should go. Holywell will get us all to safety, Your Highness, but we need to keep moving.”
Edyon nodded. If March could ride with a wounded shoulder, then he wouldn’t be the one to slow them down. March, who had come to help him and been hurt and was now implicated in a murder too. It was all Edyon’s fault.
They set off again, and as Edyon rode he went over the way he’d grabbed the sheriff’s man and shoved him onto Holywell’s knife. The huge man had felt as easy to control as a child. It must have been panic, the fear and shock of seeing him stab March. But Edyon would give anything now to undo it. If only he hadn’t got involved. But then he’d have been arrested. If only he hadn’t been there with the girl. But she was chasing her smoke. If only he hadn’t stolen the smoke in the first place. If only, if only, if only . . . What a fool he was.
The sky was a pale gray-blue with dawn when Holywell finally stopped. They were in woodland, and all was quiet and still. Edyon didn’t feel tired though; he was strangely alert and strong. His body seemed to want to do more.
Holywell said, “We rest here for the morning. I’ll move the horses near the stream and have a check around. March, you stay here and guard His Highness.” Holywell took a small bundle from his pack and threw it down at March’s feet. “There’s bandages there and some bread and cheese. Leave some for me—food and bandages. And cover up that bottle. It’s like a beacon.”
Holywell led the horses away.
“How was Holywell hurt?” Edyon looked at March.
“We had a coming-together with Regan.”
“A coming-together?”
“Regan attacked us. He’s dead too.”
“Oh shits.”
Indeed, Madame Eruth’s foretelling was true. Death was all around him all right. And here was March, the handsome foreign man she’d promised. But what else had she said about him? Beware: he lies too . . .
“You said you had proof,” he blurted. “About being sent from the prince.”
March nodded and reached into his jacket, saying, “This is for you, from your father.”
It was a ring, glowing gold in the low morning light, an emerald sparkling from the head of an eagle. The craftsmanship was exceptional.
“Prince Thelonius’s seal. He wore it every day I knew him, until the day he entrusted us with the mission of passing it to you, his son, to show how much he wants you to return to him.”
Edyon took the chain from inside his shirt. From it hung a swirl of gold, like brambles, round a central flat medallion. The ring slid through the brambles and latched on to the medallion underneath.
A perfect fit.
Edyon looked at the ring. “Two men have already died because my father sent me this. I hope no one else will suffer the same fate.” He looked up at March. “But I have a bad feeling.”
Pain, suffering, and death . . .
March had a strange look on his face, but he turned away and began to take off his jacket and shirt. The bandage at his shoulder was bloody and grimy. March started to undo the dressing but winced.
Edyon said, “Let me help.”
“I can do it, Your Highness.” But the movement had caused the wound to reopen, and fresh blood was already trickling down March’s chest.
“That’s clearly not true. Lie back and stay still. Don’t make it worse.”
“There’s a blanket in my pack,” March said.
Edyon bent down and pulled it out, wishing he had packed one himself.
Then he stopped. “Oh shits!”
“What is it?” March asked. “Are you going to be sick again?”
“No . . . I . . . I think I’ve done something stupid. I had a bag of things with me. I forgot about it in the . . . the rush to leave the woods. It probably won’t be too hard for whoever finds it to work out it’s mine.”
That was an understatement. The bag had his best shirt in it, the one embroidered with his initials. If he’d wanted to leave a clue to who had killed the sheriff’s man, he couldn’t have done better. He really was a fool.
March smiled gently at Edyon and said, “We all make mistakes, Your Highness.” But Edyon had a feeling that March wouldn’t have made such a basic one. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.
Edyon threw the blanket on the dewy ground, and March hesitated, then lay down, wincing. Edyon carefully lifted March’s shirt away from his chest and cleaned around the wound with a fresh bandage and water from March’s flask.
“Is it bleeding at the back? It hurts there too.”
Edyon gently raised March’s shoulder. “There’s no cut at the back, but it’s swollen and bruised.” He touched the bruise and March yelped in pain. “The cut looks deep. It must have hit the bone.”
Edyon took his time to clean gently around the wound. March stared up at Edyon, who felt his stomach flutter as their gazes met, but then March closed his eyes. Edyon didn’t mind. It gave him the chance to study his new friend, his handsome face and smooth, muscular chest. But the cut to his shoulder was deep. Holywell had said it wasn’t so bad, but perhaps riding had made it worse, or perhaps Holywell had lied so that they could escape.
March’s breath was deep and even now. He was sleeping. Edyon ran his fingers along March’s strong jaw and settled his head against the blanket. As he turned away, he saw the bottle of smoke lying on the ground next to March’s pack. Was it really only yesterday he had taken it? Already it felt unreal, as if it hadn’t really happened, and yet that was what had led him to this mess. But no, in fact, it was before that, the stealing of the silver ship, which had been the start of it. That’s what had got him beaten up and pissed on. Left bruised and battered and stinking so he’d had to go to the bathhouse, where he found the smoke.
He probed his mouth with his tongue, feeling for the loose tooth he remembered, but found no wobble, no swelling, no soreness. He vaguely recalled waking up after his smoke dream to find that his tooth was better. And it had been his bath in the smoke-warmed water that had soothed away the pain of his beating . . .
Had the smoke healed his bruises and his tooth?
It seemed ridiculous. He’d been to smoke dens and the smoke never healed; it just made you feel good. And now he was no longer feeling good. He might be the son of a prince, with a prince’s gold ring, but he was still a bastard and a thief (a pretty useless one at that). And a killer responsible for a murder—two murders: Regan’s and the sheriff’s man’s. Responsible for March’s wound as well.
Pain, suffering, and death. Death all around him.
And Edyon couldn’t help thinking that there would be more to come.
TASH
DORNAN, PITORIA
TASH HAD followed Edyon, Holywell, and the other man for a good part of the night. They were on horseback, but she was fast. She’d half thought of waiting until they made camp, then running in, snatching the smoke, and running off. But they only stopped briefly for Edyon to be sick. Of course they’d want to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the sheriff’s men. And when they did stop they’d be on their guard, so sneaking into their camp would be dangerous, and the man with the knives wasn’t to be messed with. So, as it began to get light, she turned back for Dornan.
It was mid-morning when she got back, and there was much activity around the woods. The sheriff’s men had obviously found the body and were out in force, though she’d not seen any sign that they’d followed Edyon’s trail.
She walked into Gravell’s room. It smelled stale and sour with sweat. There was a Gravell-shaped mound on the bed. Tash went over and shook it.
“Wake up. I’ve got news.”
Nothing. Not even a snore.
Tash leaned into him, pushing and rocking rather than shaking him.
Gravell farted.
She moved round to the head of the bed.
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“Wake up, Gravell!”
Gravell groaned, then belched a belch so stinky that Tash had to step back. But this wasn’t the first time she’d experienced Gravell’s smells, and his hangovers, and she knew how to deal with both. She took the washbowl, filled it with water, went back to the bed, and threw the water in his face.
“Wake up! I need to talk to you.”
Gravell licked around his mouth.
“I know where the smoke is! I’ve seen a man get killed!”
Gravell grunted and turned over.
With a sigh, Tash sat down on the chair and listened as Gravell started to snore.
CATHERINE
THE ROAD TO TORNIA, PITORIA
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CATHERINE WAS exhausted. Exhausted but relieved and a little exhilarated. Things had gone well for her and her dress. She had worn it every day, hour after tiring hour in the saddle. But it had been worth it—the crowds, it seemed, could not get enough of her.
The weather had been in her favor too, warm but not hot, with no rain. Progress had been slow and steady to accommodate her growing band of followers. The horse she rode was large, handsome, and quiet, selected by Sir Rowland from Lord Farrow’s stable. The trumpeters were well chosen too, loud but not jarring, and again Sir Rowland had been personally involved, selecting them for their appearance as much as their playing ability; they were all young and handsome. They walked well ahead of the procession, so that by the time Catherine arrived crowds had gathered. There were dancers too, of course, and once more Sir Rowland had managed to find the most handsome band. When Catherine commented on their looks, Sir Rowland replied with a smile, “Why have ugly things when you can have them beautiful?”
And there had been large crowds. The people of Pitoria liked to party: that Catherine had learned quickly. Every night there was a feast and every day the road was lined with people celebrating her arrival; young and old ran, stared, pointed, and waved, and children literally jumped up and down with excitement.
As the cavalcade arrived in the town of Woodville that morning, a little girl on the front step of a baker’s shop had shouted, “I love you!” then she blushed and hid her head in her hands. Catherine was carrying a sprig of the pretty and delicate wissun, with its many tiny white flowers that made a round head. She pulled up her horse and passed Tanya the flower, saying, “Give it to the girl,” remembering to add, “speak in Pitorian.”
Catherine watched as Tanya maneuvered her horse over to the girl and held out the wissun to her, saying, “With thanks from Princess Catherine.”
The story quickly spread and soon more girls and some boys were also shouting, “We love you!”
Catherine smiled gracefully and gave out more flowers. They rode slowly onward, and Sir Rowland handed Catherine another blossom of wissun.
“It’s fortunate indeed that it grows wild all the way to Tornia,” he remarked. “But I begin to fear that there will be no wissun left in all of Pitoria by your wedding day.”
Catherine laughed. “Indeed I would not wish that.”
“You are doing well, Your Highness. Though I’m not sure your brother appreciates your efforts.”
Catherine glanced toward Boris. “Well, at least he looks smart.”
Boris’s horses, men, and weapons were all handsome and gleaming in the sunlight. Her brother rode at the front of Catherine’s entourage, with Noyes, as always, at his shoulder, keeping his watchful eye on things. Boris ensured that the cavalcade kept moving. He was determined they shouldn’t be delayed from reaching the capital and complained bitterly that Catherine was deliberately slowing their progress. He was right, but for once Boris’s power was limited. He could get his men to keep the roads clear and he insisted on an early start in the mornings, but he could not control the crowds nor their determination to see their new princess.
“I must thank you once more for your assistance, Sir Rowland,” Catherine said. “It is through you that all this has been possible. But I’ve been thinking of something else that I’d like to do, and again I need your advice.”
“I’m all ears, Your Highness.”
“My color is white. Is it possible to arrange for my own men to have their hair dyed white? I don’t mean the soldiers, but the entertainers, dancers, and musicians.”
Sir Rowland clapped his hands. “An excellent suggestion, Your Highness. It would add hugely to your prestige. Only the most powerful of lords display their colors in this way and, I have to say, no other women do.”
Catherine was delighted but cautious. “There’s no reason I shouldn’t do it, is there? It wouldn’t offend the prince or the king?”
“The reason is purely financial, Your Highness. Supplying the dyes can be costly when you have many men and their hair does keep growing.”
“I can find the money,” said Catherine thoughtfully. “But can hair even be dyed white?”
“I believe so. We will transform the dancers’ hair this evening and judge the effect. You really are changing the fashions, Your Highness. Reports from Tornia say that your dress is already being copied. Few wore white before you arrived, as it was considered too simple a color.”
Catherine smiled. “It seems we are all learning.”
* * *
The next morning Boris came to Catherine’s bedchamber as she was dressing.
“Can you never be ready on time?” Boris complained.
“I’ve been busy.”
Catherine had been working out her debts. She needed money. Since arriving in Pitoria she had been showered with gifts—a horse, shoes, cushions, lace, fans, feathers, wine, and even some books, but what she needed was money.
“Busy deciding which dress to wear?” Boris mocked. “Or dyeing your hair?”
“It’s my men who dye their hair, not me.”
“I’ve seen them prancing around this morning. They look ridiculous.”
“I think they look wonderful. Though I feel the white is a little too yellow at the moment, but perhaps that was just the firelight last night. If we can get it with a hint of blue, they will match much better with Prince Tzsayn’s men.”
“What do you think you’re achieving with this performance, sister? Other than appearing ridiculous?”
“Happiness. Pleasure. Joy. The things you never appreciate.”
Boris curled his lip and turned to leave. “I’ll be happy, pleased, and joyful if you depart on time for once.”
“Before you go, Boris, there’s one more thing we need to discuss. I need money to buy dresses.”
Boris turned back. “You have dresses.”
“It appears I need more.”
“Not to me. You’re clothed, aren’t you?” And he leaned forward and picked at the slash in her dress. “Though barely. You like to reveal your body, don’t you, sister?”
Catherine drew a calming breath. “I am following the Pitorian fashion. Fitting in. Becoming like them, as I said I would do. It reflects badly on Father for me to wear the same dress every day. It looks as if he’s poor, as if Brigant is penniless. At the very least I need a new wedding dress and new garments for my maids. I hear Tzsayn is extremely discerning about fashion.”
“Then he can buy you a dress.”
“Sir Rowland tells me that Prince Tzsayn listens to daily reports of our progress. I would hate for the prince to be disappointed to hear that I’m wearing the same gown each day. What a shame it would be if the lack of a few dresses were to prevent my marriage.”
Boris hesitated before muttering, “Have your dresses then. But you’d better make sure they’re good. If Tzsayn refuses you because the cut of your sleeve is wrong, you’ll . . .”
“Yes?”
“You’ll have to explain it to Father.”
Catherine force
d a smile. “Well then, I will ensure that the dresses are the best. That means they will be more expensive, of course.”
Boris’s mouth was a thin hard line. “Of course.”
He turned and stalked out.
Catherine let out a shaky breath.
“Has the prince really been asking about our progress?” asked Sarah.
“I have no idea,” replied Catherine. “I would in his place, but I don’t presume to know his mind.”
She didn’t add that she was starting to worry that the prince hadn’t sent her any sort of communication—not a letter or even a token. Was he ill or just not interested? She knew so little about him still, and yet in four days’ time she’d be married to him and her life would change again. But she was determined to do all she could to shape the future the way she wanted it.
EDYON
SOMEWHERE NORTH OF DORNAN, PITORIA
IT WAS the end of the third day after fleeing Dornan, and they had been riding slowly north all day. March’s shoulder was causing him agony if his horse moved above walking pace. Now they were around the fire, Edyon asked, “Shouldn’t we head west to the coast tomorrow? March can’t go on like this.”
Holywell shook his head. “Since we can only go slowly we’ll have to stick to the quieter routes, Your Highness. We can’t outrun any pursuers, so we have to avoid them, and the ports will be the first place the sheriff’s men will be looking for you.”
“If they’re looking for me,” Edyon said.
“They’ll have found your bag near the body of the sheriff’s man. While I’m sure they’re not the world’s greatest minds, I think it’s safe to assume they’ll manage to piece those few clues together.”
Edyon wished he hadn’t told March about leaving his bag, or, rather, he wished March hadn’t told Holywell.
“Are you handy with a sword, Your Highness?”