by Sally Green
For a moment, Edyon thought he detected a mocking note in Holywell’s voice, but, when he looked, the man’s face was sincere. Edyon laughed bitterly.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I don’t have a sword, and just so that you fully understand the situation, as a general rule in fights I get beaten to a pulp and pissed on.”
Holywell tilted his head. “You handled the sheriff’s man well enough.”
Edyon couldn’t reply. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done. What would happen now to the man’s family? His wife? His fatherless children? Their misery was his doing.
“Will you take first watch, Your Highness?” Holywell said. “Then March and I can relieve you and you can sleep through till dawn.”
Edyon nodded, and Holywell lay down and closed his eyes.
Edyon wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be watching for. The first night he’d just sat and listened to the noise of the woods and Holywell’s snoring, staring at March’s face in the thin light of the new moon. But even that wasn’t a pleasure any longer. March’s face was glistening with the sweat of a fever.
As if he could hear Edyon’s thoughts, March turned to him from his bedroll, his eyes even paler than usual in the moonlight.
“How are you feeling?” Edyon asked, smiling gently.
March turned his face away and said, “I’ll be fine, Your Highness.”
The foreign man is in pain. I cannot see if he lives or dies . . .
Edyon shook his head. Madame Eruth had been right about everything so far, but even she didn’t have all the answers. Edyon was determined March wouldn’t die if he had anything to do with it.
Edyon went over and said, “Let me see your wound. I’ll clean it again. Some cold water from the stream may ease it a little.”
March didn’t answer and his lack of disagreement was, Edyon now knew, the closest he would come to admitting he was suffering. Edyon carefully unpeeled the bandage. March’s skin was hot and swollen, and there was dried blood and some yellow pus on the dressing and in the wound. It looked bad and had definitely gotten worse since he’d last seen it.
Edyon cleaned the wound, but he had to do something more. He was sure the smoke had somehow helped him heal after his beating by Stone’s men. His bruises were gone and the tooth that had come close to falling out was now solid as a rock.
If the smoke had healed him, he had to try it on March.
But how? He’d inhaled it. March had a cut deep in his shoulder. Edyon brought the bottle of smoke over and laid it gently on the wound, causing March to cry out.
“What are you doing?” he said.
Edyon felt ridiculous even saying it. “I think it might help.”
“Help how?”
“Help heal you. I had a bath with the bottle of smoke and my bruises disappeared. Stone’s guards nearly knocked one of my teeth out, and that was healed too.”
He remembered how the smoke in his mouth had seemed to search out the loose tooth. Perhaps it would seek out March’s wound, but how would he stop it escaping? He needed a container, but the only things they had were tin bowls from March’s pack, and they were too big.
There was one other thing he could use. He could suck some of the smoke into his mouth and then put his mouth on March’s shoulder. Not the worst job in the world. But what if he inhaled it and passed out? He’d have to concentrate, hold it just in his mouth.
“I have an idea. If you’re willing to let me try.”
March turned his head. His eyes were like moonlight. He blinked and said, “Try.”
Edyon took up the bottle of smoke. It glowed bright in the darkness, almost seeming to pulse with life. He held it upside down, easing the cork free to let out a wisp of smoke, which he sucked into his mouth. He then lowered himself over March. Their eyes met and he froze for a moment, the intensity of March’s gaze fixing him in place. Then slowly, so slowly, Edyon lowered his head until his lips brushed March’s skin.
March gasped, his hands grasping Edyon’s shoulders, and Edyon couldn’t tell if it was in pleasure or pain. Then Edyon parted his lips, and the smoke was in his mouth and on March’s wound. He held his breath, trying not to take the smoke down into his lungs, but he could feel a light-headedness, as if his body was floating. He couldn’t help but smile, because it felt so good, and the smoke escaped out of one side of his mouth and he watched it climb into the sky. He looked down at March.
“Did you feel anything?”
“It’s warm,” March replied, closing his eyes.
Edyon inspected March’s wound. Was it the effects of the smoke, or did it seem less angry? He let out more smoke from the bottle, sucked it in, and lowered his lips onto March’s skin again. He could feel the smoke in his mouth, its heat and its movement, faster than it seemed in the bottle. Edyon held his breath and stayed still as long as he could before releasing. He looked down at March to share the moment with him, but March’s eyes were closed.
There was no doubting it now. The swelling had gone and the cut had healed over and a scar was forming. But Edyon’s head was spinning. He was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Taking the demon smoke bottle, he curled up next to March and slept.
MARCH
SOMEWHERE NORTH OF DORNAN, PITORIA
WHEN HE was sure Edyon was asleep, March stopped pretending and sat up. He rolled his shoulder, then prodded it with his finger. There was no pain. The warmth and slight stinging sensation he had felt when Edyon had applied the smoke had gone. He looked down at Edyon, curled round the bottle of purple smoke that roiled and seethed in slow, endless movement.
Edyon’s idea had worked.
Perhaps he wasn’t such a fool as he claimed. Or, if he was, he was a gentle one, a kind one. March remembered the kiss of Edyon’s lips on his skin with a shiver. The son of the prince touching him. No one touched him, ever.
“You’re looking better.”
Holywell was staring at him from his bedroll. March found himself suddenly flustered. He wondered how much Holywell had seen.
Holywell’s eyes narrowed and he spoke in Abask, a sign that he didn’t want Edyon to know what he was saying. “You like the feel of his mouth on you, eh? That infection should have killed you. Now the wound looks like it’s been healing for weeks. What happened?”
“Edyon . . . used the smoke to heal me.”
Holywell shook his head. “You’ve no idea what that smoke really is, or what it might do.”
“I know it worked. My arm feels as strong as before.” March showed the scar to Holywell, who held out his hand to touch it, then seemed to think better of it. “Do you want to try it on your neck?”
“I’m not having that stuff near me. I’ll heal the normal way.”
“Well, the normal way wasn’t working for me.”
Holywell sneered. “Do I detect a tone of gratitude to the young prince?”
“He’s not a prince.”
“No, he’s not; he’s a soft, spoiled fool and he’s going to be Aloysius’s prisoner. So don’t be getting too grateful to him—it’s not natural.”
And March felt sure Holywell meant more than just the smoke. He flushed red.
“I’m not. I agree he’s an idiot. Another spoiled idiot son. I see them in court all the time. I was just telling you about the smoke.”
“Well, you can take the watch now you’re feeling so much better. Then we head north. We keep telling the fool we’re being pursued—for all we know it’s true. Edyon will get what’s coming to him soon enough. Him and the prince of Calidor.”
TASH
DORNAN, PITORIA
ON THE second morning after the smoke had been taken, Gravell woke, rose, walked doubled-over to the pisspot, puked in it before pissing in it, and then staggered back to sit on the side of the bed, groaning. This was an improvement on the previous day, which he had spent curled in a
ball.
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” said Tash, clinking together the coins she had earned making deliveries for a local pie seller, which she’d started doing out of desperation for money. So far she’d been given one particularly large tip for her speed and discovered that pie delivery was a lot safer than running from demons.
“Can you keep the noise down?”
Tash rattled her coins even louder.
“I’ve never felt this bad before.”
“Actually, there was that time in Hepdene. You were ill for four days and swore you’d never drink again.”
“That woman spiked my drink, that’s the only explanation. She was after my money.”
“Or perhaps you had more than one drink and they weren’t spiked. And, by the way, she still wants a kroner for her wonderful company.”
“Don’t pay her.”
“I don’t intend to.” Tash stopped playing with the coins. “Gravell, do you have any money left at all?”
Gravell didn’t reply.
“The innkeeper has asked me twice when you’re going to pay the bill. I suppose I could loan you this money to help out, but then again I could use it to buy my new boots.”
Gravell glared at her and then went over to the washbowl and threw up again. He looked worse than when he’d been killing demons.
“You need fresh air. Water.”
He shuddered. “My head feels so bad.”
Tash rolled her eyes. “You’re such a wimp.”
Gravell went back to sit on the bed and put his head in his hands.
“Are you ready to hear the latest news?”
“So long as I can hear it quietly.”
“Shall I go over what happened the other night first? When I followed Edyon and the sheriff’s man got killed? I wasn’t sure you were taking it all in.”
“I took it in well enough. I’m not stupid,” said Gravell.
“And drinking half a barrel of ale is not at all a stupid thing to do,” Tash said.
“There are times you remind me of my mother.”
She moved to sit by Gravell. “Well, let me tell you a story, young man. The sleepy little town of Dornan has been transformed. There hasn’t been a murder here for as long as anyone can remember. The sheriff’s men are up in arms.”
“They’re always up in arms—they’re sheriff’s men.”
“I mean they’re angry and marching around asking lots of questions. The good news for us is that they don’t know I was there and they don’t know why the sheriff’s man was killed, but they do seem to suspect Edyon was involved. And he’s run away, so it looks particularly bad for him. Though I don’t know why he’d want to go with those two. The older man, Holywell, was really mean. But he obviously planned to; he’d packed his bag and everything.”
But now Tash remembered Holywell pushing Edyon onto his horse, and Edyon definitely didn’t have anything in his hands then. She slapped her palm against her forehead. “That’s how they know Edyon was there. He left his bag.”
“The boy’s stupider than I thought.”
But Tash felt stupid for not remembering the bag sooner. If she’d hidden it, or taken it, the sheriff’s men wouldn’t have any idea who killed their comrade. She said, “Anyway, I followed them. They went north.”
“Then we go north.”
“It was Holywell who took the smoke with them. Edyon was going to give it back to me before the trouble started.”
“You believe that?” Gravell shook his head. “He’s a thief and a friend to killers. He’ll sell it or smoke it himself.”
Tash did believe it, though. And she really couldn’t see why Edyon would go with Holywell. Edyon seemed so naive, whereas Holywell certainly wasn’t. And it didn’t really tie in with her other news.
“I should tell you something else I’ve heard about Edyon. It’s from a very good source—my contact at the pie stall.”
“You like it at the fancy end of the fair, missy? Selling pies to the posh folk?”
Tash shrugged. “It’s clean. People pay you well—and on time.” She looked pointedly at Gravell, but he didn’t react. “Erin, Edyon’s mother, has her own business. A proper business.”
“I have a proper business.”
“Yes, but hers isn’t illegal.”
“She’ll sell you a chair for thirty kroners, saying it belonged to some sultan from the east, and sleep at night happy. That should be illegal!”
“Anyway, the news from the pie seller, who got it from one of the servants who works for Erin, is that a nobleman from Calidor called Lord Regan was with Erin before Edyon left. They had spent all afternoon together, as if they were old friends, and . . . I’m glad you’re sitting down for this bit . . .”
“Get on with it!”
“Apparently Lord Regan was here to take Edyon to Calidor, because Edyon is the son of Prince Thelonius.”
Gravell stared at Tash and then started laughing. He laughed and laughed, until he rolled back on the bed and kicked his legs in the air.
“Our thief is the son of a prince?”
“Yep. Illegitimate son. But son.”
“A bastard in every way then.” Gravell sat up and scowled. “Should have known it. It’s in the blood. Royalty—they’re all bastards.”
“So I have this theory of what Edyon’s going to do.”
“A theory, eh?”
“Yes. He’s going north with the two men. They weren’t Pitorian. I think they were from Calidor too. So I think they’re going to go back to Calidor with Edyon, which means they need a ship. But now they’re wanted men, so they’ll have to be very careful.”
“If Lord Regan was here to take Edyon back with him, why did he go off with this Holywell instead?”
“Well,” said Tash. “I heard he was attacked, robbed, and left for dead, so maybe Holywell works for Regan or something. But that doesn’t feel right, somehow.”
“Your contact in the pie business can’t tell you? I thought he knew everything.”
“Point is, they’ll probably head north to Pravont and then along the river to Rossarb. From Rossarb they’ll get a boat to Calidor.”
Tash knew Gravell loved Pravont. It was quiet and beautiful and had cheap beer.
“Pravont.” Gravell stirred, rolling his head on his shoulders. “Nice place, Pravont. Right on the edge of demon territory.”
“So? Do you think I’m right, about him heading there?”
Gravell stretched. “I think that if you are, then we’re in luck. We could go up the coast road, cut across to the river road, and catch them at Pravont. It’s like demon hunting, only easier.”
“I’m not so sure about that. Holywell, the man with the knives, is dangerous.”
“We’ll be careful. They won’t be expecting us. And I’m not letting people think they can steal from me and get away with it.” Gravell shook his head. “That’ll be the end of me.”
Tash looked at Gravell. While he’d been passed out, she’d half wondered about staying with the fair. She could probably get some good work with the pie seller or even some of the furniture traders. But deep down she knew she couldn’t bear to be parted from Gravell. The thought of him traveling alone, or, worse, getting another girl as demon bait, was horrible.
“And even if we don’t get the smoke back we’ll be in the perfect place for the next hunt.”
“Oh, we’ll get the smoke back. I know that territory like the back of my hand.” Gravell was standing now. “I’m feeling better already.”
CATHERINE
TORNIA, PITORIA
Zalyan Castle stands on a hill in the center of Tornia. It was rebuilt over thirty years in the reign of King Jolyon. The five pentagonal turrets are linked by a high wall of stone and within lie the main buildings, which are arranged about an elegant central tower and dec
orated with white tiles that shine brilliantly, changing with the position of the sun. It is sometimes referred to as “the height of beauty.”
Pitoria: The Modern Era, Staryon Hove
THE FINAL two days of the progress saw the cavalcade grow even more. On the last morning Catherine’s party stopped at a country house a short distance from Tornia to have lunch and to make the final preparations for her entrance into the city. Catherine’s room was decked out in white: freshly decorated, just for her. Her adoption of a color had clearly been a success.
Catherine was so nervous she could hardly eat, and her maids were anxious about her.
“Have you seen the play, Your Highness?” asked Tanya. “The actors have been rehearsing it all week. Perhaps it might take your mind off things.”
“What play?”
“Your play, Your Highness. It’s the story of your marriage.”
“Really? Well, I suppose I should see it then,” said Catherine, forcing herself to smile. “I should very much like to know how it ends!”
Seats were quickly set up in the garden and the play began. There were no words, only dancing. One actor, a young boy dressed in a dazzling white gown, was accompanied by three other boys dressed in red and black and green. Opposite them stood two men, one older in purple, one younger in blue, clearly meant to be King Arell and Prince Tzsayn. The two men danced, the younger one copying the older one, but eventually doing everything with a higher leap or more turns, until finally the lady in white leaped in the air with joy, to be caught by the prince and lie in his arms in a faint.
Boris sneered. “Only Pitorians would expect a woman to be overcome by dancing.”
“Whereas Brigantines just expect a woman to be overcome,” Catherine replied sharply.
Sir Rowland applauded. “In Brigant, men joust to prove their worth. In Pitoria, they dance. Both pastimes are skillful and athletic and, alas”—he leaned to Catherine—“both favor the younger man.”
“Dancing proves nothing manly in my eyes,” growled Boris. And he left them.
“But if you could, Sir Rowland, which would you choose? Having lived away from Brigant so long, do you only dance?”