The Sin Eater's Daughter

by Melinda Salisbury

  “All the better for our flight.” His voice is all smiles, his breath stirring my hair.

  “We’ll have to be careful,” I say, more to myself than to him, my eyes fluttering closed as he strokes the backs of my hands and my wrists with his long fingers. “We must give them no reason to suspect anything. We must allow Merek to think I’m reconciled to the truth of Daunen. That I’m part of the secret and happy to be.”

  “But I can still kiss you?” he says. “When we’re alone?”

  “Are you so hungry for my kisses?”

  “Starving. Ravenous.” He smiles wolfishly. “You don’t know how lovely you are, do you?”

  I squirm in his arms. “Enough, Lief.”

  “What if I refuse to stay quiet?”

  “I’ll find a way to silence you.”

  “Go ahead,” he challenges me.

  I twist in his arms to face him, my lips parted. Slowly, my heart thudding beneath my skin, I lean forward and kiss him. When my eyes flutter closed, I open them to find him looking back at me. Our mouths move gently, brushing together, our lips opening and closing against the other’s, our eyes locked. It makes me dizzy and I allow mine to flutter shut, concentrating on the feel of him against me, his tongue dancing gently with mine.

  This time he pulls away, cupping my cheek in his hand.

  “A few more days and we’ll be in our own cottage, somewhere safe, where no one can hurt us.” He pulls my hand to his lips and kisses it, then places it over his heart. Beneath the material I feel the outline of the vial and I trace it. “Here’s your vial back.” He pulls it out and hands it to me. “Keep it as a reminder.”

  I take it, something inside me hardening as I do. I unwind myself from his hold and stand, looking down at the thing that has controlled my life for the past four harvests. Then I fling it, as hard as I can, through the open window before I turn back to him. Our kiss is inevitable, like the sun setting over the West Woods.

  I used to take such pains to make sure I never touched anyone, and now I have to clasp my hands together to stop myself from twining my fingers with Lief’s. I barely slept at all last night. It ached to send him from my room and it ached to know he was on the other side of the door. It’s painful to have him so close and yet so far from my reach. It feels wrong to not be touching him, and I’m impatient to be in a place where I might trace a finger across his forearm, or have him circle my wrist with his beautiful hands. I never knew it was possible to feel so many things at once—anger, hope, fear, desire, joy, and worry—my feelings are alive inside me and I’m terrified that we will come upon someone who will see it all in me and tell the queen. Though I want her to know eventually, I want to be sure we’re far beyond her reach when she does.

  I feel drunk on possibility. Everything seems brighter, clearer, and better for it. I know without looking at him what Lief’s expression is, where his eyes are looking, especially when they are on me. I feel that as keenly as I felt his arms around me earlier. When the breeze blows, I catch the scent of wood smoke and limes, and I smile. It’s his smell. When I lift my hand to my face to push back a strand of hair, I smell it again on my skin.

  There is terror, too. His footsteps on the stone sound out my name with each step. For every Twylla he walks, I step out two Liefs and I’m afraid that we’re announcing our deception for the whole castle to hear if they pay close enough attention to our footsteps. I must live a double life until we can run, like the spies and traitors I thought I’d killed. I am no spy; I feel I must wear my thoughts as openly as my red cloak. I’m bubbling away inside, like the water at the mere, with both hope and fear.

  * * *

  I can’t stay in my room; despite my lack of sleep I’m still restless, so I ask Lief to come to the gardens with me, hoping the chill in the air will mean we’re alone outside and able to continue making our plans. But as we enter the walled garden I see Merek on a bench, staring blankly at the walls, his guards loitering along the opposite wall. Panic clutches at my stomach and I turn sharply to lead Lief away when he calls my name.

  “Twylla.”

  “Your Highness.” I dip into a curtsy to hide my face, praying my fear isn’t written upon it.

  “You may leave us,” Merek says to Lief. Lief barely hesitates before he drops into a bow and turns on his heel. He hovers a distance away in the archway to the garden, standing sentry in it, and I admire his composure.

  “I—I was hoping to see you. I hoped you’d come here today. I know I said I would give you leave to think but … I don’t want this to come between us.”

  “How fares the king?”

  “Better. I’m told he’s much better. His appetite has returned and he’s demanded everyone stop fussing over him. By which I believe he means he wishes my mother would stop hovering over him. She’s not a natural nurse.”

  I can’t look at him and not only because I’m angry. “Please pass on my best wishes,” I say. “I did not mean to disturb you here. I’ll leave you to your solitude.”

  “Don’t, Twylla,” he says quietly. “I’d rather you be angry at me if it will set things right between us. I said I would be truthful and I will. Please don’t walk away from me again.”

  We both stand awkwardly, him waiting for me to speak, me unable to think of anything to say that isn’t vindictive or incriminating. A chance look at Lief shows him studiously ignoring us, though something in his stance suggests he’s listening hard.

  “I missed you at the hunt,” Merek says finally.

  “I’m not fond of hunting,” I say evenly.

  He sighs, running a hand though his dark curls. “Well, there we are in agreement, as I am not fond of it, either.”

  “Are you not? But you said to the queen it was a pleasant distraction. Surely you weren’t lying?” I can’t help myself. I have to poke at the wound.

  Merek nods to himself, as though accepting the reproof. “That wasn’t a lie. To be out of the castle and riding free in the woods, yes, that was pleasing. But the hunt itself … I have no love for those beasts the king calls his hounds. And I can think of better things to do than chase down poor creatures in the woods.” He pauses. “Especially people. I do not agree with that. It won’t happen under our rule.”

  He looks at me, but I can’t look at him, not when he talks like that, not now. After a few moments of watching me stare at the flowers, he continues.

  “When we rule, hunting will not be part of the court. Not like that. I’d like to reintroduce falconry. There is more elegance there, and both the ladies and gentlemen can hunt with birds. You could have your own merlin.”

  I remain silent, keeping my eyes fixed on the flowers, aching to look back and see what Lief is doing, whether he is watching the prince and me.

  “Do you look forward to your next concert? When the king is recovered?”

  “Of course. Will you join the king again for it?”

  “Yes, I shall, if you permit it.”

  “We’re to be married. Does it matter if I permit it?”

  “To me it does, yes,” says Merek. “And I imagine you, like me, appreciate the illusion of having a choice, even when illusion is all it is.”

  Again I keep my silence, glancing toward the sky. “I should return,” I say flatly. “It looks like rain.”

  “Allow me to call on you later,” he says hurriedly. “I will bring wine and we can talk, properly. I want to mend this, Twylla. May I call on you?”

  “If you so wish.” At least if he comes tonight I can pretend to make my peace with him, and Lief and I won’t have to worry about him waiting for me around every corner.

  “Thank you.”

  We begin the short walk back along the other side of the gardens. I can watch Lief from here, his shoulders straight and stiff, his back to us as he gives us the appearance of privacy.

  “Until this evening, then,” Merek says as we reach Lief. I dip my head and he bows his before sweeping past my guard, who follows his path with furious eyes.

>   I walk quickly, as if to take another turn around the garden, and Lief moves to my side.

  “Does he plan to come and see you tonight?” He speaks through almost-closed lips.

  “Yes. He wants to make it right between us.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll tell him I understand that he was doing the right thing but that I’m hurt and confused and I’d like to keep to myself for a while to better understand it all. I’ll ask him if I may send word to him when I have reconciled it. I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  Lief nods. “And then we’ll go and he’ll bother us no longer.”

  * * *

  On the way back I call into the temple. Today I can see how dirty the walls are, how dusty the floor is. The benches are too clean by contrast, no grooves or smooth wood where the grain has been worn away by people. It’s an empty room. It means nothing now.

  * * *

  I had hoped Merek would come early that night. But the knock does not come. Lief enters and lights my candles, walking as close to me as he can, filling the air around me with his own scent of limes and leather and making my stomach leap. We dare not even talk, not when the prince and his guard are expected at any moment.

  When the candles have burned low and my eyelids are heavy, I cross to the door and open it. Lief looks up at once, smiling at me, and I return it with ease.

  “I’m going to prepare for bed,” I say loudly. “Please tell the prince, should he come, that I have retired and am sorry to disappoint him.” Then I lower my voice and whisper, “And you can also tell him that he’s the worst kind of swine.”

  “Certainly,” he says, then whispers, “That’s why I’ve decided I’m going to steal his horse when we go.”

  As I laugh softly, he raises his voice to a normal pitch. “Do you need anything else from me tonight, my lady?”

  I nod my head slowly as I speak, contradicting my words. “That will be all. You may also retire.” I tilt my face toward his and he silently leans forward to kiss me. It’s not enough and I step out of the doorway, catching his hands in my own, kissing him openmouthed.

  I pull away reluctantly, closing the door softly, our fingertips touching to the last. When I am in bed, with my candles blown out, I wrap my arms around the bolster tightly. Soon, I think to myself. I have managed four harvests here, another few days is nothing.

  There is a light knock at the door and it opens a fraction.

  “Twylla,” Lief whispers, and I sit up.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought I might leave your door open a little, to be sure you are safe. It wouldn’t do to leave you at the mercy of vagabonds who might try to get into your room. I would hate to be caught in dereliction of my sworn duty to protect you.”

  I smile widely and lie back down. “I admire your dedication to your duty.”

  “I admire your admiration of me.”

  I laugh as I hear him put down the bedroll and then the rustling of him climbing inside it. When he is settled I turn onto my side, facing the door. I cannot see him—the moon is a thin crescent not bright enough to show me his face—but I can hear him breathing, the fabric shifting as he moves.

  “Tell me a story,” he says, his voice low and strange in the dark, different from his daylight voice.

  “I don’t know any; my mother wasn’t the sort to tell bedtime stories.” I rack my brains for a tale but come up with little. “Do you know about the Sleeping Prince?” I ask Lief.

  “Of course I do. You can’t tell me that one.” I hear him smile. “Every child in Tregellan is told that story.” When I don’t say anything, he continues. “Do you know any others?”

  “I don’t even know that one,” I admit. “Not well, at least. One of my brothers told it to me an age ago, before Maryl was even born. It’s everywhere these days; even you mentioned it yesterday. All I can remember is that a prince became sick and fell asleep and a kingdom was lost because of it.”

  I hear him move on his pallet and then his voice sounds more like his own; he must be sitting up. “I can tell you the version I know, but it’s not a nice story. Not the ‘happily ever after’ story I’d hoped for.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  He takes a deep breath. “All right. Five hundred harvests ago, Tallith thrived. They say it was beautiful, a golden kingdom, walled all the way around, seven towers dedicated to love and beauty and grace and chivalry and … I forget the others.” I hear the sheepish smile in his voice. “Anyway, Tallith was untouchable. They had medicine and alchemy that’s lost to us now. People were healthy and wealthy; there were no beggars, little illness. It was paradise, bordered by the mountains and the sea. In the end, it was the sea that brought about their downfall.”

  “Yes,” I whisper, beginning to remember.

  “The king of Tallith commissioned ships to sail out to sea and explore, and when they returned they brought tales of strange Eastern kingdoms and customs. They brought back spices and fabrics, things that had never been seen before. But they also brought rats. There were no rats here before, but they came on the ships and then they came ashore. And Tallith, with its abundance of food, quickly became overrun. So the king sent the ships back to sea and told them to return with a rat catcher, and in due course they did.

  “The rat catcher arrived with his son and daughter, and they were immediately taken to the castle. The king offered his daughter, the princess, to the rat catcher’s son in exchange for ridding Tallith of the rats, but the rat catcher refused. He said he would rid Tallith of rats and take the prince for his daughter. The king refused, for that would make the rat catcher’s daughter the queen and mother to his heirs, and he couldn’t allow it. But the rat catcher refused all of the other riches and titles the king offered. He would only accept the hand of the prince for his daughter.

  “Finally, with his people in outrage, for the rats were stealing food and dirtying the water and biting babies, the king relented and said he would give his son to the rat catcher’s daughter. And so the rat catcher took a pipe from his pocket and began to play. Soon all of the rats were scurrying out of their holes, following the rat catcher as he wandered the streets of Tallith. When he had lured them all, he led them into the sea where they drowned, and Tallith was free of them.”

  He stops, and I sit up. “That isn’t all of it,” I say. “I know that the prince becomes ill and falls into a sleep.” The words give me pause as I recall Lief telling me Dorin had fallen into a sleep. I see Dorin in my mind, wasted and parched, prone on a raised pallet. For a horrible moment he becomes Merek, and then Lief, and goose bumps erupt across my body.

  Lief hasn’t noticed my new horror. “He doesn’t become ill, Twylla. He’s cursed. He falls asleep because he’s cursed.”

  “Cursed? Who says he was cursed?”

  “It says so in the books. When Errin and I were little, my mother always ended the story when the rats drowned. We always thought it ended happily. Not so much for the rats, I suppose,” he muses before continuing. “I was ill one winter, and bored, and my mother gave me her book of old myths and legends to keep me occupied. I think she forgot the full version of ‘The Sleeping Prince’ was in there, and I read it. Do you want to know it?”

  “Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure if I mean it.

  “All right. Well, after the rat catcher had gotten rid of the rats, he went back to the castle to see his daughter married. But the king refused to fulfill his side of the bargain and tried to buy the rat catcher off. In a fury, the rat catcher left and hid himself away. In his lair he conjured a spirit and asked her to curse the king and his son and his son’s sons for their treachery. And the spirit did as she was bid. What the rat catcher didn’t know was that his daughter, who’d been anticipating a marriage, had allowed herself to be seduced by the prince. She was carrying his son when the curse struck, striking her down, too. The king and the prince and the rat catcher’s daughter all fell into a deep sleep and could be woken by no one. The king wasted away and
died within a few weeks, but the prince and the rat catcher’s daughter slept on. Every day, the rat catcher would go and tend to his daughter, dribbling honey and water into her mouth to keep her and the baby alive.

  “But it wasn’t enough. After the rat catcher’s daughter gave birth to her son, while still asleep, she died, too, and the rat catcher buried her, before taking his seemingly unscathed grandson away. The prince carried on sleeping, though no one cared for him. He remained as he was on the day he fell asleep, perhaps a little paler, but he didn’t waste away. He slept, and as he slept Tallith fell.”

  I pull my quilt closer around me, suddenly cold. “I don’t blame your mother for keeping the rest from you.”

  “It’s not over,” Lief says. “Around a hundred harvests later, a girl went missing from Tregellan. She’d been collecting mushrooms with friends and had become separated from them. A search was launched, but they had no luck finding her. She was thought to have been eaten by wolves until a wandering minstrel claimed to have seen her following a man with a pipe. They were heading toward Tallith.”

  “The rat catcher,” I whisper.

  “His grandson,” Lief replies, and I shudder, transfixed at this new part of the story. “The rat catcher was long since dead, but the child he cursed without knowing what he was doing still lived. A cursed life, never to die. The girl’s family raced to Tallith but arrived too late. Beside the abandoned bier where the Sleeping Prince lay was the body of the girl, her heart torn out, the remains clutched in the blood-smeared hands of the Sleeping Prince.”

  I raise my hands to my face, covering it.

  “And every hundred harvests since,” Lief continues, “the Bringer, for that is what they call the cursed piper boy, emerges and travels the land looking for a victim for his father. And they say if he brings a girl while the solaris ride the skies, then the Sleeping Prince will awaken forever and devour the hearts of all the girls in the realm.”

  “I wish you hadn’t told me,” I say. “I wish I hadn’t asked. There was no baby in my brother’s version, no Bringer. I’ll never sleep again now.”