Sin Eater's Daughter 2 - The Sleeping Prince

by Melinda Salisbury

  The landscape changes again as I ride further north, and I pull my cloak tighter around me to combat the colder air. The trees become sparser, more evergreens, bent from bracing against gales and storms. I stop every couple of hours to eat and drink and get the blood flowing in my hands and feet. I feed the horse her apples, and then a little of the cheese; I drink my milk and chew happily on the fresh bread Carys packed for me.

  I alternate between riding and walking a mile or two to keep my muscles supple. After we pass through Toman, I stop seeing soldiers, and even the ones there don’t demand to see my papers. The hamlets beyond Toman become progressively smaller, housing fifty, sixty souls, almost all farmers, not large enough to appear on my map. I ignore the curious stares of the villagers as I ride through. They seem unworried, untouched by what’s happening to the south and east. I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of the army, but as in Tremayne everyone here seems unconcerned, and for some reason it makes me angry. Not much more than a hundred miles away, young men are being shot at in the woods. Refugees are being run off the roads, rounded up and dumped in hellish encampments. And war hasn’t even truly begun. How can the people here stand it? Don’t they know?

  The edges of the sky turn gold, clouds like bruises against it, then the sky begins to darken. I dismount, walking slowly ahead of the horse, keeping us on the road. A few lights appear in the far distance and we plod towards them as the world turns blue, then purple, then black around us.

  By the time we reach the outskirts of Scarron most of the lights have gone out and the hamlet is quiet. As in all fishing towns, most folk are in bed now, to be up in the very early hours to take their boats out to sea. With fear nibbling away at my confidence, I dismount and lead the horse through the small circle of cottages, the clopping of hooves the only sound in the night.

  No, not the only sound. It’s so natural I hadn’t noticed as we’d approached, but all at once I can smell it, and then hear it. The sea: a distant rushing roar. Something in me fills with longing and I want to run to it. But I don’t. I continue to walk, reasoning there will be time, not tonight but maybe in the days and weeks to come. With luck. With a lot of luck.

  I don’t know this girl’s name. I don’t know how old she is, or whether she’s alone. I didn’t think about whether there was an inn here; I didn’t plan to need one, and I can see no one to ask. I can’t even smell a tavern. It’s as if the whole village has gone to sleep.

  I lead the horse through the neat square, one ear cocked for sounds of life, and then I hear something much sweeter to me: the familiar deep ring of iron meeting iron. I head towards it, a small shed near a tiny, leaning cottage a little way away from the rest, and tie the horse to the fence outside it. I knock on the door and then wait. The clanging continues. When it stops I knock again and then push the door open, to find myself staring into the twinkling eyes of a man whose face is entirely wrinkled. In one hand he holds a hammer, in the other a bent, rusty hook.

  “You’re not from here,” he says, looking me up and down.

  “No. I’m not. I’m looking for someone. She’s—”

  “The Lormerian girl?” he interrupts. “Dimia?”

  The name sounds familiar. I bite back a smile of relief. “Yes. Dimia. Could you tell me where I might find her?”

  He gives me a shrewd look. “You a relative?”

  “Friend.” It’s not wholly a lie.

  He looks me up and down, then shrugs. “She expecting you, then?”

  “No.”

  “It’s very late, dear. I don’t reckon she’ll want callers at this hour, and besides that, I can smell a storm brewing. Why don’t you get along to the tavern and get yourself a room.”

  “I can’t stay. I need to see her tonight. It’s very important. It’s about the war.”

  “The war?”

  I stare at him. “In Lormere.”

  “I thought that ended years back.”

  “No, there’s a new one. With the Sleeping Prince.”

  He shrugs again. “We don’t know nothing about a war here, love.”

  “That’s impossible,” I say. “The Council have mustered an army; surely some of the men here have been drafted? There are checkpoints all along the King’s Road, refugees, the city gates are closed at night in Tressalyn and Tremayne. Everyone in the east is in upheaval; there are soldiers everywhere. The Council must have sent word?”

  “Ah, we don’t bother that lot, and they don’t bother us.”

  “But … what about when you take your fish to market? What about people who come here?”

  “No one comes here, not at this time of year. And the nearest market is back in Toman. We stop going after harvest, bring back what we need for winter then; the road gets too treacherous when winter comes. We’ll get the news in spring, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  He sounds supremely unconcerned by everything I’ve said and anger starts to rise up again, red and pulsing. “Look, I really need to find Dimia tonight. It’s more urgent than you know.”

  “There’s a storm coming, love. You’ll need to get indoors.”

  “Please. I’m begging you. Just tell me where she is.”

  He blinks at me, and then shakes his head in disappointment. “Walk back through the square and take a sharp left at the harbour. Follow it along until you see the path up to the cliff. Take that, and when it forks back inland, you’ll see her cottage at the end of that track. You can’t miss it, it’s the only one out that way.”

  “Thank you.” I nod and begin to close the door.

  “Wait,” he says, following me out. “You can’t take that horse up that way. It’s too narrow.”

  “Is there somewhere I can leave her?”

  He thinks. “May as well leave her here. She’ll be safe enough in the lean-to out back, out of the storm. I’ll lead her round, soon as I’m done here.”

  I look at the horse, then at him, weighing it up. “Thank you,” I say finally. “I’ll be back for her soon.”

  “No hurry,” he says. “You got a lantern?”

  “No.”

  “There,” he says, gesturing at an oil lamp hanging on the wall. “Take that.” I lift it down carefully.

  “Thank you.”

  “No need for that. Any friend of Dimia’s is welcome here. You be careful. That storm’ll come in fast and angry. Watch your step.” With that he turns back to his hook, and I leave him to it.

  Following his directions, I walk into the tiny village square. I count nine cottages around the well, with the blacksmith’s cottage down the path, the row of five along the harbour front, and Dimia’s. There is no House of Justice, no inn, one small store, which is clearly someone’s home as well. Is it possible no one here knows about the Sleeping Prince? Is it really true that no message has been sent, that they’ve been overlooked, or forgotten? I think about it all the way along the cliff path, listening to the sea beat against the rock below me, watching the storm clouds roll in and obliterate the stars. I pick up the pace before they can cover the moon, turning right at the fork, heading back inland.

  The cottage appears quite unexpectedly, looming out of the darkness. It has no upstairs, but is large. I count two windows on either side of the door, more along the sides. I put my lantern down behind me and stare at one of the ones at the front, trying to make out any light around the edges of it. Then – yes – there. A slim orange bar running down part of the wall.

  I push my hood back and smooth my hair, regretting that I didn’t go into the inn and at least wash my face. Too late now, I decide, pushing open the small wooden gate and making my way through the bare garden. A spot of rain lands on my nose, then my cheek. I hope she’s feeling hospitable.

  I brush down my dress and then, taking a deep breath, I knock at the door.

  The door flies open, and a girl stands there, silhouetted against the light from th
e room. She glances at me, then does a double take, looking at me again with narrowed eyes before peering over my shoulder into the night. And I look at her.

  Long black hair. Green eyes.

  She’s not an alchemist. She can’t be the one who makes the Elixir.

  She peers back at me, frowning, seeming just as confused and disappointed as I am.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “My name is Errin. Errin Vastel.”

  Her lips part, a strange look crossing her face. “Did someone send you here?” Her tone is brittle, crystalline. Her eyes bore into mine as she waits for my answer.

  “No. Sorry.” I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. “Are you Dimia?”

  She stills, and hope rises in me that perhaps she isn’t. “Yes,” she says quietly. “I’m Dimia.”

  “Oh.” I can’t disguise the sting of disappointment that pierces me, and she raises her eyebrows at me before glancing back into her home. “Wait – are you alone?”

  “Am I what?” Her eyes narrow again as they return to me.

  “Do you live alone?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean … I’m looking for someone.” Dimia’s face remains warily puzzled, and my heart sinks. “I can see you’re not her,” I say.

  She shakes her head slowly. “No. I don’t believe I am.”

  “It’s just … I spoke to a man in town and he said the Lormerian girl lived here.”

  She hesitates. “I’m from Lormere.”

  “And if I said ‘the Sisters’ or ‘the Conclave’ to you, would it mean anything?” She shakes her head. “Are there are no other Lormerians here in Scarron?” I try.

  Another shake of the head.

  My eyes sting as tears of frustration prick at them. I should have known. I should have realized, even if she was here she’d be hiding, like Silas was. Not living in a cottage, known to everyone. It was far too easy, to be simply told she was here by the old ironworker. Unless… Silas said that normal people live with the alchemists. Could this girl be lying to protect the philtresmith? Some kind of servant, or cover. “Are you sure?” I say urgently. “Are you sure you’re alone? Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  The look she gives me could freeze water. “I’m not a liar.”

  “I see,” I say. “Well, if you happen upon someone who does know what I mean, tell her to find me in the tavern. She’s in danger. The Sleeping Prince is after her.”

  I’m not prepared for her reaction. “What? What did you say?” she demands. She clutches the door frame. Already pallid in the lantern light, she pales so much the freckles on her nose, cheeks and forehead stand out in sharp relief. “Where is he? Does he go to Lormere? Is he there already?”

  I nod, watching her carefully. “He sits on the throne of Lormere. He has done for three moons.”

  “No…” Her voice is jagged.

  “The whole of Tregellan is braced for war,” I continue. “There are soldiers in all of the main towns, checkpoints on the roads and city gates. People are dying in Lormere. Hundreds of them. He’s targeting the religious in the hope of finding the Sisters. And the girl.”

  “I told you, I don’t know what that means. I don’t know any Sisters. I’ve been here since before harvest—” She stares beyond me, into the night. A flash of lightning makes both of us jump, bringing her back to herself. “Three moons,” she says. I can barely hear her words over the growl of thunder that rolls across the sky. “What of the queen? Has she allied with the Sleeping Prince? What news of the prince – the king – of Lormere? Does he hide? Is he rallying his men? Are they fighting? Is he in this Conclave?”

  “He’s dead. The king is dead. He was killed the night Lormere fell.”

  “Liar.” Dimia looks at me, her eyes burning into mine.

  I’m about to rage at her when I realize that she’s not being rude. She’s begging me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I know what real grief looks like.

  She closes her eyes. Her hands clutch her arms as though she’s holding herself together. Then she turns from me, walking into her house, leaving the door open. She crosses to the fireside and picks up a goblet, draining the contents. I watch as she refills it.

  “You’d better come in,” she says thickly.

  As soon as the words have left her mouth the heavens open, so I do, entering her small, neat cottage and closing the door behind me. When I turn back to her, her shoulders are shaking and, without thinking, I cross the room and put my hand on her arm.

  She jumps as if I’d stabbed her, spinning away from me with her hand extended, her face horrified beneath the tear stains.

  “I’m sorry,” I stutter, holding my hands up to show I meant no harm.

  A sudden loud tapping makes us both turn around; the rain has become hail and is lashing the windows, leaving streaks across the thick, greenish glass. The room lights up again, thunder rumbles, and I shiver. She turns away, leaning against the mantel, and I take the chance to look around the room. One goblet, one armchair, a book left face down on the seat; she was reading when I arrived. The doors to the other rooms are open; from where I stand I can see a small kitchen, and a bedroom, a patchwork blanket over a narrow bed. I move as though to peer out of the window and see the last room stands empty. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. No one else lives here. Just Dimia, and she doesn’t have the Godseye, or the moon hair. She’s telling the truth. I walk back to her.

  “I know it doesn’t mean much, coming from a Tregellian, but I liked your king,” I say softly. “I saw him where he came here.”

  “Merek liked Tregellan. He had plans to introduce some of your ways in Lormere.”

  For a moment her words puzzle me, and then I realize why. People don’t usually refer to their sovereigns by name.

  “Did you know him?”

  She turns to me. “Briefly.” Her cheeks flush pink and she stares into the distance. “I worked at the castle for a while. He was kind to me.”

  “He looked like he’d be a good king.”

  She nods, her face crumpling again. “He would have been,” she whispers, tears making silvery tracks down her face. “Forgive me.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them they fix on mine. “Tell me everything. What else do I not know of what’s happening in Lormere? You said he was hunting the religious.”

  As I reel off the litany of the Sleeping Prince’s crimes, her face becomes more ashen, her posture more slumped. Lortune, Haga, Monkham. The Bringer turned Silver Knight and the sacking of the temples, the heads on spikes, the hearts on display. The slaughter of the religious, the burning of the food stores. The golems.

  Then I tell her about the refugee camps. The people on the roads. The soldiers and their brutality. I feel sick as I recount it, my mind returning to that abandoned doll, that single shoe. Now I think I know why someone would leave a shoe behind.

  When I’m finished she drains her goblet in one, her eyes blurring with tears again. “And what is the Council of Tregellan doing to help Lormere?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What aid have they offered? Men for an army? Weapons? Food? Medical supplies?”

  I shake my head. “The army we have is new; it’s conscripted. The men weren’t given a choice, they were told to fight, and most are still being trained. Women may have to fight as well, if it comes to it. As for food and medicine, we didn’t…” She stares at me and I feel my skin redden again. “But some people did escape, as I said. The camps—”

  “Camps you described as ‘hellholes’?” she interrupts me, and I fall silent. “The Sleeping Prince is killing innocents, and your people have closed their borders. Mighty Tregellan, that is so democratic and civilized, turns a blind eye to the murder of a king and his people. Instead it looks to its own house
until the blood splashes its doorstep? Because of the last war, I take it. Because we deserve it, for winning then?”

  “No, of course not.” But even as I protest, I wonder if she’s right. Why didn’t we act earlier? Why didn’t we offer more help? I don’t say it aloud, though. “No one was ready for this. The Council has been trying to negotiate with him.”

  “You can’t negotiate with monsters,” Dimia says flatly. “Believe me. You can only act.”

  Suddenly I feel deeply ashamed of my country. I shake my head, unable to meet her eye. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings.”

  “And I’m sorry I’m not who you were looking for.”

  We both lapse into silence, and I listen to the rain beating down. It’s going to be a miserable walk back to the town. “I’d better go,” I say eventually, reluctant to leave the warmth of her cottage.

  She looks at me. “You’d do better to stay. It’s vile out there. You’ll be blown into the sea before you’ve left my garden.”

  “That’s too… You don’t know me. I could be anyone.”

  “So could I. We’re even. Sit,” she says, nodding to a chair by the fire.

  Because I have nowhere else to go, and because I’m tired, and because I’m at the end of my tether, I do, lifting her book and placing it over the arm. She refills her glass and holds it to me, and I take it, sipping the contents. Wine, rich and red, tasting of smoke and dark berries, coats my tongue. I take another sip and hold it out to her, but she waves her hand, so I keep it, cupping it in my palms.

  “Why don’t you tell me why you’re looking for a girl from Lormere,” she says finally. “You said she was in danger. Why?”

  It feels treasonous to talk of it with a Lormerian, but it’s not as if she can tell the king what I’ve said. “She’s not just a girl. She’s an alchemist. That’s why.”

  “There are no alchemists in Lormere.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks. But there are. They have their own kind of Conclave, hidden from the royals.” When she frowns I explain. “The Conclave is where Tregellian alchemists live. It’s hidden. Secret. The Lormerians did the same thing, except instead of hiding, they disguised their version as a religious order. They hid in plain sight.”