Tash used to ask Gravell all about demons, but now she probably knew as much as anyone could about something from a different place. And what a place it was. Not of this earth, she thought, or perhaps too much of this earth, of an ancient earth. Tash had seen into it, the demon land: that was what she had to do. To lure the demon out she had to venture in, where she was not allowed, where humans didn’t go. And the demons would kill her for daring to see their world, a world that was bruised and brooding. Not so much dark as a different type of light; the light was red and the shadows redder. There were no trees or plants, just red rock. The air was warmer, thicker, and then there were the sounds.
Tash waited until the sun was halfway below the hill, the sky red and orange only in that small section. Mist was collecting in the gentle hollows. It was forming in her demon’s hollow too. This hollow was slightly deeper than the other dips and undulations around it, but unlike the rest this had no snow in it, and at this time of evening the mist could be seen to have a tinge of red, which perhaps could be due to the sunset, but Tash knew otherwise.
Tash approached slowly and silently and knelt at the rim of the hollow. She reached back to clean the spikes on her boots with her fingers, pulling off a few small clumps of earth. She put her hands on the ground and spread her fingers, feeling the earth, which was not warm but was not frozen solid either—this was the edge of demon territory.
She dug in her toes and took a breath as if she was about to submerge, which in a way she was. Tash lowered her head, and with eyes open she pushed her head forward, her chest brushing the ground, as if she was nosing under a curtain into the hollow: into the demon’s world.
Sometimes it took two or three attempts, but today she was in first time.
The demon land fell away before her, the hollow descending sharply to a tunnel, but that wasn’t the only thing that was different from the human world. Here, in the demon world, colors, sounds, and temperatures were altered, as if she was looking through a colored glass into an oven. Describing the colors was hard, but describing the sounds was impossible.
Tash looked across the red hollow to the opening of the tunnel, and there at the lowest point was something purple. A leg?
Then she made sense of it and saw that he—it—was sprawled on its stomach, one leg sticking out. Tash worked out its torso, an arm, and its head. Human-shaped but not human. Skin smooth and finely muscled, purple and red and streaks of orange, narrow and long. It looked young. Like a gangly teenager. Its stomach was moving slowly with each of its breaths. It was sleeping.
Tash had been holding her own breath all this time, and now she let out what air she had. Sometimes that’s all she needed to do; just her breath, her smell, would get the demon’s attention.
This demon didn’t move.
Tash took a breath in, the air hot and dry in her mouth. She shouted her shout: “I’m here, demon! I can see you!” But her voice did not sound the same here. Here, words were not words but a clanging of cymbals and gongs.
The demon’s head lifted and slowly turned to face Tash. One leg moved, bending at the knee, the foot rising in the air, totally relaxed despite the intrusion. The demon’s eyes were purple. It stared at Tash and then blinked. Its leg was still in the air and was totally still. Then it threw its head back, lowered its leg, opened its mouth, and stretched its neck to howl.
A clanging noise hit Tash’s ears as the demon sprang up and forward, purple mouth open, but already Tash was springing up too, pushing her spikes hard into the ground and twisting round in the air in a leap that took her out of the demon world and back onto the lip of the hollow, back into the human world.
And then she was running.
CATHERINE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
There is no greater evil than that of a traitor. All traitors must be sought out, exposed, and punished.
The Laws and Devices of Brigant
“PRINCE BORIS HAS sent a guard to escort us there, Your Highness.”
Jane, the new maid, looked and sounded terrified.
“Don’t worry. You won’t have to watch.” Princess Catherine smoothed her skirt and took a deep breath. She was ready.
They set off: the guard ahead, Catherine in the middle, and Jane at the rear. The corridors were quiet and empty in the queen’s part of the castle; even the guard’s heavy footsteps were hushed on the thick rugs. But entering the central hall was like crossing into a different world: a world full of men, color, and noise. Catherine so rarely came into this world that she wanted to take it all in. There were no other women here. The lords were in breastplates, with swords and daggers, as though they didn’t dare come to court without appearing their strongest. Numerous servants stood around and everyone seemed to be talking, looking, maneuvering. Catherine recognized no one, but the men recognized her and parted to allow her through, bowing as she passed, the noise quietening then building again behind her.
And then she was at another door, which the guard held open for her. “Prince Boris asked that you wait for him in here, Your Highness.”
Catherine entered the antehall, indicating with a wave of her hand that Jane should wait at the door, which was already being closed.
It was quiet, but Catherine could hear her own heart beating fast. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
She told herself, Stay calm. Stay dignified. Act like a princess.
She straightened her back and took another deep breath. Then paced slowly to the far end of the room.
It’ll be ugly. It’ll be bloody. But I won’t flinch. I won’t faint. I certainly won’t scream.
And back again.
I’ll be controlled. I won’t show any emotion. If it’s really bad I’ll think of something else. But what? Something beautiful? That would just be wrong.
And back again.
What do you think of when you watch someone having their head chopped off? And not just anyone, but Amb–
Catherine turned and there was Noyes, somehow in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall.
Catherine rarely met Noyes, but whenever she saw him she had to suppress a shudder. He was slim and athletic, probably the same age as her father. Today he was fashionably dressed in his leather and buckles, his shoulder-length, almost white hair tied back from his angular face in fine plaits and a simple knot. But for all that there was something unpleasant about him. Maybe it was just his reputation. Noyes, the master inquisitor, was in the business of seeking out and hunting down traitors. He didn’t kill prisoners himself for the most part; that was the job of his torturers and executioners. In the seven years since the war with Calidor, Noyes and his like had flourished, unlike most Brigantine businesses. No one was safe from his scrutiny: from stable lad to lord, from maid to lady, and even to princess.
Noyes pushed off the wall with his shoulder, took a lazy step toward her, made a slow bow, and said, “Good morning, Your Highness. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“For you, I’m sure.”
He smiled his half-smile and remained still, watching her.
Catherine asked, “Are you waiting for Boris?”
“I’m merely waiting, Your Highness.”
They stood in silence. Catherine looked up at the high windows and the blue sky beyond. Noyes’s eyes were on her and she felt like a sheep at a market . . . No, more like an ugly bug that had crawled across his path. She had an urge to scream that he should show her some respect.
She turned abruptly away from him and told herself, Stay calm. Stay calm. She was good at hiding her emotions after nearly seventeen years of practice, but recently it had become harder. Recently her emotions kept threatening to get the better of her.
“Ah, you’re here, sister,” Boris called as he barged through the doors, Prince Harold trailing in his wake. For once Catherine was relieved to see her brothers. She curtsied. Boris strode through the room, ignoring Noyes and not even bowing to Catherine. He didn’t come to a standstill, but carried on, saying, “Your maid stays here. You come with me.” He pushed open the double doors into the castle square, saying, “Come on, Princess. Don’t dilly-dally.”
Catherine hurried after Boris, the doors already swinging shut in her face. She pulled them open and was relieved that Boris had stopped; the scaffold ahead of them was almost blocking the way, as tall as the rose-garden wall.