Edyon liked the girl and didn’t want her to be blamed for his actions. He didn’t want to get caught by the sheriff’s men, and he particularly didn’t want to get caught by the huge monster of a man that was Gravell. It wouldn’t be long before Gravell worked out that the girl hadn’t taken the smoke, and therefore it wouldn’t be too long before Gravell would work out who was responsible for its disappearance.
He knew he should get rid of it. He’d like to give the bottle to the girl. If he saw her now, he’d just hand it over, or perhaps drop it on the ground so she’d see it as she walked along . . . But she wasn’t here and he knew the idea was just a silly fantasy. He briefly played through another: the idea of selling the smoke to get the money to pay off Stone. The smoke had to be worth fifty kroners. But it was illegal goods and the buyers would be the worst sort of people to deal with. They’d probably know it was stolen from the giant Gravell. They’d sell him out for sure.
And now Edyon’s other worries came to mind. He’d promised himself he would tell his mother about his stealing. But how could he? What would she think of him? He’d thought about showing her what Stone had done to him. Stone had ordered him beaten. That was not the way civilized men behaved, and pissing on people certainly wasn’t. Stone and his men were barbarians; his mother would understand that and sympathize. Except now he didn’t have any bruises, and how could he explain that? He wasn’t even sure himself how they had vanished, unless it was something to do with the demon smoke, and how could he explain that? “Yes, Mother, Stone’s men did beat me to a pulp, but I think this highly illegal bottle of demon smoke might have cured me. Oh, and by the way, I stole it.”
No, he couldn’t face Erin now. He’d think of a way to tell her later. Besides, he had an appointment with March, a far more promising companion. Edyon was smelling and looking better than ever; he didn’t want to waste that. He deserved some pleasant company after the day he’d had. Tomorrow he’d deal with his mother and Stone.
He needed to go to the Duck and find March, but first he’d have to stash the smoke somewhere safe. Not in his tent, where the servants or his mother would find it. Somewhere quiet . . . He headed toward the woods.
The woods were silent, the noise from the fair not reaching into the trees. Edyon kept walking, past the place where he’d been beaten, and on to a stream, which he flopped down beside. He unwrapped the bottle and stared in fascination at the swirling smoke.
Perhaps he should try some? It had been months since his last visit to a smoke den, and he could do with the relaxation. What was the point in having the risk of owning a whole bottle of smoke and none of the pleasure of inhaling it? He’d have one smoke, hide the bottle, and then go and see March. A perfect plan.
He eased the cork off the bottle and let a wisp of smoke escape. It curled up through the trees, glowing purple, and vanished among the leaves. He let another wisp escape, but this time he leaned forward and sniffed it into his nose. It was hot and dry, and weaved its own way down his throat and into his lungs and then back into his mouth, where it seemed to swirl over his tongue and round the loose tooth and through the roof of his mouth, then it seeped warm and purple into his brain.
Edyon laughed and the smoke burst out of his mouth in a purple cloud. He lay back and floated above the ground, as if he were smoke too, as the cloud floated up and away, glowing in the darkness below the canopy.
The trees were beautiful. The leaves waved at him from above. He smiled at them and waved back. Everything was beautiful.
MARCH
DORNAN, PITORIA
WHILE MARCH waited outside the bathhouse for Edyon to reappear, he had plenty of time to think. He’d been foolish earlier, bantering with the prince’s son, letting him compliment him about his eyes when he had a job to do. Next time March would remember his task. He had to talk to Edyon before he got to his mother and definitely before he got to Regan. He had to tell Edyon his story convincingly, and to do that the story had to be mainly true. By the time Edyon appeared, March knew what he had to say.
The prince’s son emerged from the bathhouse, walking fast, with his jacket under his arm. March cut through a side street, hoping to come out ahead of him with a “surprised but delighted to see you” face on and persuade Edyon to go with him somewhere quiet. But Edyon didn’t appear in the road that led back to the fair. March ran back the way he’d come and just caught sight of Edyon heading out of town in the direction of the woods. Edyon seemed in less of a hurry now, and March followed at a distance. The woods might be a good place for them to talk quietly and unobserved. Deeper and deeper Edyon went, past the place where he’d been beaten and pissed on, past the place March had spent the night, and on to a stream where he stopped and sat on the ground and took out from his jacket a bottle that glowed purple.
March had never seen anything like it. Edyon cradled the bottle and looked at it and then held it upside down and took out the cork. A wisp of purple smoke climbed through the trees; it didn’t disperse but remained strong and bright until it disappeared above the canopy. Edyon released more of the smoke, but this time he inhaled it, laughed, and then flopped back on the ground.
For a long time, he didn’t move. Finally March stepped forward.
“Edyon.”
Edyon didn’t respond. He seemed to be sound asleep.
“Well, at least you’re not with Regan,” March said. He sat down next to Edyon and stared at his face, so like that of his father, the prince, and yet different too. Softer somehow.
Eventually, in the early evening, Edyon stirred, stretched, and sat up. He was smiling. Then he saw March and his smile widened.
“Hello, my handsome foreign man. What a delightful surprise to see you here. Madame Eruth didn’t say anything about me waking up next to you. But perhaps she knew I would misinterpret her.”
March felt flustered again. “You look better,” he managed.
“Thank you. Though, as when you saw me last I was beaten up and covered in piss, I’m not sure “better’ quite conveys the level of improvement.”
“You, er, smell better too.”
Edyon laughed. “Hmm, I suspect compliments are not your strong point. But that’s fine. Do you know that your eyes look even more amazing in this twilight?”
“Um, no.”
“Taking compliments is a struggle too, it seems. I’m afraid you might have to get used to that this evening. I intend to drench you in them. How long have you been here?”
“Since you arrived. I was watching out for you.”
“Watching out for me? Now, that sounds promising.”
March shifted awkwardly. He had to get the conversation onto the subject of Regan. He said, “I have to be honest with you. I’m concerned for your safety.”
“Well, that’s rather wonderful of you, my new handsome foreign man. But you needn’t worry—Stone’s thugs won’t beat me up again. At least, not until the end of the week.”
“I don’t mean them. I’m talking about someone much more dangerous.”
Edyon gave a sour grin. “Don’t fret—I know about him.”
“You do?” Had Edyon somehow got a message from Regan or his mother while he was in the bathhouse?
“Of course. I figured he would work out it was me, though I thought it would take a little longer. But if he’s put the word out already, I’ll probably be dead by morning.”
Edyon didn’t seem that concerned about being killed. In fact, he looked totally relaxed. He was clearly still suffering from the effects of whatever was in the bottle.
“Well, he knows it’s you . . . you’re you. But he won’t tell anyone else: he’s here to kill you himself.”
“Here?” Edyon looked around, slightly more alert now.
“Here at the fair, I mean. That is why I’ve come, to warn you. But how did you know about him?”
“I stole the smoke from him, so of course I know about him.”
“Smoke?” March pointed at the bottle. “That?”
“Yes, that.” Now Edyon looked confused. He squinted at March. “Are we talking about the same person? Big. Hairy. Demon hunter.”