“Prince Thelonius’s seal. He wore it every day I knew him, until the day he entrusted us with the mission of passing it to you, his son, to show how much he wants you to return to him.”
Edyon took the chain from inside his shirt. From it hung a swirl of gold, like brambles, round a central flat medallion. The ring slid through the brambles and latched on to the medallion underneath.
A perfect fit.
Edyon looked at the ring. “Two men have already died because my father sent me this. I hope no one else will suffer the same fate.” He looked up at March. “But I have a bad feeling.”
Pain, suffering, and death . . .
March had a strange look on his face, but he turned away and began to take off his jacket and shirt. The bandage at his shoulder was bloody and grimy. March started to undo the dressing but winced.
Edyon said, “Let me help.”
“I can do it, Your Highness.” But the movement had caused the wound to reopen, and fresh blood was already trickling down March’s chest.
“That’s clearly not true. Lie back and stay still. Don’t make it worse.”
“There’s a blanket in my pack,” March said.
Edyon bent down and pulled it out, wishing he had packed one himself.
Then he stopped. “Oh shits!”
“What is it?” March asked. “Are you going to be sick again?”
“No . . . I . . . I think I’ve done something stupid. I had a bag of things with me. I forgot about it in the . . . the rush to leave the woods. It probably won’t be too hard for whoever finds it to work out it’s mine.”
That was an understatement. The bag had his best shirt in it, the one embroidered with his initials. If he’d wanted to leave a clue to who had killed the sheriff’s man, he couldn’t have done better. He really was a fool.
March smiled gently at Edyon and said, “We all make mistakes, Your Highness.” But Edyon had a feeling that March wouldn’t have made such a basic one. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.
Edyon threw the blanket on the dewy ground, and March hesitated, then lay down, wincing. Edyon carefully lifted March’s shirt away from his chest and cleaned around the wound with a fresh bandage and water from March’s flask.
“Is it bleeding at the back? It hurts there too.”
Edyon gently raised March’s shoulder. “There’s no cut at the back, but it’s swollen and bruised.” He touched the bruise and March yelped in pain. “The cut looks deep. It must have hit the bone.”
Edyon took his time to clean gently around the wound. March stared up at Edyon, who felt his stomach flutter as their gazes met, but then March closed his eyes. Edyon didn’t mind. It gave him the chance to study his new friend, his handsome face and smooth, muscular chest. But the cut to his shoulder was deep. Holywell had said it wasn’t so bad, but perhaps riding had made it worse, or perhaps Holywell had lied so that they could escape.
March’s breath was deep and even now. He was sleeping. Edyon ran his fingers along March’s strong jaw and settled his head against the blanket. As he turned away, he saw the bottle of smoke lying on the ground next to March’s pack. Was it really only yesterday he had taken it? Already it felt unreal, as if it hadn’t really happened, and yet that was what had led him to this mess. But no, in fact, it was before that, the stealing of the silver ship, which had been the start of it. That’s what had got him beaten up and pissed on. Left bruised and battered and stinking so he’d had to go to the bathhouse, where he found the smoke.
He probed his mouth with his tongue, feeling for the loose tooth he remembered, but found no wobble, no swelling, no soreness. He vaguely recalled waking up after his smoke dream to find that his tooth was better. And it had been his bath in the smoke-warmed water that had soothed away the pain of his beating . . .
Had the smoke healed his bruises and his tooth?
It seemed ridiculous. He’d been to smoke dens and the smoke never healed; it just made you feel good. And now he was no longer feeling good. He might be the son of a prince, with a prince’s gold ring, but he was still a bastard and a thief (a pretty useless one at that). And a killer responsible for a murder—two murders: Regan’s and the sheriff’s man’s. Responsible for March’s wound as well.
Pain, suffering, and death. Death all around him.
And Edyon couldn’t help thinking that there would be more to come.
TASH
DORNAN, PITORIA
TASH HAD followed Edyon, Holywell, and the other man for a good part of the night. They were on horseback, but she was fast. She’d half thought of waiting until they made camp, then running in, snatching the smoke, and running off. But they only stopped briefly for Edyon to be sick. Of course they’d want to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the sheriff’s men. And when they did stop they’d be on their guard, so sneaking into their camp would be dangerous, and the man with the knives wasn’t to be messed with. So, as it began to get light, she turned back for Dornan.
It was mid-morning when she got back, and there was much activity around the woods. The sheriff’s men had obviously found the body and were out in force, though she’d not seen any sign that they’d followed Edyon’s trail.
She walked into Gravell’s room. It smelled stale and sour with sweat. There was a Gravell-shaped mound on the bed. Tash went over and shook it.
“Wake up. I’ve got news.”
Nothing. Not even a snore.
Tash leaned into him, pushing and rocking rather than shaking him.
Gravell farted.
She moved round to the head of the bed.
“Wake up, Gravell!”
Gravell groaned, then belched a belch so stinky that Tash had to step back. But this wasn’t the first time she’d experienced Gravell’s smells, and his hangovers, and she knew how to deal with both. She took the washbowl, filled it with water, went back to the bed, and threw the water in his face.
“Wake up! I need to talk to you.”
Gravell licked around his mouth.
“I know where the smoke is! I’ve seen a man get killed!”
Gravell grunted and turned over.
With a sigh, Tash sat down on the chair and listened as Gravell started to snore.
CATHERINE
THE ROAD TO TORNIA, PITORIA
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CATHERINE WAS exhausted. Exhausted but relieved and a little exhilarated. Things had gone well for her and her dress. She had worn it every day, hour after tiring hour in the saddle. But it had been worth it—the crowds, it seemed, could not get enough of her.
The weather had been in her favor too, warm but not hot, with no rain. Progress had been slow and steady to accommodate her growing band of followers. The horse she rode was large, handsome, and quiet, selected by Sir Rowland from Lord Farrow’s stable. The trumpeters were well chosen too, loud but not jarring, and again Sir Rowland had been personally involved, selecting them for their appearance as much as their playing ability; they were all young and handsome. They walked well ahead of the procession, so that by the time Catherine arrived crowds had gathered. There were dancers too, of course, and once more Sir Rowland had managed to find the most handsome band. When Catherine commented on their looks, Sir Rowland replied with a smile, “Why have ugly things when you can have them beautiful?”
And there had been large crowds. The people of Pitoria liked to party: that Catherine had learned quickly. Every night there was a feast and every day the road was lined with people celebrating her arrival; young and old ran, stared, pointed, and waved, and children literally jumped up and down with excitement.