Edyon nodded, and Holywell lay down and closed his eyes.
Edyon wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be watching for. The first night he’d just sat and listened to the noise of the woods and Holywell’s snoring, staring at March’s face in the thin light of the new moon. But even that wasn’t a pleasure any longer. March’s face was glistening with the sweat of a fever.
As if he could hear Edyon’s thoughts, March turned to him from his bedroll, his eyes even paler than usual in the moonlight.
“How are you feeling?” Edyon asked, smiling gently.
March turned his face away and said, “I’ll be fine, Your Highness.”
The foreign man is in pain. I cannot see if he lives or dies . . .
Edyon shook his head. Madame Eruth had been right about everything so far, but even she didn’t have all the answers. Edyon was determined March wouldn’t die if he had anything to do with it.
Edyon went over and said, “Let me see your wound. I’ll clean it again. Some cold water from the stream may ease it a little.”
March didn’t answer and his lack of disagreement was, Edyon now knew, the closest he would come to admitting he was suffering. Edyon carefully unpeeled the bandage. March’s skin was hot and swollen, and there was dried blood and some yellow pus on the dressing and in the wound. It looked bad and had definitely gotten worse since he’d last seen it.
Edyon cleaned the wound, but he had to do something more. He was sure the smoke had somehow helped him heal after his beating by Stone’s men. His bruises were gone and the tooth that had come close to falling out was now solid as a rock.
If the smoke had healed him, he had to try it on March.
But how? He’d inhaled it. March had a cut deep in his shoulder. Edyon brought the bottle of smoke over and laid it gently on the wound, causing March to cry out.
“What are you doing?” he said.
Edyon felt ridiculous even saying it. “I think it might help.”
“Help how?”
“Help heal you. I had a bath with the bottle of smoke and my bruises disappeared. Stone’s guards nearly knocked one of my teeth out, and that was healed too.”
He remembered how the smoke in his mouth had seemed to search out the loose tooth. Perhaps it would seek out March’s wound, but how would he stop it escaping? He needed a container, but the only things they had were tin bowls from March’s pack, and they were too big.
There was one other thing he could use. He could suck some of the smoke into his mouth and then put his mouth on March’s shoulder. Not the worst job in the world. But what if he inhaled it and passed out? He’d have to concentrate, hold it just in his mouth.
“I have an idea. If you’re willing to let me try.”
March turned his head. His eyes were like moonlight. He blinked and said, “Try.”
Edyon took up the bottle of smoke. It glowed bright in the darkness, almost seeming to pulse with life. He held it upside down, easing the cork free to let out a wisp of smoke, which he sucked into his mouth. He then lowered himself over March. Their eyes met and he froze for a moment, the intensity of March’s gaze fixing him in place. Then slowly, so slowly, Edyon lowered his head until his lips brushed March’s skin.
March gasped, his hands grasping Edyon’s shoulders, and Edyon couldn’t tell if it was in pleasure or pain. Then Edyon parted his lips, and the smoke was in his mouth and on March’s wound. He held his breath, trying not to take the smoke down into his lungs, but he could feel a light-headedness, as if his body was floating. He couldn’t help but smile, because it felt so good, and the smoke escaped out of one side of his mouth and he watched it climb into the sky. He looked down at March.
“Did you feel anything?”
“It’s warm,” March replied, closing his eyes.
Edyon inspected March’s wound. Was it the effects of the smoke, or did it seem less angry? He let out more smoke from the bottle, sucked it in, and lowered his lips onto March’s skin again. He could feel the smoke in his mouth, its heat and its movement, faster than it seemed in the bottle. Edyon held his breath and stayed still as long as he could before releasing. He looked down at March to share the moment with him, but March’s eyes were closed.
There was no doubting it now. The swelling had gone and the cut had healed over and a scar was forming. But Edyon’s head was spinning. He was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Taking the demon smoke bottle, he curled up next to March and slept.
MARCH
SOMEWHERE NORTH OF DORNAN, PITORIA
WHEN HE was sure Edyon was asleep, March stopped pretending and sat up. He rolled his shoulder, then prodded it with his finger. There was no pain. The warmth and slight stinging sensation he had felt when Edyon had applied the smoke had gone. He looked down at Edyon, curled round the bottle of purple smoke that roiled and seethed in slow, endless movement.
Edyon’s idea had worked.
Perhaps he wasn’t such a fool as he claimed. Or, if he was, he was a gentle one, a kind one. March remembered the kiss of Edyon’s lips on his skin with a shiver. The son of the prince touching him. No one touched him, ever.
“You’re looking better.”
Holywell was staring at him from his bedroll. March found himself suddenly flustered. He wondered how much Holywell had seen.
Holywell’s eyes narrowed and he spoke in Abask, a sign that he didn’t want Edyon to know what he was saying. “You like the feel of his mouth on you, eh? That infection should have killed you. Now the wound looks like it’s been healing for weeks. What happened?”
“Edyon . . . used the smoke to heal me.”
Holywell shook his head. “You’ve no idea what that smoke really is, or what it might do.”
“I know it worked. My arm feels as strong as before.” March showed the scar to Holywell, who held out his hand to touch it, then seemed to think better of it. “Do you want to try it on your neck?”
“I’m not having that stuff near me. I’ll heal the normal way.”
“Well, the normal way wasn’t working for me.”
Holywell sneered. “Do I detect a tone of gratitude to the young prince?”
“He’s not a prince.”
“No, he’s not; he’s a soft, spoiled fool and he’s going to be Aloysius’s prisoner. So don’t be getting too grateful to him—it’s not natural.”
And March felt sure Holywell meant more than just the smoke. He flushed red.
“I’m not. I agree he’s an idiot. Another spoiled idiot son. I see them in court all the time. I was just telling you about the smoke.”
“Well, you can take the watch now you’re feeling so much better. Then we head north. We keep telling the fool we’re being pursued—for all we know it’s true. Edyon will get what’s coming to him soon enough. Him and the prince of Calidor.”
TASH
DORNAN, PITORIA
ON THE second morning after the smoke had been taken, Gravell woke, rose, walked doubled-over to the pisspot, puked in it before pissing in it, and then staggered back to sit on the side of the bed, groaning. This was an improvement on the previous day, which he had spent curled in a ball.
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” said Tash, clinking together the coins she had earned making deliveries for a local pie seller, which she’d started doing out of desperation for money. So far she’d been given one particularly large tip for her speed and discovered that pie delivery was a lot safer than running from demons.
“Can you keep the noise down?”
Tash rattled her coins even louder.
“I’ve never felt this bad before.”
“Actually, there was that time in Hepdene. You were ill for four days and swore you’d never drink again.”
“That woman spiked my drink, that’s the only explanation. She was after my money.”
“Or perhaps you had more than one drink and they weren’t spiked. And, by the way, she still wants a kroner for her wonderful company.”
“Don’t pay her.”
“I don’t intend to.” Tash stopped playing with the coins. “Gravell, do you have any money left at all?”