March was picking at the last of the pie with his long, delicate fingers, while Holywell had his map out and was working out a route to Pravont that was not the way the innkeeper had told Edyon.
March said, “We could try cutting west, but I think there’ll be more sheriff’s men on this westerly road.”
Holywell shook his head. “We keep going to Pravont. We can’t risk getting a boat now—they’ll be watching the river—but we can cross there and go west to Rossarb. And from there it’s a ship to Calidor.”
“There’s nothing north of the Ross except the Northern Plateau,” Edyon said.
“Is that a problem for you, Your Highness?” Holywell asked with what Edyon thought was exaggerated patience.
“It’s forbidden. No one goes there.”
Holywell smiled. “I like the sound of it already.”
“It’s forbidden because it’s demon territory.”
If Holywell heard him, he ignored it.
“We’ll get more provisions in Pravont. And another horse to carry them.”
Holywell seemed determined, and Edyon didn’t have the will to argue with him. And after all, which was worse? The sheriff’s men or demons?
“Well, I’m sure we’re safe with you, Holywell, right, March?” He smiled at March, who turned his face away. “I’m sorry if I’ve made a mess of things.”
March glanced back at Holywell but didn’t say anything.
They sat in silence.
Edyon scratched his midge bites and then he had an idea. He took the bottle of demon smoke, uncorked it, holding his lips close to the top, breathed in a small wisp of smoke, and then put his mouth over the bites on his wrist. He looked at March, who was watching him closely and for once didn’t look away or pretend he wasn’t interested.
Edyon relaxed his lips, the smoke curling from his mouth, and he sucked it back in, showing off a little, and this time he took March’s wrist and put his mouth over the welts and held it there. Edyon half expected March to resist or snatch his hand away, but instead he let Edyon hold him and he kept totally still. Edyon could feel March’s pulse, slow and steady, as he held his mouth over March’s cool skin, but the smoke didn’t seem to move around the welts as it had done with his shoulder wound. Edyon breathed the smoke out and watched it float up and away, aware that Holywell was staring at him.
“I wanted to see if the smoke works on midge bites,” Edyon said.
“You’re not going to try it on mine, Your Highness?” Holywell asked.
The thought of touching Holywell with his hands, never mind his lips, made Edyon’s skin crawl, but he said, “You could try a little on yourself?” Edyon offered the bottle. “It relaxes you too. You might get a double benefit.” And he laughed at the thought of it.
“Seems the drug is affecting your brain but not the bites,” Holywell said, staring at Edyon’s wrist.
Holywell was right: the welts on Edyon’s and March’s wrists hadn’t improved.
Holywell snorted and lay down to sleep, saying, “March, you’re on first watch. Don’t you go getting drugged either.”
But a short time later, when Holywell’s snores became regular, March took out his knife and told Edyon, “I’m going to try something.”
Before Edyon could reply, March cut the flesh of his palm and took the bottle of smoke.
He mastered the technique first time, sucking a wisp in and then holding his lips over the cut. March breathed the smoke out and then raised his hand in front of his face.
The cut had healed.
“So it works on cuts but not bites,” Edyon said. “Though I’ve not really had a cut. I had bruises and a wobbly tooth. Will you try it on me?”
March hesitated. Then said, “If you wish, Your Highness.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Edyon said. “It sounds all wrong.”
Edyon held his hand out, and March grasped his wrist and, before Edyon could change his mind, March had cut the pad of his thumb with the tip of his knife.
March sucked in some smoke and put his lips on Edyon’s hand. Edyon closed his eyes. He could feel the smoke twining round his thumb, seeking out the wound, but he was mainly aware of March’s lips against his skin.
“Do you feel light-headed?” Edyon asked, his voice barely a whisper.
March grinned, which was a first. “A little. Sleepy too.”
“Sleep then,” said Edyon softly. “I’ll watch.”
And March lay down and covered his face against the midges while Edyon sat, gently stroking his thumb against his lips.
AMBROSE
TORNIA, PITORIA
AMBROSE HAD ridden hard for three days from the northernmost part of Pitoria to the capital in the south. It was evening when he arrived in the city of Tornia. He was dirty, sweaty, and exhausted, and he was almost too late. The advance on the border by Aloysius’s troops would begin in less than a day, and the invasion of Pitoria would happen the day after that: the day of Catherine’s wedding.
As he entered the city, he stopped at a public well to drink and wash and heard people talking of Catherine’s procession to the capital.
“Well, I certainly never expected a Brigantine girl to be beautiful,” said one old man.
“And her dress!” said a woman. “And all the followers with white hair. So elegant. I might get mine done . . .”
Ambrose felt a twinge of jealousy that these people had seen Catherine more recently than he, but also a strange pride. She had clearly made a success of her progress to the city and an impression on its citizens, but that made it all the more galling that it was for nothing—her wedding no more than a distraction from the imminent invasion in the north. Even if Catherine had succeeded in winning the people over, that very success would soon be interpreted as her complicity in her father’s aims. Ambrose had to find a way to see her.
After darkness fell, and with the worst of the filth of the road sponged from his Royal Guard tunic, Ambrose rode through the streets of Tornia to the castle gates, where his path was blocked by a purple-haired soldier.
“Well met, sir. I’m Sir Ambrose Norwend. I’m with Princess Catherine.”
“Not at the moment you’re not.”
Ambrose smiled tightly. “I was delayed. Are you going to delay me more?”
The guard looked undecided for a moment, but then stepped to the side, allowing Ambrose through. He rode on, feeling hopeful, but that lasted only until the next gate, where the guard was less accommodating.
“Your name’s not on the list of the princess’s party. Do you have a pass?”
“A pass?”
“A sealed letter giving you admittance.”
“No, but I don’t need to get in. I need to get a message to Princess Catherine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s urgent.”
“It always is.”
Ambrose spoke through gritted teeth. “How can I get a message to her?”
“In the morning the stewards make a list of those wishing to present themselves. Gifts and messages can also be left.”
“How can I get a message to her now?”
“You present your pass and go through.”
“I’ve told you I don’t have a pass.”
“And I’ve told you, you need one.”
“But the message is vital. I’ve ridden hard to get here.”
“My heart bleeds for you. Come back in the morning.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Fine by me.”
Ambrose slid off his horse, sat on the ground, his back against the wall, and waited.
Until dawn Ambrose dozed, worn out by his long ride. The guard changed, and he made a new attempt to talk his way in, with as little success as the first time. But now the castle was waking up. Servants and officials were entering and leaving, and Ambrose saw a group of boys with white hair approaching the gate.
“Are you with Princess Catherine?” he asked.
“We’re her dancers,” one of the boys replied.
“Will you be seeing her today?”
“We’re performing at the luncheon.”
“I need to get a message to her. Can you take it to her now, or to one of her maids?”
The boy nodded.
“Tell her that Ambrose is here. I’m by this gate and waiting to see her.”
“The princess?”
“Or Jane or Tanya. Any of them.” Then he had an idea. He took his knife and cut off a long lock of his own hair and handed it to the boy, saying, “That’s to prove it’s me.”