“Redder?”
“They’re supposed to be the color of the smoke.”
“Your smoke’s purple.”
“Yes, so perhaps this smoke came from a purple demon.”
Perhaps, Edyon mused, that was why this smoke was different, why it had this strange power to heal.
“Purple or red, they don’t sound that dangerous,” said Holywell.
“Oh,” Edyon added, “and they have sharp teeth and a strong dislike of human company.”
Holywell laughed. “Sounds like a man I used to work for.”
“You’re in a good mood, Holywell,” Edyon said.
“We’re making good speed now, Your Highness. In less than a week we’ll be at the coast.”
It had taken them a day to climb the steep slope to the plateau, but Holywell was right: the going was relatively easy now. The land was strangely, emptily beautiful. There were lots of trees but not much else, no people and no sign of demons, though Edyon didn’t know if demons left signs. There were plentiful animal tracks—deer and rabbits and wild boar—but really the only outstanding feature of the place was that it was cold. It was the beginning of summer and yet it was colder than winter in southern Pitoria.
“So why is it that no one comes here, Your Highness?” Holywell asked.
“Too bloody cold,” March interjected.
Edyon glanced over at March, who’d hardly spoken since breakfast. He was wrapped up so tightly that Edyon couldn’t see his face.
Edyon said, “I imagine the cold does help keep people away, but it’s forbidden because of its history. It used to be a place where people came to hunt, then gold was found in one of the rivers about a hundred years ago. They say all you had to do was paddle around and pick up gold nuggets with your toes.”
“If they weren’t frozen off first,” Holywell said.
“Or if the demons didn’t get you,” Edyon replied. “They were said to protect the land; that’s one of the old myths about them. Anyway, the story goes that they killed some miners and so demon hunters were employed to protect them. The demon hunters killed the demons, and that’s when they discovered the smoke and started selling it to the towns farther south. Some people made a lot of money, but eventually the gold began to run out, and soon there were rival groups fighting over the good mines that were left. So the king sent his son, Prince Verent—he’d be the grandfather of the present king—up here to investigate the problems.
“But they say Prince Verent fell under the spell of the demon smoke. He was obsessed with it. Instead of using his men to sort out the fighting, he rode north, hunting demons and killing them for their smoke. He went farther and farther and refused to turn back. Eventually he disappeared into the snowy wastes. Some say he’s still going north. After that, King Randall, Verent’s father, decreed that no one should go onto the Northern Plateau, and possessing demon smoke became a crime in Pitoria. The law hasn’t changed since.”
“The law might not’ve changed, but some people still go hunting the demons,” Holywell said. “They can’t be that fearsome if your little girlfriend from Dornan hunts them.”
“I’d rather not find out,” Edyon said. “Unlike you, Holywell, I’ve no desire to see one.”
“You’re not even curious, Your Highness? It’d be a fine tale to tell your grandchildren.”
“I’ve no desire for fine tales or grandchildren. At the moment I’d be happy with a warm fire. And if we do see a demon, I suggest we run.”
“I’m sure you’re not such a coward as you suggest, Your Highness.”
“Running seems sensible rather than cowardly.”
“You said they were fast. Shouldn’t you stand your ground and fight?” Holywell asked. “That’s the point of the harpoons, isn’t it? And throwing a harpoon is difficult when you’re running away.”
Edyon bristled at the barely concealed scorn in the older man’s voice. “I suppose you’re right, Holywell. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“We should stand together, Your Highness. If you run, you’ll be the demon’s dinner, I think. And I wouldn’t want that.”
Edyon wasn’t convinced that Holywell was being entirely truthful.
“You think you can throw the harpoon on target, Your Highness?” Holywell asked.
Edyon was almost too tired to reply. “I’m sure I’m as good with a harpoon as I am with a sword, which is to say, not good at all.”
“We should practice then. And always walk with one. You too, March.”
With a grunt, Holywell threw his harpoon. It struck a tree, which Edyon supposed he was aiming for, and stuck there, quivering.
March passed a harpoon to Edyon. He squirmed slightly. Fighting—any kind of physical exercise, really—had never been his strong suit. He didn’t want to look like a weakling in front of March, but both men were staring at him now, waiting.
Gritting his teeth, Edyon pulled back his arm and threw, trying his best to look strong, but the harpoon skittered a short way along the ground, and Edyon wished that a demon would hurry up and carry him off so he could stop feeling like a fool.
March turned away, and Edyon cursed inwardly.
“Well, Your Highness,” said Holywell smoothly. “Shall we try that again?’
MARCH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
EDYON FLUNG his harpoon again. It flew a short distance and landed butt first in the snow. The prince was not improving.
Edyon blushed and ran forward to pick it up. Holywell shook his head, aimed his own harpoon toward Edyon’s back, and made as if to throw, before adjusting the direction at the last moment and hurling it hard past him. Edyon let out a stifled cry as the weapon slammed into a tree to his left.
March balanced his own harpoon in his hand. Back in Calidor, he had seen men throwing spears at jousts, and Holywell had a similar technique. He waited until Holywell had retrieved his harpoon before raising his own, positioning his legs, pointing with his left hand at where he was aiming, and throwing. It sailed through the air, not as far as Holywell’s but at least in the direction he’d been aiming, which was more than could be said for Edyon’s.
“Not bad, March,” Holywell said. “All that waiting on tables and carrying platters of grapes has strengthened your arm.”
March kept his face impassive, just as he had done back at court whenever a highborn lord or lady insulted him. He didn’t understand why Holywell wanted to provoke him, but he was determined not to rise to the bait.
He turned to Edyon instead. Edyon threw again and nearly speared the pony, which reared up with a frightened squeal before trotting out of the way.
“For fuck’s sake!” Holywell muttered.
“Sorry,” Edyon said. He was bright red with shame. “Sorry. Can’t get the hang of it.”
“Show him, March. Before he kills one of us,” Holywell said. “Or himself.”
March crossed over to Edyon.
“First get the harpoon balanced in your hand.”
Edyon nodded, but the weapon was still waving like a reed in the wind. March moved behind Edyon and put his arms round him, demonstrating. “Like this. So it’s still.”
The wave became more of a weave.
“Better. Now, when you throw, you need to use your whole body, not just your arm. Your back and stomach muscles too. Tense your stomach. Use your other arm to aim.”
Edyon threw again and the harpoon went farther than before but still landed harmlessly, tail first. He retrieved it and took up his position to throw again.
“Stand with your leg farther forward. Use your body more. Take your time.” March moved closer, pressing his leg against Edyon’s to move it forward.
Edyon froze, and March was suddenly aware of their closeness. He could feel Edyon’s back pressing against his chest. He wanted to move and stay at the same time. March swallowed. “Try again.”
Edyon’s next throw was better.
“Good!” March stepped away.
“Thanks,” said Edyon. “You’re a good teacher. Do they use spears in your country?”
“In Calidor the foot soldiers use spears. Prince Thelonius is an excellent swordsman.”
“And in Abask?”