Edyon remembered Madame Eruth’s words about the path to riches, but then there were warnings about death being all around, and that was certainly true when the demon attacked. But perhaps he was through that now. Death was behind him, and ahead lay foreign lands and a happier future.
March nodded and put the daggers inside his jacket, just as Holywell had done. It made Edyon shudder and he remembered something else Madame Eruth had said, about the handsome foreign man: he lies too.
So much of what Eruth had foretold had come true, but that part had not. Had March lied about something? He resolved to ask, maybe tonight. Maybe . . .
Suddenly March turned round and smiled. It wasn’t often that March showed emotion in his face, but he was beaming.
“Please tell me you’re smiling because you can see the end of the plateau.”
March’s grin widened. “I’m smiling because I can see the end of the plateau.”
Edyon noted that March hadn’t called him “Your Highness” and was sure it wasn’t because he was being rude but because they had become friends at last. He came forward to stand by March. Then his smile faded.
“They went down there?”
Ahead of them, the land dropped away abruptly down a steep and stony slope. In places, the slope gave way to a sheer cliff. A network of paths so narrow Edyon could barely see them zigzagged among the scree.
“Mountain goats,” said March knowledgeably.
“Will the pony make it, do you think?” asked Edyon anxiously.
“Will we make it? That’s the question. I’ll lead the pony. You find the way down.”
Edyon set off and found to his relief that it wasn’t as hard as it looked. The footing was loose but dry. Some of the paths led to dead ends, cut off by landslides or rockfalls, but Edyon only had to retrace his steps a few times, and with each step down he was feeling more positive and a lot warmer.
The map placed Rossarb just at the edge of the plateau. They could be there for lunch . . . and have a bath . . . a proper bed for the night. Edyon picked up speed. But, as his mind wandered, he lost his footing and slid, only saving himself by flipping onto his stomach and digging his toes in. He looked up to find March peering down at him, his usually unreadable face creased with laughter.
Edyon smiled back. How come he always managed to make a mess of things? Always when March was watching. Since Holywell’s death, March seemed to have brightened, as if freed from some unseen burden. Edyon had hoped it might make March more receptive to his flirtatious remarks, but the Abask still seemed embarrassed by every compliment. Well, perhaps tonight, in a real room—with a real bed—things would be different . . .
At the bottom of the slope they reached a narrow, fast-flowing river. The ground was flat and grassy and a thick mist made it difficult to see, but Edyon could smell the tang of salt in the air and could just make out the walls of a town ahead.
“Rossarb!” he cried, turning to March. “We made it! Never had a doubt.”
March grinned at him. “Nor I.”
“What do we do first?”
“Sell the pony.”
“Oh yes. Sell the pony. Then a meal, then a bath. A hot, hot bath. And then bed and sleep for a full day.”
As they carried on walking, past several small farmsteads, March said, “It’s very quiet. Where is everyone?”
“Perhaps there’s a festival on and everyone’s gone into town.”
“Perhaps,” agreed March, but he didn’t sound convinced.
As they got closer they joined a road that led to a small gate set into the stone town wall. Four blue-haired soldiers were manning it.
They both slowed. March asked, “What does the blue hair mean? Are they sheriff’s men? Are they looking for us even here?”
“Blue is Prince Tzsayn’s color. They’re his soldiers. Though I don’t know what they’re doing this far north.”
“Shall we go back?”
But it was too late for that. The soldiers were rushing forward, spears out. Edyon put his hands up and the soldiers dragged him and March through the gate and thrust them roughly against the inner wall.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Edyon’s mind worked quickly. He could hardly admit they’d come from the forbidden territory of the Northern Plateau, but then he remembered the map and Rossarb’s proximity to Brigant. He smiled brightly.
“We’ve just arrived from Brigant. We’re traders but we were robbed on the main road. Hence our rather shabby state. We were afraid we’d meet more villains, so we skirted round to the east to come into town this way.”
Edyon glanced up at the soldier’s face. He looked incredulous.
“Just come over the border today?”
“This morning, yes.”
The soldier stared at them both, then peered closer at March’s ice-blue eyes. “You came over the border too then?”
March replied, “My friend just explained where we’ve come from.”
“What? I can hardly understand you. Where’s that accent from?”
“Look,” Edyon interrupted, “what does it matter what his accent is? He’s with me. We’re here on business.”
The soldier turned to Edyon and poked him in the chest. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He swung back to March and poked him in the chest as he asked, “So? Where exactly are you from?”
March knocked the man’s hand away. “Abask.”
“Abask? Isn’t that part of Brigant?” And the guard poked March’s chest again and said, “And what is it that you’re carrying under here?” He ripped open March’s jacket to reveal his knives.
“Armed to the teeth,” the guard said, “and from Brigant.” The guard nodded to his comrades. “You’re under arrest.”
“Arrest? What for?” protested Edyon. Surely word of the sheriff’s man’s death hadn’t reached all the way to Rossarb?
“Smelling like shit.”
Edyon tried to smile. “But that’s not a legal offense.”
The soldier leaned forward and said in an exaggeratedly innocent voice, “Oh, I’m sorry—isn’t it? Well, better add spying.” And he turned to March and poked him hard, saying, “And for being Brigantine. And for carrying weapons into the city.”
March smacked the soldier’s hand out of the way again and the soldier said, “And resisting arrest.”
And he punched March hard in the stomach, doubling him over.
Another soldier grabbed Edyon’s arms and tied them behind his back, ignoring his protest. As he was pushed down the road Edyon looked back to see March being dragged along behind.
Something had gone horribly wrong.
CATHERINE
ROSSARB, PITORIA
Rossarb was once the richest town in Pitoria, a home of gold miners and demon hunters.
A History of the North, Simion Saage
CATHERINE’S ROOMS in Rossarb were a sharp contrast to those in Zalyan Castle. There were three connecting chambers: a sitting room, bedroom, and study, all simply furnished and small. The sitting room was her favorite as it had tall, narrow windows on three sides. The views to the west were stunning, with the blue water of the bay and beyond that the distant hills of Brigant. The flat land around the bay was now occupied by the Brigantine army, which had swept over the border like a wave, to lap at the walls of Rossarb.
Her father’s army looked impressive, Catherine thought grimly. There were dozens of rows of tents, temporary stables, blacksmiths’ forges, and armorers. The bustle of the Brigantine war machine. And somewhere among them was her father. What was he doing now? Planning an attack? Eating his dinner? Thinking of her? Catherine had never been close to her father, but now more than ever he felt like a stranger, just a man she vaguely knew. And she was ashamed of him. He’d betrayed her, shown the worst side of the Brigantine character: warlike and devious.