Sin Eater's Daughter 2 - The Sleeping Prince (14 page)

“What goes around comes around, Chanse Unwin. Remember that. I’d be careful what you eat and drink from now on. You’ve seen what I can make.” I hold his gaze until he looks down, like a dog submitting to its master. Only then do I turn and leave.

I manage to make it halfway across the village before my legs give out and I have to lean against one of the cottages. I take deep breaths, cradling my bruised hand. It hurts so much. Yet I’d do it all over again if I had to.

I lean back against the wall, feeling the wet wood against my tunic, and panic rises, the ever-present rock in my chest pressing me into the earth. I don’t have any money. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t even have my knife.

What the hell do I do now?

I leave the village using the same path my family and I arrived on four moons ago, making the journey in reverse, this time veering right along the dirt track, cantering through small copses and lowland until I reach the Long Road. The land on either side of the road is scrub, gorse and bracken and thistle, wild land, unclaimed and unused by man.

When we came here the land was green and rich at the height of summer, at odds with the emptiness inside us, the gaping hole where my father had been. Now it’s barren and wintry, and there’s another hole where my brother, and mother, should be.

Where Silas should be, I think, and immediately humiliation and anger curdle in my stomach.

I look over my shoulder but can see no sign that I’m being followed. Despite that, I urge my stolen horse into a gallop, eager to put a few more miles between me and Almwyk before sunset. When I turn back again, smoke is still rising in the distance on the left and I allow myself a grin.

After the encounter with Unwin I knew I had to get out of Almwyk as fast as possible, knew that the soldiers would come for me. Between the body, the poisons and assaulting Unwin, I’d be thrown in jail at the very least, and this time Kirin wouldn’t be able to step in and save me. I’d felt a small pang of guilt at the trouble he’d be in for letting me slip away, but shaken it off. He’d be fine. After all, I attacked him too; he’d have the bruises to prove it.

So I went to the last place anyone would have thought to find me: Unwin’s House of Justice. I broke in through a small window at the back of the building, wrapping my cloak around my undamaged hand and smashing the thin window, before clearing the glass and heaving myself inside. I found myself in the pantry; the house was silent, and still, and I moved quickly. I took a clean towel and bound my split knuckles; then I dragged a sack of flour from the pantry into the kitchen, emptying it over the floor, coughing when it billowed up and into my face, laughing as it settled on every surface. Not that it would matter.

I filled the sack with as much of Unwin’s food as I could easily lift: bread, cheese, apples, the remains of a ham, a litre of fresh milk, some potted shrimp wrapped in muslin, my mouth watering at the sight of it, despite everything.

Leaving the sack by the back door, I dashed upstairs. The idea of wearing anything that belonged to Unwin made me feel sick, but I knew I had little choice: a lone woman on the road would draw some attention; a lone woman covered in a bloody dress, wrapped in a thin cloak, would draw a lot. So I threw open his wardrobe, rooting through his clothes, throwing things to the floor, recoiling from the smell of him. There was nothing that would fit me, so I moved on to old chests, digging through years of his life, the trousers and shirts getting smaller, the quality better, before finally striking it lucky with breeches that, though a good thirty years out of date and still too long, would do for now. I rolled up the legs and added a fine leather belt stolen from a hook by the door to keep them in place. A woollen shirt smelling of mothballs over a thin vest swamped my upper body, but at least I’d be warm. Finally I took a fur-lined cloak and pulled my hair into a braid over my head, using my old tunic to wipe the flour residue from my face.

I left everything else where it fell, my clothes included, and raced back downstairs.

In the small library I stole a handful of coins left scattered on the desk, before pulling all of his papers, all of his books, from the shelves and hauling them into the kitchen, where I dumped them on the table, sending the flour spiralling into the air like a spectre. When the pile of his belongings reached my chest, I fetched the most expensive-looking bottles of whiskey I could find in the pantry, using them to soak the pyre I’d made. Finally, I chose the nastiest, sharpest-looking knife from the block by the stove and tucked it into my belt. The whole thing had taken less than twenty minutes.

Then I took the firelighter from beside the stove and touched it to the bonfire. I allowed myself a moment to watch the rush of blue flame as the alcohol burned, then I pocketed the firelighter, grabbed my sack, and fled straight into the forest.

I watched from the edge of the woods as the house went up, slowly at first, so slowly I thought it would burn out before it caught. I almost went back to give it a helping hand. But then a gust of wind carried burning embers to the thatch; I heard the whoosh as the flames took hold. I watched as dozens of soldiers ran to try to put the fire out, watched them dash to the well to get water and curse the missing bucket, all of them standing helpless as the blaze consumed Unwin’s home. I almost, almost, forgave Silas then.

I had relied on Unwin going straight to the soldiers to report me, instead of returning home, when I decided on my plan, and I’d guessed well. He arrived when the house was beyond saving. I gave myself a few more precious seconds to enjoy the rage and confusion on his still-bloody face; then I took my chance and darted down along the edge of the forest, creeping my way to the soldiers’ encampment, staying out of sight of the soldiers running towards the village. I suppose they thought the smoke was the start of an attack.

When I was sure it was empty, I moved swiftly, checking the largest tents for my mother, in case they were still holding her there, my stomach twisting every time I pulled back a flap to find the tent empty. From the largest one I stole a leather satchel, a water skin, a map of the realm, and a second, opal-handled knife.

I used that knife to liberate one of the few horses in the makeshift stables, a sleek-looking bay with watchful eyes. She didn’t balk when I approached her, or saddled her, or even climbed on to her back.

I took my stolen horse, my stolen clothes, my stolen food and my stolen knife and rode as fast as I could out of Almwyk.

For the first two hours on the road I see nothing, and no one. Pheasants call from deep in the grass and there’s the occasional rustling of something bigger, but the horse doesn’t seem to worry, so I don’t either. Instead I keep my head down and my hood up, watching the road ahead of and behind us.

I stay to the sides of the road, riding in the grass where I can, anxious not to leave a trail to follow. As the sun moves across the sky and the shadows lengthen, I start to see signs of the refugees gone before us. We pass a lost wooden doll, its scarred face turned skyward, the painted eyes following us eerily. I see a shoe, a little larger than mine, abandoned, and wonder how it wasn’t missed and what happened to its owner. Who could afford to lose a shoe? Other things litter the roadside: paper, broken glass, bits of cloth, leaving a trail for me to follow, and I do, using the remnants to guide me deeper into Tregellan and towards Scarron.

Because unless he too managed to steal a horse, Silas Kolby is heading north on foot, through a country he doesn’t know. So I’m going to ride like the wind to Scarron and find this girl first, before Silas does and they disappear into the Conclave for good. The only thing that makes sense is that she’s a philtresmith; I’m convinced of it. That’s why the alchemists want to find her so badly. Silas said they have limited supplies of the Elixir and my guess is it’s because she’s cut them off. Because of this
bad blood
. And now that the Sleeping Prince is here, they want to find her and reconcile.

Family first
.

So I’ll beat him to Scarron, I’ll be the one to tell her that she’s in danger and that she should hide in the Conclave. I’ll escort her there. I’ll do his job, and when the Conclave are falling over themselves to thank me, I’ll tell them they can repay me by getting my mother out of the asylum, giving us sanctuary, and a few drops of Elixir each moon. A small price to pay for restoring their philtresmith to them.

And then, when Mama is settled, I’ll make Silas Kolby regret betraying me.

In the week that I first met Silas, I also turned seventeen, and learned that the Sleeping Prince was impossibly still alive, and had woken, invaded Lortune, taken Lormere castle, and killed the king, all in one night.

It was also the week that we both realized Lief was trapped there.

I told my mother what I’d heard at the well, trying to stay calm, all the while my ribcage constricting until there was no space inside me for air, no room to breathe. She looked at me, then turned her face to the wall. And I left her, walking out of the house, walking into the woods, walking halfway to Lormere before I realized where I was. The whole time, the pressure in my chest didn’t let up, becoming a solid weight between my lungs, until I grew used to it. I told myself that he might be all right, that he was probably on his way home even now. That was the thought that made me turn around. On the long walk back I convinced myself he’d be there when I got home, that we’d passed each other in the woods. That we’d laugh about it. That lightning hadn’t struck twice. But when I got to the hut he wasn’t there. And neither was my mother.

I found her half a mile away, buried in a pile of leaves, her arms shredded and bleeding from deep and jagged cuts. When I asked her what happened, she stayed silent, her eyes both wild and dead.

The following day I ventured back into those selfsame woods to find herbs, plants, anything that might stop the scratches from becoming infected. With the dark forest all around me, shadowed and secretive, I worried about everything, knowing something inside me, and in her, was broken, terrified it couldn’t be fixed. There was suddenly so much to be afraid of: poverty, illness, death. More death. Every rustle, every grunt, every bird call caused my heart to try to leap out of my chest, uncaring about the bone and flesh in its way.

My hands had trembled as I tried to peel willow bark away from the trunk, the blade on my beautiful apothecary’s knife – the last gift my father ever gave me – now dulled, my nerves ringing with fear. Then I heard the telltale crunch of leaves behind me, the snap of a twig that meant something big was there, and I turned to find a hooded man approaching me, his body lowered in a predatory crouch. As I staggered back, pushing the knife out before me, he came to a stop, gloved hands held out.

“Easy,” he said, and his voice had sent shivers down my spine. It was thorny, if a voice can be such a thing, and curiously empty of any accent. “I mean you no harm.”

“Stay back,” I ordered, jabbing the knife forward to make my point. “Or I’ll gut you.”

His lips pulled upwards, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. There are people who have smiles that force you to smile back at them; Lief was like that. Then there are others, whose smiles make you forget your name. There are smiles of comfort, and solidarity, and sympathy. There are people like Prince Merek, whose smile was a captive at the corner of his lips the whole time he rode through Tremayne, but never allowed to be free; his was a smile you’d have to work hard for. Silas’s smile that first time was pure challenge; the curve of his lips was a dare.

“No need for that,” he said. “I thought you were someone else. I can see that I was mistaken. I’ll be on my way now.” He backed away, and I watched him go, my heart hammering in my chest, the tip of the knife shaking visibly.

As soon as he was out of sight, I picked up my basket and followed. I knew it was stupid; I knew I should have turned around and gone home, but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to know where he’d come from, where he was going. During the moon we’d been living in Almwyk I’d grown familiar with the faces and habits of my neighbours, and it was too much of a coincidence – a stranger lurking in the woods the day after I’d found my mother, scratched and in shock, that made me need to follow him. I wanted to know where the stranger with the wicked smile slept.

And I wanted a fight. I wanted someone to hurt because I was hurt, because Mama was hurt. Because Lief might have been hurt and it wasn’t fair.

So with my knife still clutched in my hand I followed him silently all the way back to the village, skirting down to the treeline to track his progress. At one of the recently abandoned cottages near the forest’s edge, I watched him pull the flimsy window made of the cow-horn strips that all the cottages had clean out of its frame and then climb inside the building, his long arms reaching back out to replace it. Straight away I realized he was in hiding, a refugee of some sort, but certainly no one Unwin or anyone else knew about, and my suspicions grew. I approached the window cautiously, pressing my ear against it.

Then he was behind me, a hand over my mouth, and I dropped my basket, feeling the contents scattering over my feet, on to the ground. He’d known I was following him all along, had snuck out of the front door as soon as he was inside to wait for me.

“Nosy, aren’t you?” he said, pushing my face against the rough wood of the cottage, though with surprising gentleness, allowing his own, gloved hand to bear the brunt of it. His gloves smelt of mint and nettles. “What’s to be done about that, then?”

I tried to free myself but his grip was too secure.

“I’m going to take my hand from your mouth. If you scream, I’ll silence you permanently,” he said. “Do you understand?”