The Demon World, page 23
“But what sort of woman does that?”
Ambrose didn’t bother listening to the answer. He returned to the princess’s rooms. She’d said she’d wanted to know when it was done. He went via the kitchens, hoping to get some breakfast, and was nearing the yard door when he overheard a conversation.
“ . . . She demanded to be judge. Demanded it so that she could flaunt her power.”
“She likes to show off her knowledge. Thinks she’s clever.”
“I just want Tzsayn back.”
“If he does come back, he’ll be under her thumb.”
“No, Tzsayn’ll give as good as he gets.”
“And what’ll happen to the blond?”
“She’ll keep him hanging on, I’m sure.”
Ambrose knew they were talking about him. He strode into the room. The cooks who had been talking suddenly became very interested in chopping vegetables. Ambrose ignored them and carried on up the stairs to the princess’s rooms. He passed the guard and walked straight in, then came to an abrupt halt.
Catherine was sitting at the table, the bottle of purple demon smoke in front of her. She breathed out a long plume of smoke, her head back as she watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling and crawl along to the corner where it slowly found a way out through a crack. She turned her head to look at him. “I didn’t say you could come in.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“Is Wilkes dead?”
“Yes, though he didn’t go quietly. Where’s Tanya?”
“I sent her to get me some parchment.”
“I get the feeling this isn’t the first time you’ve sent her out for something. The bottle looks almost empty.”
“I needed to . . . forget about the hanging. I keep thinking of Rafyon. He died because of me. He died protecting me.”
“Yes, and he’d be sorely disappointed to see you taking smoke to forget him.”
“If it’s any comfort, I’ve discovered that the power of the smoke reduces the more often you use it.”
Ambrose took the bottle. “Please don’t pretend that you’re doing this for your famous research.”
“Can I pretend it’s because I’m being a little wild?”
“Not to me. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. If you want responsibility, take it. Lots of people out there are eager to see you fail. You’ll need all your wits about you to beat them. You don’t need the smoke; you need your will and your brains. And, as far as I can see, the smoke takes away both of them.”
“Do you think I’m weak?”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m floating.”
He sat with her, took her hand, and kissed each of her fingers, then watched her as she slept.
EDYON
DONNAFON, NORTHERN PITORIA
EDYON WAS walking to Donnafon. Compared to walking across the Northern Plateau it wasn’t so bad; there was no snow, no icy wind, no Brigantines pursuing, no demons jumping out at him. The road was graveled and straight, the sun was warm on his face, and a light breeze played with his hair. Edyon tried his best to focus on these good points. But it was hard. Walking in shackles hurt. His ankles were raw and swollen. Walking chained at the wrist and being pulled by your chain—yes, he thought of it as his chain—by a foul-tempered, foul-smelling, foul-mouthed oaf on a foul-tempered, foul-smelling, foul-arsed horse didn’t help either.
What did help was that March was with him. They were together, side by side.
“March. March. March,” Edyon muttered.
March glanced at him but said nothing.
“Why are you called March? Is that an Abask name or a Calidorian one?”
“It’s Abask. March is after the month of my birth.”
“Was everyone in Abask called a month?”
“No, that would be ridiculous. It was just something my parents did. My brother was called Julien.”
“You miss him?” Edyon looked across.
March sounded reluctant. He rarely talked about his family.
“I don’t miss him. I hardly remember him. I just wish he wasn’t dead.”
“Was he as handsome as you?”
March snorted. “Surely you know that would be impossible.”
Edyon nodded. “It would be hard to bear, that’s certain. How do you say ‘You are beautiful’ in Abask?”
March shook his head. “I’m not going to tell you that. You’ll say it all the time. And you’ll pronounce it all wrong. It’ll just be embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing for you or for me?”
“You’re never embarrassed.”
“So tell me.”
“Tu’wo vallee.”
“Tu oh valley.”
“No. Tu’wo vallee.”
“That’s what I said, Tu oh valley.”
“As I said, embarrassing.”
“So ‘vallee’ is the word for beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“I might call you Vallee.”
“No one’s called Vallee. It’s not a name.”
“It suits you, though.” Edyon looked across and smiled at March, but tripped on a stone and stumbled on his chains.
They arrived in Donnafon as the sun was setting. Edyon was taken to a large stone building and men with pink hair took off his chains, then March helped him to a room.
A room!
There was a bed.
A bath with warm water was prepared.
Edyon began to shake. Tears filled his eyes. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was, how much he needed rest, until he could have it. “Is this from the princess?”
“And Lord Donnell.”
“What friends!” Edyon didn’t have the strength to even take his clothes off but stood and wobbled.
March said, “I’ll undress you, if you promise not to make any crude remarks about it.”
“It?” Edyon looked at March’s pale eyes.
“I warned you.”
“You’re so cruel. Can’t I even comment on your silver vallee eyes?”
“Not if you want a bath.”
“Cruel. It’s a cruel, cruel world.” Edyon held his arms out for March to unbutton his jacket.
March rolled his eyes, then gently eased Edyon’s jacket off and Edyon felt a kiss on the back of his neck. He smiled and mumbled, “It’s not a cruel world; it’s a beautiful world with you in it, March.”
Edyon lay in the bath and March washed his hair. “This is heaven. Thank you.”
March said nothing but carried on rubbing Edyon’s scalp.
“You were going to tell me something,” Edyon said, “when I was in Farrow’s cell. But we were interrupted by that jailer.”
March stopped rubbing. “I . . . I can’t remember.”
Edyon was too tired to question him further. “You’re terrible at lying, you know.”
March didn’t reply.
“I just don’t know what you’re lying about.”
That night Edyon slept fitfully, his mind going over and over the events of the last few weeks as well as those to come in his trial. He knew the law well enough. There was no proof against him. And Catherine believed in his innocence. But he knew very well that didn’t mean she could let him go. And he’d made the mistake of admitting he was at the scene of the crime. He should have lied from the start. “Honesty is my downfall,” he muttered to himself. But that stirred a memory in him. What was it that Madame Eruth had said?
He cast his mind back to his last meeting with her in her tent at Dornan. He’d thrown the bones on the floor and she’d read his future in them.
You must make a choice. Thievery is not always the wrong one. But you must be honest.
But honesty had been his downfall. If he’d lied about his name to Gloria, then he’d never have been caught!
However, one thing was certain: Madame Eruth’s foretelling had been accurate. He could almost hear her voice in his head: This is the crossroads. Your future divides here. . . . There is a journey, a difficult one to far lands and riches or to . . . pain, suffering, and death.
Was the journey he’d just made the one of pain, suffering, and ultimately his own death?
Edyon tossed and turned through the night until finally dawn arrived.
The sun slowly dragged itself up above the rooftops as Edyon paced in his room. He wanted to get on with it.
Breakfast was brought. Porridge, tea, fruit. The best food Edyon had eaten since Rossarb.
March ate a little. Edyon ate a lot, forcing it down, telling himself that he needed nourishment, that he’d been given such poor food as Farrow’s prisoner, but as soon as he’d swallowed the last mouthful he felt his stomach rebelling, and threw it all up.
March rubbed his back as he bent over, spitting the last bits out. “Are you ill? Or is it—”
“I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Perhaps a little nervous. But, you know, it is my life that’s on the line here.”
March rubbed his back again, then Edyon felt a kiss on his shoulders. He hoped for more but March passed him a glass of water. Not even March would want to kiss Edyon’s stinking lips. Even the water felt like it might not stay down now.
“You look pale,” March said.
“Just nerves. Once I start talking I’ll calm down. It’s just that . . . I’m tempted to lie. Deny it all. Tell them I was in shock when they arrested me and admitted I was there. We’d just been attacked by Brigantines—I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You left your bag near the sheriff’s body.”
“Yes! Yes! Exactly! But dropping a bag near a dead body—an already dead, dead body—that is just what anyone would do.”
“But you didn’t raise the alarm.”
“Fear of reprisal. This is a murderer we’re talking about.”
March looked closely at him. “So? Do you want to lie or tell the truth?”
Edyon felt sick. “Of course I want to tell the truth. I want the family of the dead man to know the truth of what happened. But I don’t want to be found guilty of it. I don’t want to be hanged.”
March put his hand on Edyon’s arm. “Have faith—the princess will help you. This ordeal will be over by tonight.”
“Yes. Yes.” Edyon forced a smile and tried to have faith. He’d be set free. He’d go to his father. This time next week he’d be a prince in a castle—but how many times had he said all that over the last month? Yet he was no closer to Calidor than he’d been weeks ago.
Sir Ambrose arrived and greeted them both. “I just came to wish you well. I thought I’d also warn you . . . there are quite a lot of people here from Dornan.”
“Quite a lot?”
“Thirty or forty men. Some women. They’re quite vocal.”
“Well, forewarned is forearmed.” Though Edyon didn’t feel armed at all.
Ambrose nodded. “Well, good luck. All will be well.” And he left.
Edyon knew Ambrose meant well, but never had anything felt more like a last visit. It was as if Ambrose never expected to see Edyon alive again. He went to March. “Thank you again. Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for all you’ve done. I’m going to tell the truth. That is the right thing to do. I must be brave.”
“You are very brave—I’ve never doubted that.” And March embraced him.
There wasn’t much more waiting before pink-haired guards arrived and escorted them to the courtroom. Edyon had to wait outside the doors and March left him. As he stood in the quiet corridor, Edyon could hear muffled shouts and the occasional raucous laugh from inside. Then a man shouting, “Is he guilty?” to which the loud answer was, “Yes he is!” then “Will he hang?” to which the answer was, “Like a rag in the wind.”
Then the shouting faded. He could hear someone announce that Princess Catherine was entering. It was quiet. She must be speaking and Edyon strained to hear her voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. Suddenly the door in front of him opened and a man with pink hair beckoned him forward. He pulled his shoulders back, held his head high, and stepped into the room.
Ahead was the princess, sitting behind a wide table. To his left was a short platform to which he was guided, and to his right was a huge crowd of people. They must have been warned about making a noise because they were silent, but some gave him a thumbs-down sign and others made grotesque faces as if they were being hanged.
Edyon closed his eyes and muttered to himself, “Be brave. Be honest.” If he was both those things, then even if he was hanged he would die having earned March’s respect.
CATHERINE
DONNAFON, NORTHERN PITORIA
Honor the law but honor the truth more.
Queen Valeria of Illast
CATHERINE HADN’T taken any smoke for three days—three days since Ambrose had found her inhaling it. She’d woken to find Tanya glaring at Ambrose because he’d been alone with her, and Ambrose glaring at Tanya for leaving Catherine alone in the first place. Catherine, the guilty party, wasn’t blamed and so felt even more guilty. She was ashamed of taking the smoke and yet also irritated that Ambrose didn’t understand why she liked it. He’d never know what it was like to be in her weaker body and he’d never know how wonderful it felt to have the power of the smoke.
However, she’d stopped taking the smoke for two reasons—to prove she didn’t need it, and to save enough should she really need it. She’d struggled but had told herself that she didn’t want it, and that more than anything had helped. She had to think her way out of it, just as she’d thought herself into it.
Catherine had also been busy with Pitorian law and immersed in learning as much as possible. But, of course, no matter how well she knew Pitorian law, it wouldn’t solve the real problems she was facing at this trial. If she found Edyon innocent, she’d be seen as biased and corrupt; if she found him guilty, then her cousin—who was no murderer—would be hanged.
The problem was that Farrow had coerced her into acting as judge, but the crowd believed that she had sought out the role because she was power-mad.
The other problem was that she would be standing in front of a roomful of people who resented her, who believed that the prince had been captured because she, Catherine, had worked with the Brigantines to trick him.
And the final problem was that she was terrified that any one of those people, for any one of those reasons, might attack her. At one point that morning she’d considered wearing her armor but realized she would look even more power-mad, or just mad.
She took a deep breath. Davyon had assured her that all those allowed into the court would be searched for weapons. She’d have guards standing near her and no one would be able to get close. The courtroom doors would be guarded. She also had her small bottle of demon smoke in a pouch by her waist. Just in case.
She walked to the courtroom with Davyon on one side of her, Ambrose on the other, and a number of blue-hairs and white-hairs around her. She’d never even attended a trial before but from what she’d read they were supposed to be calm and quiet. Here it was more like a marketplace. No, it reminded her less of a market and more of the execution of Lady Anne. The mob, the lust for blood . . . What had Boris said? A holy trinity that drives the masses . . . boredom, curiosity, and bloodlust.
However, the guards removed one rowdy man, who appeared to be drunk, and the rest gradually calmed. When it was silent, Catherine rose to speak, but the door behind her opened and Lord Farrow and Turturo entered. “Apologies for our late arrival, Your Highness,” Turturo muttered and bowed his head the slightest he could to still call it a bow. Farrow did a similar action, which made it look like he had some kind of neck spasm.
Farrow sat at the front near Lord Donnell and Ambrose, and said loudly, “Let’s hope we see justice done for the sheriff’s man and his family here today.”
Strangely, it was seeing Farrow that gave Catherine strength. She wanted to match him—to better him. She said in the coolest voice she could muster, “To all of you present, be aware that I am judge for these proceedings. This room will be respectful and silent. Any person who is not respectful, or silent . . .” And here she scanned the room and let her gaze end on Turturo. “Any person who disrespects the court disrespects Pitorian law. And that person will be removed and charged with contempt of court in accordance with Rule Fifteen.”
In truth, Catherine wasn’t sure what rule number it was, but she remembered reading about contempt of court and had wondered if it would be useful to her. She tapped her hand on the heavy law book she’d had brought in.
“We are here to decide on the accusations against Edyon Foss. We are here to ensure justice is carried out.” There was some muttering in the court. Catherine glared at a man in the crowd and said, “I should add that the fine for contempt of court is five kroners.” The man stared back at Catherine but said nothing. “This is a serious matter; this is a serious place, and it requires of us all a serious attitude. Now, we shall begin.”
Turturo got to his feet and declared, “Lord Farrow has asked that I speak for the prosecution to ensure the murdered man has justice.”
Catherine understood Farrow’s technique perfectly. He would do everything in his power to make Edyon seem as guilty as possible, so that if and when she declared Edyon’s innocence she would seem all the more biased and untrustworthy.
