Sin Eater's Daughter 2 - The Sleeping Prince (6 page)

Until I started my apprenticeship, I didn’t know the Bringer was part of the Sleeping Prince’s story. I’d heard of him, of course:
Be a good girl or the Bringer will come –
it was a thing parents said. I never knew his origins were tied with the Sleeping Prince’s, until one day I was flicking through Master Pendie’s copy of the stories while I waited for a potion to brew. It was the first time I’d ever read the story myself – when I was a child, Mama, Papa or Lief had read it to me – and as I grew up I stopped being so interested in the old tales, making up my own stories instead. But that day, I picked the book up and I read it all. Including the part where the Sleeping Prince became a father and never knew it. I understand why my family left it out; I would have had nightmares for weeks, dreaming of girls – maybe even myself – being led to the Sleeping Prince by his cursed son, to have their hearts torn out. It was horrifying, after all that time, to discover the tragic story had an even darker ending.

Even after I knew, though, I found it hard to believe that the smiling, shining prince from the book would ever eat a heart. I’d look at how he holds the rat catcher’s daughter as though she were made of glass; surely he’d cradle a heart and cherish it. His warm, amber eyes would watch over it. I couldn’t reconcile them, the pictures to the words, and I still can’t, not properly. Even though I know it’s true, and not a story at all.

I wonder now if we’d paid more attention to the story we might have been able to stop it. The Bringer was spotted in our woods with a dark-haired girl, and no one thought anything of it. We’d put it down to a pair of lovers running from Lormere – it wouldn’t have been the first time – and we’d paid it no mind. Until it was too late. It was an old superstition. Every century the son of the Sleeping Prince would rise from his grave and roam the land for a heart to feed his father; nonsense, surely, an old wives’ tale. We’d all but forgotten the Sleeping Prince and his son were, or ever had been, real.

When dawn comes I go through the motions of making my mother’s breakfast, her tea, and cleaning her. I sweep out the stained rushes from her room and change some of the blankets on the bed. She lies back when I’m done, staring up at the ceiling, and I leave her, locking the door.

As I make to leave I hear voices getting closer, and I panic, reaching for my knife. Then I remember that the evacuation is today, and peeping out of the window confirms it. Old Samm walks past, dragging a small cart filled with bulging hessian sacks, grumbling at a green-clad soldier at his side. If this were a different kind of place I might push the slats aside and wave, but I don’t. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, don’t want the soldiers here, telling us we need to go too. I have to hope that Unwin accepts my story about my mother being ill and doesn’t try to force us out. It doesn’t matter so much if they come for us once the full moon has passed; I can sedate her and blame the illness, say she’s still weakened. If I can get us through the next few days, I’ll have three weeks to try to find somewhere else deserted enough to hide us, south maybe, to the mountains near the Penaluna River.

I need to go to the well and collect enough water to last us, so I don’t have to keep going out. The less anyone sees of me, the better, and the more likely they are to assume we’ve left too. And I need to go into the woods. I remember what Unwin said about people being killed on sight and shiver.

It doesn’t matter, because I don’t have much choice. I need herbs, and also whatever berries, nuts and tubers I can find. I need to make sure we have enough food to last for at least the next few days, and potions and remedies to sell on the road. Mostly I need enough poppy tea to make sure that the beast is kept at bay. I’ll just have to stay well away from the border, and out of sight of anyone else.

The woods feel unwelcoming as I ghost my way through them, keeping low and to the shadows. I know where to go for the poppy pods, and for nightshade, and I head there first, moving slowly, my ears alert for any sound. At the sight of a squirrel dashing into the branches of a pine I startle, then, without thinking, throw my knife at it. I’m too slow; I miss the squirrel and it disappears, but the crash of the knife handle against the bark is loud in the deserted woodland and I stop dead, listening intently, terrified I’ll hear shouts and footsteps running towards me because of my haste. I wait long moments before I feel safe enough to go and collect the knife, grateful for my luck as I sheathe it. Still, the missed opportunity grates; I wish my father had taught me how to hunt. I really would kill for some meat to make a stew with.

Then I remember that I’ll need to be sparing with the fire so I don’t attract too much attention, and I hope I have the same luck evading the soldiers and Unwin as the squirrel had avoiding me.

There is no sign of anyone as I gather the last of the poppy heads, and I’m making my way towards a patch of nightshade when I hear a low, rustling sound. It takes me a moment to place it, and when I move I realize what it is – a cloak dragging through leaves. Instantly I drop into a crouch, lifting the hem of my cloak and moving as silently as I can to duck behind a holly bush, clutching my knife, my heart speeding inside my chest.

If it wasn’t for the fact I’ve spent the last three moons learning how he moves, I might not have recognized Silas as he strides through the forest. His long legs are full of purpose as he crosses the path before me. Some twenty-five or thirty feet ahead of me he stops, tilting his head back to scan his surroundings without removing his hood. My mouth falls open, and I wonder if I’ve gone mad, because it’s as if I’m rewatching the first time we met, here in these woods.

When another cloaked figure emerges I nearly cry out, but the sound never reaches my lips, dying as soon as Silas spins and, spotting the newcomer, breaks into a wide, joyous grin. I almost cry out again when Silas, who I’ve always thought hated to be touched, throws his arms around the hooded figure as though they’re long-lost kin. They embrace for a long while, slapping each other lightly on the shoulder, before pulling back and looking at each other, still clasping each other’s forearms as they speak softly. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see that they are happy to be in each other’s company, and again the bitter tang of jealousy rises up in the back of my throat. He’s never seemed so pleased to see me.

They turn to leave together, heading towards Almwyk, and I don’t hesitate to follow, forsaking my own tasks in order to trail them. Who is this person, that Silas would risk being seen – being killed? Is this part of why he’s here? As they walk I see the stranger is shorter than Silas; he has to move a little faster to keep up with the length of Silas’s stride, and my stomach twists as Silas flings an arm around the stranger’s shoulders, leaving it there casually as they continue on. They stop and start, pausing to talk earnestly before moving on, and I have to keep ducking behind bushes and hiding behind trees to keep from sight. I lose them in my care to not let them know I’m following, and panic when at last I reach the spot I saw them, to find no sign of them.

I’m scanning the ground, looking for disturbed leaves, or even boot prints, when there is a strange swooping sound and a thunk behind me. Gooseflesh flares across my skin and my pulse begins to race, but it takes my brain a second longer to understand what the sound is. The sight of a second arrow burying itself in the tree trunk by my head confirms my fear.

Soldiers.

I forget Silas and his friend, drop my basket, and start to run.

I move between the trees, zigzagging at random to make it harder for the soldiers I can hear crashing towards me, whooping and screaming, their bloodlust high as they give chase. I didn’t think they’d be so close to the town, expected them to be deeper in the forest, defending the border there. I don’t stop to see how many, don’t consider trying to surrender, knowing by the time I lower my hood they will have shot me. Instead I fly over roots and skid on dead leaves, bolting blindly towards where I think home might be. I crash through bushes, twigs snapping off and catching in my hair, branches whipping my face and body.

Another arrow flashes past me and the side of my right ear burns. I raise my hand to it and it comes away bloody.
No, no, no.
I race onwards. My cloak catches on a fallen tree and I fall headlong over it, the impact of the ground making my teeth ring. When I look up it’s in time to see a rock land ten feet away. If I’d still been running…

I roll and then scramble to the left, making for a dense thicket of larches, praying all the time that Silas, or someone, anyone, will come, as I hear the men gaining on me.

When I break through the larches I almost crash into more of them, a wall of ten or so green tunics, swords raised, charging towards me, ignoring me, running past me, and I turn in confusion to see that my pursuers weren’t soldiers at all but a group of men, fifteen or so, dressed in black and bearing down on us, spears and swords held in their hands as they hack at the line of soldiers between me and them. Their faces are covered with scarves, their armour mismatched, but there’s no mistaking the malice in their intentions.

One of the soldiers darts back to me, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the melee. The sounds of battle echo through the trees, screams and shouts, metal clanging on metal. The air smells metallic too, and when I risk another glance back I see fire on the tips of some of the spears, fire raining down haphazardly from arrows. One of the soldiers is struck, and falls motionless into the dead leaves. I gasp, and then the ground is rising up towards my face and I have to throw my hands in front of me to stop myself from crashing for a second time into the mulch of the forest floor.

“Get up, miss,” the soldier barks, “unless you wish to die here.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, struggling to my feet. Then I look up and my jaw drops in shock. The soldier addressing me wears a blue sash, and he grips his sword so tightly that I can see the corded tendons in his wrist, stark beneath the raised scars made by the touch of hot metal. Last I saw him, four moons ago, he was a boy, like Lief. His dark cheeks were smooth, his brown eyes wide with fear and hope as he asked my best friend to go to the harvest dance with him.

The man before me wears a dented iron helmet, there is stubble on his chin, and even the planes of his face have altered, sharper and stronger somehow. His eyes are bright, but not with hope; with alertness, darting left to right over my head.

“Is it you?” I ask, unable to believe this lost link to my past is right in front of me.

Recognition blooms across his face and a smile begins to form. “Errin?” he asks, and I nod.

Then that terrible whirring sound again and he stumbles forward, landing on his stomach with a surprised groan.

Protruding from the back of his leg is a flaming arrow.

“Kirin? Kirin, no!” I scream, my hands outstretched towards the arrow already burning itself out. It’s then I realize my knife is still in my hand, that it has been all along, gripped so tightly the casing of the hilt has left welts across my palm.

“Keep moving, Errin, don’t stop,” Kirin Doglass says as he pushes himself back to his feet with a grunt and pulls me away, the action behind us getting louder, closer.

Arrows still fly past us, landing in the earth, and I keep my head ducked, both of us stumbling left, then right, in a bid to stay out of their paths. He half hops, half limps, his teeth gritted, his eyes on the trees ahead. I don’t look back, though I’m desperate to see if the soldiers are holding their own. The sound of sword against sword now echoes through the forest, and panic rises in me. What if they lose? I shake the thought away and move to Kirin’s side, putting my arm around his waist, helping him stagger through the now-endless forest, hardly daring to believe it when I see the end of the woods.

Only when we’re clear of the treeline does he slump to the ground, his jaw set, his eyes burning in his pallid face, his pierced leg before him.

“We have to keep going,” I say urgently, glancing behind me, sure at any moment we’ll be overrun.

“Can’t.”

“There might be golems.”

“No,” he gasps.

“You don’t know—”

“Errin.” It’s a command. “I need you to pull the arrow out.” His teeth are gritted.

“No. That’s not a good idea. While the arrow is in it acts as a plug; you need to leave it until you get to a physician.”

He sighs. “Fine. Check to see if it came out of the back cleanly, will you?”

“I think it did. Look,” I say, and his jaw tightens.

“I can’t.”

“Kirin, it’s there—”

“Errin. I can’t,” he says through clenched teeth. He pulls the helmet from his head and drops it beside him, then unfastens his cloak, ripping it from his shoulders and balling it atop the helmet. His short, tightly coiled hair glistens with sweat. He keeps his head turned away from his leg.

I sheathe my knife and do as he asks, my stomach giving an odd lurch when I get closer to it. At least six inches of wood have cleared his flesh. Up close it’s horrific. The metal tip is remarkably clean.

“Yes,” I tell him, swallowing.

“Is the head attached still?”

“Yes.”

“With rope? Wire? Wax? Can you see how?”

“Wax, I think. Possibly glue?” I lean forward and look. “Wax. From good candles.”

He sighs softly. “Thank the Gods. Could you snap the head off?”

“Why?”

“I need to look at it. Check it for poison.”

“If I disturb the wound, I might tear it.”

He shakes his head. “Please, Errin. I have to know. It should come clean and easy.” He sounds terribly calm about it, but his hands are shaking, his face grey and strained, and my stomach drops again.

I think back to when I was an apothecary in training, the times I watched physicians clean festering wounds, or dig shards of metal and wood out from injuries so my preparations could be used to treat them. I can do this.

I rip the length of his trousers along the seam before I wrap my left hand around the shaft and brace it against the back of his knee, ignoring the sharp intake of breath it causes. Then I grasp the tip in my other hand. I’m not a healer, I’ve never had to break a bone to reset it, but I can imagine it must be a little like this, this terrible responsibility, and the knowledge you are going to cause someone pain with your bare hands. My stomach lurches again as I look at the arrowhead. If it didn’t come off on impact, it has to be stuck on firmly. There’s no way he won’t feel this.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and jerk my right hand quickly, feeling sick as the head snaps cleanly away and Kirin screams.

When I look at him, sweat is streaming down his face.

“Kirin,” I say, but he holds a hand up weakly.

“Check the end of the arrow,” he says, his voice sounding strained and far away. “Is there any wax still attached? What about splinters, any loose bits of wood, or cracks?”

“None. I’m sorry, Ki—”

Without warning he grips the shaft of the arrow just above the fletching and pulls the arrow out. Then he collapses, rolling face down on the mud, lifting himself a moment later to vomit.

I leave him to it, pulling out my knife again and opening out his discarded cloak, cutting a strip from the top of it, where it’s cleaner, and tying a tourniquet below his knee. The flow of blood slows immediately and I rip a second strip free, using it to clean the wounds. They’re neat, thank the Gods.

“You’re lucky,” I say as I saw at the thick wool, hacking off two more strips to make pads, and a third as a bandage. “And stupid.”

“Sorry,” Kirin says, spitting on to the dirt.

“You should never do that. Ever. You had no idea of what might have happened. You might have bled out in moments.”

“I’d rather die here than in a medical tent.” He takes the two pads from me and holds them to the wounds while I wrap the other strip over them, holding them in place. When I’m done, I look at him, and notice he’s wearing an amulet, dull in the wintry light. Real gold, then. I see the three stars on it and bite my tongue.

“What are you doing here, Errin?” Kirin asks, wiping his mouth on the remains of his cloak and staring as though I might disappear at any moment. “Where’s Lief?”

The sounds of fighting are quieter now; whether it’s the distance or one side winning I don’t know. “You really need to have that wound seen to properly. It could get infected.”

“Errin, where is he?”

I push aside the familiar feeling of tightness in my chest, and I tell him as simply as I can what I know: that Lief was in Lormere when the Sleeping Prince attacked, that we’ve heard nothing since. But that I think he’s still alive.

Kirin doesn’t look relieved by my words though. In fact his entire face falls; he looks ancient, tired and ruined; it seems as though the bones beneath his skin are shifting and making him someone else, someone new. I see him age before me, losing the last of his boyishness, the spark in his eyes dulling.

“Errin,” he says, and I know that tone; it’s exactly the same one Silas uses whenever I talk of Lief. And I’m tired of it.

“Don’t,” I say, before he can tell me how unlikely it is my brother lives. “You know Lief. You know him as well as I do. Do you honestly think he would have let himself get into any situation that might have got him killed?”

“Then where is he?”

“I … I don’t know. Maybe he’s hurt somewhere, or trapped. But I know he’s alive, Kirin, I feel it. He wouldn’t leave us. He’ll be on his way back, as soon as he can. I know he will.”

“I’ve heard the reports that have come out of Lormere, and—”

“So have I. And I’ve asked every refugee I’ve seen and none of them has heard of a Tregellian being caught up in it all.” I don’t let him speak, talking loudly over every attempt to protest. “My theory is that he got injured escaping from the castle and is holed up somewhere, recovering.”

“Then why hasn’t he sent word?” Kirin’s tone is maddeningly gentle.

“Maybe he has. Maybe he’s tried but he hasn’t managed to get through yet. And the border is closed now. We might not hear from him for ages.”

“I don’t think he’d leave you here,” he says quietly, his eyes full of pity. “Not if he could help it. Errin, you have to face facts. It’s almost certain Lief is dead.”

“No.” There’s a horrible buzzing in my ears, as though I’ve rested my head against a wall full of wasps.

“I don’t want to believe he’s gone either,” Kirin begins.

“Then don’t,” I snap at him, raising my hands to cover my ears like a child.

We both fall silent.

“Do you live in Almwyk? In one of those shacks?” Kirin asks after a moment.

I lower my hands, which did nothing to shut him out anyway, and nod, forcing words past the scream that’s become a knot in my throat. “Yes. Lief found it for us.”

I don’t miss the frown that crosses his face, but before he can speak the sound of shouts reaches us.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, trying to stand. “Come.”

And though I’m angry with him for being so doubtful, I tuck my arm under his right one and help haul him to his feet, ignoring the whimper he makes when his left foot presses into the ground.

“When did you join the army?” I ask as we make slow progress towards the centre of Almwyk. Back in Tremayne, he’d been apprenticing, as I had, but with the blacksmith. It had been his dream, to have his own smithy. He would have been due to apply for his guild licence this harvest.

“I’m doing my duty,” he says, his voice curiously flat.

“Your duty? Since when has it been your duty to be a soldier?”

He stops beside one of the abandoned huts, his breathing laboured, and looks down at me, soft brown eyes now hard, his mouth a line. “I was drafted,” he says finally. “Every fit man between eighteen and forty has been. The call to muster was mandatory for the fit and able, across the whole of Tregellan.”

I blink while I take in this news. “How? How can they make it mandatory?”

“Arrest and imprisonment for those who refuse. Confiscation of land, property and goods. Family be damned. If you don’t fight, you’ll be arrested, and your family evicted from their home.”

“But that’s wrong. That’s not our way. It sounds like something the Lormerians would do.”

Kirin raises an eyebrow. “It’s an old law. It was never repealed. Every household must provide at least one man for military duty when ordered by the ruler of the land. Last time it was used was during the war with Lormere. The Council has revived it. The Justices are enforcing it.”

“Can they do that?”

“Clearly.” Kirin’s voice is dark. “Though if you can prove you’re religious, you can be exempted.”

“But no one is, any more,” I say slowly. “What about everyone else? The older men? The women? Master Pendie? Lirys? Ulrik?” I reel off the names of people I care about.

“Anyone useful has been sent to Tressalyn, including Ulrik.” His mouth twists as he mentions his old mentor. “They want all able hands preparing for war. The older men have been sent to the great forge to make weapons, even some of the women. Pendie is still in Tremayne, though. Still running the apothecary. Lirys is at home too. Most of the women have been left at home to keep the farms and businesses running. For now.”

“For now? Are they going to ask women to fight?”

“If it gets bad enough.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “Wait, don’t tell me you’d want to?”

“You think I couldn’t?”

His mouth tightens before he tries for a smile. “Oh, I know you could. I think it should be a choice, that’s all.” He pauses. “An educated one. Not telling people it’s for glory. Because there’s nothing glorious about death—” He stops himself, too late, and looks at me, paling. “Sorry,” he says, and I wave his apology away. “Anyway, you’re an apothecary. They’d want you for that.”

“I’m not licensed.”

“If this carries on, it won’t matter. I was a blacksmith; now look at me.” He gestures at his bloody uniform.

“What’s it like?” My voice is quiet. “Is it likely to get bad enough for women to be called to fight?”

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “In Tremayne, things are fine, on the surface, at least. There’s no rationing yet, at least not that I know of. No attacks. People are preparing, stockpiling food and fuel, clearing out cellars to hide in, but there’s no real sense of panic.”

I hear something in his voice that makes me think there’s more than that. “But?”

Kirin shrugs and takes a step without thinking, immediately yelping and gripping my shoulder painfully, taking long, deep breaths. I wait until the colour has returned to his face before I bend down to look at his leg. Blood is soaking through the cloak bandage, but not much. I nod for us to keep moving, putting my arm back around him.

“When you leave Tremayne, you see the rich heading towards Tressalyn with carts full of valuables,” he continues. “You see lines of men – boys – leaving to be soldiers, their mothers, and sisters, and wives, and children crying as they walk away. And you smell the refugee camp at Tyrwhitt long before you see it. And here, there’s men in the woods and a new report every day or so of where he is and what his golems have done. Lortune, Haga, Monkham…

“Truth to tell, we’re all hoping that it won’t come to a proper battle at all. We simply don’t have the men, even with the drafting. We’ve been at peace for one hundred years; we’re not ready for a war. Especially not a war against bloody golems. How do you kill stone? We have no siege engines, no nothing. You can’t send men against rock. We can barely fight other men.”

I look over my shoulder to the woods, where his comrades still haven’t emerged. But then again, neither have the others. “So, who were they?” I jerk my head at the forest. “Are they refugees, or the Sleeping Prince’s?”

“Oh they’re his, all right.” I notice that he doesn’t name the Sleeping Prince. “Human raiding parties. It doesn’t take people long to turn on their own if they think it’ll keep them alive. The Silver Knight commands the human army, recruiting the dregs, and the traitors, to raid and kill the Lormerians who try to resist, or fight back. He’s started sending parties into the woods to try to break our army’s lines. Testing us. This is the third lot here, so far. They never get out of the forest though. Or back to him.”