by Sally Green
The body moved.
“Shits!” Edyon snatched his legs back.
“Good morning.” It was March, not a demon.
Much nicer. Much, much nicer to be sleeping with March. Edyon rubbed his eyes open. It was gloomy. He was with March beneath the leather coat, and as he pulled the coat down he saw that the snow had formed over it, like the roof of a cave. He turned his head. March was next to him. Close.
Just the two of them.
No dead demon.
Had he imagined the demon? He must have done. He went through the events of yesterday again: walking, the Brigantine army behind them, the Northern Plateau ahead, the cold. Always the cold. Always the walking. And then the storm arriving, the demon attacking . . .
“Is the cook really dead or did I imagine that?” he asked.
“He’s dead,” March replied. “And the old servant.”
“And the others went into the demon world?”
“Yes.”
“And we stayed out here. You stayed with me.”
“Yes and yes.”
“But I remember a dead demon too.”
“Yes. You liked him,” said March. “One of your better catches.”
“Shits! The demon’s gone! The demon’s gone!” Edyon’s heart was racing. He sat up sharply, pushing his head through the snow, and looked around.
It was early morning. Above him the sky was a light blue. There was no wind and all around was a pure white snowy blanket. All around except for next to him, where March pushed back the leather jacket and pointed at the snow beneath them, which had a smudge of red on it.
“I think the demon has . . . what’s the word? Disappeared?”
“Disintegrated. Dissolved. Dis-demoned.” Edyon put his hand on the red snow. “We’re lying in its remains. Its grave.” He pulled his hand away with distaste.
“Last night you were sleeping with its corpse.”
“This is the story of my life: going to sleep with someone and waking up to find them gone.” Edyon flopped back onto the snow.
March smiled and looked around.
Edyon watched him. “It’s good to see you smile. I like waking up with you, even in these strange and dangerous circumstances.”
March continued to focus on the distance—definitely pretending to be interested in something else. Edyon felt like commenting more but resisted. “Talking of our circumstances . . .” He sat back up and looked about, trying to work out which way they had come. “Can you see the Brigantine army? Or would it be hopelessly optimistic of me to believe the snow has buried our pursuers or driven them back to the warm fires of Rossarb?”
“They’re still there. I can see a few of them at the bottom of that slope.”
Edyon spotted them now. “I knew I shouldn’t be optimistic.”
“There don’t seem to be as many of them, though. And they’re not moving this way yet.” March paused. “But they’ve got dogs.”
“I hate dogs.”
But it didn’t really matter if they had dogs or not, or if there were a hundred Brigantines or just one: a Brigantine soldier could easily outfight him and March. Well, maybe not March, but definitely him.
March turned toward the sun. “We can get to those trees. Go east and then south. We have enough food here for a few days.” March was pulling a huge pie out of a bag. “That bastard cook was keeping all this for himself.” And he broke the pie in half, putting the rest away, then breaking what he had in two again and giving the larger piece to Edyon.
Edyon tried not to snatch it out of March’s hand. He tried to eat in a civilized way and told himself to savor the taste. The pie had sausage meat and onion and potato and herbs. The pastry was heavy and a little burned on the bottom but all in all it was delicious. “Actually, this is a very good pie. That cook wasn’t bad . . . as a cook, I mean.” After he’d swallowed the last mouthful Edyon said, “So what’s our plan? We need to get the prince’s letter to my father—now more than ever, since everyone else who might warn him may never return from the demon world. Where should we head to, Pravont?”
March shook his head. “It took us over a week to get from Pravont to Rossarb.”
“And was that really only a week ago?”
“Something like that. And I don’t want to stay in demon territory a day more than we have to. I think we should get to the trees, then head south and see if we can find a way down off the plateau and across the river.”
Edyon remembered the map they’d had; there were other villages along the River Ross. The way down off the plateau would be steep and then they’d have to find a way across the river, but that seemed preferable to snowy wastelands and demons. He looked back to the Brigantines. “They’ll see us as soon as we start walking. We’ll stand out easily against the snow.”
“But we have to get moving. We’ll just have to keep low and move as fast as we can.”
“Always moving as fast as we can. I can’t wait for someone to tell me to move slowly.”
Edyon walked behind March, the sun on his face, his legs and feet warming as he moved. They walked one behind the other, as they had the whole way. Walking in someone else’s footsteps was much easier and less tiring. Halfway to the trees they stopped to look back. Their tracks were clear to see and the Brigantines were clearer too, and some were heading in their direction but hadn’t yet reached the demon hollow.
Edyon took the lead for the rest of the way to the trees, taking bigger strides, caring about neither the trail he made nor the Brigantines. He’d done more walking in the last month than in the previous seventeen years and his legs were tired but getting stronger. He got to the first tree and slapped the bark. “Hello, tree. You’ve no idea how much we wanted to come to see you.” Then he turned to see the Brigantines scattered across the width of the snowy plain.
“I think they’ve found our tracks, and now they’re looking for everyone else’s,” March said.
“That is quite funny. I hope they spend all day looking for tracks that aren’t there.” Edyon didn’t feel like laughing exactly, but it was satisfying to think the Brigantines might be confused, irritated, and exhausted from walking across the snow.
Edyon and March set off again, heading southeast. Going through the trees was much easier as the ground was flat and, though there were patches of snow, large areas were clear. This meant that they could walk side by side and talk, though the pace was hard. They had a rest where they crossed a small stream and drank its clean water but didn’t stop for long. When it began to get dark they collected wood for a fire and made camp. March bent down to look at some fungus that was growing on a tree stump.
“What’s that? Can we eat it?” Edyon asked.
March shook his head. “It’s called ‘yellow lips.’ At least that’s what we called it in Abask. I think it’s the same thing.”
“Well, it’s yellow, but it doesn’t look like lips.” Edyon broke off a piece to look at it closer.
“It’s called that because when you die from its poison your lips go yellow.”
“Oh.” Edyon dropped the fungus and wiped his hand on his trousers.
“You start the fire. I’m going to collect some of this.”
“Your intention being to poison us both and thus thwart the murderous Brigantines, who will be so disappointed at their failure to kill us they’ll throw themselves onto their own swords?”
March shrugged. “Well, it’s worth a try.”
They made the fire, keeping the flames low. Edyon looked up at the smoke drifting through the trees as he warmed his hands. “You’re sure they won’t see the smoke?”
March shook his head. “If they’re close enough to see the smoke, we’d be dead already. As long as we put it out well before dawn we’ll be fine.” He handed Edyon some ham and cheese.
Edyon asked, “Will we need to poison our
selves?”
“I hope not. I reckon if we keep up this pace, by this time tomorrow we’ll reach the edge of the plateau. We’ve come a long way today.”
Edyon thought about the soldiers. “But the Brigantines’ll have made progress too. Do you think they’ll have stopped to sleep?”
“Everyone needs to rest. Tracking at night is hard, almost impossible.”
“But they have dogs.”
“They don’t want us; they want the princess.”
“Yes, but some will be coming after us.”
“You’re in a negative mood.”
“Ha! You sound like my mother. But, as I used to say to her, ‘I’m being realistic. And reality is often very negative.’”
March smiled. “True as that may be, we’ve done all we can today. We need rest.”
Edyon resisted mentioning again how luck wasn’t normally on their side. He closed his eyes, but, although he was exhausted, warm, and comfortable, he couldn’t sleep. It had felt reassuring somehow to see the Brigantines—at least he knew where they were—but now he kept imagining dogs coming after him through the trees, huge black hunting dogs with slavering jaws and sharp teeth.
Edyon looked across to March. His face was different in sleep. Beautiful. There was always something blank, yet stiff, formal, and servantlike in his expression when he was awake, as if he was hiding all feelings. He rarely relaxed, rarely smiled, and Edyon felt privileged on the occasions March’s face softened when he was looking and talking with him.
Edyon thought back to the fair at Dornan all those weeks ago when he’d gone to see Madame Eruth and had his fortune told. She’d said so much that had come true. I see death all around you now—that certainly was true. Your future divides here. This is where you must choose a path. There is a journey, a difficult one to far lands and riches or to . . . pain, suffering, and death. Well, Edyon was certainly on a difficult journey and he hadn’t reached the far lands or riches yet. In fact, possibly he’d chosen the wrong path as he’d seen a lot of pain, suffering, and death and not a glimpse of riches. And yet he couldn’t see how he could have chosen differently. Madame Eruth had said that a new man would enter his life. A foreign man. Handsome . . . in pain. I cannot see if he lives or dies. Certainly March was foreign and handsome. He had been in physical pain and sometimes Edyon thought he was suffering in other ways—no one could accuse March of being a happy soul. And then there was the prediction that Edyon hadn’t worked out at all—You might help him. But beware: he lies too. Edyon had helped March back in Rossarb. And March had helped Edyon, had stayed with him on the plateau. March had been honest and true. Nothing about March seemed to be a lie. Except . . .
Edyon had an idea what the lie could be. He knew that March was embarrassed to show affection. Was the lie that he did really care for Edyon? Did March care more—much more—than he showed?
That could be the only explanation. March just wasn’t used to people admiring him, caring about him. But what should Edyon do about it?
Well, whatever he was going to do he needed to do it soon. This time tomorrow they could be at the edge of the plateau or they could be dead.
Edyon sat up. “March, I need to talk to you.”
March grunted something that sounded like, “Not now.”
“It’s important. I’ve just realized something. We might die soon. We could die tonight. Eaten by dogs, cut in half by swords, ripped head from shoulders by demons. We could die before I get to tell you . . .”
March looked up at him, his eyes only half open.
“I like you.”
March rubbed his eyes.
“I mean, very much.”
March nodded, then looked uncomfortable and mumbled, “I like you too, Edyon. Can we sleep now?”
“Not yet. Um, I haven’t really thought this through but . . . I like you and we might be dead soon and I need to . . . I mean, I’d like to . . . to kiss you.”
March stared at him, but didn’t say anything. His face was blank, not a look of shock or revulsion, but certainly no look of joy or even curiosity.
“Of course you can say no . . .”
But March didn’t say anything.
“Or you could make me very happy and say yes.”
“Um.”
“I mean, I’m not pushing you into it, but . . . this is important . . . so if you’d like to, then . . . Now just seems a good time. While we’re alive.”
March looked down and smiled.
Edyon edged closer. “You’re smiling, so perhaps the idea isn’t so bad.”
March stopped smiling and shook his head a tiny bit. He mumbled, “Not so bad. But . . . I’m not sure.”
“Not sure because I’m a man? Or because I’m me? Or because you think we’re not going to die soon?”
March looked up and smiled briefly again. “You’re very special, Edyon. But I’m not sure I’m . . . right for you.”
“Well, I think you’re perfect.” Edyon could feel himself blushing. He rarely did that. “But I quite understand . . . If you’re not sure, then don’t.” Could March still think of himself as a servant and Edyon as the son of a prince? He said, “However, we might be dead by this time tomorrow and I’d like to kiss you before I die. I know that’s not the best or most original line, and it does sound a bit desperate, but anyway it’s true and I was told by my fortune teller to tell the truth. I’d like to kiss you. I admire you. I respect you. I think you’re very handsome. I totally understand if you think I’m a fool and you’re desperately hoping a demon will come running out of the trees to pull my head off. But mostly at this moment I’d like to kiss you.”
March looked down and muttered something that sounded like, “Yes, then.”
“Yes, you want a demon to come and pull my head off?”
March shook his head and glanced up. He looked incredibly serious. His eyes were gray and silver in the night, and he leaned forward so that their lips were almost touching. Edyon kept very still and closed his eyes.
March’s lips were warm and soft and barely touching his. It was more of a caress than a kiss.
And it was already over.
That wasn’t a kiss. That wouldn’t be a memory to savor as a dog ripped Edyon’s throat out.
Edyon said, “In Abask you may kiss like that, but in Pitoria we kiss like this.” And he leaned forward and gently as he could he kissed March’s lips. Then he pressed harder. March went still, letting himself be kissed, not reacting at all, and then slowly he moved forward, kissing Edyon back.
MARCH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
MARCH LAY in Edyon’s arms. It felt good. He wasn’t sure if it should feel good, but maybe it didn’t matter; they’d probably both be dead soon anyway. He had done his best to sound positive for Edyon, but he had a bad feeling about the Brigantines and their dogs. Everyone knew the stories about Brigantine dogs: how fast they were, how they kept going, how they ripped their victims’ throats out. And even if he managed to evade the Brigantines and their dogs, then March would have to tell Edyon the truth—that he, March, had not been sent by Prince Thelonius to find his long-lost son, but had, in fact, killed the man who had been sent.
Edyon murmured something and turned his head so that his breath warmed March’s cheek. Without thinking, March leaned forward and kissed Edyon’s hair. It smelled of sweat and dirt. Edyon would hate that, but March liked it. He liked so much about Edyon. He’d never liked anyone before, not man nor woman. He had no friends. He wouldn’t call Holywell a friend, not someone he cared about or would confide in. Not since Abask had he had any friends. But they were all dead and so too was Holywell.
March had lain like this when he was a little boy, clinging to Julien when they’d fled the fighting, when his brother was dying. And perhaps it would soon be time for him to join Julien and all his Abask relatives and ancestors. March h
adn’t avenged them—instead he was lying in the arms of the son of his enemy. What would they all say to that?
Well, he’d learned something over the last few weeks—the son of his enemy was not his enemy. This son, lying next to him, didn’t even know his father; this son had been deserted by his father. This son was honorable and brave and true.
And March . . . what was he?
He was the last of the Abasks. A nation proud of their honesty and of the bonds between men. But could he be a true friend when he hadn’t told Edyon the truth?
March kissed Edyon’s hair again and muttered in Abask, “I’m sorry. I’m not good enough.”
Edyon turned his head and replied, “That sounds so beautiful. I assume it means that you want to kiss me.”
March kissed Edyon on the cheek, feeling the smooth skin with his lips. “It means it’s getting light. We need to get going.”
“Already?”
“Already.” The night had passed quickly in Edyon’s arms. But he had to stop thinking of that and get moving. The Brigantines would move as soon as it was light. March sat up and reached for the food. He split the last of the ham and cheese between them and ate quickly.
They set off at a hard pace. The Brigantines wouldn’t be dawdling; they had dogs—they’d be running. Edyon strode beside March, saying, “I’m not sure I can keep this up.”
“You’ll do it.”
But within a few paces Edyon slowed.
“Edyon. Come on. We have to go as fast as we can.”
“Yes, I know, but . . . Please stop for a moment.”
“We can’t afford to stop. Just do your best to keep going.”
“It’s not that I’m too tired. I need to tell you something. Please, March, it won’t take long.”
March stopped and Edyon looked him in the eyes. There were tears in them and he smiled a brief smile. “I love you.”
What!
“I’m sorry it’s not very romantic. And I know my eyes will be red and ugly if I cry. I normally try to compose a poem. I mean, when I say normally try to compose a poem I don’t mean that I fall in love that much, and I have to say I’ve never felt like this before, but when I have admired a man and kissed him I’ve composed a poem. I thought I should tell you. That I love you, I mean, not about the poems or the other men.”
