At this everyone turns to their neighbour with raised eyebrows, petty local arguments and generations-old feuds forgotten as they begin to murmur to one another. I don’t look at anyone. Instead I squeeze my fingers around the hilt of my knife and take a deep breath. Chargate is on the other side of the trees; it’s Almwyk’s Lormerian counterpart. It would put the golems merely hours away from us, the other side of the wood.
Unwin clears his throat, and the whispering dies away. “The Council concludes that its attempts to negotiate with the Sleeping Prince have failed. He has outright refused to sign a treaty of peace with Tregellan and will not deny that he plans to invade.” His gaze flickers briefly to the captain, who smirks and glances at one of the other soldiers, making me wonder how much Unwin truly knows of what he’s reporting, and what he’s merely been told to relate. “Because of this,” Unwin continues, “the Council has sat in emergency session, and unanimously decided that we have no choice but to declare a state of war in Tregellan.”
He pauses dramatically, as if expecting us to make some protest. But we say and do nothing, remaining stony-faced and silent, saving our reactions until he gets to the crux of the matter, the part that affects us, and warrants fifteen of the newly mustered Tregellian army’s finest in a room where we barely outnumber them.
Realizing this, he continues. “Last night the Tregellian army sealed the border from the River Aurmere to the Cliffs of Tressamere. Including the East Woods.” He pauses and the whole world narrows to this room, to these words. Don’t say it. I concentrate as hard as I can. Don’t say it.
“All trade and traffic between here and Lormere is prohibited from now on. The border is closed. Anyone caught trying to cross it will be killed on sight.”
We draw in our breath as one, taking all the air from the room.
“Given its strategic position, the village has been requisitioned as a barracks and base of operations for the garrison defending the border. Almwyk is to be evacuated. Immediately.”
No. There is the tiniest fragment of a moment in which the news filters into the brains of the occupants of the room.
Then all hell breaks loose.
I found out about the meeting when Chanse Unwin rapped on my door before the sun had risen this morning. I’d finally fallen asleep an hour or two before dawn, and I’d been dreaming of the man again. This time we were standing on the bridge over the river, near my old home in Tremayne. It was summer; silver fish darted in the clear water beneath us, and the sun beat down on us, making my scalp warm. I was dressed in my old apprentice’s uniform. The dress was blue and clean, the many pockets of my apron full of small vials and plants and powders. I could smell them, the herby, pungent tang of rosemary and willow bark and pine: scents that meant home and knowledge, work and happiness. I reached into one of the pockets and let my fingers drift through dried leaves as I listened to him speak.
He was tall, thin, cloaked and hooded despite the warm weather, and he stooped as he spoke, his body curved towards me, making us a circle of two as he told me some tale, his hands moving gracefully through the air to illustrate his story. The words were lost immediately, in the way they often are in dreams, but the feelings they evoked remained, and I knew his words had been chosen to make me laugh – really laugh – deep, creasing belly laughs that had me clutching my stomach with the pain of so much joy. He smiled at my delight and it made it all the sweeter.
When I finally stopped laughing, I turned to him and watched as he rummaged inside his cloak. He pulled out a small doll and pushed it towards me, sliding it over the stone of the bridge. I reached out, taking it, my fingers brushing against his. I heard his breath catch and it made my stomach ache in a different sort of way.
“What is it?” I asked, looking at the tiny figure.
“It’s you,” he replied. “I like to carry you with me. I like to keep you close. To watch over you.”
Then he took the doll back, plucking it from where I’d held it cradled in my hand and replacing it carefully in the folds of his cloak, while I watched, my heart beating double time inside me. Though I couldn’t see his face, I could tell he was looking at me and I blushed, which prompted him to smile softly, his lips parting, his tongue moistening them.
The thumping of my heart grew louder as he moved closer, until suddenly it became the insistent banging of the front door, and I was yanked out of my summer dream to hear rain beating against the wooden shutters. The pain in my stomach wasn’t from laughing but from hunger, and the dream drifted away like a broken spiderweb. I was both heartbroken and relieved. It was bittersweet here in Almwyk, in winter, to think of Tremayne in the sun.
Stretching as best I could, I hauled myself up from the pallet on the floor, pulling one of the blankets around me as a makeshift cloak, and hit my knee against the table leg with a hollow crack that knocked me sick. I took advantage of the relative privacy to swear violently while the rapping on the front door continued, rhythmic as a pulse.
When I opened it, Chanse Unwin stood there, pale, fleshy lips split into a grin as he looked me up and down. My skin prickled as his eyes roamed over my blanket-draped body.
“Errin, good morning. Have I woken you?”
“Of course not, Mr Unwin.” My answering smile was all teeth.
His grin widened. “Good, good. I would hate to think I’d inconvenienced you. May I speak with your mother?”
“I’m afraid she’s not here.”
He peered behind me as if he expected to see her hiding there.
“Not here?” he said, nodding towards the sun peeping through the trees of the East Woods. “But the curfew is barely ended. Surely I would have seen her had she just left.”
“I can’t understand how you didn’t,” I said blandly. “She left a few moments before you knocked. In fact, I thought at first you were her returned, having forgotten something.”
“Hence answering in a state of undress.” He leered at me, taking the chance to drag his gaze up and down my form again.
I pulled my blanket cloak closer. I’d overheard enough gossip at the well to know Unwin has been in Almwyk a good twenty years. For all his veneer of respectability, the rumours say that he ended up here for the same reason we all did – he was out of options and unwelcome anywhere else. It’s said that he created Almwyk from the ruins of an old hunting village of the royals, and began to regulate it, first as a black-market hub, then as a village, to make it turn a profit for him. By the time officials came to investigate, he was doing his best impression of repentance and atonement, offering shelter to the needy for a pittance and keeping them in check. Justice of Almwyk.
“I’m surprised you opened the door; I could have been anyone. These are desperate times, people with nothing to lose … soldiers miles from their homes, their girls. Refugees out for what they can get.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t. But I suspect my face said everything I was too wary to say aloud.
“You might feel full of compassion for these people now, but when they’re cold, and starving, and then night falls…” Unwin leant in. “You have no protection.” He looked up at the empty lintel of the door, before pulling a handful of berries and a gold disc from his pocket and holding them out to me. “Against mortal men, or the Sleeping Prince.”
I didn’t believe that Unwin had faith in the idea of charms and amulets any more than I did, but I kept it to myself. “You’re very kind, but I wouldn’t like to leave you vulnerable.”
“I’d be happy to come inside and wait with you until your mother returns; that way we can both benefit from the protection I’m offering.”
It took a lot of effort for me to remain polite when I replied. “Thank you for such a generous offer, but I’d hate to steal your time and I have a few errands of my own to run this morning. In fact I really must get on. Goodbye, then.” I began to close the door, but he wedged his foot in the gap.
His eyes narrowed further, until they were slits above his florid cheeks, and he put his amulet away. “Everything is all right here, isn’t it?” he said slowly. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about your brother? You can trust me, you know. I am a friend to you. And your mother. I’d be happy to help, if you’d only ask.”
“It’s fine, Mr Unwin. Everything is fine. My mother likes to keep busy, that’s all.”
“Clearly. It’s surely weeks since I saw her last. Moons, even. Though I’m sure she’ll be eager to attend today’s meeting.”
My stomach cramped with dread. “A meeting?”
He clapped a hand to his forehead theatrically. “Have I not yet said? My, how you distract me! I’ve had word from the Council in Tressalyn. They’ve sent a messenger with an important announcement. I’m at haste to call everyone to the House of Justice to hear it.”
“Then you must let me keep you no longer.”
His face twisted into a grimace of annoyance and I knew I’d gone too far; I never have been much good at holding my tongue. But within seconds he mastered himself. The broken veins on his cheeks danced as he contorted his lips back into a grin.
“You’re too kind. Too diligent by far; it’s unusual in a young woman. Perhaps not to everyone’s taste. I admire it, though. I find your directness refreshing. I’m sure you value it in others, too, so I shan’t beat about the bush or offend you by being unclear. I’m also here for the rent. You still owe me two florins from last moon. I thought I’d save you the trouble of bringing it to me, seeing as I had to deliver my own message to you.”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’d not forgotten. As it happens, now I think on it, that’s the errand that took my mother away so early. It seems you’re at cross purposes here.”
“I fear so,” he said darkly. “Still, I trust I’ll see you both at the meeting, and you can give me the four florins afterwards.”
“Four florins? The rent is two.”
“Interest, Errin. Sadly I’ve had to borrow money to cover your late payment. I have obligations too, you know. So I’ll need a little extra from you this time. You understand, I’m sure. Not many landlords would let a tenant stay on without paying the rent. But, as I said, I’m your friend.” His smile was sickly with triumph. “I want nothing more than to aid you.”
I fumed. He was lying, taking advantage in the worst way because of the hole I’d dug for myself. He knew I could barely afford the two florins I already owed.
“That won’t be a problem, will it? Because you can talk to me if it is. We can negotiate.” He licked his lips, and immediately I was grateful for my empty stomach.
“It’s fine, Mr Unwin. I’m sure my mother has it under control.”
Unwin’s smile faltered and an ugly expression flickered across his face. “The meeting starts at three sharp. Until later, then.” He reached for my hand and pulled it to his lips, bowing to me.
Giving my body a final sweep with his eyes, he turned away and I closed the door, leaning heavily against it as I listened to him walk away, unable to suppress a shudder.
Four florins. There was one still hidden in the pot. The last of what we had, kept back for emergencies. Thank the Holly for Silas, I reminded myself. I’d have to find him before the meeting. With luck he’d have another order for me and offer payment up front.
But the temporary relief was cut short at the sound of more banging. This time at the other door. The one that led to the bedroom.
When I opened the bedroom door, I narrowly missed being hit in the head by the object flung at me from the dark room. I ducked, but not quickly enough. The enamel chamber pot had hit me in the shoulder and urine had soaked the blanket still wrapped around me, seeping through it into my tunic. My mother was crouched on the bed, her teeth bared, her eyes feral, tinged with red as she poised to leap at me.
“Mama?” I said quietly.
I barely closed the door in time. The second the lock clicked, she slammed against it. I leant against the door as she started pounding it, then walked shakily into the kitchen.
Too close.
I waited until the sun was fully up before I returned to my mother. I found her wedged between the bed and the wall, curled up and staring silently out past me.
“Mama?” I said softly, moving slowly towards her, keeping a clear path to the door in case she was still mostly beast; I’ve been fooled by her before.
I lifted her gently until she was standing, trying not to wince at how insubstantial she felt in my arms. The rushes on the floor rustled softly as she dragged her feet through them, and I made a note to seek out the soiled ones and replace them. In truth they all needed replacing, but money is as thin on the ground as the rushes on our floor. I braced her against the battered rocking chair and collected fresh water and a cloth.
It doesn’t matter how many times I do it; it always feels strange to clean her. Her skin was papery, shifting as the cloth dragged over it, fragile as a moth’s wing. The scratches on her forearms are healed, leaving a map of silvery scars that gleam in the candlelight. Those I dabbed at with extra care, even as I tried not to look at them.
When I raised her arms to put a clean nightgown on her she held them up obediently, allowing me to move her as though she were a doll.
I prefer it when she’s violent.
Once upon a time there was a young apprentice apothecary who lived on a red-brick farm with a golden thatch roof, surrounded by green fields. She had a father who called her a “clever girl” and gave her a herb garden all of her own, and a mother who was whole and kind. She had a brother who knew how to smile and laugh.
But then one day her father had an accident and, despite her efforts to save him, he died. And so did all of her hopes and dreams. The farm – the family’s home for generations – was sold. Her mother’s brown hair greyed, her spirit dulled as she drifted towards Almwyk like a wraith, uncomplaining, unfeeling. And her brother, once impulsive and joyful, became cold and hard, his eyes turned east with malice.
If someone had told me six moons ago, before I watched my life slip through my hands like water, that my mother would be cursed, locked away, and drugged by my own hand, I would have laughed in their face. Then I would have kicked them for the insult and laughed again. I would have sooner believed in fairy tales coming true. Of course, we all believe in fairy tales now. The Scarlet Varulv has slunk out of the pages and lives with me in this cottage. The Sleeping Prince has woken and sacked Lormere, an army of alchemy-made golems behind him as he murders his way across the country. Stories are no longer stories; characters run rampant through the world these days. All I’m waiting for is Mully-No-Hands to knock on the window, begging to come in and warm himself, and my life will be complete.
Actually, no, that’s not what I’m waiting for.
The newly declared king, Merek of the House of Belmis, was killed before he had the chance to put the crown on his head, as were all those who refused to swear fealty to the Sleeping Prince, all those who tried to stop his march to the throne.
I saw King Merek in the flesh, a little less than a year past, when he was still a prince. He’d been riding through my old home of Tremayne with a retinue of equally shining and proud young men. Lirys and I exchanged impressed glances, our cheeks flaming so red that my brother scowled at us, and then at the prince atop his white horse. Prince Merek was handsome, almost too handsome, his dark curls framing his face, bobbing as he nodded here and there to acknowledge those throwing flowers and coins into his horse’s path. Tregellan might have done away with its own royals, but we were happy to celebrate the future king of Lormere. He looked how a prince should look.
Before the soldiers came, I used to talk to the refugees hurrying through here on their way to Tyrwhitt. They told me how the king’s head, crowned with a crude wooden band, now sits at the centre of a row of them, mounted on spikes over the ma
in gate into Lortune town. I know better than to be sentimental, but I can’t bear the idea of his handsome, hopeful face slack and staring over a kingdom he’ll never rule, surrounded by the heads of those who stayed loyal to him to the last. I don’t know if one of those heads is Lief’s.
I’ve asked every hollow-eyed refugee that I’ve managed to speak to if they’ve heard anything about a Tregellian being killed by the Sleeping Prince, or whether a head with hair and cheekbones like mine sits above the gates alongside the king’s. Whether they’ve heard of a Tregellian being captured and held. Or even hiding somewhere. I’ve spent hours walking up and down the length of the woods, waiting for him to come striding out, grinning manically, not even a little sorry for making me worry.
Because I can’t believe my brother is dead. Lief would have done anything to stay alive; he wasn’t the kind to throw himself on his sword. Had the Sleeping Prince told him to bend the knee to save his neck, he would have done. He’d have knelt, and bided his time until he could get out. He was clever – is clever. He must be trapped somewhere, perhaps ill, or wounded, or merely waiting until it’s safe to run.
Family first, Papa used to say, whenever we fought. He’d remind us of his grandmother spiriting her sons away from the old Tregellan castle the night the people rose against the royals and killed them. Our great-grandmother had been a lady-in-waiting of the queen, and the wife of the head of the army. When she’d heard the people at the gates, she’d abandoned her post, taken her children and run. Run from her old life to begin again in safety. Other people come and go, but family is for ever.
Sin Eater's Daughter 2 - The Sleeping Prince Page 2
