Sin Eater's Daughter 2 - The Sleeping Prince (18 page)

The door flies open, and a girl stands there, silhouetted against the light from the room. She glances at me, then does a double take, looking at me again with narrowed eyes before peering over my shoulder into the night. And I look at her.

Long black hair. Green eyes.

She’s not an alchemist. She can’t be the one who makes the Elixir.

She peers back at me, frowning, seeming just as confused and disappointed as I am.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Errin. Errin Vastel.”

Her lips part, a strange look crossing her face. “Did someone send you here?” Her tone is brittle, crystalline. Her eyes bore into mine as she waits for my answer.

“No. Sorry.” I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. “Are you Dimia?”

She stills, and hope rises in me that perhaps she isn’t. “Yes,” she says quietly. “I’m Dimia.”

“Oh.” I can’t disguise the sting of disappointment that pierces me, and she raises her eyebrows at me before glancing back into her home. “Wait – are you alone?”

“Am I what?” Her eyes narrow again as they return to me.

“Do you live alone?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Sorry, I don’t mean … I’m looking for someone.” Dimia’s face remains warily puzzled, and my heart sinks. “I can see you’re not her,” I say.

She shakes her head slowly. “No. I don’t believe I am.”

“It’s just … I spoke to a man in town and he said the Lormerian girl lived here.”

She hesitates. “I’m from Lormere.”

“And if I said ‘the Sisters’ or ‘the Conclave’ to you, would it mean anything?” She shakes her head. “Are there are no other Lormerians here in Scarron?” I try.

Another shake of the head.

My eyes sting as tears of frustration prick at them. I should have known. I should have realized, even if she was here she’d be hiding, like Silas was. Not living in a cottage, known to everyone. It was far too easy, to be simply told she was here by the old ironworker. Unless… Silas said that normal people live with the alchemists. Could this girl be lying to protect the philtresmith? Some kind of servant, or cover. “Are you sure?” I say urgently. “Are you sure you’re alone? Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

The look she gives me could freeze water. “I’m not a liar.”

“I see,” I say. “Well, if you happen upon someone who does know what I mean, tell her to find me in the tavern. She’s in danger. The Sleeping Prince is after her.”

I’m not prepared for her reaction. “What? What did you say?” she demands. She clutches the door frame. Already pallid in the lantern light, she pales so much the freckles on her nose, cheeks and forehead stand out in sharp relief. “Where is he? Does he go to Lormere? Is he there already?”

I nod, watching her carefully. “He sits on the throne of Lormere. He has done for three moons.”

“No…” Her voice is jagged.

“The whole of Tregellan is braced for war,” I continue. “There are soldiers in all of the main towns, checkpoints on the roads and city gates. People are dying in Lormere. Hundreds of them. He’s targeting the religious in the hope of finding the Sisters. And the girl.”

“I told you, I don’t know what that means. I don’t know any Sisters. I’ve been here since before harvest—” She stares beyond me, into the night. A flash of lightning makes both of us jump, bringing her back to herself. “Three moons,” she says. I can barely hear her words over the growl of thunder that rolls across the sky. “What of the queen? Has she allied with the Sleeping Prince? What news of the prince – the king – of Lormere? Does he hide? Is he rallying his men? Are they fighting? Is he in this Conclave?”

“He’s dead. The king is dead. He was killed the night Lormere fell.”

“Liar.” Dimia looks at me, her eyes burning into mine.

I’m about to rage at her when I realize that she’s not being rude. She’s begging me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I know what real grief looks like.

She closes her eyes. Her hands clutch her arms as though she’s holding herself together. Then she turns from me, walking into her house, leaving the door open. She crosses to the fireside and picks up a goblet, draining the contents. I watch as she refills it.

“You’d better come in,” she says thickly.

As soon as the words have left her mouth the heavens open, so I do, entering her small, neat cottage and closing the door behind me. When I turn back to her, her shoulders are shaking and, without thinking, I cross the room and put my hand on her arm.

She jumps as if I’d stabbed her, spinning away from me with her hand extended, her face horrified beneath the tear stains.

“I’m sorry,” I stutter, holding my hands up to show I meant no harm.

A sudden loud tapping makes us both turn around; the rain has become hail and is lashing the windows, leaving streaks across the thick, greenish glass. The room lights up again, thunder rumbles, and I shiver. She turns away, leaning against the mantel, and I take the chance to look around the room. One goblet, one armchair, a book left face down on the seat; she was reading when I arrived. The doors to the other rooms are open; from where I stand I can see a small kitchen, and a bedroom, a patchwork blanket over a narrow bed. I move as though to peer out of the window and see the last room stands empty. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. No one else lives here. Just Dimia, and she doesn’t have the Godseye, or the moon hair. She’s telling the truth. I walk back to her.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, coming from a Tregellian, but I liked your king,” I say softly. “I saw him where he came here.”

“Merek liked Tregellan. He had plans to introduce some of your ways in Lormere.”

For a moment her words puzzle me, and then I realize why. People don’t usually refer to their sovereigns by name.

“Did you know him?”

She turns to me. “Briefly.” Her cheeks flush pink and she stares into the distance. “I worked at the castle for a while. He was kind to me.”

“He looked like he’d be a good king.”

She nods, her face crumpling again. “He would have been,” she whispers, tears making silvery tracks down her face. “Forgive me.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them they fix on mine. “Tell me everything. What else do I not know of what’s happening in Lormere? You said he was hunting the religious.”

As I reel off the litany of the Sleeping Prince’s crimes, her face becomes more ashen, her posture more slumped. Lortune, Haga, Monkham. The Bringer turned Silver Knight and the sacking of the temples, the heads on spikes, the hearts on display. The slaughter of the religious, the burning of the food stores. The golems.

Then I tell her about the refugee camps. The people on the roads. The soldiers and their brutality. I feel sick as I recount it, my mind returning to that abandoned doll, that single shoe. Now I think I know why someone would leave a shoe behind.

When I’m finished she drains her goblet in one, her eyes blurring with tears again. “And what is the Council of Tregellan doing to help Lormere?”

“What do you mean?”

“What aid have they offered? Men for an army? Weapons? Food? Medical supplies?”

I shake my head. “The army we have is new; it’s conscripted. The men weren’t given a choice, they were told to fight, and most are still being trained. Women may have to fight as well, if it comes to it. As for food and medicine, we didn’t…” She stares at me and I feel my skin redden again. “But some people did escape, as I said. The camps—”

“Camps you described as ‘hellholes’?” she interrupts me, and I fall silent. “The Sleeping Prince is killing innocents, and your people have closed their borders. Mighty Tregellan, that is so democratic and civilized, turns a blind eye to the murder of a king and his people. Instead it looks to its own house until the blood splashes its doorstep? Because of the last war, I take it. Because we deserve it, for winning then?”

“No, of course not.” But even as I protest, I wonder if she’s right. Why didn’t we act earlier? Why didn’t we offer more help? I don’t say it aloud, though. “No one was ready for this. The Council has been trying to negotiate with him.”

“You can’t negotiate with monsters,” Dimia says flatly. “Believe me. You can only act.”

Suddenly I feel deeply ashamed of my country. I shake my head, unable to meet her eye. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings.”

“And I’m sorry I’m not who you were looking for.”

We both lapse into silence, and I listen to the rain beating down. It’s going to be a miserable walk back to the town. “I’d better go,” I say eventually, reluctant to leave the warmth of her cottage.

She looks at me. “You’d do better to stay. It’s vile out there. You’ll be blown into the sea before you’ve left my garden.”

“That’s too… You don’t know me. I could be anyone.”

“So could I. We’re even. Sit,” she says, nodding to a chair by the fire.

Because I have nowhere else to go, and because I’m tired, and because I’m at the end of my tether, I do, lifting her book and placing it over the arm. She refills her glass and holds it to me, and I take it, sipping the contents. Wine, rich and red, tasting of smoke and dark berries, coats my tongue. I take another sip and hold it out to her, but she waves her hand, so I keep it, cupping it in my palms.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re looking for a girl from Lormere,” she says finally. “You said she was in danger. Why?”

It feels treasonous to talk of it with a Lormerian, but it’s not as if she can tell the king what I’ve said. “She’s not just a girl. She’s an alchemist. That’s why.”

“There are no alchemists in Lormere.”

“That’s what everyone thinks. But there are. They have their own kind of Conclave, hidden from the royals.” When she frowns I explain. “The Conclave is where Tregellian alchemists live. It’s hidden. Secret. The Lormerians did the same thing, except instead of hiding, they disguised their version as a religious order. They hid in plain sight.”

“Are you an alchemist?”

“No.”

“Then why do you need to find her?”

“I was hoping she could help me. That we could help each other.” Dimia looks puzzled. “I’m in some trouble,” I add.

“What kind?”

I take another drink of wine, enjoying its warmth. Then I explain, as best I can, about the threat of evacuation, and Mama’s illness, though I don’t mention the beast. Then I tell her how Silas gave me a potion that seemed to heal her, but when he wouldn’t give me more I withheld the girl’s whereabouts until he agreed to help.

She raises her eyebrows, leaning against the mantel. “You blackmailed him?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. He said he’d help, and that he didn’t blame me for trying it. I believed him, and … and I told him she was here.” I pause. “He betrayed me. He waited until I went home to get my mother and our things, and he left without me.”

She holds her hand out for the goblet and I pass it to her. “So, he’s on his way here too, I take it. To find a girl who isn’t.”

“I expect so. I don’t know which of us will be more disappointed. No offence meant.”

She shrugs. “Where is your mother now?”

“She’s in an asylum,” I say quietly. “While I was with Silas, soldiers came and took her away. And they found… Someone died in our cottage. I didn’t kill him,” I hasten to reassure her when her eyes widen. “A man was attacked in the woods near the cottage and Silas brought him to me. I was an apothecary apprentice, so he hoped I could save him. I tried, but he died, just after he told me the girl was here. I had to run. So I decided if I could find the girl alone, I could tell her she needed to go to the Conclave and escort her there. I hoped the alchemists would be grateful enough to help me in return.”

Dimia offers the goblet to me again and I drink. “Except she’s not here. What will you do now?”

I lick the wine from my lips. “I need to get my mother back. They think she’s depressed, and grieving, but it’s not that, it’s bigger than that, and if I don’t get her out… She’s all I have,” I say, my voice breaking. “I’ve lost my father, our home, my apprenticeship, and my brother this year. I can’t lose her too.”

Dimia’s jaw drops, her mouth hanging open. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat as she tries to contain herself. “You lost your brother? Lief?”

I look up at her, stunned. “Did you know him too?” I stare at her. “Did you meet him at the castle?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice sounding far away, her forehead drawn into a frown. “Is he…”

I nod, and her hands rise to cover her face, her back bent as though the weight of the world presses on her.

Mama, Lirys, Carys, Dimia. All these people who grieve for my brother.

I’m surprised I have any tears left after last night, but it seems I do.

“I’m sorry,” I say when they’ve stopped, my breath still coming in shuddery gasps.

She has already composed herself and stands stiffly by the fireplace, her expression strained. “Don’t be.”

“That’s why I have to get my mother back. We’re all the other has now.”

“And he wouldn’t have left you,” Dimia says softly. “Not if he could help it.” When I look up at her, she smiles briefly. “What little I knew of your brother, I know he loved you. And your mother.”