Page 102 of The Simurgh

‘Silas? What is it?’

With a heavy heart he told the prince of the skriker’s fate, his throat thickened by pent-up grief. A soft kiss came to the curve of his neck.

‘I’m sorry. That hound deserved far better. I know he meant much to you.’ Pitch sighed. ‘And I did not despise him either.’

‘I know.’ Silas lowered his chin to plant a kiss upon Pitch’s arm. His lips brushed at the shirt he wore, Silas’s own. Desire, however ill-timed it was, pulsed through him.

‘They killed Scarlet too.’

‘The wisp was with you?’ Sybilla had told Silas as much, that she’d seen the will-o’-the-wisp with Pitch during that dreadful fight with the angels, but Silas had not known if it survived after that.

‘They were, and so brave, Silas. Until those pricks…’ Silas felt him shudder. ‘Gods, what that tiny creature did to try and help me…’

Silas wanted so badly to stop and wrap Pitch up in his arms, the prince sounded truly bereft. ‘They will take no one else from us, my love. No one.’

‘No one else.’ Pitch’s whisper brushed his ear. The hum of it sent pleasant shivers across Silas’s shoulders. But when the hum continued, and the prince was silent, Silas frowned.

He slowed the pace yet more, one step now taking them only three paces. ‘Do you hear that?’

Up ahead the cover of the colourful forest, or jungle or whatever it chose to be at any certain moment, was sparse. A meadow lay beyond. And beyond that again, somewhat hidden by the haziness of the air, was the diamond-like glint of the palace. Still quite a ways off, despite the advantage of the boots.

‘Do you mean the bees?’

‘Is that what it is?’ Silas squinted, as though that might enable him to see a tiny insect in the meadow. A meadow that was hugged by the same haziness as the palace.

‘It might be…’ Pitch burst out laughing at the terrible pun. And though it was truly awful, Silas’s lips twitched.

They reached the threshold of forest and field. Silas stopped, releasing Pitch’s legs. The prince slid down his back, and it was probably not entirely necessary for him to do it so closely, his groin moving slowly over Silas’s arse. But nor was it strictly necessary for Silas to keep his arm twisted back to aid him, his hand stuck fast to Pitch’s arse.

They exchanged a glance, mirroring one another in their amusement, their hunger. They laughed, albeit like schoolboys, though Silas wasn’t entirely sure what was quite so hilarious. He supposed it was just delightful to share a moment of levity.

The meadow was a carpet of violet. They were not close enough for Silas to determine what the blooms were, but they swayed like a field of purple corn, sparks of light glimmering between the flowerheads.

As they stood there, considering how best to navigate the open space, the sky turned a delicate teal, the light dimmed, as it would at the approach of dusk. The low buzzing sound was the only one to be heard, but Silas had not yet seen hint of movement among the flowers.

‘The terrain here is so odd,’ he said. ‘The landscape shifts so rapidly. The area near the gateway is marshlands, miles of it, but there’s not a drop of mud to be seen now. Are these contrasts common for a cockaigne?’

Pitch snorted. ‘Sorry…just, that name.’

‘I’m astonished it took you this long.’

Their hands brushed as they stood side by side, and that was undoubtedly why Silas could not shake the small smile which clung to his lips.

The prince shook his head, his hair stiff from all the dirt and other muck it had accumulated. ‘I can only speak for the Seelie Court, and even then I tended not to leave the soirees they held in the grottos.’ He nudged Silas’s side, his wry grin utterly mischievous. ‘I do not share your fascination for the outdoors, in case you have not surmised already. I prefer card tables and a decent bedchamber. And let me tell you, the Seelie Court could do a four-poster bed like no other.’

Silas glowered, but only on the inside. The silly grin was insistent. ‘A simplenowould have sufficed. Perhaps if you’d dragged yourself from those beds once in a while, we’d know more of this place.’

Pitch laughed softly. ‘Are you annoyed with me?’

‘Annoyed?’ He wasn’t sure what he was. He wanted to be irritated, at the very least, but he could find little urge to do much else but chuckle. ‘Whatever for?’

‘I thought perhaps you may be jealous.’

‘Jealous of a four poster bed?’

‘Maybe. You’re an odd man, anything is possible.’ Pitch giggled, and the sound was so sweet, so silly, that Silas found himself laughing too. Rather loudly.

He pressed his fingers to his lips. ‘Oh dear me,’ he said. ‘Do you think anyone heard me?’