The Demon King

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Micah stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “You are impossible to flatter, Your Highness,” he said. “I am helpless here.”

  “Just leave off. I was raised at court too, you know.” She rested her head on his chest, feeling the heat of him through the wool, hearing the thud of his heart. They circled silently for a moment. “So you’ll be going to Oden’s Ford in the fall?”

  Micah nodded, his smile fading. “I wish I could go now. They ought to send wizards at thirteen, like soldier pledges.”

  Micah would be attending Mystwerk House, the school for wizards at Oden’s Ford. There were a half-dozen academies there, clustered on the banks of the Tamron River, on the border between Tamron and Arden.

  There should be a school for queens in training, Raisa thought, where she could learn something more useful than table manners and pretty speech.

  “The clans believe it’s dangerous to put magic into the hands of young wizards,” Raisa said.

  Micah grimaced. “The clans should learn to relax a little. I know your father is clan, but I don’t understand why they insist that everything remain the same. It’s like we’re all frozen in time, paying for an ancient crime that nobody else remembers.”

  Raisa tilted her head. “You know why. The clans healed the Breaking. The rules of the Naéming are intended to prevent it from ever happening again.” She paused, then couldn’t resist adding, “Didn’t you learn that in school?”

  Micah dismissed school with a wave of his hand. “There’s too much to learn in a lifetime. Which is why they should give us our amulets at birth, so we can begin our training as soon as possible.”

  “They’ll never do that because of the Demon King.”

  The song came to an end, and they drifted to a stop on the dance floor. Gripping her elbows, Micah looked down into her face. “What about the Demon King?” he said.

  “Well. They say the Demon King was something of a prodigy,” she said. “He took up wizardry—and dark magic— at a very young age. It destroyed his mind.”

  “Mmmm. That’s what the clans say.”

  It was the argument they’d had a hundred times, packaged in different ways. “They tell those stories because it’s the truth, Micah. Alger Waterlow was a madman. Anyone who could do what he did ...”

  Micah shook his head, a slight movement, his eyes fixed on hers. “What if it’s made up?”

  “Made up?” Now Raisa’s voice rose and she had to make a conscious effort to lower it. “Don’t tell me you’ve joined the Revisionists.”

  “Think what this story gets the clans, Raisa,” Micah said, his voice low and urgent. “Wizards carrying around all this guilt, afraid to assert their inborn gifts. The clans controlling the objects that allow them to use their magical powers. The royal family, forced to dance to whatever tune they play.”

  “Of course the clans control amulets and talismans,” Raisa said. “They’re the ones who make them. It’s the division of power between green magic and high magic that has kept us safe all these years.”

  Micah lowered his voice further. “Please, Raisa. Just listen a minute. Who knows if the Breaking ever actually happened? Or if wizards were the cause.”

  She glowered at him, and Micah rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Come on.” Taking her elbow, he drew her into a windowed alcove overlooking the illuminated city.

  Cradling her face in his bandaged hands, Micah kissed her, first lightly, and then with more intensity. Like usual, Micah was changing topics to something they could agree on. Most of their arguments ended this way.

  Raisa’s pulse accelerated, and her breath came quicker. It would be so easy to fall under his spell, and yet, she wasn’t quite finished with the conversation.

  Raisa gently pulled away from him, turned and stared out over the city. It sparkled below, perfect from a distance.

  “Did you hear this theory about the Breaking from your father? Is that what the High Wizard thinks?”

  “My father has nothing to do with this,” Micah said. “I have ideas of my own, you know. He just . . .” He rested his hands on her shoulders and power sizzled through his fingers. “Raisa, I wish we could . . .”

  He was interrupted by a rising clamor in the dining room. The band shifted smoothly into “The Way of the Queens.” Raisa and Micah stepped to the doorway of the alcove in time to see Queen Marianna sweep the length of the room on Gavan Bayar’s arm, dancers parting before them, sinking into curtsies and bows. Behind them came the Queen’s Guard, resplendent in their Gray Wolf livery and led by Edon Byrne.

  Raisa scowled at the sight of her mother processing arm in arm with the handsome master of the Wizard Council. She looked over and saw Elena Demonai watching, face stony with disapproval, and sighed. Lord Bayar might be a hero, but still. Tongues wagged well enough at court without encouragement.

  The queen turned in a swirl of skirts and faced the room. She was dressed in champagne-colored silk that added highlights to her blond curls. Topazes glittered in her hair and on her neck, and honey-colored diamonds adorned her slender hands. She wore a lightweight diadem set with more topazes, pearls, and diamonds.

  Queen Marianna smiled out at the assembly. “In a moment we’ll go in to dinner. But first we shall recognize the heroes in the hall tonight. This day by their valor they saved the lineage of Fellsian queens.” She extended her hand without looking, and someone placed a goblet into it. “Would Micah Bayar, Gavan Bayar, Miphis Mander, and Arkeda Mander come forward?”

  Gavan Bayar turned gracefully and knelt in front of the queen. Micah hesitated a moment, hidden in the alcove, looking to either side as if he wished he could escape. Then he sighed and left Raisa to join his father. Arkeda and Miphis came and knelt as well.

  Servers circulated through the crowd, distributing glasses to those who were without. Raisa accepted one and stood waiting.

  “Today these wizards saved me, the princess heir, and the Princess Mellony from a disastrous wildfire through the use of extraordinary and accomplished magic. I therefore toast the unique and historic bond between the line of Fellsian queens and high wizardry that has long protected and sustained our realm in this time of war.” The queen raised her glass, as did everyone else in the hall, and drank.

  Mention Captain Byrne, Raisa mouthed to her mother, but Marianna did not.

  “I would also like to welcome back to court a young man who has been like a son to us. After three years away, he has returned for the summer and will serve us on temporary assignment to the Queen’s Guard.” Queen Marianna smiled at the assembled soldiers, singling out one in particular. “Amon Byrne, come forward.”

  Raisa stared, amazed, as one of the tall soldiers stepped forward and knelt before the queen. Edon Byrne drew his sword and passed it to Marianna.

  “Do you, Amon Byrne, swear to protect and defend the queen, princess heir, and all of Hanalea’s descendants from our enemies, even to the loss of your life?”

  “My blood is yours, Your Majesty,” this strange, tall Amon said in an unfamiliar deep voice. “It would be my honor to spill it in defense of the royal line.”

  The queen tapped Amon on each broad shoulder with the flat of the blade. “Rise, Corporal Byrne, and join your captain.”

  The new corporal rose, bowed again, and backed away from the queen until he stood side by side with his father, who did not loose a smile.

  Raisa stood transfixed, her hand at her throat. Amon’s gray eyes were the same as she remembered, as was the straight black hair that flopped over his forehead. Much of the rest of him had been remade.

  “Now,” the queen said, “let’s in to dinner.”

  Raisa had no chance to speak to Amon during dinner. She was seated at the head of the table, between Micah and his father. Arkeda and Miphis sat in positions of honor on either side of the queen, with Mellony on the far side, Fiona next to her. Also within speaking distance were the Demonais, and Harriman Vega, a wizard and court physician.

  As captain
of the Queen’s Guard, Edon Byrne had a place near the foot of the table, but the Guard itself was stationed at the far end of the room, near the entrance to the ballroom. Raisa’s eyes kept straying to Amon.

  His face was thinner, the bone structure more prominent, any trace of baby fat worn away by his time at Oden’s Ford. He had his father’s intensity packaged in a rangier body, but he’d added a new layer of muscle in his chest and arms.

  Now and again she saw flashes of the boy she remembered. He stood a bit self-consciously, back straight, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Once she caught him staring at her, but he looked away quickly when their eyes met, spots of color showing on his cheeks.

  She felt flustered, disconcerted, almost angry. How could Amon have turned into this other person while he was away? If they did meet, what could she possibly say to him? Sweet Leeza’s teeth, you’re tall?

  “Your Highness?” The words were spoken rather loudly almost in her ear, and Raisa jumped and turned toward Micah Bayar. “You’ve scarcely touched your food, and I feel like I’m talking to myself,” he said as dessert was set before them. There was an edge to his voice that said he was irritated.

  “I’m sorry,” Raisa said. “I’m afraid I’m a little distracted. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.” She poked at her pastry, wishing she were young again and could be dismissed from the table early.

  “It’s no wonder you’re weary, Your Highness, after the scare this morning,” Lord Bayar said, smiling. “Perhaps a walk in the garden after dinner would restore you. Micah would be happy to accompany you.”

  “Oh!” Raisa said. “Well. That’s very kind of you to think of me, Lord Bayar, but I really . . .”

  Micah leaned in closer, speaking into Raisa’s ear so only she could hear. “Some of us are meeting later in the card room in the east wing,” he murmured. “Should be entertaining. Please come.” His hot hand closed over hers, pressing it to the table. A promise.

  “What?” Raisa said distractedly.

  Micah’s breath hissed through his teeth. “You keep staring at the door. Are you that eager to leave? Or is it someone in particular you’re looking at?”

  Now Raisa was irritated. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business, sul’Bayar. I’ll look wherever I like.”

  “Of course.” Micah released her hand and jammed his fork into his dessert. “It’s rude is all I’m saying.”

  “Micah!” Lord Bayar glared at his son. “Apologize to the princess heir.”

  “Sorry,” Micah said, staring straight ahead, a muscle in his jaw working. “Please forgive me, Your Highness.”

  Raisa felt hemmed in by wizards, oppressed by the tension between Micah and his father. It was quite wearing.

  When dinner ended, the band reassembled. There would be dancing into the small hours, relentless drinking and flirting, underscored by a series of lame entertainments. In the card room awaited the dance of the would-be suitors. It was time to escape.

  She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead. “I’m off to bed,” she said. “I’ve a nasty headache.” She pushed back her chair. When Micah and Lord Bayar made as if to rise, she said, “Please, sit. I’d like to slip out quietly.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Micah asked, glancing at his father, then back at Raisa. “Why don’t I escort you back to your rooms?”

  As if she needed help to find her way, but they’d often used that excuse to find time alone.

  She stood. “No. You’re the guests of honor. Her Majesty will be disappointed if you leave. Thank you again for everything.”

  Queen Marianna was looking at her, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. Raisa shrugged and again touched her forehead, the universal sign for headache. The queen nodded, blew her a kiss, and turned back to Miphis, who still looked thrilled and amazed to be sitting next to the queen.

  Raisa walked the length of the dining room to the door. Hesitating, she looked back and saw the Demonais watching, a faint smile on Elena’s face.

  As she passed between Amon and his fellow soldier, she did not look to the left or right, but muttered, “The usual place, soon as you’re able.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Old Stories

  Han put off leaving Marisa Pines as long as possible. It was late morning the next day when he said his good-byes and descended Hanalea, following the Dyrnnewater toward the Vale.

  He’d sold or traded everything but the worthless snagwort, which would have to wait for the Flatlander Market. Coins jingled in his purse, and his bag bulged with trade goods— fabric and leatherwork he could sell at a profit, pouches of clan remedies, plus enough smoked venison to make a meal. And the amulet, hidden at the bottom.

  He still mourned the deer he might have taken, but all in all, he’d done well for this early in the season.

  He hoped Mam would agree.

  On the way down the mountain, he stopped off at several solitary cabins to see if there was mail to go or goods to be carried down to market or orders for supplies that he would carry up the next time. Many of the cabin dwellers were clan who preferred life away from the bustle of the camps. There were also former flatlanders who liked solitude or had reason to avoid the notice of the queen’s heavy-handed guard. Han earned a little money by carrying news and mail up and down the mountains and acting as agent for those highlanders who didn’t care to visit the Vale.

  Lucius Frowsley was one of those. His cabin stood where Old Woman Creek poured into the Dyrnnewater. He’d lived on the mountain so long, he looked like a piece broken off of it, with his craggy face and the clothes that draped his skinny body like juniper on a hillside. His eyes were opaque and cloudy as a winter sky—he’d been blinded as a young man.

  Despite his blindness, the old man owned the most productive still in the Spirit Mountains.

  Though Lucius could navigate the trails and ledges of the high country like a goat, he never went to Fellsmarch if he had a choice. So Han carried orders and containers and money up from the Vale, and product down. The containers were full when he carried them downhill and light and empty when he carried them up.

  The best part: Lucius had books—not as many as in the temple library, but more books than any one man had a right to. He kept them locked in a trunk to protect them from the weather. What a blind man needed with a library, Han couldn’t say, but the old man encouraged him to take full advantage, and he did. Some days he staggered down the mountain with half his weight in books.

  That was another mystery—Han should have read them all twice over by now. But Lucius always seemed to have new ones.

  Lucius was cranky and profane and maybe siphoned off a little too much of his own product. But he was fair to Han, and told the truth, and always paid on time, which was rare. No one had dared steal from Cuffs Alister, streetlord of Ragmarket. But since he’d left the life, Han had been cheated more times than he cared to remember.

  Lucius was also a nonjudgmental source of information. He knew everything, and, unlike Mam, he’d answer any question without a lecture.

  The hillside cabin was empty, as was the distillery shack behind, but Han knew where to look. He found Lucius fishing in Old Woman Creek, which he did daily three seasons of the year. It was an excuse to sit and doze on the creek bank and sip from the bottle he always kept at hand. His dog, a rough-coated shepherd named Dog, sprawled by his feet.

  As Han walked up the creek bed toward him, Lucius dropped his fishing pole and jerked around as if startled. The old man raised his hands as if for protection, his face pale and frightened, his blighted eyes wide under his wiry brows.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded, sleeves flapping around skinny arms. Like usual, he was dressed in mismatched clan castoffs and Ragmarket finds. Being blind, he wasn’t fussy about color.

  “Hey, Lucius,” Han called. “It’s just me. Han.”

  Dog raised his head and woofed approvingly, then rested his head on his paws, twitching his ears to drive off flies.

  Luc
ius’s hands came down, though he still looked wary. “Boy!” he said. Lucius always called him boy. “You oughtn’t to sneak up on folks that way.”

  Han rolled his eyes. He’d come along the water, same as always. Everybody was acting strange today.

  Han squatted next to Lucius, touching his shoulder so he’d know where he was, and the old man started violently.

  “Catching anything?” Han asked, beginning to feel aggravated.

  Lucius squinted his rheumy blue eyes like it was a hard question, then reached down and hauled a clan-woven fish basket out of the creek. “Catched all of four, so far.”

  “Those fish for sale?” Han asked. “I can get you a good price at the market.”

  Lucius considered this a moment. “Nope. Going to eat these fish m’self.”

  Han settled himself back against a tree and extended his long legs in their flatland breeches. “Need anything to go with?” he asked, patting his backpack. “I have dried peppers and Tamron spice.”

  Lucius snorted. “Fish will do me fine, boy.”

  “Anything for Fellsmarch?” Han asked.

  Lucius nodded. “It’s set aside in the dog run.”

  Their business concluded, Han stared out at the rocks pricking the surface of the creek. Lucius still seemed jittery and unsettled. He kept tilting his head this way and that, as if to pick up a scent or a faint sound on the breeze. “You got your cuffs on, boy?” he asked abruptly.

  “What do you think?” Han muttered. Like he could get them off.

  Lucius seized Han’s arm and dragged back his sleeve, fingering the silver band as if to read the runes by touch. The old man grunted and released Han’s arm, still muttering to himself.

  “What’s with you?” Han demanded, yanking at his sleeves.

  “I smell hex magic,” Lucius said, in typically incomprehensible Frowsley fashion.

  Han thought of the amulet in his carry bag, but decided there was no way Lucius could know it was in there. “What do you know about magic?”

  “A little.” Lucius rubbed his nose with his forefinger. “Not enough and too much.”