The Demon King

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Well.” Amon hesitated, as if to be sure she really meant it. “The academy is split by the Tamron River:Wien House, the warrior school, is on one side, and Mystwerk, the wizard school, on the other. Guess they thought it best to keep the two separated, in the beginning. Those were the first two, but these days there are other schools as well.

  “There are fifty plebes in Wien House each year. They come from all over, from Tamron, and the Fells, and Arden, and Bruinswallow. Some of ’em are actually at war with each other, but they’re not allowed to bring it onto campus. There’s something called the Peace of Oden’s Ford that’s enforced really strictly. Oden’s Ford itself is like a small realm all on its own. It’s on the border between Tamron and Arden, but it doesn’t belong to either.”

  “Where do you stay?” Raisa asked, kicking off her shoes and drawing her feet up under her gown while Magret scowled disapprovingly.

  “Each class stays together until we’re proficients,” Amon said. “Then we can choose our own housing.”

  “Is it pretty evenly balanced in Wien House, girls and boys?” Raisa asked casually.

  He shook his head. “We send girls from the Fells, but in the south things are different. They have strange notions about what girls can do. Some say it’s the influence of the Church of Malthus.”

  “Ah.” Raisa nodded wisely, pretending to understand. Amon seemed so informed, so worldly next to her, and she was princess heir of the queendom! Shouldn’t she know about these things? Did her mother, the queen, know about them? Maybe not. Marianna had never traveled outside the queendom, either.

  Raisa was seized by the sudden desire to go somewhere, anywhere, out of the Fells.

  “So it’s about three-quarters boys, one-quarter girls,” Amon went on. “The girls hold their own, though. Being a soldier isn’t all about brute strength, as some of the southerners have found out.” He laughed.

  “What do you do, then?” she asked. “Do you do seat work or—or drill, or what?” Right, she thought, eying him sidelong. Seat work didn’t put that muscle on your arms and chest.

  “Some classroom, some applied,” Amon said, seeming pleased by her interest. “We train in strategy, geography, horsemanship, weaponry, that sort of thing. We study great battles in history and analyze the outcome. The further along you are, the more practical application.”

  “I wish I could go,” Raisa blurted.

  “You do?” Amon looked surprised. “Well, it’d be too dangerous, I think. These days, just getting to and from school is a challenge.”

  “Why is that?” Raisa fingered her briar rose necklace. Maybe her yearning for foreign lands came from her trader father.

  “You know there’s the civil war in Arden—five brothers fighting over the throne, each with an army. So if you’re of military age in the south, even if you’re just passing through, you’re at risk of being ganged into somebody’s army. And military age is defined broadly—age ten to eighty, or thereabouts.”

  He pushed back from the table, stretching out his legs, massaging the muscles in his thighs as though they hurt. “Plus, you never know when you’re crossing enemy lines or walking straight into a battle. Deserters and bands of mercenaries between patrons are everywhere. These days, people don’t even try to identify you before they run you through.”

  “My father’s in Arden,” Raisa said with a shiver. “Did you know?”

  He nodded. “Da told me.” He paused, looking like he wished he could take back what he’d just said. “He’s Demonai, and he was a warrior once. I’m sure he’ll be all right. When’s he coming home?”

  She shook her head. “No idea. I wish he’d come. I just feel . . . uneasy, you know? Like something’s going to happen.” Raisa thought of what Edon Byrne had said, about the lawlessness in the countryside and the need for a guard on a simple hunt. What else was going on that she didn’t know about?

  “What do you think we should be doing differently?” she asked. “About the wars, I mean?”

  He colored. “It’s not my place to—”

  “I don’t care if it’s your place or not!” She leaned across the table toward him. “I want to know what you think. Just between us.”

  Amon studied her, as if not sure whether to believe her or not.

  When I’m queen, Raisa thought grimly, people won’t be afraid to speak their minds.

  “Just between us?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” he said, his gray eyes steady on hers, “Da and I have been talking. The civil war in Arden isn’t going to last forever. If nothing else, they’ll run out of soldiers. One of those bloody Montaigne brothers is going to come out on top, and when he does, he’s going to need money. He’ll look north, south, and west for new territory. We think there’s things we could be doing now that would help protect us in the future.”

  “Such as?” Raisa prompted.

  “Get rid of the mercenaries,” Amon said bluntly. “They’re always for sale, and the Montaignes are bloody treacherous. We need an army that’s unquestionably loyal, made up of native born. Even if it’s smaller. Otherwise the queen could be overthrown by her own soldiers.”

  “But”—Raisa bit her lip—“where would we get recruits? Times are hard. Who would volunteer?”

  He shrugged. “Men from the Fells are selling their swords to Arden,” he said. “Meanwhile, we’re importing trouble from the south. Why pay foreigners to fight for us? Give people a reason to stay home where they belong.”

  “What reason?” Raisa persisted.

  “I don’t know. Something to fight for, to believe in. A decent living.” He threw up his hands. “Like I’m an expert. I’m just a cadet, but it’s what my father thinks.”

  “Do you know . . . has Captain Byrne discussed this with the queen?” Raisa asked.

  Amon looked away from her, unrolling his sleeves with exaggerated attention. “He’s tried. But Queen Marianna has lots of advisers, and Da’s just the captain of her Guard.” Raisa had the feeling he’d left as much unsaid as said.

  “What about General Klemath? What does he think?”

  Raisa asked. Klemath was father to Kip and Keith, her persistent suitors.

  “Well,” Amon said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “he’s the one who brought in the mercenaries in the first place. He’s not likely to support a change.”

  “We have wizards,” Raisa said, thinking this was the kind of conversation she should be having with her mother. “We have Lord Bayar and the rest of the council. They’ll protect us from flatlanders.”

  “Aye.” Amon nodded. “If you can trust ’em.”

  “You’ve become a cynic in the south,” Raisa said, rubbing her eyes and realizing it had been a very long day. “You don’t trust anyone.”

  “That’s how you stay alive in the south,” Amon said, staring out at the fountain.

  Raisa smothered a yawn. “That’s how you deal with suitors too. You don’t trust any of them.”

  Amon’s head jerked up. “Suitors? Has that started already?”

  “Already?” Raisa shrugged. “I’m nearly sixteen. My mother married when she was seventeen.”

  Amon looked appalled. “But you don’t have to marry right away, do you?”

  Raisa shook her head. “I’m not getting married any time soon,” she declared flatly. “Not for years and years,” she added, when Amon didn’t look reassured. “My mother’s still young, and she’ll rule for a long time yet.” Raisa was glad to be in the role of expert for once. She looked forward to courtship, but marriage was another thing altogether.

  “Rai. Will you have to marry an old man?” Amon asked, with that familiar Byrne bluntness. “Not that I think your da ...well, he is a lot older than the queen is all I’m saying.”

  “It depends. I could marry clan royalty or even some king or princeling from Tamron or Arden. It could be an old man, I guess. That’s a good reason to put marriage off as long as possible.”

  Had her mother ever loved her fa
ther? Raisa wondered. Or had it been purely a political match? Before she’d gone to Demonai, it seemed like they’d been more of a family. How much did Raisa’s current aversion to marriage have to do with what she saw between her parents?

  She looked up to find Amon watching her. He looked away quickly, but she’d seen the sympathy in his gray eyes.

  He was so different from Micah. Micah was intoxicating, always challenging everything she believed. Amon was comfortable, like a pair of broken-in moccasins. And yet, the changes in him were intriguing.

  She glanced over at Magret. Her nurse was sound asleep, stretched out on one of the park benches, mouth open, snoring.

  “Well,” Amon said, following her gaze, “we’ve lost her.” He stood. “And I’m on duty at sunrise. With your permission, I’ll say good night.”

  He looks dead on his feet, Raisa thought with a rush of guilt. “Of course. But first, I’ve got something to show you,” she said, still unwilling to let him go. Still wanting to negotiate some new kind of treaty. “There’s a secret passageway. It’s like a shortcut. We can go that way.”

  Amon hesitated, frowning. “Where does it let out?”

  “You’ll see,” Raisa said mysteriously.

  Amon tilted his head toward Magret. “What about her?”

  “Let her sleep,” Raisa said. “She looks comfortable enough.”

  “She may never find the way out on her own,” Amon said.

  “I promise I’ll fetch her in the morning,” Raisa said. Lifting free one of the torches, she marched off, between the walls of greenery, not looking back to see if Amon was following, but soon hearing the crunch of his boots on the gravel path.

  They circled around and around until they reached the center of the maze. There, an exquisite wrought-iron temple stood forlornly amid a tangle of old roses and overgrown fragrance gardens. Honeysuckle and wisteria twined over trellises and covered the roof, dangling nearly to the ground, giving it the look of a living cave or a lovers’ bower. Even Raisa had to duck her head to enter.

  Leaves and twigs littered the floor. At one end stood an altar to the Maker, centering a semicircle of stone benches, with room for no more than a dozen worshippers.

  A stained-glass window at the other end depicted Hanalea in battle, sword drawn, hair flying. In daylight, when the sun shone through it, it sent rivers of color washing over the stone floor.

  Amid the stone pavers in the floor was set a metal plate engraved with wild roses. Raisa knelt and brushed away the debris with her forearm.

  “Under here,” she said, pointing. “You have to lift it.”

  Setting his torch into a bracket in the wall, Amon grasped a ring set into the plate and pulled, rocking back on his heels.

  Hinges screeching, the plate swung up, followed by a rush of dank, stale air.

  Amon looked up at Raisa. “When’s the last time you were down here?”

  Raisa shrugged. “Maybe two months ago. It’s hard because there are always people around.”

  “I’d better go first,” Amon said, eying her gown skeptically. “Who knows what’s moved in here since your last visit.”

  “There’s a ladder along the side,” Raisa said helpfully.

  Bracing his hands on either side of the opening, Amon lowered himself until his feet found the first rungs. He climbed down until his head and shoulders disappeared below floor level. He stopped at that point and reached his hand up. Raisa handed him a torch, and he resumed his descent until he reached the floor two stories below.

  He looked up, and she could see his face in the torchlight. He seemed far away. “It’s a long way down,” he said. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. “I’ve been up and down before.”

  Only not in slippers and a tightly fitted satin dress, she might have added, but didn’t.

  “Let’s go back out the way we came,” Amon argued, putting his foot on the lowest rung. “You can show me the passage another time, when you’re . . . um . . . dressed for it.”

  “When are we going to get another chance?” Raisa said stubbornly. “Like I said, there’re always people around, and you’re going to be working every day.”

  She knew she was being unreasonable, but she was tired, and she felt cheated. She faced the prospect of a summer on her own again, for all intents and purposes, when she wanted to adventure with Amon.

  “I’m coming up,” Amon warned, taking hold of the ladder with both hands.

  “I’m coming down,” Raisa said loudly, turning and feeling for the first rung with her extended foot.

  “Just wait a minute, all right?” He disappeared from sight, but she could hear him moving around down there, see torchlight reflecting off the damp walls.

  He reappeared at the foot of the ladder, looking up at her, a big smear of dirt on his right cheekbone. “It’s clear. A few rats is all. Come on down, but be careful.”

  That was easier said than done. The rungs were far apart, difficult to manage by someone her size in the best of circumstances, nearly impossible in her dress. Her silk slippers gave her no purchase on the metal rungs. She hitched her skirt up above her knees, clutching it in one hand and holding on to the ladder with the other, wondering what kind of sight she presented to Amon below.

  She was halfway down when she lost her single-handed grip on the slippery metal ladder, teetered a moment, arms flailing, then fell screaming through space.

  She landed with a whump in Amon’s arms. He staggered back a few steps, and for a moment she thought they’d both go down, but he regained his balance and ended leaning against the wall, breathing hard, cradling her close against the damp wool of his uniform jacket. She could hear his heart hammering next to her ear.

  “Hanalea’s bloody bones!” he swore, his face inches from hers, his gray eyes dark and roiled as the Indio Ocean in winter, his face chalk white. “Are you crazy, Raisa? Do you want to kill yourself?”

  “Of course not,” she said fiercely, her fright making her snappish. “I just slipped is all. Put me down.”

  But he seemed bent on lecturing her at close range. “You never listen. You always have to have your way, even if it means breaking your bloody neck.”

  “I do not always have to have my way,” she said.

  “Yeah? What about the time you just had to ride that flat-lander stallion? What was his name? Deathwish? Devilspawn? You had to climb the fence to mount him, and his back was so broad your legs stuck straight out, but nothing would do but you had to give him a try.” He snorted. “That was the world’s shortest ride.”

  She’d forgotten about Amon’s annoying habit of repeating old stories she’d rather forget. Raisa struggled and kicked, trying to get free. He was definitely a lot stronger than she remembered. Even though she was smaller, she’d always been able to hold her own through force of personality, if nothing else.

  “You never think about the mess you’d leave behind,” Amon said. “If you bust your head and I’m in any way involved, my da won’t leave enough of me for the crows to find.”

  “What happened to ‘If you please, Your Highness’ and ‘With your permission, Your Highness’?” Raisa demanded. “For the last time, put me down, or I’ll call the Guard.”

  Amon blinked at her, and she couldn’t help noticing he had really thick eyelashes smudging the gray of his eyes. Carefully, he set her down on her feet and took a step back. “My apologies, Your Highness,” he said, his face gone blank and hard. “Shall I go, then?”

  And just that quick, her anger was gone, replaced by remorse. Her cheeks flamed. How could they possibly be friends if she kept pulling rank on him?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  He continued to stare straight ahead. “My duty, Your Highness, as a member of the Queen’s Guard.”

  “Will you stop?” Raisa said desperately. “I said I was sorry.”
<
br />   “No apology is necessary, Your Highness,” Amon said, looking down at her hand on his sleeve. “Now, if there’s nothing else ...?”

  “Please don’t go, Amon,” Raisa said, releasing his arm and staring at her ruined slippers. “I could really use a friend, even if I don’t deserve one.” She cleared her throat. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  There was a long pause. Then Amon put two fingers under her chin, and she lifted her head and looked at him, and the movement sent tears spilling down her face. He was leaning down toward her, his face was very close, and before she knew what she was doing, she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips.

  Maybe he was thinking about kissing too, because he pressed his hands against her waist, lifting her tightly against him so her feet nearly left the ground. He returned the kiss with surprising skill and intensity. His lips were a bit rough and wind-burned, but in a good way, and Raisa wasn’t ready to stop when he broke it off and backed away, gray eyes wide with alarm.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he gasped, reddening, raising his hands, palms out. “Forgive me. I ... I didn’t mean ...”

  “Call me Raisa,” Raisa said, moving toward him again, reaching for him.

  “Please . . . Raisa.” He gripped her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. “I don’t know what I . . . We can’t do this.”

  Raisa blinked at him. “It’s just a kiss,” she said, feeling rather hurt. “I’ve been kissed before.”

  There was Micah, of course, and then there’d been dark-eyed, intense Reid Nightwalker Demonai, one of the warriors at Demonai Camp. Mush-mouthed Wil Mathis, Keith Klemath (not Kip), and probably one or two others.

  “It should never have happened. I’m a soldier, and I’m in the Queen’s Guard. If my father—”

  “Oh bother your father,” Raisa grumbled. “He doesn’t have to know everything.”

  “He knows things. I don’t know how. And I would know it.” Awkwardly, Amon groped in his pocket, produced a handkerchief, and handed it to her.

  Raisa knew the kissing was over. For the time being, anyway.