Fury of a Demon

by Brian Naslund

  “Caught you, little fishy.”

  41

  VERA

  Pargos, Above the City of Nulsine

  Pargos was beautiful.

  The landscape was nothing like the brown, lifeless deserts of Balaria, nor was it like the wild and dangerous forests of Almira. Everything was manicured and tame. Vera looked out at long rows of olive trees that extended in all directions around the village of Nisena.

  “Seems a little too … agricultural to be holding some secret archive, don’t it?” Entras asked as he guided the Sparrow toward the village.

  “Secret archive,” Vera replied. “Which makes this the perfect location.”

  “So, are we going to just go knocking on doors, or—” Decimar stopped midsentence. Squinted. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the middle of the village. “There.”

  Entras looked, too. “We don’t all have your eyes, Soft Star. How about you just tell me what you see?”

  “There’s a burned-down building,” Vera said. She could just make out the blackened beams and scorched rooftop.

  “So, it’s two Soft Stars we have on board now, is it?” Entras mumbled, mostly to himself. “Fantastic.”

  “What does it mean?” Decimar asked Vera.

  “I don’t know, but it’s unlikely to be good.”

  * * *

  Judging from the ankle-high weeds that were growing amidst the ashes of the building, it had been burned down in early spring.

  “Why haven’t they rebuilt it?” Decimar asked, picking up a scorched book and leafing through the burnt pages. “Or torn it down, at least?”

  “Maybe they wanted to dissuade whoever did this from coming back and burning it down all over again.” Vera motioned to the book. “Can you make out the title?”

  “Liam Shates’s Sonnets, Volume 23.”

  “Poetry?”

  “Yeah.” Decimar scanned a few more burned books. “Seems like they had all of Shates’s stuff.”

  “If Caellan was an expert on human spinal cords, why was she posted at an archive full of poetry?” Vera asked.

  “We don’t know if she was here at all,” Decimar said. “Only thing left is ashes.”

  Vera didn’t respond, just kept exploring the burned-out rooms. Toward the back, there was a room where the shelves were arranged in a series of concentric circles. Vera moved through the small gaps in the shelves until she reached the middle.

  There was a pit leading underground. The pit was full of ash.

  “I think the fire started here,” said Vera.

  Decimar peered inside. “How deep do you think that goes?”

  “I know an easy way to find out,” Vera said, then jumped down, dropping waist-deep in ash before her feet hit the floor.

  “Vera, why are you always so eager to jump off things?”

  “Because it usually saves time.”

  “Doesn’t save time if you’d suffocated on a bunch of incinerated poems just now.”

  Vera picked up a palmful of ash, sifting around for a scrap of legible remains. There were none. This area must have burned hotter than the upper levels. A lot hotter.

  “I don’t think this tunnel was full of poems, but whatever was in here is lost.” Vera blew out a breath. “C’mon. Help me back up.”

  Vera went back to the street. Scanned the village. There was a young woman in her twenties helping a much older man with a cane make his way toward the center of town. The woman glanced at Vera, but didn’t seem particularly interested.

  “Have the men start cleaning this up,” Vera said to Decimar.

  “Clean it up? Looks like it’s been this way for a whole season. You see the weeds growing in there?”

  “I do,” said Vera. “But I want you to clean it up all the same.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, Decimar.”

  Vera trotted down the marble stairs, heading toward the woman and man.

  “Hello. Do either of you speak Balarian?” Vera asked, which comprised the total sum of Pargossian words she had.

  The young woman stopped and gave her a big smile full of crooked teeth, then spoke in a thick, but intelligible accent. “Better than you speak Pargossian, anyway.”

  “My apologies,” said Vera, glad to switch to Balarian. “I can understand some, but haven’t spoken it in many years.”

  “That’s obvious,” said the woman.

  “My name is Vera.”

  “I’m Salle. This is my grandpop, Kyal.”

  Kyal sucked on his gums and squinted at her, then spoke in a much more thickly accented Pargossian that Vera could barely understand. “Why’ve we stopped? It’s time for my bath.”

  “You’ll have to forgive Kyal. He’s a grumpy bastard.” She turned to him. “The water garden ain’t going nowhere, pops.”

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about that building,” said Vera.

  The woman put a hand over her eyes and appraised the building, as if she’d just noticed it was there. “What do you want to know?”

  “How did it burn down?”

  “Your lot came through at the start o’ spring and did that. Seemed strange, a bunch o’ Balarians going so far out of their way to torch a bunch o’ love poems, but we all figured it was better than getting our olives took.”

  “You work the orchards, then?”

  “Aye, everyone in Nisena does, just about. My family’s been at the groves for seven generations. Got olive juice in our veins, don’t we, pop?”

  “Olive … juice…” The man spat. “I hate olives.”

  “Sure you do, pop. Sure you do.”

  “Are there any alchemists in the village?” Vera asked.

  “Alchemists?”

  “People who wear gray robes,” Vera prompted. “Healers.”

  “Oh, sure. That lot. They was always more readers than healers from what I saw.”

  “Bunch o’ soft-palmed pansies,” Kyal added.

  Decimar snorted behind her.

  “Where did they go?” Vera asked.

  “They scattered after the fire. Haven’t seen any of ’em since. Never had much use for them nohow, ’less someone took a tumble out of a tree and snapped a bone. And being honest, we can take care o’ that ourselves. Don’t need to read poetry for a decade to set a broken bone.”

  Vera was tempted to ask about Caellan, but something told her a direct approach wouldn’t do her much good in this situation. It wasn’t like a Burz-al-dun tavern where she could walk in and intimidate people into revealing their true selves. She didn’t have any leverage unless she used force, which she wasn’t willing to do. Not yet.

  “Any idea where they went?”

  Salle shrugged. “Lady, I barely know what’s in store for me half a day’s walk down that road. They fucked off and that’s the last anyone here’s seen of ’em.” She squinted into the burned-out building. “What’re your lot doing in there, now? Came to burn it down a little more?”

  “They’re cleaning up.”

  “Seems kinda pointless. The poets ain’t coming back, don’t think.”

  “All the same.”

  Salle shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Okay. Thank you for your time.” She smiled at Kyal. “Enjoy your bath.”

  Kyal muttered something under his breath that Vera didn’t catch. Started limping away. Salle hurried to catch up.

  “You might consider having a bath yourself,” Salle said over her shoulder. “All are welcome, and meaning no offense, you smell like you could use one.”

  The duo moved away, each step marked with a strike of the cane on the cobblestone.

  “Did that backwater yokel just tell you to your face that you stink?” Decimar asked.

  “She did.”

  Vera started unstrapping her armor.

  “What are you doing?”

  “She kind of has a point. I’m going for a bath.”

  “While we clean up all the torch
ed poetry.”

  “Correct.”

  Once Vera got her armor off, she pulled the daggers off her hips and passed them to Decimar. “Keep an eye on these while I’m gone.”

  “Is that a good idea? Those two seemed harmless enough, but if Balarians have come through burning buildings down, might not have curried as much favor amongst the other locals. Wouldn’t want you to get an olive corer jammed into the back of your head or anything.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Vera said. “Blades aren’t going to get me where I want to go.”

  “Where’s that, exactly?”

  Vera just smiled. Motioned to her daggers. “Don’t fool with those while I’m gone. They’re very sharp.”

  * * *

  The water garden of Nisena was a series of natural springs that pooled amongst a set of terraced rocks. Small, bent trees with wide, parasol leaves kept the entire area in a comfortable shade. Tiny birds the color of Kira’s eyes filled the branches. They chirped at each other and ate berries.

  Salle and Kyal were already undressed and submerged in the closest pool, which they shared with five middle-aged men—all of them had sun-soaked skin and musclebound arms. They gave her wary looks, but made no move to stop her from entering the garden. Higher up, there was a group of small children splashing each other in one pool, and higher up still, an older couple wedged close together, whispering to each other and smiling.

  Vera took a seat near Salle and Kyal. Started working her boots off.

  “You came,” said Salle, who was rubbing at her pale shoulder with a pumice stone. Kyal was doing the same, but struggling to stretch beyond the easiest spots to reach.

  “Surprised?” Vera asked, getting one boot off with a grunt and moving to the next.

  “Not as surprised as the fact that you took your armor off. Thought widows weren’t allowed to do that.”

  “Met a lot of Papyrian widows, have you?”

  Salle snorted. “You don’t need to have met a widow to hear stories about them. Your lot’s famous for their fearsomeness.”

  “Those five don’t seem too afraid,” said Vera, motioning to the men. She got the second boot off, then started unwinding her shirt. “As for the armor, it’s not that we can’t take it off. It’s that showing vulnerability is usually a bad idea.”

  She finished undressing, then slipped into the water, which was clear and cool and felt wonderful on her aching muscles and deep bruises. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing a few heartbeats of emptiness to calm her worried mind.

  “Wow. You, uh, really needed a bath.”

  Vera opened her eyes and looked at the water around her, which had become a murky black cloud that was slowly drifting toward Salle and Kyal.

  “Shit, sorry.” Vera made a useless attempt at containing the spread of her filthy water.

  Salle laughed. “Don’t worry about it. We’re no strangers to a little dirt, ain’t that right, pop?”

  “Dirt’s one thing,” he said in Pargossian, then glared at Vera. “Foreign mud off a foreign body, though. Stinks like Papyrian trash.”

  Salle rolled her eyes. “If you caught that, you’re gonna have to forgive Kyal’s manners. He’s close enough to death now that he doesn’t bother with them.”

  Vera made a face to show she’d understood, and that it wasn’t a problem.

  “Here, let me help you with your back,” Salle said to Kyal, reaching for the pumice.

  “I ain’t that old.”

  “Then explain to me why you’ve got such a large amount of crusted dirt all over your shoulders.”

  Kyal grumbled, but moved so that Salle could help him. For a little while, none of them said anything. Vera listened to the birds and splashed some water on her face until she couldn’t taste the salt from her sweat changing the flavor of the water, which took a while. Then she leaned back on a rock.

  “Tell me, do all of the olive farmers of Pargos speak Balarian as well as you?”

  Salle smiled. “Dunno. You’d have to conduct one o’ them surveys the alchemists liked so much, I suppose.” She finished up with Kyal’s back and swished the stone around in the water to clean it off. “What did you want with them, anyway?”

  “I need a healer.”

  Salle frowned. “You’ve clearly taken your share of licks.” She motioned to Vera’s scarred shoulders, bruised arms, and missing finger. “But I don’t see any imminent threats to your health.”

  “Not for me. For someone who I care about.”

  “Well, seeing as you got that flying ship and all, doesn’t seem like tracking down some other alchemist is gonna be an issue.”

  “I need someone in particular. Someone who has a very specific kind of knowledge.” Vera took a breath. Got ready to take a risk. “A woman named Caellan.”

  “Caellan,” Salle repeated, then glanced at Kyal, who was still frowning at the water. “And tell me, who’s this person that needs healing?”

  “Her name is Kira.”

  “The empress of Balaria?”

  “I’m not sure that she’s empress of anything anymore. Not really. Osyrus Ward controls the ministers and the food and the dragon oil. The soldiers and the skyships.”

  “You have come here with soldiers and a skyship,” Salle said. “Does Osyrus Ward control you?”

  “No.” Vera shook her head. “Not anymore. And I can never return to his service now that I’ve broken from it. My only path is forward, to Caellan. And I don’t even know if she can actually help me.” Vera’s voice caught in her throat, against her will. She struggled to pull herself together, and didn’t succeed. “But she’s my last hope for saving Ki.”

  “Forgive me, Vera, but I do have one last question.” Salle paused. “Why is it that you decided to strip down naked and tell us all of this?”

  “Because I wanted to show you that I won’t use that skyship and those soldiers to pry information from you with violence. I won’t burn down your buildings, like Osyrus Ward did. But I’ll risk my own life for an answer. I will give my life for a way to get Caellan to help Kira. I’ll give it gladly.”

  There was a silence while Salle studied her.

  “What do you think, pop?”

  The old man turned to Vera. Face all screwed up and suspicious. Then, without warning, his face softened and his back straightened. He spoke to her in perfect Papyrian.

  “I think that Vera has earned a look at Caellan’s chamber.”

  * * *

  They all dressed, and headed back to the burned-out library.

  “Caellan still lives in Nisena?” Vera asked.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Caellan disappeared from this archive more than seven years ago,” Kyal said. “Her fate is unknown to any alchemist.”

  “So, you’re both alchemists?” Vera asked.

  “Correct,” Kyal replied, moving considerably faster than before, but still relying on the cane to stabilize his gate. “I am a master in the order. Salle is my apprentice.”

  “An apprentice who can practically taste the rank of journeyman on her tongue,” Salle said with a little wink. Her Papyrian accent wasn’t quite as good as Kyal’s, but it was close, and she spoke it with a barely contained energy that made Vera homesick. She hadn’t heard someone speak her native tongue that way in a long time. Vera certainly didn’t talk that way anymore. Maybe she never did.

  Kyal scoffed. “I don’t know any journeymen who still cannot complete the equation required to give me the correct diameter of the moon.”

  “That’s the last thing, though!”

  “And judging from the mess that was your last attempt, you still have a long way to go.”

  Salle waved him away. “I’m closer than I seem.”

  “Mm. Your calculus tells me a different story.” Kyal glanced at Vera. “Tell me, do you have close contact with Osyrus Ward?”

  “Closer than most,” said Vera.

  “What is your impression of him?”

  Vera chewed on that a moment. “H
ighly intelligent. His ability to predict a person or group of people’s future actions is … intimidatingly accurate.” She paused. “He’s also insane.”

  Kyal grunted. “A decent summary.”

  “You know him?”

  “Knew him. As a boy, we were both apprentices of a similar age, and our masters were friends, so we saw quite a bit of each other.”

  “What was he like back then?”

  Kyal considered that. “Intelligent, as you said. Also impatient. He couldn’t stand the rote learning that apprentices must endure their first year.”

  “Neither could I,” Salle added.

  “I found a comfort to the routine, myself. Memorization is a particular skill of mine. How is your memory, Vera?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Salle warned. “Regardless of your answer, he’ll have you doing mental drills and techniques in no time.”

  “My memory is fine,” Vera said. “So, Osyrus was trained as an alchemist?”

  “Bah, not even half-trained. He was expelled from our order after three years.”

  “Why?”

  “He was torturing animals. Well, as I recall, he described it as experimenting with live specimens. But the order does not offer much leeway when they see that kind of behavior from a pupil. It is often a precursor to more problematic behavior later in life.”

  “Ward’s behavior is certainly problematic now,” said Vera.

  “Maybe they should have let him stay,” said Salle. “Guided him in the right direction, instead of allowing him to forge his own.”

  “If he’d stayed, he would simply have been imbued with more tools with which to twist the world.”

  “Not trying to be difficult, master, but he appears to have forged an adequate number of tools without our help.”

  Kyal grumbled to himself.

  “Come, let’s pick up our pace. Caellan’s chamber was on the second floor, where the fire was less severe.”

  * * *

  Caellan’s room was just a simple cell—eight strides by eight strides. There was some soot around the windows, but it was otherwise untouched by the fire that had raged below.