Legends of Radenor
Book One
Half-Demon’s Revenge
By Lina J. Potter
Translated by Sofia Shcherbakova
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Contents:
Welcome
Contents:
The half-demon. King. Alex. Path to the throne
From the Author
About Lina J. Potter
Book Recommendations
A Medieval Tale
First Lessons: Book One
The half-demon. King. Alex. Path to the throne
I am a half-demon.
Oh, why have you all gone pale? Afraid I’m going to leap at you and rip your throats out? I’m not. First, that would be really messy, and second, there are oh so many ways to kill a man in a much faster and more efficient manner.
Why are you making the sign of the Bright Saint? I am no vampire, no spirit of darkness, not even a pureblood demon. Actually, I could even enter a church without any problems. I don’t, though. There are a few reasons. First of all, I’m lazy. The service starts at dawn, as you are well aware, even a bit earlier. Why would I get out of my warm bed to drag myself somewhere and wail together with the parishioners? Dream on. The other reason is no less important. The people are so sure I’m scared of all that holy paraphernalia—no use in disappointing them. I’d rather that become the last thing they learn in their lives. Yeah, you know what I mean. They wouldn’t be disappointed anymore afterward. Well, maybe at their funeral.
Hey, stop with the pale face! This is all pure theory. Oh, and the third thing, chances are, our god-fearing thrall would suffer a stroke if I were to appear inside the holy walls of a temple. After all, “ungodly vermin are to suffer in the eternal darkness until the end of time...” Yep, that’s from his speeches. Oh well. If I got angry with each fool who crossed my path, I’d tire my tail out.
Which tail?
My tail—a long, pretty, scaly tail, with a scorpion’s stinger at the end. One sting, and you have a date with the Bright Saint, telling him all about my wickedness. One drop of my venom could poison an entire barrel of water. I checked.
Actually, I’m quite catlike. Have you seen an angry cat? They strike their enemies with their tails...and so do I. Sometimes, I miss. Sometimes, I don’t. Why not, really? I am a half-demon, am I not? An unholy creature? You bet! A crown assassin? Absolutely. Too bad for me, though, half-demons aren’t fit to be kings. I fell into a trap; I served the crown so well that I ended up wearing it, and it doesn’t want to let me go. How did it happen?
The usual way. They say, there is no fool like a fool with initiative. I can confirm that. Yet, there is an even worse idiot: a crowned one, with rich imagination and initiative. Now, this is a terrible combination—a real disaster—and that’s what my uncle was like.
How did I turn out to be a half-demon? Don’t ask me stupid questions. A half-demon is born when one of the parents is human and the other is a demon.
You say that’s obvious? So what do you want to know? Ah, how could a human meet a demon? Fine. I’ll tell you my story—from the very beginning.
My uncle—and I sincerely hope he gets the hottest frying pan in all of hell and no oil—was happily married to a beautiful girl. They were a gorgeous couple. He was a tall, fair-haired knight in golden armor, straight from the sappy dreams of teenage girls. He had a fair share of female admirers, too, and waited to settle down until he was thirty. He would have done it even later, but his father, my grandfather, forced him to get hitched. He needed heirs, you see—legitimate heirs, not bastards born by maids and ladies-in-waiting.
She had raven-black hair, deep blue eyes, delicate features as if painted with a fine brush, and her figure...you couldn’t see everything because of the dress, of course, but her bosom was to die for. And everything else, in all likelihood, was at least as good. Her legs might have been a little bit crooked, but who could notice that under a long skirt before marriage? Anyway, my uncle was head over heels. She wasn’t having any of that, though. She fluttered her eyelashes and wiggled her behind, but as soon as he tried to touch her under her corsage, she rebuffed him. No sex before a wedding, she said. At the slightest provocation, she burst into tears, asking His Majesty to take pity on her virtue, show some understanding for her situation, and not to rob the poor girl of the only thing she could use as her dowry.
Well, as for poor, she got it right. She was as poor as a church mouse; each of her several dresses was patched up eight times at the very least. Later, after the king’s death, she became known as One Dress Queen, as she never wore the same dress twice. She gave them away to her maids or court ladies. My uncle pandered to her every whim. What can a man do? It was love. I always wondered, how do people think when in such a state? Probably not with their brains.
In short, that lady had only one treasure—between her legs, and she sold it to the highest bidder—for the crown. Don’t tell me about love, please. Those who loved him, my uncle used and discarded like trash. When you love someone, you’re not thinking about yourself, and they didn’t, giving their honor and soul to the knight in golden armor—no bargaining. They were simply happy that the crown prince stooped as low as to spend a whole night with them—or even two nights. That was real love. What she did was prostitution. At least common whores were cheap. That one turned out to be expensive.
My uncle, then Prince Rudolph, finally proposed, making her Princess Abigail. What a good-looking couple they were! You could hang their portraits on every wall in the city, and nobody would complain. Once Rudolph was king, folks rushed to gawk at them during royal parades on Sundays. There they went, my uncle, tall, golden-haired, on a black stallion, the crown barely visible in his hair, and his wife on a white horse, slender, delicate, bedecked in diamonds, like a midwinter tree. I never liked those baubles, maybe because she did.
Both threw copper coins into the crowd, as people cried tears of adoration and showered them with flowers. How...wonderful. Wasn’t there anybody who could throw a brick? It was all bought with their money, with their blood. The coppers got fleeced from them, too, the very next day. Yet how could you prove that to a crowd? You couldn’t.
After marrying the king, our Abigail started churning out kids. There were four: two boys, two girls, alternating between genders—boy, girl, boy, girl—so everyone got what they wanted. Everyone was content. My grandfather got noble offspring for the Radenor dynasty—that’s my last nam
e as well, if you hadn’t gotten that yet, and the name of our kingdom. Abigail got the crown and money, and my uncle, a gorgeous wife and children. He never stopped fooling around, though. A leopard can't change its spots.
That’s right. I am his sister’s son. How was I born? As I might have already mentioned, my uncle was a fool, which is why his father tried to school him as much as he could. He tried sending him out as an ambassador, as a negotiator—escorted by veteran diplomats, too—but Uncle was always present. He needed to be taught at least something, or the kingdom would be plundered while he, with all his chivalry, stood by and watched. His own wife would be the first in line to try something. I also suspect that on top of everything, Grandfather did that to save money. Uncle’s retinue cost a pretty penny. I spend less money a year for the entire court than he does in a month, and that’s mostly because of the palace. It’s gotten old, needs constant repairs. Otherwise, it would be even less.
As for our neighbors... East and south, thank the gods, Radenor doesn’t share borders with any countries. It is just the sea. That’s why our poor and destitute didn’t die of hunger during Uncle’s reign. The sea’s bounties are plenty, the waters warm. Throw a rope, and you’ll catch a fish. In the north, we have Riolon and Tevarr—two kingdoms. On the west, a mountain range. Not a proper one, really, more like a chunk of it. Behind it lies the third kingdom, Mirall. We’re constantly at odds with Riolon and Tevarr. If they ever forgot about their own squabbles and joined against us, it would mean curtains for Radenor. Yet they never do.
As for Mirall… Our mountains aren’t much to look at, not very tall, not really impressive. Yet they are home to lots of rich mines. Gold, silver... And both Radenor and Mirall need these metals. There was a constant back-and-forth because of these mountains: we warred, negotiated, sent diplomats, had fallings out...
That time, my uncle went as an ambassador. He took Abigail with him and all of their children. My mother went with them. She was the heir’s younger sister, my grandfather’s second child, a late-in-life daughter. He loved her immensely, causing my uncle to be green with envy. She was about eighteen years younger than her brother. Nobody had expected her birth. The queen had died in labor, yet Grandfather had risen to the occasion. He hadn’t sent her away; he hadn’t come to hate her—he had said that the child had been his late wife’s last gift to him, and he would do anything to keep her safe. And he did. He looked after her, cared for her, and catered to her as well as he could, until that ill-fated trip.
Why did my grandfather send her? The girl was already seventeen, high time she got married. Finding a good suitor in her own kingdom was a challenge, however. She was a princess! She deserved no less than a prince, or at least a duke, and not just any duke.
Royal heirs are historically accustomed to selling themselves for land, for a signature on a document, for something useful for the kingdom. Actually, Grandfather would have never let my uncle marry Abigail if he’d had a choice. Their wedding happened in secret. The priest who married them was banished as far away as Torwhal Island, populated with two dozen fishermen and their families, six ravens, and four dogs. What an illustrious career after serving at the royal temple in the capital! His place was taken by Felix, the retainer. He was a wonderful person.
A retainer? Nothing special, that’s just what we call priests of the Bright Saint. Those at the bottom of the church hierarchy, who are just starting out and just swore their oaths, are called slaves of the Bright Saint. Thralls are the next stage, followed by servitors. Then there are the retainers, and the Confidant is the head of the church. As for common folk, they are simply the fruits of His work—not even slaves, more like toys. He can play with them, break them, toss them aside—except for necromancers, really. Throughout all the kingdoms, necromancers are known to serve the Dark Tempter, and their unclean souls should be sent all the way to heaven, to be dealt with by the Bright Saint—and become new toys, better ones. What a nice system.
Still, Felix was different. Grandfather chose him randomly out of a dozen sent by the Confidant. He never regretted that. First of all, Felix was a person—a true Radenorian—and only then a slave, a thrall, or any other unholy spawn.
Oh, sorry. The only unholy spawn here is me, and I’m no worse than many people. Anyway, let us continue with the story.
My grandfather didn’t send Princess Michelle for no reason. He wanted her to get to know Duke Philip, the ruler of Miellen, a border dukedom. He wasn’t old yet, around forty, and was known to be a smart and gentle man. He was a widower; his wife had fallen to her death during a hunt. He never married afterward, as he loved her too much.
But he was getting on in years, and had to start thinking about heirs. A princess was a good match; anybody would be flattered. Plus, Grandfather was thinking about eventually annexing Miellen to Radenor. Let the kingdom grow.
Why didn’t he offer a marriage right away? He wanted to let the princess look at her potential husband-to-be. I did say she was his favorite child, and more: my mother had a powerful gift for fire magic. This is something known to manifest in the royal bloodline—rarely, yet in a huge way. Princess Michelle had been able to light up candles on chandeliers since her childhood. Once, she singed a court lady’s hairdo, and no cocky courtier could even think about propositioning her in a dark hallway. After all, nobody would want their tender bits burned to a crisp.
Abigail didn’t like the princess. Michelle was her complete opposite. Abigail was a brunette, somewhat of a vamp. Personally, I thought her face was a bit rat-like, but I’m biased. Uncle liked her, after all. Michelle, on the other side, was frail and waifish. Her hair was white with a bluish tint, her eyes big and blue. She was of short stature, her face like a porcelain doll they make in Riolon, her figure delicate. Next to her, Abigail was nothing. I once hung their portraits together and realized why my aunt had hated my mother so much. Because she was prettier, smarter, and kinder than Abigail. Because of her royal blood and her magical gift; there were lots of reasons.
In a word, my mother was a thorn in Abigail’s side. And then, there was another important matter. Michelle’s children had rights to the throne, too. Grandfather always joked that if anything happened to Rudolph, his daughter would bear him a grandchild—the future king. How ironic.
***
Upon the arrival of the royal delegation to the dukedom, everything seemed fine…at first. But then, during the first night they spent on foreign turf, a fire broke out in the palace. At that time, Uncle was quite busy…with Abigail.
When a noble knight and a noble lady deign to procreate, they won't notice a roof falling on their heads, and they didn’t, before it was too late. They managed to leap out of the window, but two of their children and a part of the retinue all perished, suffocating to death in their sleep. It happens a lot during fires. First, it’s the smoke, then the flames.
The majority of the attendants suffocated as well. The minority, mostly Abigail’s aunts and uncles, in-laws, and other forty-second cousins, all survived. Princess Michelle did as well. She was one of the first to escape. She tried to put the fire out, calm it down, make it disappear as hard as she could. She failed.
Abigail accused her of starting the fire. What an imagination! Or was it more than imagination—intent? She said that Michelle had been about to get married, which would have put a stop to her dreams about the throne, which is why she had decided to get rid of her brother and his family. She said Michelle had managed to kill the older children—the heirs—but had no luck with her brother. Get this nasty woman, good people! Grab her! Tie her up!
Michelle couldn’t resist. She was all spent during the fire. And, when a mage is spent, they’re helpless as a baby, can’t even run away. You can do whatever you want to with them. And so they did with Michelle. They had her bound hand and foot and locked in a cell. Took the initiative, you could say.
***
For my mother, it came as a total shock. She was a princess, after all, used to luxury and
adoration, never encountering a hardship in her life, and here she was, grabbed by someone, accused of something, shackled, imprisoned! And, she had lost so much of her strength, all to save her ungrateful brother, by the way. If Michelle hadn’t calmed the fire down, Rudolph and his bitch would never have gotten out.
Yet even that was used against the princess. Traces of her magic were discovered in the ash—her aura. If there had been a skilled mage, he would have examined the charred ruins and understood what had happened.
There was no mage. Mages are odd birds in general. It’s a rare talent, manifested maybe in one person in ten thousand, and then you’d have to find that one, teach them, and help them survive the rigors of training. Magic is not pottery. And, almost always, you’re born with only one type of magic. Which one? You can’t simply decide to become a wizard. You either have the gift, or you don’t. And, if you don’t, you can jump through hoops, but it won’t help you any. In total, there are seven types of magic. Four are elemental: air, water, fire, and earth. Three are spiritual: life, death, and mind. Out of them all, death mages are the least popular; they’re also called necromancers.
But we aren’t talking about them right now. So, if your gift is fire, you can do your best, but you’d never do anything with water, and if you can conjure air, mind is outside your skill set.
In that case, they needed a fire mage—a powerful one, a competent one, and trusted, too. Of course, they didn’t find anyone like that in the royal retinue or anywhere within three days’ travel. By then, the traces of aura had vanished. Nothing could be proven. The only one they had was a life mage. He could heal, cure, prevent illness, but he knew about fire about as much as a pig knows about politics.
The trial was led by my uncle, and the investigation, too. Abigail helped, naturally. Uncle held his own sister imprisoned for ten days straight, trying to find out how she had planned to murder him and his family. First, she was just questioned, then threatened with torture and execution... Who knows what Prince Rudolph could have ended up doing? They did break her fingers, at least. No rape, thankfully, but broken bones hurt a lot, too.
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