As for Michelle, she was surrounded with care and attention, but she didn’t believe anyone, except for her father. Everyone around her bowed when they saw her while whispering behind her back. Even in exile, Abigail didn’t waste any time, and neither did her brothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles. A stinking pack of dogs. Wretched curs.
Long story short, Princess Michelle got the classic treatment. Gossip and slander—either it was she who did it with him or he who did it with her, but something clearly happened. She lost all hope for a good marriage. Grandfather was furious, he chased down the rumormongers and ripped out their tongues, but nothing helped.
Michelle understood that. Rick knew that game inside out and could figure out any court intrigue with ease. Martha made friends among the servants, and Henry hit it off with the maids, and all three of them told everything they learned to the princess. I think it was then when Michelle started to hate and despise all that courtly dung heap, and it was then that she devised her plan. But her final decision was made after she had spoken with her father.
He came to her all weary and drawn, sat in the chair opposite her and gave her a sad smile as if he were crushed under a heavy weight. “Don’t send away your friends. I know they’re loyal to you.”
Michelle nodded. That was how Henry and Martha learned about that talk. Henry never left the princess’ side, while Martha spent a lot of time together with her as well. They became best friends. Michelle taught her to read and write, found books on necromancy for her to develop her gift.
The court’s servitor of the Bright Saint hated Martha but was too afraid to touch her. Michelle would have torn him apart. After prison, her faith in the Bright Saint had waned, replaced by anger. Martha couldn’t care less. She was happy and content, living next to her friend.
The king took a long pause, and then breathed out as if leaping into deep water. “Michelle, I have a year to live, at most. We have to decide what happens to you afterward.”
Michelle didn’t flinch. She just asked him, “Why a year?”
“I’m already seventy. The healer said my body is too worn out. Magic would give me some time. And then...do you realize what Rudolph and his whore would do to you?”
“Throw me into a convent, best-case scenario. Worst-case, kill me or marry me off to a man as awful as Abigail.”
Michelle wasn’t going to delude herself. And the king knew that. “Have you decided anything?”
“Yes.” Michelle was direct. “First, give me Torrin, the entire county.”
Torrin is a mountain castle built two centuries ago in a terribly inconvenient location near the sea with two fishing villages nearby—the third one would be a day’s travel if a horse could make it without breaking a leg on the second step. Walking there by foot would take three days, at least. Nothing really grew there; you could maybe get a weed if you tried hard enough, but definitely not wheat. They made money on fishing and smuggling. If a year was successful, the local lord would get a hundred gold as the tax, otherwise, no more than fifty. And that’s the entire county! Although the whole population was a thousand people, two hundred of them were in those two villages. The other settlements were even smaller.
The crown had received the castle when the previous lord, mad because of the constant lack of funds, had gotten himself involved in a failed rebellion. Well, he wouldn’t need any money in the Bright Saint’s abode.
“Why would you need that nightmare of a place?”
“So nobody will meddle,” Michelle answered flatly. “Make me the owner with Rick as the heir. He has earned that. Second, acknowledge my son as a possible heir to the throne, equal to the children of my brother…well, the remaining son and daughter.”
The king felt sick. “But...are you...”
“I’m not expecting. But before the year is through, I will bear a boy, although I doubt I will survive his birth. Prison did a number on my health.”
The king went quiet. “Who’s going to be the boy’s father? Henry?”
“No. And you’d better not know. I can only say that he will be smart and strong. And cruel. What else would he need to rule?”
“Develop those smarts,” the king snarled.
“Exactly. Which is why I need you to write Torrin a tax exemption decree for twenty years. And I’d like to take all the books from the royal library that I need. It’s not like Rudolph reads them. As for Abigail...pfft!”
The king paused again. “An army, servants, money?”
“Money. I have no need of servants; I will hire the locals. No need for an army either—they’d break their legs before getting there. I want three copies of the will. One for me, one for the crown archives, and one for the main archive of the Bright Saint. And a receipt which states the copy is kept there and the contents of that copy, with all seals and signatures. I’ll secure it and pass it on to my son. If anything happens, my friends will keep it safe until he comes of age.”
“Michelle, are you sure of what you’re saying?”
“Yes. Father, Rudolph will be a bad king, you must realize this. He’s not stupid, but he’s...weak, open to suggestion, easily led astray. Abigail is the one who’ll rule, together with all of her relatives.”
His Majesty clenched his fists. “I know. But I don’t have any other sons. And your child...it’s too long before he grows up, and who knows if they’ll let him.”
“I don’t know. But he won’t leave Torrin until he’s of age. As for keeping him safe—I’ll take care of that myself.”
“Will you manage?”
“Not me. I’ll just lay the foundations. Rick, Henry, and Martha will bear most of the weight. They will manage. To raise him, teach him...”
Alexander nodded. “Michelle, are you sure you don’t want to tell me your plan?”
“No, Father.” The princess kneeled before his chair, took his cold hands into her own, twisted and crippled by torture, and started rubbing them.
“I love you, Papa. So much. And Radenor, too. I will never do anything to harm it. Keep this in mind, will you?”
“Oh, Michelle...”
For a few minutes, they sat in silence. What was the king thinking about? Was he cursing fate, unknown enemies, who had made his daughter so cold and cruel, his son, who grew up so noble, yet so talentless, or his daughter-in-law with her relatives, who had descended upon Radenor like a locust swarm? Who knows?
Michelle, however, was calm and focused. She was resolved and had no fear—of anything or anybody. All she had was a desire for vengeance so strong, she couldn’t think about anything else. So strong, she clenched her teeth in anger. So strong, she felt her mind tremble.
I think she had already gone slightly mad and hated everyone at fault for her torment. Her brother and his wife first, then all the courtiers. And thus, she decided on revenge.
***
I think you’ve already guessed which boy the princess wanted to bear. That’s right, a half-demon. Me.
It took two moons for Michelle to reach Torrin. All this time, Martha, Rick, and Henry were trying to dissuade her from her plan. They were too late. Michelle had already set her heart upon that idea as if a flame was burning inside her—a scary, black, mad flame. She had chosen her path and had no intention of changing her mind. In response to all their questions, she simply shook her head. Only once, she gathered her friends and told them her mind.
“You think me mad? You’re wrong. I hoped you would understand everything yourself. Rick must, even if not quite. And yet it’s simple. What do people think about me right now? That I’m a criminal, acquitted by her own father—a kinslayer, an arsonist, a witch. Abigail and her entourage made sure of that. Rudolph trusts her as if the Bright Saint himself sent her down to earth. And what awaits me after Father’s death? That’s right. A convent, marriage, or death. Finding a good match is unlikely; Abigail will take care of that. Actually, she already did. My reputation is in shambles. And what’s left? A convent? I’d rather die—but in such a way that everyo
ne would remember me for years. So, what’s the most important thing for Rudolph and Abigail? Well?”
“The crown,” replied Rick calmly. He got it.
“Exactly. The crown and everything it entitles them to. Not the work, no. Balls, jousts, hunting parties, gilded gowns, comely court whores and gigolos—that’s the height of their ambition. Not mine, though. But Father cannot leave me the crown and bypass Rudolph. Martha, dear, I would have asked you to hex him, but I know there is no point. They would dispel it.”
“They wouldn’t.”
“Forgive me, darling, but I do know the limits of your power. You’re not the strongest necromancer in the world. You would need a lot to cast this curse, and it would only work much later. Rudolph would have enough time to get to me, and Abigail...”
“I could hex ‘em both, if I’m lucky.”
“I don’t mind. But it should be something...not fatal, but quite unpleasant and natural. Could you? Ill health, or...”
“Infertility,” Henry suggested smoothly. “I would obtain everything necessary, like clothes or hair...”
“Hair. Or a handkerchief with her snot, a few drops of blood, w’ever you want. Even a nail clipping. I’ll manage.”
Martha remembered very well how Rudolph had wanted to burn her at the stake, and necromancers have long memories.
“Great. But that’s not enough,” Michelle tossed her hair. Was it white or grey? “Martha, I want to give birth to a half-demon.”
“Wha-at!” that was Martha.
“How!” Henry asked.
“Why!” Rick asked. He was the only one who understood.
“I need a child with inherent intelligence, yet cruel. A predator. You think I don’t realize what’s going to happen to this country? Rudolph is an idiot. While he’s the king, everything will get stolen, and his children will be the same as him. In a few generations of such kings, Radenor will be torn apart, which is why I want my son to become king. I’ve researched half-demons. They’re born cruel—and with a commanding presence. As for the rest, his upbringing will depend on you. Rick will teach him to rule. Henry, to fight. Martha, your task will be the hardest one, sister.”
“Michelle, I—”
“Don’t. You are more than a friend to me; you’re my sister. But it’s not the time for tears. My son will likely be born a necromancer. You will have to teach him, and more. I want you to take my place for him, so he won’t grow up a feral beast. He needs a mother, and I’ll be gone. You’ll be the only one left. You will have other children, but never forget Alex, all right? He has to learn about love.”
***
Alex was me. Alexander Leonard Radenor.
Michelle survived two hours after my birth, long enough to give me my name and put me to her breast. Then she died. A carrier pigeon set for the capital at once. In response, they sent a messenger, with the official will. It named me an heir, made Henry a count, provided he fostered the orphaned prince until the latter turned fifteen, and acknowledged Rick’s baronial title and his right to the land, provided he let me live there as long as I wished to. The parcel also contained a scroll from the office of the main temple of the Bright Saint, recognizing my claim to the throne. Hard to imagine how much money it had cost my grandfather.
Michelle was buried on a cliff above the sea. I often visit her grave, sitting there and reminiscing. Half-demons remember everything from the moment of their birth. So do I. Her tangled hair, slick with sweat, her weak, yet tender hands, pressing me against her breast, the taste of milk mixed with blood, Martha screaming,
“Mistress, it’s sharp teeth he has...”
And my mother’s quiet voice, hoarse after all the crying, “No worries... Eat, my baby. It’s the only thing I can give you. As for your teeth, you will need them. And claws. And a weapon. Grow strong, my sweet. Grow smart. Grow powerful. And I’ll be looking after you—if not from heaven, then from the darkness. I promise. Remember that I love you anyway.”
I remember the smell of blood and death. And I remember her loving blue eyes. I’ve never once seen such an expression anywhere else—of love, affection, joy, resignation, and of frantic, furious, frenzied triumph.
Princess Michelle died victorious.
***
Alexander the Second died three moons after his daughter’s demise. Rudolph took the throne—His Royal Majesty, first of his name. There was a grand ball and a joust in honor of his coronation.
Meanwhile, our neighbors snatched a piece of land away from us, sending a letter with apologies for “their vassals’ usurpation of power,” a spectacular suit of armor, and a war stallion. They didn’t move the border back, though. Uncle swallowed it up. He didn’t even notice anything was wrong—after all, they sent a gift to his beloved Abigail, a fancy necklace inlaid with sapphires and a white mare with golden ribbons in her mane. Delighted, she forgot all about her grudges. The neighbors, in the meantime, hiked the toll and trade fees so much that merchants wept. But who cared about all those cattle? Definitely not Rudolph, the noble king.
Two moons after his father’s death, His Majesty sent a letter ordering that I be brought to the capital. So as to provide a poor orphan, the son of our late beloved sister, Michelle, an education befitting a royal prince.
Rick and Henry, who had never been fools, quickly concocted a note that said the prince was about to breathe his last. He would never survive the journey—he is constantly coughing, choking, falling sick every other day—and really, could the king send a mage healer to help the child recover? His Majesty’s loyal subjects are scared for the boy’s life.
The healer never came. The letter requesting my presence in the capital arrived twice a year, but Rick and Henry found a way to deal with that. They said the child had a very dangerous sickness—brittle bone disease. It does happen. A simple fall could mean a fracture, and a powerful hug could kill, cracking the ribs. After that, His Majesty never insisted on seeing me, although he did routinely inquire about my health. Rick and Henry answered him. I think that in a couple of years, they managed to break all the bones in my body, sometimes by turn, sometimes, all at once. And that’s not talking about various inflammations and aggravations. Each moon, I also suffered from common cold and fever.
The only things my caretakers never mentioned were brain fever and concussions. They did the opposite actually. They wrote that I was exceptionally smart and a good student. What else could I do while sick? Please send a mage healer, we beg you! Or your kin might not survive till adulthood! Nobody sent the healer.
Meanwhile, trouble was brewing in the capital. After sweeping into power, Rudolph wallowed in feasts and hunts. Abigail kept up with him, shining at royal balls. All of this cost a fortune. People were starving. Her Majesty also dragged all of her poverty-ridden relatives into the capital, making each of them a baron, if not a count. Her father’s plot of land grew thrice as big, on top of him pilfering money from the treasury not even in cups, but in sacks.
All of that clique held positions at court. They broke things. They littered. They stole so much, the walls of the treasury shrieked in terror. They didn’t produce any income. There was no way of nailing them down—Abigail took care of that. Anyone who dared touch any of her relatives would be either executed or banished. People fled their lands by the hundreds, so the good king decided to bind them to the land. From then on, the lord had total power over the serf’s life and death. You could hang your serf on your fence for fun, and nobody would give a damn. There was nobody to complain to, either. And if you dared to, you would end up burned at the stake, as a villain and a heretic. Why? See, there was a certain logic. If you are not happy with your lord, it means you are unhappy with your king—the man appointed to be your lord by the Bright Saint himself—and that means you are against the Bright Saint’s will. Filthy heretic! Maybe you are a warlock, too? Let’s burn him at the stake, brothers!
And so they did. The Royal Court, you say? The Supreme Judge was Abigail’s older brother, and it really
showed. He was great at taking bribes, but passing judgment without knowing the laws...
The number of bandits grew so much that if I got a copper coin for each, I could support the whole kingdom—for five years. I can’t even blame those people, either. Trade was choking under the yoke of taxes and tolls. Neighbors sent bards and minstrels to Radenorian court, all to sing praises to Rudolph’s valor and Abigail’s beauty, and gave them gifts, while quietly chipping away at our border, bit by bit. They took Vednian Forest, then Mining Ridge. After learning about the latter, His Majesty just said, “Who needs that bunch of rocks anyway? Let them take it!”
What? Home to the richest copper vein in the country? Whatever! Copper’s non-precious. Now, if it were gold...
Not to mention, the inhabitants of that land didn’t give a hoot about the Bright Saint. Grandfather hadn’t bothered them; he was the same, anyway. And now, when slaves and thralls of the Bright Saint could get to them, they’d burn one half and make the other into ruffians.
Along the way, Abigail and Rudolph kept trying to have another heir, or two or three, just in case. They didn’t have any luck, and I know why. Henry had finally obtained the necessary ingredients for Martha: a lock of Abigail’s hair and a handkerchief with Rudolph’s blood and snot. How did he manage this? No idea. But I do suspect that it was via the maids. Women loved Henry and were willing to do anything just to get another look from his stunning blue eyes—even Martha, although they never became more than friends. She loved him as a younger brother, Rick and his wife Mirabelle, as their loving parents, and his children and myself, as her own kids, her kin. That said, she loved me a bit more.
Each time we got a letter inquiring about my health and asking them to deliver me to the capital, my nanny started hissing, as if she were a rabid cat, and cursing them, with strong and targeted curses, all powered by her hate for Rudolph and love for my mother.
Half-Demon's Revenge Page 3
