Where had he gained such power?
“But as it happens, I believe you,” said Mazael. “The Mandragons are foes of the San-keth, as are the Cravenlocks. Blackfang did his very best to kill us both, and failed miserably. We will speak of this no more.”
“Let us hope Tobias Roland arrives soon,” said Toraine. “I am eager to leave this place.”
With that, he stalked away.
Mazael sighed. He had mollified one of Lord Richard’s sons, if not made peace.
Now what to do about the other?
Mazael had not seen him since Blackfang’s grisly demise. He knew the truth about Mazael’s demon heritage. What had Lucan decided to do? Would he say nothing?
Or did he plan Mazael’s demise even now?
Mazael decided to settle this without delay. He walked back to the castle, hand drumming on Lion’s hilt.
Adalar awaited him at the gate. “My lord. Do you require anything?” He had a bandage around his forearm.
Mazael waved his hand. “No. I’m fine.” He paused. “You fought well last night, I hear.” Adalar had rallied the squires, helping to drive the maddened changelings into the courtyard.
Adalar gave one of his rare smiles. “My lord. Thank you.”
“Go,” said Mazael. “Just don’t train too hard. You’ll reopen that cut.”
Adalar bowed and jogged away. Mazael smiled after him. The boy had indeed done well. Mazael only wished he had dozen more like him. He looked up at the keep and his smile faded. Adalar’s valor could not help him against Lucan.
Mazael entered the keep, climbed the wizards’ tower, and knocked at Lucan’s door. No one answered. Mazael pushed the door, and it swung open. He stepped into the room and looked around.
It was little more than a monk’s cell, bare and cold. The window, little more than an arrow loop, looked down into the courtyard fifty feet below. It surprised Mazael that Lucan had been content with such humble lodgings. Toraine had demanded the finest chambers in the castle. At the very least, Mazael would have expected Lucan to require a workroom for his arcane efforts. He walked to the window, scowling at the courtyard.
But where had Lucan gone? Had he ridden for Swordgrim, intending to warn his father about the Demonsouled Lord of Castle Cravenlock?
“Lord Mazael?”
Mazael whirled, hand flying to his sword hilt. Lucan stood against the far wall, arms folded. There had been nowhere for Lucan to hide within the small chamber. Nor had Mazael heard him come through the door.
“Where the devil have you been?” said Mazael.
“Verifying a few matters,” said Lucan, unperturbed. “No changelings remain in the castle.”
“And how do you know that?” said Mazael.
“I have my methods.” Lucan glanced out the window. “You wished to speak, I suppose?”
“I did,” said Mazael. “We never finished our conversation last night.”
“Ah,” said Lucan. He closed the door. “That. I know you are Demonsouled. But I did not say, however, what I intend to do about it.”
“And what, then, will you do?” said Mazael, his hand curling around Lion’s hilt.
Lucan’s lips twitched. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Correct.” Lucan sat on his cot with a sigh. “You spoke to me of peace. I told you I thought it a noble goal, albeit unattainable.” He shrugged. “But with you, I believe, it has a better chance than with anyone else.”
“But I’m Demonsouled,” said Mazael, “spawn of the Old Demon.”
“True,” said Lucan, wrapping his cloak about him. “But it doesn’t seem to have driven you mad, as with most Demonsouled, or have corrupted your heart. Besides,” his lips twitched again, “there are advantages to working at Castle Cravenlock, advantages I might lose if you were killed. I have no wish to lose them.”
“A place away from your brother?” said Mazael.
Lucan shrugged again. “You may look at it that way, if you wish.”
“I don’t,” said Mazael.
Lucan blinked.
“That explanation is not good enough,” said Mazael.
Lucan arched an eyebrow. “An explanation for what? I am not the man with something to hide.”
“I think you are,” said Mazael.
Lucan said nothing.
“You crushed that San-keth cleric last night,” said Mazael.
Lucan laughed, eyes flickering. “The San-keth are not so formidable as rumor makes them.”
“Timothy could not have used the spells you worked,” said Mazael, “nor could old Master Othar.”
“What is your point?” said Lucan.
“You are but a score of years old,” said Mazael. “How did you gain such power?”
“Perhaps I’m simply talented.”
“Or perhaps not.”
A flicker of irritation passed over Lucan’s cold face. “I have no wish to discuss it.”
“Oh? You were so keen to drag out my secrets. Now I’m returning the favor. How did you gain such power? Master Othar wielded arcane arts for four decades, and I never saw him do anything like what you did last night.”
“You know nothing,” said Lucan, stepping towards the door.
Mazael blocked him. Lucan’s eyes flashed with rage, and perhaps something like fear. “You’re right. I know nothing, but I suspect. Toraine thought you consorted with the San-keth yourself.”
“The San-keth are of no use to me.”
“Then where did you gain your powers?” said Mazael. “I doubt you discovered them on your own. Someone taught you. Who, I wonder? The San-keth? The Old Demon?”
“Absurd,” said Lucan. “I thought the Old Demon a legend until last night.”
“Then where,” said Mazael, “did you gain such power?”
For a moment they glared at each other, standing not three feet apart. Lucan’s hands trembled, the fingers flexing. Mazael wondered if he could draw Lion before Lucan struck with some killing spell.
Then Lucan laughed and spun away. “Why not? I know your black secret, after all. Why should you not know mine? No one knows, at least no one living.” For a moment the bitterness fell from his face, and he looked young and weary.
Mazael waited. Lucan paced the tiny room, his face working.
“When I was a squire, just eleven,” said Lucan finally, “I began showing signs of magical talent. I tried to conceal it as first, for I feared to be burnt as a warlock. But my father discovered anyway, as he always discovers everything.” He smirked, the bitter sneer returning. “Most boys displaying magical potential are sent to the school of wizards at Alborg, usually, unless they are first burnt. Women are almost always burnt before Alborg can find them. But my wise father did not trust the wizards of Alborg, has never trusted them. He feared they might gain some hold over me,” his smirked hardened, “and therefore break his own hold over me. So after my first term of study at Alborg, he recalled me to the Grim Marches. He had decided to hire a tutor to finish my magical education, and settled upon a man named Marstan, a wizard from Travia. A wizard,” Lucan shook his head, “as I later learned, who had once been an apprentice of Simonian of Briault.”
“The Old Demon,” said Mazael.
“Not necessarily,” said Lucan. “Simonian of Briault was a real, and much feared, necromancer. The Old Demon, I suspect, simply masqueraded as him from time to time. Whether the real Simonian still lives I don’t know. He was, according to rumor, already three hundred years old when he disappeared. But that is unimportant. Marstan was a powerful necromancer, and none of us realized it at the time.”
“What happened?” said Mazael.
“Marstan taught me the basics of arcane sciences,” said Lucan. “His purpose was not to impart learning, but to…prepare me. Marstan was old. His body was failing. So he desired a new one.” He smirked. “Mine.”
“You mean…”
“His spell would have displaced my soul, and he would have claimed my body as his own,” sa
id Lucan. “It was not the first time he had done it. He was a least a century and a half old when he came to Swordgrim.”
“He failed, then?” said Mazael.
“Not…entirely.”
Mazael’s hand twitched back toward his sword.
Lucan laughed without humor. “I’m not completely sure what went wrong. My father discovered Marstan’s crimes, and sent knights to kill him. So Marstan was in haste, and hasty men make mistakes. Plus he had trained me a bit too well. I was able to fend him off. And…I had something to fight for, at least back then. Marstan failed, and his spirit went to whatever torments awaited it. But…” His cold, bitter smirk returned. “But it almost worked. I have all his memories, Lord Mazael. All of his knowledge, his secret lore, his necromantic secrets. And most of his powers came to me as well.”
Mazael stared at him.
Lucan’s mouth twisted. “The wraith Blackfang conjured? It was but a minor spirit trapped within the ashes of a cremated body. I could create one with ease, if I chose. I know so many black secrets, necromantic incantations the archpriests of the San-keth would kill to learn.” He loosed his mirthless laugh again. “Like you, my secret could be my death. The Church, the Knights Dominiar and Justiciar, the Cirstarcian Order, the wizards of Alborg, all would try to kill me if they knew what spells echo inside my head.”
“Does Lord Richard know?”
“Have you not been listening? No one knew.” Lucan shook his head. “But my father suspected something. I had…changed. Marstan’s expressions, his mannerisms, his way of speaking…much of that came to me. My father thought I had become Marstan’s apprentice in truth, that I had willingly taken up black arts. It cost me everything.” Lucan’s voice cracked. He closed his eyes and kept talking. “I was betrothed. To a woman named Tymaen. I loved her more than anyone, more than anything. After...after, she was horrified by my change. She wished to break off the betrothal. My father agreed. She married Lord Robert Highgate instead. So you see, Lord Mazael, when you told me of Romaria, I did indeed understand. At least she did not renounce you.”
Lucan looked away, sunk in his black cloak. For a moment they said nothing.
“If it’s any consolation,” said Mazael, “I broke Robert Highgate’s leg when we were squires together.”
Lucan snorted. “Did you?”
“Sir Nathan kept telling him to watch his legs,” said Mazael. “Swordplay is as much footwork as anything else. I could have ridden a horse through the holes in his guard.” He shrugged. “Instead, I took a leaded practice sword and broke his leg.”
“I find that cheering,” said Lucan. “Utterly useless, but still cheering.” He leaned back against the wall, sighing. “I could have killed Robert, you know. In any number of ways. From afar, and no one would ever have known. It would have looked like a mishap. Or I could have simply blasted the flesh from his bones.” He stared into nothing. “Or, if I chose, I could have twisted Tymaen’s mind and forced her to come to me.”
“Why didn’t you?” said Mazael, chilled at the recitation.
“I don’t know,” murmured Lucan. “Marstan would have, I know.”
“And you are not Marstan,” said Mazael.
“Am I not? Perhaps I am, and only masquerade as Lucan Mandragon.”
“I think not,” said Mazael. “After all, if you were truly Marstan, you would have exterminated your brother and your father, and seized the lordship of the Grim Marches yourself.”
“And how do you know I’m not planning that as we speak?”
“Because then your father and brother would already be dead,” said Mazael. “Believe me, I know what it is to hate a brother. But I didn’t kill him.” He scowled, remembering the whispers. “Despite what people say.”
Lucan inclined his head.
“So,” said Mazael. “You don’t want to kill Sir Philip, and you don’t want to kill your family. Then what do you want?”
Lucan was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I want to find enough power…find a way to keep what happened to me from ever happening again. No one else will have their life ruined by black arts.”
Mazael thought of Skhath, of the hidden San-keth cultists, of the Old Demon. “Not likely, I fear.”
“Is peace any more likely?” said Lucan.
“No,” said Mazael. “But no less a noble goal, as you said.”
Lucan nodded again.
Neither man said anything for a while.
Lucan cleared his throat. “If you truly desire peace…the way might lie in an advantageous marriage.”
“No,” said Mazael.
“It might seem a betrayal of Romaria, I know,” said Lucan, “but it is likely your best hope for lasting peace. Lord Malden has unwed daughters.”
“Lord Malden’s not likely to wed one of his daughters to me,” said Mazael. “Most likely he wants me dead, for swearing to your father. But that’s still not the danger…”
“The Lord of Cadlyn has unwed daughters,” said Lucan, “as does the Lord of the Green Plain. Either would make a strong enough alliance to keep my father and Lord Malden from warring…”
“You don’t understand,” said Mazael. “I’m Demonsouled.”
“So?” said Lucan.
“So?” repeated Mazael. “I’m the son of the Old Demon. Any child of mine will be Demonsouled as well.”
“That’s not necessarily a problem,” said Lucan. “There are numerous barren, unwed noblewomen. No doubt they would be delighted to wed a Lord of Castle Cravenlock,” his cold smirk flickered, “assuming you can stomach bedding an old cow, of course.”
“I still dare not take that risk,” said Mazael. “Until a woman’s moon blood stops, can you say for certain if she is barren or not? Suppose I wed a woman and she became pregnant? The child...sooner or later the demon blood would manifest…”
“Then you will spend your life celibate?” said Lucan. “That is no way for a man to live. You’re no monk.”
“I dare not risk it,” said Mazael.
“You may not have to.” Lucan reached into his cloak and produced a tarnished brass ring. “Wear this.”
“What is it?”
“A ring,” said Lucan.
Mazael scowled. “I can see that.”
“It is enspelled. Wear it while you lie with a woman, and you cannot impregnate her.”
Mazael gave the ring a dubious look.
Lucan rolled his eyes. “On your hand, lord. I wrought several of them at my father’s request, for Toraine.” He sneered. “My father doesn’t wish a crop of little Mandragon bastards running about, upsetting his orderly domain.”
Mazael shrugged and took the ring. It felt quite warm. “I’ll consider it.”
“Of course you will,” said Lucan, the sardonic edge reentering his voice. “Now. You want peace, yes? Sir Tobias will arrive any day. Lord Malden probably wants to kill you. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“No,” said Mazael, turning towards the door.
“Toraine will probably try to ruin things.”
“I know.”
Lucan stood, adjusting his cloak. “I can…hinder him, if you wish.”
Mazael thought about it, almost said yes. “Best not.”
”If you wish.”
###
That night, Mazael paced his bedchamber, scowling at the candles. Lucan’s bronze ring rested on the third finger of his right hand. It still felt quite warm. Every now and again he rubbed it.
Bethy came into the room, the candlelight glinting off her hair.
“My lord,” she said, doing a deep curtsy. Mazael could never tell if she let him see down the front of her blouse on purpose or not. “You wished to speak with me?”
“I did,” said Mazael. “How are the servants?”
“Frightened, my lord, but better,” said Bethy, stepping closer. “You defeated the changelings, after all.”
“And you’re sure none of our people kissed the snake?”
“Positive.�
�� Bethy smiled. “But you asked me that already. Did you want to talk about anything else, my lord?”
“I…”
She looked at him. “I’m cold, my lord. I’m sure you are too.” She pulled back the blankets on his bed, slipped out of her clothes, and lay down, candlelight shining off her white skin and auburn hair. “Why doesn’t my lord come and warm me?”
Mazael did.
She smiled her gap-toothed grin, and levered up on her elbows to meet him.
###
“You should have done this long ago,” murmured Bethy into his chest.
“Um?” said Mazael, opening one eye. He lay on his back, Bethy wrapped about him like a living blanket.
She pushed her hair out of her face and smiled. “You looked so cold and alone. No lord ought to be that way. No man either, for that matter.”
“It…” said Mazael, voice hoarse. What could he tell her? That he was Demonsouled, that he had only now found a way to keep from impregnating her with a demon-blooded child?
“It was Lady Romaria, wasn’t it?” said Bethy.
“I suppose so,” said Mazael, closing his eyes.
“It’s not a betrayal,” said Bethy, laying her head back on his chest. “Lady Romaria was fearless. We all wish she were still here, all of us in the kitchen.”
“So do I.” Mazael wanted that more than anything.
“But she’s gone,” said Bethy, “and you’re not. You can’t go on alone. Besides,” her voice took a playful tone again, “a lord ought to have a mistress. It’s only proper. A lord ought to have many mistresses.”
“Proper.” He laughed, coughed, and cleared his throat. “Not everyone would think so. I can only imagine what Sir Gerald would say.”
She laughed, her whole body shaking against him. “Oh, Sir Gerald’s a good man, but…well, a woman looks at him, and his tongue ties up in knots.”
“And these other mistresses?” said Mazael, opening his eyes. “Won’t you get jealous? Put poison in my wine? You do cook my food, after all.”
Bethy clucked her tongue. “Whatever for? I’m your mistress, not your wife. I can choose your other mistresses, though. Make certain they’re right for you.” She rose up on one elbow and gave him a level look. “Though speaking of a wife, when are you going to get married?”
Demonsouled Omnibus One Page 45
