by Colt, K. J.
The Demon gave a nod. They also had not disclosed to him the nature of his risky cure. He had suspected Neriene would have told him, had he been alone. This left him somewhat frustrated, but the sight of the warm bath was a good distraction. If only he could get his company to leave….
“I would not fear for him, Lady Miria. Should the witches’ conditions not be acceptable, he will readily assault them. There is much force behind his diminutive size,” Eraekryst said.
The Demon colored. “An’ there is an arse’ole behind ‘is glowing face. But I’m sure y’ figured that out for y’self.”
Eraekryst glared at him. “Because I am not a slave to my emotions, I warrant an insult. ‘Twould be terrible if logic and reason guided all our actions. At least there will always be one to lash out in a fit of unrestrained violence.”
“Y’ push with y’r tongue,” the Demon returned. He turned his back to them. “Don’ worry, mate, y’ll get y’r bloody collar off. Then y’ can run back to the woods an’ show all y’r glowing friends ‘ow smart y’are.”
“Eraekryst.” Miria tugged at the Ilangien’s arm. “Stop. Let’s go.”
“’Twould be my preference to living off the fortunes of others, like so many a blood-sucking leech.” He turned to Miria. “You need not drag me. I find the air has grown sour.”
Miria watched Eraekryst stride outside and hesitated before she headed after him.
The Demon, who had disappeared behind the screen, peered to find his audience had gone. Fortunately for him. I was ready knock him flat this time. He found his anger hard to let go. Maybe his people had him taken away because they could not stand him. Unless all Ilangiel are like him. If that’s the truth of it, they can stay in their bloody forest.
He tore off the rest of his shredded shirt and finished undressing. Then he peeked around the screen again to confirm his solitude. He pushed the Ilangien from his mind and made for the pool. Without so much as a splash, he slipped into the water and sighed. Better than a frigid pond. Much better.
He spied a cloth folded beside the edge of the basin and began to scrub at the layers of dirt that had become like second clothing to him. It was not that he could not enjoy a life of luxury and cleanliness; such indulgences did not seem fated for him. The last hot bath he remembered was at an inn with his brother. They had been running from the Seroko, and at the time, it seemed as though their evasion was successful. That night, they had shared stories, told jokes, considered the possibilities of the future. There was a word for how he had felt: happy. He had been happy for that short night—that fleeting breath in his life.
Now his life was fleeting, and his brother was gone. What was there to be happy about? He dipped beneath the water’s surface and explored the mosaic at the bottom of the basin. When he came back up, he took a deep breath and considered what the Larini had told him. If I’m cured, I will honor his memory. I will make something of myself. Start again elsewhere—somewhere no one has heard of the White Demon. Or maybe I can travel as Em’ri did. See different cities, new places. I can make money along the way, use my magic to help people. He thought about what he could do: bring the rain to water the crops, freeze meat for the winter, thaw water in the spring, spark fires for blacksmiths.
Stupid. Utterly stupid.
He folded his arms on the edge of the pool and rested his head upon them, his eyes closed. His future in Mystland was gone. Everyone knew him now—knew him as a criminal. They were just humoring me, he thought, considering the Larinis’ influence. If what Neriene had said was true, then none of his efforts in wizard territory would have meant anything. He was only accepted because the Larini wished it. Just who are these witches, anyway?
They were not normal, for certain. And they were powerful—both in society and in magic. Even if they could cure him, what would they ask in return? What did he possibly have to offer? He had no money, but he doubted riches were a concern for them. Whatever magic he could perform, he imagined they could do ten times more effectively. Maybe they’re kind enough to help me without any expectations. Wouldn’t that be a miracle? If only I believed in miracles.
He finished with the cloth and tossed it back upon the tiles. His fingers had started to wrinkle from the water; it was time to get out. Nimbly he leapt out of the pool and stood, his back purposely toward the doorway. He stretched out his wings, closed them, then snapped them open again, shedding the water.
Without turning, he said, “Y’ might as well come in. I know y’re there.”
“H-how?” came Miria’s shame-ridden voice.
“I can ‘ear an’ smell y’.”
“Oh.” Then, “Smell me?”
“’S a good smell.” He walked to the screen and began to dry himself with a towel. He held up the white robe, knowing it was too large and debating whether or not he should tear holes in it for his wings. Instead he shifted his form and wrapped the material around him. He pulled the hood over his head and went to face the intruder.
Miria had her back turned toward him, so he crept up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. She gasped and started, then asked if it was safe to turn around.
“Do y’ find me scary?”
“Well, I honestly didn’t think you were an actual demon. Not until I saw you—with your wings, and your claws, and…” She turned and gaped at him. “Metamorph.”
He gave a nod. “What did y’ think?”
“I thought the ‘demon’ was an illusion—something you perfected to fit your crimes. Something to scare people.” She looked up into his eyes. “And there were the stories…not just the ones about the delinquent mage, but others—stories about the Prophet’s White Demon. Stories that you feasted on the flesh of virgins, drank the blood of the innocent…you know, those stories.” She blushed under his gaze.
The Demon had to stifle a smile. “I ‘ear virgins don’t taste very good.” He sat down before her.
“I’m not saying I believed the stories,” Miria insisted, “but they did make me wonder.” She gathered her skirt and joined him on the floor. “I still wonder about you—that you should be the terrible criminal that others say you are.”
“Everyone knows a diff’rent truth,” he said, admiring her green eyes.
“Well, I would like to know the real truth. The one you know.”
“Tha’s not fun. Is that why y’re ‘ere?” he asked. “Y’ll be disappointed.”
“I haven’t been yet.” Miria smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. “I was hoping you could tell me the story behind I.M.A.G.I.N.E. and their expedition.”
The Demon sighed and closed his eyes. “I would’ve thought Erik told y’ that.”
“He did. But he—”
“’E ‘as all the answers, luv.” The Demon opened his eyes to find her frowning at him.
“I thought the two of you were friends.”
“Never said that. I freed ‘im—twice. For ‘is part, ‘e’s ‘ad me drugged, nearly clubbed to death, sick to m’ stomach, buried alive….”
“I think he means well,” Miria tried.
“Nigqor-el. I was ‘is path to the witches. Bloke just wants ‘is bloody collar gone. Now ‘e’ll get what ‘e wants, an’ ‘e’ll be gone. I don’t need ‘im.”
“There was a short while, before we found you, that he was rather concerned. I suspect he is also concerned now, but he doesn’t know how to show it.”
“’E’s a bastard, ‘struth. Just watch. ‘E’ll be gone.” The Demon nodded toward her. “An’ what about y’?”
“Me?” She turned her attention from the tiles to regard him.
“Will y’ turn me in?”
“No, Hawkshadow. As I told you, I want to help you. The council, as I’m finding, is corrupt. I’m not sure how… Oh, never mind the council.” She looked at his hood as though seeing it for the first time. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“There was someone, but ‘e’s gone.” Now it was his turn to look away.
Miria reached toward h
im and flipped back the hood. His wide-eyed stare returned. “That’s better,” she said, easing back into her place.
He gave her a look.
“You can kill someone with those eyes, you know.”
“What?”
Miria blushed again. “Admittedly, you’re skin and bone, but aside from that—and those scars—I think you’re rightly handsome.”
The white of the Demon’s face tinged pale pink. “’Ow did y’ see my scars?”
“All right—I looked! I did. I couldn’t help it. The White Demon. Tell me you wouldn’t look if you were me.” Now even her ears were red, but she had coaxed from him a slight smile.
“Scars are just a record. A reminder,” he said softly.
“A reminder of what?”
“What I left behind.” Then, without knowing why, he pulled part of the robe off his bony shoulder and angled his back toward her, exposing a small tattoo of a black lightning bolt.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Mar-d’net. Mark of birth.”
“Is it a sign—like the images in the stars?” She reached out to touch it but drew back when he flinched.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Where did you come from?” Miria asked. “Your accent is southern, but you had said—”
“I thought y’ ‘ad the accent.”
Miria smiled. “No. You see, in Mystland, you must speak as the Mystlanders do. You do not, and so it is you who has the accent. Anyway, I enjoy it. And it was a masterful way to avoid my question.”
“Thanks.”
Miria nodded. “You look a little pale. Perhaps we should see if the meal is ready.”
“As long as it’s not virgins.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE PRICE
ERAEKRYST, THE DEMON, Miria, and the Larini were reunited for the meal. The witches had an eye for presentation, as well as an attentiveness to their guests’ tastes. The table was adorned with a burgundy cloth and a centerpiece of exotic, ebony flowers. Tall black candles flickered with red flames that reflected off the silver platters, ewers, tureens, and utensils. The chamber’s light had been dimmed, and the table was an inviting, glowing sight that beckoned the hungry with savory aromas. There was wine, venison, buttery biscuits, creamy potato soup, an assortment of fresh fruit, and a blackberry pie sprinkled with sugar. The Demon was too hungry to care where his food came from, and Miria was too polite to ask. Eraekryst was curious enough to sample any dish that was not meat. The guests thanked their hosts, and the feast began.
“Did you enjoy your bath, Hawkshadow?” Neriene asked.
The Demon glanced at Miria. “Yes, thanks.”
“It is important you are refreshed and clear in thought,” Maevia said. “We would not want to be responsible for hasty decisions.”
“Y’re going to give me a choice,” the Demon inferred.
“There are always choices; we will present a solution,” Maevia said.
“And a price,” the Demon said, looking at both of them.
“You will find our offer fair. If not, you may decline it,” Neriene told him. “Eraekryst has agreed to the removal of his collar, whereupon the collar becomes ours.”
“Which truly is a favor, for who would desire a reminder of his imprisonment?” Maevia asked.
“Unless it also reminds him of his liberation,” Miria said, and all eyes turned to her. She took a sip of wine. “Just trying to be positive.”
Maevia refocused upon the Demon. “Optimism does not always accompany realism.”
He looked back at her and shoved half a roll into his mouth.
“Just as Light almost never accompanies Shadow,” Neriene said. She ladled more soup into her bowl. “You must satisfy my curiosity. How is it that, in a world where creatures of Durós have been vanquished, and beings of the Ilán have retreated to their forest haven, we have both an Ilangien and a demon seated at our dining table?”
The Demon finished chewing before he spoke. “’S a long story, an’ I’m not sure I understand it.”
“In an abbreviated recounting, ’twas an expedition of sorts,” Eraekryst said. “The durmorth chanced upon me. He sought a remedy for his illness; I sought release from my bane. The solution, apparently, has brought us here.”
The Demon, knowing Eraekryst’s long-winded tendency, wondered why he should suddenly abbreviate any tale. He devoured another portion of meat and studied the Ilangien carefully, as though he could glean answers from his expressionless face.
“Yet when we discovered Hawkshadow, he was alone, and there was no indication where he had been headed,” Maevia said.
Eraekryst set the apple down on his plate. “He is a chaotic creature,” he said, as though his response was a sufficient answer.
“But you were coming to see us,” Neriene implied to the Demon.
He nodded. “I was told to find y’.”
“By who, may I ask?”
“A wizard. Raiskin. I thought ‘e was a friend o’ my brother’s.” The Demon stared absently at his food as he recalled the bitter situation.
“I know Medoriate Raiskin,” Miria said, joining the conversation. “He is an amiable man, easy to talk to.”
“Well, ‘e didn’t want to talk to me. ‘E promised my brother ‘e’d take me in.” He stabbed another piece of meat with his knife. “’E changed ‘is mind. ‘E couldn’t ‘ave a thief in ‘is ‘ome, an’ ‘e thought ‘e’d make up for it by telling me where…” The Demon trailed when a new thought occurred to him. They could have set this whole arrangement. They could have told him to refuse me, to direct me to them. He stared at the morsel he had speared. But why? Just to meet me? Then his stomach turned. How deep are they involved? Surely they didn’t have a hand in Em’ri’s death or the Seroko….
“Are you all right?” Miria whispered to him.
He did not keep her gaze. “Yes.”
“Well,” Neriene started again, “without your brother having told you about us, you might not have been aware of our reputation. You may have, by now, guessed that Maevia and I are fascinated by the ancient magic of creation. I have done extensive research concerning the Durós, where as Maevia has become an authority on the Ilán. So now you can understand why we are excited to have you both as guests.” She turned to Miria. “With no lack of respect intended toward you, Medoriate Woolens.”
Miria colored. “None taken.”
“You have a tree growing from a glowing puddle in your living chamber,” Eraekryst said, having turned his chair completely around to gaze at the plant in question.
“You are most observant,” Maevia said. “It does freshen the air and improve the scenery.”
“I would imagine it does,” Eraekryst mused, still facing away from them. “’Tis also a fruiting tree. One with ripened apples.” He turned and lifted the one he had bitten. “Would this be a product of the interior arbor?”
“We do not eat of that tree,” Maevia said, her voice flat. “As I’ve said, it’s there for visual interest.”
“What of the water? Liquid sunshine, is it?” he asked, almost cheerily.
“Yes, in a manner,” Neriene replied. “A tree cannot grow without light or water.”
“I did not know,” Eraekryst said innocently.
Maevia glared at him, but Neriene dismissed the comment easily. “You are quite the jester, forest-dweller. A shame we can’t always have such humor in our midst.”
The Ilangien smiled and returned to his apple. “But you can have a tree.” His crunch seemed to resonate through the chamber.
“Y’re suddenly in a good mood,” the Demon said to him.
“Undoubtedly he is eager to be free of his burden,” Neriene said.
“Just so.” But Eraekryst’s smile faded.
By now most of them had finished their meal, including the Demon, who had quickly devoured his third helping. He detected a change in the witches’ mood, and this revived his disquiet.
“We should, I think, proceed to d
essert,” Maevia said, and she began to divide the blackberry pie. Once she had dealt everyone a portion, she waited until they had sampled the slice before she spoke again. “One does not strive so hard for survival as one whose life is in imminent danger.”
The Demon ceased chewing, the sweet fruit of the pie turning to ash in his mouth.
“Mother,” Neriene reprimanded.
“The feast has ended, Neriene. To what purpose should we keep him waiting?” Maevia said, her eyes upon the Demon yet again.
“Very well, but allow me to address the matter. You are rather crass in your approach.” Neriene regarded the Demon in sympathy. “Maevia and I discussed your problem at great length, and there was only one remedy we could devise.”
“The Shadow must be extracted,” Maevia broke in, and Neriene flashed her a look of disapproval.
“Alright,” the Demon said, having expected worse news.
“All of the Shadow,” Maevia clarified.
Neriene was quick to explain. “We cannot isolate the plague from the Shadow that is in your blood, your being. To remove the plague is to remove the Durós completely.” She gave him a weak smile. “But the hope lies within your mixed blood. You are Falquirian as well as demon.”
“If you are strong enough to survive the extraction,” Maevia said, “you will exist as a Falquirian.”
“In theory,” Neriene added.
Encroaching silence descended upon the members of the table. The Demon could not speak.
“That is excellent news,” Eraekryst said.
The Demon’s wide-eyed stare bore into him.
Undaunted, the Ilangien continued. “To think that you would no longer have to suffer an impoverished life of terminal sickness and reclusiveness! You could conceivably become a functioning member of Human society, and you could capitalize upon all the essentials Humans value: an occupation, a domicile, a family. This is quite an opportunity.”
Miria bit her lip. “Eraekryst, I admire that you can see the advantages of this solution, but…” She gestured toward the sullen-faced Demon. “Don’t you think there is more to this than the ‘Human essentials’?”
