The Demon King

Raisa felt hemmed in by wizards, oppressed by the tension between Micah and his father. It was quite wearing.

When dinner ended, the band reassembled. There would be dancing into the small hours, relentless drinking and flirting, underscored by a series of lame entertainments. In the card room awaited the dance of the would-be suitors. It was time to escape.

She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead. “I’m off to bed,” she said. “I’ve a nasty headache.” She pushed back her chair. When Micah and Lord Bayar made as if to rise, she said, “Please, sit. I’d like to slip out quietly.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Micah asked, glancing at his father, then back at Raisa. “Why don’t I escort you back to your rooms?”

As if she needed help to find her way, but they’d often used that excuse to find time alone.

She stood. “No. You’re the guests of honor. Her Majesty will be disappointed if you leave. Thank you again for everything.”

Queen Marianna was looking at her, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. Raisa shrugged and again touched her forehead, the universal sign for headache. The queen nodded, blew her a kiss, and turned back to Miphis, who still looked thrilled and amazed to be sitting next to the queen.

Raisa walked the length of the dining room to the door. Hesitating, she looked back and saw the Demonais watching, a faint smile on Elena’s face.

As she passed between Amon and his fellow soldier, she did not look to the left or right, but muttered, “The usual place, soon as you’re able.”

CHAPTER FIVE OLD STORIES

Han put off leaving Marisa Pines as long as possible. It was late morning the next day when he said his good-byes and descended Hanalea, following the Dyrnnewater toward the Vale.

He’d sold or traded everything but the worthless snagwort, which would have to wait for the Flatlander Market. Coins jingled in his purse, and his bag bulged with trade goods—fabric and leatherwork he could sell at a profit, pouches of clan remedies, plus enough smoked venison to make a meal. And the amulet, hidden at the bottom.

He still mourned the deer he might have taken, but all in all, he’d done well for this early in the season.

He hoped Mam would agree.

On the way down the mountain, he stopped off at several solitary cabins to see if there was mail to go or goods to be carried down to market or orders for supplies that he would carry up the next time. Many of the cabin dwellers were clan who preferred life away from the bustle of the camps. There were also former flatlanders who liked solitude or had reason to avoid the notice of the queen’s heavy-handed guard. Han earned a little money by carrying news and mail up and down the mountains and acting as agent for those highlanders who didn’t care to visit the Vale.

Lucius Frowsley was one of those. His cabin stood where Old Woman Creek poured into the Dyrnnewater. He’d lived on the mountain so long, he looked like a piece broken off of it, with his craggy face and the clothes that draped his skinny body like juniper on a hillside. His eyes were opaque and cloudy as a winter sky—he’d been blinded as a young man.

Despite his blindness, the old man owned the most productive still in the Spirit Mountains.

Though Lucius could navigate the trails and ledges of the high country like a goat, he never went to Fellsmarch if he had a choice. So Han carried orders and containers and money up from the Vale, and product down. The containers were full when he carried them downhill and light and empty when he carried them up.

The best part: Lucius had books—not as many as in the temple library, but more books than any one man had a right to. He kept them locked in a trunk to protect them from the weather. What a blind man needed with a library, Han couldn’t say, but the old man encouraged him to take full advantage, and he did. Some days he staggered down the mountain with half his weight in books.

That was another mystery—Han should have read them all twice over by now. But Lucius always seemed to have new ones.

Lucius was cranky and profane and maybe siphoned off a little too much of his own product. But he was fair to Han, and told the truth, and always paid on time, which was rare. No one had dared steal from Cuffs Alister, streetlord of Ragmarket. But since he’d left the life, Han had been cheated more times than he cared to remember.

Lucius was also a nonjudgmental source of information. He knew everything, and, unlike Mam, he’d answer any question without a lecture.

The hillside cabin was empty, as was the distillery shack behind, but Han knew where to look. He found Lucius fishing in Old Woman Creek, which he did daily three seasons of the year. It was an excuse to sit and doze on the creek bank and sip from the bottle he always kept at hand. His dog, a rough-coated shepherd named Dog, sprawled by his feet.

As Han walked up the creek bed toward him, Lucius dropped his fishing pole and jerked around as if startled. The old man raised his hands as if for protection, his face pale and frightened, his blighted eyes wide under his wiry brows.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, sleeves flapping around skinny arms. Like usual, he was dressed in mismatched clan castoffs and Ragmarket finds. Being blind, he wasn’t fussy about color.

“Hey, Lucius,” Han called. “It’s just me. Han.”

Dog raised his head and woofed approvingly, then rested his head on his paws, twitching his ears to drive off flies.

Lucius’s hands came down, though he still looked wary. “Boy!” he said. Lucius always called him boy. “You oughtn’t to sneak up on folks that way.”

Han rolled his eyes. He’d come along the water, same as always. Everybody was acting strange today.

Han squatted next to Lucius, touching his shoulder so he’d know where he was, and the old man started violently.

“Catching anything?” Han asked, beginning to feel aggravated.

Lucius squinted his rheumy blue eyes like it was a hard question, then reached down and hauled a clan-woven fish basket out of the creek. “Catched all of four, so far.”

“Those fish for sale?” Han asked. “I can get you a good price at the market.”

Lucius considered this a moment. “Nope. Going to eat these fish m’self.”

Han settled himself back against a tree and extended his long legs in their flatland breeches. “Need anything to go with?” he asked, patting his backpack. “I have dried peppers and Tamron spice.”

Lucius snorted. “Fish will do me fine, boy.”

“Anything for Fellsmarch?” Han asked.

Lucius nodded. “It’s set aside in the dog run.”

Their business concluded, Han stared out at the rocks pricking the surface of the creek. Lucius still seemed jittery and unsettled. He kept tilting his head this way and that, as if to pick up a scent or a faint sound on the breeze. “You got your cuffs on, boy?” he asked abruptly.

“What do you think?” Han muttered. Like he could get them off.

Lucius seized Han’s arm and dragged back his sleeve, fingering the silver band as if to read the runes by touch. The old man grunted and released Han’s arm, still muttering to himself.

“What’s with you?” Han demanded, yanking at his sleeves.

“I smell hex magic,” Lucius said, in typically incompre-hensible Frowsley fashion.

Han thought of the amulet in his carry bag, but decided there was no way Lucius could know it was in there. “What do you know about magic?”

“A little.” Lucius rubbed his nose with his forefinger. “Not enough and too much.”

Han tried again. “What do you know about wizards, then?”

Lucius sat motionless for a long moment. “Why do you ask?”

Han stared at him. Most adults answered questions with questions, but not Lucius.

When Han didn’t answer immediately, the old man clamped his hand down on Han’s shoulder. “Why do you ask?” Lucius repeated fiercely.

“Ow. Hey, take it easy,” Han said, and Lucius let go. “Dancer and I had a run-in with some wizards up on Hanalea,” Han said, rubbing his shoulder. He told Lucius what had happened.

“Bayar, you say?” Lucius scowled and found his fishing pole again. “Thea’s bloody, bloody bones.”

Lucius had been born on the mountain known as Thea, spiritual home of that legendary queen of the Fells. So he favored Thea when it came to swearing, even though most swore by Hanalea.

Han asked him about it once, and Lucius told him that Hanalea was too powerful a word to be flinging around.

“Do you know him?” Han asked.

Lucius nodded. “Know of him. His father more so. Gavan Bayar. He’s the High Wizard, you know. Heart as cold as the Dyrnnewater. Ambitious too. You don’t want to get in his way.”

Micah Bayar had mentioned his father’s high office, like bluebloods always did. “What else could he want?” Han asked. “Besides being High Wizard?”

“Well.” Lucius lifted the tip of his pole, trying the line. “Fellow like Bayar, he’s never satisfied. I’m guessing he wants to be High Wizard without all the tethers and restrictions put in place by the Naéming. Some say he wants the queen as well.”

Han was confused. “He wants the queen? She already has a consort, doesn’t she? Somebody from Demonai?”

Lucius wheezed with laughter. “For a street rat, you got no idea what’s going on, do you?” He shook his gray head in amazement. “You got to keep your ear to the ground and your nose in the wind if you want to survive in these times.”

Han couldn’t picture how that physical feat could be accomplished. He could never figure out how Lucius knew everything that was going on, when he stayed up on the mountain all the time. It was a mystery.

Lucius’s laughter finally wore out, and he wiped tears from his eyes. “Averill Demonai is Queen Marianna’s consort. But he’s a trader, and traders travel a lot. Spends too much time away for his own good, if you ask me. But nobody does.”

Han struggled to control his impatience. All this talk of politics was boring, and had nothing to do with him. “About wizards,” he prodded Lucius. “How do they get magic?”

“It’s in their blood,” Lucius said, stroking Dog’s head. “It’s like they get the raw talent, but they ain’t really powerful until they study up and learn to store and control it with an amulet. In fact, they’re dangersome until then, like a colt that ain’t well broke and don’t know its own strength.”

Han thought of Micah Bayar, face black with anger, gripping his fancy jinxpiece and muttering charms. “Why? Do they have to say spells or something to make it work?”

“That’s part of the learning up,” Lucius said, nodding. “That Bayar, he’s from Aerie House. Maybe the most powerful wizard family there is, since the fall of the Waterlows.”

“Who are the Waterlows?” Han asked. “I never heard of them.”

“Never mind. That house died out years ago.” Lucius yanked up the tip of his fishing pole, felt his way down the line to the lure, then shook his head. “Guess they’ve stopped biting,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to pack it in.”

“Lucius,” Han persisted. He knew from experience that things people didn’t want to tell you were likely to be the most interesting. “Who were the Waterlows? Why did they fall?”

“Boy, you can pester a body near to death.” Lucius grabbed up his bottle and took a swig, then wiped his mouth with a grimy sleeve. “It all happened a thousant years ago and it don’t matter anymore,” he said. When Han said nothing, Lucius snorted. “Y’know, most boys your age ain’t interested in digging up old bones and old stories.”

Han still said nothing.

Lucius released a gusty sigh and nodded, as if coming to a decision. “So a thousant years ago there was this powerful wizard house. Named Waterlow House. Signia was a raven and wizard crest was a twined serpent.”

Han blinked at him, then dug in his bag, unearthing the parcel containing the serpent amulet he’d taken from the jinxflinger on Hanalea. He weighed it in his hand, recalling what Bayar had said. If you even touch it, you’ll be incinerated.

Lucius turned his sightless eyes on Han. “What you got there, boy?” he demanded, extending his hand as if he could feel the heat of it too. “Give it over.”

Han hesitated. “I don’t know if I…”

“Give it here, boy.” The old man’s voice rang out, startlingly loud and compelling. It was like Lucius had been possessed by some other, irresistible being.

Han pressed the leather bundle into Lucius’s hand. “Be careful, Lucius. It might…”

Lucius ripped open the leather wrapping and pulled free the jinxpiece.

Han leaned away, tensing against any possible explosion. None came.

Lucius ran his weather-beaten hands over the amulet, and his lined face went slack with shock. “Where did you get this?” he whispered.

“Bayar had it.” Han hesitated, unsure how much to share. “He tried to use it to jinx Dancer. I took it from him. I don’t think he was supposed to have it.”

Lucius laughed, a harsh barking sound. “Sweet Thea’s kiss. I would guess not.”

“Why? What is it?”

Lucius kept stroking the carving with his thick fingers as if he couldn’t believe what his senses were telling him. “It’s from the Waterlows, all right. Their treasury of magical artifacts was legendary. An armory, more like. No one ever knew what happened to it after the Breaking.” The purple vein over his right eye pulsed dangerously. “I’ll wager that snake Micah had no idea what he had.” He nodded once. “And now you have it.” Lucius extended the amulet toward Han. When Han hesitated, Lucius said impatiently, “Take it, boy. It won’t bite.”

Han took it warily, weighing it in his palm. It felt pleasantly heavy and warm, vibrating with a power Han could feel in his breastbone and in the cuffs at his wrists.

Warring emotions tracked across the old man’s face, finally fading to an expression of alarm. Once again he gripped Han’s arm, his long nails biting into Han’s flesh. “Does Bayar know who you are, boy? Does he know you have this?”

Han shrugged uneasily. “I didn’t tell him my name, if that’s what you mean.” When Lucius didn’t look reassured, he added, “Look. I’ll give it back, if it’s that important. All right?”

Lucius let go of his arm and drummed his fingers on his thighs, furiously thinking. “No,” he said finally. “Don’t give it back. It’s too late for that. Keep it hid. Keep it safe. Better Aerie House don’t have it.” He chuckled bitterly. “Stay out of their way, the Bayars.”

Han had never seen a Bayar before now, and doubted he would again unless Micah returned to Hanalea. Hopefully he wouldn’t. “Fine,” he said, rewrapping the necklace and stowing it back in his bag. What good was asking questions if you didn’t understand a word of the answers? “You were saying? About the Waterlows?”

“If you want to hear a story, don’t interrupt.” Lucius rubbed his bristled jaw and returned to his story voice. “The wizards came from the Northern Isles. They landed on the east coast and conquered the rest of the Seven Realms with their high magic. Clan magic couldn’t hold against it. It’s green magic, subtle stuff, not good in a fight. Strongest magic they is, but made for healing, not destroying. Clan has it because they in harmony with nature. The matriarchs and the amulet-makers, they’ve learned how to draw on it.

“These wizards chose to live in the Vale. They married theirselfs to the blooded queens and reined as kings, but they wasn’t bound to the queens the way they are today. The succession still came through the true female line. The trouble started during the reign of Hanalea, the most beautiful woman who ever lived.”

Han nodded. Lucius had finally strayed onto familiar ground.

“Hanalea was handfasted to a wizard name of Kinley Bayar, of Aerie House, which was powerful then as now. Bayar was set to be king. But there was this young wizard, name of Alger, heir to Waterlow House. He fell hard for Hanalea—that wasn’t unusual. Only problem was, Alger was terrible powerful and used to getting what he wanted. He saw no reason why he shouldn’t have Hanalea all to hisself.

“The council said no, and Aerie House especially said no. But Hanalea, she had a mind of her own. She disliked Bayar, who was an old man to her, cold and heartless as any snake. And she fancied young Alger, who was as handsome as she was beautiful. She run off with him, and they holed up in the Spirits with his allies—an army of wizards from Waterlow House and some of his friends—the best and brightest wizards of a generation.

“Alger proclaimed himself king and married Hanalea. The council couldn’t put up with that, so the other wizard houses marched on Waterlow and laid siege to their hold. Anyone could see it was a lost cause, but not this boy. He was a longtime student of dark magic, and he thought he could conjure a spell that would end the siege and scare the council off.

“Hanalea tried to talk him out of it. She wanted to give herself up to Aerie House, but he was headstrong and wouldn’t listen.” Lucius smiled sadly. “Boy was a fool for love. Too much power and too little knowledge. They was together only three months.”

Han shifted impatiently. Stories about Hanalea and her many suitors were like lengths of old cloth, so worn down by the telling, you couldn’t tell one from another or even see the individual threads anymore.

Lucius stared into space, his milky blue eyes like painted-over windows that hid what lay within. Han was good at reading people—he had to be—but he could never read Lucius.

“So? What happened?” Han asked dutifully.

Lucius flinched, as if he’d forgotten Han was there. “They killed him, a’course. After. They took him to Aerie House and tortured him for days and forced that young girl to listen to his screams. But it was too late. The damage was done.”

Han blinked, caught by surprise. “What damage? What are you talking about?”

Lucius raised bushy eyebrows. “The Breaking, a’course. You’ve heard of that?” he asked sarcastically.

“I’ve heard of the Breaking,” Han said irritably. “What’s that got to…” His voice trailed off and he stared at Lucius, wondering if the old man had sipped a little too much product. “Hold on. You’re talking about the Demon King?” He whispered the last two words, which people tended to do, and resisted the urge to make a sign against evil.

“His name was Alger,” Lucius said softly, his whole body slumping into a puddle of wrinkled skin and drab cloth.

The sun went behind a cloud, and it was suddenly cold on the creek bank. Han shivered and drew his jacket closer around him.

Lucius’s unfortunate Alger Waterlow was the Demon King? Not possible.

The Demon King was the monster in every scary story. The devil you wouldn’t name for fear of calling him to you. The one that waited in the dark down a crooked street for bad children to come his way.

“That’s not true!” Han burst out, fueled by righteous indignation and a lifetime of stories. “The Demon King stole Hanalea away on her wedding night. He chained her in his dungeon when she refused him. He tortured her with dark sorcery, trying to win her heart. When she resisted, he broke the world.”

“He was a boy,” Lucius muttered, fumbling for his flask. “They were in love.”

“He was a monster,” Han countered, shying a rock into the creek. “She destroyed him.” He’d seen the frieze in the temple at Fellsmarch. It was called The Triumph of Hanalea and consisted of a series of scenes: Hanalea in chains, defying the Demon King. Hanalea, beautiful and terrible, holding the world together with green magic as the Demon King tried to shatter it. Hanalea standing over the Demon King’s lifeless body, a sword in her hand.

If it’s carved in stone, it has to be true, Han thought.

“They killed him,” Lucius said. “And that released a destructive power like the world has never known, before or since.” He sighed, shaking his head, as if it hadn’t been the Demon King’s fault at all.

“Afterward, the wizards meant to marry Hanalea off to Kinley Bayar.” The old man sat up straighter, his eyes oddly clear and focused. His usually quavery voice rang out like a temple orator’s, and his highland accent fell away. “But they had their hands full. The world was breaking, crumbling into chaos. Earthquakes shook their castles down. Flames erupted from the ground. The oceans boiled away and forests turned to ash. Night fell and stayed for months, lit only by the fires that burned day and night. The air was too thick to breathe. Nothing they conjured would stop it. Finally they had to turn to the clans for help.”

Disappointment flamed within Han. How had they strayed so far afield from his original question about wizardry? He’d asked a serious question, and been repaid with this dreamer’s tale. He’d wasted half the morning on the creek bank, the unwilling victim of an old man’s fantasies. Now Mam would skin him alive for being so late.

“Thanks for the story and all,” Han said, “but I’ve got to go. He scrambled to his feet and slid his backpack over one shoulder. “I’ll pick up the bottles at the dog run.”

“Sit, boy!” Lucius commanded. “You got this story started, now you got to hear me out.”

Fuming, Han settled back on the creek bank. He’d never signed on for a monologue.

When Lucius was satisfied he’d held his audience, he continued. “The clans recognized the lineage of queens, so Hanalea acted as go-between. Think of what that must’ve been like. Negotiating with the clans on behalf of your sweetheart’s murderers.” Lucius smiled sadly. “But Hanalea had grown up. She was strong and smart as well as beautiful. She reclaimed the power of the Gray Wolf line. What grew out of those talks was the Naéming.”

Lucius ticked off the tenets of the Naéming on his gnarled fingers. “In exchange for healing the world, the clans put wizards on a short leash. High magic and wizards were forbidden in the Spirits. They’re confined to the Vale and the flatlands. The clan speakers have temples in Fellsmarch, and the queens got to go to temple once a week to learn the true faith. The Wizard Council chooses the most powerful wizard in the Fells as High Wizard and head of the council, but he is magically bound to the land and the queen, and ruled by her. The queens are fostered in the camps as children.” Lucius smiled faintly. “And wizards ain’t allowed to marry our queens anymore, because that gives them too much power.”

“Hanalea agreed to that?” Han said. Guess they put the queen on a short leash too, he thought.

Lucius nodded, as if he’d read Han’s mind. “The queen of the Fells is both the most powerful and the least free person in the entire queendom. She is a slave to duty once she comes of age.”

“But she’s the queen,” Han said. “Can’t she do whatever she wants?”

“Hanalea had learned the price of following her heart,” Lucius said. He paused, his face settling into sorrowful folds. “So she bent her knee for the greater good, and married somebody she didn’t love.”

Han frowned. The stories always ended with the destruction of the Demon King and the triumph of Hanalea. “So, who did she marry, then? Bayar was a wizard, so…?”

Lucius shook his head. “Poor Kinley Bayar met with an accident soon after the Breaking. She married somebody else.” After the rich details of the story so far, he seemed rather sketchy on that point.

Han stood again, then hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other, compelled to say something. “You know, Lucius, I’m practically grown. I’m too old for fairy stories.”

For a long moment the old man didn’t respond. “Don’t ask for the truth, boy, unless you’re ready to hear it,” Lucius said, staring sightlessly out at Old Woman Creek. “Just remember what I said. Keep the amulet hid, and stay out of the way of the Bayars. They got too much power as it is. If they find out you have it, they’ll kill you for it.”

CHAPTER SIX FELLSMARCH

The city of Fellsmarch nestled at the edge of the Vale, a fertile valley where the Dyrnnewater shouldered its way between the rocky cliffs of Hanalea and the rippling skirts of Alyssa, her sister peak. The Spirit-dwelling clan often referred to residents of the Vale as flatlanders. The Valefolk in turn looked down on the city of Delphi and the plains of Arden to the south.