Sorcerer's Son (53 page)

Cray leaned back on his demon-cushion. His clothes were there; he shrugged into his tunic, then opened his left hand. The rings lay clumped together, the skin of his palm deeply marked by their presence. In the fading light he could not read the demons’ names inscribed on their inner surfaces, and he called Yra to him for a lamp. By the soft demon-glow, the gold gleamed mellow, the stones sparkled red, blue, yellow, black. One by one he slipped them on his fingers, leaving one index finger empty till he found Gildrum’s ring and set it there. He put the rest on quickly, and then he closed his fists and turned them before his eyes, gold-and gem-encrusted.

“You are a great sorcerer now,” Elrelet whispered. “Lord Rezhyk’s former slaves await your commands.”

Cray covered one hand with the other. “Take me to Spinweb.”

The destruction about his mother’s home was enormous. A vast open space, once dense forest, surrounded the castle, the naked ground churned up as by a giant’s plow; Rezhyk’s demons had uprooted all the trees and piled them against the walls for burning. About those soot-coated walls, the intended funeral pyre, blackened and drenched, still steamed in the dusk. The air demons cleared a wide path to the gate, and Elrelet set Cray down there.

The doorway was covered only with spiderweb gauze. Cray brushed it aside and plunged drunkenly across the ash-laden floor, down the corridor, calling his mother’s name. He heard an answer at last from the garden, where he found the two of them sitting together among the sooty roses—she in her black feathers and he with the form and features that Cray knew so well from the tapestry. He ran toward them, tears streaming down his face, and they opened their arms to him.

“You’re hurt,” his mother whispered, her gentle hands touching his cheek, where blood still oozed from the slowly clotting gash. A spider scurried down her arm to seal the wound with sticky silk.

“Lord Rezhyk did that,” he said. “I killed him.”

“I know. Gildrum told me.” She glanced at the demon, his face so close beside her own that his breath stirred the hair at her brow.

“Gildrum?” Cray murmured. “Then you must know.”

“Not everything, I’m sure. But enough.”

“And you forgive him?”

“There is nothing to forgive. He served his master as a slave must. But he loves me.”

“Yes,” said Gildrum.

“And I love him. Demon or human, it doesn’t matter.”

Cray lifted his ring-cluttered hands. “I took these.”

“I know,” said Gildrum. “I felt it happen

my lord.”

“No,” said Cray. “I will not be your lord.” He pulled the plain band from his finger and set it on his upturned palm. “I free you, slave. You are bound to me no longer. Take this as a sign of your freedom.”

Gildrum scooped the circlet from Cray’s hand and closed it tightly in his own, so tightly that the knuckles showed white with pressure. For a moment, faint heat radiated from the fist. When it opened again, there were nail marks in the unhuman flesh, and the red-gold band was gone. “Thank you,” Gildrum whispered.

“Its mate is buried in the ruins of Ringforge,” said Cray.

“Let it stay there. I need no new forms. I have no intention of using any but the one I wear now.”

“That pleases me well enough,” Delivev said, smiling at him. Then she turned her eyes to her son. “Cray, my heart is so full of gratitude that I can’t begin to speak of it. For bringing him back to me

”

“And to me,” said Cray.

She nodded. “You have worked long and hard for this day, I know. Perhaps

all of your life.” Her gaze flickered from one of his ring-clad hands to the other. “And now you are a mighty sorcerer.”

Cray looked at the rings himself, at red gold and white, and gleaming yellow. They cramped his fingers, stiffened them, and slid against each other, scraping, pinching. He felt as if he were wearing a pair of metal gauntlets without their leather liners. He shook his head. “I have a bargain to keep—rings to make and demons to set free. After that, these, too, shall go. I never wanted demon slaves.”

Her eyes searched his face. “What do you want then, my son?”

He smiled, and the cut on his cheek, though covered with silk, stung—a sharp reminder of the day’s events. “I have everything I want. The two of you. Together.” He hugged them both, one with each arm. “And later, perhaps when I have finished with rings

I might find some time for spiders and ivy and climbing roses.”

Delivev kissed his good cheek softly. “Welcome home, my son.”

And Gildrum echoed, “Welcome home, My son.”