The Demon King (11 page)

Raisa knew the kissing was over. For the time being, anyway.

“When I saw you at dinner, you looked like a princess,” he said, graciously averting his eyes from her tear-blotched face. “I mean, I always knew that, but you seemed different than I remembered. Kind of…remote. Not what I expected.”

“You looked different too,” Raisa said, blotting her eyes. “I didn’t even recognize you until Mother called your name.” She managed a damp smile. “You…you’re very handsome, you know. You must have lots of sweethearts.” She couldn’t help thinking he’d had some practice kissing since she’d last seen him.

He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “There’s not much time for sweethearts at Oden’s Ford,” he said.

“Magret says I’m willful and spoiled. My mother says I’m stubborn. I do try to get my own way, but I think it’s because I’ll never get my way on anything that matters.” She looked up at him. “I won’t get to choose where I live, or who I marry, or even who my friends are. My time will never be my own.” She blew her nose, feeling bad about Amon’s handkerchief. “It’s not that I don’t want to be queen, I do. I guess I don’t want to be my mother.”

“Then don’t be,” Amon said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“But most girls would love to be her,” Raisa said, glancing around guiltily, as if someone might overhear them in the dank tunnel. “And I don’t know how to be anything different. I don’t want to be at the mercy of advisers. But how do you find things out? Other than how to play the lute or embroider, I mean. At least I know how to ride a horse and get along in the woods and shoot a bow from my time in Demonai. My father’s got me well on the way to being a trader. But that and embroidery’s not enough to be a good queen.”

“Well, I’m no scholar,” Amon said, leaning against the wall, seeming reassured that Raisa wouldn’t attack him again. “But there are people in Fellsmarch who know things. The speakers in the temple, for instance. There’s a huge library there.”

“I guess,” Raisa said. “It’s just such an ordeal to even go there. Sometimes I’d like to be invisible.” She twitched irritably. “I don’t even know what’s going on in the world. My mother’s advisers either tell her what she wants to hear, or they’re promoting their own agendas. People say she listens to them too much.”

People being her grandmother Elena, among others.

“Now who’s the cynic?” Amon said. “Maybe you need to find yourself some honest eyes and ears.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“Oh!” Raisa said, stricken. “I’m sorry. You said you have to get up.” Half an hour into reform, she was being as self-centered and inconsiderate as always. She tried to ignore the voice in her head that said, That’s what queens do.

“Come on, let’s go.” Seizing one of the torches, she led the way down the tunnel, trying to ignore the rustlings of rats and the reflected eyes of the creatures that stared down at her from the imperfections in the walls and scattered ahead of her at each turning.

Amon had no trouble keeping up, with his long legs. “How did this passageway get here?” he asked. “And who else knows about it?”

Raisa swiped a cobweb from her face. “I found it after I came back from Demonai,” she said. “It’s really old. I don’t know who made it, and I don’t think anybody knows about it. I haven’t told anyone but you.”

At last they reached the roughly circular stone chamber that meant the end of their journey.

“Here we are,” Raisa said, setting the torch into a bracket by the door. She slid back the panel and pushed aside the wardrobe she’d positioned in front of the entrance.

“Where are we?” Amon asked, mystified.

“You’ll see,” Raisa said, picking her way through a minefield of shoes and boots, pushing aside fluffy dresses on racks.

Her bedroom was chilly and dark, the fire dying in the hearth, her nightgown still laid out on the bed.

Amon emerged from the closet behind her and glanced about. His eyes widened and he looked a little panicked. “Raisa…is this your bedroom?”

“Yes,” Raisa said in an offhand fashion. She crossed to the hearth and poked at the fire, laying on another log.

“Blood of the demon,” Amon swore. “There’s a secret passage in the walls leading to your bedroom? That doesn’t worry you?”

She looked up at him. “No. Why should it?” In truth, it hadn’t. She’d been focused on the convenience of having a means to come and go without passing under the eyes of everyone in the busy palace corridors.

“Somebody made this,” Amon said. “Who else might know about it?”

“This apartment has been shut up for hundreds of years,” Raisa said. “Maybe a thousand. You should have seen the way it looked before we cleaned it up. Someone made it, but whoever it was would’ve died a long time ago.”

Amon was examining the sliding panel, running his hands over the wood molding surrounding it. “You should have it boarded it up, Raisa. Close it off permanently.”

“You worry too much,” Raisa said. “I’ve been here three months and no monsters have come through.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to talk to my father about it.”

“You will not,” Raisa said. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He tilted his head, frowning. “I don’t remember promising anything.”

“Anyway,” she went on, “I’ll see if there’s a way to put a lock on it. That should do.” She crossed to the small pantry, suddenly reluctant to see him go. “Do you want anything else to eat?”

He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I’d better go. We don’t want anyone to find me here.”

Raisa shook her head. “I guess not,” she said. She felt conflicted, confused. On the one hand, she mourned the Amon she’d known in childhood, a friendship that would never be the same. On the other, she felt a thrill of possibility, a breathless fascination with this new Amon and anything he might do or say.

She walked him to the door and they stepped out into the hallway.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said. “I’m really tired of southern food.” He paused, cleared his throat. “Don’t forget about the tunnel.”

“Sorry I kept you out so late,” Raisa said, committing to nothing. “But I’m really glad you’re home.” Putting her hand on his arm to steady herself, Raisa went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

“So this is where you’ve been all evening,” someone said in a voice as cold as a demon’s kiss.

Raisa jerked away from Amon and turned, knowing as she did so it was the wrong thing—the guilty thing—to do.

It was Micah Bayar, dark eyes glittering in the light from the sconces. A strong odor of wine said he’d been drinking.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, knowing the best defense is a good offense. “Skulking about the queen’s tower in the middle of the night?”

“I might ask this soldier the same question,” Micah said. “He seems rather…out of place.”

“Her Highness asked me to escort her back to her rooms,” Amon said, stumbling onto the excuse that she and Micah always used. “I was just leaving.”

“I see that,” Micah said. “I thought you had a headache,” he said to Raisa.

“I did,” she replied. She turned to Amon. “Good night and thank you, Corporal Byrne.”

She turned to enter her room, but Micah grabbed her arm, the loosed power in his grip stinging her flesh. “Hold on,” he said. “Don’t rush off. I need to understand something.”

Raisa tried to pull free. “Micah, I’m really tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“I think we should talk about this now,” Micah said, glaring at Amon. “While we’re all here together.”

“Let go!” Raisa said, trying to peel away his fingers with her free hand.

Suddenly Amon’s sword was in his hand and pointed at Micah.

“Sul ’Bayar,” Amon said. “The princess heir has asked you to let go of her. I suggest you do so.”

Micah blinked, then looked down at his hand on Raisa’s arm as if surprised to see it there. He let go and took a step back. “Raisa, listen, I didn’t mean…”

“You listen,” Raisa snapped. “You don’t own me. I don’t think I need to be interrogated if I want to spend some time with a friend. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

Amon stowed away his sword. “Your Highness, it’s late and we’re all tired. Why don’t you go on to bed, and we’ll both be on our way, all right?”

Raisa swallowed hard and stepped into the shelter of the doorway. Amon planted a hand on Micah’s shoulder and propelled him down the corridor. But the look Micah fired at Raisa over his shoulder said this wasn’t the end of it.

LESSONS TO BE LEARNED

“Mari, hurry up or we’ll be late!” Han said. He could hear the clamor of temple bells throughout the city, marking the half hour. “And pull a comb through your hair, will you? It looks like a rat’s nest.”

“But I don’t want to go to school,” Mari grumbled, lacing up her shoes. “Can’t we go see Lucius? He’s teaching me to fish.”

“It’s raining out. Besides, Mam doesn’t like you to visit Lucius,” Han said. “She thinks he’s a bad influence.”

“Mam doesn’t like you to visit Lucius,” Mari countered, struggling to disentangle the snarls in her hair. “And you still go.”

“When you’re old as me, you can aggravate Mam on your own,” he said, thinking Mari was too smart for her own good. Plus, she had a mouth that would get her into trouble. He should know.

He took the comb from Mari and used that and his fingers to put her hair in order.

“Mam won’t know, anyway,” Mari persisted, flinching when he pulled too hard. “She won’t be back from the castle ’til late.”

“Just shut it, Mari,” Han said unsympathetically. “If you can’t read and write and do figures, you’ll get cheated all your life. And how are you going to learn anything else?”

“Mam can’t read and write, and she has a job working for the queen,” Mari argued.

“That’s why she wants you to go to school,” Han said.

It had been two weeks since Han brought the amulet home, and their lives had settled into a different cadence. Mam had a new job in the laundry at Fellsmarch Castle. It was reliable money, but she had to leave long before dawn to walk the length of the town across multiple bridges to get there. She never got home before dark, either, so they were on their own for supper. But at least there was supper to be had.

It had become Han’s job to take Mari to and from school, which made it hard for him to work his route for Lucius. Once or twice he’d taken her with him on his rounds. Today he meant to leave off Mari, stop in at The Keg and Crown and several other Southbridge taverns, and get to and from Lucius’s place before Mari was done at school. It was a risk—the Southies might be laying for him, but it had to be done.

Han dampened a rag in the basin to scrub off Mari’s face, so the speakers at the temple wouldn’t think she was neglected. He couldn’t do much about her clothes, but she wasn’t the only one who shopped from the rag bin.

“Let’s go.”

It was still dark in the narrow streets and alleyways of Ragmarket. It had rained hard overnight—Han had awoken to water dripping on his face through the leaking roof. There were puddles everywhere and the gutters ran full, but the rain had diminished to an irritating drizzle. Han pulled Mari under the shelter of his too-large coat, and they staggered along like some poorly designed four-legged animal.

“I don’t see why it has to be so early,” Mari said. “They’ve got the whole day to have school.”

Han pulled her out of the way of a bakery cart that splashed muddy water up to their knees. “This way the ’prentices can get schooling and still get to work,” he said.

Southbridge Temple anchored the far end of South Bridge. Han often thought that whoever built Fellsmarch Castle might’ve had a hand in Southbridge Temple. Its soaring towers pricked the sky and reminded a person that there was a world beyond Ragmarket and Southbridge, even if you couldn’t get to it.

The stone facing around the door was carved with leaves and vines and flowers. Gargoyles launched themselves from every side of the building, and the downspouts were capped with fantastical creatures that must’ve died in the Breaking, because you never saw them these days.

The temple close housed libraries and dormitories for the dedicates—gardens and kitchens as well. It was by no means a cloister, however, since it welcomed in the citizens of the surrounding neighborhoods, feeding their minds along with their bodies.

Anyone could come inside the temple buildings and see artwork that had been collected for more than a thousand years. There were paintings and sculptures and tapestries with colors so brilliant they seemed to vibrate.

Han and Mari walked in through the side door as the great bells overhead began tolling the hour. They shook like a pair of dogs, scattering droplets over the slate floor of the foyer.

Classes were held in one of the side chapels. When they entered, Speaker Jemson was at the podium, riffling through notes. Behind him stood a line of easels holding paintings drawn from the temple collections that would be used to illustrate his presentation.

His dozen students fidgeted on cushions pulled from the benches in the sanctuary. It was a motley group of girls and boys, ranging in age from Mari’s seven to seventeen. Some were dressed for trade, meaning to go on to their jobs after class.

Jemson, Han thought. So the topic would be history.

“History,” Mari muttered, as if she’d overheard his thoughts. “Why do we need to know what happened before we were even born?”

“So hopefully we get smarter and don’t make the same mistakes again,” Han said, grinning at Jemson. It was one of Jemson’s favorite lines, and he knew his old teacher would appreciate it.

“Hanson Alister!” Jemson said, rounding his desk and striding toward them, his gown flapping around his thin legs. “It’s been a long time. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Well, I, um…” Han stammered, exquisitely conscious of Mari looking on. “Actually, I’m not staying. I have something I need to do…”

“He thinks he’s already smart enough,” Mari said, nibbling at a fingernail.

“That’s not it,” Han said. “It’s just I’m working now and…”

“That’s too bad,” Jemson cut in. “We’ll be discussing the Breaking and how it’s been depicted in art through the ages. Fascinating stuff.”

Jemson thought everything was fascinating. It was kind of catching.

Only this time Han had his own reasons for being interested in the Breaking. The story Lucius had told was still rattling around in his brain, kindling little fires wherever it landed. And buried under the forge in the yard was something that might be a piece of that history. Han wanted reinforcement of what he knew to be true.

Except…

“The thing is, I’ve got business in Southbridge and I can’t bring Mari along,” Han said. “So I thought I’d go while she’s in class.”

Jemson eyed him, no doubt taking in his still-purple eye and bruised cheekbone, but not feeling the need to mention it. Which was one of the things Han liked about Jemson.

“I see. Well, most business in Southbridge doesn’t get up this early anyway,” the speaker said dryly.

Exactly. Han was relying on the Southies sleeping in. At least it seemed less likely he’d run afoul of them at this time of day.

You never used to go out of your way to avoid trouble, he thought. You used to go looking for it.

“Tell you what,” Jemson said, displaying his usual persistence, “sit in on class, and afterward Mari can stay with the speakers in the library while you go about your business. We’ll give her supper, if need be.” He paused, then couldn’t resist adding, “You will be careful, won’t you? For Mari’s sake, if not your own?”

“I’m always careful,” Han said, glancing at Mari. “And I guess I can stay a little while.” It wasn’t like he’d outgrown the temple school. There were boys older than him in the class.

“Excellent. Spectacular, in fact.” Jemson put on his teacher face and turned to the rest of the class. “Yesterday we discussed the events leading up to the Breaking. Today we’ll talk about some of the people involved. Who can name one of them?”

“Well, there was Queen Hanalea,” one small girl ventured.

“Good work, Hannah!” Jemson said, as if she’d just demonstrated how to change dung into gold. “There was Queen Hanalea, for whom we thank the Maker every day.”

He turned one of the easels to reveal a painting Han recognized immediately as Hanalea Blessing the Children. In it, the legendary queen looked to be thirteen or fourteen. She was seated at a harp, dressed all in white, like a dedicate, her glittering hair gathered into a loose plait, her complexion creamy pink, like rose porcelain. She looked like one of those fancy dolls in the shop windows along the Way of the Queens. The ones Mari pined for and would never have.

In the painting, Hanalea extended her hands toward a group of younger children, smiling benevolently, the glow from her skin illuminating their rapt upturned faces.

“This is Hanalea as a young girl, before the terrible events that we’ve—”

“Excuse me, Speaker Jemson,” Han said. “The painter—was that someone who knew Hanalea?”

Jemson blinked at him, caught midsentence. “Say again?”

“When was that painted?” Han asked. “Was it painted from life or is it just somebody’s idea of what Hanalea looked like?”

Jemson grinned. “Master Alister, we have missed your presence in these classes. This was painted by Cedwyn Mallyson in the New Year 505. What does that tell us?”

A serious-looking boy in threadbare clothes and a clark’s collar said, “It was painted more than five hundred years after the Breaking. So the painter couldn’t have known her.”

“So it’s possible she looked entirely different?” Han said.

Jemson nodded. “It is possible. What are the implications of that?”

This launched a discussion of something Jemson called social context: how religion and politics influence art, and art in turn shapes opinion. Jemson’s enthusiasm rolled right over some of the younger students, who looked bewildered and excited at the same time.

“Since Hanalea carried clan blood, what are the chances that she was blue eyed and fair haired?” Jemson asked. “It seems more likely she was dark haired and dark skinned.”

“Are there any paintings of Hanalea done by people who actually knew her, sir?” Han asked.

“I don’t know,” Jemson said. “There may be, right here in the archives. Why don’t you look into that and report back to the class?”

That was Jemson, always snaring you into projects that involved time in the library; that would bring you back to class another day.

“Well. Maybe,” Han said.

Jemson nodded, knowing better than to push. “So we have our Hanalea, as she’s represented in history and art. Who else played a role?”

“The Demon King,” Mari said, shivering a little. Several of the other students made the sign of the Maker, to ward off evil.

“Yes, indeed. We have the Demon King, who single-handedly changed the course of the world by nearly destroying it.” With a flourish, Jemson turned another easel to display another painting. If Han recalled correctly, this one was called The Demon King in Madness. Painted in lurid reds and purples, it depicted a hooded, robed figure outlined in flame. His arms were raised, his fanatical eyes glowed in the shade of the hood, the only aspect of his face that was visible. But Han’s eyes fixed on the demon’s skeletal right hand, which was holding aloft a glowing green amulet. A tangle of serpents. Han’s stomach did a sickening backflip.

“Some say he was the Breaker incarnate,” Jemson was saying. “Others that he was seduced by evil, made drunk by the power associated with dark magic. No one doubts that he was incredibly gifted.”

“What’s that in his hand?” Han asked.

Jemson glanced over at the painting. “It’s an amulet often seen in paintings of the Demon King. It’s thought to be a direct link to dark magic.”

“What happened to it?” Han asked. “Where is it now?”

Jemson turned and frowned at Han, as if trying to parse out the source of the rapid-fire questions. “I have no idea. Likely it was destroyed by the clans immediately after the Breaking, as were many of the most powerful magical pieces. In any event, it’s lost to history.”

“When was this painted?” Han asked. “And who did it?”

Jemson bent and examined the brass plate at the base of the painting. “The artist was Mandrake Bayar, painted in New Year 593.” He squinted at the engraved lettering. “It was a gift of the Bayar family.”

“Bayar?” Han’s heart stuttered. “But how would the artist know about the amulet if it was painted so long after the piece was destroyed?” The other students were staring at him, but he didn’t care.

Jemson shrugged. “It’s a common element in paintings of the Demon King. I’m assuming it was copied from an earlier work.”

Maybe, Han thought. Or maybe it was painted directly from the object itself.

“What was his name?” Han asked.

Jemson’s brow furrowed. “Whose name?”

“The Demon King. Did he have another name? From before.” Han persisted.

“Well, yes,” Jemson said, still looking puzzled. “His birth name was Alger Waterlow.”

For Han, Southbridge Temple was in every sense a sanctuary. It was a toehold in enemy territory, a refuge from the streets when he needed one. He couldn’t help feeling edgy as he left the safety of its walls and ventured into Southbridge, his first visit since the confrontation with the Southies in Brickmaker’s Alley.

Mari begged to come with him. Everything he did seemed to fascinate her, no matter if it was tedious or dangerous or on the hush. Before he left Mari at the library, he extracted a promise from her that she’d stay put. The last thing he needed was to be searching Southbridge for her.

He avoided Brickmaker’s Alley, just in case, and followed the river west from the bridge, wrinkling his nose against the stench. If the Southies came after him, he reasoned, he could jump into the Dyrnnewater. No one who wasn’t in fear for his life would follow him into that cesspool. The pristine river that emerged from the Eastern Spirits became an open sewer in Fellsmarch. It was a thorn in the side of the clans, who considered the river sacred.

The streets were strangely quiet, even for this time of day, and the Queen’s Guard was unusually visible. Han faded away from several bluejacket patrols and had to continually adjust his route to avoid clusters of soldiers on street corners. In Southbridge, guilty or not, you avoided the Guard. It was a tradition handed down through generations.

By the time he reached The Keg and Crown, it was nearly midday. It should’ve been prime for the lunch trade, but only about half the tables were occupied. Matieu stood at the bar, glumly carving plate-size slices off a leg of mutton.