The Demon Lord (33 page)

“... somewhere out of the way,” his father was saying softly, almost as if the words were meant for his own ears. “Somewhere to put the crazy man and his whelp where it can seem like a reward for service—but where his ravings and chasings after swords cannot do us any harm… Yes… and then the Albans cultivated me and I accepted them, and nobody was any the wiser that for once in my life I had enough gold. But listen to the wise words of a madman, Crisen: if your fellow-conspirator, confidant, friend Lord-Commander Voord thinks he can do this without you, then you’ll follow the Vreijek girl down something’s throat.”

“The girl… ?”

“It may be wise to play the fool, my son—but this is not the time to start! Of course, the girl! You were besotted with her—”

“I
loved
her, father… !”

Geruath ignored him. “Were besotted with her and it affected your efficiency. The Drusalans are most insistent on efficiency… so Voord killed her, and so that it would seem an accident he used sorcery. Used the books you bought for Sedna to have her torn apart.”

“How—what makes you so sure?”

“Because I have eyes, and I have wits, and I can use them both! You saw, in the library, and yet you chose not to see… And now, to vindicate yourself in the eyes of your Imperial friend, to prove that what he thought of you was wrong, you intend to use this obscenity again. And you claim that you loved her…

“Voord left with unusual haste, did he not? Without farewells… because either he knows exactly what he summoned up—or he does not know and is afraid of finding out. But it is certainly beyond your small capabilities, Crisen my son. This thing is no wolf…”

“But—but why not use this opportunity anyway, father? Listen to me! The empire is tearing itself apart; Ioen and Etzel are so busy trying to avoid an outright war that nobody will notice an ambitious man using the chaos to further his own ends. Especially you—you have made no secret of your detestation of sorcery, so who would suspect you of all
people
as the man who controls a demon—”

“They would be more likely to suspect
you!
”

The criticism did not halt Crisen’s flow of words even for an instant. “Kill three other Overlords along the frontier…”—he suggested half a dozen in as many breaths—”... then wait a while before you move, as you did with Seghar, and you would be not a usurper but the man who saved their domains from anarchy. And with the revenue from your new lands it would be easy to bribe someone in Drakkesborg to confirm possession. It’s simple—and it would convince the Albans that their money isn’t being wasted…”

“No! I should never have listened to you in the first place. And when I saw what had been done to Duar, my stomach almost shamed me before the two
hlensyarlen”

“You were not so squeamish about Erwan Evenou, ten years past. People always die to further great schemes, father, so why worry needlessly? This demon is no more deadly than a good sharp—
what was that
?” Crisen’s head snapped round sharply and cocked on one side to catch the faint sound which had attracted his attention; but to no avail. Frowning, hand on sword-hilt, he walked softly to the chamber door and paused there an instant before reaching out to snatch it open. There was nothing outside save an empty corridor.

“What is the matter with you?” his father demanded.

Crisen looked uncertainly over his shoulder towards the door, then shrugged, and rubbed fingertips to forehead. “Nothing… I think.”

“And if it was something, what would you think?”

“Music… One note.”

“A bell? A gong? A flute… ?”

“A voice. Many voices… Nothing. It must have been inside my head.”

“That’s an overly elaborate description of what you dismiss as nothing…” Geruath’s voice was subtly different now and a sneer of contempt underlay what might have been mere bantering. “Forget it! And forget your plans for Seghar—at least,
these
plans. They give our opponents too much leverage—and without support to offset that leverage, either Ioen or Etzel may well spare time from their own squabbles to snuff us out.”

“But the demon could—”

“I said, forget it. If I am dealing with Rynert of Alba, then I must have some honour left me…”

“Honour is a word that weaklings hide behind—” The words came out without thought and Crisen bit his tongue too late.

Lord Geruath raised flaming eyes towards his son’s face, then smashed the back of his hand across that face with all his strength, spinning back the younger man against the wall.

“Never speak to me like that again!” his father hissed. “
Never
... ! You will rule here only after I am dead— but I assure you that my health is excellent, my son. Remember that: J am Overlord of Seghar! I should have known you had no honour in you when you broke into the Kings-mound—”

“You were scarcely backward in plundering it of weapons!”

“Yet I did not enter like a thief!”

“No… you just stood by and let me do that for you.”

“And why did your friend Voord go creeping to it in the dead of night, eh? Answer me that!”

Crisen shook his pounding head and knuckled, wincing, at the bruises along his jaw. The old man was talking nonsense now, because Voord had never gone near the opened tomb…

“Why did he decide to clean it, eh?” the Overlord persisted. “Why… ? You haven’t got an answer to that, have you?”

“
Eldheisart
Voord did not—”

“He
did
!” Geruath lashed out again and Crisen flinched to avoid the bony knuckles. They missed—but instead a gemstone-heavy ring struck home and split his lower lip wide open… “I know—because I had him watched,” the Overlord snarled, heedless of what he had just done despite the shreds of his own son’s flesh clinging to the jewel on his hand. “He sent a file of my best mercenaries there on some cursed errand—and not a man of them came back! Sorcery, may the Father of Fires burn him black! Eternal shame on the House Seg-harlin, that my son calls him friend…”

Geruath’s face was white with fury now, the rouge on his cheekbones a blazing contrast to the ivory skin beneath it, and the saliva clinging to his teeth was growing frothy with the frenzied movements of his mouth. “Get out of my sight!” he shrieked. “Get out and take your filthy plots away with you! I order that the demon is to be destroyed and I will be obeyed! Then… then I shall attend to that insolent Alban bastard…” His voice dropped to a slavering whisper that was thick with anticipated atrocities. “Have it done. No… you do it.
Now
!”

Blood dribbled from Crisen’s slack-lipped mouth and dripped unheeded from his chin as he gaped in shock and hate and horror at the mowing, screeching thing which was his father. Geruath had played the madman’s part so well and for so long that role and reason and reality had jumbled past the point of separation… Collecting his scattered wits, Crisen came to a decision and left the room without a word. Or any indication of respect.

The lord’s-men were long gone; and with their departure a great stillness filled the dark cellars of the citadel of Seghar. It remained unbroken until at last Marek moved to follow the vanished soldiers.

“Where are you going?” Aldric Talvalin’s voice was very quiet, barely carrying to the demon queller’s ears, but something about its tone stopped Marek in his tracks.

“Out of here,” he said without turning round.

“Away from here,” the Alban corrected him, “but not out. Not until you’ve told me what the hell is going on.”

Marek swung his head a little, just enough to see Aldric’s face out of the corner of one eye. “Not in this—”

“Yes, in this place. Because there was a man killed in this place: a man who might be alive still if you were not so evasive… Or were you simply curious to see what the demon was capable of doing… ? Did you sacrifice a life to emphasise your point to Geruath… ? Was that the reason, Marek?”

“
No
!” Outraged by such suggestions, the demon queller twisted to face his accuser. He had expected to see anger, a trace of contempt perhaps; instead he saw only sadness.

“So you say. I hope it’s the truth. I wish I could believe it.”

“It
is
the truth.”

“So. You wanted inside Sedna’s library, did you not? Where is it?”

“L-library… ?” Marek stammered in surprise. “But I told you: they won’t let me see it? The place is locked and guarded—”

“So you’ve seen the door at least. Good! Lead the way.”

“We can’t get in!”

Aldric glanced at him and smiled, a contraction of muscles that drew his lips taut for an instant. “Marek Endain, you are a wise, wise man—but still you have much to learn. Especially about me. Walk on; you can tell me about demons as you go…”

“But what about the Overlord?”

“What about the Overlord?” Aldric repeated in a flat voice. Marek looked, and listened, and shrugged expressively. What indeed?

“I know—augmented by guesswork—what has happened here,” he began, and flushed angrily as Aldric struck his hands together in soft, ironic applause. “If you’re going to—” the Cernuan snapped, then shook his head. “Why bother? You are… what Dewan ar Korentin told me to expect. And you are not are not a religious man.” Although it was not a question, it seemed to require some kind of answer.

“I respect the Light of Heaven,” Aldric said cautiously. “Of course. But I doubt that you could call me holy.”

“I greatly doubt it. But you have an education second to none.”

The Alban grimaced at that compliment—if such it was—for some of the subjects of his education had caused him to be sent here in the first place. What had Rynert said… ?
You are a wizard’s fosterling my lord, and his over-apt pupil You have no compunction about use of the Art Magic
...
You must prove you are a man bound by the Honour-Codes if you are to be trusted
...
The task I set you now will make plain that you are worthy of the title
ilauem-arluth
Talvalin
...”
Task
. A small, neat word for what the king required.
Murder
was more accurate. Murder in cold blood… He had killed before, but never like that, and Aldric doubted he could do it even to Crisen Geruath. “I am not an executioner…” he muttered, repeating the old litany, then realised that Marek was staring at him.

“I thought,” said the demon queller with over-heavy dignity, “you wanted me to tell you what I know of demons… ?”

“I do.”

“Then grant me the small courtesy of listening… !”

Aldric was not in the mood for an argument. “About my education… ?” he prompted gently.

“Yes,” said Marek, slightly mollified that at least some of his words had been heard. “Then you should know that the gods of one religion are usually the demons of the next. It is their first step down the road from faith through myth into oblivion. When men ceased worshipping them, the old gods who were before God”— Aldric’s head jerked round an inch at that, unsettled to hear dead Evthan’s words repeated by someone who had never heard them—”were cast down, and their shrines decayed. It is easier by far to call on demons than on gods: the one hears constant prayer, the other must be grateful for any small attention to stave off descent into the forgotten dark. But for all that, they have no love for the men whose ancestors put them aside in favour of another. It is common even for ordinary mortals to brood over a rejection, so how much more—”

“Are you making game of me?” The lethal iciness in Aldric’s voice was like nothing Marek had ever heard before; it was plainly not provoked by memories of the Jouvaine girl Gueynor, for what had happened there had merely made the Alban harsh and irritable. Whereas he sounded deadly now. Almost too late, Marek recalled the name of Tehal Kyrin; he had been warned both by Gemmel Errekren and by ar Korentin to avoid that subject at all costs. And now for the sake of effect, he had come so close…

“The page you found,” Marek continued hastily, “was a warning—”

“As is this: never, ever play with my past again.” The black-clad Alban laid one hand to his longsword’s hilt, but Marek could see that it was not meant as a threat; more an instinctive reaching-out for something familiar, for something—if the word could be applied to a
taiken
—comforting. “So what did it warn against?”

There was a moment’s hesitation while Marek set his shock-jumbled thoughts in order. He had thought he knew Aldric now—although the young
eijo
was still full of disturbing surprises—and thought too that such knowledge might make his companion easier to understand and less dangerous. It worried him to discover just how wrong he had been…

“It is a chant—a song without music—which has been a part of demon-lore for centuries. Issaqua”---Marek blessed himself carefully—”was—is—one of the discarded gods. The Ancient Ones. He was once Joybringer, Sum-merlight, a bright being of flowers and growing things…”

“Flowers… ?” echoed Aldric, and though there was only cool dryness in the air of the corridor, a faint thread of rose-scented perfume seemed to touch his face with the gossamer lightness of early morning cobweb.

“Issaqua the Bale Flower, Dweller in Shadow, He who sings the Song of Desolation; there are many formal epithets describing him. Or it.” He thought a moment. “Or Him, or It,” he amended his pronunciation slightly. “Deity or demon, such things must be respected—if only for safety’s sake.”

“The Song of Desolation… I
know that I am lost
... so it was Issaqua who tore apart the soldier… ?”

“Have you not realised, even now, that you found a single corpse—and yet six men went down that tunnel! Understand me, Aldric—and being what you are, you should take my meaning more readily than any other man in this citadel—Issaqua is a demon lord. He will not answer a direct summons any more than a clan-lord would. The entity which did the killing is an intermediary, a herald, one of those demons with the power to pass beyond the Void with messages of reverence and worship. And with invitations to the Ancient. Half a dozen soldiers died to prove that accepting such an invitation is worthwhile.”

“Bait!” spat Aldric in disgust.