The Demon King

  “You just have to remember who your friends are, is all,” Han said. “Maybe you have something to teach the Demonais about loyalty.”

  “I didn’t speak up for him at the ceremony,” she said, swiping at her nose.

  “I didn’t either.” He sat next to her and put an arm around her, and she turned toward him, burrowing her face into his shoulder. He patted her back awkwardly, trying not to notice her chest pressed against his. She smelled of pine and leather and summer in the uplands.

  Bird raised her head and looked up at him, her lashes wet and clumped together. She slid her arms around his neck, pulling his head down, and suddenly they were kissing like desperate people, like it was the last kiss either one of them would ever get. He lowered her down to the rock, kissing her nose, her eyelids, every part he could reach, and she slid her hands under his shirt, pressing him closer, her hands warm and rough against his back.

  It was the first thing in a long time that made him happy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BLOOD AND ROSES

  The day after the Bayars’ party, word came down from the queen that since Raisa was ill, she was to stay in her room and rest. Raisa wasn’t sure whether this was 1) Marianna’s genuine concern about her daughter’s well-being, and desire to have her well recovered in time for her own party, 2) punishment for being foolish enough to be ensnared by Micah Bayar, or 3) a strategy for building anticipation for Raisa’s name day party to a fever pitch.

  Raisa sent several messages to her mother, requesting an audience, but Marianna did not reply. Hadn’t Lord Averill told her mother what the Bayars had done? Surely he had. Then why was she being punished? Raisa fumed and fretted, but it did no good.

  A basketful of cards and invitations graced the table in Raisa’s entry hall, but Magret had her orders and declined them all on the princess’s behalf. As word of her purported illness circulated, gifts and flowers flowed in until the mingled fragrances made her half sick for real.

  A dozen roses arrived each morning from Micah Bayar, a different color every day. When Magret refused them, they accumulated in the hallway until it looked like a shrine to some forgotten goddess. Soon Raisa was sending them out to all of her ladies-in-waiting and to the healers’ halls at the temple.

  Micah sent her several messages, asking permission to visit, but she did not reply. Magret continued to sleep in her room, and a member of the Queen’s Guard always seemed to be lingering outside her door. Clearly the queen meant to prevent any clandestine trysts or further wizardly intrigue.

  This prevented any meetings with Amon as well. Raisa wished she could slip out through the tunnel and climb up to the garden and find him there, pacing the cobblestones or waiting on the bench. She found herself dwelling on him more and more.

  When she wasn’t thinking of Amon Byrne, she was haunted by Han Alister. The streetlord ambushed her in her dreams, swaggering up the street as he had in Ragmarket, with his quick wit and sardonic smile. She remembered the way he’d pushed her behind him, pressed a knife into her hand, and faced down six Raggers on her behalf.

  If you’re going to knife someone, don’t think about it so long, he’d said. And now he was dead. Had he hesitated at some critical moment, and been lost? Was there something she could have done differently that would have saved him?

  Was it her job to save him?

  I need to go to parties, Raisa mused, so I don’t think so much.

  Her only visitors were dressmakers and combers and her chattering ladies-in-waiting, who slept till noon, then spent the early afternoons in Raisa’s chambers, going on and on about the parties they’d been to, and the dresses they’d worn and planned to wear, before retiring to their chambers to prepare for the evening ahead.

  It was considered a social coup to host southern royalty, even if they had fallen on hard times. So, with Raisa unavail-able, the Tomlins and Lady Heresford were swept from dance to dance and dinner to dinner with scarcely a chance to visit the garderobe between.

  Raisa missed Melissa Hakkam’s name day party, but Missy came the next afternoon to tell her all about it. Missy was all baggy-eyed and yawning, having stayed out till the wee hours.

  “A shame you couldn’t have been there. Mother was so disappointed,” Missy said. “She kept pairing me up with this dreadful Arno Manhold. Can you imagine? Lady Melissa Manhold? How awkward.”

  “Who is he?” Raisa asked disinterestedly, to stop the flood of words.

  “He’s a ship owner from Chalk Cliffs—well, he’s actually from the Northern Isles—and he’s at least fifty years old. He does own ten ships, and he has loads of money and three houses, one in Fellsmarch, one in Chalk Cliffs, and an estate along the Dyrnnewater, but he’s a tradesman, after all, and he trod on my feet all night, and he only knows two old dances.”

  “What if he owned four houses,” Raisa said. “And a hunting lodge in the Heartfangs. How many dances would he need to know then?”

  Missy blinked at her, confused. “Well! I’m sure I don’t know. Me, I am hoping for a southern match. I mean, Prince Liam is so handsome.” Missy heaved a great sigh and batted her eyelashes. “And he says such wicked things. He’s a wonderful dancer too, unlike the Klemaths. How does this sound?” She struck an elegant pose, tossing back her excessive hair. “Princess Melissa of Tamron.”

  “Some people say matters are rather—unsettled—in Tamron,” Raisa said, unable to resist deflating Missy. “They say there’s a chance the war in Arden will spread west.”

  “Some people are tiresome and gloomy,” Missy said, completely undeflated. “We could both be princesses, wouldn’t that be wonderful? I might even become queen before you.”

  “Prince Liam has declared himself, then? He’s spoken to his father? What wonderful news!” Raisa said, stooping to cruelty.

  Now Missy looked flustered. “Well, of course not. His father is in Tamron and Prince Liam is here, but no doubt when he returns home…”

  Just then Magret tapped on the door to Raisa’s bedroom, entered, and curtsied. “Lord Averill Demonai, Royal Consort, to see you, Your Highness.” Magret always went formal when Raisa had company.

  Good, Raisa thought. Maybe I’ll finally find out what’s going on.

  “I’d best go, Your Highness,” Missy said, rising and curtsying herself. “There’s a tea this afternoon for Lady Heresford. I only wish you could come.” She backed from the room under Raisa’s scowl as Averill entered.

  Raisa embraced her father. “Thank the Maker you’re here. I am going crazy, not knowing anything. What’s going on? Are the Bayars in trouble?”

  Averill took a deep breath and shook his head. “Well, no. Not exactly.”

  “What?” Raisa backed away from him. “What do you mean, not exactly?” Then she noticed that he was wearing traveling clothes, his trader pouch slung over his shoulder.

  “You’re going away again,” she said, her heart sinking.

  “Briefly,” Averill said, with a wry smile. “The queen has decided I should ride to Chalk Cliffs and speak with the garrison commander about port security. It seems there’s a problem with pirates.”

  “Why you?” Raisa said. “And why now? It’s the middle of the season, and my party is only four days away.”

  “Why indeed?” he said lightly. “Your mother is not pleased with me these days, I’m afraid,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ll be back in plenty of time for your celebration. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Why doesn’t she send Captain Byrne?” Raisa muttered. “Or General Klemath?”

  “Captain Byrne is coming with me, in fact,” Averill said. He paused, as if to let the weight of his words settle.

  “She’s sending you away, while I feel like I’m being held captive,” Raisa grumbled, pacing the floor. “I haven’t even had a chance to properly meet Prince Liam and Princess Marina. I don’t get it. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing right now—going to parties? Meeting prospective suitors?”

  “Why do you
think she’s doing this, Briar Rose?” Averill gazed out through the windows over a city without shadows, stark in the noonday sun.

  Raisa pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, trying to massage away the headache Missy always left behind. “Is she blaming me for what happened at the Bayars’ party?”

  “I told her about the amulet. She should know it wasn’t your fault. But she seems angry with me for raising the issue.”

  “Angry with you? But why?” Raisa felt stupid. She hated feeling stupid.

  Averill sighed. “When she confronted Lord Bayar, he explained to Her Majesty that the jinxpieces are harmless reproductions of old magical pieces; that they gifted you and Micah with matching jewelry to symbolize the long connection between the queens of the Fells and the Bayar family.”

  He turned away from the window and looked at her straight on. “Lord Bayar showed the queen the serpent necklace and ring, which were, indeed, very well-crafted reproductions.”

  Raisa’s hand crept to her neck. A faint welt lingered where the pendant had rested. Was it possible? Could it really have been a matter of too much wine and Micah Bayar’s kisses?

  “Are you saying you were mistaken?” she said. “That the necklace wasn’t really…”

  “No.” Averill shook his head. “I was not mistaken,” he said without a trace of doubt in his voice or expression.

  “Why hasn’t my mother come to talk to me about it? Why is she asking Lord Bayar instead?”

  Averill hesitated, as if debating how much to say. “Lord Bayar suggested that you and Micah simply got carried away. You violated the rules against congress between wizards and the Gray Wolf line, and so were looking for an excuse.”

  Raisa snatched up a bouquet off the mantel and flung it into the fireplace. The porcelain vase shattered, sending chips flying in all directions and scattering lilies and orchids across the hearth.

  “Your Highness!” Magret exclaimed, poking her head in from her quarters next door. “Blessed lady!” she added when she saw the mess.

  “Briar Rose,” her father said, shaking his head and putting his finger to his lips. Raisa read the message in his eyes. Trader face, he was saying.

  It wasn’t easy. Raisa was in the mood for breaking things. But she mastered herself and said, “It’s all right, Magret. It slipped. I’ll clean it up later.”

  Averill waited until the door closed behind Magret before he went on. “Marianna has forbidden Micah to see you. He’s restricted to Aerie House. She has confined you to your room. She seems to believe that’s appropriate punishment.”

  “What is Micah saying?” Raisa asked glumly.

  Averill shrugged. “He’s saying nothing at all. That I know of, anyway.”

  Raisa gestured vaguely at the floral display. “He’s been sending flowers. Asking to visit.”

  “You know your mother doesn’t like trouble,” Averill said. “She’d rather not know about some things so she doesn’t have to confront them. It may be nothing more than that.”

  Raisa nodded. “I even thought maybe she wanted to keep me away from the other parties to, you know, make my party more special,” she said. “She seems determined to make it the party of the year.” It sounded foolish now that she was saying it.

  “That may be,” Averill said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Apparently Marianna sees no need to show you off before then.” He hesitated, then plowed ahead. “Your mother may worry that I have a clan match in mind for you. There’s been talk about you and Reid Demonai.”

  “Reid?” Raisa frowned. She and Reid had shared some kisses, some long walks in the woods, a few dances at clan gatherings. “I like Reid, but there’s been talk of him and every girl at Demonai.”

  “It didn’t help that I supposedly spirited you off to Demonai without telling her,” Averill said.

  “That’s my fault, and I’m sorry,” Raisa said. “It was a stupid thing to do, going to Southbridge Temple without an escort. It could have ended much worse.”

  She’d never have met Han Alister. She wouldn’t have to feel bad that he was dead.

  Averill waved her regrets away. “You have to take chances, Raisa. What seems safest on its face may not be in the long run. Your ministry is making a real difference in Southbridge and Ragmarket. Speaker Jemson is working wonders with the money you’ve provided.”

  “I’ve meant to go and visit,” Raisa said, pacing again. “But everything is so hard right now. I feel like a prisoner.”

  Averill fingered the Demonai pendant that hung around his neck. “Could it be that your mother already has a match in mind for you?”

  Raisa stopped pacing and swung around. “I’ve told her I don’t want to marry any time soon.”

  Averill shrugged. “Sometimes monarchs must act on a match, whether the timing is ideal or not. You’ve heard of child marriages among the nobility, I know, especially in the south. Not that you’re a child any longer, Raisa.”

  Raisa studied her father’s face, hoping he was teasing her, but he looked completely serious. “There’s so much I want to do before I get married,” she said. “With the war going on, I haven’t even had the chance to travel. I’d like to go to Tamron and We’enhaven and Arden, and see how they do things there. I want to see Oden’s Ford. I want to go sailing on the Indio and visit the Northern Isles.”

  “And get captured by pirates, no doubt.” Averill held up his hand, laughing. “You are too much like me, daughter. Unable to keep still for very long. I take it your mother hasn’t mentioned a specific suitor, then?”

  Raisa shook her head. “She does seem to be opposed to a southern match, though. She said things were too unsettled, that I might marry someone who’d lose his throne the next week. I said, Fine, I have my own throne. I told her we should wait until the war is over and it’s all sorted out.”

  “What did she say to that?” Averill asked.

  “Well.” Raisa thought back to her conversation with the queen. “She seems to be in a hurry. You know how she is. She wants to see me settled.” A cold dread settled under Raisa’s breastbone. Did the queen really intend to marry her off before she’d had a chance to do anything?

  Who would it be? One of the Klemaths? Jon Hakkam? About the best that could be said for them was that they’d be easy to manage.

  “I’m going to wait until after I’m crowned,” Raisa said. “And then I’ll marry whoever I like.”

  She scowled fiercely at her father, and he grinned back, shaking his head. They both knew that was unlikely to happen. Queens married for the good of the realm.

  “Just…be careful, Briar Rose,” Averill said. “You have good instincts. Listen to them.”

  “I will.” Raisa nodded. “Well,” she said shyly, taking his hands, “I guess this is good-bye for a few days.”

  “The next time I see you, you’ll be officially grown,” Averill said. “Named heir to the Gray Wolf throne. Breaking hearts all around, no doubt.”

  “Pursued by every spotty, ambitious lord and second son between twelve and eighty,” Raisa replied, shivering. She’d been looking forward to this season in her life: to dancing and flirting and kissing and love poems and notes ferried by trusted friends, and secret meetings in the garden, but when it came down to it, who would she have if she had a choice?

  Micah was intriguing, but she didn’t really trust him, even if a marriage to him were possible.

  No one else came to mind except Amon, and that would never be either.

  She looked up to find her father gazing at her sympathetically, as if he could read her mind.

  “Save at least one dance for me.” He kissed her on the forehead, and was gone.

  Following the incidents in Southbridge and his lack of success in having Mac Gillen booted from the Guard, Edon Byrne had proposed reassigning Amon to a less treacherous neighborhood, where there would be less opportunity for Gillen to take revenge.

  Amon had refused the reassignment. Absent a posting to Raisa’s personal guard
(which carried its own risks and temptations), there was nowhere else he’d rather be than on the meanest streets of Fellsmarch. So instead of reassigning Amon, Edon transferred his Oden’s Ford classmates to Southbridge Guardhouse, so he’d have someone to watch his back.

  One thing was true—Southbridge was a great place to learn. Amon learned more in two months than in a year at Oden’s Ford. Though, to be fair, it was a different curriculum, to a different purpose. He knew he’d need the theory and strategy and history he’d studied at Wien House as an officer.

  In Ragmarket and Southbridge, he learned how to defuse a potentially violent situation without drawing his sword. He learned to look into a man’s face and predict whether he would run or fight, whether he was lying or telling the truth. He learned how to put a victim at ease, so he could get the information he needed to track down a thief. When trouble was brewing, he could smell it in the air.

  Amon developed networks of residents who began to trust that he wouldn’t betray them if they fed him information about thieves or tipped him off to a gang fight. The other soldiers at the Southbridge Guardhouse—the good ones—learned that he wouldn’t betray them either, and they began to turn to him for leadership of sorts.

  All in all, Amon felt that he was doing some good, despite Mac Gillen. Best of all, his successes were a constant irritant to his sergeant.

  One night he and his patrol returned to Southbridge Guardhouse to find his father waiting in the briefing room, maps spread over a long table. It was two a.m., and a rumble of snores came from the next room. Jak Barnhouse, the duty officer, was hovering, practically wringing his hands.

  “I know Sergeant Gillen would want to speak with you, if he was here,” Corporal Barnhouse said. “I don’t know where he is just now.”

  “The rest of you, give your reports to Corporal Barnhouse and get some sleep,” Edon said, waving off Amon’s squadron. “I need to speak with Corporal Byrne in private.”

  They shuffled off with Barnhouse, looking over their shoulders like they were hoping Captain Byrne would relent, and they’d be asked to stay.