The Demon King Read online

  “You’re planning to go at night?” Amon said, staring at her as if all his worst fears were being realized.

  “Well, yes,” Raisa said. “I’m less likely to be recognized in the dark.”

  “You’re also more likely to get your throat cut. Or worse.” He stood also, towering over her, hoping he could intimidate her into changing her mind. “This is a really bad idea. Drop it, Rai, or I’ll tell my da, and he’ll have someone waiting to intercept you.”

  Raisa met his gaze directly, though she had to tilt her head back to do so. “And if you do, I’ll just wait and go another time on my own.”

  It was their pattern from childhood, and difficult to break. She came up with the bold, dangerous ideas, and he provided the muscle to see them through.

  They stood glaring at each other for a long moment.

  “I might not be able to reach Elena,” Amon grumbled. That’s how Raisa knew she’d won.

  Only—why was he giving up so easily? She scanned his face. He wouldn’t look at her, which meant he was hatching some scheme or other.

  Fine. Whatever it was, she’d deal with it. She leaned in, intending a rather chaste kiss on the cheek, but he turned his head and it landed rather close to the corner of his mouth. She jerked back and they stared at each other. Close up, his face was pleasantly stubbled.

  “Well then.” She stood, feeling flushed and flustered. “Thank you for coming tonight. I feel like you’re the only friend I have.”

  She crossed to the tunnel opening at the center of the temple. “Even if you can’t come to Southbridge, let’s meet here a week from now, and I’ll let you know how it went.”

  “If you’re still alive a week from now,” he grumbled.

  She grinned at him. “Close the hatch for me, will you?” She began to descend the ladder, feeling more alive than she had since her return to court.

  Not that she didn’t feel a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t fair, what she was asking of Amon, and she knew it. He had much more to lose than she did. He was a member of the Queen’s Guard, sworn to her service. His own father, the captain of the Guard, had told him to keep his distance from Raisa.

  Then again, it wasn’t like she was asking him to commit treason. She was the princess heir, after all, and he was in her service too.

  But he was already in trouble on her account. The Bayars were known to be dangerous enemies, and Micah would be looking for a chance to get back at him. And all her excuses didn’t change the fact that Amon would be the one to suffer if they were found out. A posting to Chalk Cliffs would be the least of it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sanctuary

  The Southbridge Temple bells bonged four times. The sound reverberated on the cobblestones, proclaiming that it was four in the morning and any sensible person should be safe in bed. The torches to either side of the blessing entrance still blazed, however, welcoming anyone at need any hour of the day. At this particular moment, Han would have preferred to be hidden in darkness.

  Pressing himself into the shadow of the building, Han lifted the elaborate knocker and allowed it to slam against the wooden door a second time. He looked over his shoulder, expecting at any moment to feel the hard grip of the Guard on his arm or the prick of cold steel.

  He heard footsteps within, then the rattle of the latch as the door swung in. A white-robed dedicate blinked at him, her pale hair tousled from sleep. She looked to be the same age as Han. “The Maker bless you,” she said, yawning; then her eyes went wide as she focused more closely on him. “What happened to you, mate?” she demanded, her Southbridge accent surfacing. “You been in a fight?” she asked, avid curiosity driving away sleep.

  “I need a place to stay,” Han said, and added, “please,” when she still stood frozen. “I swear by the Maker, I’m not here to hurt anybody.” He swayed a bit, and she draped an arm around his waist and helped him to a stone bench in the entryway.

  She drew back quickly, brushing at her robes. “You stink,” she said, making a face.

  “Sorry. I fell in the river,” he said, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” she asked.

  He ignored the question. “Could you wake Speaker Jemson, please? It’s important.”

  “Well, I don’t know as he’d like bein’ waked at this time of night,” she said. “Can I give him a message in the morning?”

  Han kept his eyes closed and said nothing. Eventually he heard her pad away down the corridor. He was nearly asleep when he heard the rumble of Jemson’s voice drawing nearer.

  “How badly is he hurt, Dori? You’re sure he’s not one of our students?”

  “I don’t know as I’d recognize him, even if I knew him, Master Jemson. He’s right mangled, he is.”

  Han opened his eyes to see Jemson looking down at him, tall and severe.

  “Master Alister. Thank the Maker you’re alive. I feared the worst.”

  “Where’s Mari?” Han asked.

  “She’s sleeping, safe in the dormitory. The dedicates have taken charge of her. I sent word to your mother so she wouldn’t worry.”

  Han struggled to sit up one-armed. “You got to get her out of Southbridge and back to Ragmarket,” he said. “Nobody can know where I live or that I even have a sister.”

  Jemson looked over at Dori, who was listening with great interest. “That will be all, Dori,” he said. “Go on to bed. I’ll manage from here.”

  Dori shuffled out reluctantly, with many backward looks.

  The speaker knelt in a whisper of fabric so he could look Han directly in the eyes. “Tell me, Hanson, did you have anything to do with those killings?” he asked sternly. “I need to know the truth.”

  “No, sir,” Han whispered. “I swear it.”

  “Any idea of who might have done it? Or why?” Jemson asked.

  Han shook his head. “No. But I’m being blamed. The Queen’s Guard is hunting me.” He looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry to get you mucked up in this, and I’ll leave if you want me to. It’s just . . . I got to get off the street and I have nowhere to go. If I can make it up to Marisa Pines, I can stay out of sight up there for a while, but first, I got some business here.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Jemson said. “You left this morning on business, and came back bloodied, on the run from the Guard. I think you’d best leave well enough alone.”

  “But I have to find out who did the Southies,” Han said.

  “If it was the Raggers, I need to know. I can’t stay in the mountains forever. I can’t leave Mam and Mari on their own.”

  “We’ll see,” Jemson said. “In the meantime, you need healing. If I’m not mistaken, that arm is broken.”

  Han had been cradling his injured arm with his other one. It was swollen from elbow to wrist, and turning a nasty blue-green color. His silver cuff was tight, the flesh bulging around it.

  “I can’t pay for a healer,” Han said. “Maybe if we bind it, it can wait till I get to Marisa Pines.”

  “Actually, there’s someone here who can help, I think,” the speaker said. “Are you able to stand?”

  When Han nodded, the speaker said, “Come with me.” Jemson helped Han to his feet and led him down the hall, supporting his good elbow with one hand and carrying a lamp in the other. The usually bustling corridors were eerily silent, the temple sleeping around them. Jemson led him past the sanctuary and classrooms to the stone dormitories where the boarders and dedicates stayed.

  They crossed a moonlit courtyard, and Jemson pushed open the door to a room that gave onto the healer’s garden. Inside were two single beds, a table, a straight chair and a rocker, a tub for bathing, a trunk, and a dry sink and basin.

  Jemson set the lamp on the table. “Lie down and rest. I’ll be right back.”

  Han sank gratefully onto the bed, feeling guilty because he was still filthy from the river, but too tired to do anything about it. Just having a refuge, someplace to sle
ep for a few hours, was a blessing. His arm throbbed, but he was so tired he fell into a kind of worried waking sleep. It seemed only minutes later that he woke, startled, when someone entered the room and sat on the edge of his bed. He groped for a knife that was no longer there.

  “Hunts Alone, what have the flatlanders done to you?” Willo set her healer’s bag next to him and put her cool hand on his feverish forehead.

  “Willo?” His mouth was so dry he could scarcely force out the word. “What are you doing here?” Willo never came to the city. She claimed it drained all the magic out of her.

  “I had business in Fellsmarch,” she said. She gently examined his arm, and the touch of her hand was like cool water flowing over it, washing away the pain. Rising, she poured water from the pitcher into a cup and sprinkled the contents of a beaded pouch into it. “Here,” she said. “Drink. It’s willow bark. It will help with the pain.”

  It was willow bark and turtleweed, and maybe something else, too, because then it seemed he began hallucinating.

  A door opened and closed, and he thought he heard Dancer say, “What happened to Hunts Alone? Who did this? Let me see him.”

  Then Willo’s voice, some kind of argument, like she was trying to persuade him to leave. Quick footsteps, then Dancer loomed over him, breathing hard, eyes wild, his face gleaming with sweat, his hair hanging in long damp strands. He wore a dedicate’s robe, bright against his dark skin.

  “Hunts Alone,” he whispered, extending his hand toward Han’s face.

  Dancer’s skin kindled and blazed, and flames pinwheeled out from his body. Han threw his good arm over his face to protect it. Then Willo and Jemson were dragging Dancer back, out of Han’s sight.

  “You can’t help him, Dancer,” Willo was saying urgently. “Go with Jemson, and let me work. Please.”

  “Dancer!” Han shouted, trying to rise, but the drug made him helpless. Dancer was sick. Dancer was on fire. Fire Dancer.

  Moments later, Willo returned. He tried to speak to her, to ask her what was going on, but he couldn’t articulate the words. He was vaguely aware of Willo straightening his arm, saying words over it, splinting it, binding it to his body. And he knew nothing else after that.

  He awoke in the late afternoon. Sunlight slanted through the windows, birds were singing, and the scent of flowers wafted through the open door. All good.

  He looked down at himself. Somehow they’d bathed him and dressed him in a dedicate’s white robe. His purse was sitting on his bedside table, but his clothes seemed to be missing. The swelling in his arm had gone down dramatically. It was bound tightly to his chest, and there was only a dull ache to remind him of the blinding pain of the day before. With any luck he’d have full use of it by the end of the week. Willo had worked on him before.

  Images swirled through his mind like smears of wet paint. Gillen’s club coming down on his head. Dancer on fire. Willo’s worried face.

  He swung his legs off the bed and stood shakily, realizing he was starving. That was another thing about rapid healing— it left you ravenous. He shuffled barefoot to the door and peered out into the garden in time to see Dori heading his way with a likely-looking tray.

  “Mother Willo said you’d be wanting something to eat,” Dori said. “Good to see you up and about.” She carried the tray into Han’s room and set it on the table, then sat down on one of the beds and drew her knees up, propping her feet on the bed frame as if she meant to stay awhile. She had a round, pretty face marred by rather narrow blue eyes and a small, unhappy mouth. He couldn’t tell much about the shape of her under the robes, but she looked rather plush.

  “Well, thanks,” Han said, sitting down on the other bed and pulling the napkin off the tray. He’d worried it might be porridge or some other invalid food, but it was a good slab of cheese, a hunk of brown bread, and some fruit. He tucked into it, washing it down with cups of water.

  “I’m Dori,” she said, leaning forward and sticking her face in close as if jealous of the attention the food was getting. “An’ you’re Cuffs Alister,” she added, nodding wisely. “I’ve heard of you. Everybody has.”

  “Good to meet you,” Han said with his mouth full.

  “I’m a first-year dedicate,” she said. “Before that, I lived in Blackberry Alley.”

  “Hmmm,” Han said, and when she continued to look at him expectantly, added, “How’d you decide to become a dedicate?”

  “Oh, ’twas my mother’s idea,” Dori said. “One less mouth to feed at home, she said. It was that or lady’s maid.”

  “Ah. How do you like it?”

  “It’s all right, I guess.” She tugged dispiritedly at her robe. “I get tired of wearing these all the time,” she said. “I wish they came in colors, at least.”

  She leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “What’s it like, being leader of the Raggers? I heard there was a thousand-girlie price on your head.”

  “That’s not me,” Han said, thinking he should letter it across the front of his robe. “People make that mistake all the time. I don’t run with gangs.”

  “Oh,” Dori said, disappointed. “So you never killed nobody, I guess.” Then, after a pause, “But you got fair hair like him. I never seen a boy with hair so fair as yours. It’s near as light as mine. See?” She wound a strand of her hair around her forefinger and held it out for his inspection.

  Han finished off the last of the bread and cheese and licked his fingers. “Thanks for dinner,” he said, yawning and lying back on his pillows, hoping she would get the hint and leave.

  But instead she came and sat down on the edge of his bed, seized hold of his good hand, and pushed back his sleeve. “You’re wearing the silver,” she said, glaring at him like he’d tried to pick her pocket. “You’re Cuffs Alister, you got to be.”

  “What’s it matter?” he said, wishing for the thousandth time he could get the bloody bracelets off.

  “They say you got the bluejackets in your pocket,” Dori said. “They say that in your secret hideout you got treasure lying around all over the place—di’monds and rubies and emeralds stole from the nobility, and you dress all in gold and keep beautiful rich women for ransom, and they all fall in love with you and don’t want to be let go.”

  “I don’t know how that rumor got started,” Han said, desperately wishing her gone.

  “And so, when you let them go, you tell them to pick anything they want from your treasure to take with them, and they choose a ring or necklace or something and won’t give it up, not for nothing, and they sleep with it under their pillows. And some of them take temple vows after that because they i’nt interested in anybody after you.”

  Han would’ve busted out laughing if it wasn’t for the fact his instincts were screaming Danger at him. “Use your head,” he said. “I’m only sixteen. How could any of it be true? Besides, I’m out of all that.”

  She blinked at him with eyes as vacant and blue as a cloudless sky. “I don’t believe it. Why would you get out of it?”

  Han had no interest in trying to explain it to Dori— the war that had gone on within him most of his life. Street life was seductive. It made you feel powerful, because you controlled life and death and commerce within a few city blocks. Because people crossed the street when they saw you coming. Because girlies wanted to be with a streetlord.

  Eventually, your story grew into a legend until you didn’t know who you were anymore and what you were capable of. The violent battle for turf, swag, and survival became addictive, so that school and family life seemed a dull backdrop for the adrenaline reality of the streets.

  He’d been good at it. Crazy good, or maybe just crazy.

  He’d done things he didn’t like to think about now.

  Dori’s breathless voice broke into his reverie. “Do you have a sweetheart?” she asked, holding fast to his hand. “’Cause I don’t have a sweetheart.”

  Han knew this was straying into treacherous territory, but just then someone appeared in the door
way like a small-sized angel sent from heaven. “Han!”

  It was Mari. The reason he’d left the life.

  Dori snatched back her hand and retreated to the other bed. Han propped himself up, and his little sister flung herself into his arms—or arm, rather. “They said you were hurt. What happened to your arm? Where did you go yesterday? Why didn’t you come back?”

  “I got jumped in the street,” Han said, which was perfectly true. “I may have to go away for a while. But first I’ll get you back home.”

  “Where do you live?” Dori asked, looking from Han to Mari.

  “On Cobble Street, over the stable,” Mari said, before Han could stop her. He wasn’t sure why he should stop her, he just felt like he didn’t want Dori knowing where to find him. Assuming he ever got to go home.

  “You look funny in those robes,” Mari said. “And your hair is sticking up.” She wet a finger and tried to smooth it down. “Master Jemson sent me to see if you were awake. You’re supposed to go see him in his study. Right now, he said, if you’re able.” She tugged at his hand.

  “Ah. Well. See you later, Dori,” Han said, thinking, Not if I see you first.

  Speaker Jemson’s study was all over books—stacked on every level surface and shelved in bookcases that stretched to the ceiling. Parchments were rolled and stored in niches and spread out on his desk, anchored with stones. Maps of far-away places were pinned to the walls. It smelled of leather and dust and lamp oil and learning.

  When Han was a small boy, he used to bury himself in Jemson’s library for hours at a time. Jemson never fussed at him to wash his dirty fingers before touching the gold-stamped bindings or to be careful turning the fragile pages. The speaker never warned him not to spill ink when he was transcribing passages, or told him not to touch the hand-painted illustrations. He never took books away because they were too complicated, too grown-up, or too thick for him to look at.

  Jemson’s love of books was catching, and Han took care of them even though he’d never owned one himself.