The Demon King Read online

  “Relax, copperhead.” Bayar licked his lips, his eyes fixed on Dancer’s knife. “Here’s the thing. My father says that girls who go to the camps come back proud and opinionated and difficult to manage. That’s all.” He smirked as if it were a joke they could all share.

  Dancer did not smile. “Are you saying that the blooded heir to the throne of the Fells needs to be . . . managed?”

  “Dancer,” Han said, but Dancer dismissed his warning with a shake of his head.

  Han sized up the three wizards as he would his opponents in any street fight. All three carried heavy elaborate swords that hadn’t seen much use. Get them down off their horses, there’s the thing, he thought. A quick slash to the cinch strap would do the trick. Get in close where their swords wouldn’t do much good. Take out Bayar, and the others will cut and run.

  One of the ginger-haired wizards cleared his throat nervously, as if uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He was the elder of the two, and stocky, with plump, pale, freckled hands that gripped his reins tightly. “Micah,” he said in the Vale dialect, nodding toward the valley below. “Come on. Let’s go. We’ll miss the hunt.”

  “Hold on, Miphis.” Bayar stared down at Dancer, black eyes glittering in his pale face. “Aren’t you called Hayden?” he inquired in Common, using Dancer’s Vale name. “It’s just . . . Hayden, isn’t it? A mongrel name, since you have no father.”

  Dancer stiffened. “That is myVale name,” he said, lifting his chin defiantly. “My real name is Fire Dancer.”

  “Hayden is a wizard’s name,” Bayar said, fingering the amulet around his neck. “How dare you presume—”

  “I presume nothing,” Dancer said. “I didn’t choose it. I am clan. Why would I choose a jinxflinger name?”

  Good question, Han thought, looking from one to the other. Some among the clans used flatland names in the Vale. But why would a jinxflinger like Micah Bayar know Dancer’s Vale name?

  Bayar flushed red, and it took him a moment to muster a response. “So you claim, Hayden,” Bayar drawled. “Maybe you fathered yourself. Which means you and your mother—”

  Dancer’s arm flashed up, but Han just managed to slam it aside as the knife left his hand, and it ended, quivering, in the trunk of a tree.

  Come on, Dancer, Han thought, hunching his shoulders against his friend’s furious glare. Killing a wizard friend of the queen would buy them a world of trouble.

  The charmcaster Bayar sat frozen a moment, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Then his face went white with anger. He extended one imperious hand toward Dancer, took hold of his amulet with the other, and began muttering a charm in the language of magic, stumbling over the words a bit.

  “Micah,” the more slender fellscat wizard said, nudging his horse up close. “No. It’s not worth it. The fire was one thing. If they find out we—”

  “Shut up, Arkeda,” Bayar replied. “I’m going to teach this base-born copperhead respect.” Looking put out that he was forced to start over, he began the charm again.

  Try and be a peacemaker and see where it gets you, Han thought. He unslung his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming at Bayar’s chest. “Hey, Micah,” he said. “How about this? Shut it or I shoot.”

  Bayar squinted at Han, as if once again surprised to see him. Perhaps realizing he would, indeed, be dead before he could finish the hex, the wizard released his grip on the amulet and raised his hands.

  At the sight of Han’s bow, Miphis and Arkeda pawed at the hilts of their swords. But Dancer nocked his own arrow, and the boys let go and raised their hands as well.

  “Smart move,” Han said, nodding. “I’m guessing jinxes are slower than arrows.”

  “You tried to murder me,” Bayar said to Dancer, as if amazed that such a thing could happen. “Do you realize who I am? My father is High Wizard, counselor to the queen. When he finds out what you did . . .”

  “Why don’t you run back to Gray Lady and tell him all about it?” Dancer said, jerking his head toward the downslope trail. “Go on. You don’t belong here. Get off the mountain. Now.”

  Bayar didn’t want to back off with his two friends as witnesses. “Just remember,” he said softly, fingering his amulet, “it’s a long way down the mountain. Anything can happen along the way.”

  Bones, Han thought. He’d been ambushed too many times in the streets and alleyways of Fellsmarch. He knew enough about bullies to recognize the trait in Bayar. This boy would hurt them if he could, and he wouldn’t play fair doing it.

  Keeping his bowstring tight, Han pointed his chin at the wizard. “You. Take off your jinxpiece,” he ordered. “Throw it down on the ground.”

  “This?” Bayar touched the evil-looking jewel that hung around his neck. When Han nodded, the boy shook his head. “You can’t be serious,” he snarled, closing his fist around it. “Do you know what this is?”

  “I have an idea,” Han said. He gestured with the bow. “Take it off and throw it down.”

  Bayar sat frozen, his face going pale. “You can’t use this, you know,” he said, looking from Han to Dancer. “If you even touch it, you’ll be incinerated.”

  “We’ll take our chances,” Dancer said, glancing over at Han.

  The charmcaster’s eyes narrowed. “You’re nothing more than thieves, then,” he sneered. “I should have known.”

  “Use your head,” Han said. “What would I do with truck like that? I just don’t want to have to be looking over my shoulder all the way home.”

  Arkeda leaned in toward Bayar and muttered in Valespeech, “Better give it to him. You know what they say about the copperheads. They’ll cut your throat and drink your blood and feed you to their wolves so no one will ever find your bones.”

  Miphis nodded vigorously. “Or they’ll use us in rituals. They’ll burn us alive. Sacrifice us to their goddesses.”

  Han clenched his jaw, struggling to keep the surprise and amusement off his face. It seemed the jinxflingers had their own reasons to fear the clan.

  “I can’t give it to them, you idiot,” Bayar hissed. “You know why. If my father finds out I took it, we’ll all be punished.”

  “I told you not to take it,” Arkeda muttered. “I told you it was a bad idea. Just because you want to impress Princess Raisa ...”

  “You know I wouldn’t have taken it if we were allowed to have our own,” Bayar said. “It was the only one I ... What are you looking at?” he demanded, noticing Han and Dancer’s interest in the conversation and maybe realizing for the first time that they understood the flatlander language.

  “I’m looking at someone who’s already in trouble and getting in deeper,” Han said. “Now, drop the amulet.”

  Bayar glared at Han as if actually seeing him for the first time. “You’re not even clan. Who are you?”

  Han knew better than to hand his name to an enemy. “They call me Shiv,” he said, fishing a name out of memory. “Streetlord of Southbridge.”

  “Shiv, you say.” The wizard tried to stare him down, but his gaze kept sliding away. “It’s strange. There’s something ... You seem . . .” His voice trailed off as if he’d lost track of the thought.

  Han sighted down the shaft of his arrow, feeling sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. If Bayar wouldn’t give, he’d have to figure out what to do next. Just then, he had no clue. “I’ll count to five,” he said, hanging on to his street face. “Then I put an arrow through your neck. One.”

  With a quick, vicious movement, Bayar yanked the chain over his head and tossed the amulet onto the ground. It clanked softly as it landed.

  “Just try to pick it up,” the charmcaster said, leaning forward in his saddle. “I dare you.”

  Han looked from Bayar to the jinxpiece, unsure whether to believe him or not.

  “Go on! Get out of here!” Dancer said. “I reckon you’d better think about how you’re going to put that fire out. If you don’t, I guarantee the queen won’t be happy, whether she asked you to
start it or not.”

  Bayar stared at him for a moment, lips twitching with unspoken words. Then he wrenched his mount’s head around and drove his heels into the horse’s sides. Horse and rider charged downslope as if they were, in fact, trying to catch the fire.

  Arkeda stared after him, then turned to Dancer, shaking his head. “You fools! How is he supposed to put it out without the amulet?” He wheeled his horse, and the two wizards followed Bayar at a slightly less reckless pace.

  “I hope he breaks his neck,” Dancer muttered, staring after the three charmcasters.

  Han let out his breath and released the tension on his bow, slinging it across his shoulder. “What was all that about your Vale name? Have you met Bayar before?”

  Dancer jammed his arrow back in his quiver. “Where would I meet a jinxflinger?”

  “Why did he say what he did about your father?” Han persisted. “How does he know that . . .”

  “How should I know?” Dancer said, his face hard and furious. “Forget about it. Let’s go.”

  Obviously Dancer didn’t want to talk about it. Fine, Han thought. He had no room to complain. He had enough secrets of his own.

  “What about this thing?” Han squatted and studied the jinxpiece warily, afraid to touch it. “Do you think he was bluffing?” He looked up at Dancer, who was watching from a safe distance. “I mean, do you think they need this thing to put the fire out?”

  “Just leave it,” Dancer said, shuddering. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “That jinxflinger didn’t want to give this thing up,” Han mused. “Must be valuable.” Han knew traders of magical pieces in Ragmarket. He’d dealt with them a time or two when he worked the street. A taking like this could pay the rent for a year.

  You’re not a thief. Not anymore. If he said it often enough, it just might stick.

  But he couldn’t let it lie. There was something malevolent yet fascinating about the amulet. Power emanated from it like heat from a stove on a cold day. It warmed his front, making the rest of him feel colder by comparison.

  Using a stick, he lifted the amulet by its chain. It dangled, spinning hypnotically in the sunlight, a green translucent stone cunningly carved into a snarl of serpents with ruby eyes. The staff was topped with a brilliant round-cut diamond larger than he’d ever seen, and the snake’s eyes were blood red rubies.

  Han had dealt in jewelry from time to time, and he could tell the craftsmanship was exquisite and the stones were prime quality. But the lure of the piece went beyond the sum of its parts.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Dancer asked behind him, his voice overgrown with disapproval.

  Han shrugged, still watching the spinning jewel. “I don’t know.”

  Dancer shook his head. “You should pitch it into the ravine. If Bayar took the thing without permission, let him explain what happened to it.”

  Han was unable to fathom pitching it away. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d want to leave lying around for somebody—maybe a child from the camps—to find.

  Han fished a square of leather from his carry bag and spread it on the ground. Dropping the amulet in the center, he wrapped it carefully and tucked it in his bag. All the time wondering, How had it come to this? How had he and Dancer ended up in a standoff with wizards? What was the connection between them and Dancer? Maybe it was just the latest in a long line of bad luck. Han always seemed to find trouble, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Unintended Consequences

  Raisa shifted impatiently in her saddle and peered about, squinting against the sunlight that dappled the trail.

  “Don’t squint, Raisa,” her mother snapped automatically. It was one of a collection of phrases that stood in for conversation with the queen, including, “Sit up straight,” and “Where do you think you’re going?” Along with the all-purpose “Raisa ana’Marianna!”

  So Raisa shaded her eyes instead, searching the surrounding woods. “Let’s go,” she said. “They were supposed to meet us here a half hour ago. If they can’t be on time, I say we leave them behind. The day is wasting.”

  Lord Gavan Bayar nudged his horse closer and put his hand on Switcher’s bridle. “Please, Your Highness, I beg you, give them a few more minutes. Micah will be keenly disappointed if he misses the hunt. He’s been looking forward to it all week.” The handsome High Wizard smiled at her with the exaggerated charm adults use on children when there are other adults around.

  Micah’s been looking forward to the hunt? Raisa thought. Not nearly as much as I have. He’s able to come and go as he pleases.

  He’s probably still angry about last night, she thought. That’s why he’s making us wait. He’s not used to anyone saying no to him.

  Raisa kneed Switcher, and the mare tossed her head, breaking the wizard’s grip. Switcher snorted, shying at a leaf skidding along the ground. She was as eager to be gone as Raisa.

  “I’m often late,” Raisa’s younger sister, Mellony, piped up, urging her pony forward. “Maybe we should try to be patient.”

  Raisa threw her a scathing look, and Mellony bit her lip and looked away.

  “Micah likely lost track of time,” Lord Bayar went on, trying to settle his own horse, a large-boned stallion. The breeze ruffled his mane of silver hair, streaked with wizard red. “You know how boys are.”

  “Perhaps you could give him a pocket watch on his next name day, then?” Raisa said acerbically, eliciting the “Raisa ana’Marianna!” response from her mother.

  I don’t care! she thought. It was bad enough she’d been cooped up in Fellsmarch Castle since solstice, closeted with tutors and overburdened with three years’ worth of catch-up lessons on useless topics.

  For instance: A lady can converse with anyone, of any age or station. At table, a hostess is responsible for assuring that everyone participate in conversation. She should direct the conversation away from politics and other divisive subjects and be prepared with alternative topics should the need arise.

  If a lady should do this, Raisa wondered, should a man do the same? Is he required to?

  Both Raisa and her mother had changed during the three years she’d been gone to Demonai Camp, and now it seemed they were constantly at odds. Her clan-born father, Averill, had been a buffer between them. Now he was always traveling, and Marianna persisted in treating Raisa like a child.

  These days, Raisa couldn’t help hearing the whispers that followed after the queen. Some said she paid too little attention to finances, policy, and affairs of state. Others said she paid too much attention to the High Wizard and the council on Gray Lady. Had it always been this way, or was Raisa just noticing it more because she was older?

  Maybe it was her grandmother Elena’s influence. The Matriarch of Demonai Camp was full of opinions about Vale politics and the growing influence of wizards, and she had never hesitated to express them during Raisa’s three years with her father’s family.

  After the relative freedom of Demonai Camp, Raisa found it a misery to force her feet into the pinchy shoes and elaborate stockings favored at court, and to sweat and itch under the ruffled girlish dresses her mother chose for her. She was nearly sixteen, nearly grown, but most days Raisa resembled a tiered wedding cake on two legs.

  Not today. Today she’d pulled on her tunic and leggings and clan-made boots, layering her hip-length riding coat over all. She’d slung her bow over her shoulder and slid a quiver of arrows into the boot attached to her saddle. When she’d led Switcher from the stables, Lord Bayar had run his eyes over her and glanced at the queen to assess her reaction.

  Raisa’s mother tightened her lips and let go a great sigh, but apparently decided it was too late to force her daughter back inside to change clothes. Mellony, of course, mirrored their mother in her tailored riding jacket and long, divided riding skirt, a froth of petticoats cascading over her boots.

  Mellony was the image of their mother. She’d inherited Marianna’s blon
d hair, her creamy pale complexion, and looked to grow as tall or taller. Raisa favored her father’s side, with her dark hair, green eyes, and small frame.

  So here they were, dressed and eager for the hunt on a fine sunny day, and it was being squandered waiting for the tardy Micah Bayar and his cousins.

  Micah was a daring horseman and aggressive, competitive hunter. Though he was just sixteen, his dark, dangerous good looks had half the girls at court swooning over him.

  Since her return to Fellsmarch, he’d courted her with a flattering intensity she found hard to resist. The fact that their romance was forbidden made it all the more appealing. Fellsmarch Castle was full of eyes and ears, but they still found places to meet unsupervised. Micah’s kisses were intoxicating, and his embraces made her head swim.

  It was more than that, though. He had a savage, cynical wit that picked apart the society that had birthed the two of them. He made her laugh, and little did these days.

  Raisa knew that a flirtation with Micah Bayar was risky, but it was a way of rebelling against her mother and the constraints of court life. Rebellion only went so far, though. She was not empty-headed Missy Hakkam, ready to trade her virtue for a bit of bad poetry and a kiss on the ear.

  And patience was not Micah Bayar’s long suit. Hence their dispute the previous night.

  She’d looked forward to hunting with him, but she wasn’t willing to wait forever. Time and opportunity were leaking away. The story of her life.

  Captain Edon Byrne and a triple of soldiers were mounted up and ready too, conversing quietly among themselves. Byrne was the captain of the Queen’s Guard, the latest of a long line of Byrnes in that position. He’d insisted on providing escort on the day’s hunt, over Lord Bayar’s objections.

  Now Byrne called over to them. “Shall I send one of my men after the boys, Your Majesty?” he asked.

  “You could all go, if it was up to me, Captain Byrne,” Lord Bayar drawled. “Queen Marianna and the princesses will be perfectly safe. There is no need for you and your men to drag after us like the overlong tail of a kite. The clans may be savage and unpredictable, but they’re unlikely to try anything with me along.” He fingered the amulet that hung around his neck, in case Byrne had missed the point. The High Wizard always enunciated his words slowly and distinctly when he spoke to Captain Byrne, as if Byrne were a half-wit.