Half-Demon's Revenge

by Lina J. Potter

  Uncle was clearly displeased by my act, but he had no leg to stand on. It really was the same bolt, after all. Chartreuse, the elder, was sobbing, swearing to find the murderer, and I had an inkling that he would search quite thoroughly. Still, if he found him, he would find trouble.

  The next night, I summoned the spirit of Marquis Chartreuse and learned a few...not so nice things.

  First, I filled out a few scrolls of parchment in small handwriting, listing all the details: who, to whom, for how much, how many... Even a dump didn’t stink as badly as his confession. Something was clearly rotten in the state of Radenor, and that mess had to be cleaned up as soon as possible. All the queen’s relatives were stealing. They delivered judgment to suit themselves, slept with wives of other men, defiled virgins, crapped on those beneath them and cast the blame on those next to them. It was a vipers’ nest even worse than I had initially suspected—schemes, intrigues, and plots of the highest order.

  Meanwhile, people were becoming restless. True, for commoners, just marveling at the gorgeous royal couple might have been enough. But what about the rest? Merchants, minor noblemen, the army... I felt it in my bones that an uprising was imminent but I couldn’t let it happen, no matter what. If the people rebelled, our neighbors would be ready to invade and start tearing us apart. Never. Chartreuse, you idiot.

  Second, he really did try to kill me. Why not, really?

  Just imagine someone coming into your home, running around—probably waiting to start asking for money. And then, Altverin and Rwayne were a plum piece of cake, this lout probably didn’t need anyway, but Chartreuse... How could he avoid trying to kill me, really?

  Third, I was Michelle’s son, a thorn in Chartreuse’s side from the very beginning. That story with my mother? They really had framed her back then, thanks to Chartreuse’s uncle, former Baron Lopayne, now Duke Frine.

  Why had two of Abigail’s children died in the fire? Well, with that family... They couldn’t even do their one job. Abigail herself was in charge of her children’s security, as was her father. Her brother assisted her uncle with the arson, so everything would ignite nice and quickly on every side. That’s how it happens with fire mages, in case you were wondering.

  The two younger children had decided to play hide-and-seek. Andre and Ruthina were peacefully sleeping in their beds—and got dragged out of there just in time. But the children in the attic had either choked on smoke or burned.

  Before they had gone to bed, Abigail kissed them, making sure they were in their room, and left. When the fire started, Rudolph rushed into the children’s quarters—and half of them were gone, with guards nowhere to be seen.

  Grimly, I added Duke Frine to my list. No point in adding Abigail and Chartreuse the elder, they had been there from the start. You’ll get yours, mark my words.

  ***

  As expected, the murderer of Marquis Chartreuse remained at large. Ten days later, however...

  Generally, Altverin and Rwayne provided almost no taxes, despite being pretty large counties. Altverin had fertile soil and could feed a third of Rander, and Rwayne was located on the coast with lots of fish to catch. And no taxes?

  Clearly, I objected. And not just objected—I made my move at a huge reception so everyone could hear me.

  “Uncle, I heard that there’s a famine in Altverin and Rwayne, again?”

  “Alex, that doesn’t concern you—”

  Did you really think I would be that easy to brush off?

  “Uncle, how can you say that? That’s the land I’ve inherited, how can it not concern me?”

  “You’ve never been there.”

  “Exactly! I should visit and take a look!”

  Rudolph rolled his eyes but had nothing to say. Auntie, however, brightened up.

  “That’s true, sweetie. Let the boy go there and unwind.”

  Rudolph winced but agreed to everything.

  “All right, come and see me tomorrow, I’ll give you the papers.”

  I did.

  Rene and Tommy accompanied me on my journey, together with a small squad of Viscount Morinar’s personal men—ten people strong—and as many guardsmen. I got money from the treasury by the skin of my teeth, but finally, the preparations were over, and we hit the road. I was quite pleased with myself, especially since our path lay through Duke Frine’s lands, and we had a good opportunity to pay him a visit—and stick a burning torch into somewhere on his body. At least, that was my wish, and I was going to indulge it. Or maybe I should set fire to his castle? An eye for an eye, so to speak—and with a twenty years’ interest.

  ***

  It happened on the sixth day of our journey. I remember it so clearly, those huge bright stars in the autumn sky, the last drops of the departing summer. It was already too cold for sleeping on the ground, and we decided to stay overnight in a roadside inn.

  It was called Golden Thistle. Sometimes, I dream about it, that low-hanging ceiling, beams stained with smoke, ropes of onion on the walls—and a scarlet dress against that squalor—coal-black hair…and her voice.

  I don’t hear anything except for that voice. Deep, a bit husky, flowing like honey and wine, it was fitting for a royal audience rather than that place.

  We had just sated our hunger when she came on stage, and I was lost. I held my breath as she sang, her voice flowing, enchanting, beckoning. As she passed through the hall, nobody dared even to move, let alone touch her or stop her.

  She dazzled, she ensorcelled, she bewitched.

  Don’t be angry with a bird who’s flying,

  For she’s been gifted with the sky eternal,

  For she’s not singing in a cell she’s occupying,

  And prison’s nothing compared to a journey...

  Was she singing about herself? About someone else? I knew nothing, yet I kept on watching and listening, and her voice rang true.

  ...For she is flying to the sun, burning her wings,

  And has no faith for words or silky snares,

  And you are languishing below, while she sings

  And cares nothing for your angry stares.

  When she stopped at our table, I didn’t understand it straight away, but when she stared me in the eyes, her dark eyes intent on piercing my soul, I knew the truth. She was a witch—a real witch, and a powerful one, too.

  What’s the difference between witches and mages? A mage’s power was structured, local, elemental. Every mage had a clear gift. Witches were different. Witches were children of nature, its favorite progeny who truly knew its secrets.

  Of course, the thralls were screaming that everything not blessed by the Bright Saint was of the Dark Tempter—and no surprises there, as witches could read them like a book, and nobody could protect themselves from their sorcery. True, the weakest of them could be defeated and caught, but that one...she was old enough to remember my grandfather in his cradle.

  It’s strange, but I still can’t remember her face. I remember her dark eyes, the large curls of her hair, her voice... I remember how I unfastened a purse full of gold from my belt and handed it to her.

  “Sing more, please.” And she softly turned it away.

  I also remember her words,

  “Come when everyone’s asleep. I’ll be waiting...”

  Neither Tommy nor Rene heard her. An enchantment—witches could do that.

  I remember the hay, huge stars above our heads, her mischievous whisper,

  “Take your time, demon boy. We have a whole night ahead...”

  I tried telling her something about my scales, my body, but felt her hot palm pressed against my lips.

  “Don’t think about anything. Just me.”

  Everything was spinning. I don’t think I changed fully, but she didn’t mind my scales, nor my fangs, nor my eyes, burning bright red. I remember her head on my shoulder.

  “You’re so scaly...it’s funny.”

  “Do you want to go with us?”

  “No, m’lord. Our paths are different.�
�

  “Do...you know me?”

  “No. I just see it. You have a long road ahead of you, but I’m not there. Such a shame, but this night, at least, is ours.”

  And once again, she covered my face with her dark curls.

  In the morning, I woke up in my room. Nobody knew anything about that singer. It didn’t matter, anyway. I felt grateful.

  I regret that our paths crossed only once, but fate cannot be forced.

  A long road awaited her, and I had my eyes set on Altverin. But first, I had to deal with Frine.

  ***

  I was the one to choose our route. No surprises there, it led right past the duke’s castle, about a day’s travel away.

  Tommy looked at me, a silent question in his eyes—he knew that there was no point in such a detour. The guardsmen grunted for a bit, but I was as unrelenting as the desert sun.

  I just want to visit Fareyne, one of the most beautiful cities of Radenor. There’s a great cathedral with an awesome spire, I simply have to see it!

  The guardsmen all agreed, by the way. After Rudolph had disbanded the Royal Guard, they were unaccustomed to forced marches. They wanted to sleep and to eat, and so did I, although not quite the same thing.

  Thus, we chose one of the best inns in the city, settled in, walked around the city, and at night, I felt seriously sick. I was sneezing, coughing, blowing my nose, and demanding all windows in my chambers be closed. Tommy indulged my tantrums. He was the only one who knew that just before dawn, I was to slip out of the window.

  A day’s travel? True—at a leisurely pace. But at full throttle, riding a horse to death, one could easily be in and out in no time.

  I bought a horse outside the city wall from an innkeeper. I didn’t ride it to death, however, no point in that. By the evening, I reached my destination. It was a nice castle, an old one. There are lots of things wandering around such places. I didn’t even wait until nightfall; I simply found a well-hidden spot, drew a pentagram right on the ground with a twig, cut my palm, and started the summoning.

  Who did I choose? Whatever would answer my call, really. Such a castle was practically guaranteed to have a few restless souls roaming its halls. There was a soul, all right. A young servant girl raped by the great-grandfather of the former duke, who had jumped off the wall after learning he had gotten her pregnant. She knew everything about the castle, and she was glad to help, in exchange for me putting her soul to rest.

  The duke was there, as was his family: his wife, their three children—the oldest one was married, the two youngest not yet...lots to offer, some good options.

  I questioned the girl to find out the layout of the place and ordered her to wait for me. At night, the castle burst into flames, from the basement to the very roof. What a tragedy. It happened in an instant, and the fire burned bright indeed. I had inherited my mother’s gift for fire magic, after all. For some reason, I really wanted those who had wronged my mother to die in the same way—in flames.

  Frine was a handsome grey-haired man who quite resembled Chartreuse. Right before setting fire to the castle, I paid him a visit in his chambers, knocked him out, tied him up, gagged him, and bound him to his bed.

  Did I feel sorry for him? Never. All I could see was a girl of seventeen years, white-haired, who had been trying in vain to stop the fire started by someone else—my mother. Her soul burned in that fire, twenty years ago.

  I was merciful. Of all Frine’s children, only the eldest died—and not by my hand. A pure accident; he burned trying to save his father. Maybe he was a better man that his criminal father; I didn’t really care.

  By morning, I was lying in my bed in Fareyne with a cold compress on my head. I’m so sick... Tommy entered my room, gave me a scrutinizing look, and smelled my clothing.

  “Alex, do you know that a castle burned down not far from here?”

  “I had no idea. Did it burn to the ground, or is there something left?”

  “A few stones. The lord is dead, roasted alive in his bed. His son’s dead, too—tried to rescue his father...”

  “My heart bleeds for them,” I feigned sympathy. “Are we continuing on our way?”

  Tommy shrugged.

  “We are. But you’d better change, you reek of fire.”

  I arched my eyebrows sarcastically. You don’t say!

  “You’re seeing things, Tommy.”

  My friend nodded, but I still changed my clothes. My soul was a grey wasteland; calm, quiet, apathetic. No doubts, not a twinge of regret. I had done everything right.

  I was the judge, jury, and executioner, and felt no remorse. My right, my will—and my answer. One day, I will have to answer myself, too.

  Or will I?

  ***

  I liked Altverin—an old castle of huge grey stones, sharp spires, roofs of scarlet as if stained with blood, and ivy that climbed up the walls. It was a breathtaking sight.

  Inside, however... Is this noble poverty? Yeah, right. More like utter destitution. Still, everything was scrubbed so clean that you could see your reflection in the stone walls—not a fleck of dusk, not a cobweb. There were half a score of servants, all looking like they were forced to wear corsets.

  As for the steward, Sharen Clate was a tall, silver-haired man in his fifties who welcomed us on the doorstep of the castle, bread and salt in his hands. I broke off a snug of bread, like I was supposed to, and ate it, pretending I was content. I didn’t really want to start acting up before I knew what was what. The bread was the cheapest one could find, grey coarse flour with lumps—at royal court, they wouldn’t even feed the dogs with such stuff.

  And then the dinner started. Antique silverware was sparkling clean, yet contained food unfit even for the guests of a boarding house in the capital. The bread was awful, the vegetables were rotten, the chicken had died a horrible death either of hunger or of old age, and I could only nibble on the mutton thanks to my teeth being sharp enough to bite through bone. Still, I wouldn’t risk trying to cut it.

  Tommy and Rene looked on, grim, but still silent, while Sharen droned on and on, happy about our visit. He told us about the demands of Radenor’s government; about overdue taxes and the accumulated interest, and the interest charged for that interest; about caravans with levy getting robbed and then being fined because of those robberies....

  In a word, Altverin still managed to stay afloat only due to Sharen’s decency. That man was doing all he could, selling whatever was left in the castle to avoid squeezing the peasants dry, hiring a crazy number of guards, almost a score per cart, so that it could reach its destination, trying to invest money, although the latter seemed impossible, considering the queen’s family...

  Basically, he was ruining the castle to support the commoners. Go on, hang me. Here’s my head, here are my ledgers; do whatever you wish, My Prince. And he wasn’t lying, either, not even a little.

  Eventually, Tommy, who had always hated accounting, went to bed, while Rene and I poured over reports. Clate hadn’t been lying—not a false word—and I didn’t want to punish the old man. Would anyone do the same in his place? Nobody would.

  Why wasn’t he given the sack yet? He had been appointed by my grandfather, and Rudolph, despite all his stupidity, never went against his late father’s wishes. Alexander had assigned Clate to watch over his grandson’s land, instructing everyone to keep away, and Rudolph did, even if Abigail’s relatives were probably angry as hell. They never touched him, though.

  ***

  When we finished reviewing the papers, it was past midnight.

  “Sharen, I’m going to go take a look at the villages, see how the land lies.”

  “Umm—”

  “You go on working as before. We’ll sort out the unpaid taxes and the other stuff.”

  I was staring at my nails pensively.

  Who’s the treasurer? The queen’s older brother... Poor queen; black really wasn’t her color. Dressed in black, she looked like a crow sitting on a fence.

 
Too bad she was going to wear it again. It was the color of mourning, after all.

  ***

  The villages looked nice. True, they were poor, but they weren’t beggars. And they worshipped the steward, too. They knew that anyone else would work them to the bone to protect himself.

  On the other hand, Sharen hadn’t been risking that much. Altverin and Rwayne were my official estates; only I could review them, and only the king could manage them. No one else was allowed to meddle in their affairs—not a single soul.

  But meddling in documents was one thing, and meddling in money—a whole other deal. True, they couldn’t ask Sharen to provide more than specified, but they could easily intercept a caravan sent by him, and then charge him with unpaid and overdue taxes.

  The law wasn’t broken, and they got four times the taxes from Altverin than they could get otherwise. Splendid. Nobody to complain, nobody to protect the land.

  Nobody—until I went there. Still, that wasn’t enough to solve the issue. They could rob the transport carts anywhere on the route, and I would be the one to pay.

  So, what do I do with that?

  The solution was simple. They had to be afraid of robbing my men. Could I? I told my idea to Tommy and Rene, then spoke with Sharen. Together, we created, in all modesty, a genius plan.

  Sharen invited all our neighbors into the castle for a reception—I had just enough money for that. Naturally, everyone came, and for four hours, I felt like a bear trained to dance in a fair. Nobody felt pity for me. Wives and daughters of the nobles were shamelessly making eyes at me, and I had a strong desire to build a trench and hide there for a month to escape their stares. Meanwhile, men were clapping me on the shoulder with such force that I was itching to put on spiked pauldrons, inviting me for a hunt, pouring wine into my cup...and at the end of the party, I was drunk enough to see pink spiders, or so they thought.