Paralysis gripped Balvonak, holding him to the ground. Wrath was not something he was unaccustomed to seeing. His life had a way of welcoming it into each day of his old existence, and it did not stop there. But Marumon’s wrath… the fury of the Demon Lord… it was enough to debilitate anyone. “Some six months, from what I heard…”
Releasing a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a howl, Marumon collapsed back into His chair. Amadeia. Though she had severed her ties with the demons of the Netherworld over twenty years ago, He never faulted her. He could never fault Amadeia.
She had done it for her child. He knew that much. The Brotherhood, the clergy, they had come down hard on those who did not blindly give themselves over to the Angel Lord. Harder still on those who had the ability to be a threat. He still remembered her face the night she had left. The things she had told Him. She did not want her child to meet the harm that was doomed to follow her. For that, Amadeia vowed to leave her old existence behind her.
Marumon wondered, in that moment, exactly how much of it she had left behind. Two decades lived, and died, since He had seen her last. Had she laid witchcraft to rest entirely?
A sin, they called it. Pathetic humans. Magic was not a sin before the land crawled with churches and steeples. It had only became one when the clergy discovered that the great Amadeia, and the other enchanters of Brigovia, would not play the part of pawns in their game of religious dominion.
Marumon remained certain that He did not have much of a heart left. What little still beat in His chest, though, wept for the loss of her. His greatest desire. The only thing the Demon Lord of the Netherworld couldn’t have.
That Marumon did not immediately strike Balvonak down was a breath of relief. The fire demon frowned, finding it hard to offer pity to the Demon Lord. It was not an emotion with which Balvonak was intimately familiar. He knew of Amadeia Greenbriar. Every demon knew of Amadeia Greenbriar. But she was nothing more than a story to him. A legend, filtered through the mouths of demonic orators. To Balvonak, she was less of a person, and more of a concept.
It was hard to mourn the loss of a concept.
Daring to take a step forward, Balvo assessed his Lord’s reaction to the news. “Vile filth, indeed,” he agreed, drawing his shoulders back. The air grew uncomfortable. More so than it had already been. He wanted to leave Marumon to His… mourning? Did the Demon Lord mourn? Balvonak was uncertain. “Having said all that…” He coughed into a closed fist before he clasped his hands behind his back, “is there anything else I can do for You?”
Eyelids peeled open slowly. Marumon gazed at Balvonak, His expression offering up none of His internal thoughts. “We need someone else to unseal the gate.”
“We certainly do,” Balvonak agreed again, nodding. Though it was a gamble, he gritted his teeth and dared to add more to his statement. “But, I thought only a human enchanter could achieve such a feat. The other mages, sorceresses, witches, and magic-yielders of Brigovia… I… I know You’re aware that they all share demon blood of varying degrees.” He paused, his brows casting shadows over his eyes. “Was Amadeia not the last full-blooded human who had mastered the art of incantations?”
If Balvonak’s bold observation brought Marumon any discomfort, He did not show it. The Demon Lord only appeared contemplative. He slid His hand down His face until He cupped His chin. “There is, perhaps, one option left…”
With his expression betraying his surprise, Balvonak tilted his head. A small part of him had hoped to be freed from any more requests, that he could wash his hands of the Netherworld, and live the rest of his glory days amongst the surface dwellers. For whatever he owed Marumon for the favor that the Demon Lord had given him, Balvonak did not share the same unquenchable thirst for annihilating the human race. His approach was more passive. If they all died? Great. Humans were shit. If not? That was fine, too. He was used to living with shit. Alas, one did not turn his or her back on Marumon’s desires. The Demon Lord did not believe in second chances. “And that option is?” he asked.
“When I last saw Amadeia,” Marumon explained, His tone dropping, “she was with child.” He frowned at the statement, reining in his sentiment. “Though, I cannot be certain this child will fulfill our requirements…”
Balvonak’s eyes widened at the confession. Amadeia Greenbriar, the greatest witch of Brigovia, settling down with a little sack of vulnerable flesh and bones? From the stories he had heard of her, it seemed… surprising. Then again, people were full of surprises. “Why wouldn’t it?” he wondered out loud.
Lifting a hand, Marumon closed His eyes and pinched the bridge of His nose. “Amadeia danced between both the human and demon nations. She enjoyed the company of those who delighted her, regardless of their race.” His hand slipped down His face until it rested in His lap. “I cannot say for certain who left her with child.” Marumon sneered. “Amadeia shared much with me, but never the knowledge of who fathered her offspring.”
Balvonak knew, then. If the child shared demon blood, it would be just as useless to them as the other enchanters of Brigovia. He feared he knew where the conversation headed, but he asked anyway. “What would you have me do, Lord Marumon?”
Raising His head, Marumon found Balvonak’s eyes. “Go forth,” He instructed, His aggression returning to His voice. “Find the child. See if it is human, and if so, learn whether it lays claim to the same talents that Amadeia possessed.”
A small wince followed the order. Balvonak rubbed the back of his neck, shifting in His chair. “With all due respect, my Lord, I spent the last seven years searching for Amadeia Greenbriar…”
“I do not care if it takes seven-hundred years.” Marumon rose from His seat, towering over Balvonak as He scowled down at him. “You and few precious others may trick their way into gaining access to the surface world, Balvonak, but that skill does not flow through all of My demons. I cannot make an army out of a dozen. They need to flood into the streets through open gates, that they will overwhelm mankind with their numbers. There will be no recourse. For that, we need a human to break my brother’s seal.”
That Marumon did not immediately strike him down for his back talk was nothing short of merciful. Balvonak held up his hands and took several steps away, distancing himself from the Demon Lord’s fury. “Of course, yes, I know…” He tried to recover with a charming grin, but it weakened around the edges. “Have you… any ideas where I should look?”
“Do not waste my time asking pointless questions, Balvonak.” Marumon glowered, easing Himself back down into His broken chair. “The time that you spent formulating an inquiry you know I haven’t the answer to, is time wasted. You could have already returned to the surface world and started looking for yourself.”
“Right.” Balvonak nodded, knowing his time was up. It was both a relief and a burden. “Well… You know where I’ll be, if You need me.”
Marumon did not dignify his statement with a reply. He simply closed His eyes and returned to a state that Balvonak had not witnessed before. It almost resembled bereavement.
Amadeia must have had more power than Balvonak originally thought, to move the heart of the Demon Lord with her death.
Turning on his feet, Balvonak started back for the doorway. The intense heat of Marumon’s presence faded the farther he walked, paving the way for more tolerable temperatures to greet his skin. Passing through the rivers of flowing magma and a small handful of inquisitive human souls, Balvonak knew precisely where to go. He only needed to follow the sounds of soulless demons, desperately voicing their screeches of disapproval that they were stuck in the heated pit.
They came into view after a short trek. No damage appeared on the invisible glass that contained them. Their claws could do it no harm. Summoning a deep breath into his lungs, Balvonak pushed his way past them once more, elbowing his way to the front of the door.
“Pardon me, boys and girls,” he murmured, reaching down into his pocket as their wriggling bodies bumped into him. Bal
vonak grumbled, irritated by their oppressive nearness. From the bottom of his pocket, he wrapped his fingers around the delicate chain that hid there, ensuring it wouldn’t go anywhere when he pulled the locket out.
His grip around it tightened. He did not wish to lose it. It was his only key back to Brigovia’s surface.
“Sorry, brothers and sisters.” Balvonak offered the rabid demons a smirk as he squeezed through them and waltzed through the glass. He turned around to face them when he forced his way to the other side. “Invitation only.”
The creatures shrieked at him, scratching and scraping at the gate. Balvonak offered them a simple salute before he reached over, plucking the bone key from the place where it hovered in the air.
All evidence of the door disappeared. Only a small waft of smoke remained, carried away quickly by what little wind managed to penetrate the thick wall of trees.
He tried to remember what Bernard had said. What was the name of the town where Amadeia had met her death? Balvonak snapped his fingers. Pinesguard. That’s where they had burned her.
Shoving the locket back into the safety of his pocket, the fire demon started walking. Years of tireless searching had burned enough of a map into his mind that he knew where to go. He hoped he’d find the answers he sought there.
Seven years or seven-hundred… either option seemed far too long to continue hunting down a person who may not even fulfill Marumon’s goal of unleashing His army. The Demon Lord may have laid claim to immortality… but Balvonak did not. He hoped he found his target long before his mind frayed, like the others. The ones who had been demons for far too long.
If he was going to earn his freedom, he wanted to at least enjoy it before he lost his mind altogether.
Chapter Three
Most of Brigovia’s people mistook the forest for an insentient thing. Not unlike their homes, their taverns, and their churches. They did not see it with the same eyes as Esven Greenbriar. She knew better. The forest was many things, but mostly, it was alive.
Esven bent down near a toppled log, reaching over to collect the foxfire that grew on its withering trunk. She handled it with gentle precision, careful not to pluck it too aggressively. It was a delicate plant; she didn’t want to break it. Cradling it in her palms, the young witch slipped it into the satchel at her side before scouring the area for more.
Feeling the weight of eyes on her, Esven lifted her head. History had conditioned her to be more aware of her surroundings. She blinked, adjusting her crouched position as she glanced over her shoulder.
Of course. Who else would it be? No other being in all of Brigovia came near to touching the weight of the stare that she had felt.
“Maritimus,” Esven muttered, sweeping wild strands of red hair from her face, “if you put half as much effort into showing me where to find foxfire as you did in your silent judgments, I could light up an entire town.”
The feline looked at her with unspoken boredom, his yellow eyes half-closed.
Esven’s expression fell flat. “I suspected as much.” She pushed herself back to her feet, dusting off the debris that clung to her knees. “A leopard cannot change his spots, can he?”
Maritimus’ tail swished around him, until it wrapped around his front legs.
“Too right,” Esven noted, taking several steps forward as she reached down to scratch the cat’s head. “I suspect that, even if you could change your spots, you’d have no desire to at all. Why fix what isn’t broken, hm?”
Her observation earned her nothing more than a lazy meow.
“Listen, I don’t want to hear your verdicts on the foxfire.” Esven began walking back in the direction of her homestead. “I understand that the smell accosts you, but your nose is far more sensitive than mine. Do try to think of others’ needs and wants at least some of the time, won’t you?”
Only when Esven disappeared from his line of sight did Maritimus raise himself from the warmth of the boulder where he sat to pad along behind her. He made no noise in his environment, managing to skillfully elude any natural element that might make a sound if he were to step on it.
The walk back to the homestead occupied little of Esven’s time. She never wandered too far from the safety of her hidden home. It was with fortune that she did not need to meander to extremes to find foxfire and food. The forest was more than happy to provide her with such things. Sustenance in the forms of berries, nuts, and even game animals lent her a veritable treasure trove of edible delights.
The woman reached out, running her fingertips along the tree trunks as she walked by them. It was good to feel their age in her hands. Wisdom had a certain sensation to it. It traveled up through her fingers, radiating calm tranquility through the whole of her arm. The feeling only lasted seconds, but the precious moments before it faded away never failed to bring a dim smile to her face.
She needed tranquility these days.
Six months had come and gone since her mother was burned on the pyre. Despite the passage of time, the loss of Amadeia Greenbriar was still felt in almost every moment. Esven always counted on her mother’s serenity to ground her. She had absorbed some of Amadeia’s traditional calm, but confidence in quietude did not come naturally to Esven. She was far too restless. It was a miracle that the size of her spiritedness managed to fit into the confines of her small body.
Her edginess had only grown since Amadeia’s death. The nagging drive to give purpose to her purposeless life was incessant.
Esven found it became more difficult each day to quell her impulses. The desire to honor Amadeia’s legacy nipped at her heels. Youth, and the vitality that accompanied it, shouted at her to follow her mother’s footsteps. To become the next great witch of Brigovia. To tap into the same prominence that Amadeia had touched in her earlier years.
Alas, Esven did not know the finer details of her mother’s legacy. Only that she had one.
As a child, Esven managed to urge some details out of her mother’s tight lips. Amadeia would regale her spritely daughter with vague tales of her adventures—of the company she had kept with fellow witches, mages, and wizards. They made for wonderful bedtime stories, until an excited Esven found herself inspired by them, to the point where her enthusiasm manifested in the forms of her own simple spells.
Oftentimes, the incantations were motivated by intent alone. Esven had no recipes for her childhood enchantments. They poured out of her with innocent fervor, when she would alter the pigment color of the walls, or force a field of wildflowers into bloom off season.
She remembered the look in her mother’s eyes when she performed her magic. Pride lived in Amadeia’s face each time Esven perfected a spell with the ease offered to prodigies of her craft. But pride was not the only sentiment that hid in her mother’s gaze. Fear dwelled there, too.
As a child, she didn’t understand why at the time. All she understood was the sadness she felt, when her mother emphasized that she was never to use her magic around anybody she did not fully trust.
Esven frowned at the memory. Amadeia never shied away from teaching her daughter her true heritage. The elder Greenbriar woman was proud of her achievements. To be the only human ever to learn the intense intricacies of enchantments and practice them in the real world… it was a history worth celebrating. A true accomplishment.
It was a shame that the rest of the world did not share that opinion. Esven had always wondered how her mother could love humanity so much, when they shunned such an immense part of who she was.
“The world is moving forward without me, Maritimus.” Esven glanced down at the cat as he scurried through her legs. “I wish I could travel the same paths as she. See the things that she had seen.” Esven stopped, leaning against the trunk of a tree. “This purposeless existence will swallow me whole if I let it. A life spent cowering in a forest… too nervous to wander outside the realm where the foxfire grows…” Esven scoffed at herself. “That’s hardly the kind of life a Greenbriar woman should lead, don’t you think? Th
at’s hardly the kind of life any woman should lead.”
Maritimus swished his tail and trotted ahead, ignoring her. He had heard the same speech one too many times since Amadeia died.
The simple dwelling where she lived came into sight. A structure fully dominated by moss, it was hard to spot amongst the nature that flanked it. Unless one was specifically looking for the single glass window that let in the light of each new dawn, he or she would almost certainly walk by it, unnoticed.
Esven wiped her restless thoughts away for the moment. They’d be back again soon enough. She navigated herself to the door by memory. Six months of jumping onto the same three stones that jutted out of the same small stream. Six months of ducking beneath the same low-hanging tree limb that, for whatever reason, failed to produce any leaves. Six months of walking up to the door of a home that had never housed her mother.
The young woman frowned, stopping herself when she stood just outside the door. She reached out to touch the handle, but paused.
Time should have made it easier. Perhaps she needed more of it. But no matter how many weeks and months trickled by, the home still felt hollow inside.
Amadeia left a devastating hole when she passed into the afterlife. It was unfortunate that it only filled with restless agitation. The world called to Esven. It beckoned for her to find her purpose. Yet, she was too afraid to leave. Too afraid that stepping beyond the lines where her mother lived and died would somehow wash the memories of Amadeia away altogether.
Sucking in a deep breath to prevent her thoughts from turning darker, Esven pushed her way inside. It was small. Quaint. Nothing extraneous lived in her space. How could it? There was room for a bed. Space for a hearth. One that enclosed the primitive fireplace that never saw a fire since its creation. It was a place to prepare meals. A place to read books.
What else did a woman who never left the Pinesguard forest need?
Enough daylight remained in the day that the home still contained a soft glow. Esven did not need the assistance of foxfire to see what she was doing, but she removed it from her satchel anyway. Placing it beside some others, she allowed it to rest. Its bioluminescent qualities were useful to have on hand at night. Save for the sun, it was her most cherished light source.
Followed by Fire Page 4