“Move,” Mazael said. She was blocking the door.
“Why?” said Romaria.
“Mitor’s a wretch. Simonian killed Master Othar. Now, move!” roared Mazael.
“How do you know?” said Romaria.
Mazael growled. “How do I know?” he said. “What do you care? Out of my way!”
Romaria didn’t move. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why? They killed Master Othar!” screamed Mazael. “I’ll mount both their heads above the castle gates! If you don’t move, you can join them!”
A muscle in Romaria’s face ticked. “No. You’re doing this for revenge. If you do this now, in the...state you're in, you'll damn yourself forever.”
“Are you an Amathavian nun to prattle proverbs at me?” said Mazael. “Or are you with Simonian?” The possibility made perfect sense. “Yes, you’re scheming with him, you were part of this, weren’t you?”
Romaria shook her head. “No.”
“Prove it,” said Mazael. “Move.”
“No,” said Romaria. “Don’t do this, Mazael. Listen to me...”
He ran at her instead, Lion flashing.
Romaria moved almost as fast, her bastard sword blurring into her hand. Mazael plunged his sword’s tip at her head, reversed momentum, and brought it stabbing down for her belly. She parried, the swords meeting with a tremendous clang.
“Stop this!” said Romaria.
Mazael didn’t hear her. The volcanic fury in his mind had found an outlet, and it felt good. Mazael's only thought was to kill.
Romaria’s sword danced in time to Mazael’s, her stance shifting, her grip shifting from one-handed to two-handed and back again. Mazael could not follow her movements fast enough to find an opening. He locked their swords together on the next parry and shoved. Romaria was fast and agile, but he was stronger. Romaria stumbled, her back slapping against the keep's wall.
Romaria ducked his next thrust, and Lion sheared through her cloak and slid into a gap between two stones. He roared and tore the sword free, slashing for Romaria. But she slid free from her cloak, her blade stabbing towards his gut. Mazael parried, but the flat of her blade smacked into his thigh.
“Stop this!” said Romaria. “Mazael, the Seer, I didn’t tell you all...”
He ignored her and chopped towards her skull, their blades locking in a parry. Mazael shoved again, but this time she jumped back. He lost his balance for a moment, and Romaria counterattacked, her sword opening a shallow cut against his ribs.
“Mazael, please, stop this!” said Romaria. A drop of his blood slid down her sword. “You don’t know what this is doing to you...”
His next attack brought Lion high, low, and then arcing for her throat. Romaria pivoted, but she was too slow. Lion scraped along her collarbone, but blood flared crimson against her pale skin. Mazael laughed and went for the kill, but she spun out of his reach.
“Brother Silar was right!” she yelled.
Mazael spun and came at her, his sword slashing at her from every angle. Yet somehow she parried every one of his attacks. She turned one of his strikes, her sword point biting at his arm.
“You have magic!” said Romaria. “Don’t you see? Silar was right!”
He almost killed her. He whipped his sword at her face. Romaria jerked back, but she was almost too slow. For a moment Mazael thought he’d slain her, but she circled to his left, and he roared with frustration.
“It’s out of control,” said Romaria. “Your power’s devouring you. The rage... it's not natural. It will burn you out from the inside...”
Mazael worked Lion through a high slash and then a low thrust. Romaria blocked and batted aside his stabbing blade. She thrust at him, and her sword nicked his hip, drawing blood.
“Stop this!” said Romaria. “It will destroy you.”
“You can’t stop me,” said Mazael.
“I can’t,” said Romaria. “But you can. Please, just put down your sword...”
Mazael slashed at her, holding Lion in a two-handed grip, and she jumped out of reach.
Romaria’s eyes flashed. “Then fight!” She turned his next attack and spun around him. Mazael dropped Lion low to parry, but she whirled her hilt and stabbed at his chest. He managed to parry, but the edge of her blade gashed his arm. Her furious assault did not relent. The sparks in her eyes turned to fire, and her sword was everywhere. Despite his speed and strength, it was all Mazael could do to parry. She drove him across the balcony, over the tangled roots of the tree, through the flowers and the grasses.
Romaria’s attack drove him to the edge of the battlements. Her fury began to play out, her chest heaving with breath, sweat streaming down her face. Mazael felt filled with life and power.
Soon she would tire and make a mistake.
He parried another of her attacks, and this time she was too slow. He shoved at her, and she stumbled. Romaria tumbled backwards and went into a backwards fall. Mazael stalked after her, sword raised high, and she vanished.
He smiled. He had seen this trick before.
Romaria reappeared before him. Mazael stepped around her attack and rammed Lion into her throat. Her blue eyes bulged, and blood gushed from her torn neck. Crimson bubbles foamed in her mouth as she tried to scream, and she collapsed to the ground.
And Mazael's rage vanished.
His head pounded, every heartbeat sending waves of pain through his skull. He felt old and weary. For a moment, he could not remember where he was.
Then he saw Romaria’s dying body lying at his feet, and he remembered.
Mazael fell to one knee. He saw the blood pooling beneath her. He saw it smeared along the length of his sword and dripping from his fingers. Lion fell from his grasp. All he could see was the blood. He tried to reach for her.
“Oh gods...” said Mazael. “Oh gods, no. No, no, no. What have I done...”
A lance of slithering pain spread through his gut. Mazael doubled over and vomited. He wheezed and coughed, drops of spittle hanging from his lips.
He looked up, dreading the sight.
Romaria was gone.
He stared at the empty stones, confused beyond the capacity for thought. What had he done? What had happened?
A warm hand fell on his shoulder. He looked and saw Romaria kneeling besides him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other holding her heavy sword. The skin of her throat was smooth and unbroken.
Mazael couldn’t believe it. He reached a trembling hand for her face and felt the smooth skin, felt the blood pulsing through the veins of her neck. “How...I....I killed...”
“It was an illusion,” said Romaria. Her smile was weak. “I didn’t show you all my tricks.”
“Tricks?” said Mazael. His tongue felt like lead. “But...I killed, gods, I killed...” His voice shook. He felt something wet in his eyes. “I killed...I tried to kill you. And Simonian. And Mitor...I tried so hard to kill you. Gods, gods, I’m going mad...what’s happening...”
The world lurched, and Mazael felt all the strength got out of him. His head struck the stone floor, and a wave of fire washed through his brain. He heard Romaria’s voice once more before the darkness closed over him.
3
Two Halves
“Get up.”
Harsh light stabbed into Mazael's face. The stench of rotting vegetation and old snakeskin filled into his nostrils. Something hard prodded his side. “Up, I say! Can’t lie about. There’s too much to do!”
Mazael sat up. A swollen bloody sun painted the sky crimson, and the balcony garden had died. The oak tree was scorched, the flowers crumbling ashes, and the earth gray powder.
Lord Adalon stood over Mazael, his black robe hanging from his thin body like a flowing shroud. Red fire glinted in his green eyes, and his fingers drummed against the black staff with its silver raven statuette.
“Up, now!” Lord Adalon said. He tapped Mazael’s leg with his staff. “Up! Nothing has ever come from lying about like this.”
Maza
el stood. He felt no pain. His stomach was settled, and there were no wounds on his arms and chest.
“Now, why would you think yourself hurt?” said Lord Adalon. A cold wind blew from the plains, whipping his robes like black wings.
“I don’t know,” said Mazael.
“You needn’t be so grim!” said Lord Adalon. “You almost learned a most important lesson. The next time, you’ll learn.”
“Learn what?” said Mazael.
His father grinned. “Your fellow half-breed will soon discover the deep flaw in trickery. It is most effective, but only once.” He laughed. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. And fool me thrice, a man who can be fooled thrice is liable to be snatched up by the Old Demon!” Lord Adalon snapped his fingers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mazael.
“You do!” said Lord Adalon. “You killed her, didn’t you? You can hide nothing from me. Rather, you would have killed her, if not for her simple spells.” His smile displayed jagged yellow teeth. “You will learn to defeat those.”
Mazael remembered how Lion had sunk into Romaria’s throat. “No...I didn’t...no, she lives...”
“She does,” said Lord Adalon. “You cannot hide from the truth, Mazael. You cannot deny your nature. You thought you had killed her.”
“Yes,” said Mazael, “but...but I...”
“You enjoyed it,” said Lord Adalon. “Not the killing itself, but the power.”
“No,” said Mazael.
Lord Adalon sighed. “Don’t lie to me, my son. That power is yours. And such a little thing, too. The power of death.” He made a fist. “You have the potential for so much more. Any fool can kill. But your potential is limitless.”
“No,” said Mazael.
“You can do anything,” said Lord Adalon. “Who can rule over you? Mitor? The Dragonslayer? They are nothing to you. The power of death, the power of command is yours. You must simply take it. Claim it and make it your own. Throw down Mitor and throw down the Dragonslayer. Do it or they will destroy you.”
“I...I...no,” said Mazael. Something seemed horribly wrong. “No."
“Do it,” whispered Lord Adalon. “Or they will kill you just as they killed Master Othar.”
A thread of killing rage ignited in Mazael’s mind.
Lord Adalon’s laughter rang in his ears. “Is that the crack in your armor? Yes, Master Othar, so just, so wise. What good did it do him?”
“Be quiet,” said Mazael. The burning thread grew.
“Is the truth so hard?” said Lord Adalon. “They will do the same to you, unless you embrace your strength. Killing is woven into the very fabric of your soul! Use it. Fat Othar had no real power. You do. What is to stop you from using it?”
Mazael wavered. Was his father right? His hand clenched around Lion’s hilt.
Mitor and Simonian would pay for Othar’s death.
A sharp scent filled Mazael’s nostrils.
Lord Adalon’s lined face contorted with rage. “She dares...”
A jolt of agony shot through Mazael’s head.
He woke up and found himself lying in the balcony garden, the oak three spreading its leaves over the flowers. Romaria knelt next to him, a small stinking vial in her hand.
“Gods...Romaria...” he said. Nausea roiled in his gut.
“Hush, now,” said Romaria. “Drink this. I had Timothy bring it.” She handed him a heavy flagon smelling of the foul-smelling concoction wizards favored in their medicines. Mazael drank and swallowed the bitter stuff in huge gulps. It helped settle his stomach.
Romaria set the flagon down. “You had another dream, didn’t you?”
Mazael closed his burning eyes. “Yes.” His voice had an edge he did not like. “See? I was right. The dreams. They’re driving me mad. I am mad.”
“No,” said Romaria.
Mazael laughed. “No? How can you say that? I tried to kill Mitor, and then...” He remembered the blood gushing from her throat. He felt something wet slide down his face, and realized he was crying. “I tried to kill you. I did kill you, or I would have, if...what have I become?”
“No,” said Romaria. “You’re not mad, Mazael. I haven’t told you everything.”
“Everything?” said Mazael. “Of...what?”
“Of what the Seer told me,” said Romaria. “I haven’t told you all of it, not by half.” She swallowed. “He...Mazael, I’ve told you how the Elderborn and the humans both feel about half-breeds.” Her fingers twitched. “It’s deeper than that. Half-breeds are absolutely despised. Humans and Elderborn are forbidden to create children together. My father made a mistake, and I was born. My mother was horrified.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Mazael.
Romaria almost smiled. “We have that in common, you and I. The laws say that parents must slay any half-breed child as purification for their sin. My mother was adamant. My father didn’t want to, but felt he had no choice. But the Seer intervened.”
“What did he say?” said Mazael.
“The Seer told them that if they slew me, they would damn themselves and all of Deepforest Keep. You see, I was destined to save them,” said Romaria.
“Sounds like mummery,” said Mazael.
Romaria laughed. “Oh, I wish it were. He told them his prophecy, the same prophecy he told to me when I went into the druids’ caves thirty years later.”
Mazael was surprised. He had thought her younger. “What was this prophecy?”
“I told you part of it,” said Romaria. “He said I would meet a man who could kill any other man. But let me start from the beginning. I’ve told you half-breeds are despised. We only possess half a soul.”
“Absurd,” said Mazael. “That sounds like some of the lies priests tell to squeeze another copper coin from their benefices.”
“Aye,” whispered Romaria, “but this is true. Do you know what will happen to me? It’s happened before with half-breeds who weren’t killed at birth. I will rot away. It always happens, sooner or later, and there’s no way to reverse it. Thirty years, forty years, fifty, my body will crumble away from the inside out and so will my mind. I will die in agony and dementia.” She shrugged. “I never really worried about it. Everyone dies, after all. I learned the sword and the bow and spent most my time to the south, visiting the Old Kingdoms. I worked as a scout and a tracker, and none could match me. I suppose I planned to die that way, killed by an arrow or sword or some wild beast.”
Mazael sat up. The pain in his head had vanished, and his stomach no longer felt as if it had become home to a thousand twisting snakes. “What happened? Why did you go back to Deepforest Keep?”
“Thirty is the age of maturity for Elderborn,” said Romaria. She looked away. “Father sent a messenger for me.”
Mazael snorted. “I’d have told him to go to hell.”
Romaria smiled. “You would have. I’d never hated my father. He had always supported me, even if he couldn’t allow me to live at Deepforest Keep. And the Seer asked me to come, as well. He had saved my life.” She took a deep breath. “I returned, and I met the Seer in the druid caves. He told me his prophecy.”
Mazael flexed the fingers of his wounded arm. “What did he say?”
“He said I had to go to Castle Cravenlock,” said Romaria. “By then, the zuvembies had risen in the forest. But the Seer told me I had to go north to face a demon.”
“A demon?” said Mazael.
“A demon,” said Romaria. “He said that I would face that demon with the help of another. Someone like me. Another who had only half a true soul.” She looked at him, her eyes full of fear and wonder. “A man who fought with a lion’s tooth in his hand, who moved like lightning, a man who could kill any other man.”
Mazael blinked. “Me?”
Romaria nodded.
Mazael snorted. “You needn’t worry about it. My mother was a serpent and my father a coward, but they were both human. Your Seer was wrong.”
�
�No,” said Romaria. “I have only a half a soul. But your soul...your soul has power. The Seer said as much.”
“Power?” said Mazael.
“You do,” said Romaria. “It’s always been in you. When have you ever lost a fight? It was always with you, but beneath your awareness, I think. And now something’s caused it to manifest. You aren’t mad. It’s this magic, this dark power within you. It is rising within and consuming you.”
“I think I’d rather be mad. I don’t believe it...I don’t want to be believe it,” said Mazael.
Romaria pointed at his chest. “Look.”
Mazael lifted his torn tunic and looked at the cuts Romaria had given him across his ribs.
The wounds were knitting themselves together, the flesh crawling and twisting. He watched as the wounds turned from an angry red to a soft pink. Within minutes, the cuts had healed.
“What sort of power?” said Mazael, his voice hoarse.
“Dark power,” said Romaria. “Demon power.”
“Demon power?” said Mazael. “Am I Demonsouled, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Romaria. “Even the Seer didn’t know. He said you had to fight it. You would battle it for possession of your soul. You would master it, he said, or else it would dominate you, consume you, and turn you to something else.”
Mazael looked at the fading cuts on his arm. His exhaustion had vanished, and his hangover had passed. A mad urge seized him, and he yanked his dagger from his belt and slashed it across his left palm. Romaria grabbed his wrist, but Mazael stared at his palm. The blood flowed for a moment, but then the wound began to close. He felt a deep itching in the flesh of his palm as the skin crawled back together. He and Romaria sat and silence and watched.
Within a quarter hour, the wound had vanished.
“Did your Seer say anything else?” said Mazael, voice shaking. He remembered all the stories he had heard of Demonsouled. Descendants of the Great Demon, cursed with demon power in their souls that drove them made even as it bestowed great strength. Children and young men who had exhibited strange powers and who had tried to kill their families wives, and sisters. He had never believed those stories. They were just myths, after all, like San-keth cults.
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