The Daemon Prism: A Novel of the Collegia Magica

by Carol Berg

  “You should ride for a while,” I said.

  “It’s nothing!” Rhea gestured down the track. “Besides, we’ve greeters on the way.”

  “And dogs!” said Ilario, as two muddy pups pawed his already sodden trousers.

  “Welcome, travelers.” A handsome woman of middling age, almost as tall as Rhea, emerged from the mist. “Come out of the rain. Have a cup and tell us of your journeying.”

  Dressed plain, her dark hair bound atop her head in a tight knot, she sounded less severe than she looked. I tried to judge her on that, and on Andero’s insistence that these people were kind and reasonable, rather than the fact that they killed anyone who worked magic. I knew of Kadr’s terrible history. It was the only military venture my father had found difficulty speaking of, and the one that fixed his opposition to magic. That was long before he knew that his own father was a remnant of one of the most powerful and wicked of all blood families.

  Ilario’s silver tongue had the woman, Zophie, and her companions at ease within moments. The younger woman, Krasna, raced down the hill ahead of us to ensure us a roof, a fire, and a meal. We offered to sleep in the barn, but Tesar, a short, stout, and iron-hard young man near my own age, insisted on housing us with his family. “The rain is ever a blessing, but I’d not condemn anyone to sleeping on barn straw after journeying through it. Damoselle Tasserie, did the gentleman say you are a trained healer? A traditional healer, not a sorceress…”

  Ah. Perhaps they were short on physicians as well as smiths.

  As the villagers led my companions down the path, a bit of color caught my eye on the trail where Rhea had slipped down. The white embroidery told me it was a scrap of her Temple apron. Perhaps Rhea was leaving her Temple identity behind her.

  “Goodman Silvio, Damoselle Madeleine,” said Zophie, as we trudged the last few metres into the heart of the tidy settlement. “I’ve no wish to pry into your private business, but I must tell you, we do not tolerate any deviltry here—no magic, no enchantments of any kind. Our watchers can sense the slightest use. Trespass, and we’ll see you dead. ’Tis harsh, I know, but the history of this land gives us cause enough. Some among us believe we should not warn our visitors, but I’ve been persuaded of late that such policy can pervert justice.”

  “Warning seems fair,” said Ilario, “as long as it’s the use you punish and not the skill.”

  “A person cannot help being born with the skill,” she said. “I’ve come to see that, though I’d prefer to rid the world of the blight altogether.”

  No matter her conversion, I was not about to tell her I suffered the disease she loathed.

  Villagers began stopping by Tesar’s house even before we’d sat down to supper—this man with a stomach complaint, this child with an earache.…After the first few, Rhea offered to drop around to each house after our meal, so she could take care of what was needed in a more private setting. Everyone was pleased. As was I. We had purposely not asked after Andero.

  As we devoured a savory pottage, Ilario carried the conversation with Zophie, Tesar, his wife, and the others, asking animatedly about the settlement, the prospects for the weather, the roads, and other travelers. Zophie asked him if he had a wife.

  To my surprise it was Rhea spoke up. “He doesn’t. But he has a lady. He told me he has room for only one woman in his heart, though hers is fully occupied with another.”

  Eugenie would weep to hear her beloved brother say such a thing. She forever lamented his lavishing his devotion on her alone. Loving as she was, even she had no idea of Ilario’s true nature.

  Ilario’s cheeks flamed, and he quickly turned the conversation to Ho­ven’s history.

  I shivered despite the fire. Since that night on Kadr ridge, I had never been warm. Ilario’s sober reassurance wedged in my throat like a fishbone. Whatever needs to be done about him…If Dante was mad, what in Heaven would I do? I would not believe he was corrupt.

  I wanted to be gone from this place.

  Once we’d eaten, Ilario and I accompanied Rhea and her medicine box on a round of the village’s seven houses. Ilario visited with the men, as comfortable in the farm settlement as in Eugenie’s salon. Rhea listened to coughs, doled out drops of medicine for joint fever and weeping eye. She excised a boy’s warts, and lanced and cleaned a man’s wickedly mortified cut made by a skinning knife. I helped as I could, while keeping my eyes and ears open for a sign of Andero.

  The last house sat at the far end of the commons. Nan and Elio had five children, ages five through sixteen. As the gaunt farmer and his wife invited us in, Tesar mentioned that the newest settler in the village, a blacksmith, lived with the family, as well.

  “He’s down to the forge,” said Elio, “but I think he’s healthy enough.”

  “Ah, you’ve a smith!” said Ilario. “Mayhap I’ll have a word with him when we’ve finished here. I’ve a worry about my mount’s shoes.”

  Sadly, I could think of no reason to bolt just then.

  As Rhea finished up with the children, the front door opened to the growl of thunder and a pelting rain. “Spirits and demons,” boomed a soggy giant, “a deluge! Are we having a party?”

  “Travelers,” said Tesar. “A physician willing to examine the children in exchange for a night’s lodging out of the wet.”

  “A good bargain at whatever the price. ’Tis a night to stay near a friendly hearth.”

  The newcomer appeared less wet, but equally formidable once he removed his great-cloak, and threaded the crowded room toward Zophie. He towered more than two metres in height, with shoulders and arms ready to shift boulders. His broad, handsome face sported a thick brown beard and enough lines to indicate he smiled more than he frowned. As Zophie murmured in his ear, he glanced up and caught me staring at him over the heads of chasing children.

  Curiosity sharpened his glance. Juggling a steaming cup of cider, he soon joined me on the hearth rug, where I was helping a small girl with her apron.

  “Don’t believe I caught your name, damoselle,” he said. His eyes were a deep, rich green, not so intense, but unmistakably kin. Recalling the awkward kindness of his letters, I felt that I already knew him very well. “Madeleine,” I said. “Anne Sophia Madeleine, to be precise.”

  Pleasure blossomed across his broad expanse. “ ’Tis an honor—a great honor—to meet you. I’m Andero. The smith.”

  No matter the crushing gloom these few days past, I could do naught but smile. It likely would have thrown him over if I’d embraced him as I wished. “It’s reassuring to find such hospitality here.”

  “The good folk here have welcomed me kindly. One must be sure to understand and obey their laws, even for a brief stay.”

  “The laws have been clearly explained to us.”

  Andero nodded and sipped his cider.

  I nodded toward Ilario. “My brother, Silvio, was severely wounded in a border skirmish in the north. His physician believes desert climes will aid his healing.”

  “A border skirmish…” He glanced sharply at Ilario. “A swordsman, is he?”

  “Indeed so.”

  “Such a healer he must have!” The thicket of his eyebrows almost met his hair. So Dante had told him of Ilario.

  “Most gifted.”

  Andero’s gaze found Rhea, who took that moment to laugh at Nan’s youngest, a rosy-cheeked babe who had a firm grip on the healer’s ragged hair.

  I finished tying the elder child’s apron. She kissed my cheek and ran away. “We head south tomorrow,” I said, “though I’m unsure of our route. We look for guidance.”

  “We can surely arrange for that.”

  Andero took my hand. As he helped me off the floor, he squeezed it hard. “Have a care in your journeying, damoselle. Things in the south are very worrisome. I’ll hope to see you again before you leave.”

  “Sir smith,” said Ilario, sailing toward us like a merchant ship into familiar harbor. “Would you consider taking a gander at my horse, the black gelding in the barn
? I fear he’s in dire need of shoes.”

  “I’ll have a look,” said Andero. “If I think work’s needed, I’ll take care of it tonight. Nan, Elio! Don’t wait up if you see the forge lit. I could be late. Grace to all.”

  As if he’d bade them, the folk of Hoven and their guests braved the rain and headed for bed.

  IT TOOK NO TIME AT all for Tesar’s house to quiet. Though night shuttered the other dwellings, light flickered at the end of the village, where our host had pointed out the forge.

  “The smith seems a stalwart man. Nan and Zophie had naught but good to say of him,” said Rhea sleepily. “Will you see him tonight?”

  “As soon as I dare.”

  Half an hour later, the rain had ended and I slipped out. The ground squelched as I tramped toward the light and the clank of hammer on metal. A blast of heat and Ilario’s gelding welcomed me to the forge. But it was the smell of hot iron—the smell of Dante when he had soothed some bout of fury and come back to teaching—near brought me to tears. Save that I had no tears left since the night on Kadr ridge.

  The smith had his back to the door. I moved around into the light where he could see me and waited. It was dangerous to startle a man dealing with hammers and red-hot metal.

  He glanced up. “Mercy! Didn’t expect you so soon.”

  Sweat beaded his broad forehead and dampened the shirt underneath his leather apron.

  “I couldn’t wait longer.”

  He threw the glowing horseshoe on a bed of rock, laid down his tools, and drew me into the shadows. “Appreciate your taking care. Me and the folk here get along well. But they don’t forget I’m their bondsman neither.” He cocked his head for a moment, appraising. “Dante’s not forgot what you look like. I would have recognized you in more unlikely places than Elio’s front room.”

  “I, too,” I said. “There is a certain family resemblance.”

  “Honestly? I’d never have thought it.”

  “More inside than outside, perhaps. What’s happened to him, Andero? Something’s terribly wrong these few days past.”

  “Many things have happened, but I don’t know much recent.” He motioned me to a bench. “He’s four days ride from here, in the city of Mancibar. You ought to know some things before you go.”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “Pardon if I take up my hammer now and again, just in case anyone’s noticing.” He returned to his anvil. “ ’Twas late in Desen’s month he rode into Raghinne. Never saw anyone so lone. Didn’t know then how scared he was. He’d ever been one to hide what he was thinking, frighting people off, even ones like me that never meant him harm. But I learnt a deal when I was soldiering. Understood him better, which is why I sent to him when Da went crazy.…”

  He told me everything of their time together. Punctuated with the pumping bellows, the rumbling flames, and the pounding hammer, he laid out what Dante had told him of his father’s words, of Dante’s fears for Portier, of Castelivre and Adept Denys and how the healing in Otro’s village had brought him back to magic. It would take days for me to put together the whole of it. But even that long story was not all.…

  “I’ve learnt some of what’s transpired since he left me here, but it’s confusing and too long for tonight. Come morning, about two kilometres down the road south, take the track off to your left that crosses a little wash. You’ll find a house a good ways in. I’ll meet you there as early in the day as I can get away. You’ll hear all there is to tell, and we’ll figure out what to do. Now, you’d best get back before someone figures we’re up to something here. ’Tis only a tenday past they’ve let me out of leg irons.”

  “Irons! I thought these were generous people?”

  I wanted to snatch him away right then. Indeed, I had concluded that if ever some divinity had shown Dante favor, it was in sending him his elder brother. But it was very late. “We’ll be there.”

  He straightened and heaved a deep sigh. “It’s good you’ve come. He’s needed you.”

  MORNING BROUGHT BRILLIANT SUNSHINE. The villagers were generous with tea and fruit, and effusive with their appreciation for Rhea’s help. It was hard to believe they kept a bondsman in irons and had wanted to kill a blind man for trying to see.

  Tesar’s eldest son left us at a remote farmhouse, where Rhea examined a young pregnant woman. She’d had a babe stillborn because it was a foot­ling. But Rhea was able to reassure her that this one was head down and unlikely to turn.

  By midmorning we were headed south. Ilario and Rhea talked quietly of healing and Hoven. I lagged behind. The image of the pregnant farm wife, churning with fear and hope, haunted me. Andero had told me how Dante’s mother, also churning with fear and hope, had birthed her children in a cave. She had allowed one to die there, sacrificed—murdered—another, and repeatedly abandoned Dante alone in the dark when he showed signs of magic. Such desperation was scarce believable. But the story explained so much about her son.

  Yet, what had old Otro said? That it wasn’t fear or grief that made Dante scream in the night. For one born in the dark, such terrors are but echoes.…He fights for his soul. The Great War has never ended for the daemons.

  Had Dante told Otro he was born in a cave? I shuddered, despite the sunlight. Daemon. A very old word, according to the old man. What did that mean? The words of holy men were infuriating.

  “One or the other of you, tell me of daemons,” I said. “Who is this Panthia, whose worship demands infants’ blood?”

  “Panthia!” The name echoed like the crack of a pistol shot—from both the Cultist and the Temple servitor.

  “Infants’ blood?” said Ilario. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s a forbidden name,” said Rhea. “We should not—”

  “Panthia’s is a holy name,” said Ilario. “Certainly no one here needs to be protected from truth lest their faith be shaken. To mask it is unworthy of a woman of your intelligence.”

  Rhea’s cheeks flamed. “Such things are easily perverted into falsehood.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Ancient Temple writings name Panthia and Celeres daemons,” said Ilario, “rebels. Yet Panthia brought humankind the first vine and taught us of its use. Celeres taught us the stories of Creation that we might understand our place in the Pantokrator’s heart. His stories became the Primordium, though the Temple forbids mentioning his name, because you might get confused.”

  “But I thought the rebel was Dimios,” I said. “The Souleater. Daemons are his followers.”

  “You see?” said Ilario. “Confusion. Yes, Dimios was the First of the Angels and was set to watch over humankind. But he refused to see us raised up, claiming he defended Heaven against the taint of our violence and corruption. He wanted to keep us ignorant and in our place—much like Temple tetrarchs do.”

  “That’s unfair,” said Rhea, bristling. “We do not deny Dimios’s errors or Panthia’s and Celeres’s good teaching. Scholars believe those texts that name them daemons must be in error.”

  By this time we’d come to a halt. “Please, I just want to know.” I told them of Dante’s mother.

  Rhea’s hand covered her mouth. “His mother birthed in caves? Abandoned her child in the dark for days, all for magic? It’s all turned around.…”

  Ilario compressed his lips and shook his head. “Panthia and Celeres rebelled against Dimios, not the Creator. Dimios slew Celeres and Panthia, beginning the War for Heaven.”

  And the Great War has never ended, Otro had said. The Daemon War.

  “It’s all about words and texts and translations,” said Ilario. “Those who hear the stories of Panthia and Celeres see only good in them. And so poor beleaguered women like Dante’s mother take their worship into caves, thinking to offer blood sacrifice because that’s how you get a daemon’s favor. I didn’t know Dante had been brought up amid such beliefs.”

  “Is it over—the War for Heaven?”

  “It is long over,” said Rhe
a. “The Creator confined Dimios and the other Fallen in Gedevron. Anything else that’s happened—” She bit her lip and glared at Ilario.

  “The Temple doesn’t like you to think that daemons are still scheming to wreak havoc,” said Ilario. “Because you might start believing that saints walk among us, as Cultists do. Or you might doubt the divinity of the Pantokrator, which Cultists do not, as I’ve reminded my friend, the healer, many times in our discussions as she wielded her knife about my gut. Mercifully, she did not choose to correct my errors with her instruments, or chastise my cursing with her cautery iron.…”

  Ilario bestowed a most appreciative glance on Rhea. Not many had ever taken Ilario seriously.

  She didn’t see it. Jaw tight, wincing at her sore thighs, she was urging her mount back onto the track. “You’re a fool, Chevalier.”