Jeremilan looked away. “A few centuries are nothing for demons and their spawn. For all we know, you’re one of the golden-haired devils who murdered our own.”
Saviar clamped his mouth shut. There was no arguing with one so firm in his convictions, so steadfast in his faith. When one’s arguments had no basis in logic, they had no boundaries. The most obvious proof could not dislodge them. He wondered how so much ignorance could reside in one so old, so powerful. As he considered what he faced, Saviar came to a realization that now seemed so obvious he wondered how he had missed it. These are magical beings. “If I’m a demon . . .” Saviar captured Jeremilan’s gaze with his own. “Summon me.”
A murmur traversed the room.
Unable to escape Saviar’s ice-blue stare, he met it with an angry glare of his own. “Why would we summon you? You’re here.”
Saviar reached back into memory, to his father’s description of the elves’ demon summoning. “Then bind me.” He held out his hands. “With the type of magic that only holds demons. I can prove I’m a man.”
Jeremilan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And how does one who professes to know nothing about magic say so much about summonings and bindings? How would you know that if you’re not actually—”
“—a demon?” Saviar inserted, shaking his head. “I’m not a woman, but I know menstruation happens once a month. I’m not a healer, but I know sarvenna leaf can ease the sting of minor wounds. I’m not a cat, but I know they purr when they’re contented.” He clasped his hands, holding out his wrists. “Bind me.” Though he said it with confidence, he hoped they would not take him up on the offer. The idea of less freedom than he already had rankled. He knew nothing that held only demons could harm him, yet he had no real understanding of what the mages could do with their magic.
The mages in the room huddled together, exchanging whispers. Saviar deliberately looked away, lest he accidentally glean some information by lip-reading. He had no particular skill at it, but it seemed dishonorable to intrude upon what was clearly intended to be private conversation. Knowing the mages tended to long discussions, he did attempt to persuade. “You asked me for proof. Now that I found a way to provide it, how can you deny me the opportunity?”
Giddion looked at Jeremilan, who nodded. Only then, the younger mage addressed Saviar. “It’s not a matter of denying you the opportunity to provide proof but of denying you the opportunity to weaken us before attacking.”
“Attack you?” Saviar did not understand on several levels. If he wished to attack someone, he would do it while they were at their full strength; anything less would cheapen his victory. He doubted the mages would appreciate that particular point, though. “Do you really not understand why I’m here?”
“You’re obsessed with my great-granddaughter,” Jeremilan supplied. “You kidnapped her, you damaged her, and you followed her back here.”
Saviar’s lower jaw sagged. Surprise and indignation carried his voice up half an octave, to his dismay, “I did none of those things.” He amended swiftly, “Well, I did follow her, and I am enamored of her, but I’m not obsessed. I certainly didn’t kidnap or damage her in any way.”
The mages simply stared. They seemed just as shocked by his words as he did by theirs. Netheron found his tongue first. “How can you say you didn’t kidnap her? You took her from us at knifepoint and dragged her off to Béarn.”
“After promising,” Giddion added, “to release her as soon as you had gotten safely past our magic.”
“Which we did,” Saviar said firmly. “I ordered her home, but she insisted on accompanying us.” He added proudly, “And it’s a lucky thing she did. Without her, we would have lost the war. The peoples of every country would lie dead at the feet of pirates, including all of you.” Saviar saw horror stealing across the men’s faces. “King Griff gave her a suite in the palace, treated her like a princess, and our bards would laud her as a hero if she would allow it. Is that what you mean by ‘damaging’?”
Archille snarled out, “We’re referring to the rape, demon.”
The venom in the comment might have shocked Saviar had the words not already done the trick. “What rape?”
They all stared at him, accusation in every expression.
“Me?” Saviar could barely comprehend it. “You think I raped Chymmerlee?” Incredulity swiftly turned to rage. “That’s obscene and ridiculous. I would never harm any woman in such a ghastly fashion, especially Chymmerlee. I . . . love her.” It was only the second time Saviar had spoken the words, and he was not wholly certain he meant them.
“Perhaps,” Giddeon suggested carefully, “you convinced yourself she was a willing partner.”
Saviar did not know where to put his gaze. The very idea that he would rape anyone humiliated and appalled him. “I’ve never slept with any woman, willingly or otherwise. I’m a virgin.” A thought occurred to him. “Chymmerlee must be also. Why don’t you check?” Even nonmagical healers had ways of determining such things, Saviar thought.
Uncomfortable looks passed between the mages. Only two possibilities seemed plausible: either someone had previously raped her or Chymmerlee had slept with one of the mages.
Saviar did not know how to deal with that. At the moment, he did not want to think about it. “Well . . . you’re free to check me. If you think you can learn anything from it.”
Jeremilan’s features turned bland, showing no trace of his previous anger. “You mean, you would willingly allow us to . . . examine you?”
Saviar found his hand slipping toward his privates and halted it. “Could I stop you?” He glanced around the group, wondering why they found his cooperation so odd. A horrible thought struck him then, “You don’t have to . . . cut it off or anything?”
The quietest of the mages loosed a snort of amusement, and a smile touched at least one other face. Even Jeremilan seemed ever-so-slightly amused. “No. We don’t need to cut . . . anything . . . off. We’re just surprised by your willingness to oblige us. Resistance makes our spells more difficult, sometimes impossible. When we cast them on a willing subject, we have much more freedom and leeway.”
Saviar wondered if it were possible for two people to misunderstand one another more. He saw no reason to remind them he could not prevent them from casting anything they wanted on him. He did not want to open the door to every random idea they might have. “I’m fine with you using magic to test my purity, so long as it doesn’t do me any permanent harm. I have nothing to fear from binding.” A better use of their talents came to him then. “Do you have a means to test whether or not I’m telling the truth? I’m all right with that, too; and it would obviate those other spells. That way, I could just tell you I’m not a demon, that I did not and would never harm Chymmerlee, that the Renshai are inarguably human.”
“That would work,” Archille said.
Jeremilan frowned at him, and they all leaned in for another whispered discussion. Saviar wondered if they could bathe and dress themselves without advisement. If they had the ability to differentiate truth from lies, or confine him to honest answers, there seemed no need for discussion. If they could not, they would fare as well telling him they could and pretending to cast such a spell on him. He would never know the difference.
The mages did not confer long. They all sat up straight and looked toward Saviar while Jeremilan explained. “On a willing human subject, we could cast a spell that differentiated truth from lies. It’s not the same with demons. By Odin’s laws, once summoned and properly bound, a demon must answer a single question honestly and perform one service.”
Saviar knew the rest from Ra-khir’s description, but he feigned ignorance. He did not want them thinking his information came from firsthand knowledge. “Fine. Attempt to bind me. If it fails, you’ll know I’m human, as I claim. If it succeeds, I’ll have to answer you honestly anyway.”
“The problem,” Giddi
on explained, examining Saviar intently, as if to judge whether he already knew, “is that once a demon fulfills his promise, he gains power. Eventually, he can break the bindings, and he always claims payment in blood.”
Saviar stared back. “So now you’re worried I’m going to use my demon magic to maim or kill one of you?”
No one spoke, but their expressions gave up the truth of that fear. “I’m not bound now. If I were a demon, and I wanted to attack you, what’s currently stopping me?”
Paultan chewed a fingernail, then bobbed his head. “He does have a valid point. The magics on the room might keep even a demon confined, but it could not stop him from harming those of us already inside it.”
“Unless,” Giddion suggested, “he’s biding his time, waiting for us to take the barrier down so he can slaughter all of us at once.”
The quiet Myrcidian, a young man who had originally introduced himself as Lycros, finally spoke, “Is it your experience that demons can devise such elaborate plans? I’d always thought of them as shapeless, vicious globs of untamed chaos, wholly lacking order or the contemplation of such. Impulsivity incarnate.”
Archille turned him a withering look that might explain why he had not spoken up sooner. “It’s clear enough Renshai are not demons in the classical sense. I suspect from his eagerness to get us to try it that binding would not affect him, regardless.”
“I’d hardly call myself eager,” Saviar grumbled. These mages seemed willing to consider anything that might justify their faith, no matter how senseless it seemed to an outsider like himself. “If I understand you correctly, even proof will not convince you I’m not a demon. You’ll just revise your conception of reality to conform with what you already believe.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Saviar wished he had not spoken them aloud. He had made a bit of progress and did not wish to jeopardize that by angering the mages.
But they seemed to take his words in stride. And Lycros, at least, considered them. “There’s sense to his argument. You tell him to prove he’s not a demon, yet even before you take him up on it, you’ve come up with reasons why you won’t believe the results.”
Archille shook his head. “That’s not exactly fair, either. We’ve always known Renshai are a unique type of demon simply by their ability and desire to pass for human. Perhaps it’s better to describe them as humans who use demonic forms of magic. In that case, binding would not affect them any more than you or me.”
Lycros stroked his chin, as if in deep contemplation, though a sparkle in his eye gave away some impulsiveness of his own. “Well, he certainly hasn’t had a chance to indulge in demonic forms of magic for the last few months.” He addressed Saviar, “You’re all right with me casting a spell on you that will differentiate truths from lies?”
At the moment, Saviar would have agreed to anything Lycros had to say. “Of course.”
Lycros muttered some harsh, sibilant sounds, waved his arms, and ended with all of his fingers stiffly pointed at Saviar. He pinned his gaze on Saviar’s eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Saviar Ra-khirsson of the tribe of Renshai.”
The mages studied Saviar even more intently, then bobbed their heads and mumbled amongst themselves.
“Tell us you have two sisters,” Lycros commanded.
“But I don’t.” Saviar did not know what might happen if he lied. “I have only brothers.”
Lycros’ gaze bored into Saviar’s. Either the spell demanded that he maintain direct eye contact or he chose to do it for other reasons. Either way, Saviar dared not look away. “Say it.”
“I have . . . two sisters,” Saviar lied. He winced, anticipating pain that never came.
The mages only bobbed their heads more intently and muttered longer sentences.
Saviar did not know how long the spell would last, but he wanted to get out as much information as he could while it did. “Actually, I have brothers, no sisters. I’m wholly human and know absolutely nothing about demon magic. Everything I’ve told you about the Renshai is true. I have never deliberately hurt Chymmerlee, and I cannot conceive of any circumstance where I would. I came here with exactly two intentions: to get back into Chymmerlee’s good graces and to try to talk all of you into helping us defeat our common enemy.” Saviar halted, running out of things he felt he needed to say.
“Stop.” Jeremilan held up a hand. “All of your statements ring true, but one. When you said, everything you’ve told us about the Renshai is true, the magic tagged it as falsehood.” His dry lips twisted in suspicion. “What is the lie?”
Saviar’s heart rate quickened, and he felt as if it had suddenly become encased in ice. He forced his thoughts backward, over the previous conversation, surprised to swiftly find the answer. “Forgive me, I did state one falsehood, though not intentionally. When I said all of the Renshai who took part in the purging of Myrcidë had perished, I was simplifying. One, and only one, Renshai from that time still lives. Everything else I stated about my people was absolute truth.” Saviar took his gaze from Lycros to pin it on Jeremilan. He wanted to convey to the old man he had nothing to hide.
Apparently no longer doubting Saviar’s words, Jeremilan went off on the tangent Saviar had tried to avoid. “There is a Renshai older than myself?” His lids narrowed. “Now I know demon magic is involved.”
Archille shook his head. “Can’t be. You saw the results of the spell.” He made a vague gesture that encompassed Saviar and Lycros.
Rarely did Renshai sacrifice a chance to talk about the immortal hero of their people. By now, Saviar thought everyone knew about Colbey.
Though they clearly did not know he still lived, the mages were not altogether ignorant of the situation. Netheron nodded sagely, “The last Western Wizard, right? The process of becoming a Cardinal Wizard would have granted him a significantly extended lifespan.” The nodding stopped mid-movement. “Except all the Cardinal Wizards died at once, and you said this Renshai still lived.”
Saviar did not have a complete grasp of history, and the information about Colbey fell into the realm of religion. Not everyone agreed with the Renshai version, though Saviar believed his father when Ra-khir had said he personally met Colbey, alive, on more than one occasion. “I know for certain he did not die with the rest of the Cardinal Wizards and that he still lived when I was an infant. I have no idea if anything has happened to him since that time. We believe him to be immortal and that the blood of Thor runs through his veins.”
Saviar knew many stories of gods cavorting with humans existed; more then a few peoples proclaimed their past and present heroes or rulers demigods. But Colbey Calistinsson was the only one who had reappeared through history with enough frequency to ascertain the claims. “It’s ascribed in the historical texts of Béarn that, at the end of the first Great War, Colbey and the Eastern Wizard, Shadimar, quibbled over the Pica Stone. Each of them believed himself the last of his people, Renshai and Myrcidian, and thus entitled to claim the enormous sapphire as his own. It is said that another huge battle might have ensued had Colbey not offered a sincere apology for the prior actions of the Renshai and renounced all claim to the Pica Stone, insisting Shadimar keep it.”
Saviar glanced around the room to see if he still had the mages’ attention and discovered every eye on him, waiting for him to finish. “The texts clearly state that Shadimar forgave Colbey, and they became blood brothers. Because of that eternal bond, there isn’t a Renshai living who would not consider himself a loyal friend to the Mages of Myrcidë.” Saviar added hastily, “Assuming any other than Subikahn and I knew you still existed.”
Again, the mages in the room went utterly silent. Saviar wondered how long they had remained isolated from the rest of the world, how much history they had missed, even of their own people. He knew they had an enormous library filled with ancient and decaying tomes, most written in languages long dead. A group with so much time and inclinati
on to study would revel in the sage of Béarn’s collection.
Jeremilan broke the hush first, and the focus of his question surprised Saviar. He had expected the next inquiry to have something to do with Colbey or the promised brotherhood between men who believed themselves the last Renshai and the last Myrcidian. “What happened to the Pica Stone?”
At one time, Chymmerlee had asked the same question. “While in Shadimar’s care, it was . . . shattered.”
A collective intake of breath followed, and Saviar saw several of the mages wince. Jeremilan turned Saviar a look of withering disdain, which had become familiar. “The Pica Stone is the most magical item ever to exist. Do you know the power it would take to destroy such a thing?”
Saviar had no idea. He could only shrug in ignorance.
“He’s not lying,” Netheron pointed out.
Archille’s entire face seemed to pucker, as if he had eaten something sour. “There are weaknesses to the truth detection spell.”
Now, Netheron turned the same look Jeremilan gave Saviar on Archille. “Fine. He wholeheartedly believes it to be the truth. Perhaps he can enlighten us as to why.”
Saviar did so. “Because my parents, Subikahn’s father, some elves, and a few others went on a successful mission to gather up the pieces from multiple worlds. We were infants then, and our mother was carrying our youngest brother in her womb.” Saviar’s own words gave him pause. For the first time, he dared to wonder if that strange and exotic adventure had affected Calistin. At the least, it had exposed him to Outworldly magic during his early development and might account for some of his peculiarities. “As I understand it, combined elfin magic put the Pica Stone back together, and it’s currently used as the means to determine the fitness of future Béarnian royalty.”
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