by P. J. Fox
Even Tristan’s father had, on occasion, complained of the “dry gripes,” the transient abdominal pain that afflicted so many. The demon, because it perceived the world differently, understood these things. It had tried to explain them to Tristan, too.
But Tristan’s pale skin came not from lead but, rather, from a different kind of poisoning. Tristan, although he didn’t know it, was ailing. Perhaps dying, although the demon couldn’t be sure. Something on the inside was broken. Black. Growing.
Tristan wasn’t cut out for the life he’d chosen; his constitution couldn’t bear the strain. Soon enough, unless he stopped, he’d die. And he’d never stop; the demon knew that.
Perhaps, the demon wondered, therein lay the real reason Tristan hadn’t married Brenna.
Except even as the demon contemplated this notion, something about it rang false. All too soon, the demon understood the reason for that—horribly, and completely. But for the present moment, it merely regarded Tristan flatly. Tristan was going to use the knowledge he’d gained as Warden of the North to help the South and West and thus bring about, or so he imagined, a speedy conclusion to the war. And then, apparently, life was going to go on as it should have all along. In Tristan’s mind, at least.
The demon’s role, just as clearly, was to help Tristan communicate with his proposed allies. If it worked, it would work well: no one would know about the clandestine talks except the people communicating. And the demon.
And the demon didn’t count. It narrowed its eyes slightly. “No,” it said.
“No?”
“No,” the demon repeated, testing out the word and liking how it felt. In all its long existence, it had never said no to a master before. The demon might be old in some ways, and certainly by human reckoning, but it was young for its kind. It had been brought into this world against its will and now that it was here, it wanted to explore. It wanted to say no.
“You cannot refuse me,” Tristan countered.
“Oh?” the demon challenged. “You believe that House Terrowin is doomed, and so you seek to escape. Like a rat from a sinking ship.” It managed to convey a wealth of disgust in that simple phrase. It might not be human, but it had learned enough of this world to understand honor. And shame. “House Terrowin might fall, this is true. But it will certainly fall if its allies desert it. As your allies will desert you, dukeling, when they see what you’ve become. All that holds them to you now is their belief in your loyalty—to them, and to the king. They fear you, and they hate you.”
“No they don’t.”
“Brenna fears you.”
“No she doesn’t!”
“Even you,” the demon hissed, “can no longer deny what you see.”
It saw indecision in Tristan’s eyes and, for the briefest of moments, thought that it had swayed him. And if the silence between them had held for another minute, maybe it would have. The demon’s life, and Tristan’s, might have turned out differently indeed. But then the door swung open and in it stood Simon.
And trapped in his arms, struggling pitifully to escape, was Brenna.
SEVEN
Her eyes were wide and round with terror as she beseeched the old wizard to let her go. She was half-dressed, Simon apparently having stolen her from her bedchamber. Decrepit though he might be, he was impossibly strong. He held her with the iron grip of a corpse and her struggles, though frenzied, were futile. She cried out, begging Tristan to help her.
“Do it,” Simon grated. “Perform the ritual.”
Tristan turned but, instead of going to Brenna’s aid, he just stared.
It was then that the demon understood. Understood everything. And some part of its nonexistent heart sank. As much as it hated Tristan—had grown to hate him, through its months of servitude—part of it also loved him. Admired him. Wanted to be more like him. It didn’t want to betray the kingdom or hurt Brenna, and on simple principle would have fought any man who put the look on her face that she wore now.
But Tristan was paralyzed.
He didn’t know. That was his problem. He didn’t know: what he wanted, or how to respond. He was, had always been, Simon’s pawn. Perhaps he hadn’t even realized that until now—if he even did, staring at Simon with the cold terror of an animal caught out in the hunt. Tristan had come this far because he was a good man and a good fighter with a strong sense of duty. But there was a dangerous weakness in him, one that hadn’t until now been exposed. Tristan was like a beautiful piece of marble, but one containing a secret flaw. It looked perfect on the outside, but under the strain of the chisel it would crack.
“What are you doing?” he asked Simon stupidly.
“What you can’t,” Simon replied flatly. His eyes glittered. Around him clung the sickly sweet aura of infection. He was failing, the demon realized, his skin beginning to slough off in earnest, and still he held Brenna as easily as if she’d been a child. Angry red marks were beginning to form on her arms, where Simon’s claw-like fingers dug into her flesh.
“What does he mean?” Brenna demanded. “Please, Tristan, help!”
And still Tristan vacillated. He was no worthy heir to his house; he hadn’t done what he’d done out of pride, or duty, much as he told himself otherwise. He’d done what he’d done, become what he’d become, out of fear. And the demon knew fear, of a sort, if not as men did.
“Do it,” Simon grated.
Tristan would.
He’d do exactly as his tutor instructed him, feeding the final piece of his soul into the fire himself, and then he’d be in that man’s power forever. How long, the demon wondered, before Simon took Brenna’s form for his own? How long before he took Tristan’s? That was why he’d come, of course; he was old and frail and needed a new body. Most necromancers lived their span and died, but the truly powerful could prolong their lives through certain rituals. One of which was possession.
Possession.
It considered the word.
Simon would possess Tristan through Brenna.
The demon saw clearly, now, what at first it had only suspected. Tristan was too strong to be easily overcome, but Brenna was no witch to protect her mind from such an onslaught. And because Brenna and her would-be husband would be linked…the demon looked again at Tristan, Tristan who in his obsession with duty had been blinded to all else. He worried only about what was right, never stopping to consider why Simon, a living husk from which all the human feeling had been burnt out, cared so much for his happiness. Because to Tristan, he was due that happiness. Simon had seen this entitlement, Tristan’s greatest flaw, and he’d exploited it.
The demon’s existence flashed before its eyes.
It had been attached to Tristan for so long…the last time it had been called into the world, the world was very different. There were no castles made of stone, only rude huts made of branches and clay. It didn’t want to leave; it didn’t want to vanish back into the ether, never to learn what happened in Morven. To wake up again, centuries from now, to find that all the castles were gone and the huts had returned. To never again know love.
To never be a man.
Tristan would fail. Was already failing. His line would end.
House Mountbatten would fall back into the sands of time as tides rose and fell and lesser men battled over what remained of the kingdom. And Tristan, but for the flaw that had doomed him, was a good man. In peace time, he could have been a great man. His life was a rich one, replete with honors he’d earned. He didn’t deserve to die like this, to be bent and corrupted until his retainers welcomed his death. To die without ever seeing his dream of a united kingdom fulfilled. To die without ever loving as he’d wanted.
And so the demon made its choice.
Tristan reeled back, staggering. The pain was intense, searing, all-encompassing. His heart hung dead in his chest, leaden, as his lungs constricted. He opened his mouth and shut it again, unable to breathe. Every muscle tensed as the veins on his neck bulged out rock hard. His vision swam, the tears som
ething he could no longer control. Across the room, across the void of space, he heard Simon shouting and Brenna sobbing. Brenna had no idea what was happening, and as she begged Tristan to explain her voice took on a high, keening edge.
But Tristan ignored her; he was too lost in the raging maelstrom of his own mind.
He pitched forward, catching himself on the settle and holding himself upright. He still gasped for air, like a dying fish. Inside him, two beings fought for control: the human man and his would-be possessor. The former was strong but the latter was stronger and it broke down his defenses bit by bit. Tristan’s father had been fond of saying that one man defending his home was worth ten hired soldiers; in the end, the demon won because it had to. Its host’s indecision was what doomed him. He wanted to fight, did fight, but part of him didn’t. Part of him was tired, and scared. Part of him knew that he’d lost the part of himself he most valued; that if he won, his victory would be a hollow one indeed.
The demon was plagued by no such self-doubt.
It wasn’t tired; to it, life was new. And it wanted life. A fierce, unholy joy filled it as it ripped down the last of its host’s defenses and felt itself spread out within him. Its vision swam again, doubling briefly, and then it straightened. The pain was intense, agony beyond its wildest dreams, but the pain could be ignored. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, its first, the demon straightened up. Its hands still gripped the wood of the settle, its fingernails gouging the hard wood. It drew another breath and exhaled, the motion sending a searing jolt of pain through its body until its teeth ached and its flesh quivered. The demon knew nothing of human physiology, but somehow this body knew what to do on its own. A fortunate thing, given the circumstances.
Simon stepped away from Brenna, raising his hands in a defensive posture.
The demon’s—Tristan’s—eyes flickered briefly to hers. “Go,” it hissed.
She stared, her mouth working. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and as devoid of guile. Her lips, pinched between her teeth, were a perfect red heart.
“But—”
“Go!”
Its voice sounded strange in its own ears, like Tristan’s voice but different. Its command of human vocal cords was poor, but there was something else. Something more. Its voice…was its own. Not Tristan’s. It was its own person. With a supreme effort of will, it fought back the thought. It couldn’t lose concentration now, not when so much was at stake. His vision doubled again, the room swimming before him as another jolt shot up his spine. Even now, its host could reassert control. All could be lost.
And Simon…
“Go!”
Brenna fled.
The two men faced each other, finally alone, two men who were not men.
“Leave now,” the demon hissed. “Or die.”
“You think to instruct me?” Simon’s chuckle was a low, unpleasant sound.
“I think to warn you, wizard.” The demon studied the old necromancer through eyes that were rapidly growing darker. Tristan’s eyes had been the iron blue-gray of lake water before a storm, but they never would be again. Although the demon didn’t know this yet, they’d continue to darken with time until they were as black as twin coals.
Simon raised a hand and the demon felt something hit his chest. He’d seen a man die, once, his ribs crushed with a forge hammer. That couldn’t have felt worse, because the demon was still alive. It staggered backward. Something inside it stirred; a voice cried out. Its host, seizing the chance to fight again for control. And seeing the demon’s momentary lapse in concentration, Simon struck again. The air moved around his hand, gelatinous, as he formed it into another battering ram and forced the demon across the room and into the mantelpiece. Hard stone thrust against its back, jarring it.
Another searing bolt of pain. The demon felt its heart stop, and restart. It gasped and staggered. It felt…so full. Of conflicting sensations. Of life. Of death. Like a lone pebble rolled ceaselessly by the tide, trapped within a prison that controlled it. In that moment, it almost gave up, almost fled its host and let Simon banish it into whatever void he’d chosen. Never had it imagined a body to be so confining; it felt like it was trapped, doubled up inside a too-small cage. Its lungs worked now, but it could scarcely breathe.
But it held on. And as it slowly reasserted control, it began to fight back.
It thrust out its own hand, palm forward, and Simon staggered a few paces.
His eyes opened slightly in shock. He hadn’t expected the demon to put up much of a fight, or any at all. The demon was young, inexperienced, and new to this—or any—body. It had taken human shape before, but never possessed an actual human being and it was wholly unprepared for the experience. Simon knew this. But what he didn’t know was that the demon would rather die than go back. Tristan was going to die anyway. His fate, if he lived, was to lose the woman he loved and become a tool for Simon—even more so. It deserved this body! It had earned the right to live. To really and truly live.
“You’re choosing the path of pain, demon.”
“It’s one you want,” the demon hissed.
“Yes,” Simon agreed. “And what will you do with it? Join the other poor slobs, rolling around in the dirt? Breed with the woman? Ape being human for the rest of your life?” He took a step forward, and another one, holding the demon’s gaze with his own. “And what happens when they realize that you never age? Do you think they’ll accept you, then?”
The demon didn’t respond. Listening to Simon was madness. It tried to force the words out of its head; Simon would say whatever he had to, to sway it. He was, after his own fashion, just as desperate as the demon.
Still, even knowing this, the wizard’s words held a certain honeyed appeal. Simon, like all creatures who’d survived as long as he had, was canny. He knew how to exploit weakness. How to make himself sound…so very reasonable. The demon blinked. Simon was right in front of it. He hadn’t appeared to move at all; he was just suddenly there, a pace or so distant, his hand on the sideboard as though he’d been standing there all night.
“You know how the fairy tale ends, don’t you? The mermaid sells her soul for a chance to love the handsome prince, but he falls in love with a human woman.” Simon said the word with a sneer. Human. Nothing. “You know nothing of being human. But I do, and if you join with me I’ll see that you get what you want. I know how to reward my familiars. If you want the girl, you can have her. Even in a new body I’m…past such things.”
“I want nothing.” The demon glared. “Not from you.”
Simon appeared to shrug, turn, lift the decanter from the sideboard to pour more wine. And then he turned, faster than a striking snake. The demon dodged barely in time and knocked over one of the wrought iron candelabra as it threw itself behind the settle. Behind it, chips exploded from the stone blocks of the fireplace. Another bolt struck a second later, this time striking the settle. The smell of singed horsehair filled the air.
Simon had tried to lure the demon into a false sense of security, and indeed he’d almost done so when he struck. It was Simon’s misfortune that he’d acted precipitously. The demon, freed of his spell, found its head clearing. Under normal circumstances, it never would have been so vulnerable—in any form. But it was still unused to this damnable prison of a body, still figuring out how to operate the hands and heart it now possessed.
Calming itself, it thought. It needed a plan. Simon was approaching again.
The candelabra had fallen onto the stone floor and rolled, spilling melted wax over the tiles. Several of the candles still burned and Simon’s parchment thin skin glowed in the reflected light as he advanced.
The demon watched him come through the hole in the overturned settle. Behind it, the fire crackled merrily. The incongruousness of this—this domesticity was jarring. A plate of bread and cheese still waited on the table, uneaten. Tristan’s scrolls and books and maps occupied their customary places, likewise waiting for him to return. Tristan, who’d expected to finis
h this night lying in bed, thinking about the war, or reading by the light of the fire. He did that often, his book in one hand and a cup of wine in the other, wrapped in a bearskin for warmth.
And then, thinking of these things, the demon realized that it knew what to do.
It waited until the old necromancer was almost upon it, still preaching partnership as he destroyed the settle inch by inch. He took his time; he wasn’t afraid. He knew that although the demon might be more powerful, under other circumstances, right now he had the advantage. The demon, new to its body and weak, its head swimming and its stomach in knots, couldn’t hope to outmatch him. It knew magic, and Tristan knew magic, but it hadn’t yet figured out how to make its powers work for it in this new and limiting form or how to access what its host knew. It was, indeed, as close to helpless as it had ever been—and as close to being genuinely afraid. As Tristan, somewhere deep inside of it, was afraid.
Splinters flew past the demon’s face. It closed its eyes briefly and then, summing itself up, it stood. Simon had expected it to cower behind the settle until he came for it; seeing that the demon planned to attack, he smiled. It was a slow-spreading, lazy smile that turned the demon’s stomach. Now that the demon had a stomach, a decidedly unpleasant experience.
But the demon had something else, too: it had knowledge. Years spent delving into secrets for its masters had given it an insight into the human mind that, oddly, Simon lacked. It raised its hand to strike, feinted, and came up behind the old man. Simon, expecting a magical onslaught, was surprised.
In the split second it took him to realize that the demon wasn’t using magic, it struck. It grabbed Simon from behind, crushing his windpipe with a choke hold made iron-like from years of practicing with a bow. Simon gurgled wetly, horribly, his arms flailing before him. He thrust his head back, trying vainly to free himself, as his legs kicked. He managed to land a blow on the demon’s shin and the demon, unused to walking, took a step backward. It hadn’t found its balance yet; it would need time. Time it didn’t have.