by P. J. Fox
TEN
He splashed in the brook, reveling in the frigid water as it washed away the last of the filth coating his skin. He scrubbed at his hair, aware that there was little he could do in that department beyond break up the worst of the crust. His hair stuck out this way and that, hair he’d always kept short for the sake of convenience but that also happened to be fashionable.
His current state was…difficult for his vanity.
He did what he could with his clothes, too, beating them against a rock and laying them out to dry on a patch of ground that had been revealed during the unseasonable thaw. Looking at the scene in front of him, a stranger might have almost taken it to be spring. But spring was a good month off, yet, and this brook never froze over completely even in the coldest weather. The current was too strong, fed as it was by a spring and not just mountain runoff. When the first thaw hit, brooks that were mere trickles the rest of the year swelled to rushing torrents capable of decimating wagons and even cottages, if a man had been foolish enough to build in the flood plain. And men drowned, of course; and livestock. But the demon, who knew these things because Tristan knew them, wasn’t thinking about thaws or flood plains.
Still naked, he stretched himself out full length on the ground beside his clothes and absorbed the heatless sunlight.
He’d wait for Brenna to bring Brom, and then he and Brom would go to Jansen’s. Brenna would understand that he was still the same man—a better man, now, in fact, because he’d never do what Tristan had done. He’d never stand idly by, worrying about his own honor as the woman he loved was hurt. Or even frightened. He’d kill the man who touched one hair on her head, he decided with some measure of satisfaction.
He might be a demon, he thought lazily as he shut his eyes against the sun, but he was a good man. In those fresh and early days, being a good man had seemed so easy. He’d act with dignity and honor, and be treated accordingly. He’d do what needed to be done, for his people and his kingdom. He’d succeed, where his predecessor had failed.
He’d need to feed again soon, perhaps in the next day or so. As he grew older and more established, he’d learn to go longer without feeding. To conserve his energies. But now, like all new creatures, his thirst was constant. He thought of babies squalling, and smiled slightly.
Would he ever be a parent, now that he’d changed? He could adopt, he supposed. He could still…function as a man, but he doubted that offspring in the true sense were possible for him. A thought that, in all honesty, gave him no great discomfort. He’d never given much thought to the idea; children were just something a man had to have, like a sword or a horse. He’d never taken any particular interest in children, even after he’d agreed to marry Brenna. They were simultaneously annoying and boring, a hateful combination. That they also required constant attention made them nigh on unbearable. She seemed to like them well enough, but didn’t all women love children?
Thinking of Brenna, he felt himself stir. Which reminded him that he was naked. If any cottager, or perhaps poacher should happen by he’d present a strange sight indeed. Sitting up, he wrestled himself back into his clothes. The fastenings were still strange to him, and although his fingers remembered the movements his mind did not.
He’d found Brenna’s offer absurdly touching. She did still care for him. That much was obvious. If she didn’t, she never would have come. Never would have agreed to help him. Offered, even. And perhaps…perhaps she’d asked him to stay on so they could spend more time together. Get reacquainted.
But….
In his mind’s eye, he kept seeing her face. How her eyes slid away from his; her awkward smile that wasn’t truly a smile. Something about her had seemed…off. His instincts weren’t that of a man; they were heightened, and he’d felt a warning ripple pass through him. Which, of course, he’d dismissed. He was nervous, that was all; any man would be on edge. Any creature. There was no reason for him to be wary of Brenna; if she’d truly been so frightened of him, she hardly would have come to see him. To warn him.
No, she did care for him, he decided finally. She was just scared, was all. He hoped, in time, that she’d come to see him for the man he was. He might not feel what Tristan had felt, might not be capable of what men called love in the strictest sense, but he had Tristan’s memories to go on. And he had the desire, to be the kind of lover and husband she deserved. He’d do such a good job of taking care of her that she’d never feel the lack. She’d feel loved, and cherished. He’d make sure of it. And if it took her some time to come around, and to trust him, then so be it. They had all the time in the world.
He wanted to love, which was more than many men could say—at least truthfully. Men given the ability, men for whom loving was natural. The demon felt want, and need. It craved the things all creatures craved: a home, security. A place in the world. Food to eat.
A partner.
He’d seen love, before, seen what it was capable of creating between two people and in the world at large. He’d wanted women before. He found human women fascinating: how they were hard in some places and soft in others. Their lush, secret curves and low, embarrassed laughter. The smell of their hair as he buried his nose in it. He thrilled to the feeling of a woman writhing under him. In agony or in ecstasy it didn’t matter.
Preferably in both.
He chuckled to himself, lacing up his breeches.
He’d look back on that moment, much later, and think how naïve he’d been. Thinking it would all be so easy. That he was free. That such a thing as true freedom even existed. He finished dressing with thoughts of Brenna still in his head, what in later years he’d come to recognize as the last vestiges of his host’s consciousness. How long Tristan would have lingered inside him, if things had turned out differently, the demon couldn’t say. How much influence he would have had. The demon hummed to himself, pulling on his boots, a tune he didn’t remember but nevertheless knew.
And when he straightened up it was with a small smile on his face. One he would have recognized, if he’d been able to see a mirror at that moment. His clothes were still damp but he didn’t care; he didn’t feel the damp, a condition that at the time seemed glorious.
He walked back to the cave, still humming.
He walked right into the trap.
He saw the thin white tendril of smoke curling from inside the cave, and assumed that Brenna had returned. She’d probably want to talk to him about what was going on at the castle, he reasoned, or perhaps she had questions. And he, in turn, looked forward to answering them. He was thinking that he might be able to catch her a brook trout—they still ran at this time of year, another fact he just knew along with how to catch them—when something hit him on the side of the head. Something heavy. He fell to his knees, stunned.
“Well,” said a voice, “that was easy.”
He put a hand to the side of his temple. His fingertips touched wetness. Holding them before his eyes, he saw blood. Through the haze of his double vision, he also saw a man wearing the tabard of the church guard. Tucking what appeared to be some kind of club under his elbow, he produced a pipe and lit it. Meeting the demon’s eyes, he smiled unpleasantly. “I’d share,” he said, “but you’d better start learning to do without luxuries. You’ll get none of them where you’re going.”
Other men appeared, and Tristan saw that he was ringed in. At their head was the priest from the town. Father Aurelius. And at his side was Brenna. She glanced up at him, half-worried and half-anxious. For a few confused moments, the demon thought that she’d been brought here against her will. That she was worried for him, and intended to plead his case.
But then she spoke, and something fundamental inside him changed.
“Did I do well?” she asked.
“Yes,” the priest said indulgently. “We couldn’t have found him without you.”
Brenna turned her gaze on her former lover, looking down at him as if from some great height. The expression on her face was smug. And something else. He c
ould see it now, what he’d avoided seeing for months: he repulsed her. She looked at him the way he’d once caught one of the pages looking at a bug he’d lit on fire using a glass paperweight. He repulsed her, and there was a kind of sick fascination in erasing him from the earth. A glee.
He’d trusted her. He’d trusted her, and he’d loved her.
And instead of helping him as she’d promised, she’d brought the church down on him. He’d be burned alive, he knew. After he was tortured. He heard the droning voice as the charges were read aloud over him, but the words were like the buzzing of bees. Necromancy. Sorcery. Heresy. Acts against the gods. They had no meaning. No more meaning than the clanging of a bell. The ring of doom, he thought stupidly. He couldn’t believe—after all he’d done—that it would end like this. And so soon.
She hadn’t been alone, that first morning. That explained how she’d found him. She’d had help navigating the forest. She’d known, or suspected, what he was and yet she hadn’t been afraid of him. Which he’d taken at the time to mean that she accepted him. Loved him, even. He’d wanted so badly for her to see past the changes, to see that he was still the same man in every way that counted, that he’d allowed himself to see what wasn’t there.
Had she ever even really loved Tristan?
She hadn’t been afraid of him, because she’d known that he loved her—whatever he was. And that he’d never hurt her. A fact of which she’d taken full advantage as she drew him out, convincing him to stay here where she could find him. Where the church could find him.
He’d never hurt her, and he repulsed her. He glared up at her as his hands were tied together behind his back. There was no point in resisting; he’d only damage himself. And, when he healed, give the church more ammunition to use against him. Not that it needed any; where facts were lacking, the church supplied its own. Evidence could always be produced, and witnesses. And in the end, of course, everyone confessed. Everyone.
He understood her not loving him, wanting to leave him, but turning him over for torture and death? To spend what miserable time he had left at the bottom of some rat-infested oubliette? Why?
The question must have shone in his eyes, because she answered it.
“Tristan was nobility. He had a lineage. But you, whoever you are, are no one!” Her once beautiful face twisted with rage—no, with hatred. Contempt—and for his lack of birth?
He stared, really seeing her for the first time. She wasn’t beautiful; never had been. She was hideous. The delicate creature he’d so loved, and so wanted to protect—would have done anything to protect—had existed only in his imagination. All this time.
And that, he supposed, was when he stopped being a hybrid of two men and became one. When the part of him that had been human died. When he became the man that Piers would meet, and Isla, so much later.
“No one,” she repeated, “and yet you presumed to touch me.”
“That’s all it ever was to you?” he asked, more curious than emotional about the idea. “Convenience?”
“Tristan was suitable,” she said stiffly. And, the demon thought, with the merest trace of embarrassment.
“He loved you.”
Beside him, the guard’s eyes widened a little at this frank admission of identity or, rather, lack thereof.
“He was old! I was still playing with dolls when he—and he—all he ever wanted to talk about was honor, and the kingdom. My mother thought it was a good match; she told me I’d grow to love him, with time, but that I had to act the part first.”
The demon was glad that Tristan was gone.
Everything his host had fought for, lived for was gone. How ashamed he’d be, and how disgusted, knowing that he’d turned his back on his most cherished ideals for nothing. That he’d invited a monster like Simon into his home and into his head for nothing. He was better off dead.
Every man deserved to die believing that he was dying for a cause. That his term on earth had meant something. Tristan’s had meant nothing, and more than nothing. The demon’s heart hardened for his old mentor. His host. The creature who, in its extremis, had given him life. And he thought, as he stared speculatively at Brenna, that he might just know one human emotion: hate.
Brenna, discomfited, turned away. She possessed all the courage and more to turn him in but not enough to meet his eyes once she’d done it. The cunt.
And then, oddly, he laughed.
There was something, something so…absurd about the situation. Here he was, on his knees in the snow in a forest, snowmelt dripping down the back of his collar from an overhanging branch, while a bunch of illiterate thugs checked the sun and adjusted themselves. One guard, spitting betel nut juice between his teeth, gave himself a particularly thorough scratching. They were bored. They’d found their man, he’d proven to be even more of a woman than the woman, putting up nothing of a fight and submitting as meekly as a virgin on her wedding night, and now there was nothing for it except to bring him in and drop him off in whatever hellhole was meant to be his new home. Before, one would imagine, heading to the local inn.
That hellhole would be a temporary accommodation; he’d be held for a day or so in some miller’s barn, or perhaps a church basement, before being strapped into a wagon and driven to the gods knew where. Perhaps even the capital; how wonderful, he could see his father.
They all seemed to have forgotten that he was a wizard.
The priest murmured in Brenna’s ear. He was no celibate, whatever he claimed. The demon recognized the signs clearly enough; he, after all, was a man too. Brenna, not nearly as innocent as she’d seemed a few moments before, smiled slightly at the obvious flirtation. The overweight guard spat another long stream of betel nut juice. It burned a hole through the snow, like piss. His rotted teeth were equally as brown. Evidently he’d never heard of tooth cleaner, or an extractor.
He’d been taken by surprise, true. And regrettably. Although there would come a time in the future when he’d remember the moment and laugh, this wasn’t that time. He was enraged and, quite frankly, he was embarrassed. All this, and over a woman. No, he corrected himself, not even. She didn’t deserve the title. She called him creature, but she was the creature. She’d led Tristan on from the beginning, and him believing that he’d won her heart. All that time. He’d loved her so, cherished her so, thought her so…sweet. So innocent.
In that moment, the demon considered himself fortunate that he could never love.
And fortunate, too, that those surrounding him were so stupid. Perhaps, even knowing that there was a trap, he would have walked into it—if he’d known as well that doing so would result in such a perfect situation. Let them think they’d gotten him. Kneeling on the ground, he was in touch with his element: earth. Earth in the north, water in the west. Earth beneath his knees, and water all around him. His hands were tied, but with rope and shoddily. Even so, he didn’t need his hands. It was a superstition that a wizard needed his hands to conjure; or perhaps the guards had merely tied them because he was a captive. In either case, it didn’t matter.
Startled by his reaction, the guards stared. The priest’s eyes narrowed, mistaking the demon’s amusement for false bravado. The demon smiled pleasantly at him. “This has gone on long enough,” he said politely. “Don’t you think?”
“What—”
Barely moving his lips, he spoke a word. There was a hissing sound, along with the smell of burned jute, as the rope fell from his wrists. Massaging them, he rose to his feet. The guards stared. What surprised them most of all was their captive’s nonchalant attitude toward his supposed captivity. He turned the same gentle, benevolent smile on them.
At a sputtered command from the priest, they remembered themselves and—if not leapt into action, then at least began to inch forward.
They’d finally remembered that he was a wizard, and they’d grown up hearing tales of wizards at their grandmothers’ knees. Assuming they had grandmothers, and weren’t all the spawn of tavern whores. Which, in th
e demon’s mind, was a distinct possibility. He made a point of massaging the feeling back into his wrists. Wrists where no blood circulated, at least not in the typical sense. Moreover, the bonds hadn’t been terribly tight.
“I understand from your informer,” he said casually, “that I have a castle to rebuild. Or at least refurbish. So I’m going to go and do that, now. You’re welcome to come with me, or to stay here.”
They just stared at him.
“Make no mistake, I might be taking applications for stable hands.” He thought the meaning of this statement was quite clear. Or should be, to anyone intelligent enough for his employ. Even at such a menial position as stable hand, he expected men—and, on occasion, women—capable of rudimentary thought. They had to be at least as smart as the horses, or the horses would take terrible advantage of them. At this amusing thought, he chuckled again. One of the guards actually began to back up, before being prodded into position by his mate. He glanced at the other man nervously.
“Ah, yes,” the demon murmured. “The wrath of the church or the wrath of the wizard. An unenviable choice, to be sure.” He made a dismissive gesture, showing how lightly he took the whole thing. “Oh, well. Regardless, gentlemen, I bid you good day.”
And, astonishing them all, he turned on his heel and prepared to leave the glade.
“Well don’t just stand there!” roared the priest. “Go after him!”
The priest, like most men who thrilled to barking orders, refused to follow his own. He hung back in relative safety, near the entrance to the cave, while he urged his men forward into danger. And they knew there was danger, even if he didn’t. But, eventually, years of conditioning won out.
These men had pledged their lives to the church, and would die for its idiotic causes. Even if it meant widowing their wives and orphaning their children, all because of what a man strange to them did in the privacy of his own chambers. A man who, previous to this afternoon, had meant them no harm and never caused them upset.
One of the soldiers raised his cudgel again. They hadn’t pulled swords; they’d been ordered to take him alive, more fool whoever gave the order. The demon heard a thin, whistling sound as the club came down behind and at the last minute he turned. There was no magic in most so-called magic, only keen observation and a devotion to proper timing.