by Colt, K. J.
“If they catch y’.”
“You would not have to wait for the incapacitation to abate. You can leave now.”
“I mean to,” the Demon said.
“Take me with you, Durmorth. Show me the way. Do not forsake me to those who will exploit me.”
This sounded more like a frantic plea, and the Demon paused.
“I have not the strength to contend with them, and they will imprison me again. I cannot endure it.” The melodic voice quavered, and the Demon thought back to the Ilangien’s mountain prison, where he had found him isolated and forgotten.
If only for a short while. Then I’m gone. He finished dressing, using the bed to stand. “Don’t think for a moment this is any kind of agreement between us,” the Demon said, his voice tense from the effort. “I know y’re using me. Jus’ like Asmat an’ Jagur. Y’ won’t be paying me, so I’m worse off than before.”
The Ilangien turned around, his expression solemn. “If I can repay you, I will. But for the journey, you may not find me poor company.” He placed a cloak in Hanna’s hand, and the nurse hurried to the Demon’s side.
She draped the cloak over his bony shoulders. “The clothes are a bit big, but it’s an improvement to be sure, sir.” She took his arm and propped it around her shoulder before he could protest. He was amazed at how strong she was. “The stairs will be a bit tricky.”
The Ilangien gave him an encouraging smile as he walked ahead of them, careful to keep his distance.
“’Ow did y’ pay for the carriage?” the Demon asked. Every step was a chore; his legs felt as though the bones had dissolved. Even his feet turned awkwardly as he walked.
“’Tis another point of concern and fortune,” the Ilangien said. “The woman from the ship had misplaced her purse. I—”
“Y’ stole it,” the Demon said, somewhat surprised but a little impressed.
“Do you not support my actions, Durmorth?”
The Demon stared. I don’t support any of this. “I think we better ‘urry.”
They sat at opposite corners inside the carriage, but still the atmosphere was less than comfortable. This was attributed to more than the opposing energies of Light and Shadow. The Ilangien’s curiosity in his new companion left him wanting. His desire to question the Demon, however, was discouraged by the Demon’s blatant disinterest. Concealed by his hood, the half-drugged creature’s head was angled against the window. For all the Ilangien could tell, the Demon was asleep, and perhaps justly so.
Time passed, and the Demon did not stir. The Ilangien, however, fidgeted in his restlessness. He tried engaging his interest in the scenery of the southern landscape. As it was early spring, the earth and trees were burgeoning with tender green shoots. The life around him gave him strength, but it would not undo the damage done by his years of captivity in Kirou-Mekus. Only his people could completely restore his health, but the Ilangien found he was not so eager to consider them yet. Right now he was immersed in a world of mortals—Human cities and towns full of activity and things the like he had never seen. With so much to explore and so much to discover, how could his thoughts linger upon his unchanging homeland?
The Demon stirred slightly, and the Ilangien’s eyes darted to his face. Doubtless the creature was still sore at him, though he could not reason why. After all, he had arranged for an easier mode of transport than one’s own feet. The Ilangien waited a breathless moment as the Demon yawned and inclined his hooded head in his direction. Then…nothing.
The Ilangien fretted, glancing out the window at the simple Human domiciles. It was not enough of a distraction. The silence was annoying—more than annoying. It was loathsome. Loathsome and ridiculous. How could it be that—
“Mr. Stone o’ Prophecy,” came the Demon’s soft voice. “Or maybe y’ go by ‘Stone.’”
The Ilangien tried to conceal his delight. “Neither is my name, as such.”
“Really?” came the sarcastic response. The meaning was lost upon the immortal.
“Truly. I am Eraekryst of Celaedrion, firstborn to Alethea and Alaeryn, rulers of Veloria.” The Ilangien paused. “’Tis a name I have not heard for quite some time.”
“So y’re a prince o’ sorts?” the Demon asked. He cast down his hood. “’S rather impressive, mate.”
“Titles do not carry so much esteem with my people as they do in Human society,” Eraekryst said without inflection. He gazed at the Demon thoughtfully. “And you are called Hawkshadow?”
“I’m called a lot o’ names,” the Demon said with a smirk. “‘Awkshadow’ is a joke.”
Eraekryst regarded him quizzically.
The Demon looked out the window. “My brother was ‘Awkwing’, an’ I followed ‘im around…” His quiet voice trailed to nothing. He cleared his throat before he spoke again. “I don’t ‘ave a name. Or a title anymore. Y’ can call me what y’ want. ‘Durmorth’—whatever y’ say. It doesn’t matter.”
The Ilangien’s gaze was intense and bright with excitement. “Surely you were gifted a name at birth. And you imply that you once held a position of esteem. I would call you by your preference, as ‘Durmorth’ is merely a description, ‘demon’ in my tongue.”
“Right.”
The Ilangien’s brow furrowed slightly. “To which conclusion do you refer—unless your vague response applies to—”
“Why call y’ a ‘stone’ at all?” the Demon interrupted.
Eraekryst’s open mouth slowly shut, his eyes meeting what was a defiant, violet-eyed stare. He did not respond immediately, assessing the Demon’s question and the true intention behind it. At last, he countered, “What is a stone? You know it as something solid, heavy, impenetrable. It is also a foundation—a substrate upon which ideas are built.”
The Demon regarded him skeptically. “So they build the future on y’?”
“That is one perspective.” The silver-blue eyes studied every hint of expression upon the Demon’s face. “I am a Mentrailyic, gifted with foresight, an intuition through touch, the ability to read the thoughts of others, power to move objects without—”
“Yeah, I know what a Mentrailyic is,” the Demon interrupted, impatient. “Le’s meet on this, mate: I don’ believe in future-telling or prophecy.”
The Ilangien did not blink. “’Tis a rather ignorant statement, given the evidence surrounding your mission. You imply that I am a fraud and a liar.”
The Demon shrugged. “Y’aven’t predicted anything yet. Maybe y’ see things, maybe y’ don’t, but no one knows what’s going to ‘appen. Y’ can’t tell me what I’m going to do.”
Eraekryst was unconcerned. “The visions are realized with time. Not all prove to be true. ’Tis not a solid method to test a fated path.”
“Sounds like an excuse to make good guesses. I can do that.” The Demon closed his eyes. “I can tell y’ we’ll get out o’ this carriage, see some people, an’ sooner or later eat some food.” He reopened his eyes to judge the Ilangien’s reaction.
“I do not expect you to understand. Few have that capacity.”
“I understand,” the Demon pressed. “I worked for a Mentrailyic called ‘The Prophet.’ ‘E led a group o’ thieves, and ’twas said ‘e could see when the next caravan would pass.” He shook his head. “Funny, but ‘is thieves were all murdered by the king’s soldiers. Guess ‘e didn’t see that coming.”
Eraekryst frowned. “I told you: there is no certainty in prediction.”
“Then what good is it?” Already the Demon had turned back to the window, his opinion unchanged.
“What good, indeed,” Eraekryst murmured. “Gift or curse, ’tis coveted by the greedy and the cruel. Do you know such exploitation, Durmorth? Have you suffered for another’s desires? What torment do you know?” His voice gradually softened to a whisper, and his gaze drifted to become hollow and empty.
The Demon turned to him. “Oi, mate, y’alright?” When there was no response, the Demon repeated himself, a little louder. But the Ilangien was
no longer with him. Unsure what to do, the Demon braced himself and flicked Eraekryst’s knee.
As sudden revulsion cast the Demon away, so, too, did the Ilangien stir. He looked at the Demon with disdain. “Was that a necessary action?” he asked, a hint of color to his gray face.
“Something ‘appened to y’,” the Demon defended.
“Yes, you encroached upon my territory.”
“No,” the Demon corrected, “y’ were staring at nothing. Like a stone…of prophecy.” He smirked at his own joke.
“Ah, you are amused by your offense,” Eraekryst said. “How base.”
“Whatever,” the Demon grumbled. He crossed his arms and watched another carriage pass.
“You have no cause to be cross,” Eraekryst said. “I have granted you a favor by the employment of this carriage.”
The Demon cocked his head at him. “Where, exactly, are we going?”
“You ask a question to which you already possess the answer.”
“What did y’ tell the driver?” the Demon pressed.
“I indicated our direction: north to Mystland.”
“What did y’ pay ‘im?”
Eraekryst produced the stolen purse. “I gave him a golden token.”
The violet eyes widened in surprise. “Was ‘e ‘appy?”
“His response was immediate gratitude.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” The Demon shook his head.
“I suspect I rewarded him in excess?”
“A bit. I would’ve paid ‘im a little at a time.” The Demon’s eyes fell upon the purse. “Toss me that.”
Eraekryst did, and the Demon caught it. “I will ask the driver to return the coin.”
“Y’ can try,” the Demon muttered, sifting through the bag.
The Ilangien studied him. “Is that not sufficient funding for our journey?”
The Demon shrugged. “I’ve lived off less.” Eraekryst put out a hand, but he shook his head. “I think I’ll ‘old onto this, eh?”
“As it suits you.”
The Demon looked back at the bag in his lap. “Do immortals get tired or ‘ungry?”
“I rest when my energy wanes, though my endurance, even in this weakened state, would outlast yours. I am sustained by the life around me; my occasional need for solid nourishment is not as persistent as a mortal’s.”
“I sawr y’ didn’t eat or sleep on the ship. Just wanted to make sure.” He gripped the bag.
“To what purpose?” Eraekryst asked.
“Don’t want to leave y’ stranded,” the Demon said. “Sorry, mate, but I travel alone.” Immediately his solid form deteriorated into something less tangible. The shadowy shape—which included the purse—slipped through the door.
Eraekryst frowned at the empty seat. “’Twas my folly to trust a thief, but I will humour your diversion, Durmorth.”
I’m a rotten bastard, the Demon thought.
As a shadow, he skittered over the street and to a dark and quiet nook between two buildings. There he materialized and peeked around a corner to watch the Ilangien’s carriage roll away. Sorry, but I can’t help you, and I can’t afford the trouble you’ll bring me. He glanced down at his shaky but functioning legs. Brought me, he amended.
He guessed he was in a small village just outside Shailatom. It seemed unlikely the driver could have gone any farther during the short span in which he had slept. As much as he would have liked to begin his solitary journey, his stomach burned with hunger. The purse contained enough money to earn him a few meals and hitch a ride up the Western Link of the Traders’ Ring.
His thoughts drifted back to the immortal Mentrailyic prince. He doesn’t need to eat or sleep, and his driver has been overpaid. He should be fine. As cruel as his abandonment seemed, the Demon knew it was simply a matter of survival. Most of his life he had learned about self-preservation, and now was not any different. He drew his hood and walked into the street to find a tavern.
This was a wealthy village. The shops were clean, well-built, and even boasted a little décor. The passersby wore bright colored clothing—also clean—with lace, buttons, and buckles. Given these clues, the Demon did not feel too guilty for lightening a few purses en route to a beckoning sign. “The Flustered Chicken,” he murmured, staring at the painted rendering of a fluffy hen above the door. Now what might they serve? His mouth was already watering.
Once, maybe twice, he had ventured outside Mystland after his brother’s death, and on those occasions, he had been the definition of discreet. One never knew how Humans would treat a white-skinned, violet-eyed “caster.” The Demon was always careful to keep himself as concealed as he could—even though he assumed his Humanlike form. He was incongruous even in Mystland—a land of witches and wizards and magic. Beyond Mystland’s borders, Humans had their reservations about medori, and he knew the powerful influence of unwarranted fear. And this was besides the fact that he was probably still wanted in the kingdom of Belorn. The reputation of the White Demon had not been forgotten, even though it had been a few years since the Prophet’s clan had met its demise.
So it was with great caution and the utmost wariness that he entered The Flustered Chicken and found a lonely table near the hearth, where the light was dim and the shadows were starkest. He toyed with the candle flame until a server came to attend to him, whereupon he hid his hands and tugged his hood a little lower over his face.
“How can I help you, sir?”
She was an older woman, short and round—not unlike the hen on the sign. There was no need to impress her, and that was good, because he was not feeling particularly impressive—not with a bandage fixed to his forehead and the oversized clothes sagging on his body.
“Are you cold, sweetie?”
Sweetie? He shrugged. “A lil’.”
“Then you’ll be wanting something warm, I gather. Maybe some beef stew? Some fresh bread with butter?”
“’Ave any chicken?” he asked innocently.
“Ha! I can’t tell you how many times they ask me that. No, no chicken. Not today.” She smiled at him, her face expanding into an upside-down mushroom shape.
“Stew’s fine, thanks.”
“All right, and how about to drink?” He was about to answer when she spoke for him. “I’ll get you some mead.” She gazed at him a moment longer. “You can stoke the fire if you want. You southies are a bit touchy about the cold, I know.”
Southie? The Demon waited until she walked away before he made good on her offer. One glance at the meager fire was all it took for it to flare violet—for just a moment—before it blazed a little higher. He was not a “southie;” he did not consider the Blackdust Islands part of Northern or Southern Secramore. But she was right about the cold. It was only early spring, and it would still be another month before the air warmed to a proper degree. He gave a soft sigh, enjoying the heat upon his back.
Then there was a twist in his stomach—not hunger-induced—that made him shudder. It can’t be….
It was. He heard the server’s voice address the newcomer in surprise. “The little fellow didn’t say anything about a friend. He’s right over there. Would you like something…?”
The Demon stopped listening and waited for the inevitable sick feeling to envelope him. He did not turn to look as the Ilangien took a wide course to the opposite side of the table.
“You did not say you were hungry.”
“No?” the Demon said, staring at Eraekryst as he sat down.
The Ilangien’s face was warmed slightly by his smile. “I have always wanted to dine in a Human tavern.”
“I thought y’ didn’t eat…much,” the Demon said, half-hearted.
“Necessity does not dictate desire.” He eased back in his chair. “You have kindly offered to indulge me in this repast.”
“Y’ invited y’self,” the Demon muttered, his appetite waning.
“Did I? As I recall, you left to find a suitable establishment whilst I saw to it that the carriage was parked
nearby.” Eraekryst’s eyes glittered.
“Alright,” the Demon said, rubbing his bandaged brow. “Really—why do y’ need me with y’?”
“Why are you so adamant in refusing my company?” Eraekryst countered. “I have followed your lead in answering a question with a question.”
“Funny. I told y’. I travel alone. ’S easier that way.”
“Do you say this because of the loss of your brother?”
The Demon straightened and glared at the immortal across from him. “Don’t pretend y’ know me.” His voice was quiet and dark. “Y’re so smart, to figure things out. But y’re not smart enough to know when to let them alone.”
Eraekryst’s smile was drowned in his solemn expression. “No, admittedly, I do not. I apologize if I have been insensitive.”
The Demon studied him a moment longer before turning to gaze at the fire. There was period of silence before he spoke again. “’Ow did y’ find me, anyway?”
“It is impossible to misplace you. Just as you are the only witness here to the Ilán surrounding me, I am aware of your Durós. The Shadow within your Shadow. You are a void, a hole, a darkness. You are a raven lighted in a field of snow. Not only do I see you for what you are, but I can feel your presence…and your trail.”
“So no matter where I go, y’re saying y’ can find me,” the Demon said.
Eraekryst smiled but did not answer.
The Demon looked around the room. “An’ no one else can see that y’re glowing?”
“There are the occasional few who are more perceptive than the rest. But if they can see your Shadow, I know not.”
The server returned with two steaming bowls, a plate of rolls, and two cups of mead balanced on a tray. “There you are, gentlemen. Enjoy.” She lingered near the table, her eyes upon the Ilangien.
The Demon nodded his thanks; Eraekryst asked, “Milady, do you notice anything different about my companion or me?”
She smiled and blushed. “Well, the little southie fellow is a bit cold, but the meal should warm him up.” Her eyes swept over Eraekryst. “And you’re a handsome young man with an accent I can’t quite place.”