by Colt, K. J.
She leaned close. “You’re the White Demon, aren’t you?”
He pretended to cough into his napkin. “Forgot my shoes,” he said and stood. Of course, he was barefoot, but as he hastily made his exit, he could hear her call after him to stop. There is no stopping. Not anymore. Not until I find the Larini.
Once outside, he took cover behind a cottage. What now? He reported me to the council. They will come after me, but I should still have time before word spreads. I can get some provisions and head south. Someone in Sorkindara is bound to know the people I’m looking for. With that, he abandoned his temporary refuge and ventured into the woods to take a less traveled path into town.
“He did not seem particularly happy to see you or me,” Miria said to the tall, pale man across from her. “I thought he was your friend.”
“Aye, though he knows it not.” Eraekryst subconsciously touched his nose and winced. “I have wronged him. I am an arse’ole.”
“A what?” Miria blinked.
“I am not a good companion.”
“I can’t fathom that. From what you have told me so far, his intentions were to free you from I.M.A.G.I.N.E.’s grubby hands. That supports the strange encounter I had with him at the tailor’s shop.” Miria took a sip from her drink. “Those wizards assaulted you.” She gestured to his face. “They want something from you. Do you know why I’m here, Eraekryst?”
He held her gaze.
“I’m here because of suspicious activity reported at the Southern Gate. I am from the Mystland Governing Council. I am a correspondent between Sorkindara and Norkindara. It is my job to see that Mystland laws are followed. I have had my eye on I.M.A.G.I.N.E. for some time. When my contact at the gate told me that a reluctant young man had passed through with a group of those reactionary wizards, I took it upon myself to investigate. I am here to help you, but I will need you to be honest with me.”
“You are promised my sincerity, Lady Miria,” Eraekryst said.
The woman blushed. “‘Miria’ is fine.” She produced a leather-bound journal and a wrapped stick of graphite. “Let’s start from the beginning. You said you were Eraekryst of Celaedrion. Where is Celaedrion? I haven’t heard of it.”
“’Tis a territory in the heart of Veloria, but ’tis not where I was discovered by the durmorth.”
Miria stopped writing. “Veloria? The Haunted Forest? I thought it was uninhabited by people.” She looked at him skeptically.
“My people are its inhabitants and its caretakers,” Eraekryst said. He reached over and touched her hand, and she stared, seeing the radiance that had not been visible from beneath his glamour.
“You’re a…oh, I heard of them through children’s tales…an Ila—Ilandrien?”
“Ilangien, singular. Collectively, Ilangiel.”
“You don’t exist,” she protested.
“Except that I do. I am also a Mentrailyic, and ’tis the reason Medoriate Jagur and his companions abducted me.” He turned to gaze out the window. “The durmorth was my liberator, and ’twas he who I sought to follow.”
Miria’s mouth twisted. “Explain this ‘durmorth.’ You’re talking about the White Demon, aren’t you?”
“Aye, the durmorth without color.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“He is a thief, a durmorth, a boy without a name. ’Tis all of his identity that I know.” Eraekryst turned back to her, his interest renewed. “You know him by other means?”
“I don’t know him at all,” Miria said, “except by reputation. Let’s start with the thief. He was the mascot of a group of bandits who were lead by a Mentrailyic called, ‘The Prophet.’ They worked outside the Southern Kingdoms, robbing caravans and merchants who passed within the territory. The clan was eventually discovered, and the thieves were brought to justice…except for the Prophet and the White Demon, who had disappeared.
“No one had heard word of the Demon since…until he appeared here in Mystland in the company of a famous tracker by the name of Hawkwing. No one knew anything of their relationship—”
“They were brothers,” Eraekryst interrupted with a casual wave of his hand.
Miria blinked. “Really? How did you—? Never mind. They were thought to be good friends, anyway. The Demon did not look like a Demon, and he went by the name ‘Hawkshadow.’ But the white skin certainly made people wonder. And what was more was that he enrolled in a medori school here in Norkindara. The rest of what I tell you is what I had heard through rumors.
“This new, white-skinned pupil was actually a mage—a very different and rare type of medoriate. He did not get along well with the scholars, and he stirred a bit of trouble. In fact, he stirred enough trouble that he was expelled from the school. He and Hawkwing vanished, and that was the last I had heard of the White Demon—Hawkshadow.” Miria finished her drink. “Why are you smiling?”
“’Tis a fitting tale for him. I now understand why it is he fled from you.”
“I imagine it is because I work for the council.” She fingered her emblem. “He must have seen this. For all he knows, we are going to report him.”
“Is that not a logical assumption?” Eraekryst asked.
“He probably has good reason to be wary, but I think there are worse criminals than him. I would like to hear his story. If he has any information that can be used to incriminate I.M.A.G.I.N.E., I would like to know it.”
“What is I.M.A.G.I.N.E., as you refer to it?”
“I will explain them to you as we search for your friend… Which I really don’t know how we’ll accomplish, since the man disappears like the stars at sunrise.” She tapped the graphite against her journal.
Eraekryst smiled. “I can find him.”
Nigqor-miq. The Demon stared at the image posted on the flyer. Eraekryst’s wall drawing had purpose after all. Below the copied depiction was a written description of him. As if it was necessary, he thought grimly. “‘Wanted for theft, assault, and arson,’” he murmured, then crumpled the paper. You can’t steal a person. I may have assaulted Jagur, but he deserved it. As for arson, I have no idea what that means.
He had not thought I.M.A.G.I.N.E. would have the audacity to publicize his crimes—especially since the group was involved in illegal activity without his assistance. You hired a thief to break into someone’s mountain and abduct a person. Then you didn’t pay the thief, which is also a crime. Not to mention Jaice… He rubbed his brow, only beginning to realize how much trouble he was now in. I.M.A.G.I.N.E. was offering a reward for his capture and the return of their “stolen property.” The same property he had also assaulted and booted from his cottage. The same property who had turned him in to the council.
Nigqor-miq. I’m dead. The Demon spied another flyer attached to a nearby inn. He looked around nervously, feeling very much exposed. And he was. He had no cloak, no hood; he wore a vibrant blue shirt. I can just turn myself in now and save everyone the trouble. Which will it be? The Belorn monarchy, Mystland Council, or I.M.A.G.I.N.E.? He began walking briskly down the street, searching for a disguise. The best he could do was swipe a hat and a scarf from a merchant’s stand. As for Norkindara, he was finished. He had to race for Sorkindara before someone could discover him. He ignored his growling stomach, tipped down his hat, and slunk back into the woods.
One problem with Mystland was that it was relatively crime-free. There were no pickpockets, brawls, or murders. Perhaps this was because with magic-users, one never knew what sort of consequence there would be for breaking the law. Unfortunately for the Demon, he was learning first-hand how much crime was tolerated. The inhabitants of Mystland were now vigilant where they had been lax and trusting, and this made life more than difficult. Alleys and natural hideaways on the streets were patrolled day and night, taverns and food suppliers were minding their back entrances, and even the surrounding forests had watchmen filtering through the trees.
As a result, the Demon slept little and hunted what small creatures he could catch wit
h his bare claws. The weaker he grew, the fewer prey he found the ambition—or the energy—to pursue. His vivid blue shirt was now blackened with dirt, torn, and tattered, as was the rest of him. He was not sure how many days he had spent in the forest, running, hiding, hunting, and shivering from cold and from fever. As it was, he knew his appearance in the nearby town would probably bring about the beginning of his end.
My freedom ended when the bloody wizards posted my face all over Norkindara, he thought, walking slowly into the road. And when Erik turned to the council, though I can’t blame him. He paused and shivered violently in the night chill. Maybe this really started further back, when I ran away. I can’t seem to escape the past, and so that is all I have.
The Demon’s thoughts were interrupted by the aroma of dinner. A warm meal. A hot fire. A soft bed. He tried to imagine each of these luxuries in turn, stopping to stare vacantly at the front of one of the homes. The reverie ended when the door opened, and a man’s silhouette appeared from inside.
“Can I help you?”
The Demon opened his mouth to speak, but he had not used his voice in days, and what escaped him was a deep, grating cough.
The man stepped outside, and the Demon shifted his form. He thought for certain he was about to be threatened. Instead, the stranger looked him over and motioned for him to come inside.
He can’t see me. He doesn’t know who I am. The Demon hesitated, but the man waited for him.
“Travelers come through here often, and you look as though you might be a little lost.”
A lot lost. Completely lost, actually. He knew the sequence of events that would befall him should he enter this man’s home, but his current future seemed unavoidable. He trailed behind his host, reveling in the warmth he felt at the threshold.
“Who is it?” came a woman’s voice. She appeared from an adjoining room, a steaming dish of food in her hands. “Oh!” She nearly dropped her burden upon seeing the Demon’s slight form.
“He’s a traveler, Solina—just making his way through like the others.”
“Jedinom’s Grace, Ferick, he’s trembling like an aspen!” She hurried to set the platter on a table and returned to take the Demon’s hat.
The Demon shook his head slightly and took a step back.
“I think he’s ill,” the man said, having watched his guest closely. “Go ahead and sit by the fire,” he encouraged.
The Demon swayed on his feet and quietly went to sit on the floor as near to the flames as he could manage. He stared at the source of heat and light, though his ears were attentive to the exchange between the couple.
“I don’t like the looks of him,” the woman whispered. “Something is wrong with him.”
“As I said, I think he’s sick. I might be able to help him.”
“You know I would never discourage you, Ferick, but this doesn’t feel right to me.”
There was a pause, and the Demon imagined their stares.
“Let me take a look at him, and I’ll see what I think. It’d be cruel to cast him out in the dark, but if it eases you, I’ll do it. We’ll at least give him something to eat. He looks half-starved.”
“Just be careful,” she begged.
Presently the man came and knelt beside him. “I’m a medic by profession. If you’ll let me, I’d like to try and help you.”
Still the Demon did not regard him. “The fire,” he said hoarsely.
“Pardon?”
“If I could jus’ sit by y’r fire.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Well, of course, but…” He trailed in what the Demon assumed was growing suspicion.
If you haven’t guessed, you will. You will turn me in, and it’ll be over. At least I’m warm.
The woman crept close and handed her husband a small dish, which he offered to the Demon.
“Thank y’,” he whispered, and took the food in his trembling hands. Though the man had backed away to let him eat, the Demon knew he was fitting the pieces together. What a sight he must make—a ragged, dirty intruder hidden beneath a tattered hat. His hands shook, his bandaged arms shook, his entire body shook—right down to his feet—and he could not stop it.
Because he feared dropping the fork and making a mess, and because he was utterly ravenous, he devoured the portion quickly—not even completely aware of what he was eating. Not long after the dish was cleaned, the weight of his exhaustion threatened to topple him where he sat. Without much of a coherent thought, he curled up on the rug and was lost to sleep.
Instinct woke him sometime during the night, and the Demon knew he had been abandoned. The fire had diminished to embers, and the room was black and silent. He sat up and closed his eyes, waiting for the sudden dizziness to abate. Once it had, he forced himself to his feet, then to the nearest window. Even before he got there, he heard the whinny of a horse outside. His sharp eyes could discern dark shapes moving across the street, though he did not see a carriage or wagon in plain view.
He jumped when there was a sound at the door. He could hide. One glance at the bedroom nearly had him start in that direction. It was dark enough that he could become a shadow, slip out the door when no one was wary. Then he could retreat back to the forest.
What for? I’ll never make it.
The door started to open.
It was all the Demon could do to remain still, waiting for his discovery. His feet twitched, his heart raced. He watched several figures file into the room. Then he was spotted.
“Halt in the name of the Mystland Council!”
The Demon lifted his hands in surrender, and the figures—five in all—surrounded him. Get it over, he thought. The quicker, the better.
As they closed around him, his eyes fell upon a circular object in one of the medori’s hands. A hint of light reflected off its metallic surface, and the Demon took a step back. An alethrium collar. That would be the end of him. His magic would be nullified, and he would be free no longer. He thought of the Ilangien. How many years had he been locked away? Trapped. Imprisoned. Caged.
The Demon shuddered, seeing only the cramped and miserable dungeon in which he had nearly died. This time, his brother would not come to his rescue. No one would.
This is a mistake. His stomach dropped to his feet.
“You will accompany us to the holding chamber where you will await trial by the council,” one man said. The Demon scarcely heard him, his eyes yet upon the collar, which was now raised and heading toward him.
Not again.
The medori were cautious in their approach. They reeked of inexperience, fear, and hesitation, and it was slightly flattering that several had come to detain him. They might have an idea of his abilities, perhaps waiting for him to resist. For the Demon’s part, all it took was a little concentration and a coherent thought—no fancy words, no wand or cantalere, no gesticulation.
The man bearing the collar gave a shout when he realized his cloak was afire.
Two of his companions tended to him, and the other two lunged at the Demon. Weak though he was, his fear surged through him in the form of renewed vigor. If he did not strike first, the medori would invoke a spell to stop him. His wings unfurled, and he used them as a club, smashing an attacker across the jaw. The man fell away as the other sought to grab the Demon’s arm.
The Demon spun and kicked the second medoriate squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling backward into a wall. He pulled the shadows toward him like a cloak, slipping past the remaining three, who had now managed to extinguish the flames from their hysterical comrade. The Demon had barely made it out the door before reinforcements rushed past him to assist with the commotion inside.
He raced for the woods, his waning strength nearly causing him to stumble along the way. He did not stop until he was well out of view, propped against the thick trunk of an oak. Breathless, he peered around the tree to where yet naked branches allowed him a glimpse at the village he had escaped. Stupid fool. What am I doing? He did not know what made sense anymore. T
o surrender was to die; to flee… What truly were the chances he would find the Larini before his end found him?
I won’t die in a prison, the Demon vowed, wiping the sweat from his brow. I won’t be trapped again. And I’m not through yet. He took a deep breath and pushed away from the tree. There would be no more mistakes. He walked off into the dying night.
CHAPTER NINE
OF POLITICS AND CRIMINALS
ERAEKRYST sat down, and the chair shifted backward. He bolted forward, and peered at the legs with wide eyes. “What sort of Human beguilement is this?” he demanded.
“It is a rocking chair,” Miria said, suppressing a giggle.
“I am glad for your amusement,” Eraekryst said. “If this is considered an enhancement upon comfort, then I fear what else I will encounter in your culture.”
“You do get used to it,” Miria said. “You might even find it relaxing.” She demonstrated the motion in her own chair, nestling back against the cushions.
“I see no reason for comfort at present,” he said testily. “I cannot relax in good conscience while I consider another’s torment. Instead of seeking the durmorth, you bring me to this place of stationary nothingness.”
Miria sat forward. “I know you are upset about your friend. Given the circumstances, we need to approach this with a bit more care.” She held up the posting they had found in the city. “To find him now would be pointless without the support of some influential people. Medoriate Corbin is a member of the council, but he is also the head of Mystland defense. If anyone can help our case, it will be him. He is also an old friend of mine, though it has been some time since I’ve last spoken with him.” She glanced around the well-furnished room. “He has a bigger office now, I see.”
“The size of this chamber indicates his social status?” Eraekryst asked.
Miria nodded. “I suppose it does, in a way.”
“My forest has no walls,” he murmured and turned to study a map of Northern Secramore on the wall.