“Get up.”
Harsh light stabbed into Mazael's face. The stench of rotting vegetation and old snakeskin filled into his nostrils. Something hard prodded his side. “Up, I say! Can’t lie about. There’s too much to do!”
Mazael sat up. A swollen bloody sun painted the sky crimson, and the balcony garden had died. The oak tree was scorched, the flowers crumbling ashes, and the earth gray powder.
Lord Adalon stood over Mazael, his black robe hanging from his thin body like a flowing shroud. Red fire glinted in his green eyes, and his fingers drummed against the black staff with its silver raven statuette.
“Up, now!” Lord Adalon said. He tapped Mazael’s leg with his staff. “Up! Nothing has ever come from lying about like this.”
Mazael stood. He felt no pain. His stomach was settled, and there were no wounds on his arms and chest.
“Now, why would you think yourself hurt?” said Lord Adalon. A cold wind blew from the plains, whipping his robes like black wings.
“I don’t know,” said Mazael.
“You needn’t be so grim!” said Lord Adalon. “You almost learned a most important lesson. The next time, you’ll learn.”
“Learn what?” said Mazael.
His father grinned. “Your fellow half-breed will soon discover the deep flaw in trickery. It is most effective, but only once.” He laughed. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. And fool me thrice, a man who can be fooled thrice is liable to be snatched up by the Old Demon!” Lord Adalon snapped his fingers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mazael.
“You do!” said Lord Adalon. “You killed her, didn’t you? You can hide nothing from me. Rather, you would have killed her, if not for her simple spells.” His smile displayed jagged yellow teeth. “You will learn to defeat those.”
Mazael remembered how Lion had sunk into Romaria’s throat. “No...I didn’t...no, she lives...”
“She does,” said Lord Adalon. “You cannot hide from the truth, Mazael. You cannot deny your nature. You thought you had killed her.”
“Yes,” said Mazael, “but...but I...”
“You enjoyed it,” said Lord Adalon. “Not the killing itself, but the power.”
“No,” said Mazael.
Lord Adalon sighed. “Don’t lie to me, my son. That power is yours. And such a little thing, too. The power of death.” He made a fist. “You have the potential for so much more. Any fool can kill. But your potential is limitless.”
“No,” said Mazael.
“You can do anything,” said Lord Adalon. “Who can rule over you? Mitor? The Dragonslayer? They are nothing to you. The power of death, the power of command is yours. You must simply take it. Claim it and make it your own. Throw down Mitor and throw down the Dragonslayer. Do it or they will destroy you.”
“I...I...no,” said Mazael. Something seemed horribly wrong. “No."
“Do it,” whispered Lord Adalon. “Or they will kill you just as they killed Master Othar.”
A thread of killing rage ignited in Mazael’s mind.
Lord Adalon’s laughter rang in his ears. “Is that the crack in your armor? Yes, Master Othar, so just, so wise. What good did it do him?”
“Be quiet,” said Mazael. The burning thread grew.
“Is the truth so hard?” said Lord Adalon. “They will do the same to you, unless you embrace your strength. Killing is woven into the very fabric of your soul! Use it. Fat Othar had no real power. You do. What is to stop you from using it?”
Mazael wavered. Was his father right? His hand clenched around Lion’s hilt.
Mitor and Simonian would pay for Othar’s death.
A sharp scent filled Mazael’s nostrils.
Lord Adalon’s lined face contorted with rage. “She dares...”
A jolt of agony shot through Mazael’s head.
He woke up and found himself lying in the balcony garden, the oak three spreading its leaves over the flowers. Romaria knelt next to him, a small stinking vial in her hand.
“Gods...Romaria...” he said. Nausea roiled in his gut.
“Hush, now,” said Romaria. “Drink this. I had Timothy bring it.” She handed him a heavy flagon smelling of the foul-smelling concoction wizards favored in their medicines. Mazael drank and swallowed the bitter stuff in huge gulps. It helped settle his stomach.
Romaria set the flagon down. “You had another dream, didn’t you?”
Mazael closed his burning eyes. “Yes.” His voice had an edge he did not like. “See? I was right. The dreams. They’re driving me mad. I am mad.”
“No,” said Romaria.
Mazael laughed. “No? How can you say that? I tried to kill Mitor, and then...” He remembered the blood gushing from her throat. He felt something wet slide down his face, and realized he was crying. “I tried to kill you. I did kill you, or I would have, if...what have I become?”
“No,” said Romaria. “You’re not mad, Mazael. I haven’t told you everything.”
“Everything?” said Mazael. “Of...what?”
“Of what the Seer told me,” said Romaria. “I haven’t told you all of it, not by half.” She swallowed. “He...Mazael, I’ve told you how the Elderborn and the humans both feel about half-breeds.” Her fingers twitched. “It’s deeper than that. Half-breeds are absolutely despised. Humans and Elderborn are forbidden to create children together. My father made a mistake, and I was born. My mother was horrified.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Mazael.
Romaria almost smiled. “We have that in common, you and I. The laws say that parents must slay any half-breed child as purification for their sin. My mother was adamant. My father didn’t want to, but felt he had no choice. But the Seer intervened.”
“What did he say?” said Mazael.
“The Seer told them that if they slew me, they would damn themselves and all of Deepforest Keep. You see, I was destined to save them,” said Romaria.
“Sounds like mummery,” said Mazael.
Romaria laughed. “Oh, I wish it were. He told them his prophecy, the same prophecy he told to me when I went into the druids’ caves thirty years later.”
Mazael was surprised. He had thought her younger. “What was this prophecy?”
“I told you part of it,” said Romaria. “He said I would meet a man who could kill any other man. But let me start from the beginning. I’ve told you half-breeds are despised. We only possess half a soul.”
“Absurd,” said Mazael. “That sounds like some of the lies priests tell to squeeze another copper coin from their benefices.”
“Aye,” whispered Romaria, “but this is true. Do you know what will happen to me? It’s happened before with half-breeds who weren’t killed at birth. I will rot away. It always happens, sooner or later, and there’s no way to reverse it. Thirty years, forty years, fifty, my body will crumble away from the inside out and so will my mind. I will die in agony and dementia.” She shrugged. “I never really worried about it. Everyone dies, after all. I learned the sword and the bow and spent most my time to the south, visiting the Old Kingdoms. I worked as a scout and a tracker, and none could match me. I suppose I planned to die that way, killed by an arrow or sword or some wild beast.”
Mazael sat up. The pain in his head had vanished, and his stomach no longer felt as if it had become home to a thousand twisting snakes. “What happened? Why did you go back to Deepforest Keep?”
“Thirty is the age of maturity for Elderborn,” said Romaria. She looked away. “Father sent a messenger for me.”
Mazael snorted. “I’d have told him to go to hell.”
Romaria smiled. “You would have. I’d never hated my father. He had always supported me, even if he couldn’t allow me to live at Deepforest Keep. And the Seer asked me to come, as well. He had saved my life.” She took a deep breath. “I returned, and I met the Seer in the druid caves. He told me his prophecy.”
Mazael flexed the fingers of his wounded arm. “What did he say?”
“He said I had to go to Castle Cravenlock,” said Romaria. “By then, the zuvembies had risen in the forest. But the Seer told me I had to go north to face a demon.”
“A demon?” said Mazael.
“A demon,” said Romaria. “He said that I would face that demon with the help of another. Someone like me. Another who had only half a true soul.” She looked at him, her eyes full of fear and wonder. “A man who fought with a lion’s tooth in his hand, who moved like lightning, a man who could kill any other man.”
Mazael blinked. “Me?”
Romaria nodded.
Mazael snorted. “You needn’t worry about it. My mother was a serpent and my father a coward, but they were both human. Your Seer was wrong.”
“No,” said Romaria. “I have only a half a soul. But your soul...your soul has power. The Seer said as much.”
“Power?” said Mazael.
“You do,” said Romaria. “It’s always been in you. When have you ever lost a fight? It was always with you, but beneath your awareness, I think. And now something’s caused it to manifest. You aren’t mad. It’s this magic, this dark power within you. It is rising within and consuming you.”
“I think I’d rather be mad. I don’t believe it...I don’t want to be believe it,” said Mazael.
Romaria pointed at his chest. “Look.”
Mazael lifted his torn tunic and looked at the cuts Romaria had given him across his ribs.
The wounds were knitting themselves together, the flesh crawling and twisting. He watched as the wounds turned from an angry red to a soft pink. Within minutes, the cuts had healed.
“What sort of power?” said Mazael, his voice hoarse.
“Dark power,” said Romaria. “Demon power.”
“Demon power?” said Mazael. “Am I Demonsouled, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Romaria. “Even the Seer didn’t know. He said you had to fight it. You would battle it for possession of your soul. You would master it, he said, or else it would dominate you, consume you, and turn you to something else.”
Mazael looked at the fading cuts on his arm. His exhaustion had vanished, and his hangover had passed. A mad urge seized him, and he yanked his dagger from his belt and slashed it across his left palm. Romaria grabbed his wrist, but Mazael stared at his palm. The blood flowed for a moment, but then the wound began to close. He felt a deep itching in the flesh of his palm as the skin crawled back together. He and Romaria sat and silence and watched.
Within a quarter hour, the wound had vanished.
“Did your Seer say anything else?” said Mazael, voice shaking. He remembered all the stories he had heard of Demonsouled. Descendants of the Great Demon, cursed with demon power in their souls that drove them made even as it bestowed great strength. Children and young men who had exhibited strange powers and who had tried to kill their families wives, and sisters. He had never believed those stories. They were just myths, after all, like San-keth cults.
“One other thing,” said Romaria. “He said our fates rest in each others’ hands. He said that I must save you, and that you must save me, or we will both be lost forever.”
“Don’t leave me,” whispered Mazael. “I can’t face this myself. If it weren’t for you, I would have slain Mitor and Simonian and likely half the castle.”
Romaria nodded and took his hand. “Only if you promise not to leave me.”
“I do,” said Mazael. They sat together for a long time.
He looked at his healed hand and thought of Demonsouled.
***
Chapter VIII
1
The Old Crow Roosts
Demonsouled Page 31