“I have a question for you first.”
“Of course, Hero. You may ask what you wish?”
I nodded, adjusting my stance. “You’re the demon king, right?”
The queen stared at me for several moments. Then she laughed. “What gave me away? It was the hat, right?” She tapped on the absurdly large crown, which was presumably hiding her horns.
The hooded men and armored guards around me stepped closer. The guards pointed their halberds—so cool—at me.
“Mostly the hats,” I admitted.
“Everyone here has been covering their head around me. That, and you wouldn’t let me see the city at all. Then there’s the suspicious lack of holy magic, the main weakness of demons.”
I shook my head. “The thing that really gave it away was when someone came to retrieve the holy sword. I used holy light magic on them, and it didn’t hurt them at all, meaning they were human. It was possible they were just from some separate human faction, but everyone here being demons made a lot more sense.”
“Well then,” The demon king sighed, “that makes this awkward, doesn’t it?”
I nodded. “Humor me by answering another question. Why summon me? Is the human city better defended than you claimed?”
“It is, though only slightly. We were hoping you would prove to be a counter to the tactics of their summoned hero, who has managed to hold us at bay for months with advanced technology.”
“Advanced technology?”
“Indeed. Our spies refer to their hero as a mechanical engineer.”
Figures. Well, at least this implies that the real humans are smarter than these demonic caricatures of them.
“Well then, I must have been a disappointment.”
“Oh, not at all. By seeing your patterns of research, we’ve been able to learn a great deal about what their summoned hero’s moves might be and extrapolate how quickly their magical knowledge may have advanced. I have been cautious about entering the fray personally due to their new hero’s presence, but after seeing your growth, I know I have nothing to fear.”
That was rather rude, but I still had one more question. One born of tradition. “Well, you understand this puts me an uncomfortable position. I don’t suppose you feel like offering me half the world if I work with you?”
“How delightful. You would have made an excellent demon. But no,” she shook her head. “I’m afraid this is the end of our relationship.”
The guards inched closer, preparing to strike.
I snapped my fingers.
The sound of thunder crashed in the distance. “You might want to hold off on that.”
They took a step back.
“What have you done?” The demon king demanded.
“So, I’ve been studying magic for quite a while here, and I realized it was pretty simple to combine spells. I’ll spare you the boring details. I found a second level spell called “Create Rain” and combined it with “Holy Light” to make “Holy Rain.””
The demon king stood and shouted to the guards. “Get everyone indoors, immediately!”
I folded my arms patiently as guards rushed out of the room. “Now, as you know, rain spells can last quite a long time. Sometimes days. And from what I could tell of the structure of this castle? It looks like a bit of a flood risk.”
The demon king glared at me. “What is it that you want?”
“It’s quite simple, actually. I’m going to leave here in a few moments. You will not pursue me. When, and only when, I am comfortably inside the human city, will I cancel the spell. If you kill me, the spell will just continue to run its course, and I think you’ll find that killing me would be a little more difficult than you might have expected earlier.”
I drew the sword at my side, just a little. It gleamed once again with holy light.
“You should not have been able to repair that so quickly. Your observers claimed you could not have learned higher than second-level magic.”
I scratched my chin. “Looks like you’ve learned a valuable lesson. Humans can be pretty devious, too.”
The demon king glared at me.
“Well? Do you agree to my terms?”
“I…” The demon king spat. “How can I be certain you will end the spell when you reach the human kingdom?”
I grinned. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”
And with that, I clicked my heels to trigger the teleportation effect, and I was outside the city.
I ran as fast as I could. I hoped that anger and frustration might keep the demon king busy for a few more minutes.
It wasn’t raining, of course.
I hadn’t even managed to master first-level water magic, let alone second.
I had, however, mastered the level zero “Loud Noise” spell.
I hadn’t managed to fix the holy sword, either. Casting “Bless Weapon” on the broken sword made it look pretty impressive, at least when it was only halfway out of the sheath and you couldn’t tell it was still damaged.
I ran until the teleportation effect recharged, then teleported again, taking me all the way to the human city’s gates. Fortunately, they didn’t open fire at me immediately.
“Who are you?” a guard shouted down as I waved.
“Nobody important,” I shouted back, “Just a hero, summoned to save the world.”
Violet
Mazarkis Williams
Violet tried to burrow under the traveler’s cloak and hide from the morning sun. She wanted to wrap it around herself again and fill her nose with the sandalwood scent that colored her dreams. But her fingers curled around handfuls of straw instead, and its sunny fragrance opened her eyes. His horse had gone. Her apron lay folded on the floor where she had left it. Violet brushed the dry stalks from her hair and looked out into the daylight.
The sun shone bright on the apple trees and on the gray-stoned house, yet visions of the night lingered in her mind. The traveler had conjured the Gardens of the Moon in Borann, his hands moving to a silent incantation. Her skin had tingled as he wound the magic into flowers and twinkling stars.
Violet tied on her apron and looked around the small barn. Something was missing. But what? There had been nothing here in the first place. Halfway in a dream, she found the outhouse, and then the kitchen.
“Any gold?” Her mother did not turn to ask the question, occupied as she was with braiding the morning’s bread.
“Sorry,” said Violet. The kitchen looked smaller than before, and bare. She edged past the table and sat by the fire.
“Aii,” said her mother. “Well, he brought some fine salt.”
Violet watched the flames.
“Maybe his seed will take,” said her mother. “That would be a fine gift.”
Violet’s sister, Thia, had given birth to a straw-gotten boy six years ago. He entered the kitchen at that moment, his light, foreign hair tousled from sleep. “Is there milk?”
When Violet failed to reply, her mother said, “No, lovie. Vi forgot to milk the cow.”
On the board, brown and twisted lengths of dough lay side by side like great worms. Violet ate bread with honey every morning, but she had no appetite for it now. Everything looked the wrong color, hollowed out and dull.
“Did he say anything?” she asked.
“The traveler? Just goodbye and thank you for the Shelter.” Her mother took the loaves and pushed them into a notch beside the fire.
Violet rubbed her arms. The sense of loss settled over her shoulders, its namelessness prickling at her skin. She wished she could remember. “I think he took something of mine.”
Her mother rubbed some flour from her apron. She appraised Violet’s clothing, the Circle of the Martyr around her neck. “I see nothing amiss.”
“Something important.” Violet tapped the table with her fingers. Something not from her, but of her. She sat up, panic suddenly twisting round her gut.
Her mother’s blue gaze flitted around the room to settle on Violet o
nce again. “Scattered, you are.” She sighed. “Well, nothing to cure you but some work. Take some of the salt up to the Perry house. We owe them still for the spice they gave to us.”
“All right.” But first, she went to her room. In a drawer, she kept a portrait of her sister, smaller than the palm of her hand. A traveling craftsman painted it the year before Thia died. He probably fathered her second baby, the one that killed her. Mother and child now lay just beyond the apple trees, in a hollow where ladyslippers grew. Violet slipped the portrait into her pocket. It made her feel somewhat whole again. She ran to the kitchen and threw open the trap door to the cellar.
“What are you doing now, girl?” her mother cried out, but Violet climbed down anyway and took two apples. She wanted only apples today. That and the plump orange fruit of Storian nights, the fruit that filled the air with spice and honey. Aromas were harder to conjure, he had said. More magic was required. It had flowed over her like a river, warm and vital.
Violet ran back up the stairs and gathered the salt.
Her mother shook her head. “If it weren’t for that Circle, who knows what wildness you’d get into.”
“Yes, Mother.”
But her mother had not finished. “The special ones are hard to let go, but Shelter is our tradition. Everyone gets something, and nobody asks for more. Now go. Walk him off.”Violet turned that over in her mind as she stepped out. She had never thought of asking for more. Her life was small: milk the cow, haul the water, teach the boy. Only the travelers ever altered the slow pattern of the seasons. None had ever taken something from her before.
“I’m nothing but an entertainer,” he had said. “A purveyor of cheap tricks. But to each person I try to bring something new.”
He had spoken true. He had tricked her.
She made her way to where the road forked. To the left, a path led up the hill to the Perry house. To the right lay the way to Derman, where the traveler had likely gone. She turned right. Ten steps more and she began to run. She ran until her legs trembled and her chest felt tight as a fence-knot. She slowed to a walk, shaking not from exertion but from her own reckless will.
In Derman, Violet passed fruit sellers at their stalls and wove between the sheep on the main road. A hostel rose two stories above the street, its windows small and dark like secrets. In its shadow, a burly man buckled a saddle around a horse. The traveler’s horse. Violet’s heart lifted in relief. This would not be a difficult thing after all. She put down the cup and crossed the street to tap the hostler’s big shoulder. “I’m looking for a traveler. His hair is long and his eyes are the color of the sky. He wears a red cloak with a golden crest.” Her cheeks felt hot when she was done. “And this is his horse.” She bit her lip.
The hostler nodded in a bored sort of way. “The magician.”
She had not thought of describing him so simply. “Is he here?”
Now the hostler shook his head. “Nah, he traded horses with me. This one caught a stone. Had to make it to Peyne, he said.”
It seemed the color drained from the sky. The city, full of hope just a moment before, now seemed empty of all but filth and sharp voices. “Martyr bless you,” she said, turning away.
She had to follow him. She had known that even before she left home. The missing piece of her pulled like a needle with string. The harbor town of Peyne lay six days’ walk away, but she had no choice. She traded the salt for a bit of cheese and some more apples. The sun rose hot over the road, and Violet regretted that she had no water flask.
When the sun settled to the west, a grower’s cart pulled alongside her. An older man leaned out, his Circle hanging loosely around his thin neck.
“Martyr’s blessings,” he said, and she bowed her head at him.
He kept pace with her a while, then offered his water flask in a shy sort of way.
“Martyr bless you,” she said as she accepted it.
“If you need a ride, I’m going all the way to Peyne.”
“Sir, you’re very kind.” He stopped the wagon, and she climbed up in the back. The man continued driving and said nothing more. She lay down and closed her eyes.
The traveler drank his ale. Many voices called out around him, but he sat alone. She watched him, waiting for him to reveal what he had taken. But he only reached in his cloak, pulled out a bit of cheese, and chewed it as he stared into the distance.
Violet woke. She felt sorry to have left her mother with no warning. Her nephew would need his learning, and the cow her milking. But she could not go back until she had restitution. She prayed to the god to provide for them until her return.
As for herself, the grower was kind. Three nights she slept on his cart while he made camp on the side of the road. On the fourth day, he stopped outside Peyne. “Martyr protect you,” he said, making the sign of the god over Violet’s head.
“Thank you,” she replied. “You are generous.”
The grower put his hands together in the way of prayer. “I treat each person I meet as if they were the Martyr himself.”
The principle of Shelter, the rule of her people. Violet felt her eyes fill with tears.
Peyne was so large she could not see it all from one place. The smell of fish hung over the buildings like a cloud. Every passing face looked ruddy and chapped. At the bottom of the hill, she could see the harbor, its masts swaying like wheat in the wind, and beyond that, a horizon of blue.
Across that water lay the heart of the empire, and the queen. Beyond her protected city, the Peresine aggressors burned and ravaged the countryside. Violet had heard tales, but such things never touched her own quiet corner of the world. Violet’s peaceful lands supplied the food for the royal army, and their peaceful ways soothed all those who sought comfort. It was the way of things.
Violet wandered the streets, finding more hostels than she could count. Men and women in bright colors jostled her out of their way. Beggars pulled at her skirts. Fortune tellers and witches pitched their wares at every corner, as if their gifts were not rare as love-blooms with nine petals, or rare as the faeries who stole sleepers from their places beneath the trees and fed them honeyed wine. Faeries who showed these unwitting souls all the wonders of their realm, until the captives could not leave without fading away from grief.
Violet did not ask for her fortune.
At midday, she spotted a pair of men in red cloaks and followed them to a large stone inn. Several men sat around the tables, drinks in their hands, none of them the traveler. The air felt good and fresh. She stood a little straighter.
One of the men smiled at her over the suds of his ale. She smiled back and approached his table.
“. . . but the messenger didn’t get there in time,” a man next to him was saying. He wore a crest like that of the traveler’s.
“Are you saying we lost the whole battle?” asked the man who had smiled at her.
“That’s what I’m telling you. The Green Hills were too distant. Even the fastest rider couldn’t warn them in time.”
“Martyr’s blessings.” Violet pressed her hands together in polite greeting.
The speaker gave her an odd look. Clearly a foreigner. He wore no Circle. “If I may, I wondered about your crest, there,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“Magician’s Guild,” he said, giving her the once-over and apparently finding her lacking. “We fight the war for you. One would think you’d recognize us.”
“The war? But do you know an illusionist who—”
A big-nosed man behind the bar beckoned her by waving a filthy rag in the air.
“Excuse me,” she said to the magician. She crossed the dim room and nodded to the barkeep. “Martyr’s blessings.”
“Are you plying a trade in here? Just so’s you know, I always get a share.”
“Trade?” Violet shook her head. “I’m looking for a magician.”
“You’ll have to be more specific, now,” he said with a laugh.
She tried to think of the most pract
ical way to describe the traveler. “He makes illusions. He travels and brings back what he sees.”
“Has a soft little voice like this?” asked the barkeep, exaggerating with a drawn-out purr.
The imitation was accurate and dug at her ears. “I suppose.”
“I know `im. He stays here without paying. Shows me things, see?” He winked and threw the rag over his shoulder as if it were the edge of a gilded cape.
Violet kept silent for a moment, imagining what kinds of illusions the barkeep might favor. “Where is he?”
“Well now, nothing’s free, nothing’s free in Peyne. I imagine you to be a hospitable girl.” He leaned over the counter, his gaze somewhere below her Circle. “Ain’t you a grower?”
“I am.” Violet leaned away from his greedy eyes.
“Growers are hospitable, ain’t they? Shelter and all?”
He did not understand the principle. Or he meant not to. She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Come now. Barn whore ain’t no different from a city whore. Both of yous do your milking.” He laughed. “Come now. I think I’m feeling the Martyr risin’ in me. Do me a service, now.”
They stared at one another across the counter. She felt the eyes of the other men at her back.He drew away. “Well now, it ain’t like I’m trying to kill your ma. Forget about it. Ain’t no fun in that.”
She turned away, her face red with shame. Somehow, he had managed to make the principle of Shelter sound filthy.
“Hey,” one of the magicians called out. “You’re looking for Simon. His ship left yesterday. Over the sea, queenside.”
Violet nodded. “Thank you,” she said, walking to the door.
The bartender regained his humor, shouting out for the other men to hear. “Now wait there, missy, you can’t stay here with me? Ah come on now, the real thing is better than pretend!”
Violet did not answer, hurrying out the door, his words coming after her.
“You gonna chase after him? There’s a war on, you know!”
She leaned against the wall outside and covered her mouth with her hands. Tears ran over her fingers. Something in the power the traveler spun, the power that had wrapped her and warmed her, had also robbed her, drawn her to this godless place. Simon would pay for this.
Art of War Page 17