Legacy of the Demon (47 page)

Comprehension finally dawned. “Is that . . . ?”

Szerain nodded. “Elinor and Giovanni making up for three hundred years of lost time.”

thudthudthudTHUD THUD THUD

As one, we exploded into laughter.

Soon enough the thudding ceased, and I wiped away tears of mirth. “Wow. I'd better call in a structural engineer to make sure the house is still stable.”

“Yeah, that wall took a real pounding,” Szerain said, straight-faced.

“Let's hope they didn't break a stud,” Idris added with a smile.

Pellini guffawed and high-fived him while relief coursed through me. I couldn't remember the last time Idris had cracked a joke. Certainly not since the death of his sister.

With the mystery of the thud-thuds solved, biscuit making resumed, and the conversation shifted to swapping DIRT-related tall tales. Idris recounted a hysterical story of villagers successfully fighting off a
kzak
with flaming cow manure and slingshots, and Pellini countered with the one where a pair of reyza hurled a porta-potty like a water balloon and all of us ended up stained blue and stinking. Unfortunately, that one was a hundred percent true.

The conversation flowed around me as I watched a spider build her web outside the window. Despite the laughter and jokes, the strange not-right feeling persisted. I sipped my coffee
and maintained a serene exterior while I struggled to identify the source of the disquiet.

“You okay?” Szerain asked softly from beside me. At the table, Pellini and Idris launched into a spirited argument about firearms.

“Feeling a little off-balance,” I said, unsurprised that Szerain had noticed my distraction. No mind-reading needed. Just perception sharpened over millennia, coupled with the intuition of a good friend. I shrugged. “It's probably because I'm not worrying about dying in a summoning ritual.”

“I'm sure that's part of it,” he said. “Another might be that you're adjusting to having only your own essence.”

“Oh. Right. Duh.” I smiled ruefully. “That explains it.”

“You'll be you in no time.” Szerain gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze then turned away to refill his coffee cup, giving me space to process it all.

My gaze drifted outside again in time to see a fly blunder into the web. That had to suck. Minding your own business then
bam
. Game changer.

Kind of like
bam,
the Elinor essence nugget I'd lived with for pretty much my entire life was gone. I contemplated the strangeness of the concept. What kind of person would I be now if her influence hadn't been there?

Probably not all that different, I decided. Elinor seemed mild, sweet, and more than a little timid. I was not.

The loss of Elinor's essence chunk certainly explained the something-isn't-right sensation. Most of it, at least. A bit remained, a quiet nagging. I let my gaze drift to Rhyzkahl as he sketched graceful sigils for the shikvihr. I'd watched him dance it a hundred times, easily. It was the same sigils, the same rings, the same movements as when Mzatal danced it, yet infused with a completely different feel and energy.

“I spoke with Rhyzkahl while you slept,” Szerain said as he stirred a shake of cinnamon into black coffee. “He'll need some time to adjust.”

“Huh? Adjust to—” My confusion vanished as Szerain's meaning sunk in. I lowered my voice. “Rhyzkahl knows the truth about his parentage?”

“He needed to know. We
all
—all of the hybrids—need to know of our origins from human mothers and demahnk fathers.” His eyes flashed with the intensity of his conviction. “But not all are ready.”

“What made Rhyzkahl ready?” I asked. “Was it Zakaar breaking their ptarl bond?”

“That was the most critical factor,” Szerain said with a nod, “but this timeout here on Earth primed him for even more.” His expression grew somber. “I helped him remember his early life on Earth. His mother. His wife and twins. Our later . . . enslavement.”

I blew out a breath. “How'd he take it?”

“Like Rhyzkahl.” Szerain shrugged. “Poker-faced but deeply affected.”

Yep, that was Rhyzkahl. “What about the headaches, or the demahnk screwing with his mind?”

“I taught him a few mental tricks and some rudimentary shielding,” he said. “It's a start.” He seemed poised to say more, but instead joined the gun discussion at the table.

Would I see Rhyzkahl dance another hundred shikvihrs before Mzatal returned to free him? I was sick to death of being Rhyzkahl's jailer, but what if Mzatal was too diminished by Ilana to finish what he'd started here? Then again, it might not be long before Rhyzkahl escaped on his own. He certainly wasn't a helpless invalid any longer.

The rift belched a gout of shimmering potency.
Rhyzkahl could have escaped last night
. He could have escaped and still saved Elinor. He didn't because—why? Honor? That seemed a stretch. Or maybe escaping would have, in some twisted way, been a victory for me, implying that the only way for him to get free would be to escape my tyranny. Perhaps he was simply biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to throw off his shackles and bring low the hated slavemaster, thus proving that he'd been the victor all along.

Then again, it was possible that none of this had a fucking thing to do with “winning” anything.

For the first time since the night I found Rhyzkahl shaken and stumbling around the nexus, it felt wrong to cage him. Not that he didn't deserve punishment for his actions, but justice required a consideration of time served, and retribution needed to take a back seat to pragmatism. Rhyzkahl was restored, and all the lords were needed.

Understanding dawned on me with the intensity of a supernova. Mzatal's multi-faceted purpose for creating the prison on my nexus was suddenly crystal clear.

Mzatal had unmatched focus and foresight, able to see
thousands of moves ahead and predict far-reaching ripples. He hadn't chained Rhyzkahl to my nexus for revenge. He'd forcibly removed him from the demon realm because Rhyzkahl was broken, his mere presence causing instability in an already unstable world.

Yet Mzatal didn't go on to kill him or lock him in a dimensional pocket dungeon or even chain him in agony to the nexus. He brought Rhyzkahl to a place where he could recover, far removed from any number of damaging influences. Moreover, Rhyzkahl's presence as a battery for the nexus compensated for the loss of my arcane abilities and gave me the means to rehabilitate.

But that wasn't the end of Mzatal's brilliance. Rhyzkahl's imprisonment had served to rehab my inner
Self
as well, helping to heal the worst of the unseen wounds from his torture ritual and more. The prison forced me to face Rhyzkahl every single day, seeing him at his best and his worst—and thus made it harder for my psyche to see him as a nothing but a monster. Yes, he was a creature capable of horrible acts, but every time I wished him harm, every time I gloated over having my tormentor as my prisoner, I did nothing but bind myself tighter to our ugly past.

With the root cause identified, my disquiet settled. Wry amusement whispered through me. All those times that Rhyzkahl demanded release and I'd responded that it wasn't up to me. Mzatal had known this moment would come, once Rhyzkahl and I were sufficiently healed.

I poured out the rest of my coffee, grabbed the walkie-talkie from its charger on the counter, then headed toward the back door. In my periphery I saw Pellini start to rise as if to follow, but Szerain stopped him with a light touch on his arm and a murmured, “Let her go.”

The back yard grass no longer sparkled, and the mist at the edge of the woods had burned away. As I walked toward the nexus, Rhyzkahl finished the eleventh ring and ignited the entire series. It was still dimmer than a full-strength construct but not by much.

He regarded the finished shikvihr for barely a heartbeat then flicked his fingers to dispel it and began anew.

I crossed his orbit and stepped onto the nexus then, as I'd done so often before, let the by-now-familiar power course through me.

For the last time.

The thought reverberated through me, bringing sudden doubt in its wake. If Rhyzkahl left, so would the lord-power. Sure, I had most of my abilities back, but it was the semi-demigodness that I relied upon to do, well, pretty much anything that mattered. Without it, I never could have summoned Dekkak, or rescued Szerain, or even given Giovanni the ability to understand the twenty-first century. And the need for that lordy power wouldn't end when it left. Maybe it was irresponsible of me to give this up while the war still raged.

“Bullshit,” I spat and glared down at the silver and black slab. There would always be an oh-so-reasonable excuse to justify exploitation. History was pockmarked with similar rationalizations. Hell, the demahnk likely had reasons out the wazoo for their enslavement of the lords. Fuck that. Keeping Rhyzkahl here, when I knew in my essence that he could—and should—be freed, would be slavery, full stop. We would survive without resorting to anathema.

I tapped into the nexus and looked deep into the workings of the prison, like Szerain had done the day before. Intricate patterns within patterns, fractals of potency, interlaced in harmonious unity. Unlike Szerain, there was no way I'd ever come close to understanding the entirety of how it worked, but I didn't need to. I only needed to find the off switch.

And there it was, a quiet glow amidst the exquisite creation code, calling no attention to itself but findable by me when it was time.

And it was, indeed, time. The rightness of my decision sang through me. I reached to that softly glowing speck of a sigil and, using the Rhyzkahl-power for the very last time, dispelled it.

There was no fanfare or fireworks. The power simply flowed away from me like water sheeting off my body after a shower, no more unpleasant than the hundreds of times I'd left the nexus and ceased being a semi-demigod.

Rhyzkahl froze in place, for an instant reminding me of a rabbit going still as a hawk's shadow passed over it.
Or like someone who wants to be sure there are no landmines in a suddenly changed environment.

After nearly half a minute, Rhyzkahl dissipated the partial shikvihr and faced me. If he felt surprise—or anything else—he didn't let it show.

Eyes on him, I lifted the walkie-talkie. “This is Kara. I've
freed Rhyzkahl. All personnel are ordered to allow him to depart the compound. Absolutely no one is to interfere with him while he leaves.”

Rhyzkahl traced the first sigil of the shikvihr. It hung in the air before him, brilliant and potent, no longer drained by the nature of the prison.

I smothered the reflex to flip the prison's switch back on. The ethical dilemma of keeping him prisoner hadn't changed. Moreover, Rhyzkahl was now armed with the truth from Szerain. That had to have changed him for the better. I hoped. “I know you're dying to stay and tend your garden, but I'm kicking you out.” I shrugged. “Sorry-not-sorry.”

One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Endlessly entertaining.”

I inclined my head. “I do my best.”

“Kara Gillian, you have yet to discover your best.”

While I digested his surprising statement, Rhyzkahl retrieved a cell phone from a dimensional pocket and placed a call, as naturally as if it was an everyday occurrence. “I need transport, forthwith,” he said then sent the phone away. He regarded me for a moment more then turned on his heel, stepped out of his orbit, and strode toward the driveway and freedom.

Szerain was sitting on the porch steps, waiting for me. When I reached him, he stood and gave me a big, warm hug.

“You knew what I was going to do,” I said, gratefully accepting the embrace. “But you weren't touching me, so you couldn't have heard my thoughts.”

His laugh vibrated against my chest. “Didn't have to. I know you pretty well.”

The sound of raised voices reached us from inside the house. No, only one raised voice and Pellini's calm rumble.

“Idris,” I said with a wince. “I should go talk to him.” I'd known in the back of my head that there'd be people who wouldn't agree with my decision, and now I had to face it.

Szerain nodded and released me. “For what it's worth, Pellini understands why you let Rhyzkahl go. And even if he didn't, he trusts your judgment.” He angled his head. “He's a good partner for you. Isn't afraid to call you on your shit.”

I laughed. “You're right about that.”

Buoyed by that knowledge, I entered the kitchen to see Idris with hair askew and face flushed. Blood smeared the knuckles of his right hand, and I suspected he'd punched a wall, realizing too late that it wasn't sheetrock.

He rounded on me. “This is bullshit, Kara!”

“I'll talk to you once you've calmed down enough to listen.” I moved to the security monitor and watched Rhyzkahl's trek down my driveway toward the front gate.

Idris made an incoherent noise then stormed down the hallway.

“If you try to go after him, I'll have you tasered and restrained,” I snapped out in my I'm-not-fucking-around voice.

He stopped, fists clenched, and stood motionless for several seconds before wheeling to return to the kitchen.

On the monitor, the guard opened the gate. Rhyzkahl walked through and to the edge of the highway. As his foot touched the asphalt, a syraza appeared beside him, touched his shoulder, and then both disappeared.

Well, that's done.

Though I hadn't been aware of Pellini leaving, Idris and I were alone in the kitchen.

“Kara, why the hell would you let him go?” A current of hurt ran beneath the angry words.

“It was time,” I said and resisted the urge to sigh. “Not to mention, every lord is needed to stabilize the demon realm.”

“They can manage without
him
,” he said. “How could you forget what he did to you?”

“I'll never forget it,” I replied, folding my arms over my chest. “But I don't have to let it keep eating at me. I chose to forgive him.”

Idris narrowed his eyes. “Wait. He apologized?”

“No.”

“So you just rolled over and gave up?” He stared at me as if I'd sprouted an eyeball on a stalk. “I don't get it. How could you let him off the hook?”

His words should have pissed me off, but instead they helped bring order to my tumbled thoughts. The last whispers of doubt melted away. “That's not how it works, Idris,” I said gently. “Forgiveness doesn't mean the other person has to redeem themselves or apologize first. Or ever.” I dropped my arms, nodding to myself as the core concept resolved. “Forgiveness doesn't absolve the other person of their sins, but that's
their
burden. It's about giving up your own resentment, letting go and moving on. Forgiveness is for yourself.”

Idris took a step back. “No. Rhyzkahl has done terrible things.”

“And may again,” I said, “but so have
we
. Maybe not to the same extreme, but our hands aren't clean. Sure, it's nice to think we're the white knights who can do no wrong, crusading for the powers of Light and all that shit. But we've crossed the line more than once. We committed treason by stealing a SkeeterCheater that might have made a difference elsewhere. A lot
of innocent people got hurt in the bid to rescue Elinor. Hell, we
executed
J.M. Farouche after the battle at his plantation. Sure, we had damn good reasons in those cases—and I still believe that taking Farouche out was the right move—but there's no way to spin it to where those weren't bad things that we did. Thinking your side's shit doesn't stink is a dangerous mindset.”

Idris gave a subdued nod, anger gone. “We're the good guys, aren't we?”

“I believe that with all my heart,” I said. “But at the same time, I doubt the Mraztur think of themselves as the bad guys. Remember, a whole lot of wars have started because both sides were absolutely certain they were in the right.”

He made a face. “I can't imagine
anything
they do is right.”

“Then you'd better start trying,” I said, tone sharp. “If you can only paint your enemies as monsters, then you've lost all hope of a peaceful resolution.” With a well-placed finger on his sternum, I pushed him back until he folded into a chair. “Szerain believes you're the greatest summoner alive, and I agree with him. But it's time for you to start looking at the bigger picture.” I gentled my voice. “Mzatal never intended to keep Rhyzkahl bound to the nexus forever. You know that. It was time.”

He looked thoughtful now, which told me I'd gotten through to him, at least a little.

“You should go sit under the grove tree,” I said. “It's a really good thinking spot.”

He gave me a dubious look but pushed up and headed outside. Through the window, I watched as he crossed the yard then flopped to sit under the brilliant canopy.

Good. Rho would help him get straightened out.

I allowed myself a few precious seconds to savor the all too rare peace and quiet, then followed up with a luxuriously hot shower and bath soak that lasted a decadent twenty minutes. Dressed, clean, and ever so slightly more relaxed, I returned to the kitchen where I found biscuits and bacon ready, with Pellini partaking of both. While I stuffed my face and downed more coffee, Pellini informed me that he and Szerain had checked out the stone turtle.

“It's not as big as I expected,” he said between bites of bacon. “Only about two feet long. But Szerain found a spot on its belly that was different and opened 'er up.” He paused and took an overly long sip of coffee.

“Tell me what you found.
Now
, or you'll be sleeping in Rhyzkahl's tent.”

Pellini grinned and wiped his mouth. “Nine rolls of makkas wire. About seventeen gauge or so and at least fifty meters each.”

“Sweet!” I said, relieved. “That's a lot better than the raw lump I was envisioning.”

“My guess is that whoever stuck it in the turtle meant for it to be easy to use in a pinch.” Pellini took a bite of biscuit then washed it down with a slug of coffee. “Szerain's downstairs now. Said he wants to talk to you once you've shit, showered, and shaved.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Is that how he phrased it?”

“Pretty much,” he said with a laugh.

Since I'd already accomplished all three, I made my way to the basement.

Ryan Kristoff had lived down here for several months, ensconced in his own little man-cave with the usual manly comforts: TV and DVD player, futon, small refrigerator, gaming console. Then Idris had moved in, and it was just a spare bedroom in a slightly unusual location.

Szerain had pulled my big armchair over by the futon—currently in couch-form. Spread out before him was a ten-foot diameter circle of floor filled with complex sigils that crawled with rakkuhr and defied identification, at least by me. Everything else was exactly as Idris had left it. But though I couldn't in a million years define why or how, Szerain had turned it back into a man-cave.

“Did you get Idris all sorted out?” he asked when I reached the bottom of the stairs.

“For now,” I said. “He's a good guy. Can't say I blame him for reacting the way he did, considering everything he's been through.”

“And he's young.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “It's easy to forget that when he's so skilled and has such focus.”

My lips twitched. “Greatest summoner alive, right?”

“For now,” he said with a sly grin.

I could tell I was expected to assume that I'd someday surpass Idris, but I wasn't going to fish for compliments. “What's all this?” I waggled my fingers at the circle o' sigils.

“Monitoring,” he said. “The dimensional stronghold as well as general arcane activity for when Xharbek decides to step up his game.”

“When? Not if?”

“He expected Dekkak to kill you and then bring him Elinor's essence. Not only did that plan fall through, but we succeeded in retrieving and restoring Elinor.” Szerain's mouth tightened into a humorless line. “He's not a happy demahnk right now.”

“If Xharbek is the least restricted of all the demahnk, does that make him the fearless leader of the rest of them?”

“It's a good working theory.”

I made a face and flung myself onto the futon. I preferred a system where the demahnk all had an equal say, rather than him being in charge. “Any ideas what he'll do?”

“Plenty.” He shook his head. “And that's the problem. There are a myriad of steps he could take next, and there's no possible way to defend against them all.”

“Which means you have to wait for him to act. Ugh.”

“It sucks.” He slouched back in the big armchair, revealing a flash of brilliant green and purple at his collar.

“Dude!” I sat up straight. “You got a leaf, too?”

Reverently, Szerain pulled the leaf from beneath his shirt. Like mine, the stem of his leaf formed a loop, but his hung on a delicate silver chain.

“I spent hours out there communing with Rho,” he said. “Far better rest than sleep.” He glanced at me. “Xharbek isn't my sire.”

“Uh huh. You mentioned that. Is it Helori?”

“No, he's Kadir's. Rho is mine.”

“Wait. Rho as in grove Rho?” My confusion only increased at his solemn nod. “But I thought . . . how could it . . . ? Whoa. Is Rho
demahnk
?”

“He is.”

I stared at him. His daddy was a
forest
? “Why is Rho the grove, but Helori and the others default to the elder syraza demon look?”

“More forbidden knowledge,” Szerain said with a bitter edge to his words. “Initially, Rho was the same as the rest of the demahnk, and we were ptarl bound. But from what I'm able to understand, when a harmonic disturbance collapsed the Earthgates, he merged with the planet and helped hold it together. It was a permanent change, it seems, since it involved uniting with the rakkuhr core. Xharbek became my ptarl—my guess is that he didn't have a lord-child—and I was conditioned to forget it had ever been any other way.”

“That
sucks
,” I said, angry and horrified on his behalf. Bad enough that he got ripped away from his Earth family, but then to lose his real ptarl-daddy, too? “If Rho was able to become a planetary-wide grove system, that means the demahnk could be
anything
. Are they Ekiri, too?”

“I've speculated as much, but don't have confirmation.”

I frowned. “Though if so, why wouldn't they still call themselves Ekiri? Maybe they're Ekiri kids, like the lords are demahnk kids. Of course then y'gotta wonder who the Ekiri would have mated with to make the demahnk.”

“I don't know,” Szerain said with a shrug. “The ones who called themselves Ekiri were different in form than the demahnk, for whatever that's worth.”

Interesting. One of Lannist's visions had shown me a willowy, dual-pupiled creature atop an Ekiri pavilion.

“But I
am
ninety-nine percent sure the Ekiri are the ones who bind the demahnk,” he added.

Ha! I was right. The enforcers were the Ekiri. “With the same constraints that destroyed Lannist,” I said sourly.

Szerain straightened. “Even as dissociated as Zakaar is from the demahnk, he felt Lannist scatter. What do you know of it?”

I gave him the CliffsNotes version of the events in Lannist's dimensional pocket, including the warnings he'd offered about Trask and Ilana. Yet when I went into seeing the lords as children, Szerain started to get agitated. Though he was free of most of the demahnk manipulation, I had a feeling some lingered. “Speaking of parentage,” I said, deftly sliding into a parallel topic, “you've yet to answer my question about my lordy lineage.”

His agitation evaporated. “Huh. You're right.” He gave me a bland look.

I glared.

“Fine, I'll tell you,” he said, eyes sparkling. “But don't blame the messenger. Your grandmother's father was Jesral.”

“Ew.” I made a face. “Oh well. At least it wasn't you, Rhyzkahl, or Mzatal. Though it's really going to ruin Christmas when everyone finds out that Great Grandpappy tried to turn me into Rowan.” I angled my head. “Since we're on the subject, who
is
Rowan? I mean, I was her for a few minutes, but I still don't get it.”

“Not who. What.” He leaned forward to make an adjustment to a sigil. “During the years after the cataclysm when the ways
were closed, I not only made repairs, but I also worked on creating a ‘potency robot' to—”

I slapped my hands over my ears. “Dude, if you're about to tell me that you made an arcane sex doll, I'll take back my question.”

“You're a filthy minded perv,” Szerain said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I created it to mimic the potential I'd seen in Elinor—though the construct couldn't match it. And while I could infuse a semblance of life, she was basically an arcane AI, with a body made up of minute, intricately entwined sigils tucked away in a dimensional pocket. She could be called up for interaction, but without a real person as an underlay, she couldn't
act
.” He sighed and kneaded the back of his neck. “Rowan was an experiment, a creation I could learn from. She was never intended to be used.”

“But then you were exiled, and the Mraztur stole your never-to-be-used weapon.”