The Demon King (25 page)

“Oh, really? Is that what it is?”

Averill took hold of Raisa’s chin and gazed into her eyes. He looked so peculiar. She laughed, then flinched when he gripped harder.

“Not so hard,” she complained, wresting herself free. Why was he being like this? “Micah and I were just leaving.”

“Were you?” Averill suddenly seemed very tall and imposing in his clan robes.

“I was going to show her the view off the terrace,” Micah said, popping the rest of the pastry into his mouth and licking his fingers. He had powdered sugar on his lips, and Raisa impulsively pulled his head down and kissed it away. His kisses had been sweet-hot already, and who knew how much sweeter they might be now.

“Raisa,” Micah whispered rather thickly, sliding his arms around her again, ignoring Averill’s glowering expression.

Micah seemed a little intoxicated himself.

“Raisa!” Averill pulled her away and pushed her down into a chair. “You’re not yourself. I think it’s time we called for your carriage.”

“It’s early yet,” Micah said. He cleared his throat, looking from Raisa to Averill, back to Raisa. “Please, Your Highness. Stay a while longer. It’s my name day, after all.”

“I think not,” Averill said, his voice hard and even. “Go on back to the party, jinxflinger. But first I want to know where you got this.” Averill’s hand closed on Micah’s wrist. He lifted Micah’s hand, displaying an elaborately carved ring set with emeralds and rubies.

“Let go of me!” Micah struggled to free himself. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is my business, actually,” Averill said, releasing him. “I’ve seen this design, but only in old manuscripts. It predates the Breaking, and it’s forbidden these days.”

Micah rubbed his wrist. “Someone sent it. A name day present. I’ve a whole vault full. What’s it to you?”

Raisa squinted down at it, bleary-eyed. Somehow she hadn’t noticed it before. And now that she looked closer, she saw that it was a ring in the form of a serpent, coiled around Micah’s finger, with rubies for eyes. But there was something familiar about it.

She reached up and touched her necklace. The gold pendant that rested against her skin matched Micah’s ring. It felt warm to the touch.

Averill’s eyes flicked between the two pieces of jewelry. “Where did you get the necklace, Raisa?”

“Hmmm?” For a moment she couldn’t remember. “Oh. It was a gift from the Bayars.”

Averill gripped the pendant and lifted it away from her chest. Beneath it was a red mark burned into her flesh. A snake’s head.

With a roar of anger, Averill ripped the necklace away, breaking the clasp and sending bits flying. He flung the jewelry into Micah’s startled face.

“Just what was it you hoped to accomplish, jinxflinger?” he demanded.

Micah blinked at him, then glanced down at the necklace on the floor. He looked completely bewildered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Raisa doubled over, pressing her hands to her breast, feeling as if her father had ripped out her heart. “Merciful Maker,” she gasped.

Averill looked at her, then closed his eyes for a moment as if struggling for composure. He turned back to Micah. “I’m clan, remember? Demonai. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize it?” Averill gripped the front of Micah’s fancy coat and gave him a hard shake. “She’s not for you, do you understand that? That will never happen.”

Now anger flooded into Micah’s face, replacing bewilderment. “Why not? I’m good enough for the princesses in Tamron.”

“Then marry one of them,” Averill said.

“Who said anything about marriage? Micah said, his black eyes glittering. “But, now that you mention it, why can’t we marry if we want? I’m tired of living by stupid rules made a thousand years ago.”

“You try anything like this again, and the clans will go back to hunting wizards. Starting with you.”

“They’ve never left off hunting wizards,” Micah said bitterly. “We know what you’re plotting, up in the camps. We know you’re a Demonai warrior. We have spies of our own. As for the necklace”—he nudged it with his foot—“all these tales of evil magical amulets are just that—tales. You Demonais always see a magical conspiracy where there is none.”

Micah stooped, scooped up the necklace, and put it in his pocket. “Take her home, then. I’m going back to the party.” As he passed Raisa, he leaned down and kissed her lips. Then he looked up and grinned crookedly at Averill. “But I like kissing her, and from what I can tell, she likes it too. Just try to keep us apart.”

And he was gone.

Averill stared after him for a long moment. Amon shifted his weight, as if unsure whether to stay or go.

Raisa’s insides churned. It was as if her body were a battleground, sensations rushing out and rushing in like the surf at Chalk Cliffs. Her lips still tingled from Micah’s kiss, and she wanted to run after him, to tell him she was sorry her father had gone barking mad. She felt dizzy, sick with need. Putting her head between her knees, she breathed deeply, determined not to faint.

Amon knelt in front of her, gripping her hands in both of his. “Rai…Your Highness,” he said, his face drained and pale. “Can I…get you anything?”

She looked up into his face, and he looked wary, yet determined, as though he were afraid she might spit in his face, but willing to take the risk.

Instead she vomited all over him. And herself.

Horrified, she tried to apologize, but he looked so solemn and ludicrous with sick in his hair and all over his dress blues, that soon she was laughing. He glared at her, then pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wiped off her face.

Averill grabbed her wrap out of danger. “Where are your shoes, Raisa?” he asked, glancing about.

She shook her head helplessly. Now she was crying, big fat tears, shivering uncontrollably. What was wrong with her?

“Don’t take my shoes,” she said, struggling to rise. “I’ve got to find Micah. I need to…tell him something.”

“Amon,” Averill began, “go tell the queen…” He took a better look at Amon and reconsidered. “No. I’ll go tell the queen that the princess heir has taken ill. You take Raisa back to Fellsmarch Castle. Don’t let anyone see you. Take her to her rooms and keep her there. No matter what. Don’t take your eyes off her for a moment. Stay there until I come.”

He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Amon helped Raisa to her feet, but she nearly collapsed again, saved only by his grip on her arm.

Amon glanced around for witnesses, then whipped a tablecloth off a nearby table, flinging the devil weed and calla lily centerpiece onto the floor. He draped the tablecloth over Raisa, covering her head to toe, then tipped her into his arms.

“Amon! Put me down!” she protested, struggling feebly, her voice muffled by linen. “I’ve got to…I’ve got to go…”

He put his lips next to her ear, and she could feel his warm breath through the fabric. “Come on, Rai,” he said, desperation edging his voice. “Don’t make this any harder, all right?”

He carried her through several twists and turns, the light changing as they passed through darkened hallways and brightly lit rooms. Finally, Raisa breathed in the night air and knew they were in the courtyard.

She recalled Micah’s kisses, his hands on her shoulders, and her heart beat faster. Desire crashed over her again. “No!” She began squirming again. “I’ve got to…go back and get my shoes.”

Amon whistled, and she heard the squeak of carriage wheels coming toward them.

“Wot you got there, soldier?” the driver asked, laughing. “Souvenir from the party?”

“My sister,” Amon said, sounding unamused. “She’s not well.”

Raisa heard laughter. “Care to introduce us, Corporal?” someone shouted.

“I…am…not…your sister,” Raisa growled. “Why do you keep saying that?” But Amon was wrestling her into the carriage, and she heard the snap of the reins, and they rattled off into the night, farther and farther from Gray Lady and the fascinating Micah Bayar.

She must have slept, because the next she knew, Amon was clumping up a flight of stairs, still carrying her in his arms. He turned and walked a hundred paces down a corridor, then carefully set her down on her feet. He unwound her from her makeshift shroud like a corpse from its wrapping, keeping one hand fastened around her arm. They were standing in front of the door to her room.

“Let me go!” Raisa said, trying to pull away. “I forgot something. I need to go back to Gray Lady.”

He pounded on the door. “Open up!”

Raisa heard Magret on the other side of the door, grumbling her way toward them.

Bam! The door slammed open, revealing Magret in her dressing gown. “A body can’t catch a little sleep athout…” Magret’s eyes focused on Raisa. “Your Highness! What happened to you?”

“She’s not feeling well,” Amon said.

“Phew!” Magret said, waving away the vapors with one hand. “Begging your pardon, but you both reek of sick!” She eyed Raisa suspiciously. “You’ve not been into the brandy, have you?”

“Lord Demonai asked me to bring her back here to you,” Amon said. “He said you’d take care of her.”

Magret puffed up with importance. “But a’course he’d say that; he knows old Magret, he does.” She took Raisa’s arm and drew her inside, then made as if to shut the door in Amon’s face.

“Lord Demonai told me to stay until he comes,” Amon said stubbornly, sticking out his boot to keep the door from closing. “She’s…in danger. He told me to stay right with her.”

“He did?” Magret said, flustered. “Well, I never thought I’d live to see the day, young men inviting themselves into a young girl’s room in the middle of the night.” She studied him for signs of depravity, then shook her head. “Well, come ahead, then.”

“Magret,” Raisa said desperately, “I need to go back to the party. Corporal Byrne has kidnapped me and dragged me back here against my will.”

“Is that so?” Magret eyed Amon with new hostility.

“It’s so,” Amon said, with that direct Byrne look that could be so convincing. “But it was on Lord Demonai’s orders. He’ll be here soon.”

“Well,” Magret said grudgingly, “she can’t go back to the party if she’s sick, can she?”

Amon shook his head solemnly. “No, doesn’t seem wise.”

Raisa hated both of them.

“Come,” Magret said, pulling her toward the bed chamber. “Let’s get you into your bath, dearie.” When Amon made as if to follow, Magret straight-armed him. “You sit here by the fire, Corporal Byrne.”

“Lord Demonai told me to keep a close eye on her until he came,” Amon said stubbornly. “She’s not herself.”

Magret scowled at him. “Where’s she going to get off to, with you out here by the door?” she said.

“I gave my word,” Amon said, and Raisa knew he was thinking of the passage that led from the closet to the garden. He wasn’t about to give her the chance to escape that way. Raisa cursed the day she’d shared that secret with him.

Amon displayed the usual Byrne boneheadedness, and in the end, Magret put up a screen around Raisa’s tub, and Amon plunked himself down in a chair next to the window. It seemed strange to know he was just on the other side of the screen when she had no clothes on.

Once she was pronounced clean, Magret helped her into her nightgown, and Raisa emerged from behind the screen to find Amon, his shirt off, wet hair sticking up, scrubbing down using a basin and pitcher. His broad shoulders and muscular arms shone in the firelight. This image reverberated with memories of Micah Bayar’s planed face and dark eyes until Raisa thought she might be sick again.

“Sweet martyred lady!” Magret said, actually blushing and closing her eyes to shut out the view, then opening them again and peeking back at Amon. “Come, Your Highness, let’s get you into bed.”

Raisa had just climbed under the covers when there was a knock at the outer door. Magret gave Amon the evil eye of warning and went to answer.

It was her father, Averill, and her grandmother, Elena, both still in their clan ceremonial robes from Micah’s party. Elena carried a beaded remedy bag.

“Thank you for your help,” Elena said to Magret, and somehow maneuvered the nurse out the door. Then she crossed to Raisa’s bedside.

Smiling down at Raisa, she laid her palm on her forehead. “Briar Rose, granddaughter, how is it with you?”

“I don’t know, Elena Cennestre,” Raisa said with spirit. “I may be sick, but everyone around me is crazy.” She glared at her father and Amon Byrne, who must have found a shirt somewhere, because he was covered up now.

Elena laughed, slapping her thigh, and Raisa immediately felt better. Elena would sort everyone out.

“Let’s see this mark of yours,” Elena said, untying the string at the neck of Raisa’s gown. She spread the fabric and studied the mark at the base of Raisa’s neck. There were blisters now, centered around an area of tender pink skin.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“No. I didn’t even know it was there,” Raisa admitted. “I must have reacted to the pendant.”

“So it seems.” Elena studied the wound some more, and then fished in her bag, producing a stone jar. “It doesn’t seem to have gone too deep,” she said. “I’m not the healer Willo is, but I have some skill.” She yanked out the stopper and held out a jar of light green ointment. “It’s rowan, and some other herbs. With your permission?”

“All right,” Raisa said warily.

Elena dipped her fingers into the ointment and smeared it over the blisters on Raisa’s neck. It smelled like pine and fresh air and seemed to cool her entire body. She settled back into her pillows, releasing a long breath. Her head stopped spinning. Where she had been feverish and agitated, now she felt calm and focused. Her mind slowly cleared of doubt and confusion and desire, like sediment settling from a mountain lake.

“Thank you, Mother Elena,” she whispered. “That’s much better.”

Elena recorked the jar and dropped it into her remedy bag. “Your father said you were with the wizard Micah Bayar. What happened between you?”

Raisa wasn’t certain exactly what her grandmother was asking. “Well, we danced. And…and kissed.”

“Nothing else?” Elena’s eyes were fixed on her face.

Raisa’s face burned with embarrassment. This was not the sort of conversation she wanted to have with her grandmother. Much less the Matriarch of Demonai Camp. And not with Amon Byrne watching. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.