The Demon King (27 page)

NAME DAY

Despite feeling left out of the ceremony itself, Han couldn’t help getting excited as the name day celebration approached.

Every year at summer solstice, all the clan children who turned sixteen during the warm weather months were celebrated at a naming ceremony. It was one of the few times during the year that Marisa Pines and Demonai camps came together for dancing and flirting and matchmaking between the clan families. It was also a time for show-off cooking, so it was bound to be the feast of the year.

The guesthouses were full three days before solstice, and visitors spilled over into the other lodges. Even the Matriarch Lodge had its share of guests.

Bird had secluded herself in the Acolyte Lodge with the other oath-takers, as was custom, but Dancer disappeared into the woods two days before the feast without a word to anyone. Han could tell Willo was worried. She was busy with preparations for the ceremony, but several times she went to the door and peered out, saying, “I thought I heard someone coming.” She flinched at every sound and slept fitfully.

Insignificant Han slept fitfully also, sharing the floor of the lodge with six young Demonai cousins, who giggled and whispered and yanked out strands of his hair.

When Han emerged from the Matriarch Lodge the morning of the ceremony, haunches of venison were already roasting on spits, and the succulent scent of roast pork wafted from fire pits in the ground. Long trestle tables had been set up under the trees. Han and the younger children brought back armloads of wild onions and garlic, and freshly baked pies were lined up on the cooling racks in the cooking lodge.

Han helped lay the fire in the outdoor temple, dragged more seating into place for clan elders, and flirted with some Demonai girls he hadn’t seen for six months.

Willo dressed in her Matriarch’s robes, then carefully laid out Dancer’s clothes, unfolding them from the trunk at the foot of her sleeping bench—leggings and moccasins, a soft shirt and fringed buckskin jacket painted and beaded in her distinctive style. Han studied it for clues. It was a nontraditional, somewhat jarring design, incorporating the familiar Marisa Pines and Matriarch symbols with rowan and jinx signs.

Willo even pulled out a beaded buckskin shirt for Han, the lone hunter symbols embroidered on the back yoke. Han stammered out a thanks, and Willo smiled and shook her head.

“Thank you for being a friend to Fire Dancer,” she said. “He will need you in the coming days.”

Han blinked at her. “What do you…?”

She shook her head. “You will see,” she said, turning away, dismissing him, and sitting down at her loom as if it weren’t a feast day.

And still Dancer didn’t come.

“Do you want me to go look for him?” Han asked, unable to stand the suspense any longer and wanting to do something useful.

“He will come,” Willo said, throwing her shuttle and catching it. “He has no choice.”

The feast began in late afternoon, the long tables groaning with platters and bowls, dogs circulating hopefully underneath. Han wasn’t as hungry as he thought he’d be, eating on his own. His friends were all sequestered, preparing to cross into the future.

Finally, at the last possible moment, Dancer slipped back into camp, looking haggard and dirty, like he’d slept for three days on the ground.

Willo silently handed him a basin, and he sluiced water over his head and face, scrubbing away the grime with a towel. He then dressed for the ceremony with quick fierce movements, making no comment on his new clothes.

Han opened his mouth, but his voice died in his throat. He was angry with Dancer for acting this way. Jealous of his friend’s place in the world and the ceremony that would confirm it. Whatever vocation had been chosen for him, he needed to accept it. Han wished someone would tell him what to do with the rest of his life.

And then it was time to go. The torches were already lit as they made their way along the path to the outdoor temple, even though the light would linger far into the night on this longest of days. A soft breeze kissed Han’s skin, carrying the scent of night lilies and the promise of the brief upland summer.

Dancer left them when they reached the temple, circling around to join the others in the Acolyte Lodge. Willo split off too, to join the elders at the front of the temple. The grownups wore the ceremonial garb of their chosen vocations, a flower garden of colors. Han, feeling foolish, sat on the ground with the younger children, folding his long legs up out of the way.

The ceremony began with speeches from the elders of both camps. Han recognized Averill Lightfoot and resisted the urge to fade back into the woods. He’d last seen the trader during the disaster at Southbridge Temple, when he’d kidnapped Rebecca and escaped into Ragmarket.

It’s all right, Han told himself. The trader hadn’t recognized him then, and by now the red-brown dye had nearly washed out of his hair. Who would expect to find a Ragmarket streetlord at the Marisa Pines naming ceremony?

Cennestre Elena, Matriarch of Demonai Camp, told the familiar story of how the clans were carved from Spirit stone and the breath of the Maker brought them to life. And how, to this day, the queens of the Fells returned to the Spirits at the end of life, each claiming a peak as her final dwelling place.

Han found himself relaxing, the cadence of the familiar old stories soothing him as it always did. Why couldn’t real life be that orderly? Instead it was a tangled fish line, with knots and connections you couldn’t see.

For instance, Averill was the consort to the queen of the Fells, the father of the princess heir. Han couldn’t help but think it strange, this linkage between those glittering Valefolk who lived within the frowning walls of Fellsmarch Castle and the members of the upland clans, whose camps seemed like an extension of the landscape, who walked so gently on the land.

It was time for the first of the summer born to be introduced by their sponsors. Iron Hammer, a blacksmith, came forward, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered girl in a leather vest and leggings, decorated by horses and flames burned into the leather.

She must be Demonai, Han thought, since I don’t know her.

“Who do you bring before us, Hammer?” Averill asked.

Hammer cleared his throat. “The girl, Laurel Blossom, came to me, saying she dreams of metal and flame. She has been examined, and it is a true calling. I have agreed to be her sponsor. She has meditated on her name. I present to you Flame Shaper.” And he grinned broadly, as if it were his own daughter he was presenting.

And so it continued. An apprentice basket maker was named Oak Weaver. A would-be storyteller was named Tale Spinner. A jewelry maker became Silver Bird.

Now two Demonai warriors came forward, a man and a woman, heads high, knives at their belts, bows slung over their shoulders, silver Demonai emblems hanging from chains around their necks. They were clad in the green and brown leggings and shirts that made them invisible in the forest. Anyone who went up against wizards had to have a bit of magic of their own.

Excited whispers rustled through the temple. The Demonai did not often sponsor a named warrior.

“Who is that?” someone behind him whispered.

“Reid and Shilo Demonai,” someone whispered back. All of the Demonai warriors took the surname Demonai.

So that’s Reid Nightwalker, Han thought. The tall, muscular warrior was only a year or two older than Han, but he was already famous, or as famous as a warrior can be during peacetime.

Shilo was smaller, with a bulkier build, but there was a resemblance among all the Demonai, a kind of shared veneer of arrogance.

“We have received a petition,” Shilo said, as if the warriors required no introduction. “We have accepted it,” she went on, as if the assembly deserved no explanation of Demonai warrior ways.

The two warriors turned, looking into the forest.

Bird emerged from the trees, eyes downcast, as befitted one humbled by such a great honor, yet the lightness of her step told Han she was practically floating. She was already dressed in Demonai green and brown, and her unconscious grace matched theirs.

She came forward until she stood just in front of the warriors.

Her sponsors did not bother to speak of her history. “We accept this girl, Digging Bird,” Reid said, “a Demonai warrior candidate, under our sponsorship. If she is successful, she will receive a new name and the Demonai amulet before next solstice.”

What if she isn’t? Han thought, feeling a little resentful. What happens then? And what does she have to do to be successful?

Reid Demonai presented Bird with a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a knife with the Demonai emblem engraved into the hilt. She slid the knife into a sheath at her belt and stood, cradling the other weapons in her arms, then raised her head and looked around the circle. She allowed herself a brilliant smile, that familiar curl falling down over her forehead.

She’s happy, Han told himself. It’s what she wants.

Which made him think of Dancer. All of the other summer borns had come forward. Willo was conversing with Averill and Elena, their heads close together. Everyone looked solemn and grave.

“There is one final summer born to name,” Averill said. “I call forward Fire Dancer, also known as Hayden, son of Willo, Matriarch of Marisa Pines.”

After a moment’s breathless pause, Dancer emerged from the woods and walked forward, all alone, his beautiful jacket reflecting the light of the torches. His face bore the stony expression that was becoming familiar.

Where is his sponsor? Han wondered, peering into the surrounding forest and seeing no one. Then Willo stepped forward and stood beside her son. Dancer glared at her but did not move away.

Now Cennestre Elena Demonai stepped forward, mother of them all. The firelight deepened the lines on her face, the map of her long life. Her eyes were like woodland pools, reflecting the common memory.

Her voice assumed the cadence of the storyteller. “I will tell you a story about a girl born and raised at Marisa Pines.”

Typical clan, Han thought. The relevance of a story wasn’t always clear until the end. And sometimes it was just a story that needed telling, and had nothing to do with the situation at hand. For Dancer’s sake, he hoped that wasn’t the case this time.

“This girl’s name was Watersong, and the magic was strong in her,” Elena went on.

Some of the elders in attendance exchanged significant glances. This story was known to some, at least.

“She was so beautiful that young men came from all over the Seven Realms to see her, hoping to catch her eye. And when the time grew close for her to choose her vocation, everyone paid attention, because she was good at everything. She had no lack of possible sponsors.”

What’s this all about? Han wondered. Isn’t it bad enough that Dancer has no sponsors? Why bring this up now?

“Not long before Watersong’s naming ceremony, she was out walking in the woods one morning when she encountered a young man, a handsome stranger, someone who was not clan, someone who should not have been there.” She paused for effect, then went on.

“The young man wore an elaborate ring on his finger, studded with emeralds. He asked Watersong if she would like to try it on.”

The word No! rippled through the temple. The storyteller Elena Demonai held them in the palm of her hand. Except Han, who was distracted by Dancer’s misery and the pain in Willo’s face.

“She put on the ring and fell into a dream,” Elena said. “When she awoke, she was alone in the woods. It was nighttime and she was shivering with fear and cold. The young man had disappeared, and so had the ring. Watersong went back to camp, and soon after discovered she was with child.

“Watersong was big with child when she attended her naming ceremony. Because the magic was strong in her, she was apprenticed to Elena Demonai, Matriarch of Demonai Lodge. She was renamed Willow Song, and called ‘Willo.’”

Elena paused and looked around, and everyone knew what she would say next. “Willow Song had a boy child, and they called him Fire Dancer. You see him before you.”

Han sat stunned, looking from Willo to Dancer and back to Elena. So this was the story that had gone untold about Dancer’s missing father. That Dancer’s father must have been a wizard.

“Dancer inherited much from his mother,” Elena said, smiling sadly at Dancer. “He is a beloved child of Marisa Pines. He has many gifts, and would have no lack of sponsors in choosing a vocation. But he has inherited gifts from his father as well, and so must follow his own path. Dancer has chosen a vocation none of us can sponsor.”

Bird had apparently reached her limit for silence. “What are you saying?” she demanded, looking from Elena to Averill to Willo. “What have you chosen, Dancer?”

“It wasn’t a choice,” Dancer said, barely audible.

Comprehension dawned on Reid Demonai’s face. “He’s a jinxflinger?” he said, groping for his knife. “Here?”

Then everyone was talking at once, like a clamor of crows in a cornfield.

Willo stepped between Reid and Dancer, but spoke to the entire assembly, her voice clear and steady and nearly loud enough to rise above it all.

“Although we cannot sponsor him here, we have arranged for Dancer’s training. He will go to Oden’s Ford, to the charmcaster academy there, and learn to harness the magic he’s inherited.”

Han’s head spun as scenes and images came back to him: Dancer’s moodiness over the past months. The conversation Han overheard in the Matriarch Lodge, when he’d wondered if Dancer might be ill.

But no. He’d taken rowan—meant to protect against sorcery. Dancer had been trying to damp down the magic. Willo would have bent all her skill to that task. And if she couldn’t do it…no one could.

He’d seen Willo and Dancer in Fellsmarch, when she’d healed him at Southbridge Temple. Maybe they were consulting the temple healers. Or maybe they were there to make arrangements for Oden’s Ford.

Han studied his friend for any telltale signs of wizardry. Dancer looked the same as always, except for being desperately unhappy. There were the blue eyes which must be a gift from his father, so incongruous against his dark skin and hair.