The Demon King. Cinda Williams Chima
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back, Your Highness,” Byrne said, pushing her behind him. She could see that the trail beyond the exit was awash in flame. The fire had split around the ridge, pouring down the slope on either side of the canyon. They were trapped.
“All right!” Byrne said, his voice ringing through the canyon. “I want all of you down in the stream. Lie flat and immerse yourself if you can.”
Gavan Bayar forced his way to the front. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Why have we stopped?”
Byrne stepped aside, allowing Bayar a clear view. The wizard stared out at the inferno for a long moment. Then turned and called, “Micah! Arkeda and Miphis! Come here.”
The three boys shuffled forward until they stood before the High Wizard. They were shaking, teeth chattering, and looked scared to death. Bayar yanked off his fine leather gloves and stowed them in his pocket. He drew a heavy silver chain from his pocket, fastened one end around his wrist and the other around Micah’s.
“Arkeda and Miphis. Grip the chain here and here,” Bayar said, pointing. They each took hold of the chain between Bayar and Micah as if it were a poisonous snake. “Don’t let go or you’ll regret it,” the wizard said. “But not for long.” He turned to face the fire, seized his amulet with his free hand, and began speaking a charm.
As he spoke, the three boys staggered and gasped and cried out as if they’d been struck a heavy blow. The two in the middle kept a desperate hold on the chain, while all three turned paler and paler as if they were being drained dry. Beads of sweat formed on Lord Bayar’s face, then evaporated in the searing heat. The High Wizard’s seductive voice wound over and through the roar of the fire, the crackle and hiss of exploding trees, and the boys’ labored breathing.
Finally, grudgingly, the fire responded. The flames flickered and shriveled and rolled away from the mouth of the canyon like a retreating tide, leaving a desolate, smoking landscape behind. Bayar kept at it, beating back the fire with sorcerous words until the flames were entirely gone, though it still looked as dark as the end of the world. He slid the chain from his wrist and made one final gesture. The skies opened up and rain came pouring down, hissing as it struck the hot earth.
There followed a communal release of held breath, and a smattering of awed applause. Like marionettes cut loose by the puppeteer, Micah and his cousins collapsed to the ground and lay still.
Raisa knelt next to Micah and rested her palm on his clammy forehead. He opened his eyes and stared up at her as if he didn’t recognize her. She looked up at Lord Bayar. “What’s wrong with them? Are they going to be all right?”
Bayar gazed at them with a peculiar, cold expression on his face. “They’ll recover; though I daresay it’s a lesson they’ll never forget.”
Raisa tried to imagine her own father thrusting her into the middle of a spellcasting with no preparation or explanation. And couldn’t.
But then, he wasn’t a wizard.
Byrne had walked some distance out of the canyon and stood in the rain, kicking at the still-smoldering debris. “Strange,” he said. “I’ve never seen a fire like this before, that burns in the wet.”
“Lord Bayar,” Queen Marianna said, gripping the wizard’s hands, “that was truly remarkable. You saved all our lives. Thank you.”
“I am glad to be of service, Your Majesty,” Bayar said, forcing a smile, though he looked as though it might crack his face.
Raisa looked over at Byrne. The captain gazed at the queen and her High Wizard, rubbing his bristled jaw, a puzzled frown on his face.
All the way back to Marisa Pines Camp, Dancer strode along, slender shoulders hunched, his usually sunny face clouded, his body language discouraging conversation. After a couple of tries, Han gave up and was left to wrestle with his questions alone.
Han knew nothing of wizardry beyond his mother’s dire warnings. Did it come on in childhood or not until much later? Did it require amulets like the one that seemed to weigh down his bag? Did wizards need schooling, or did charmcasters have an inborn knowledge of what to do?
Most of all, how was it fair that some people had the power to make others do their bidding, to create fires that couldn’t be put out, or turn a cat into a hawk, if the stories could be believed.
To break the world nearly beyond repair.
The clans had magic too—of a different sort. Dancer’s mother, Willo, was Matriarch of Marisa Pines Camp, and a gifted healer. She could take a dry stick and make it bloom, could make anything grow in her hillside fields, could heal by touch and voice. Her remedies were in demand as far away as Arden. The clans were known for their leatherwork, their metalwork, their tradition of creating amulets and other magical objects.
Bayar had made much of the fact that Dancer had no named father. How did he know that, and why did he care? The way Han saw it, Dancer didn’t need a father. He was totally embedded in the clan, surrounded by aunts and uncles who doted on him, cousins to hunt with, everyone connected by blood and tradition. Even when Willo was away, there was always a hearth to welcome him, food to share, a bed to sleep in.
Compared to Dancer, Han was more the orphan, with only his mother and sister and a father dead in the Ardenine Wars. They shared a single room over a stable in the Ragmarket neighborhood of Fellsmarch. The more he thought on it, the more Han felt sorry for himself—magicless and fatherless. Without prospects. Mam had told him often enough he’d never amount to anything.
They were about a half mile from camp when Han realized they were being followed. It wasn’t any one thing that caused him to think so: when he turned to inspect some winter burned seed pods at the side of the trail, he heard footfalls behind them that stopped abruptly. A squirrel continued to scold from a pine tree long after they’d passed. Once he swung around and thought he saw a flash of movement.
Fear shivered over him. The wizards must have doubled back after them. He’d heard how they could make themselves invisible or turn into birds and strike from out of the air. Ducking his head just in case, he looked over at Dancer, who seemed absorbed in his own gloomy thoughts.
Han knew better than to allow an enemy to choose the time and place of an attack. Just as he and Dancer rounded a curve of the hill, he gripped Dancer’s arm, pulling him off the trail, behind the massive trunk of an oak tree.
Dancer jerked his arm free. “What are you…?”
“Shhh,” Han hissed, putting his finger to his lips and gesturing for Dancer to stay put. Han loped back the way they came, making a big circle so as to come in behind any pursuers. Yes. He glimpsed a slight figure clothed in forest colors gliding from shadow into sunlight up ahead. He put on speed, lengthening his stride, thankful that the wet ground absorbed the sound of his footsteps. He was almost there when his quarry must have heard him coming and cut sharply to the right. Not wanting to allow the charmcaster time to conjure a jinx, Han launched himself, crashing into the intruder and hanging on as they rolled down a small slope and splashed into Old Woman Creek.
“Ow!” Han banged his elbow against a small boulder in the creek bed and lost his hold on the charmcaster, who twisted and wriggled and seemed incredibly slippery and soft in unexpected places. Han’s head went under, and he sucked in a lungful of water. Coughing, half panicked, he pushed himself to his feet, slinging his wet hair out of his eyes, worried he’d be jinxed before he could act.
Behind him, someone was laughing, gasping with merriment, scarcely able to speak. “H-H-Hunts Alone! It’s still too cold for s-swimming.”
Han swung around. Dancer’s cousin Digging Bird sat in the shallows, her mop of dark curls plastered around her face, her wet linen blouse clinging to her upper body so the light fabric was rendered nearly transparent. She grinned at him shamelessly, her eyes traveling up his body in