Shadow Prince, page 5
part #2 of Demon Hunter Series
“What are you doing, Ruar?” Vual asked.
His younger brother looked up from the page and frowned at Vual. “It's not much, just an attempt to record the gallant poetry I’ve been composing.”
“Gallant?” said Vual. “I wasn't aware you cared so much about the respect of the knights.”
“I want to leave something behind,” said Ruar. “I need to make a name for myself apart from being in this family. You’ll always overshadow me here, brother.”
“True,” said Vual. “Though, you could train harder in magic and war. Your skills in both fields could use work.”
“Why compete?” said Ruar, “when I can go my own path?”
“That’s some wisdom,” said Vual, “That I didn't need to hear. Brother, you might be a better warrior than me if you put your mind to it. But you’re divided.”
“I'm not divided,” said Ruar, “Not any more than you. I just happen to focus my temper on being productive.”
“What does that mean?” Vual clenched his fist and stalked a few paces into the nook where Ruar sat. Vual leaned over him, his bulky frame eclipsing the light from the lamps shining behind them. His arm cast a shadow in the sunlight from the alcove window.
Ruar shrugged. “Please, move out of the light, brother.”
Vual grunted, then stepped aside. “Forgiveness. I haven't been as calm as I should be lately.”
Ruar nodded but said nothing.
Vual turned and marched away, forcing himself one step at a time to leave his brother in the nook and continue to his chambers.
THERE WAS WINE ON HIS breath when he left the tavern early in the morning. He took to the air, his robe billowing in the gale as the feather sprites within took all the weight from the iron garment.
Deckard Hadrian, immortal demon hunter, flew north. He’d taken his time to mourn those lost in the battle of Soucot. Hunting in the river lands eased the pain. The demons he’d encountered suffered his anger worse than ever during the intervening weeks. Deckard only ceased his wandering prosecutions when his closest holding in the north called to him.
Fulster was a little town, overlooked by the glass-walled fortress known as Hadrian’s Keep. The place remained close to his heart, even though he rarely spent time there of late. The keepers of the village paid him homage, fed him, and kept him in good spirits when he stayed there. When Deckard thought spirits, he thought of alcohol.
"Good wine is hard to find," Deckard said as he glided over the land, carried by storm winds toward the north.
He was still a thousand leagues from Fulster when he spotted shapes on the horizon, too large to be birds, but not large enough to block his view of the ring peaking through the clouds above the world.
Whatever the shapes were, they flew toward him with purpose. Deckard only hoped if the flying shadows belonged to demons, they’d waited for their proper place in the order of those who wanted revenge against him.
Despite his early-morning drinking, Deckard’s gaze was steady. He could fight a few demons in the air, and there were only three of them. Perhaps more could be hidden in the clouds. There were always possibilities.
He flexed his fingers, tested the readiness of his sprites and banes while the potential foes were over a mile away. They did not change course. Deckard prepared himself to clash in the air. The sword at his belt, taken from the governor’s armory in Soucot after the battle near the end of summer, was no ordinary blade.
When he left, he’d requested a demon-fighting sword to inflict intense pain on the banes that dwelt within every monstrous heart. So far, three rogue beings had tasted the blade’s edge in his travels.
The presence of the same essences comprised humans and demons when combined had interested many philosophers across the land over the centuries. Mortal scholars possessed little knowledge of essences and the types of creatures they combined to create.
"Let's see..." Deckard murmured, extending the tip of a bane dart from each finger. The low hum of his battle essences mingled with the usual sound of glorious trumpets that accompanied his feather sprites. Deckard didn’t like the idea of flying across the land and deafening everyone for miles. Fortunately, most mortals couldn’t hear such songs, no matter the distance.
He squinted ahead, unable to make out precisely what demons approached. He could catch breezes and bend them to his will, but his senses remained those of an ordinary man.
The silhouettes indeed appeared demonic, with the two on the flanks far larger than any human or bird. The one in the center appeared as a glimmering shape. It was awkward to distinguish the central figure from the slender sunbeams emerging from the clouds. With half a mile between them, Deckard caught a snatch of song belonging to a particular being he knew all too well.
Ilrona, he thought. Mother Mercy shouldn't have sent you to confront me. I’m not in the mood.
He closed the distance quickly, releasing his readied bane darts, so they retreated into his fingers.
Gliding toward the demons, he noted the other two must also be servants of Mother Mercy. He didn't know their names but recognized the long serpentine bodies and feathered wings common among their breed of demon. Deckard fixed his attention on Ilrona.
Her humanoid form was divided between light and shadow. The songs of each side rang out entirely differently from the other. On one side, darkness took a feminine shape, while on the other half, pure light composed a brilliant mirror image of the void. Though she lacked wings, Ilrona flew with ease.
Her voiced greeted him with an echoing call. The two feathery serpent demons parted from Ilrona and winged their way around Deckard. The lady of light and darkness slowed her pace as she drew near to Deckard. He quieted the wind a little, leaving just enough of an updraft to keep him aloft.
Ilrona was Mother Mercy's handmaiden and messenger. No doubt she’d come to talk.
The dark side of Ilrona's face rippled for a second. "Deckard Hadrian.” Her voice warbled in the air. "Descend to the earth, so we may speak.”
"Surely, whatever matter you have for me can wait until I arrive at my destination," said Deckard.
He felt the wine bottle in his robe, despite all its weight being borne by his essences. He didn't like the idea of Ilrona noticing him drinking. Since Soucot, he hadn't been clear with Mother Mercy about how he handled the losses suffered. He’d not known many, but some of the mortals lost hit him hard enough he drank to forget. Niu. Kelt. The faces of the fallen members of the governor’s mage hand burned in his mind.
"They cannot, Hadrian,” Ilrona said. "You are headed to Fulster, no?"
"I'm aimed in that direction," said Deckard. "Do you need me to change course?"
“No," said Ilrona. "I only wish to give you Mother Mercy's latest message."
"Then fly with me," said Deckard, “if your snakes can keep up."
"They can," said Ilrona. "I chose the fastest of their sort."
"What do you call their kind?" asked Deckard.
"Air serpents will suffice for now. They are friends of an ancient rival. Anovot the Silencer once commanded these two."
"And now they serve Mother Mercy?" said Deckard. "Consider me skeptical."
"I trust them well enough.” Ilrona glided to Deckard’s side, then pivoted effortlessly in the air. She grinned with the bright side of her mouth. Her shadow side never betrayed such emotion. "Deckard, I want you to serve our master as well as I do."
"Perhaps you’d serve better if you were more cautious of your allies," said Deckard.
"You’d do well to heed the same advice.” Ilrona’s smile vanished. “I heard you let several individuals of questionable repute escape after the fighting in Soucot.”
"Obviously, a demon doesn’t understand the value of life," said Deckard. "Those ones could be useful in the future."
"Yet they could pose a danger in the present," said Ilrona. "That demon hunter from the east...What was his name?"
"Leave it," said Deckard. "He's not here now, and we’re not going to find him anytime soon unless we fly a few thousand miles in the opposite direction."
"An astute point, demon hunter.” Ilrona turned her gaze to face the northern horizon as she propelled forward. The air serpents followed them at a distance.
Deckard had to push the winds from behind him harder to keep up with Ilrona. She was faster than him and moved without apparent effort. Her powers remained a mystery even to Deckard. The source of her abilities could be from either side of her nature. He didn't know which one allowed such defiance of natural forces.
"Mother Mercy has a message for me?" he said.
“She does."
"What is her will this time?" asked Deckard.
“One with a dual purpose," said Ilrona. "The Prince of Alliance lies dead."
“I heard," said Deckard. "I was friends with his father before the last war."
"The battles with the Kism had regrettable consequences," said Ilrona. “Too many mortals fell from Mercy’s lands to be called a victory.”
Deckard grunted in agreement. "What kind of mission do you bear?"
“The prince’s steward was slain as well. Alliance lies in chaos between the four families. Others would claim the throne as well."
"Is that an issue?"
"Normally, it would be no trouble," said Ilrona. “Mother Mercy and the mortals themselves believe there is more to these murders than simply a move by one of the noble families. The nature of both deaths is more than suspicious to Mother Mercy. Something is loose in Alliance.”
"Something worse than a rogue demon?" said Deckard. "Or do you already have suspects?"
"Alliance has not seen a promortal demon for many generations," said Ilrona. "But their time may soon be upon us again. They are worth an investigation.”
"The promortals?" said Deckard. "Do you really think they would return to Alliance?"
"Many things have changed since you flew south," said Ilrona. “A particular stirring has begun in the essences of the world, both below and on high. Matters could mean we must attend the great pinnacles."
Deckard grimaced. “Pinnacles. To the pit with them. Surely you don't intend to approach one of those awful things."
"Not yet," said Ilrona. "They are far too dangerous to investigate on mere suspicion, even for you."
Deckard breathed a sigh. "Who is the steward of Alliance right now?"
"At the moment? The dowager regent, Kizoni Duhikzo, reigns. But given time, she’ll need a strong enforcer.”
“I’m sensing your implication for my role.”
"Hadrian."
Deckard shook his head, long hair streaming in the breeze. He felt the weight of the wine once again. "I don't know if I'm ready to engage in such a position. I've only recently detached from Soucot."
"The southern river land is not like Alliance," said Ilrona. "Alliance is by the heart of the old empire."
"I know. For that reason, perhaps Cyrus would be better to take the reins.” He scowled, already guessing what Ilrona intended to say next.
"Don't deny you lack trust for your fellow immortal," said Ilrona. "And don’t deny you're curious, what's become of your family in Alliance."
"Just because they are descended from my children," said Deckard, "doesn't mean they’re family."
"Are you feeling contradictory today?" Ilrona’s bright side beamed a sardonic smile. "Or have you been so angry since the battle of Soucot?"
"I'm a particularly bad mood since then," said Deckard. “I’d say that’s obvious.”
"Deckard Hadrian," said Ilrona. "You are one of only two immortals left in the lands of mercy. Whether it is your mission in the world or not, it falls to you to sway other humans. Cyrus Bode has his own mission from Mother Mercy, and it occupies his attention completely."
Deckard nearly bit his tongue. "What is he doing that’s so important now?"
"You will learn in time," said Ilrona. "For now, Mother Mercy wishes you to go to Alliance and oversee the turn of power."
"Fine," said Deckard. "I was on my way to Fulster already."
"For this mission, you will need to take up residence in the city itself," said Ilrona. "Find who killed the previous prince if you can. More importantly, protect those potential heirs to the throne. The killer threatened them all when he slew Prince Saviron."
"So there’s a monster stalking the nobles of Alliance," said Deckard. "I suppose protecting the Kuldettan’s should be on my mind. But it's not."
"Your role in existence is to protect humans," said Ilrona. "Didn't you tell me that, once?"
Deckard put a thumb to the corner of his mouth, accidentally wafting the stench of alcohol from his breath to his nose. "I scarcely remember what I said to you last time we spoke."
"Luckily, I have an itemized list of foolish words you’ve spoken that I can return to you from times past," said Ilrona. "Right now, you may be grieving, but there are still humans who need your help. Fly to Alliance, find the destroyer of Prince Saviron, and bring him to justice. The killer may indeed be a demon. Reportedly he took the form of a shadow."
"A shadow? Now I see why you brought me this message," said Deckard. "I heard rumors that Prince Saviron did not die by mortal hands, but I dismissed them. Alliance is as safe a city as any in the land, and has been for a century."
"The city of poets is no longer as safe as it should be."
"Your air serpents," said Deckard. "I don’t trust them enough to continue. Before I ask this question, please have them drop back further."
"They can't hear us as we are now," said Ilrona. “I assure you of that."
"Fine. I’ll just ask. What could Mother Mercy want me to do that only I can in a city where but a single demon is likely running amok?"
"Besting rogue demons is your specialty," said Ilrona. "Is it not?"
“I asked my question first," said Deckard. "But it’s true my skills are ideal for such a hunt."
"Mother Mercy values the outcome of this situation," said Ilrona. “As do I.”
"The succession of one of the most important city-states in the land of mercy, is, of course, a concern for all," said Deckard. "At the moment, I don't think I'm quite suited to the task. Still, if Mother Mercy commands—"
"You understand well what you must do."
Deckard bowed his head to Ilrona and put his fists together. "Consider it done.”
"Of course," said Ilrona with a smirk. "I always do when I give you a task." She slowed her pace, falling behind little by little.
Deckard glanced over his shoulder as Ilrona, and the air serpents rejoined each other. The three demons flew toward the sky, disappearing into the clouds, undoubtedly bound for the city above.
The ring around the world held the maladrite city on high, where the house of Mother Mercy stood. Within those walls, no one could tell how many beings dwelt, or what powers hid. The same might be said about many structures on the ring but of Mercy’s house most of all.
"To the pit," Deckard muttered. He brought up the wind and hurled himself north. He fished out the wine bottle and took a drink as he flew.
THE BOTTLE WAS EMPTY before Deckard arrived on the balcony overlooking the River Duenn. He touched the floor beside the railing, deep within Alliance’s walls. The house was a grand building almost three centuries old, so not much younger than Deckard. Arched windows and smooth walls showed fine stone-craft in every line.
The house belonged to the famous Porfiria Amburen. Deckard had not conversed with her in some time, not having been in Alliance to call upon the cynic poet. Her last letter had reached him years ago and far away, relayed by a messenger from Deckard’s retainers at the time.
The letter, the words within it, and even the messenger appeared faded in Deckard’s memory. Fine words they had been, when first written.
Deckard crept quietly inside, his robe making no sound. He’d removed enough weight to allow silent movement even for a garment made of metal. He approached the door leading into the master bedroom. Though more than ten years had passed, Deckard suspected he would find the place with but one occupant.
He stepped into Porfiria’s chamber, observed the high writing desk along one wall. The desk’s slanted surface remained polished, lacking any sign of wear. Beside that pulpit, stood a short and rough-looking stool, which barely came to Deckard's waist. Ink stained a small table in front of the stool.
Deckard guessed which place Porfiria wrote at more often. He marched through the room, his footfalls light as air.
His essence-song doused, even a trained mage like Porfiria wouldn’t notice his presence from elsewhere in the house. The bed lay empty before him, sheets neatly arranged as if never used.
"It’s you,” said a woman behind Deckard. “I heard rumors you were flying north."
He turned, arched an eyebrow, and smiled slightly. "Lady Amburen. You were expecting me?”
“The smell of wine led me here.” Porfiria waved a hand before her face, lips curving slightly. "I only suspected you would come when you heard of Prince Saviron’s death." She shook her head, making black tresses bounce. "I didn't realize you would be the source of the odor. The rumors say you stopped drinking."
"They were right. For a time," said Deckard. "I don't believe the smell is that bad."
"It's not bad," said Porfiria. "Not at all."
Deckard grinned. "Now, we understand each other." He took a step toward her, taking in her finely-lined features. More than ten years had passed since he’d last seen her, yet she maintained a sultry air. Her full lips parted slightly as he took another step forward.
"Lord Hadrian, what brings you to my abode, of all places in Alliance?"
Deckard paused in his approach. “I understand you saw the murders the night of the attack."
"I did," said Porfiria, face falling.
"Is there anything you can share about the events?"
"Of course, my lord."
“Don't ‘my lord’ me," said Deckard. "We've been on first-name terms for too long, Porfiria."
"Of course. Forgive me," she said. The years left her more polite than in her youth. "You might also want to call upon my friend and fellow poet, Catricha Maltos."
