I often fight demons, but rarely in the living world. Would it be wrong to admit I enjoyed fighting Kasmodeus? I mean, we’re supposed to seek battle only from necessity. A stallion protects the herd, and to enjoy the fight too much is … hmm … it’s a bit thorra, isn’t it? It’s crass to admit I might have relished leading that beast on a chase, tripping him, tricking him, ripping his head from his shoulders.
Would it be wrong to admit I felt hollow disappointment Kasmodeus had been alone? That I didn’t wish to stop with his slaughter, that I wanted to turn to the next enemy, and the next, and the next after that?
Even though I knew Kasmodeus’s banishment would be temporary, even though I knew no right-thinking person could enjoy such barbarity, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at the end.
Yes, it would be wrong to say such things.1
Forget I mentioned it.
At the end, I remember hearing Brother Qown shouting my name. I turned toward him, intending to lash him for breaking cover. My words died as I saw rolling blue smoke spread out from the baron’s box. The smoke moved as fast as a strong man walked. Nothing about it seemed natural.
Inside the box, the death-pale nurse who had attended the warden gathered up her embroidery basket and a puppy. She directed Tamin’s soldiers to follow her, but I didn’t see Tamin himself.
Neither nurse nor soldiers seemed bothered by the smoke. Each had a strange symbol marking their foreheads. Whatever it meant, it hadn’t been there when I had visited earlier.
Then I saw the blue smoke surround a servant, tendrils invading the man’s nostrils, forcing entry into his mouth. He dropped his drink tray and began choking, hands closing around his throat.
I turned back to the crowds.
“Run!” I roared, but the spectators were already galloping to safer fields. I hurried to the two cages containing bandits and rebels.
There would be no running for them.
“Arasgon, help me!”
He screamed back to let me know he’d heard.
Brother Qown stumbled from the smoke. A yellow glyph shone on his forehead, but otherwise he gave no sign of distress. He saw me, pointed, yelled as he ran forward. His fingertip glowed.
Helmet. He was shouting, “Helmet!”
The screams around me changed in tenor and tone, mixed now with coughing, choking, sobs. I decided the time and place for anonymity was over and pulled the helmet from my head. Brother Qown ran to me and traced his fingertip against my forehead. The air quality changed. I no longer smelled ash or smoke, the rotten scent of stale blood, burning flesh, or the warm-grass scent of horse manure. This air smelled pure, so fresh and sharp it was like being back home, after a day riding in the mountains.
“Hurry,” Qown said, “we have to mark this rune on as many people as possible.”
“Where’s Dorna?” I asked.
“I’m here! I’m here!” My old nurse ran out toward us, tripping once on the churned, muddy ground. She already had a glyph on her forehead, although hers had been inscribed with something wet and red, too dark to be fresh blood.
“Is that … is that chili sauce?” Brother Qown’s tone was incredulous.
“No time,” I said. “I’ll free the others. Mark Arasgon, then Ninavis’s crew.”
Arasgon had already pulled the tarp from a cage, revealing Tanner, Kay Hará, and Vidan. They stood, yelling for attention, but I had none to spare. I broke the lock on the cage door.
“Let Qown draw on your foreheads,” I told them. “His blessing will protect you from the witchcraft.” I moved on to the next cage. I had no time to talk them through explanations I didn’t possess myself. What Qown had done, or its ramifications for our souls, seemed unimportant if we didn’t survive.2
I tore the lock off the second cage, the one holding Gan the Miller’s Daughter, Jem Nakijan, and Dango. Screams grew louder in the distance. I had expected to fight Baron Tamin’s soldiers, but those same soldiers had no interest in the tournament stands or the citizens trapped there. The soldiers had vanished, retreating even as everyone else made their bids to outrun the animate witch-smoke.
Next to me, Arasgon tossed his head. “Look to the castle!”
I did and froze.
The blue smoke rolled out in all directions from its initial starting point. Toward us, toward the town, toward the rest of the fairgrounds. And in a maneuver that would have been impossible, had the phrase black magic not been involved, it moved against the wind toward Mereina Castle.
“Snap out of it.” Arasgon slammed his head against my shoulder.
I shook my head and motioned to Dango. “Find everyone you can. Dorna will show you what to draw on their foreheads.” I assumed she would, anyway. If it had just been Brother Qown, I would have suspected he’d countered the smoke with a spell, but Dorna had no such power. She’d kept herself alive somehow through the clever use of condiments, so there was no reason to think she couldn’t do it again. True, Dango might have to hold people down, before they willingly let a strange old lady draw on their faces with pepper sauce, but I was confident he was the man for the task.
I pulled myself onto Arasgon’s back and offered a hand down to Brother Qown. “Come. We must ride fast if we’ve any chance of reaching the castle in time.”
To his credit, he didn’t shy away. I’d always suspected he was made from harder metal than he pretended.
One didn’t train to exorcise demons without possessing a mighty will.
I didn’t pull him up so much as let him use my arm as a brace. Arasgon tilted himself downward to make it easier for Brother Qown to slide into the saddle behind me. I didn’t have time to teach him how to ride Arasgon; one couldn’t ride a giant fireblood the same way one rode a smaller steed.
“Hold on!” Arasgon yelled.
We galloped toward the castle then, trying to outrace the cloud.
Even though the runes created sweet air around our heads, the blue smoke was worse than the densest fog, obstructing all sight.
“If I trip and break a leg,” Arasgon said, “I’m going to find whoever is responsible for this and bite out their tongue.”
“You have my permission!” I yelled.
“What did he say?” Brother Qown asked. I was surprised he could hear Arasgon over the galloping, over the screams from the town.
“He said he’s not happy!”
“Oh. I’m not either. But don’t talk unless you must!”
I turned in the saddle. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know if this makes the air clean or if we have a limited supply, like breathing from a bag.”3
I took a deep breath on instinct, unable to stop myself. Was my air bubble smaller than it had been before? I couldn’t tell.
In any event, neither Arasgon nor I said another word while we raced toward the castle.
We broke free from the smoke a hundred feet from the gate. The blue tendrils clutched after us like a predator lamenting its prey’s escape, but the fighting ahead was an equal concern. A different sort of smoke ruled the castle, billowing thick and black from the fires burning across multiple fortress sections: the stables, the storerooms, part of the tower.
Sabotage. I’d have bet Ninavis was responsible—if I hadn’t known Kalazan was still loose, with his expert knowledge of the castle’s servant passages.