The Demon King. Cinda Williams Chima

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      Bird was great to travel with. She found the best campsites—sheltered from the weather and defensible. She could build a fire in the middle of a rainstorm and find game at any altitude. Many nights they’d shared a blanket for warmth.

      The three of them had tasted hard cider for the first time at the Falling Leaves Market, and he’d washed the sick from Bird’s face when she drank too much.

      But these days he always felt awkward around Bird, and she was the one who had changed. Now when he walked into Marisa Pines Camp, she was likely to be sitting with a group of other girls her age. They would watch him with bold eyes and then put their heads together and whisper. If he tried to approach her, the other girls would giggle and nudge each other.

      He’d once owned the streets of Ragmarket, and people made sure to get out of his way. He’d had his share of girlies, too—a streetlord could have his pick. But for some reason, Bird always put him off-balance. Maybe it was because she was so damnably good at everything.

      When they were younger, wrestling in the creek would have been prelude to nothing. Now every word between them crackled with meaning, and every action had unintended consequences.

      “Bird! Hunts Alone! What happened? Did you fall in the creek?” Dancer had appeared at the top of the slope.

      Bird squeezed water out of her leggings. “Hunts Alone threw me in,” she said to her cousin, a little smugly.

      “I thought you were someone else,” Han muttered.

      Bird swung around to confront him, her face darkening. “Who?” she demanded. “Who did you think I was?”

      Han shrugged and waded to shore. That was another thing. Where once they’d finished each other’s sentences and all but communed mind to mind, now Bird had become unpredictable, given to bizarre fits of temper.

      “Who?” she repeated, hard on his heels, intent on prying it out of him. “You thought I was some other girl?”

      “Not a girl.” Han yanked off his boots and dumped the water out of them. At least some of the mud had washed off. “We ran into some charmcasters in Burnt Tree Meadow. They spooked the deer, and we got into an argument. When I heard you following us, I thought you were one of them.”

      She blinked at him. “Charmcasters,” she said. “What would charmcasters be doing up here? And how do I look like one, anyway?”

      “Well. You don’t,” Han said. “My mistake.” He looked up, and their eyes met, and he swallowed hard. Bird’s cheeks colored a deep rose, and she turned to Dancer.

      “What words did you have to say to a jinxflinger, cousin?” she asked.

      “None,” Dancer said, shooting a warning look at Han.

      “We would’ve each taken a deer if not for them,” Han felt compelled to say, then was immediately sorry when Bird looked at him and raised her eyebrows. Bird always said that a deer in the smokehouse was worth a whole herd in the woods.

      “So what happened?” Bird asked, leaning forward. “Was something burning? I smelled smoke.”

      Han and Dancer looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. “They set fire to Hanalea,” Han said finally. “The charmcasters.”

      “So you confronted them?” Bird said, leaning forward, looking from one to the other. “And then what?”

      “Nothing happened. They left,” Dancer said.

      “Fine,” Bird said, angry again. “Don’t tell me anything. I don’t care anyway. But you’d better tell Willo about it, at least. They shouldn’t be in the Spirits at all, let alone setting fires.”

      Han shivered. The sun had gone and he was covered in gooseflesh. In past days he’d have stripped off and laid his wet clothes out to dry. He glanced over at Bird. Not anymore.

      “Let’s go on to Marisa Pines,” Dancer said, as if he could read Han’s mind. “They’ll have a fire going.”

      The sky had clouded over, and a chill wind funneled between the peaks, but the brisk six-mile walk kept Han’s blood moving. Bird’s lips were blue, and Han thought of putting an arm around her, to warm her, but it would have been awkward on the narrow rocky trail. Plus she might only snap at him again.

      The dogs greeted them when they were still a half mile from Marisa Pines. It was a motley pack—rugged, long-haired sheepdogs, wolf mixes, and spotted flatland hounds bought at market. Next came the children, from solemn round-faced toddlers to long-legged ten-year-olds, alerted by the dogs.

      Most had straight, dark hair, brown eyes, and coppery skin, though some had blue or green eyes, like Dancer, or curly hair, like Bird. There had been considerable mixing of Valefolk and clan over the years. And Valefolk with the blue-eyed, fair-haired wizard invaders from the Northern Isles.

      But almost no direct mixing of wizard and clan. Wizards had not been allowed in the Spirit Mountains for a thousand years.

      Questions flew from all directions, in a mixture of Common and Clan. “Where have you been? How did you get all wet? How long are you staying? Hunts Alone, will you sleep in our lodge tonight?” Even though Han came often to Marisa Pines, girls a year or two younger than him still dared each other to run up and touch his pale hair, so different from their own.

      Bird did her best to shoo them off. One especially aggressive girl yanked out a strand of his hair, and Han stomped after her, scowling, pretending to chase her. That sent her and her friends scurrying into the woods, their laughter sieving through the trees like sunlight.

      “What’s in the bag? Do you have any sweets?” A tiny girl with a long braid made a grab for his backpack.

      “No sweets today,” Han growled. “And keep off. I’ve got a bag full of blisterweed.” Excruciatingly conscious of the amulet in his bag, Han protected it under the curve of his arm. It was as if he had a large poisonous snake in there, or a goblet too fragile to touch.

      By the time they came within sight of the camp, they had a large following.

      Marisa Pines Camp stood sentinel at the pass that led through the southern Spirits to the flatlands beyond. It was large, as clan camps went—perhaps a hundred lodges of varying sizes, built far enough apart so they could be added onto as families grew.

      The camp was centered by the Common Lodge—a large building used for markets, ceremonies, and the feasts for which the clans were famous. Close by the Common Lodge stood the Matriarch Lodge. Dancer and Bird lived there with Dancer’s mother, Willo, Matriarch of Marisa Pines, and a fluid mix of friends, blood relations, and children fostered from other camps.

      Marisa Pines prospered as a center for commerce, given its strategic location. Handwork from camps throughout the Spirits flowed into the camp, where brokers shopped its famous markets and funneled clan-made goods to Arden to the south, to Tamron Court, and to Fellsmarch down in the Vale.

      Relations between the clans and the queen might be strained these days, but that did not staunch the thirst of flatlanders for upland goods—silver and gold work, leather, precious stones set into jewelry and decorative pieces, handwoven yard goods, stitchery, art, and magical objects. Clan goods never wore out, they brought luck to СКАЧАТЬ