The Demon King. Cinda Williams Chima

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СКАЧАТЬ might have had something to do with it,” Micah said. “They’re always keen on keeping people out of the mountains.”

      “Wizards,” Raisa said. “They’re keen on keeping wizards out of the Spirits. But the clans would never set fire to Hanalea.”

      Micah inclined his head. “I stand corrected, Your Highness,” he said. “You are familiar with their ways and I am not.” He forced a smile. “It’s a mystery, then.”

      “Well, I don’t trust them,” Missy declared, glancing about to locate the Demonai delegation before she continued. “They slip around like thieves, and they’re always muttering to each other in that foreign language so you never know what they’re saying. And everybody knows they steal babies and replace them with demons.”

      “Don’t repeat nonsense, Melissa,” Raisa snapped. “Children are fostered with the clans for their own good, to teach them the old ways. Besides, the clans were here first. If there’s a foreign language spoken in the Fells, it’s Vale-speech.”

      “Of course, Your Highness,” Missy said hastily. “I meant no offense. But Valespeech is a more civilized tongue. We use it at court,” she added, as if that settled that.

      The quartet had completed its warm-up, and now the first strains of real music floated over them.

      “Would you care to dance, Your Highness?” Micah asked abruptly. Beyond him, the Klemaths were practically slapping their foreheads that they hadn’t thought of it first.

      Wil quickly offered his arm to Fiona. “Lady Bayar, it would be my honor.”

      Missy scowled, having been overlooked. She glanced around for other prospects.

      Adam Gryphon smiled crookedly. “Would you care to dance, Lady Hakkam?” he said, making as if to swing his canes into position.

      “Well—ah—perhaps I’ll go and fetch some punch,” Missy said, fleeing in the direction of the punch bowl.

      Too bad Missy’s disablity is between her ears, Raisa thought. She wanted to say something to Adam, but knew he’d come back with a cutting response.

      Micah offered his arm, leading her to the small dance floor. She put one hand at his waist and cradled the bandaged hand carefully with the other.

      They circled the floor, floating on the music. Raised at court, Micah was an excellent dancer, despite his several glasses of wine and stomped-on foot. But then, he did everything relentlessly well.

      “How are your hands?” Raisa asked. “Do they hurt very much?”

      “They’re all right.” He seemed tense and unusually inarticulate.

      “What happened this morning?” Raisa persisted. “Why were you so late?”

      “Raider came up lame. We had to pull a shoe, and it took longer than expected.”

      “You must keep a dozen horses at court. You couldn’t ride another?”

      “Raider’s my best hunter. Besides, like I said, it took longer than expected,” he said.

      “Your father was really hard on you today,” Raisa said.

      Micah grimaced. “My father is hard on me every day.” And then, in the manner of someone who’s intentionally changing the subject, he said, “That’s a new dress, isn’t it?” When she nodded, he added, “I like it. It’s different from your other dresses.”

      Raisa glanced down at herself. Part of Micah’s appeal was that he missed nothing. “Because it’s not all layered with ruffles?”

      “Hmmm.” Micah pretended to think for a moment. “Perhaps that’s it. Plus the color sets off your eyes. Tonight they’re like pools in a forest glade, reflecting the leafy canopy overhead.”

      “Black sets off your eyes, Bayar,” Raisa said sweetly. “They glitter like dying stars cast from the heavens, or twin coals from the bowels of the earth.”

      Micah stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “You are impossible to flatter, Your Highness,” he said. “I am helpless here.”

      “Just leave off. I was raised at court too, you know.” She rested her head on his chest, feeling the heat of him through the wool, hearing the thud of his heart. They circled silently for a moment. “So you’ll be going to Oden’s Ford in the fall?”

      Micah nodded, his smile fading. “I wish I could go now. They ought to send wizards at thirteen, like soldier pledges.”

      Micah would be attending Mystwerk House, the school for wizards at Oden’s Ford. There were a half-dozen academies there, clustered on the banks of the Tamron River, on the border between Tamron and Arden.

      There should be a school for queens in training, Raisa thought, where she could learn something more useful than table manners and pretty speech.

      “The clans believe it’s dangerous to put magic into the hands of young wizards,” Raisa said.

      Micah grimaced. “The clans should learn to relax a little. I know your father is clan, but I don’t understand why they insist that everything remain the same. It’s like we’re all frozen in time, paying for an ancient crime that nobody else remembers.”

      Raisa tilted her head. “You know why. The clans healed the Breaking. The rules of the Naéming are intended to prevent it from ever happening again.” She paused, then couldn’t resist adding, “Didn’t you learn that in school?”

      Micah dismissed school with a wave of his hand. “There’s too much to learn in a lifetime. Which is why they should give us our amulets at birth, so we can begin our training as soon as possible.”

      “They’ll never do that because of the Demon King.”

      The song came to an end, and they drifted to a stop on the dance floor. Gripping her elbows, Micah looked down into her face. “What about the Demon King?” he said.

      “Well. They say the Demon King was something of a prodigy,” she said. “He took up wizardry—and dark magic—at a very young age. It destroyed his mind.”

      “Mmmm. That’s what the clans say.”

      It was the argument they’d had a hundred times, packaged in different ways. “They tell those stories because it’s the truth, Micah. Alger Waterlow was a madman. Anyone who could do what he did…”

      Micah shook his head, a slight movement, his eyes fixed on hers. “What if it’s made up?”

      “Made up?” Now Raisa’s voice rose and she had to make a conscious effort to lower it. “Don’t tell me you’ve joined the Revisionists.”

      “Think what this story gets the clans, Raisa,” Micah said, his voice low and urgent. “Wizards carrying around all this guilt, afraid to assert their inborn gifts. The clans controlling the objects that allow them to use their magical powers. The royal family, forced to dance to whatever tune they play.”

      “Of course СКАЧАТЬ