“Are you listening?”
“Yes.” Jiityn sat very still, chin raised at just the right level, hands folded in his lap perfectly. His eyes followed his father as the tall man stood. “I will behave.”
His demeanor was so sincere and honest that Maldorin almost laughed. He said nothing, instead, studying the bright green eyes that looked up at him. He had known even before summoning his son to his room that he would obey, but it wouldn’t hurt to make clear the importance of the most recent guests and to steer clear of them. “All right…” He walked around the desk, his fingers tracing the edge of the wood, and a smile tugged at his face, “I already knew you would.”
Jiityn tilted his head back and smiled in return. Maldorin ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. It was an old habit, and he could not resist entwining one lock around his index finger; the thirteen-year old had long, curling locks of blonde that reminded him so much of his wife, dead for two years that day. Used to such attention, Jiityn bit his lip and sat still, and Maldorin let up on practice. He knew that Jiityn did not like it, but all the same, it was something that he did because it reminded him of… her.
“Well, that’s it, run along,” Maldorin chuckled.
Jiityn smiled again, very familiar with the joke, as his brother and mother had been liberal with the use of it. He grasped the large wheels of his chair and dexterously maneuvered it to turn around.
“On second thought…” Maldorin stepped forward and grasped the handles of the wheelchair.
“Dad,” Jiityn said, rotating in his chair; he paused and let the moment sink in, eyes pleading.
“I…” Maldorin was reluctant to let him win, even if it meant wheeling himself to the door. He never quite understood why he was so eager to be independent, not helped by the fact that he was once the youngest. Once…
And he was so proper about it, so calm and content. Maldorin resented being shaken off so easily, but he resigned, watching Jiityn easily make his way over to the door and a servant allowed him through the door way.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Jiityn dismissed the servant, who, reluctantly, departed from his presence with a low bow. Jiityn wheeled himself to the end of the hallway, then sure that he was out of hearing range, squirmed in his seat, giggling. “Hey you, stop that.”
He grasped his collar and pulled it up to his cheek and peeked down between his dress robe and tunic. Two small black eyes looked innocently up at him. “Close one, you know that, Sir Ferret?” he scolded, reaching down his robe and pulling out the vermin.
The ferret wriggled out of his grip and ran up his arm, nibbled on his earlobe for a moment, then scampered onto his head. Jiityn chuckled, again pushing himself along with rhythmic pushes on the wheels of his chair. Deciding that his human was still in one piece, Sir Ferret curled up and nestled in the crook between Jiityn’s neck and shoulder. The ferret-smell was strong, but Jiityn hardly took notice, content.

R’gorath studied the room with little interest.
A mountain lion followed him into the large quarters, each step fluid and graceful, its body rippling beautifully with each stride.
“What do you think?” R’gorath asked, shifting his gaze away from the lion and around the room. He inspected a tapestry that hung on the wall that depicted mounted knights driving out evil sorcerers. Malevolent, exaggerated features adorned each mage’s face, with creatures that were common demon forms fleeing by their sides. With a snort, he turned his back to it and headed toward the window, where he stood, gazing out over the castle below.
The lion followed at R’gorath’s feet, and as his familiar spent a long period of time standing at the window, he lay down and began to bathe his paw with a spiny tongue.
“This place is so…” R’gorath turned and kneeled over Kotarnith, stroking the large, purring cat absentmindedly, “pompous. For our sanity and the sake of common sense, I hope Maldorin trusts me enough to let me roam farther than the gates of this very castle.”
After a moments’ thoughtful peace, a fist knocked politely at the door. R’gorath did not even bother to look up. “Enter, Rorgan.”
The mage entered; R’gorath rose to his feet and Rorgan bowed, as was more customary now that they were expected to act with the proper respect toward each other and not as casually as before. Good habits to be in order for Maldorin’s trust, R’gorath had decided.
“Please, sir, how progress the terms of the alliance?”
“As you’d expect. I now have as much a say in everything as Maldorin, with of course, the exception of Maldorin himself. You can be sure that no one is quite happy with this,” said R’gorath. “The first agreement was that I would stay within the castle walls and get away to tell others possibly treasonous plans. They’ve taken their comfortable precautions and guards. I’m sure you noticed the four burly men standing outside my room.” R’gorath’s lip twitched upward in amusement. “It is good they do not yet know the full extent of our powers. Ten would be more reasonable, wouldn’t you think?”
Rorgan dipped his head to hide a foolish grin. “Yes.”
“So, what business have you with me?” asked R’gorath.
Rorgan removed the hood of his cloak, staring at an indiscrimate spot on the tapestry of the Kironian-Valeighan battle with distaste. “Maldorin does not approve of…” Rorgan’s eyes drifted down to the vigilant demon at R’gorath’s feet, “barbaric creatures wandering within his castle.”
“Completely harmless, you know,” R’gorath said. “But nevertheless, I suppose he is right. I can’t afford to lose any trust or I might be staying in here until my skin turns white like Maldorin’s.” He frowned at that; although fair skin was a high mark of status, there was little to be sought after within the dark and often dank confines of a foreign castle over complete freedom to roam outdoors at one’s pleasure.
A pause. R’gorath tilted his head and looked at Rorgan sidelong. “That’s not all.”
Rorgan fidgeted. “I came to tell you about a messenger demon… A messenger demon from Farthen told me that, erm, Korba—he—” Then Rorgan took a breath to steady himself, and continued. “A demon attacked Zephyr… and… Korba.” Rorgan winced, as if he were a child admitting to a bad deed.
R’gorath looked up sharply. Rubbing his sleeves nervously, Rorgan looked at his feet.
“Is he okay?”
“…Yes.”
“Where?”
“Outside of Havengard.”
Face taut with the concentration of his thoughts, R’gorath pondered the developments, then nodded slowly. “That is all?”
Rorgan’s head bobbed up and down.
“Thank you. You may take your leave.”
Rorgan barked a laugh. “‘Take my leave’? Quite original.”
“Not really. Maldorin had said it to one of his subjects,” R’gorath admitted. “Now go on with you before I risk becoming crude.”

Two days later, R’gorath found himself and Maldorin and other ambassadors from nearby lords in a small, orderly room with a single, table, upon which sat a detailed and large map, and many parchments. Three of the four walls displayed a single, wide tapestry that recounted Kirone’s first king’s rise to power.
Groaning inwardly, R’gorath rubbed his fingers in a circular fashion on his temples. The day had been tiring, beginning with his introductions to many in Maldorin’s trusted advisors who were more than cold in their attitude toward him. Then information was exchanged, or rather, imparted in one direction; they questioned R’gorath thoroughly, and he replied in earnest. For the most part, they showed little to no interest in his answers; the fact that he even answered them seemed to have no effect on them whatsoever, or at least make them want to ask another question, such as, “How many magic men do you have under your command?” and “Where are all of them stationed?” or “What are the average expenses of your group and how are they paid?”
Maldorin said nothing throughout the initial questioning, his fingers dug into his chin and scratching occasionally at his well-trimmed beard. And only a few hours later, the men were still asking him more questions, this time on terms of soldiers and weapons and war.
Then R’gorath began to break free of his usual drawl. He leaned forward and explained his knowledge of the Ilkorians as he had come to do; their strengths, possible weaknesses, and habits and tactics. There was little that could stand in the way of a wayward clan of mages; after Charnoh, about five more or less small villages had been plundered, and more farms than that had been raided. They had no supplies, so they raided crops and whatever was at hand. It made their path more apparent, but as R’gorath reasoned, they had nothing to shirk from in the land of non-mages.
Now the talk was beginning to draw out longer than he had expected; an argument had flared up between two of the advisors, and R’gorath listened only absently to what they said. His eyes stared, unseeing, at the coins representing the armies of the nearest castles laid out on the map. The plan was to surround the Ilkorians on the countryside: There would be no way to escape if they surrounded the men in a perfectly coordinated attack—with help, no doubt, from a couple of demons and mages. But would it work?
R’gorath disliked imparting information regarding demons and magic; it made him feel vulnerable and more on even ground with these common men. He did not have any conceited inclinations; however, he knew he could not yet trust these men just as they could not trust him.
But what must be must be done, R’gorath reasoned to himself.
The men were still arguing. This time R’gorath realized that it was about who would take the initial attack. No one had been eager to accept the mission, of course, but it had to be done. One line of calvary would charge the Ilkorians from one side while another two came like pincers at the other angle, mixed with archers and mages so as to surprise the Ilkorians who would probably think they had been up against only Kironians.
“Or we could wait for them to camp by a river and attack then,” suggested a third ambassador.
“No,” R’gorath said, stifling a yawn, “those with dragons will be able to maneuver around the horsemen and drive them against the river in a double semicircle line. Horses panic around flying demons. On open ground the Ilkorians have less chance of being able to surround our large forces effectively.” He rested a silver coin on his thumb and flipped it. It took to the air with a faint chink sound and landed on the map with a solid ch-thunk. R’gorath folded his arms.
“We haven’t covered what the southern forces are going to do.”
“Pardon?” Maldorin looked up.
R’gorath gestured. “This planning has all been for Linneth—my wife—and the bands of the northern men. We still have to arrange for the southern forces to meet and take into account their numbers.”
Maldorin frowned. “What makes you think the southern forces are joining the battle?”
R’gorath floundered around for an answer. “What I mean is, we need to apply all the assets we have. Using half of the sword isn’t going to kill the beast.”
“What if I don’t want to use the other half yet? Two half swords could still slay,” Maldorin replied harshly.
Impatience struck R’gorath. He growled, “Maybe, but not if your opponent has time to recover. What are you doing with the southern forces?”
“They are to stay in Leignarl and prepare for siege.”
The chair clattered noisily as it fell back on the ground. R’gorath, although not tall, was significantly taller standing than everyone else seated at the table. The tone of his voice chilled the atmosphere noticeably, “So you’re expecting us to lose?”
“I’m preparing for the worst,” Maldorin said simply.
“Which is more likely now that you’ve taken half of our forces.”
“What if both forces fail to kill the Ilkorians?”
“What if Leignarl falls?” R’gorath motioned angrily. “Both forces combined would be more effective than one alone. For all you know, they won’t even come past Hakel.”
“Why do you say that?” Maldorin stood, albeit more slowly than his adversary. “What is it that they want in Hakel?”
R’gorath glared at Maldorin, and smirked in the slightest as the man was forced to lower his eyes. “What is in Hakel should not fall into the wrong hands, and if you know what is best for your people, you won’t allow that to happen.”
“Enough.” Maldorin said, still avoiding R’gorath’s gaze. “I think we have covered sufficient ground for one day. Be fresh for tomorrow.”
R’gorath left hastily. With good pace, he entered his room. Already, it was dark. He had lost track of time, but by Kotarnith’s subdued reaction, he guessed it was almost the apex of the night, and whether it was past that, he knew naught.
Throwing the light, elaborately embroidered robes over a nearby chair, R’gorath slumped into the four-poster bed. Although he had never enjoyed such a luxury, he cared not for it, his heavily lidded eyes now only noticing the miniscule stars outside the window. He stood and drew the curtains; a cool draft would not do well in such a room, and he lay down to sleep.
It was an hour or two before R’gorath realized he would not fall asleep so easily. He turned toward the window, hand resting on Kotarnith, as the mountain lion had draped itself lazily over his legs, and wondered what troubled him so.
He knew the answer well.
“This war…” he murmured. Kotarnith took R’gorath’s hand between his jaws, and R’gorath allowed the demon his attention. “Yes?”
Soft brown eyes gazed R’gorath with such a great intensity that he was forced to look away for fear he might become lost within them. “You’re right.” He closed his eyes and murmured bitterly.
“This is only going to get harder.”

There was little new to Shalite when Farthen dragged her down the steps and into the tunnels, but the moment Farthen had laid a hand on her shoulder, Kulth had come between them, and even Farthen had appeared surprised. In the heavy pause that followed, Farthen had loosened his grip and guided her downstairs, ignoring Kulth as though he were of little importance.
The training, as it was commonly practiced in the morning, had not deviated from its usual pattern: Farthen hid the rock, Shalite found it.
But there was a key difference.
The snappiness of Farthen’s character had not been tamed in the least by Kulth, but any time he stepped too close, the ever-vigilant demon would shift slightly from his crouching position, and Farthen’s eyes would glance warily in his direction. He never paid attention to Kulth for more than a moment; as soon as he stepped back he was issuing another order, which Shalite had been quick to carry out, for even if Kulth was there, she did not not doubt that he could still do something to her. She liked her two meals a day.
“Catch,” Farthen said, his voice like deep, scraping shale.
Shalite, having not seen this drill before, turned her head quizzically. A faint humming; the rock soared by her head, missing by a fraction of an inch. Kulth growled deep within his throat, a warning note to Farthen.
She bent to retrieve it, and again he tossed it to her, if not more gently this time. Her hand rose to catch it where she predicted the path of the floating malahr. A hard thud, and a stinging sensation jolted her palm. Trying to refrain from wincing, Shalite tossed it back and this drill repeated itself for another few times.
During the afternoon—and that day late into the night—Kulth read to her. He crawled into the clothes set out for him the evening R’gorath had demonstrated Shalite’s newfound guardian and took on the semblance of person that Shalite knew naught.
Shalite had learned to read in the span of a single year many winters ago, but recalling letters and words was difficult since she had not set eyes on a single book since. She had only touched one book up until that afternoon.
R’gorath had itemized an extensive list of documents and books; he wrote out lessons based on days: Day One- Valeighan Great History chapter one and two; Day Two… and so forth. Kulth stuck to the list down to the very footnotes.
But as interesting as the reading session was, Shalite could not help but notice Kulth’s voice. It was monotonous—beyond that, completely flat—like the sound of a bear’s growl. The tone was distracting to Shalite, curbing her curiosity to learn more from books, as intriguing as they were, and she avoided conversation with the demon because she could not bear it.
Zephyr, on the contrary, obsessed her attention for most of the first and second days. She had only been offered a glimpse of him, though as he had taken the form of a dragon, curled protectively around his sleeping master as he lay on the mattress in the spare room like an obedient dog. A pang of jealously for Zephyr and Korba’s bond stabbed Shalite; she brushed the feeling away with some difficulty and urged Kulth to follow her downstairs to eat.
The second day after Korba had come to the inn, Shalite had managed to find herself alone with Zephyr. It was noon, and Farthen had deemed her effort appropriate for the session less than an hour before enough to allow her a full meal.
“Do demons eat?”
“Yes.”
Shalite asked, “Do you need to eat?”
“Yes.”
Zephyr was amusing himself with a piece of twine between his fingers and had not even given a thought to elaborate. With an audible snap, the twine suddenly broke. Zephyr frowned. “Demons are living, so we do what we need to live.”
After a moment, he pulled out a small copper coin and began to spin it upon the table.
“What do you think of Kulth?” Shalite said, tracing her spoon on the ridges of her plate.
“What about him?” Zephyr didn’t look up.
Shalite asked, “Is he powerful by demon standards?”
“I think he is.”
“Do you think he’d be able to overpower Farthen?”
“I think he would, but I don’t know how strong Farthen really is,” Zephyr paused thoughtfully, but when he didn’t add more, Shalite clattered her spoon noisily against her plate.
“He’s sitting right next to me.”
The coin spun again. “I know. You could have asked him.”
Shalite shook her head. “He didn’t answer me before.”
“It probably wasn’t an order. R’gorath didn’t tell him to answer your questions.”
Shalite slouched, frowning at her food. “Why couldn’t he? That was a simple question. I don’t think R’gorath would kill him for that.”
“Demons get… weird, when they get old and in some dusty old pouch. And maybe R’gorath didn’t want you to figure it out.”
“Figure out what?”
Zephyr froze, and Shalite smiled slowly. “Zephyr, what didn’t he want me to figure out?”
“That… demons can be… girls?” Zephyr murmured, looking away. Shalite sighed loudly and waved her hand dismissively. He might have been amiable and clueless—and bad at lying—but the demon knew when to stop.
Shalite reverted to the previous topic, “So because he’s so old, his voice gets like that?”
Biting his lip, Zephyr nodded. He displayed the usual symptoms of a little boy caught lying, and Shalite resisted the urge to comfort him. There might be other ways to figure out exactly what he meant.
Stowing away the thought for a better time, Shalite asked in what she hoped was the most offhand of tones, “How’s Korba?”
“Fine.” The coin made an irritating sound as it clattered still. “We’re leaving tonight.”
“Already?”
“We have a mail route that is now two days behind. He keeps telling me we’re going to get fired, but those Kironians are so silly. They haven’t fired us when we’ve gotten behind five days.”
Shalite smiled slowly. “That’s because no one around here has such a sweet dragon like you.”
At that remark, Zephyr puffed out proudly, which to Shalite looked quite ridiculous since Korba was not made for trying to look big and confident. A chuckle bubbled up; she was surprised to hear it coming from herself.
And then it was quiet. The bubbly-laugh died and was immediately replaced by an awfully delicate silence.
Creeeaak, thump thump thump.
The stairs moaned and complained with a rhythmic rise and fall. Korba tottered down the stairs in the way that people do when they are leaning over to one side and grasping the wall for support. Shalite pretended that her food was the immediate object of her attention, although her every sense was directed in just the opposite.
“Food?” Zephyr offered his untouched plate.
A type of grunt typical of hibernating bears emitted from the messenger. He snatched the plate from the grinning boy’s hands and tore through the meal in less than two minutes. The awkward moment following was unduly made worse by the fact that Kulth was staring at Korba; Shalite swatted the demon lightly (so as to avoid being eaten: She was sure he could if he wanted to) and when he turned to her, she fed him the remains of her trencher.
Just then, as impeccable as his timing gets, Farthen strode in through the door, back from grocery shopping and whatever else he did most of the day, and headed to the back room to refill whatever had been low in stock. Shalite took the opportunity then to make a bolt for it, stuffing the last of the trencher into her pocket and urging Kulth to follow her swiftly up the steps.
Not fast enough. “What’s this?”
Shalite froze on the exact middle step. When no further question was given, she turned.
And sighed inwardly with relief. The question had been posed at Korba. Farthen held a small leaf between his thumb and forefinger and was gesturing angrily. The boy shrugged. “Helmore.”
“What’s it doing in your pack?”
“I don’t—” Korba looked at Farthen strangely at first, and then it seemed to dawn upon him. His voice changed from innocent to hostile. “What are you doing in my pack?”
“What are you doing with helmore?”
“You use it,” Korba said defensively.
“I’m much older than you.”
“So?” Korba growled. Just then, he coughed. And once again. He fell into a healthy fit of a couple more, then glared up at his adversary.
“Exactly my point. Where’d you get it?” Farthen’s face flushed a color Shalite was surprised she had not seen before. Something between red and purple.
“Doesn’t matter,” Korba said, jumping up to grasp the leaf.
It burned up between Farthen’s fingers, and he sprinkled the ashes on his head. “Little boys shouldn’t be playing with dangerous plants.”
Rubbing his hair with both hands, Korba hissed angrily, “Hey!”
“Does R’gorath know?” Farthen asked quietly. There was a venom in his voice that suggested he should not.
“How do should I know?” Korba snapped.
Zephyr piped up just then, “Actually, I don’t think he does.”
A malicious grin that Shalite was quite familiar with split Farthen’s face.
Grinding his teeth audibly, Korba said, “Fine, tell him.” He returned to his food and tried to ignore Farthen.
Shalite fled.