Eric felt foolish again. He scowled. “What are you doing then?”
“Creating a stable doorway between the demonic realm and ours. It’s not there yet. This is more a window than a door for now,” Ix looked at his work critically, added another symbol in charcoal, and went back to standing with his arm outstretched in silence.
“Why would you want a doorway if you’re not planning on – oh. For you?” Eric asked, his thoughts moving faster than his mouth. He sat back down slowly.
Ever since they’d hit manhood, Ix had spoken about visiting the demon realms. He talked with his mother, a Demon Queen, two or three times a year through a crystal. Eric had never been witness to one of those private conversations but Ix was always moodier afterwards, throwing himself into his magic and building complex spells that the mages would then spend the next three months trying to copy from afar without asking for his notes.
Ix had plenty of demonic influences in his life, had never shied away from it or pretended to be human. His rooms were decorated in the style of the demon halls with the geometric lines and strong colors, as well as paintings of strange landscapes, stark black cliffs that stretched upwards with buildings in every direction since demons were not bound to walk on the ground. Some years back, he and Ix had absconded from court to the southern archipelagos in the Mare Nostrum for the summer; Eric had thought it was just some spur-of-the-moment travel to enjoy a warmer climate, until Ix took him to a specific vineyard he’d discovered could reproduce certain demonic wines.
Likely a dozen times a week, Ix was reminded all the ways he wasn’t fully human or how he would never fully belong in high society here. Even though he was as much the king’s son as Prince Jasper, he was barred from the line of succession. At least if he were in the demon realms, he would be among other demons.
And yet, Eric hadn’t genuinely thought that Ix wanted to go. He’d had never done anything more than mention it occasionally, so Eric had possibly underestimated how strong this desire was. All his descriptions of the demon realms sounded dreadful. Cold, violent, a truly unstable place wheredemons were constantly grappling for power and the right to exist. There was a reason that demons wanted to be here, in the human realm, instead.
Eric watched the mirror more intently, looking for more movement as Ix scowled in concentration and adjusted his spell. When there was a rap on the door, both of them started. “Watch out!”
Ix shot him a scowl, lowering his hands. “I haven’t nearly killed someone for knocking in years.”
A page boy opened the door, nervous and wide-eyed. The servants didn’t often get the chance to see inside the prince’s magic study. And, in hindsight, probably because comments from the demon prince about killing people usually made people nervous.
The usual servants weren’t needed in here, something about the amount of magic in the air meant that dust didn’t dare settle in Ix’s rooms, but it gave the study an air of unnecessary mystique among the rest of the palace populace.
The message was for Eric, which meant it was probably about his father. He reached out for it but Ix plucked the letter away before he could get at it. Slitting it open with one too-sharp fingernail, Ix read it swiftly, and made a face. “Details of the execution. It’ll be in the town square, at sundown.”
“At least it’ll be quick,” murmured Eric.
CHAPTER THREE
THE EXECUTION WASnot, in fact, quick. Eric should have read the damnable message himself. Even the crowd that had assembled to watch in the city square with boisterous anticipation seemed nauseated by the end.
He’d witnessed hangings before, just a couple, from a safe distance. They’d been swift, the trapdoor opening and the bodies dropping, and he’d been barely able to tell if the bodies died immediately as they swayed in the aftermath. But the sentence for a traitor was being flayed, drawn and hanged. It had just taken so long. He hadn’t known one person could hold so much blood. And the sounds. Everythingsquished.
If it had been anyone else at all, Eric wouldn’t have watched. He would not have even attended. But he had needed to be there, to show that he wasn’t considering treason, to show his loyalty to the crown. If he even let his eyes stray or his face slip out of his carefully constructed mask, someone out there watching would accuse him of sympathizing with the traitor and he would immediately be under suspicion himself. He’d swallowed down more than one mouthful of bile.
At least Petra hadn’t been here to see it all. No one suspectedherof high treason, and even if they had she was an unmarried, newly poor gentlewoman, hardly a threat. A few of their friends were here, somewhere. Marty had sent him a note, letting him know they’d come to support him but he’d never made it to meet up them before he’d been intercepted by a young servant in the king’s colors, politely inviting him to stand up on the king’s platform. The best view in the square.
Ixthan resembled his father in stature. They were both tall and broad at the shoulder, and King Ruben had a thick beard and mustache, neatly trimmed, and equally bushy eyebrows. His resting expression had always struck Eric as intimidating, and he suspected the king encouraged that view of him.
Now though, Eric appreciated the king’s impassive demeanor. He didn’t look happy, or angry, or triumphant, or much of anything as the fleshy parts of Eric’s father made wet, flapping noises in the wind. He reached out, ignoring Eric’s flinch, and squeezed him on the shoulder. “Are you headed back to the palace?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Then ride with me.” It was a summons, not an invitation. Eric inclined his head. He cast one last look out through the crowd, his eyes averting the wooden platform where the whole procedure had happened, and managed to catch Marty’s eyes in the crowd as he gestured to the others, a group of four. They were too far away for Eric to see their expressions clearly but he made the slightest tilt of his head towards the king and they waved him off, understanding. He’d rather have gone to a tavern with them and drowned his feelings.
Eric was not strangers with the king, not after having grown up with Ix. This man had witnessed Eric falling off his horse as a child; he’d seen Eric fumble his first court appearance; he’d wished Eric a happy birthday when he reached manhood andgifted him a fine rapier, one he still used. And yet, he was still the king. The carriage rattled through the streets, the wheels unnaturally loud against their overt silence.
“So, you are Earl now,” said the king eventually, his eyes boring into Eric.
“Am I, Your Majesty?” said Eric with real surprise. He’d honestly expected the title to be stripped from their family too. “That is, I’m — truly, deeply thankful.”
“There will be sanctions, of course.”
“Yes, of course, Sire.” That was to be expected. He understood immediately. It was presented as an act of grace, for Eric to be able to keep the family land, but then he could be taxed through the nose so that all gains made from the land went to the king, partly as punishment and partly to make sure that no wayward noble thinking of rebelling had any means of raising the funds. Still, it was better than he’d hoped.
“Father and I hadn’t spoken for years,” said Eric, surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to say that, didn’t know why he did when the king’s demeanor hardly invited conversation. Maybe he just wanted to be clear he hadn’t known anything about his father’s sedition, wanted it known he hadn’t even approved of the man before he turned traitor. “If we had, perhaps I would have—”
He faltered.
The king watched him for a moment. “Eric. I spoke with your father many times in the last few years. Perhaps you think I should have suspected something earlier, too.”
