over to the table where the maps lay. Malden noted that she didn’t even glance at Croy. “This plan doesn’t either. You’ve badly underestimated the villa’s defenses.”
Malden stepped back from the table and let her peruse the maps. After a moment she went to the unlit brazier in the corner (Malden used it only in the wintertime), took out a piece of charcoal and began to sketch in parts of the map that neither Malden nor Kemper had been able to draw.
“I take it you’ve decided to help us,” Malden said when she seemed to be done.
“What choice do I have? If I betray you now, for the sake of peace, I will only be delaying the inevitable. He’ll find some excuse to torture my mother regardless of what I do. No, her only hope is your foolish scheme. Which still won’t work.”
Malden looked down at the additions she’d made to the map. Mostly she had drawn in the rooms on the second floor, which did not concern him overmuch, but she’d added two walls on the third floor he had not known were there-and which would have caused him significant problems when he got inside.
“And… how is your mother, if I might ask?” Malden said. “Is she at least safe, for the nonce?”
“You could say that,” Cythera told him without looking up. “She turned herself into a tree.”
“A what, lass?” Kemper asked.
Cythera looked up then. She had never seen the intangible scoundrel before. Yet she did not demand to know who he was. “A tree. A rowan, of course.”
“Of… course,” Malden said.
“The rowan is sacred to witches and magicians. Its wood is the only proper material for magic wands, and its berries are a potent charm against sorcery. Coruth has not fruited yet, though. She is still a sapling, for she lacks the strength to increase her size through magic. At first I thought she had a cunning plan-that she would grow, as a tree, and eventually her branches would break through the roof of Hazoth’s house. In that way she might free herself in, say, fifty or one hundred years from now.”
“She expects to be prisoned that long?” Malden asked in surprise.
“She expects,” Cythera said, “to be held there forever. Hazoth does not age. As long as she is trapped in a magic circle, neither will she. He will never release her, of course-he draws power from holding her captive, for one thing. The demons he commands delight in her agonies, and make gifts of their magic to him in exchange. For another thing he knows that if she ever does free herself, her first order of business will be to annihilate him utterly.”
“Fer revenge,” Kemper said, nodding agreeably.
“For justice, call it.” Cythera turned to Malden. “It was just an hour ago that I realized another reason why she chose to make herself a tree. That was when I decided I would come here and aid you all I can.”
“Oh?” Malden asked.
“Cruel boys break the branches of trees all the time, but trees do not feel pain.”
“Ah.”
“Hark,” Cythera said, “I don’t have much time. Hazoth is closeted in his bedchamber but he will emerge before the third hour of the morning. I was able to confuse the guards enough they did not see me go, but I must be back before he calls for me. He always does after consorting with demons. He knows the smell of brimstone nauseates me, you see. He is most subtle in his tortures, is Hazoth.”
“You must hate him,” Malden said.
Cythera stared at him with burning eyes. As if he could not comprehend what she felt for the man. He supposed in many ways he couldn’t, so he looked away.
“One thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Forgive me, but-you have so much power bound up in your painted skin. Couldn’t you simply… I don’t know. Strike him? Grab him forcefully. Wouldn’t that be enough to destroy him? Surely that would satisfy justice.” And save me a great deal of trouble, too, Malden thought.
It was Cythera’s turn to avert her gaze. “Not all of his protections are magical,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “But there is a simpler reason. The magical link he has with me would make such a gesture futile. I could release the curses I have stored up against him, yes. But the link would simply send them back to me.” She shook her head. “There’s no answer there. You must find another way.”
“I’ve been working on a plan,” he told her, and showed her the papers on the table. “You heard the gist of it, and said it would fail.”
“Yes. Look. Here,” she said, and pointed to the map. Her finger was aimed at the great hall on the first floor.
Malden knew exactly what she was pointing out. “The great iron sphere there, by the stairs. I wondered about it, but knew not what it might be.”
“It’s another power source for Hazoth’s wizardry. He has many, and I do not know them all.”
“But what is it? It’s made of iron. Doesn’t iron discomfit demons? I would hardly think they would put their power into such an object.”
“Cold-forged iron is their bane,” Cythera said. “Iron forged in great heat actually strengthens them. It is why normal iron weapons, and even more so, dwarven steel, don’t hurt them. This iron was formed in the heat of the pit itself. But it is not the iron that is magical. It is the pit-thing inside the iron.”
“There’s a demon in there?” Malden asked.
“Sure, an’ it’s like a magic circle, which’ll hold a fiend, aye, only this ’un’s in three d’mensions ’stead o’ two,” Kemper insisted.
Malden and Cythera both stared at him.
“D’you think me a simpleton?” Kemper asked, looking hurt. “Or mayhap you think me unversed in magics? D’you think one o’ my affliction wouldn’t learn a thing or two?”
“That’s Kemper. He’s cursed,” Malden explained to Cythera.
“And largely correct,” she said, shrugging off her surprise. “Yes, the iron is there to contain the demon. But not because Hazoth fears it getting loose. You see, the demon inside the iron sphere is an embryo, still. It has yet to be born. The iron sphere is not its prison, but its egg.”
“It’s like a babe in the womb?” Malden asked.
“Yes. But do not be fooled into thinking it weak or helpless. Demons are born fully formed and are quite dangerous the moment they are hatched. Otherwise they would never survive in the pit. Demons have no bonds of affection for one another, not like humans do. Even a mother’s love for a child is unknown among them. A she- demon will devour her own brood with glee if she gets the chance.”
“That’s horrible,” Malden said.
“It’s just how things are done there. The demons see it as natural. As a result, those demons born weak and mewling like human infants don’t live long. The ones that do survive are the ones born already strong. This demon is a perfect example. I’ve seen full-grown examples of its kind, and they are unstoppable slaughterers. The moment this one emerges from that egg it will be ready to hunt. Even before its proper time it will be a terrible thing to behold. I don’t know how close it is to being born, but I know it will be hungry, and it will be ready to kill. Hazoth can release it any time he chooses. If he detects you inside his house, even for an instant, he can force the creature to hatch-and to give chase. It will follow you to the ends of the earth, if it must, and devour you. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” Malden said. His hands were suddenly very cold-his blood had turned to ice.
“You won’t be able to fight it. Its claws will be sharper than any steel you bring to bear. Its teeth will rend through solid stone. Even with an Ancient Blade in your possession-and I doubt Croy will just loan you Ghostcutter- you would never stand a chance against it in single combat, Malden. You won’t be able to hide from it either. It will be born blind, but with an exceptionally keen sense of smell. You could try to douse yourself in perfumes, or cross running water, or any of the stratagems that might drive a dog from your trail. None of them will work with this creature. Once it has your scent it will find you. And kill you.”
Malden went to the bed and sat down on its edge, careful not to disturb Croy. “What infernal pact did Hazoth make to contract such service?” he asked, because asking questions was much easier than contemplating what a newborn demon would do to his tender flesh once it had him. “Did he get this thing from torturing your mother?”
“No. He earned its service the oldest way. By siring it.”
“Hold, now,” Kemper said.
For the first time Croy sat up in the bed and spoke. “You can’t be saying that-”
