Simon glanced at him with icy curiosity. “Good people?” he echoed.
“They’ll be my people before long,” Richard said. “I want them to know I can control the powers of darkness. Fear is a wondrous motivator.”
Simon could feel the icy trickles form in the pit of his stomach, something he hadn’t felt in more than a dozen years. He hadn’t cared enough about anything to feel fear. He felt it now.
“You are very wise, my lord,” he said. An urchin appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the reins of his horse as he threw them down. Lady Claire was equally as filthy as her beloved, and well nigh unrecognizable in the boy’s garb she’d managed to filch. Only her beautiful eyes would give her away, and she was wise enough to keep them lowered.
He mounted the stairs to the platform, keeping his right hand well-hidden in the folds of his long black tunic, and the crowd chanted his name. Not his name - they called “Grendel, Grendel, Grendel…” and he paused with a theatrical flourish, waiting for his lord to precede him.
The carriage had halted by the corner of the platform, and someone had drawn the curtains. Alys sat in her prison with a cloth across her mouth, her hands bound tight in front of her, and he knew a moment’s panic. Had Thomas been able to do his part? If he’d failed, this would all be for nought.
“My lord,” he said to Richard, gesturing to the throne-like chair. Richard seated himself, prepared to be entertained, and laughed heartily when Simon tossed back his left sleeve and presented him with a goblet of sweet red wine.
It was a simple enough trick, but the crowd roared with approval, and Richard held up the goblet in an elaborate tribute before quaffing it.
He drained the goblet. Simon watched him do it out of slitted eyes, and when Richard finished he smiled, cat-like.
Richard was right about one thing—fear was a powerful motivator. The simple peasantry of Watlington knew their demons well. Simon moved to one brazier and sprinkled the first mix of herbs on the hot coals.
The explosion was muffled, the red smoke billowing outward in thick, fat roils. “I call on Belial,” Simon intoned in his rich voice, “on the powers of darkness that fell from heaven, to aid my quest and do my bidding.”
The townspeople gasped in horror at the demonic words, crossing themselves as they moved uneasily.
He moved to the opposite brazier. This time the explosion was louder, the smoke deep blue, wafting over the crowd. “I call on Astaroth, ruler of western regions of hell,” he intoned, checking from beneath slitted eyes. His own horse had been tethered close to the stage, impervious to the smoke and noise, but the two by the wagon were moving restively. Everyone was too fixated on the wizard to wonder why two filthy creatures were standing ominously near the wagon with a pair of fine horses. Unfortunately, Alys was equally fixated, staring at him, making no effort to release her bindings. If she hadn’t recognized Thomas she might not even know that she could.
He went to the third brazier, and the wagon was out of his view. It was the signal Thomas was waiting for, and there was nothing Simon could do to make certain she escaped.
He stood over the brazier, sprinkling the dust that Godfrey had gathered, and green sparks began to shoot outward, like crazed fairies. “I call upon Amon, demon of the underworld, who sets all prisoners free.” He raised his voice to a shout, and opened his hand over the fire.
The explosion rocked the stage. He staggered back, coughing, unable to see through the billowing smoke. There were shouts and cries from the crowd, screams of terror, yet he could do nothing but pray.
He hadn’t asked a thing of a merciless God in over a decade. He asked now. “Save her,” he said.
Richard hadn’t moved. He was sitting in his chair, stunned, and Simon had no idea whether the poison had done its work or not.
He crossed to the brazier in front of Lord Richard. “I call on Fleurety, demon of poison herbs. Do my bidding!”
He’d overestimated the amount needed for the final brazier, but in the end it didn’t matter. The final explosion was so powerful that the metal brazier split apart, sending shards of fire through the quickly scattering crowds. The smoke was thick and black and oily, and Richard rose to his feet, swaying, his pale eyes glazed.
“I want a woman,” he said in a thick voice, oblivious to the chaos around him.
“It’s been known to have that effect,” Simon replied.
Richard’s eyes opened wide. “You bastard,” he said, drawing his sword and stumbling toward his sorcerer. He caught him in his burly grip, imprisoning Simon’s left hand, holding a knife at his throat. “What’s the antidote, Grendel?” he demanded hoarsely. “Tell me or I’ll cut your throat.”
He couldn’t move his left hand—Richard had it imprisoned, and the bite of the knife was sharp against his skin. He couldn’t even turn to see if Alys had made it safely away.
“There is no antidote,” he said, flexing his crippled right hand.
“Damn it,” said Richard. “You’ve killed me.”
“Not yet.” And lifting his right hand, he drove the knife into Richard the Fair’s black, dead heart.
“Alys, come!” Thomas du Rhaymer’s voice was urgent, but she couldn’t move. The stage was covered with smoke, but somehow she could see the two men struggling and the flash of metal.
Thomas flung the cage door open and reached in for her. She’d already managed to rip off her bonds, but she hadn’t realized the lock was broken. She should have known that Simon wouldn’t leave anything to chance.
Thomas hauled her from the cage
