D'Vaire #22.5
Skeleton Lord Eduard Daray is content with his life. After centuries locked in a magical compound, he’s spent a decade doing whatever pleases him. His job is ideal, and he takes pride in aiding his leader daily. Surrounded by a wonderful family, the only thing missing is Eduard’s mate.
As a servant to the demonic ruler, Hexaniys Xattanas lives in fear. The demonic realm is a dying land thanks to an evil man long dead, and the demons must find somewhere to go that has resources. Since he is expendable, Hexaniys is selected to travel to a planet described in ancient explorer logs as rich with food and land.
When Hexaniys and his small travel party leave their realm, he is stunned to meet his other half. Although he would love to stay with Eduard, Hexaniys must report to his ruler and is unsure if he will be able to return. Nothing prepares him and his companions for what they find when they arrive back in the demonic realm, and their future is rocked. When Hexaniys races back to Eduard’s side, the Council is there to help the demons embrace an unknown world.
Hexaniys Xattanas was thoroughly engrossed in his chores and trying to ignore the conversation between his leader, Zinrir’raker Masal’akra Orxarias, and his advisors, but the most knowledgeable demon in the realm was wringing his hands with worry. It was forbidden to eavesdrop, but Agrathnallon’s next words cut through Hexaniys like a knife.
“Zinrir’raker, the situation grows dire,” Agrathnallon pleaded in the grand throne room Hexaniys was helping to clean. “Our world is dying along with the people.”
“Why must we continue to have this conversation?” Masal’akra asked. Lounging on his impressive red throne with its plethora of cushions, the dark-haired demon was being attended to by several servants, who were taking turns filling Masal’akra’s belly with food and drink.
“Because if we do not act, everyone will die, Zinrir’raker,” Jinolothi retorted. The insolence in his voice surprised Hexaniys, as he’d witnessed more than one person losing their life for taking the wrong tone with his ruler.
“We have no resources left, Zinrir’raker, and despite the noble rules you set for our people, many are breaking laws because there is no food or resources,” Agrathnallon said.
The ancient demon was the head of the Ulzraa Koninaza, or Arcani Demonici—dedicated scholars who kept the rich history of their people documented. They had a massive library, and Hexaniys loved to escape to it in the few hours he was allowed each week to rest.
“Zinrir’raker, our people were once full of magic,” Jinolothi stated. Hexaniys found it difficult to believe, as he’d never witnessed a single spell in his twenty-four years. But according to many books, the demons had once had tons of sorcery abilities that withered away centuries ago.
“And whose fault is it that we no longer have magic, Jinolothi?” Masal’akra demanded.
Agrathnallon and Jinolothi exchanged a look Hexaniys could not interpret as he scrubbed the wall. If he was not careful, Hexaniys would get caught eavesdropping, and he had no wish to die.
“I will answer for you,” the demonic leader shouted, shoving a servant away from him. The plate flew out of his hands, and Hexaniys wasn’t sure which hurt more—that an entire dish of food was wasted or that he’d have to scrub the floor again. His belly rumbled, but the delicious-smelling meat was prepared for their leader and his mate alone.
“It was the Imperian who robbed us of power,” Masal’akra shouted. “The Imperian drained our land of everything and left us to rot. All he cared for was his people, or so we believed, but the Imperian was a traitor to not only demons but imps as well. Do you not recall the way he slaughtered his entire race in the square? Did I not name it for him?”
“Yes, of course, Zinrir’raker,” Agrathnallon replied softly, his gaze resting somewhere on the large tiles beneath his feet.
The tale of Imperian Paszratorabiel was familiar to Hexaniys. A thousand years ago, the Imperian was finally executed by the Zinrir’raker himself for his crimes, but for centuries he’d tortured demons, raped the land, and sucked away the magic of everyone in the realm. Imps took on the last name of their summoner, but the Imperian’s surname was a mystery, so Hexaniys could not say who’d given him life or how that worked. Summoning imps or anything else was a practice now forbidden to demons, and it no longer mattered, given their weakened states.
In the center of their town was Paszratorabiel K’iulo, though to avoid the ire of the Zinrir’raker, the Imperian’s name was never used. To Hexaniys and his people, it was called De K’iulo, and next to it was an enormous statue of the Zinrir’raker, triumphant after the Imperian had died. Even in the revered halls of the Arcani Demonici, little information and no pictures existed of the man who’d once terrorized Hexaniys’s people. Although curious about the man, Hexaniys was relieved that the Imperian was long dead, as the demon had no desire to court danger.
“Please, Zinrir’raker, you must allow us to send someone to find a place to move our people before it is too late,” Jinolothi begged.
“How would I know where to send any scout?” Masal’akra asked.
As if the outburst had never happened, Masal’akra waved a hand and another plate of food was brought in by a servant Hexaniys could not name. His duties—like those of the other servants around him—varied vastly from day to day, so Hexaniys had little opportunity to befriend anyone. Many died, so it was better for Hexaniys to remain unattached, anyway. It grew lonely, but Hexaniys knew no other way.
“Zinrir’raker, long ago we were able to explore. We know of many realms and planets. There is one we hope remains. It is a planet with a variety of people. Some of them have dark magic, as we did long ago. They might help us,” Agrathnallon replied.
“You don’t know if this world exists anymore, and you wish for me to send one of my beloved people to certain danger? You ask too much.”
“Zinrir’raker, you are being most foolish,” Jinolothi accused. Hexaniys’s arm stopped in mid-swipe at the ferocity in the old demon’s voice. “We will die if we do not do something. The situation is dire. We have no time to argue about nonsense.”
“Z’iulkk, this man offends me,” Masal’akra said. His voice was soft, but a wave of fear washed over Hexaniys. Two of the demonic ruler’s z’iulkk, or guards, rushed forward.
“On your knees,” the guard on the right stated. “Sashati, would you like this to be your first kill?”
The other man—Sashati—shook his head. “I should use my own blade, and my commissioned one is not ready yet.”
“Very well,” the first man remarked, then appeared to finally notice that Jinolothi hadn’t obeyed his order to kneel. “Get on your knees, old man.”
“I will pay for my opinion with my life, and I have no regrets,” Jinolothi sneered, his gaze locking on their leader. “You are not worthy of your title, which pains me to say since Fate bestowed it upon you. You blame the Imperian and take no responsibility for what you have done. The secrets you keep will be discovered—”
“Silence,” Masal’akra demanded, hopping to his feet again, though this time the servant nearest him kept his platter from slamming to the tiles. “What is taking so long?”
The guards burst into action, and Sashati shoved Jinolothi to his knees. The whisper of metal reached Hexaniys’s ears as Sashati’s companion pulled his curved sword from his scabbard. With barely a sound, the guard lobbed off Jinolothi’s head.
It hit the floor with a thunk, and his corpse slumped to the floor. Hexaniys was used to such violence, and although he mourned the knowledge lost with the ancient demon, he also lamented the chore of scrubbing his blood off the tiles.
“Do you seek to join Jinolothi in the afterlife?”
“No, Zinrir’raker,” Agrathnallon murmured.
The demonic ruler sprawled himself over his throne again. “Tell me more of this land.”
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Jessamyn Kingley has published over thirty titles and refuses to pick a favorite among them. With an extraordinary passion for her characters, Jessamyn eagerly adds new tales to her D’Vaire series and avidly re-reads them whenever her schedule allows. Jessamyn shares a home in Nevada with her husband and their three spoiled cats. When she is not writing or adding new ideas to her thick stack of beloved notebooks, she is gaming with family and friends.
Demonically Daray #22.5
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