Interlude: Tea & Baklava

“Yes, Father,” Aretan said through gritted teeth.

He turned on a heel and strode out of the room, barely restraining himself from slamming the door on his way out. His glower softened when his eyes met the startled maid outside. The woman was surprisingly tall—almost as tall as Aretan was, and her features were a mixture of Navanaean and Turquoiser, with medium-dark skin and very slightly pointed ears.

Is she new? Aretan didn’t recognize her, but it had also been several years since he was last at his family’s estate. “My apologies, but I am feeling rather unwell. I will be in my chambers.”

The maid gave him and odd look, but bowed anyway, the motion fluid and graceful in a way that suggested training from a very early age.

Aretan watched her go. Something was odd about her, but his head was too much of a mess to try to chase down exactly what.

The former noble, former mercenary, current Aena-damned noble again, kept measured breaths and a steady step all the way to his chambers. Sandstone walls, rich draperies, and fine wooden furniture passed Aretan in a haze. The early-evening breeze made its way through the halls of the semi-open-air estate and he made it to his chambers with no issue, locking the door behind him.

Wearily, he sat down on a plush green lounge and leaned into the airy, clean fabric. Aretan’s chambers didn’t feel like his anymore. Never mind that nothing here was his in a true sense anymore, this whole life didn’t feel like home. He took a single glance at the peaceful rock garden outside the open-air sitting room, so far removed from the war and reality it may well have been a mirage, and covered his eyes with one arm.

Joining the war with the goal of helping it to reach a sensible conclusion. Coming home.

It all felt like a mistake.

No, worse.

It felt like a painful, necessary step. Something he had to endure to ensure his future was his and his alone. No father telling him how to view the world. No temple telling him how to worship Aena. And no king telling him how to conduct a war against an enemy they shouldn’t even have issue with.

Though aggressively territorial, the Formid were never expansionist. The ant-like people lived where humans didn’t dare, and everyone was safer for it. Furthermore, they made certain reagents—through means the former mercenary wished he didn’t know about—that could easily serve to foster a trade arrangement.

And unlike how his father thought the Formid to be no more intelligent than insects, he knew that was not the truth. Damnit, his father should have known it was not the truth. The two of them may never have seen eye to eye, but at least he always used to listen.

The king, too. Really, it seemed like everyone in power wanted a war just for the sake of it. Too many good men and women were dying in the desert, and fields hadn’t been properly planted. Come harvest, there would be food shortages. Already the people of his territory were growing increasingly dissatisfied, and the region under his family was better off than most.

Apparently, his father had resisted much of what he was currently championing until recently. With Aretan home, a long-time favorite for his affable nature, the citizenry had mollified somewhat, but without action, no kind words would matter.

Wait.

Recently.

Aretan remembered a night of pain, confusion, and shocking revelations in the warrens under the late third prince’s estate. In the wake of his death, the first prince who advocated for stricter demon bindings had firmly cemented his position as the favorite. The royal family had since turned more openly toward what was in Aretan’s eyes an abuse of demonic power

Again, until now.

Aretan remembered as well the three demons in Malich’s retinue: Venia, Verrux, and Astrodach. Two had been killed by Zarenna and Seyari.

But the third…

Astrodach had enchanted Nelys. The third demon’s contract would have fallen to the king. Or would it have?

Suddenly, Aretan’s sweat ran cold. The idea seemed almost too outlandish to be real.

But so did the war.

So did his father’s change in values.

So did Zarenna, when he had met her.

I have to investigate this, Aretan thought.

Investigating a potential puppeteering demon would be exceedingly dangerous. Unfortunately, only his halberd was enchanted. A regular dagger would be less than useless, so Aretan instead gathered only his courage in front of a mirror. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and a scar on his cheek still glowed pink as it healed. His hair was getting too long as well, parted messily from the heated argument he’d just left.

Aretan wanted to be right, wanted to vindicate his father. He wanted to assure his people that their levies would not bring about a famine. He wanted his father to acknowledge some favor or debt owed that forced his hand so harshly against his own people in favor of contributing to the war against the Formid. He wanted a problem with a clear solution that he could solve with a sharp blade or a sharper tongue.

Terror threatened to leap out of his gut like an angry scorpion at the thought that there might be a vile influence, demonic or otherwise, over his house. Things would be so much simpler if he was wrong and it was simple, mundane blackmail or a decades-old favor called in for a family friend.

Quickly, he washed his face in a basin, straightened his hair, and left his chambers. Favored heir or no, he was allowed to look through the family’s records and finances. One thing his mother would never allow, and his father would never attempt, would be to enact an abrupt change in their spending habits.

On the books or not, if his famously thrifty family wasted their people’s money, the rumors would leave lasting damage to their reputation, and neither of his parents would tolerate such a thing. Ramped-up war efforts weren’t cheap, especially for a region so far from the southern border. Something would show up in the ledgers, perhaps aid from the king or a sale of family artifacts.

He saw the same graceful maid from earlier walking toward his chambers as he left, bearing a steaming teapot and glistening baklava.

“Shall I leave these in your chambers?” she asked, her tone impeccably professional.

Aretan stared at the honeyed treats and softly steaming tea. It would only make sense that his favorite tea and dessert would be brought to him given what the maid might have overheard and what he’d said. In fact, he’d probably have asked for exactly what the maid held if he’d stayed in his chambers. The gesture was familiar, but Aretan found himself suddenly paranoid that the maid was part of whatever conspiracy he had conjured in his head.

“Leave them in my chambers, please. I will not be long.” He spoke quickly to try to hide the nervousness in his voice.

The maid nodded and left without a word. She didn’t pressure him to eat or drink—which would have been a breach of etiquette, and also incredibly suspicious.

Aretan let his shoulders relax. If anything was wrong with the tea or food, she would have pushed. Right?

The former mercenary’s already tired mind protested. Paranoia concerning his own estate was not something he could allow to fester. Already, he struggled to keep his levies safe and sensible despite his father’s ridiculous demands.

And I’ve only been back a week.

He sighed and resumed his walk, keeping a pace just slow enough as to not look panicked. Soon enough, he reached where he needed to be: the records room. Or vault, as it were. Two guards were posted, and they let him through, bowing shallowly in sync. Another good sign.

The lock was a familiar thing to him and he was through in no time at all. But Aretan couldn’t relax yet. Before he’d left this life to live with his mercenary company on the road, he might even have convinced himself everything was fine. Really, he was starting to miss the mercenary life, constant sand and discomfort included. Among the mercenaries, he had real friends.

Aretan normally would have turned around and gone back to his chambers to enjoy baklava and his favorite tea after nothing untoward had happened. Aena he wanted to. But he didn’t. Not this time. Some things humans simply couldn’t sense, couldn’t see coming aside from a faint feeling of wrongness until they lost their head.

The Navanaean noble checked the guards again—neither looked his way—and entered the vault of records. As usual, the room was dark and dry to preserve its contents, so he took an oil lamp from a hook by the entrance and lit it.

Shelves stuffed with scrolls closed the small space in even smaller. Despite the best attempts at organization, things had clearly gone south lately, which set Aretan on edge. The safes were closed innocently, and nothing was too out of place, but it wasn’t like his family to be this disorganized.

Thankfully, the mess was new enough that he found what he was looking for quickly. What he read chilled his blood.

“No…” he whispered.

There wasn’t an unusual change. There was a catastrophic change. His family’s fortune was half gone already, between the war effort and diversions through names and companies he had never heard of. Who do I go to?

Pangs of doubt spread through the former mercenary. His company was disbanded. Nelys, Zarenna, Seyari, and all his other friends were a continent away. Still, he had to try something.

A month, maybe two was all he had left before his house would be ruined, but this could yet be fixed. If he could find support, find out whoever wasn’t in on it, he could try to get rid of whatever was clouding the minds of his parents and—

A soft footstep by the vault door almost made his heart stop. He closed the scrolls and reached for his weapon, muscle memory from training taking over. Then he looked up.

Standing in the doorway was a familiar gray demon. Astrodach. Aretan tried to shout, but he couldn’t look away from the demons big, solid black eyes. He felt himself falling forward, the floor falling away into a void filled with half-remembered memories.

A crash jolted him back to lucidity. The unfamiliar maid was standing over the gray demon, a silver tea tray bent from the force she’d hit the demon over the head with.

Instead of wide-eyed fear when his eyes met hers, he saw determination. “We need to go, now!” the maid said.

Already Astrodach was climbing to his feet, and he could hear the shouts of the guards outside the vault.

“You—” Aretan stumbled over his words.

“No time!” the maid brought the tray around again, almost faster than he could see, and hit the gray demon so hard he heard something snap.

She can’t be human!

“Come with me, or lose your mind here!” the maid repeated, frustration evident in her voice.

Aretan remembered Zarenna, and his own prejudices. Bound or not, her offer could not possibly be worse than being put under thrall by Astrodach of all demons. Death would be preferable.

Aretan swiftly traded the oil lantern for the offending ledger and took the maid’s hand. The pair ran for the exit, back toward the shaded, open-air hallway and the rock garden beyond.

“Someone’s snuck into the vault and assaulted Master Aretan!” she shouted, her voice suddenly, convincingly frightened.

Instead of reacting to her shouts, the guards moved with emotionless faces to block them.

“Damn it!” the maid swore. “You take left!”

Someone without Aretan’s training and experience would hesitate. He didn’t.

The guard brought a polearm down toward him, turning at the last moment to sweep his legs. Aretan narrowly avoided the gleaming blade and grabbed the guard’s arm. Turning his momentum against him, Aretan half-threw the heaver man to one side and stumbled past while he recovered.

The maid ducked under an attack and landed a swift kick between the guard’s legs, denting his metal codpiece with her slippered foot. The man hardly grunted, but he stumbled as he tried to turn after the maid who was already past him.

In moments, Aretan’s hand was in the maid’s again and they ran into the courtyard.

“There is a better way out the other side!” Aretan hissed.

A look in the direction the they were running showed more estate guards headed their way. The maid cursed and turned, only to find yet more guards bearing down on the pair, weapons drawn.

“You must have tipped your father off in that last conversation,” the maid hissed. “Something spooked that gray bastard.”

At the sight of his own house’s guards rushing them, no more than twenty meters away across sand and carefully-arranged succulents, Aretan’s heart dropped. I can’t let it end like this, can I?

“Fuck,” the maid swore. “So much for any chance of sticking around here.” She pulled on Aretan’s arm fast enough to hurt, and lifted the tall man into a princess carry with surprising ease when he stumbled.

He heard a tearing sound, and saw bright red wings burst from the maid’s back. She jumped skyward and with a rush of wind, the pair were airborne. Panicked, Aretan grabbed onto the maid around the midsection.

“You’re a demon!” Aretan shouted, his words almost lost to the wind.

The demon maid flapped again, looking down at him with solid black eyes and an unreasonable shapely face, one that was entirely different from the one she’d worn moments ago. “Mereneth. Mistress assigned me to watch over your estate after you parted ways with Zarenna.” Her words seemed to carry fine in the harsh wind.

She tilted both of them, angling out away from the estate just as the first arrows starting to fly their way.

“Mereneth? Mistress?” Aretan shouted.

Mereneth’s lips quirked into a smile. “Lillith. You’ll meet her soon enough.”