A stuffed raven perched on a fake tree limb that jutted from the wall, above a cauldron filled with twigs and branches and bones. The scent of spices hung thick and heavy in the air: myrrh, cinnamon, and rose. Opposite the door they had entered, a curtain of jade beads served as a privacy screen for the room beyond.
A large table sat in the center of the room on top of a jaguar skin. The table’s three legs resembled ravens attempting flight, each bird prevented by the python encircling its lower body. A sheet of solid glass rested on top of the base. On top of that rested a silk pouch that appeared to hold something square, a mirror of black obsidian, and a low-rimmed leather platter used in high-end dice games. Two chairs sat on opposite sides of the table, but not much else in the room was useful for sitting. There were no lounge chairs, no couches, and no beds. This was not a room for romantic liaisons.
She wanted to ask Kihrin about this room: what it was for, why it looked this way. She took one look at him and decided the questions could wait.
Kihrin walked over to a cabinet and found an earthenware jug. He brought it and two goblets back to the table, before sitting and covering his face with his fingers. His whole body, Morea realized, was trembling.
“Kihrin?” She smiled at the young man. “Would you like to have me? If it would make you feel better, I would gladly—”
“No!” Kihrin raised his head. “No. Please. I don’t—I can’t—”
She frowned. A part of her wanted to feel hurt and offended at the rejection, but his shame was directed inward. He was still shaking, his eyes wet, on the verge of tears. She was familiar enough with the signs. Morea poured his cup of wine and took the liberty of finishing the second cup for herself. “Do you have anyone you can talk to about what happened?”
“Ola—but I can’t tell Ola. She wouldn’t understand—”
“She might. But anyone can see she’s a mother to you, and that’s not the right kind of person for this. You need a friend, not a parent.”
He grimaced, picked up the wine cup, and drank deep. “I don’t really have any then. I guess—well, it turns out they were all Faris’s friends. We don’t speak anymore.”
“You should talk to someone. This sort of hurt festers inside the soul if you ignore it. Ignore it for long enough and you will begin to convince yourself that what happened was your fault, that you deserved to be treated this way—”
He stared at her with wide, frightened eyes. “What if it is my fault? Gods, how could I have been stupid enough to think I could outrun a demon. I am the world’s biggest idiot. Those wizards will summon it again, find out it didn’t kill me, and they’ll send it back to finish the job. Oh, Taja, help me, what if next time it finds me here at the Veil?”
“Wait. I thought it was an accident? Just some monster you ran into on the street?”
“No. It was hunting me. It was looking for me. It’s going to come back, Morea. I know it will.”
“Then you’ll have to do something,” Morea reasoned, fighting her own fear. “Why doesn’t your father want you to see the High General?”
“I don’t know. It makes no sense at all. There was another man there who claimed he was a friend of my father’s, but when I woke up, he was gone. Maybe…” Kihrin frowned. “I guess the idea that they used to be friends doesn’t mean much. Faris and I used to be friends too, and look how well that worked out.”
“What was his name?”
A helpless, defeated look came over Kihrin. “He didn’t say. And you heard my pappa. He denied he knew anyone there.”
“Even so, if the General fought that demon, he’d take the threat seriously, wouldn’t he? I’ve heard of the High General. My old master used to say that the Milligreest family have been soldiers in the service of the Empire for almost as long as the Empire has existed.”
Kihrin grimaced. “Xaltorath—the demon—knew him, Morea. Knew him well enough to taunt him while they fought.” He shuddered. “I think that demon murdered one of Milligreest’s daughters.”
“Then you know Milligreest won’t turn you away. Ask the High General for help.”
He ducked his head. “I’m not used to thinking of the guard as people I can run to for help.”
“Those aren’t guards, Kihrin. Those are soldiers. Army. And the army takes the threat of demons very seriously.”
“I guess … I wasn’t thinking.”
“Be thankful you have me around to set you straight.” She laughed, and he chuckled.
Then his eyes clouded as he looked at her, and he shuddered and turned away.
“It’s not your fault,” Morea told him. “It’s the fault of those wizards who summoned that thing. It’s the fault of that demon. You didn’t do anything—” She raised her hand when she saw him about to interrupt. “Nothing you could’ve done deserves this.”
Kihrin reached for his wine cup with unsteady hands. “You talk like that demon raped me.”
Morea blinked. “Didn’t he? I assumed—”
Kihrin flinched, and almost dropped the cup. He set it down awkwardly on the table and drew his legs up onto the chair, so his arms wrapped around his thighs, his head resting on his knees. He hugged himself and trembled.
Morea stretched a hand toward him.
“Don’t touch me,” he said with a muffled voice. “Please don’t. It’s not safe.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
He looked up at her with wet and shining eyes. “Morea, I didn’t say it wasn’t safe for me.”
She sat back in her chair in surprise. “Tell me,” she finally said. “Tell me what happened.”
“He…” Kihrin inhaled, shut his eyes, and started over. “He put thoughts into my head. Terrible thoughts. Memories. Some of them mine, but twisted. Others not mine at all. No one hurt me. I was the one hurting everyone else. I was hurting people I know and people I’ve never even met before. Doing things to them. Killing them and worse. I liked it.” His voice was rough with horror. “Those thoughts are still there. Those memories lurk. I can’t—I don’t trust myself.”
“No,” Morea said. “No. That’s the lie. He was tricking you. That’s not you. You’re good. You could never enjoy anything like that.”
His laugh was half a sob. “Morea, you’ve known me for a few weeks, and only done more than exchanged stares with me today. Have you forgotten this afternoon already? You don’t think I have it in me to be mean? To be petty?”
She looked away.
“What if it wasn’t a trick? What if my reactions were my own and I really do enjoy hurting people? What if he only showed me what I truly am?”
“No,” she protested. “Someone like that wouldn’t have ordered me to not touch them—for my own protection. I have known evil men. I have known men who love no sound so much as the screams of their victims. They don’t feel guilt about the hurt they cause. They don’t obsess about whether or not they are good people. This demon wasn’t trying to show you the truth about yourself. He wanted to hurt you. What could cause more lingering pain than this?”
His smile was awkward. “I pray you’re right.”
Morea looked at the rim of the wine cup. “You said he showed you doing terrible things to people you’ve never met?”
He nodded. “Yes. Except there was a girl—” He scowled and didn’t finish.