We found the silver deposit by pure chance. Every once in a while, Henry took Tom and me for a mountain stroll, to hunt and build up our stamina. We took some supplies, climbed mountains, trained, and got back after five days, tired, dirty, sweaty, but completely content. This time, it was the same.

I love the mountains. They are eternal. I'd like to think they have been standing here for thousands of years and will last thousands more, with their sharp peaks piercing the sky's heavy underbelly. I'll be gone, as will my children, and the mountains will still be laughing while tearing the skies apart, as centuries pass by, leaving them untouched in their haughty splendor.

Their beauty is oppressive, unfettered, untamed, and I feel as if I'm a part of them so strongly that sometimes, I forget myself. Like that time. In many ways, it was my fault.

***

"Alex! Where are you going again? Come back, or I'll box your ears!"

I bent over on a rocky ledge and made a face at Henry. Why was he threatening me? Didn't he know I could climb mountains like a lizard? He had taught me himself! I could also use daggers and hooks and tie knots, not to mention I had claws. They allowed me to catch hold even of a bare cliff. No point in yelling! So what if I got ahead of them and climbed a bit higher?

Wasn't I already six? I was an adult! I just wanted to have some fun sometimes!

"No, you won't!"

"Why'd you think that?" Henry was surprised. And Tom stuck out his tongue.

"Because you love me and take pride in me!" I said, triumphant.

Henry couldn't keep himself from smiling.

"Get down, our pride! Or I'll box them for real!"

Trying to devise a way to climb down as gracefully as possible—I didn't want to simply slide down—I turned around on the ledge and, watching from an unusual angle, got a good look at the nearest mountain. The sun moved a bit, shadows changed, and a spot on the cliffside turned out to be a cave. How could I refrain from exploring it?

That's what I told Henry. He didn't waste time thinking. In many ways, he was still a young boy.

"I'll climb to you with Tom. Is there enough space?"

"You bet!"

The platform was big enough to hold not just the three of us, but two more people. I fixed a rope to the nearest ledge, pulled at it, tested it with all my weight so it wouldn't tear, and threw it down. Henry and Tom soared up as if they had wings. Henry winked at me.

"Show me the cave."

I pointed at it.

We had all the things we needed: ropes, a piece of chalk, torches. Our water supply had recently been refreshed—we were hiking in the mountains, after all, not in a royal park.

In fifteen minutes, we delved inside the cave. Ten minutes later, I stopped to inspect a few pretty sparkling rocks. Henry saw them too.

"It's ore of some kind. We should take some to test it. Let Rick take a look."

We chipped off a few pieces and took them with us. The ore turned out to be silver, and quite pure, too. The cave was a natural deposit. After the villagers realized the potential profits, they started working shifts. We had to work a lot before Rick arranged to transport ore to the plains, and even more before we built the first foundry and a small mint.

It allowed Rick to pay merchants with our own coins. Nobody forbade nobles to issue them, yet even in that, Rick did everything he could for me. Our coins looked exactly the same as the king's, but instead of Rudolph's half face, ours had three letters—ALR—Alexander Leonard Radenor. Me—my full title, Alexander Leonard Radenor, Duke of Altverin and Rwayne, youngest heir to the throne of Radenor.

Alcoins, as the people called them, soon gained popularity. Of course, they did—Rick made sure that each coin was at least ninety percent pure silver. They were no "knight coins" or "royal chips." Where did those names come from?

A knight coin was called that because each moldy noble in our kingdom had the right to mint their own coins. Such money had very little actual value. Often these coins weren't even used in the area they had been issued in. Nobles employed them to pay merchants and peasants. That's the origin of this term—knight coin, a cheap thing.

As for the royal chip, Alexander the Second kept a tight leash on the treasury. Coins contained a certain percent of gold and silver. But when the younger brother of His Majesty became the head of the mint, he started chipping the edge off the coins. It made the prices go up, forced the money to lose value, and the chipped coins got their mocking name. When Rick realized that the treasury would chip our coins as well, he got an idea to mint my name on the edge of the coin. It was a pain to implement, but "Alcoins" couldn't be vandalized and always contained the same amount of silver. People appreciated that.

Rick and Henry had to work hard to get the transportation and processing of the ore up and running. And the minting, too! We had to wait six months before we even got the coining press. Henry suggested giving up and just selling the silver ore, but Rick held out like a fortress wall. With numbers in his hands, he demonstrated to Henry, and the rest of us as well, that we would lose up to seventy percent of our profit if we decided to trade the ore away, and why would we want to lose money? It was enough that we never saw the revenue from my dukedoms!

Alas, that was true. Even if I was technically a duke, my uncle was the one who collected taxes—we didn't get a copper piece of that money. At least they didn't force us to pay them, too. Princess Michelle had managed to make Torrin exempt from taxation with a royal decree. The treasurers did a spot of thinking and decided that fifty gold a month wasn't such a huge loss and gave up. They had no idea that Rick was able to make any estate profitable. A thief? A commoner? Pfft!

And Rick worked like a beaver: he was his own boss, no hired hand. He never forgot Princess Michelle, either. It was her efforts that provided a safe and quiet refuge for his family—a roof above their heads, funds to get Torrin on its feet. Henry was in charge of security, Martha, of me. Aunt Mira loved me as well. She loved my mother, too, but when it came to me, she and Martha had real battles! Who would feed me? Who would take me to bed? Tell a bedtime story? I didn't really care, as long as somebody did. But for them, it was a huge deal. But I loved them both.

Michelle had managed to foresee everything. She had brought together a small crew, had set a goal for them, and had provided them with the means to reach it. Not many people could do that. And yet sometimes, I think her mad.

By the way, my father confirmed that. Which father? A demon, naturally. Or do you think that communicating with a demon is a problem for a powerful necromancer? My first contact with a demon happened when I was eight.

***

Martha was a bit scared for me, unduly. Even then, I was much stronger than her. My nanny could barely raise three zombies. When we were at the cemetery, I knew that I could easily raise them all—and lay them to rest afterward. I wouldn't even lose my breath. Small potatoes; just two hundred rotten corpses, two drops of my blood, and they would all rise up.

I didn't do that, however. Why? What for? I released my power only once. I wanted to know what it was like, to set myself free. I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was five, physically; mentally, around ten. Yep, a paradox: half-demons age slowly, but get smart very fast. I will live a hundred years more than an ordinary human. I could probably last until I'm three hundred, if I survive, or three hundred and fifty—yet I'll still look like a teenager until I'm forty. But that's not the point.

As usual, we were training at the cemetery. Under Martha's watchful eye, I was practicing raising zombies, controlling them, and laying them to rest afterward—slowly, gradually, one at a time.

I saw her doing that, sensed the stirring of her power, and knew how hard it was for her. For me, it was like sorting out straws. Easy, isn't it? Here they are, right in your hand. Twiddle one, throw it away, twiddle the next... What's the problem? So, I resolved to test myself.

We were standing in a pentagram. Martha had insisted on protecting us from zombies. If a necromancer lost control of a zombie, it might transform into a ghast—the same zombie, but uncontrolled, a beast. And what do beasts want? Exactly: to eat. A guarding pentagram is intended to protect you from these cute creatures. If anything happens, you can sit inside and wait for your power to recharge.

Of course, veteran mages can disregard such petty measures, but young necromancers often died in such situations. A ghast would have no qualms about dining on its creator. Just imagine the following: you've raised, say, fifty zombies from their graves. You try summoning one more, and you realize that you've gone overboard—no strength left. You're starting to panic, rush around. What should you do? Raise this one? Control the others? Lay all of them to rest? And that's it. You've lost control, your power has dissipated, and instead of fifty well-behaved zombies, you get fifty uncontrollable creatures. Maybe even ghasts. In my profession, even a small loss of control comes at a high cost.

Profession? That's right. I do consider necromancy to be my true calling. All the other stuff is a nice bonus—or a nasty one—but I can't get rid of it, yet.

So, there I was, trying to pull another zombie like a carrot by its tail. It climbed up, and I decided to add some more power. When you're five, it's hard to figure out the proportions, so I poured from the bottom of my heart.

The results were...spectacular. Releasing a stream of power, I suddenly saw each grave in the cemetery, not with my own eyes, but with some inner vision. I sensed thirty graves to the left and fifty to the right, the people inside and when they had been buried, even their cause of death. One grave had a child of five years—a girl. She had drowned, a long time ago, fifty years or so. Inside the next one, there was a senile geezer, dead of old age, forty-five years ago. The grave at the edge of the cemetery was more than a hundred years old. It contained a young man killed with a knife to his rib.

And I felt...almost omniscient. Like a puppet-master with a hundred puppets, who could make each of them dance to his tune—or all of them at once. It was impossible to describe, better than any wine, pleasure on the verge of pain.

Martha woke me up with a slap. And a scream. "Alex! Don't! We'll never contain 'em!"

She was wrong, of course. But I didn't want to take risks then. I sucked my power back as an octopus pulls in its tentacles. But I remembered that feeling, and I knew that for me, it was not the limit.

Afterward, Martha nagged at me for a long time for being careless, for taking risks, for my childish naiveté and lack of concern. I didn't hold a grudge because back then, in the cemetery, inside the pentagram, when I sucked my power back and put the zombies to rest, Martha was standing breathless. When her weak gift sensed that everything was all right—both with the zombies and myself—she fell on her knees right where she stood, grabbed me, hugged me so tightly I almost choked, and started kissing me all over.

"Alex! Boy! I was so scared for ye!"

Not a drop of a lie in her words. She truly loved me like a son, and was scared to death, too. Not for herself—Martha didn't care about her own life that much. But she'd kill anybody to save me, in a slow and painful way. She'd sacrifice them to the dark power without batting an eye.

Still, that didn't prevent her from reprimanding me all the way back.

***

I summoned the demon who was my father. As I've already told you, I was eight years old.

Martha tried to dissuade me. She said the demon she had summoned was especially strong—she'd never handle such a powerful creature by herself. The princess had channeled all her power into her, and Michelle was a potent fire mage. If she had had a proper education, that unforgettable fire would have never even started. One word, and it would have been gone in a blink. But nobody taught Michelle. She was a princess! That was inappropriate!

It was a gorgeous night. A full moon was shining, and you could see stars in the clear sky. We prepared the summoning ritual in the tower, the same place as before. Only back then, it was Michelle who was the spectator and Martha, the summoner. This time, Martha just watched. I was the one to draw the circle, channel my power, and summon the demon.

The piece of chalk in my hand glowed blue. Ordinary chalk, used by students everywhere, yet I put so much of my power inside it that the pentagram flashed with fire as soon as I started to draw it. I'm not sure how to put it; my necromancer's gift, my magic power, and my half-demon nature poured out of my fingers, soaking the chalk, sliding across the lines, which were coming to life right before our very eyes.

I drew the mandatory symbols in the corners—summoning, departure, death, blood, darkness—finished the pentagram, and stepped back. I cut my hand, dripped some blood inside a cup, poured it in the center of the pentagram—just a bit, so more than half would be left inside the cup—and instead of casting a spell, whispered, "I summon you with the blood of your kin."

It was a breathtaking sight. Red smoke swirled from the center of the pentagram, where I had poured my blood, and from its depths, he stepped out. He was tall, maybe sixteen feet. Covered in spiked armor from head to toe. My scales aren't especially developed, but he had hexagonal plates all over his body, and spikes everywhere. His muzzle—I just couldn't force myself to call it a face—was elongated, like a giant beak, full of so many teeth you couldn't count them in a week. He had wings behind his back, and a tail trailing him. Black sparks were waltzing over his armor, gliding up and down. Everywhere they came in contact with the floor—feet, wings, tail—they burned it, leaving a charred mark—Motes of Darkness.

He wielded a long, nine-tailed whip made of those black sparks. It was magnificent. I felt jealous. I was still a kid; I had a ways to go before I could achieve that. I stood before him, silent as he studied me.

Martha didn't let us stare at each other. She stepped forward and said, "Oy, stop dawdling away. Go on, shrink yerself. Me neck hurts from looking at ye!"

He laughed. The tower shook, Martha shivered, and I felt...proud? I loved that all this power and might was my father's. And I wanted to become as awe-inspiring and menacing as he was.

Meanwhile, the demon wrapped his wings around himself and all of a sudden, started shrinking. In a minute, the pangram contained a rather cute-looking noble. You'd never guess who he was if you didn't know! He had golden hair, blue eyes, and marble-white skin. He was so thin, you'd think he would break if you blew on him. Instead of a whip, he had a rose in his hand.

The rose was the last straw. I had no words. Yet the demon finally spoke up, like wind roaring outside the windows of the old tower.

"You are an insolent one, necromancer. You threatened me last time, and now, you're being rude. Aren't you afraid for your soul after your demise? I could make you into a caterpillar for a hundred years..."

His voice was cold, raspy, as if two icicles chafed against each other, not ringing, but cracking and rattling. An unpleasant, piteous sound... I wanted to press my palms against my ears.

Martha smiled. I realized later that she was giving me time to get a hold of myself so that the demon wouldn't see my insecurity.

"I'm not afraid, demon," she said. I've already done the thing I had to do the most. Whatever will be, will be."

I didn't feel any fear in her voice, not a drop. The demon knew that, too, and the Dark Ones respect the brave. The demon's expression changed from disgusted to merely impassionate. He looked calm.

"Why did you summon me this time?" he asked.

I stepped forward—to the pentagram. "It was I who called you." My voice didn't tremble. I wasn't afraid anymore.

The demon stared into my eyes. He smiled. His smile was...remarkable. First, it completely transformed his face, even showing dimples on his cheeks. And then he opened his mouth, and I saw razor-sharp teeth and a forked snake tongue. Just like mine. I saw the same every morning in the mirror, while I was brushing my teeth. I lost all fear at once. What was there to be afraid of? I was the same!

"Is this the form you used to make me together with my mother?" I asked.

The demon nodded and approached the border of the pentagram.

"With your mother..." he said, his eyes ice-blue, cold, mocking. "That blonde girl?" he looked at Martha. "Yes. I was a bit too much for her in my true form."

"Motes of Darkness probably didn't help either," I agreed.

The demon smiled at me again. "So why did you call me...son? Do you want to get a sister, perchance? From the black-haired one?"

I shook my head, but Martha didn't let me answer, interrupting me.

"Don't play games with the child, ye demon."

"If he summoned me, he's not a child anymore, he's a necromancer," the demon's logic made sense. "You may call me Argadon, boy."

"I'm Alex. Alexander Leonard Radenor.

"Radenor... Is it a country in this world?"

"Yes," I said. "Shouldn't you know this?"

The demon...father...just shrugged. "Alex, do you even know how many worlds there are in the universe? And how many universes? And you want me to remember one run-down medieval place?"

I smiled, too. "You are a demon of war," I told him. "And you got summoned for such an unusual purpose. Don't you remember that?"

Argadon bellowed with laughter. "You truly are my son. What do you know, that mad witch managed to bear a good boy."

"Don't ye talk about Michelle in this way!" Martha even stomped her foot. But Argadon only shrugged.

"That is the truth. Your mother was crazy, Alex. She went mad with grief and fury. Somebody betrayed her, and she vowed revenge."

"She's dead."

"That's expected. If she had had a child with an incubus, she might have survived. I am a servant of war, a raven of battle. How did she even give birth in the first place? How long did the pregnancy last?"

"Eight moons," Martha answered.

"Hmm. Not bad. She was...fire, right? Alex, do you have the gift of fire?"

"Yes. A bit."

"Unsurprising. You're still a child."

"Necromancer."

"You remembered. But for me, you'll be a child until you change form for the first time."

My ears perked up. That was a real dream of mine; I was sick and tired of having to stay at home when Rick and his family went to a fair, or when Henry visited the village. I couldn't even show myself to the servants without the amulet.

"When will it happen?"

The demon examined me as if appraising a cow he was thinking of buying. "How old are you?"

"Eight."

"You'll be able to change your form at will in five or ten years, give or take...probably."

"Probably?"

"You're just a half-demon. I don't know which traits you've inherited from me."

Finally bold enough, I asked, "Could you check?"