Free Dark Lord of Derkholm by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

glared. “I said,” he said, “I was going to kill him. But I couldn’t manage it. Satisfied?” He plunged his beak back among the cushions again.
    â€œWhy?” asked Derk.
    â€œHe orders this whole world about!” Kit roared. It was loud, even through the horsehair. “He ordered you about. He called Shona a slave girl. I was going to kill him, anyway, to get rid of him, but I was glad he deserved it. And I thought if most people there thought the griffins were just dumb beasts, then you couldn’t be blamed. You know—I got loose by accident and savaged him.”
    â€œI’m damn glad you didn’t, Kit,” said Derk. “It’s no fun to have to think of yourself as a murderer.”
    â€œOh, I knew they’d kill me,” said Kit.
    â€œNo, I mean it’s a vile state of mind,” Derk explained. “A bit like being mad, except that you’re sane, I’ve always thought. So what stopped you?” He was shocked to hear himself sounding truly regretful as he asked this question.
    Kit reared his head up. “It was when I looked in his face. It was awful. He thinks he owns everything in this world. He thinks he’s right. He wouldn’t have understood. It was a pity. I could have killed him in seconds, even with that demon in his pocket, but he would have been just like food. He wouldn’t have felt guilty, and neither would I.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear you think you ought to have felt guilty,” Derk observed. “I was beginning to wonder whether we’d brought you up properly.”
    â€œI do feel guilty. I did, ” Kit protested. “And I hated the idea. But I’ve been feeling rather bloodthirsty lately, and saving the world seemed a good way to use it. I don’t seem to be much use otherwise. And now,” he added miserably, “I feel terrible about the house, too.”
    â€œDon’t. Most of it has to come down, anyway—on Mr. Chesney’s orders,” Derk said. “So you were crouching in the bushes by the terrace fueling your bloodlust, were you?”
    â€œShut up!” Kit tried to squirm with shame and left off with a squawk when his bruises bit. “All right. It was a stupid idea. I hate myself, if that makes you feel any better!”
    â€œDon’t be an ass, Kit.” Derk was thinking things through, fumbling for an explanation. Something had been biting Kit for months. Long before there was any question of Derk’s becoming the Dark Lord, Kit had been in a foul, tetchy, snarling mood—bloodthirsty, as he called it himself—and Derk had put it down simply to the fact that Kit was now fifteen. But suppose it was more than that. Suppose Kit had a reason to be unhappy. “Kit,” he said thoughtfully, “I didn’t see you at all until you arrived between the gateposts, and when you were there, you looked about twice your real size—”
    â€œDid I?” said Kit. “It must have been because you were worried about Mr. Chesney.”
    â€œReally?” said Derk. “And I suppose I was just worried again when I distinctly heard you tell me Mr. Chesney had a demon in his pocket?”
    Kit’s head shot around again, and for a moment his eyes were lambent black with alarm. Derk could see Kit force them back to their normal golden yellow and try to answer casually. “I expect somebody mentioned it to me. Everyone knows he keeps it there.”
    â€œNo. Everybody doesn’t,” Derk told him. “I think even Querida would be surprised to know.” Damn! He hadn’t told Barnabas about that accident yet! “Kit, come clean. You’re another one like Blade, aren’t you? How long have you known you could do magic?”
    â€œOnly about a year,” Kit admitted. “About the same time as Blade. Blade thinks we both inherited it from you, but we both seem to do different