Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Finally, battered, bruised, and exhausted, Kevral surfaced. The sky had returned to jewel blue decorated with white clouds that seemed impossibly fluffy after the battle that had taken place moments before. Stray hunks of wood swirled through the waves, but Kevral saw no sign of any of her companions. “Captain! Ra-khir! Matrinka!” Alarm flared to panic. “Griff! Hey! Can anyone hear me?” She spun desperately through the water, then bobbed, gaze blurred by salt. She saw only ocean, sky, and less rubble than she expected. “Captain!” Kevral choked seawater from her lungs, treading water and scanning in all directions. “Tae?” Her voice seemed to carry forever, without cliffs or forest to return the echoes.

  Kevral looked west, the direction in which they had been traveling. The boat had flipped end-over-end across the bow which meant the remains, and the survivors, would have most likely gotten tossed eastward. The idea of heading back toward the elves rankled, but it seemed the most productive direction for the moment. She swam, strokes broad and strong, scanning for any sign of movement, any calls for help. Every fourth stroke, she shouted a name at random.

  Afternoon glided into night. Moonlight sparkled through the swells. Clouds spread across the stars, and Kevral lost all sense of direction. She continued to swim, ignoring the aches that came as much from the battle as from hours of fighting ocean. She found no more pieces of Captain’s shattered craft, wondered if she had chosen her direction poorly, and vowed to head west at first light. Images of her friends paraded through her mind’s eye, worrying at her emotions and conscience. Placing the needs of the world before her own, she pictured Griff first, his raw innocence puppylike and occasionally broken by unexpected insight. His extra weight should help buoy him in the ocean, and Béarnian size and strength should serve him well for swimming. Yet those thoughts were scarcely reassuring. It was not enough to believe Griff might have survived. The balance of the universe rested upon his sturdy but naive shoulders.

  Kevral pictured Ra-khir next, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She banished these with resolve. Until she knew the fates of her friends for certain, she would not mourn them. Instead, she imagined the knight-in-training struggling through the waves to rescue others. Tae came next to her thoughts, then Rantire, Matrinka, Mior, Darris, and Captain. For each, she conjured a steady, easy swim or a piece of the Sea Seraph to serve as a raft.

  Fatigue caught up to Kevral in a wild rush she could not ignore. Lying carefully on her back, seeking stars through the veil of clouds, she drifted peacefully into sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  After the Storm

  Rigid laws do not make allowances for circumstance.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  In the wake of the demon’s attack, wind chopped the water into foam and clouds enwrapped the night sky as if to cleanse it. Matrinka scanned the ruffled waters until her eyes ached, ears pitched to catch the most distant splash or cry for help. Gusts tore beneath her sodden clothing, icy agony against skin already enveloped in gooseflesh. Desperation did not allow her to care. Too many companions remained lost in the Southern Sea to spare attention for personal discomfort. She sat on a sodden, surviving chunk of the Sea Seraph’s bow that bobbed in the restless ocean, buoyed by Captain’s magic. She and the elf had discovered the makeshift raft soon after the ship’s destruction, and a spell had located Darris, floating unconscious amid the debris. Now, bard and elf hunted amid the carnage for useful pieces of wood as well as friends. Matrinka listened, watched, and fretted.

  “There. Over there,” Captain said suddenly, finger jabbing the darkness to indicate something Matrinka could not see. His tattered sleeve flapped back to reveal the bandage she had placed over the wound left by the demon’s claws.

  Matrinka shifted to a crouch, hope rising guardedly.

  Using a broken board, Darris paddled in the indicated direction. His lute lay on the raft, waterlogged beyond use yet too beloved to discard. Darris had lugged aboard a portable arsenal of instruments, all now lost beneath the surging sea. “What do you see?”

  “Bit of canvas and a perfect piece for a small mast.”

  Matrinka sighed and settled back into place, unable to share Captain’s excitement. She understood the significance of his find. Makeshift paddles could never get them to land in time to survive an utter lack of fresh water. Thirst had not yet brought that lesson home. For now, the lives of friends mattered more than her own. Though the situation had not changed, the dashed hope sent her into a fresh round of sobbing. Her lids felt hideously swollen, and salt tears stung eyes already raw from crying. A lump of lead seemed permanently lodged in her throat. Her mind refused to grasp the enormity of permanence. She might never see Kevral, Tae, Ra-khir, or Rantire again. If the last possible suitable heir to Béarn’s throne drowned in the Southern Sea, no hope remained for any of them. And Mior was missing, too.

  Matrinka gasped reflexively as sobs racked her. Guilt tainted otherwise innocent sorrow. If Griff died before he reached Béarn, their adolescent self-assurance had wholly destroyed the world’s last chance for survival. She could no longer justify their mission with the understanding that the kingdom’s scouts and envoys had also failed. At least they had not killed Griff. Other shame assaulted Matrinka simultaneously. She felt ugly for worrying as much for a cat as over her human companions. Mior had come to her nearly four years ago as a filthy furball that King Kohleran, her grandfather, had rescued from a sewer trough. From that moment, they had become all but inseparable, their relationship more than just pet and owner. A limited form of mental communication had developed between them, one those she told had dismissed as silliness. A world without magic could not support such an association. Even her friends had required an intensive demonstration to believe.

  “Darris, over here!” Captain called suddenly, abandoning a dripping hunk of sail for some object to his left. “Steer this way.” He made a broad gesture toward the focus of his gaze.

  Darris paused, mast board halfway drawn onto the raft. If he let go and paddled, it would likely slip off into the water.

  Captain trotted over, as light-footed on an unsteady chunk of boards as on the Sea Seraph’s unbroken deck. He seized the makeshift mast to steady it and allow Darris to attend to rowing. “Human. Griff, I think.”

  Immediately, Darris let go of the mast and seized the paddle. Rowing furiously, he headed in the indicated direction.

  Though she knew it would assist him little, if at all, Matrinka scrabbled in the water with her hands. The raft skimmed over the sea, bumping bits of wreckage. Soon a dark shape hove into sight, unidentifiable shadow in the night. Captain shouted, “Yo!”

  “Over here,” Rantire’s voice returned faintly.

  Matrinka’s heart quickened, and the tears gave way to excitement. She sat back on her haunches. “Who’s with you?” Her higher-pitched voice did not carry as the elf’s had.

  No reply followed.

  “Who’s with you!” Matrinka repeated, louder.

  Darris panted. “Save your breath. It’s not worth shouting back and forth. We’ll know soon enough.”

  Matrinka went silent, the trip to Rantire seeming to span hours. Suddenly, a presence touched her mind weakly. *Help me. Help soon.*

  *Mior?* Matrinka scarcely dared to believe.

  *Heavy ropes. Can’t fight any more. Help!* Urgency pierced the words as well as a sense of desperate weakness.

  *Hang on! I’ll get you.* Matrinka attempted to identify Mior’s position. Darkness confounded her vision, and only knowing the extent of their mental bond assisted. “Mior’s over here,” she called aloud. “And in trouble.”

  “We’ll get her next,” Captain promised.

  “No!” Matrinka felt the cat’s presence growing weaker, though whether because they shot out of range or due to the cat’s condition, she could not tell. “She’s in trouble.”

  Pain filled Darris’ features. “Matrinka, people have to come first.”

  Though Matrinka knew Darris spoke truth, she could not allow Mio
r to die. Without another word, she dove from the raft.

  “Matrinka!” Darris cried out.

  The roar of water closed over Matrinka’s ears, deafening her. She swam toward Mior’s remembered position, foiled by the constancy of ocean and darkness. *Mior, I’m coming. Where are you?*

  A long pause followed while Matrinka chose a direction nearly at random. Terror seized her as she swam. The possibilities for the cat’s sudden silence pained. Did Mior drown, or did I drift out of range? Then, just as she prepared to mind-call again, Mior’s answer reached her, *Don’t know . . . wood under a claw. Rope I can’t untangle.* Desperate need replaced the transmission suddenly. Words required too much effort.

  Matrinka pivoted toward the direction from which the reply had come. *I’m coming! Following your “voice.” Say anything as you can.* Spray slapped Matrinka’s cheek, stinging. Chill water ached through her limbs, and currents under the surface battled against forward progress.

  *Can’t hold—* Mior started, call fizzling into a frenzied surge of panic. *Get it off me! Get it off!*

  Matrinka did not bother to request details. The frantic leaps of Mior’s thoughts would not allow such focus. She quickened her stroke, battling undertows like a mad thing. Mior’s mind-voice cut out, replaced only by the fright leaking through the contact. Then, even that disappeared.

  *Mior!* Matrinka scrambled through the water. Only one shape broke the ocean’s surface, and she lurched for it. *Mior!* Matrinka reached the object, a scrap of planking, and hopelessness speared through her. “Mior,” she sobbed. Her hands chopped the water as she switched from swimming to treading. Her palm slammed something solid, driving it deeper, and something soft and wet slid across her thigh. It took Matrinka’s mind a moment to grasp the obvious. Mior! She dove for the cat, blindly plunging after its natural sinking course. She flailed wildly, fingers churning through the dark ocean.

  The need for air hit Matrinka suddenly, and she cursed herself for not taking a deep breath before plunging downward. Her wrist touched something. She lunged for it. Both hands clamped around a solid, hairy object with trailing loops that tickled her legs. Mior? Matrinka dared not imagine it as anything else. Her lungs bucked against her control, hungering for air. She held the bundle tightly to her chest, using only her legs to kick wildly to the surface, afraid to release her hold with even one hand.

  The surface seemed miles above her. Her lungs throbbed, gasping for a breath she dared not take. The thing in her arms remained unmoving. The need for air dizzied Matrinka, leaving her mind free to conjure images of what might lay pinned against her chest. Pictures paraded through her mind of long-dead sea creatures moldering, hunks of human flesh half-eaten and trailing intestines, unidentifiable objects coated with slime. Cold air washed Matrinka’s forehead. Her throat spasmed open, breaking her control. Water trickled into her airway, followed by a rush of air. Her lungs sucked greedily, then she choked on the seawater. She sputtered, coughs shuddering through her, interspersed with gulps of air that drove the water deeper.

  Only when her own body stopped hacking and battling did she gain the control to tend the object in her hands. Water matted black, white, and orange fur against a frame that now seemed fragile. A tangle of rigging lines imprisoned her hips and back paws. The eyes and mouth lay closed. Mior floated, still and lifeless in Matrinka’s arms. “No!” Matrinka screamed. “No! No! No! No! NO!” She found herself incapable of other speech, her mind paralyzed by denial.

  Darris’ voice wafted distantly. “Matrinka! We’re coming.”

  Matrinka did not care. Only the silent bundle in her arms mattered. But the cry did galvanize her thoughts, and her healer training reemerged. Without bothering to tear free the heavy ropes, she turned Mior upside down, squeezing her from abdomen to chest. Water dribbled from the cat’s nose and mouth, less than Matrinka expected. She repeated the maneuver, gaining little more.

  Matrinka sank dangerously deeper into the water. She flipped Mior into the crook of one arm, belly upward, and used her other hand to tread back into a more stable position. Stimulate and give air. Matrinka instinctively likened the situation to a limp, blue newborn. Every competent healer knew that even a baby who appeared far beyond help might respond to blowing and shaking long after birth. She huffed into Mior’s pink nose repeatedly. *Live. Please, Mior. I need you. Live!*

  “Matrinka!” Darris’ voice sounded as wildly distressed as she felt. “Matrinka, say something. Where are you?”

  Matrinka pounded on Mior’s chest, her supporting hand and the cat tossing with every movement. The water did not allow her the steady surface she needed to work. Understanding Darris’ need, she broke away from her patient to shout back. “I’m here!”

  In the moment’s lapse, Mior coughed.

  Hope flared into a bonfire. *Come on, Mior. I need you!* Matrinka shook the cat.

  Mior coughed again, struggled and twisted, then opened her eyes. *It’s about time you realized that,* the cat sent back accompanied by an awkward purr. Though glazed, the yellow eyes met Matrinka’s.

  Thank you, gods. Thank you. Matrinka squeezed Mior into a viselike embrace. The interlude without kicking sent her sinking.

  Mior scrambled from Matrinka’s arms and settled into her usual position on the princess’ neck, writhing through the lines still trapping her back legs. *Are you trying to drown me?*

  Matrinka trod water with more fury, the imbalance of the cat’s position costing more energy, though it did free her hands. *I’m trying to save you, you ungrateful little mouse-eater.* Salt stung superficial scratches the cat had accidentally clawed into her forearm.

  “Matrinka!” Darris shouted again. “We can’t find you if you don’t talk.”

  “Here!” Matrinka called back, surprised at how fatigued her own voice sounded. “Over here! Here!” She did not bother to wave. The darkness swallowed her, and her friends could hear farther than they could see. Now that violent need no longer spurred her, she felt as if chains weighted her limbs. Every part of her ached, and the cold seemed to have seeped into her very soul. “Here!” She added wearily, too softly, “Please hurry.”

  Matrinka fell silent, too tired to bother gathering breath to scream again. Nor did Darris request another location call. Apparently, Captain had her position pegged with magic. Matrinka’s mind slipped into a quiet fog that begged solace. Her movements became habit, arms weaving in arcs that seemed tedious and legs whipping back and forth in a pattern that no longer required concentration. The world drifted, first into quiet contemplation of the darkness, then into nothingness.

  A sharp thought prodded Matrinka. *Don’t go falling asleep on me.*

  Matrinka jerked to attention, fairly certain she had done just that. *Sorry.*

  *You better be. They’re almost here.*

  Now Matrinka could hear the cut of the paddle through water. “Matrinka?” Darris said, backpedaling as the raft drifted toward her. “Careful. I don’t want to hit you.”

  “I’m right here.” Matrinka attempted to swim toward the sound, but Mior’s bulk and her own fatigue foiled the attempt. Instead, she kicked lazily to propel herself sluggishly in the general direction of the raft. Finally, her vision carved the raft’s shape from the darkness, several figures huddled on its surface. Darris and Captain stretched arms toward her, and she reached for them. A hand caught each wrist. “Wait,” she said. *Go ahead, Mior.*

  The cat shifted position, then stopped. She waited until elf and bard pulled Matrinka nearer the raft, then bounded lightly to the deck. Matrinka went limp, allowing the two to haul her on board. Only then, she recognized Rantire and Griff, the Renshai still hovering over her charge like a new mother.

  Darris drew Matrinka into his arms, ignoring the rivulets that ran down her clothes onto his own. He held her tightly, as if to transfer heat as well as emotion, but he managed only to soak himself. “You did a very foolish thing. You could have drowned.” A catch turned his lecturing tone into a frightened one. “I love you,
Matrinka. I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

  “I love you, too.” Matrinka returned a sentiment that never seemed to grow old. They could not marry, but they could stay together always. And she would see to it they would.

  Mior sat, sulking. *You save my life and he calls that foolish? Can I use his leg for a scratching post?*

  Warmed by Darris’ kiss, Matrinka did not bother to answer.

  * * *

  Carved directly from the Southern Weathered Mountains, Béarn’s castle stretched its great spires toward the heavens. Prime Minister Baltraine stood on the balcony, watching the masses gather below. Their excitement seemed tangible, a sensation carried to him on the autumn breeze. They shifted and whispered, the whole blending into an indecipherable hum. Occasionally, an organized chant could be heard over the mumbled chaos, “King Kohleran, King Kohleran, King Kohleran!”

  Baltraine sighed. So often, he had considered the peasants fools for their blind loyalty to an elf masquerading as their dead king. Dh’arlo’mé had selected Pree-han because his voice most nearly matched Kohleran’s booming bass, and Baltraine had schooled the elf to enhance the match. Twelve years as Kohleran’s prime minister had accustomed him to the king’s well-balanced judgments, word choices, and patterns. His training and written speeches had allowed the substitution to work. Without him, the elves would have failed.

  A page slipped quietly onto the balcony. He bowed to Baltraine, hands nervously entwined, then shifted to the front of the balcony and looked down on the people. “His Majesty, King Kohleran!” he announced.