Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Applause exploded from the peasants. The page scrambled aside as the procession entered. First, two Béarnian guards examined the balcony for danger. Pree-han followed, accompanied by two elves. Half a dozen more guards followed, fanning into a semicircle behind them.

  This sight and the aroma of mold, dust, and bonfires brought memories of King Kohleran’s reign rushing to Baltraine’s mind. His conscience awakened, hammering at the many decisions he had made in the last months. During King Kohleran’s three-year illness, he had named Baltraine his regent until an heir claimed the throne. Gradually, more of the tasks of rulership had fallen into Baltraine’s hands. Always, he had convinced himself he worked only in Béarn’s best interest even as the kingdom divided into factions and the unity, once taken for granted, crumbled around him. He had joined with the elves at Prince Xyxthris’ urgings and without knowing exactly what this association entailed.

  Pree-han cleared his throat, and silence replaced the noise below with unnatural suddenness. Baltraine knew from past experience that, when the Béarnides looked upon Pree-han, they saw King Kohleran’s massive frame, gentle features, and mane of black hair. No matter how hard he tried to picture the same illusion, Baltraine saw only the slight, graceful elf he had trained. Red highlights sparkled from white hair hanging thinly to narrow shoulders that resembled nothing Béarnian. The massive mountain people, hewed structures and statues from stone. Swarthy, hardy, and dark in hair and eyes, even relatively small Béarnides made peoples of every other land seem frail in comparison. The elves looked positively childlike.

  Pree-han began with his usual opening. “Friends. Fellow Béarnides. I thank the grace of the gods for granting me a second chance at life and for the incomparable healing skills of Dh’arlo’mé.” He stumbled slightly over the name, accustomed to speaking it in the lilting elfin speech and in much longer form.

  Baltraine cringed, but the masses did not acknowledge the lapse. It only made sense for their king to mispronounce a name so foreign and strange, no matter how many times he had spoken it. Dh’arlo’mé, they believed, had come from the great trading city, Pudar, armed with the healing knowledge of the city as well as of his people, the alfen. Pree-han had convinced the populace that the lithe, cat-eyed elves were actually a tribe of southern barbarians. The populace bought it all, not from stupidity, but from trust. They loved their king enough to believe that their need for his guidance had touched the gods into restoring his health. A world devoid of magic held no basis for deception such as this.

  Pree-han continued. “Since my recovery, I’ve come before you with news fit for sorrow and for rejoicing. So much has happened so quickly.”

  Baltraine glanced over the balcony. The peasants looked up raptly. The bulk of the castle spared their eyes from the morning sun, a thoughtful construction. The Knights of Erythane sat stiffly upon their white chargers, their tabards spotless and free of wrinkles, their swords all set at the same jaunty angle, their mail pristine. The Béarnian guards who kept order seemed ponderous in comparison.

  “As you know,” the false king said. “We lost our council to assassins.” Pree-han lied with ease, but Baltraine’s stomach twisted at the memory. He had called together a meeting of the council and all those who would demand a close physical association with the king. The poisoned feast, arranged by the elves had claimed them all. Only Baltraine had survived by design; nervousness about the betrayal had cause him to vomit, the perfect excuse for why he had not succumbed with the rest. Healers, pages, and nobles had fussed over him as the others died, branding guilt deeply into his conscience.

  “Other concerns have filled my hours since then, pyres and consoling families among them.” Pree-han added the tearful catch with impressive precision. “Being brought up to date on news and politics. Now the time has come.” He lowered his head, his mastery of Kohleran’s mannerisms becoming quite convincing. “There are traitors in our midst, those who slaughtered my ministers, some who killed my children, my grandchildren . . .” He lapsed into feigned sobs that held the populace spellbound with regret. No one spoke during Pree-han’s lapse, waiting patiently for him to regain his composure and continue.

  The two elves pretended to comfort him while the guards remained rigidly attentive. Under the guise of concern about traitors and loyalty, Pree-han had replaced the human council with alfen. Since that time, they had worked hard at showing this group in an excellent light, their decisions solid, impartial, and merciful.

  Pree-han collected himself enough to carry on with his speech. “We cannot tolerate traitors in our midst, those who would destroy the kingdom we love to further their own ends. Any information you can give us about those who have done harm to Béarn or her succession will be rewarded. The guilty parties will receive swift, fair justice. Those who turn themselves in or are appropriately remorseful will receive lighter sentences. Please help us with this effort. . . .”

  Baltraine tuned out the rest of the appeal he had written as well as the platitudes and bonding rituals that followed. Not since Morhane had usurped the throne more than three centuries ago had Béarn lived beneath the rulership of an unpopular king. Peasants and nobles alike had loved King Kohleran. During a reign that lasted for over sixty years, he had never made a poor decision. Now, the elves counted on that glory to hold the trust of the populace while they slaughtered humans en masse. First, those who might ruin the deception had died. Next, those who had worked against Baltraine would die, execution the swift, fair justice Pree-han had promised. Baltraine felt no sorrow for these, men and women who had turned to trickery and murder to attempt to displace him. They and others, had turned against the true line of kings, as well.

  As Pree-han switched from heavy business to gentle promises and a perfect copy of the wisdom King Kohleran had always displayed, the populace moved from a desperate hush to shouted admiration. Baltraine’s thoughts shifted in more troublesome directions. The elves’ agenda alternately worried and confounded him. Only his own input, and Xyxthris’, added the human logic elves inherently lacked. Baltraine understood that the elves intended to destroy large numbers of humans. So far, he had managed to rationalize their slaughter with the realization that they had, thus far, concentrated only on those who needed to die. Now, understanding struggled for recognition. The elves’ vow to allow Baltraine and his six daughters to live out their natural lives had helped quell his anxiety. When the populace turned their minds from the miracle of Kohleran’s recovery to more pragmatic aspects of rulership, they would surely goad him to take a new queen and create more heirs. Baltraine doubted the elves could magically simulate human pregnancy, delivery, and infancy, even should they wish to bother. They would need his reproductive abilities, and he would be only too happy to supply them. Forever after, his line would sit upon Béarn’s throne.

  Baltraine smiled, his conscience again assuaged by anticipation. Below the balcony, the Béarnian masses cheered. The false king stepped back from his perch, and the prime minister prepared for the influx of traitors requiring punishment.

  * * *

  The damp mustiness of Béarn’s dungeon had grown familiar to Knight-Captain Kedrin during the months of his imprisonment. He sat with his back against a stone corner, legs stretched in front of him and journal balanced on his thighs. His copper-blond locks tickled his cheeks, in desperate need of a trim. He brushed them away, fingernails rasping through a beard that itched for its unfamiliarity. Meticulous almost to a fault, the Knights of Erythane kept themselves evenly shorn and clean-shaven. Though he realized no one could fault his appearance in prison, he could not help feeling slovenly and uncomfortable. Months without changing had left his clothes brittle and malodorous, though still emblazoned with Béarn’s tan and blue and Erythane’s orange and black. A Knight of Erythane would never be caught without those four colors.

  Footsteps echoed between the bars, headed toward Kedrin. Early in his captivity, he had found the deep reverberations difficult to decipher. Sound carried strangely, an
d movements that seemed near might originate at the prison’s farther end. Now, he heard the familiar, swirling patterns that indicated someone approached his cell. Setting aside book and stylus, he rose, trying to identify the visitor by movement. The hard steadiness of the footfalls suggested a male accustomed to marching and formation. Yet a scrape of boot against stone revealed sorrow or regret. The walk did not falter, however; no nervousness or indecision here.

  Kedrin had had few visitors during his incarceration. His son Ra-khir had come only once, the day after his trial. Then, Kedrin had urged his only child to find Béarn’s last untested heir. Apparently, Ra-khir had left to do so. No other explanation existed for his absence.

  Baltraine visited occasionally, at first contritely, then to elicit advice, and later in search of a safe confidant. The prime minister had engineered Kedrin’s imprisonment, falsifying a charge of treason. True to his honor, Kedrin had not fought the allegation; to do so would have divided the kingdom at a time when it most needed unity. Kedrin had placed his trust and life in the hands of Kohleran’s regent, respecting his king’s decision. Baltraine had sentenced Kedrin to death; and only Ra-khir’s desperate plea had softened the punishment. Not only had Kedrin’s sentence been commuted to life in prison, he had kept his title and his authority over the Knights of Erythane. Once a week, a Béarnian guard named Denevier relayed the needs of the knights and delivered Kedrin’s counsel back to his men.

  Finally, the visitor drew near enough for Kedrin to pick a shape from the general darkness. Too small for a Béarnide, the man walked with a crisp posture that seemed more habit than intention. Only his hanging head and the shuffling step revealed his discomfort. When he at last came face-to-face with Kedrin, the knight-captain recognized one of his own. A young knight named Braison stood before him. Hazel eyes looked out from under straight, dark bangs; and Kedrin read anguish there.

  Kedrin moved quickly to the bars, seizing one in each hand. “What’s wrong, Sir Braison?” He kept his voice low, pitched to prevent the echoes that would open their conversation to every prisoner and guard in Béarn’s dungeon.

  “Braison, my lord,” the other corrected, equally softly. “I am ‘sir’ no longer.”

  Kedrin froze in position, ignoring the rust digging into his palms. “You’ve lost your knighthood?” Pale blue eyes, almost white, sought the young man’s gaze, but the hazel eyes dodged his.

  “Lord, I did not lose it. I am surrendering it.”

  Kedrin was stunned. Never in the millennia of the Knights of Erythane had any renounced the title. He had trained Braison himself, and his mind filled with images of an eager student, brimming with life and honor. Though not naturally agile, he had given his all to his lessons, practicing even when the others had quit for the night. Rarely had Kedrin felt so unequivocal about granting a promotion. “Surrendering your knighthood? At whose recommendation?”

  “No one’s, my lord.” Braison continued to avoid Kedrin’s gaze. “It’s my own decision. I’ll turn my armor, sword, and tabard over to Denevier when I’m finished here.”

  “Look at me,” Kedrin said, pain aching through his heart. He would never consider forcing knighthood on anyone, yet he could not let Braison leave without understanding.

  Finally, the usually placid eyes met his, looking far older than the twenty-year-old face that housed them. Something had scarred him deeply.

  “You need no reason,” Kedrin admitted. “Yet it would help me if you gave one.”

  Braison turned the need back on Kedrin. “And it would help me to know if my Captain truly committed an act of treason.” The eyes not only met Kedrin’s now, they pinned him. “Yet you sidestep the question with vagaries about truth and the king’s judgment being all that matters.” His jaw set, as if he struggled to speak the words, but his gaze did not falter. “Captain, whatever you tell or don’t tell the populace, I have to know your guilt or innocence. Not the decree of prime minister or king: the truth.”

  Kedrin sighed, stately bearing and handsome features strikingly out of place amid the dungeon’s dank filth. Braison spoke forthrightly, and Kedrin had little choice but to do the same. “I did and would do nothing to jeopardize Béarn’s king or kingdom. I would willingly die in withering agony rather than betray Béarn. In any fashion.”

  “Generalities,” Braison shot back.

  “Yes,” Kedrin admitted, “but with a little consideration, you will draw the right conclusions.” He loosened his hold on the bars. As Baltraine knew, Kedrin’s journal contained an explanation of the incident and justification for the silence in court he had chosen. Written mostly for Ra-khir, it also contained a treatise on honor, including ethical traps and clarification for why he had allowed Ra-khir’s mother to deliberately destroy the bond between father and son. Their marriage had failed early in Ra-khir’s youth, and she had used her hatred and bitterness as a weapon against Kedrin. He had suffered her cruelty in silence rather than fight and inflict more harm on his son. “You’re a smart lad, Braison. I believe you can recognize a moral dilemma and the path a knight must follow to stay true to his honor and kingdom.”

  Braison’s face lapsed into pained creases as Kedrin, apparently, struck to the heart of the problem. “Smart, maybe. But I can’t reconcile the tasks I perform for my kingdom with my honor.” He wiped a clean, dry palm on pristine breeks, as if desperate to rid himself of a remembered stain. “That’s why I’m resigning my position.”

  Kedrin knew of no terrible task assigned his knights. In fact, since the king’s spectacular recovery from coma, he had been led to believe life had returned to normal for all Béarn’s citizens. Except, of course, himself. “I don’t understand.”

  Tears blurred Braison’s eyes to muddy pools. He dabbed at them surreptitiously. Then, as the droplets coursed down his cheeks, impossible to hide, he sobbed unabashedly.

  Kedrin’s heart felt leaden. He wanted nothing more than to hold the young knight like a father, yet the bars would not allow it. He said nothing, allowing Braison to speak in his own time.

  For several moments only tears emerged. Then Braison gathered his scattered composure. “I do not believe the Knights of Erythane were ever intended to become executioners.”

  Kedrin said nothing, the words explaining little. Although not specifically hired for such a purpose, he saw no reason why knights could not carry out such a sentence if the king requested it. “Did you have to kill someone?”

  “Seven men, Captain.” Braison sobbed. “Three women.” He shook his head, eyes restless again. “I’m not afraid of death or killing. In a war, I would slay our enemies and take pride in bringing Béarn or Erythane one step closer to safety. But these . . .” His mouth splayed open, as if he would continue, but only hoarse gasps emerged. “I’m sorry,” he managed, “for my demeanor.”

  Kedrin dismissed the apology as unnecessary. “I knew nothing of this. What crime did they commit?”

  “Treason.” Braison did not question their guilt. To do so would place the king’s judgment in doubt and go against the honor ingrained in him nearly since birth.

  “Ten at once?”

  “I handled ten. The others handled their share.”

  At most, twenty-six Knights of Erythane existed at any time. They rotated twelve through Béarn while twelve stayed home in Béarn’s sister city, Erythane. Two remained as alternates. They had lost six to attacks against envoys sent to fetch Griff. At the time, only one alternate existed. Three apprentice knights had recently completed training, filling some of the gaps. Ra-khir, Kedrin lamented, would certainly have been among them had he not interrupted his training to hunt for Griff, unofficially, with his friends. A suicide mission. Guilt squeezed and hammered Kedrin. I sent my only son out to die. Tears rose, unbidden. Kedrin held them at bay, forcing his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Ten knights currently held positions in Béarn. The math was simple. “A hundred traitors at once?”

  Braison nodded.

  “Gods,” Kedrin whispered, chest
tight.

  “Sir,” Braison started, then stopped. “Sir, I can’t reconcile my loyalty to king and kingdom with my personal honor. When those two became separated, I no longer deserve the privilege of knighthood. I have no choice but to renounce my vows.”

  Kedrin wished he had some precedent on which to base his response. No words came, and his thoughts floundered. He had little choice but to agree with Braison’s assessment; yet, clearly, the Knights and the kingdom needed men like Braison most of all.

  Before Kedrin could speak, booted footfalls pounded toward him, steady and authoritative. The time for speeches and encouragements had ended; the slowness of his reaction had betrayed him.

  Shortly, a stocky Béarnide dressed in mail and Béarnian standard drew up beside Braison. He glowered down at the smaller knight, his bravado ruined by hands that clenched and loosed repeatedly, betraying nervousness. The guards had always respected the Knights’ elite position. “Sir, you’ll need to come with me. Your clearance to visit was inappropriately granted.” He glanced at Kedrin, explaining apologetically as he never would to a lesser prisoner. “Captain, he claimed kinship.”

  Kedrin glanced at Braison, for the moment more shocked by the ex-knight’s lie than by the realization that men directly beneath his command needed unrelated reasons to receive permission to see him.

  Braison’s hazel eyes met Kedrin’s white-blue, no shame there. “It’s a true kinship, just distant.”

  Kedrin nodded, sorry he had doubted Braison’s word even for that one moment.

  “Come with me, please, sir.” The guard became insistent. He anticipated trouble, and the idea of battling a Knight of Erythane clearly unnerved him.

  But Braison followed willingly, as Kedrin knew he must. Even as the young man took his first steps, he called back softly to the man once his captain, “I believe those people innocent. And you, too.” He disappeared into the darkness, his footsteps swallowed by the louder thump and rattle of the guard.