Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “No. I mean look at me.” Kevral made a grand gesture that swept her entire person, tiny compared to Ra-khir’s bulk. A descendant of the Renshai tribe that retained the most original blood, she appeared younger and smaller than her nearly sixteen years. “All of me.”

  Ra-khir pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. He continued to meet only Kevral’s eyes. “You know I can’t do something that impolite.”

  “You can’t let up on your honor just this once?” Kevral picked the topic deliberately, knowing it would spark verbal warfare quicker than any other. She could not explain her need to argue, only suffered a driving need to bait.

  Ra-khir sighed. “Honor is not situational. I can’t just abandon it because I’d like to.” His eyes beseeched her, begging her to abandon animosity better aimed elsewhere. He knew what was coming and also that he was helpless to prevent it. Early in their travels, their arguments over honor had driven Matrinka to desperate distraction. Later, they had found compromises, places where Renshai honor and that of the Knights of Erythane overlapped. Eventually, their companions and Colbey had forced them to accept and appreciate their differences.

  Rigid and inflexible. The tired old assessment came to Kevral’s mind instantly, then died on her lips. The ancient war that once helped dispel frustration now only heightened it. “You’d like to?”

  Ra-khir paused, clearly tensed for a different response. “Look at you?”

  “Yes.”

  Pink tinged Ra-khir’s cheeks, then stole over his face. He looked down, careful to turn his gaze from Kevral before doing so. His scruples would not allow him even to sneak a surreptitious look. “Kevral, I once asked you to marry me.”

  “Would you look at me if we got married?”

  Ra-khir smiled, eyes returning to Kevral’s. “Every chance I got.” His face turned crimson, but he still managed to add, “And I’d do more than look.”

  Kevral felt her anger drain away, along with her need to hurt one she loved. She drew the tatters of her tunic together, turned, and sat beside Ra-khir. “What happens next?”

  “I don’t know.” Ra-khir placed a comforting arm around Kevral’s shoulders, drawing her closer. He passed her a full bowl of water she had not noticed previously.

  Kevral accepted it, gulping mouthfuls that stretched her esophagus painfully before returning the bowl to his hands. Only then, he drank, and Kevral felt a stab of guilt for taking so much. Thirst must have driven him near to madness; but he had waited for her to awaken, and to verbally abuse him, before drinking.

  Finishing the contents, Ra-khir placed the bowl aside. “From what I could gather of their conversations, they’re holding us until Dh’arlo’mé returns.”

  “Escape?” Kevral whispered.

  “I’ve tried. The walls are stone. The mesh looks flimsy, but I couldn’t budge a single triangle.”

  Kevral recalled even Tae, with his street knowledge, had had to steal the keys to work the locks.

  Neither voiced what they both knew. Had Dh’arlo’mé been among the elves at the time of their capture, they would both already be dead. Kevral snuggled deeper into Ra-khir’s grasp, enjoying the warmth of his touch, especially the areas of skin to skin contact. She recalled the last time she had sat in a prison awaiting execution. Then, regrets had paraded through her mind, and she had vowed to die neither a coward nor a virgin. Now, both seemed inevitable.

  Kevral considered a long time, but her mind always returned to the same conclusion. She raised her face to Ra-khir, and he gave her a gentle peck on the lips. A second kiss followed, then a third that lingered. Kevral savored the salt taste of his lips, the gentle cautious exploration of his tongue on her own. Excitement thrilled through her.

  Suddenly, Ra-khir jerked away. “We have to stop,” he said, his words incongruous with the hungry look in his eyes.

  “Why?” Kevral balanced need against anger.

  “Because . . .” Ra-khir started, face growing red again. “Because I might take . . .” He seemed unable to finish. “I might take advantage of you.”

  Kevral snorted, then immediately wished she had not. The gesture might erode his manhood at a time she most wanted it intact. “No man could take advantage of me. You know that.”

  Ra-khir nodded vigorously. “I’d pity the man who tried. And I certainly don’t want it to be me.”

  Kevral feigned desperate offense. She knew Ra-khir wanted her and that he refused not from lack of desire but because his honor shackled him. “You don’t want to make love with me?”

  As Kevral hoped, Ra-khir turned defensive. “Of course I do.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Kevral watched the progression of Ra-khir’s expression from shocked realization to desperate hope. “You want to make love? With me? Here? Now?”

  Kevral resisted sarcasm, though many snide comments came to mind. “Ra-khir, I love you. We may die tomorrow. Maybe tonight. I don’t want to die without knowing the joy of having a man I love as close to me as nature allows. I want to satisfy the passion I feel every time you touch me. I want to feel a part of you inside me.”

  Ra-khir stood, as if rooted in place. Kevral could only guess at the struggle taking place behind the grim mask he showed her. With guilty pleasure, she studied the handsome features and solid physique, the scrutiny intensifying her lust. “I want that, too,” he finally said. “I want that more than anything.” Yet he did not move toward her.

  Kevral released her hold on the tunic’s front. The fabric dropped back, baring her breasts again. “If you don’t come here, I might rape you.”

  The insanity of her suggestion mobilized Ra-khir. He looked at her, eyes roving to the places honor once bound him to avoid. He caught her into an embrace that pressed her tightly against him. She could feel her nipples smashed to his chest and his hardness warm against her leg. The sureness of his actions convinced her. No doubt, Ra-khir had reconciled his honor to his need.

  * * *

  Matrinka and Mior, Darris, Rantire, Griff, and Captain reached Béarn as the first grayness of evening touched the afternoon sky. Craggy mountains filled every horizon, their bulk and familiar conformation welcoming Matrinka. Too long suppressed, her hopes soared, seeming to draw her heart along with them. The gentle breath of the wind caressed her face like a brother’s kiss and ruffled her hair in playful greeting. She moved to the front, leading her companions through streets she knew by heart, past cottages crafted by the famed Béarnide stone masons. Statues graced the yards of even the smallest and poorest dwellings, most in the shape of bears. Other crafted animals and humans stood arranged into scenes. Stonework filled the yards of the artisans, cramped quarters and numbers robbing the individual works of their beauty.

  The towering poles of quarrying equipment broke the background irregularly, lines pulled taut and beams like proud sentinels. The mingled aromas of livestock and Béarnian spices that defined the city filled Matrinka’s nose, adding to the sensation of comfort that enveloped her. After months on strange roads, dodging or battling assassins, assisting injured companions and terrified for the time her ministrations might fail, hunting elves that held Béarn’s heir prisoner, she felt safely swaddled in the security of home. Matrinka could not help smiling. Reaching to her shoulders, she ran her fingers along Mior’s smooth fur.

  The feeling of sanctuary did not last. Gradually, strangeness seeped through the refuge home promised. Few lights flickered in the cottage windows, and Matrinka met no passersby on Béarn’s streets. The town lay flat and silent, as if some god had plucked out the inhabitants, leaving the high king’s city an empty shell. Matrinka scanned for movement, discovering cows lowing in their pens, pigs snuffling hay for the choicest remainders, and chickens pecking seeds dropped by carts in the roadway. Nothing human met her gaze, and Matrinka’s grin wilted. She glanced at Darris who inclined his head toward the center of town.

  Matrinka followed the gesture. In contrast to the cottages, lights hovered in the castle windows.
Attention directed, she finally caught the faint sound of voices borne on the wind. For a moment she felt incapable of comprehending the significance. Then, logic finally threaded its way through thoughts otherwise suspended. At least five years had passed since King Kohleran had perched upon the balcony to speak with his citizens. The image resurfaced from childhood memory. From the castle courtyard, Matrinka had watched, wide-eyed, as Béarnides gathered to catch every word their beloved king spoke. Their dress and demeanor had covered a spectrum Matrinka would not have believed possible: farmers in thick coveralls reeking of manure and hay; stonemasons with faces and arms smeared with a paste of sweat and dust; women with baskets clutching wet-nosed children in homespun; merchants wrapped in colorful clothing smelling of exotic fruits and spices; and nobles swathed in perfumed silks.

  The scene returned vividly to Matrinka’s mind, unforgettable. She conjured up every detail as she continued to wind along the roadways with her companions in tow. Soon, memory became reality. Béarnides thronged the square beneath the castle’s balcony, the ones in front nearly pressed against the courtyard walls. King Kohleran held a regal stance on a balcony that, like most of the castle, had been fashioned directly from the mountain. Ministers flanked him, and guards formed a semicircle that seemed more aesthetic formation than threat. Knights of Erythane, mounted on their white chargers, held formation among the audience. Draped over armor, their tabards displayed the tan bear on a blue background that symbolized Béarn. Their mounts’ flowing white manes lay braided with ribbons of blue and tan, and every sword hung at the same rakish angle.

  “By . . . the gods,” Darris whispered, stunned.

  Matrinka stopped to look at him.

  “It’s your grandfather. King Kohleran is back.”

  Matrinka’s brows lowered, then rose as she disengaged from reverie to look again. The king she had long assumed dead looked down upon his people, very much alive. Though slimmer than she remembered him being before his illness, he appeared robust compared to her last glimpse of him on his deathbed. His hair and beard remained white, only stray black locks betraying its original color. Grandpapa! Matrinka scarcely resisted the urge to shout aloud. The need seized her to dash into the castle and run to his arms. Only propriety held her back. Tutors had trained her since infancy not to disturb the king while he held court.

  Conversation died among the audience as the king drew breath to continue a speech Matrinka had, so far, missed. Attention fixed on their king, the Béarnides took no notice of the newcomers at their backs. Still far from the balcony, Matrinka strained to catch the king’s words.

  Kohleran made a broad gesture over the gathered citizenry. “The self-confessed traitors were given the choice of imprisonment, banishment, or execution.” His voice emerged astoundingly strong for one poised for years on the brink of death, though higher-pitched and lighter than Matrinka remembered. “To my surprise, guilt drove most of them to choose the latter. They could not be swayed.” He bowed his head sorrowfully. “I feel the grief of their families, yet I believed the kingdom bound to honor their wishes. Béarn has lost some of our own, yet we can only become stronger by the ousting of those who would harm us.”

  Matrinka fixated on the word “execution.” Never in the course of her life had King Kohleran ordered such a punishment. She would not do so, and she had always assumed her grandfather equally benevolent. Matrinka lowered her head, ashamed. Every difference between her style and that of the king only reminded her of the unworthiness the staff-test had affirmed.

  The king continued, “I regret that the ugliness has not yet ended, for it pains me. But traitors still abound among us, those who fought the proper ascension and would have doomed Béarn, indeed the world, to chaos’ destruction.” He paused, allowing the significance of his words to seep into every mind, including Matrinka’s. “I cling to the virtue of forgiveness and request that every citizen do the same. Yet Béarn cannot tolerate such a threat. Those who would turn against us once will do so again.”

  A murmur swept the citizenry.

  Matrinka studied her grandfather, stunned. Her love had kept her close to him even after the effects of his illness drove other family members away. His appearance, the stench of sickness, the death that seemed always to hover over him only drew her closer. She had last seen him the day she begged him to renounce her title so that she could sneak away with her companions to try to bring back the last untested heir. Her request had wounded him deeply. In the end, he had agreed to announce a disownment he would not officially grant. The nobility and citizenry believed her no longer an heir, but the records showed otherwise. She recalled the look of him then. Sleep claimed him more often than lucidity, and he babbled without reason at times. His form had grown skeletal except his abdomen and legs, swollen with the fluid his heart could no longer pump. His skin had turned a sallow yellow, and the brown eyes bore a film that made vision nearly impossible. Every movement looked painful and clearly sapped the few reserves the gods still granted. Even the effort of speaking threw him swiftly back into unconsciousness.

  The image defied the vigor with which King Kohleran addressed his people, yet the features, the form, and the bearing could belong to no one else. His mannerisms had changed slightly, understandable after such a long and agonizing illness. The differences, though minor, bothered Matrinka. The words he spoke more so.

  “I do not wish to turn families and friends against their own, but the greater good of the world’s survival demands it. The gods have spoken, and it’s my mission to act as they direct. We need to find and punish the remaining traitors. We must see to it that we ferret out the last of those who meant harm to all of us, and mete out the proper punishment.”

  Grandpapa? Matrinka fairly sobbed. Her heart fluttered, and waves of excitement pulsed through her. She loved this man with every detail of her soul; yet, at the moment, he seemed a stranger.

  *That’s not Grandpapa.* Mior’s message was so bizarre it took Matrinka’s mind irrationally long to register it.

  *What?*

  The means of their conversation did not allow for mishearing, but Mior dutifully repeated, *That’s not Grandpapa.*

  Matrinka narrowed her eyes, studying the Béarnide more closely. *You mean it’s not like him to say such things.*

  Mior’s tail lashed Matrinka’s face. *I mean that’s not King Kohleran. It’s an elf.*

  Matrinka blinked several times, as if this might change the vision she saw. *On the balcony?*

  *Yes, on the balcony. Where else would I mean?*

  Matrinka’s mind still could not reject what her eyes told her. *In the middle?*

  Mior planted her front paws on Matrinka’s chest and swiveled her head so that the yellow eyes glared into her mistress’ brown ones. *It’s not Grandpapa. It’s an elf. I can’t be any clearer than that.*

  The stare convinced Matrinka more than the words. Mior found eye contact distressing. Among cats, it nearly always preceded attack. Matrinka cast one more glance at the charismatic Béarnide on the balcony, searching for some telltale detail to validate the cat’s assertion. Gradually, her vision found the more delicate longer-limbed frame, the canted eyes, and the thin, redly-cast white hair beneath the image she had once believed Kohleran’s. Her gaze wandered to his companions, and she realized she recognized none of those she had first taken for ministers.

  Matrinka lunged forward and seized Darris’ arm in a pinching grip. The sudden movement overbalanced Mior who half-fell, half-scrambled to the ground, then sat stiffly in a pose meant to imply she had alighted on purpose.

  Startled, Darris instinctively jerked away, then stumbled to avoid stepping on Mior. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  Matrinka dragged Darris back into an alley. There, amid the shadows, she whispered, “Elf magic. That’s not the king.”

  “How do you know?”

  Matrinka did not wish to explain. Although Darris now knew about her communication with Mior, their other companions did not. “For now,
just believe me. And take another look.”

  Shrugging, Darris went to obey just as Rantire, Captain, and Griff joined them. “What’s going on?” the Renshai demanded, her usually harsh tone softened by a weakness she would never admit. Two days of travel weighed heavily against her injuries; and Matrinka had frequently discovered her leaning on, as much as protecting. Griff.

  Matrinka looked at Captain. “Can elves make themselves look like people?”

  Captain returned the scrutiny without obvious emotion. “Not that I know of, but I suppose it’s possible.” The implications apparently reached him without need for specifics. Along with Darris, he headed back into the street.

  “What’s going on?” Rantire demanded again, her mind not making the necessary leap.

  Darris and Captain returned almost immediately. “That’s Pree-hantis Kel’Abkirk . . .” He trailed off. “The name goes on, of course. The important thing is that the king on the balcony is an elf disguised by magic.”

  As usual, Darris had to understand details. “How come we can see him, but the others can’t?”

  Captain turned to the bard. “I don’t know for sure. I’d guess it’s because we know the truth now.” His brow furrowed. “Though I don’t know how Matrinka figured it out.”

  Matrinka shrugged, turning Darris an “I’ll explain later” look. “What do we do now?”

  “We’d better tell the crowd,” Rantire said.

  “No,” Griff jumped in next, his gentle features grave. “I don’t think they’d hear us, except the closest ones. Even if they did, it would lead to chaos. Maybe even war.”

  Rantire turned on her charge. “We can’t just let this go on.” Absently, she massaged the bandage beneath her tunic, tight creases around her eyes the only betrayal of pain.

  “Griff’s right.” Darris took the heir’s side, though whether from trust or a natural urge to follow his future leader, Matrinka waited to surmise. Darris started to explain, then released his breath in a long sigh. “I’m sorry. This is inappropriate, yet necessary.” Closing his eyes, he considered in a brief silence before singing in a sweet voice scarcely above a whisper. Though unaccompanied, his words and tune dredged up love for Matrinka’s grandfather. He sang of King Kohleran, of the awe and affection the king inspired, and of the joy that surely followed the heavy grief that had suffocated Béarn during Kohleran’s years of illness. The Béarnides believed in his recovery, not because of its likelihood, but because they desperately wished it true. With the unwavering faith of the priesthood, they clung to an impossibility that elfin images made appear real. Matrinka understood, without direction, that a simple explanation would not prove enough to unveil the deception. The Béarnides would refuse to believe.