Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Baltraine whispered something too soft and garbled to interpret.

  Darris shook his head. “Lord, I did not hear that.”

  The words rattled from Baltraine’s throat a second time, louder. “I killed her,” he admitted.

  Shock blazed instantly into rage.

  “And . . . others as important.” His gaze turned imploring. “Please . . . I need . . . forgiveness. I cannot die without it.”

  Darris set his jaw, teeth grinding. When he finally managed to open his mouth, the words had nothing to do with Baltraine’s need. “Where are the staves?”

  “Dh’arlo’mé . . . has . . . them.” Baltraine answered the question, then fixed his dying gaze on the man who might hold the key to his salvation. “Forgive . . . please.”

  Darris studied the pitiful man on the floor, once Béarn’s vibrant, brazen prime minister.

  When no words followed, Baltraine launched into a tale of selfish actions rationalized as being for the good of Béarn. Soon the confession failed to surprise any longer. Each recitation only fueled the flames of Matrinka’s anger. Baltraine had sacrificed kingdom and citizenry grasping for a power to which he had no claim or right. He had inflicted madness upon innocent heirs, including Matrinka. He had slaughtered Béarn’s most faithful, and he had turned over the kingdom he claimed to defend to those who would destroy not only it, but all humankind.

  Matrinka had modeled her life on a pattern of kindness and mercy, yet she knew she could never forgive the evil she scarcely dared to believe. For a moment, she relished the deserved pain Baltraine had poetically inflicted upon himself. She chased away the impure, afraid to lose herself to a fury without boundaries. Even then, she could not forgive.

  Darris echoed Matrinka. He turned away. “I can’t forgive you. I can’t ever forgive you.”

  Baltraine glanced around the companions in turn, expression beseeching, desperate for escape from the conscience that would not let him rest. Matrinka had seen similar expressions on the faces of parents begging help from the heavens while their children lay dying in their arms. Pity became a cold trickle through the frenzied flames of anger. Her spirit could not forgive, but she wondered if her mouth might speak the words to quell his agony. She tried to think of it as an extension of her training, a verbal balm to assuage the suffering of one dying. The lie refused to leave her lips. She could not forgive him. Rising, she turned her attention to Darris’ pain.

  Griff moved in then, taking Matrinka’s position despite Rantire’s warning glare.

  Baltraine looked at the newcomer, desperate hope taking shape behind the anguish. He studied Griff for several moments in silence, then his eyes widened in sudden recognition. “You’re the heir. You’re . . .”

  “Griff,” Griff finished simply, leaving off his title and parentage. “What you’ve done is evil. You’ve brought chaos and ruin, and every living thing will suffer for your crimes.”

  “I know.” Baltraine’s voice became a resigned wheeze. He closed his eyes, retiring toward an eternity of affliction the details of which only the gods who determined the afterlife knew.

  “Nevertheless, I forgive you.” The words emerged impossibly gentle from one so huge, with the innocence of a child.

  Peace settled over the prime minister’s tortured body, and a tiny smile replaced the grimace. “Thank you,” he whispered with his last breath.

  Griff sobbed.

  Comfort settled over Matrinka as well, like a moist blanket absorbing the heat that had flared during Baltraine’s confession. Had any other who did not know Darris’ mother granted that reprieve, Matrinka would have found them callous; but the genuine grief displayed in Griff’s demeanor would not be denied. She glanced at him again, seeing the bearlike form that so characterized Béarnides of the king’s line. His soft voice seemed to hover in the chamber, not an echo, but a guardian protecting her from returning cruelty for evil.

  Suddenly, the judgments plaguing her since her own trial in this room became clearer. The unworthiness the staves had proclaimed did not reflect on her value as a human being, a Béarnian noble, or a healer. Simply, she did not have the natural, naive innocence the gods had deemed necessary for Béarn’s ruler. There was no longer any doubt in Matrinka’s mind. Staff-test or none, Griff was the god-sanctioned king of Béarn. And he deserved the title.

  * * *

  Moonlight dribbled through the window of Dh’arlo’mé’s room, its intensity stark compared to the warped purple that the elves’ thick glass admitted. Finished with speech and appeal, Pree-han sat on the floor. The mirror threw back obscure images that mingled his reflection with that of the disguise. Gray hair superimposed over red-white. The beard clung like a sculpted shadow. The narrow elfin torso and slender figure became dwarfed by broad, Béarnian shoulders. Spooked by a magic created at his request, Dh’arlo’mé casually moved to a position near the window where he could no longer see the mirror. This brought him to the desk and Khy’barreth.

  Seated in one of the cedar chairs, Khy’barreth glared at Dh’arlo’mé through keen blue eyes framed by tendrils of raven hair. One staff leaned near the window, wrapped in undulating billows of gauzy curtain. The other stood in the corner near Khy’barreth’s right hand. The strange, predatory look taking shape in Khy’barreth’s eyes alarmed Dh’arlo’mé at least as much as Pree-han’s reflection. Honoring his instinct, Dh’arlo’mé kept Khy’barreth in the corner of his vision, though he did not shift position again. Displayed paranoia did not suit elves.

  Three other elfin members of Béarn’s new council occupied the bed. The females, Tresh’iondra and Vincelina, sat together. The older one, Tresh’iondra, studied Dh’arlo’mé through emerald eyes, her cheekbones set high even for an elf and her lips thinly delicate. Vincelina kept her head low, a yellow curtain of hair hiding her features, one long finger plucking at a design in the coverlet the only evidence of nervousness or impatience. The last male remained still between them. If not for amber eyes fixed boldly on the staves, Dess’man might have slept.

  Tresh’iondra finally broke the silence. “Whoever wields those staves has ultimate power. We need to choose wisely. I don’t believe we can do that in one meeting.”

  The male beside her came suddenly to life. “I still say we give them back to humans.”

  Khy’barreth tore his gaze from Dh’arlo’mé. “They can’t handle power of this magnitude.”

  “Exactly!” Dess’man drove home his point. “It’ll destroy them. That’s what we want, isn’t it?”

  Tresh’iondra smoothed red-black hair behind her ears. “Nonsense. Humans have had those staves for centuries, and it hasn’t destroyed them yet.”

  “They’ve been locked up!” Dess’man shouted. “Now they’re free. Look at what happened to Baltraine.”

  “Don’t judge all humans by one,” Vincelina at last added her piece. “That’s what we’re learning, right? They’re all different.”

  “The more I’m told they’re different,” Pree-han added, “the more they seem the same to me. Greedy, dirty, lumbering creatures who would sell their loved ones for gold and shiny rocks.”

  Khy’barreth glanced from one staff to the other. Dh’arlo’mé watched the blue eyes stray back to him. Finding Dh’arlo’mé returning his stare, Khy’barreth glared again.

  The discussion quickly degenerated into bickering, with each elf espousing his favorite suggestion and giving little heed to those of the others. Dh’arlo’mé contributed nothing, certain the proper course of action would come to him at length, whether or not the others reached an agreement. Ultimately, the decision rested in his hands.

  Khy’barreth touched the staff in the corner, running a finger along the smoothed wood, apparently curious. For several moments, Dh’arlo’mé watched in fascination as Khy’barreth drew gentle circles then, as the argument entered a fresh wave, closed his hand around it.

  “What are you doing, Khy’barreth Y’vrintae Shabeerah El-borin Morbonos?” Dh’arlo’mé asked beneath t
he quibbling.

  Khy’barreth looked up, expression innocent, and drew the staff between his legs. “I’m just looking at it.”

  “Careful,” Dh’arlo’mé warned.

  “I’m just looking at it,” Khy’barreth repeated, gaze straying to the other staff. “It’s not doing anything.”

  Dh’arlo’mé watched the other closely, more from curiosity than concern. Operating among humans had made him more leery of others’ actions, but it seemed foolish to worry about an elf. Other than Captain, who had lived among humans longer than among elves, his people operated as a unit. Khy’barreth would do nothing that might harm them, and Dh’arlo’mé could not help wondering about the effects of elves handling the staves, individually or as a pair. If Khy’barreth chose to volunteer for the experiment, Dh’arlo’mé saw little reason to stop him. Together, they could overpower him if something went awry. The image of Baltraine dying on the staff room floor entered Dh’arlo’mé’s mind then, easily dismissed. The untended torch had ignited Baltraine, and he had died of injury rather than through any direct intervention from the staves. Here, among colleagues, Khy’barreth could do himself little harm.

  Dh’arlo’mé eased away from the second staff.

  As if waiting for this signal, Khy’barreth lunged for it. “I’m tired of petty squabbling! An elf must wield the staves.” His hand closed over the second. “Behold!”

  Every head jerked up as Khy’barreth raised the Staves of Law and Chaos. Suddenly, his eyes jerked wide as saucers. A scream raged from his throat, merging into a continuous howl that pierced Dh’arlo’mé’s hearing.

  Dh’arlo’mé lunged for the second staff, trying to hammer it from Khy’barreth’s hand; but the fingers tightened around the wood, unyielding. Dh’arlo’mé cursed. “Silence him!” he shouted, concerned over whom the sound might draw. “Quickly!”

  Khohlar zipped through the room in an instant, strategy for a spell. A faint duet rose beneath the shrieks, and a louder voice sang magical melody to its beat. Khy’barreth’s mouth remained open, but no sound emerged. Unable to slap the staff from Khy’barreth’s bloodless fist, Dh’arlo’mé worried at the fingers. Nails gouged his flesh. A trickle of pink-red blood wound along the outline of his cuticle. At last, Khy’barreth’s grip failed. The staff slid across Dh’arlo’mé’s hand for only an instant, yet it seemed to possess him in that moment. He felt as if his spirit had been flayed open, then the exploration ended and the staff found him worthy. It promised him a partner without parallel, a brotherhood no one could sunder, power beyond his current ability to comprehend. Then it clattered to the floor.

  Khy’barreth went limp. Dh’arlo’mé caught him as he collapsed, lowering the elf gently to the carpet. The other staff rolled from flaccid fingers and lodged between desk and chair. For several shocked moments, no one moved. Khy’barreth’s eyes fluttered open. The gemlike eyes stared calmly at the others in the room, and he gathered himself from Dh’arlo’mé’s arms.

  Dh’arlo’mé sent single khohlar to Pree-han. *Get the staff and put it in the bottom drawer.* He sent the concept of caution along with his instructions.

  Pree-han sidled up to the staff lying half-beneath the desk, as if he approached a rearing snake. Doffing his cloak, he wrapped up the staff, placed it in the drawer, then resumed his seat with an obvious gesture of relief.

  *Toss me a cloak,* Dh’arlo’mé sent.

  Pree-han obeyed.

  Khy’barreth blinked several times, glancing about the room with a childish sense of wonderment. “Doo-doo-doo,” he crooned, like an infant learning to talk. “Dadadada.”

  Dh’arlo’mé set the cloak on the ground, cautiously using an edge to roll the staff to its center.

  *You need not fear me.*

  Dh’arlo’mé jerked away from the contact, and the elves shifted nervously at his back. He reached for the edges of the cloak, folding them over the wood. Hefting the whole, he headed for the drawer.

  *I won’t harm you,* the staff continued through the transfer. *I am law.*

  The words told Dh’arlo’mé nothing. Law would speak truth and chaos lies, so either would identify itself the same way. He would not fall into the same trap as Khy’barreth or Shadimar. He dumped the staff into the drawer with the other, and the presence retreated from his mind. Pushing the drawer shut, he instructed Dess’man. “Make a box for those.” He indicated the closed drawer. “Something thick with a heavy lock.” He glanced at Tresh’iondra. “Do what you can for Khy’barreth.”

  Tresh’iondra shook her head. “I’ve tried to communicate. I can’t. My khohlar seems to reverberate inside. It’s as if there’s nothing there.”

  “Lalalalalalalala,” Khy’barreth crooned.

  Dh’arlo’mé shivered, implications a jumble in his mind. He needed time to think.

  * * *

  Kevral felt eyes bore into her in the darkness, and she startled awake despite exhaustion. Moonlight through the damaged ceiling revealed shadowy figures shifting through the prison, the light occasionally sparkling from eyes like multicolored diamonds in a mine. Their steps made no sound on a mossy floor patterned to appear like carpet, and they did not whisper as humans observing prisoners might do.

  Having discerned as much as possible from her position, Kevral cautiously wriggled from beneath Ra-khir’s muscular arm. Immediately, she missed the warmth of his skin against her own; the faint, clean aroma of him, and the strong, loving draw of his embrace. Death would come as a whole new world opened before her, yet it would not find her a willing victim. She would never die a coward. She would haul every elf within reach to Hel or Valhalla with her.

  Kevral rose, gaze fixed on the elves as she donned her sodden breeks. She did not bother with the tunic, torn beyond usefulness. If her bared breasts distracted the enemy, so much the worse for them. Her state of dress would make no difference to her corpse or to the gods. Only the ferocity of the war she waged would matter.

  The pattern of the elves changed subtly, apparently in response to Kevral’s awakening. They drifted toward her and into a more compact arrangement, though still beyond clear sight. Ra-khir continued to sleep, his breaths breaking the silence. Kevral let him rest. Her love goaded her to allow him to die in glory, but, unlike her, he had no need to do so violently. Knight’s honor differed on this point, though it jibed on many others.

  Tensed for battle, Kevral waited for the elves to act first. When they did nothing more than make minor positional changes for longer than she would have believed possible, Kevral surrendered to impatience. “I’ve grown weary of your stares. If you’re going to kill us, have at us already.”

  Fidgeting followed Kevral’s challenge. Finally, one elf shuffled directly in front of her cage, glancing nervously right and left for support. Inky hair dangled to skinny shoulders, red highlights sparked by the moon. Enormous yellow-white eyes met Kevral’s blue, then skittered away. Despite his obvious anxiety, he maintained the flowing grace that defined elfin movement. He appeared androgynous, as all elves, yet something undefined told Kevral he was male. “Hello,” he said, without malice.

  Kevral kept her expression stony. “I believe we’re way past greetings.”

  The elf blinked, thin lids lowering like a film over eyes that appeared as large as dinner plates in a too-small face. He continued as if Kevral had not interrupted, using the Northern tongue without accent. “I am Haleeyan Sh’borith Nimriel T’mori Na-kira. Your friend, Brenna, called me Hal.”

  Kevral recognized the false name Rantire had claimed during her captivity. Hope trickled past suspicion, and the expectation of an immediate battle receded. Rantire had mentioned that, toward the middle of her captivity, a few of the elves had befriended her, listening raptly to her nightly stories. For the most part, she had relayed tales of heroism, with Colbey Calistinsson as their focus. “My name is Kevral.” She waved vaguely in the direction of her sleeping companion. “Ra-khir.”

  Apparently awakened by the conversation, Ra-khir completed his
title in the common trading tongue. “Ra-khir Kedrin’s son apprentice knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Kohleran.” Clambering to his feet, he pulled on his britches, then held open his tunic for Kevral to wear. She allowed him to place the fabric over her head and worked her arms into the sleeves. It fluttered into place like a blanket, the hem dangling to her knees.

  Another elf stepped directly in front of the cell, this one with sapphire eyes and hair the color of straw. Again, Kevral could not define the details that identified his gender. He wore a curved sword at his hip. “A name worthy of an elf.”

  Restive laughter followed from the sidelines, and even Kevral smiled.

  “What did he say?” Ra-khir moved up beside Kevral, every muscle of his chest and abdomen defined. His closeness and the smell of him evoked memories of the previous evening. The pain of losing her virginity had proved less than Kevral expected, especially compared with the wounds she had taken in spar and battle. It had seemed to bother Ra-khir more. The pleasure that had followed made the brief discomfort worthwhile. In the end, she had suffered it gladly.

  “What did he say?” Ra-khir repeated in a harsh whisper the elves could surely hear. He did not speak the Northern tongue.

  Kevral’s smile persisted as she switched fluently to common trading. In everything she did, she strove for perfection. “Basically, he said your name is as long as theirs. His is about fifteen syllables.”

  Ra-khir grinned, too, though sheepishly. “Something to be proud of.” He added, placing the conversation back on a serious note, “So they’re not planning to kill us immediately?”

  “Apparently not.” Kevral returned her attention to the elves and the Northern tongue. “What do you want from us?”

  The blue-eyed elf glanced at Ra-khir, then said in trading, “I speak your language.” His singsong softened the harsher consonants. “And we mean you no harm. My name is Eth’morand . . .” He trailed off, not bothering to voice a sequence that would likely prove impossible for human memory. “I’m a follower of Lav’rintir, once Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor, the elf you call Captain.” He made a circular motion that indicated every elf currently gathered in the prison. “We all are.”