Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The last of Kevral’s animosity faded. Apparently reading her moods by stance and attitude, more elves crowded closer to the cell. Now Kevral recognized females among them, though the visual cues that separated gender continued to elude her. Their long-limbed grace, large canted eyes, and soft alien features brought an image of beauty to her mind, though it struck her more as the attractive innocence of children. “Thank you for helping us rescue our friends.”

  “We did not help,” Eth’morand corrected quickly. “We simply did nothing.”

  “That was enough.” Kevral drew breath to quote Colbey: There exists no such thing as a neutral warrior. By not assisting one side, you are, by definition, assisting the other. Once, Kevral had found no sense in those words; now the meaning became clear. By withdrawing their voices and power from the elves’ chant, they had effectively ruined Dh’arlo’mé’s sleep spell and allowed Kevral and her companions to escape. In a way, their lack of action won the battle. Even as she analyzed it, Kevral chose to keep the quotation to herself. Raising guilt among creatures with little understanding of individuality might drive them back to unify as enemies.

  A young, black-haired elf jumped in then. “Brenna said me Dhyan.” He pronounced it “Zjon.” Unlike the others, he came right to the point, still using the human trading language, though badly. “Help us Lav’rintir with, we out you.” Eyes as blue and steady as Eth’morand’s beseeched her.

  Eth’morand translated. “He means we’ll let you go if you promise to lead us to Captain.”

  Kevral would have given much more for her freedom. In fact, she had once done so in Pudar, vowing to train the king’s soldiers in exchange for release from his prison. “Agreed.”

  Hal glanced to his left, making a high gesture with his right arm but saying nothing aloud. Kevral watched as the elves passed an object hand to hand, recognizable as an oddly shaped key by the time it reached Dhyan. He gave it to Eth’morand, who placed it in the lock and twisted. The mechanism gave with a hiss rather than the anticipated click. He removed it, and the door swung open. The elves skittered aside.

  Kevral stepped out of the cell, Ra-khir at her heels. Her heart pounded as she observed the wave of elves standing or perched on chunks of broken construction, many of whom appeared torn between welcoming and running. Kevral estimated a dozen elves filled the area, some with swords at their belts. Her eyes were drawn naturally to the weapons, and the first stirrings of envy drove her to think of snatching one away if the opportunity offered.

  Eth’morand followed the track of Kevral’s attention easily, then met her gaze with eyes that did not blink or waver. “It is we who owe you gratitude from that battle. You could have killed many of us, but you chose to wound instead.” Reading her need, he unbuckled his belt and passed her his own weapon. His mind touched hers, relaying concepts he seemed unable to put into words. He communicated hope that her mercy would persist and a reminder that the death of an elfin adult translated to destruction of every infant destined to bear that spirit.

  Kevral accepted the sword and belt, fastening it over the folds of Ra-khir’s tunic. Eagerly, she closed her hand around the haft. Constructed solely of metal, it swiftly warmed to her grip, coils settling against callus. She would not have chosen a similar weapon in the market. The hilt fit her hand poorly, and it would grow slippery in battle, slick with blood and sweat. The guard held too little depth, and its reverse slant could allow her hand to slide onto the blade. She drew it only partway, disappointed with a balance too near the tip. Not wishing to threaten her new companions, she let the blade slide back into its sheath. Excitement thrilled through her despite the inferiority of the weapon. She held a sword.

  Eth’morand’s mental communication radiated trust and grew swiftly into a bond that came as much from the deep respect and ultimate faith that voluntarily handing over his own sword displayed. On rare occasions, Renshai still joined brotherhoods based on Northern custom. A tie created in that manner represented a camaraderie stronger than blood. Though they had exchanged no vows, Kevral could not help feeling similarly linked to an elf she scarcely knew. She tried to reassure him. “It would dishonor your weapon and yourself for me to use it to slaughter your kin. I respect you too much to allow that to happen.”

  Eth’morand smiled, his khohlar now a vast gratitude conveyed in an instant. Another sword found its way to Ra-khir’s hand, though no one pressed him for a similar vow, at least not that Kevral heard. Out of the prison they spilled in a group, into the chilliness not yet dispelled by the dawning sun. Colors blossomed on the horizon, blues giving way to greens, then vast spectrums of yellow to red. Beyond the bands, pink sky disappeared amid the trees, the whole occasionally disrupted by fleecy clouds. The packed earth had absorbed the night’s coldness, icy against Kevral’s bare feet. None of that mattered. She had her freedom and a sword, and a Renshai thus armed could face any enemy.

  As the last of Lav’rintir’s followers filed from the prison, elves on the outside gathered in larger numbers. Some stared from the trees. Others banded together, forming a semicircle around the emerging elves and human prisoners turned companions. Khohlar bounced and echoed through Kevral’s head, and she felt bombarded by conflicting concepts. Her human mind seemed incapable of deciphering communication at such a speed. She recognized alarm, anger, and question. Threat vacillated with vows of peace, though which group radiated which, Kevral could not tell. Tedious names flashed to her as a sensation that separated individual from group, yet bound them together simultaneously. Then the whole degenerated into an incomprehensible muddle.

  One mind-voice cut over the others, demanding a silence that swiftly followed. This time, Kevral found a source, an elf larger than most of the others with an aura of authority and age. Silver hair swept back from his features, and violet eyes pinned Eth’morand. His khohlar demanded explanation from this one elf alone.

  Eth’morand obliged, also choosing general mental communication. *We are leaving, Vrin’thal’ros Obtrinéos Pruthrandius Tel’Amorak.* The tone that accompanied his response conveyed respect for an elder that scarcely matched his words.

  Kevral appreciated the method. Had they spoken in their native tongue, she and Ra-khir could not have understood them. The Erythanian placed his hand over hers where her fingers kneaded her hilt. With a touch, he conveyed the need for patience.

  Only then, Kevral recognized that she perched on the brink of violence. Fatigue spurred irritability and robbed her of the mental control that was as much a part of Renshai training as sword work. She let go of the hilt. In a crisis, she could draw and cut in the time it took any ganim, non-Renshai, to perform only the former. For the moment, however, no one had done anything more violent than make vague, unspecified threats. If war resulted, she would hack a path through the elves, killing every enemy or dying in the effort. But she would not be the one who initiated the battle.

  *You may not leave,* Vrin’thal’ros commanded. *You will escort the prisoners back to their cell and apologize to your brothers and sisters.*

  *No.* Eth’morand did not waver. Elves on both sides stared silently at the conversants, their multicolored, gemstone eyes eerie in the growing light. If they judged at all, they did so only in their own minds or with singular khohlar.

  *What madness this?* Shock and anger tinged Vrin’thal’ros’ mental voice. *You did not refuse. You cannot.*

  Eth’morand’s hands folded over his chest, a human gesture. *I can, and I did. Step aside.* Despite his demand, he still sent the deferential notion of a youngster addressing an elder.

  *You may not leave.*

  Eth’morand glanced back at his followers for support, which he received as a subtle sea of nods. Kevral kept her gaze fixed on Vrin’thal’ros, daring him to attack while Eth’morand dropped his guard.

  Buoyed by the endorsement, Eth’morand continued, *If you oppose us, we will fight.*

  Kevral deliberately placed her hand on her sword hilt to back up Eth’morand’s threat. Many of
the elves had suffered blows from the flat or hilt of her blade.

  *Don’t let these humans addle you. Wait for Dh’arlo’mé’s return. He’ll undo the magic these evil creatures have cast upon you.*

  *That’s nonsense,* Eth’morand signified. *We made our decision long before these two arrived. Humans have no magic. I, and these others, believe peace can exist between us. Dh’arlo’mé’s methods guarantee the destruction of our race or theirs.* Strength replaced Eth’morand’s anxiety, and his words became as much plea as explanation. *Probably ours. We are the lysalf, the light elves. And we believe elves should shed their bitterness and become the tranquil, compassionate folk we once were. We still believe in peace.*

  Kevral could not help noticing how the swifter communication allowed long points to reach conclusion without angry interruption. A human in argument would never have let another say so much.

  *You are fools,* Vrin’thal’ros sent back. *Serenely oblivious, you walk into a wolf’s jaws bearing an apple as a gift. We cannot let you go. You deserve the deaths you bring upon yourselves, but we cannot tolerate the permanent oblivion you cause those whose souls you borrow. The future of our children rests on your mistake.*

  *Or yours,* Eth’morand sent in khohlar. *Whether we are wrong or you are, one group of us will die. No matter how right you believe your stance, we trust ours as strongly. Surely, it stands in the best interests of elfinkind . . .* The rest of the concept degenerated into elfin experience. Kevral’s best comparison suggested she finish the idea with . . . to plow different rows.

  Vrin’thal’ros returned to absolutes. *We cannot let you go.*

  Eth’morand sent a message of sorrow. *You can stop us only by killing us. We deeply regret the loss of ours, yours, and all of our children. Let history show you left us without choice.*

  Vrin’thal’ros’ eyes widened, a particularly emotional gesture for an elf. *Elves cannot kill elves.*

  Eth’morand said nothing, and Kevral approved of the strategy. Silence here told more than words. Hal, however, broke the effect. *Once elves could kill no one. Dh’arlo’mé changed that. If you force our hands, we will attack.*

  Now, khohlar sang around them again. Kevral recognized only horror from the voices, a grim realization that such action would violate history, propriety, law, and a philosophy as old as the world.

  Vrin’thal’ros silenced his followers with a wave. *There will be no war among elves.*

  A hush trailed his khohlar, stretching beyond human decorum, to impertinence, and finally beyond Kevral’s endurance. She fidgeted, squeezing Ra-khir’s hand to keep from resorting to force.

  At length, Vrin’thal’ros continued as if he had never paused. *I have no choice but to let the traitors go with the following vow: that you will never reveal Nualfheim to humans nor pass them knowledge they could use to destroy us. You are elves no longer, but lav’rintii, the followers of Lav’rintir.*

  Kevral caught the underlying message as well. The word apparently meant “destroyers of the peace” in elfin.

  Eth’morand relaxed noticeably, and he conveyed gratitude for rescuing them from the need for violence. *We agree to the vow, but not the label. To our minds, we will remain the elves and you bha’fraktii.* It meant “those who court their doom.” *As compromise, we may wish to use the terminology of history: lysalf and svartalf.*

  The last two terms Kevral recognized from the human Northern tongue. The first meant light elves and the second dark elves.

  Genuine regret assailed Vrin’thal’ros’ projected thoughts. *Good-bye, lav’rintii.* He ignored the compromise as if Eth’morand had never spoken it. *We will not assist you, but neither will we harm you. Your souls are too precious.* The method of communication refined the intention of the words, Vrin’thal’ros and his followers cared nothing for those they considered traitors, only for the future lives their spirits represented.

  The lysalf headed for the beach, surrounded by curious svartalf who made no move to stop them. Nevertheless, Kevral remained at the back of the group with Ra-khir. Any threat to those who wished to leave would meet with swift violence. Whether from fear of Kevral’s sword or some depth of elfin honor, no one attempted to stop Captain’s followers. And, by the time they reached the water, their ranks had swelled to thirty-five.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ravin’s Promise

  I am more capable today than yesterday.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Griff’s sorrow haunted him long after his companions’ conversations turned from Baltraine to security. The unforeseen loss of the staff-test had gutted their plans, leaving them little in the way of options. Returning by the means they had entered might buy them time but no information, and every day they delayed might result in more executions of Béarnian citizens. Remaining inside the castle would give them an advantage, yet it would place their security, and Griff’s, at risk.

  Even Griff could see the folly of trapping themselves with a corpse in a closet-sized room on the main thoroughfare. While the others turned their attention to finding a new base, Griff continued to suffer the grief inspired by Baltraine’s revelations and desperate need for forgiveness. Soon the heir’s thoughts wandered, sadness a fog that deafened him to his companions’ discussion. He pictured his mother, her plump curves defining safety, her dark hair swept back into a knot, and her brown eyes moist with concern. By now, worry creased her face into wrinkles that might never fade. After the deaths of Griff’s father and brother in a plowing accident, she had protected him with the fierceness of a wolf with a newborn cub. What little money the farm earned for them went to a string of laborers who took over any chore that might present a hazard to him. The last of these became his stepfather. And Griff was not allowed to leave his mother’s sight except for one sanctuary beyond the trees, still well within the sound of her call.

  As he considered the agony his disappearance had caused his mother, tears dripped from Griff’s eyes. His mind shifted naturally to the Grove. He had gone there as often as possible, finding solace amid the ribbon of stream, the trees, and the deadfalls perfectly preserved in memory. There, too, he had discovered the only friend his protected lifestyle allowed. For years, Griff had believed Ravn a figment of his imagination. The blond’s sudden entrances and exits, the fact that no one else knew of his existence, and his strangeness convinced Griff he had conjured his friend from need. Ravn had taught him the names of plants and animals, how to recognize birds by their calls, and trivial details about the animals on the farm. Most of these facts. Griff believed, had come from suppressed memories—details his father had explained before his death that grief had relegated to the deepest corners of Griff’s mind.

  Then the elves had come. First, they had tried to drown Griff. Only Ravn’s lightning swordplay had rescued him from certain death. That was the first time Griff wondered about the reality of his “imaginary” friend. On the elves’ second attempt, a black bird had swooped from the sky, chasing them from a Grove swiftly losing its comfort as retreat and haven. Griff’s concerns for his own sanity drove him there one last time, and the elves had captured him without a struggle. His mother might find nothing to explain his disappearance, just as the blood and corpses had vanished before Griff dragged his stepfather to witness the results of Ravn’s battle.

  Griff’s thoughts brought him swiftly back to the elves’ dungeon where Ravn had guarded him with fanatical devotion. Rantire’s conversations with Ravn had revealed the truth. Griff’s “make believe” friend was the son of Colbey Calistinsson and his wife, Freya. The boy with whom Griff had tussled and competed, to whom he had confided his deepest secrets, and to whom he often believed he owed his sanity was a god. Bold words, commitment, and promises had gained Rantire Ravn’s trust and his charge. Griff desperately missed his best friend and worried about his mother’s health.

  Need drew Griff from his self-imposed isolation. He found himself crammed in one corner, arms hugging his torso and legs drawn to his abdomen. Politely,
he awaited a lull in his companions’ discussion before adding his piece. “Perhaps there’s a place of worship nearby?”

  All eyes turned to Griff. Captain nodded thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “You mean going to a temple?” Matrinka supplied.

  “Don’t elves worship the same gods?” Darris questioned next.

  Captain made an equivocal gesture. “The same gods, yes. Worship, no. Elves have a different sort of relationship with Frey and the others.” He glanced at Darris pointedly. “This is not the time for a long explanation.”

  The bard looked disappointed.

  “It’s enough to know elves don’t pray. And they don’t build temples.”

  Matrinka confirmed the choice with more information. “The castle temple’s a secure place, too. Except on holy days, it’s usually empty. No one’s likely to be there now, and it’s impossible for anyone to enter without warning. No matter how many times they’re oiled, the hinges squeak. The heavy doors slam, and the handles crash against the panels louder than any thunder. My father used to complain that the priests made them that way just to embarrass anyone who came to services late.” A bittersweet smile bowed her lips. “It’s the only place my father was ever on time.”

  Cutting through the unnecessary chatter, Rantire inclined her head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  The others obeyed immediately, while night still covered Béarn. Matrinka had explained that servants wandered the halls at all hours, but the nobles and general staff would disappear at night. The few guards stationed inside the castle would concentrate in the sleeping areas, especially the king’s quarters.