Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The world closed in on Tae, and the cool touch of earth surrounded him. He smelled the fresh clean aroma of turned soil and realized he had crawled halfway through the escape tunnel. He froze there, torn between his word and his need. For several moments he engaged in a mental argument that would have seemed foolish under other circumstances. I gave my word, yet who could better understand vows broken than a man who organizes criminals. But even my father won’t abide men he cannot trust. My father. It was a vow to my father. Tae shifted backward, wriggling carefully through the tunnel and emerging into his sleeping chamber. Resigned, he reached for a corner of the ticking and tensed to slide it back into position. It was not his own struggle, but Kevral’s words, that stopped him: “No father who loved his son would force him to stay against his will.” She had insisted his time with his father would change who he was. And, like so many times before, she was right.

  Glancing at the dresser, Tae found his compromise. He reached it in a stride, yanked open the top drawer, and removed parchment and stylus. Sitting on the bed, he tried to compose something that could make his father understand the betrayal. He sought the words to define the need to find freedom before he could truly commit himself to his father’s path. Seven languages failed him, and the eighth gave him only two words. He scrawled those in Eastern, their native tongue: “I’m sorry.” It seemed woefully inadequate, but he could manage nothing more. Leaving note and stylus on the ticking, he headed into the tunnel. And never looked back.

  * * *

  Weile Kahn found the note in the early hours of dawn and crumpled it in a bloodless fist. He stared at the escape tunnel beyond the crooked ticking that had once covered it. The dark hole seemed to look back at him, unwinking, unfeeling.

  A knock shuddered through the hideout, the pattern code unmistakably Kinya’s. Weile remained in position while Daxan attended to the knock and, moments later, his most trusted confederate stood beside him. Kinya touched his leader’s arm with a casualness that made the motion seem accidental, but Weile knew better. He appreciated the comforting. His bodyguards would notice the contact; their job required it. But they would not read the caring conveyed by such a simple gesture.

  Weile let the fragments of parchment flutter from his fingers. He looked at Kinya, forcing regimented hardness into his expression. “Tell the men to find him.” He managed to keep his voice from breaking. “And to kill him.” Lesser punishment for betrayal would only make him appear weak. The ruthlessness of the men he led would not allow it.

  Kinya pursed his lips. A glimmer in his eyes revealed a compassion his face would never show and his lips would never speak. He understood. “Right away, sir.” He responded as crisply as he would to any command. “I’ll return afterward to deliver the daily report.”

  Weile nodded. Ordinarily, he would have courteously allowed Kinya to report before relaying an order, to save a commander who was also a friend a long, arduous trip. This time, however, he needed some time alone. Kinya would understand that, too. Security could grow lax this once. They would need to create new quarters anyway.

  Alsrusett escorted Kinya out while Daxan handled the morning rituals. Alone, at least for the moment, Weile kept his back to the door and silently wept.

  * * *

  Woodlands thinned, giving way to sawtoothed crags that swiftly turned from distant skyline to reality. Lit red against the dusk, mountains swallowed the three dozen lysalf and two humans, and excitement plied the usually placid apprentice knight of Erythane until he could scarcely contain the urge to sing. Doing so would besmirch his dignity, as well as draw potential enemies, so Ra-khir resisted. Long practice and training made the restraint simpler than the fluttering in his gut and the waves of exhilaration suggested. He turned to Kevral, only to find her crouched at the edge of a scraggly cache of trees and weeds, more like an out-of-control garden than forest. Her hand kneaded her sword hilt, and her expression seemed strangely sullen for their nearness to Béarn. “What’s wrong?”

  The concern in Ra-khir’s voice drew the attention of several elves. These studied him through jeweled eyes of varying hues.

  “We’ve been noticed.” Kevral spoke quickly, head cocked to catch the last rustles of movement. “Youngish male. Béarnide by size and coloring.”

  Ra-khir considered the words, feeling foolish for his need to ask, yet unable to sort likelihoods. High emotions, an exhausting swim that would have proved impossible without the lysalf’s magic, and constant battles had left little time for speculation. “Is that bad?”

  Kevral stepped back, finally turning her attention to Ra-khir. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Depends whether Griff made it to Béarn. Depends on what happened while we were gone. And it depends on what the svartalf have managed.” She made no move to follow the spy. “He wasn’t wearing colors.”

  Ra-khir nodded. Not a guard or official. “Should we keep going?”

  Kevral sucked in a deep breath, loosing it slowly as she considered. Renshai politics gave her no insight into strategy or intrigue, but her time with the party, and especially with Tae, did. “Béarnides don’t usually scout their borders, especially citizens. If he’s willing to risk fighting Easterners by coming this far from town, he’s got a reason.”

  Ra-khir had more familiarity from which to speculate. “Which suggests there’s some sort of division, most likely involving the throne.” He glanced around at the elves, most of whom watched him, unblinking. He would not drag them into a dispute which might not involve them. “For the moment, we seem safe enough here. Better to let them come to us.”

  “Night doesn’t seem the best time to enter a contested kingdom with a group this size.” Kevral opened her arms to indicate the elves.

  Especially when most don’t fight. One of the great disadvantages of the lysalf, Ra-khir had noticed, was that they tended to encompass the most peaceful of the elves. Violence did worse than appall them; they seemed almost unable to comprehend it. “We’ll have to watch in shifts.” Ra-khir motioned to indicate the two of them. The elves would provide scant assistance in this situation. “See who comes and what we can find out from them. We’ve got a definite stake in this. We’ll have to be careful who we affront or befriend.” He spoke casually, so as not to offend Kevral yet still get across the need for guarded courtesy in all dealings. He did not so much worry that Kevral might fall prey to the wrong side as that she might attack an ally for no worse crime than eavesdropping.

  “I’ll take first watch.” Kevral nodded, giving Ra-khir only this scant reassurance.

  “All right.” The order did not matter, but it seemed likely that whoever had spied before would require time to report back or to gather companions. That might assure he did not return until Ra-khir’s watch. Or, perhaps, conflict will force them to muster more quickly. It seemed useless to surmise, so Ra-khir gathered a blanket, bunched it into a pillow, and sought sleep.

  Kevral yielded her watch to Ra-khir after the sun disappeared from the sky, leaving the mountains looking like giant’s teeth against the blackness. Shortly after, a man stepped carefully from a stand of crooked trees, wearing a gray cloak with the hood drawn over his face. Had he come from any other direction, Ra-khir would have assumed him an Easterner. Despite Kevral’s description, the stranger stood shorter and narrower than himself, certainly no Béarnide. He moved with a caution bordering on fear, though he made no attempt to hide. The overt approach held Ra-khir from immediately summoning Kevral. For the moment, he watched in silence.

  The newcomer’s head turned in tiny increments as his gaze swept the gathered elves. Then, his eyes found Ra-khir, and his attention remained there. He made the undulating gesture that passed for distant greeting in the West lands, then picked his way toward the knight’s apprentice.

  Ra-khir made a crisper, brisker motion, more acknowledgment than welcome. He waited for the other to draw closer, gaze scanning the area for hidden threats.

  At length, the newcomer drew up just beyond sword range. He
shook off the hood, spilling light brown hair, in curls, to his shoulders. Bangs spiraled across his forehead, hiding his brows, but the keen hazel eyes, large nose, and broad lips were unmistakable.

  “Darris?” Ra-khir dropped all pretenses and swept his friend into a warm embrace. Joy forced a quiet laugh. “Darris.”

  “These are Captain’s followers.” Darris nodded, apparently having handled his own question and not requiring answer from Ra-khir. “He was right.”

  “Captain’s with you?” Ra-khir hoped the question would spur more than the obvious.

  “Not at the moment.” Darris glanced behind him, as if to confirm his own words. He made an exaggerated beckoning motion with both hands. “He’s back at the safe house with Matrinka, Griff, and Rantire.”

  Ra-khir grinned, hopes further buoyed by the realization he could now account for all of his companions and could turn his attention to the situation in Béarn. “What’s going on?”

  “Wait.” Darris needed his own reassurances first. “Kevral’s with you, right?”

  A Béarnide stepped from the brush where Darris had appeared. Also swathed in cloak and hood, he headed toward them.

  Ra-khir fixed his gaze on the Béarnide who seemed a bit too small and definitely too confident for Griff or Matrinka. “Yes.”

  “So that leaves only—”

  Ra-khir finished the thought. “Tae. He’s well.” Ra-khir’s gut churned at the mention.

  “He’s here, too?”

  “No.” Ra-khir folded his arms across his seething abdomen and pursed his lips. “He’s joined up with his father. On the dark elves’ side.”

  “Oh.” Darris looked carefully into Ra-khir’s eyes, as if to read something unspoken.

  The intense scrutiny snapped something. Anger wilted to sorrow in an instant, and tears pooled against Ra-khir’s lids. The reaction startled even him.

  Darris caught his old companion into another embrace, this time more comforting than exhilarated. “I’m sorry.”

  The dam finally broke, allowing a wellspring of questions. “How could he do that? How could he choose the company of criminals over us?”

  Ra-khir could feel Darris’ swallow against his shoulder. “Ra-khir, we are talking about Tae.”

  Ra-khir loosed a small, snorting laugh. “Of all people, I should understand that.” They had first met Tae when he spied on the party, without even Kevral’s knowledge, and learned about Béarn’s dilemma. They would have killed him had he not managed to elude them in the woods. His motivation for joining them had seemed nonsensical, and Ra-khir had refused the companionship the others had finally forced him to allow. Even then, he had never trusted the Easterner, withholding information from him, waiting for the moment when Tae betrayed the party. That time had finally come when Ra-khir discovered Tae’s real reason for assisting was to hide among them and use the armed party to dispatch his own enemies. Twice Ra-khir had tried to goad Tae into a duel, and twice the Easterner had refused a challenge no man of honor could. Left without options, Ra-khir had driven Tae away, which upset every member of the group: some because it left an enemy alive to interfere and others because they liked and forgave Tae. Since that time, Tae had proved his loyalty in so many ways, Ra-khir not only trusted him, but considered him a true friend. Now, all the old suspicion returned, accompanied by a bitter sadness that weighted the knight-in-training like poorly constructed armor.

  “Kevral says Tae’s father made him choose between staying or killing us.” Ra-khir shook his head, glancing over Darris to the waiting Béarnide and keeping his voice low. He refused to share such information with a stranger not yet introduced. “But I think she’s covering for him. No man would inflict that on his son.” He thought of his own father, Knight-Captain Kedrin, whose honor had forced him to silence while Ra-khir’s mother first denied his existence for a stepfather, then defended her substitution by denigrating Kedrin. That same awesome honor had condemned Kedrin to Béarn’s prison. Ra-khir’s train of thought raised concerns that dedication to duty had thrust aside for longer than seemed possible. He hoped desperately that his father still lived and would somehow find freedom from the very justice he had pledged his soul to protect, though it had wronged him.

  The tears came faster, and warped images stretched through the blur Ra-khir’s vision had become. He saw his mother, the freckles on her face adding character to the beauty of her large eyes, long lashes, and pouty lips. His love for her had turned gradually to hatred as he uncovered the lies and cruelties she had inflicted upon Kedrin and on her only son. Her ultimatum had severed the last of their ties: when he turned seventeen and finally managed to recreate a relationship with his father, she had demanded that Ra-khir choose between her and Kedrin. That decision had been the simplest of his life. He had scarcely thought of her since, yet her image came to him now, bringing a raw and unsortable mixture of emotion.

  As memory assailed Ra-khir, he realized why thoughts of his mother rose now. If Kevral spoke truth, Tae’s father closely resembled the mother Ra-khir wished only to avoid. Sorrow burst into sympathy as well as rage. He pitied Tae’s choice, at the same time cursing his friend’s concept of honor. The father should never have forced such a demand, yet neither should Tae have yielded to it.

  Darris released Ra-khir, then glanced past him. Ra-khir did not bother to turn. Several elves were probably studying Darris, their gemlike eyes gleaming in the moonlight an unnerving sight to one not yet accustomed to them. Fourteen of the lysalf, like Captain, did not require sleep. Darris seemed relieved to have cause to focus elsewhere. He looked at the Béarnian stranger, touching his arm and drawing him nearer to Ra-khir. “This is Baynard. He comes from a long line of Béarnian soldiers, but he left his position due to politics.”

  Baynard tossed down his hood to reveal a boyishly round, pudgy face. His black hair clung to the cloth, and strands stood on end as the hood fell against his back. Ra-khir estimated he was in his early twenties.

  Probably because of the length of his title, Darris left Ra-khir to his own introduction.

  “Ra-khir of Erythane, son of Knight-Captain Kedrin and apprentice knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty . . .” Ra-khir nearly said “King Kohleran” from habit, but Darns’ frown and head shake stayed him. Instead, he looked askance at his friend.

  “. . . Griff,” Darris supplied, “but don’t say that around anyone but us. Leave it as Kohleran.”

  The words surprised Ra-khir. “King Kohleran still lives?” Colbey Calistinsson had led them to believe otherwise.

  Baynard glanced at Darris. “He’s safe, right?”

  “Undeniably.”

  Accepting that, Baynard addressed Ra-khir. “That’s what the elves would have us believe. It’s a long story, and it’s best to get all of you to a safe place first. Then, we can talk.”

  “All right.” Ra-khir had no difficulty with the logic. “Where would you have us go?”

  Baynard took over the preparations, leaving Darris visibly relieved. So far, he had stuck with simple details that did not require his bard talents to describe. Plotting or discussion would drive him beyond speech and into music. “A group this big would attract attention, if it hasn’t already. We’ll have to break it down to bunches of two to six. We’ve got a supply of scarves, and darkness will help hide the elves. They’re too slight to pass for men, so we’ll have to make them look like ladies.”

  Ra-khir nodded.

  Darris headed back toward the trees for equipment while Baynard finished elaborating the plan. “Ra-khir, we thought you’d come with us on the first run. The Renshai can stay and guard the elves.”

  The idea of hiding out in a safe house while Kevral remained vulnerable rankled, despite the knowledge that she was the superior fighter. “I can help with each group.”

  “No.” Baynard ran a hand through his hair, shuffling errant strands back into place. “You don’t know enough history to talk your way out if we get caught.
You’re anything but the first volunteer. Darris and I can handle this. Any more bodies just makes the job harder.”

  Ra-khir conceded reluctantly. “All right. I’ll let Kevral and the elves know what’s happening. Let’s get this started.”

  Baynard whispered, softly enough that Ra-khir questioned what he heard, “And may the gods be with us.”

  * * *

  By the time dawn paraded its colors across the mountain skyline, no one remained at the border camp. Most of the elves huddled quietly in various basements, attics, and lofts. Each group contained at least one who spoke the common trading tongue. The humans congregated together along with half a dozen elves, including Captain. Ra-khir sat at a rickety table, nostrils assailed by the odors of must and damp. Baynard, Darris, and Captain took the other positions around it. Matrinka perched on a nearby chair, stroking Mior. The cat sprawled across her mistress’ legs, head upside down to expose her neck, limbs extended to utilize the entire expanse. Kevral hunkered at Matrinka’s side. The elves occupied various places on the floor. Three Béarnides, all strangers to Ra-khir, knelt, stood, or leaned near Baynard and Darris. Griff rested on a pile of sleeping rags in a corner, Rantire ever vigilant at his side.

  The positioning injured Ra-khir’s courtly sensibilities. It bothered him that the King of Béarn sat on the floor while others had furniture, but he did not voice his opinion on the matter. Griff seemed happy in the place he had chosen. Too much lay at stake to argue details of order and manner now.

  The oldest of the Béarnides, a middle-aged, scar-faced carver named Davian, spoke first. “Our work last night won’t go long unnoticed. We’re going to have to make our move today.”