Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The clinging warmth of the castle assailed Kevral, and sweat seemed to burst from her skin with the first few steps. The familiar tapestries and frescoes seemed eerily strange, spanning walls and ceiling, incorporating doors and archways into the pictures. Historical scenes paraded before her, centuries revealed in vivid images. Golden-haired reavers, clearly Renshai, slaughtered Westerners, heroically battling to their final breaths. In the next battle, the few Renshai assisted the West against waves of Eastern warriors in armor of black leather. One brilliant tapestry displayed four Wizards, their hair gray, their coarse faces defining age, and their eyes shrewd with wisdom beyond mortal understanding. Animals surrounded them, representing the realms of earth, water, and air.

  The guard led them to the council’s meeting room rather than the court, as Kevral had expected. The choice confounded her, but Kedrin nodded sagely. Another guard awaited them at the door, this one dressed in the uniform of the inner court and armed with a sword instead of a polearm.

  The halberdier explained, “Prime Minister Dh’arlo’mé believed you would feel more comfortable here.”

  Prime Minister Dh’arlo’mé. Kevral quivered with disgust and rage.

  Kedrin’s nostrils flared, and his hands closed to fists. Otherwise, he took no notice of the insult to Béarn’s nobility. “He is correct. Thank you.”

  “Good luck,” the halberdier hissed. “Please don’t think too harshly of those tricked by magic.” Without awaiting a reply, he swept down the hallway.

  Kevral shook her head, impressed by the respect a fallen knight-captain still commanded. The guard’s words had bordered on treason, and it seemed ludicrous to expect him to believe such an outlandish story on faith. Kevral realized she had no way to know how suspicious those who worked inside the castle might have become. Distance might make the populace easy to fool, but the guards and courtiers had surely noticed some changes.

  The guard opened the meeting room door and ushered the renegade contingent inside. Kevral peered around Kedrin’s broad form to a semicircular table. An elf sat at the head position, red-blond hair hanging to his shoulders and a single green eye studying the knight-captain. He clutched a staff in a casually loose grip. A burning hatred started low in her stomach and crept through her like a poison. Two elves sat at either hand, their eyes glittering in the torchlight and their expressions wholly unreadable. Kevral scanned them for weapons, finding nothing other than the leader’s staff, which seemed more walking aid than armament. So far, it seemed, the elves had dealt with them honestly. That did not reassure Kevral who believed the candor only an attempt to lull them. She sought hidden enemies in a room too small to hold them and finally realized why Kedrin felt more comfortable here than in the court.

  “Dh’arlo’mé’s the one in the middle,” Captain whispered unnecessarily.

  Kevral glared as her companions filed into the room. A three-chair gap remained between the last elf on each side and the first human. Kevral placed herself nearest one of the elves, a white-haired, blue-eyed male, keeping Matrinka and Mior beside her.

  Dh’arlo’mé remained seated, quietly scrutinizing each member of the contingent. When the last, Tae, had finally entered, Dh’arlo’mé signaled the guard to close the door. The swordsman obeyed, leaving himself outside.

  Matrinka nudged Kevral with an elbow. “Staff,” she murmured.

  Kevral’s attention slid back to the only one in the room, in Dh’arlo’mé’s fist. It looked no different than before, remarkable only for its absolute plainness. It posed no threat she could not counter. Kevral gathered breath to reassure Matrinka. Understanding registered then, leaving her wordless and suspicious. “Is it one from the staff-test?”

  “Don’t know,” Matrinka returned in a nearly inaudible hiss. “Couldn’t be sure without holding it. Might need both to tell.” Her eyes revealed the terror her tone did not. Leaving Béarn to search for Griff had spared her the second staff-testing that had ravaged those few of King Kohleran’s heirs who had survived the elves’ assassinations. Taking both staves in hand now could drive her to the same insanity.

  Kedrin frowned at the whispering girls and shook his head, a quiet plea for decorum. Kevral and Matrinka fell silent.

  Dh’arlo’mé looked first to the knight. “Captain, your escape caused quite a stir in the dungeon. Many of the guards will wish to hear how you negotiated the catacombs.”

  Kedrin acknowledged the words with a nod but made no reply. Kevral admired his control. In the same situation, she would have taunted.

  Dh’arlo’mé next turned to the Sea Seraph’s captain. A smile touched the leader’s features, so subtle only Kevral’s experience with elves allowed her to notice it. “Lav’rintir, you have caused more trouble than I believed you capable of doing.”

  Captain imitated Kedrin’s nod. “Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin, I cannot wholly deny the aptness of calling me traitor in that I voiced, and later acted against, the evil you proposed. If that is the act that earned it, I bear the new name proudly.”

  Kevral glanced swiftly at Dh’arlo’mé, anticipating, and so reading, anger. Yet Dh’arlo’mé’s voice sounded more contrite. “You have a valid point. We may discuss it if other matters do not too far outweigh it.” He glanced at the remaining humans in turn, without addressing them individually, although he did recite their names. “Baynard, Tae, Matrinka, Kevral. None of you have met me, but I know of all of you.”

  “We know of you, too,” Tae said.

  Kevral winced at the impropriety. Kedrin frowned, shaking his head judiciously, a warning to leave the speaking to those versed in the art.

  “Not surprising,” Dh’arlo’mé returned. “And I fear not all that you’ve heard has been good.”

  Kevral had no difficulty resisting a strong urge to verbally label the comment understatement. A hint of sorrow entered Dh’arlo’mé’s tone, closely akin to guilt. The fire in her guts seemed to falter, though whether from interest or suspicion, she did not know.

  Dh’arlo’mé rose, leaning on his staff as if desperate for support. “I made a terrible mistake.” He kept his jeweled gaze on the tabletop.

  Though the situation demanded her attention, Kevral could not help noticing Dh’arlo’mé’s empty socket. Her thoughts turned to the brilliant green gemstone that Tae had given her. He had discovered it clenched in the palm of a slain Renshai warrior, a member of a Béarnian envoy. With Colbey Calistinsson’s direction, they had learned that clutching it revealed Dh’arlo’mé’s general location. Now Kevral knew for certain the nature of that item: it was the svartalf leader’s missing eye. Although experience had given her no reason to believe it performed any other function, for her or for Dh’arlo’mé, she dipped a hand into her pocket and gouged her fingers into the stone, hoping the pain transferred to its one-time owner.

  Dh’arlo’mé took no obvious notice of the maneuver. “Once, I allowed hatred over Ragnarok to consume me. I believed destroying mankind would serve the elves, and we claimed Béarn as our own. Now, I understand the truth.” His head snapped up, and he met Kedrin’s gaze. His single eye reflected nothing, as always, but his expression seemed sincere. “If the true heir does not sit upon Béarn’s throne, we will all die. Elves and humans alike. And, perhaps, the gods as well. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

  Kedrin nodded, as if he had expected to hear nothing else. He was not in a position to accept or deny the apology. The words stunned Kevral, the last thing she expected from Dh’arlo’mé. Still, she did not drop her guard. She studied the staff again briefly, finding nothing on further inspection. If it was from the test, it made little sense for Dh’arlo’mé to carry it. Everything she knew suggested the staves served no function separated. Together, they only identified the proper heir to Béarn.

  “I would like to make an offer,” Dh’arlo’mé continued. “First, please understand that my only intention, then and now, is to protect my people.” His eye flicked around the gathering
again.

  Kedrin took the hint. “Our goal is to place the proper heir on the throne and oust those who plot against him.”

  “If I offered you a way to accomplish both goals without bloodshed, would you consider it, Knight-Captain Kedrin?”

  The tension grew tangible as Kedrin prepared an answer. “Yes. King Griff . . .” He paused, waiting for the significance of the words to become clear. “. . . has granted the power of decision to his cousin, Princess Matrinka, daughter of Talamaine Kohleran’s son, an unchosen and newly reinstated heir to the Béarnian throne.”

  Matrinka sucked in a sudden breath, then choked desperately. Both Kedrin and Dh’arlo’mé waited politely for her to finish, while Kevral prepared to assist should Matrinka stop breathing. At length, she caught a whooping gulp of air, though the sudden movement dumped Mior unceremoniously to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she managed hoarsely, tears filming her dark eyes. “Carry on.” Though her voice emerged calmly, Kevral read panic in eyes that seemed wide as moons. It was not the reinstatement that bothered the princess; Kevral knew the sage’s records would show the king had secretly refused the disownment. Matrinka dreaded the overwhelming responsibility that Griff had heaped upon shoulders she believed ill-suited.

  Kedrin finished, “She may accept or refuse any terms.” He added, clearly for Matrinka’s benefit, “And seek counsel as she so chooses.”

  “Very well,” Dh’arlo’mé returned to his seat, turning his attention now to Matrinka. The princess’ hands fidgeted beneath the table, but she performed a satisfactory job of looking self-controlled. The elves remained in position, rarely blinking and never moving. They could have been statues for all the heed they seemed to pay the proceedings.

  Kevral gave Matrinka’s thigh a comforting squeeze. The staves had found the princess unworthy of making decisions for the kingdom, and it seemed unfair for the capable one to place the burden on her. Kevral recalled the hollow-eyed stares of the princess to whom she had been appointed guardian, the crippling self-doubt, and the indecisiveness that characterized even the simplest choices. Matrinka had regathered her courage, dedicating herself to her people in other ways. It had quickly become clear that following the path of a warrior would only get her killed, and she had finally settled on healing instead. During their journey, she had grown comfortable with her skills. Now, weighting her with the very responsibilities for which she had been found unworthy seemed a cruelty beyond Griff’s understanding.

  Dh’arlo’mé threw Kedrin a questioning glance, obviously reading some of Matrinka’s turmoil by her expression yet without means to understand the details of it. “My proposal is simple. We return Béarn Castle to its proper king, and you allow us to leave without violence or punishment. Furthermore, we become subjects of King Griff.” His hair slipped slightly closer to his eye, Kevral’s only indication that his brow furrowed. “I’m not good with human politics, but I know other faraway places handle that somehow.”

  Matrinka nodded toward Kedrin, and the knight assisted. “Béarn is officially the high kingdom of the West, meaning all other kingdoms ultimately answer to our king or queen. For the most part, these others govern themselves and come to us for military support or with problems they consider unresolvable.” He added for obvious reasons. “Of course, in matters of disagreement between kingdoms, they must obey Béarn’s decisions.”

  “Of course,” Dh’arlo’mé said.

  Captain’s features revealed confusion to the point of startlement, his expressions more pronounced and human.

  Dh’arlo’mé clearly noticed the change. A true smile appeared, an expression the elves seemed to have perfected by their facial wrinkles. “Don’t look so surprised, Lav’rintir. The elves have had kings before.”

  “Not to my knowledge,” said Captain.

  “I’ve done a vast amount of studying over the past few . . .” Dh’arlo’mé fumbled with the word, time concepts rarely invoked by elves. “. . . months?” He shrugged. “Months, I suppose. Long before my birth, or even yours, elves had kings. In fact, I’ve discovered an artifact I never knew existed: the scepter of the elfin kings.” He made a slight gesture toward one of the elves who rose and headed from the room. The door banged shut behind him. “To seal this agreement, I would like to present the scepter to the new king. Or his agents—I understand if you still don’t trust us near him.”

  Something tickled Kevral’s hand, and she jerked it from Matrinka’s leg before recognizing Mior settling back into her mistress’ lap. Kevral left the comforting to the cat, exploring her own reactions for the first time. She still did not trust the elves; no competent bodyguard would. Dh’arlo’mé’s easy surrender both thrilled and disappointed. She would have to forgo the battle she had gathered the Renshai to fight, yet Griff, Matrinka, and the others would get exactly the result they wanted.

  Dh’arlo’mé again addressed his question directly to Matrinka. “Does this sound like an agreement Béarn would like to enter?”

  Matrinka swallowed hard. Her hands trailed over Mior’s fur in mindless circles. She spoke slowly, a trait that did not seem to bother the elves at all. “It . . . sounds . . . good.” She held the gemlike gaze only a moment before rolling her eyes toward Kedrin for assistance. “There . . . would be details . . . to work out.”

  Dh’arlo’mé gave a single, deliberate nod. “And those would be?”

  “Well . . . first . . . we have to know you won’t . . . do something like this again.”

  Nods confirmed Matrinka’s choice, and Dh’arlo’mé’s head bobbed with the others. “Understandable. The elves wish only to be left in peace. There are too few of us left to battle.” He glanced warningly at Captain, who shook his head.

  Of the humans, only Kevral could understand the exchange. Necessity had forced Captain to tell her about the elves’ birth/death cycle, but he had otherwise kept it secret.

  Matrinka accepted the answer, finally pressing the detail that had bothered her since entering. “We get back the staff-test.”

  Dh’arlo’mé stared at her with his single eye, his face even more blank than usual. “I don’t follow that.”

  “The staves that test the heir to Béarn,” Matrinka clarified. “They belong in the room beside the downstairs library. Baltraine said you took them.”

  Dh’arlo’mé glanced around his colleagues who remained immobile. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of. And I regret to inform you we found Baltraine dead.” He paused thoughtfully. “In the room next to the library, in fact. But he had no staves.” He glanced at the staff in his hands as if for the first time. “I made this one on Nualfheim, but you’re welcome to it if it’s staves you seek.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Matrinka said politely, but only after Dh’arlo’mé had already passed it down the line toward her.

  Kevral grinned at the subtle diplomacy.

  Dh’arlo’mé glanced longingly after the object as it moved from hand to hand, then his face again became a mask. “We will look for these staff-test staves. If they’re in elfin possession, they will return to you. I promise.”

  As the staff came into Kevral’s hands, she examined it for any evidence of danger to Matrinka. Lovingly sanded, the smoothed wood did not even appear capable of leaving a splinter. A placating intuition allayed her earlier suspicions. Reassured of its harmlessness and certain it bore no relationship to the staff-test, she passed it to Matrinka. The princess held it in a fist only a moment, then smiled and passed it to Tae.

  The elf who had left returned with a long, narrow case inset with rubies. He placed it on the floor beside Dh’arlo’mé, then returned to his seat.

  Dh’arlo’mé ignored the case, politely keeping his gaze on Matrinka. Kevral suspected the princess would have preferred him to turn his attention anywhere else. “Anything more?”

  “Yes,” Matrinka said, then paused. Apparently, she had nothing specific in mind yet. She brightened suddenly as the proper idea came. “Who’s going to tell the populace abo
ut King Kohleran?”

  Dh’arlo’mé’s head slipped sideways, and the fine hair hung in a curtain over his right ear. “Why, I thought you would want that honor.” He specified, “You meaning your group, not necessarily you personally.”

  Tae stepped in to assist, though Kedrin frowned at the impropriety. Though best suited to speaking, the knight had resisted stealing a floor rightfully Matrinka’s. “Your magic is convincing. It may take more magic to undo what you’ve done.”

  Captain spoke next, making an apologetic wave toward Kedrin to reveal he understood the procedural lapse but found it necessary. “The lysalf, or lav’rintii as Dh’arlo’mé calls them, can handle that. We only need Pree-han.” He nodded toward one of the elves to Dh’arlo’mé’s right. “That’s the false King Kohleran.”

  Pree-han fidgeted, his first movement of the meeting.

  Dh’arlo’mé’s stony, one-eyed gaze found Captain. “We will agree to this only if you promise Pree-han’s safe return to us. We will not allow your humans to harm him.”

  Though irritatingly phrased, the request seemed reasonable to Kevral. Once revealed, Pree-han might suffer the punishment due all the dark elves. Béarn’s citizens would not weather the deception, purgings, and loss of King Kohleran kindly. She disagreed with Matrinka’s easy forgiveness of Dh’arlo’mé and his svartalf, but she believed Griff would have done the same. Kevral would have inserted a stiff penalty against the elves; if it resulted in war and bloodshed, so be it. Most of the corpses would be elfin.

  “All right,” Matrinka said carefully. “Knight-Captain, can you think of anything more?”