Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Handed the floor directly, Kedrin seized upon the opportunity. “Humans helped you acquire Béarn.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” Dh’arlo’mé admitted.

  “We get their names.”

  Dh’arlo’mé nodded without much need to consider. His loyalty to elves clearly did not extend to humans. “You’ll have them.”

  Matrinka flinched. “Can’t we forgive all and start over?”

  Kedrin frowned at the naiveté. “We should know our betrayers, no matter how the king chooses to handle them.” He returned to his conditions. “Everything that belongs to Béarn remains here: staff-test, money, property, art, writings, and anything I might have forgotten to mention.”

  Dh’arlo’mé nodded again. “I had assumed that.”

  Kedrin paused as Dh’arlo’mé’s staff reached him. He took it, made as if to lean it against the table until he finished, then passed it back to the elves instead. “There’re small things I’ll see get into the agreement, but nothing else major I can think of at the moment. How about you, Captain?”

  “Just one. We close all the magical gates.”

  “Yes,” Dh’arlo’mé said emphatically. “And the lav’rintii stay on this side.”

  The Captain made a thoughtful noise. “We’re not welcome back?”

  Dh’arlo’mé pinned the elder with his eye. “We can forgive the humans their ancestors’ crimes and their protection of their own.”

  “How enlightened,” Captain returned, his sarcasm evident. “Months ago, you couldn’t see either of those things. That’s the reason for this split.”

  Dh’arlo’mé did not quibble. “The reason is immaterial. Whether our actions were right or wrong, you chose to work against your own. And so did your followers. You are no longer elves nor are you welcome among us.”

  Kedrin made a sign to indicate he had relinquished the floor, though hyperalert Kevral believed herself the only one who saw it.

  A flush crept over Captain’s face. “Your whim does not determine nature. You can’t make a dog a cat because you wish it, nor an elf a human. No matter your change of heart, you are still the svartalf and we the lysalf.” He half-rose, tensed as if to lunge over the table at Dh’arlo’mé.

  “No,” Dh’arlo’mé leaned toward Captain. “You are Lav’rintir and your followers the lav’rintii. Betrayers all. And we are the chosen ones of Frey, forever the dwar’freytii, the true elves.”

  Kevral watched the exchange, fascinated. The length of elfin names should have cued her to the significance of semantics among their people, yet it seemed odd that the heated discussion focused on terminology while the fate of the universe remained so tenuous.

  Captain drew breath to argue further, then glanced left and right. He settled back into his seat. “Will you take back any of mine who disavow me and wish to return?”

  Dh’arlo’mé did not consider long. “Yes.”

  “I will send any such back before the gates become permanently closed. I trust you will send any who wish to join us?”

  “I would have no use for them.”

  The civility that followed arguing that had bordered on violence amazed Kevral. Will I ever understand elves?

  Knight-Captain Kedrin made a subtle gesture, repeating it twice more in the ensuing silence before accepting its uselessness among those unused to Béarnian politics. “May I speak now?” Every eye turned toward the Knight of Erythane, though no one seemed certain who should grant him permission. Apparently taking this as an affirmation, Kedrin continued. “What about my son?”

  Kevral cringed, irritated that the need to guard Matrinka and politics had kept her from requesting information about Ra-khir and Darris sooner. It had probably shredded Kedrin’s heart to settle agreement terms before knowing whether his only child lived.

  Dh’arlo’mé reclaimed his staff, leaning it against the wall. “Your son is in the dungeon, as is his friend. You’ll get the prisoners back with the rest of the castle.”

  Kevral smiled. Kedrin fought valiantly not to let his joy show, but his lips twitched beyond his control, and he eventually succumbed to a tight-lipped smile. Nevertheless, he did not allow relief to taint his dealings. “I’ll put the details in writing, as we discussed. For now, we’ll let the others know that we’ve reached a peaceful solution. Thank you for sparing lives on both sides.”

  Kevral smothered a growl, despising the idea of thanking Dh’arlo’mé after the destruction he had reaped on Béarn. She bit her lip, true to her promise to allow Kedrin to handle diplomacy.

  Dh’arlo’mé hefted the case his companion had brought and set it gently on the table. “This is the scepter we plan to give King Griff as both apology and goodwill gesture. You’re welcome to examine it, handle it, deal with it as you feel necessary.” He unlatched the hinges and flipped the lid. It thunked against the table, and a musty smell washed up from the contents.

  Everyone in the room rose in order to see over the edges. The scepter rested on a bed of spongy moss with sparse tendrils and blue-green color like nothing of this world. Longer than Kevral’s height, the scepter looked more like a staff, and an emerald half the size of her fist glimmered from wooden fastenings attached to the base. Though the scepter itself seemed unexceptional, the gem added a monetary value that well-suited a king.

  As substitute for Griff, the task of examining it fell to Matrinka; but the fear stealing the color from the princess’ swarthy features drove Kevral to act in her place. Carefully, she reached for the staff, waiting for a command to desist. No one stopped her from taking it, though Kedrin’s smile disappeared, replaced by a hard glare of disapproval. Kevral did not care. She would weather a knight’s irritation every day if it meant sparing Matrinka reminders of the staff-test. Her hand closed around the haft, and the wood felt smooth, comfortable in her grip, like a long-used hilt. She braced for an attack she could not guess how to counter and hoped the mental control all Renshai learned would prove enough.

  At first, Kevral felt nothing unusual. Then, as she held the scepter several moments, bracing for the danger it might pose to the new king, a tingling touched her mind. At first, she attributed it to the intensity of her concentration. Then the presence groped aimlessly, staggering and falling like a toddler learning to walk. A gentle whisper begged for kinship and promised assistance, its being desperately innocent and needy. Kevral conjured images of a baby bird grasping blindly for the morsels its parents carried, wholly dependent on the one who loved and fed it. “It’s magic,” Kevral said.

  Dh’arlo’mé seemed surprised by Kevral’s need to announce such a thing. “Yes. Otherwise, it would have rotted ages ago. I used magic, too, to call it up; and that may still permeate it.”

  Baynard watched closely, having not spoken a word through the entire meeting. Tae nudged Captain. “Is it safe?”

  “Is it harming you?” Captain asked Kevral, and Tae rolled his eyes. He could have done the same.

  “No,” Kevral admitted. “Do you want it?”

  “Yes.” The eldest of the elves took the staff from Kevral. As the wood left her hands, it left a lingering desire, like a tiny hole in her chest. Faced with a decision between lovers at an age well before she ever planned to marry, she had given no thought to children. Yet, when she released the staff, she knew a wisp of longing for the smell, warmth, and touch of a baby. She shook her head, dismissing the thought as foolish. She was, would always be, a warrior first.

  Captain examined the scepter for several moments before raising it in offering. Baynard held the item briefly, while Tae and Kedrin declined. Then the staff returned to rest in the box.

  Captain waited until that moment to speak. “Items imbued with magic are rare. All of the elves together could not have created this. When they lived, the Cardinal Wizards could; but static magic was unpredictable even in their hands. Whoever created this lived long before my birth and, I venture to guess, any others in this room. The fact that I’ve never heard of it troubles me, bu
t it does lead me to consider that Dh’arlo’mé spoke truth.”

  Dh’arlo’mé’s nostrils flared, his only sign of offense.

  Baynard’s first words of the meeting were an obvious question, “Do you think it could harm the king?”

  “Unlikely.” Captain refused to speak in absolutes. “If it could, it would have harmed Kevral. Dh’arlo’mé does not have the power to change its effects.”

  “So the answer is ‘no’?” Baynard pressed.

  Captain smiled at the renegade’s insistence. “The answer is still ‘unlikely.’ As I said, magic is never wholly predictable. But the danger would come from the nature of magic in general, not from any property of the staff . . .” His eyes narrowed as his mistake cued him to a train of thought he had not previously considered. “. . . I mean scepter.” He looked at Matrinka. “Princess, would you be willing to hold this?” He plucked the scepter from its rest. “And Dh’arlo’mé’s staff?”

  Kevral glanced at the svartalf’s leader and thought she saw a slight flare of his nostrils. Nothing else about him changed, however, and he passed his staff back willingly, without awaiting Matrinka’s answer.

  “No,” Matrinka said, her voice soft yet still betraying fear. She hefted Mior to her shoulders.

  Kevral’s hand twitched, though she did not allow it to fall to her belt. That would only remind her of the swords she had surrendered at the gate.

  “Humor an old elf, please,” Captain insisted gently. “You’re the only one here who has undertaken the staff-test. You’re the only one who could recognize the staves.”

  Dh’arlo’mé shrugged, already humoring. Kevral discarded the concern as ridiculous. If Dh’arlo’mé had the staves, why would he give one back to Béarn? Besides, Captain would never have suspected, nor could Matrinka test, if he brought only one to the meeting. Nothing forced Dh’arlo’mé to bring his staff here.

  Matrinka lowered her head, hiding her features, but her hands shook frantically beneath the table. Mior rubbed against her cheek.

  “No.” Kevral turned an icy stare on Captain. “She doesn’t want to, and she won’t.”

  “I do want to.” Matrinka’s voice emerged as a thin quaver, yet it managed impact. “Pass them here.”

  Kevral accepted Dh’arlo’mé’s staff from the elves as Captain handed over the scepter. “No. If these are the staves, they will harm you.” The insanity the renegades had described for the twice-tested heirs returned to her thoughts in Béarnide voices: homicides, suicides, catatonia, and addictions. No one had survived the double testing intact. “No.”

  Matrinka studied Kevral, relief returning the color to her cheeks. The Renshai’s refusal spared her the need to decide. Then, suddenly, her gaze flitted to the cat, their faces so close their eyes nearly touched. Determination set her pretty features, stealing emphasis from the oval face and broad lips. “Give me the staff, Kevral.”

  Kevral hesitated.

  “It’s the sacrifice I’ve lived for and would gladly die for. My contribution to Béarn. Kevral, if these are the staves from the test, we have to know. No one else can answer that. No one.”

  Kevral knew she spoke truth. Those heirs who had undergone it were either dead, untrustworthy, or steeped in madness. She stared at Matrinka until the princess quit looking at the calico and finally met the Renshai’s gaze. For once, Matrinka’s kindly, dark eyes held the blaze of a Renshai charging, mortally wounded, into a final combat. She wanted this as much as a Renshai needed death in battle. And Kevral would not deny it. She handed over the staff.

  Matrinka took it into her other hand. Clutching both, she closed her eyes and waited. A bead of sweat trickled from beneath her black bangs, twining along the edge of her nose before dripping to the tabletop. She opened her eyes. And smiled. Handing Dh’arlo’mé’s staff back to Kevral, she replaced the scepter in its case. “King Griff will accept your gift and your following.” She looked at Kevral. “The staff and scepter did not affect me.”

  Kevral looked at the adolescent who had been her charge for months. Though large, the uncertainty of her movements and tender guilelessness of every action made her seem delicate and frail. Now a new confidence swept in, clearly visible in her demeanor. You’re wrong. The staff and scepter did affect you. Yet Kevral knew no magic had caused the change. Matrinka had faced her greatest fear, the doubts about self-worth that had plagued her since the staff-test, and won.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Dark Elves’ Legacy

  The brave dead should be glorified, never mourned.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  On Nualfheim, wide-trunked doranga with concentric rings of bark bowed in the heavy, intermittent breezes. Branches rattled over Dh’arlo’mé’s head, and occasional fruit pattered prematurely to a floor spongy with rotting, serrated leaves. Though cloying compared with Alfheim, the damp natural odor of forest proved a welcome relief from the cleaners, spices, and perfumes of Béarn’s castle. Shadows dappled with flickering sunlight possessed a beauty no torchlight glazing uniformly over muraled walls could match. The wind shifted the pattern, and sun rays sparkled like stars on the woodland floor.

  Even the elves who had once formed Béarn’s council understood Dh’arlo’mé’s need for solitude. They left him alone with his thoughts and with the Staff of Law. Dh’arlo’mé clutched the wood in a hand that seemed birthed for the purpose of holding it, and he knew its precise position without the need to look. It had become an extension of self, wholly and irrevocably his. *Lav’rintir nearly ruined us.*

  *The mistake was bringing me into the room. Had they seen chaos alone, they would not have questioned.*

  Dh’arlo’mé believed his mentor, yet he defended his decision. *I needed you there. For advice and support.* A wave of jealousy washed through him at the thought of leaving the staff for others to discover. *We belong together always.*

  *Indeed. A few moments apart won’t change that.* Though Dh’arlo’mé returned nothing intentional, the staff read his unspoken concern. *No one could come along and take me.*

  *It’s not as if you could run from them.* Dh’arlo’mé finally articulated his concern.

  Amusement tainted the contact. *I convinced Lav’rintir and the humans that I belonged to you, and the Staff of Chaos to the new king. I can convince anyone who touches me to leave me where I lie. Any fool who refuses hints, I can deal with as I did Baltraine and Khy’barreth.*

  A shiver traversed Dh’arlo’mé. Anticipating sorrow, his own cruel amusement surprised him. *Can you fix Khy’barreth?*

  *No.* The staff radiated a sense of disinterest as much as impossibility. *His mind is ruined, and good riddance to it. But I did not slay him. His soul will return to the elves at the natural conclusion of his life.*

  Appeased, Dh’arlo’mé allowed the smile he had suppressed. Ultimately, nothing mattered but the soul. *And the Staff of Chaos will corrupt the king?*

  *It seems certain. It lies. It cheats. It follows no rules. As it comes into its power, it will find a way to ruin him. But we must prepare to interfere once mankind destroys itself. We cannot allow the elves to crumble into chaos’ influence.*

  Dh’arlo’mé attempted to express his determination. *We will lead them with a loyalty all of the primordial chaos together could not budge.* A dribble of regret wound through him, so thin it barely touched his consciousness.

  The Staff of Law discovered that thread. *Do not worry for the power lost in Béarn. We still control the kingdoms North and East. The roads in the West will prove more valuable than any kingdom. Let chaos rage amid mankind, and all the world will belong to the elves at length.*

  Dh’arlo’mé’s grin broadened, and he clutched the staff in a grip so tight his fingers ached. The euphoria fluttering through his chest usurped all worry. *Teach me more!* He chased knowledge with the vigor of a hungry infant at its mother’s breast. And, with the love of that mother, the staff complied.

  * * *

  Griff perched on the bed in the king’s ma
ster chamber, legs folded beneath him, alone for the first time since Rantire had won him as her charge. Wooden braces and posts, carved into bear forms, supported a massive square mattress that could have comfortably held his entire family. The coverlet was intricately woven into a perfect replica of the royal crest. Matching emeralds topped each of the eight pillars, scarcely smaller than the one at the end of the elfin scepter beside him. Bureaus, still stuffed with King Kohleran’s clothing, lined every wall. Twin wardrobes occupied each far corner, and a chest lay at the foot of the bed. Crafted by artisans at least as talented as Béarn’s stone carvers, all pieces flaunted chains of rollicking bears with tiny gems for eyes. A desk, a thick soft carpet, and three windows with gauzy curtains completed the furnishings.

  Griff had noticed these details as he entered, the grandeur lost on a simpleminded farm boy without designs on power or money. The whole of the situation seemed too overwhelming for contemplation. He sat motionless, paralyzed beyond any but basic thought and function. Even the natural act of breathing seemed to require attention. One moment, dizziness warned him to slow down and shallow the nervous gasping. Soon after, yawns forced him to suck air more deeply and quicken the rate. Griff had known from young childhood that he descended from Béarnian royalty, yet the idea of becoming king had never entered his mind nor even his play. His mother’s overprotectiveness had kept him friendless, except for the imaginary playmate who had turned out to be frighteningly real.

  Thoughts of home sickened Griff. He pictured his mother, her whaleboned frame sinewy from farm chores and her dark eyes deerlike against prominent ridges. Though not a small man, his stepfather, Herwin, stood spare fingers’ breadths taller than his wife. Other Westerners always seemed tiny compared to the Béarnides who so nearly resembled their bear symbol. Need washed through Griff at the thought of those two, and the room glided into a muddled blur pierced at intervals by the glimmer of sunlight off gemstones. He understood his duty, and could not forsake it; but he would have traded all the riches and authority to reunite with his family. Ravn, where are you when I need you? He laid a heavy hand on the elves’ scepter.