Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  *I will help you.* A sympathetic voice touched Griff’s mind.

  The heir stiffened, worried for his sanity.

  *I’m your friend, your adviser, and I will never forsake you. I will long outlast you and your children. I will always be with you, your guide and your power.* Though wholly internal, the voice soothed, its promise as gentle as a mother’s lullaby.

  Nothing in Griff’s personality or upbringing prepared him for deceit. He did not question the scepter’s sincerity, only its presence. “Who and what are you? How can you talk to me like that?”

  *I am the guardian of kings, a force locked into your staff. My power will become your power. My wisdom your wisdom. You need not speak to me in words, your thoughts in my direction will suffice.*

  *Like this?* Griff tried.

  *Exactly.*

  Distracted from his sorrow for a moment, Griff furrowed his brow. *This is weird.*

  *Weird?* the scepter returned, along with the wave of confusion Griff might expect from a stuffy, elder statesman confronted with adolescent slang.

  *Weird, yes. Don’t you think talking without words is weird?*

  *No.*

  Griff conceded. He supposed he would not have found it so either if he only communicated in that manner. The thought raised a host of considerations he did not bother to ponder now. If humans, like elves, could talk to one another this way, it would change diplomatic negotiations drastically. *You’re offering me friendship?*

  *And much more,* the staff assured, excitement rising in a radiating crescendo. *Wisdom, knowledge, guidance. Help with the most difficult decisions.*

  Griff shrugged. He had never found decisions difficult, only circumstances. He doubted the scepter could help with the latter.

  Apparently, the scepter could not read thoughts not directed at it, for it ignored the vagaries currently floating through Griff’s mind. *Nowhere could you find a stronger, more competent adviser.*

  *I thought the bard would advise me.*

  *On procedure. Protocol. Formality. None of those things matter.* It turned to unformed ideas concerning the jumble that currently faced Griff, a kingdom cut adrift. Having lost its council, its ministers, and all of its top officials, Béarn contained little of its once-famous order. The staff reveled in the chaos the elves had left Griff to sort, and excitement thrilled through Griff’s hand where it came in contact with the wood. *There’s an artful, natural beauty to the way things have become. Why spoil it with regimentation?*

  Griff chuckled, and the scepter responded with a tangible flare of offense.

  *What’s funny?*

  The question baffled Griff. *Weren’t you joking?*

  *No!* The scepter’s conceptual demeanor went from irritated to explanatory in an instant. *Think of the possibilities, the genius in keeping people unbalanced. The power.*

  *Power,* Griff repeated. *That’s the third time you’ve offered power.*

  The scepter quivered, its emotion now one of generous joy. *I have much power to offer you.*

  Griff laughed again. *Would you also offer a drowning man a mug of water? What use could I possibly have for more power?*

  *What use? For power?* The scepter’s confusion battered at Griff. *The possibilities are staggering. And I can give you more than you could imagine existed. More than anyone could ever want.*

  *We’re talking want now? I’ve already gone way beyond that.*

  The scepter’s radiation intensified, stark incredulity. *What kind of being are you?*

  The question surprised Griff only for an instant. *I’m a man. You’re used to elves, aren’t you?*

  *Not really,* the scepter returned but did not elaborate. It tried a different tack. *All right, then. No power. I have other wondrous things to offer. How about the power—* It amended, *I mean the ability to see details mortal eyes overlook. I can show you the world in intensities you could never imagine, the full spectrum of colors including variations in hues that now look the same to you.*

  *Interesting,* Griff replied politely. *But—no. A lifetime of study may not yield all the beauty of the murals and tapestries that fill the castle hallways. If you give me another dimension, my goal of seeing all will become unattainable.*

  *I can make you a genius.*

  Griff shook his head until the whipping, dark hair stung his face. *It wouldn’t suit me.*

  *You’d be better. Smarter.*

  *I’d be someone else. Not me.*

  Frustration trickled through the contact. *I could teach you magic.*

  *I have enough trouble managing the skills I have.*

  The scepter seemed to swell, its strain now clearly perceptible. *You’re one of a kind, Griff Petrostan’s son.*

  Griff did not question how the scepter knew his name. *Thank you,* he said, though the scepter’s annoyance did not suggest it meant the words as a compliment.

  *Surely there’s something you want.*

  *I want to make the right decisions for Béarn. I want to be the best possible king.*

  *I can help you with that,* the scepter made the task sound easy.

  *And I want my family and my best friend at my side.*

  The scepter had no immediate answer.

  Griff lowered his head with a sigh, thoughts of his parents a dull ache in his conscience. He trusted Ravn to have brought solace or, at least, reassurance to his mother. For now, that would have to do. Eventually, when the roads became passable again and he did not fear for the lives of messengers, he would escort his mother and stepfather to Béarn.

  *So simple. So concrete. What I offer spans levels you don’t even know exist.*

  *Thank you,* Griff shook his head, though he realized the eyeless scepter probably could not fathom gestures. *No. I have enough to handle on levels I do understand. All I need right now is a friend.*

  *I can be that friend,* the staff promised.

  Griff doubted the claim but appreciated the offer.

  Someone rapped boldly on the door. The sound startled Griff, and he jerked away from the scepter with a suddenness that disrupted the contact. “Come in.”

  The latch clicked, and the door swung open. Rantire’s voice wafted through the widening crack. “Come in, he says, without bothering to ask who. He still needs my—”

  “Hush!” Darris commanded. Then the panel swung far enough to reveal the bard, now dressed in the blue and tan uniform of the inner court guards, and Rantire in her usual loosefitting leathers. Darris bowed. “Majesty, I’d like to report.”

  Griff scarcely resisted looking beyond himself for the object of Darris’ address. “I’m not the king yet, Darris. There’s still the coronation.”

  “See,” Rantire jumped in. “Not king yet. He’s still my charge.”

  Darris’ coiled limbs and flushed features revealed dangerous irritation. Though he clearly wished to put the Renshai in her place, he followed the proper convention of speaking first to the king’s statement. “Sire, there’s nothing remaining but the formal ceremony. In the eyes of your subjects, you are already the king.” He glared at Rantire. “Since when do Renshai stand on formality?”

  “It’s my job to guard the heir,” Rantire insisted.

  Darris grated under his breath, so low-pitched and-volumed that Griff had to strain to hear. “When one’s born, we’ll call you.”

  Griff stepped in to relieve the situation. “I’ll hear that report, Darris, and thank you. Rantire, why don’t you continue to guard outside?” Griff held his breath, awaiting the results of words more recommendation than command. The idea of others following his every suggestion had not yet sunk into understanding.

  Though Griff no longer touched the scepter, it managed to waft a soft thought to him. *Let them argue. It gives them the feeling of accomplishment they crave.*

  Finding the suggestion ludicrous beyond comment, Griff ignored the staff. Rantire hesitated, as if to argue, then quietly returned to her vigil. Darris closed the door behind her. Only then, Griff noticed the bard’s br
ow creased in worry and the dullness of the familiar, hazel eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s much that needs doing, Majesty.” Darris’ nod displayed more tired formality than respect. “You’ll need new ministers, a master healer, and an inner circle of guards.”

  “Inner circle?” Terminology evaded Griff who had grown up as a farm boy. Healer, he understood, and the renegades had discussed the council and ministers previously.

  “The dozen guards you trust to protect you when you hold court and in other public situations.”

  Griff blinked, cocking his head sideways while he considered. “Isn’t protecting me your job?”

  “I’m one man, Majesty. Competent, but no Renshai. The bard has other duties to attend as well. I can’t be with you always.”

  “Oh.” That news both bothered and pleased Griff. Rantire’s presence, though it made him feel safe, had become suffocating. He wanted someone he trusted always available for consultation, and the scepter clearly would not do. He had finally adjusted to the realization that he liked Darris, trusted his boundless knowledge, and had never yet chosen the opposite side of a decision. He covered his disappointment as well as possible. “Of course not.”

  Darris studied the huge Béarnide with a quiet sympathy that revealed Griff had not hidden his disillusionment as well as he believed. “Majesty, there’re many lower positions to fill as well. Servants, soldiers, even the number of nobles has slipped low. You have the choice to reaffirm or oust anyone you wish to as well.”

  “Oh.” The task seemed daunting. Griff had no idea where to begin.

  “I can help you.” Darris and the scepter said simultaneously, the latter without words. The bard continued alone. “It’s not as difficult as it sounds. Once we have trustworthy officials in place, they can handle the selection for all those posts.” He smiled wanly, clearly plagued by other matters than those they had thus far discussed. “It’s called delegation. Once your staff is in place, everything will come swiftly together. You’ll see. Sire, the day-to-day decisions are not yours to worry about, unless you wish them so. You’ll direct diplomacy and make judgments. The rest will fall into place.”

  “Good,” Griff said because it seemed necessary. He knew Darris would remain with him, at least until he felt comfortable ruling. He had faith in Darris, yet he could not forsake the longing for Ravn’s calm competence and friendship. He had relied on his only playmate for too long to feel quite right about any other arrangement. The scepter seemed positively imbecilic. “Darris, what’s troubling you?”

  The bard stiffened. “Is it that obvious?”

  Griff widened his eyes, encouraging explanation. His answer did not require speaking.

  “Sire, things are missing,” Darris explained. “Gems, money, a few tapestries. We expected that. Much will need mending, and we’ll need to put apprentices to work early to supply necessities for the populace, mail for the new guards, and so many other things.”

  Griff nodded. The renegades had led him to expect all Darris described. Darris still had not spoken his concern. “The elves left us a mess.”

  “Shambles would better describe it, Sire.” The attempt at usual conversation fell flat, spearing Griff with abrupt terror. He hoped all his growing friendships would not become lost to the courtesy and homage they felt obligated to show him.

  The scepter fueled Griff’s new worry. *It’s the curse of rulership, I’m afraid. A loneliness no other human can comprehend.*

  This time, Griff sensed a truth to the scepter’s words, though he despised them.

  “Sire . . .” Darris’ words seemed to catch in his throat, and it took him inordinately long to finish his sentence. “. . . I don’t know why.” He shook his head, as if to imply the explanation lay beyond human understanding. “Before they left, the dark elves poisoned some of the food.”

  Shocked wordless, Griff could only listen.

  “We caught it before any of the staff or citizens ate enough to cause damage. Our elves are finishing a final inspection to assure no one else gets harmed.”

  “Else?” Griff pressed. “If not staff or citizens, who was harmed?”

  “The prisoners, Sire.”

  Griff’s heart felt frozen in place, and raw, cold terror swept him. “You?”

  “Queasy. A bit dizzy. I ate very little. The healers say I’ll do just fine.”

  The reassurance barely seemed to melt the dread. “Ra-khir?”

  “He’s in the best possible hands, healer and elfin. Matrinka’s there, too. And his father.”

  Panic mobilized Griff. He leaped to his feet, leaving the scepter, forgotten, on the bed. “And us. We’re there, too, in a moment. Let’s go.”

  Darris sprang aside, though Griff took care not to trample his adviser. He would never miss every bauble, treasure, and gem of the kingdom; he would trade them all for the life of one friend.

  * * *

  Mattresses interrupted the usual straw that covered the weapons training room floor. Lanterns lit the room like day. Light elves and healers scurried between bedsides, carrying satchels, pastes, and herbs or removing basins of urine or bloody fluid. Driven to distraction by restless determination, Griff found the pattern of movement impossible to discern. Darris blocked his natural sprint for the doorway, saving king and a burdened healer from a collision and adding the necessary delay for details to become clear. By the time Griff recognized the talent inherent in making a deliberate attempt to herd the king look innocent and accidental, order appeared amid the chaos.

  On the left-hand side of the room, teary-eyed servants loaded five lifeless bodies, lovingly wrapped, onto carts. To the right, a dozen patients lay frighteningly still, tended by the bustling elves and healers. Two others sat amidst their blankets, and a third remained prone but chatted weakly with a young male attendant. Griff’s eyes went naturally to Knight-Captain Kedrin, crouched in the farthest corner of the room beside a motionless form. Without awaiting Darris’ confirmation or interference, Griff picked his way cautiously through the confusion.

  Focused on Ra-khir, Griff scarcely noticed the others around him. Occasional moans cut over the shouted needs of the healers. The elves’ silence seemed eerie in comparison, though they worked at least as fluently together. Even though Griff knew of their mental communication, he found the difference disquieting. In contrast, the other humans in the room did not seem troubled at all. Moving out of the way of a page with a precariously balanced bowl, Griff stepped over a middle-aged man gasping the intermittent, deep breaths of the dying. Fear provoked a sudden rush of tears.

  Kedrin shifted to allow space for Griff in the corner, out of the way of the healing staff. The heir wriggled into position carefully, gaze so riveted on Ra-khir’s familiar, handsome features he could not even look away to ascertain his seat. The red-blond hair, so like his father’s, fell neatly away from closed eyes, a finely set nose, and the sculpted jaw. Slightly parted, his lips revealed a straight row of white teeth. His chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm. Griff said nothing. Any question would sound inane, and the father would speak when he chose to do so. Darris stood apart from the vigil, his presence one too many to allow the healers free access.

  The knight-captain did not delay. “Your Majesty, thank you for coming.”

  Griff had traveled with Ra-khir long enough to know better than to ridicule the formality. “Béarn’s army couldn’t keep me away. How is he?”

  “The healers say they’ve done everything, Sire. If he wakes up, he’ll be fine. If not. . . .” Kedrin trailed off, a choked sob the only sign of his grief.

  Finally, Griff managed to pull his gaze from the son to look at the father. Red lines etched his eyes like lightning, and the proud features looked desperately sunken. Though in obvious pain, he did not burden his ruler by sharing.

  Griff recognized unspoken need. Deference might hold others distant from him in times of trouble, but he would not allow the same fate to befall the awesome captain of Erythane’s knights.
The king’s massive arms encircled Kedrin, the bearlike hands clasping each meaty shoulder.

  Surprise tensed every muscle in Kedrin’s body. Then, gradually, Griff felt the tension flow from him. His silks readily absorbed the tears, warm and wet against his chest. “He’ll be fine,” Griff assured, a promise he had no way to keep. Faith, however, made him certain. “The gods would never let you come so close, only to lose one another again.”

  Experience gave Kedrin the words to contradict without condemnation. “I wish my faith were as strong as yours, Majesty.”

  The “Sires” and “Majesties” wore on Griff, but he weathered them in silence. Asking Béarn’s staff and citizenry to speak otherwise would make them at least as uncomfortable as he felt being addressed in that fashion. Foreign dignitaries would likewise suffer. It made more sense to change his attitude than millennia of convention. In time, he suspected, he would cease to notice what others chose to call him. “I’ve faith enough for both of us. There is justice in this world.”

  “There is now.” Darris’ voice floated over the rattle of pans and scattered bursts of conversation. Griff missed the reference to his return, not bothering to make other sense of the comment.

  Kedrin eased free of Griff’s embrace, no longer stressed to the point of breaking. His gaze slipped to Ra-khir, gentle breaths stirring his chest at regular intervals. A sparkle of hope softened the terror that glazed Kedrin’s pale eyes. Griff turned his attention to Darris. The bard’s expression told a different story, harsh and judgmental. He did not wholly approve of Griff’s technique, raising expectations that might prove devastatingly false. He would not speak of it, however, a courtesy that stirred irritation. If Griff accomplished nothing else, he would see to it his wise bodyguard always freely spoke his mind. He hoped Darris’ stony silence stemmed from the intention to discuss the matter in private rather than to ignore it completely.

  Having gained Griff’s attention, Darris spoke. “Majesty, there’s nothing more you can do here, and we’ve other matters to attend. The healers have the situation under control.”