Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Your manhood?” Griff asked innocently.

  Ravn smiled. “You don’t know my father.” He added under his breath, “Consider yourself blessed.”

  “Or my father,” Griff said with a soft sadness that made Ravn wish he had never spoken of the matter. “And I miss my stepfather.”

  At the moment, Ravn believed, he would have traded his father for either one; but it seemed cruel to voice the thought aloud. “I know, Griff. When this all gets settled, you can send for your mother and stepfather.”

  “I know.” Griff sighed, casting aside the sorrow that had haunted him since leaving Dunwoods. Lamenting would not change that situation, and time would bring solutions.

  “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “It makes me sad,” Griff admitted, “but other things worry me more now.”

  “The responsibilities of rulership,” Ravn guessed.

  “Yes.”

  Ravn made dents in the coverlet with his fist. “Does it help to know that anyone in your position would have doubts?”

  “Not much.” Pained wrinkles crossed Griff’s features. “What if I make the wrong decision and people suffer?”

  “Griff?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could make the right decision, and people would still suffer.”

  Griff sat in silence, blinking a few times as if to clear his mind. “Are you trying to soothe me, or cripple me?”

  “Neither. Just trying to infuse a bit of reality.” Ravn added more furrows to the blankets with his balled hand. “My point is that people suffered long before your birth and will continue to do so long after you’re dead. All you can do is make the best decisions possible while you’re on the throne.”

  Ravn had clearly hit the problem squarely on the head. “But how do I do that?”

  “Use your heart, Griff. Perfect neutrality is programmed into you. It’s a part of you.”

  Griff rose, drawing in a deep breath and loosing it in a long exhale. “Ravn, I think I’m the wrong one. I don’t have all the answers. I don’t feel like I have any at all.”

  “Don’t question my judgment.” Ravn tried to sound deeply offended. “Trust me. You’re the one.”

  Griff stared at his feet and shook his head.

  “Griff!”

  Apparently struck by his friend’s tone, Griff looked up swiftly.

  “I’m a god, remember? Don’t question me. You are the proper heir to Béarn’s throne. Everyone knows it, except you.”

  Griff just stared.

  “You’ll make the right decisions. You’ll also make mistakes. And, sometimes, the right judgments will cause suffering.”

  “Oh,” Griff finally managed.

  Ravn was not finished. “It’s normal to have doubts. Every king has had doubts. You know what your biggest problem is?”

  “I’m not very smart?” Griff tried.

  Ravn could not help teasing. “That’s your second biggest problem.” He winked to show he did not mean it. “Your biggest problem is that you never saw a king at work, never got the experience of watching a father or grandfather rule. Had Kohleran groomed you as his successor, he would have confessed his doubts to you. And you could see how normal they are.”

  “Oh,” Griff said again. His manner revealed what his words did not. Many of his muscles uncoiled, and his face returned to the unlined innocence Ravn recalled from the Grove. “I just feel so alone. I don’t know who to trust.”

  Ravn tapped his chest, reminding Griff to make decisions from his heart. “Who do you think you should trust?”

  “Darris.”

  “The bard?” Ravn approved. “Good choice.”

  “For competence more than ideas, I also trust Rantire, Kevral, and my grandfather’s guard captain.”

  “Good.”

  “Knight-Captain Kedrin.”

  “An all around good man, if irritatingly rigid.”

  The exercise opened floodgates. “Matrinka, Ra-khir, Captain . . . should I keep going?”

  Ravn grinned. “Only for yourself. I’m not the one who needs convincing.”

  “What about the scepter?”

  The question caught Ravn off guard. “The what?”

  “The scepter.” Griff pointed to the gem-tipped staff braced against a post of the bed. “It’s supposed to guide kings, yet we don’t seem to agree on much.”

  Curious, Ravn reached for the scepter.

  As his fingers closed around the smoothed haft, the presence that had touched him earlier returned, much stronger now. *Finally, you’ve come.* It seemed to glide into his head, searching, probing, and testing before he could think to release it. A vast sensation of approval flashed through him before the object contacted him directly again. *Perfect.* It seemed to purr. *You are the one. The king is nothing in comparison.*

  *The one what?* Ravn returned, confused. Never before had he communicated with his mind, despite his father’s intensive training.

  *My champion. The one fit to wield me. Between us, we have more power than all humans together could embody. Join with me, and no being, no army of beings, could stand against us.* It added concepts far stronger than its words, promising Ravn abilities even the gods must envy. It drew him inexorably, fascinating nearly beyond the power to resist.

  Ravn set the scepter carefully on the bed and reluctantly released it. “Where did you get this?”

  “A peace offering from the dark elves when they left. It belonged to the elfin kings.”

  “Elfin kings?” Ravn had never heard of such a thing.

  “I don’t want to insult the dark elves, but I don’t like that scepter. I don’t want it. What do you think I should do?”

  A sense of possession seemed to seize Ravn in a stranglehold. He fought greed aside. “What do your advisers think?”

  “Darris seems convinced it’s best for me. Kevral and Kedrin believe the same.”

  Ravn glanced at the scepter, surprised to find his fingers creeping toward it. Deliberately, he placed his hands in his lap. “And you?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  As Ravn recognized his own inexplicable interest in the scepter, Griff’s words surprised him. “Why not?”

  “It bothers me. Not dangerous or anything.” Griff sought the proper explanation. “If it was a person, we’d have nothing in common.”

  The description made sense to Ravn. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Will you take it? I mean, if I said I gave it to a god, who could take offense at that?”

  Ravn had never wanted anything more, yet that realization alone troubled him. One thing seemed certain, the scepter clearly represented the very danger Griff denied. “I . . .” he started, then stopped. He would not allow desire to cloud his judgment. He had vowed to do nothing that might upset the balance of the universe. If he took the scepter, he would only do so for the proper reasons. Every instinct screamed for him to remove it from Griff’s responsibility, yet he worried whether wisdom or rationalization truly guided him. “I . . .” he began again but still could not finish. Irony struck him, and he laughed. “A lesson, Griff. Even gods don’t always know if they make the right decisions.”

  Ravn expected at least a smile from Griff, so the horrified look that stole over his friend’s face surprised him. Immediately, he berated his stupidity. Finally, he discovered the power of words spoken by gods, even those that seemed so simple and obvious. Father is right. “I’m sorry, Griff. I’m kidding. I didn’t mean to damage your faith.”

  Griff gnawed at the side of his fist, still clearly distressed.

  Ravn knew Griff well enough to understand his clarification had become too general. Only something straightforward could bother the naive heir so much. “What’s wrong?”

  Griff swallowed hard, letting his hand glide down from his face. “It’s just that I told Knight-Captain Kedrin the gods wouldn’t let Ra-khir die now. But if gods make mistakes, then I’m wrong. And poor Kedrin . . .” He let the thought trail off, mor
e, Ravn guessed, because he did not have the words to finish it than because he felt the effect would prove stronger.

  I should have known Griff would worry more for harming someone else’s faith than his own. Ravn kept his smile internal. He had the facts to soothe Griff this time. His view from Hlidskjalf gave him answers. “Don’t worry. Ra-khir awakened, and he’ll be fine. A servant came to inform you, but you were asleep. No one—except me, of course—was cruel enough to wake you.”

  A burst of released tension passed through Griff visibly, and a grin seemed to encompass his whole face. “Thank you,” he said.

  Ravn resisted the urge to deny his involvement. One brush with destroying a man’s religion seemed enough. “I have to go.” Ravn believed his work finished here, and he worried for the damage his presence alone might have caused. He might have created a mess for his father, and his final action could compound the difficulty. “And I will take the scepter.” His hand closed around the haft, and the presence joined him immediately. He only hoped he had made the right decision.

  CHAPTER 16

  Toward Balance

  Armor is for those too lazy to dodge.

  It takes away the need to learn defense.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Balmy temperatures and intermittent breezes made the constant, golden beaming of Asgard’s sun a pleasure. Sitting beside Ravn, Colbey studied the pond’s glassy waters and the lazy paddling of its multicolored ducks. Weeds broke the surface, perfect triangles surrounded by circles of water; the bugs skimmed the surface at intervals. He smiled. More than three centuries had not stolen his appreciation for the natural beauty of plants and animals. “How did it go?” he asked softly, the question unnecessary. The nervousness radiating from his son told much of the story.

  “Fine,” Ravn replied with the same inane timbre as a man questioned about his health during a greeting both parties intended to keep brief. “I think I’m really beginning to understand the need for subtlety, though I haven’t mastered it yet.”

  Colbey tore his eyes from the ducks to regard his son and the emerald-tipped staff he clutched with an intensity that left his hand white-knuckled. “Did you harm someone?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Ravn managed a tense smile. “But I did take something.” He tapped the base of the scepter on the ground. “I probably overstepped my boundaries, and I’m prepared to face the consequences.” The grimace that followed the grin suggested otherwise. “But I do believe, whatever else, it doesn’t belong with Griff.” The pain seemed to intensify as he spoke the next words. “Nor with me.”

  Colbey’s brows arched tautly over blue-gray eyes. “Why’s that?”

  Ravn weighed every word, as if expecting his father’s wrath. “I’m not yet skilled enough to control it.” He tapped his head to indicate mental rather than physical powers. “If I tried to wield it, I believe that, eventually, it would wield me.”

  Colbey made a thoughtful noise, bothered by his son’s limitations yet pleased by his recognition of them. Sudden alarm jangled through him. “Did it harm Griff?”

  Ravn’s smile seemed misplaced. “If I am to believe it, Griff is too simpleminded to influence.”

  Colbey nodded. His knowledge and experience told him more. “Naive. Innocent and, therefore, incorruptible. That’s why Odin placed it into his care in the first place.”

  Ravn’s smile disappeared instantly. “Odin placed it there? I made a giant mistake, didn’t I?”

  “No.” Colbey glanced at what he now felt certain was the Staff of Chaos. It seemed impossible that the staff had not already contacted him from Ravn’s hands, though whether to manipulate or threaten, he did not anticipate. Seeking logic and regularity to chaos was a feat doomed to failure. “It was never meant to go to the King of Béarn alone.”

  Ravn blinked, head cocked back and eyes enveloped in creases. “He was to share it?”

  “No.” Colbey smiled at Ravn’s misunderstanding. “The staves were supposed to remain together.” He shook his head, not wishing to detail the entire event to Ravn. So much had happened the day the Wizards took their lives, most of which he preferred to forget. “Give me the staff.”

  Ravn hesitated an instant that most immortals would never have noticed. He passed the Staff of Chaos to his father.

  Still warm from Ravn’s grip, the wood nestled against Colbey’s calluses as if crafted to fit them. Instantly, a presence touched his mind, far weaker than he anticipated. Colbey allowed it to search for a moment, not bothering to expend the energy necessary to expel it. So long as it did not manipulate, it could not harm. A moment later, it withdrew, and a voice filled his senses. *You’re the one.* Raw excitement accompanied the assessment. *We were meant to work together. To meld. To become a force more powerful than any other.*

  Colbey sent it amusement. *You don’t recognize me, do you?*

  *I recognize you as the one meant to wield me.*

  *We’ve met before.*

  Impossible. I would remember you.*

  Colbey’s memory ground back centuries to an incident long gone from his surface thoughts. He had undertaken the Seven Tasks of Wizardry, tests designed to judge the worth of Cardinal Wizards. Failing at any one meant death. The other Wizards had warned him away from the optional eighth task, informing him that no one who attempted it had lived. He had planned to follow their advice; yet, when the time came, curiosity drove him to understand what had destroyed so many considered the best Midgard had to offer. He discovered it required those who attempted it to survive all that they feared. In every case prior to Colbey, that list had included death; but the eldest Renshai had spent too long chasing his demise to fear it. He had overcome other fears, fears too terrifying to consider now. And surviving the eighth task had won him a prize he had never wanted: choice of either the Staff of Law or of Chaos.

  Odin’s words came back to him now, clear despite the passing centuries: “With this Staff, I control all but have no rule. With this one, I control none but my rule is sure and long. Which will you have? Make your choice well, Kyndig.”

  Then, Colbey’s tie with the Balance had consisted purely of instinct. The Wizards had spoken of the ultimate power that would result from completing the eighth task, but Colbey cared nothing for it. Renshai honor came from within. They shunned armor as cowards’ protections, relying only upon their own skill in battle. Always, he had refused ornamentation, concerned it might accidentally field an enemy’s blow and steal the valiant death in combat, the place in Valhalla he had worked toward since birth. He had refused his own sword after the Eastern Wizard had placed magic upon it, at great risk to himself and to the world, until Shadimar assured him that it would neither assist nor interfere with Colbey’s personal skill. The sword would remain the tool, Shadimar had promised. The sorcery would only allow him the ability to strike creatures of magic: those of chaos, called demons and those of law, the Wizards themselves. In the end, Shadimar had taken his own life with the sword he had created: Harval.

  Colbey had refused either staff, but that had not satisfied Odin. Finally, Colbey had agreed to take both, giving Chaos to Shadimar and keeping Law for himself. The Staff of Chaos should know him. *We met centuries ago.*

  *Centuries?* The essence in the staff dismissed the significance, though their meeting had ultimately resulted in the Ragnarok. *I was an infant then, a tiny, disorganized seed of what I would become.*

  The description seemed madness. Colbey recalled the oppressive reality of the Staff of Law, and its insistence that the Staff of Chaos equaled it in power. This puny entity could not compare to the ravaging torrent that had once occupied this plain piece of wood. Colbey pried loose the wooden setting of the emerald. It did not belong there, as gaudy as a blond mop of hair vandalized onto an Easterner’s portrait. Only one explanation fit. Odin had drawn the essence from the Staves of Law and Chaos, yet he had left a spark in each. Presumably, he had done so to allow the staves the job of together judging the worth of heirs. Something, Col
bey knew too little of magic to speculate what, had fanned that flame into a bonfire. Few could understand the danger the staves’ return represented. Ragnarok had destroyed the extremes, including most of the gods, because the world no longer needed them. Now they had returned. The effect on the balance could prove devastating, but surely less so than allowing one force to act unopposed. Once, he had accepted the responsibility of carrying a staff and maintaining balance. Another’s turn had come. *How long have you existed?* he sent halfheartedly, uncertain the answer truly mattered.

  *The primordial chaos has existed forever. Long before law arrived with its tedium and symmetry. Once, the world consisted only of genius.*

  Colbey refused to be sidetracked. Genius without structure lacked purpose. *How long have you occupied that container?*

  Fleeting irritation and a panic akin to claustrophobia touched Colbey so briefly he scarcely identified it. *I’ve been aware less than a century but believe I existed long before that.* The blank that had followed the flash of emotion turned sullen. *I may not seem powerful enough to you, but I tap the primordial chaos. Over time, nothing can exceed my power.* It added carefully, *Except for one thing.*

  Colbey took the bait, continuing to work the decoration free. *And that is?*

  *You and I together. Nothing in the universe could compare.*

  *Except the Staff of Law and its champion.*

  The Staff of Chaos did not attempt bluff, as Colbey expected. *Perhaps,* it admitted grudgingly. *But I believe you and I together can surpass even them.*

  Colbey accepted the grandiose display without dispute. Arguing details or semantics served no one. Under the circumstances, the staff seemed correct. Law and Chaos should prove equals, and Colbey surely held more power than Dh’arlo’mé. Yet he knew otherwise from experience. The staves’ vitality so overshadowed their champions’ that differences in the latter’s relative strengths became immaterial. Any human could assume the role of chaos’ master.

  Colbey believed that the case, though tiny details niggled at his mind, not quite fitting the straightforward, simple scenario he had constructed. When he observed the interaction between Dh’arlo’mé and the Staff of Law, the elf’s essence had seemed nearly nonexistent in comparison to the force he chose to champion. In comparison, the Staff of Chaos seemed weak. Midgard naturally regressed toward balance, and nature alone seemed incapable of allowing the staves to mature at such noticeably different rates. But the changes in Harval supported the observation. The worlds tipped dangerously toward order. Colbey could only guess that attachment to a champion had spurred the growth of law far out of proportion. If so, he needed to link chaos fast.