Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  It no longer shocked Ravn to realize Colbey’s sword skill surpassed most or all of the gods’. Vali would not face Colbey because he knew he would lose the battle.

  Along with the remaining gods, Vidar studied Colbey.

  Forced into the position of speaker again, Colbey remained in the doorway. The thought entered Ravn’s mind that his father might taunt, forcing at least some of the gods into a hopeless battle. Whether they won or Colbey, the loss would prove a tragedy. But Colbey did not resort to name-calling. Instead, he opened the challenge. “Anyone? My sword arm is ready.” His gaze swept every member of the gathered entourage. Modi’s fist tightened around Mjollnir’s haft, but even he did not accept Colbey’s invitation.

  Finally, Colbey’s gaze found his son and rested there. The blue-gray eyes beckoned, and Ravn realized his father expected something from him. The inducement confused him. He supported his father and had no wish to wrest control of chaos from him. He had already willingly given up the Staff of Chaos. Still, Colbey’s attention riveted on Ravn, so cold and focused it drove the youth to a restless fidgeting. He cleared his throat and asked the question plaguing him since he found Colbey with the staff in the clearing. “Why, Father? Why would you wield that thing?” He waved vaguely toward the Staff of Chaos.

  The gods’ regard remained fixed on Colbey in the ensuing pause. The Keeper of the Balance smiled. “Ah. So I will get a chance to explain my actions, thanks to my son. The rest of you would condemn me based only on presumption.”

  “The facts,” Magni said, “speak volumes.”

  “The facts, brother, are not all present,” Colbey supplied, emphasizing their blood relationship as if the word were insult. “Even among humans, the accused usually has the opportunity to speak.”

  Vidar waved a hand. “Speak then, Kyndig. We’re listening.”

  If you were listening, you’d know his name is Colbey. Ravn could not fathom why some of the gods still used their name for him when Colbey walked among them and could bluntly state his preference.

  Colbey avoided the petty for matters more significant. “I’ve always believed that, left undisturbed by immortals, the world balances its own forces. But the Staff of Law’s power vastly exceeds Chaos’. At first, I thought it came of a particularly strong bond between it and its champion. Dh’arlo’mé’s thoughts tell me otherwise. The Staff of Law regained its sentience long before Chaos, and it has grown beyond expectation. I can’t explain it with logic—yet. I do know one thing. No mortal could stand against it. I may not have the strength to do so either, but I’m not afraid to try. Stand with me or against me.” He shrugged, denying the significance of Asgard’s deities with the motion. “Your opposition will make an already difficult task harder. Perhaps, you will ruin me and assure the destruction of our world. I didn’t make an easy choice, just a moral one. Anyone who stands against me will die.”

  The words settled over the gathering, and Ravn could only imagine the thoughts racing through every god’s head. His own considerations fell to concern over the fate of the balance. He never doubted that his father must champion chaos, nor that Colbey found the job as distasteful as his peers. He just could not conceive of Colbey binding with chaos and remaining Keeper of the Balance.

  Vidar broke the hush. “The force in the Staff of Law has become so powerful that it requires the combined forces of an immortal and the Staff of Chaos to balance it?”

  “To challenge it,” Colbey corrected. “The balance, I believe, would still tip into its favor. And remember, law is bound also, to a near-immortal.”

  “Perhaps someone more powerful should bind with the Staff of Chaos then,” Frey suggested.

  Colbey confronted the god of weather and elves, his brother-in-law. “Are you volunteering?”

  Frey shrugged. “I doubt I’m the best choice. What would it entail?”

  “Joining with chaos. Essentially, ‘becoming Loki’ as Vali might put it.”

  Ravn felt a sensation of aversion, as if the whole room had recoiled from the suggestion at once.

  Colbey continued. “A constant struggle against law. Eventually, a cosmic battle with, hopefully, the total destruction of both.”

  “‘Both’ meaning?” Vidar prodded.

  “The Staff of Law and its champion. The Staff of Chaos and its champion.”

  Dread crept up Ravn, paralyzing, beginning at his toes. He looked to his mother for support, but she stared at her husband, her features ashen.

  Frey stated the obvious. “You’re talking about suicide.”

  “I’m talking about the total annihilation of the bearer of the Staff of Chaos.” Colbey displayed a grin more like a rictus. “Now, who’s my first volunteer? Vali?”

  Vali sat. No one took the challenge.

  Setting his jaw, Ravn rose. “Father,” he started.

  Freya closed her eyes. Colbey frowned. “Ravn, I appreciate the sacrifice, but I won’t waste your life. Even should you kill me, I don’t believe you’re strong enough to face this threat. Someday, certainly. Not yet.”

  Ravn shook his head. “I won’t try to take chaos from you. It’s the balance I’m after.”

  Colbey nodded. “Come here, Ravn.”

  Clambering down from his seat, Ravn approached his father with trepidation. As the reality of Colbey’s sacrifice became more clear, Ravn’s steps grew more difficult. His feet felt leaden. Tears stung his eyes, and he kept his head low to hide them.

  Harval rattled from Colbey’s sheath with a suddenness that sent Ravn skittering into a defensive crouch, his scimitar half-freed before he realized his father offered the hilt.

  Colbey brought his voice so low the others could not hear. “The balance is yours, Raska Colbeysson. Guard it well.”

  Ravn reached for the sword, hesitated, then caught Colbey into an embrace instead. “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered as tears coursed down his cheeks. “I love you, Father.”

  “I love you, too,” Colbey gave back as softly. “But don’t give up on me yet. I’ve never been good at dying.”

  Ravn clung, never wanting to let go. Colbey’s warm, living presence, the pleasant clean odor of perspiration, the soft tickle of hair against his ear became a pleasure Ravn would cling to for eternity. Understanding of Colbey’s words came only several moments after their speaking. The Deathseeker. Colbey had hurled himself into every lethal conflict since birth, had weathered even the Ragnarok, yet he often lamented that death eluded him. For all his reckless courage, he had never died in the many wild flurries of battle that should have claimed him. Maybe this time, too, he could survive the downfall he willfully embraced.

  Ravn pulled free, taking Harval in exchange for his longsword. Both men sheathed their new swords. “Meet me on the practice field after the gathering,” Colbey said. “I’ve got a lot to teach you before I go.” He raised the Staff of Chaos in a gesture of salute. “From that moment on, temper your trust with understanding.” Turning, Colbey headed from the meeting hall.

  Ravn watched his father’s retreating back, the light step that never faltered, the careless toss of short golden locks by the wind. The hopes and dreams of an endless lifetime might die in the ensuing practice. He would cherish those final moments with his father, knowing that the other deities would cease to allow Colbey’s presence once the transformation began.

  Colbey’s form blurred into the surrounding foliage as moisture destroyed Ravn’s vision. He let the tears fall where they would.

  CHAPTER 19

  Send-offs

  Competence is infinite.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Though not particularly large for Béarn’s castle, Kevral’s temporary room seemed massive to Ra-khir. Painted an off-white that bordered on pink, the walls stood in plain contrast to the murals and tapestries in the hallways. Tunics lay strewn across the bed as Kevral sorted through them, folding most into her pack. She had left all six of the bureau drawers open, and wind streaming through the window had carried the lightest
of her belongings to the floor. Ignoring the chair pulled away from the desk, he scrambled after a comb and a scarf blown from the top of the dresser.

  Ra-khir placed the items on the desk, away from the draft and beside a scattering of writing implements, rags, and sword oil. He struggled for control of his emotions, driven to plead with Kevral to break her vow to King Cymion of Pudar and stay with him in Béarn. The dishonor inherent in such an action kept him silent. She had made a vow, and he could never allow—worse, suggest—that she break it. He found his mouth open, and the need to speak became a torment. He searched for better words than those that begged speaking. “I’m going to miss you terribly,” he finally managed.

  Kevral looked up from her packing, flashing Ra-khir a smile that spoke volumes more than words. “I’m going to miss you, too.” She paused just long enough not to cheapen the sentiment. “Could you hand me whatever’s still in the left top drawer, please.”

  Ra-khir walked to the indicated drawer, pulling out a simple headband made for keeping sweat and hair from Kevral’s eyes rather than for decoration. He passed it to Kevral, then pulled out the only other item in the drawer, a flimsy undergarment. Before he could think to squelch it, his mind conjured an image of Kevral wearing it and nothing else. Warmth burned through him, and his groin twitched instantly to life. Embarrassed, he covered his lower regions with the garment and reluctantly forced the picture from his thoughts, replacing it with scenes of the Renshai in battle.

  Kevral took no notice of an excitement Ra-khir felt certain he had broadcast to the world. She accepted the undergarment without comment, tucking it amidst her other clothing.

  The savagery disappeared from Ra-khir’s memory. He saw only Kevral’s lithe form, leaping, twisting, and turning, the swords steel extensions of her arms. Battles once grotesque and bloody transformed to dances of such grace and beauty he could only stare, spellbound.

  Kevral’s sudden touch brought Ra-khir back to reality. Her fingers skimmed his forearms lightly, and her striking, blue eyes held a note of concern. “Are you all right?”

  Ra-khir could only nod stupidly. Instead of attempting speech, he seized Kevral’s arms, drew her to a stand, and kissed her. The taste of her lips, her breath in his mouth, brought back the euphoria of their night together in the elves’ prison. Excitement had turned imminent death into a forgettable backdrop. Nothing had mattered but the two of them, their embrace, the loving interlock of their bodies. The warmth in Ra-khir’s loins became a bonfire, and he had no choice but to gently end the kiss.

  Ra-khir tried to make his withdrawal appear casual, but Kevral had not finished with him yet. She caught his head even as it retreated and pressed her mouth against his again. Her breasts smashed against his chest, and he could feel the impressions of her nipples. Her thigh brushed his groin, and need became an agony. Ra-khir returned the kiss as long as he dared, wishing for more himself but worrying for his self-control. Again, he pulled free, this time walking briskly to the door before Kevral could stop him. Remaining inside, he closed it, cutting off the draft drawing from the window.

  Returning to Kevral, Ra-khir knelt at her feet, pressing her callused hand between his own. “Kevral, I love you. I asked you this once before and now again. When you return from Pudar, will you marry me?”

  Kevral’s gaze went directly to Ra-khir’s green eyes and held there. A parade of emotions seemed to flicker through her glance. A slight smile twitched at the corners of her lips but never formed. She sat on the bed.

  Ra-khir took a seat beside Kevral and placed a strong arm around her. Every moment of hesitation dragged like six eternities.

  “I love you, Ra-khir,” Kevral finally said.

  Hope trickled through Ra-khir, staunched by the second pause that followed her words.

  “If I was going to marry someone today, it would be you. I just need time.”

  “Time?” Ra-khir repeated carefully.

  “I’m not quite sixteen.”

  Ra-khir did not understand the connection. “Women in my culture come of age at fourteen. And you’ve been an adult by Renshai standards for longer.”

  “Were you ready to marry at fifteen?”

  The question seemed irrelevant. “I didn’t know you when I was fifteen.” Despite his need, Ra-khir refused to press too hard. “You’re telling me you’re not ready for marriage. Or is this a polite way of telling me you don’t want to marry me.”

  Kevral snorted. “Have I ever bowed to politeness before?”

  Answering seemed rude, so Ra-khir remained silent.

  “But you may be right that it’s not really age that’s bothering me.” Kevral sighed. “I do love you. If I was staying in Béarn, I’d almost certainly marry you. But I’m going away for a year. A lot can happen in a year.”

  “And hopefully will.” Ra-khir anticipated completing his training and winning his knighthood during Kevral’s time in Pudar. He could not, however, shake the image of Kevral traveling for weeks with Tae. The adversity they would surely face along the way would likely draw them closer.

  “If our love is as strong as I believe, it’ll weather a year apart. If we both feel the same way when I return, we’ll marry.”

  Ra-khir clung to those words. “Promise?”

  “Promise,” Kevral agreed. “If a year away can’t shake what I feel for you, I couldn’t suffer another parting.”

  “I’ll count the days till your return.” Ra-khir cradled Kevral to his chest, the closeness instantly reawakening desire.

  “No,” Kevral said softly. “No, please. If it’s to be a true test, you have to see other women.”

  “What?” Ra-khir let go of Kevral, not daring to believe what he had heard.

  “How many women have you been with?”

  “That depends.” Ra-khir scooted around to face Kevral. “What do you mean by been with?”

  “Romantically.”

  Ra-khir started to ask for further qualification, then realized it was unnecessary. Whether Kevral meant sexually or platonically did not matter. The answer was the same. “One. The only one I need.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The question seemed patently ludicrous. “I counted?” Ra-khir tried.

  Kevral laughed, the sweetness of the sound breaking the tension. Ra-khir could not help smiling. Kevral clarified, “I meant how do you know I’m the only woman you need.”

  Ra-khir shrugged. “How do I know the sun will rise? I love you. Once I marry you, no other woman matters.”

  “That’s exactly it!” Kevral made a grand gesture, as if Ra-khir had just said something profound. “Think of this as your year of freedom, your time to make certain you’re making the right decision. If you don’t see other women, you’ll always wonder.”

  Ra-khir thought the point moot. He would never cheat on nor abandon his wife, even if she could not cut his heart out for doing so. Kevral had a point he had to consider. He would never have suggested that they separate for a year just to assure their love. But, since circumstances required them to part, it only made sense for them to use the time wisely. “All right,” he finally agreed, doubting he really ever had a choice. “I’ll see others, and I know you will, too. But I don’t have to like it.”

  Kevral nodded her agreement. “I can only bind your person to agreements, not your heart. Never doubt that I love you and I’ll miss you every moment of every day. Now, let’s seal our vows with something stronger than a kiss.”

  Ra-khir’s heart rate seemed to double in that instant. He struggled with his honor. Sleeping with a woman before marriage still seemed wrong, yet the damage had already been done. They had discussed the survival of their love but not yet the survival of their persons. Kevral would soon blithely head onto roads filled with Easterners trained and paid to slaughter travelers. She would fling herself into battle joyfully and face death with all of the excitement she had revealed in Valhalla. The urge to accompany Kevral, to protect her, welled up in Ra-khir; but he had vows of his ow
n to follow. Honor bound him to the Knights of Erythane.

  Kevral wrapped her arms around Ra-khir, and he willingly surrendered to love.

  * * *

  Oa’si stood among the gathered elves on Nualfheim’s shore, glancing through golden eyes at the sea of legs that blocked his view of Dh’arlo’mé. A vast blanketing awe settled over the assemblage, unsettling him. Seized suddenly with the urge to run and hide, Oa’si caught the nearest hand without bothering to identify its owner. The adults all served as mothers and fathers, and the specifics of who had given birth to him held no significance to the others or to himself. The unfettered sexuality of elves meant any male could have conceived him. At thirty, he was the youngest of the elves, the only child.

  Warm fingers closed reassuringly over Oa’si’s pudgy hand, soothing. Dh’arlo’mé continued speaking of matters Oa’si scarcely grasped. He called those gathered the dwar’freytii, Frey’s chosen ones, and condemned the traitor elves, the lav’rintii. The knowledge of the old elf seemed to have grown endless, his magic stronger, his confidence enormous, even as it appeared his physical health declined. Oa’si based his judgment on the staff Dh’arlo’mé had taken to carrying, leaning more heavily upon it with each passing day. For all his apparent frailty, Dh’arlo’mé’s voice remained vibrant, piercing the crowd at a booming volume and without hesitation.

  The elves remained in place while Dh’arlo’mé spoke of human destruction and the hellion, chaos, that would sweep them to their dooms. He lauded these elves who had followed the ancient honor placed into their race by Frey at the time of creation. Oa’si listened with little understanding, his patience vast but not nearly so long-lived as that of his elders. After hours of silent concentration, his mind wandered to other matters. A story returned to his thoughts, one told to him by the human the elves had kept prisoner. She had spoken of so many things unknown to him and foreign to his culture: heroism, individuality, competition. Those things had seemed nonsensical, negative concepts at first; and it had taken many discussions and stories to intrigue him.