Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Three times,” Kevral asserted. “Hard skull.”

  “I tried to fight her. She outmaneuvered me.” Alsrusett frowned at his own words, as if he had not intended to speak them. “Where does a woman learn to fight like that?”

  Kevral looked bemused, and Weile deigned to answer in her place. “In this case, probably the Fields of Wrath. Like all Renshai.”

  “Daimo.” Alsrusett spat the Eastern slang term for Renshai like a curse. Weile glanced at Kevral, who did not seem to take offense, though Tae’s features bunched into a scowl.

  Weile attempted to fully defuse the situation. “Why don’t we bury all the steel and sit?”

  Nods greeted the suggestion. Kevral sheathed her swords, drew a third one from her belt, and offered it to Alsrusett.

  The massive bodyguard reached for the weapon, a spark in his eyes and a coil in his movement warning of imminent danger. Weile back-stepped, surprised to see his son do the same. Only Kevral seemed fully unconcerned. Though the top of her head scarcely reached Alsrusett’s shoulder, she met his dark stare with eyes like blue fire. Alsrusett accepted the weapon with a growl that barely resembled gratitude, then returned the weapon to its sheath.

  Weile and Tae breathed identical sighs of relief. To encourage the others, Weile sank into his favorite chair. Alsrusett lounged into a corner beside him. Kevral and Tae accepted the other two seats, the Renshai’s casual position mocking the bodyguard’s stiff pose. Weile remained unfooled. Though she appeared comfortable, Kevral kept her legs curled under her, and her hands rested not-quite carelessly near her hilts.

  “It’s me,” Daxan called from above. His boot sole clicked against the upper rung, followed by the thump of a boulder rolling into place. He trotted down the makeshift ladder with all the grace his companion had lacked. Once down, he took up a stance at Weile’s other hand.

  “Here.” Tae tossed Daxan’s sword to the floor at his feet.

  Daxan bent to retrieve it, never taking his eyes from Kevral. Rising, he resheathed it.

  Silence returned to the room. Weile glanced at his son. Tae sat with one knee bent and the other straight, a habit he had assumed from his mother. The straight hair, combed to a sheen, belonged to her as well; and he recognized his own influence on his son’s features. Memory showed Weile the infant snuggled into his beloved’s arm, the innocently helpless features, and the tiny arm that escaped the blanket’s covering. The first moment he looked upon his son, he had felt a wellspring of emotion too strong to contain. It had changed him, he had believed, forever. Now the urge seized him to cradle Tae like the baby he had once been, to hold the child in his lap, rock him, and whisper vows for a better future. I promised him so much and delivered so little. Yet Weile found his mouth too dry for words, and the presence of Daxan, Alsrusett, and Kevral constrained any words worth speaking. “Tae Kahn,” he finally managed. “We need some time alone. Will you stay?” He added carefully, “Voluntarily, of course.”

  Tae sat quietly for several moments, as if considering a proposition for which he surely held a position long before his arrival. “I can come and go as I wish?”

  Weile caught himself shifting restlessly and turned it into deliberate-appearing motion. “Even I don’t come and go as I wish. It requires too much work for Kinya and others to keep making places like this.”

  Tae settled deeper into his chair, turning his head but not quickly enough to hide a grimace of pain. The arm hurt worse than he would admit.

  “How about this for a compromise?” Weile tried. “You may stay as long as you choose and leave freely when you wish to do so.”

  “Reasonable,” Tae admitted.

  “Good.” Glad to have one small part of the problem solved, Weile started to turn his sights on another when he recognized the flaw in his own bargaining. Love and stress had confounded logic. He sighed, feeling like a madman who changes personality in mid-sentence. “Tae Kahn, you know there has to be more to that agreement.”

  To Weile’s surprise, Tae replied, “I know.”

  “Security.”

  “I know too much,” Tae supplied.

  Weile considered a statement that could have come from his own lips but had not. “Or not enough, depending on your viewpoint. You know I’d like you to take my place. There’s still much I can teach you.”

  “And much I’ve learned on my own.”

  Weile managed a half-smile, despite the sobriety of the discussion that had to follow. “Obviously.” He heaved a deeper sigh. “We’re father and son. If we can’t agree, at least we should be able find a peaceful way to disagree.”

  “One would think so.” Tae turned his father a pointed look, the black bangs falling into eyes nearly as dark. “But one of us tried to kill the other. And the other could have but didn’t.”

  Weile pursed his lips, filled with regret. He could not argue Tae’s point, but he wanted the opportunity to discuss it privately. He glanced at Kevral. “Would it be possible for my son and me to talk alone?”

  Kevral made a throwaway gesture. “It’s your . . .” She paused, the proper term clearly eluding her. “. . . home?” She raised no questions about remaining with two warriors who despised her, a strategy Weile applauded. Her obvious lack of fear gave her the upper hand, and he suspected she felt as unconcerned as she appeared. Confidence, not stupidity, kept her silent on this matter.

  Nevertheless, Weile felt obligated to discuss it. “Daxan, Alsrusett. Treat Kevral like a welcome guest. This may take a while.”

  Alsrusett grumbled something incoherent, but neither man gainsaid their leader aloud. Rising, Weile ushered Tae toward the bedrooms. The young man came to his feet with a grace that portrayed his slowness as blasé unhurriedness. Gang habits died hard.

  As Tae slipped past his father, Weile turned to follow. Hesitating, the elder Kahn closed his eyes, feeling like a packhorse laboring under a heavy load. Likely, this would prove his last chance to rescue his relationship with the son born of a love he would never know again. So much was at stake, he believed the right words should flow into his head like a golden tide. If the world held any justice, it would guide him. Yet never in his life had he felt so alone.

  * * *

  The discussion between Tae and Weile lasted well into the night, interrupted briefly to assign sleeping places and to eat. Lit only by artificial light, the hideaway left Kevral nothing but her own fatigue by which to measure the passage of time. At length, Tae settled down on Weile’s bed while his father used one of the bodyguards’ mattresses and Alsrusett the other. Daxan remained awake through the night. Kevral curled onto one of the plushly cushioned chairs in the main room, covered by her own blanket. Though Tae and Weile had both offered her the bedroom, she refused it, preferring Tae to have the rapid means of escape should such become necessary. He did not require guarding. He slept even more lightly than she did.

  As the night deepened, Kevral grew restless. In the morning, she planned to leave for Pudar, certain Tae had negotiated her safe passage. In a logical world, a father would never kill his son, but she held little more faith in divine fairness than Tae and his father did. Once she left his side, Tae’s safety, and her own, were no longer assured.

  Colbey sent him to reconcile with his father. That thought brought some comfort where every other had failed. If her hero believed this course best, Kevral would never refute its value; but it did not reassure her enough to sleep. For hours, Kevral lay, staring at the ceiling and attentive to every tiny sound or movement of light. Only one event would satisfy her concerns: a clear-cut warning to Tae’s father about the consequences of mistreating his son again. Though it seemed unwise as well as unnecessary, Kevral saw no other means to relieve her discomfort and worried that it would follow her to Pudar and remain until she reunited with a healthy, uninjured Tae.

  Kevral shoved aside the blanket and sat up in the chair. Crickets sang discordant notes that gained an echo quality in the hideaway’s confines. Otherwise, she heard no sound. She turned he
r head toward the entry into the bodyguards’ room. Her hand crept naturally to the swords that never left her side, one strapped in its usual place and the other on the arm where the blankets would not hamper her reach. Her eyes swept the cavelike walls to settle on the bedroom opening where Daxan stood, eyes fixed on her, mouth scowling, position so set and still someone could have replaced him with a statue and he would have looked no different.

  Casually, Kevral tugged the second sword into her lap, beyond Daxan’s sight. She met his cold gaze directly. “I need to talk to Tae’s father.”

  Daxan did not bother to glance toward his leader. “Weile Kahn is sleeping. I won’t disturb him for you.”

  “Daxan.” The soft voice wafted from farther in the room, and warning tinged its tone.

  Kevral could not stop the smile that curled onto her face, though it clearly magnified Daxan’s irritation. His glower deepened, and his eyes narrowed to angry slits.

  Kevral heard nothing to indicate Weile had chosen to move, but a moment later he appeared beside Daxan in the doorway. Draped in a loose cloak and britches clearly intended for sleeping, he wore no evident weaponry. Kevral dismissed him as a threat; no matter the number of secreted daggers he carried, nor the swiftness of his attacks, he did not have the skill to best a Renshai.

  “I’ll speak with her alone,” Weile announced softly.

  Daxan stiffened, and his expression grew harder, if possible. He grumbled something in the Eastern tongue that Weile dismissed with a wave.

  Stepping past his bodyguard without any visible wariness, Weile turned Kevral a pleasant smile. “You wished to speak with me, Kevral?” He gestured at her chair, then sat in the one across from her with his back to the bedrooms.

  Kevral glanced at Daxan, who remained in position at the entry.

  Without bothering to confirm the focus of her attention, Weile made a crisp, dismissing motion over his head.

  Daxan jerked a hand in a gesture of warning that only Kevral could see, then he disappeared into the other room.

  Kevral drew her legs onto the chair and studied Weile Kahn. Curly black hair swept back from a stubby forehead, and he shared Tae’s mysterious eyes. Emotion hid, unreadable, behind a mantle of dark assurance. Kevral had broken through Tae’s facade, but she had neither the time nor inclination to do so with his father. She would have appreciated more privacy, but this arrangement seemed the best she could hope for under the circumstances. If their voices remained low, even the annoyingly alert bodyguard could hear nothing of their conversation. Now that she had the attention she sought, Kevral had no idea how to put her intentions into words. She started simply. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  Weile nodded. “Tae Kahn said you probably would. You’d like me to assure you safe passage to Pudar?”

  Kevral shrugged. “Oh, I’ll get there. Your assistance only determines whether or not I have to kill a bunch of Easterners on the way.”

  Weile’s brows rose slightly, and a hint of a grin played at the corners of his mouth. “My men mean nearly as much to me as my son.”

  “Nearly as much as nothing.” Kevral snorted. “That’s not reassuring.”

  Weile tensed for a moment before his mantle of casual confidence returned. “I love my son. You said so yourself.”

  “I said what I hoped was true. What should be true. Your actions speak otherwise.”

  “Now?”

  “No.” Kevral slid her legs back onto the floor, instinctively assuming a more defensible position as conversation drifted toward verbal attack. “When you blackmailed your son into staying with you. When your men shot him . . . surely at your command?” Kevral gazed deliberately into Weile’s eyes, trying to force the honest answer he clearly found unnecessary.

  “I’ve made mistakes,” Weile admitted.

  “The problem isn’t that you’ve made mistakes,” Kevral pressed. “Every parent has. The problem is that you’ve made catastrophic mistakes, and you’re still making the same ones.”

  Weile sat in silence for several moments. When he spoke, the words emerged with a steady, controlled caution. “People without children believe parenting is an innate skill. The child is born and, like animals, we know exactly what to do and how. It just doesn’t work that way.” He paused, shaking his head as if to insinuate Kevral could not possibly follow his point. “When you have children, you’ll understand.”

  “If I do have children,” Kevral returned, still pushing, “I’ll make mistakes, too. But they won’t be fatal ones.”

  Weile shifted, as if no longer certain of his security. “Given who and what you are, you’re almost assuredly wrong.”

  Rage pulsed through Kevral, but she maintained control. Words, however, did not come as easily.

  Weile continued, obviating the need for Kevral to speak. “I’ve already admitted I made mistakes. Fixing them is between Tae and myself.” He regained his inhuman composure, though his tolerance had clearly waned. “We’ve already discussed it; and, quite frankly, I don’t have to answer to you.”

  Weile’s words sounded a challenge that tightened Kevral’s grips around her swords. From experience beyond Renshai training, most of which she had gained from Tae, she managed to keep her response verbal. Weile Kahn had a definite point. “You’re absolutely right. On the matter of parenting, you don’t have to answer to me.” Kevral released her grip on her right-hand sword, finger tracing a groove in the knurling. “Tae’s safety is a separate issue.” Unable to rely on size or appearance for intimidation, Kevral hoped Weile read her gesture. “If anything untoward happens to Tae, it won’t be enough for you to have an alibi. Your reach is long, Weile Kahn, and I don’t care for your methods. You hide well, too, but . . .” Kevral paused for emphasis, grinding her sapphire gaze into Weile’s as if it were a physical entity. Though pale, large, and childlike, those eyes could sustain an icy glare. “. . . I will find you. And not a trace of you, or what you created, will remain.”

  “Well.” Weile managed a thin smile, and he softened the mood without belittling. “I guess I don’t have to ask if that’s a threat.” He sobered. “You’ve made it impossible for me to say anything that sounds sincere, but I’m still going to try.” He leaned forward, and he returned a look at least as hard as Kevral’s own. “I do love my son, and I will do everything I can to keep him safe and to solidify our relationship. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I’ll try my best. As for you, young lady . . .”

  Kevral prepared for a lecture on manners.

  “. . . my son is lucky to have you as a friend. People spend lifetimes searching for such loyalty and never finding it. Without you, he would already be dead, and me as well. I could never have forgiven my mistake.” He shook his head. “If you ever tell anyone I said that—” He broke off with a laugh. “Like I’m going to threaten you.” He continued on a serious note, “Anyway, as much as I dread permanent close contact with you, I can’t think of any woman more suited to Tae Kahn. I hope I’m not misinterpreting the affection you seem to share.”

  The last response Kevral expected was a welcome to the family speech. Men like Weile valued the strength and confidence that irritated or threatened those less self-secure. Those who remained in power so long, without delegating or resigning, usually did so because they faced, even relished, challenges. He had turned the tables, neatly regaining the upper hand and reminding her how leaders maintain peace. At times, they found it worth losing battles to win wars.

  The only reaction Kevral gave Weile was a blank-eyed stare.

  CHAPTER 23

  Changes

  Every sword stroke and its result changes the style of my combat. Every competent maneuver used against me remains vivid in my memory.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Kevral took the main road to Pudar, the easy terrain and lack of Eastern ambushes a comfortable change from trail-breaking. Branches shaded the path, their autumn colors fading and their edges curling to herald the coming winter. At intervals, young branches gr
oped out over the trail, requiring her to swerve or duck beneath them. Merchants and travelers would have seen to these annoyances, hacking them down for the convenience of others or for their own return trips. The Easterners had no cause for such fastidiousness.

  The gates of Pudar hove into sight in late afternoon, sooner than Kevral expected. The city looked ominously different. Though she could see figures pacing on and in front of the walls, it felt empty and ghostlike. For several moments, the reason eluded her, until her mind finally conjured details of memory. The crowd thronging the gates had disappeared, and their cheerful harangues and appeals no longer seasoned the air. Once, the faithful of odd religions, panaceas, and magic had flocked to foist their beliefs upon those entering the city. The children of farmers and craftsmen too poor to maintain stands in the city sold their wares in disorganized huddles that added a charm to the great market city.

  Now weeds had sprung up where once the constant pound of feet had kept them at bay. An ice-grained breeze stirred them into quiet dances that mocked the bustling masses that remained only in memory. The clink of mail and the rattle of stems seemed strangely loud in contrast. Kevral reined toward the gates. Experience taught her they remained open until after sundown, warded only enough to separate overeager zealots from visiting dignitaries and merchant caravans. Months ago, Pudar denied entrance to no one.

  “Prepare arms!” a voice commanded from the city, and the click of cocking crossbows resounded and echoed from the walls.

  Kevral stiffened on her horse, a wash of excitement at the thought of coming battle tainted by the knowledge that she could not win this time. Legend claimed Colbey could cut arrows from the air, but even he could not defend against so many. She hoped that her direct approach would gain her the benefit of explanation. Dragging her horse to a stop, she dismounted and waited. Fatigue weighed on her more than she expected. Though she had remained awake most of the previous night, she had slept well into the morning.