Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Griff did not realize he had broken into a run until he hurtled into the garden and skidded to an awkward stop. Tem’aree’ay started from a marble bench to her feet. Darris caught Griff’s arm in a steadying grip, preventing a fall. The familiar square of benches surrounded an exquisitely carved, rearing bear that spat a constant stream of water into an obsidian bowl. Blinded to these familiar details, Griff rushed to comfort Tem’aree’ay, bashing his shin on the edge of the fountain in his haste. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said, voice high-pitched from pain.

  “Sire.” Tem’aree’ay wrapped her warm, small hands around his massive arm. “Are you all right?”

  Griff ignored the agony still shooting through his leg. “I’m fine, my lady,” he said, knowing the inappropriate title discomforted her. He caught her into an affectionate welcoming hug before sitting on the bench at right angles to hers. Darris took a seat beside him, and Tem’aree’ay returned to her spot.

  Griff stared, never tiring of the red-gold ringlets that framed her outworld face and the steady, blue eyes, so like the sapphires in his treasury. Like all elves she seemed genderless yet, at the same time, irresistibly feminine. Her heart-shaped lips bowed upward, more subtle yet infinitely more beautiful than a human smile; and her gaze shifted to Darris. “Please, play us a song,” she begged. “Please, sir.”

  The king glanced at his bodyguard, reading none of the reluctance such requests usually raised. Darris could scarcely walk a hallway without at least one noble soliciting music. “I would be honored.” He ducked through the strap that secured his favorite lute to his back and floated it into his lap like a mistress.

  “Something pretty,” Griff added. “A song of love.” Having spoken without thinking, he cringed at his own words. It would not do for the king to seem taken with one outside his species. Uncomfortable with his own words, he missed the pained look that crossed Darris’ features.

  Then, music burst from the lute strings with a sudden radiance that held Griff spellbound. After an introduction that seemed beyond human creation, Darris’ voice added a second melody to chords that blended perfect harmonies with a tune that grew into the very definition of romance. The song conjured images of a love so raw and innocent nothing in the universe could match its purity. Yet through the whole ran a pattern of bitter sorrow, a convention of law that held those lovers at bay. Tears sprang to Griff’s eyes, and the world became a blur suddenly pierced by a sight every bit as beautiful as Darris’ composition.

  Tem’aree’ay had risen from the bench and begun to dance.

  Tem’aree’ay’s slender body swayed and spiraled, like the solid personification of the music. Her clothes swirled around her, red and yellow contrast to her every movement, as if she danced amid a roaring fire. The golden curls bobbed like separate tiny dancers. Her feet never stilled on the earth, and her long-fingered hands seemed to beckon Griff to ecstasies yet unknown. Only this could have pulled his attention from Darris’ god-granted talent. He found himself unable even to blink. His heart heaved in his chest, and the guilty flashes of desire he had suppressed so often in her presence washed into a frenzied tidal wave of passion. Darris’ song robbed him of shame. He lived the words to the roots of his soul: the ultimate love and the impossible union. All of his wealth and power could not change the fact that a human and an elf could never interbreed.

  Song and dance ended much too soon, leaving Griff awash in bitter yearning and desperate sorrow. Yet the approach of Prime Minister Davian assured him that more time than he believed had passed. Tem’aree’ay sat, once again the fragile elf he had come to know well. Darris restored the lute and, this once, his music seemed to have affected him as well. A tear floated down his cheek, and he surreptitiously wiped it away.

  Davian executed a handsome bow. “Majesty, I’m sorry to bother you. You’re late for the supper meeting, and I must brief you on the topic.” His hands looped repeatedly through one another, as if he were washing them.

  Darris and Tem’aree’ay rose. Each returned a proper bow or curtsy. Griff also stood, granting the renegade turned minister a nod of acknowledgment. “You handled an entire coup. I think we can survive a meal.” Walking to Davian, he placed a hand on the new prime minister’s shoulder. “Whatever the topic, things always seem to work out fine. Trust me.”

  Davian positioned himself to propel Griff in the proper direction, expertly making the motion appear unintentional. “Oh, I trust you. Sire. In an affair of politics and despite your . . . um . . . well . . .” Impatient with minor diplomacy, Davian used the proper rather than the most careful word, “. . . inexperience. But this is a personal matter, Sire.”

  Griff swiveled his head to address Tem’aree’ay before he walked too far for good-byes. “Can you meet me here prior to supper?”

  Tem’aree’ay hesitated a moment that raised a scowl of impatience on Davian’s face. “I’ll do my best, Sire.”

  Davian quickened his pace as Darris drew up beside the king. Memories of the dance still filled Griff’s head, and a rough rendition of the lute-song cycled through his hearing. Only dignity kept him from skipping down the garden paths. The chances that Tem’aree’ay would come to the garden seemed even: anything from her healing duties to elfin irregularity and carelessness with time might keep her away. Whether that night or on another day, they would come together again.

  Davian walked faster, forcing Griff and Darris to do the same. “Sire, the regular citizens and the nobles worry for Béarn’s heirs.”

  “I’m seventeen,” Griff reminded.

  “Yes, Sire. And I’ve yet to meet a man your age who didn’t believe himself immortal.” Davian gritted his teeth and continued with a speech obviously intended to bludgeon sense into their adolescent king. “If I knew the gods would grant me one wish, any wish, Majesty, it would be that you were the exception. But you’re not, Sire. And the people want heirs, Sire. And the people deserve them.”

  “But,” Griff protested as the gardeners’ desperate attempts at preserving the courtyard’s spring beauty disappeared behind them. “I haven’t found a woman I love yet.”

  Davian turned his gaze skyward momentarily, then stopped unexpectedly. Griff swept two steps beyond before noticing, then whirled to face his prime minister. Darris remained quiet at Griff’s side, gaining sudden and intense interest in the positioning of his sword and lute.

  “Your Majesty,” Davian said carefully. “Love is not a requirement for marriage. Or for the creation of heirs.”

  Stunned, Griff stood speechless.

  Though Davian winced as if it might kill him, he seized on the king’s silence. “A single marriage, Sire. A child. Maybe two or three. That will appease the populace.” He took a step to close the gap between them, as if revealing a great secret. “As the king, you’re not limited to one wife. Sire, you can marry for love the second time. Or the third. Without the staff-test, we have no choice but to fall back on prior conventions. Sire, that means you can assign any successor to the throne. Your queen by love. A child of that union. The captain of your guards, if you so choose. Your Majesty, your options are endless.”

  Griff stroked his beard, finally accustomed to its presence. “A marriage will please Béarn?”

  Davian started them walking again. “Not just any marriage, of course, Your Majesty. Your choices are limited by lineage, and there’s no debate about who would best suit you, Your Majesty.”

  Griff remembered. “Matrinka.”

  Davian glanced over, seeming more friend than minister for the moment. “You like her?”

  “I like her,” Griff admitted. “Very much.”

  The decision seemed sound, yet a painful tension hung in the air. Stalwart beside his liege, also his charge, Darris hid his tears.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Off-Duty Tavern

  A skilled warrior needs no weapons or protections but uses those of his enemy against him.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Kevral rolled in her sleep, bla
nkets and sheets sliding silkenly across flesh. Warmth washed over her, and light bathed her closed lids, waking her instantly. She lurched to a sitting position, blinking in the intensity of the sunbeam slanting through the single window. Her gaze played over the strange, fine furnishings: delicate curtains drawn back from an oval window taller than herself, a bed canopied with feminine frills, a cedar wardrobe with edges carved into flowery spirals, a chest of drawers that supported a mirror and toiletries on its surface, and the door into her personal privacy room. Reality returned with a hot jolt of anger. She had requested an awakening at daybreak.

  Seizing her swords, Kevral glided from beneath the covers and sprang gracefully from the bed. The sudden movement shocked nausea through her, an unexpected leftover from the previous night. A dash for the sewer opening scarcely brought her there in time, and she vomited into the opening for the fourth time since her arrival in Pudar. Damn royalty’s food. The purging brought some peace to her swaying gut, leaving only a residual nausea that she would not allow to interfere with her work. Returning from the alcove, she dressed in one of the twenty drab brown tunic and britches combinations the servants had folded into her drawers. Adding her sword belt, she placed the blades in their proper positions at her hips, then strode through the teak door and into an empty hallway.

  Irritation returned as Kevral strode through grand corridors filled with tapestries, weavings, and framed paintings. Regularly spaced shelves held lanterns and knickknacks of a variety Kevral would not have believed possible had she not viewed them the previous day. Though costlier than Béarn’s carvings, they lacked the precision and the continuity. The masterful artwork of Pudar changed scene and style with every panel.

  A servant exited a room into the hallway, shuffling backward as she dragged out a pail filled with cleaners and a broom. “What can I do for you, Lady?”

  To start, you can stop calling me “lady.” Kevral drove right to the point instead. “Where can I find the minister?”

  The servant closed the room’s door and straightened, smoothing rumpled skirts over thick legs and an ample abdomen. Wisps of brown hair, liberally mixed with gray, escaped from a knot at the nape of her neck. “Which minister are you seeking, my lady?”

  Kevral drew breath before she realized she could not recall the man’s name. She had met so many the previous night and clung only to those highest in Pudar’s military hierarchy. “The one who talked to me last night.”

  The maid shook her head.

  Kevral gave a brief description of the minister of visiting dignitaries, watching the woman’s expression turn from confusion to consideration to guarded hope.

  “I believe you mean Minister Daizar.”

  The name sounded familiar. “Right.”

  “He’s holding court, Lady.”

  “A minister?” Kevral knew little of royal affairs, but she had learned that the king handled such matter, at least in Béarn.

  “He takes care of the grievances of important visitors, Lady.” The servant leaned toward Kevral conspiratorially, though her gaze locked on the swords as she did so. “Getting trapped here for months has made a lot of them surly. Wouldn’t want his job. No, hoy.”

  “No, hoy.” Kevral repeated the strange expression, rage still coiled in her chest. “Where would I find this court?”

  “I’ll take you there.” Before Kevral could protest the need, the woman abandoned her supplies and whisked down the hallway.

  Kevral trailed the plump form and her wake of flying skirts and balled hair bobbing at her collar. They wove through several wide hallways and descended two flights of stairs, arriving at a broad door sporting a silver insignia of a wolf. The walls around it held an odd mixture of foreign objects: tiny statues from Béarn, the coarse weavings of the Westland towns farther east, and gem-encrusted pottery from the distant Eastlands. Barbarian flint-tipped spears leaned against the edging of the doorway, and a shelf across from the entry supported two vials of amber kelp-wine and the broad-bladed swords of the North.

  A pair of guards drifted from a smaller room next door. Dressed in sharply tailored tunics sporting Pudar’s symbol over leather armor, each wore a sword at his left hip. One executed a bow, while the other accorded only a slow nod. “Did you wish to see Minister Daizar?” the first asked.

  Kevral did not bother to answer. “He’s in there?” She jerked her thumb toward the door.

  The guards edged nervously between her and the entrance. “Yes,” the first admitted. “But you can’t just barge in.”

  The servant inched away from the conflict but did not retreat far, watching.

  Kevral took a deliberate step toward the door, though this brought her threateningly near the soldiers. “Why not?”

  “He could be busy with someone.”

  “Is he?” Kevral demanded, warmth flushing her face. Delay would fan her anger into a bonfire.

  “He could be,” the second said, dark mustache twitching.

  More attuned to Kevral’s mood, the first said, “We have to announce you.” Taller and broader than his companion, he sported a shock of sandy hair that could fall into his eyes in combat.

  Kevral spoke through gritted teeth. “Do it quickly.”

  The dark-haired guard’s brows knitted, but the other opened the door before he could speak again. It swung wide to reveal the minister who had kept Kevral awake to sign the papers. His tunic flared into baggy breeches that nearly reached his knees, and high boots covered his legs. A sash at his waist, stiff lace collar, and leather gloves completed his attire. He lounged on the edge of a dais, an entourage of four guards chattering with and around him. Garbed exactly as the two at Kevral’s side, they otherwise looked nothing alike. They ranged from a little taller than Kevral to the height of Béarnian nobility, though none carried the southern kingdom’s breadth. All four were clean-shaven, three brown-haired and the last as blond as Kevral. His ivory skin and pale eyes identified him as a Northern descendant or transfer.

  “Armsman . . . er . . . woman . . . uh . . . Armswoman Kevral to see you, sir,” the larger of Kevral’s escort announced.

  Kevral ignored the stammering over her title as she had the addition of “lady” to her name. Aside from torke, which meant “teacher,” the Renshai language and culture worried not at all for titles and rank. She fixed her glare directly on Daizar. “You were supposed to have me awakened at sunrise and the guards all gathered on a central practice ground.”

  The guards shuffled into position around Daizar, too slow for Kevral’s liking.

  The minister shrugged a shoulder, insolently dismissive. “King Cymion said not to wake you. He heard about your sickness last night and thought it best that you sleep.”

  The minister’s words irritated nearly as much as his gesture. Kevral’s eyes narrowed, and the urge to strike his tongue from his mouth sparked to life. “Stomach pain is not enough. When my guts lie open on the battlefield, we’ll talk about missing lessons and practice.” She lowered her head like a snake preparing to strike. “Maybe.”

  The guards stared. Even Daizar jerked backward slightly, surely taken aback. He remained seated on the edge of the dais, hands in his lap. “I answer to King Cymion, may his reign outlast the sun. He wants you in your best condition to instruct his men.”

  “My health,” Kevral said, her flat tone betraying her rage, “will never affect my teaching.”

  Daizar made a fluttering motion with his fingers to indicate that the matter did not rest in his hands. “The king doesn’t think you’re ready.”

  “The king is wrong.”

  “The king,” Daizar corrected for the second time, “is never wrong.”

  Kevral refused to concede. Cymion had imprisoned her under threat of execution in place of the man he believed had murdered his eldest son. If the king found more value in her instruction than assuaging his rage with her death, he would surely forgive her impudence. “This time, he is.”

  The guards tensed. Several appeared nervous. The
blond studied her through slitted lids, his hatred evident and misplaced. Centuries ago, Northmen and Renshai had despised one another; yet history claimed they had made peace in Colbey’s era. Ensconced in the southwest corner of the Westlands, Renshai rarely found opportunity to consort with Northlanders. Kevral wondered briefly if some Northmen still harbored the ancient grudge.

  Daizar drew a sharp breath, loosing it gradually. “Lady, when the king decides you’re ready, the teaching will commence.”

  Kevral had heard enough. “I’ll show you ready.” She eyed the guards, gauging strengths and weaknesses in a glance. She believed she could kill them all, yet the training would proceed more competently and smoothly if she earned their respect without humiliation. The hostility boiling inside her needed a target, and she could feel her control slipping.

  The blond huffed out a derisive laugh. “What are you going to do? Draw your sword and kill us all?”

  Kevral took three deliberate steps toward him, accompanied by her escort. She met eyes like sea foam in a face beyond youth but not yet coarsened by middle age. “No,” she said carefully. Without warning, she lunged toward him. The blond reached for his hilt, too late. Kevral’s palm closed around it first. As it rasped free, he caught a sharpened edge, swiftly releasing it before it sliced open his hand. “I wouldn’t dishonor my blade by spilling your blood on it.”

  The blond retreated, growling vulgarities. The others drew their weapons, as Kevral executed a broad sweep with the guard’s sword that kept them at bay. The maneuver gained her the moment she needed to reorient. As the guards formed a semicircle between her and the minister, she slammed the blade down a finger’s breadth beyond another’s hand. His fingers jerked back. His sword plummeted from his grip.