Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Nor a fool,” Ravn returned as swiftly. “When chaos drives you beyond salvation, you will likely come and kill me. Until then, I hope enough of the father I loved remains in you to delay the inevitable.”

  Colbey glanced at Freya. She stood stalwart, holding her expression to a taut mask. Yet moisture blurred her eyes, and her hands balled into bloodless fists. Her voice emerged in a flat but deadly tone. “If you try to harm our son, you will have to fight through me as well.”

  Rage slashed Colbey, and he turned away, uncertain whether he hated them, circumstance, or himself more. He had not realized how much time had passed since he saw his family, nor how completely chaos had taken hold of him. I was an idiot to believe I could maintain neutrality in the midst of chaos.

  Grass rustled behind Colbey. For a moment, he considered remaining in position and allowing whichever of his family attacked to slaughter him without a fight. Instinct won out, and he whirled to face Ravn. The young man’s swords remained sheathed, and a boil of emotions radiated from him, so strongly Colbey did not need to violate confidence to become enmeshed in them. This time, Ravn did catch his father into an embrace. Strong arms enfolded Colbey’s shoulders, and his son’s breath brushed warmly against his cheek. “Papa, I love you,” he whispered. “I always will. I need you, and the balance needs you, too.”

  The world narrowed to kinship and commitment; law and chaos, the balance between them, ceased to exist. Nothing mattered but the desperate constant that was his love for his son. “I love you, too,” he returned. “And I’ll try to return. But not until the extremes have been destroyed and the balance rescued.” More than ever, Colbey suspected that moment would herald his own doom. “Carry on, Raska Colbeysson.”

  Ravn retreated enough for Colbey to pull free. Without another word, Colbey headed back the way he had come. He did not turn again until he reached the place where he had heard their spar. Then, he looked, only to find Freya and Ravn still watching him. Lowering his head, he continued onward.

  The Staff of Chaos tapped at Colbey’s barriers, unanswered.

  * * *

  The songs of a hundred musicians still resounded in Matrinka’s ears as she retreated to the king’s quarters. By the time the door closed, however, she remembered only Darris’ last song. Hauntingly beautiful, it was filled with imagery that only she and he could understand, the secret symbols of love that belonged only to their shared experiences. The gathered nobles and servants had heard only a radiant wedding hymn, yet she had scarcely managed to maintain her composure. Ra-khir’s presence among the knights had held her attention enough to allow her to enjoy their litany, and their crisply attentive display. Without him, it, too, would have become an unnoticed part of the wild celebration that passed, for her, in a desperate blur.

  Flopping down on the massive bed, Matrinka paid no heed to the rumpled pile of lacy skirts that comprised her wedding dress. Mior wound through the folds, claws entangling in the tatting. Yowling and spitting at the pattern and textures that hindered her progress, she finally reached Matrinka’s face. Lying so close she all but suffocated Béarn’s queen, she purred loudly.

  Halfheartedly, Matrinka worked free a hand and placed it on the furry back. She did not bother to move or even to glance at the calico.

  *I love you,* Mior sent.

  Matrinka sighed deeply. The word caused more pain than comfort now.

  *Are you crying?*

  So far, Matrinka had maintained her composure. Mior’s question opened the floodgates, and she sobbed once in response.

  *Don’t cry now. Griff’s coming. I hear his step in the hall.*

  Matrinka heard nothing but trusted Mior’s senses more than her own. She jerked to a sitting position so swiftly that Mior tumbled across the coverlet. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Matrinka rearranged her skirts. The rustling of the fabric drowned the sound of the knob, and the door opened before she anticipated it. Griff entered, closing the door behind him. He looked uncharacteristically handsome in his tailored wedding silks and furs. He removed his hat and hung it on the bedpost, revealing black hair combed to a sheen and slicked back with perfumed oils. His soft, cowlike eyes met Matrinka’s, and it startled her to realize how much he now reminded her of the grandfather she had loved.

  Mior shook herself, then walked a dainty path back across the bed. She settled into Matrinka’s lap, dignity too ruffled to purr.

  Without a word to Matrinka, Griff crossed the room to the central window. Shoving aside gauzy curtains with Béarn’s crest, he gazed out into the darkness. Though he surely saw nothing through the blackness, he continued to stare long after the silence grew uncomfortable.

  Matrinka petted Mior and tried not to cry. She would do her duty for Béarn; she had no other choice. Griff, she knew, would treat her with kindness and dignity. She could not possibly have married better and stayed within the laws of the kingdom. She studied the strong, young back, the large Béarnian frame, and the childlike stance. Over time, she would grow accustomed to these. She would learn to love her husband and to embrace the responsibilities, and the privileges, of queenship.

  Finally, Griff turned toward Matrinka once more. Again, her dark eyes found his. She read pain there, surely a reflection of her own.

  *He deserves to know the truth.* As usual, Mior struck to the heart of the matter.

  Matrinka cringed. *What truth is that?*

  Mior’s tail writhed, and she sent a sensation of irritability prior to giving Matrinka words. *Don’t play games with me and him. Tell him how you feel.*

  *I feel lucky. And I feel frightened.*

  *And sad,* Mior added. *Don’t forget sad.*

  Matrinka tore her gaze from Griff to turn it on the cat. *That would only hurt him.*

  *He deserves to know the truth.*

  Griff walked toward Matrinka, eyes still locked on hers. Neither of them noticed the footstool in his path until his shin slammed against it and he toppled over it to the floor. He thumped to the ground with enough force to shake the boards beneath the carpet.

  “Oh!” Mior sprang to the floor a split second before Matrinka jumped up and dashed to Griff’s side. Seizing his hands, she helped him stand.

  “Oh,” Griff repeated, wrapping his fingers around hers. Though large, her hands seemed to disappear into his massive grip. “That was astoundingly graceful, wasn’t it?”

  Matrinka tried to hide her smile. She led him to the bed, and he sat in her former position. “Are you all right?”

  Griff rubbed his right cheek and shook back the hair that had fallen from its carefully oiled position into his eyes. Once again, he looked like the simple, innocent companion who had accompanied them from the elves’ island and through so much. “I’m fine.” He hesitated, mouth bowing into a frown. “At least about the fall. Matrinka . . .” He looked up at her, seeming more guileless for his lower position. “I’m afraid I don’t . . .” His gaze flickered downward, to his feet. “. . . love you.”

  Matrinka froze in place. “You don’t?”

  “Well,” Griff admitted. “I do. You’re my cousin, and my friend. But . . .” He shook his head, unable to continue.

  Hope touched Matrinka, but it refused to blossom. She could not fathom the use of such information. It only seemed to deepen the tragedy. “You don’t love me like a wife?” she guessed.

  Apparently, the ease with which Matrinka took the news comforted Griff. “I don’t really know, I guess. I’ve never been married before.”

  Matrinka restrained a laugh. That’s usually the way it works. “You don’t love me like a lover?”

  Griff’s huge shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “I don’t really know that either. I’ve never had a lover.”

  “Neither have I,” Matrinka assured him.

  Griff looked up hopefully, as if he wished for her to dismiss his concerns as normal for the situation.

  Matrinka could not supply the reassurance he wanted. “But I know what it feels like to love someone li
ke a lover.”

  “This isn’t it?” Griff supplied.

  “This isn’t it.”

  Griff opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words emerged. Only a glow that flickered across his features briefly suggested that he wanted to claim he understood the feeling, had even experienced it. Matrinka could only guess that some woman in his past inspired it. “So what do we do?” he finally asked.

  Matrinka felt Mior’s touch against her mind, but the cat shared no words. She understood the delicateness of the situation and would insert neither animal-simple logic nor humor. Matrinka cleared her throat. What she wanted and what would prove best for Griff or Béarn clashed, and she had little choice but to consider the latter two first. “It’s not necessary for a husband and wife to love one another to perform their . . . duties.”

  “Duties,” Griff repeated, without the cautious emphasis Matrinka had given the word. “I will continue as king and you as first queen.”

  “Right,” Matrinka said, surprised naive Griff would place himself in the position of separating personal responsibilities from sexual ones. She had lumped all together to spare him.

  “I,” Griff started, then stopped. His jaw set, and he forced out a full sentence. “The queen’s quarters are next door. I think you should stay there.” His eyes rolled up to meet hers again, though only briefly. “I still value your friendship, of course. I thought I could go through with this, but I’ve known all day that I can’t.”

  Matrinka did not request clarification. Griff’s words had come with too much difficulty to challenge. Apparently, he did not want her in his bed, and for the moment that decision was a relief.

  Griff drew a deep breath and continued. “I’ll call Rantire back. For now, I’d like the bard to protect you, instead. When he’s not attending court or to your safety, I’ll have him remain as your personal steward.”

  Matrinka swallowed, seeking words and finding only diffuse concepts. The populace would surely read the switch as a token of the king’s love for his new queen. The better warrior would still guard him, but he would assign his bodyguard to the woman for whom he had pledged lifelong responsibility. She knew better. In his own sweet, unworldly manner, Griff had just sanctioned her relationship with Darris. When words continued to fail her, Matrinka hurled herself into Griff’s arms and held him. Her respect and her affection for him grew from a spark to a bonfire in an instant, yet it still transcended physical attraction.

  Griff held her, too, sadness apparent in his smile. He led her through the door and into a hallway where they caught Darris pacing frantically. Clearly shocked, he scurried to bow respectfully to his liege and to the queen of Béarn. Griff did not wait for his bard to assume the proper position. He herded Matrinka to her next door quarters, then gestured for Darris to join them.

  The bard broke from the half-finished gesture of courtesy and trotted to them without hesitation, his face lined by confusion. “What can I do for you, Majesties?”

  Matrinka entered her room and turned to shut the door. The conversation between king and bodyguard did not involve her, and her eavesdropping would only discomfort them both. Mior followed, rubbing against the door frame as she entered and delaying Matrinka’s action long enough for her to catch the first of Griff’s commands.

  “First, please ask Tem’aree’ay to my chambers. Then . . .”

  Matrinka closed the door, tears burning her eyes, though they seemed as much from joy as sorrow.

  *Sad, isn’t it?* Mior said.

  Matrinka nodded. The observation could apply to many aspects of the current situation, but the cat’s focus seeped through with her words. *Love works in strange and horrible ways. I’m glad Griff has a confidante.*

  *But he’s falling for her.*

  *What?* Matrinka shook her head, smoothing down her many skirts. *That’s nonsense.* She shook her head again. *Crazy, Mior. She’s an elf. It would be like him falling for you.*

  Mior sat, raising a back leg skyward and grooming it from thigh to claws. *Not so crazy. You’ll see.*

  Matrinka snorted. *I’ll see what? What will I see?*

  *You’ll see him mooning around the castle like you used to do for Darris.*

  Matrinka could not imagine the childlike king morose. *Impossible.*

  *Love unfulfilled does strange things to people.* Mior lowered her leg. *You could take some lessons from cats.*

  Matrinka gathered the animal into her arms. *We call women who act like cats “harlots.”*

  Mior settled into the crook of Matrinka’s arm. *And what do you call women who mate with men who aren’t their husband?*

  Struck by Mior’s harsh words, Matrinka dropped to the bed without bothering to survey the plush furnishings of her new quarters. For now, they all merged into an insignificant blur. *I haven’t slept with Darris.*

  *Yet.*

  Tears welled from Matrinka’s eyes. She flopped backward, drawing the furry form to her chest. *Oh, Mior. I’m wrong to want him, aren’t I? Am I a horrible person?*

  Mior’s words remained devoid of the judgment Matrinka supplied. *I don’t know. But you’re a damn good cat.*

  Matrinka’s crying quickened.

  Mior continued, feigning offense. *I meant that as a good thing.*

  Matrinka wept, fighting guilt.

  *Matrinka, if your husband sanctions, even arranges it, how can it be wrong? Doesn’t a good wife fulfill the wishes of her man? Doesn’t a good woman follow the orders of her king?*

  *Do you really think this is what Griff wants? I mean, really wants. He didn’t actually say it.*

  *It’s what he meant,* Mior assured. *I can’t promise it’s really what he wants, but I do know it’s what you want. And Darris. You’ve been fighting love a long time, and now you’ve been given the chance to have it. The king freed you from the constraints of the law. He gave you the best of all possible wedding gifts. Are you going to let strangers’ ideas of what’s right destroy your dream?*

  A knock sounded on Matrinka’s door before she could answer. Startled, she jerked to her feet, this time managing to keep hold of Mior. “Come in.”

  The door slid soundlessly open, and Darris stood in the doorway. The hazel eyes still held the bewilderment his face had finally liberated. As she admired the curl of brown hair that had settled over his thin brows, the large straight nose, and the broad lips, she lost all ability to compare him to other men. His features had become too familiar, too special to consider as one among many.

  The answer to Mior’s question became a foregone conclusion.

  * * *

  Kevral sat on the pillow of her bed, knees tucked to her chest, eyes shut, visions of the day’s training session parading across her closed lids. As the lessons, svergelse, and entertainment settled into a pattern, life became pleasant and easy. During her four months in Pudar, she had added personal touches to the plush furnishings of her room, and the upper left drawer of the desk held presents she had collected for her companions. Through his ministers and servants, the king not only granted her a stipend, but, so far, had delivered anything she had requested. Mostly, this had consisted of freshly forged swords for self and students; her harsh specifications had sent the royal blacksmith into blustering fits of rage.

  The king had also honored her appeals for blander foods prepared in the style of the southwest. Initially, this had done little to appease the nausea that churned through her gut on occasion, then disappeared for hours at a time. The vomiting had resolved during the second month of her stay, and the queasiness disappeared a few weeks later. She had not realized how much the sickness affected her until its resolution. Then, her appetite soared. For the first time in her life, her stomach developed the bulge so favored by the men of Erythane, Pudar and, especially, Béarn.

  Kevral held her focus to the vision of those she taught, refining her techniques to suit individuals. Since the incident in the alleyway, neither Tyrion, nor any other, showed the faintest hint of disrespect. At times, they
cursed her; but she had expected nothing less. All of the torke she had known strove to create hatred tempered by admiration. Learning required pain and the anger that accompanied it. As long as they treated her with respect, they could despise her to the ends of the world.

  A knock on the door dispelled Kevral’s train of thought. She opened her eyes. “Who is it?”

  The voice of a young woman wafted through the panel. “A healer. May I come in, Mistress Kevral?”

  Kevral sighed. The king’s ceaseless concern about her health, while understandable, irritated her. He had not sent a healer to her room since she dismissed one during her first weeks. Annoyance prickled at her manners, but she saw no need to harass what was probably a frightened young woman for the king’s indiscretion. “Briefly,” she returned.

  The latch clicked, and the door edged open. A woman in her early twenties poked her head through the opening. She carried a calico cat in her arms.

  The similarity to Matrinka jarred Kevral, and she sat in stunned silence longer than decorum demanded.

  The healer closed the door and looked at Kevral. Apparently trying to understand her expression, she shifted from foot to foot nervously. “Is it the cat, my lady? I can leave her outside.”

  “Not necessary.” Kevral scurried to the edge of the bed, then waved the healer toward the desk chair. “Sit, please.” Her thoughts turned from the means of chasing the newcomer swiftly away to listening. Only at this moment did she realize how much she missed having friends who treated her as something other than an object of fear or awe. “What can I do for you?”

  “For me?” The woman fairly squeaked. “No, my lady, no. I’m here to help you. They tell me you’ve been sick pretty much since you got here.”

  Kevral hoped “they” had not turned her gastrointestinal problems into common knowledge or gossip. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m feeling fine now. I just had a little difficulty adjusting to the differences in food.”

  Finally, the healer sat, perching on the edge of the chair as if to flee at any moment. “My name is Charra. May I ask some personal questions?”