Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The white-haired male spoke after a pause unpleasant to Tae’s human-cultured ways. “Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin is pleased.” His voice held a reverence Tae had heard only from the most devout priests and from warriors so devoted to their religion they chose to die for it. Tae’s brow crinkled before he could think to hide expression. Captain had led him to believe the elves saw gods more as allies than objects of worship.

  Weile tipped his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. He met the catlike eyes directly. The black-haired male glanced at each human in the clearing, Tae last. He looked back to the conversation, stiffened suddenly, and studied Tae more carefully. Apparently, he communicated with the woman using khohlar because, a moment later, she examined him as well.

  Tae allowed a slight smile to touch his features. Recognize me, don’t you, you ugly bastards. Try and figure this one out.

  Oblivious to his companions’ focus, the white-haired male continued. “He has a new project for you.” Without turning, he made an arching gesture toward his back.

  The other male jerked his gaze from Tae to carry forward the coffer. The speaker opened it, only then glancing in Tae’s direction, surely in response to a silent communication. His attention did not linger, however. He frowned minimally and returned his gaze to Weile and the coffer.

  Tae rose casually, straightening his tunic and surreptitiously rearranging breeks that clung uncomfortably to his buttocks. He wanted a look in that coffer, but his position allowed only sideways scrutiny. Even then, he identified glimmering coins and gemstones.

  The sun sparked blue and gold accents onto Weile’s cheeks, and the crime lord’s expression told Tae more than his own eyes. His father could not fully hide his appreciation. Apparently, the box held a fortune.

  Tae returned to his seat, ignoring the female’s persistent scrutiny. In a moment, he would discover the extent of his father’s morality, and he suspected he would despise what he learned. No one would offer so much for anything less than evil. He closed his eyes and loosed a quiet sigh. Likely, the time had come to part company.

  The speaker seemed unconcerned with Weile’s silence. “Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin asks that your men join us in assaulting Pudar.”

  Tae’s eyes flew open. His head jerked to his father. All three of the elves turned their gazes there as well. The speaker set the coffer onto Weile’s arms. A pearl necklace crowned with an emerald slithered from the pile to the ground at Weile’s feet.

  Apparently accepting Weile’s quiet thoughtfulness as acquiescence, the elf explained. “We’ll meet—”

  Weile cocked a wrist around the coffer, a gentle plea for the elf to stop speaking.

  The white-haired male complied.

  “You want us to help you attack the city of Pudar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The elf did not move. His gemlike eyes never seemed to blink. “You’ve not needed reasons before.”

  Weile casually shook a curl from his forehead. “And I don’t need one now.”

  Tae felt his heart sink into his gut. He lowered his head, though this sent a shaggy curtain of black hair into his eyes.

  “The answer is no.”

  Tae could not hold back a massive grin and appreciated the unruly mane that hid it from the elves. He forced his lips back to their normal configuration before raising his head and raking the hair back behind his ears.

  “You wouldn’t refuse us.” The lead elf’s tone contained just a hint of disbelief, enough to make it clear he did not threaten.

  “Oh, I would,” Weile assured him in a voice that left no room for argument. “And I did.” He held out the coffer, but the elves made no move to take it back.

  “You want more money,” the speaker guessed. “Have we not been generous enough?”

  Again, Weile attempted to return the coffer, and the elves ignored the gesture. The attempt required him to stand unnaturally close to the white-haired male. “Tell Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin . . .” He did not stumble over a syllable of the protracted name. Memorizing details was part of his job. “. . . that our dealings are ended.” When the elf still did not accept the payment back, Weile overturned the coffer. Gold and silver, copper and precious stones, gem-studded trinkets and jewelry spilled out in a rainbow wash of color. Coins clinked and clattered. Gemstones bounced, rolling across the dirt and the feet of men and elves.

  In the moment when every eye was drawn inexorably to the money, the lead elf clapped a hand to Weile’s face. All else seemed to happen at once. Weile recoiled, dropping the coffer with a pained curse. The elves ran. Alsrusett snatched up the crossbow. Daxan drew his sword and charged. Tae surged to his feet, hand springing to his own weapon. Kinya brandished an ax, physically blocking retreat. The elves sprinted toward the exit, Daxan at their heels. A moment later, the elves bounded into the air and flew over the hedges. A quarrel speared the space the speaker once filled.

  “Let them go,” Weile said, voice coarsened by pain that went beyond a simple slap. He removed the hand he had clamped to his left cheek, studying it for blood.

  Tae reached his father’s side first, seeing the angry, red burn in the shape of a small, long-fingered hand. “What is that?”

  Weile stepped back farther from the coffer and its scattered contents. “He was trying to brand me an elf-enemy.”

  Tae jerked a rag from his pocket. “How do you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  Mentally, Tae guessed. Spitting on the cloth, he dabbed at the wound.

  Weile pulled away. “Ow! Sheriva’s demons, what are you doing?”

  Tae lowered the cloth. “You got a better way to wash off any residue? If he left something caustic there, it’ll eat deep enough to scar.”

  “Scar, who cares,” Weile grumbled. “Let the whole world know I’m a damned elf-enemy. It’s better than having someone grind filth into an open wound.”

  “Hey!” Tae protested the insult to his oral hygiene. “I’m trying to wash off the dirt.”

  Weile shoved his son aside with a garbled response as Alsrusett and Daxan returned to tend him. Both wore stricken looks.

  “My fault, sir,” Alsrusett said, sounding near to tears. “I should have cut off his hand before he touched you.”

  Weile waved off his bodyguard as well. “It’s my own damned fault. I let him burden my hands, then stepped into harm’s way. I deserved what I got.” He mumbled, “Dropped that stupid coffer on my own foot, too.”

  Tae could not help smiling. He was pleased when his father dropped pretenses, a thing he only did in the singular presence of himself, the personal guards, and Kinya. “I’m proud of you, Father.”

  Weile whirled on his son. “Great. I finally figured out how to earn your respect, and it requires me to break my toes.”

  Tae snorted. “No, that part just amuses me. I’m proud of the way you put morality over money.”

  “Survival over money,” Weile corrected. “Before, I could reconcile the elves’ jobs to self-defense. I won’t get involved in their war against humanity. You and I know they’re not going to stop at slaughtering Pudarians. Given the chance, they’d use us till we destroyed the rest of mankind, then turn on us as well.” He placed a hand on Tae’s shoulder, and the expression he showed his son revealed pride. “You were right, Tae. I only wish I’d believed you sooner.”

  Tae felt a cozy glow kindle inside of him. It was a feeling with which he had little familiarity, but he liked it.

  Daxan interrupted the moment. “Sir, what would you have me do with the payment?” He made a broad gesture to indicate the coins and jewelry.

  Tae met his father’s dark gaze. The idea of taking tainted money rankled, yet he could understand its allure. Weile had already refused the elves’ demands. They had chosen to leave it.

  Weile approached the biggest pile. Hands on his hips, he exami
ned the sparkling treasures, more than even most nobles saw in a lifetime. He touched a hand to the livid, scarlet mark on his cheek. It would surely blister, but Tae doubted it would leave the brand the elves had sought. Bums that scarred were ominously painless.

  “This.” Weile kicked the stack. Ornaments and coins sailed toward the hedges, and others plowed beneath leaf mold and dirt. He whirled suddenly, placing an arm across Tae’s shoulders and leading his son from the clearing.

  Tae had never loved his father more.

  * * *

  King Cymion of Pudar sat on a hard wooden chair in one of the castle’s many meeting rooms, his adviser, Javonzir, seated beside him and seven guards attentively around him. The overseer of the east wing staff stood nearby, leaning against the table now pushed up against the wall, fingers lacing nervously through his beard. Though distracting, Cymion preferred that to the wild pacing that had preceded it. The room contained no other furnishings, and the door on the far right-hand side of the room remained closed.

  Though three quarters of a year had passed since Cymion’s eldest son’s death, sorrow still haunted him, a grim specter that perched eternally upon bowed shoulders. Life in the castle had returned to its routine long ago, yet it would never seem the same. He still found himself turning to elicit Crown Prince Severin’s opinion or to teach him a finer point of law, only to stare at an empty chair or worse, a startled guard or courtier squirming beneath the king’s sudden scrutiny.

  Cymion ran a hand through auburn hair flecked with gray. As his fingers twined through, they straightened curls that sprang immediately back into place. Time for a haircut, he decided mechanically, the thought a throwback to his warrior training when sweat would plaster those locks to his forehead and unbind them enough that they slid into his eyes. He smiled slightly at the ancient instinct, mind gliding back to the days before his father chose him over his brothers as the heir to Pudar’s throne. He and his cousin Javonzir had trained for war together, filled with dreams of a life of service to his elder brother, competing for the position as general. Even after so many years, he recalled their wrestling matches, their chases through the palace hallways that often sent them careening past glowering nobles, and their spars with crude wooden weapons that usually ended in bruised limbs or smashed fingers. Though he kept his arm honed and his frame robustly muscled through practice, more so than Javonzir, the life of king and adviser suited them better.

  “She’ll be here, Majesty,” the overseer said reassuringly for the fourteenth time. “I’m sure of it.”

  King Cymion gave no reply. He did not doubt his retainer, only wished the man would not worry so much. He had delayed his court to come to this meeting, believing the words of the young healer more significant than standard affairs. The woman performed a great service for the kingdom, and he saw no need to rush the process or her awakening.

  Just as the overseer opened his mouth again, the latch clicked. The door eased open, and Charra slipped inside. Without glancing to the far end of the room, she carefully closed the door. “Well, I spoke with the violent little slut—” She turned, raising her head. Only then, her eyes fell on King Cymion and widened as if to encompass her entire face. With a high-pitched gasp of shock and terror, she hurled herself, prostrate, to the floor.

  Cymion glanced at the overseer, who cringed and shook his head carefully. Apparently, he had not found the time to warn Charra of the king’s appearance. Not wanting to leave her worrying too long, Cymion addressed Charra. “Rise, please, Healer. Approach.”

  Charra climbed to her feet and headed hesitantly toward the assemblage. She stumbled a bit, as if reeds had replaced her legs. As she drew near enough to politely speak, she curtsied deeply. “Your Majesty, my humblest apologies. I–I didn’t . . . know . . . I . . . you . . .”

  Cymion spared her the need for explanations. “Is the Renshai with child?”

  “Yes, Sire,” Charra returned. “About five months along.”

  The math bothered the king, though he suppressed a frown. Charra might worry that she had displeased him, and it would make her even more nervous and more afraid to recount details. “What more did you learn?”

  Charra curtsied again, yellow-brown eyes dodging Cymion’s harder blue ones. The gesture seemed more nervous habit than courtesy. “Sire, the father is a Knight of Erythane.”

  King Cymion stiffened, unable to hide his startlement. “A knight. Really,” he muttered. The naming of his own kin as father could not have surprised him more. “How odd.”

  “I don’t believe she was lying, Your Majesty.” Again, she glanced at the overseer for direction.

  The king did not bother to watch the man’s reaction. He would encourage her to speak openly.

  Charra carefully cleared her throat, hiding behind a curtain of mousy hair. “Sire, for all her strength on the battlefield, the Renshai’s a regular, naive adolescent when it comes to ‘woman things.’ I don’t think she knew she could get pregnant doing what she did. She seems scared and confused.”

  Now, the king allowed himself a smile. “Good. And you enhanced that worry, I hope?” He avoided looking at Javonzir. He could almost feel his adviser’s unspoken disapproval.

  A shaky grin touched Charra’s lips as well. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ve started the process, but there’s still much that needs doing.”

  “Consider this your only necessary responsibility for at least the next half year.”

  “Sire, I’ll likely have to get ousted from the castle.”

  Cymion stroked his beard. “I understand. Even as you pretend to live alone on the streets, you’ll have our support. I only regret you’ll have to suffer some real humiliation. If we tell too many the truth, it’ll jeopardize your hard work.”

  Charra nodded. “I’ll suffer it gladly in the service of the kingdom, Your Majesty. I only hope my husband will be well taken care of in my absence.”

  “Of course,” Cymion reassured. “And promoted. One way or another, we’ll find a way to properly reunite and reward you. Your baby will not suffer for your service.”

  “All the gods bless you and your generosity, Your Majesty.” Charra curtsied again. “I’ll do my best.” She hesitated just long enough to suggest she had something else to say.

  Cymion did not dismiss her yet. “Is there more?”

  Charra kept her head bowed. “Sire, I was just wondering about the necessity of the cat.”

  “Kevral used to travel with a healer who had a calico cat. I think it best that you keep it with you. Has that been a problem?”

  “Only a bit, Sire. She tends to wander.” Charra answered the direct question before moving to compliments. “A masterful touch, Your Majesty.”

  King Cymion focused on the problem rather than the praise. “It’s been suggested that the best way to keep a cat a companion is to carry treats and feed them often.” The cook had told a minister that just the previous day.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll do that.”

  “Anything more?”

  “Not yet, Sire.”

  “Dismissed, then.”

  Charra whirled and hurried to the door without a backward glance. Opening it, she slipped through, pushing it gently closed behind her.

  Cymion sensed Javonzir’s need to speak, but he continued to ignore his cousin. He would weather his adviser’s words only in private. “You’re dismissed, too. Overseer.”

  “Thank you, Majesty.”

  The overseer rushed from the room looking every bit as uncomfortable as Charra had.

  Cymion sighed. “Guards, wait for me outside.”

  The men broke ranks with quiet precision and filed from the room without comment or backward glance. Cymion closed his eyes as the door clicked closed behind the last of them and waited for Javonzir to speak.

  The silence stretched interminably. Cymion opened his eyes and studied his cousin.

  Dutifully, Javonzir lowered his head, a spare gesture of deference and respect. Dark brown hair scarcel
y slid with the movement, and the hazel eyes studied Cymion evenly.

  After the long hush, Cymion’s voice sounded booming. “You think I’m handling this wrong.”

  Javonzir blinked but said nothing.

  As the silence once again became uncomfortable, King Cymion pressed. “Well? Do I no longer deserve an answer?”

  “You always deserve answers, Majesty. I was simply awaiting a question.”

  The formality irritated. Javonzir only became this stuffy when he wished to contradict but knew his advice would meet severe resistance. Cymion savored a deep breath. As he did so, he reminded himself of his adviser’s magnificent insight and wisdom. He trusted Javonzir’s counsel, even when it clashed with his desires. “Speak your mind, Javon. I want to hear it.”

  Javonzir blinked once, with far more deliberation than such a natural action required. “Majesty, a man makes stronger alliances through kindness than trickery.”

  “Yes.” Cymion understood the concept. “But this ally would not stay without both.”

  “Perhaps if you gave her a chance, Majesty.”

  Cymion shook his head. He had seen the closeness between Kevral and her companions. Once, when his own words had threatened Matrinka’s freedom, Kevral had prepared to battle his inner guard force and himself. She had surrendered herself to him for execution in Tae’s place. Thoughts of his son’s murder narrowed Cymion’s eyes, and deadly rage darkened his features. He shook the thought from his mind, concerned Javonzir might believe the anger directed at him. Pudar could never sever such ties, yet Cymion saw no way to buy Kevral’s tremendous loyalty for himself and his kingdom. Keeping her expertise in Pudar, preferably along with her family, had long ago passed from desperate desire to urgent necessity. His vision of Renshai serving him and his heirs as soldiers, armsmen, and higher officers had become as tangible as reality. To sacrifice that dream now meant weakening Pudar. “Do you have any ideas about how to do that?”