Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

“Yes, Sire. I do.”

  Cymion stiffened, turning sideways in his chair to look directly at Javonzir. “You didn’t before.” The statement was not wholly true. The adviser had made a few suggestions, none strong enough to carry the situation, however.

  “Your Majesty, circumstances have changed. I’ve had more time to consider.”

  “And?” Cymion pressed eagerly. Perhaps Javonzir would even find a way to lure the knight into his service.

  “Crown Prince Leondis, Sire.”

  The title jabbed through Cymion like a spear, raising tears he banished too slowly. Leondis displayed few of the qualities that had made his brother so suited for rulership. Cymion had deliberately not considered his heir since Severin’s murder. “What about my younger son?”

  “Sire, perhaps it’s time for him to settle down and become a proper heir.”

  “Yes.” Cymion could not deny the assertion, though he saw no connection to earning the Renshai’s permanent allegiance to Pudar. In his grief, he had neglected the new crown prince’s education.

  Javonzir studied the king’s face as he spoke, measuring the moment that his advice crossed dangerous lines. “Leondis is no Severin, of course, Majesty.”

  Cymion nodded vigorously.

  “But he’s not a bad young man, and I think he’ll eventually make a pretty good king.”

  Cymion did not agree. He had mostly hoped to use his youngest son as a tool to create more heirs. Though approaching fifty, Cymion remained strong and healthy. He planned to rule at least long enough for Leondis’ sons to grow up, so that he could train one to take his place. “The only things he takes seriously are his parties and his women. At least on a night-to-night basis.”

  A hint of a smile strayed to Javonzir’s thin lips. “Sire, a family might settle Leondis.”

  A snort escaped Cymion. “It would simply turn his carousing into affairs.”

  Javonzir’s smile grew. “Not if his wife could kill him for the indiscretion.”

  Cymion inhaled a mouthful of saliva and broke into paroxysms of coughing. For a moment, he feared he had swallowed his tongue as well.

  Javonzir waited patiently while his king choked and hacked.

  Finally, Cymion managed to speak again, his eyes moist and his voice hoarse. “You mean marry Leondis and Kevral?” His raw windpipe forced him into another bout of coughing.

  “Why not?”

  “The crown prince of Pudar married to a Renshai?”

  The smile remained, and Javonzir’s brows rose in question.

  “The crown prince of Pudar married to a foreigner pregnant with another man’s baby?” Cymion glared at his cousin. “Have you gone mad? That bare suggestion is treason!” The declaration lost its vehemence as coughs racked Cymion again.

  “Majesty, it ceases to be treason when the king requests the speaker speak his mind.”

  Cymion nodded resignedly, still coughing. He would never prosecute Javonzir for anything, and they both knew it.

  “Hear me out, Sire.” Javonzir surely realized the cough assured that anyway. “You have a Renshai who has already improved your army two hundred percent and an elite group ten times that. Understandably, you want to keep her in Pudar as long as possible. She desperately needs a husband and a father for a baby whose blood father is a Knight of Erythane, of all things. Sire, you have a crown prince who needs to learn responsibility and discipline. And seems incapable of siring children of his own.”

  The last words hit Cymion nearly as hard as the understanding of Javonzir’s intentions. “Incapable of siring children?” The guttural quality of his voice came not wholly from the irritation in his windpipe. “Javon, why would you say such a thing?”

  “Sire,” Javonzir said cautiously. “If Leondis is only half as . . . um . . . experienced as rumored, we should have bastards running all over the castle.”

  “There’s Leosina.” Cymion named the three-year-old daughter of a west wing maid, claimed as Leondis’ illegitimate child.

  Javonzir folded his fingers together. “Sire, perhaps this is the time to mention the striking resemblance between that girl and the young man who serves dinner to the west wing nobles.”

  Cymion knew the deception should enrage him; yet, for now, it took a back seat to the more significant matter. “No grandchildren?”

  “Majesty.” Javonzir placed a hand on the back of Cymion’s chair. “I don’t know that for certain. And your sister has several sons who could sit upon the throne, if you so choose. Your line would not be lost if Leondis cannot sire offspring.”

  The urge to slam his arm across the chair until he pounded it to rubble seized the king, but he controlled it from long practice. It did not do for the king to show too much emotion, even in private and with the one person who made him feel wholly safe. Severin should have succeeded me. Severin’s children should carry on our blood. The line of thought served no constructive purpose. He never doubted Javonzir’s idea could come to pass. No commoner could refuse a prince’s proposal. If Charra did her job well, Kevral would agree to marry a servant, let alone a prince, of Pudar. For all his faults, Leondis was an eye-pleasing, charming man of manners, well liked by the ladies. If he could not entrance the young Renshai, no man in the city could do so. Yet the idea of a Pudarian prince marrying a low-born, a Renshai, or a woman carrying another’s child rankled, beyond consideration, at least for the moment.

  Javonzir cleared his throat, indicating Cymion had remained in hushed contemplation too long. “Sire, another matter. Minister Daizar quite suddenly requested a place on the court docket this morning.”

  The strangeness of Javonzir’s announcement pulled Cymion, finally, from his thoughts. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Majesty. Rumor among the guards is the Renshai attacked him last night.”

  “She did?” Guarded curiosity awakened, Cymion sought Javonzir’s opinion.

  Javonzir shook his head. “I don’t believe it, Majesty.”

  “You don’t?” Cymion gestured for his adviser to continue.

  “Majesty, if a Renshai had attacked him last night, he would not be alive to request audience this morning. The news beyond the rumors is that she refused to see her students this morning and plans to replace them with young children.”

  Cymion groaned, certain he would learn the details in the courtroom. Things did not look good; and, ultimately, he could blame no one but himself.

  CHAPTER 28

  A Demon and a Sword of Chaos

  Every time you draw that sword, it’s a real fight.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  In the main room of the elfin common house, Dh’arlo’mé sat straight-backed upon a jeweled chair stolen from Béarn’s castle, his position regal without lapsing into rigidity. He clutched the staff in his left hand, its base on the floor and its end towering over his head. His right hand lay still upon the arm of the chair, occasionally rising in a subtle gesture to counterpoint his words or khohlar.

  One by one, his lead scouts paraded into his presence and struggled to avoid the pinning scrutiny of his single green eye. Their fear had become a tangible commodity on which he thrived. It kept them desperately loyal, to him and to his every cause; and their awe grew as powerful as that of a true believer for his god. The staff had granted him knowledge and so much more: the bearing that turned his elves from companions to worshipers, the ability to read thoughts and emotions, the competence to summon and control demons. And, gradually, it won him the confidence to use all those things in the cause of elves and law.

  The first lead scout reported the racial wars of the North that raged without stopping for months. Already, one of the ten tribes had been obliterated, its lands incorporated by its neighbors. Dh’arlo’mé had read so much beyond the words: the violence elves could scarcely understand, the unfathomable ability to find honor and glory in slaughtering others of one’s ilk, and the desperate vengeance that forever propelled and reincited the wars. Chaos had taken its toll also in the East, where a s
cramble for the throne had resulted in a conniving and brutal king, one more interested in his own power and entertainment than in the future of his country. It had proved simple for the elves to stir paranoia and jealousy. Soon enough, the East would fall.

  Even the vast majority of the Westland towns had crumbled into riot. Scores of humans died from violence and starvation caused by the inability to transport supplies. Farmers watched their crops fall into decay, unable to deliver, while those a day’s travel from plenty fell victim to hunger and disease. Dh’arlo’mé learned the horrors beyond the straightforward reports of his lead scouts, and they filled him with fierce elation. Finally, his revenge would succeed. Chaos and humans had become a single entity in his mind, and they would die together.

  Three human strongholds still held fast against the hysteria that tore apart all others. That Béarn could remain so cohesive with the Staff of Chaos in its midst once floored Dh’arlo’mé before law, and its knowledge, became so much a part of him. Now he understood that the king of Béarn was the central focus of neutrality. His influence over his territory existed only in pockets, but a god-mediated tradition did not easily die. Cut off by mountains, the city of Santagithi never relied heavily on trade and even now maintained order. Eventually, Dh’arlo’mé intended to steer the warring Northmen toward the wealth and necessities there, after the battles claimed most of their own. Dh’arlo’mé awaited the lead scout’s report on the third holdout.

  A vast sense of restless anxiety accompanied Mith’ranir Orian T’laris El-neerith Wherinta through the doorway. His every discreet gesture demonstrated a respect that bordered on worship. Dh’arlo’mé demanded none of the cumbersome formality of human rulers, as much to avoid the conventions of enemies as because it seemed wholly unnecessary. The quiet awe of his followers, and their willingness to obey his every command, served him well enough.

  Green eyes glanced at Dh’arlo’mé around white bangs, then skittered away. Mith’ranir sent khohlar: *The Easterners refused our offer.*

  A surge of surprise, then anger jolted through Dh’arlo’mé, easily controlled. He sat impassively, revealing nothing.

  Mith’ranir continued, gemlike eyes returning to Dh’arlo’mé’s face, seeking clues to his disposition. *They will not work for us any longer . . .*

  Dh’arlo’mé savored the lead scout’s reverent confusion. The king of the elves had perfected stoicism. His eye fixed on the scout, and even it gave away nothing of Dh’arlo’mé’s temper.

  Mith’ranir continued to explain the situation while Dh’arlo’mé gleaned details that obviated words or even khohlar. Mith’ranir’s memories gave him more than he needed, even the shock and rage on Weile’s face when the elf had marked him. The man who had assisted the escape of King Griff and the captured Renshai from the elves’ dungeon had influenced the Eastern criminal’s decision. And, as Mith’ranir concluded his story in the moments khohlar took, Dh’arlo’mé brushed an older thought lost amidst the turmoil of Mith’ranir’s mind. It involved the heir to Pudar’s throne.

  Mith’ranir ended with a question. *What would you have us do now? Should we assault Pudar without them?*

  *No,* Dh’arlo’mé returned swiftly, without need for consideration. *We cannot spare even one elfin life.* He forced realization of Mith’ranir’s incaution at the meeting with Weile Kahn. Getting self and companions safely away should have taken precedence over attempting to brand an enemy. He fought the smile that naturally followed realization. *If the humans will not do the job for us, then we must resort to another.* His mind went immediately to demons, and the few remaining threads of his original personality recoiled from the idea. Memory of the slaughter near the shore had become tattered and distant, yet it remained. It seemed unremittingly wrong to draw forth chaos into the service of law.

  The staff battered back doubts it read as weakness. It hammered at that small piece of Dh’arlo’mé not yet bonded to its will. *What could be more lawful than tying chaos to law’s service? It will claim its blood from Pudar, and together we can control and destroy it. A blow to humans and chaos at once.*

  Dh’arlo’mé accepted the explanation easily, but frustration plied him for other reasons. It seemed unfair that elves required natural death to reproduce while humans could spill out their violent, squalling brats at will. In the reverse situation, destroying the human race would prove so much simpler. The closest the gods had come to balancing that natural flaw was the fleeting length of human existence. Dh’arlo’mé latched onto that thought. If humans could use elfin reproduction against him, surely he could find a way to use their short life spans against them. The answer, he realized, lay in Mith’ranir’s memory. He confronted his lead scout. *Do I recall you did something to Pudar’s crown prince?*

  Mith’ranir looked at his leader strangely. *We had him murdered, remember? The humans arranged with us so that the blame fell on an enemy of theirs.*

  Dh’arlo’mé remembered the incident well enough. *I mean the current crown prince of Pudar. Did you do something to him?*

  Mith’ranir brightened. He sent the concept of sterilization, created through magic.

  Excitement took form behind Dh’arlo’mé’s uncompromising mask. He berated himself for the foolishness of not previously thinking of such an obvious strategy. Humans unable to reproduce will last only so long as their babies grow to old age. Experience told him eighty years or less, a pittance to an elf. *Can you do that again?*

  *I shouldn’t need to. I believe it’s permanent,* Mith’ranir sent, a modicum of pride touching the sentiment, a relatively new emotion to the elfin repertoire.

  Dh’arlo’mé broadened the concept, to indicate the human race en masse.

  Clearly daunted, Mith’ranir made a gesture of uncertainty to accompany his khohlar. *It took me all night to handle him, and much difficulty.*

  *Perhaps a jovinay arythanik?*

  Mith’ranir sent a vigorous agreement. *It would still take time, and I don’t know how much distance I could cover.* The khohlar degenerated into bits of thought. Perhaps with others also casting. And a long distraction. And a big jovinay arythanik. An area at a time. He returned to communication mode, though Dh’arlo’mé had heard everything between. *Possible, I think. If we work together.*

  *We always do,* Dh’arlo’mé reminded. *We ALWAYS do.*

  * * *

  Formal affairs of court, personal training, and drills left Ra-khir little occasion for anything more, yet he still found himself with more free time than he could manage. The life of a Knight of Erythane included dinners with family, and he had no one with whom to spend his evenings. Kedrin was needed in Béarn, and Ra-khir counted the days until his shift would take him there as well. He missed Darris, Matrinka, and Griff, perhaps even Rantire. And, most of all, Kevral.

  Ra-khir wandered the streets of Erythane, his course taking him naturally up the hill to the Bellenet Fields. Spring breezes tugged at his hat, freeing strands of red-gold hair, and ruffled at his tabard. Lowering sunlight sheened from Béarn’s gold and blue on the front, shifting with every movement. His clothes fit him without wrinkle, perfectly tailored and properly colored. The icy edge to the winds did not bother him. The southern lands rarely saw snow or temperatures low enough to warrant anything heavier than a woolen cloak, and winter now lay behind them.

  Ra-khir leaned carefully against the wooden fence, tracking the sun’s downward progress in the sky. The joy of earning his knighthood still thrilled through him most times, liberally accompanied by disbelief. Often, he worried he would awaken and find the whole a pleasant dream. Yet the stiff soreness of his muscles was real enough, and loneliness managed to taint his usual excitement. It seemed impossible that only five months had passed since Kevral’s and Tae’s departure. It seemed like a previous lifetime. He wondered how they fared, forcing himself, as always, to believe they had arrived safely. But, tonight, doubt gnawed achingly at his thoughts. Caravans could not penetrate the blockade to Western travel. Even his faith in Kevr
al’s skill could not always overcome knowledge.

  The sun tipped over the horizon, leaving a rainbow wake that paraded colors across the sky. He watched them layer, the purple expanse fading to blue, sweeping into an emerald line before melting into yellow. This gave way, in turn, to a brilliant scarlet that made earth and sun seem on fire. The radiance stole away his concerns for a moment, and he caught his breath with a soft gasp of pleasure.

  A gentle voice wafted from beneath Ra-khir’s left arm. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Ra-khir stiffened, jerking away from the fence. A young woman sat in the brown, brittle grass, several arm’s lengths to his left. Straight, brown hair fell to her waist, and blue-green eyes studied him from beneath long lashes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stifling laughter but not a smile. “Did I startle you?”

  Ra-khir would not lie, not even to save face. “Yes, Lady.” He grinned back sheepishly, politely removing his hat. “I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn’t see you there.”

  The smile spread across her face. “You don’t recognize me, do you, Ra-khir?”

  Guarded curiosity rose in Ra-khir. Women seemed to follow him everywhere, especially since his promotion. He had politely staved off advances so many times, he had lost track of the numbers, names, and faces. Many seemed eager to forget the terrible stigma of unmarried pregnancy if a knight sired the child. They knew honor would force him to marry them afterward if they could not woo him before. Ra-khir realized his face and build won him more than his share of female admirers. He found himself disliking the rigid need to keep self, horse, and clothing meticulously groomed or wishing he had inherited less of his parents’ beauty. He did not attempt to commiserate. Few would believe comeliness more curse than blessing. At least, Kevral’s attraction to Tae proved she loved him for something other than his status and appearance. He shook his head gently. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, fair lady. I am sorry for the rudeness.”

  “I’m Mariell. Sushara’s sister.”