Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Ravn cleared his throat, and it sounded funny. His voice would surely rasp. He did not glance toward his mother or his uncle for assistance, verbal or supportive. It would make him look childish and weak. For the moment, he felt both. “It’s . . . well . . . it’s balanced.”

  A startled murmur swept the room. Vali fairly beamed, a state that seemed wholly uncharacteristic after the snapping rages he had displayed against Colbey and his every idea. “I knew the balance would thrive once it sat in divine hands. We should have wrestled its control from that galling human long ago.”

  Vidar frowned to indicate his displeasure, but he made no verbal reminder that the god Vali praised was “that galling human’s” very son. He gave the table a thoughtful tap and turned his attention as glaringly on Ravn as the others. “Is it not true, then, that humans slaughter one another in furious wars and jealous executions? That greed and selfish power have become the driving force of most of the civilizations of mankind?”

  Ravn forced himself still, wooden, gaze on Vidar’s eyes to avoid the others’ withering stares. He wished himself anywhere else. “That appears to be true.”

  Vidar’s eyes widened in question, but he did not give Ravn the chance to elaborate before asking another. “Is it also true that a power-mad elf has uprooted the fabric of elfin society and works toward destroying humankind?”

  “That is untrue,” Frey returned, his voice nearly a growl.

  The words startled Ravn as much as anyone, especially since he had planned to answer in the affirmative. His gaze, along with every other, jerked to the god of weather, fortune, and elves.

  Frey did not languish under the scrutiny, as Ravn believed he personally had. “Dh’arlo’mé is no longer an elf. He is svartalf, and I disown him.”

  Nods swept the table. No one bothered to point out that svartalf literally meant “dark elf.” The compound word seemed to take on a meaning wholly its own.

  Vidar refused to allow semantics to ruin his point. “Fine, then. A power-mad svartalf.”

  Ravn hesitated before taking his eyes from Frey, giving his uncle another chance to interrupt if he felt it necessary. Ravn appreciated anything that took the gods’ attention from him. “True also.”

  Vidar’s brows joined his upper eyelids, arching into definitive challenge. “The Sword of Balance should be bucking in your hands like an unbroken stallion.”

  Freya placed an unobtrusive, comforting hand on Ravn’s leg. If she could, she would have shared her strength.

  “It should be,” Ravn agreed, “but it isn’t. Harval is rock stable. The worlds sit in perfect balance.”

  Murmurs arose from the gods and goddesses then, whispered speculation that seemed unlikely to graze the truth Ravn believed he knew. Impulsive Modi phrased the query on every tongue. “How can that be?”

  Ravn swallowed hard. The moment had come. “Colbey.” His father’s name sounded strange on his tongue, but “Father” or “Papa” seemed embarrassing.

  Silence beckoned Ravn’s explanation.

  Ravn deliberately avoided indefinite word choices, such as “I believe” or “I think.” “Human chaos is partially balancing Dh’arlo’mé’s binding to the Staff of Law.”

  Vidar made a bold dismissive gesture. “If that were the answer, the Sword of Balance would feel unstable, teetering with each large sway toward law or chaos.”

  Ravn nodded. Colbey’s descriptions of Harval suggested that Vidar had assessed it accurately. Ravn could see how his untrained hands might miss minor fluctuations in the balance, but the massive shifts that seemed to be occurring should yield clearly to his touch. “I believe . . .” Catching himself about to equivocate, Ravn smiled and changed his tack. “. . . you’re correct.” He continued, “Colbey is assuredly the answer. Dh’arlo’mé seems to be gaining power far more swiftly than the human devastation could possibly manage to match. Colbey’s taking up chaos as needed to keep pace and maintain equilibrium.”

  A deeper hush lingered after Ravn’s suggestion than before it. Every deity considered the possibility, and the implications, of such a revelation.

  A fist crashed suddenly to the table, and every eye jerked to Modi. Usually, his temper resulted in such an action; this time, his slower intellect required more thought before the rage he was named for could arise. The noise had come from Vali, who used the sudden attention it gained him to speak his piece. “His method is understandable, taking as little chaos as the moment necessitates to rescue the balance.”

  Heads turned more slowly to Vali, including Ravn’s. Though not particularly kind, those were the least negative words Vali had ever spoken about Colbey. Ravn waited for the other shoe to fall, his mother’s hand tightening on his leg.

  “He gained us a lull, but it’s a false one. The more chaos he binds, the less of himself remains. Eventually, it will control him, resulting in the same desperate rush for total power that law has made.”

  No one denied the assertion. Vidar spoke gently, “Colbey understood that when he accepted the Staff of Chaos as his charge. He knew it would destroy him, and it surely will.”

  “The problem,” Sigyn asserted, “is that he based everything on the assumption that the Staff of Law’s champion and the Staff of Chaos’ champion would destroy one another, paving the way for balance.”

  Vali continued, war braids flying as he punctuated verbal points with solid movements. “He based that on several assumptions: First, that he could steer chaos against law even after he became its automaton.”

  Ravn drew a hissing breath but did not contradict. He tried to focus on Vali’s point rather than on his callous references to the certain death of the father Ravn loved.

  “Second, that the aftermath of that battle would leave balance or only a minor, correctable shift. The shambles human civilization has become suggests otherwise.”

  Abruptly, the teak door slammed open, and a breeze stirred the war braids of the assembled. Colbey stood in the doorway. He looked none the worse for his time embroiled in chaos, his golden hair still clipped into short feathers, the same smattering of gray, and the familiar scars manifest. He stood in a battle stance, his usual grace clearly evident. The blue eyes had gained a glimmer of mischief, softened by the gray that now seemed to contain the ancient wisdom of the ages. He wore only one sword, currently at his left hip.

  Freya’s nails gouged Ravn’s flesh. Someone gasped, though Ravn did not bother to identify the source.

  “I would have been here sooner,” Colbey said with mocking calm. “But once again my invitation to the meeting was never delivered.”

  Vali glanced sternly at Vidar. The new leader of the gods remained silent, contemplating every angle of the situation. As Colbey stepped across the entry, pulling the panel closed behind him, Vidar finally spoke. “Kyndig, you’re not welcome here any longer.”

  The door clicked closed, the sound loud in the quiet room. Colbey waited until he secured it before addressing the speaker. “Ah, then. That would explain it.” He glanced at Ravn and Freya, smiling.

  Ravn froze in place, attempting to shield his thoughts, though he knew it a hopeless effort. If Colbey wished to violate him, Ravn could not stop the process, nor even know whether or not it occurred.

  Vidar followed the direction of Colbey’s gaze, a gesture that sent Ravn into uncontrollable fidgeting. “Are you going to invoke family privilege, as Loki once did? Or will you leave peacefully?”

  Colbey placed his hands on the far end of the table, leaning over the last chair, though he did not sit. “Those two choices are not mutually exclusive. I intend the second. Whether or not I invoke privilege depends on you.” He could not help adding, “Uncle Vidar.” The relationship, though honest, had never before been mentioned. As Thor’s half-brother, another son of Odin, Vidar did bear a blood relationship with Colbey.

  “That answers that,” Vali muttered, earning a glare from Vidar. Another son of Odin, he was just as much technically Colbey’s uncle.

  “What do yo
u want?” Idunn asked with evident hostility. “Are you going to taunt us the way Loki did?”

  Balder grew as restless as Colbey’s son. Loki’s session of directed malice had resulted in Balder’s death and a tedious wait in Hel for the Ragnarok and his return.

  Magni shifted the mighty hammer from floor to tabletop, flaunting his aversion.

  “I’m not Loki,” Colbey said.

  Sif disagreed. “You might as well be.”

  “I am not Loki,” Colbey repeated, his voice resonant but in no way defensive. “I have more important matters to attend than bandying insults with you.”

  Ravn studied his father curiously. Something about him had changed, definitely for the better. Weeks ago, when Colbey returned, he carried a definitive air of chaos. Now, that seemed to have disappeared or, perhaps, only become more internal.

  “Then why did you come?” Modi asked, fiery beard bristling.

  “Because I have as much need as you to know how my actions—”

  “—antics,” Vali substituted.

  Colbey shrugged, “—how my antics have affected the balance and reality.” He looked directly at Ravn now.

  Caught staring at his father, Ravn flicked his eyes abruptly away, immediately wishing he had not. It made him appear culpable for a natural curiosity.

  Ravn cleared his throat, delaying. Though he did not share Colbey’s talent, he could feel the hostility radiating from the gods. It had to be burning Colbey, yet he showed no notice of it. Vidar’s eyes jumped to Ravn, and his hands discreetly gestured caution. He would not tell Ravn what to report, only warn him to consider before doing so.

  “Almost since you turned over the sword, the balance has remained intact.” Ravn would not lie. Even if his father did not deserve his respect, Colbey could read his mind and had shown that he would at a time when chaos had a lesser hold over him.

  “Thank you,” Colbey said, with genuine appreciation. “And now I leave in peace.”

  A collective sigh ensued, broken by Colbey’s next words.

  “Except for one thing.”

  Vali glared, his look conveying what his voice did not. He knew Colbey would not leave without causing some measure of trouble.

  “After the meeting, Ravn. A spar?” Colbey’s head tipped slightly, and his brows rose.

  Only now, Ravn realized his mother’s fingers no longer dug into his leg. She patted his breeks, the implication much like Vidar’s a moment ago. She would not feed him an answer, only a plea for caution. Torn between appreciation for others acknowledging his burgeoning adulthood and wishing his mother would make a difficult decision for him, Ravn studied Colbey. He gained little from features or stance, but the eyes revealed much. He saw the love and respect that had disappeared from them on his previous visit. Yet Ravn could not lose the worry that what had changed in Colbey was the ability to lie better, not only with words but with his eyes. “What are the stakes?”

  Colbey turned his head slightly, once in each direction. “No stakes, Ravn.”

  “To the death,” Ravn guessed, still trying to elicit a motive. With the Keeper of the Balance dead, no one could warn the gods if chaos overtook law.

  “No,” Colbey said. “To whatever endpoint you choose.”

  The room seemed to hang on Ravn’s answer. His hands itched, needing the chance to test his skill again against the greatest swordsman in existence. It seemed the mortal teachings of his father might betray him in the most ironic of situations. His thoughts kept shifting back to their final spar, the one before Colbey left to champion chaos. That moment seemed frozen in time, a symbol of the bond the Staff of Chaos had torn asunder. He remembered it as much as a time of love as of teaching, of understanding as of parting. Will another spar now ruin or underscore that session. The answer, Ravn realized, did not matter. By asking for a spar, Colbey tested his son’s trust and loyalty. Once before, each had found the other wanting. This time, Ravn wanted to believe. Whether that came of truth, his own longing, or Colbey’s new ability to influence, he did not know.

  When Ravn did not answer, Vidar finally spoke. “This is between the two of you.” He addressed the father first. “Colbey, I can’t make you leave, but I can suggest it and warn you that we won’t tolerate any trouble.” He turned to the son. “Ravn, do what you feel best, but don’t let anyone goad you into an action you regret.” He gave his attention to the whole assemblage next. “This meeting is adjourned.”

  Colbey, Ravn, and Freya remained in place while the others filed out around them. Chaos’ champion seemed to take no notice of the spiteful glances the others gave him, but his slight smile revealed otherwise. He knew they hated him, and it amused him.

  Ravn’s gaze followed the exiting gods, not from any specific interest in their movements, but to avoid the need to return his father’s penetrating stare. As the door clicked closed behind the last, Ravn reluctantly faced his decision, only to find his mother already locked in a silent, studied war with Colbey.

  Freya broke the silence first, though Colbey’s mortal impatience made him the more likely candidate. “I told you I would not allow you to harm our son.”

  “I have no intention of harming Ravn.” Colbey turned his attention directly on his son.

  Unprepared for the sudden scrutiny, Ravn squirmed, hating himself for the lapse. He forced himself still, returning his father’s stare.

  “I only wish a spar,” Colbey continued. “It may well be my last chance to do something special with my son.”

  Memories of their last spar together surfaced again, only shallowly buried. Ravn recalled the affection that had filled his father’s eyes and every movement, even as he hammered and pounded at Ravn’s defenses. They had discovered a closeness Ravn never knew could exist, the barriers that even sons and fathers place between themselves lifted for the realization that Colbey would likely die. The fondness remained, instantly sparked by consideration of what was supposed to have been his last remembrance of his father, a gift more valuable than any symbolic trinket. “Why did you have to come back?”

  Colbey’s head drew back, offense and surprise clear on his features. “Would you rather I died?”

  Colbey’s question startled Ravn nearly as much. He had not realized he had spoken aloud, and a trickle of irritation suffused him at the thought that his father had invaded his mind once again. But his mother’s quiet nodding told him otherwise. She had heard him, too. “No,” Ravn said swiftly. “I want you to live and return, but not until after the battle.” He gathered words to justify his cruelty, but Colbey found them first.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your memories.” Colbey’s hard blue-gray eyes found Ravn and Freya alternately. “When I came back before, I didn’t have full control of my realm. Now I do, and I want to fix that mistake.” He turned fully to Ravn again. “And, no, I’m not reading your mind. I’m reading your expression.”

  Ravn shook back blond locks, as always a bit longer than his father preferred. “Am I that obvious?”

  Colbey did not bother to reply. Instead, he headed for the door. “As Vidar said, the decision to trust or not is yours. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Don’t wait,” Ravn returned.

  Colbey stopped with his hand on the knob, head low and feathered locks hanging.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Ravn.” Freya’s tone held warning, but she said nothing more.

  Colbey’s head rose, but he did not turn to display features that, right now, might reveal much. Father and son exited the gods’ hall together, into the glittering array of colors sparked from the gem-studded outer walls. Most of the gods had remained nearby, their conversational groups appearing not-quite casual. Freya slipped out after her family, joining Frey’s group near a stately, bubble-fruited tree.

  Ravn tried to commit himself to the trust he had placed in his father, but doubt remained unbanished. Colbey had seemed so changed at their last meeting, and so much the same now. Perhaps he had overcome the chaos that had seeped i
nto his soul or, more likely, he had become a master of deception. Ravn knew agreeing to the spar was madness. He only hoped he had gained enough skill to counter his father’s strokes should they become murderous.

  Ignoring the divine audience, Colbey chose an area not far from the meeting hall. Ravn approved of the choice. Even before chaos had claimed Colbey, he occasionally reveled in irritating the denizens of Asgard. He could have led them for miles across the countryside, eventually even returning to where he started. The gods, they both knew, would nonchalantly follow them anywhere, privacy an airy hope. Colbey had chosen not to make an issue of the gods’ mistrust. It amused rather than irritated him.

  “Ready?” Colbey asked, drawing a sword that seemed to blur and buzz at the edges. It was not the one he had so long carried as Harval’s partner.

  Ravn’s gaze fell to Colbey’s sword belt, where no other weapon hung. His brow creased, even as his own fists wrapped around his hilts. “What sword is this?”

  Colbey studied his own blade. “You don’t recognize it?”

  Ravn shook his head. “It’s not the one you carried when you left.”

  “I gave that one to a mortal so that mankind was not helpless against the demons that law called against them.”

  Ravn considered those words. It seemed more likely for chaos to consort with demons, but he did not question. From Odin’s high seat, he had watched Dh’arlo’mé conjure up the creatures of chaos.

  “Have you ever battled a demon?” The question seemed casual, yet a catch in Colbey’s voice suggested a significance his tone otherwise hid.

  Ravn grew cautious. “That depends. Are you a demon?”

  “No,” Colbey said. “Definitely not.”

  “Then I’ve never battled one,” Ravn admitted honestly.

  “One has never dragged you down to the world of chaos? Or attempted to do so?”

  Ravn shook his head. His skin felt as if bugs swarmed over it, but he resisted the need to fidget. “Why?”

  “Good. Very good.” Despite his words, and a slight smile, Colbey seemed concerned. “Ready?”