Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “No,” Ravn returned. “I’m not ready. What’s bothering you? Is a demon coming to get me?”

  Colbey shook his head. “One had me believing it already had, but it won’t bother you again.” He said the words emphatically, as if instructing it not to happen as much as informing Ravn. He laughed then, the sudden change in demeanor strange. “Drop the ‘again.’ I suppose I should just say it won’t bother you. My worry is for the extent of my own power, the influence I seem to have gained in more than one world. If I survive this ordeal, I won’t miss the mastery chaos gives me. Ravn, savor those skills that come only of hard work and dedication. The ones handed to you, unearned, don’t matter. A curse, not a blessing.”

  The words took Ravn back to the carefree days of his earliest lessons with his father. However else chaos had changed Colbey, he remained wholly Renshai. Ravn drew Harval. “I’m ready.”

  “You’ve left a weapon sheathed,” Colbey reminded.

  Ravn shrugged. “One apiece. A fair fight.”

  Colbey pointed to his own chest with his free hand. “More experience. An unfair fight.” He winked. “You’ll need the other.”

  Only a fool would argue, and Ravn did not believe himself one. Seizing the second hilt, he drew and charged at once. In his right hand, Harval danced toward Colbey’s neck, while the extra jabbed toward his abdomen. Colbey’s sword wove over Harval, then under the other, faster than Ravn’s eyes could follow. Driven centrally, Ravn’s blades clanged together as Colbey also managed a split second riposte.

  Ravn jerked, slamming both of his blades against Colbey’s, a clumsy but effective parry. Irritated and exhilarated at once, Ravn bore in again. War joy surged into his veins, the first since his father’s leaving. His mother could still best him, but only Colbey could consistently spur him to knowledge born of desperation.

  Colbey grinned at his son’s boldness, meeting the double attack with a dodge that foiled both. His sword slashed for Ravn’s head. Ravn ducked, sacrificing attack for defense. The blade whistled over his brow, the wind of its passage cold against his scalp. Too close. Terror joined the battle lust, and he worried that his trust had become a fatal mistake. He wove a wild web of attack, hoping the movement would foil Colbey’s strikes, if not his shielding. Usually, the crazed randomness of the maneuver kept an opponent solely on his guard. But Colbey met each lightning slice with a block of his own. Steel chimed at a reckless pace, simulating song. Ravn’s arms ached with the effort, and he knew he would have to change his strategy or tire beyond any hope of besting Colbey.

  Ravn hesitated a moment so brief it scarcely existed, yet Colbey found the opening. Boring in, he cut Harval from Ravn’s hand with the tip of his sword, without inflicting so much as a scratch. The Gray Blade flew in a patterned spiral, as if consciously rushing to Colbey’s hand. The elder Renshai caught the hilt without any gesture of triumph. Sheathing his own sword, Colbey wrapped both hands around Harval and lowered his head, lids drooping closed as he concentrated on the sword once his.

  Ravn froze, uncertain of the significance. As the Gray Blade remained in Colbey’s hands several seconds, the sound of rasping swords filled the clearing, like echoes. Colbey’s eyes snapped open, but he paid no other heed to the sudden menace of gods’ swords that surrounded him. Clearly, they now believed he had come to steal the Sword of Balance, and they made it clear they would not allow it. Ravn held his breath, uncertain whether or not they were right. Concern fluttered at the edges of his mind, seeking entrance. Whether or not Colbey Calistinsson had come for the sword, the threat might drive him to battle the gods who challenged him. The massacre that would surely follow would force Ravn to choose between his father and his peers, perhaps even his own mother. Battle lust trickled away, leaving him desperately chilled and lonely.

  The scene seemed to freeze into eternity, and Ravn understood Colbey’s hatred for the gods’ infernal patience. Then, as if the others did not exist, Colbey tossed Harval back to Ravn.

  Ravn caught the hilt, shoving that sword, and the other, back into their sheaths. He looked at his father and smiled. “Welcome back,” he whispered.

  Colbey smiled, too. A warm promise of incorruptible love brushed the edges of Ravn’s thoughts. Without invading, Colbey made his feelings known.

  Ravn concentrated on his own devotion, hoping Colbey could read it without the need to delve.

  “I have much to do,” Colbey said. “It’s still more likely than not I’ll not survive. But, at least now, I have a chance.”

  “When you return . . .” Ravn attempted to radiate the certainty he felt. His father could accomplish anything. “. . . I’ll be here.”

  Colbey turned, but not before Ravn caught a hint of moisture in the icy blue-gray eyes. Colbey strode off across the vast plains of Asgard.

  And every god but Ravn heaved a windlike sigh of relief.

  CHAPTER 31

  A Suitable Heir

  To love someone only because he shares your blood is as hollow and meaningless as loving someone only because he’s young and beautiful.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Twilight bathed Kevral’s room in a dull grayness disrupted by the candle on her desk. The whetstone rasped repeatedly against the edge of her sword blade, its progress in her left hand irritatingly slow and graceless. Only two days had passed since her run-in with Dh’arlo’mé’s demon. Against the healers’ protests, she had returned to teaching her classes, again composed solely of adult guardsmen. She noted the conspicuous absence of three from her morning group and five from the afternoon. Four recuperated from injuries, and two had died beneath the shattered ramparts. One had turned coarse-featured, hair graying and thinning, the aftereffects of two of the demon’s claws. A promising young student had aged two decades, but Kevral would see to it that he returned to class. The last, she learned, had died fighting at her side.

  Kevral hailed the final man as a hero, his earned place in Valhalla a reward to cheer instead of mourn. The use of her hand was returning in frustrating increments, and her handicap and personal concern stole much of her control over men grieving for the lives of friends and hiding secret guilt for their own survival. Their skills had slipped. How much came from their time off while she trained children and how much from the consequences of the demon’s attack, she did not try to guess. Either way, it disappointed, and she had more work ahead than she had guessed.

  There had followed a frustrating spar, her timing horrible and her left hand flopping like a dead fish. For once, she did not dedicate her practice to the god and goddess of Renshai. It humiliated her to think they might have observed it, and she would not call attention to anything so inadequately executed. Then had come her first dinner with Charra, a depressing affair during which the healer detailed the cold horror of life on the street. The first kick of Kevral’s own child had come then, with the worries and desperate burdens of another expectant mother loud in her ears and thoughts.

  Now, safe in her own room, Kevral threw her concentration into the sword Colbey had given her, tending it perfectly to make up for the poor performance she had forced it to attend. A dark fog of sorrow hovered over her, driving her nearly to tears. All that had once seemed obvious, proper, and right melted into a terrifying reality. Childhood lay behind, and the adulthood ahead seemed terrifying in a way she had never considered in the past. All the things in her life that mattered, all the people she once loved, lost significance. She sat at the desk in a morose, dull-eyed silence, complete except for the repetitive scrape of flint against blade.

  A pounding knock broke the quiet. Kevral stiffened, wishing whoever had come to see her would disappear. She wanted to be alone. “Who is it?” she asked tiredly.

  “Leondis Cymion’s son, Crown Prince of Pudar,” a voice shouted through the door, surely that of a servant.

  Kevral groaned, lowered the sword to the desktop, and placed the whetstone beside it. “See him in.”

  The door opened a crack, and a middle-aged man in se
rvant’s livery appeared at the entryway. “Announcing Leondis Cymion’s son—”

  “You said that already.” A handsome youth in his mid-twenties cut off the repetition, much to Kevral’s relief. She had been a breath away from interrupting herself. “Thank you, Boshkin. I’d like to speak with the swordmistress alone, if you please.”

  “Very well, Sire.” The servant gestured the younger man, apparently the prince, through the door, then bowed and closed it behind him.

  Kevral gave the prince a halfhearted scrutiny. Dark brown hair, with just a hint of curl, fell nearly to his shoulders. The king’s blue eyes stared out from between long lashes. The slender form beneath tailored linens sported enough muscle to suggest some weapons’ training. Though not as classically handsome as Ra-khir, he was pleasant to look upon. She gave him a shallow curtsy and hoped that would prove enough. “What can I do for you, Sire?”

  “May I sit?”

  Kevral made a vague gesture to indicate that he should do as he pleased.

  Leondis glanced about the room. Finding only the edge of the bed unoccupied, he sat carefully. “I’m sorry to bother you, Swordmistress.”

  Kevral had tired of the titles that lengthened every speech interminably. “Kevral will do, Sire.”

  The prince smiled, which lit up his entire face. “And Le for me.”

  Too listless to explain that Northerners and Renshai rarely shortened names, Kevral let it stand unchallenged. Though she did not like it known, her given name, which she hated, was actually Kevralyn. Worried for the possibility of a tedious and awkward conversation, she cut to the significant. “Look, I know your father made some desperate promises when he needed me to fight that demon. I’m going to let you off. You don’t have to marry me. I’ll finish out my year here beginning the day I arrived and adding any days I’ve missed or will miss but not the extra time in the contract. And I’ll continue training the guards, replacing any who died or have become incapacitated.”

  Prince Leondis laughed. “You’re as blunt off the practice grounds as on.”

  Kevral managed a slight smile. “Damn right.”

  “I was going to make pretty much the same offer, except for one thing.” The prince’s fair gaze played over Kevral with unexpected interest. “We leave the marriage thing as an open possibility.”

  Few words could have shocked Kevral more. “What are you saying, Sire? You want to marry me?”

  “Le.” The prince shrugged. “Not today. I’m just saying I’d like to get to know you before I discount it completely.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s start with ‘we don’t love each other’ and work from there.”

  Leondis clearly did not see that as a problem. “Aside from new parents and infants, no one loves anyone else immediately. Plenty of families arrange marriages, and they grow to love one another.”

  Kevral doubted she could love a passive man. “Doesn’t it bother you that the king just up and gave away your freedom as payment for a debt?”

  Leondis drew a silk-shod foot to the bed but did not wrap his arms around his bent leg, as most civilians did. Despite the casualness of his position, he had left room to defend himself if the need arose. Such a posture could only come from war training. “Did it ever occur to you, Swordmistress Kevral, that it was my idea?”

  Kevral blinked. It had not.

  Leondis continued, “Why don’t we get to know each other and see what happens?”

  Kevral traced the edge of Colbey’s sword, appreciating that the prince had drawn her from depression, at least temporarily. “You won’t like what you learn.”

  The prince shrugged. “I like what I’ve learned so far.” He rose and stretched, the movement emphasizing his fine physique. His gaze fell to the weapon on the desktop. “First, I know never to ask to borrow a Renshai’s sword.” Instead of a “second,” he executed a kata with a pretend blade that combined the lessons of the past week with reasonable skill.

  Kevral stared. “How did you learn that?”

  Leondis laughed, a solid happy sound that did not ridicule. “Remember? Your students teach the rest of us during their times off. I’m in General Markanyin’s class and learning a lot.”

  Kevral noticed the discrepancy at once. “But you put today’s lesson in that sequence. The general’s in my afternoon class. You shouldn’t learn that until tomorrow.”

  Prince Leondis reclaimed his seat. “All right. You caught me. I often peek in on you. Patience isn’t one of my strong points.” He added conspiratorially, “I think it comes from being a prince and getting about everything I want.”

  Shocked by the dedication, Kevral blurted before thinking out her words. “You’re a warrior? I thought princes just hung around court and entertained nobles.”

  Leondis cleared his throat and said good-naturedly, “Usually, it’s a good idea to prefix a statement like that with ‘no offense, but . . .’”

  Kevral’s cheeks warmed. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually quite that blunt.” Her own words triggered a realization. I’m not usually depressed either. Or moody. Or in turmoil and doubt. I’ve been all of those over the last few months.

  “It depends on the prince. And the kingdom. My brother was the crown prince, you know. That left me with a few choices at inheritance time. I could leave, or I could make myself useful. I’m not stupid, but I’m more a man of action than of thought. So I’ve been working my way toward becoming a military officer.”

  “Now that you’re the crown prince, you don’t have to anymore.”

  “But you’re playing with me now.” Leondis gave Kevral a gentle scolding look. “You know as well as I that, done right, warrior training becomes an obsession. I couldn’t quit if I wanted to, and I don’t.”

  Many thoughts flitted through Kevral’s head, seeming alien. At a time when she struggled to choose between two men she loved, it seemed madness to take a chance on adding a third. Yet much about Prince Leondis intrigued her, most of all his ability to understand the warrior way in a manner she believed only Renshai did. Neither Tae nor Ra-khir had ever spoken of the euphoria that accompanied swordplay, and the knight had never quite comprehended her need for daily practice. Finally, it seemed, she had discovered one who did. She thought of the Renshai, knowing she should find a husband from among her own yet certain she never would. Her own people had never cared for her endless quests for perfection, her attempts not just to emulate but to practically become Colbey Calistinsson, and an attitude her mother described as imperious. The ganim males, however, seemed not to share the Renshai dislike for her, perhaps because they did not see her as competition.

  Kevral’s cheeks flamed hotter as she realized the immodesty of her own thoughts. She knew she could not compete for appearance with the curvaceous, long-legged beauties that most men found attractive. She kept her blonde locks hacked short, and calluses scarred her palms. Her harsh, sarcastic manner and disdain for anyone not sword-competent should have turned away any man not already repulsed by her looks. Kevral could not conceive of how two men, and now a third, became interested in her. An answer nagged at her, chilling for its logic. People thrown into desperate situations often grew close. Within the first few weeks, she had grown to care more for Matrinka, Ra-khir, Darris, and Tae than anyone except her parents. Surely the two men had gravitated toward her because Darris and Matrinka were already an obvious couple and the princess unattainable, even to the one she loved. Surely, given longer than a year apart from Kevral, they would discover women more attractive than her.

  Unaware of Kevral’s contemplation, Leondis continued, “Prince Severin was kindhearted and friendly. The type who walks among his people to understand the effects of his polices on them. I’m wilder than my brother, and that worries my father. Who is also a warrior, by the way. And was a lot like me in his youth.” Leondis winked at Kevral even as his description of Severin conjured images of Griff. “What my father doesn’t realize is that I’m just like him. He�
��s forgotten what it’s like to be a warrior prince in his twenties.”

  Kevral’s contemplation raised one certainty. Despite Charra’s advice, she would not begin a relationship with deception. If Prince Leondis truly wished to court her, she would not keep him ignorant. “There’s something I have to tell you.” Her hand slid naturally to the bulge in her abdomen.

  “You are with child,” Leondis finished.

  Stunned, Kevral stared. “How did you know that?”

  “I’m . . . not blind,” he tried carefully.

  Kevral studied her lower regions and the swelling hidden beneath her leathers. “Is it that obvious already?”

  “People are starting to talk.”

  “So you knew.”

  “I guessed.”

  Kevral began to shake some of her surprise. “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  Leondis shrugged. “I’m not a virgin either,” he admitted.

  “Men don’t have to be.”

  The prince sat up straighten “Look, Kevral. I’m going to be as honest as possible here. Do you mind?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The prince gave his head one acknowledging bob. “Very well, then. No one’s going to blatantly mistreat you, because they’re all afraid of you. But they’ll discriminate against you in more subtle ways that hurt more. Unlike you, the child will suffer openly.”

  Kevral had heard enough of this from Charra. “I can protect it.”

  “You can’t be with it always. And violence can’t guard against everything.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Simply this.” Leondis became even more forthright, his blue eyes pinning Kevral’s. “Marriage benefits us both. It not only rescues your baby from illegitimacy, it turns him or her into a prince or princess. You know you’ll always get the utmost respect here. You can teach without restriction and practice freely. I get the chance to become the best warrior I can and a wife who challenges me daily. My father gets two competent officers and a crown prince he can respect.”