Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  And the baby’s father, whoever he is, never knows about his child. Confusion and doubt settled over Kevral, and she found the suggestion difficult to judge. It seemed wrong and a kindness at the same time.

  “So,” Leondis finished. “Will you at least agree to let me woo you?”

  “All right,” Kevral said, not at all certain she had made the right decision.

  The baby kicked vigorously in the womb.

  * * *

  Darris paced a hundred and thirty-seven courses in front of King Griff’s door, yet that did not expend one iota of tension. His collar seemed to choke him, an unrelenting vise that did not lessen even after he adjusted, then pocketed the upper clip. His skin felt tingly, and every touch of the fabric against his body sent his nerves jangling near to breaking. I could stomp a rut into the hallway, and it isn’t going to help. Delay won’t change reality.

  The truth of those words had already come home to him as a month, then a second drifted past and the gods did not free him from the dilemma. Denial had served him well for several weeks, but it broke down in the face of logic. Each day that ticked by had become an agony heralding this moment. Further postponement would only heighten the ghastly anxiety that already tortured him. He’s a good king, a gentle man. He’ll understand. Yet in Griff’s position, Darris doubted he would prove merciful though he considered himself good and gentle, too.

  Darris made three more passes in front of the door while these thoughts ran through his head. Finally, he forced himself to stop, the abrupt change from movement to stillness sending a flash of vertigo through his head. In that moment of dizziness, before coherent thought returned, he managed to knock.

  Griff’s deep bass wafted through the iron-bordered teak, as if issuing from the ruby-eyed bear that graced the door. “Come in.”

  The abrupt urge to run seized Darris. Until the king saw him, he could still delay. His hand seemed to trip the latch of its own accord, and the door opened quietly on well-oiled hinges to reveal Griff perched in the window seat. “Your Majesty, how many times have I told you that, when I’m not with you, you need to identify callers before inviting them into your chambers?” The words came out from habit, and Darris cringed. Great. Irritate him before you deliver bad news.

  The king reluctantly took his gaze from the tended gardens, where the nobles’ children played a noisy game of “take.” He smiled. “But it’s always you. Or a servant. Anyone who wants to hurt me isn’t going to knock.”

  He had a point Darris could not deny, even if his mind allowed him to focus on it. He bowed deeply and with highest respect.

  King Griff frowned. “What’s wrong, Darris?”

  “Wrong?” Darris found himself repeating stupidly. He had expected a friendly conversation before needing to launch into his report. His own skittishness upset him. Usually, he handled all affairs with assurance.

  “That.” King Griff made a loop with his finger to indicate Darris’ grand homage. “Worthy of Ra-khir, perhaps. Not like you at all.”

  “I’m sorry, Sire.”

  “Sorry for bowing?” Griff’s eyes narrowed with concern. He rose, and Darris immediately wished he had not. His Béarnian size, worthy of his lineage, left him towering over his bodyguard. Taking Darris’ arm, he led the bard to the bed and gently helped him sit. The king seized a padded chair covered in plush fabric, with a hunt scene painted on back and seat. Sliding it to Darris’ side, he sat.

  Darris’ gut lurched, and he worried suddenly that he might throw up on his king. I can’t believe this. I should be supporting him.

  “What’s wrong, Darris?” Griff repeated, his voice gaining the same command he used during the gravest court matters.

  For the first time ever, Darris feared the lovable king of Béarn. “Sire, I . . . I mean Matrinka . . .”

  “Matrinka?” The dark eyes widened in alarm. “Sick? Hurt?”

  Darris’ lids sank closed. “Your Majesty, she’s pregnant.” Through the self-imposed darkness, he felt movement and anticipated well-deserved violence. “I swear we were careful. Herbs, timing . . .”

  Darris’ words disappeared beneath a wild whoop of joy. He opened his eyes to find the potbellied king of Béarn flitting and spinning like a dancer.

  “Sire?”

  Griff leaped back onto his chair but did not sit. He seemed as full of nervous energy as Darris had in front of the door. “A baby! This is wonderful.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course, it is! The queen is having a princeling. Or a princessling.” Griff laughed at the word he invented. “Darris.” He clasped the bard’s fingers between his own massive hands. “I’m going to be a father.”

  Now Darris understood why Griff responded with excitement instead of fury. He doesn’t understand. “Sire, I’m the one going to be a father,” he said, scarcely above a whisper.

  Griff laughed, as if Darris had told a particularly funny joke. “Matrinka is my wife, remember. I’m going to be a father.”

  Darris groaned. The idea of explaining reproduction to a grown king seemed tricky enough without having to do so in song.

  Unable to sit long, Griff returned to prancing around the room, his body jiggling and swaying.

  Darris sought a shorthand clarification that might not require accompaniment. “Sire, to make a baby, a man and a woman—”

  Griff interrupted. “I know where babies come from, Darris. I’m almost eighteen, and I grew up on a farm.”

  Darris stopped, his mouth still open.

  Griff smiled, all innocent sweetness, as always.

  “Sire, are you saying you wanted Matrinka and me to . . .” Darris trailed off, the thought virtually unthinkable. “Why?”

  Griff sat again, one leg tucked beneath him as if to resume his frolic at any moment. “The populace wants an heir with lots of King Kohleran’s blood, but they don’t understand. Matrinka and I are first cousins.”

  Darris nodded his understanding, though incomplete.

  “Our neighbors had a favorite sheep that threw twins, male and female. They kept the male as their breeder and had high hopes for the female as well. But every baby she delivered was malformed or dead. He was going to butcher that sheep, but my father offered to buy her. Once in our herd, she had beautiful, healthy babies.”

  Again Darris nodded, not wholly certain how the story related to Matrinka. “They were deformed because the sheep were brother and sister, not because the ewe could only produce bad offspring.”

  Griff nodded. “Animals too closely related make weak babies.”

  “But, Sire, you and Matrinka are cousins, not siblings. Cousins marry all the time.”

  Griff did not deny the assertion. “But Béarn’s ruler is limited to marrying nobility. Béarn’s nobles all descend from Sterrane, some more distantly than others. My parents were first cousins. So, for me, marrying a second cousin is like marrying a first cousin. Marrying a first cousin is like marrying a sister.”

  Darris stared, wordless as much from the unexpected, instantaneous resolution of a problem he had fretted over for weeks as from the king’s deduction that went even beyond his own. Griff had always seemed so simpleminded.

  “One of the farmers in Dunwoods married his first cousin. They had only one child, a strange-looking dullard too dim-witted to ever leave their protection. I didn’t want to inflict that on my people, and certainly not on my wife.” Griff looked directly at Darris, his eyes as soft and brown as a puppy’s. “Matrinka loves you in a way she could never love anyone else. Why shouldn’t you sire her children?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Darris sputtered, forgetting titles in his haste. “Because the heir to Béarn’s throne is supposed to carry royal blood, not mine.”

  Griff dismissed the concern. “Matrinka carries exactly as much of the royal blood as I do. What’s the difference whether her blood or mine runs through our children?”

  Darris gathered breath, but no words accompanied it. The whole conversation seemed an impossible drea
m, so far from the million scenarios he had envisioned that he had no idea where to take it. Flooded by too many emotions, he felt none of them, just a cold, empty void. Excitement warred with grief. Kindness battled selfish need. And certainty of his execution or imprisonment slowly faded.

  “I know other things about babies that you might not. For example, animals that have litters can bear babies from more than one sire. I had a cat once . . .”

  Darris let the words flow past unheard. Until now, he had considered the pregnancy only for its danger to himself and Matrinka. The king’s acceptance forced him to consider the result: the coming baby. I’m going to be a father? Even his own thought could not sink deeply. Griff’s words kept returning to haunt him. Matrinka is my wife, remember? I’m going to be a father. The realization seemed as terrifying as bearing the news once did before. Griff’s right. I sired it, but the baby is his. He managed joy and excitement for the king of Béarn, but sadness stifled it to a trickle. He spoke, not even realizing he rudely interrupted his liege. “Congratulations, Your Majesty.” He tried to sound happy, but his tone did not even fool Griff.

  “Darris, this is a good thing.”

  “I know.” Darris hoped he sounded convincing.

  “The child will be raised as a prince or princess. It’ll want for nothing.”

  “I know,” Darris repeated. He tried to meet Griff’s eyes, but barely managed to roll them toward the king. “I’ll get to spend some time with the baby. Won’t I?”

  Griff placed a pawlike hand on either side of Darris’ face and turned it toward him. Finally, Darris met his eyes. “When you’re not with me . . .” Griff said very slowly and distinctly, as if attempting to communicate with someone just learning the language, “. . . you’re with Matrinka. You’ll surely spend more time with the baby than I will.” The last words emerged wistfully. Given the chance, Griff would spend his entire day playing with Béarn’s children.

  “Majesty, but what if I slip? What if I accidentally tell him . . . or her . . . that . . . I . . .”

  “Sired him?” Griff released Darris’ face.

  Darris nodded.

  “What do you mean accidentally? He or she has a right to know something as basic as bloodline.”

  The words sent Darris into startled consideration. “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if he or she tells someone? And the whole kingdom knows?”

  Griff’s huge shoulders rose and fell. “That’s the child’s right. To tell or not tell. It’s his bloodline, and he has the right to share it or hide it as he wishes. Or she, of course.”

  “But, Sire, he wouldn’t be a real heir.” Darris fell into the same convention of using “he” to define the unborn. “You’re not really his father.”

  Griff’s broad mouth bent into a frown, uncharacteristically severe. “Oh, I am really his father. Béarnian law defines legitimacy by marriage, not bloodline. The child is mine. And a very real heir to the throne. Currently, the only one.”

  Darris knew the truth of Griff’s words. Mostly, the convention had worked in the reverse, bastard offspring of heirs who could not inherit if their parents later married. He sat, stunned, not knowing whether to feel blessed or cheated. “You’ll marry again, won’t you, Sire? And have more children. I mean, I just can’t imagine my mixed bloodline on the high king’s throne.”

  Griff’s expression softened back to his usual smile, and a strange wistfulness filled his eyes as well. “I hope so. And I expect more from you and Matrinka, too. Béarn’s corridors should always be filled with children.” He returned to the more serious matter at hand, though his features did not change. “If we find the staves, they can decide if the child inherits, or even if I remain king. If not, I choose. And, if one of your bloodline is best suited, he will succeed me.”

  All of the irritation fled Darris. It did not matter who the populace named the child’s father. He or she could only benefit from living as a prince or princess, from the love of King Griff, of Matrinka, and of Béarn’s bard equally. In the end, Griff would take nothing from him, only grant the baby more opportunities than Darris could ever offer. Opportunities. Realization hammered Darris then, the last pack on a burden already nearly too heavy to bear. My firstborn carries Jahiran’s curse. The bard of Béarn may serve himself as bodyguard.

  The whole proved too much for Darris to contemplate. He hoped for the child’s sake, and that of Béarn, that Griff sired a more appropriate heir.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Long Arm of Weile Kahn

  It’s so easy to blame the unknown on demons, so much simpler to explain skill by magic than by superior effort and dedication.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Captain’s fist thumped hollowly against the thick oak door. At his side, Khy’barreth jumped, overreacting to the sudden sound, and Captain heaved a sad sigh. The dark elves had left Khy’barreth behind, locked in Béarn’s prison, surely as a means to control him. Since his discovery, Captain had kept the moronic elf by his side, taking care of his needs as he might a baby’s. Khohlar seemed not to penetrate what remained of his mind, and he responded only to the most basic of commands. Though he could still walk, communication of any kind remained beyond him. Captain wondered, as he had so many times before, what might have caused the ruination of Khy’barreth’s brain. The idea that the svartalf might have a spell to inflict similar injury on others haunted his nights and many waking hours as well. Magic of that magnitude could destroy the lysalf, turning them into milling dimwits locked into cages until old age claimed them and malleable infants took their places. He worried how such a plan might backfire, the damaged soul permanently clinging to the spell such that babies without brain function resulted. Sometimes he wondered if Khy’barreth suffered and if death might not prove kinder than life. Yet they needed him to succumb to age, if not for the soul it might free for a newborn, then to see if the havoc bred true.

  When Tem’aree’ay did not respond to the first knock, Captain repeated it. He glanced at Khy’barreth. This time, the elf stiffened visibly but did not startle. Captain accepted that as a good sign; at some level, he could learn.

  The door swung open, and Captain stepped inside. “Good evening, Temmy.” He shortened her name to Béarnian convention. “I’m gathering—” Looking past her and finding King Griff seated on the floor, he broke off abruptly and bowed. “I’m sorry. Sire. I didn’t know you were here.” Though curious, he did not question the king’s presence. Convention did not allow it, even of an elf who would be assumed mostly ignorant of protocol. He guessed Griff probably had a healing matter to discuss.

  Griff made a friendly gesture of dismissal, indicating Captain should continue with his business.

  Tem’aree’ay moved aside. Captain led Khy’barreth inside the room and closed the door behind them. “Actually, Sire, this concerns you as well.” Without awaiting a confirmation, Captain continued. “There’re a lot of people out there . . .” He made a broad, looping gesture to indicate the entire Westlands. “. . . unable to get food, clothing, and other necessities because of assassins on the roads. Now that things are settled here, I’d like to take whichever elves would like to come with me and do what I can to help those in need.”

  “Thank you,” Griff said. “But I’m not sure it’ll prove any easier for you. Remember the elves who arrived with Ra-khir and Kevral? The assassins had orders to single them out.”

  “True.” Familiar enough with human conventions to feel uncomfortable staring down at the king, Captain knelt. “I’ve given that a lot of thought, Sire. Handed a detailed description and a time to expect them, the humans could tell lysalf from svartalf. Without that assistance, I doubt they could.”

  Tem’aree’ay remained silently in place. Griff again responded. “But they might have orders to kill any elf coming from Béarn. Or have worked out a code word to identify svartalf.”

  Captain accepted the possibility. “It’s unlikely Dh’arlo’mé gave orders to kill
elves. It would harm them as much as us.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Captain studied Griff, knowing that the fewer humans who understood elfin reproduction, the safer they remained. However, he could think of no one more trustworthy than the neutral king of Béarn. He would act always in the best interests of the West, including those of the elves who now dwelled in his domain and beneath his protection. “Sire, to my knowledge, only one other human knows what I’m about to tell you.”

  Griff lowered his head once, a silent promise to keep Captain’s confidence.

  “Elfin sexuality isn’t like humans.”

  A strange sadness accompanied Griff’s nod of understanding.

  “Sire, the souls of baby elves come from elders who die of age. Without that ready soul, no pregnancy results from intercourse.”

  Tem’aree’ay found humor where Captain could not. “Which is good considering the frequency of elfin mating. We’d overflow the world.”

  Captain saw a flush creeping over the king’s face. The open discussion of sex embarrassed him, as it did most humans. He would have expected the king’s farm background and pending fatherhood to make him a bit more worldly, especially when discussing the reproduction of another species. It should seem no different to him than discussing the antics of the family bull. “Those who die of violence do not result in offspring.”

  “Ahh.” Griff pursed his lips. “That explains why they left him.” He inclined his head toward Khy’barreth.

  “They knew we’d keep him safe at all cost, Sire, and now they don’t have to deal with him.” Captain looked up at Khy’barreth who swayed behind him, mouthing soft nonsense. “My point, Sire, being that Dh’arlo’mé would instruct his assassins not to harm us.” He did not express his greater fear, that the svartalf would have them captured and work a similar affliction to Khy’barreth’s on them.

  Griff accepted that happily. “The kingdom would appreciate anything you could do to assist. Thank you.”