Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Captain rose and bowed. “Sire, I only apologize for not suggesting it sooner. I still tend to forget how much more a few months means to humans than to elves.” He glanced at Tem’aree’ay. “Which brings me to why I came here. I’m giving every elf the option of accompanying me or staying.”

  A tangible tension entered the room. “Do you need me?” Tem’aree’ay asked.

  “No.” Captain sensed Griff’s desire to keep her in Béarn, though he did not wholly understand it. “Béarn can surely use your healing skills, too. I just didn’t want to leave anyone out who might want to come.”

  Griff stood, clearly intending to speak yet waiting for Tem’aree’ay to give her answer first.

  “I’ll stay, then.”

  “Very well.” Captain looked to the king before leaving.

  “You might want to take some humans with you.”

  Captain shook his head. “Not necessary. Sire. Most of us look enough like humans to pass among those without experience with Outworlders.” He only hoped he judged correctly that the svartalf had not revealed themselves to others. He saw no reason to insult Griff by revealing that most of the elves who chose to go along had done so because of the opportunity to interact with their own kind. While none of them disliked humans, the strangeness of their ways had become a daily burden.

  “Do you think you might travel near Santagithi?”

  “Need might bring us there, Sire.” Captain had not planned a particular course. “Why?”

  “I’d like you to deliver a message.”

  “Of course, Sire.”

  Griff glanced to Tem’aree’ay, then Captain before a faraway look replaced the directness of his stare. Sorrow and hope tinged his tone. “Could you tell my mother I’m all right? And, maybe, if it’s possible, bring her and my stepfather here. I mean, if they want to come.”

  “Sire, it would be an honor.” Captain turned to hide his grin and herded Khy’barreth from the room.

  * * *

  As winter gave way to spring, the journey of Weile Kahn’s men across the Westlands became a pleasure. Relieved of the scouting role he had assumed with his friends, Tae enjoyed the wind ruffling through his hair, carrying the clean odors of damp and aging greenery. Every evening, as they camped, Weile pored over a pile of information carried on a vast chain from the East. Through it, they learned the sorry state of the kingdom they once called home, the succession of power-mad kings who gained the throne through murder and violence, a citizenry plundered of talents or forced into various services for leaders they despised, and women squashed back into the freedomless objects they had been in centuries past. Crime abounded openly, no longer the realm of the underground.

  Each morning, Weile reacted to the information he had considered through the night, sending back strategies for his men to execute. At first, these made little sense to Tae. Meager suggestions to improve the lot of those living under a despot seemed, at the least, uncharacteristic for a crime lord of his father’s stature. Time, and the occasional explanation, brought understanding. Weile had prepared the citizenry for his return, had planted his own to spread a seed of hope and organized dissent among them. Consolidation had always proved his father’s strength, the ability to draw even those most chaotic and unlikely together in a cause.

  Finally, as the closest followers of Weile Kahn, those most loyal, accompanied him through the mountain passes that led to the Western Plains, Tae dared to guess his father’s intentions. He rode his dark bay close enough to Weile to earn a watchful glare from Daxan that he ignored. Weile trusted his son, and he seldom made mistakes.

  “Father, you have your eye on Stalmize’s throne.” Tae took care not to phrase it as a question. He would not leave the topic open for denial.

  Weile did not turn to look at his son, but a smile eased onto his face. “A wise man once said it was my duty to reunite the Eastlands and become its king.”

  The wise man Weile quoted was Tae. It seemed years, not months, ago. “And you said you didn’t want a kingdom.”

  “I didn’t.” Finally Weile turned his head. The swarthy features and dark eyes made a fine contrast against the craggy grayness of the Southern Weathered Range. “You argued well. I changed my mind.”

  An idea right in theory now seemed only madness. Tae tightened his grip on the reins. “Insanity, Father. And you know it.”

  Weile dismissed the insult. “Apparently, you changed your mind, too.”

  “Father, your men. Your son. Yourself. Criminals. Have you forgotten that?”

  Weile tossed his head, and his curls scarcely moved. The gesture reminded Tae of his own wild snarl, which he had never gotten around to cutting. It had not become this tangled since Kevral combed it out, and the memory of her ministrations warmed him. “I have not forgotten what I am or where I come from. Tae Kahn, there are some things only one who has endured hardship can understand. I’ve done that, and so have you. And so have those who follow me. Reprieve has not come from nobility. It’s time for such as us to try.”

  Tae considered his father’s undeniable point. Weile had more than demonstrated his ability to unify, and it seemed the Eastlands needed that more than anything. Beneath a cruel exterior still dwelt the softhearted man who had slipped into Tae’s bedroom to tuck him in at night. The same who had tossed his son out on the streets, then secretly paid informants to watch over the boy. Over the last few months, Tae had discovered that nearly everything he had ascribed to luck growing up had his father’s hand behind it. The detail with which Weile described incidents he could not otherwise have known convinced Tae they had happened as his father claimed.

  “Tae, believe me. I could eat a man for breakfast each morning and still prove fairer than the warring princes who have preceded me.”

  Once out in the open, Weile’s intentions became more logical to Tae. He mulled them over in quiet judgment, as much to force himself to believe as to understand the chain of logic that had brought them to this stage.

  The remainder of their journey eastward brought them through barren sand flats and dunes, swamps choked with forests of water weeds, and the dull roar of the ocean always in their ears. Weile deliberately brought them past the flagstone quarry in which an ancient Eastern general secreted his men and, ultimately, assured their deaths. Cued by spies—or as legend claimed, by Wizards—the combined Westland armies had swarmed the upper ledges and nearly turned the war into a slaughter. Despite the somberness around him, Tae smiled at his memories of Darris. When they had sailed to the elves’ island, the bard had pined for a glimpse of this place to help satiate his birth-cursed quest for knowledge.

  They camped only a few hours’ ride from the passes through the Great Frenum Mountains that would take them into the Eastlands, though they could have reached civilization before nightfall. Tae slept fitfully, every wakening finding his father ensconced in conversation with another group of men. The exchange of information became a barrage that would not allow Weile Kahn to sleep, even should he not have matters to attend directly. Halfway between full darkness and first light, he finally rested, too. For hours after twilight, the men performed their duties nearly in silence, allowing their leader the sleep he needed. Though he had long known his father’s occupation, Tae was astounded by the deadly respect his father commanded. He had never seen so many of Weile’s men gathered in one place.

  In late morning, they continued toward the Eastlands. Men came and went, some boldly and others slinking from behind crags to whisper furtively at the fringe of followers before disappearing once again. The constitution of those who rode with Weile and Tae gradually changed. Wrestling with his own memories, Tae scarcely noticed. The familiar lands of his childhood beckoned, but the desperate struggle to flee his father’s enemies would not leave him. His heart pounded rapid strokes that he could not calm back to normal. Left to its own devices, his horse floundered and struggled along the rock-strewn pathway that served as the single passable route between Eastlands and Westlands. Only as
the thoroughfare widened to admit glimpses of jagged buildings squeezed into a city too small to contain them did he notice that the thirty men surrounding his father consisted almost exclusively of loyal, clever talkers.

  Terror struck through Tae. Assailed by enemies, plotting to steal the kingdom of Stalmize, and he let all the warriors but Daxan and Alsrusett go. The strategy made no sense to Tae, but he did not question. Weile would only smile and declare the answers part of Tae’s learning experience. No games or theories to Weile’s lessons; the first leader of the Eastlands’ criminals played only with reality and stakes of life and death.

  The city of LaZar seemed to burst open like a dam too small to hold its waters. People streamed out, surrounding Weile’s entourage amid a tide of questions that reached Tae as an indecipherable rumble. Con artists, swindlers, and snake oil salesmen set to the task of explaining Weile’s policies as they rode toward Stalmize. Hand slipping to his sword despite his best efforts, Tae veered near enough at times to sort individual conversations from the din. They all proceeded nearly the same way; hopeful LaZarians begging knowledge were answered with the phrases they most wished to hear. Yet, Tae noticed, Weile’s speakers maintained an air of reasonableness, using words such as “strive toward” and “try” instead of promises. As they reached Rozmath and wove through half a dozen smaller towns, Weile’s objectives, at least according to his supporters, became clear. He would restore order to a war-torn kingdom, return freedom and wealth to its citizenry, and work toward a new prosperity that hinged upon the opinions and ideals of its people.

  Everywhere they rode, Eastlanders gathered in droves to cheer Weile Kahn as a savior. Driven away by awe and strangeness, Tae’s memories became a secondary matter on which he could no longer focus. It required his full attention first to take in, then to wonder about the popularity Weile had managed to gain, mostly in his absence. Onward they traveled, through dusty streets with broken cobbles, hailed by a tattered, dirty citizenry. The sparkle of life in every eye belied their gaunt forms and battered-appearing faces. In a world of misery, they had placed their hopes on the least likely prospect. A man who had once prized his anonymity had, overnight it seemed, become the last hope for so many. Tae’s heart went out to people once hearty and strong, now pale shadows of their former selves. And prayed his father would not betray their desperate faith.

  Days and nights became filled with the ceaseless press of citizenry. Weile’s men handled them all, from probing, hostile questions to pledges of undying loyalty with a patience that Tae could only envy. At length, the whole became a numb wash of repetitive sound, and exhaustion pressed heavily upon his thoughts and soul. At last, they arrived in Stalmize, their procession winding through main streets and avoiding the alleyways that Tae knew better than the creases on his own palms. Believing they would attack only after a full night’s rest and gathering an army of more vicious and massive followers, Tae found himself swept to the castle, unready. Beyond the dark mass of teeming people, he saw the familiar gray-and-white structure stretching toward the sun. Six towers rose from polished stone block walls, their roofs peaked into sturdy triangles. Sunlight glazed the granite, emphasizing its smoothness. Even with tools, he would find the walls difficult to climb. Square windows and balconies interrupted the upper levels at regular intervals.

  Shouts preceded Weile’s party, and the drawbridge winched open with a grinding creak of welcome. Weile dismounted, and the others swiftly followed, including Tae. Poised for battle, Tae was astonished as a cluster of servants rushed in to tend the animals. Struggling against the instinct to scurry into a dark corner, he was swept through the castle hallways, at first by the sheer mass of his father’s chosen, then, as these departed in singles or groups, only by inertia. He followed Weile, Daxan, Alsrusett, and Kinya in a dreamlike fog of disbelief that left no eye for simple observation. Bewilderment replaced his normal wariness, and he could not have found his way back through the maze of corridors with any more assurance than random guessing.

  At length, they came to a study. Leaving Daxan outside, Weile, Tae, Kinya, and Alsrusett entered. Only then, did Weile’s somber mask dissolve. He glanced at Kinya, exchanging a look usually reserved for furtive lovers, then they both broke into laughter. Even Alsrusett loosed a smile, the first Tae had ever seen cross his lips.

  Tae just stared. He could manage nothing more.

  Kinya clapped a wrinkled hand to the younger Kahn’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, Tae Kahn. You look stunned.”

  Tae cleared his throat. “I am,” he admitted.

  “Didn’t think we could do it?” Weile guessed.

  Tae shook his head, the hopeless tangle of hair scratching his neck. “I just didn’t expect it to be so easy.”

  “Easy?” Weile’s brows shot up. “Kinya, my son believes this was easy.”

  Kinya blinked, all mirth leaving his coarsening features. “May I, sir?”

  Weile lowered his head and made a gesture to indicate Kinya should proceed.

  Kinya tightened his grip on Tae’s shoulder. “Come with me, please, Tae Kahn. There are things you should see.”

  Tae nodded, struggling against the shock that held him nearly paralyzed. He headed toward the door, and Kinya shifted his hand to Tae’s back, encouraging him forward. Together, they left the study, nodding to Daxan. The bodyguard closed the door at their heels.

  “Easy,” Kinya repeated, head shaking. “Easy, he says.” He escorted Tae down the main corridor to an oak door near its end. It opened suddenly. A servant scurried out, clutching metal tongs and revealing a huge room filled with rows of plain caskets topped with blocks of ice in various stages of melting. As the man rushed past him, muttering something that sounded like hurried respect, Tae estimated the number of boxes between fifty and a hundred.

  Kinya ushered Tae inside, and he followed. The elder talked as he led Tae sedately down the columns. “These are the men who died bravely winning this castle for your father.”

  “Oh,” Tae said, trying to remain appropriately deferential while shivering. The chill of the room seemed to seep through his skin. Realization dawned instantly. It had seemed easy to him because he had missed the battles. He could not guess for how many months Weile had sent messages directing those who fought for him, but Tae had to assume the whole had gone on at least since his suggestion, perhaps far longer.

  “Weile Kahn’s reach is long. His power extends far beyond his person.”

  Tae nodded. He already knew this. He just had not realized quite how far.

  “While the princes warred for their share of gold and power, using the citizenry as their personal pawns, our men spread rumors, kindnesses, and promises through every level of Eastern life, from places royalty never imagined to directly within their gaze.” Kinya bowed his head before several of the coffins, bobbing through the lanes with slow sobriety as he explained. “We prepared them for Weile Kahn’s coming, and his lack of ties to the king’s family only made him more attractive as an alternative. Resistance . . . um . . . had a tendency to disappear—not always our doing, and the hearsay regarding your father grew beyond anything his followers ever spread.” Kinya’s mouth twitched, as if he wished to smile, but the bleak rows of coffins prohibited displays of amusement. “By the final battle, even those guards who seemed faithful to the kings turned against them, tired of dying for selfish, brawling, royal brats.”

  Tae smothered a tired grin. So much had slipped past him in his attempts to reconcile with his father.

  Kinya led Tae to a corner of the room as a servant returned hauling a cart of ice. The groan of the wood and the rattle of ice covered Kinya well enough, but he still chose to converse in a whisper. “Tae Kahn, in different circumstances, your father could have served as a king’s strategist. He has a knack for bringing out the best in the worst and in composing plans that work even when the details fail or those involved have eyes for no one and nothing but themselves. I’ve worked closely with him since long before your birth, and I stil
l don’t understand how he does what he does. It’s a gift and a well-practiced talent.”

  Tae listened in silence, hoping his expression conveyed his interest. He could think of no reply.

  “Your mother, too, was a special woman.”

  Tae lowered his head. Surrounded by the dead, the mention of his mother sorrowed him even more swiftly than usual. He fought the memories that threatened to swoop down upon him again, forcing himself to focus only on Kinya’s words.

  “Always, she used to take me aside and make me promise to keep your father safe.”

  “Ironic,” Tae managed, voice as frosty as the room.

  “Yes,” Kinya returned quickly, though he continued to consider the words, a light touching the dark eyes as he realized the truth of Tae’s words. “At first, she tolerated your father’s work because she knew he could do nothing else.” His brow furrowed.

  “Obsession,” Tae filled in, to demonstrate that he knew passion, not incompetence or cruelty, steered Weile to his career. “I know. My father told me.”

  Kinya ran a hand through his thinning hair. “But, after a while, she ceased to just tolerate and started to sanction.” He looked at Tae, as if to assure he followed.

  Tae was not at all sure he did. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that your mother was not wholly the innocent bystander you believe.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.” Menace tainted Tae’s tone. He would not allow Kinya to suggest his mother brought her own death upon herself and, nearly, upon her son.

  Kinya raised a hand, a plea for tolerance and a promise to tread lightly. “I’m only trying to say that your mother supported your father’s business not only because she loved him, but because she believed in it and in him. Perhaps one day, you will dedicate yourself to it, too.”

  Tae offered a noncommittal signal. “I’ve come to terms with him and what he does. I’ve even come to respect it, today more than ever. But I’m still not sure it’s right for me.”