Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Yeah,” the other confirmed without questioning Weile’s intuition. He wiped his nose with the back of a grimy hand. “And rape’s getting daring. Right in the middle of the street sometimes.”

  Tae cringed. They had only started working on reconstructing rights for women, and now a single, unidentified prophet had undermined every effort.

  The informant did not await a dismissal, simply rose and headed for the door.

  Tae twisted in his chair toward Weile. “Father, do you think—”

  As the entry door glided open again, Weile waved Tae silent. Reluctantly, Tae abandoned his point, sitting forward in his chair. Usually, these sessions had allowed at least a few minutes between reports for discussion.

  Tae recognized the informant who entered next, a tiny mouse of a man who had often brought Kinya information during their time in the West. Knowing the routine well, he skittered to his seat, seeming almost to melt against it. “Census completed, sir. As far as we can tell, there’s not an Eastern woman less than three to four months along with child. Not even on the streets.”

  Tae held his breath. Given the time for discussion, he would have suggested that the stranger, who he now felt certain was an elf, had made up the sterility plague to create more panic and chaos in the East. Now, it seemed, he might have spoken the truth, and quelling gossip would not prove nearly enough.

  “There’s a farmer woman in Gihabortch with ten children, barren now despite five months of trying. I believe, sir, the plague is very real.”

  “Thank you, Shavoor,” Weile said with cautious thoughtfulness. “The Net has done well. We need as much information as we can gather in this light.”

  “I’ll handle it, sir,” Shavoor promised.

  Tae stole a moment from his thoughts to marvel at how, despite seeming distance and dense protection, his father managed to know and remember everyone’s name. He saw the wisdom in the strategy, especially when working with the worst the East fostered. Men and women who had never received the positive attention of family thrived under even such simple signs of caring and self-worth.

  Weile made a sign to the thief at the end of the row, and the man slipped out the entry. He returned shortly, announcing. “There’s no one waiting just now. They’ll hold any others until we tell them otherwise.”

  Tae sucked in a deep breath and released it in a relieved sigh. He needed some quiet time. “Father, how do you do that?”

  Weile swiveled his head to his son. Despite the long days, his features revealed no fatigue. Dark eyes, nearly black, expressed interest in Tae’s words. “Do what?”

  “Remember hundreds of names without a mistake. I could never do that.”

  Weile laughed, the first release in many days. “Tae, you speak what? Forty million languages?”

  Tae smiled at the exaggeration, getting the point. “About that.”

  “You obviously have the skill. If your life depended on remembering such details, you would.” Weile winked. “It’s hard but not impossible. I’ll teach you a few tricks.”

  Kinya rose and stretched, immediately gaining the attention of Daxan and Alsrusett. “Sir,” he said tiredly. “I think the elves have found their revenge.” Heading back to the table, he poured himself a mug of water.

  Tae nodded vigorously, his assumption seconded.

  Weile accepted the supposition as fact. “The problem is trying to second-guess magic. Who does it affect? How long does it last?”

  The con man ventured an opinion. He spoke rarely, only when he had something significant to add. Presumably to assist his scams, he had adopted an upper class accent and speech pattern that always sounded out of place. “The decision to announce the problem suggests a short duration. Otherwise, why bother?”

  It took Tae a moment to follow the con man’s point. As he did, realization struck a hammer blow. If it’s long lasting, they could just sit back quietly and watch us die, without children to continue humanity.

  “A good point,” Weile said.

  Kinya held up an apple and inclined his head toward Tae.

  Tae nodded, and Kinya tossed the apple in a gentle arc. Snagging it from the air, Tae lowered his hand and spoke, “Not to complicate this, but remember we’re talking about elves. They think and act differently than we do. Their logic defies at least my understanding.”

  “Another good point.” Kinya pitched a dero fruit to Weile, apparently in response to a silent request.

  “So what do we do, sir?” The thief who had not yet spoken pressed.

  Tae looked to his father. He had no answers of his own. He took a bite of his apple, dry and wrinkled from winter storage.

  Weile rolled the dero between his palms, loosening the skin. “We’ll have to inform the populace in a way that calms them, but without lying. We’ll lose them for sure if we claim the stranger’s warning a hoax and it proves truth.”

  Kinya heaved fruit to Daxan, the con man, and the thief in turn. Alsrusett, Tae guessed, would eat after Daxan finished. The elder added his piece, “We need to work on explaining the reason for the sterility that has nothing to do with rumor.”

  The answer came to Tae with a mouth full of fruit. He chewed swiftly, wanting to speak the idea before someone else discovered it. “A new form of the clap. The worry over spreading it ought to decrease the rapes as well.”

  Weile beamed at his son, though the monotone of his response belied the pride his expression revealed. “Good. In the meantime, we need to gather more information. If someone manages a new pregnancy, we need to know the details. We’ll send messages west. We need to find out if this involves just the Eastlands or other parts of the world as well.”

  The thief snorted. “Oh, yeah. They’ll be glad to work with us.”

  “I think they will.” Weile ignored the disrespect, his informality a study in contrast to the suffocating decorum Darris and Matrinka had described, and Tae had witnessed, in Pudar. “They have no way of connecting Eastern royalty with the assault against travel. And I think months without contact should soften them for messages from anyone. The matter is significant enough to want to coordinate efforts.”

  Nods circled the room.

  “All right,” Weile said, looking at the con man. “Tisharo, you work on the messages, please. Find Kinya when you think you have them right.”

  Tisharo responded with a single nod.

  The thief did not wait to be addressed. “I’ll work on getting the information we still need.”

  “Good,” Weile returned. “Kinya, think on some details. Everyone grab food, and we’ll reconvene here.”

  Tae remained behind while the others headed for the exits. As the doors closed, leaving only Weile, his bodyguards, and his son, the new king of the Eastlands tousled Tae’s hair. The gesture spoke volumes of praise. Apparently jabbed by a lodged burr, Weile jerked his hand away so suddenly he tore out a few hairs. He rolled Tae a look that demonstrated waning patience. “Tae,” he started. “This may be a stereotypical father thing to say, but . . .”

  “I’ll handle it immediately,” Tae interrupted, only now realizing why he had not done it sooner. Both Kevral and his mother had preferred his hair long, and the memories of the gentle combing followed by passion would not leave him. “And grab food and work out details.”

  Weile replied with a mild bow. “My multitalented son at work.”

  Tae exited with a laugh, mood high despite the many problems facing the kingdom of Stalmize. He had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he and his father made a solid, well-balanced team.

  * * *

  Light streamed through the glassless window of Dh’arlo’mé’s study in the elfin common house, and dust motes danced through the slanting beams. He rose from scrutiny of one of the Northern Sorceress’ most ancient tomes, no longer struck by the torrent of knowledge that entered his brain, far beyond the content of the pages. As he turned the last leaf, he paused to rub an eye too long focused on weathered print. Delicately, he flipped the thick back cover into
place, closing it. He reached to heft it, an after-impression touching his senses, a prickling trace of chaos on the inner side that seemed more imagination than reality.

  Dh’arlo’mé opened the back cover, finding nothing out of place. He closed it, this time suffering none of the strange tingling. He sat a moment in thought, drawn toward dismissing the whole as a consequence of prolonged concentration on pages nearing disintegration. Yet paranoia rose. Chaos did not belong here, except when expressly summoned to a task. Once more, Dh’arlo’mé opened the book, winding detection magics over the smooth surface of cloth-covered wood. The spell that held it intact beyond its time shifted into vivid focus. An ancient Northern Wizard had crafted the cover, the binding and pages replaced over time. With the amplification that magic added, Dh’arlo’mé again experienced the twinge. Apparently, there was something bound and hidden by magic beneath the cloth.

  Dh’arlo’mé fumbled a utility knife from his pocket, slicing beneath the linen. Fabric parted against the blade, and a howl of pain slammed Dh’arlo’mé’s senses as the magic shattered and died. The wood lay exposed in front of him, elfin kathkral sanded smooth. He studied it, seeking the evanescent magic that had brought him to this place and finding no traces of it. Frustrated, he called more detections. Power flared in his soul like fire, then quivering lines of chaos appeared in a square across the wood. He traced them with his finger: once, twice, three times. The secret magics collapsed with an ancient groan. A compartment snapped open, and a single sheet of vellum spilled to the table.

  For several moments, Dh’arlo’mé only stared, fearing the air itself might raze the parchment to dust. Again, he called forth magic, gentling his touch as near to nothingness as he could manage. He seized it, unfolding, and a corner tore free between his fingers. Jerking back, he dropped the scrap, reduced to a pinch of dust that trickled to the table. He rose, twisting his head to read rather than risking another contact with the paper. He did not wonder how he recognized the writing as that of the first Northern Sorceress, Tertrilla. The magic had kept the paper alive for more than ten millennia.

  The world disappeared around Dh’arlo’mé, and he caught his breath. An army could have burst into his room at that moment, and he would have died never acknowledging their existence. He understood, without need to question, that he had discovered something even the gods did not know existed. Desperately, he tried to read, but his eye refused to focus. The more he willed it to clear, the worse the blurring became.

  Dh’arlo’mé loosed a visceral growl of frustration. He blinked once. When this seemed to help, he repeated the action fifty times in succession. His vision cleared enough to reveal the faint lines of Tertrilla’s message:

  Lyke untoo thee other Wyzards, mye fyrst profesy konserns thee Ragnarok. Yettoo, eye kan not reelees thee ymage of a chyldhood dreem:

  Stunned beyond other action, Dh’arlo’mé fastened his gaze to the page. His eye seemed incapable of moving, the significance of what lay in the next paragraphs beyond that of life itself. When Odin, the grim gray father of the gods, divided law from chaos and crafted the many worlds, he had also created the system of the four Cardinal Wizards to safeguard the balance. To one, he gave charge of good, another evil, and the others neutrality. He designed a test for the day when the latter became powerful enough to champion law and chaos.

  The first Wizards knew nothing of magic, creating only prophecies for their successors to fulfill. When they had accomplished their purposes, each passed his or her knowledge and understanding to a successor, charged with carrying out the earliest and simplest of their forefather’s forecasts. So it had passed for millennia, the Wizards growing stronger as their collective consciousnesses grew until, the last prophecy fulfilled and law and chaos distributed, the system lost its objective. Odin had destroyed it in favor of a Keeper of the Balance, sparing only one Wizard and a single apprentice. And now, it seemed, one prophecy remained—that of a Northern Wizard. As the apprentice of the last Northern Sorceress, it had become Dh’arlo’mé’s task to see the words that followed to fruition. The simple paragraphs held the fate of every being in the universe.

  Dh’arlo’mé steeled himself to read:

  Thee Father shal avert hys fate.

  Then thee worlds shud celebrate.

  But far ynto dystrukshon hurled

  Law’s vast plan ys then unfurled:

  A new world to create.

  All must dye to pave thee way.

  A syngle god to rule thee day.

  Thee only enemy wyll make

  One small lapse; a fatal mystake

  Leave thee world at thee mercy of Gray.

  Dh’arlo’mé held his breath, reading and rereading until every word became a part of him. Understanding accompanied the first time through, yet he still found himself running over each line, turning it into a steady mantra. It was his responsibility, his very destiny, to destroy not only mankind but every living being on the two remaining worlds. From there, he would craft a whole new world, with himself as its only god. Dh’arlo’mé the Father. Dh’arlo’mé the Gray. Dh’arlo’mé the one true god.

  The first grin in months tugged at the corners of Dh’arlo’mé’s mouth. And though the form was elfin, the light that looked out from that single eye was the very essence of all things lawful.

  * * *

  The aroma of fresh bread and mutton wound through the common room of the Red Horse Inn, entwined with the warm odor of beer. Though past the popular dinner hour, patrons occupied most of the dozen tables, their conversations a dull buzz punctuated by occasional laughter. Seated at her usual small table near the farthest corner, Kevral suffered the grumbling, painful protests of her empty stomach and wished Charra would hurry.

  Awakened by Kevral’s long and grueling spar, and apparently also hungry, the baby kicked a wild dance inside her. Her abdomen touched the edge of the table, growing almost visibly over the last month. The additional weight threw off her timing, even as her injured shoulders healed and ceased to contribute to the problem. Gradually, she adjusted to the changes, but her svergelse lengthened to accommodate the variations in technique that allowed her to maintain her deadly quickness and accuracy despite the awkwardness of her condition. Her moods rose and plummeted strangely, and her judgment seemed uncharacteristically clouded. She found herself screaming at or bruising students for minor infractions or frailties, at times fighting or enduring tears over matters scarcely worth her attention. She continued to see Pudar’s prince, comfortable with his warrior knowledge and charm, yet she dared not make a decision about the baby’s future with her emotions in such turmoil.

  A serving girl of about twelve, with large brown eyes and straight blonde hair approached her table. “Are you the swordmistress?” Her gaze fell naturally to the bulge. Everyone’s did.

  “Yes.” Kevral kept her attention on the girl’s face, a practiced technique.

  Like most people, the girl looked guiltily away, gaze now higher, though she still dodged Kevral’s eyes. Her tone added a sobriety to words otherwise neutral. “Sabilar’s stable girl came by. Said you should meet your friend in the barn.”

  In the barn? Alarm replaced Kevral’s steady composure. “Is something wrong?”

  “She didn’t say, but her face looked pasty. I think you should go quickly.”

  Kevral did not wait for the girl to finish the sentence. Rising awkwardly, she rushed from the common room, out into the gentle chill of spring evening. Though she had only been past it once, the route to the blacksmith’s barn lay indelibly etched into memory. She followed the route mechanically, her thoughts stuck on vague concerns she had no way to identify. If anyone had hurt Charra, he would pay with his life. Sparing no perception for her grumbling stomach, passersby, or the flailing baby, she sprinted through darkening streets.

  Kevral found the barn in dragging moments that stretched reality interminably. She tore open the first door she found. The panel banged against the wall, echoing dully and eliciting two wild
whinnies and the tap of nervous hooves. “Charra!” she shouted.

  A moan touched her hearing, followed by an unfamiliar young voice. “She’s over here.”

  Dashing inside, Kevral trailed the words toward a corner filled with piled straw. A lantern opened the darkness in a circle, revealing red staining and clots. A mass of tissue Kevral could not identify lay in a dark pile. An organ? The quantity of blood worried her. “Charra? Charra!”

  “I’m all right, my lady. Thank you for coming.”

  Kevral whirled, straw slippery beneath her feet. A girl not even into her teens knelt beside Charra, who lay in a pile of the golden silage, her face moist and pale. The Renshai scurried to her side and knelt. “Are you all right?” Realizing Charra had already answered that question, she scrambled for another. “What happened?”

  “The baby.”

  “The baby?” Kevral looked down, only now realizing Charra wore no clothes below the waist. Straw matted to her thighs and privates, glued with clotted blood. Her abdomen had settled to a protrusion no larger than it had appeared months ago. She looked into Charra’s face, streaked with tears and sweat. “Where is it?”

  Charra sank to the straw, sobbing.

  “Where is it?” Kevral asked again.

  “I buried it,” the girl whispered.

  Kevral’s heart seemed to somersault. Clutched by the horror of those words, she did not notice the deadpan delivery of a child paid well to lie. “Buried it? Why?” the obvious answer refused to register.

  Charra covered her eyes. The stable girl shuffled, deliberately evading Kevral’s questioning stare. “Get buckets of warm water, scrubbing sand, and a clean washrag.”

  The girl rushed to obey. Kevral knelt, cradling Charra’s head. She stroked the damp, brown locks. “What happened? Was it abnormal? Did someone hurt you? Did someone do something to the baby?”