Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “A girl,” Charra said softly, eyes closed, answering none of the questions. “A tiny, beautiful girl.” A strangeness about Charra’s voice bothered Kevral nearly as much as the catastrophe whose details she still did not understand.

  “Did you deliver it here?” Kevral looked around at the blood.

  “Yes. Safe. Reasonably clean.” Charra opened her lids and peered at Kevral. She stiffened, as if to confess a desperate secret.

  “What happened to the baby?” Kevral demanded, fearing what she might hear yet needing a truth she would never learn. Kevral could not know that Charra had birthed her daughter in the warm comfort of King Cymion’s castle, nor that her husband happily cuddled the child while his wife lay splattered with pig’s blood in a blacksmith’s barn.

  “Lady Kevral,” Charra said tiredly. “I killed it.”

  Kevral recoiled with a suddenness that dropped Charra’s head to the floor with a dull thunk. “What?”

  Charra closed her eyes again, speaking between sobs. “It was best for both of us. I couldn’t stand any more of this, and she would have suffered terribly. Better to spare us both the agony. A future of stealing and selling her body on the streets.” Her hands winched into fists of impotent rage. “My daughter deserved better.”

  Kevral’s hands felt ice cold, and she went dumb, incapable of speech.

  Charra continued, her voice gradually becoming the epitome of evil. “Now they might take me back at the castle. As a servant, of course. In time, maybe they’ll forgive me enough to let me heal again. Some man might marry me, and I’ll have another daughter. One I can keep.”

  The stable girl returned, setting the buckets beside Charra.

  “Clean her up,” Kevral said woodenly. Without another word, she turned and headed for the exit.

  “My lady?” Charra called.

  Kevral did not turn.

  “Lady, please. You have to understand.”

  Kevral did not. Could not. She quickened her pace.

  Charra’s voice chased her through the exit. “When your baby is born, you’ll understand. You might even do the same.”

  Outside, the air seemed to have turned frigid. Kevral ran toward the castle, tears freezing in her eyes, her legs pumping a rhythm she could not feel. “You might even do the same.” Never, Charra. Never! Yet, even the day before, she would not have believed the healer capable of such an act. Guilt descended upon her for the many times she wished her own baby might die in the womb and release her from the choices and terrors its simple presence created. Never! She forced herself to focus on this moment, to eternalize it into a directive not even the worst of emotional swings would allow her to violate. One way or another, her baby would have a life . . . and a loving father.

  CHAPTER 34

  Garnet Eyes and Khohlar

  For now, the Renshai need allies more than battles.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  The bard of Béarn had often dreamed of the chance to visit the sage’s tower, crammed full of books and texts chronicling history since the creation of the high kingdom. But now that he stood just outside the door, desperate worry assailed him. Beside him, King Griff stood in uncharacteristic silence, clearly touched by his bodyguard’s concerns. The sage, like all his predecessors, never left his high tower. Alone, save for his apprentice, among archives both ancient and penned that day, the sage sent servants to report and to gather information. Never before had he requested the personal presence of King Griff at his quarters. To Darris’ considerable knowledge, this sage had never solicited any king in his more than forty years of historically chronicling Béarn. Only matters of grave importance could spur him to do so now.

  The page who had accompanied Griff and Darris bowed for the forty-second time, then drew open a thick oak door sporting a deep carving of a life-sized bear. The odor of parchment and ink filled Darris’ nostrils, accompanied by only a trace of mildew. A pudgy-faced, grizzled man perched upon a stool, quill poised over a flat scrap of vellum. He turned his head as the door creaked open, revealing Béarnian eyes, a well-tended gray beard and mustache, and a frame, unusually narrow for one of his race. Though hovering, his hand remained rock steady. As he recognized his visitors, he clambered from his seat and executed a bow archaic in its formality, nearly befitting a Knight of Erythane.

  Darris’ eyes darted around the room, coveting the information contained on every page. The sage guarded his notes with the ferocity of a wolf protecting cubs, and even the ranking nobles rarely managed to read the least confidential writings. King’s decree could override the sage’s refusal, but Darris knew of no historical precedent. Usually, the sage’s pleadings or threats of violence against himself sent the kindhearted line of kings searching for other means of information, such as the bard.

  The page bowed, slipped out, and closed the door.

  As customary, Griff spoke first. “What can I do for you, Sage?”

  “Welcome, Your Majesty. And thank you for coming.”

  “The pleasure is all—” Griff smiled. “Darris’.”

  The sage chuckled. “He would not be the first bard of Béarn to hunger for the wisdom of the ages.” His expression abruptly sobered. “Sit, please. I have two matters to raise, and neither will please Your Majesty.” He indicated his stool.

  Darris glanced around the room, forcing himself not to dawdle too long over the many books and scrolls. He could have read titles all day and never noticed his lapse. At length, he discovered another stool, surely the apprentice’s, at another table. He trotted over, then hauled it back, replacing the sage’s seat that Griff politely claimed. At least, Darris had managed to break the king of the habit of refusing chairs by demonstrating the discomfort this caused to the one left sitting while his liege hovered.

  The sage glanced at Darris, silently offering to let the bard sit on the stool he had brought over.

  Darris shook his head. “You sit. I can guard better standing.” He hoped the sage would accept the hospitality without worrying about the insult. The king had nothing to fear in the sage’s singular presence.

  The sage did not question Darris’ gallantry, only did as he bade.

  Griff waited patiently through the exchange of seats, then questioned. “What’s wrong?” His tone suggested an eagerness to solve, no matter the difficulty of the problem.

  Darris did not feel as secure as Griff sounded. A dilemma raised by the sage would surely require brains rather than brawn to settle. One that bothered the sage enough to involve the king personally might prove far beyond their ability to handle.

  The sage cleared his throat. His gaze slipped past his visitors. “The first, Sire, involves a secret that even my apprentice does not know. Before I impart it to you, I must know you listen willingly.”

  Darris leaned nearer, without realizing he had done so. The idea of learning something even his predecessors had not drew him with the fatal fascination of a moth for a flame. King Griff nodded simply. “Tell me.”

  “Sire, you are aware that I gather much information through my pages.”

  Again, Griff nodded. The sage’s servants were given freer run of the palace than any noble; no business, major or minor, was ever kept from them. The sage even knew the details of the anxiously awaited royal heir. Trained to observe without judgment and to deliver minutia accurately, the pages were chosen by the sage for positions that usually spanned a lifetime.

  “When I moved from apprentice to sage upon the death of my mentor, I discovered something unexpected. Sire, the very walls of Béarn Castle deliver information to the sage’s mind. Prior to the elves’ coming, it seemed the only magic remaining on man’s world.”

  Griff accepted the news in silence. Darris could not stop his thoughts from running with the realization. He savored the idea of the walls revealing information for which the sage did not even need to search. Privy to such, Darris would spend his days listening in desperate fascination, and the king would go unguarded, except by Rantire.

  �
�Sire, the walls corrected misconceptions and deliberate lies. It informed me of events even the pages could not uncover. My private readings have revealed that the process began with the sage named Fevrin, in the reign of Xanranis Sterrane’s son. Then, it gave only whispers of truth, supplementing the information he gathered in more standard ways.”

  Darris listened to every detail with a raptness that stole concentration from anything else. An assassin could have sneaked into the tower and slaughtered King Griff without his knowledge.

  “Over time, Sire, the extent of its power grew until, by my time, it spoke with a command that often made me quail. Not all about it seemed good or pure, but every detail proved truthful.”

  “Something’s happened to it?” Griff guessed.

  The sage threw up withered hands. “Sire, it disappeared. Shortly before you ousted the svartalf, the day after Baltraine’s death. It did not fade slowly away, as it had come. Simply, one day it was there and the next it ceased to be. I have not felt its presence in the half year since.”

  Silence fell. It took Darris inordinately long to realize the king looked to him for advice. “It would seem,” Darris finally started, “that the dark elves discovered and stole it.” He did not add the obvious, knowing it might distress the sage. Dh’arlo’mé might just as likely have destroyed it.

  The sage toyed with the quill on his desk. “Sire, I can work without it. Sages have done so before me, and I trust my pages.” He looked up. “I just worry about the effect its loss might have on Béarn. Or how the elves might use it against us.”

  “Dark elves,” Griff corrected.

  “Dark elves, of course, Majesty.”

  Darris said softly, “All of which is hard to surmise because we don’t know what ‘it’ really is.” He turned a hard gaze on the sage, ascertaining that the man did not know more than he would admit. The sages guarded their knowledge with the same zeal with which the bards sought it.

  An understanding, partial smile touched the sage’s thin lips. “I know only that it called itself the voice of Béarn Castle.”

  Darris could not keep his eyes from straying to the shelves neatly stacked with parchment and books. “So we don’t know for certain it’s the walls.”

  The sage nodded carefully. “In fact, it would now seem highly unlikely. It used to come directly into my head, from no particular source. I, and sages before me, just assumed the walls, that the castle itself provided the knowledge.”

  “What disappeared about the same time as the dark elves?” Darris studied the facts, then spoke before receiving an answer. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Griff shrugged helplessly. “Not likely.”

  “I believe I am,” the sage supplied. “But I’d like to hear someone else say it.”

  “Mankind’s only magic.” Darris made a dismissing gesture. “The staff-test. It seems . . .” He stopped himself from saying “obvious.” That would insult the king, who had not figured out the answer “. . . . likely.”

  Darris’ brow creased. Surely the sage already knew they sought the staves. The populace had accepted Griff as their king unequivocally, but Darris and others in power still hunted for the staves that would demonstrate the gods’ sanction. Now, more than ever, Darris wanted the staves to assure the proper heir succeeded Griff as well.

  The sage explained. “Sire, I thought you should know the staves may contain more power than just determination of the proper king.” He lowered and raised his head grandly. “A more than worthy feat in and of itself, of course, Sire. I don’t know if it will inform the dark elves of the goings on in the castle, including those things only I should know.” He made no exception, even for the high king. “Or worse.”

  “Rest assured, we’ll do our best to retrieve it.” Griff’s promise did not hearten Darris. The svartalf would surely have enhanced their island security since he had journeyed there on the Sea Seraph. They had scarcely survived that raid. Besides, an attack seemed unjustified, even traitorous, after having promised peace. Dh’arlo’mé had promised fealty but systematically denied any knowledge of the staff-test. “You said you had a second matter?”

  “Yes, Majesty.” The sage ran a hand through his gray curls. “I thought you should know that the queen is the last woman in Béarn to become expectant.”

  Griff stared at the sage, clearly anticipating more. When nothing followed, his lids gradually lowered, creating creases in his otherwise youthful features. “That’s only been two months.”

  The sage gave Darris a pointed stare.

  “Four months, Sire,” the bard corrected. He avoided Griff’s eyes. “It took us a month and a half to suspect and another half to get up the nerve to tell you.”

  Griff accepted the news easily. “All right. Four months, then. Is it strange to go four months without a birth in Béarn?”

  “Not . . . entirely . . . Sire.” The sage slid the hand in his hair down to his lap and clasped them both there. “But, throughout history, a month has never elapsed after the announcement of a queen’s pregnancy without at least three other conceptions.”

  “Why is that?” Darris had to know.

  The sage had the answer, as always. “Some wish to share the joy of the populace, perhaps even secretly pretending the celebration is for their own child. Others hope for their offspring to become a playmate or even a suitor. Mostly, I believe the excitement that heralds the wait for the prince’s or princess’ birth creates a longing, even in those women who planned no more children.”

  King Griff shook his head, narrowed eyes still revealing puzzlement. “Strange, but hardly worth worrying about.”

  “I beg to differ, Sire,” the sage jumped in. “And apologize for offending. I get the same feeling about this as I did about the so-called accidents and inexplicable illnesses that claimed most of your competition for the throne.”

  Darris made the connection. “Magic? You think elves are involved?”

  The sage’s thin shoulders rose and fell, and his expression opened fully. “I don’t know for sure without the voice of the castle. The lysalf might glean more than I can. I only ask that you convey to me anything they discover.”

  “As always,” King Griff replied.

  Sterility. Darris’ first thought, of his bloodline becoming the only one to carry on Béarn’s royalty, floored him until reality dawned to a wider-reaching picture. Without offspring, Béarn, perhaps even mankind as a species, was doomed. “Gods,” he whispered. “Gods.” The worst he had anticipated had not reached the significance of one tiny announcement. The natural conclusion of his thoughts brought the same uncontrollable terror that kept him from contemplating death. That focus had driven more than one man mad.

  King Griff rose, visibly unshaken. “Thank you, Sage.” He spoke to Darris next. “To the lysalf.”

  “The lysalf,” Darris repeated, reaching the door in a daze that left no memory of movement. He only hoped Frey’s creatures would have happier answers.

  * * *

  Surrounded by the musky odor of horse and the sweeter aromas of hay, oats, and corn, Ra-khir curried his steed, Silver Warrior, with gentle swirling motions. The stallion stared out over the stall door, lines of dust outlining the patches of dried sweat in his coat. Ra-khir had walked the animal until the hair felt cool to his touch, yet he suspected he would have to bathe Silver Warrior to remove the grime brushes seemed unable to affect. White horses required three times the care to remain clean, and the immaculate standards of the Knights of Erythane made the task tenfold harder.

  Silver Warrior whinnied, vibrations shaking through his muscled torso. Ra-khir glanced over the door to see a stable hand approaching. The Béarnide made a brisk gesture of respect before speaking. “Sir, your captain demands your presence.”

  Ra-khir glanced from his half-tended horse to his partial dress. He had doffed tabard, hat, and sword belt while he worked. Sweat slicked his limbs, and bits of straw clung to his tunic. Despite his relationship to the captain, he knew
better than to delay. Kedrin would show him no special mercy.

  The stable hand seemed to read his mind. “I’ll take care of the horse, sir. Don’t worry about him.”

  Ra-khir clasped his filthy hands so as not to dirty his clothes. Béarn’s best handlers tended the knight’s mounts, but Ra-khir still preferred to take care of Silver Warrior himself. It was not that he did not trust Béarn’s grooms. Ra-khir was still bonding with the animal he had so long dreamed of owning, and tending to his mount had been an important part of his earliest training. “Thank you,” he said, reluctantly leaving his mount to the other man’s care.

  Ra-khir headed directly to the trough and washed before donning his knight’s garb. He spent several moments pressing wrinkles, adjusting his tabard to hide sweat and dirt, and combing his hair with his fingers. It would not do for a knight to appear disheveled, and he had already made enough mistakes that morning. Anticipating Kedrin’s well-deserved reprimand, he saw no need to antagonize further by sullying the name and reputation of the knights with his appearance. He would need a bath, but that could wait until after his audience.

  Ra-khir hurried from the stable, tensed for the inevitable delays. Since King Griff had announced his concerns about widespread infertility, the women of Béarn had become a daily burden. He understood their fears. While the light elves studied the extent of the plague and searched for exceptions and cures, each woman clamored for a chance at motherhood before the curse rendered her incapable. It only made sense for them to seek out knights, and the striking looks he had inherited from his father only made him more the target.

  These thoughts engaged Ra-khir as he trod the short distance between the stables and his father’s quarters, deliberately leaving by the servants’ exit to avoid any who might await him out front. His mind forced him to relive a morning he would rather forget. He had failed inspection for a loop of tabard caught into his sword belt. During marching drill, he had mistaken right for left. Only Silver Warrior’s training had rescued him from an unforgivable disruption. Twice, he had referred to the commanding knight, Cavalari, as Sir Kevral. And, worst of all, during an etiquette role-playing session, he had addressed the throne as King Griffy. During joust, he had not only missed an easy ring but had slammed into the scaffolding, bearing it to the ground.