Captain’s gaze explored the guards, two dark-haired and the last Northern blond. He knew he did not need to ask about their loyalty. They would not have this assignment if Cymion did not trust them implicitly. “Lord, have you heard of Outworlders?”
“Outworlders?” Javonzir blinked. “You mean like elves?”
“I mean exactly elves.”
“Only as mythology. Why?”
Captain knew relief that Dh’arlo’mé had not yet poisoned the kingdom of Pudar against them. Clearly, he still found secrecy the better weapon. “Because, Lord, you’re speaking with some now. That ‘young man’ as you called him celebrated his four hundred seventh year last autumn.”
Javonzir froze with his mouth still opened. “Uh huh,” finally emerged, a thoughtful sound that was clearly patronizing. “Elves. Four hundred years. Is that right?” He stiffened as if to rise.
“Lord, look at us. Look closely.” Captain sent khohlar to Hal. *Lower your hood.*
The cowl swept backward, revealing red-black hair in bangs and eyes like polished garnets in their canted sockets. Captain waited patiently while human gazes played intently over their high, sharp cheekbones, oval faces, and slender necks. He licked his lips to reveal the edge of a triangular tongue.
Javonzir flopped back into his seat, clearly not wholly convinced, yet at least no longer dismissing the claim as madness. “Elves, you say.” He wanted more.
Captain considered magic, but his own repertoire included little more than healing minor lacerations and changing the weather. Lights could pass as parlor tricks, as impressive as Dhyan’s juggling yet not convincing. Instead, he called a general khohlar: *We really are elves. And we mean no harm.*
Javonzir straightened dark locks with nervous gestures, though he need not have bothered. His thick, oiled hair remained in place even with the briskest movement. “Forgive my doubts. And my surprise.”
“Both understandable, Lord.” Captain filled the stunned silence that followed. “We came to try to assist those harmed by the halt in travel and trade. I would also inform you that the enemy appears to have departed, leaving the roads free once more.”
Javonzir managed a careful nod. “Our scouts are ranging farther daily.”
Captain considered how to broach the next subject, long enough to leave a strained pause. “Lord, we come in peace, to foster healthy bonds between human and elfinkind.”
“A worthy goal,” Javonzir said. “One I’m certain King Cymion will sanction.”
Captain smiled again, the gesture quickly disappearing as other concerns took the fore. “We are called lysalf, the light elves. There are others, the svartalf or dark elves. They mean to destroy humanity.”
A light flickered through Javonzir’s eyes. “These creatures, these dark elves. Are they huge, black beasts that change from one hideous shape to another?”
Captain recognized the description with alarm. “No. No, the dark elves resemble us in every way. Coloring has no bearing on disposition. Their darkness refers to intention. What you’re describing is a demon.” He swallowed hard. “Have you seen one?”
Javonzir hesitated, clearly weighing the newness of the association against the need to gather information. “One tore down part of our wall. Killed some men.”
“Is it still loose?” Captain could barely keep his seat. The need to warn and assist jangled through him, a desperate alarm.
“It’s dead, I believe. It collapsed, then disappeared.”
Captain doubted Pudar could handle a demon. Even he and his entourage could offer little assistance. Only one human in Pudar possessed enough knowledge and skill to face such an abomination, though even she lacked the necessary magic to kill it. “Kevral assisted, didn’t she?”
Javonzir’s head jerked in surprise. “You know her?”
“We sailed together once.” Captain downplayed the relationship, more concerned about the possibility that a demon still terrorized the Westlands. He left other details to Kevral; she would know better which information to impart to the Pudarians. The strategies humans employed to wield or withhold knowledge bewildered him. Elves shared everything. “Is she well?”
“Injured by the demon,” Javonzir admitted. “But recovered nicely. Didn’t stop her from teaching or practicing, of course. A great asset to Pudar.”
“Irreplaceable . . .” Captain quoted a Béarnian guard who had served in the renegade band that restored King Griff. He kept the rest of the grumbled reference to himself: . . . once you get past her pigheaded, Renshai arrogance. “How long since the demon’s attack?”
“About three months.”
Captain released a breath he had not even realized he held. If the demon still lived, he would have seen or heard more by now. The Staff of Law, no doubt. Dh’arlo’mé is a bigger fool than I believed. “Surely, the dark elves called it against you.” The information explained much about the traces of magic more sensitive elves had noticed growing stronger as they reached Pudar. “Lord, I’m afraid they inflicted something more on you at that time.”
“More?” Javonzir repeated, shaking his head. “Was that not enough?”
Captain conferred mentally with his companions. He had detected nothing amiss, but several followers had delved into chaos left in the wake of a colossal spell. Surely the work of a jovinay arythanik, it must have required cooperation between every one of the svartalf. The Staff of Law, Captain now realized, probably also played a role. “The demon may have been more distraction than attempt to cause harm.” Captain supposed Dh’arlo’mé had banished it once his followers had worked their magic. He hoped the leader of the svartalf retained enough sense to realize it posed as much hazard to elves as to humans, more so if he lost control. “While you battled the demon, it seems, the svartalf rendered your women sterile.”
Javonzir flinched, but a knowing look in his eyes revealed that Captain’s pronouncement did not wholly catch him by surprise.
Still ignorant of the power games humans played, Captain revealed his observation. “You knew, Lord?”
Apparently realizing Captain had read his expression, Javonzir schooled himself to look neutral. “A message arrived from the East a few days ago,” he admitted. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t know, Lord,” Captain admitted. He had already sent some of his followers back to assist those in Béarn at finding a solution, if one existed. It might take years to even find a lead. “We’ll search, of course. In the meantime, I thought you might find use for the information we’ve gathered.”
“Please.” Javonzir tried to hide his thoughts, but Captain sensed desperation and some mistrust. The adviser surely wondered whether Captain intended to help or to worsen the problem.
“First, they seem to have targeted females.” The strategy made sense to Captain, who understood that the dark elves would not have had the time to handle all humans, even if they managed to gain sufficient power. “And the magic is still functioning, which is how we detected it. Which means that as your girls reach sexual maturity, they will fall prey to the sterility as well.”
“Can you lift the spell?”
Captain thought he had made that clear. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. As I said, we’re looking for a way. But lifting it would only rescue those not yet affected. Once a woman is subjected to the spell, the sterility appears to be permanent. We’d have to find a way to reverse what’s already done. That may prove impossible, perhaps even dangerous.”
Javonzir closed his eyes, groaning. “It’s hopeless, then?”
Captain shook his head. “You have some women currently with child?”
Javonzir opened his eyes to slits. “Yes. Always. Though we’ve had more early losses and stillbirths than usual.”
“Those still pregnant are apparently still fertile,” Captain supplied.
Javonzir’s lids found the other extreme. “The magic won’t affect those women?”
Captain hated to dash hopes, but humans needed the details to survive. “Event
ually it will. If a cycle passes without another pregnancy.”
“So.” Javonzir thoughtfully put the pieces together, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “We need to focus on girls coming into their bleeding and women who have just given birth.”
“If you’re quick enough, you might find the window of opportunity before it closes.” Captain believed the discovered loopholes would relieve Javonzir’s anxiety, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.
Clearly agitated, Javonzir rose, then sat again. “Thank you for the information. Could we coax you into staying in Pudar? You’ll have the best of everything, of course.”
Captain started to refuse, then reconsidered. *Hal?*
*I’ll stay,* the elf returned, intention filling the sending without specific words. He would assure that the Pudarians saw the positive side to elves and suppress the inevitable prejudice that might follow the understanding that other elves had summoned the demon and the plague. He could also help direct and protect if Dh’arlo’mé chose to attack again. Captain doubted the latter. Now that they had rendered human females sterile, the svartalf had no need of tactics other than buying time. Rescuing the humans, if such was possible, now lay in the hands of the lysalf. Hal seemed a particularly good choice because of his ability to speak the common tongue reasonably fluently, unlike Dhyan and many others of Captain’s followers.
“Not myself, Lord,” Captain said. “We still have much to do. But Hal . . .” He indicated the yellow-eyed elf. “. . . and maybe a few others will remain.”
“Thank you,” Javonzir repeated, still appearing distressed.
“Lord, I would appreciate it if you could inform the other kingdoms of our discoveries.”
“I will,” Javonzir promised, “though I’m afraid the news may doom some young women.”
Captain did not contemplate Javonzir’s words too long. The reproductive habits of humans still eluded his common sense. “Thank you for your time, Lord. I’ll send Hal back with any others who volunteer.” He rose, hating to add the necessary. “Please, guard their lives well. We cannot afford to spare any.”
Javonzir also rose. “You have my word, Captain Arak. Your elves will receive the courtesies and defenses of highest born dignitaries. No harm will come to them.”
Captain believed the adviser’s sincerity. Accompanied by the same Pudarian guards, they headed from the castle. Retracing their steps brought them back outside the courtyard, into the streets of Pudar. There, one of the dark-haired sentries left them, and the blond pulled the other, who had helped guard the outside gate, aside. A moment later, the blond joined them, and the other sentry headed back toward the castle, grinning.
The blond explained. “Captain Arak.” He bowed. “My name is Tyrion Farnarisson from the tribe of Asci. I traded an extra session of guard duty for the opportunity to walk and speak with you.”
Captain returned the gesture of respect. “Unnecessary, sir. I will always find time for the most trusted of King Cymion.”
Tyrion winced at the words. “Thank you for your consideration, though I don’t deserve it. I got into trouble for an ancient prejudice I had no right or reason to act upon, and I’m lucky to come back into the king’s favor. Lord Javonzir got me thinking.” He stared directly into Captain’s gemlike eyes. “Captain, do you have the ties to the North that lore and your accent suggest?”
Captain deliberately dropped into the Northern language, one all of his followers spoke, at least in a rudimentary form. “I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
Tyrion also switched to a smooth, comfortable delivery of his musical native tongue. “Are you aware of what’s happening there?”
“In the North?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Captain admitted, “Is it different than here?”
Tyrion sighed deeply, gaze turning distant. “Constant war. It’s gone far beyond the usual border skirmishes to a slaughter based solely on the tribe a man was born to. My bigotry, I believe, was born of that. I understand my mistake now and, fortunately, did not die for it. My brothers and sisters in the North are not so lucky.”
“War?” Captain pressed, seeking the extent of Tyrion’s description.
“Constant. Brutal and senseless. With no end in sight. Whole tribes have disappeared, and I would be afraid to learn how few of my own remain.” Tyrion shook his head. “I heard you say you came to help. Is there anything you can do there?”
The urge to suggest mankind handle the problem passed swiftly. Captain guessed the svartalf had had a hand in this as well. “I don’t know. We can try.”
“Will you?” Tyrion fairly pleaded. “I fear the worst. Between the killing and the infertility, Northerners as a people may soon disappear.”
Captain followed Tyrion’s gaze, though he knew the Ascai warrior looked at nothing. Pudarians passed on the streets, pausing to stare at the three odd-looking strangers chatting in an unfamiliar tongue with a guard of the realm. “We came to assist the many people trapped into danger by the Easterners’ tactics.”
“But the Easterners have gone.” Tyrion returned his steady, blue gaze to Captain. “And the new king in Stalmize has apologized and promised peace. We can attend those in need in the West.” He clasped his hands, squeezing until the fingers blanched paler than his normal Northern coloring. “Even in the time we’ve spent talking, a dozen or more Northern warriors have died.”
Moved by the words and touched by guilt for the damage Dh’arlo’mé inflicted, Captain nodded. “We will do our best. In exchange, I ask that you take over my mission in the West.”
Tyrion nodded vigorously. “If the king does not give me leave, I’ll quit. All my loyal years are more than worth a chance to save the North from annihilation.”
Captain appreciated and worried about the Northman’s faith. “The first order of business is finding escort for King Griff’s parents so they can join him in Béarn.” Having informed Béarn of the reopened trade routes, he felt certain Griff would already have sent a messenger to Dunwoods.
Tyrion stared, then bowed deeply. “You’ve done me favor enough without bestowing this great honor as well.”
“Just see it safely done,” Captain said. “Please.”
“I will,” Tyrion promised with a sobriety that denied doubt. Captain felt certain the Ascai warrior would keep that vow.
CHAPTER 35
The King’s Demands
Disrespect for a sword is the ultimate crime.
—Colbey Calistinsson
The aroma of shucara root and ginger wafted through an austere room on the second floor of Béarn’s east wing, displacing the fouler odors of blood and vomit. Injured by a fall from a castle ledge, the laborer lay still and peacefully on his pallet. The same ale that had proven his downfall now wrested the pain from him and allowed the sleep he needed to recover.
Her work finished, Matrinka retreated toward the door, allowing lesser skilled healers and servants to take over the cleaning and her vigil. She had a meeting to attend with Ra-khir in the covered garden. It would not do to leave a Knight of Erythane waiting, though she knew he would never condemn, or even mention, her tardiness. No one ever did, a windfall that had rapidly become an irritation. Despite strangeness such as this, she usually delighted in her life since her wedding day. She relished the responsibilities of queenship, the excitement of the coming baby, her nearness to Darris, and Griff’s gentle-hearted empathy. She had grown to love the cousin who had once seemed only a quiet and childlike enigma. The simplicity and ease with which he ruled his life and his kingdom hid a moral complexity beyond Matrinka’s comprehension. In his easygoing manner, he had taught her to accept formality graciously; and only he truly understood the profound loneliness that accompanied power. The pregnancy-inspired intensity and changeability of her emotions was disconcerting to Darris and the servants, yet Griff took it as much in stride as everything else he encountered.
Matrinka seized the latch and drew the door open. It yielded too easily, propelled from t
he opposite side. In an instant, she stood nose to nose with Tem’aree’ay. The elf’s canted, blue eyes glittered like perfect sapphires, friendly despite their hardness. Golden curls with a glint of crimson softened the high, sharp cheekbones, and the heart-shaped lips parted in a gasp of surprise. Tem’aree’ay’s delicate figure poised, in elegant contrast to Matrinka’s Béarnian bulk; and she dropped to one knee with a dancer’s speed and grace. “Your Ladyship, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”
Matrinka used her sweetest tone and offered a hand graciously. “Of course you didn’t.” So many times she had caught glimpses of Tem’aree’ay leaving Griff’s quarters and had deliberately and politely pretended not to notice. “Please, no ceremony while we’re working.” She had instituted the rule shortly after the wedding, so as not to distract fellow healers and endanger lives. She only wished she could carry the directive into everyday dealings.
Mior slipped through the opening, meowing pitifully. *You left me out there so-oo long.*
Matrinka ignored the cat’s whining, trying to smooth out a potentially awkward situation.
Tem’aree’ay accepted Matrinka’s hand, though she sprang to her feet without applying any pressure. “Is it bad?” She gestured toward the stricken worker.
Mior arched her body against Matrinka, demanding attention. *Why couldn’t I come in with you?*
“Broken arm. Several lacerations; three that needed sewing. Bruises.” Matrinka paused to address Mior, *Because I don’t believe the gentleman would appreciate fur in his open wounds.* She finished, “Could have been much worse.” Overcome by sudden gratitude, she caught Tem’aree’ay into an embrace.
Mior scrambled backward, affronted by words as well as the need to dodge. *What’s wrong with fur? It probably has healing properties you don’t even know about.*
The elf weathered Matrinka’s attention without stiffening, wrapping her own slight, long-fingered hands around Matrinka’s broad torso. Elves always shared affection freely. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Prince of Demons Page 71