Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Matrinka chose to answer Tem’aree’ay and ignore Mior. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For all you’ve done for King Griff. No one and nothing in his life has given him more joy.”

  *People are staring!* Mior exclaimed.

  Matrinka herded Tem’aree’ay through the open door to the hallway, letting it swing shut behind them.

  Mior squeezed through the crack as it disappeared.

  “Thank you, Your Ladyship,” Tem’aree’ay returned in a small voice. “But the pleasure is as much mine as his. I like spending time with His Majesty, but I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

  Matrinka cringed, certain Tem’aree’ay got that impression from her deliberate avoidance. “Please, I appreciate your friendship. I even hope we can reach one of our own.” Between their fondness for Griff and their shared profession, Matrinka suspected they could become fast friends. “I just worried I’d embarrass you if I drew attention to the time you spend with my husband.”

  Tem’aree’ay’s fine features revealed the barest hint of confusion. Only months among lysalf allowed Matrinka to recognize it. “Ladyship, I don’t understand. Why would that embarrass me?”

  Matrinka thought it obvious. “Another woman. My husband.”

  Tem’aree’ay’s expression did not change.

  Matrinka broke the tension with a laugh. Great, Matrinka. Create self-consciousness where it doesn’t exist. Turn something innocent into an affair. She had run into this problem before; because of their similarities, she could not help treating light elves as humans. Male or female, Tem’aree’ay belonged to a separate order. To imagine a physical attraction between her and Griff seemed ludicrous. *I’m going insane.*

  *I’ve been telling you that for years.*

  *You’re a great comfort, Mior.*

  *I do my best.*

  “A human thing, Your Ladyship?” Tem’aree’ay guessed.

  Matrinka smiled. “Exactly. I just want to make certain you know how much the king and I appreciate you.” Despite the deliberate sincerity of her tone, Matrinka worried that Tem’aree’ay might misinterpret her goodwill as covert threat. *How do I tell her how much it means to me that Griff has someone so close, who can give him some of the things he needs and deserves but can’t get from me?*

  *You can’t.* Mior sat in the corridor, cleaning her tail. *But you can show her. Over time.*

  As usual, the cat’s reply seemed profound in its simplicity. Matrinka promised herself to spend more time with Tem’aree’ay; anyone who could have such a positive effect on Griff would prove well worth knowing.

  Tem’aree’ay grinned at the compliment. “I’m glad, Your Ladyship. You both deserve happiness.” She motioned toward the door to remind Matrinka of her healing obligation.

  Matrinka stepped aside, driven by duties of her own. “As do you, Tem’aree’ay.” Briskly, she headed down the hallway toward the courtyard, the intensity of emotion subdued for the moment.

  Mior trailed her. *So, what’s your problem with fur?*

  Matrinka stifled a chuckle but not a grin. *Nothing. I love fur—when it’s still attached to you. When it’s floating free, it’s just dirt.*

  *And human hair is sterile?*

  *Detached human hair’s equally unpleasant. It just doesn’t tend to leap from our essentially bald bodies.* Matrinka whisked past bowing guardsmen with an amiable wave, and they held open the heavy doors for her. The sun beamed down on whitestone benches, blinding after the tunnellike corridors.

  *Are you still mad at me?*

  *Forever.*

  Leave it to a cat to hold a grudge. Flowers and pollen perfumed the air, and a happy childhood collecting bouquets for mother and grandfather returned to Matrinka in a wild rush. The gardeners’ talent with arrangement and color floored her nearly as much as the craftsmen’s realistic creations. *Could we talk about Tem’aree’ay a moment?*

  *Again?*

  *Indulge me.* Matrinka wound through the pathways, nodding to attendants and nobles in turn. The flower beds’ vast array of hues claimed most of her attention, no matter how many times she traversed the same pathway. *I’m worried for Griff’s future happiness. I don’t begrudge their love, of course. Even if I didn’t know most Béarnian kings have multiple wives, I have little right to complain about mistresses. But I’m afraid he’s wasting his affection on one with whom he can’t consummate.*

  Mior jumped onto a bench, then to Matrinka’s shoulders. Claws dug through linen as the calico balanced herself. *As opposed to you and Darris?*

  Matrinka winced, as much at the parallel as physical pain. *That’s exactly it. I know how horrible it feels.* A familiar vegetable garden came into view, outlined by two stone walls and a tarp stretched across them as a ceiling. The path disappeared beneath the cover, and she saw a distant figure dressed in spotless black breeks and a matching shirt with orange cuffs. A formal tabard stretched over his chest, emblazoned with Béarn’s symbol and colors. A hat perched on his head, gold with a blue plume, and a sword hung at his left hip. Perfect posture, leather gloves, and oiled boots completed the picture of a Knight of Erythane. Ra-khir.

  *We can’t consummate either. Is our love wasted?*

  *Of course not.* Again, Mior had cut to the significant buried beneath an avalanche of chaff. *What a perfect question.*

  Mior purred. *Cats are perfect animals. It’s time you realized that.* She added, *You and Darris found a way. Don’t be surprised if Tem’aree’ay and Griff do, too.*

  Matrinka wanted more, but before she could question further, Ra-khir rose from a bench. Sweeping off his hat, he delivered a dramatic bow, ending on one knee with his head low. A curtain of red-gold hair obscured his face.

  The formality grated. “Ra-khir, stop it. Get up before I kick you.” They both knew she would never deliver on her threat, but she took a menacing step toward him.

  “Your Ladyship.” Ra-khir stood with a flourish equally grand. “You summoned me?”

  “No. I summoned my old friend, Ra-khir. I don’t know you, stranger.”

  “Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Griff.” Ra-khir added, “At your service, Your Ladyship.”

  Matrinka’s eyes stung. She hated the barriers station drove between her and those she cared for. “Sit, Ra-khir. Please.”

  Ra-khir obeyed, placing the hat on his knee.

  Matrinka sat beside him, and Mior clambered down toward her lap. “You know I despise formality. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Your Ladyship, you’re the queen.”

  Matrinka ignored the cat settling on her thighs. “I’m still Matrinka. Do I have to order you to treat me like a friend? Because it loses its special—” She surrendered control, tears dribbling over her bottom lids.

  Ra-khir’s stiffness vanished. He gathered Matrinka into strong arms. “Don’t cry, Matrinka. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Matrinka clung, still weeping.

  “My father insisted. He’s my commander. He can hurt me a lot more than any kick from you.”

  Mior remained in place, glaring at the knight.

  “I wouldn’t . . .” Matrinka sniffled. “. . . really kick you. I couldn’t hurt . . . anyone.”

  “I know.” Ra-khir’s grip tightened. “Now why are you really crying? A bow and a few ‘your ladyships’ can’t hurt this much.”

  Until that moment, Matrinka had not considered a deeper rationale; but the answer to Ra-khir’s question rushed to her lips without need for thought. “Tae and Kevral disappeared out there, with killers on the roads.”

  Ra-khir’s embrace became nearly crushing. He did not lie or offer false consolation, which Matrinka appreciated. His presence was enough.

  Matrinka sniffled, battling for composure that had grown impossible to maintain over the last few weeks. “It’s silly to worry yet, I know. Kevral’s year isn’t up, and Tae never promised to return. But I can’t help it. What if they’re
lying dead a stone’s throw outside Béarn, and we just don’t know it?” Self-delusion had carried her this far, the optimistic certainty that those two could survive anything; the illusion collapsed when a third friend chose to brave the roads.

  “In that case,” Ra-khir said softly, “we can do nothing. I’d rather believe Kevral’s alive and I’ll see her soon. I have to believe that. Otherwise . . .” He broke off, shaking his head, his hair soft against Matrinka’s cheek. Pulling free, he studied Matrinka, his green eyes reflecting her sorrow. “Are you asking me to stay?”

  Matrinka wanted to command it but knew she must not. The months until Kevral’s return, if it happened, would destroy him. “No. Do what you must.”

  Relief flickered across strikingly handsome features. “Thank you. I’ll do my best to bring us all back alive.”

  “I know you will.” Matrinka’s own words failed to comfort, and she confessed her concerns to Mior. *What if I lose all three?*

  *Then you’ll still have Darris, Griff, me, and the baby.*

  Matrinka ran a hand across Mior’s back, dislodging a handful of multicolored hairs that drifted and sparkled in the sunlight. The cat did not understand. *I could have a thousand Darrises, Griffs, and babies, yet I would still mourn not having a thousand of them, Kevral, Tae, and Ra-khir as well.*

  Taking her hand, Ra-khir sat in silence. Nothing remained to say. Matrinka looked at him, attempting to memorize every detail. The enjoyment his appearance gave her brought a pang of guilt. Though it did not diminish the burning love she felt for Darris, she found unexpected pleasure in the simple act of staring at the rugged beauty of his features.

  Mior arched her back against Matrinka’s hand. *Quit gawking and pet me.*

  A thought followed the demand. “Ra-khir, would you take Mior with you?”

  *What?*

  “Excuse me?”

  “Would you take Mior with you?” Matrinka repeated.

  *It’s customary to ask the cat first,* Mior grouched.

  Ra-khir’s eyes fell to the calico. “Are you sure you want to do that? It may be dangerous.”

  “All the more reason to take her.”

  *Hey!*

  Matrinka ran alternate hands through the patchwork fur, her next words answering Mior’s objection as well as Ra-khir’s question. “At least I’ll know what happened. Eastern assassins aren’t likely to concern themselves with a cat, and she can let me know if you’re in danger.”

  They all knew it unlikely that Mior could fetch help in time to save Ra-khir, but no one mentioned the flaw in Matrinka’s suggestion.

  *You owe me big.* Despite her verbalized disgruntlement, Mior delicately walked from Matrinka’s lap to Ra-khir’s. She lay across his legs, paws tucked beneath her chest.

  “How does Mior feel about this?”

  In response, Matrinka tilted her head to indicate the cat’s new position. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Ra-khir smiled, caressing the calico. The animal had always preferred the company of Matrinka or Tae. Clearly, the knight appreciated the attention and did not need to know about Mior’s verbal reluctance, especially since Matrinka knew it for a sham. Mior’s action and lack of argument spoke louder than the mental words. “If you don’t mind, Matrinka, could you present the request to my father? He’ll never believe the queen asked me to escort her cat to and from Pudar. You won’t need a reason.”

  Matrinka understood Ra-khir’s unspoken concern. To say that the cat could communicate with her would place her sanity in doubt. They had already agreed as a group not to mention the oddity to anyone.

  Ra-khir watched fur fly at the end of every stroke. “There may be times when I can’t take her with me. Like into the king’s court. Will that be a problem?”

  *He thinks I’m a moron, doesn’t he?*

  Matrinka frowned at Mior, then shook her head for Ra-khir. “Just tell her where to stay. She’s brighter than a regular cat.”

  *You’re making me go with a man who thinks I’m a moron.*

  Matrinka called Mior’s bluff. *Fine. I’ll tell him I changed my mind.* She gathered breath.

  *You can’t do that. He needs me.*

  “Done,” Ra-khir said. “We’re leaving at daybreak.” He looked at Mior. “I’ll meet you at the border.” Turning his head, he winked at Matrinka.

  *He thinks I’m a moron,* Mior repeated, skulking back onto Matrinka’s shoulders.

  “I’ll have her there,” Matrinka promised. “And arrangements handled. Your father may think me odd, but not crazy.”

  “My father,” Ra-khir replied, “would never judge the queen.”

  Matrinka ignored the point and the worry tugging at her conscience. She had separated from the cat only twice and never for so long a period. “And, Ra-khir?”

  He nodded.

  “Please see that she makes it back.”

  Ra-khir rose, then executed another grandiose bow. “Your every desire is my command, Your Ladyship.”

  This once, Matrinka overcame her aversion. And kicked him.

  * * *

  The cramping started again before daybreak, as Kevral prepared for the arrival of her morning class. They had bothered her for days, undulating through the muscles of her uterus and stirring the baby into fitful bouts of punching and kicking. She ignored them, not allowing herself to miss a day of teaching until it became absolute necessity, refusing to prolong her time in Pudar. Counting back to the first night she and Ra-khir had spent together, the baby was not due for nearly another month.

  The aching intensified throughout the day, grinding across Kevral’s lower regions at short, regular intervals. Halfway through the morning session, discounting the pain became impossible. Instead, she channeled it into rage, as her Renshai training had prepared her, clinging to the wild battle madness it inspired. She had seen Renshai streaming blood and entrails, spurred beyond human ferocity and endurance into a war lust that left a wake of dying enemies. Kevralyn Balmirsdatter, her namesake in Valhalla, had died battling pirates with seventeen stab wounds and an arrow through her heart. If she could endure such agony and still fight, Kevral would do nothing less.

  That attitude carried Kevral into the afternoon. The pains came even more frequently then, waves of agony followed by fleeting moments of normalcy that felt like nirvana in their wake. As she demonstrated a simple strike to General Markanyin, wetness gushed suddenly down her legs. For an instant, she lost her focus, and reality funneled through her defenses. Dizziness pounded her beyond thought. She staggered, losing the centralization that had carried her through hours of instruction despite heavy labor. The pain rose to an unbearable crescendo, and she lost control. Kevral collapsed to the ground. The world spun wildly, and a senseless roar filled her hearing. She clawed for the control that eluded her.

  “Kevral!” The word scarcely pierced the buzzing that muffled sound into a sluggish bass. Hands seized her. Instinctively, she slashed for the grip, and it disappeared. More words rushed at her, unheard. The world disappeared behind a crackling curtain of spots and squiggles. The pain slammed her abdomen again.

  Concentrate! Kevral scrambled for the mind command she had lost, but pain and vertigo clawed her back. Her other sword rasped from its sheath, not her doing. She flailed after it, cursing the blindness and ignoring the sharp sting of the pommel guard slipping past her reach. She managed a few desperate swings with the other weapon, hearing the satisfying snap of brush as footsteps retreated ahead of her.

  “Kevral, calm down! We’re trying to help.” The words emerged as if through a tunnel, and it took her inordinately long to grasp their meaning. She caught her breath, rolling and searching frantically for the mental sanctuary she had too long hidden behind. A weight smashed her fingers, and they reflexively released the sword. A moment later, several figures rushed in. Hands gouged her wrists. She kicked wildly, hearing a sharp curse beneath the dull reassurances. Then, her legs, too, lay firmly pinned against the ground. Something hard forced her jaws open, and liquid s
loshed into her mouth. She howled, choking and sputtering.

  “Listen to me. Listen to me, Kevral.” The familiar voice broke through where others had not. Kevral panted, lower muscles straining. She opened eyes that seemed useless, catching a bleary glimpse of Prince Leondis and General Markanyin against a background of gray sky. “Everything’s all right. It’s Le.”

  Kevral stared into handsome features with a look of worry.

  “If you stop struggling, I’ll get you some help.”

  Kevral managed a nod, though it sapped her strength.

  “Let her up.”

  Nothing happened for a moment. A lone voice questioned. “Sire, are you certain that’s a wise idea?”

  “Let her up!” Leondis repeated with a growl that sent everyone into scrambling retreat.

  Kevral remained still, catching sanity and breath. She realized now that, had she surrendered to the pain hours ago, she could have handled it. By holding it at bay for so long, she had forced it to a crescendo beyond bearing.

  Leondis scooped Kevral into his arms and carried her toward the castle, shouting orders as he went.

  “Push,” Kevral breathed, uncertain if she spoke aloud. Have to push.

  Apparently feeling the wetness of her breeks, Leondis looked at his fingers looped around her body. “Tell my father the baby’s coming. And find that healer Kevral trusts. What’s her name?”

  “Charra,” someone supplied.

  Charra! No, not Charra! Kevral tried to protest, but only a dry croak emerged. She arched in Leondis’ arms, forced into frenzied pushing.

  “Not now, Armsman.” Apparently more experienced with the process, Markanyin shoved her back into the crook of Leondis’ arms. “Hold it! You have to hold it!”

  Kevral closed her eyes, battling the instincts of her body and panting violently. She felt as if her insides would rupture. Attention turned fully inward, she managed to dull the pain as the rest of the world slipped by her unnoticed. She did not realize they had entered the castle, nor even that Leondis had set her down on piled blankets. She did not feel a lesser healer peel the sodden breeks from legs white with strain and speckled with gooseflesh. Then, just as she felt certain she would explode, Charra’s soft voice reached her. “All right, Kevral. Push.”