Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Kevral did not waste a moment. Her body gave a convulsive heave, and pain flashed through her lower regions. Don’t hurt my baby, Charra!

  Kneeling at her side, Leondis squeezed Kevral’s hand. He whispered, “Bad timing, I know; but you’ve got about an instant to make this baby legitimate. Kevral, will you marry me?”

  Agony nearly wrenched a scream from Kevral. She fought for the breath to answer. Thoughts flashed through the fog in fleeting moments. Again, she heaved.

  “Head’s out,” an unfamiliar voice said. Kevral wondered just how many people tended her.

  “Kevral?” Leondis pressed.

  Kevral opened her mouth to speak, but only a groan emerged.

  “Careful,” Charra shouted. “Careful.”

  Kevral felt something shift position. The pressure let up somewhat, but the cramps continued. She tightened her fingers around Leondis’ hand. “No,” she whispered, gasping. “I’m . . . sorry, Le. You’re . . . wonderful . . . but . . .”

  The presence in the birth canal disappeared.

  “Don’t . . . hurt . . . it,” Kevral sobbed, feeling helpless for the first time in her life. Tears dribbled to mix with the sweat on her ashen face. Pain stabbed through her. “Still . . . need . . . to push.”

  A soft voice near her legs responded, the same who had declared the head free. “That’s the afterbirth. Go ahead and push.”

  Kevral curled up, watching the red mass of the afterbirth slither free. A loud wail split the sounds of conversation. The baby. It’s all right. Kevral lay back.

  “Boy!” Charra declared over the noise. “A bit small but looks healthy. Lots of red hair.”

  Red. Excitement suffused Kevral. Ra-khir’s. Calm satisfaction followed. She dropped back to the blankets, weak with strain. Suddenly, she realized she had never finished her response to Leondis. He remained in place, still clinging to her hand. She glanced around a gray, austere room. Two healers tended the baby and a third her. The only other person in the room was the prince. “I’m sorry. But if the baby’s father will still have me, I—” Agony sledgehammered her low in the gut. This time, she could not bite back the scream.

  Charra charged back, shoving aside the woman tending Kevral. “I knew she looked too damned big. Twins.”

  Kevral growled, enraged by her loss of control. Her grip tightened painfully around Leondis’ hand, but he endured without complaint.

  “Push, Lady. Push,” Charra shouted.

  Exhaustion overtook Kevral, and she slipped in and out of consciousness.

  “What in Hel’s wrong with her?” Charra’s voice sounded distant. “She should be able to handle this. She’s stronger than a damned phalanx.”

  “We fed her a sedative,” Leondis explained.

  Kevral vaguely remembered liquid flooding her mouth on the practice field. Now, she knew a tranquil joy, a quiet sensation of floating.

  “Where did you get . . .” Charra started, then interrupted herself. “Never mind, Sire. I’m sorry.” She shouted, “Lady Kevral, push!”

  Kevral tried to obey. The instructions barely registered, and it took all her strength just to keep awake. She let her eyes sag closed, attending to need.

  “Majesty, forgive the command, but, if you don’t help her, that baby’s going to die.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” Leondis returned. He fought free of Kevral’s death grip, shaking his hand. “And I’ll use whatever isn’t broken to assist.”

  “Shove here.” Charra screamed directly into Kevral’s ear, “Damn it, Lady. Push!” Then to another. “Grab on to the head and pull.”

  “I can’t get a grip.” Fingers pinched Kevral’s privates, the pain minimal compared to the contractions. She strained, losing track of the reason as she did. She felt the head pop free, followed by a cry of triumph. Then, darkness descended over Kevral, and she drifted into quiet sleep.

  * * *

  Kevral awakened to a dull agony that throbbed from her abdomen into her lower regions. She lay on a clean pile of blankets, dressed in her training tunic and an enormous, lightweight pair of britches, without undergarments. Dark blood stained the crotch, surely that which had seeped out since the others had left her. She lurched to her feet too quickly. Dizziness hammered at her, driving her to a crouch to keep from tumbling. Gradually, her senses cleared, and she stood in increments. Bars filled her vision and, beyond those, stone walls tinged green. A faint odor of mildew reached her nostrils beneath the stronger scent of her own blood.

  Where am I? Where’s the baby? Memory returned in a bewildering rush. Babies. Terror ground through Kevral. Charra had them. Baby-killing Charra. She ran to the door and yanked so hard pain shot through her forearms. The iron gateway barely shifted. Kevral shoved at it, with no more success. Desperately, she jerked and thrust, the door budging fractionally in each direction and making tense clicking sounds with each slight movement. “Hey!” she shouted. “Hey! I can’t get out!”

  Only then, Kevral realized that her vision encompassed a row of cells along a dark corridor that trailed into nothingness beyond her vision. A dungeon? Where? Why? No answers followed. The whole situation went beyond any logic she could fathom. The need to pause and study her surroundings returned rationality. Charra had called for the prince’s help to keep the baby from dying. That did not sound like the words of a woman who plotted murder. The fate of the babies still gnawed at Kevral, a desperate need, yet she no longer worried over their immediate safety. Her mind registered thirst.

  A footfall thumped far down the hallway, beyond Kevral’s vision. “Hey!” she shouted again. “Who’s there? I need help.”

  No reply.

  Kevral hammered at the door. It did not yield, so she turned her attention to the walls. Iron bars, with perpendicular braces at regular intervals, lay deeply embedded in the granite floor and rose to a stone ceiling. She had spent enough time in Pudar’s prison to recognize her surroundings for certain. I am in a dungeon. Why? Only one possibility filled her mind. She recalled how tightly she had clutched Prince Leondis’ hand when the agony grew unbearable. Training had taught her to respond to pain with violence. I killed him. Gods, I killed the heir to Pudar’s throne. She could not help remembering the penalty leveled on Tae for the same crime; he was to have been drawn and quartered.

  Only a mild trickle of fear accompanied the thought, though Kevral would have expected a torrent. Crazed by pain and battle wrath, she might have lost control; but she should have remembered such a desperate and horrible action. Weaponless and crippled by childbirth, she doubted she could have inflicted much damage before the healers overtook her. I didn’t kill Le. Yet Kevral could imagine no other crime that might have condemned her to Pudar’s dungeon.

  Kevral inspected the cell for doors she might have missed, then the bars for weaknesses that could allow escape. Though time had pitted them into sharp irregularity, the thick metal remained stronger than any attempt of hers to budge it. Her stomach churned and rumbled, and her mouth felt full of dust. She had not eaten or drunk since a light breakfast, and she guessed she had slept at least partway through the night. Nearly a full day had passed, during which she had expended large amounts of energy and blood. Even the anxiety of finding herself here could not fully banish hunger and thirst.

  More footsteps tripped down the corridor, this time definitely approaching. Wild echoes bounced from the walls, making a count impossible. Kevral retreated far enough from the door so a sudden spear thrust would not reach her. She did it from habit rather than any fear that such would happen or that she could not dodge if it did.

  A feminine form appeared from the gloom. Gradually, the other became recognizable as Charra, more slender than Kevral remembered and clutching something to her chest beneath a shroud. The healer shook back dark hair and studied Kevral through the bars with soft, light brown eyes.

  Kevral’s gaze fell naturally to the object in Charra’s grip. It moved beneath the cover, surely a feeding infant. The realization triggered her own
letdown, and milk seeped into her undergarments. The lack of control embarrassed her, though Charra could not see through the thick leather of the tunic. “Is that my baby?” Kevral asked accusingly.

  Charra shook her head. “Mine.”

  “Yours is dead,” Kevral said flatly, tensing for a fight. If Charra intended to steal either of her infants, no iron bars could hold the Renshai back.

  Charra’s lips formed a nervous smile. “Lady, I was afraid. I thought she was dead. I told the stable girl to bury the body, but she gave the baby to her own mother instead. I found out and got her back.”

  The hostility wavered. Kevral did not know what to believe. “You said you killed her.”

  “I thought I did, Lady Kevral.” Charra’s voice assumed a breathy quality, but she did not cry. “I thought my decision to live on the streets had killed her.”

  The anger faded with a suddenness that left Kevral in an emotionless void. “I thought you meant—”

  Charra interrupted. “I know you did, Lady. That’s why you ran away when I needed you.” The words stung. “That’s why you thought I’d harm your babies. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kevral said, lowering her head. “I’m so glad you got her back.”

  Charra’s smile was genuine. She hugged the baby closer beneath the wrappings.

  Jealousy speared Kevral. “My babies?” she reminded.

  “They’re well, Lady.” Charra gestured to someone lost in the darkness, and another woman sidled into view. Sandy hair hung to her shoulders in limp strands, and dull brown eyes swiveled toward Kevral’s face then dodged back to a bundle wrapped in blankets. “Two boys.”

  Now, excitement claimed Kevral, the vast parade of emotions exhausting. “Let me see.” She held out her arms, heart pounding. My baby. A part of me. A part of Ra-khir. Love seemed to howl through her like a gale, and the force and depth of the emotion would have frightened her had it not felt so pleasant. My baby.

  The woman passed the baby she held to Charra who opened the wrappings to reveal a tiny, wrinkled face. Miniature lips pursed beneath a baby-flat nose. Dark eyes with just a hint of blue rolled beneath long-lashed lids. A gout of black hair clung to his scalp. A tight-fisted hand flopped free.

  Still reaching for him, Kevral sighed. Realization sifted beneath the overwhelming rush of adoration. Eyes that color would gradually turn brown, and hair could not change overnight. “That’s not my baby.”

  “Lady, it is,” Charra insisted. “Mine is a girl and clearly several weeks older. Do you want to see?”

  “You said he had red hair.”

  “The first one does. This is the second, my lady.”

  When it became clear Charra would not pass the baby to her, Kevral let her arms slip to her sides. Exhaustion pressed her, inside and out. She had run through her emotional repertoire, and the fatigue of a practice followed by an ordeal pressed her. This is Tae’s baby. This is clearly Tae’s baby. How can that be?

  Charra startled Kevral with words that sounded like mindreading. “I’ve never seen twins less alike. It’s as if they have different fathers.”

  “Impossible,” Kevral forced out. If the king discovered that the man he believed had murdered his eldest son had sired one of the babies, he would surely kill it.

  “Rare,” Charra said. “But not impossible. I read about a whore who had one twin with an illness that ran in one father’s family and a handicap from the other’s.”

  “I meant impossible in my case.” Kevral swallowed hard and hoped Charra did not notice her worry.

  Charra chuckled, dismissing the observation. “Well, of course, Lady Kevral. I wasn’t accusing you of such. Erythanians are as mix-blooded as Pudarians, even the knights. A dark-haired, dark-eyed man with redheads in his family could have sired both.” She turned Kevral a measuring look.

  Kevral wanted to ask whether a man of Ra-khir’s coloring or an Easterner could have sired both, but closing the discussion seemed more prudent. In her heart, she knew the answer and tried not to suffer the decisions and consequences that had to follow. For now, understanding the current situation took precedence.

  The baby’s face screwed suddenly into a knot, and it let out a wail that stirred Kevral’s milk a second time. Stepping forward, she reached for him through the bars.

  Charra retreated, shifting her coverings. She slipped the second baby to her opposite breast.

  Too stunned for outrage, Kevral could only ask, “What are you doing?”

  “Lady, he’s hungry.” Charra explained the obvious.

  “Then I’ll feed him. He’s my baby.”

  Charra licked her lips and back-stepped again. “King’s orders, Lady. You are not to touch either baby until you agree to his demands.”

  Wrung out, Kevral would have believed herself incapable of emotion, but anger exploded through her. The details did not matter. Even if the king asked only for her dinner preference, the method forced her to defy him. “Where’s my other baby?”

  “With his wet nurse, Lady. Safe.” Charra’s face crinkled into bewilderment. “Don’t you want to know the terms?”

  “No,” Kevral said, turning away. “My answer is ‘no.’ Give me my babies.”

  “I can’t.”

  Kevral seethed, keeping her back to Charra. “Think how you felt when you thought your daughter dead and your arms were empty. Think about that, then give me my babies.”

  Charra’s voice sounded distant. “Lady Kevral, I want you to have them. But there’s more at stake here. The entirety of mankind depends on the cooperation of women like you and me.”

  “The entirety of mankind,” Kevral repeated. Folding her arms across her chest, she swiveled her head toward Charra. The other woman had slipped back into the shadows. “Don’t get melodramatic. Just let me hold my son.”

  “Kevral, be reasonable.” For the first time, Charra used Kevral’s name without the qualifying “lady.” “You’re asking me to risk my life and my daughter’s future. If I give you your baby, you won’t give him back.”

  Kevral refused to lie. “You’re right.”

  “Then, Lady, I get punished and lose my daughter.”

  Kevral whirled. “Let me out. We’ll fight him together.”

  “The King of Pudar?” Charra blurted the words, surprised.

  “Why not?”

  Charra shifted the feeding babies, the question ludicrous beyond explanation. “Because, Lady, I’ve already listened to his demands and happen to agree with them. I’m doing as he bade and proudly. I love my king, and it’s an honor to serve him.”

  Kevral cast up her hands. “Charra, grow a spine.”

  “Kevral,” Charra snapped back. “Learn some tolerance. At least listen to the situation before you judge it.”

  Kevral glanced at the stained ceiling. Beneath the silence that followed Charra’s shouting, she heard the faint sound of dripping water. Charra had a valid point. “All right.” Kevral placed a hand on a bar brace. “Explain. Explain why I woke up in a dungeon. Explain why my babies were stolen. Explain why your king is breaking his word to me . . . again. Explain why I shouldn’t chew my way out of this cell and through every citizen of Pudar.”

  Ignoring Kevral’s angry questions, Charra detailed the fertility situation, including the specifics the elves had revealed. Her head made sweeping arcs to punctuate her points, and the dark hair that bobbed with every motion still reminded Kevral of Matrinka, even without the cat.

  Kevral broke in when she believed she understood. “King Cymion wants me to lie with another man.”

  “He wants you to lie with the prince.”

  “What?” Clear anger accompanied the word. It was not that Kevral did not like the prince; she had even considered marrying him while the confusion that accompanied pregnancy kept her emotions high and muddled. She would not allow anyone to dictate what she did with her body.

  “The king has chosen you to bear the royal heir. All kings and queens of Pudar will descend from yo
ur daughter.”

  “My daughter,” Kevral repeated. “I haven’t even agreed to this nonsense, and he already knows I’ll bear a girl?”

  Charra took a deep breath and moved even farther away. This pressed her back against the musty wall. “If it’s not a girl, Lady, you’ll have to agree to lie with him again.”

  Rage overtook Kevral. Her hands clenched on the cage support, metal biting into her palms. “You’re all insane. Every damned one of you.”

  “Lady, I don’t like it either. I’m not ready for another baby. Hel, I wasn’t ready for this one.” Charra pulled a chubby, pink baby from beneath the shroud and passed it into the darkness, clearly to the waiting woman. She tucked Kevral’s twin back into place. “But the fate of mankind rests on those of us who are still fertile. If your courses return before you get pregnant again, you can’t have any more. Do you understand that?”

  “Entirely,” Kevral returned. “I’m a warrior, not a prize cow. I have two babies. How many more do I need?”

  Charra turned Kevral a withering look. “Are you that selfish, Lady? You love your babies, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Kevral did not have to consider the answer. The idea of one nearly within reach drove her to distraction.

  “Lady, put yourself in the place of the other women. The ones who weep nightly for the baby they can never bear. The breasts that never nourish. The arms that never know the sweet warmth of a child and never hear a soft voice calling, ‘Mama.’”

  Memory of Colbey’s pain resurfaced, and Kevral hardened herself to it. “I didn’t cause the plague.”

  Charra would not back down. “Warriors don’t cause wars either, Lady Kevral, but you fight them eagerly enough. Think of this as a battle. You’re one of an elite few with the weapon to fight it.”

  The analogy fell flat for Kevral. “Fertility is not a weapon.”

  “Lady, in this war, it is the only weapon that can win.”

  Kevral went silent, refusing to imagine her life as nothing more than a baby-making mechanism. Giving birth was risky; she had heard one in twenty resulted in the mother’s death. If she became valuable, they would likely keep her imprisoned forever, to prevent her violent lifestyle from threatening the precious babies or herself.