Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “I’m sorry,” Kevral whispered, guilt like a lash. She had spent so much time caught up in her own problems, she had scarcely considered them.

  “You’re apologizing to the wrong person.”

  “I know.” Kevral turned back to find Colbey staring directly at her. Her cheeks flushed beneath his demanding scrutiny. “I’ve weighed every option. I just can’t make that final commitment. Having the babies changes everything.”

  “Under the circumstances, the babies don’t affect which of the two you marry. Their effect is on other matters.” Colbey tossed her unusually direct advice. “My experience is this: If, after weighing all parts of a decision you still cannot make it, it is almost certain that the options are equal.”

  Kevral nodded vigorously. Colbey had identified the situation accurately. “Then, what do you do?”

  He smiled. “I pick one.”

  Kevral tossed her hands in frustration. “Circumstance has made the decision irrelevant.”

  “You’re delaying again, Kevral. But the King of Pudar can’t detain you forever. The next time you come upon Ra-khir or Tae, you had best have an answer.”

  “I will,” Kevral promised, the words hollow. She still had no idea what she would do.

  “And my question?”

  “About the fertility?”

  “Yes.”

  Kevral sighed, moved as much by Charra’s pleas as Colbey’s own description, nearly a year ago, of the infertility that had plagued him until the birth of his son only sixteen years ago. “I want to keep it, but not—”

  “Even though it means another pregnancy so soon?”

  Kevral dropped her point to answer. “Yes.”

  “Even if it means carrying the king’s grandchild?”

  There Kevral drew the line. She liked Prince Leondis. Pregnancy hormones had confused her enough to consider him a suitor, but she had never felt the deep intensity of love she knew for Ra-khir and Tae. And he was Cymion’s son. “No, not enough for that.” She glanced at Colbey, at last driven to curiosity. “Why do you ask? It does me little good to make such a decision when I can’t affect the outcome.”

  “You can’t. Perhaps, I can.”

  Kevral stared. Colbey had made it clear on former occasions that he would not play a role in the affairs of mortals, that such would, in fact, prove infinitely dangerous. “Can you release me?” Hope became a tenuous quaver.

  “No. Even if such an action would have no effect on Midgard’s balance, I don’t have the keys. Killing guards to get them goes beyond what I can safely perform.”

  Kevral waited, heart pounding, for details of Colbey’s assistance. Anything he did would prove better than nothing at all.

  “My interference will become clear tonight. But it will leave you with another choice. This one, you must make swiftly.”

  “I will,” Kevral promised. “But what . . . ?”

  “You’ll know.” Colbey’s presence faded nearly as swiftly as it had come, leaving Kevral feeling more desperately alone than before his coming.

  Exhaustion still pressed Kevral, and she decided to savor the last night before her responsibilities to Prince Leondis began. She curled up on the floor to eagerly await Colbey’s intervention. She would have believed sleep impossible; but it found her, sprawled on the floor of Pudar’s dungeon, and swept away tension and worry. Toward midnight, it also brought a dream of a young, golden-haired warrior who performed katas more beautiful than life. Kevral watched him in awed fascination, envying every cut and strike, every graceful move. He seemed close to her own age, certainly Renshai by his skill, yet was no one she had ever seen or met. The dream state kept her from considering the impossibility of such a thing. For hours he whirled, thrust, and parried, a vision her eyes could scarcely follow yet could never abandon, even to blink.

  At length, the warrior sheathed his sword and approached, bowing as if to royalty. Kevral rose, chains clanking noisily, and curtsied in return. Neither required speech. She understood why he had come and the decision Colbey had promised. Once the elves proclaimed her pregnant, her obligation to Prince Leondis ended. Retain fertility without carrying Cymion’s grandchild. That was the wish she had ultimately placed on Colbey and he had promised to fulfill. Now, she had only to choose whether this Renshai warrior pleased her enough to carry his baby instead.

  The choice was easy. Kevral beckoned him over, reveling in the solution he offered. Though not ideal, it served better than any other option. She worried only for one thing, that she might, once again, carry twins of different fathers. Yet, with a surety about the future that can only come in dream, she knew it would not happen twice. Strong arms enwrapped her, and gentle lips found hers. The lovemaking that followed seemed more ephemeral, lacking the solid reality of her nights with Ra-khir and Tae. She awakened at peace, that serenity itself all that allowed her to believe in a liaison whose specifics had already faded, like smoke.

  Kevral lay awake, sorting dream from reality and quietly plotting escape.

  * * *

  The journey through the Westlands proceeded at a crawl that twisted Ra-khir’s nerves near to breaking. He rode in perfect formation with the other five knights, more from training than intention. At intervals, they dismounted to clear deadfalls and hack away brush intruding on the trails. Less often, they found the remains of travelers, stripped first by human predators, then scavengers. Some had lain by the roadside long enough to reek of decay, and Ra-khir fought his lurching gut to keep from vomiting. Each body found a decent burial and, gradually, the Knights of Erythane made their way to Pudar.

  The guards at Pudar’s gates gave the knights no challenge, eagerly ushering their white chargers through the city and to King Cymion’s castle. There, they remained in rigid formation while servants tended their mounts and they awaited their turn in the king’s courtroom. Ra-khir knew that, when Kevral and Matrinka came before the king, servants had briefed them on proper decorum in a lengthy blather that had driven the Renshai to distraction. No one bothered the Knights of Erythane with such formality. They simply stood at attention, their tabards immaculate, their demeanors perfect duplicates. Mior had gone with the horses.

  After a short wait, a pair of guards beckoned the knights down a tapestry-lined corridor to a set of double doors. Two more guards swung open the heavy panels to reveal a courtroom half the size of Béarn’s own. King Cymion perched upon a padded throne inset with gemstones in myriad colors. Lanterns set on rings sparked tiny rainbows on the high-arched ceiling. Auburn hair ringed the king’s face, and crow’s-feet massed at the corners of each blue eye. Broad musculature spoke of a warrior’s background. A dozen guards fanned around him, their ranks jagged compared with the knights’ obsessive precision. They wore mail over standard tan uniforms. Silver wolves graced their tabards, the background light brown.

  Ra-khir noticed all of that in the instant before formality took over. Respectfully, he lowered his head to the proper angle to match his companions. Removing his helm, he delivered a bow of appropriate depth. All six returned to attention at the exact same moment.

  “Greetings, Knights of Erythane,” King Cymion said. “Your presence in Pudar is an honor.”

  The acting captain took a single step forward. He executed a second bow while the others remained still. “Thank you. Your majesty. I am Shavasiay, son of Oridan, acting captain. Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His majesty, King Griff. The honor of your presence is ours.”

  Cymion grinned. “Speak freely, Sir Shavasiay.”

  “Thank you, Your majesty.” Shavasiay bowed again. “We are pleased to report that the route between Béarn and Pudar is, once again, fully open to mercantile activities. Aside from the encroachment of forest, we met no opposition during our journey and believe the murderous band of eastern highwaymen have finally been driven from our fair lands. Though we cannot, at this time, rule out the possibility that they still lie in wait, seeking less well-armed prey, they never bef
ore hesitated to assault envoys larger than our own, including other knights. As far as the landscape, we have cleared the way for travelers and tradesmen . . .”

  As per his training, Ra-khir remained rigidly alert throughout a long-winded speech that sent many of Cymion’s soldiers into restless twitching.

  Shavasiay continued, “His majesty, King Griff, sends his best regards to Your Majesty, King Cymion. It is his sincerest hope, as well as our own, that trade, communication, and visitation once again be restored between two countries so long and happily allied.”

  The King of Pudar acknowledged the end of Shavasiay’s speech with an archaic gesture, clumsily executed. Clearly, he rarely, if ever, used it, the movement relegated to the background corner of classes in diplomacy and manners. The knights tended to bring nearly forgotten formality to the fore. “King Griff’s message preceded your arrival. We have rooms made up for all of you in the east tower. Let any guard or servant know your needs, and they will be promptly attended.” Cymion pulled at his beard, a gesture that appeared almost nervous. It astounded Ra-khir that the legends of the Knights of Erythane could make even a king uncomfortable in his own court. “Is there anything more I can do for you, sirs?”

  The acting captain glanced back at Ra-khir, who delivered a single nod. Shavasiay returned his attention to the king. “If it does not offend, Your majesty, one of us has a personal matter he would like to bring before you.”

  “Permission granted.” Cymion’s gaze glided directly to Ra-khir, who suddenly found himself rooted in place.

  As Shavasiay paced back into his original position among the knights, Ra-khir managed a deliberate step forward, though his feet seemed to move of their own accord. He bowed more deeply than Shavasiay had and forced himself to remain at stiff attention. “Your majesty.” His voice sounded squeaky after the self-assured knight who had preceded him. “My name is Ra-khir, son of Knight-Captain Kedrin.” He shortened the title, as tradition demanded so soon after another knight’s introduction. “I wish to inquire after a Renshai warrior by the name of Kevralyn Tainharsdatter.” Formality also dictated he use Kevral’s full name, though he knew she despised it. “She left Béarn at a dangerous time, and I worried for her safe arrival.”

  A strange expression crossed Cymion’s features. Ra-khir hoped he imagined the pain he read there, and in the faces of the many guards whose heads bobbed lower. The king cleared his throat; and the bright blue eyes, so like Kevral’s, dodged Ra-khir’s green. “Sir Knight, she arrived here safely. She trained many of my guards and did their skills justice.”

  The happy words could not assuage the fear building in Ra-khir’s heart. They did not match the graveness of expression and attitude that otherwise filled the courtroom. He anticipated a “but.”

  “She also arrived unmarried and carrying some man’s baby.” The king’s scrutiny intensified, the pale eyes no longer avoiding Ra-khir’s.

  Ra-khir lowered his gaze from the king’s, as ritual demanded. The statement refused to register.

  “I regret to inform you, Sir Knight, that Kevral died in childbirth. And the baby, too.”

  Died? That word penetrated where the others had not. Ra-khir gasped in a ragged breath but found himself incapable of loosing it. He stood, frozen in time and place, unable to move or even to speak. Kevral is dead. Despite her bravado, despite the many times Ra-khir had seen her dive into battles she had little hope of winning, despite having seen her once driven to the edge by poison, his mind balked at imagining her still and unbreathing form. The world could not possibly continue without her. Forever, it would remain, locked in this moment as he was. Then, gradually, understanding spread through him in a cold wash of self-recriminating terror. She died in childbirth. In childbirth. A baby. My baby. The logical conclusion of the thought turned chill into instantaneous conflagration. I killed Kevral. Flames hotter than the Ragnarok devoured his conscience. Gods damn me to the deepest, darkest, coldest pit. I KILLED KEVRAL.

  Shavasiay called Ra-khir’s name, first in gentle reminder then in irritated command. The syllables, when they finally pierced Ra-khir’s consciousness, lacked meaning. Nothing seemed real but the words King Cymion had delivered and the self-hatred they inspired. A fog closed over him. He remembered little of the moments between the news and when he found himself, huddled alone in a corner of the room the king had granted him. Vague scraps of remembrance remained, like ghosts of reality: Shavasiay’s apology for his behavior, servants directing them to their quarters, and the sincere entreaties of peers who had tried to console.

  When Ra-khir finally gained enough voluntary motion to stand, restlessness assailed him. He was alone. He walked to the window, shoving aside thick curtains to reveal a delicately paned window, with the thin glass only kings could afford. Beyond it, darkness huddled like a monster, broken only by rare stars, a crescent of moon, and the pale outline that completed its round figure. Strength refused to come, and he collapsed against the window, sobbing. The cold seeped into nose and cheek, and his breath fogged the glass, leaving impressions of his features against it. Kevral. What have I done?

  Self-condemnation became the spear that prodded him from helplessness back into fretful need. Without knowing where to go, he left his room and drifted along the corridors like a sleepwalker. He noticed none of the guards and servants he passed, though several deferred with word and gesture and others requested his needs. His course took him to an exit, and the guards allowed him egress even when he ignored their questions. Polite conversation warped to gibberish, and humans became invisible casualties of his grief.

  Kissed by the cool air of night, Ra-khir let the tears flow freely. He marched in circles around the castle, like a dutied sentry or a spirit returning to haunt the site of its slaying. Soon, the loneliness he originally sought became unbearable. Repeatedly, guilt stabbed his heart, his thoughts caught into the same uncompromising loop as his steps. He sought solace from one who could not judge, for he had inflicted more vilification than he could endure. Whether the other heaped more upon him or attempted to rationalize it away, he could not stand it, but he could no longer suffer the agony alone. Ra-khir headed for the stable where he would find Silver Warrior and Mior.

  Ra-khir shuffled toward the dark shape of the stable, eyes burning and tears liquefying his vision. The shapeless blurs of castle, grass, and sky funneled past. The wind carried the faint, sweet odor of horses. Ra-khir sucked in a lungful, understanding striking him with a clarity that superseded all other thought. He could atone for his evil in only one way. The penalty for murder was, and should be, death. He jerked to a sudden halt, suicide a balm to thoughts beyond suffering. He had heard of warriors falling upon their swords, guessed the process in a general sense, yet the details eluded him. Placing the blade sideways and into a slot between ribs made sense. He knew the location of the heart, yet finding the angle necessary to penetrate one’s own seemed impossible. Any dagger of his would prove too short-bladed for a chest wound to do anything worse than bleed and sting. With a large enough rock bound to him, he might manage a drowning in Trader’s Lake; but the energy required to find the supplies, figure out how to tie the knot so that the stone did not simply roll out, and seek directions to the lake foiled him. The simplest solution, slashing open thighs or forearms, seemed the best.

  Yet even as the peace of a perfect decision settled over Ra-khir, reality shattered his newfound composure. The vows he had taken as a Knight of Erythane forbade suicide as a dishonor to self, peers, and kingdoms. Like all Renshai, Kevral claimed self-murder a coward’s decision, and punishing himself in that manner would violate the very honor he died to preserve. No. Ra-khir choked back a frustrated howl of agony. The words rambled through his head in a ceaseless chant: Kevral is dead. Kevral is dead. Kevral is dead. “My fault,” he sobbed aloud, his voice a spiritless croak. “My fault.” He continued his shuffle toward the stable, feeling ancient and broken. Though no sword had pierced his heart, guilty sorrow had, leaving ruptured, bloody f
lesh where it had once beat in his chest.

  The musky odor of horse grew stronger. The stable hands did not approach Ra-khir, apparently reading his mood from sidelong glances in his direction. He meandered between stalls, the white heads of the knights’ steeds easily spotted amid the assorted browns, golds, and blacks of the king’s beasts. Ra-khir headed to the cluster of Erythanian horses, picking Silver Warrior from among them. His fingers refused to function properly, the regular latch a sudden mystery. The stallion whickered a greeting, swinging his head over the stall. Ra-khir patted the sleek neck and tickled behind one ear. The braided forelock slid over one deep brown eye.

  Unable to open the door, Ra-khir gracefully clambered over it and into Silver Warrior’s stall. Startled, the stallion withdrew, throwing back his head as Ra-khir dropped to the straw. A moment later, he lipped at the red locks, slathering them with spit. With a vague memory of intricate drills about manners and formality, Ra-khir knew he should care—but did not. Turning, he wrapped his arms around the stallion’s massive head. The tears became a desperate torrent, and he cried with a violence that made throat and eyes ache.

  Silver Warrior remained stiffly in position, ignoring a grip that would have panicked lesser trained steeds and never once shifting a hoof. Ra-khir continued, sobbing in a frenzy that sapped his body of sensation other than the throbbing agony of his lungs. He vowed to any god who would listen that he would dedicate himself wholly to combat and knighthood, forsaking all women. No other could ever take Kevral’s place.

  Something brushed the back of Ra-khir’s head. He remained still, irrationally hoping a god had come to end his misery. Softness swept across his neck, accompanied by a gentle weight on his shoulders. Then, it lifted, and he caught a glimpse of white fur through the hair that covered his eyes. Mior. Though he had instructed her to wait for him here, he had not noticed the cat when he first arrived. Her presence reminded him that he would have to tell Matrinka the fate of her friend, and a fresh round of tears assailed him. The pain he would inflict on the queen of Béarn was wholly his fault.