Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Tae closed his eyes, savoring the breeze, as he recognized the decision his father would not allow him to ponder much longer. Weile Kahn had a right to know his son’s intentions before he wasted more time grooming him as a replacement. And Tae harbored a growing suspicion that he would have to deliver an answer that would hurt his father more than the elder would ever reveal. He pondered how much of his leanings stemmed from his love for Kevral, how much from missing friends, and how much from the resentment he still harbored for Weile Kahn and his earlier methods. The answer arose from his heart, as yet untempered by logic. It seemed likely to fall apart if Kevral married Ra-khir and the others of the once close party separated to their various causes: Darris as the king’s guardian and Matrinka as a healer. Perhaps they, too, would find a way to marry, leaving Tae the odd one out, an old acquaintance ignored for graver matters and left to slink back, like a whipped puppy, to the father he had abandoned.

  Tae shoved that train of thought aside. No matter their couplings or stations, his friends would never discard him. And even if they did, his future did not lie here. Any of the fertile Eastern women would have him, yet the culture that spawned them had never suited him. Though Eastern born, he belonged in the Westlands. His thoughts turned in a new direction. With Weile’s hand, and his own guidance, the Eastland culture would change for the better. The children of the East would shape their tomorrow. What children? Memory of the sterilization plague drove his thoughts back to grim reality. He chastised himself, Tae, you’ve become a hopeless dreamer.

  A footfall behind sent him scrambling into a crouch, hand falling to the dagger in the folds of his cloak.

  Weile Kahn stood at the entry to the balcony. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” A slight smile on his face displayed his approval. The hardships he had inflicted on his son had not gone for naught. Time spent safely in a castle had not softened his survival instincts.

  Tae rose, turning to look out over the city of Stalmize. People flocked between huddled buildings, and women carried buckets from the central well. Weile moved up to stand beside him, and they spoke the same words simultaneously. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  Tae grinned but went silent, respecting his father enough to allow him to speak first.

  Weile continued as if Tae had not spoken. “I never intended to take the title ‘king,’ nor to inherit the formality and trappings. But the people, here and abroad, insist on it.”

  Tae nodded. His father spoke truth.

  “I have the hearts of the populace now, but not forever. Under me and . . .” He paused long enough for Tae to fill in “you,” though he did not say the word himself. “. . . under me, it’ll never really be a kingdom. Not like it was. Or how other kingdoms are.”

  Tae made a noise of clear agreement. “Is that bad?”

  “No.” Weile’s gaze followed Tae’s into the streets. “I think we have the best of both worlds, and we can maintain it. There’ll always be those who rebel against the law. Those followers who seek respectability can have it, and those who prefer the dark way will still work for me in other guise.” He placed an arm across Tae’s shoulders, tenser than expected. For all his way with strangers of every ilk, Weile had failed with the one person who mattered most: his own son. “Those underground are unraveling organized enemies and recruiting young punks and gangs. Some of those don’t even realize they work for the castle, which is probably just as well.”

  Again, Tae nodded, wondering why his father felt the need to talk about this now.

  “That part’s no trouble for me to direct. It’s the open kingdom portion that’s got me stumped.”

  Tae laughed. “Only my father would find it easier surviving starvation, the law, and assassins than to live as spoiled royalty.”

  Weile loosed a stiff chuckle as the irony reached him as well. He sobered suddenly and turned directly to Tae. “Son, I was thinking . . .” The conversation came full circle.

  Tae turned his attention fully on his father, sensing the significant moment had finally arrived.

  “Béarn has had a succession of well-loved kings, and Pudar has thrived beneath its own rulership. If we could learn the details of their successes, I believe we could use them to help the Eastlands become as strong.”

  Tae watched Weile’s every gesture, still seeking clues to his intentions.

  The shrewd, dark eyes continued to hold Tae’s, shadowed by low-hanging curls. “I’m sure either would welcome an Eastern diplomat, especially one who speaks their language.”

  Tae blinked with slow thoughtfulness. Many Easterners, and nearly every Westlander, spoke the common trading tongue. Béarn would never demand a visiting dignitary know their city tongue, nor would Pudar expect one to speak the Western language. A dull thrum of alarm began inside him. “You want me to spy on my friends?”

  “Not spy.” Weile shook his head, the movement short and sharp but vigorous. “Openly observe. With their knowledge and consent.”

  Tae could feel his heart pounding in his chest. As usual, it seemed his father had read his mind, finding the perfect solution to his dilemma. He could visit his friends even as he gained knowledge for his father’s kingdom and, eventually, for himself should he choose to succeed Weile. Then reality intruded, and he winced. “Observe Pudar? Have you forgotten that King Cymion believes I murdered his son? He’d as soon rip me into pieces bare-handed as let me through the gates of Pudar.”

  Again, Weile had the answer to a situation Tae had thought unsalvageable. “Not after I give him this.” He pulled a neatly folded strip of vellum from his pocket.

  “What is it?”

  “A signed confession from the actual murderer.” Weile brandished the paper like a weapon, then returned it to its place. “Now that Pudar knows about elves, I’m certain the king will believe your explanation. Besides, I understand the crime has already been punished, and Pudarian law doesn’t allow two sentencings.”

  “True.” Tae knew Kevral’s year of service came of her promise to undergo execution in his place.

  “After having lost his own son, I believe he’ll hesitate to harm the East’s crown prince.”

  “Me?” The word started from Tae’s lips before he could stop it. Of course, me. Who else?

  Weile shrugged. “Whether or not you choose to succeed me, King Cymion will see you that way. And, when I inform him the assassin found a proper end here, it should appease him, I believe.”

  Tae concurred.

  “So, Tae Kahn, will you serve as Stalmize’s diplomat?”

  Tae studied his father, the familiar features so like his own, the curly locks that remained always in place, and the dark eyes that held a light he had never seen in them before. He thought of the last time his father had sent him West, at fourteen, pursued by killers and banished from returning unless and until he survived to the age of twenty. So much had changed in the years since that horrible moment. Hatred had flared and died, a new respect born from the ashes. Weile’s look declared so much that pride would not allow him to speak. The desperate love for his only son that had driven him to find a compromise. The respect that had grown from the association between adults, still father and child.

  It never occurred to Tae to refuse. “Of course, I will, Father. And relish the job.”

  A smile crawled onto Weile’s face. “I’ll keep in close contact. With messengers. I’ll expect the same.”

  “I’d serve little use if I didn’t.”

  Weile took a step toward his son, arms extended. “Tae Kahn, I expect that, eventually, you’ll come home.” The tone conveyed a pride and affection far beyond the words.

  Tae wrapped his arms tightly around his father. Though he did not reply aloud, he knew the truth within him. He felt certain that, eventually, he would.

  * * *

  Ra-khir never looked back, leaving the Knights of Erythane for a mission his honor demanded, though he did not doubt it would kill him. Head high, gait sure, Mior trotting at his heels, he approached the en
try to the castle of Pudar. A pair of guardsmen in tan tunics under belted mail shirts watched his approach. They remained at rigid attention, their halberds jutting skyward.

  Ra-khir stopped directly in front of them, stiffly silent. For several moments, no one moved or spoke. Then, the leftmost guard, a sturdy brunet with a broad chin and lips so thin they scarcely existed, nodded his head in welcome. “Greetings, sir. What can we do for you?”

  Ra-khir fastened green eyes on brown. “I wish to speak to your superior’s superior’s superior. The highest-ranking military officer of Pudar.”

  The sentry’s stare did not even waver long enough for normal blinking. “Excuse me?”

  “I sincerely believe,” Ra-khir said steadily, “that you heard me.”

  The dark eyes rolled to his neighbor who shifted closer and took over the negotiations. “You want us to fetch the general?”

  “Yes.” The wind blew strands of red hair into Ra-khir’s eyes. Though they bothered him, he did nothing to remove them. The motion might diminish his attempts to convey, with every word and action, the seriousness of his mission.

  The first sentry found his tongue. “We’ll need a reason.”

  Ra-khir made a crisp gesture without specific meaning. “When the general arrives, I will give him one.”

  Again the guards exchanged glances. The second made a motion nearly as vague as Ra-khir’s. Their last orders surely bade them indulge the Knights of Erythane, and they recognized him even without the telltale tabard and hat. “Do as he said.”

  The thin-lipped guard trotted past Ra-khir, then around a corner of the castle and toward a stately barracks near the stable. Ra-khir turned his attention to the opposite sentry, a densely muscled, bull-necked warrior with mahogany hair clipped short. He wore a mustache without a beard, and a scar marred the skin between upper lip and right nostril. “He’ll be back soon, sir,” he said, returning to his post. He reverted to a statuelike state, obviously finding that more comfortable than trying to maintain a conversation with a decidedly nettled knight.

  Shortly, the first man did return, a massive warrior in tow. Grizzled stubble covered General Markanyin’s head, and the gray eyes radiated wisdom. He wore no armor, but the wolf symbol of Pudar graced his leather tunic. A heavy sword hung at his hip, the long hilt suggesting a two-handed grip.

  Ra-khir stepped out to meet the general, as the sentry walked around him and resumed his position at the door.

  Apparently guessing a need for Ra-khir to talk beyond earshot of the sentries, the general steered Ra-khir farther onto the lawn. He stood slightly taller than Ra-khir, a giant of a man. Though stern of features, his eyes revealed a gentleness his callused hands and size betrayed. “What can I do for you, Ra-khir?”

  They had never met before, and Ra-khir appreciated two details the general revealed indirectly. First, he recognized Ra-khir from information, probably reported by his men. Second, he left off the title “sir,” surmising the significance of the missing tabard and hat. Ra-khir could not help respecting the man’s intuition, even as he measured his skill. “General, I’m calling you out.”

  Only a slight jerk of Markanyin’s head revealed startlement. He met the news with quiet resignation. “Ah. And I suppose it would insult my honor and yours to refuse.”

  “Indeed.” Ra-khir finally shook back the errant hair with a dignified toss of his head. “As soon as possible, and to the death.”

  The general ran a hand over a scalp nearly scraped to baldness. “Well, then. At least, might you be good enough to answer some questions before you kill me?”

  It seemed a more than reasonable request. Ra-khir motioned to Markanyin to proceed.

  “Did I do something to offend you?”

  “No,” Ra-khir admitted. “This is not personal, General.”

  The general’s eyes strayed to the cat near Ra-khir’s feet, then back to the former knight’s face. “Is it not customary to inform a condemned man of his crime?”

  “No crime.” Ra-khir made a mental note of Mior’s position. It would spoil the mood, and his self-respect, to trip over his own companion. He knew the general humored him by repeatedly following the assumption that he would lose the battle. The general’s greater size and experience with warfare would certainly make up for their difference in age. “We’re at war.”

  Now, Markanyin made no attempt to hide his surprise. “Béarn and Pudar?”

  “No.”

  “The Knights of Erythane?”

  “No.” Ra-khir admitted what the general already knew. “I’m not among them. I am the one at war with Pudar.”

  “You. By yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  The general’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “This has something to do with Kevral, doesn’t it?”

  “Everything,” Ra-khir confirmed.

  General Markanyin’s expression turned sympathetic. “Ra-khir, I’ve met diplomats, dignitaries, and nobility of every stripe. Aside from my king, I’ve never respected anyone more than Kevral. Would you like to hear about her final day?”

  Ra-khir refused to be patronized. “If it precedes mine, I hope to be there.”

  Markanyin sighed. “Ra-khir, I’m not sure from where the misconception stems, but I was with Kevral that day. We all were.” He made a broad gesture to indicate the courtyard and, Ra-khir suspected, much of the guard force. “She would have done fine, except she fought the pain of labor like an enemy. She collapsed on the field, in front of us all. The crown prince himself carried her inside, and I’m sure the healers did all they could. For her and for the baby.”

  “You saw her die.” Ra-khir found himself liking the general and hated to believe he was in on the deception.

  “Not the final moments, no.” Markanyin relaxed visibly as Ra-khir listened. Surely he believed he had at last broken through the delusions. “But Prince Leondis would not have left her side.”

  Undertones of that comment worried at Ra-khir’s confidence.

  “No one could have spirited her away without his knowledge.”

  “King Cymion could.”

  The general’s eyes slitted, but he showed no other emotion. “You’re speaking treason.”

  “I’m at war,” Ra-khir reminded. “Now, our duel.”

  “You still insist?”

  “More so than ever.”

  Still, the general hesitated. “May I ask a few more questions?”

  Ra-khir scrutinized the motivation. “That depends. Are you truly doing so for information or for delay?” He could hear hoofbeats at his back, but he ignored them. Guards passing on watches posed him no danger yet.

  “Information.”

  Ra-khir could not have condoned the cowardice inherent in the other reason. “Ask then.”

  Dark brows rose, creasing the general’s high forehead. “After you kill me, what will you do next?”

  Ra-khir had a ready answer. “Challenge the next highest officer. Then the next. As in any war, when enough men have died, the king must respond to my demands.”

  The general shook his head in obvious disbelief. He looked at something beyond Ra-khir, then back.

  “You have one more question,” Ra-khir reminded.

  General Markanyin cleared his throat, gaze again straying. “If I happen to win this duel and kill you, what happens then?”

  Ra-khir drew breath to give the only answer he could, one worthy of Kevral’s unholy confidence. But, before he could speak, a voice boomed out behind him. “Then I’ll call you out.” Recognizing Shavasiay’s voice, Ra-khir spun. The five Knights of Erythane perched on their horses, their formation broken only by Silver Warrior, empty-saddled behind them.

  Sir Lakamorn spoke next. “Then me.”

  “Then me,” Esatoric followed.

  “And me,” the last two added in turn.

  Stunned beyond speech, Ra-khir awaited explanation.

  The acting captain slid gracefully from his saddle, flourished his hat, and bowed to Ra-khir. “My deepest apolo
gies, Ra-khir. If you can forgive me, I hope I can talk you into reclaiming the title you earned.”

  Ra-khir could think of only one thing he wanted more, and his response to the first depended upon the second. “What . . . ?” He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. He glanced at General Markanyin, who remained in place, bravely waiting for the knights to settle their differences while his own fate hung in the balance. “What, sir, changed your mind?”

  Shavasiay offered Ra-khir’s tabard and hat. “Elves met us at the gate. It seems the king requested they check a young woman in the dungeon for pregnancy. They recognized Lady Kevral.” He bowed his head, removing his hat respectfully. “I regret to inform you. She is a week along.”

  I’ll kill the bastard who did this. Ra-khir’s hands balled to fists, and he whirled on Markanyin.

  The general seemed not to notice the sudden threat of violence, his features crinkled in genuine confusion. “I swear I knew nothing of this.” He back-stepped from Ra-khir, turning Shavasiay a look of guileless horror. “Captain, if you’re all set on slaughtering me, I’ll fight. But I’m sure there’s a better way.”

  Ra-khir accepted the knight’s trappings, flipping the tabard over his shoulders and arranging it into exact formation. He added the hat but did not move toward his horse.

  Shavasiay remounted, executing a signal that passed command of this particular operation to Ra-khir. The grand show of trust, so close on the heels of threat, left Ra-khir in a slackjawed silence that propriety demanded he break. He wanted, perhaps needed, something on which to vent his rage. But his honor would not allow him to use an innocent man as a target. “What do you propose, General?”

  “Let me talk to the king. Or to his adviser, as reasonable a man as they come.”

  “I tried that,” Ra-khir reminded impatiently.

  Markanyin nodded. “But I’m his general. Short of allowing or causing harm to my king, I’ll do everything within my power to get Kevral released. Success or failure, I’ll report back to you.” He clearly indicated all of the knights, not just Ra-khir. “Will that suffice?”