The Prince

by K. C. Herbel

  Billy, remembering Onian’s warning about a show of weakness, did not let on that Finvarra’s grip smarted. He nodded, and the party sat in their chairs.

  “Good, good.” Their host took up the throne across from them.

  Immediately, a group of the grey phantoms streamed into the chamber. Some dished out bread, spiced meat, vegetables, and fruit while others poured wine into their cups. These ghosts went about their tasks, and then stood back from the table and waited.

  Sylvys gobbled up some bread and washed it down with a deep drink from his goblet. “M-m-m-m, this is good.” He then shoved some fruit in his mouth.

  One of the phantoms came forward, refilled the satyr’s cup, and then returned to her station.

  Finvarra smiled as Sylvys took another drink, then drained his own cup. Again, one of the grey phantoms came forward to fill the empty goblets.

  Billy and Shaldra sipped their wine and nibbled the food. The taste was superb, and soon they were eating like the hungry men they were. The only one to abstain was Drif, who refused any offer of food or drink.

  “What is this place?” Shaldra asked between bites.

  “Ah.” Finvarra put down his wine. “Pleasant dinner conversation.”

  Shaldra looked at his host then, to Billy. “Yes.”

  “Well, this is my second kingdom.”

  Billy wrinkled his brow. “Your second kingdom?”

  “Aye.”

  “We are not in Knockma Rath?”

  “Knockma?” Finvarra belted out a hardy laugh. “No, no, no. This is not my Knockma.”

  Billy wiped some crumbs from his mouth. “Well, I assumed that we were in Erin; that this was Knockma.”

  “Why?”

  “The captain said he would take me to you.”

  “And so he has.”

  “But this is not Knockma.”

  “No. This is a place very different from my Knockma.”

  Billy was becoming frustrated by his host’s circumspect conversation. Then he remembered Elzgig saying that the Daoine Sidhe would render nothing without a struggle. Everything was a contest to them. With this in mind, Billy pieced together the events that had brought him to where he was, in the hope that it would shed some light on just where he was.

  “This is not Knockma Rath, nor even Erin, and we were brought here by dead men ... so this must be a place belonging to the dead.”

  “Not exactly.” Finvarra smiled and shrugged. “You see, by conscription of fate, I am king of these dead; the sailors who drown at sea, the warriors who fall in unworthy causes, the ruthless, the unholy, the wicked—men who die for gold or kill for power. Also, many who are too fat, too lusty, or too envious find their way here. In the grave, I am their lord and master.

  “Most nobles come here to serve me, but the jewels of my crown are the kings and princes. Despite their former life experience, I find they make quite adequate table servants, grooms, wine stewards ... though there’s not a decent conversationalist among them.”

  Finvarra let out another jolly laugh and motioned to his left. A shadowy figure skulked up beside him, awaiting a task to perform. Billy gave the poor wretch the first close examination he had dared give any of the servants since entering Finvarra’s hall.

  He jumped to his feet, staring at the phantom.

  Finvarra looked first at Billy then to the corpse beside him. He smiled. “Oh, yes. It’s funny, I didn’t notice the resemblance right away. Your father is a recent arrival. His soul is not as laden as some, but he will be with us for quite a long time.”

  “Your father?” Sylvys and Shaldra said.

  Billy stared at the haunting phantom of his father. “That man …”

  Finvarra tilted his head. “He’s no longer a man.”

  “That ... spirit was once King William of Lyonesse.”

  “Murdered his own wife,” Finvarra added.

  “It wasn’t his fault!” Billy cried.

  “She was your mother—”

  “He’s not to blame!”

  “—and Queen of Tirn Aill.”

  “He killed Queen Eleanor?” Shaldra’s eyes widened.

  “He was under a spell.”

  Finvarra leaned back in his throne. “Would you like to plead his case?”

  “Aye.”

  “What?” Shaldra rose to his feet.

  Billy frowned at the elf until he sat down. He then turned back to Finvarra, who had kicked one leg over the arm of his throne and was grinning.

  “Aye. I would like to plead for my father.”

  “How sweet.” Finvarra watched the wine as he swirled it in his goblet. “But I’m afraid it’ll do him no good. You see, all who come here are guilty. Once they enter this domain, they must serve until their soul slips its bonds to the flesh. Only then will they find rest in the grave. But not for long: judgment still waits. Many will serve me until the Day of Judgment. I have no say in it, but if I did …” Finvarra paused to stare at Billy. “I would keep your father here forever.”

  Billy pounded the table with his fists then swatted his goblet to the floor. He glared at Finvarra with the fire of hate consuming him. Lura Zahn vibrated in sympathy at his side, and he felt the blade’s cold thirst for blood. He also became aware of the black tome’s presence, like a hand pressing on his back. A clear thought stung through the fog of anger and wine. Finvarra’s trying to provoke me. If I let him, he will kill me.

  Should strike him down with flame!

  No!

  Billy took a deep breath and stiffly returned to his seat. He and Finvarra stared across at one another as William’s specter returned the spilled goblet to the table and filled it.

  Finvarra grinned. “I see you have some fire, son of Eleanor.”

  Billy lifted his cup. “To my mother, Queen Eleanor ...”

  Finvarra and the others followed suit. “Queen Eleanor.”

  “Queen, of all Faerie.” Billy threw back his head and drank.

  Finvarra glared at him over the rim of his goblet, and then brought it down on the table with a clank. “What do you want of me?”

  Billy sensed the turn in their battle of wits. “Are we done with the pleasant dinner conversation already?”

  “Aye!” Finvarra said, through his teeth. “Now, why have you come here?”

  “As you know, my mother, the Queen of Faerie, is no longer with the living. Now I must go back to the land of men to collect something she has left there for me.”

  “What has that got to do with me?”

  “I have powerful enemies in Lyonesse, and I may need an army.”

  “You want me to give you an army?”

  “As my mother was Queen of Faerie, and I know you are a loyal—”

  “No!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I will not help you!”

  “But we are allies—kinsmen. Are the Daoine Sidhe afraid?”

  Finvarra leapt to his feet, and all the flames in the room changed from white to blue. The temperature became noticeably warmer.

  “Watch your tongue, boy!” He leaned across the table, seeming to grow in size.

  Shaldra stood and unsheathed the first inch of his sword.

  “Put it away, elf.” Finvarra never took his eyes from Billy. “Put it away, or die where you stand.”

  Billy locked eyes with Finvarra. He placed his hand on Shaldra’s, and the elf slipped the blade back into its home.

  “I know what you Tirn Aill faeries think of the Daoine Sidhe.” Finvarra’s face was red. “You think you can manipulate us with insults and implied threats, or call us to service by the mere mentioning of a name. Well, the Daoine Sidhe certainly will not kneel to you. You, who can’t even secure your own throne! A real king would take what is rightfully his and squash anyone who got in his way, but you ... you’re naught but a boy—a joke—a jester.”

  Finvarra straightened, then turned and started for the back of the hall, followed by his grey phantom servants. The doors opened, and the pal
anquin procession entered again. They stopped and kowtowed to Finvarra as he approached.

  Billy turned to his party. “Come, let’s leave this horrible place.”

  Finvarra spun on his heels. “Leave? You cannot leave.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I do not will it.”

  “What about your allegiance to my mother and Tirn Aill?”

  “This is not Tirn Aill, boy. Your mother had no sway here, and neither do you.”

  With that, Finvarra stepped onto his palanquin and started out the door. Billy and his comrades ran to the back of the hall, but a mob of specters blocked their exit. Billy saw the sad face of his father’s spirit, and then the great black doors closed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Challenge

  Billy paced the length of Finvarra’s hall. Shortly after Shaldra and Sylvys gave up attempting to beat down the huge iron doors, the fire fizzled, and the torches waned to a dim amber glow. The rhythm of Billy’s footsteps reverberated from the dark corners and vaulted ceiling, coming back to his ears like the murmur of an impatient crowd.

  He looked to his comrades, but all he got was muffled whispers from Sylvys and silence from the elves. With each step and each echoed murmur, the situation calcified in Billy’s mind and his frustration mounted.

  Anger filled him—anger for Finvarra, anger for Ergyfel, anger for his father, and even his companions. He was angry with the whole bloody mess, but especially with himself.

  “Finvarra! If it’s the last thing I do ... !”

  Billy furrowed his brow and ground his teeth, his eyes boring into the hard floor. His footsteps grew heavier. The pacing became a march and finally degraded to childish stomping.

  Then, he heard a voice. Why make it the last thing you do?

  He spun to look behind him. No one there.

  Getting even with him should be the first thing you do.

  He spun again.

  The first thing we truly do together.

  Billy realized it was the voice of the black tome, and he had actually been hearing it for some time, mingled with his own thoughts. He returned to his pacing. No. I don’t want to get even. I want to get out of here.

  I have no desire to be trapped here forever. Allow me to help you.

  No!

  There are many things I can do—wonders I can show you. Let me show you the easy way.

  Why is it always the easy way with you?

  Why is it always the hard way with you?

  There’s no prosperity without discipline.

  Your father’s words.

  Good words.

  Yes. Your father was a good man, and he taught you well: “There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things,” and “work hard and you will be rewarded,” until the tax collector comes, or a famine … or bad men burn down your inn.

  And murder your family. The hot blood of anger rushed to Billy’s cheeks.

  Yes, they did that. And got away with it.

  He was a good man!

  That didn’t stop his killers.

  No, but what he taught me was right!

  For him. Not for you.

  Why should I be any different?

  He didn’t know magic!

  *

  All at once, it got quiet. Sylvys, Shaldra, and Drif looked up from the floor to the still, dark figure of their leader. Shadow hid his face. His arms held something tight against his chest. They looked at each other, and then Billy raised his head and spoke.

  The pitch of Billy’s voice was abnormally low, and the words he spoke were unfamiliar to them all. The torch flames grew, illuminating his face with a bluish glow, but his features were not his own. His cheeks were hollow, his lips snarling, and his eyes white as ash.

  Then he shouted and threw up his arms. The torches exploded, ejecting their flames into the air. A dozen fiery spheres circled the room, spinning ever faster around Billy. He clapped his hands together, and the fire orbs collided above his head with a thunderous boom and a blinding flash. Sparks flew in all directions and burned cloth, wood, stone, and metal alike.

  A heat wave struck down Billy’s companions like a hammer. Shaldra, alone, strained to look at their leader but found he could not bear to face the intense heat and light. His clothes pressed against him like firebrands.

  “Billy!”

  There was no answer, only the roaring of flames and the weird howling of an unearthly wind.

  A blast shook the entire hall. Strange moaning sounds and the stench of brimstone filled the air as glowing chunks of half-molten iron splattered and skipped across the floor. Then the room became dark, and the air cooled.

  Shaldra, Sylvys, and Drif raised their heads and looked toward the doors. There was a large, jagged hole torn through the thick iron and a brilliant shaft of light coming from beyond it. At that moment, Billy’s silhouette appeared in front of the hole, and he passed through.

  “Stop! Billy!” Shaldra pushed up to his feet.

  Sylvys and Drif rose and followed Shaldra to the doors. The giant portal still radiated heat as they passed through the newly hewn exit.

  “Look.” Shaldra pointed to the edge of the hole. “Like ... claw marks.”

  Sylvys probed the hole with his spear. “Aye, but from what?”

  They looked ahead, and the brilliant orb of fire moved away from them. Thin tendrils of flame escaped the main body of fire to caress the red pillars, but never touched Billy, who marched behind it. He had already put some distance between them, and turned out of view into the vast pillar forest.

  Shadowy figures shifted in the dark recesses as the light from the flame receded. Sylvys felt a cold hand groping at his shoulder and sprung forward after Billy.

  “Hurry!” Shaldra yelled as he gave chase.

  The three of them ran to where Billy had turned and, again, saw him disappear into another copse of pillars. Before they could reach this spot, there was a blast like that inside Finvarra’s hall and the same agonizing groans.

  A hunk of red-hot iron skittered into their path as they turned the corner. They looked up and saw the burning sphere rip out another piece from the entrance doors and fling it aside. It repeated this several times in rapid succession. The naked iron doors screeched and groaned as the tendrils of flame tore out each section. The door shrieked one last time as the sphere pushed its way to the other side.

  Billy strolled through the opening behind the being of flame, and the hall became dark. His companions sprinted for the exit, sensing the silent, shrouded figures closing in on their escape route. The phantoms were swift and soon were upon them.

  Shaldra led the way, pushing by the first phantom and the second that stepped into their path, but the dead soon became thick as kelp. The party swept back and forth as waves of lifeless hands pushed, caressed, grabbed, and groped. Each contact with the cold rotting flesh slowed their progress, and the warmth and strength drained from their bodies.

  “Shaldra, I can’t go on.”

  “Keep moving, Sylvys.”

  At that moment, a pale light flooded the chamber, and the dead retreated. Sylvys and Shaldra fell to the floor as the press of bodies subsided. They looked up to see Drif standing over them. The dark warrior held a long black blade in one hand and a glowing crystal the size of a robin’s egg in the other.

  “Thanks,” Sylvys said as he and Shaldra got up.

  Shaldra stared at the dark elf for a moment. “We’d better get out of here.” He then turned and ran through the gaping hole in the door, with Drif and Sylvys on his heels.

  Billy stood alone in the center of the desolate plain. He faced away from the palace in a wide stance with his hands stretched toward the distant cave ceiling. Again, strange words poured from his lips; half sung, half shouted. The creature of flame had vanished.

  Sylvys flapped his arms and shouted to Billy, but got no response. Then Shaldra, Drif, and he started down the forty-nine steps, all the time cautious of the skeletal guardians.

&nbs
p; Before they could reach the bottom step, the air before Billy shimmered. Then a small ripple appeared, like that of a pebble dropped in a pond. The ripple expanded and rebounded, defining a circular plane just larger than a caravan wheel. Colors danced and swirled on the surface of the disc as it grew and spun. Then Billy’s right hand shot out, and the center of the disc moved away from him. The disc became a cone, and the cone grew longer, spinning faster with each second. The vortex whirred as it drew in air.

  Now, the small cyclone measured ten feet at its base, and the tip spasmed in the air a hundred feet away. Billy threw up his arms, and the tail raced to the dark ceiling.

  At that moment, the skeletal warriors came to life. Sylvys, already moving at a good clip, leapt over the last five steps and hit the ground running. The two elves drew their weapons and followed the satyr.

  The skeletons turned and marched down the steps, grinding and creaking. When they reached the bottom, they continued across the plain towards Billy.

  Sylvys shouted as they approached. “Billy! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “Come quickly, Your Highness!”

  Billy didn’t move. His blank white eyes stared straight ahead and gave no sign of recognition to his companions.

  Shaldra approached him and passed a hand before his eyes.

  Sylvys raised his voice over the noise of the cyclone. “Is he in a trance?”

  “Aye, I guess so.” Shaldra looked over his shoulder at the approaching skeletons.

  Sylvys grabbed Shaldra’s arm. “We’ve got to get him out of here! Those walkin’ piles of bone are almost on us.”

  “And they’re not alone.” Shaldra pointed beyond Billy.

  Sylvys scanned the plain, to the place where they had first arrived. A mob of grey ragged figures was coming up the path. He glanced behind and saw a similar procession of dead pouring down the steps of the great palace.

  Shaldra searched the barren plain for another way out, but could see none. He spotted a small outcropping of white stone and decided to make a dash for it, but he wasn’t about to leave his future king.

  He made a grab for Billy but stopped when something sharp jabbed his chest. He looked up and saw that the dark elf’s black sword hindered him. Before he could act, Drif kicked him in the face and sent him sailing over the rocky ground.