The Prince

by K. C. Herbel

  When they were finished, Ergyfel and Hengest walked downstream. Tod, still by the doe, shouted after them, “Your Majesty, Your Majesty! What am I to do with this deer?”

  “Finish dressing it and take it back to camp, you fool!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Tod shook his head and did as he was told. He didn’t want to know where they were going. He didn’t want to know what they intended to do with that heart. He just wished he were home, in front of a warm fire, his wife beside him, their children playing at his feet.

  ***

  Ergyfel stood high upon a boulder that erupted like a leaping whale from the shallows of Loch Nyraval. He looked to his feet at the ancient, weathered carvings in the stone. Countless ages past, when magic shaped the world, a powerful wizard had placed the symbols there. It was long before King William tamed the land, so there had been no thought of good or evil, only power—pure, unclouded, undiluted intent. Ergyfel craved this kind of power.

  He remembered how, as a young man newly arrived in Lyonesse, his powers had drawn him to this spot. He had discovered the runes atop the boulder and felt their magic, which had been untapped for a millennium. He had copied them, studied them, painstakingly deciphered them, and now—finally—put aside his fear to draw on their power.

  He glanced behind him, at the shore, where his brother and a small campfire waited. The cool breeze raised gooseflesh on his all-but-naked body. The smooth stone was icy beneath his bare feet. His eyes wandered to the waning moon floating in a star littered sky. Ergyfel felt the ebb and flow of power that heaved unseen to the mortal eye beneath the still waters of the loch. This was the perfect night and the perfect place. He imagined his predecessor carving the runes and reciting the ritual on such a night.

  The king breathed in and chanted the ancient words. He had never given voice to them before, and so they clashed like daggers in his ears. On and on he chanted. His voice grew hoarse, and his body ached with fatigue. The words and their long hidden meaning were lost to their very sound, becoming ordinary as wind. Ergyfel filled his mind with the sound of his voice, and it became dark. Something in the darkness stirred, and he felt the tide of power creep up infinitesimally. He took the heart from his bag and cut the string he had tied while the heart was still beating in the deer’s chest. Blood poured out onto the boulder, filling the runic carvings, overflowing them and running down the boulder’s smooth surface to the waters below.

  “Great Dheumon, dweller of the hidden darkness, knower of secrets, father of storms, ruler of the deep, come to me, I summon thee from thy ancient sleep.”

  He sensed a hunger from the shapeless dark. He was tapping energy, as raw and feral as the Earth’s first days. Something unknowable yearned for that power he was holding back. It bubbled up within him—drawn through him towards the darkness. He had to maintain control. The power grew until it filled his being, threatening to rip him apart, and still he held it.

  Just then, the Magister’s mind contacted something in the darkness: alien, repulsive. His instinct was to flee. In the panic, something primeval touched his mind: I am here.

  Shocked, Ergyfel released the magic. The power, white hot and wild, crackled through his body, igniting his senses. The cursed wound on his arm stabbed like a thousand teeth, and he dropped the heart. It fell like a stone and disappeared into the water as Ergyfel collapsed.

  A moment later, he dragged himself to the edge and watched in disappointment as the last ripples subsided. He waited there, naked, cold, and in excruciating pain, until he could stare at the water no longer. He rolled back onto the boulder and closed his eyes.

  “Another failure.”

  “No,” came the answer from the darkness.

  Ergyfel sat up and spun around on all fours. He searched the still waters of Loch Nyraval. Its black surface was void of movement and light, like an infinite, gaping pit. He glanced up at the clear night sky. The moon and stars still littered the heavens, but neither deigned to cast reflections on the loch.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to fail, Ergyfel?”

  “Fail?”

  “You pronounced your ‘failure’ before I had escaped the confines of my timeless slumber. Are you afraid?”

  “How is it that you know my name?”

  “How is it that you do not know mine?”

  Ergyfel collected his wits, before pronouncing, “Dheumon?”

  “That name will do.”

  “Is there another you prefer?”

  At that moment, something invaded his mind. He tried to resist it, but all his skill and power were useless against the dark, probing tentacle. The invader picked up his barriers and toyed with them before crumpling and tossing them aside.

  “You did not summon me to garner names, Ergyfel.”

  With the pronouncement of his name, Ergyfel felt the probe sink deeper into his mind. It encircled his brain, squeezing knowledge from it like a sponge. The oppressive darkness seeped into the voids surrounding his thoughts, searching without mercy.

  “No!”

  “Tell me why you have summoned me, Ergyfel. Do not waste my time.”

  Again, his name brought pain and a deeper probing. He struggled to remain in control of his thoughts. “I summoned you to bargain for a task.”

  “Good.”

  The probing ceased, but he could still feel the invader’s presence in his mind. His thoughts struggled to swim in the syrupy darkness.

  “Do not wait for me to ask, Ergyfel.”

  Ergyfel continued, spurred on by the new pain his name was causing. “Great Dheumon, I have but one task to ask of you ...”

  “I tire quickly of your mortal pleasantries. What is this task?”

  “I want you to kill someone.”

  “Ah.” Dheumon sounded pleased. “The one whose crown you have stolen.”

  “It’s my crown!”

  “I only speak what is in your mind.”

  “It is mine!”

  “I do not care!”

  Pain coursed through Ergyfel’s head, dropping him to the stone.

  Dheumon continued while Ergyfel tried to recover. “What matters to me is your offering. What will you give me in return for this task?”

  Ergyfel gasped. “Anything. I’ll give you anything you want.”

  The pain in his head subsided, and his thoughts returned to their previous state.

  Dheumon laughed. “You are weak. Your predecessor drove a much harder bargain. The one you wish me to destroy has, indeed, grown powerful—more than you think, but I will accept the task at the agreed price.”

  “I want you to destroy him and his followers while they are still at sea.”

  “As you wish, but I will do nothing until you have given me what is already mine by your promise, and for such a task, the price will be high.”

  “What is the price?”

  “You must sacrifice to me something very important.”

  “What?”

  “Something very dear to you.”

  “Now who is wasting time with mortal pleasantries?”

  “Ha! I hadn’t realized how pleasing it can be.”

  “So, what is your price?”

  “You must sacrifice to me the daughter of Feolaghe.”

  Ergyfel’s mind reeled. Maeven, he thought, my love. “No! Anything but that!”

  “‘I’ll give you anything you want.’ Those were your words, Ergyfel; your promise to me, and I accepted.”

  “But I—”

  “Once you promised me, Ergyfel, we had a contract. There is no turning back. Someone with your learning should know that.”

  Ergyfel listened in shock as the demon he had summoned explained the method by which he must kill the only person he had ever loved. It seemed inescapable, that Maeven must die, and so each word the demon uttered stabbed at his heart.

  When Dheumon had finished describing the proper sacrifice rites, he burned them into Ergyfel’s mind. “Remember, Ergyfel, she is already mine. You may cha
nge your mind, your heart, your will, but you cannot change that. If you fail to do as I have said, then I shall take you instead.”

  ***

  The royal hunting party let out a cheer at the return of their king. Many of the lords commented, “Good hunting, Sire,” or “What a magnificent beast, Your Majesty.” However, the subject of their adoration entered his tent, paying no heed to their shouts of praise.

  Hengest stood outside his brother’s tent and called for Lyart, the king’s page. When the boy appeared, he said, “Ready the king’s horse and mine, on the double!”

  “Aye, sir.” The lad bowed, and then disappeared behind the tent.

  Next, Hengest addressed the royal huntsman. “Tod, strike the camp. We return to Orgulous now.”

  “Now?” Tod stepped aside to show Hengest the doe, already spitted and roasting over the fire. “But what of the venison, milord?”

  Hengest glared down the length of his long straight nose, and Tod remembered his words: Your heart, a deer’s heart, it’s all the same to me. His throat constricted as he tried to swallow.

  “Aye, milord.”

  Tod turned to his men. “You heard him! Now, get crackin’ before His Majesty sees what useless oafs ya are!”

  The camp exploded into a panic, as noble and commoner alike scrambled to gather their belongings. Hengest frowned and shook his head at the chaos, as his brother emerged from his tent. A moment later, Lyart brought the king and his brother their horses. They mounted and galloped from camp alone.

  ***

  Ergyfel paced the length of the ante-room to his chambers. At odd turns, he looked up at the door to his bedchamber and bit his lip. The hall door opened, and Hengest entered.

  “Did you find the clearing?” Ergyfel asked.

  “Aye.”

  “And the horses?”

  “Three, just as you said.”

  “No one has been alarmed?”

  “Most of the castle still sleeps. Also, the first of the hunting party is now arriving at the gate. With all the stragglers, there will be plenty of commotion to cover us.”

  “Good.” The king turned to face the door leading to his bedchamber and froze.

  “What is it, brother?”

  Ergyfel did not answer.

  “Is she in there?”

  Ergyfel wrung his hands. The pain this caused the magical wound brought him back to his senses. “I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t gone in?”

  Ergyfel spun to face his brother. “I haven’t opened the door!”

  Hengest raised his hands in apology.

  Ergyfel watched the door for a sign. When nothing happened, he approached and placed his hand on the latch. Again, he paused to calm his nerves.

  In all his life, Ergyfel had never felt such trepidation for such an easy task as opening a door. He had never been one to be afraid, but beyond that door lay the greatest trial of his life.

  He closed his eyes and pressed down on the latch. Much to his dismay, it snapped open effortlessly. Careful not to make a noise, he opened the door. Ergyfel stood his ground as the pale shaft of light broadened and crept across the room to illuminate the peaceful figure of his beloved Maeven. Then he noticed his own menacing shadow already stretching out to touch her pale skin, and he stepped into the shadows.

  From the dark, he watched her supple arm rise and fall with her breathing. Ergyfel moved closer, each step taking more will than the last. The beauty of her form filled his eyes while nights spent in her arms filled his mind. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take the last steps, stopping when he felt the bed against his legs.

  His mind raced to think of a way out of his predicament. He tried to hypnotize himself into a trance that would allow him to proceed without emotion, but could not get past his feelings for Maeven. His entire body vibrated like a bell. Finally, he decided to open his eyes and hope that, somewhere in him, he would find a ruthless scrap that did not love her. However, when he flung open his eyes, he saw only the image of his love.

  Ergyfel snapped a hand over his eyes, then scraped it up his forehead and tugged at his hair. A firestorm raged in his mind. He wanted to scream from the absolute torment threatening to burst him.

  She has made me weak. Surely, I should despise her. He pulled his head up and forced himself to look at her, but again her beauty and the memory of her generous love smote him.

  At that moment, Ergyfel noticed another form in the bed next to Maeven. His eyes shot to it, and he recognized Caenne, Maeven’s younger sister. She was the baby of the family and quite a number of years younger, but the resemblance was unmistakable. His entire body pulsed with his heartbeat, and he turned to flee from the room before he could be discovered.

  A notion caught him and held him fast, despite his acrobatic heart. In the confusion of that moment, he wondered what had brought the younger sister to his bedchamber that night. He had only seen the girl twice before and hadn’t thought the two were very close. Perhaps Maeven or Caenne had been lonely. It doesn’t really matter; the fact is, she’s here.

  Ergyfel’s notion matured. Caenne was the daughter of Sir Feolaghe, just as Maeven. Dheumon had asked for “the daughter of Feolaghe,” nothing more. Furthermore, Ergyfel felt no attachment for the younger daughter. This, in Ergyfel’s mind, made her the perfect candidate for the demon’s sacrifice.

  “Chance becomes providence.”

  Ergyfel held his hand out over the two sleepers and recited one of the first incantations he had ever learned. The minor amount of power this cost him only tingled in his wound—a tiny itch. Once the charm was in place, he slipped to the opposite side of the bed. He pulled Caenne closer to him and grabbed her up in his arms. The girl never roused from her sleep, and Ergyfel strode from the room. Hengest closed the door behind them.

  Within minutes, Ergyfel, Hengest, and Caenne emerged from one of Orgulous’ many secret passages and were bound for Loch Nyraval at top speed. They kept to a concealed path and arrived at the loch’s shore in record time. Before long, they were at the spot where Ergyfel had summoned Dheumon.

  Again, Ergyfel stripped to his loincloth, and then ripped the sleeping gown from Caenne’s innocent body. With some effort, he toted her over his shoulder out to the ancient altar-rock, but could not carry her to the top. After some coaxing, Hengest waded out, hoisted the girl up to his brother, and then returned to the shore to wait with the horses.

  Ergyfel tied the girl in the manner prescribed by Dheumon and prepared for the rite. When all was ready, he turned Caenne over onto her back. He was about to awaken her from her charmed sleep when his eyes beheld her pale young face. By the light of the waning moon, how like Maeven she appeared. He pushed back a lock of the girl’s hair and allowed his hand to brush her cheek. Then he noticed the black knife in his grip.

  “No!” He clenched his fists to his eyes.

  “Brother,” Hengest called. “Are you hurt?”

  Ergyfel held his position for a moment, feeling the cold iron of the instrument in his fist. He lowered his hands and stared at the shore. “Hengest, I need you.”

  His brother ran across the rocky shore and, once more, waded out to the whale-like rock. “What is it?”

  “Come up here. I need you.”

  Hengest climbed up the rock. He stared at the young girl, who lay helpless on the stone, and then turned his attention to Ergyfel.

  “I need you to kill her.”

  “Me?”

  “She looks too much like Maeven. I cannot—”

  “She’s a girl!”

  The two men locked eyes. “You have killed women before.”

  “But never so young, and certainly not trussed up like a pig!” Hengest edged away.

  “It’s required for the ritual.”

  “I will not help you with this!”

  “She will be awake.”

  “If I were to kill her like this, I would prefer that she were asleep so she would not see the shame on my face.”

  �
�If you are so ashamed of this, then why have you helped me so far?”

  “Because ...”

  “What are you holding back?”

  Hengest stared at him. “Because, my brother, I do not think you are capable of such a thing.”

  “You don’t understand my predicament.”

  “Perhaps not, but I understand you.”

  “You do not understand me! No one understands me! You all are afraid of me and always have been. That is why you have helped me.”

  “No. I don’t understand your ways, and your powers have frightened me, but I do not fear the brother who protected me from a drunk father. I know that brother would not harm me now ... nor kill this child.”

  “You know nothing.”

  With that, Ergyfel thrust out his palm with a grunt, and an invisible force blasted his brother off the rock. Ergyfel’s anger allowed him to ignore the pain in his arm.

  “Go back to the shore. Can I count on you to hold the horses?”

  Hengest held his abdomen and glanced up from the water at his brother. He gasped for breath and could only answer by nodding.

  “Good. Now, run along.”

  Ergyfel turned back to the girl at his feet. He knelt beside her and waved his hand over her face. Her eyes opened, and she looked at her captor. The cold stone at her back made her shiver, and then she winced at the rough bite of the ropes as she attempted to move.

  “Your Majesty.” Caenne’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  Ergyfel spoke not a word but raised the shadow-like dagger over his head. The girl screamed. Before he could lose his furious resolve, the Magister performed the prescribed rite. He avoided looking into her face, his eyes drawn to the streams of blood that ran down the giant boulder. And still she screamed on. Her voice reverberated off the water and bounced back from the surrounding hills—the shrill sound distorted and angry. In Ergyfel’s head, the echo formed the words of a terrible curse.

  The king closed his eyes and covered his ears, but the girl’s cries still entered his mind. Shortly, they weakened and subsided. Ergyfel cowered for a moment on the rock-altar before opening his eyes. Caenne’s small, pale face and eyes stared back at him. She looked more than ever like his beloved Maeven.