Béarn’s peasants had spoken their minds on many matters, yet the one theme that recurred was the need for Griff to marry swiftly and create as many heirs as possible. Darris understood and even agreed with them, in concept. It was the specifics that rankled. More than one had raised the same idea as several members of the new council, including Prime Minister Davian and Internal Minister Aerean. The populace wanted to assure that future heirs carried enough of the royal bloodline to guarantee their suitability as rulers. They pressed for at least one queen who carried King Kohleran’s blood. They want Matrinka.
Darris’ tears quickened, and a sob racked his body. He had long known this moment would come. The differences in their stations would have forbade them marrying whether or not she ever found another. Years of accustoming himself to it, however, did not make it any easier. His heart felt crushed to powder in his chest, and his head pounded with the enormity of a reality that distant anticipation could never match. When he detached himself from the situation, forcing himself to look upon it as an outsider, he realized Matrinka would make the ideal first queen for Griff. Properly mannered, beautiful, and only a year younger than the king, she suited him admirably. Her knowledge of kingdom functions would serve Griff well.
That logic did little to dispel Darris’ discomfort. Sharp agony lanced through him, due either to the depths of sorrow or overwhelming fatigue. Unable to walk another step, he collapsed onto the bed and let the weeping overtake him. Several moments of frenzied tears only intensified the pains in chest and head. He calmed himself with the many positives that would come of such a union: Matrinka would have the best of all possible men, one Darris knew would never harm her. Her offspring would likely sit upon Béarn’s throne, her line forever immortalized. And, as the appointed bodyguard to the king, Darris would always remain close to the queens as well.
That last thought managed to soothe where all else had failed. The instant of comfort tore a hole that admitted the tiredness he had, so far, held at bay. Still curled in a fetal position on his bed, Darris fell asleep.
* * *
As the first rays of sunlight filtered through his windows, King Griff started awake. Morning confusion left him empty of memory, and he sat up, surveying the room. The familiar furniture of the royal suite filled his vision, and remembrance of the coronation came flooding back in a rush. His crown lay on the bureau nearest his left hand, tossed casually over the fur-trimmed robe he had worn the previous night. He rubbed a hand through his coarse, black curls, scratched at the growing beard that still seemed out of place, and yawned.
For the first time since his arrival in Béarn, the idea of fulfilling the duties of kingship excited Griff. The populace and the new council had given him so many ideas, he could scarcely wait to get started reversing laws and moratoriums placed by the dark elves. Myriad ideas battled for attention at once. Regular walks around Béarn would expose him to the citizenry and their needs. He would create a popular council to inform him of necessities outside the castle. And, of course, his daily court would remain open for anyone to meet with him.
Griff dressed swiftly, excitement driving him like a hot brand. Soon, servants would gather to anticipate his awakening and tend his every desire. He could not wait for them. The hallways of the castle beckoned. He wanted to scurry through them, unhampered and unattended, even by his personal bodyguard. He wanted one chance to negotiate the many hallways, to study the tapestries and murals without the historical detail and understanding Darris’ knowledge would add. Like a child of visiting royalty, he wanted to scamper among the animal-shaped torch holders and the strings of hanging jewels without a cautioning parent stumbling after to take the fun from banisters and balconies with warnings about their danger.
The new king bounded into the corridor, full of childish exuberance and knowing his spree would last only until the first guard or servant spotted him and restored the necessary dignity and decorum. He studied the familiar crest that graced his teak door: a rearing golden bear with ruby eyes, hemmed by sapphires. Servants had removed covering tapestries of bears in action to reveal long murals depicting past kings and queens, their most significant actions or decisions permanently captured in paint. Flat, gray rectangles interrupted the intricate artwork, space for future rulers to become immortalized. A half-finished work displayed King Kohleran in his courtroom, the pre-painting etchings suggesting a mass of cheering townsfolk.
Though driven to study the details of the pictures, Griff dashed through the hallway, determined to see as much as possible while he still maintained his short-lived freedom. He laughed at the irony. Scant days ago, he had mourned the loneliness his station created. So much had changed since that time, beginning with Ravn’s removal of the dark elves’ gift. That action alone had relieved Griff of a magnificent burden. The ardor of the populace seemed delightfully contagious, and he came to recognize how much he could do to assist them. The decisions Darris and the ministers had so far brought him had proved as easily handled as Ravn had promised. Most importantly, the citizens’ clamoring for heirs promised him a life with loved ones and, he hoped, several score of children to nurture.
Tapestries and doors whizzed past Griff. He gave them only a passing glance and a promise of future study. He imagined himself dancing with his daughters, their lacy dresses throwing glitters from the torchlight and their laughter belling through the hallways. He twirled and leaped through the corridor, reveling in the future giggles, not caring who witnessed their stout king spinning like a ballerina amid ornate furnishings and flawless artwork.
Griff noticed the elf in the hallway in the instant before he crashed into her. His bulk sent her sprawling. The cup she carried rang against the stonework, and its contents splashed the king’s face and tunic. Attempting to decrease the impact, too late, Griff lost his balance, too. He thudded to the ground onto the slender elfin legs, then stared directly into sapphirine eyes that went from startled to frightened in an instant.
Shock held both in silent stillness for far longer than decorum demanded. Fine, gold curls with a touch of elfin red outlined an oval face with high-set cheekbones and heart-shaped lips, then fell to delicate shoulders. Her beauty touched Griff. He felt his heart rate quicken before rationality intervened and forced him to question his sanity. The idea of looking upon an elf as he would a woman seemed madness beyond contemplation, no more logical than considering marriage to a horse or a bear. Only then he realized one more thing. I must be crushing her!
Griff lurched to his feet, several apologies rushing to his lips at once and the whole emerging as an incomprehensible series of grunts.
The elf gathered her cup as she executed a mass of disorganized bows and curtsies. “I’m sorry, Sire. I didn’t know. Sire. I was just going to . . .” She looked at the liquid splattered across the floor, then followed the cascading droplets to Griff’s clothing and face. She drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, my!”
Laughter burst from Griff. He could not possibly have held it back.
The elf looked further dismayed by his reaction. Her eyes swiveled to his, and she must have read a gentleness there. She calmed visibly, her glazed eyes reflecting blue highlights from the torchlight. A high-pitched snort slipped from her lips then, suddenly, she joined his laughter.
The two laughed for an inappropriately long time that seemed perfectly natural to Griff. The liquid from the cup tasted bitter on his lips.
Finally, Griff gained enough control to speak. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, mopping at the mess now mostly drawn into his beard. “What’s your name?”
The elf curtsied again, to Griff’s enormous pleasure. He enjoyed watching the fluid, animal grace of her movements. “Tem’aree’ay Donnev’ra Amal-yah Krish-anda Mal-satorian.” She flushed, apparently realizing she had given her full name, one too long for most humans to remember. “I’m called Temmy by the humans.”
“Temmy,” Griff repeated with a frown. It did no justice to the musical syllables she had first utter
ed. “Would you mind if I called you Tem’aree’ay?” He gave it the same emphasis as she had, pronouncing it Teh-MARR-ee-ay.
Tem’aree’ay curtsied again, this one bringing a smile to Griff’s lips. “Majesty, you may call me whatever you wish.”
Again, Griff cursed the title that placed obstacles between him and the others of Béarn’s keep. “True. But you can still mind.”
She smiled. “I don’t mind at all. In fact, I prefer it.” The elf studied the king, and Griff thought he read pleasure in her strange eyes.
Insanity. Griff shook the assessment away, attributing it to a mood too upbeat to last. Dogs and cats never coupled. Creatures of different species could not find one another attractive. But they can become friends. Griff could not explain his attraction to Tem’aree’ay, but he knew he wanted to spend more time with her. “Where were you going so early?”
“Sire, I’m a healer.” Tem’aree’ay amended, “Well, I’m trying. I’m not the best yet. I was taking this to a noble with indigestion and . . .”
“. . . and . . .” Griff finished, “. . . now we know I won’t have any difficulty with breakfast.”
Tem’aree’ay smiled prettily. “I—I guess I’d better go get more, Sire. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Please,” Griff returned. “It was entirely my fault.”
“True,” Tem’aree’ay returned, only a faint smile revealing her sarcasm. “But I’m not allowed to blame the king.”
A grin split Griff’s face, and his heart seemed to leap in his chest. Finally, someone willing to treat me as a human rather than a glass ornament—or, maybe, she’s treating me like an elf. He never wanted the playful give-and-take to end.
With a final curtsy, Tem’aree’ay turned and headed back the way she had come.
“Wait!” Griff called.
Tem’aree’ay stopped in her tracks, turning to face him again.
Having no idea what to say next, Griff hesitated.
Tem’aree’ay waited patiently, not seeming to notice the inappropriate length of his lapse.
“Maybe we could take a stroll through the gardens later? And talk some more.”
“I’d like that, Sire.”
Griff wanted to set a time but had no idea when he would be free. Already, he heard approaching footsteps. Their laughter had not gone unnoticed. “I’ll send for you when I can.”
“I’ll look forward to it, Sire.” Tem’aree’ay stood in place for a lengthy period, apparently waiting for more words or a dismissal. When none came, she said, “I’ll see you then, Sire.” Whirling, she headed down the corridor.
Griff watched after her until her slight frame disappeared down the hall. At last, it seemed, he had found a friend.
* * *
It took longer than a week for Colbey to find a quiet corner on Asgard and to build himself a comfortable cottage that little resembled the great halls of the gods. He took food, a few articles of clothing, and a blanket in addition to two swords and the Staff of Chaos. His good-byes to Freya and Ravn had proved every bit as difficult as the knowledge that he courted his own destruction. Likely, he would see them again, but he did not trust his own disposition once bound, even minimally, to the Staff of Chaos. For three days, Colbey had spent his excitement amid the Einherjar, battling all comers and often two or three at once. Through war, he made his peace with many. During that time, he allowed himself to forget the task that plagued him, promising to take it up again, in earnest, on the fourth day.
That time had come. For hours, Colbey sat beside his cottage on a hill that overlooked much of Asgard. The beauty of the changeless sky thrilled through him. Evergreens bobbed in the gentle breezes, as if bowing to the Lord of Chaos on the hill. Clouds sat like pillows amidst the perfect blue of the sky. As always, he saw his wife’s eyes in its color, her hair in the gold of the sun. His life paraded across his thoughts in vivid detail. Every battle against a worthy opponent, he remembered. He recalled the names and weapon competence of his mortality as if no time had passed, though many of the faces blurred. Amid the Einherjar, he had reunited with his own torke, whose skill he had surpassed even in his mortal years. He found his namesake, the Colbey ahead of him, whom Renshai tenets claimed watched him from Valhalla. Now, the name seemed certain to die with him. As Odin had said, he would never find Valhalla, at least not in the true sense of becoming Einherjar.
Colbey took the staff in hand and lowered his head. No presence touched him. Using the meditation techniques strengthened by his previous exercise, he forced down the barriers. Therein lay his greatest power, his chance to forestall the doom carrying the Staff of Chaos would guarantee any other. The Eastern Wizard had never believed Colbey’s claim that he did not deliberately place barriers in his mind. For Colbey it took energy to draw his natural shields down while, for others, the difficulty came with the crafting. The discrepancy had arisen from a combination of Renshai mind techniques and millennia of Western Wizards whom he had battled and unwittingly slain. The title had been thrust upon Colbey, without his understanding or consent by a desperate, dying forebear. Colbey had no way to know that becoming a Wizard meant incorporating the thoughts and talents of each of his predecessors. Believing himself mad, he had battled them for years until he had destroyed them.
Colbey deliberately dragged down a barrier, admitting the whisper of chaos that occupied the staff. *Finally, we can become one.*
*No,* Colbey said. *If you do not content yourself with a partnership, then I will have no choice but to destroy you.*
Anger and disappointment radiated from the staff. It thrust for deeper parts of his mind, foiled by the walls. *You would leave law unopposed.*
*Which is the only reason I’ve agreed to work with you at all. I am your champion, not your slave or a body for you to manipulate.* Colbey appreciated that the staff-presence remained too weak to penetrate his defenses, but he did not allow complacence. Already, he could feel its power growing. As it gained might, it could shatter his barriers. These thoughts, however, he did not allow it to share. He turned it only an aura of competence and a mental stance of deadly warning.
*We will work better together than at odds.*
*I agree,* Colbey returned. *Respect my boundaries, and I will accept your gifts.*
Frustration plied Colbey, and he could almost follow the staff’s direct intentions. It fluttered through an array of tricks, finally settling once more on the truth. *You cannot hold me to promises or details.*
*I could.* Colbey continued to hide his weaknesses, most of which stemmed from inexperience and ignorance. *But it would cripple you beyond use. I can use your power, but without a wielder, you cannot function at all. Your might may seem to overshadow mine—eventually. But never forget that, without me, you become nothing.*
The frustration remained, now tinted with grudging pleasure.
Believing anticipating the staff’s reply might rattle it enough to make it behave, Colbey sent, *You were about to say something similar, weren’t you? That I am puny without your power.*
*No!* it denied, too vehemently. It had no choice but to deny predictability. *Certainly not. I am saying only that for us to function together, you must open your barriers and let me share my power. There is no other way.*
Genius sprang from chaos, never law. Therefore, it surprised Colbey when he found the answer chaos denied. *You’re wrong.*
The staff displayed mocking interest.
*Open yourself,* Colbey suggested. *And let me come to you.*
The Staff of Chaos made no attempt to hide its surprise. *It can’t be . . .* The staff paused, rejecting its own statement of impossibility. *It’s not done . . .* Shock melted into wild excitement. *No being of law has ever entered chaos’ world.*
Colbey shrugged, outwardly trivializing an event that sent his thoughts spinning in crazed spirals and his heart pounding his ribs. *Nothing of law?*
*No being of law,* the staff amended its terminology. *Small bits of law have penetrated. These become the
seeds that spawn demons.*
The revelation caught Colbey off guard, though he hid his amazement behind unbreachable mind walls. Wizard lore had taught him that all creatures of chaos were known as demons. The stuff of disorder could hold no form, so it only made sense that touches of law gave demons their form, however transient and malleable. Colbey returned his attention to the matter at hand. Contemplation would serve little purpose here. He could never predict the primordial chaos. *Open yourself,* he repeated. *And let me come to you.*
*As you wish.* Guarded curiosity slipped from the staff. It seemed uncertain whether to mourn the proper and conventional binding or to revel in the unconventionality of its new champion. *And, Master?*
*Yes,* Colbey returned, relieved by the lull in the struggle for control.
*You are definitely the one.*
Colbey brushed off the compliment. He had chosen a route so unpredictable even chaos had not anticipated him. Therein might lie his only chance to survive the coming holocaust, yet he worried about the price. Have I already fallen to chaos’ influence? He did the world no good destroying the overwhelming forces of law and chaos if he remained alive to continue inflicting chaos on them. But my cause is balance. Colbey shook his head, concerned for the choices he had already contemplated. If chaos bound him too tightly, he could never rescue himself from the clash—nor should he. *Let’s go,* he sent to the staff.
*Cling tightly,* the Staff of Chaos warned. A vortex rose, swirling the air around Colbey in a gray blur that eclipsed his view of Asgard. *This will probably destroy you.*
Prince of Demons Page 43
