A grin split Weile’s face, jarring amid the dark agony of his revelations. He rose, extending his arms cautiously. “I love you, Tae Kahn.”
This time, Tae joined the embrace, speaking the necessary words for the first time in many years. “Father, I love you, too.”
CHAPTER 9
Lav’rintii Parley
There is no such thing as a neutral warrior. By not assisting one side, you are, by definition, assisting the other.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Alone in his sixth-floor study in the main common house on the island of Nualfheim, Dh’arlo’mé sat cross-legged on the floor with his face cupped in his hands. He did not know how long he had remained in this position, but the floor had etched wrinkles into his clothing and the air that he sucked through the cracks between fingers tasted stale. The other elves had left him to his thoughts. Once, his slowness would have seemed natural. Now, he suspected, human-quick actions had become more characteristic of him, and his long silence surely bothered his followers.
Despite Dh’arlo’mé’s time in Béarn’s lavish castle, he found the elves’ sparse furnishings more comfortable. His eyes did not register the few scattered tools and the simple furniture. Only the oaken box near his feet weathered his scrutiny and that a dozen times in ten times as many moments. Repeatedly, he reviewed his readings, experience, and knowledge. No tiny detail escaped his remembrance to hide in a quiet corner of his mind. He considered everything, yet the answer to a question that would decide the fate of elfinkind would not come.
To Dh’arlo’mé’s undying relief, the Staff of Law did not contact him again. He did not know whether to attribute this reprieve to its inability to transmit through wood or whether it wisely chose silence. Had it tried to influence Dh’arlo’mé’s decision, it would surely have biased him against it. Now he contemplated the infinite possibilities, trusting only the facts and his interpretation of them. The Béarnian sage’s notes had proved more difficult to read than he anticipated. The strange, pudgy man who chronicled Western history protected his knowledge even from the king and prime minister who commanded him.
Nevertheless, Baltraine had managed to secure accounts of the tested heirs. Apparently, the staff-test consisted only of clutching both staves, one in each hand. Several reported that the wood had seemed “empty” at first contact; the wizardry had not appeared until they held both staves. No heir would detail his experience, though the consensus seemed to be that magic transported the tested to one or more places where the staves created ethical scenarios that required proper solution. On one thing they all agreed. Only those chosen to rule Béarn emerged with their self-esteem intact. The others reported residual effects ranging from hollow uncertainty to unbearable self-hatred. Most became more contemplative and detached. Suicide, drug addiction, and mental illness afflicted several.
Dh’arlo’mé’s thoughts drifted back centuries with little more difficulty than a man recalling his breakfast from the previous day. In his mind’s eye, three of the four Cardinal Wizards, mankind’s only link to magic, desperately contemplated the destruction they had caused in the name of deliverance. The fourth, the Western Wizard, Colbey Calistinsson, looked on sadly. As the Northern Sorceress’ apprentice, Dh’arlo’mé had watched in horror as Odin condemned the three to death for their role in bringing the Ragnarok, and they had taken their own lives gladly. In those days, the Staves of Law and Chaos had promised nearly infinite power, and the Wizards had succumbed to the lies of the latter. Dh’arlo’mé could not risk a similar mistake.
Dh’arlo’mé compared the staves then and now. Visually, they appeared no different: smooth wooden sticks without the adornment worthy of their might. The staves’ function in the staff-test also furnished no clues to their specific powers. Apparently, they worked weakly when in concert, their proximity canceling one another. Separated, they might prove more than any man or elf could handle.
Dh’arlo’mé dropped his hands and turned his attention to the staff box once again. His single, gemlike eye fixed on the wood, memorizing every line and knothole. Grand ideas took shape behind that otherwise bland expression. Together, the staves did him little good. He would heed the lessons of Baltraine and Khy’barreth, who had lost life and sanity attempting the staff-test. The Staves of Law and Chaos would serve Dh’arlo’mé, thus elfinkind, better separated.
The realization brought more than its share of danger, and Dh’arlo’mé could not afford a mistake. He walked a narrow boundary in a game with stakes that included the remaining worlds and the lives of men, elves, and gods. To act in ignorance would be folly of the worst kind. Yet no one had as much experience with the matter as Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin. No one. Not even the gods. The Ragnarok had taken Odin, as well as those who represented extremes. For knowledge and understanding of the Staves of Law and Chaos, Dh’arlo’mé believed himself peerless.
A plan formed gradually, every stage carefully considered. Slowly, Dh’arlo’mé studied the room, confirming a seclusion his followers would not dare violate. Rising, he moved toward the box. He flicked the metal hook clear of its loop. It spun through a semicircle, then fell into its unlatched position. Dh’arlo’mé sucked in several deep lungfuls of air, regulating his breathing into a calm cycle. He contemplated and discarded wards against magic. They should prove as unnecessary as they were useless. Seizing the lid, he shoved it open. The heavy oak thumped to the floor.
The staves lay still and silent in their box, their quiet simplicity betraying nothing of their power. Dh’arlo’mé studied them, seeking some difference in construction that might protect him from the Cardinal Wizards’ fatal mistake. He found nothing helpful.
*I am the one to your right.* The familiar voice touched Dh’arlo’mé tentatively, as if it feared disrupting his concentration. *The Staff of Law.*
The identification did not reassure the elf. Dh’arlo’mé frowned. He delayed, glancing first toward the one that had contacted him. Study and experience suggested both staves would vie for his attention, competing forces each requiring a champion. Yet the other did not speak.
The staff anticipated Dh’arlo’mé’s question. *Odin drained away nearly all of our power. My spark has grown back faster than chaos’.*
*It can’t speak to me?*
*Not yet. Now is the time to strike, while it remains weak. Destroy the Staff of Chaos, and Midgard will become yours to do with as you please.*
The promise had undeniable appeal, yet Dh’arlo’mé had seen the results of single-minded devotion to a power. Once, the gods and mankind had supported a world wholly devoid of chaos. Ultimately, the need for balance had destroyed extremes, even among the gods. He pondered the staff’s words. Unlike chaos, law could not lie. Untruths would clinch its identity, but honesty told him nothing. *You’re the stronger power?* Dh’arlo’mé baited, believing chaos would confirm the words while law, though it would like to, would have to admit equality.
*My staff-essence is currently stronger. If you wait, that may no longer remain the case. There will never be another chance like this one to destroy chaos ultimately. Even Odin failed to accomplish such a feat, though he tried.* The staff paused momentarily, then addressed Dh’arlo’mé’s question from another angle. *Stronger or not, I am the better power. Chaos is destruction and betrayal.* It drew out the last word, as if to remind Dh’arlo’mé of his current troubles with the lav’rintii, the followers of the first traitor elf. *I am structure, loyalty, truth. Vows kept and faith. Reality. All that is and has been.*
The staff’s words did not convince Dh’arlo’mé. Its line of reasoning, though exactly what he would expect from the Staff of Law, was also exactly what he would expect from the Staff of Chaos posing as the Staff of Law. More than any human, Dh’arlo’mé understood the importance of chaos. Elfin balance fell more toward chaos, for it also served as the source of creativity and magic. With it, the world might shatter into ruin, but without it, it would stagnate into
oblivion. Dh’arlo’mé had chosen to wield only the Staff of Law not because he wished to annihilate chaos but because history had proved it easier to control and a more faithful servant. The trick, he believed, was to think of himself as master rather than champion and never allow the staff, or its needs, to rule him. He required the staff only for the power it would render to him and to regain control of the world after the humans devastated their own. The beauty of Dh’arlo’mé’s plan lay in its simplicity. Given the Staff of Chaos, humanity would annihilate itself.
Unable to assure himself of the staff’s identity, Dh’arlo’mé passed the burden of proof directly to it. *How do I know you’re law, and not chaos?*
The staff seemed appropriately affronted, its pause accompanied by a combination of outrage and understanding. *Take me in hand. Or it. Or both.*
The idea sent Dh’arlo’mé’s nerves jangling. *Baltraine and Khy’barreth did so.*
*Both exceptionally unworthy. And I was just coming into my power—testing. Historically, you’ll find that the staff-test never killed until Ethelyn.*
Dh’arlo’mé recognized the name of King Kohleran’s daughter, the last of those heirs twice tested. *You killed Ethelyn and Baltraine?*
*Yes.*
*Not the other staff.*
*I told you. Chaos has not yet regained enough power even to speak with you. Now is the time to destroy it. An opportunity like this one will never come again.* Frustration leaked through the contact, easily interpreted. Though the staff could contemplate matters few mortals had the depth of understanding to consider, it lacked the body and hands necessary to act. For all its wisdom, it depended entirely on its champion for accomplishment of its goals.
*And if I hold both of you?*
*You will know which of us is which.*
*You won’t destroy me like you did Khy’barreth?*
*You are worthy. And you have no designs on Béarn’s throne.* It hesitated, apparently realizing it had made an assumption. *Do you?*
*No,* Dh’arlo’mé answered honestly. He harbored no wish to rule humans, only to destroy them. Though cautious, he believed the staff. Whether of law or chaos, it could find no better champion than the leader of the elves. Human mortality and lack of magic would hamper its freedom nearly as much as the wooden container that held it. Colbey had carried both staves with impunity, and he had made it clear he deliberately placed chaos into the Wizards’ keeping. Reaching into the box, Dh’arlo’mé seized the left-hand staff first, tensing for a rush of magic he had no means to control.
The staff gave him nothing. It felt like ordinary wood in his hand, and its weight seemed unremarkable. He clenched it tighter, concentrating. A vague tremor passed along the arm that clutched the staff, so tiny he could not tell whether his intensity or the staff initiated the movement. A hint of sentience brushed his mind so lightly it seemed an impossible threat. It hummed, directionless and unformed. Like an infant, it seemed helpless, innocent, and utterly harmless. Yet, like an infant, its potential bore few limits. Dh’arlo’mé knew too much to be fooled. The right-hand staff had told the truth. He now held the Staff of Chaos.
Despite the baby gentleness of the staff’s presence, realization overwhelmed Dh’arlo’mé. His fingers spasmed, and he nearly dropped the staff. He would not underestimate the bonfire this spark would eventually kindle. Already, the longer he clasped it, the stronger it seemed to grow. Dh’arlo’mé seized the other staff. In comparison, it seemed filled with vibrant stability. It promised magic of incomparable strength and near-infinite wisdom to share with its champion. This was the Staff of Law, though a weakened version of the force Colbey had wielded.
Dh’arlo’mé dropped the staff of Chaos back into the box, wrapping both hands around the Staff of Law. And smiled.
* * *
In the root cellar of Davian’s cottage, Matrinka had grown accustomed to the odors of mustiness and mold beneath the sweeter perfume of stored tubers. Seated on a chair in the northern corner, she sewed patches onto Griff’s britches and tried to imagine the rightful king of Béarn on his throne. The injustice that stabbed ceaselessly at her mind did not seem to bother Griff at all. Near the center of the damp, airless room, he played cards with Captain at a rickety table while Rantire remained restlessly at attention. Though two chairs lay empty, neither she nor Darris chose to use them. The bard sat on the floor, tuning a battered lute too warped for clear sound.
Matrinka alternately appreciated and despised the quiet passage of days that gave her too much time for thought. The danger of discovery had forced them from Béarn Castle. Fearing recognition, Matrinka and Captain had remained hidden. They had kept Griff from the streets as well, not only for his safety, but because an unknown Béarnide would surely draw attention. That had left Darris to act as their only contact. He alone had reason to walk Béarn’s streets. The bard could come and go as he pleased, and the unnatural curiosity that was the bard’s heritage had led his predecessors to do so on an irregular basis. The possibility existed that he would be dragged to the castle to serve as the king’s bodyguard, his duty as Béarn’s bard. The companions had seen possibility as well as concern in that strategy. It would allow one of them near the false king, perhaps able to infiltrate the elfin plot; but it would also place Darris in grave danger.
Yet, to Matrinka’s surprise, the Béarnides paid Darris no heed, and he bought their supplies without harassment. Citizens ignored him with an uncharacteristic apathy, as if something had squashed all the vigor from them. Over a period of days, Darris discovered a populace cowed by a government turned gradually cruel and restrictive, their faith in King Kohleran strangely undiminished despite their condition. The people remained massive and robust, the market still bustled with activity, but the aura and attitude had grown bleak. In the midst of plenty, the people failed to thrive.
Eventually, a cooper named Dalen recognized Darris. Cautious questions and answers from both sides had revealed a hidden core of disgruntlement. Initially, it consisted of Béarnides who had turned against Kohleran’s weakened line and the corrupt prime minister/regent yet had managed to escape the false king’s “justice.” Here Matrinka found allies mistrustful enough to look through the magic to the elf beneath the king’s disguise. And, where this band of renegades had once condemned the royal line as no longer competent, they swiftly became avid advocates of Griff.
A fold of the britches flopped toward the ground, and Mior batted playfully at the fabric. Matrinka managed a tight-lipped smile. Gradually, the underground movement gained support, but the vast majority of Béarnides remained loyal to the false king and his alfen. Every person added to their cause became a potential betrayer. The renegade band was still too weak to face Dh’arlo’mé and the others. Every moment meant weighing the benefit of acquiring allies against the risk of detection. Eventually, the right moment would come. Until then, she could only wait and fret.
* * *
The scrape of the boulder rolling aside disrupted Tae’s reunion with his father, and a wild hammering of a fist against the board followed.
“A moment.” Weile Kahn darted into the other room.
Tae crouched into a shadowed corner, silent and nearly invisible in a gloom the lanterns scarcely penetrated. The chaotic sequence ended, replaced by a methodical pattern of taps.
Weile emerged with a sheathed sword and a row of daggers on his belt. “That’s Daxan and Alsrusett. There’s trouble.” He stopped, glancing around the room, apparently seeking Tae. Without clearly locating his son, he sprinted up the stairway and returned a single, loud knock. He withdrew as the board scratched aside, and the pair of bodyguards scrambled in. Both sported the standard Eastern black hair, deep brown eyes, and swarthy coloring. Leather jerkins over linens revealed the broad, deeply-etched musculature of trained soldiers. Though Alsrusett towered over even Daxan, both stood taller than Weile and his son. Daxan had a sturdy compactness to his build. A sword hung at each man’s left hip. Simple sheaths hid the blades, but the leat
her grips looked well-worn and darkened by old sweat.
Daxan did the talking. “Aristiri sector found the lav’rintii.” He mangled the obviously foreign, last word which sounded Northern in origin. His voice and features displayed the evident wit of which few believed soldiers capable. Tae knew his father well enough to expect kindness, loyalty, and intelligence from any subordinate allowed so near self and family. “They’re clearly headed for Béarn.”
Weile made a wordless sound of irritation. “No trouble, I hope?”
Tae did not move, even as Alsrusett’s gaze swept the room twice before fastening directly on him. The bodyguard smiled.
“Not with the lav . . .” Not wishing to stumble over the word again, Daxan chose the more common term. “. . . elves. There’re two humans with them, at least one a Renshai. She tore through six before they got her under control.”
“‘They’ meaning the lav’rintii,” Alsrusett clarified.
“Starbird’s got them cave-cornered at the sector border.”
Tae tried to make sense of the conversation. The elfin language closely resembled Northern, so it made sense that lav’rintii was an elfin term. But what’s my father’s involvement with elves? And why would humans, especially Renshai, accompany them? He crouched in silence, hoping the details would become clear without need for direct explanation.
“Kinya?” Weile asked.
“He’s awaiting your order, sir.”
Weile glanced toward the exit, face lined in thought. “We’re going.” Without further command or recommendation, Weile headed toward the stairs as his bodyguards scrambled into position around him. “Daxan, forge ahead. Tell Kinya to get horses ready for . . .” He glanced over his shoulder at Tae. “You coming with us?”
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