Griff glanced at Kedrin once more. He had stirred hope. The rest lay in the gods’ hands. Lingering would not assist the process, only reduce the space available to others who wished a turn at vigil and force Kedrin to attend king as well as son. The Béarnide nodded. “Captain, if you would like me here, at any time, let me know.” He added emphatically, “You don’t need a reason.”
Kedrin tore his gaze from Ra-khir to execute the appropriate, if arcane, gestures to acknowledge the honor the heir bestowed upon him, respect, and a formal parting. His ability to remember the protocol while his son lay dying floored Griff and made him all the more certain he needed to leave. Kedrin would fare better concentrating on his own grief rather than worrying about offending his soon-to-be-crowned king. “Thank you.”
Griff turned, trotting after Darris, careful to avoid the bustling jumble of healers, maids, and other servants who gave him a wide berth as well. Lonely, the scepter had said, and Griff knew now more than ever it had spoken truth. “Where are Kevral, Tae, and Matrinka?”
“Matrinka’s working, Sire.” Darris glanced among the injured and attendants, pointing out the princess among the healers. No one shied from her as they did from her cousin. Though as much an heir as he for the moment, she did not suffer the loneliness that would become his daily lot. “The others are in the temple.” Darris steered Griff out of the makeshift infirmary and through the door. “What’s left of it. They tarried long here but needed some time away.”
Griff pursed his lips, understanding. “I know we have a lot to prepare and decisions to make, but I’d like some time alone, too.”
“Of course, Majesty.”
Rantire joined them in the hall, trailing in a sullen hush that revealed her dissatisfaction with the current arrangement. As Griff headed back to his personal chamber, he realized he needed to handle this problem before any others. “Darris, about the inner circle of guards.”
“Yes, Majesty?”
“Do the rules specify how I pick them?”
“Not formally, Sire.” Darris did not look at Griff, but his brow furrowed. “It’s traditional for the king to select a guard captain he trusts and let him choose top soldiers from Béarn’s troops.”
Griff stiffened at the implication. “They killed the guard captain, too?”
“No, Sire.” Rantire led the way up the staircase while Darris remained at Griff’s side. A painted mural, carved into three dimensions, depicted mountain ledges and ascending wildlife. “Captain Seiryn’s well. It seems as if the dark elves destroyed anyone whose job required physical proximity to the king, probably to keep them from seeing through the illusion.”
Griff cringed, recalling that Darris’ mother fell into that category.
“After that, their killing became more random.”
Griff took Darris’ hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. The touch clearly startled the bard who tensed so suddenly he missed a step. He scrabbled awkwardly for balance, ripping his fingers free. Rantire whirled, prepared to rescue Griff from this unexpected danger should he teeter as well.
Darris regained his equilibrium, sheepishly staring at his feet. “I’m sorry, Sire.”
“No.” Griff refused to allow Darris to take the blame. “I’m sorry. About your mother and about nearly throwing you down the steps.” He smiled at Darris, hoping the bard would take the joke and run with it, as Kevral and Tae always did.
But Darris remained stiffly serious. “Thank you, Sire.”
Griff gave Darris the benefit of the doubt. He has to keep his replies short. Or he has to sing them. Yet that contradicted the detailed reports Darris had delivered to him, a moment ago and in the recent past. Curiosity fueled by the incongruity, Griff did not press now. The timing seemed wrong.
Reaching the fifth-floor landing, the three headed toward Griff’s chambers. Brackets in the shapes of animals supported torches whose flames trailed their movement. Between, gilded tapestries depicted bear cubs wrestling, bears perched regally on rocks, and massive male bears engaged in battle. Occasionally, an edge of a painted wall scene peeked out from beneath the weavings. Rantire crouched at the door to the king’s chamber, anticipating Griff’s command.
Darris caught the latch, the heavy teak door emblazoned with the royal crest. The ruby eyes of the rearing bear seemed to glare with powerful anger, and sapphires surrounded the emblem. “You were asking about the inner guards, Majesty,” he reminded.
“Quite right.” Griff had forgotten. He inclined his head toward the door. “The two of us can finish our discussion inside.” He deliberately excluded Rantire. She would expect nothing different.
Darris opened the panel, glanced casually inside, then ushered Griff through. The Béarnide trotted to the bed and sat on the edge, then motioned for the bard to use the desk chair.
Darris complied. “Captain Seiryn’s an able warrior and a superior strategist.”
Griff nodded carefully. “I would expect nothing less from my grandfather.” The words raised a pang of sadness. He wished he could have met King Kohleran before his death. “I gladly place selection of the inner circle in the captain’s hands.”
Darris’ chest rose and fell in a silent sigh of relief.
“Except one,” Griff added.
Darris closed his eyes, clearly bracing for the worst. “One, Sire?”
Griff did not drag out his thought. That would only torture Darris. “Rantire.”
Darris’ lids rose, first to a neutral position, then further still. “Rantire?” He shook his head slightly. “She’s Renshai, Sire.”
“Yes.” That hardly required mention. “Do inner circle guards have to be Béarnides?”
Darris opened his mouth, then closed it, brow furrowing. “I suppose not. They always have been, but nothing says they have to be.” He added, as if in afterthought, “Sire.” His head cocked to the left as he contemplated further. A smile eased onto his features. “It’s a wonderful idea, Majesty, and it should appease Rantire. I don’t know if she’d accept the job, but the fact that you asked will mean a lot.” He seemed restless, as if he wanted to say more but chose silence instead.
The revelation floored Griff. “Why would she refuse?”
“Sire, she’s Renshai,” Darris repeated, as if that should make it obvious.
Griff shook his head.
“First, they’re clannish. I’ve never heard of one leaving the Fields of Wrath, except while serving duty in Béarn. It has to do with their training. Second, regimentation, strategy, following orders—they’re not things Renshai feel comfortable with.”
Griff appreciated Darris’ opinion. “So you think I shouldn’t ask her.”
“Sire, I think . . .” Darris started, then stopped. He glanced at Griff as if to judge him.
“Please, speak freely,” Griff fairly begged.
“Well, Sire, I see merit in the idea. Especially if Rantire refuses. That would place her in the position of having willingly sacrificed her guardianship.” Darris continued eyeballing Griff, reading his reaction. “But if she agrees, she may drive every one of us insane. She may ignore or belittle her commander. She might shackle herself to you again, making my job impossible and depriving you of any possibility for privacy.”
Griff saw Darris’ point. “You don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Darris shrugged. “I see two sides, Majesty.”
“And if you were me?”
Darris paled. “Sire, I wouldn’t dishonor you by placing myself in such a position.”
Griff sighed and sought different words. “What do you advise?”
“Sire, that wholly depends on what you’re trying to accomplish.”
It seemed obvious to Griff. “A place for Rantire that pleases everyone.”
Darris lowered his chin into his hands as he considered.
Griff discovered an answer as the bard thought. “What about ‘relief’ bodyguard?”
Darris’ brow furrowed, and he caught his chin between a thumb and forefinger.
“Excuse me, Sire?”
“You once told me the bard has to travel, that you won’t be with me all the time.”
“Right.”
“When you’re gone, Rantire can be you.”
Darris grinned, sitting straight in his chair and releasing his face. “Brilliant, Sire.” He could not help muttering, “If you can stand it.”
“Darris,” Griff added.
“Yes, Sire.”
“Don’t be away too much.”
For the first time, king and bard shared a good laugh.
CHAPTER 15
Law’s Heir
Truth is less significant to a title than the effect it inspires. To the people of the West, you will become the Golden Prince of Demons. To the Wizards, Colbey, you always have been.
—The Last Eastern Wizard, Shadimar
Dh’arlo’mé scarcely noticed the gemlike eyes that studied him through gaps between trunks and foliage. His followers watched him with emotions the staff’s influence made tangible. Respect mingled inseparably with fear, curiosity, and an awe bordering on reverence. The staff guided him through magics his puny ability once rendered impossible and turned his thoughts toward functional spells the scattered chaos of elves once made unthinkable. With a pointed finger, he caused leaves to dance against the wind. Patterned breaths created breezes. He learned to fly, a feat new not to the elves but to himself. And the Staff of Law promised so much more.
Personal power overcame the need for vengeance. Dh’arlo’mé ceased to worry about destroying humanity; chaos and mankind’s own frailty would see to that. The staff’s presence became a reassuring constant: swaddling, teaching, molding. The need for sleep receded. His genius seemed to grow in daily leaps. Decisions that would once have required the combined wisdom of the Nine found easy answers. It never occurred to him to ponder how the Dh’arlo’mé of old would have responded to those same problems. He had grown into something vastly superior, bonded to the seemingly infinite knowledge of the Staff of Law.
*It’s nearly time,* the staff interrupted a lesson to announce.
*Time?*
*To face your fear, Dh’arlo’mé.*
The comment rankled. *I have no fears.*
*Very well, then.* The staff did not argue, though it did not accept the proclamation either. *You will now learn to summon and control.*
*Summon?* The boldness left Dh’arlo’mé, replaced by an icy sweat. *You mean . . . ?* He trailed off deliberately, letting the staff fill in the gap.
*Demons, yes. Are you prepared?*
Dh’arlo’mé tried to force an affirmation that would not leave his lips. His fingers trembled, beyond his control. *No, * he admitted. *I can’t control them.*
*I can. WE can.*
*No,* Dh’arlo’mé repeated, though beyond his superficial thoughts, his mind clamored for the experience. Had he become the Northern Wizard he had apprenticed for, he might already have gained the knowledge and power to do so. His heart pounded. Images of the black mass of claws and teeth flashing down on him would not leave his mind, and panic scattered excitement into delay. *Not yet.*
*Soon, my champion. Soon. First, I have bindings, wards, and banishments to teach you. It’s not enough to bring it here. You must control it.*
*Yes.* That having been exactly the problem, Dh’arlo’mé appreciated hearing the solution. Patience, once routine, then an annoyance, flourished again among a people whose lives spanned centuries or millennia. Dh’arlo’mé could wait while humans destroyed themselves with the help of chaos. He placed his trust, and so much more, firmly into the Staff of Law’s grasp.
And the elves followed their leader.
* * *
Left alone again, Griff rested his arms on the window ledge and looked out over the city soon to be his. Massive men and women, so like himself, bustled through the streets, restoring order to a town destroyed as much by discontent as by the cruelty of its leadership. The attitudes of the people had changed vastly since the day Griff entered Béarn for the first time. They moved at a brisk pace, faces turned toward one another, eyes meeting as they chatted. Distant laughter touched his ears like music. Yet, though he loved the sound, Griff did not smile. Their joy sprang from the hopes they placed on him, the certainty that he would rule Béarn with the wisdom and competence of his ancestors.
Griff turned from the window, banishing the images of a joyous populace, of multicolored courtyard gardens, of flawlessly carved statues beckoning him to explore a world he could never before have imagined his. He reveled in the beauty, yet felt as if a shapeless lump of granite hung from his neck. So many lives had become dumped into hands accustomed only to play and the lightest of farm chores. His mother had never trusted him with the harvest; how could a country dare to risk so much on one so patently unworthy. “Why me? Why me?”
A presence brushed Griff’s mind, too weak to answer but clamoring for attention. Certain of its source, Griff turned toward the scepter, but he did not bother to take it in hand. Its attitudes contrasted sharply with a logic and judgment too simple to consider discarding. He did not wish to argue with it now.
Griff never doubted his bloodline or his companions’ certainty that he must rule, only his own ability to do so properly. He still felt like an awkward child, too clumsy even for farm work, too dull to grasp plowing let alone the intricacies of rulership. His massive frame had always made him feel out-of-place in Dun woods, as ungainly as a bull attempting flight. The rare children he met edged away from him, put off by his size. The adults turned him knowing looks, their smiles sympathetic to the point of condescension. His lack of understanding of simple farm equipment, his unworldliness, and his girth made them believe him a dullard. Eventually, he had come to believe it himself.
Desperately alone, Griff buried his face in his hands. “Ravn, where are you?” His fingers smothered a plea he expected no one to hear. Tears streaked his palms, and the enormity of the task ahead drove him to wild sobbing. His presence alone had brought happiness to so many, yet he could never hope to maintain the joy, security, and needs of a city. He would do all he could not to fail them, yet it seemed inevitable. He had no means to contemplate the damage his ineptitude might inflict on so many innocents. “You said you’d always be with me when I needed you. One way or another, you said, you’d be here.”
* * *
Ravn perched on Odin’s High Seat, Hlidskjalf, knees tucked to his chest and a booted foot resting irreverently against the colorful array of inset gems in the arms. One hand lay on his knee, the other draped casually across the hilt of the scimitar at his left hip. The sheathed tip of his opposite sword dangled over the seat of the chair. Though relaxed to the floppy extreme only adolescents could manage, he could defend himself in an instant should the need arise. Yet his thoughts remained distant from combat, and his heart thudded a slow, sad cadence as he shared the agony of his human friend.
Ravn remembered his promise in Béarn’s gutted temple, though he had made it under duress. The sorrow of the innocent child turned king had burned through him, then as now; and the words had seemed natural and necessary. He had not meant them literally, though he realized he should have expected Griff to assume so. The Béarnide’s simple caring and forthright honesty left little room for allusion; it was not enough to remain with Griff in spirit. He needs me.
Springing from the chair, Ravn headed from Odin’s Hall. He respected his father, and his mighty ability to punish, too much to attempt contact without permission again. He had also come to understand the precariousness of the balance Colbey protected and the damage the influence of a single god could inflict on his work and on the world. The image of Griff, head bowed, agony almost tangible knifed through Ravn’s conscience; yet soothing one could not take precedence over the stability of the universe. Sighing at the anticipated cost, he shuffled through Asgard’s blue-green grasslands toward the open field where his father usually practiced.
Smooth, perfect trees, their slender branches crowded with leaves
, blew in gentle patterns until the path seemed lined with dancers. Ravn cherished their grace and beauty, eyes drawn to them from unbreakable habit. His father’s appreciation for his mortal years had left a lasting impression. Colbey delighted in luxuries and the natural radiance the gods took for granted, and he pitied their loss. Ravn had long ago vowed to share his father’s never-ending excitement for details the gods disregarded as petty. Though the others dismissed Colbey as a gawking, inferior outsider, it also added a precious dimension to his life.
Ravn wandered past a stream, enjoying its ceaseless, high-pitched music and studying the jewellike highlights the sun etched in its surface. He broke from the cover of the forest and discovered the gold-and-silver blur of his father’s practice. Ravn choked. For all he had attuned himself to treasure Asgard’s wonders, the image of Colbey engaged in svergelse always captured his attention fully. The swords whipped around him, their flight swift and sure. Ravn’s eyes could not follow the movement, and often the blades blurred to invisibility. No matter how much he envied and emulated, he seemed incapable of matching a skill won fully by practice.
Ravn loosened one scimitar, then the other in its sheath. Excitement plied him, tainted by dread. The idea of assaulting the deadly figure in the field seemed a madness beyond contemplation. Colbey had trained warriors for longer than half a century, and Ravn for all of his sixteen years. He used only live steel, shunning sparring weapons as farm implements and clubs unfit for barbarians. In all those years, no session had ever resulted in spilled blood, except one. A smile eased onto Ravn’s lips as he recalled that battle. Then, elves had captured Griff, and Ravn would let nothing stand in the way of comforting his mortal friend. The wavering of the world’s balance had stolen the stability of the Sword of Balance as well. Even Colbey’s inhuman skill fell prey to the jerky shifts in equilibrium. A defense had fallen short just enough to allow Ravn to inflict a scratch that won him the match and his time with Griff.
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