Griff studied the guard with a kind expression devoid of the curiosity that plagued Darris and every other member of the audience. Like all of the god-sanctioned rulers of Béarn, Griff was neutrality incarnate, the very fulcrum of the world’s balance. Enormous, yet uncomplicated, the ruler of the West’s high kingdom seemed more like a massive, bearded child than an absolute commander-in-chief. He looked at the guard through coarse, ebony bangs and smiled. “Hello, Lazwald. What news have you brought me?”
The guard rose, dark eyes darting nervously, clearly startled that the king knew him by name.
Darris nodded encouragingly. The king made it a point to recognize as many of his citizens as possible.
“Sire, your presence is requested in the Council Room as soon as possible.”
The corners of Darris’ lips slid downward, though the king’s expression never changed. The Council rarely interrupted court. Most of their affairs involved protocol, law, and state, matters that required mulling. It also bothered Darris they had sent a guardsman rather than a page, which suggested they had gathered hastily and dispatched whoever had brought them the news that resulted in their sudden need for a meeting. Information from guardsmen, when important enough to disturb the king, was rarely good.
King Griff gave no sign he had made the same intuitive leap as his bard. “Very well, then. Court is dismissed for the day. Anything remaining will hold over until tomorrow.”
The audience rose from their seats, muttering amongst themselves as they headed down the carpetway toward the double doors. Darris leaped to his feet, pausing to execute a bow before stooping to retrieve the lute beside his chair. His liege rose stiffly from his padded throne to tower over his escort. The inner court guards filed out the back exit, leaving only the king, his captain, and Darris.
Béarnian big, burly and massively boned, the other two men towered over Darris, whose Pudarian origins seemed obvious in their presence. Pure-blooded Béarnides sported thick bristly black hair, coarse features, fair skin, and brown eyes. A tall, sturdy lot, nearly all the men wore heavy beards. In contrast, Darris had a slender, average build. Soft, mouse-brown curls framed a delicate face with thin brows, an overly large straight nose, and broad lips.
Those differences might have singled him out enough, without the bardic curse, passed to the oldest child of his line for millennia. Though imbued with insatiable curiosity, he could impart what he learned only through song. As such, he usually carried a mandolin or lute in addition to the sword at his belt. Now, he slung his instrument onto his back, running verses of courage and hope through his mind. He might need them at the Council meeting.
As they trod through castle corridors replete with animal-shaped torch brackets trailing strings of gems, carved and painted statues, and vast murals encompassing the doors and windows into their art, Darris mulled the possibilities through his mind. He had practically memorized the artwork; his inhuman inquisitiveness had forced him to study every nuance in the past. Now, his focus narrowed to the reason for the abrupt meeting. Surely, it had something to do with the pirates on the southwest coast. Béarn currently had no other significant enemies. Friends now ruled the vast Eastlands, and trade with the reclusive Northlanders had become one-sided in the North’s favor. The many and varied countries that made up the vast territories of the Westlands, though essentially under Béarn’s rule, were mostly left to govern themselves. King Griff kept his touch and taxes light; and, consequently, heard few complaints.
A pair of guards clutching polearms stood at the Council Room door. Both bowed as the trio approached, and one opened the door with a grand and practiced gesture as he did so. Darris peeked around him into the familiar, austere room. It contained nothing but a long, rectangular table, and the members of the Council seated around it, who rose at the king’s approach. The walls were kept symbolically bare, to emphasize the importance of the discussions occurring there. As the three men stepped through the entrance, the door whisked closed behind them.
Darris assessed those present with a glance, nodding at each in turn as the king claimed the head seat, leaving the one at his right hand for Darris. As usual, Captain Seiryn chose a position standing near the door. Though an official member, he carried no noble blood and deferred to the men and women he considered his superiors.The oldest, seventy-nine-year-old Minister of Courtroom Procedure and Affairs Saxanar, looked grim. Fanatical about protocol and grooming, he wore his colors fastidiously. Not a single white hair lay out of place, and his deep brown eyes held a glaze of pain.
Beside him, Prime Minister Davian kept his head lowered, hiding his scarred features beneath a curtain of salt-and-pepper hair. Once a peasant carver, he had earned his title by leading the band of renegades who had helped reclaim Griff’s throne from usurpers. His no-nonsense cleverness had won over even stodgy Saxanar, who had made it known in the past that he believed only blooded nobility made for proper councillors.
Another former leader of the renegades, Minister of Internal Affairs Aerean, also held an honorary title.Though rapidly approaching forty, she still maintained the boundless energy and enthusiasm that had irritated Saxanar since her appointment. Though primary nobility, Minister of Household Affairs Franstaine had a habit of vexing the staid, older ministers nearly as much as Aerean. An in-law uncle of Griff’s mother, he was as notorious for his strange sense of humor as his seemingly limitless patience.
Only a year or two older than Aerean, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Richar, handled the visiting dignitaries, usually Western merchants and disputants in claims too difficult for local kingdoms to handle. Fair and tactful, he grew positively exuberant when his charges became more exotic. Though greatly contaminated, by Saxanar’s standards, his line did contain royal blood in its distant past.
Though essentially devoid of noble blood, Zaysharn never seemed to bother Saxanar at all. The Overseer of Béarn’s livestock, gardens, and food had a quiet attentiveness that made him nearly invisible, despite his Béarnian sturdiness and size. He dwarfed the tiny woman at his side, the Minister of Local Affairs, named Chaveeshia. Her size alone revealed her mixed heritage, but she also had brown hair and a tinge of green in her eyes. She tended the relationships between Béarn and its close neighbors, mostly Erythanians and Renshai. Her commanding manner and sharp tongue made her a natural for the position, despite her lack of size.
This time, her usual charges were conspicuously absent, apparently because of the suddenness of the meeting. The Captain of the Knights of Erythane and the leader of the Renshai also held regular seats at the Council table. Queen Matrinka, too, had a right to attend, though she frequently waived it. Darris appreciated that no one had fetched her to the Council Room this time. She did not need to hear bleak news until after wise heads had pondered meanings and crafted solutions.
King Griff took his seat, and the others followed suit. Only Captain Seiryn remained standing. Prime Minister Davian called the meeting to order. The years had not treated the ex-carver’s face kindly, adding wrinkles to the mass of scars that already marred it. It now appeared more homely than heroic. “Your Majesty, I apologize for calling you here so abruptly.”
Griff waved off the need for explanation, though Davian continued in the same vein.
“This news cannot wait.” Despite his bold words, the prime minister cleared his throat in obvious delay. He glanced at Saxanar, who relinquished the necessity for protracted protocol with a gesture, clearly to Davian’s dismay. “Sire, it seems the pirates have struck again, this time in two attacks. The first was against our forces on the shore, the second against ship number Seven.”
Seven? Darris’ throat seemed to close; breathing became all but impossible.
Griff jerked up his head, his lips pursed into a bloodless line, his gentle eyes wide. “What . . . what . . . was the . . . outcome?”
Darris forced a tight swallow, allowing air to wheeze into his lungs. It was not the first time the pirates had led a minor assault on the coast; they seem
ed to be carefully testing Béarn’s defenses. But Seven had gone on a routine mission; its presence alone was supposed to keep the pirates at bay. Jhirban had assured them that mere thieves would never dare attack a Béarnian warship, especially in her own waters; and, thus far, the pirates had limited their conquests to merchant vessels. Arturo was on that ship. Darris stared at Davian, needing to know the details for reasons far beyond bardic curiosity.
“The onshore army repelled the invaders, Sire.”
Though good, that was not the news Darris awaited. Seiryn allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile.
“Fifteen casualties, twenty wounded on our side, Sire.” Davian read the numbers through gritted teeth. He fairly spat the rest, “All thirty-seven invaders dead.”
The ship. Darris needed to know the fate of his biological son. His only son.
Though surely just as concerned for Arturo, Griff asked the necessary questions first. “No enemy prisoners?”
“No, Sire.”
For once, Zaysharn did not hold his tongue. “There were Renshai among the troops, Sire.” His tone held an odd note of disdain that bordered on anger. “Renshai do not take prisoners.”
The words shocked the room silent. Zaysharn rarely spoke; when he did, he nearly always made a point of great import. It was not like him to blurt out anything, especially so clearly imbued with emotion.
Davian’s blemished cheeks barely allowed a tinge of red. He spoke with the evenhanded patience Zaysharn had discarded. “Your Majesty, once Renshai become embroiled in battle, it is difficult to . . . er . . . unembroil them.”
Zaysharn broke in again. “They kill everyone in sight.”
“Not everyone.” Darris could not help entering the discussion. One of his closest friends was Renshai. “Not companions.” It was not a wholly fair defense. He had traveled with Kevral on several serious missions, and she had, on occasion, threatened the lives of allies. Friends less skilled or quick might have lost their lives.
“Even companions, sometimes, Darris.” Captain Seiryn entered the discussion. Though negative, his assessment did not seem judgmental. “I’ve seen it. Renshai are highly skilled, brave warriors; but commanding them is a challenge. Rather like commanding a palace full of cats.”
The seriousness of the circumstances kept anyone from laughing, but they all understood the reference. Béarn Castle had become nearly overrun with the offspring of the queen’s favorite pet, a calico named Mior.The mother of these multitudes had passed away a couple of years earlier, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Only Darris and a handful of friends knew how severely her passing had affected Matrinka. She had had a bond with the cat that went far beyond mistress and pet. With a process no one seemed capable of explaining, they had exchanged a form of mental communication. Matrinka kept hoping she could create a similar attachment to one of the kittens, but every attempt had failed so far.
When no one laughed, Seiryn clearly felt obligated to explain. “Renshai don’t use strategy or repeat patterns when they fight. Their only driving goal is glorious, individual death in battle. They are not only impossible to hold to a plan, they are also unpredictable.” He shrugged in clear apology, not wishing to speak ill of a group of people the king admired. “Furthermore, a mortally ill or injured Renshai will attack anyone to assure himself or herself a death in combat. Any other death they scorn as cowardice.”
Griff turned his attention directly on his captain. “Are you saying we shouldn’t have Renshai among our troops?”
“No, Sire, I—” Seiryn started, interrupted by Zaysharn, who seemed to have completely abandoned his quiet persona.
“That,Your Majesty, is exactly what he is saying.”
A scowl pinched Seiryn’s face, and he glared at the overseer. “I am perfectly capable of making a point, Lord Zaysharn—and that was not it.”
Zaysharn stood, presumably to level the argument. “Your men would agree with me.”
“My men,” Seiryn said through clenched teeth, “are not your concern.”
Though wild with worry for Arturo, Darris could not help getting swept up in the discussion. His bardic curiosity demanded it.
The king swallowed hard, looking pained. “Is that true, Captain Seiryn? Are the soldiers unhappy about serving with Renshai?”
Seiryn backed down from Zaysharn with clear reluctance to face the king directly. “Sire, there is some discomfort in the ranks. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Saxanar made an archaic gesture indicating that he wished to speak, and the others yielded to his preeminence. “Some of the soldiers have threatened to quit.”
“Let them,” Seiryn grumbled. “I’ve enough real men among them; I don’t need defeatists.”
Saxanar ignored the interruption. “Others have simply expressed concern, and more just want reassignment. Perhaps if we went back to separating the Renshai into their own platoon—”
This time, Seiryn refused to allow the old minister to talk over him, “That didn’t work. The Renshai need oversight, and we need their sword arms.”
Zaysharn broke in again, “Instead of our own?”
“In addition to our own.” Seiryn turned the overseer of livestock another pointed glare.
Aerean bounced to her feet. “I’ve heard a lot of talk in recent weeks about Renshai. Even the servants and commoners are talking about how fierce they must have been to become exiles from the Northlands for . . . for violence. How they slaughtered a path through the West and East before seizing the Fields of Wrath.
Though silent to this point, Darris could not help adding the perspective his studies gave him. “But that was hundreds of years ago!” He wanted to add more, that the Fields of Wrath had been considered uninhabitable wasteland when the Renshai settled there, but it seemed an insignificant point. The Renshai thrived on a barren plain because they did not need proper growing or grazing land. They dedicated every moment of their lives to learning warcraft and purchased their necessities by selling their one and only talent, mostly to the kings of Béarn. For far longer than the memory of anyone living, the Renshai had served as guardians to the princes and princesses of Béarn. Even the king had a Renshai who guarded him obsessively whenever business took Darris from his post.
Zaysharn turned on Darris. “Hundreds of years have not bred the ferocity out of wolves, nor out of Renshai either.”
Aerean seemed not to realize the tangent the discussion had taken. “It’s said they burn off horn buds at birth and hide the scars beneath golden hair. That some have seen tails tucked into their trousers.”
A sudden silence gripped the room, and every eye turned to Aerean.
Aerean’s cheeks flushed a brilliant red. “I’m just saying what I’ve heard, not whether I believe it.”
Golden-haired devils from the North, the Westerners had called them in the years when Renshai ravaged the countryside. The prejudice lived on, long after a coalition of Northern tribes had all but obliterated the Renshai and the last surviving few had proven themselves reliable heroes in the Great War against the East. In the more than three centuries since, hatred for the Renshai had come and gone in cycles; each time, the legends grew more odious and, now it seemed, more literal.
Chaveeshia finally broke the silence. “They’re not really demons.” As the diplomatic link between the Fields of Wrath and Béarn, the diminutive woman voiced an opinion that carried the weight she did not. “I’ve seen bald Renshai without scars and Renshai newborn. No horns. No tails.”
King Griff cleared his throat loudly. “No one believes the Renshai are actual demons.”
Aerean shrugged but did not gainsay her liege. Darris doubted she personally expected to find horns and tails, but the common folk might. Since elves and their magic had come to Midgard, the populace had reason to believe in legends once dismissed as utter nonsense.
“What matters is keeping our troops strong and focused, especially given the enemy at our ships and coastline.” Griff turned his attention fully back to Pri
me Minister Davian.
Though clearly reluctant, Davian returned to his report. “Your Majesty, I recommend we table the discussion on Renshai for another time. I . . .” He swallowed so hard, his words faltered. His eyes became a blurry smear of black. “I regret . . . to inform you . . . that . . .”
Torn between wanting to tear the words from Davian’s throat and never having to hear them, Darris waited in the same breathless hush as the others.
“. . . the ship called Seven . . .” Davian lowered his head.
The wait had become intolerable. Darris felt tears forming in his own eyes, though he had not yet heard the words spoken. By all the gods, please let Arturo be all right. He felt selfish for the thought. The others aboard the ship also had kin, but he could only concentrate on the fate of his boy.
Davian tried to finish, his voice a gasp, “. . . and all aboard her . . .” He lapsed into a silence no one dared to break. A tear coursed down one cheek.
“. . . were . . . lost.”
Horror gripped the room. His vision blurred, and Darris realized he was also crying.
King Griff clasped his hands over his lowered face, his cheeks seeming to melt into his palms. His voice emerged muffled. “All?”
Agony spiked through Darris. He wanted, needed to console his king, but he found himself unable to move. His thoughts remained frozen in place, incapable of further contemplation.
Davian addressed the hovering question. “It appears so, Sire.” He glanced around the room, as if for help, but no one leaped in to rescue him from the words he needed to speak. “We have ships recovering . . . remains, Sire. We have found . . . no . . . survivors.” He studied the king as he spoke, clearly weighing the effect of every word before allowing it to leave his lips. “I’m so, so very sorry, Your Majesty.”
“As are we all,” Saxanar said, tone made gravelly by grief. “This is a sad day for Béarn.”
His fervor spent, Zaysharn disappeared back into his usual quiet position, his head bowed.
Flight of the Renshai Page 5
