Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Baltraine interrupted before Linndar could answer, wanting to avoid an orchestrated rendition, complete with choruses, of the thirty-seven-page document that detailed nobility, royalty, and ascension. He had studied it long enough to practically memorize it, and the appropriate sections returned verbatim. So many times he had stared at the pages, seeking a loophole that eluded him. “It is possible,” Baltraine answered Limrinial’s question literally before launching into the explanation. “By decree of King Sterrane, as directed by the word of the gods themselves, the crown passes only downward or across. Only Kohleran’s siblings and legitimate children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren can inherit rulership.” Before Baltraine could stop himself, he began to pace again. “Ten living heirs. None found worthy.”

  “Ten?” Minister Fahrthran seized on the math. “Last I’d heard, we had thirteen in line. We lost two to the bears’ attack, but that should still leave eleven.”

  Baltraine lowered his head, his back to the others, grief still a burden within him. Only two days had passed since the courtyard catastrophe, and the aftereffects throbbed behind this new, inevitable calamity. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of more bad news.” He turned to face his peers. “But the healers could not save Princess Fachlaine. Last night, she succumbed to the wounds the bears inflicted. There are ten.”

  “None found worthy,” someone whispered, the voice too soft to recognize.

  Thialnir rose suddenly, hands clenched to the hilts of swords at either hip, war braids flying. “There will be an heir to Béarn’s throne. My people will see to it!”

  All eyes swung from bard to Renshai. Baltraine had expected nothing else from Thialnir, verbalized rage without a solution. The gods had charged his people with seeing to the proper ascension, and any Renshai would rather die than admit defeat.

  Knight-Captain Kedrin performed a subtle, archaic gesture, indicating an interest in speaking. Even in a crisis, he would not abandon formality. Baltraine gave over the floor, and the knight spoke his first words of the meeting, attacking the problem with a warrior’s eye for detail. “Ten heirs. That includes every child, grandchild, and great-grandchild of King Kohleran?” He looked to Prime Minister Baltraine for confirmation.

  Anticipating the next question, Baltraine gave a complete answer. “Everyone. Including the five-year-old twins and the four-year-old girl.”

  “The four-year-old.” The eldest, Minister Abran, added his piece. “The king has two four-year-old great-granddaughters.”

  Fahrthran saved Baltraine the trouble of answering. “One is illegitimate. The law is clear about bastard children. They cannot inherit.” He added, clearly to forestall further discussion in this direction. “And marriage now won’t change that. Legitimacy is defined and determined at the time of birth.” He met Baltraine’s gaze, features crinkled in thought. “It seems to me our only option is to encourage the heirs to marry and parent. An infant ruler may not do much good now, but at least we won’t lose Béarn’s line permanently.”

  Many nods and mumbles of agreement met this suggestion. The false noble had received the most credit for his idea thus far, and Baltraine suffered a flash of irritation. He had also considered this means of creating new heirs, but details not yet presented made this a less satisfactory solution than it seemed. Baltraine elaborated, placing the plan back into perspective. “Obviously we need to encourage those of Kohleran’s blood to reproduce, but the law is clear on this point also. The heir must pass the staff-test within three months of the king’s death, and . . .” Baltraine quoted directly from the exemptions section of the document of ascension, “. . . the staff-test must be undertaken willingly with the full consent and understanding of the subject.” He returned to paraphrasing. “The law further specifies that only a prodigy could be expected to comprehend the test, even in the most basic sense, before the age of three.”

  Baltraine returned to the table and sat down. “It should be noted, historically, that the few genius heirs through the centuries have invariably failed the test. Extraordinary brilliance and naïveté don’t seem to fit well together.”

  Thialnir reclaimed his seat. “What’s your point?” he asked suspiciously.

  Baltraine sighed, realizing he had lapsed into intelligent conversation and believing it natural that the warriors could not follow. The gods give brains or bulk, never both. “The point is that our king, all gods keep him safe and happy, is unlikely to last the year. Any child conceived now will be too young to take the staff-test in time to fulfill the law. Remember, too, that only five heirs have come of age, and only one of those is married. The king’s last living daughter is past the age of childbearing. That leaves four. His grandson, Xyxthris, has a four-year-old daughter without siblings, not from lack of trying. Of the other three, the eldest has made her position against marriage very clear, with an illegitimate child to seal the point. The other two, male and female cousins, turned sixteen only this year. We can’t force them to marry, especially when it seems fruitless anyway.”

  Knight-Captain Kedrin again gestured formally for a turn to speak that Baltraine granted. Not until the knight sucked in a deep breath did the others notice his appeal and fall into a gloomy, pensive silence.

  Baltraine braced himself for typical warrior simplicity, though Kedrin had proven himself skilled with politics as well as tactics in the past. Knight’s training included law, honor, and court procedure as much as combat drills. He tossed copper-blond locks from classically handsome features. “My friends, I believe we have elaborated the problem. The consequences, however, are unclear.” He trained his gaze on Baltraine, irises so pale a blue they appeared nearly white, and made the rarely used motion that indicated a surrender of the speaking floor.

  The prime minister shrugged. “I’m not certain. I couldn’t find anything but vague insinuations about horrible consequences should the Béarnian throne remain empty, and those from our religious books. The more ancient tomes refer to the king as the ‘central focus of the universe’ or the ‘mortal keeper of the balance.’” He shivered. The staff-test and the rulers it placed in power formed the core of their faith around which all belief centered. At the least, the lack of a suitable king or queen would destroy the fabric of Western society and probably Northern and Eastern as well. He added carefully, “Most sages feel certain the Ragnarok will come. And all mankind and the gods will be destroyed.”

  Thialnir snorted, green eyes flashing, all semblance of composure disappearing. “The Ragnarok has come already. The gods left us the Fertile Oval and the Dead Triangle so that we would never forget that they rescued us from annihilation.” He met every gaze in turn, and most looked away from the earnest, angry glare. “How quickly some choose to forget the miracles gods perform for us.”

  Prime Minister Baltraine seized the floor, fearing the meeting could degenerate into a religious war. Whether the first occurrence or the second, the destruction would prove equally devastating. “Whatever the consequences, we need to find a solution.”

  Kedrin reclaimed the position as speaker gracefully and with proper formality, his voice soft but commanding. “I believe we can pursue several possibilities. First, we continue to try to save our beloved king, at least prolonging his life as much as possible.”

  Nods and affirmative platitudes met this most obvious proclamation. Baltraine bobbed his head, keeping the news of Kohleran’s most recent deterioration to himself. The death of three grandchildren had hit the old king hard, and the decision to inflict the staff-test on the others had only further shaken his resolve. Occasionally, he slipped into muddled states during which he slept too deeply to awaken, forgot the names of his grandchildren, echoed others’ words, or spoke in strings of gibberish. Every breath or movement had become a painful trauma no one should have to suffer. The master healer camped in Kohleran’s room. Few besides Baltraine were allowed admittance, and those only during the king’s lucid times. Baltraine had not yet told Kohleran the results of the staff-testing, fearing
to heap debacle upon catastrophe at a time when the king’s life seemed as fragile as a spider’s web. The king’s long illness had given him more than enough time to delegate his affairs in writing, including naming Baltraine regent to any heir not yet of age and to Kohleran himself as his illness rendered him incompetent. Baltraine appreciated the fact that this had become common knowledge since just before the staff-test. Already, the service staff and minor nobility had begun treating him with the same fawning indulgence and respect as they did their king.

  Kedrin continued his list. “Second, we discreetly encourage the three marriageable heirs to marry and the married grandson to continue his reproductive efforts.”

  More nods. Charletha scribbled furiously to get all the plans in writing. Bard Linndar’s lips moved as she memorized the suggestions in song form.

  “Third, we protect all of the heirs despite their failing. They deserve our concern and respect. If that is not reason enough, it will allow the younger ones to come of age. Also, it will foil our enemies who cannot know who passed or failed the staff-test.”

  Baltraine added, “It will also lull Béarn’s citizenry. Since they cannot assist, I think it best not to worry them by letting them know about our dilemma.” He studied the others, seeking dissension. But, although some seemed to consider the issue at length, no one spoke against it.

  Kedrin remained quiet until Baltraine acknowledged him again. Though the prime minister’s interruption had not strictly followed the rules of order at such a meeting, the Knight of Erythane would follow each and every detail with maddening distinctness. “Fourth, I believe consulting the sage is in order. We may find historical precedent or a loophole for such a situation.”

  Baltraine doubted the possibility but allowed the knight to continue. Knights had a tendency to formalize every situation to painful tedium, and he appreciated Kedrin’s uncharacteristic clarity. Disturbed too many times, the knight could lapse into trained habit and the meeting could stretch interminably.

  “That is all.” Kedrin executed the appropriate signal for having spoken his piece.

  “I have one more suggestion,” Bard Linndar said, placing the lonriset into playing position. “If you will indulge me.”

  Baltraine smiled at the irony. They had escaped the drudgery of knightly liturgy only to fall into the protracted explanations of a woman who could make points only via lengthy song. Luckily, he mused, it will be an ear-pleasing performance. Though the gravity of the current situation made music inappropriate, the bard’s voice and playing could not help but prove a comfort.

  “Please,” Abran encouraged Linndar, though only Baltraine could appropriately answer. He nodded his agreement, seeing little reason to press custom or his position. Because of the bardic curse, Linndar rarely spoke more than a sentence or two unless she had something of significance to say.

  Linndar played only a single chord by way of introduction:

  Kohleran, our beloved young king,

  Six children our fair land did bring.

  Each hale and good in his own way,

  And only one moved far away.

  Petrostan, our king’s youngest child,

  The son who later was reviled;

  And Cousin Helana, in the heather

  From infancy they played together.

  Their friendship pretty; their friendship pure.

  Marriage one day, their mothers were sure.

  But fate played a role no one could foresee—

  Helana with child by twelve years and three.

  For his crime, Petrostan did pay:

  Banished from Béarn far and away

  No family could ever see him;

  No pardon could ever free him.

  Helana left with her cousin dear

  No promise or comfort could keep her here

  Took a home near the Dead Triangle.

  Farmed the land, their shame untangled.

  Their boy was born, a handsome one;

  And three years later, a second son.

  Father and oldest were killed together,

  An accident in foul plowing weather.

  The youngest lives still, as far as I know—

  Healthy and strong, he continues to grow.

  Instead of Béarn into chaos hurled

  This innocent youngster might save our world.

  Linndar ended the song on the final syllable, without trailing notes or chords. Clearly, she had ad-libbed the song, the tune simple and the rhyme scheme primitive compared with those she expended effort crafting. Her ability to shape sonnets instantaneously never failed to amaze Baltraine; though, as silence replaced the beauty of the singing, the significance of Linndar’s words became all too apparent. Petrostan married into the proper bloodline and produced a living son. Another heir? Hope soared, enhanced by the understanding that the missing grandson, if he did indeed exist, was male. Only those of the proper lineage could rule; but a king’s marriage to one or more of his daughters might still see Baltraine’s descendants on Béarn’s throne. Yet doubt tainted the joy, and he kept his emotions in check. He had known of Petrostan’s banishment; but if the scandal Linndar described had rocked Béarn, surely he would have heard the details. “This is the truth?”

  Linndar frowned, obviously insulted. “Undeniably.”

  The eldest minister made a thoughtful noise that snapped loudly over the rumble of conversation. As the gathering’s attention turned to him, he made his musing audible. “Petrostan would be thirty-three now, which means this must have happened about twenty years ago.”

  Baltraine did not interrupt. The events had transpired prior to his induction as prime minister, while he was still training for the post.

  Abran nodded slowly and repetitively. “So that’s what happened.”

  Baltraine squinted, uncertain whether to trust the description of kingdom events unknown to the minister of foreign affairs who had faithfully served Kohleran for all of his thirty-three-year reign and his father for seven before that. Baltraine knew he needed to handle the situation delicately. Already, he could see hope blazing in warriors and politicians alike as they considered the implications of the bard’s revelation. Frustration and crushed faith could cause tempers already high to flare. “Pardon my confusion, but I don’t understand how such a thing could occur without the knowledge of the king’s ministers.”

  The only minister in power at the time, Abran, chose to answer. “The king and his then prime minister, your predecessor, kept the details between them. As you know, they made his exile seem relatively insignificant. He was the youngest of six, after all. We all speculated, of course, but it never seemed important enough to concern us.” He added carefully, “Until now, of course.”

  Baltraine studied Linndar, wondering how the bard had acquired the information. Two possibilities presented themselves: as the king’s personal bodyguard, the bard at that time, Linndar’s mother, may have been privy to the clandestine conversations between king and prime minister. Equally likely, the bard’s constant, driving need to travel and learn uncovered information otherwise hidden. With these possibilities in mind, Baltraine did not bother to quiz Linndar. Among other things, the bard’s curse made them faithful beyond life to the Béarnian kings. She would do nothing to jeopardize Kohleran or his line.

  “All right, then.” Baltraine added Linndar’s description to the list Knight-Captain Kedrin had made. “Fifth, we enlist the sage for details about a possible missing heir.” The elder guarded his writings and knowledge jealously, but Baltraine felt certain he could get the king’s order to release the information they needed. The future of the kingdom lay at stake, the very reason the sage chronicled events. “If we can confirm Linndar’s findings in any manner, we send a messenger to whoever currently has political jurisdiction in the area in which our heir resides, thus beginning the process of bringing him to Béarn for testing.” The meeting wound to an obvious conclusion. “All in favor?”

  Kedrin motioned for acknowledgment, and
Baltraine yielded the floor to the knight. “Friends, I would like to add just one detail as a reminder. May I proceed prior to the vote?” As per ancient protocol long abandoned by any but knights, he waited for consent from everyone prior to finishing his point. “When it comes to bringing this heir back to Béarn, we need to exercise the utmost caution. Whatever our own feelings and biases, we must remember that simple, guileless folk, such as our king must be, do not always wish to become burdened with the responsibilities of rulership. We cannot coerce this heir. He must come with us willingly and with his innocence intact.”

  Though Kedrin’s pronouncement seemed self-evident to Baltraine, he remained patient. “Thank you, Sir Kedrin. Would anyone else like to add anything prior to the vote?”

  A hush ensued, punctuated by shaking heads.

  “All in favor of all five points, gesture affirmation.” Ordinarily, Baltraine would have allowed a voice vote, interspersed with whatever commentary the politicians wished, but the presence of a Knight of Erythane adhered them to detailed observance of the rules. He did not relish a lecture after the meeting.

  The support was unanimous.

  Chapter 5

  Tae Kahn

  Dying young and with honor is part of being Renshai.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Trees punctuated the gray-black film of sky and crisscrossed the rainbow stripes that trailed the sunset at every horizon. Tae Kahn curled on his travel-stained blanket beside the campfire, fatigue pounding him toward stupor even as he tried to instruct his mind to light and wary sleep. Two weeks of hiding in alleys, rat holes, and on rooftops, of dozing always on the razor edge of awakening, had left him exhausted and irritable. Since he had crossed the passes through the Great Frenum Mountains and into the Westlands, he had lost the close-packed, familiar cover of Eastland cities. Western forests seemed as much curse as blessing. He no longer had to compete with waifs and street thugs for shelter, food, and his own belongings; and some of his father’s enemies had abandoned their chase at the border. But the forest days seemed strange and forbidding, filled with unidentifiable sounds that sent him diving for cover or tensed to fight at every step. At night, even the summer air turned cold; and the insects descended upon him, leaving him welt-covered and itching.