Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Right.”

  “Here.” The Renshai pulled her left-hand sword from its sheath and offered it to Matrinka, hilt first. “Strike at me.”

  Matrinka rose, accepting the offering. The grip felt thick in her smooth palm, and the heaviness of the blade surprised her. The tip bowed to the ground, all but touching the floor, which seemed to bother the Renshai. Matrinka managed to raise the blade into the more normal position she saw the guards use in spar. Then, the Renshai’s words seeped in. “Strike at you? No, I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” The Renshai took several backward steps to clear some space in the center of Matrinka’s bedroom. She did not draw the other weapon.

  “I might hurt you.”

  The Renshai snorted.

  “You might hurt me,” Matrinka corrected.

  The Renshai glared. “If you’re quite finished insulting me, as a warrior and as a teacher, you can strike when ready.”

  Matrinka shook her head, horrified by the thought of using a weapon against anyone not confirmed as an enemy. “I can’t do that.” She drove for the compromise. “I’ll just take a few swings. You can tell me how long you think it’d take me to learn from that.”

  The Renshai just stared.

  Taking that as an affirmative, Matrinka swung at random.

  Before she thought to watch for it, the Renshai’s sword licked out and caught hers at the crossguard. The sword flew from her hand. The Renshai caught it and sheathed both in a single, smooth motion. “I think,” she said softly, “that being an heir is hard enough for you.”

  * * *

  Prime Minister Baltraine whisked through the castle hallways, a brace of Béarnian guards at his back and a sage’s scribe trotting at his side. The morning session in the courtroom had ended; a parade of peasants, merchants, and nobles had presented their various cases and projects. All that remained was for Baltraine to consult King Kohleran and return with his many judgments. The process had become polite formality, at times even a charade that no longer held meaning. Nearly as often as not, Baltraine found King Kohleran unconscious or incomprehensible; and the prime minister had the obligation to adjudicate in the king’s stead. When lucid, the king always sanctioned the plan Baltraine presented. Years of relaying the king’s decisions had allowed the prime minister to develop an acutely accurate feel for Kohleran’s settlements and decrees. Although Baltraine did not always agree with Kohleran’s choices, he dictated policies as he believed the king would do. Thus, he hoped, the kingdom could continue to prosper with the neutrality the gods intended.

  Baltraine turned a corner absently, mulling the cases he had seen, the path to the king’s door too familiar to require thought. Inattentive, he nearly crashed into Knight-Captain Kedrin, the Erythanian’s graceful sidestep all that saved them both from collision. Startled, Baltraine jerked sideways, lost his balance, and flailed to regain it. The scribe scrambled out of the way. Kedrin seized Baltraine’s wrist, steadying him before the guards could rush to his rescue. Apparently recognizing the knight, Béarn’s guards remained politely at ease behind the prime minister. In the military operations of the kingdom, he far outranked them.

  Baltraine balanced himself, glaring into eyes like sapphires encrusted in ice. Their strange white-blue color, trained with frightening sobriety on Baltraine, unnerved him. There could be only one reason why the knight-captain came here alone at this time: he wanted to run into Baltraine. Whether he truly wished to do so literally or just figuratively remained to be seen. “What can I do for you, Sir Kedrin?” he asked with the formality a knight preferred.

  “Lord Baltraine, we need to talk.” Kedrin’s eyes never strayed from Baltraine’s face. They seemed not even to blink.

  Though requested politely, the audience bothered Baltraine. Never before had Kedrin asked for such a thing, except for the normal discussions regarding the knights’ duties and rotations through Béarn and Erythane. “Would you like a slot in the court? For you, we could make an opening today or tomorrow.” Even as he spoke, Baltraine cursed himself. Any other noble would have appreciated preferential treatment, but the knights played strictly by the rules.

  Kedrin frowned but otherwise showed no reaction to the impropriety. “I wish to speak with you now. In private.”

  “Now?” Baltraine frowned at the possibility. So many sat awaiting his visit to the king and the judgments that followed. “I’m very busy.”

  Kedrin made a respectful gesture. “I appreciate the demands on your schedule, Minister, and sympathize with their constancy. I’ve waited nearly a week to catch you at an open moment, without success. Now, will you meet with me, or should I call an assembly?”

  Baltraine’s mood jumped from irritation to frank anger. When an officer called the others to order, it was a grave insult to the prime minister, suggesting that a serious problem existed that he refused to acknowledge.

  Kedrin finished, still annoyingly polite in speech and manner despite his threat. “I won’t take but a few moments of your time, Lord.”

  “Very well. Come with me.” Waving for the guards and scribe to remain in place, Baltraine headed up the corridor to a position where the Béarnides could still see but could no longer hear them. Procedure dictated that he make the guards move back rather than that he and the knight-captain shift position; but Baltraine knew that such a command would send the guards around the bend in the corridor to where they could no longer follow the conversation visually. The implication that he did not trust Kedrin would be obvious, at least to the knight-captain, an insult at least as grave as the one Kedrin had delivered. Inwardly, Baltraine smiled. There was use to the knight’s rigid adherence to rule and honor after all. Subtle affronts could unbalance the knight without outsiders even recognizing that such had occurred. The constant need for self-restraint could blunt the knight’s vigilance and give Baltraine the upper hand.

  After an initial hesitation, probably due to surprise, Kedrin matched the prime minister pace for pace. He gave no indication that he recognized the insult. “The messenger the council sent has not returned.”

  This was no news to Baltraine. “I’m aware of that, Captain. We all are.”

  “It’s been two months.”

  “Yes.” Baltraine grew impatient listening to things he already knew, although he believed he understood the knight’s eventual point. Normally, the trip from Béarn to Santagithi took a season to travel. However, the messenger lines shortened the trip to just under a month either way. These consisted of a chain of the fastest, calmest horses in existence, all well-provisioned and trained to carry even a sleeping man to the next station. Bound to the saddles, the messengers could travel awake and asleep, without need for camping. Anyone caught tampering with a messenger, or the lines, risked slow execution. Distant messengers sent via the line always received priority when it came to granting audiences, displacing even domestic emergencies except those requiring immediate medical attention.

  Undoubtedly, Kedrin felt as foolish as Baltraine stating the obvious, yet he did so dutifully. “The messenger should have returned by now.”

  “He’s barely a week late,” Baltraine returned. “Any minor problem could have delayed him.”

  Kedrin remained relentless, his odd eyes steadfast. “There are provisions for those. The facts remain. The messenger is late. What have you done to further the goals the council set out two months ago?”

  Baltraine saw no reason to continue this conversation. “You know we’ve done as we discussed. Many of the heirs have become despondent, and it’s been difficult to instill the importance of marriage and children. We’re working on that. The sage confirmed the bard’s story of the missing heir, and we sent a messenger immediately. What more would you have me do?”

  Kedrin raised his brows as if the whole seemed obvious. “Investigate the missing messenger. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Baltraine sighed. “And I’m only asking for patience. Why waste or risk manpower on an emergency that’s only in yo
ur head? The messenger may well return tomorrow. Or the day after.”

  “Or not at all,” Kedrin supplied. “This is not a discussion on tariffs. We’re talking about the future of Béarn and all the world. We can’t sit idly back and wait for a minor delay to worsen the world’s most serious crisis. If, gods prevent it, the king should die tomorrow, we would barely have the time to transport the heir here in time to pass the staff-test. It is imperative that the messengers arrive as soon as possible. The messenger was aware that any delay would prove intolerable.”

  “Aware is not the same as being in a position to prevent one,” Baltraine pointed out.

  Kedrin did not banter. “So you’re going to do nothing about this?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Baltraine abandoned the argument as well, though his face felt flushed. Kedrin’s accusations came dangerously close to treason. Had he spoken them directly to the king, there would have been no doubt about the charge. As acting regent, Baltraine deserved the respect and treatment Kohleran would receive in his stead.

  “You are going to do something?” The knight continued to press.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to send an armed party to Santagithi?”

  “No.” Baltraine believed the captain’s suggestion extreme. “But I will dispatch another messenger with the same urgency. I had only planned to wait another couple of days; but, for you, Knight-Captain, I’ll send him today. Will that appease you?”

  “Yes, Lord,” Kedrin said, though his head shook slightly in a negative gesture. “I think a protected party better advised, but I have little choice but to give in to your decision.” He bowed stiffly. Then, turning on his heel, he marched away.

  Baltraine seethed, all the controlled anger racing to the forefront at once. His fists curled, and he planted them on his hips. Uppish bastard. Who in Hel does he think he is? The job of regent had proved difficult enough without an intermittently ineffectual king and a knight questioning not just the content, but the timing, of his every decision. A troublemaker, that one. Too cocky for his position. The thought of Kedrin catching plague and dying brought a momentary satisfaction that unconsciously stirred deeper contemplations. Baltraine composed himself briefly, then motioned for the guards to continue. As a unit, they headed for King Kohleran’s chamber.

  Chapter 6

  Subtle Tactics

  One’s own flaws are the hardest to recognize.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Ra-khir followed his father through the iron-bound oak door into the knight-captain’s quarters, mind brimming with images of the king’s city. His first visit to Béarn revealed a town smaller than Erythane or his expectations. Massive men and women, and children with all the potential size of their parents, scurried along cobbled streets that put those of Erythane to shame. Home to the world’s most talented masons, Béarn boasted stonework without peer. From wells to dwellings, from walls to the myriad statues that decorated even the poorest of yards, the masonry and granite-craft had drawn Ra-khir’s eye at every turn.

  Now Ra-khir glanced around the rooms that would serve as home for the next weeks or months. A blue carpet, speckled in various shadings, spanned the stone floor nearly from corner to corner. A desk and matching chair filled most of one wall, neat stacks of paper and an ink quill on its surface. Three more chairs, wooden with padded seats, stood in a rigid line on the opposite side of the desk. A comfortable looking but faded couch took up most of the remaining space, and a table at each end held an unlit lantern. Sunlight from the windows fell across the furnishings, and dust motes swam through the beams. Three exits opened onto other rooms that Kedrin identified with distinct gestures: “Washroom, pantry, bedroom.” He smiled at his son. “Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

  “Not at all,” Ra-khir said honestly. He had never seen quarters so large or richly furnished and wondered why his father spent as much time as he did in Erythane with these accommodations waiting in Béarn.

  “Sit. We need to talk a moment.” Kedrin waved at the couch, waiting for Ra-khir to choose a spot before joining him.

  Ra-khir sank into the cushions, pleasantly surprised by the soft support. He had never before lived in a cottage with a real couch. He waited until his father settled beside him before asking the obvious question. “All right. What do you want to talk about?”

  “You.”

  The topic surprised Ra-khir. “Me?” He studied his father’s set features, from the firm, square jaw to the attentive eyes. Kedrin seemed quite serious, and his expression revealed concern without anger. Over the last month, Ra-khir had spent most of his free time alone while his father pursued matters in Béarn.

  “You,” Kedrin confirmed.

  Ra-khir nodded, unable to keep his thoughts from running backward to the events of the past few weeks, seeking something he might have done that could upset his father. Dread squeezed him, viselike, at the idea that he might lose the father he had missed for most of his childhood and learned to love more than anyone over the past year. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Kedrin repeated, then shook his head vigorously. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to make certain I did the right thing uprooting your life in Erythane to bring you here.”

  “Uprooting? Let me understand this. You give me the chance to spend some time in Béarn, in the high king’s city, without even interrupting my training. And you think I might be unhappy about it?”

  “Are you?” Now Kedrin held his features in a stony mask, as if afraid any display of emotion from him might influence Ra-khir’s personal preference.

  “Of course not. I’m thrilled.” Ra-khir shook his head to indicate the suggestion was silly. “I’ve always wanted to come here, and I want to be with you. I couldn’t have dreamed a better arrangement.”

  “I just don’t . . .” Kedrin started, his pale eyes skittering from his son’s bold stare. “I mean, I don’t want you to think . . .” He sighed, gathering his words and composure so that his final point emerged in his usual commanding voice. “If you’d rather go back to your mother, I won’t stop you.” He winced, as if just speaking the words pained him.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Ra-khir blurted before he could concoct something more respectful. “My father was stolen from me, and I’m lucky to have him back. I love you, and I want to be with you.” A heartfelt rush of emotion accompanied the words, so strong it frightened as well as pleased him. The power and depth of his loyalty was beyond question, but his father’s seeming doubt clutched at his mind and clung with a tenacity he could not dispel or quiet without help. “Unless . . .” he began, uncertain how to finish. Then, following his father’s recent example, he gathered his thoughts into a single, straightforward rush. “Are you politely telling me to go?” Tears accompanied his query, beyond his control.

  The horror that opened Kedrin’s expression could not have been feigned. “Absolutely not.” He gathered Ra-khir into an embrace. “I love you too, son. Not stealing you away from your mother was the hardest thing I ever did.”

  Head buried against Kedrin’s chest, Ra-khir sobbed. Under any other circumstances, he would have felt humiliated for his lapse, but not in his father’s arms. “I wish you had,” he managed.

  “Now, maybe.” Kedrin smoothed his son’s red locks, so like his own. “But not then. You wouldn’t have understood then.”

  “I would,” Ra-khir insisted, voice muffled by Kedrin’s tunic.

  “Trust me,” Kedrin said. “A child could not have understood. It’s more complicated even now than I will ever explain.”

  “Tell me,” Ra-khir insisted.

  “No.” Though soft, Kedrin’s tone indicated finality. “Truth or lies, no good could come of me speaking ill of your mother, any more than her having done the same to me. The truth is, you come of good stock; and it shows in everything you do. For all her faults, she raised you well. I’m proud of you, Ra-khir.”

  I raised me well. Ra-khir refused to forgive as easily as his father.
The simple truth was that his mother was a selfish, mean woman who demanded a loyalty she gave to no one else. Over the past year, he’d discovered many things about her he had never suspected: that she had secretly shared her body with other men during both of her marriages, that she had created vicious stories about any who opposed her, that she had threatened his father with harm to Ra-khir should his father dare to reveal the truth. He knew how difficult speaking well of his mother came to Kedrin, the honor he held foremost yet chose to abandon this once to preserve his son’s childhood images of his mother. The veil she hid behind, however, had already been ripped away.

  Kedrin spoke his final words on the subject. “I just want you to know that if you ever decide to return to her, I’ll understand and make any clandestine arrangements you choose so that we can still spend time together.”

  Ra-khir pulled away, his answer too important to lose to muffling. “The knighthood and my father mean everything to me. By my own choice. I swear upon my honor, death alone will take either away from me.” Ra-khir had never meant anything more. He tried to memorize the feelings that enveloped him now, stronger than any he had known before in his life. He believed he finally understood what love meant, a loyalty so strong that he would rather suicide than break it. Someday, he hoped, he would have the same bond with his own son. And no one, no one could break it.

  * * *

  The following day, Ra-khir took a stroll through Béarn’s courtyard, reveling in the mingled perfumes of greenery and flowers and the light breeze. He had bathed and changed since his morning practice, unusually grueling because he worked with full-fledged knights rather than the apprentices in Erythane. In the afternoon, his father would drive him with at least as much vigor as Armsman Edwin; but, for now, Ra-khir would relish the time he found for relaxation.

  Flower beds wove into striking patterns, the colors arranged to form pictures or spell words. Statues accentuated the tended beds without crowding. Apparently, to prevent clutter amid the plants, the statues occasionally were grouped in gardens of their own. Even perfectly sculpted artwork could grow tasteless if overused, but the gardeners clearly had an eye for their work that Ra-khir, at least, could not fault. Each time he believed he’d discovered the most flawless arrangement, he entered a garden that dazzled him all the more.