Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “I’m honored, too,” Matrinka said, glancing nervously at Darris who smiled reassuringly. He should have guessed that Matrinka’s informality and Ra-khir’s training would clash, but the relationship between apprentice knight and Renshai seemed harder to fathom. Ra-khir had stated that he’d never left Erythane before, and honor would not allow him to lie. Yet Renshai remained reclusively on the Fields of Wrath except when duty called them to war or to Béarn. If Ra-khir and Kevral had met in the king’s city, he should have known Matrinka as well. Though intrigued by the possibilities, Darris could tell neither would want him to question them.

  Darris quelled his burning need for constant understanding and knowledge that cursed him as a birthright and set about creating friendships instead. “Would anyone care for a song?” He asked casually, though it was an offer some Béarnides would pay a day’s wages to hear. Although his need to sing knowledge could make normal conversation dull and lengthy, no simple musician could come close to matching the performance of songs rehearsed by bard or heir. Nevertheless, he waited until he received eager affirmation from Ra-khir and Matrinka before commencing. The Renshai stood in stolid silence, her calculating gaze flicking toward every noise or passerby.

  Darris played, deliberately choosing a melody and words that inspired friendship and peace among strangers. Though ancient, the song expressed concepts so central to civilization that its tenets held through centuries of advancement, change, and upheaval. The mandolin rang forth in chords and trills designed to lift spirits and to open the trust and hearts of strangers to affection usually shared only by families. The words complemented the tune, a backdrop of harmony that seemed unnecessary, though it required a three-octave range, at times between notes, to complete. More than anything, Darris wished to show his companions, the long-term friend and the new acquaintance, the affection he felt for them both. And he hoped they, too, would learn to care for one another as he did for them.

  Matrinka sat, mouthing the words to this song she knew well. Mior sprang onto the bench, then snuggled into her mistress’ lap. Kevral remained attentive at the princess’ side, arms folded across her abdomen, a hand resting lightly on each sword hilt. Ra-khir stayed on the opposite side of Matrinka, smiling and rocking in place to the beat.

  At length, the song wound to a close, the last notes fading into obscurity. Matrinka clapped, her approval evident as always. Ra-khir shook his head with obvious awe. Only the Renshai seemed unmoved. She remained in her place, eyes still tracing sounds and movements. Only then Darris realized a small crowd had begun to gather at the edges of the garden; nobles whose paths had taken them by this area had dawdled to listen. Others came, near enough for the music to draw them even closer. Applause sprinkled through the makeshift gathering, some embarrassedly pretending they had not paused to listen to the private concert. As always, a few requested an encore or a new tune; but Darris waved away their appeals. Within moments of his refusal, they dispersed, leaving Darris, Matrinka, Ra-khir, Mior, and Kevral alone in the garden again.

  Darris broke the hush that followed. He set aside his mandolin and leaned across the bench toward Matrinka. Not wishing to antagonize her guardian, he did not attempt to actually move closer. “I’ve missed you.”

  Matrinka smiled, hands twining nervously through Mior’s fur. She glanced at their two companions, Kevral somber at her left and Ra-khir grinning knowingly at her right. “I’ve missed you, too,” she managed, then added sadly, “And for nothing. Kevral lets me go where I please and see whomever I would.”

  Darris winced, hating himself for not asking. The hostility of Matrinka’s other two guardians had seemed pervasive. Kevral’s reputation among her own kind for severity, competence, and self-confidence had made him sure she would control Matrinka’s movements even more than Kristel and Nisse had. Only now he realized that the young Renshai’s self-assurance might also make her more comfortable about her ability to defend Matrinka under any circumstances. That last heightened his discomfort. Kevral’s certainty that she could handle any situation might drive her to place Matrinka into danger, the scope of which she wrongly believed she could manage. Bypassing his thoughts, Darris addressed Matrinka’s comment, “You’ll see much more of me from now on, then.” Realizing concern had made him presumptuous, he amended, “That is, if you wish, of course.”

  Matrinka chuckled tensely. “Of course I wish.” Blushing and obviously uncomfortable, she turned her attention to Ra-khir. “You know my guardian?”

  “Yes, Princess,” Ra-khir replied, his tone respectful but his glance at Kevral containing evident hostility. “We met in Erythane.”

  All eyes switched to Kevral then. A Renshai outside the Fields of Wrath or Béarn was a rarity that would pique anyone’s curiosity let alone the insatiable need to know that Darris suffered.

  Kevral shrugged, obviously quoting. “It is not enough to learn; a student must understand detail and nuance to the depth of instinct. Only experience can bring that level of knowledge.” She met Matrinka’s gaze, then Darris’, and lastly Ra-khir’s. The brazen partial smile accompanied her attention to the latter. “I learn maneuvers as their creator intended. I speak languages with proper intonation. How could I truly learn Western-speak without hearing it from the lips of Erythanians?”

  Darris accepted the explanation more easily than most, the quest for knowledge a burning passion that no understanding could quench. Though not the only ones who spoke Western as their first language, Erythane had become the largest city to do so anymore. The East spoke its own language, as did the Northmen. The opposite side of the Western lands used the common trading tongue almost exclusively, as did the massive mercantile city of Pudar. Smaller towns, villages, and farms variously preferred the trading tongue, Western, or a combination. Béarn had its own language, though its folk used Western and trading at least as fluently; and the Renshai also spoke a singular, Northern-like tongue.

  Ra-khir loosed a soft noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, but he did not follow it with an explanation. Apparently, something about his meetings with Kevral made him loath to talk about them. Sensing reluctance better broken in male privacy, Darris did not press the matter but turned the conversation back to Matrinka. “I’ve worried for you. There’ve been rumors of everything from suicidal depression to impending marriage.”

  Matrinka laughed, though it sounded strained. Her hands stroked the cat from nose to rump in repetitive cycles while the animal purred with eyes closed. “All false. And all partly true, too.” She glanced at Ra-khir. Then, obviously finding him trustworthy for telling personal failings as well as those of the kingdom, she continued. “I flunked the test, as you probably guessed.” She caught and held Darris’ soft, hazel eyes with an earnestness that implied she would describe her core feelings later, when they could once again speak alone. Their long association allowed her to understand his need for details others could not attain. “The gods found me unworthy.” She lowered her head, the thick, black waves that Darris adored falling over her eyes, but not before he noticed moisture blurring them to a smear of brown and white.

  Darris crossed half the distance between himself and Matrinka before he remembered his movement might disturb the Renshai guard. But, though Kevral watched his every motion, she allowed him to take a seat at Matrinka’s side and gather the princess in his arms. “The gods only found you not the one to sit upon Béarn’s throne. What does that signify? You never wanted or expected to do so.”

  Darris’ words broke the floodgates. Matrinka sobbed in his arms, her sorrow an aching burden that precluded the passion her closeness always unwittingly aroused. “I don’t care about being queen,” Matrinka admitted. “But unworthy . . . ?” She did not bother to finish the thought, her intention obvious. Mior remained in her lap, not bothered by the bard’s heir’s closeness, though he all but crushed the cat between them.

  Darris clutched Matrinka tightly, at once needing to soothe and wishing he never had to let her go. “Matrinka, do
n’t be silly. There’s a million reasons why a person wouldn’t make the best ruler that have nothing to do with self-worth. The staves judge naïveté, innocence, and neutrality. There’s a world of difference between just and merciful, between fair and compassionate. You’re a lovely woman, Matrinka. Maybe just too kind to be queen. I’ve traveled a bit, and I know no one more worthy of my loyalty and friendship than you.”

  Matrinka eased free. “I’m sorry.” She tossed back a cascade of Béarnian-dark hair to reveal the oval face and strong features that Darris had memorized, though he usually pictured her without the streaky tears. She wiped those away and raked her hair back in place with delicate, uncallused fingers. “There’s something profoundly piercing and unshakable about the staves’ disfavor. I thought I’d gotten over it. Now, I’m not sure I ever will.” She squeezed Darris’ hand with a smile that did not seem forced. “Thanks for your faith in me.”

  A wave of heat coursed through Darris at her touch, and he feared he might melt into a puddle on the bench. He returned the smile, and listened to himself say words that he didn’t recall formulating. “I only spoke truth. Don’t berate yourself for being too good to be neutral.”

  Matrinka nodded a silent promise to try, then changed the subject. “Oh, and I’m not getting married. They want me to, but they can’t make me. I’m not ready.”

  Darris drew back, remaining beside Matrinka on the bench. “Why are they pressuring you?”

  Matrinka shrugged. “I’m not sure. Apparently, they want more heirs.”

  Ra-khir finally joined the conversation, though whether truly out of inquisitiveness or just to remind the others of his presence, Darris did not know. “Why?” Since the question had an obvious answer that could seem insulting if not assumed, he modified, “I mean, why now?”

  Matrinka looked at the speaker. “You know, since they started getting persistent about it, I’ve wondered the same thing.” She turned her attention to Darris then. “Can I speak freely?”

  Darris knew her well enough to understand the meaning of the question. She wanted to know if Ra-khir and Kevral could be trusted. His own discoveries and research gave him a certain answer. “Absolutely.”

  Matrinka did not hesitate further. “I’ve talked with some of my cousins, and I’ve yet to find anyone who’s passed the test. I’m guessing few enough did that we can’t afford to lose more, so they want us to make babies just in case.”

  Darris nodded vigorously. His own efforts had gained him similar information.

  For the first time since the conversation had gone beyond introductions, Kevral added her piece. “There’s something heir-related going on in the northeast, too.”

  “What do you mean?” Matrinka pressed for them all. Darris knew about the quiet caravan thrown together for a trip to Santagithi, but those involved had assured him it was a normal diplomatic mission.

  “I’ve got a cousin who got sent there.” Kevral paused. “Actually, a bit more distant than a cousin, but a relative in some way. Her name’s Rantire.” Kevral stopped speaking, as if finished.

  Darris waited for the Renshai to continue.

  Kevral looked around, pale brows arched in the expectant silence, as if surprised that she needed to say anything more. “If a Renshai goes, then a Béarnian heir has to be involved somehow.”

  Darris clapped a palm to his chin, irked that he had not made the connection himself. No heir that he knew of had accompanied the entourage. Then again, he had not paid it much heed, its routine nature inspiring little concern.

  Ra-khir gave up his share of knowledge, adding to the realization that something more than procedure lay behind this mission. “Two knights got sent there, too.” He glanced toward the sky, apparently to check the time, then sighed. “Excuse me. I have to go to practice now.”

  Darris placed a hand on the knight apprentice’s shoulder to delay him. “Just a moment. There’s something strange here, and I’d like to know exactly what.”

  The others mumbled agreement.

  “Let’s all gather as much information as we can about this and meet again at midday tomorrow.”

  “Somewhere more private, though,” Matrinka added. “Say the Fox-meal Clearing?”

  Though not an official name, Darris knew the location. He and Matrinka had many secret hideaways in the forest that they referred to by incidents, imaginings, or formations. They had once found a circle of feathers in a tiny meadow ringed by evergreens where a fox had eaten a pheasant. Though the feathers had long since blown away, they’d referred to the place as Fox-meal ever since. He clarified for Ra-khir. “That’s the second woodland place I took you.”

  Ra-khir nodded, remembering. “I’ll meet you there. Tomorrow.” He bowed to Matrinka, then waved a formal parting to Darris and a less exuberant one to Kevral.

  Darris watched Ra-khir go, concern forming an excited tingle in his chest. Something of import was happening at Béarn Castle. One way or another, he was going to find the details. And solve the problem.

  Chapter 8

  The Trap Sprung

  What god could respect a man who died without a fight?

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Twilight caught Béarn’s diplomatic party on the Road of Kings, the legendary route by which an ancient Eastern Wizard rescued an infant heir and returned him, as an adult, to his proper place on Béarn’s throne. The sun hovered, massive on the horizon, backlighting one of the myriad statues that marked the path. A Wizard’s scrawny form etched darkness across the setting sun, the wolf at its heels casting a smaller, stranger shadow. Colors touched the western horizon, a rainbow trail that stalked the last edge of sun.

  Antsy for a sword practice after a full day’s ride, the Renshai, Rantire, marveled at the beauty nature ascribed to the dying. Each day expired in striking hues that drew poets and songsters irresistibly to its throes. Leaves flashed through sundry colors: their scarlet, ocher, and salmon garish testimony to the plain, green lives they lost Her death, she vowed, would espouse all the glory that the gods granted its creations. Amid the musical clash of steel, the perfume of enemy blood jelling in her bronze hair, she would find the death in honor that every Renshai sought upon the battlefield.

  Inside a coach that rattled along behind the mounted Renshai, the two diplomats discussed when and where to set up camp. Two servants steered the team of bays that hauled the coach, bells in the shape of bears jangling from the harnesses. Behind them, a wagonload of gifts for the king in Santagithi jounced beneath a tarpaulin. A matched pair of chestnut mares pulled this under the even hands of a third servant and whomever of the four Béarnian guardsmen had drawn his chance to rest. The other three rode on various sides of the procession: one in front and two beside. A pair of knights took up the rear, their white steeds like beacons through the greenery. Their horses high-stepped with smooth precision, as composed and somber as their masters. Rantire envied the beasts’ responsiveness, conformation, and breeding; but she would not have traded the more natural, less conspicuous coloring of her dark brown gelding even for these near-perfect animals.

  Irony tweaked a smile onto Rantire’s features. Amid the chiming harnesses and rich-appearing vehicles, the arresting color of the knights’ horses seemed trivial. The party’s obvious wealth would draw the attention of every highwayman in the Westlands, but the king’s writ would surely deter any thief that the vigilant sequence of guards did not. Any foolish enough to ignore both would find a quick death on the point of a Renshai or Béarnian sword.

  Rantire’s gray eyes missed little as their party traveled the road. Every passing merchant met her scrutiny, and she shifted her position around Béarn’s procession to fully study the mercantile entourages. Nontrade related travelers were rare in any part of the Westlands, and they had passed only caravans en route, so far. She had seen no one and nothing that might form a threat to their cargo or their mission, nor did she expect to do so. Thieves bothered the trade routes rarely, finding better pickings within large cities o
r towns, and few who carried wealth lacked escort. Although Rantire’s presence served no specific purpose until they acquired the missing heir, she maintained the wariness trained into her since birth. Despite its intended impression, this mission was anything but routine; and nothing would harm its purpose without slaying her first.

  Rantire rode past a statue of a massive Béarnide brandishing an ax and riding a muscled stallion, a representation of the returning king. The Béarnian sculptors had fashioned every detail, from the man’s bearing that defined regality, to the horse’s shoes, to the individual tendons in its legs, bulging nearly to the point of caricature. Yet upkeep had grown lax in the century since the West had commissioned this spectacular project, a tribute to the restored king and his heroism in the war that had pitted Westlands against Eastlands. Mold limned every crease, and the warrior had sprouted a headful of ivy hair; tiny mushrooms poked red-brown caps through cracks.

  A servant’s command to the bay team first warned Rantire of their imminent stopping, followed swiftly by a shout from the leading Béarnian guard who rode in her wake. Pulling up her horse, Rantire turned to watch the coach and wagon drawn to the edge of the road. While the servants handled the horses and meals, and the guards and knights tended armor and uniforms, Rantire found a private clearing beyond sight yet near enough that she could hear the others should danger arise.

  Rantire launched into her practice with an eager ferocity fueled by a long, boring journey, scarcely begun and already tedious. As if being Renshai did not set her apart enough, she was the party’s only female. The Béarnian guards seemed uncomfortable in her presence, guarding their tongues and excluding her from their wagers about passersby or scenery. The Knights of Erythane kept to themselves, their exchanges with Béarnides, when necessary, always clipped and formal. The diplomats remained aloof from the guardsmen’s games, and the servants found themselves too busy tending livestock, wagons, and men to pay the Renshai much heed. When their duties did bring them near her, they seemed cowering and fearful in a way they never did around Béarn’s nobility. Rantire found it more comfortable for everyone when she handled her own gear and necessities, though she had sent her horse off to graze with the others.