Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Prince Xyxthris,” the healer continued as the Renshai returned to his post by the door. “May I examine you?”

  Xyxthris did not want the poking, staring, and prodding that would accompany the request, but he had not yet gathered the strength to resist. “It was just a dream,” he repeated, but he indulged the healer’s request.

  The healer slipped into his smooth routine while Xyxthris cooperated passively, moving or speaking only when requested to do so. As his thoughts became more firmly grounded in reality, memory swept in. Alcohol had become more crutch than tool, a goal unto itself that no longer blocked consideration of the worthlessness the gods ascribed him. He had turned to stronger drugs: creating aches and ills the healers treated with mind-numbing painkillers. Some of these brought euphoria as well, but their effect did not last. The quest for better formulations became a desperate obsession that ended with his supplier, a Pudarian merchant who hid his illegals beneath the sale of other goods. Always, it seemed, he found something new precisely when Xyxthris needed it, and that man had become the central focus of his universe.

  Xyxthris’ wife and child had moved to other parts of the castle, horrified by the changes that swept over him in the months following the first staff-test. He rarely missed them. All that mattered was the deep core of agony that burned inside him, the self-hatred it represented, and the cures that masked its pain for moments, hours, or days. Even sleep did not serve him as well. He could live without the wife who already demonstrated her own inferiority by loving one unworthy and the daughter who represented a legacy of futility. As for Xyxthris’ bodyguard, either the Renshai did not recognize the drugs’ effects or understood their importance to his charge because he accompanied Xyxthris to the clandestine meetings with his supplier and did not interfere with their transactions.

  The healer finished his evaluation with a sigh and a gesture that indicated he had found nothing wrong physically, as usual.

  “Just a dream,” Xyxthris reminded, his voice growing stronger with time. All vestiges of tiredness disappeared, and anger finally swept in to replace the penetrating depression that had directed his life since the first staff-test. Finally, the source of all his problems became clear, and it seemed impossible he had not considered it previously. The latest drug, apparently, clarified the situation in a way reality and previous concoctions never had. The staff-test was to blame, along with all the trappings surrounding it. Had he not been born an heir to Béarn’s throne, he could have led a happy, simple life with his wife and child. Béarn and its test for creating kings would not have him; but it was the system’s flaws, not his own. At some time, the staff-test had ceased to function properly and began selecting imperfect rulers instead. Xyxthris would not support such a thing. In fact, he would work against it in every manner possible.

  The decision, swiftly made, swept a wave of satisfaction through Xyxthris. He would expose the mistake and end a reign of random tyranny, based on some demon’s conception of what constituted qualities for kingship. The vengeance this would satisfy only enhanced the decision. He had always known himself to be the most competent of his cousins and siblings. If he could not become Béarn’s king, none of his inferiors would either. And the council who had diverted half of his inheritance to his wife and child, who had refused him the additional money he needed to support his only habit, they would pay for their unfairness. Baltraine and the other ministers could never comprehend the flaw in the staff-test and would never listen to his explanation. His only hope lay outside of the current regime, on his own shoulders or . . . elsewhere.

  There Xyxthris’ thoughts derailed, the final words defying description or category. Or where? He shoved aside these contemplations for the moment. He had all the time in the world to think once he dispatched the healer who worried over him like a cat with kittens. “Sleep might do me good, but I don’t think I can with that nightmare stalking me.”

  “I have something for that,” the healer said hurriedly, the very answer Xyxthris sought. Though inferior to the herbs the merchant supplied, the healer’s medicines would tide him over in times of sparse supply or when, like now, the Pudarian had left to carry on trade and replenish his stock. One day, Xyxthris hoped, he would have enough money to hire the supplier on a full-time basis and obviate the need for him to continue merchanting in other places. It never occurred to him to wonder whether or not the Pudarian would appreciate this idea.

  The healer crossed the room to where his bag lay, near the door and the wary Renshai. The guard watched the healer’s every movement as he dug through his belongings, making no comment though he judged the idea with a slight shaking of his head so subtle paranoia might better account for it. The healer laid two vials of clear liquid on the nightstand. “Take one for sleep. The other is for tonight, if you still need it.”

  “Thank you,” Xyxthris said, trying to sound genuinely appreciative though his voice emerged in its routine monotone. He watched the healer head from the room, waiting only until the door closed before guzzling both vials.

  The Renshai watched in silence, nothing betraying his opinion of his charge’s actions. He moved to the semi-oval window, looking out over the courtyard below, head cocked to catch any noises from the hallway outside the room’s only door.

  Xyxthris ignored the Renshai, waiting impatiently for the healer’s drug to take effect. It would prove a shallow high, though better than none at all. His thoughts returned to the means to destroy Béarn’s current methodology, and the idea that had eluded him moments earlier came to him now. He barely had time to smile before the first stirrings of drug-induced euphoria stole over him.

  Chapter 20

  The Portal

  There is always choice. Remember that.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Since the tragedy in Béarn’s courtyard, something Xyxthris could not define had drawn him to one of the study rooms on the castle’s fourth floor. Under usual circumstances, he would have had little reason to approach that particular place, a quiet haven where nobility could spend time in peaceful contemplation or could read one of the tomes from Béarn’s sprawling library. Many other rooms served the same purpose; so even had reading or solitude caught his fancy, he would have been unlikely to single out this study. The first time, he had come to explore a flash he had seen in its window moments before the bears attacked and killed his younger cousins. Inexplicable shivers had accompanied that exploration, as if frigid air had suddenly washed in to clutch him like a giant’s fist. A wall of trees had saturated his imagination, and a delicate creature with eyes like rubies flitted briefly through his thoughts. He had attributed the visions to stress and would have wondered on them no further except that a tingling swept through him every time he passed this door.

  Since that time, Xyxthris had come often. The study was one of the few places his irritatingly ever present Renshai guardian deemed safe enough to leave him alone. Glass sealed the window, thick enough to withstand the strongest of his blows. Even if he should manage to shatter it, it overlooked a pond whose depth would prevent a jump from proving fatal. A padded window seat served as the room’s only furniture, an impossible weapon. Not that Xyxthris had tried to kill himself. He had considered the possibility at length, numerous times, when he thought about the gentle innocence of his life before the gods found him unworthy. A swift end to the pain that haunted his waking and sleeping moments seemed the very godsend the staff-test had turned out not to be. Ironically, the wife and daughter he chose to live for had eventually become symbols of his wretchedness, daily reminders of the ruler’s life he would never lead and living testimony to his failure.

  Now a vague hope added its voice to the cacophony of emotion warring eternally within Xyxthris. In silence, he headed for the fourth floor study, the Renshai dogging his steps, as always. As soon as they arrived at the simple oak door, Xyxthris spoke without meeting the Renshai’s gaze. “Some time, please.”

  The Renshai opened the door and peered inside, s
hielding Xyxthris with his body as he did so. Seeing nothing to concern him, he stepped aside, taking a wary stance by the door, while Xyxthris entered and pulled it shut behind him.

  Hope flared stronger, stoked by the strange fluttering that thrilled through Xyxthris from the moment he approached the room. He wondered how much to attribute to anticipation, for the signal felt more vibrant now than in the past, pulsating through his bones from head to toe like a steady drumbeat. He perched stiffly on the window cushion, studying the courtyard below. The familiar sight of shrubbery cut and coaxed into animal shapes soothed him, and his gaze traced colored lines of flowers forming borders and detailed flourishes. Sunlight flashed from silver fish as they darted for insects or algae on the pond’s surface. The single bench lay vacant. He deliberately avoided looking into the more distant gardens, particularly the statue garden where the bears had killed his cousins. The drawback, as well as the fascination, of this room was that it overlooked the site of the murders. That, he guessed, was the reason Béarn’s enemies had chosen it.

  Months of study had failed to yield a satisfactory explanation for the slaughter. Magic. Xyxthris never doubted, though few others embraced his theory. They would turn to the supernatural only after every other possibility had been discarded, if ever. But Xyxthris knew now, and he believed. The sensations he felt in and near this room, unlike anything else in his experience, made him certain.

  Scattered reports of a light or noise near this location just before the tragedy had spurred exploration of several rooms immediately after the incident, though the guards had found nothing amiss. Even Xyxthris might have pinned the flashes he saw on the wrong location if not for the aura he felt here. The council had given his description reasonable attention, although he earned more than one odd look when he mentioned the tingling. Yet nothing had come of his claim; and most now dismissed the inexplicable, mildly unpleasant sensation as the result of his drinking or attributed it to post staff-test madness. Xyxthris knew better. He had first experienced it before the testing or the drugs and alcohol. His addictions only enhanced his senses, and where they blunted his pain, they refined his ability to detect what he believed was the aftereffects of magic.

  Relaxed by the same courtyard beauty that once sheltered him as a boy and now consumed him with envy, Xyxthris rose and stretched. He explored the room with a thoroughness he had never attempted in the past. Then, he had trusted his eyes to do the work, understanding in an instinctive, human fashion, that nothing existed if he could not see it. Last night, he had finally discovered the basic error in that belief, now as ludicrous to his mind as the atheist who dismisses gods he never personally met and ignores all the wonders beyond man’s creation.

  Xyxthris concentrated on his talent, for the first time recognizing that its intensity drew him toward the southwest corner of the room. Always before he had considered the signal diffuse, like a distant smell. The analogy continued to work well for him; odors wafted from a source, growing stronger as he moved closer. Why should magic prove any different?

  This logic brought Xyxthris toward a corner near the door, rather than by the window as he expected. Once he reached it, wisdom dawned upon him. When he pressed his back against this corner, he gained a perfect view of the entire room and through the window into the courtyard gardens. He shifted to the position that gave him greatest visual access.

  Suddenly, Xyxthris’ support disappeared. He stumbled backward, desperately flailing for balance. Brilliant light shattered vision into painful blindness; and he toppled into empty space, screaming with terror. He slammed to the ground, hip crashing into a rock, pawing at eyes that felt burned from their sockets. He managed a desperate scramble to his hands and knees. Lines and squiggles scored his vision. Through the afterimages etched upon his retinas, he saw several figures jostle into a circle around him, studying him through strange, canted eyes.

  Concepts touched Xyxthris’ mind, a mad jumble of names, questions, and commands he could not begin to sort. At least one sword seeped through the muddle his fragmented eyesight struggled to sort, and he went still. He made a universal symbol of surrender that demonstrated his empty hands and lack of weapons.

  Finally, his vision cleared enough to reveal six males surrounding him, their frames adolescent gawky and their features youthful. Their eyes bothered him most, seeming depthless and without normal variation in color and contour. The array included yellow and red. Four wore curved swords at their hips, and the other two had had the presence of mind to draw their weapons and angle them in Xyxthris’ general direction. Neither stood close enough to run him through quickly, and he drew solace and courage from this. “Hello,” he said carefully in the trading tongue, the most universal of the world’s languages and one of the only two he spoke. Again, he made a peaceful gesture of surrender.

  The strangers continued to study Xyxthris in verbal silence, their mental communication nearly indecipherable. Gradually, this ceased also, and a concept in a single “voice” touched his mind. He read a need to remain still and a threat of violence should he refuse to heed the warning. There followed a request for his origin and a disdainful air directed against his humanity. The whole came to him in impressions, not words, a single thought encompassing a sentence, a phrase, or more. He could not describe how he understood in such detail, but he tried to answer in the same fashion. He concentrated on the idea of peaceful cooperation, curious about the alienness that had come through so clearly. Whatever he faced was not human.

  After longer than any polite conversation, the mind-voice repeated its demands. Again, Xyxthris attempted to radiate his promise, which resulted in another long pause. The mind questions came a third time.

  This time, Xyxthris responded aloud. “Can you understand me?”

  “Yes,” the yellow-eyed one said at length. “Can’t you call a khohlar?”

  “Apparently not.” Xyxthris smiled nervously, hoping his captors would take the words to mean he had attempted it and failed rather than a sassy attempt to point out the obvious. The latter interpretation had not occurred to him until after he spoke, and he attempted to lighten the mood with friendly introductions. “My name is Xyxthris. I’m here in peace, and I will cooperate any way I can.”

  The not-quite-human creatures glanced at one another, obviously surprised by his words and his attitude. Any previous contact with humans must have come under much different circumstances.

  Xyxthris’ heart pounded as he awaited their reaction, and he wondered if his own fear or an aftereffect of the healer’s drug made everything they did seem so maddeningly slow. When he explored the room, he had hoped to find some clue to help him contact those who cast the magic, but he had never considered the possibility he might discover a route directly to them. He seized on their long pauses to study his surroundings. He stood in a forest clearing beneath a fringe of tall trees with long, serrated leaves. The odors of greenery and pollen nearly suffocated him in the close damp, and he could not differentiate the smell of his captors from these. The study room had vanished without a trace. He could still feel the magic that had drawn him, now behind him; and two of the warriors blocked retreat. Only one explanation seemed possible: he had passed through some kind of magical door, one these nonhumans used to secretly enter Béarn’s castle. Presumably, he could return the way he had come; but he doubted his captors would allow him to test the theory.

  The creatures did not reply in words. Xyxthris felt a sudden blaze of magic, so raw and close it hurt. Then, peace enfolded him. His arms and legs swayed and buckled beneath him. He lay for several moments, staring at ground speckled with dirt and thick with the reek of leaf mold. He struggled for words to remind them of the peace he promised. Then, gradually, he slid into a quiet sleep.

  * * *

  Captain could not recall the elves ever calling an emergency meeting of the council Nine, and even the oddity of such a thing did not bring them quickly enough, apparently, for Dh’arlo’mé. The leader paced with the heavy trea
d of the most troubled human while his charges gathered over a matter of hours, an impressive scramble for elves, especially a group of elders. By Dh’arlo’mé’s expression, not nearly fast enough. Captain wondered what news would prove so urgent it required such immediacy.

  At length, Hri’shan’taé Y’varos Filtanith Adh’taran came, the One of Slow Emotions the last of the Nine to arrive. She took her place beneath the trees without apology, and Dh’arlo’mé led the long ritual of vows and prayer that opened every meeting. His impatience rushed an introduction never before hurried through millennia; and he waited only until the last word was spoken before charging into his point. “We’ve captured another human.” He ceased pacing to glance at every member of the council with his single eye. The empty socket, with its scars partially healed by magic, served as a strong and recent reminder of the violence humans could inflict. It might take two hundred or more years of daily healing sessions before Dh’arlo’mé grew back his missing eye.

  Curious expressions drifted across every countenance, though they all remained silent so Dh’arlo’mé could supply details without competing with needless speculation.

  “One of Béarn’s princes, apparently.” Dh’arlo’mé paused at a significant fact the others would surely wish to ponder. Captain could tell by Dh’arlo’mé’s manner that he had more to say, and he considered it even more important.

  Captain remained quiet while most of his companions bandied comments about what seemed an incredible find. Finally, Vrin’thal’ros questioned Dh’arlo’mé directly. “Are you sure of his identity?”

  “Our observers at the gate recognized him as one they previously identified as an heir. The man has confessed his station without duress.” Dh’arlo’mé smiled, the expression incongruous with his earlier solemnity. Increasingly, his movements, attitudes, and expressions seemed more human than elfin. “Better yet, he has agreed to give us all the information we could ever want about humans and their culture. He asks only for gold, silver, and gemstones in return.”