Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Kevral rubbed dirt from the back of one hand. “Ra-khir found two dead rabbits on the trail. They’re still fresh, but he doesn’t want us to eat them.”

  “Why not?” Matrinka addressed Kevral’s words but looked to Ra-khir to supply the answer.

  Ra-khir bowed his head, a residual gesture of respect he could never wholly quell in her presence. The knights had trained him well. “The circumstances just seem too strange. Where did they come from? Are we taking food from someone else’s mouth?”

  Kevral interrupted. “Whose? There’s no one else here. By the time someone realized they lost the meat, it won’t be worth coming back for.”

  Matrinka believed she found the perfect compromise, though she refused to think of it in such terms. The gods’ staves had already deemed her incapable of competent decision. “So they don’t go to waste, why don’t we eat them?”

  Ra-khir frowned but nodded stiffly.

  Matrinka continued, “If someone comes looking for them, we’ll give him an equal amount of our supplies to compensate.”

  Ra-khir’s lips twitched upward, into a neutral position then a grudging smile. “That’s reasonable. If we can scrape together enough.”

  “That’s why we need these rabbits,” Kevral said. “If we can’t find enough, we’ll catch them something to replace the rabbits.” It was an idle promise. Renshai shunned bows as coward’s weapons, and knights preferred hand-to-hand combat as well. Matrinka had had no interest in target shooting or weapons of any kind until she met Kevral. Until now, as supplies dwindled, no one had considered the implications of their hunting ignorance. They would need to stock well in Pudar.

  Resigned, Ra-khir sat on a deadfall and worked on skinning and gutting. Matrinka suspected he would hold them to resupplying their benefactor, even if it meant chasing down game on foot. Luckily, she knew, it would not matter. “I still don’t like the way these just appeared. Like someone wanted us to find them.”

  Kevral gave Ra-khir’s point serious consideration. “Like an enemy,” she added. “They could be poisoned.”

  Ra-khir ceased skinning, features drawn into a mask of horror.

  Knowing the source of the offering, Matrinka dismissed the possibility. She offered another reason to her companions. “Cooking deactivates every toxin I know. It’d be silly to poison raw meat. But even if someone did, we just have to make sure we cook it thoroughly, until there’s no pink left.”

  Ra-khir commenced working.

  Matrinka considered her next words long and hard before speaking, careful to associate her concerns about Tae with the act of eating dinner rather than tying him to the rabbits. “Where’s Tae? I’ve never known him to come late for a meal. Nor to stay away quite this long. I hope he’s all right.”

  Ra-khir did not miss a beat. “I sent him away,” he answered truthfully, as Matrinka knew he must.

  Kevral stiffened, then stared at Ra-khir’s back. “You sent him away?”

  “I sent him away,” Ra-khir confirmed, not bothering to look up from the rabbits.

  “What do you mean you sent him away?”

  Ra-khir finally glanced directly at Kevral, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm so as not to smear blood across his face. “I believe the words are self-explanatory.” The answer verged on sarcasm, more suited to Tae or Kevral, though the tone softened it to statement with just a hint of defensiveness. Apparently to mellow words ill-suited to his chivalry, he explained. “Those men who attacked us had nothing to do with Béarn. They were Tae’s enemies.”

  “So you sent him away,” Kevral accused.

  Matrinka sighed, knowing Kevral and Ra-khir perched on the edge of certain argument again. This time, she had too much invested in understanding the situation to walk away. She needed to know what happened to Tae and the danger it posed to the rest of them.

  Ra-khir placed the rabbit aside. “He lied to us. He drew threat to us, our mission, and Matrinka. I promised to allow him to accompany us only so long as he posed no danger to the party or our purpose.”

  “You shouldn’t have sent him away.” Kevral stared into the forest, lower lip clenched between her teeth and one hand slipping to her hilt. “You should have killed him.”

  “I did challenge him. My honor doesn’t allow—”

  “Damn your cursed honor!” Kevral interrupted, so loudly Darris stiffened and opened his eyes. “Now we’re worse off than before. We’ve got a bitter, quiet enemy who knows us in detail as well as our cause and has every reason to work against us.”

  Matrinka clutched Mior, heading to tend Darris, though she kept an ear to the proceedings.

  Ra-khir threw down the rabbit. Though the gesture conveyed his anger, he was obviously composed. He made certain it landed on the deadfall, not the dirty ground. “Look, I can’t just kill a man who won’t fight back.”

  Kevral drew closer, within sword range, and therefore a threatening distance from Ra-khir. “But it’s fine to place the kingdom . . . nay, the entire world in danger.”

  “That’s not good, either,” Ra-khir admitted.

  Kevral backed off slightly. “So you made the wrong decision.”

  “I made the only decision I could.” Ra-khir jerked his forehead across his sleeve, obviously bothered by the sweat but frustrated by his inability to use his filthy hands. “I followed my honor. If you find it rigid or stupid, that’s your problem. I’m tired of apologizing for acting as I know is right. I’m sick of feeling incompetent and guilty because I don’t do things the same way you would.”

  “Oh, you mean the way a rational person would,” Kevral regained her lost ground and more, dangerously violating Ra-khir’s space.

  “If you wish.” Ra-khir did not argue the unwinnable point. “Call it what you will. I’m going to follow my honor, and you have two choices: accept it or leave the party.”

  “Or I could just kick you to death!”

  Matrinka understood the full impact of Kevral’s insult as few who did not know Renshai could. It not only implied she could kill Ra-khir, but that she could do so without the effort of drawing a weapon.

  “Kick me to death?” Ra-khir remained calm. “I stand corrected. Apparently, you have three choices.”

  Matrinka suppressed a chuckle, turning her back under the auspices of attending Darris. Her amusement, she feared, would only shame them into escalating the battle.

  But Kevral proved insightful enough to see humor in Ra-khir’s reaction. She laughed aloud, and Ra-khir carefully joined her. Darris smiled and winked. Matrinka turned to see Ra-khir and Kevral chuckling merrily, a dispersing flush to the Renshai’s cheeks all that visibly remained of their dispute.

  Though relieved by the sudden break, Matrinka did not allow herself to relax. Surely rage could not disappear so quickly. She suspected it lay shallowly beneath their mirth, waiting for one of them to spark it again.

  Mior saw something Matrinka had missed. *Goodness. So that’s why they fight all the time.*

  *Why?*

  *They’re in love.*

  Matrinka could not have been more shocked had Mior proclaimed them brother and sister. *What?*

  *They’re in love,* Mior repeated, for emphasis rather than any belief Matrinka had not heard. Their communication worked through empathy and idea, rather than specific word; and it did not rely on volume. *Look at the way he looks at her. It’s the exact same way Darris looks at you when he thinks you can’t see. And she’s dodging his eyes like they might burn her. Just like you do with Darris.*

  Embarrassed by the suggestion, Matrinka saw to her own defense first. *I do not.*

  *You do.* Mior would not let the denial pass. *And Kevral does, too.*

  Taking her cue from Darris, Matrinka let the unimportant point pass for the more significant one. *You’re being ridiculous. Those two hate each other.*

  *I think they want to hate each other, especially Kevral. I think their attraction really bothers them.*

  Matrinka took the cat’s descrip
tion seriously, as she always did; but she kept an element of doubt as well. Her instincts told her Mior could not possibly have interpreted the situation correctly. Mior often saw things humans missed, but the cat did not always guess intentions right, either. Matrinka made a mental note to watch the interaction between Kevral and Ra-khir more closely. At best, she might bring the two together as a couple. At worst, she would gain insight into what worsened and what helped break their confrontations. She shifted Mior, turned, and sat down next to Darris, stroking his hair with a tenderness that made him smile and close his eyes again. *When did you get so smart.*

  Mior purred gently. *Humans are so easily read.*

  Chapter 22

  The Keeper of the Balance

  Perhaps if we had balance, (good and evil, Law and Chaos) we wouldn’t have to war against one another with such a frenzy.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Grayness filled King Kohleran’s room like a presence, and the rancid odor of disease funneled into Prime Minister Baltraine’s lungs until he could taste it. The richness of the furnishings no longer distracted him from the hideousness of the situation. The urge to flee to anywhere else jangled through him, until the effort of fighting it nearly allowed him to lose his concentration on holding back the inevitable need to retch. Twice, he felt his gut heave and choked back stomach contents that burned his throat and coarsened his voice.

  The master healer, Mikalyn, did not seem to notice the stench. He addressed Baltraine with a voice filled with pain and despair. “It’s over, Lord. There’s nothing left here but a body kept alive beyond its time by herbs.” Tears twined down his cheeks, almost invisible in the gloom. “Our beloved King Kohleran is dead.”

  Icy fear clutched at Baltraine. “His heart no longer beats?”

  “It beats,” Mikalyn admitted.

  “Then he lives.”

  “In a manner of speaking, Lord. But there’s nothing left here.” Mikalyn tapped his own head. “The heart, too, would stop if not for our intervention.”

  Baltraine sighed, despising the issue he needed to force yet seeing no other way. “How long can you keep him this way?”

  Mikalyn shuffled his feet, dodging Baltraine’s stare. “It would be cruel to do so a moment longer.”

  Baltraine did not wish to hear such things. Propriety and the dignity Kohleran deserved drove him to obey the healer’s dictum, but the future of all Béarn lay at stake. “That was not the question!” he roared.

  Mikalyn stared at his feet. “I don’t know, Lord. Days, weeks. It’s hard to know. I’m not a god. Eventually, death will claim him no matter what we do.” The tears quickened. “There is more to life than a heart beating.”

  Recognizing the healer’s pain and knowing he would ordinarily share it, along with his distaste, Baltraine softened. “For now, a beating heart is all we have. If Kohleran dies now, all of Béarn will die with him. Maybe the world. The Ragnarok will consume us all in its fiery agony. I share your concern that our beloved king die with dignity and honor, but I cannot condemn all others to a worse fate. Our king, bless his soul, is not the only one who deserves to live long and die with honor. There are children, Mikalyn. There are kings in other cities. From the moment Kohleran dies, we have only three months to properly replace him. Three months.” He sighed loudly. “We’ve gotten nowhere in years.”

  “I understand,” Mikalyn said softly. His gaze glided upward, as if to finally meet Baltraine’s, then skittered away at the last moment. “I hate it, but I understand. And I can make no promises other than to try my best. No matter the herbs, a heart can beat only so long in a rotting body.”

  “It’s all I can ask,” Baltraine’s voice fell to barely above a whisper. “And the whole world thanks you.” Without another word, he slipped from the room and closed the door, pitying Mikalyn’s need to remain inside that horrible place indefinitely. Idly, he wondered if, after Kohleran’s inevitable death, he could ever return there. No matter how intense the cleaning, the smell would always linger—in his mind if not in the walls themselves.

  As Baltraine left Kohleran’s tending in Mikalyn’s hands, other concerns crowded down upon him. In the last week, chaos had become a loathsome beast, haunting his waking and sleeping hours. No more of the heirs had died mysteriously, but more concrete causes had risen to claim their lives instead. All four of Kohleran’s great-grandchildren had died together, victims of a poison they could only have deliberately shared. Though found blameless, their Renshai guardians executed a suicide pact of their own. Kohleran’s eldest granddaughter had stabbed her sixteen-year-old cousin, in plain sight of a dozen people. The Renshai had intervened swiftly, but the wound had festered beyond the abilities of Béarn’s healers to control. The granddaughter moldered in prison now, safe herself but useless to Béarn. The staves would not have her even if the citizens would. Execution seemed certain, her motives less so. Thus far, those who questioned her found no reason for her action beyond rampant paranoia.

  Baltraine shuffled down the familiar corridors, the simple act of moving a struggle that sapped his reserves. Tragedy after tragedy weighted his soul with responsibilities he no longer savored. Béarn’s subjects had made his task all the more difficult. Daily, they came in droves, proclaiming the king’s line fallen into decadence, offering their own offspring and inheritance as fodder for the staff-test. The more organized of these attempted assassinations that had, so far, proven unsuccessful. They had lost six Renshai and three Béarnian guards to these radicals, however. The heirs had killed self and others because their sentries trusted them. Now, the Renshai had become wary beyond logic, allowing nothing and no one to interfere with their charges. The original enemy, strangely, seemed to have disappeared. Having stirred desperate hysteria among royalty and peasantry alike, they apparently had no further purpose in Béarn.

  Baltraine continued moving, despising his situation. The burden temporary rulership placed on him no longer held the appeal it once did. His situation had become desperate enough that the importance of finding the proper heir took precedence even over thoughts of his daughters’ security. Once he handled the crisis, he could set his thoughts on the future of himself and his line once more. For now, Béarn and the world had to take precedence. The enemy had concentrated on heirs. The citizenry had taken their disgruntlement one step further. Word had come to him of a faction expressly against him, a gang of angry Béarnides who gathered in the name of Knight-Captain Kedrin, their martyr, and who believed Baltraine sought to steal the kingdom from the rightful heirs.

  Nothing, Baltraine thought as he headed toward the room of the staff-testing, could be further from the truth. The pride Baltraine felt in himself, because Kohleran had chosen him regent and the wonderful job he believed he had performed in this capacity, had collapsed like rubble beneath the desperate frustration that came with rulership over a realm in hopeless flux. Baltraine had left a trusted page and a guardian Renshai with the last heir to get double tested, Kohleran’s only surviving child, Ethelyn. Usually, he remained for the few moments it took for the staves to do their work. This time, he had too many other affairs to manage, and he wanted to delay the heartbreak sure to follow her rejection. An hour had passed since she entered the testing room, and the page had not yet come to inform Baltraine of the results. Maybe, just maybe, this one who seemed least likely had managed to pass.

  Baltraine quickened his pace, faith rising despite his attempts to keep it in check. His heart might not weather the inevitable if he allowed hope too large a toehold. Nevertheless, by the time he arrived at the stark room that housed the staves, the page paced restlessly and the Renshai leaned against the wall with obvious boredom. The latter came abruptly to attention as Baltraine’s steps clomped through the hallway. The prime minister saw no sign of Ethelyn. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing, Lord.” The page ceased his pacing and bowed respectfully to the regent. “She’s still in there.”

  Nothing in Baltraine’s reading suggested it
could take so long, even should the staves find her worthy. He wondered if self-doubt held her prisoner, keeping her from taking the staves from their corners and initiating the trial. He had no idea what effect interrupting the test would have, and the thought of jeopardizing what might prove their last hope sent shivers coursing through his body and paralyzed his vocal cords temporarily. Logic intervened. Eventually, if she did not emerge, they would need to check on Ethelyn.

  “Another hour,” Baltraine said. “If she’s not out by then, we’re going in.”

  The Renshai’s mouth snagged into a frown; she was surely as torn by the decision as Baltraine. She could let no harm come to her charge, such as opening the door might cause. Yet, the lengthy, unreasonable period of silence suggested it might already be too late. “Lord,” she said. “The princess carried in no weapons. It’s not possible to club oneself to death; but even if she could, we would have heard something.”

  The page bit his lip and swallowed hard, so as not to laugh at the image of the stuffy oldest princess bashing herself over the head with the Staff of Law.

  Baltraine considered the words distantly, the idea of suicide not entering his thoughts until that moment, then as easily discarded. Ethelyn’s self-confidence went far beyond her abilities or qualities. She seemed the least prone to suicide, and the Renshai’s argument was equally compelling. He placed his hand on the doorknob.

  The tip of the Renshai’s sword cleared its sheath instantly, and the cold steel pressed Baltraine’s hand before he could think to move it. Icy gray eyes challenged him from beneath a blonde fringe of bangs. “Lord Baltraine, don’t make me chose between my liege and my charge.”