Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Cautiously, Baltraine recoiled, flexing and opening his fingers, though the blade had caused no damage. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. He had grasped the doorknob absently, without any specific intention of carrying out an action. Yet it had proved an excellent test of the Renshai’s competence. Baltraine had no interest in crossing her nor meeting that frosty stare again. “I’m just trying to decide what course of action is most prudent. In every way, we’re all on the same side here.”

  The sword whisked back into its sheath, but the Renshai remained attentive, hands free for any necessary action. Anything Baltraine did without justification that might have an effect upon Ethelyn would meet with reproval at least as severe. He glanced at the page, who nodded his young head indecisively. Baltraine would get no help there.

  Baltraine made his decision. “I think we should open the door.” He looked askance at the Renshai.

  The warrior watched him through narrowed eyes, awaiting explanation. She seemed willing to listen.

  “I’ve read every scrap of information available about the staff-test. Nothing suggested danger, even should the process get interrupted. And, since the task only lasts a few seconds, and she’s been in there nearly two hours, it seems unlikely we would happen to open the door at exactly the wrong time anyway.”

  The Renshai pursed her lips, and a hand dropped casually to her hilt in a gesture more uncertain than threatening.

  Baltraine drove the point home. “She might be in danger now. As long as she’s there alone, we can’t help her.”

  The Renshai nodded grudging acceptance.

  Baltraine returned his hand to the door. Eyes fixed on the Renshai, he turned carefully, making certain the swords-woman did not suddenly change her mind and attack. For her part, the Renshai remained warily at attention, scrutinizing the door as it inched open.

  A bar of light from the hallway swept through the crack, playing over Ethelyn lying on the testing room floor. Wide-open and glazed, her brown eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing. Her mouth twisted into an expression of horror so intense it seemed a parody. One staff lay on the floor, as if it had rolled from her outstretched hand. The other still perched in its corner, untouched.

  The Renshai shoved past Baltraine. She knelt at Ethelyn’s side, checked a pulse, then sank to her haunches.

  Baltraine lowered his head. He did not need such a detail to know she lay dead and for longer than a few moments. The rigidness of the sprawled limbs made it likely she had died not long after her entrance. Hope drained from him in an instant, leaving him feeling ancient and tired. He watched more from inertia than interest as the Renshai pawed over her charge, seeking an explanation.

  Baltraine did not need a cause of death. It mattered only that they had lost another heir, the last to undergo the staff-test a second time. The error in judgment was his own. Desperation had driven him to discard Kohleran’s wisdom, the simple logic of which the gods approved. The true king would have known the human psyche would prove too fragile to weather the gods’ disdain twice. Now, Kohleran’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren exactly resembled the weak, unfit rulers much of the populace now proclaimed them to be.

  Hopelessness settled over Baltraine, leaving him empty of thought and without energy for action. He could do nothing now except curse his mistakes and pray for the envoy to succeed where messengers and a previous group failed. Pray. Béarn’s prime minister routinely participated in affirmations and holy days, but he had not set foot in the temple alone for years. Affairs of state and his own agenda had kept him too busy for pious pursuits. Now he saw the castle temple as a sanctuary, a place to escape from the many insurmountable burdens heaped upon him and perhaps, to find some answers.

  Once discovered, the need to pray became an obsession. Baltraine spun and took a step before formality took over again. He turned back to the Renshai whose hands had stilled on the corpse. Gray eyes filled with purpose beseeched the heavens, and the crouched posture seemed too tense and painful to hold so long. Baltraine managed reason only in fits and starts, but he knew from experience the Renshai would feel responsible for a death none of them could have anticipated or prevented. If he did not say something to absolve that guilt, they might lose another Renshai to suicide. That thought drove a shiver through his entire body. Renshai suicide involved violence; their desperate need to die in battle and find Valhalla assured it. Vivid images filled his mind’s eye, of guards’ bodies sprawled through the courtyard and a battle-mad Renshai slashing and howling long after lethal wounds should already have claimed her. More often than not, these fallen Renshai attacked others of their ilk, perhaps believing only other Renshai could stop them or because no one else could understand nor deserved to die for their need.

  Either way, Baltraine saw danger. As Béarn became more divided, he desperately needed the Renshai and Béarn’s guard force on his side to prevent a coup or his own murder. These ideas only made Baltraine more restless about consulting gods, but he forced himself to speak now. “The staff-test did this.” He had no way to confirm whether or not he spoke the truth. “You did the best anyone could have, and you bear no fault in this tragedy.” He placed a hand on the Renshai’s shoulder, felt her stiffen beneath his touch. He turned his attention to the page. “There will be no investigation against this woman.”

  Without awaiting a reply, Baltraine turned and whisked down the corridor. No more needed saying. Ultimately, the Renshai’s philosophy would determine whether she considered herself innocent or guilty of shirking her duty. She would try herself and determine her own punishment. He had done all he could to convince her she had performed her duty to the satisfaction of the kingdom by demonstrating unconditional trust and nonchalantly absolving her of any blame. Whether or not she followed his lead, she would relay his loyalty back to the other Renshai and they would see him as an ally. Renshai made him nervous, but he could not afford to lose the support of competent swordmasters eager to support Béarn.

  Despite their finery, the hallways seemed bleak to Baltraine as he hurried through them to the temple. Torch holders carved into animal shapes held burning brands that seemed incapable of chasing away the darkness. His shadow spiraled, fragmented by the myriad lights, a phenomenon he had never noticed before and now increased his eagerness to find the solace prayer promised. Blue and gold brocade, braided with beads, swung from each holder in the breeze of his passage. Murals sprawled across the walls, broken by doors on both sides of the corridor. Baltraine had long ago ceased to admire art that had become too tedious and familiar. He hastened past, seeing only splotches of color that he did not bother to place into coherent pattern.

  At length, Baltraine reached the familiar double doors that led into Béarn’s royal temple. Despite his preoccupation, he could not help noticing the rearing bear standing out in bold relief from each door. Blue gemstones glittered from each eye, and shaven pearls lined inner ears and nose leather. Door rings jutted from metalwork intended to simulate the sun and moon, the steel worn smooth by countless hands. He seized the handle embedded in the moon, drawing the heavy oak panel open with a jerk. The hinges protested with a mild squeal. Slipping inside, he let the door glide closed behind him, and the handle crashed back into position like a giant’s hand knocking. Though loud, the noise did not bother him. He had grown accustomed to it through the years, and the embarrassment that accompanied the noise all but ascertained no one came late to services.

  A carpeted aisle separated rows of benches, and Baltraine trod its length until he reached the altar and dais at the front where the clergy gave their holy day sermons. He found no one else in the temple, and that further soothed Baltraine. He wanted to bellow his prayers until the walls echoed, to relieve himself of some of the tension that ground at him like a deep-seated agony. He headed to the front, rounded the left-side row of benches to seek out one of several niches along the wall that held miniature altars and cushions on which to kneel and offer private prayers. Halfway around, he sto
pped and turned, his anxiety requiring something larger and more conspicuous to quell it.

  Baltraine studied the main dais. No law forbid him from praying there, only a deep-seated awe driven into him since childhood. He had never seen anyone stand there except the berobed, charismatic priests who had terrified him as a child and dumbfounded him as a young adult. Later, he came to know them as people outside the temple as well as priests. They told jokes and stories, suffered from the same minor ailments as he, and lost some of the magic his childhood self imposed upon them. Still, the sanctity of the dais seemed inviolate, and he approached it with caution. At the steps, a brief flurry of fear descended upon him, a carryover from childhood. He battled it with logic, climbed to the dais, and knelt beside the altar.

  Words had always come easily to Baltraine, simplifying the task of leading the council meetings and holding court. Now his mouth failed him as it rarely had before. He knelt in silence, head bowed, mind draining of its jumbled problems and replaced by images of gods. He had always preferred Odin. The grim, gray father of the gods symbolized ultimate power in Baltraine’s mind, and he coveted the wisdom Odin had won through hardship. Like the priests, images of The Terrible One and his eight-legged horse had scared him as a child, yet his terror had evolved into fascination, and his adult understanding of the AllFather’s influence made him all the more appealing.

  But though Baltraine easily conjured remembered images of Odin from murals and books, he could not think of a single word to say. He had intended to shout his desperation from the depths of his soul. Now that the time had come, however, he found his tongue unwilling. Instead he demonstrated his weighty concerns with concepts he hoped the gods could read inside his mind. He appealed to them for solutions to problems that seemed insurmountable. He promised daily attendance in church and donation of half his pay should they choose to share their holy guidance. “Please,” he finally managed aloud. “Please help me.”

  Still the proper entreaties would not come, and tears of desperation blurred his vision. To his surprise, that soothed him where all else had failed. Baltraine allowed the tears to fall in an endless stream, the deep sobs clearing away the negative emotions that crowded out all good. He could not recall the last time he cried; he would never have done so had he not found himself so wholly alone. He would have seen it as a sign of weakness, and many would have lost faith in their king’s choice of regent. For all its wondrous enormity, power and status seemed as much curse as blessing.

  A sound touched Baltraine’s ears, the whisk of a hand across stone. Though startled, he remained in place, unobtrusively wiping away the tears before daring to rise and face whoever had intruded on his peace. Crying had helped empty his head of the muddle of overbearing thought, though nothing had yet seeped in to replace it. Logic returned slowly as he stood. He had not heard footsteps in the aisle nor, for that matter, the familiar screech of hinges they could never quite oil enough and the clang of the heavy door ring.

  The other who stood upon the temple dais fit the impossible soundlessness of his approach. Blond hair framed a strong, clean-shaven face with parallel scars down one cheek. Cold blue-gray eyes regarded Baltraine with a confidence and composure he could only envy. The stance seemed casual at first glance, though the stranger’s left hand rested on the hilt of a sword dangling at his right hip. A matching sword graced his left hip. He kept his weight balanced. Nothing about him suggested strength or bulk. He stood a head shorter and massed half of Baltraine’s huge, Béarnian build, yet he carried himself in the manner of an experienced warrior with a long string of triumphs to his name. His coloring, manner, and choice of two long swords seemed most appropriate to Renshai, though Baltraine could not guess what business one of the heirs’ guardians could have in Béarn’s temple.

  Baltraine blinked in silence, gathering his wits. Anyone who belonged in Béarn’s castle had the right to worship here, yet this man did not look familiar. Although Baltraine believed he knew everyone in the palace who mattered, many of the servants and ancillary staff could escape his recognition. Surely this warrior was no servant, yet if he had come here, he must belong. Baltraine trusted castle security too much to believe otherwise.

  Baltraine’s mind touched doubt, and the idea washed into his mind that this could be an intruder. With it came a desperate terror that dried his mouth to cotton and erased all semblance of tears. Could one of the warring factions have sneaked in an assassin to catch him vulnerable and unguarded? He forced speech, back-stepping to keep the altar between himself and the stranger. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” the blond returned, studying him mildly. He smiled. “Urgent problems need urgent solutions. Have you discussed your situation with men accustomed to dealing with such?”

  Baltraine blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Warriors make their decisions on the battlefield, faster than an eye blink; and they rarely get a second chance to be wrong. Perhaps if you sought the advice of generals, you might find the solutions you so desperately seek.”

  Baltraine trembled, and he nearly lost control of his bladder. This stranger who entered doors without opening them and walked without footfalls also seemed to have read his mind. A god? His mind gave no better answer, though logic battered at the thought. Ridiculous. Gods don’t talk to men. Yet he could not help but doubt. Some faith, deep in his core, had driven him to consult gods. That same part of him believed. “Who . . . who are you?”

  “I’m not a god,” the blond admitted, again reading Baltraine’s thoughts with uncanny accuracy. “But I’m not mortal either.” He gave no more specific clues to his identity.

  Baltraine did not speculate. He tried to keep his thoughts in check, as much to compose himself as prevent the other from reading the chaos that seemed to have exploded inside him. “You think . . . you think . . .” Baltraine fought to organize his mind and felt as if he fought a frenzied battle underwater. “You think I should talk to Captain Seiryn?” The leader of Béarn’s guards already knew the situation.

  “A reasonable choice.” The blond rested the fingers of one hand directly on the altar, a casual sacrilege. “But there are others to consider.”

  “Thialnir?” Baltraine referred to the Renshai’s representative reluctantly. Although they served the same country, their approach to problems differed to the point of contention. He doubted he could open himself to Thialnir.

  “There is one more.”

  Baltraine fidgeted. No other came immediately to mind, though he suspected the answer lay, protected, in a deeper portion. Consideration made him desperately uncomfortable, so he did not delve.

  The blond waited, impressively patient.

  The silence stretched uncomfortably, until Baltraine wondered if he had lost his hearing. Finally, he cleared his throat. The interruption soothed him, though not for long. Words had to follow. “I’m not certain who you mean.”

  The blond smiled ever so slightly. “I’m referring to the captain of the Knights of Erythane.”

  “Kedrin,” Baltraine said without thinking, and the name tasted bitter in his mouth. “No, not . . .” Unwilling to repeat it, he used the pronoun instead. “. . . him. Not him.” He did not explain. “It would be a bad idea.”

  “I understand your reluctance.”

  Baltraine doubted that to be the case, but he did not voice his skepticism. The stranger had already twice seemed to read his thoughts. Again, he wondered about the identity of the man in front of him. Baltraine still refused to believe he faced an immortal, despite the blond’s claim; but other possibilities seemed equally unlikely. If he accepted the assertion, he also had to admit he faced a god. Other than deities, Béarn’s Northern-based religion justified only Valkyries, the warrior choosers of the slain, as immortals. And all Valkyries were female. Baltraine’s mind turned to less likely possibilities, tales from his childhood filled with happy stories of carefree elves and the twisted dwarves who crafted gods’ magic. This stranger did not meet the description of either. Therefor
e, he could not be the immortal, not god, he claimed to be.

  If the stranger recognized Baltraine’s jumble of thought, he did not directly address it this time. “Your stormy relationship with Knight-Captain Kedrin distresses only you.”

  Baltraine pounced on the mistake in the other’s assumption. “Not only me. There are factions among the citizens of Béarn who use his name to damn me.”

  “True.” The blond spoke as if he knew. “But Kedrin would never sanction their cause. You can no more blame him than the gods when lunatics use their names in wrongful cause. More than one power-mad mortal has called himself a son or messenger of Thor or Odin and used that status to justify his selfish ends. And fools believe and follow him blindly.”

  Baltraine nodded, understanding the point too well. Men could justify anything they wished to, even murder, in the name of religion.

  “Kedrin has given others advice from his prison cell, and never once has he spoken against you. You know that. Your guards have listened and told you.”

  Baltraine flushed. His eavesdroppers were supposed to be a secret.

  “Always, Kedrin puts the cause of Béarn first. He still sees you as the choice of a king whose judgment he would never think to question. You were King Kohleran’s chosen regent, and Kedrin will stand behind you no matter the evil you inflicted on him.”

  Baltraine stared at his clean, supple hands, trying not to reveal the rush of fear that enveloped him. How could this stranger know?

  Baltraine could feel the icy gaze upon him though he still kept his own averted. The self-proclaimed immortal continued, “There is much of evil in you, Prime Minister Baltraine. And more chaos than law.”

  Baltraine shuffled farther backward. His guts felt clenched in sudden knots, and all the anxiety that had dispersed upon the realization he did not face an assassin returned. He met the pale gaze. Though no warrior, he would try to face death bravely.