When Ravn felt he could move his head without becoming overpowered by vertigo, he finally looked up. The anger he had imagined in his father’s eyes became striking reality.
“Again,” Colbey said.
Ravn blinked, unable to internalize the word until Colbey assumed an offensive stance. An eye blink separated Ravn from another grueling session at a time when he could ill afford it. Afraid for his flickering consciousness, he barely raised his sword in time to parry. Sword crashed against sword, the force of the blow staggering. Overbalanced, Ravn barely caught his equilibrium. For a moment, even he believed he had fallen. He twisted out of the path of Colbey’s next strike, entertaining thoughts he would never have considered in the past. His father had trained Renshai for centuries. Always, he had insisted that his students attack with the full intention of killing him, often stating that a teacher who could not dodge a student’s blows deserved the death they inflicted. Despite that philosophy, no one had managed to give him so much as a scratch during spar. Colbey’s own strokes always seemed real, but Ravn knew that could not be the case. Otherwise, no student of the world’s best swordsman would live to see his second spar. Ravn wondered what his father would do if he simply stood still and took whatever came his way.
The thought flitted through Ravn’s mind only briefly. A sharpened sword could slaughter even a son of gods. Though born centuries after the Ragnarok, Ravn had heard the stories, knew gods could die of other things if not of old age. If he made no attempt to protect himself, he doubted his father would find him worthy to do so for him. So Ravn dodged and found another strategy only slightly less abhorrent. Colbey’s next attack slammed against his parry. Ravn eeled around his father’s second sword, then hurled one of his own blades at his torke’s feet.
Colbey jerked back, rescuing his toes, surprise etched on his features. Seizing the opening, Ravn retreated beyond sword range. He paused there, gasping and attentive, prepared to run should his father charge.
But Colbey remained in place, blond hair sweat-plastered to his forehead, his expression still open with astonishment. He held a perfect fighting stance; even shock could not dislodge his attention from battle.
Ravn waited for the inevitable explosion.
Gradually, Colbey’s gaze rose from the grounded sword to the son who had committed two of the worst sins in Renshai history, second and third only to cowardice. By allowing his sword to strike the ground, Ravn had dishonored it. And the method he chose showed disrespect for his torke as well.
Colbey’s face settled into angry creases. Methodically, he polished each of his blades and returned them to their sheaths.
Sweat tickled down Ravn’s back. He remained silent, his second sword still freed and his position solid. He would not speak first; that would only worsen the situation.
The pause that followed seemed to span eternity. “Raska Colbeysson,” Colbey finally spoke, in a powerful voice, without the unbridled rage Ravn expected. Only the formal use of his full name, rather than his usual nickname, displayed the elder Renshai’s dissatisfaction. “Why did you do that?” He indicated the sword with a slow nod that never took his eyes from Ravn.
“I apologize for the indignity I’ve inflicted on my sword and the affront to my torke.” In his sixteen years, Ravn had learned to diffuse emotion before delivering a verbal defense. Nothing ignited tempers faster than a desperate denial accompanied by flimsy excuses. He had reason for his actions, ones better accepted after appropriate courtesy and student/teacher balance had been restored. Nevertheless, he refused to assume all of the blame. “There is strategy even against Renshai.”
Colbey blinked. “Explain.”
“I needed an opening. I created it by using an unexpected maneuver.”
“In the process, dishonoring your sword.”
Ravn pursed his lips, unable to deny the truth of the assertion. His earliest memories of practice included his father diving for Ravn’s sword after disarming maneuvers. A Renshai would rather throw himself in the mud than his weapon. “Considering my opponent, nothing less would have worked.”
Colbey could scarcely deny the truth of the statement. He accepted it grudgingly, the matter still open for consideration. “So you were creating an opening.”
“Yes.” Ravn’s breathing finally began to normalize, and he appreciated the long silence that had seemed nerve-racking before. He cleaned his remaining sword and returned it to its sheath. He made no move toward the other.
“Then why did you not press the opening you made?”
Here, Ravn believed, Colbey had found a better reason for lecture. His son’s actions bordered on cowardice.
Ravn held his torke in too much esteem to lie, even had he not learned its futility long ago. Colbey could read intention as well as word, mood, and, on occasion, actual thoughts. “I did not have the strength left to attack.”
Colbey’s expression hardened, and his blue-gray eyes glittered with icy disapproval. “So you fled.”
Ravn swept soaked hair from his forehead and rubbed sweat from his eyes. “I withdrew from the battle.”
“Explain your justification.”
Despite respect for his father that bordered on fear, Ravn would not be cowed. “The type of battle allowed it.”
Colbey’s brows rose gradually, signaling intense interest in a response that seemed unlikely to satisfy. “How so?”
Ravn shifted nervously, but he kept his gaze firmly latched on his father’s. “We never likened this to a real battle by defining a fictitious situation. I took it to represent a father so enraged by his son that he attacked in a furious fit. As the son, I took the first opportunity to disengage and used a strategy designed to distract Father long enough from his temper to talk.”
Colbey stiffened, a sure sign Ravn had struck something raw. “You are supposed to treat each spar like a real battle.”
“I did,” Ravn insisted. “This time, I couldn’t separate out a style uniquely yours. Had you been an unnamed enemy in wartime, I would have died on the sword of a superior warrior and appreciated the honor of it.” Ravn saw no reason to belabor a lesson so basic he had learned it as a toddler. “What did I do wrong?”
“You dishonored your sword!”
Ravn sighed. “I know that. I’ve apologized, and I’ll atone.” The latter would consist of driving personal practices with the weapon as well as a thorough cleansing. For mortals, prayers to the goddess Sif would accompany those acts of penance. Often, they would consider themselves unworthy of the blade and would never dare to use it again. “What did I do that got you mad enough to turn me into a soggy bundle of aching muscles?”
“Has it really been that bad?”
“My arms don’t work. Mama might have to undress me and put me to bed.”
For the first time, Colbey smiled, a small, indulgent grin. “Good.”
Good? Ravn dried his hands on britches equally wet. “I’m glad one of us is happy. Now what did I do?”
“Come here.” Colbey headed across the grassy plain of Asgard, each blade a perfect triangle of green-edged blue. He led Ravn on a winding course over the plains, onto a twisting path between perfect evergreens, to the banks of a crystal lake Ravn knew well. Tan and white ducks paddled across the calm waters while water beetles hopped and somersaulted on the surface. Occasionally, a fish flashed silver in the sunlight, nose momentarily visible as it snapped up an insect. Colbey sat on a rock outcropping in a position that appeared relaxed, though it no longer fooled Ravn. He knew his father could rise and cut quicker than Ravn could picture him doing so, no matter how comfortable he appeared. Colbey’s hands rested on gray-white boulders, and he stretched his legs in the sunshine.
Ravn remaining standing, confused by what seemed a drastic change in his father’s strategy.
“Look,” Colbey said.
Ravn continued to study the natural actions of animals on the pond, reveling in stillness after hours of grueling swordplay and the fresh, cool breeze blowing across h
is sweaty features. The panorama of motion and color never ceased to entertain, though he often feared that eternal life might turn even this pleasure into a dull routine. Freya never seemed to find enjoyment in the simple beauties, but Colbey did. Ravn wondered whether this difference stemmed from his father’s relative youth or whether his eight decades as a mortal allowed him to appreciate things Ravn’s mother never could. Now, as a thousand times before, Ravn vowed never to lose to boredom the natural loveliness of the world Odin had created. His friendship with Griff had developed that way, as a means to see the world through the eyes of a human mortal his own age.
“You do know that’s exactly the problem.” Colbey kept his eyes on the lake scene below, as if mesmerized.
Ravn sighed, not bothering to think back on his last spoken words. His father had read his thoughts. Ravn had learned long ago not to accuse Colbey of having done so on purpose. Colbey never invaded minds; things came to him, sometimes against his will. Ravn did not begrudge his father a talent that seemed as much a curse. He worked on his own lessons on mental strength, learning to channel energy from mind to body or in reverse as the situation demanded. Someday, he might become as competent with mind powers, just as he hoped to become Colbey’s equal with a sword. “The problem is my friendship with a mortal?”
“Not the friendship by itself.” Colbey leaned back slightly while the breeze toyed with the feathers of his hair. “There. That’s man’s world.” Colbey gestured at the pond. “Each player fits into a role and acts in a reasonably predictable way.”
Ravn watched the ducks. He could not anticipate every turn they took, but their swimming, splashing, and feeding formed a familiar routine.
“Add man.” Colbey tossed a pebble into the water. It struck with a wet, hollow sound, tiny rings widening from its landing. The ducks glanced nervously toward the place the stone had landed, and fish did not feed for several moments. Then, gradually, the cycle returned to normal. “A bit of chaos, but still mostly predictable. Things change, but the world adapts, and man becomes a part of the picture.”
“Enter gods.” Colbey hefted another stone and threw it. Even as Ravn’s eyes followed its course, he realized his father had switched a boulder for the pebble. The hunk of rock slammed the surface hard enough to raise a wild wave of water. The ducks rocketed into the sky, screeching warning. Washed away in the aftermath, the bugs disappeared from sight. Ripples disturbed the surface long after the rock had settled to the bottom. “No matter how hard we try to keep our actions tiny, we cannot. Everything immortals do on man’s world gains unexpected momentum and mass. There, the gods can do nothing small.” At last, he looked at Ravn directly. “Ravn, you’re young now and the son of one raised mortal. You can still interact with humans, mostly with impunity. Over time, however, even the least of your actions will prove too much. You need to learn restraint.”
Now the cause of Colbey’s wrath became obvious. Ravn turned defensive before he could stop himself. “I had to protect Griff from those elves. They would have killed him.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll never know.”
Ravn could not contain his temper. “You weren’t there, damn it! Griff didn’t have a chance without me.”
“Then he would have died.”
Ravn could not believe the calmness of his father’s proclamation. “Griff can’t die!”
“All humans die.”
“He can’t die now. It would mean the end of humankind.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“But . . .” Ravn started and stopped, realizing he had begun to sputter. Loudness would get him nowhere. He needed strong ammunition to back his argument. “It’s the goal of the Renshai to keep a neutral king in Béarn. You’ve always said Sterrane and his heirs are the central key to mankind’s survival. Without Griff, humans will collapse into chaos. And the second war of gods will come, completing the destruction the first did not.”
Colbey sat in silence for a long time, displaying a patience he never had during his mortal years. “We’re making suppositions based on a source of knowledge I no longer trust. When Odin still lived, no one could surpass his wisdom. But he did not always speak what he knew as truth. In the end, he misled us all. In the long run, his loyalty was only to himself and his own survival.”
Ravn bent his points to follow this new tack. “You’re committed to balance.”
Colbey nodded.
“Without Griff, there can be no balance.”
Colbey shrugged. “We don’t know that for certain. I believe it to be true, however.”
Given that admission, Ravn easily drove home his point. “If I hadn’t assisted, he would have died.”
“Maybe.” Colbey refused to concede. “We’ll never know. It’s best for gods to let men handle their own affairs.”
Ravn could scarcely believe his father’s words. He kicked at the outcropping, ignoring the shower of pebbles that tumbled into the lake. “You’ve interfered. Recently.”
Colbey did not deny the assertion.
“And Mama’s told me she helped you when you lived on Midgard and the other gods mistakenly believed you worked for chaos.”
Colbey smiled and rose gracefully. “Ah, then. Take home the right lessons from that story. First, Freya took the form of a hawk and never spoke directly to me. Second, when I fought Thor, she made no assumptions about who would win that fight. She knew Thor had based his attack on a misconception and that he would cease once he knew the truth. She also realized the destruction would start no matter which of us died. She did not harm either of us, as you did the elves. She merely created a distraction, gaining the time for others to explain the situation to me and to Thor.”
Ravn gave the explanation the consideration it deserved. Not yet ready to wholly surrender, he added, “She also watched over you.”
“She stayed at my side.” Colbey smiled at the memory, gazing at the pond again. “And she gave an occasional warning. But she did not involve herself in the battles nor interfere. Nor did she reveal herself to me.”
Ravn nodded. “So I can still watch over Griff?”
“Like all students, I expect you to make mistakes . . . and to learn from them. If you do wrong again, I’ll let you know.”
Ravn rubbed at his aching forearms, never doubting Colbey would do exactly as he promised. For now, the words of wisdom seemed more like a threat.
* * *
Footsteps echoed eerily through the damp murk of Béarn’s dungeon, and Knight-Captain Kedrin had long ago ceased to speculate about whose presence they might herald. When a month, then two, had dragged past and Ra-khir had not come, Kedrin ceased to care about the identity of his occasional visitors. He had never worried about other dealings guards might have there. When he asked, a prison sentry had told him Ra-khir had taken a leave of absence from his knight’s training, presumably to return to his mother in Erythane. But Kedrin knew better. Surely, Ra-khir had gone to rescue Béarn from its desperate dilemma.
Sound reverberated strangely in Béarn’s dungeon, and Kedrin could not tell in which direction the visitor traveled. Journal in his lap, pen poised for more writing, Kedrin tried to ignore the thump of each step, but its peculiarity grasped his attention and stopped the flow of words. Usually, the guards whipped through with a confidence that came from long familiarity. These steps had a faltering, erratic quality that did not suit one accustomed to coming to this place. Whether the new arrival’s uncertainty stemmed from fear of the type of men usually found in a prison, from insecurity, indecisiveness, or some more complex reason, Kedrin could not surmise. Unless the other came to him, he would never discover the answer.
Kedrin sighed, saddened that he had spent enough time in Béarn’s dungeon to understand routines and interpret noises. But he would not bemoan his fate. He had done as his honor dictated and refused to regret the decision.
The footsteps continued, now definitely headed toward him. Even as he placed his parchment and pen aside, rising to greet
the visitor, Baltraine came into view. The Knight of Erythane was surprised, and the hesitancy of Baltraine’s approach confused him. Always before, Baltraine had exuded the confidence befitting his rank and title.
Kedrin bowed respectfully to his superior.
Almost imperceptibly, Baltraine cringed. Kedrin took that as a positive sign, an ability to feel guilt for a cruel mistake. Nevertheless, his honor would not allow him to take advantage of the prime minister’s emotional state. “How are you, Captain?” Baltraine asked.
“Well enough,” Kedrin replied, resisting the temptation to turn to sarcasm. “And you, Minister?”
Baltraine sighed. “Not so good.”
“I’m sorry,” Kedrin said sincerely. “Is there something I can do?”
Baltraine studied the fallen captain of the Knights of Erythane through dark eyes that betrayed pain. “There’s trouble, and I’m not certain where to turn. Spiritually, I was guided here.” His eyes widened ever so slightly, requesting support but expecting ridicule.
Kedrin would not judge. Divine guidance came in many forms, and he believed his own honor inspired by gods. Whether it came in the form of heartfelt understanding or the pattern of leaves on a pond, it had brought Baltraine to him. Kedrin refused to lose another chance to strengthen the kingdom and help shape Béarn’s failing politics. “Explain the circumstances, my lord, and I will try to help as I can.”
Baltraine slumped, tensed, then settled at a level slightly calmer than previously. He had shed a great burden until mistrust drove him to shoulder most of it again. “There are problems in Béarn. I’d like your advice.” Though straightforward, the words and tone implied something more.
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