Again, Kedrin understood. Whatever bothered Baltraine went beyond discussion with ministers in a council room. Baltraine wanted recommendations from one who would not judge previous actions, who would not take credit for his ideas, and who would disappear without complaint should Baltraine choose to ignore some or all of the suggestions. It seemed ironic to the knight that the man jailed for pushing his own ideas too hard could now perfectly fill that niche. Imprisonment had unwittingly turned Kedrin into exactly the sort of adviser Baltraine believed he needed. And, if it meant the prime minister and regent would consider his ideas, Kedrin could find the positive light to his own suffering. “I will always steer anyone who asks toward the best course for Béarn. You need only ask.”
Baltraine looked away. If not for the darkness of his mane, Kedrin might have missed the slight blush of pink that touched his cheeks. “King Kohleran has lapsed into permanent coma.”
Though inevitable, the news struck hard. Kedrin found himself without words for several moments, glad Baltraine had not yet asked a question. Tears blurred his vision to a shimmering, liquid veil. “I’m sorry,” he managed, the words heartfelt but inadequate. The tragedy itself paled in significance compared to its consequences. Death had come for King Kohleran after long illness, but the lack of an heir might herald worse for all mankind.
Baltraine’s voice hardened. “Only you, I, and the master healer know this.” He glanced around the dungeon to indicate he had made arrangements to keep their conversation private. Whether that entailed moving the other prisoners to places where their conversation did not reach or constructing barriers to block the sound, Kedrin did not try to guess. He had ignored the movements of guards and prisoners except when they related to himself.
Kedrin’s white-blue eyes widened in surprise. It seemed impossible to keep such a significant event from the notice of others. “I will not betray your confidence,” he said, knowing Baltraine would trust his knight’s honor. “How did the envoy fair?” Baltraine’s presence gave him part of the answer. Had it done well, the prime minister would have no reason to come here. Yet knowing the envoy failed did not supply Kedrin with the details he needed to speculate about the fate of his son.
“Two envoy parties and three scouts have disappeared without a trace.” Baltraine delivered horrible news in a monotone. “We sent the last scout with a note telling anyone who discovered him in whatever state to contact the kingdom. We offered a reward.”
Kedrin nodded, the reasoning sound. So long as the scout had gone voluntarily, aware of the dangers of the mission and the uncertainty of his fate, Kedrin condoned the strategy. The lure of gold would encourage footpads to return the scout alive rather than dead. If not, travelers who might otherwise simply burn, bury, or avoid the body might bring it back or, at least, report on the scout’s progress. Money might sway assassins to betray one another or could bring one out in the open when he came with false stories and a claim on the money.
“Nothing. Even the last attempt brought no word.”
The implications of Baltraine’s words hit him hard. In a reckless attempt to rescue the kingdom, Kedrin could well have committed his son to a horrible death. What had once seemed sound strategy now seemed hopeless insanity. Self-loathing flared intolerably; guilt seemed to replace his blood with liquid fire. He had sent six brave knights and his own child into the unknown, a void from which none had returned. A father’s instincts hammered him mercilessly for the decision, though leadership training and experience fought the judgment. Given the circumstances, he could have done nothing different. Pain settled to a constant, dull ache in Kedrin’s soul, and he forced his concentration back to Baltraine.
“There’s more bad news,” Baltraine admitted, his voice a barely recognizable ghost of its usual resonance. “Béarn has fallen into disarray. Those heirs still living have mostly succumbed to madness. Citizens have taken sides. Factions have risen, each supporting their own vision of who should become the next king, usually themselves or their relations.” Baltraine’s lips pursed, lost in his beard; and he shook his head sadly. “Many have forsaken the king’s line. Some have condemned me.” He glanced sidelong at Kedrin, perhaps believing he had chosen his confidant wrongly.
Horrified by the chaos, Kedrin gaped. “They desert the line of kings? They question King Kohleran’s regent? What fools!” Kedrin paced, needing to work off the energy created by his concern for his son and the country he had pledged to serve. An unthinkable urge seized him to collapse into a corner and let tears cleanse his pain, but it did not last long, replaced by rage. His hands balled to impotent, white-knuckled fists.
Baltraine seized on Kedrin’s anger to request a favor. “One group has rallied around you. Perhaps if I freed you—”
“No!” Kedrin grasped the bars. He would have none of it. “Regent, bowing to terrorists is always a bad idea, and reversing a decision made by our king would only further erode his support . . . and yours.”
Prime Minister Baltraine stared, as if he could not believe Kedrin had spoken. “You want to stay imprisoned?”
Kedrin kneaded the cold steel. “It isn’t a matter of what I want. It’s a matter of Béarn’s security and her future.” He released the bars to resume pacing. “Once the populace loses faith in their history and religion, nothing remains.”
Baltraine kicked at an irregularity in the floor stones, expression earnest. “Then come and talk to them. Let them know you’re here of your own volition.”
Again, Kedrin shook his head. “It would convince no one. Those who wish to oppose you would claim torture, drugs, or coercion forced me to speak that way.”
Baltraine muttered something unintelligible. “Then what can I do?”
Kedrin tried to make his point without simplifying a complicated situation. “You keep the peace, using the guards as necessary. I will instruct the knights to stand in support of you—their loyalty to the king’s regent would not allow them to do otherwise—and also to help unite Béarn’s citizens.” Kedrin went still, drawing back to the bars to make his next point. Baltraine might well take it as an insult, and Kedrin already knew the danger of affronting the prime minister. Nevertheless, he would speak his mind without faltering, his only compromise to choose his words with care. “Regent, only those who pass the staff-test seem to have the ability to consistently make the right choices for Béarn. It runs in the king’s line, a gift from the gods, I believe.”
Baltraine tried to anticipate Kedrin. “We need to find and establish the proper heir. I know that.”
“Yes,” Kedrin confirmed. “And, in the meantime, you’ll have to rule as best you can. Our beloved king wanted it that way.”
“And the people can’t know about his condition. It would cause a panic. Riots.”
Kedrin frowned. “I won’t condone lying.”
Baltraine’s brows shot up. “You made a vow.”
“Nor will I break my vow,” Kedrin added. “I’m just advising, my lord, not threatening.”
Baltraine closed his mouth and nodded.
“For the sake of balancing forces, the gods have always seen to it that Béarn remains effectively governed. The most efficient system remains a single king or queen with flawless judgment.”
Baltraine nodded again, a grudging agreement. He remained silent, allowing Kedrin to finish.
Kedrin measured Baltraine as he spoke, prepared to revise strategy and words as Baltraine’s expressions made it necessary. So far, he had managed to keep his information general. As he narrowed in on specifics, the danger that Baltraine would act in anger grew. Kedrin would do Béarn no good by driving Baltraine into foolishness based on pride. “That only works, though, when the proper heir sits on the throne. Any other, the gods proclaimed, will not have the natural balance to properly rule.”
Baltraine’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Kedrin attributed the expression to consideration rather than offense and continued. “By King Kohleran’s intention, you will rule until a sancti
oned heir can be found. Your judgment, though sound, cannot be considered wholly neutral.”
Baltraine seemed to handle that well, so Kedrin did not press. To use specific examples, such as Baltraine’s personal vendetta against the knight-captain, would prove unnecessarily provocative. He continued, “I think it would behoove you and the kingdom of Béarn not to make any major decisions by yourself.”
A frown deeply scored Baltraine’s face. Kedrin walked the narrow boundaries between propriety and aspersion. But, to Kedrin’s surprise, the prime minister maintained his calm. “What do you suggest?” he asked, a harshness to his tone all that betrayed his irritation.
“A council,” Kedrin said. “Not necessarily the ministers, although it could include some of them. If it were up to me, I would choose it this way.” He continued to study Baltraine, alert to the moment he overplayed his hand. “Three or five. Odd numbers work better for problem solving. More than five brings in too much dissension and too many approaches. The choosing should be done with caution and certainly should not include only those with opinions similar to your own. Otherwise, you might just as well rule alone. On the other hand, those of extreme opinions might prevent anything from getting decided. Best to find moderates loyal to Béarn.”
“That’s your advice?” Baltraine spoke softly.
“It is.”
“And would you consent to becoming a part of this council?”
Kedrin had not specifically considered such a thing. “Only if you thought it best.” A direct answer seemed more appropriate. “If you asked me, I would accept.” He added, “Unless conditions placed upon that acceptance went against my honor, of course.”
Baltraine smiled, though it was strained. “Of course.” He did not go on to actually make the request, however, a detail that Kedrin appreciated. Whether it came of divine guidance or fear, a sudden, dramatic change in Baltraine’s attitude could not last. Unless the transition involved long consideration and careful attention, Baltraine would never fully accept his own decision. The prime minister kept his grin pinned in place for longer than convention dictated. “What are you writing?” He inclined his head toward the journal on the floor.
Though acutely aware of its presence, Kedrin followed Baltraine’s gesture. He studied the crude book and stylus the guards had allowed him in his solitude. “It’s a journal.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I started writing it out of boredom. But it’s become more of a treatise to my son.”
“Your son?” Baltraine repeated.
Surely, Baltraine suspected it would contain information about their run-in that might embarrass him. And it did, although Kedrin had chosen the best words he could find to soften the implications. The book contained much more, the imprisonment and his handling of it only a small part of the whole. It explained his reasons for allowing most of the lies Ra-khir’s mother told to go unchallenged. It detailed why he treated the matter the way he did, exposing many of the discrepancies, problems, and approaches Ra-khir could not otherwise understand. Kedrin’s journal contained long discussions of honor, including hypothetical situations and explanations for his choices. On the current pages, he was rationalizing his reaction to Baltraine’s accusations.
Self-indulgent. Kedrin could think of no other description for his work. Placing his own deepest considerations into words, reawakening the many painful and difficult decisions he had made, forced him to relive agonies he would sooner have forgotten. Still, if his ethical discourses helped one knight to choose the right course, if it assisted Ra-khir’s understanding of problems that plagued his young soul, it would prove worth all the pathos.
Finally, after a pause that lasted way too long, Kedrin addressed Baltraine’s query. “My son, yes. My honor means everything to me, and I would not forsake it to save my own life. But all the same holds true for my son. What’s best for me is not always best for him. Ra-khir may not agree with all the choices I’ve made, but I want him to understand them. Bitterness has caused more than one good knight to betray his honor. I don’t want that to happen to Ra-khir.”
Baltraine rocked on his heels, brown eyes wide and mouth twisted. Clearly, he gave full thought to Kedrin’s words. The response that followed his consideration could not have surprised Kedrin more. “Whatever happens, I will see to it Ra-khir gets that journal.” He met Kedrin’s gaze without flinching. “I can’t let it endanger Béarn, of course.”
“Nor could I,” Kedrin added hastily.
Baltraine nodded. “So after you’re finished, I might have to hold it until you and I have passed away.”
Kedrin lowered his head but nodded also. He could hope for nothing more.
“But eventually Ra-khir will receive it.” Baltraine spoke in a strong voice, making his words a promise.
“Thank you,” Kedrin said softly, concern rising again. None of this mattered unless Ra-khir lived. If the young knight-in-training had gone to search for Béarn’s heir, he may well have fallen prey to the same fate as the scouts and envoys. By now, he could have sent word had his mission succeeded. Kedrin felt the warm sting of tears and fought them down. Baltraine would not understand such a reaction, and Kedrin did not wish to explain. Although he would have liked details about his son, to elicit them meant telling about the task he had suggested to the knight-in-training. Anyone with knowledge of the mission potentially jeopardized it. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s the very least I can do to make amends.” Baltraine seemed to mean words Kedrin never expected to hear. “The very least.”
* * *
Baltraine left Béarn’s prison with a confused muddle of thoughts to sort through and a tiny ray of hope. One thing seemed certain as he trod the corridors to his quarters: more good would come of working with Kedrin than against him. His divine visitor had, at least, steered him right. But the details still eluded him. He never doubted any suggestion from Kedrin would have Béarn’s best interests at its root. Yet, the advice, in a small way, had contradicted itself. The knight-captain had talked about a council made up of moderates and avoiding extremes. He had agreed to become a member, though knights clearly embraced one of the very excesses Kedrin had cautioned him to avoid. Their honor had come to define law, and the small lies necessary to keep things running smoothly would become a point of contention if Kedrin joined the governing body he advocated.
Other ideas plagued Baltraine as he walked the final hallways, noticing none of the finery around him. He had gone to the church, then the dungeon, in a blithering panic. His calm discussion with Kedrin had restored some of his flagging confidence and allowed other crucial issues to come to the fore. Did he dare trust the opinions of inferiors when it came to making policy or decisions that affected the kingdom? As Kedrin pointed out, King Kohleran had chosen Baltraine as his regent. It made no sense to consider the ideas of others as valid as his own. Baltraine clung to the power of his position, the source from which all positive feeling about himself stemmed. Then, too, he had to ponder the best interests of his daughters and, eventually, of their children.
These thoughts haunted Baltraine into the night and the following day, and still he seemed no closer to making a decision. Day after day, Baltraine agonized over his next course of action, weighing his loyalty to self, family, king, world, and kingdom.
While Béarn collapsed all around him.
Chapter 27
Pudar’s Audience
There’s nothing honorable about a duty in and of itself; it’s the performance of that duty to the best of your ability that gives it virtue.
—Colbey Calistinsson
A dank haze filled the city streets of Pudar, as if the mood of the citizenry had tainted the weather. Staring out the cottage window, Kevral knew a desperateness and restless irritation, scarcely worsened by Darris’ sudden surgery. Matrinka hovered over his bedside in the only other room, the fear of losing him to infection or the technical aspects of the operation giving way to concerns that he would not recover from the shock.
&
nbsp; Kevral did not know why the guards kept the market closed and the citizens off the streets; she could only surmise from rumors. Most agreed a great tragedy had rocked the kingdom, though speculation ranged from threats of war to the death of the king or queen. No matter the reason, it kept them from buying necessities, including food. Their own supplies had run out days ago. If not for the last dregs of their traveling rations, they would not have made it even that far.
With a sigh, Kevral pulled away from the window, drawing her swords with a suddenness that startled Ra-khir from his chair. His scramble for safety did not entertain her as much as she expected, which only added to her annoyance. She threw herself into a practice, her third of the morning. Her swords sliced arcs through air thick with damp. Imaginary enemies fell before her onslaught while others sprang clear, returning every stroke with the competence and efficiency of Renshai.
Kevral lost herself in the practice, legs skimming over the wooden floor, body twisting lithely to avoid attacks and deal death strokes to fleeing opponents, arms melding with hilts and swords. The grace of the sweeps and patterns simulated dance, but the sharp and deadly blades stole all of the innocent beauty. Swords cleaved air, lines of quicksilver that shifted without pattern. Where her quiet study of the city had failed, the love of battle succeeded. All thought fled Kevral’s mind, and no troubles remained in a head filled only with the savage joy of swordplay.
An angry shout from Ra-khir finally interrupted the pleasant world Kevral had temporarily created. Enraged by the interference, she momentarily considered turning her swords against him. Sanity intervened. Kevral let the blades fall lax at her sides, a withering glare the only threat she turned in the Erythanian’s direction.
Ra-khir dashed out a quick breath, the only evidence that he felt relieved to have finally caught her attention. Clearly, he had called for her to halt the practice more than once. Before Kevral could huff out a warning about the dangers of disturbing a Renshai practice, or Ra-khir could justify his reasons, a knock hammered through the confines. The volume and intensity indicated impatience. The caller, too, had clearly vied for her attention.
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