Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Even as the thoughts sprang to life, Ravn spotted Griff running down the final pathway from the Grove to home. The elves had not returned. Apparently, they had fled, leaving Griff to the protection of his own loving family. Not wishing to frighten the Béarnide, Ravn checked his rush, flying directly upward so as not to charge over Griff. For now, the battle had ended, but a worse one had begun. With trepidation, Ravn headed back toward Asgard and the grueling sword practice he knew his father would inflict.

  Ravn had done wrong again. And he would pay.

  * * *

  The burden of decision cast upon Baltraine’s shoulders felt as if it weighed more than the entire kingdom combined. In one of the private chambers on the fourth floor, he sat and considered his lot, exhaustion a parasite he seemed unable to shake. Repeatedly, the same information paraded through his mind. His research haunted him, and the fate of Béarn hung on a fragile thread that he could reinforce or cut with a single action. Surely, no man before him had ever faced such a desperate and painfully difficult decision. Yet, though all the information lay within his reach, the next course of action would not come.

  Though Baltraine would have appreciated the assistance of wise heads and divinity, he consulted neither. He did not know why he avoided advice at a time he most needed it. He did not comprehend his need to explore options alone prior to making what might prove the most fateful decision to affect humankind in centuries, perhaps ever. His own selfish desires eluded understanding. So far, he had not even managed to fully define his choices.

  For the millionth time, Baltraine pieced together knowledge he knew better than his own requirements for food and shelter. Béarn required that its ruler embody moral neutrality. So far, it had achieved this goal through a family who carried this ability the way others passed height or birthmarks. But the only heir who might fulfill this requirement lived far away and defied contact. Baltraine reviewed his attempts to reach Griff and felt satisfied that he had done all possible in that regard. Three messengers and two diplomatic groups, including Knights of Erythane and Renshai, had failed. Sending more would only assure more deaths. Somehow he had to find a proper heir, if one existed. But how?

  The next course of action always eluded Baltraine. He sighed loudly, placing his elbows on the table and resting his heavy head on his palms. His beard trickled through the spaces between his fingers, coarse and curly. His fingers left cold impressions on his cheeks. He backtracked his thinking and began again, dreading the familiar impasse.

  A quiet tapping sounded from the other side of the door. Engrossed in his thoughts, Baltraine chose to ignore the intrusion. The knocking continued, gentle but insistent. Despair flared to irritation, then faded to relief in a moment. The interruption pulled him from thoughts pondered too long in helpless circles. He rose, crossed the room, and opened the door.

  The master healer stood in the hallway, his sagging features making him look ancient, though he carried fewer than ten years more than Baltraine. Crow’s-feet scored the edges of his soft, dark eyes, and moisture coated their surface like rheum. His cheeks drooped in jowly sorrow, and creases marred a face old beyond its years. Gray had replaced the black in his beard, most of it during the last few months.

  Baltraine’s heart felt as if it was sinking into his abdomen, hammering a wild cadence that made his gut ache. The healer only interrupted his vigil with King Kohleran to inform Baltraine of important changes in the king’s condition. The look on the healer’s face told all. “Come in, please, Mikalyn.” He stepped aside.

  The healer obliged, eyes vacant and gait shuffling. Once inside, he turned to face Baltraine again.

  Baltraine closed the door and gestured to a seat at the table.

  Again, Mikalyn did as his superior bid, collapsing into a seat with a hopelessness too familiar to Baltraine. “My lord, I regret to inform you. King Kohleran is dead.”

  A new emotion Baltraine could not define filled him in an instant. It was not grief; he had known of the king’s imminent demise for too long and the responsibilities the circumstance heaped upon him left no room for sadness. His thoughts exploded like a flock of ducks when a carnivorous turtle emerges suddenly in their midst. His bloodless hands clamped to the ledge of the table, and he sought the same balance and security in his mind that his body found automatically. He did not attempt speech for several moments, nor did the healer seem to expect it.

  “Oh, no,” Baltraine finally managed, the exclamation far too mild to fit the situation.

  The healer nodded.

  Baltraine needed to consider the news, to factor it into previous considerations. To do so, he had to be alone, yet he could not dismiss Mikalyn without orders. Until he calculated details, however, he could do little more than maintain the illusion they had thus far managed. “Do what you can to preserve the body and the dignity a beloved king deserves. You must keep up appearances. No one but us must know the king has died.”

  The healer did not question verbally, but he did study the prime minister with a hint of uncertainty.

  “The time is wrong,” Baltraine explained. “An announcement like that would throw the populace further into chaos and murder.”

  Mikalyn nodded, looking even older and more tired, if that was possible. Baltraine wondered if the events of the last few months had taken a similar toll on himself. He felt battered and ancient.

  “Dismissed,” Baltraine said, his mind already working on this new information.

  Mikalyn retreated from the room, and the door clicked closed behind him. Baltraine closed his eyes, trying desperately to compose his thoughts. The finality of the king’s death made him at last discard the possibility of ever finding a proper king or queen. The heirs in Béarn had only become more unfit with time and testing. No messenger or envoy could ever reach Santagithi. Once Baltraine accepted the impossibility of the rightful ruler ever sitting upon Béarn’s throne, a whole new world of ideas opened to him. In such a situation, it only made sense to fall back on the laws and conventions that existed prior to the staff-test.

  Baltraine shifted his thoughts to this new abstraction, his heart rate and breathing quickening. Even before he ran through the sequence of ascension, he knew the older laws no longer eliminated him from becoming king. Right of rulership went first to the king’s legitimate children, in order of age. Since Ethelyn’s death during the staff-test, none of these remained. Kohleran had no living siblings, so the crown went next to his grandchildren. Murder, suicide, and insanity had claimed all but three. Of these, Griff could not be reached. Matrinka had disappeared, disinherited most believed, though the sage’s notes spoke otherwise. The third was Xyxthris.

  Thoughts of the twenty-one-year-old son of Kohleran’s eldest child made him pause. Once, he had believed the staff-test had plunged the young man into an insanity as deep as that of the six-year-old daughter of Kohleran’s sixth child, who sat staring at a wall and had not spoken a word or willingly eaten since the second testing. But, in the last month, Xyxthris seemed to have recovered. He had taken an interest in politics and knowledge for the first time ever. He had attended Baltraine’s court daily, despite its tedium, staying after each session to commend Baltraine’s decisions. Early on, Baltraine had believed Xyxthris’ abrupt change a manifestation of his madness, but time had shown otherwise. The time and effort he put into his studies seemed impossible to feign, and he spoke to Baltraine with increasing logic and insight. More and more, he had worked his way into Baltraine’s favor.

  Baltraine smiled, hating to admit he had come to like the young man and to trust judgment that nearly always gibed with his own. He could think of far worse rulers than Xyxthris, and he guessed it would prove easy to talk the youngster into marrying at least one of his daughters prior to taking other wives. He had one marriage behind him, but the only offspring of that union was now dead, a victim of the same poison that had taken Kohleran’s other great-grandchildren. And the marriage had become as tenuous as Kohleran’s life had been until that ve
ry morning. Yet Baltraine explored other options. Before the staff-test existed, law had always allowed a king to choose his successor, relative or otherwise. By naming Baltraine regent without specifying an heir, Kohleran had essentially done just that. Baltraine had only to strengthen the wording Kohleran had used to assure his right to the throne in the minds of every citizen.

  King Baltraine. The title sounded musical in Baltraine’s ears. His chest tingled in apprehension as he considered whether or not he could pull off such a monumental feat. Failure might mean death at the hands of a mob or execution for treason. Still, the reward might prove worth the risk. King Baltraine. The image would not leave him. He tried to frame his thoughts into Béarn’s need. After all, he surmised, the lack of a neutral ruler could plunge the world into destruction. He did not delude himself into the belief that he could rule better than a proper heir who passed the gods’ test. But in the absence of one of those, he felt certain he could do better than anyone else. So long as he considered each judgment and action carefully, perhaps even convened that council Knight-Captain Kedrin had suggested, he could keep Béarn, and the world, on an even keel.

  Excitement ran away with Baltraine’s thoughts, and he studied the issue from all sides. That he would prove the best king of all of the possibilities did not require deep contemplation. In his heart and mind, he knew no one could best him for honest concern for Béarn and its people. No man or woman could issue more worthy proclamations than himself. Yet the details of how to gain the throne eluded him. No matter the direction of his thoughts, they always returned to a realization that he hated. He could not do this alone. He needed the support of a multitude, and Kohleran’s appointment might not prove enough. He needed individual leaders to stand beside him. People like Kedrin and Xyxthris. And, so long as the latter did not wish the throne for himself, Baltraine believed he might curry the very support he needed.

  Even as exhilaration built over a fantasy that had never seemed attainable before, reality intruded. Surely Xyxthris worked toward the kingship himself; that would explain his interest in politics and his campaign to win the good graces of Béarn’s regent/prime minister. Baltraine knew he could do little to stop the attempt of such a legitimate heir, other than by making the results of the staff-test public. He would have to play the situation carefully. For now, he and Xyxthris needed one another and had much to gain from working together. If it came to a competition for the throne, Baltraine had little choice but to back down. The idea of assassination entered his mind briefly, then fled before the terrible verdict of his conscience. He remained convinced that his bid for Béarn’s throne came of reasons wholly altruistic. The gods had reprimanded him for his other lapse in judgment, forcing him to atone by facing and taking advice from the object of his mistake. He would not do such a thing again.

  Common sense warred with greed, equally matched despite Baltraine’s rationalizations to the contrary. For now, he would enjoy the power given to him by King Kohleran. He would work with Xyxthris toward establishing a new power and hope he could convince the grandson to follow the best course of action rather than the one most beneficial to himself. Otherwise, he would stand loyally by the new king and offer his daughters in marriage.

  Simply formulating a course of action lightened Baltraine’s burden, and the possibility that he might become king charged him with an energy he had not known in months. That sensation of vigor convinced him he had made the right decision, one supported by the gods. He did not bother to confirm this with a trip to the temple. Something deep inside him knew better. Instead, he headed from the room to begin the process of winning Xyxthris’ trust. Experience told him he might find King Kohleran’s eldest living heir studying in another room on the same floor. Rising, Baltraine headed for the door.

  The prime minister had trod only half the distance from table to door when a firm knock sounded on the panel. Hurrying forward, he grasped the handle and opened.

  Xyxthris waited on the other side, unaccompanied as usual. Weeks ago, the council had removed his Renshai guardian, at his insistence. Appearances did not seem reason enough to protect him anymore. His behavior had ruined any trust the populace might once have had in him. A smile on Xyxthris’ swarthy features disappeared the moment he caught sight of Baltraine. “Are you well?”

  “I’m fine,” Baltraine reassured, back-stepping to allow the other entrance and gesturing for him to come inside.

  Xyxthris entered, shoving the door closed behind him. He looked at Baltraine. “Oh, dear. He’s died, hasn’t he?”

  “Who?” Baltraine said carefully, not daring to believe news had leaked so quickly. Only he and the master healer knew the truth.

  “The king. He’s died, hasn’t he?”

  It seemed fruitless to deny it, the means of Xyxthris’ knowledge more important even than secrecy. “How could you possibly know that?”

  Xyxthris sighed, the worst confirmed. “It’s all over your face. The sorrow. The concern and confusion. The king hovering so near death.” Xyxthris shrugged. “What else could do that to you?”

  Baltraine studied Xyxthris, seeing more to the heir than he ever had in the past. Sharp brown eyes looked out from wide sockets, nearly round. Pudgy cheekbones rounded the face and softened the otherwise large nose so that he had a look of childlike gentleness about him. For the first time, Baltraine realized how much Kohleran’s grandson resembled the king in his youth. It could not hurt to have one who looked so like the ruler the populace had long trusted on his side. Intuition and an ability to read people could prove useful tools to a kingdom in chaos. He suspected Xyxthris had seen the healer come and go, but speculation had also played an impressive role in his knowledge. “I’m sorry,” Baltraine said. “He was also your grandfather.”

  Xyxthris waved off the sentiment. “In that regard, at least, it’s for the best. It’s hard to watch a loved one suffering.”

  Baltraine nodded. Concerns of state had made it difficult to consider the situation in that light. Although he never recalled Xyxthris visiting his grandfather during his illness, Baltraine could see how the extension of life that had bought him time also prolonged Kohleran’s discomfort.

  “The best thing for the king, but it puts you in a bad position.”

  Baltraine made a thoughtful noise. Anyone with enough information could have surmised the same.

  Xyxthris stared at Baltraine as though attempting to read his thoughts. Baltraine became uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but he squelched irritation. He could use, might even need, Xyxthris’ support in the coming days, months, or years.

  “Should we sit down and talk?” Baltraine suggested, wishing he had had more time to compose his words before discussing the matter with Xyxthris. But crisis tended to bring people closer, and he might never get another chance to talk under similar circumstances.

  “Sitting isn’t necessary,” Xyxthris replied. The steady assurance of his posture and features suggested he had come to a decision. “We’ll need to move anyway.”

  The words confused Baltraine, but he did not question. Xyxthris’ motivations would become clear soon enough.

  “What if I told you,” Xyxthris started, gauging Baltraine with every word, “I had a way to make the people sure the king still lived?”

  Baltraine listened without comment, deliberately holding his expression neutral.

  “But since he really doesn’t, you’d stay in command as long as you want.”

  Baltraine continued to stare, not daring to believe he had heard Xyxthris right. He could think of few arrangements that could please him more, but it seemed impossible that such could fall into his hands so easily. He knew he needed to answer Xyxthris, yet he feared the repercussions of what he might say. He could not exclude the possibility that Xyxthris baited him into confessing thoughts of treason. “Well,” he responded guardedly, “I think believing their king still lives might prove best for Béarn and her people. There’s enough violence and confusion out there.”

 
; A slight smile formed on Xyxthris’ face, so subtle it seemed more like an impression in his eyes than any change in his features. “So you’ll help?”

  Baltraine continued to hedge. “I’ll need details first.”

  “Of course.”

  “And to understand your motives. What do you get out of such an arrangement?” Baltraine wondered if he had overstepped his boundaries with that question. He did not want to lose Xyxthris’ favor when so much lay at stake.

  Xyxthris’ brow crunched into perplexed furrows. “Béarn is my country, too. And I have as much to lose as anyone if the Ragnarok comes. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “In a general sense, yes.” Baltraine saw how the scenario Xyxthris suggested benefited everyone, but he had not expected anyone else to see things as clearly as himself. Some would revile the lying such a strategy required, and others would believe themselves or others more fit to rule than Baltraine. “But don’t you want to rule?”

  Xyxthris stiffened, and a light flashed in his eyes. Clearly, Baltraine had dredged up something painful, an old wound that had left an ugly scar. “I’m not fit. The staves decreed it so, and I’ve proved it with my behavior over the past months. I can’t even keep a family together. A country would prove too much for me. If I help set you up, at least I’ll have a hand in competent rulership.”

  Baltraine scarcely dared to believe his luck. He kept his breathing deep and even, calming himself. It seemed too good, and that made him suspicious. Yet desire convinced him. “I think you’re too hard on yourself,” he spoke the necessary words with as much sincerity as he could muster. “Now where do we have to go?”

  “Follow me.” Xyxthris led the prime minister from the room, across and along the corridor, to the study he regularly chose. They entered. It contained only a chair and table. On its surface lay a book of Béarn’s history, apparently Xyxthris’ current distraction. Baltraine glanced out the window overlooking the courtyard gardens while Xyxthris closed the door. The young heir came up beside Baltraine and quietly drew the curtains, plunging the room into a dank grayness broken only by sunlight seeping through cracks between the fabric. Having done so, Xyxthris headed for a corner of the room near the door. “Grant me a moment,” he said.