Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Baltraine pulled his thoughts together. He needed to act carefully now. Enough people had witnessed his trips to the bathroom and his greenish features to corroborate sickness as the reason why he did not partake of the feast that killed the others. Running away would prove more difficult to explain. He had little choice but to enter and pray. He could later claim that his stomach cramps had become so severe, he worried for his life and required the solace of religion prior to what he believed might prove his last breaths. Surely, most would attribute his distress to the poison, claiming that his greater sensitivity had caused him to react to lower doses before he took in enough to kill him.

  Baltraine seized the moon ring. Immediately, other thoughts descended upon him, memories of a previous trip to Béarn’s temple. A being who claimed kinship with the gods had come to him. Baltraine’s weekly visits to regular services had garnered no more visions of the blond man who had shamed him into consulting Knight-Captain Kedrin. Now the visions returned, vivid in their clarity. He wished for solace but had no interest in seeing the “god” again. Uncertain precisely what sequence of events had brought the one who called himself immortal, Baltraine determined to act in a different fashion. He released the ring held by a carving of the moon and grasped the one of the sun instead.

  The difference, though slight, relieved Baltraine immediately. He jerked open the door with more strength then he would have believed possible under the circumstances. He trod up the aisle as the door slammed shut, and he braced instinctively for the solid crash of the door handle against the wood. It did not come. Halfway to the dais, Baltraine froze. The sound had become so familiar since childhood that its absence unbalanced him. Uneasiness prickled through him like a thousand needles stabbing at once. For several moments he paused, wondering if shame had distorted his sense of time. He counted under his breath. When he reached twenty and the sound still did not come, alarm became a ceaseless buzzing in his ears. He felt the presence of unseen eyes, and every muscle tensed into a nervous knot. Carefully, he turned.

  The blond stood in the aisle, between Baltraine and the closed double doors. He leaned casually against a pew, his cold blue-gray eyes fixed on the prime minister, his blond hair short and feathered around a face that looked wise beyond its years. The composure seemed extreme, inhuman; and his stance alone intimidated Baltraine. The prime minister took an unintentional backward step.

  The blond nodded once. “You have designs against Béarn’s throne.” It was a statement that left no inflection for question.

  Baltraine denied the accusation. “No!” He glanced around to ascertain that no other worshipers knelt amid the aisles and pews. Only the echoes of his denial prevailed; he saw and heard no one. He and the immortal stood alone in the gods’ temple. “No,” he repeated more softly. “I want only what’s best for Béarn.”

  The immortal’s expression hardened. “You’ve convinced yourself of that, have you? Then I’ve come too late.”

  “Too late for what?” Baltraine asked nervously, gaze darting. He suddenly wished the blond had appeared in front of him instead of blocking retreat. The missing bang of the door ring became an obsession.

  “Too late to save you from yourself.” The blond did not explain further, and Baltraine did not press.

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Indeed?” The blond shrugged. “My condolences, then. You’re worth . . . less than I ever expected.”

  “Worth less?” Baltraine’s temper blazed from fearful to furious in an instant. “Worthless. How dare you! I’m in every way noble, a true descendant of kings.”

  “Ah,” the blond said in a tone that trivialized Baltraine’s statement. No human would have dared to discount his words in this manner. “First, I did not call you worthless, you did. That says much.” The blond straightened. Though he stood a head shorter than Baltraine and was far lighter, he still managed to appear intimidating. “Second, what good is a man whose worth derives from the courage or accomplishments of his ancestors? The deeds of your grandfather’s grandfathers might make you a noble, but they don’t make you worthy. The worth of a man comes from his own deeds. For those, Prime Minister Baltraine, Fahrthran and Weslin have you beaten by far.”

  Baltraine’s hands clenched at his sides, and his nostrils flared. Rage would accomplish nothing here, and so he contained it. “Everything I’ve ever done has been for the good of Béarn!”

  “Framing her knight-captain? Killing her bard?” The icy eyes fixed on Baltraine’s, and the Béarnide felt helpless to evade them. “Your definition of ‘for the good’ stretches in strange directions.”

  “I did not come to be judged.” The blond had made no physical movements toward Baltraine, and that made the prime minister bolder. “What do you want from me?”

  “I ask only that you exercise the judgment my colleagues gave you.” The blond lowered his head, disappointment obvious. “You can do nothing for me; I can only advise you. I would tell you to do as Kedrin tells you and to always place the interests of Béarn above your own. But I fear you are already lost.” With that, the immortal stepped aside and gestured Baltraine toward the door.

  The prime minister hesitated, his conscience driving him to questions and promises he scarcely understood. Then his instinct for self-preservation sent him edging carefully around the immortal, eyes probing the other for any sign of motion, any evidence that the “god” might prevent his exit. Once past the other, Baltraine darted for the door. He reached it in half a dozen rapid strides, then turned to look back.

  The blond watched him depart wordlessly, his silence every bit as much a judgment as his words had been. Baltraine opened the door and escaped into the hallway with dignity barely intact. Finding the corridor mercifully empty, he shoved the door. It shut with a bang, followed by the satisfying clap of the massive ring against the wood. Baltraine pressed his back against the oak as his world swirled in crazy circles. A million thoughts converged on him at once, blurring into a sickening war of conscience, a grim self-assessment that alternately found him perfect and desperately wanting.

  Baltraine closed his eyes, equalizing his breathing. Gradually, the vertigo grew into a solid wall of darkness that shattered into pinpoints of black and white. That, too, resolved, leaving Baltraine access to more coherent thought. His lids snapped open. The hallway looked as it always did, adorned with torch brackets in animal shapes, gold and blue brocade swaying slightly in an invisible breeze. He glanced longest at a rearing bear. Its granite eyes beckoned, promising all of the power he deserved. Baltraine read it as a sign. Strength flowed back into his shaky limbs, and he raised his head with a pride he had not known in days. Something clicked inside him, and he found the peace he had sought for months.

  I am worthy, Baltraine told himself. And believed it. The situation he had considered from every angle now so obviously had only one solution. The king was dead, without a true heir. Only gods and magic could alter the consequences. If anyone could prevent the Destruction, the elves and their wizardry could. Baltraine would remain as active a part of that as he could. The elves needed his expertise, his position, and his charismatic presence. He needed their magic. A perfect arrangement, and all of it best for Béarn.

  The sickness receded, leaving Baltraine’s mind clear and his gut devoid of pain. The absence of the nausea and suffering that had ridden him for hours left him feeling powerful and in control. I am worthy, he repeated, smiling. He stepped away from the door, finally at peace. He took four steps before an image of the blond, scowling in derision, filled his head. He staggered a single step, recovering his balance and his control an instant later. Head high, he marched through the corridors buoyed by a personal vow. He would not allow the self-proclaimed immortal to bother him. He would not return to the temple again. A more gratifying thought followed. I will see to it that no one can.

  As Baltraine swept down the last sequence of corridors that would bring him back to the conference room, he cast aside the excitement hi
s decision had created. It would not do for him to leave the room ill and return in high spirits. He ran a hand through his hair and beard, further disheveling them. He sucked in a deep breath, loosing it slowly, forcing away the grin that had settled on his face during the walk. Features sagging, shoulders slumped forward in defiance of his lessons on posture and etiquette, he returned to the condemned.

  Everyone looked up as Baltraine entered, most finished with their meals. The master healer greeted him with a firm, “There he is,” and every eye watched his entrance.

  Baltraine took his seat without ceremony, deliberately ignoring the attention. They all believed he had summoned them here as the senior officer of Béarn. Baltraine needed to convince them otherwise, at least until the poison claimed them. He glanced around the room, surprised to discover he could meet even Linndar’s stare without remorse. The war against conscience had been fought, and he could now proclaim himself the victor.

  * * *

  The meeting ended nearly before it began, as each invited guest denied having arranged it. They all left looking confused, abashed, or suspicious, several already complaining of stomach cramps or vague discomfort. Given the job of tracking down the one who had initiated the gathering, pages scurried along the castle hallways, questioning one another and whichever nobles they dared to accost. Baltraine left them to their own devices, certain they would never piece the source together. They would not question Béarn’s ruling regent nor did they know about the elves, and no other course would gain them the correct answers. As the attendees succumbed to poisoned food, tending them would usurp the full attention of every palace servant and healer. Eventually, the hunt would begin again, this time directed toward the citizen factions that opposed Baltraine, the most obvious enemies of himself and his cabinet.

  Baltraine gave the scheme no further thought, trusting himself to handle any emergency that might arise. He, the elves, and Xyxthris had plotted the details too carefully to concern themselves with mistakes. Only something completely unforeseen could interfere, and no amount of brooding would anticipate such a thing. Courtroom situations had taught him to deal with the danger of the unexpected in an able and expedient manner.

  Baltraine kept his head low as he navigated the corridors and stairs to his own quarters. Any noble or servant who noticed him should attribute his quiet sobriety to the sickness many had directly witnessed. No trace of nausea remained, now replaced by excitement. He appreciated the clarity of thought and movement this left him, though it did not fit his masquerade as well. Though he would not repeat the suffering, he appreciated its timing. He could never have feigned stomach upset as well as the reality he had so vividly demonstrated.

  Baltraine passed the familiar carvings and murals with scarcely a glance. The scenes depicted everything from children’s stories about the Béarnian bear to graphic depictions of battles. Though exquisitely carved and dramatically painted to the last detail, the art no longer entertained Baltraine. He had examined the same scenes too many times. And now he had more important matters to contemplate.

  Baltraine opened the door to his room, comforted by its familiar, personal smell: a combination of his own body odors, his perfume, and the mahogany scent of his furniture. Furniture imported from Pudar lined every wall, the patterns of entwined wolves matching perfectly. Sapphires glimmered from key, tasteful locations around the wood, mostly at seams and handles. He had left the blue and tan silk curtains open, and a panorama of colors played across the glass. At the horizon, a layer of fiery red seemed to draw a circle around the world. Perched atop that was a band of orange, then yellow, followed by green, and royal blue that stretched over the remainder of the sky. Gray-black clouds smeared the beauty of the sunset at intervals.

  Taking the pretty picture as an omen of the gods’ approval, Baltraine smiled. The glaze of colored light from the sunset scarcely grazed the room’s darkness, leaving his bed and the furniture deeper inside as dense shadows. From habit, he reached for the lantern where it hung from a peg, removed a torch from a hallway bracket in the shape of a pig, and lit the wick. Light sputtered to life, condensed into a bright billow. Baltraine returned torch and lantern, then stepped into his room and closed the door.

  Something out of place touched Baltraine’s consciousness suddenly. He scanned the room again, the lantern sparking blue glimmers from the many decorative sapphires. He watched the glow play over his three dressers, the inset closet, and his writing desk and chair. Papers lay in neat stacks, as he always left them; and shelves above it held his usual collection of books. In the center of his room, the heavy curtains of his bed had been drawn, revealing the double bear symbols, tan against the blue. Baltraine’s mind identified this as the change that had raised suspicion, and he shook his head at his own paranoia. The servants who collected his sheets and straightened his bed had likely accidentally left it closed. They could not always satisfy the various preferences of members of the royal household. Probably, his usual maid had taken ill and another had made his bed.

  Although Baltraine believed he had solved a simple mystery, caution drove him to open the curtains prior to beginning his nighttime ritual. He gripped the fabric in one hand and jerked it open, the holding clips rattling along the railing. The fabric parted to reveal Dh’arlo’mé lounging atop the blankets, single green eye fixed on Baltraine, expression as unreadable as ever. Another elf sat quietly at the far end of the mattress.

  Startled, Baltraine recoiled with a hiss.

  Dh’arlo’mé sat up, dark cloak falling into proper alignment with the hood covering his fine, red-blond hair. With his face cast into shadow, his features became even more undecipherable. Baltraine already had difficulty guessing elfin moods, so the hood should not have bothered him. Nevertheless, it did. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The elf’s tone made a mockery of his words.

  “You didn’t,” Baltraine returned, leaving Dh’arlo’mé to decide whether he meant he was not frightened or that the elf was lying. The momentary scare had emptied his mind of thought, and now he forced politeness. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is the meeting finished?”

  “Yes,” Baltraine admitted, his gaze flitting from Dh’arlo’mé to the yellow-eyed male elf beside him. This other studied Baltraine with only mild curiosity. At least, Baltraine believed that was the emotion he read.

  “And the job done?” Dh’arlo’mé said next, as if continuing the same question.

  “The results remain to be seen.” Baltraine wanted it clear that the poison had not had time to work yet.

  “Good.” Still, no emotion entered Dh’arlo’mé’s voice or features. The sacrifice of several human lives apparently meant nothing to him. “It’s time to train Pree-han.” He gestured at the other elf with one long-fingered hand.

  Baltraine nodded, glad the elves had finally abandoned using their eighty syllable names, at least around him. He and Xyxthris had taken to shortening them to the most natural-sounding one to four syllables. It had taken several discussions to convince Dh’arlo’mé that the issue went way beyond laziness or disrespect. Humans simply did not have memories capable of processing the tedious alien names.

  Xyxthris had spent days through the magical door in the land the elves called Nualfheim, judging elfin voices to find the one closest to King Kohleran’s booming bass. Baltraine had not envied the task. He had heard enough of their musical accents and lilting speech to doubt any could approach the necessary harshness and depth of human tones. Their bird-light frames and thin, lengthy proportions seemed appropriate for no human bulkier than an adolescent girl. Yet that had proven less important to Dh’arlo’mé. Apparently, magic could handle concealing appearance, though it could not do the same for speech. “Say something for me, Pree-han.”

  The elf cleared his throat with a dainty, high-pitched cough. “What would you like me to say?” The voice emerged deeper than Baltraine expected, though still thin for a mature Béarnide. The elf handled the human accent far better t
han his peers, a good sign.

  Baltraine needed more. “Friends, I have gathered you to speak of a matter of utmost urgency.”

  Pree-han repeated the phrase, this time adding a reasonable facsimile of Baltraine’s gruff tenor.

  “Not bad,” Baltraine admitted, tempering pleasure with doubt. Pree-han still had a long way to go and precious little time. The poisoning of the council would spur retribution from those factions still supporting Baltraine or the rightful heirs to Béarn. They would have to convince the populace that Kohleran had undergone a miraculous recovery soon, before the window for keeping peace disappeared.

  “Well?” Dh’arlo’mé demanded an assessment.

  “I can work with that.” Baltraine inclined his head toward Pree-han. “The right words, a little work on the intonation, some dialect training. I don’t think a slightly different voice will bother the populace. One could hardly expect a man awakening from coma to sound precisely the same as before he became ill.”

  Dh’arlo’mé made a jerky motion with his upper body that Baltraine took to mimic a human shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Baltraine understood that elves did not suffer from sickness of any kind, their hardy constitutions belying their slight builds and delicate movements. He wondered how much of what the elves told them was truth, then decided it really did not matter. So long as he did as they told him, he and his family would come to no harm. That promise from the elves he had little choice but to believe. To do otherwise meant living in constant fear.

  Dh’arlo’mé continued, “I’ll leave him in your care, then. Work with him every moment. Xyxthris will have your meals brought, carefully so as not to ruin your display of belly sickness nor to make you look unsympathetic as those you worked with die. You’ll have to handle the disturbances as they come.”