Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Now that,” Colbey said softly, “I understand. You place your personal honor above the future of mankind, gods, and elves. Your refusal to become the instrument of change will damn your people to far worse than any schism between them could. I can appreciate that stance, but do not mistake it for something other than what it is: your personal refusal to do what one elf must do to save his own. Your personal honor.”

  Captain paused to consider, and Colbey seized on this hesitation. “Here.” He headed toward the beach, giving the elf a wide berth as he waded deeper into the waters. He plucked an object from his pocket that looked to Kevral like a tiny boat very like the ones Béarnian carvers made from wood and sold as children’s toys. He placed it onto the sand beside the boat Captain had brought. For several moments, it tossed in the swells. Then, light sparked to life around it, outlining hull and sail in a vague brilliance that turned it to a blinding, shapeless blur. As Kevral watched, it grew.

  The mast stretched upward, reaching for the sky. The two sails unfurled, rolling down the lanyards and flapping aimlessly in the breeze. A figurehead became discernible, a dolphin; and the words “Sea Seraph” were written in Western Trading tongue on the bow. Planks ran flawlessly from stem to stern, interrupted only by the masts and the square set of cracks that defined a hatchway.

  “The Seraph,” Captain whispered. A moment later, he was charging toward the ship as if to a long lost lover. Without a change in stride, he sprang over the gunwale to the deck, examining every stripe and knothole as if to memorize them. Tenderly, he secured the sails with a speed and ease that betrayed tireless practice. His feet made no sound on the deck as he trotted aft and clung to the tiller.

  Matrinka and Darris watched, hand in hand. The bard had slung his lute across his back. Mior batted at a crab washed up by the waves. Tae slipped up quietly to examine the ship, and Ra-khir waited with straining patience. He remained in place, but he straightened his well-aligned tabard and smoothed unwrinkled britches at frequent intervals.

  Finally, Captain whispered something to the tiny ship, then jumped back to the sand with a splash that darkened the hull with small circles. He walked over to Colbey and wrapped him in an embrace the old Renshai tolerated. Then, suddenly, the elf pulled away. “This is meant as a trade, isn’t it?” His voice became breathy and hesitant, a prelude to tears.

  “No.” Colbey ran a finger over the hilt of his left-hand sword, a gesture more wistful than threatening. “It’s a gift.” He cast his gaze from the sword to the ship to the elf. He understood the bond. “Long ago, I made a decision that every being I respected believed to be wrong, including the gods I had worshiped since birth. I told you a time would come when loyalties clashed and the boundaries between opposites blurred. For me, that time came and went; you were the only one who understood the course I chose.” Colbey waded deeper, looking out over the placid sea without meeting Captain’s gaze again. “There’s only so much I can do these days before my power overwhelms its mission and I cause the very problems I try to avert. Now I truly understand the frustrations of the Wizards I once worked against: to know what must be done, to have the ability to do it, yet to understand that my hand has become too large to move the pieces without knocking all others askew. I brought these five to you, and I did my best to convince you to make the right choice. The world and its creatures are in your hands . . . and in theirs.” He pointed toward the shore. “The choices are no longer mine.”

  Colbey turned suddenly then, striding northward. His boots disrupted the water’s surface in lines and ovals, then left footprints in the sodden sand. He headed toward Frost Reaver, his last words a desperate farewell. Yet Ra-khir could not allow him to leave without asking the question that had plagued him since Colbey mentioned the fate of Bard Linndar.

  “Lord, it deeply aggrieves me to bother you—”

  Ra-khir got no further. Colbey passed him as if blind and deaf, placing a hand on Frost Reaver’s saddle. For a moment, he remained in place, as if preparing to mount. At last, he swiveled his head and addressed Ra-khir. “Your father still lives, last I knew. But time runs short. Your mission must take precedence. If you fail, the world dies with you.” Without awaiting comment, Colbey sprang into his saddle. Frost Reaver galloped across the sand and was soon lost to sight.

  Kevral watched until the white horse and its golden rider disappeared, feeling empty and alone. Colbey had placed the fate of the world in the hands of five adolescents scarcely beyond childhood. She would not disappoint him, no matter the cost. Her gaze—and all of her companions’—turned to Captain.

  To his credit, the elf met every gaze in turn. Kevral believed she could read the struggle taking place behind eyes like marbles, though his expression revealed little. He turned one last look in the direction Colbey had taken, then locked his gaze directly on the Sea Seraph. “All right,” he said to no one in particular. “I’ll take you where you need to go. But, from there, you’re on your own. No matter what I think of their politics, I won’t raise a hand against my own. And I won’t condone your doing so either.”

  Ra-khir took command. “Matrinka, Darris, Kevral.” He indicated the tiny ship with a high, arching gesture. “Tae and I will handle the horses.”

  Kevral waited while Matrinka scooped up Mior and Darris assisted her onto the Sea Seraph. Captain remained in place while Kevral hopped up to keep guard at Matrinka’s side. Tae and Ra-khir hauled the gear shipside, and Darris lugged pack after pack to the deck. Finally, nothing remained but the horses’ saddles and bridles. “I guess we won’t be needing these anymore,” Ra-khir said, his matter-of-fact tone scarcely hiding his concern for the animals. “And there’s not enough room anyway.”

  “Don’t worry about space,” the elf said, his voice revealing the melancholia his expression hid. “My lady’s bigger than she looks.”

  Kevral did not doubt the claim, having already seen it grow. She lifted the hatch, discovering a cabin far larger than she would have believed possible. Bookshelves lined three walls, filled with myriad texts in every language she knew and several others besides. Cots surrounded a table and chair in a semicircle, and a narwhal horn hung on the wall over it. Darris headed inside, and Kevral passed the packs to him one by one.

  “You will have to leave the horses, though. She’s not that big.”

  Tae consoled Ra-khir. “Horses are pretty smart. They’ll head toward fresh water.”

  “Bandits will probably wind up with them,” Ra-khir said sadly.

  “Better than starving.”

  When Ra-khir made no reply, Tae continued. “If it means that much to you, we’ll come back and rescue them. I’m not afraid of bandits, and I know damn well you’re not. But one crisis at a time, Red. All right?”

  “All right,” Ra-khir finally agreed.

  The two approached the Sea Seraph just as Kevral and Darris finished loading. Captain gestured for them to climb aboard. Tae scrambled inside, but Ra-khir hesitated. “I’ll help you launch.”

  Captain shook his head. “You’ll get your mail rusted for nothing. I pushed her out to sea for millennia, I think I know how to do it.”

  “She’ll be heavier with people aboard.”

  Captain dismissed the concern. “It’s been centuries since I’ve held her timbers in my hands. Give me my moment.”

  “As you wish.” Ra-khir climbed the ladder steps and hopped over the rail.

  Captain shoved the Sea Seraph backward. The hull rasped over sand, then glided delicately into the ocean as the old elf sprang onto the foredeck. He trotted backward with a grace impressive even for a young warrior, then settled himself at the tiller. A wind seemed to rise from nowhere, filling the sails. And the Sea Seraph swung out on a broad reach for the open sea.

  Chapter 43

  A Renshai’s Promise

  There comes a time when every man, and perhaps every god, needs to redefine his honor and his faith.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  The ocean reflected the deep blu
e of the autumn sky like a mirror, interrupted by floating seaweed and patches of white water chopped by the wind. Kevral stood on the aft deck, watching foam streamers trail in the Sea Seraph’s wake. She had chosen her position to guard the elf at the tiller. Until they reached the elves’ island, any danger they faced could only come from him, whether it took the form of a direct attack, a poisoning, or steering them into submerged rocks. The fact that none of these seemed likely did not deter Kevral from her vigil. She knew Darris had taken a position at the forerail, drawing tactile impressions from the feel of wind streaming through his hair and the slap of spray against the bow. Their other companions had descended into the cabin, accepting the elf’s suggestion that they rest, wash up, and eat freely from his larder.

  Captain smiled as he manned the tiller, clutching the polished wood in a light grip that seemed never to move, though the ship changed course at intervals. It seemed as if the craft responded to his thought rather than to his touch. He took no obvious notice of Kevral’s hovering, constant presence. He sang songs of the sea in a lyrical voice that might have seemed pretty had Darris’ recent concert not so overshadowed his efforts. Sometimes, he switched to a whistle or a hum to the rhythmical beat of water rushing around the sleek hull.

  For hours, they continued this way: the elf joyfully steering and the Renshai guarding in sullen silence. Then, as the sun looped its arc across the sky, beginning its descent to starboard, Captain released the tiller and rose. Turning his back to Kevral, he groped beneath his bench, unhinging a compartment she had not previously noticed. In Renshai culture, leaving one’s unshielded back exposed to a warrior was a clear sign of contempt, indicating no need to worry for the other’s skill. In this case, Kevral suspected, the elf’s incaution stemmed from ignorance rather than any deliberate wish to antagonize her. In a moment, he laughed. “Who would have thought. . .?” He pulled out two crystal goblets and a vial half-full of yellow wine. “It’s still here.”

  He glanced at Kevral, still smiling. She blinked back at him without returning the silent greeting. She watched as he filled each of the goblets then gestured for her to choose, his first acknowledgment that she had selected her position because of mistrust. By allowing her to select the glass, he could demonstrate that he had not tainted her drink.

  Kevral shook her head, not fully reassured, still paranoid from her recent poisoning.

  Captain shrugged, selecting one at random and taking a careful sip. “Colbey and I once shared this very drink in this precise location.” He swallowed, and his face assumed an expression of delight. “Three hundred years has done my wine well.”

  Though Kevral had watched him in stolid silence for a long time, she saw no reason for rudeness. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

  “You’re sure you won’t join me?”

  “No.”

  The elf shrugged, balancing a foot on the bench and staring over the starboard rail toward the dolphin-headed prow. “Colbey didn’t trust me at first either.” He took a long pull at the wine.

  “Why was that? Did you tell someone in front of him that you would support Colbey’s enemies?”

  Captain looked at Kevral and gave an answer she never expected. “Something like that. He knew I served a force in opposition to his own. I assured him Odin’s laws forbade my harming him, or losing him, or taking him to a destination other than the one I promised. Back then, man’s world held only a trickle of chaos. When a man made a promise, he did not break it. Lies simply did not exist on a world built solely on order.”

  “Times change.” Kevral found his assertion difficult to believe.

  “They do indeed.” Captain considered that simple statement longer than it warranted. “And Colbey had the biggest role in that change. More than three hundred years ago, we stood on this deck, riding a different sea. He told me that, to avoid the Ragnarok, the world had to change, but I was the one who talked him into becoming the one to effect that change.”

  Kevral had little choice but to consider the likelihood that Captain spoke the truth. Colbey had deliberately delivered the party into the elf’s hands. If Colbey trusted Captain, Kevral would at least hear him out. “So, because of a conversation between Colbey and yourself, our world now has lies and broken promises?”

  Captain continued the sentence as if Kevral had not finished. “. . . lies, broken promises, betrayal, and dishonor. But it also has creativity, genius, and compromise. Once, humans lived their lives in absolutes. All Easterners were evil, all Northerners good, and all Westerners neutral. You knew a man’s beliefs at a glance, without need to ask. Honor was as straightforward as the difference between mountain and valley. Laws varied from place to place, yet mankind’s adherence to them did not. Colbey brought balance, the shades of gray.”

  Kevral imagined a world based on the simplicity Captain had described, weighing limitations and opportunities. If Colbey had supported the current system, she would not do otherwise. Yet she could not banish the idea of never needing to doubt promises or motivations. If people spoke their minds directly, it might result in ruffled feathers; but it would obviate the constant need to sort fact from fabrication. Knowing friend from enemy at a glance surely had its merits.

  Captain set down his goblet on the gunwale, the rocking ship sending the wine sloshing. Kevral had seen little enough crystal to worry for its safety, but she did not admonish the elf. If he had truly sailed the seas for thousands of years, he could judge the precariousness of its position better than she.

  Captain hefted the goblet again, just as the bow bumped a rough spot in the water and crashed back to the surface, tossing spray. He finished the wine in a gulp, set it down beside the other, then poured the liquid from the second glass to his own. “Colbey’s enemies saw only the danger chaos represented, the immoralities, like those you named. But Colbey knew that without change man’s world would stagnate into oblivion. Chaos represented the deeds of humiliation and disgrace, but it promised art and creativity. Chaos was the plan to law’s creation, the genius behind law’s greatest architecture. And I believe chaos brought one thing more, something even Colbey never considered.”

  Kevral appreciated Captain’s subtle reinforcement of his harmlessness, drinking her share of the wine without comment. Now she regretted the insult of refusing his hospitality. She studied the carafe and the empty goblet, seeking a polite way to atone for her mistake. “What was that thing?”

  Captain grinned, tossing his knotted hair from his right shoulder to his back. “Tolerance.” Setting down his glass, he refilled Kevral’s and returned to his position behind the bench. “No longer forced to adhere to rigid codes, humans suddenly had choices. Choice of honor. Choice of religion. Choice of morality. The understanding that these are no longer determined solely by location of birth. The self-realization that you can become whatever you wish, that you can change your opinion over time, opens your mind to the differences of others.”

  Now Kevral hefted her goblet and sipped. The wine tasted sweet, with a pleasant salt tang. Only then, it occurred to her that Captain could have tainted it with something that affected humans and spared elves. His words had sparked guilt, and her paranoia added a modicum of self-irritation. Deliberately, to spite her suspicions, she took a large swallow of the wine. “I guess,” she started, uncertain of her point and allowing her mind to run freely with it. “I guess it’s still possible to close your mind.”

  “You mean never see the choices?”

  “I mean make your own choices, then assume every sane person should reach the exact same conclusions. I mean intolerance.” Kevral tapped her fingers on the railing, understanding the allure this elf had for Colbey. Captain made her think. “And I’m as guilty of it as anyone. More than most.”

  The elf finished and refilled his goblet, then topped off Kevral’s though she had taken only the two swallows. “Renshai honor runs high.”

  Kevral felt the same joyous rush of certainty that thrilled her every time she considered the h
onor of her people. “It means everything to me. My mistake has been expecting everyone else to view it as the ultimate way of life, as I do. I’ve been as rigid as I once accused Ra-khir of being.”

  Captain delivered the coup de grâce. “Then you understand my position, too. Why I must do as I must.”

  “That depends on what you plan to do with us.”

  “A fair question.” Captain replaced his foot on the bench. “I’ll do as I promised. I’ll take you to my people’s island. Once there, you’re on your own. I will neither assist nor will I interfere unless it becomes necessary.” He sighed deeply, clearly realizing, as she did, that “necessity” required some definition. “Colbey trusted you to handle the problem. Implicit in that trust was the promise that you would not kill unnecessarily. There are other ways to deal with impasse besides violence.” Captain drew himself up to his full height, placing both feet firmly on the deck. Sunlight sheened from steadfast, amber eyes. “You are the one who worries me.”

  “Because I’m Renshai,” Kevral guessed.

  “Yes,” Captain admitted easily. “No other people learn to clutch a sword before a rattle. No others base the passage to adulthood on killing.”

  “Nor do Renshai anymore.” Kevral refused to condemn the history of her people. “Now a Renshai becomes a man or woman when he reaches a certain level of competence through teaching and testing. First kill is no longer the measure.”

  Captain’s brows lifted slowly. His point remained valid.

  “All right,” Kevral admitted. “We’re still a violent people. But we’re not the same Renshai you knew centuries ago. Colbey saw to that, and you claim to trust his judgment.”

  “I do trust his judgment. I did even when all others forsook him.”

  “No one has studied his teachings more thoroughly than I. He once accused me of trying to become him. He was right. Until recently, given the chance, I would have allowed the powers of the universe to transform me into him and considered it the greatest moment of my existence.”