The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Tae grunted, anticipating. “So, when they find Ra-khir worthy and not me, what happens then?”

  “There’re three other possibilities, Tae.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tae dismissed them. “The answer?”

  Kevral shook her head, as if irritated beyond argument by Tae’s foregone conclusion. “First, most fathers wouldn’t consider acceptance of their sons into the Renshai tribe a ‘worthy’ thing.”

  Tae knew Kevral spoke truth. Though the Renshai protected the heirs to Béarn’s throne, most feared their violence and rigid dedication. Legend proclaimed them golden-haired devils, from their wanderings nearly half a millennium past. Then, exiled from the savage North for brutality, they traveled the world, waging war on innocents for food, gold, and the joy of slaughter. Ancient tales survived the Renshai’s ancestors, centuries after they’d settled peacefully on the Fields of Wrath, their swords now in the service of King Griff. Yet becoming Renshai still meant a life dedicated to dying, likely young, in the glory of battle.

  “Second,” Kevral continued, “I’m making no guesses. Neither should you. Renshai children take the tribe of their mother.”

  Tae cradled the sleeping baby, turning Kevral a narrow-eyed look. “I thought the tribe was Renshai.”

  “Right.” Kevral sat, one leg on the floor, the other gathered to the seat. She could rise and fight in an instant should the need arise. “But there’re three branches within the tribe. That goes back to a point in distant history when only six of us remained. The tribe of Rache carried no original Renshai blood, the tribe of Tannin carried half, and the tribe of Modrey was full-blooded.”

  Tae shrugged, wondering about the significance of the lesson.

  “Of course, the tribes have interbred, so the differences have become less pronounced with time. Through the years, several Renshai have married outside the tribe. If they choose well, their children are often accepted, because new blood can bring new skill. Unfortunately, the leaders rarely accept outsiders into the tribe of Modrey because it has the purest blood.”

  “And,” Tae guessed, “you’re of Modrey.”

  “Right.” Kevral shook back the yellow-white locks that fairly defined the Renshai’s Northern origins. “So I don’t know if they’ll take either of the boys.”

  “Colbey Calistinsson believes redheaded Erythanians descend from Renshai.”

  At the mention of her hero, a light flickered through Kevral’s pale eyes. She had emulated the ancient Renshai turned immortal, quoting him and patterning her life after his until discovering he still lived among the gods. “That may give Ra-khir an advantage,” she admitted. “But it’s not a contest. The Renshai may take one, both, or neither. Confirming one does not eliminate the other.”

  “And if they accept him?” Tae massaged the baby’s palm with his thumb.

  “He undergoes the training, the Renshai maneuvers, philosophy, and language. He is Renshai. When not with his torke . . .” Kevral used a word in her own language which interchangeably meant swordmaster and teacher. “. . . he can play and learn from us.”

  “Us,” Tae repeated. “If I remain here.”

  Kevral made a noncommittal gesture, though her expression revealed that she hoped he would stay. “That’s your choice, of course.”

  “Not wholly. I’m a diplomat now. And, apparently, a prince.” Tae maintained doubts about the latter. Weile Kahn had intended to maintain the title “leader” when he stole the Eastern throne from corrupt and feuding princes. From citizenry to foreign kingdoms, others insisted on calling him king. He had requested that Tae succeed him, as master of the Eastland’s criminals as well as his new duties of state. Tae had not yet agreed, though time and circumstances steered him, more and more, in that direction. “I have responsibilities in the East.”

  “Tae.” Kevral reached over and stroked the baby’s head. He snuggled deeper into Tae’s arms. “You’re his father. And I’m his mother. He has a right to both of us, and we have equal responsibilities to him. But if you don’t think you can fulfill that commitment, Ra-khir would treat him no differently than his own son.”

  “I know that.” Tae hugged the child protectively, and he stirred in his father’s arms. “You agree our roles are equal.”

  “Yes.” No hesitation from Kevral.

  “I’m likely to spend years in Béarn. Eventually, though, I have to go back East,” Tae stared at Kevral. “When I do, why can’t I bring my son?”

  Kevral closed her eyes, then opened them slowly. They seemed moister, though he saw no actual tears. “You may. Perhaps his brother, Ra-khir, and I would accompany you. If you’d have us.”

  Tae could scarcely believe he had won a battle against a Renshai. “I’d be thrilled.”

  “Assuming he’s not accepted into the Renshai, of course.” Kevral’s words sounded suspiciously like a retraction.

  “What do you mean?” Tae asked.

  “Renshai train daily. Until he accomplishes the sequence of skills that define Renshai coming of age, usually around eighteen, he’s bound to his torke.”

  “You mean he couldn’t travel.”

  “He could, but only with a Renshai of sufficient skill to teach him at whatever level he’s attained.”

  “Like you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Tae put the whole together. “So, if he’s accepted as Renshai, he has to remain on or near the Fields of Wrath. He might come visit me, but he couldn’t stay.”

  “Right.”

  Tae examined his son again, the tiny features the epitome of perfection, the miniature limbs embodying potential. Weile had made so many mistakes. Tae’s son would not suffer a similar fate. “And if the Renshai don’t accept him, he lives with me.”

  Kevral swallowed. Hard. When she finished, she nodded stiffly. “And the two of you visit me as you can. Or we’ll travel to you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” Kevral repeated. “What more do you want?”

  “Nothing,” Tae said quickly. “I’m just surprised there’re no conditions. I don’t have to prove myself wiser than forty sages or hurl myself into a bonfire or battle you to the death.”

  Kevral managed a smile. “Not this time. Just be the best father you can. And I’ll try to be the best mother.”

  Tae had watched Kevral fling herself eagerly upon hordes of enemies. She had climbed the gates of Valhalla to battle its undying warriors, without thought to her own mortality. Once, Weile had defended the errors he had made with his son, some nearly fatal, by stating that Kevral would understand when she had children of her own. Now, she did; and the idea that she might make similar mistakes became an anxiety that, this once, violence could not dispel. Sensing her need, Tae rose, enwrapping Kevral and the baby together into his embrace.

  They clung for several moments, Kevral’s body pressed against him inciting a passion Tae fought to contain. He would savor the times they had had together, but he would never betray his friends. More irony. Tae let his thoughts follow this tangent to force them from the wonder of Kevral in his arms, a pleasure soon only Ra-khir would know. He had joined Kevral, Matrinka, Darris, and Ra-khir initially only to use them to help battle the enemies that hunted him for no better reason than his parentage. Once, Tae had exploited his friends without guilt. Now, the very idea shocked dread through him. I’ve come a long way. I only hope I can teach those values to my son. “I’ll do my best,” he promised them both.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Fathers’ Worth

  Every time a sword is drawn, it’s a real fight.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  PERCHED upon an elegantly carved desk chair, King Griff ignored the austere furnishings, unable to pry his attention from Tem’aree’ay. The elf lounged on her bed, the canopy shadowing her golden curls and stealing the touch of elfin red. An ever-present smile lit her dainty oval face, her delicate figure a stark contrast to the whale-boned Béarnides. Even the bulge that housed their imminent child did not mar the fragile
-appearing figure; the excitement of its presence trembled through Griff every time he glimpsed or thought of his lover, which was often.

  Tem’aree’ay’s eyes glittered in the lamplight, and Griff regretted that rain kept them indoors. In sunlight, their pure elfin coloring, unmarred by the starlike cores of human eyes, closely resembled sapphires. “Your daughter is beautiful, Sire.”

  Griff grinned with pride. He could not imagine any child more so. It did not matter to him that the black hair, dark eyes, and bulk came from the baby’s mother and not himself. The previous evening, Béarn’s populace had welcomed the new princess with a feast and the nobility with a ceremony flawlessly executed by the Knights of Erythane. Dragged into an eternity of pomp and speeches, Griff had found even his own elation giving way to boredom. Just once, he wished the knights would forgo a few spare details of their ritual; but his bodyguard/adviser, Bard Darris, had assured him that to request such would not only disparage the procedure but gravely insult the participants.

  Now, Griff believed, Darris needed some time alone with the queen and the infant he had sired. And that left Griff free for his own favorite pastime: Tem’aree’ay. Emotion swept him suddenly, and he found himself unable even to blink as his dark eyes drank in every part of the elf. Once, he had believed his love ludicrous, like that of a sheep for a cat. Innocent exploration had proved him wrong. A virgin until his night with Tem’aree’ay, he still did not know for certain whether elves and humans shared anatomy; but their companionship had turned naturally into lovemaking and, eventually, created the child in her womb.

  So much more than becoming an illegitimate prince or princess lay upon the infant growing inside Tem’aree’ay. Only thirty-seven of the two hundred and forty elves lived in Béarn, in harmony with mankind. The others, the svartalf, sought to destroy humanity and had nearly succeeded using magic that rendered human women sterile. Only those pregnant at the time of the casting, or not yet of reproductive age, remained fertile and then only until their cycles started or resumed. The elves faced their own crisis that only a few humans knew: though freely sexual, they conceived only after the death of an elder due to age. Stripped of memories, the ancient soul then entered the newborn.

  Griff saw the baby as the product of a love he once believed he could never consummate. But those who knew of the coupling, most of them elves, saw the continuity of life itself in the tiny, developing being. Here might lie a solution to both problems, yet no one wished to act until the results became clear. The human/elf might die outside the protective world of Tem’aree’ay’s womb. A twisted, hideous monster might emerge or a soulless creature despised by the gods. Elfin magic would tell them more about the baby than Griff’s eyes ever could, but the deeper truth did not matter to him. Whatever the result, he could not help adoring the child. Perfect, no less. Griff’s smile widened, innocent faith carrying him past the concerns of elves and advisers. The gods care for us too much to let else be the case.

  “Why so quiet, Sire?” Tem’aree’ay’s question seemed odd. Elfin lives spanned centuries or millennia, and they never seemed to notice lapses that could make even a Knight of Erythane squirm.

  Griff rose, knelt in front of Tem’aree’ay, and took her hands. His beefy fists engulfed her long, slender fingers and tiny palms. “Tem’aree’ay, would you agree to marry me?”

  The elf blinked once, expression blank. “Marry?” she managed.

  Griff nodded vigorously, coarse black bangs slipping into his eyes.

  “Elves don’t . . .” Tem’aree’ay started, then stopped. “I mean we’ve never . . .”

  Griff understood. “So you’ll be the first. Like you’re the first to carry a human’s baby.”

  The homogeneous eyes studied Griff’s gentle, rotund features. “What would I have to do, Sire?”

  “Just stay with me forever . . .” Realizing the discrepancy between her life span and his own, Griff amended, “Well, that is, as long as I live. And allow me to love you.”

  Tem’aree’ay wet her heart-shaped lips with her triangular tongue. “Sire, I’m not going anywhere. And don’t you already love me?”

  “Well, yes,” Griff admitted. “But this would make it official. And our children heirs to the throne, too.” Ancient law and custom did not allow illegitimate offspring to rule.

  Tem’aree’ay nodded, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. Experience had taught Griff to read beyond the subtlety of elfin expression. “But, Sire, aren’t you already married?”

  Griff released Tem’aree’ay’s hands, lowering his head until the hair fell into a full curtain over his eyes. He wanted to hide the tears resulting from Tem’aree’ay’s hesitation. “The high king can marry as many times as he wants. In fact, it’s encouraged. It varies the line and makes for more heirs if something happens.” He thought of the previous ruler, his grandfather. King Kohleran had not taken the throne until age forty, by then pledged to only one wife whom he adored too much to share with others. Though she had borne him eight children, who, in their turn, produced twelve grandchildren, and four great grandchildren, this had nearly proved too few. Aside from Griff, those not assassinated by elves had failed the staff-test created by the father of the gods, Odin, to assure the appropriateness of Béarn’s heirs to rule.

  Thoughts of the staff-test raised other concerns. The leader of the svartalf, Dh’arlo’mé, had stolen the Staves of Law and Chaos before Griff could undergo his own testing. Nobility and commoners alike believed Griff the proper heir and had crowned him without challenge. He alone seemed to harbor doubts about his worthiness to rule, a worry Darris had assured him boded well for his fitness as king. Kevral, Ra-khir, and Tae had later discovered that Dh’arlo’mé bonded with the Staff of Law and its near-infinite power. The immortal Renshai, Colbey Calistinsson, had taken up the Staff of Chaos for the purpose of restoring balance. And Colbey’s son, Ravn, had assured Griff that he, as all the Béarnian kings before him, represented the focal point of the worlds’ equilibrium. Without him, the universe would crumble into ruin.

  King Griff ran a hand through his beard, coarse hairs rasping against his fingers. “I married Matrinka for the populace. Now I want to marry for love.”

  Tem’aree’ay’s voice penetrated the barrier of hair he had placed between them. “You love Matrinka.” Woman and elf served Béarn as healers. Not only did they work together, but their closeness to Béarn’s king had also brought them a friendship.

  “Yes,” Griff admitted. “Like a sister. Or my mother.” Thought of the latter pinched his chest. For months, the svartalf had employed Eastern criminals to prevent all travel or trade in the Westlands. Griff could not even send a messenger to assure his mother and stepfather of his well-being. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of his mother’s pain. She had lost his elder brother and his father to a plowing accident and overprotected him to the point of paranoia. The last she knew of him, he had disappeared without a trace. “My love for you is special. It’s . . . it’s . . .” His vocabulary failed him. “I can’t explain it. I want this for our child. For you.” Shaking back the dark mane, he finally met Tem’aree’ay’s eyes again. “For me.”

  A light flickered through the canted eyes. Tem’aree’ay would never fully understand the significance; her two hundred years of elfin culture would not allow it. But she did finally realize the importance of her answer to him. “Of course I’ll marry you, Sire.”

  Only at that moment did Griff remember he had no right to ask. The law limited the prospects of all descendants of the king’s line, him most of all. He dropped back to his haunches. “Tem’aree’ay, I’m an idiot.”

  “Sire.” The elf’s tone chastised his self-deprecation.

  Griff sighed. “Here I am talking you into something that doesn’t matter to you, and I don’t even know if the law allows it.”

  “It matters to me, Sire,” Tem’aree’ay insisted, sliding from the bed to sit beside him, her movements graceful despite her condition. She reached up and placed a
gentle hand on his shoulder. “Anything that means so much to you matters to me.”

  Griff forced a smile, though his heart felt like a stone in his chest. In the moments he had considered it, the marriage had become the central focus of his world. The idea of losing it to formality was painful. He caught Tem’aree’ay into an embrace, reveling in her warmth against him. He clung for a long time, afraid to let go for fear he might lose her forever. He whispered into her ear, “I don’t know exactly how the law reads, but it can’t say anything about elves. Less than a year ago, we didn’t even know you existed. If there’s a loophole anywhere, the sage will find it; and we’ll marry before our child is born.”

  Tem’aree’ay squeezed him back, her strength meager compared to his yet more than her usually spare frame suggested possible.

  “And Tem’aree’ay?”

  “Yes, Sire?”

  “Once we’re married, you’ll have to stop calling me ‘sire.’”

  A careful tapping at the door interrupted any reply Tem’aree’ay might have given. Reluctantly, Griff released the elfin healer. “Who is it?” he shouted, hoping whichever elf had come to call on Tem’aree’ay would take the hint and leave.

  The door muffled the familiar voice. “Your Majesty, it’s Darris.”

  He should be with Matrinka and Marisole. Griff knew Darris felt as strongly about his time with the queen as he did about his with Tem’aree’ay, especially in the days since the birth of the baby. “Is it important, Darris?”

  A short pause followed the question. The king placed a hand on Tem’aree’ay’s leg and tipped his head toward the door, straining. Just as he thought he had missed Darris’ reply, it came. “Very.”

  Griff lumbered to his feet, not wishing to endure another of Darris’ lectures about the floor being too low for his station. “Come in, then.”

  Tem’aree’ay returned to the bed, smoothing her shift as the door swung open.

  Darris peeked inside, mousy curls dangling over thin brows and the large, straight nose that Marisole already showed signs of inheriting. His hazel eyes flitted over the sparse furnishings to land on his king, and the broad lips framed a smile that revealed joy barely contained. “Your Majesty, announcing Lady Helana and her husband, Herwin.”