The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Leondis and Javonzir remained respectfully silent, though the set of the prince’s face revealed sufficient joy to show he had read enough of the letter before Cymion had reclaimed it.

  Gradually, Cymion’s mind bullied past growing sullenness to pluck out the significant. A knight and a Renshai. He whipped his head to Javonzir, auburn-and-white curls flying in a wild mane. “It’s Kevral, isn’t it? And that irritating knight who fathered her bastards.”

  “Husband, now, Sire,” Javonzir corrected.

  “Of course.” Cymion waved an irritated backhand. “His honor would force that.” He squinted, allowing his anger to carry him to details that did not matter. “Though it didn’t keep him from sleeping with her in the first place.”

  Leondis shifted uncomfortably, gaze darting to Javonzir. Cymion had attempted to wed Kevral to the prince in payment for battling a demon that nearly destroyed the West’s largest city, mostly an attempt to keep her, and her offspring, in Pudar teaching his guards. The prince had charmed her with wit and warrior competence as well as looks, but she had refused his offer of marriage. Leondis had expressed his aversion for the nightly passionless sex his father had forced him to inflict on a woman he cherished and admired, but the king’s desire for her to bear his grandchild knew no boundary. Leondis still bore the scars from the beating he had suffered from initially refusing his father’s demand. In the end, it was the king’s threat to rape Kevral in the prince’s place that convinced him to comply.

  King Cymion’s fist crashed to the tabletop, and several parchments washed to the floor. “Has Griff lost the wits of his line? How could he send her into danger in her condition?”

  “Now, Sire,” Javonzir said sternly. “It hardly seems fair to attribute Kevral’s actions to His Highness. She’s only three and a half months past conception, your Majesty. Surely, her condition hasn’t become visible yet.”

  Cymion’s hand slammed the table again, with enough force to make it jump and to send pain lancing through his wrist. The shock further stoked his anger, and he leapt to his feet, powerful frame towering over his adviser. Though both had trained as warriors in their youth, Cymion had had the vast advantage in size. And he had kept up his practices even as he entered his sixth decade. “That bitch! She’s trying to kill the baby.”

  Leondis scurried into retreat as the table lurched abruptly toward him.

  Javonzir did not await a question. “Sire, I was afraid you’d react like this.”

  “Afraid,” King Cymion roared. “Afraid! She’s trying to murder the only heir to Pudar’s throne, and you would accuse me of overreacting?”

  Javonzir lowered his head with stiff respect. “Your Majesty,” he said clearly. “I would never presume to accuse the throne of anything.”

  Cymion paced, expending the energy he needed to lose before he could attempt to regain control.

  Leondis added his piece in quiet tones that jarred in the wake of Cymion’s screaming, “To quote Kevral, ‘Renshai have been waging wars and having babies for centuries.’ I got to know her better than anyone over the months she stayed here. I don’t think she’s deliberately placing the baby in jeopardy.”

  Cymion loosed a deep, wordless noise.

  Javonzir cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, if I may speak freely.”

  Still pacing, Cymion made a dismissing gesture. Not long ago, Javonzir always spoke his mind, and the king had all but begged for the forthright cousin he had known in his youth.

  Javonzir complied, “Your Majesty is the finest king Pudar has ever served. The citizens adore you, and the nobles are content. We’re allied with the North and every country in the West. Trade is flourishing, and we’re richer than ever.”

  Cymion made a another snappy gesture, encouraging Javonzir to cut through the complimentary crap to the meat of his point.

  “Sire, it’s hard to blame Kevral for despising a baby forced upon her, even if it is the future king or queen of Pudar.” Javonzir stiffened, as if worried he might have to run from Cymion’s sudden, uncontrollable wrath.

  Bothered that his beloved adviser would fear him, Cymion lost the raw edge of his anger. “We should not have had to force her. She should have done, willing, what was in the best interests of Pudar.”

  Leondis added carefully, “Father, she is not Pudarian.”

  Cymion rounded on his son. Fool. “What is in the best interests of Pudar is in the best interests of the West. She is a Westerner. All Renshai are.”

  Javonzir rescued the prince from his father’s rage. “That aside, Your Majesty, I’ve spoken to women with child who lack the time or money to care for them. And those without husbands to assist them. Their stories are similar.”

  Uncertain where his adviser was headed, Cymion remained attentive, an eyebrow cocked. The story had best prove germane.

  “Sire, even those who most fervently wished their babies would die often changed their minds about the fourth month.”

  Cymion tossed his head. “Why?” he growled.

  “Because, Sire,” Javonzir’s expression remained steadfast. “That’s when they feel the baby move.”

  The king’s mood shifted to quiet contemplation in an instant, though the unreasoning ire remained only shallowly buried. “So you’re saying that we only have to suffer two more weeks of that woman attempting to murder Pudar’s only heir.” His hands balled to fists, and his next words turned the previous to sarcasm. “The baby may not make it that long, Javon.”

  Javonzir retained his usual placid dignity. “Then, Majesty, we draft a letter to King Griff politely urging him to remove Kevral from activities that might endanger the baby.”

  Cymion flopped back into his seat. Tell him we imprisoned the woman and forced Leondis upon her to create an heir? He shook his head, images of gentle, innocent King Kohleran filling his mind. Passages of his childhood studies returned verbatim, detailing the naive neutrality of all of Béarn’s kings. The uplifted Dunwoodian farm boy seemed more so even than his ancestors. Yet, another thought came to soothe the first. Bound by oath, Ra-khir and Kevral could never speak of the atrocity. Though several Knights of Erythane knew he had held Kevral prisoner, also bound by vows to silence, they did not know about the pregnancy. A handful of elves knew of the baby, but not the circumstances of its conception. Only the five of them and Pudar’s general, Markanyin, had the entire story. Many of Pudar’s citizens had witnessed Leondis and Kevral deliberately and willingly courting, and several healers had overheard his proposal of marriage. Kevral had already borne illegitimate twins. No one would question that she willfully coupled with the prince.

  Javonzir awaited words from his king, a formal instruction.

  Cymion finally abandoned thought for speech. “We will draft a letter. You and I.” He studied his adviser for some sign that he had made a mistake or that the man he so trusted did not approve of his next words. “King Griff will have to do as we ask.” Seeking support from Javonzir, he framed a question, trying not to sound weak or uncertain. “Won’t he?”

  Javonzir avoided the obvious trap of reminding his liege that the high king in Béarn could do as he pleased. “Sire, a reasonable, neutral man could do nothing else.” He emphasized the proper word, reminding Cymion of Griff’s natural bent. “And, Your Majesty, I’m sure he will see to it that the baby comes to Pudar immediately after its birth. By law, royal blood takes precedence over any other. Leondis, Sire, not Kevral, will raise this baby.”

  Suddenly the focus of king and adviser, Leondis stiffened. A flicker of pain flashed through his eyes, tainted with guilt. It disappeared as swiftly as it had come, Cymion noted with satisfaction. He understood Leondis’ discomfort, but he appreciated the wisdom that had followed. The deed was done. Now, no other course of action served logic or the West. The only heir to Pudar’s throne had to come home.

  King Cymion would see to it. Even if it meant a war.

  * * *

  A chill wind whipped across Asgard, bowing the emerald grassland in a swee
ping wave and sending seed pods skittering across the practice field. Ravn froze in position, long sword held in angled defense, scimitar raised for attack. The cold air racing over sweat-dampened skin made the sparse, blond hair on his arms stand on end. His gaze swept the clearing, seeking a source for weather that had never before plagued the world of gods—and finding nothing. Logic goaded him to return to the daily sword work that had been the most important part of his life for as long as he could remember, yet something unnamed held him back.

  Again, an icy wind shot across the sunlit grasses, dappled by the shadows of straight, perfect trees. Ravn spun, still seeking a physical enemy for his sword. The gale seemed to carry a presence, a driving call that dragged his senses toward the Meeting Hall. He answered with a resistance dredged from the core of his being, the adolescent reaction natural and instantaneous. As the summons died, he gained a moment to analyze its frail ephemerality, its dense and unspoken need for him, and its alien nature that fueled his suspicions. He lowered his swords but raised his guard. His thoughts sailed to Colbey and the trouble he had stirred since agreeing to wield the Staff of Chaos. Hostility rose up in Ravn, a burning in his chest. What’s he up to this time?

  Sheathing the scimitar, Ravn walked sedately in the direction of the wind. He refused to hurry; blundering into a creature battling for control with chaos would prove sure suicide. Colbey’s mastery over his charge had already proven desperately tenuous. He agreed to, then refused to allow others to touch the Staff . . . he amended . . . the Sword of Chaos. He killed Baldur. Grief and rage intensified the fire in Ravn’s heart. He needed to keep his attention high, to judge every moment on its own merits, to keep his trust as liquid and malleable as the chaos his father championed.

  Once more, the wind thrashed past Ravn, ruffling grasses, bowing trees, and slapping coldly at the wet, golden hair at the nape of his neck. He knew it wiser to ignore Colbey’s summons, better still to warn the others. Yet Colbey Calistinsson was his beloved father. If the elder Renshai risked slow torture and death for this visit, Ravn could not bear to deny him. He followed the wind, only to find it still drawing him inexorably toward the Meeting Hall.

  Pinpoints of light in rainbow hues danced amid the trees, reflections from the gem-studded Meeting Hall. Ravn paused, fascinated. The shy puffs of breeze that occasionally twined across Asgard barely stirred the leaves, and it took a wind of these proportions to reveal the true magnificence of the structure. He paused in wonder, only then noticing larger shapes shifting amid the lights, other gods drawn by vicious gusts rattling across an otherwise flawless world. They whispered among themselves as they funneled through the great doorway, the glimmer of the doorjamb’s diamonds adding a vast array of hues to an already sweeping spectacle.

  Freya drew up beside her son and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “There you are.”

  Ravn looked up into his mother’s familiar features and felt a measure of discomfort dissolve. Though he would never admit it to her, he appreciated her presence beside him. “What’s going on?”

  Freya stared toward the hall. “It can only be Odin.”

  “Odin,” Ravn repeated, an uneasy half-smile touching his features. Guilt flared, replaced almost immediately by a vicarious smugness. “Father was right.”

  Freya pursed her lips, her uneasiness obvious. “He usually is, Ravn.”

  Ravn walked around the goddess to regain the full attention of those sapphire eyes. “So Odin is our enemy?”

  Freya’s focus snapped fully to her son. “Your father is usually right. Odin always has been.” Her eyes blazed with raw anger. “And it never ceases to infuriate me.” Without further word, she strode toward the Meeting Hall.

  Ravn edged after his mother, still pulled even without the wind. Thoughts thundered through his head, unsorted and disquieting. He could not forget that, early on, chaos had trickled into his father, twisting his will. Murder had tinged the blue-gray eyes, threatening death and dishonor, slaughtering long-held trust. Yet, Colbey had overcome that burden and others equally horrible. He killed Baldur. That crime barred Colbey eternally from Asgard, but not from his own son’s mind and heart.

  As the last trees brushed aside, Ravn confronted the gods’ Meeting Hall in all its jeweled glory. His every movement brought new sparkles to life, colors flickering in random patternlessness across his retinas. He watched his mother disappear through the doors, the white spray of diamond reflections flickering across walls, trees, and the god-shaped shadows within the confines. Hurrying, Ravn caught the panel before it closed, then surrendered it to Sigyn, who entered just behind him.

  The candelabra swayed, set in motion by the currents of gods’ movement, the opening and closing door, and wind that rushed through the portal. Though candles no longer littered the tabletop, several gaps in the candelabra above revealed their previous locations. Light winked and sparked in lopsided sweeps across the golden walls. The crater left by Modi’s thrown hammer remained, polished but still marred by scratches. The urge to prostrate himself seized Ravn with such sudden violence, he barely controlled his body’s obsession. Fear jabbed through him, stealing thought. A trickle of urine warmed his thigh in a line. Flushing crimson, he caught and stopped the stream, but the shift of focus lost him other restraint. He glided to his knees, head bowed, before he could think to prevent the motion.

  Freya seized her son’s arm, tugging him up and to a place at the table. He moved dazedly, managing only a dizzy glimpse of the others staring at him, some with evident surprise and others with bemused smirks. Vali’s soft comment reached his ears, but his mind could not process the words: “It’s the human blood in him.”

  Freya’s harsh glance kept Vali from further disparagement.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Ravn stammered, more confused than embarrassed.

  Freya waved off his apology, silently nonjudgmental.

  Reprieved, Ravn looked around the table. Frey and Idunn sat across from him, Sigyn taking a seat to Idunn’s left, toward the head of the table. Vali held the position beside Freya, unusual for one who usually sat at Vidar’s hand. Blind Hod sat by Sigyn, and Thor’s sons occupied the chairs directly across from them. Honir perched directly across from Vali. The chair to the left of the head lay empty.

  Only then, Ravn realized a figure occupied the head chair, as if some force had kept him from turning his gaze there until he had had his fill of lesser details. A massive god seemed to glut that entire half of the room. Red-blond hair fell to stately shoulders. A gray robe and cape flowed over an elegant figure that mandated respect. A broad-brimmed hat left the forehead shadowed, emphasizing sharp cheekbones. The set of the features struck Ravn’s mind as perfect, and the single green eye blazed like a beacon, replete with ancient knowledge. Ravn stared, unable to look away. The eye seemed to flay him like a fish, extracting every thought and intention.

  The door slammed open one more time, admitting Vidar amidst a blast of wind that sent his white cape into a flapping dance. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, blue eyes narrowing. “And who are you in my seat?”

  The accusation broke the spell. Only then, Ravn realized the creature in the high seat was shorter than himself and half again as light. The figure that had once appeared massive now looked delicate, and he recognized the other as Dh’arlo’mé the elf. Yet, even Vidar’s verbal attack could not wholly detract from the almighty charisma of this newcomer in the head chair.

  The voice that emerged from the elfin figure, though soft, filled the Meeting Hall like a clarion. “My name is Hooded, also Wayweary. I am the Ruler and the Helmet-bearer. I am called Much-loved. I am called Third. I am Pudr and Udr, Hel-blinder and the High One. I am Host Glad and the Overthrower, Flaming-eyed and Law Bearer. I am called Wide in Wisdom, Broad Hat, and Long Beard. The Father of Victory. The AllFather. I am Shouter and the Gray God. The Terrible One. The Lord of Men. I have used no single name since I first graced Midgard with my presence. To you, I am Odin—know me! And challenge, my son, if yo
u dare.”

  Vidar fell silent, hands balled to tense fists and pale eyes narrowed to slits. The hall seemed to quake in the aftermath of the AllFather’s words.

  For several moments, no one spoke. The eyes of the gods remained fixed on Vidar, awaiting his reaction before implementing their own.

  Gradually, Vidar’s fingers fell open, and his palms dropped to his sides. Without a word, he circled the opposite side of the table and took his seat at Dh’arlo’mé/Odin’s left hand.

  Odin’s features remained blank, a featureless mask that went beyond the elves’ natural propensity toward minimizing emotion. “Good day, my peers.”

  The neutral tone, the well-chosen words could not hide the truth. Ravn heard the word “peers” yet could not help processing it as “inferiors.” He drew his eyes away, casting his glance at his own hands on the table. To his surprise, he found them trembling. He drew them into his lap where no one else would see his trepidation, though none of the deities seemed to notice anything past Odin.

  No one dared demand proof, though Vidar managed the question on every mind. “How is it that you are my father yet you little resemble the one you claim to be?”

  The lid glided slowly over the eye and returned, a fraction of a second’s reprieve during which every god and goddess but Odin took a deep breath. “My body was destroyed at the Ragnarok, as you know. I have claimed this one.” Odin’s head made a gentle arc, gaze passing over each in turn. “And my rightful place in Asgard.” His brow jerked suddenly upward, an unusual gesture in an otherwise subtle repertoire. “Any who wish to challenge should do so now.”