*My point exactly.*
*Last I checked, looking’s not a crime.*
For once, Mior dropped the point first, the strategy more effective. Matrinka’s own guilt would taunt her more than the cat ever could.
“Please sit,” Griff said, indicating a pair of chairs in front of the dais. Matrinka knew he would have preferred that the two sit beside them, but that would have made conversation difficult.
Kevral and Ra-khir took their places. Matrinka found the location of her own eyes the sudden focus of her full attention. Damn it, Mior. Why’d you have to do that? She ran her gaze around the room, attending to the familiar high ceiling, the rearing bear banner behind the thrones, and the golden carpet scrolling down the aisle between rows of chairs.
Griff cleared his throat, then went right to the point. Directness would work better than vague tedium, at least for Kevral. “While you were gone, we received a message from King Cymion in Pudar.”
Kevral stiffened visibly, flicking her gaze to Ra-khir. The knight showed nothing, keeping his regard directly on his king.
“He requested that we remove Kevral from the mission, stating that she is carrying the heir to Pudar’s throne.”
Kevral jumped to her feet. “No!” she said emphatically.
The tension in the room rose tangibly. Matrinka swallowed, eyes skipping from Kevral to Ra-khir and back, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.
In his usual simplistic manner, Griff stayed on the topic. “Are you pregnant, Kevral?”
Kevral’s hands went defensively to her abdomen, but she did not answer.
Ra-khir did so for her. “Yes, Sire. She is.”
One thick, dark eyebrow rose. “And is the father Pudar’s prince?” Griff asked in an effective monotone, without judgment. Kevral’s indiscretions did not concern him, only the politics that accompanied them.
“No!” Kevral’s right hand slid to a sword hilt.
If the guards had remained, Matrinka knew that they would have positioned themselves between her and their king, their hands twitchy on their own weapons. The acceleration that might have caused made her glad Griff had dismissed them. No matter the situation, Kevral would not harm them.
Griff’s other eyebrow joined the first, and both rose another increment. “So, the prince of Pudar could not have sired the infant?”
“He didn’t,” Kevral said sullenly.
Ra-khir cleared his throat. “It is not impossible, Your Majesty.”
Kevral whirled on her husband. “I’m telling them.”
“No.” Though stated softly and with manners, the word held an edge of threat. Ra-khir gave his wife a hard look that spoke volumes.
“They need to know,” Kevral insisted, surprisingly choosing words over action.
“We swore a vow, Kevral.” Ra-khir reached for her, his motion loving. “Without loyalty to his word, a man cannot earn even his own respect.”
Kevral allowed Ra-khir to hold her, burying her face in his shoulder.
Matrinka had never before seen Kevral vulnerable. Her heart felt like a warm puddle in her chest, and she wished she could do something, anything, to help.
*You’re staring again.*
*I can’t help it. All I can think of is strangers taking Marisole.* Matrinka gritted her teeth against the agony the thought inspired. Tears pooled in her eyes. *Poor Kevral.*
*Poor Ra-khir,* Mior added. *Don’t think Griff would be any less upset to see Marisole taken.*
Griff watched the two for several moments before looking to his queen for assistance.
Matrinka shrugged, helpless to add more.
Griff turned back to the couple on the floor. “What’s going on, Ra-khir? Without details, I can’t help you.”
“Your Majesty.” Ra-khir released Kevral to perform another bow. His hat remained in his hand, partially crushed. “If I could tell you, I would. But, Majesty, we’re bound to secrecy.”
No longer held, Kevral turned, pounding a fist on her chair with such ferocity she sent it skittering toward the others, feet scraping the floor.
Griff sighed. “I understand, and I won’t command you to violate your oath.”
Matrinka appreciated the king’s leniency nearly as much as Ra-khir. Torn between a personal promise and his king’s command, he would battle his conscience for eternity. In the end, loyalty to the oath would have to take precedence, and Griff would be forced to imprison a beloved and faithful companion.
“. . . but,” Griff continued, “I have to act on the information I have. If there’s any chance that baby carries the royal blood of Pudar’s line, I have to order its surrender to King Cymion.”
“It doesn’t,” Kevral growled. “I know it doesn’t. Colbey said—”
Ra-khir caught Kevral’s arm, earning a glare.
“Is it possible, Ra-khir?” Griff asked.
Ra-khir had already answered the question once. He would not lie. “It is possible, Your Majesty.” He turned to Kevral. “I’m sorry.”
“Colbey says it’s not.” Kevral fairly hissed. Rage burned in her blue eyes, and Matrinka knew her well enough to tell she perched on the edge of violence.
“Darling.” Ra-khir managed the pet name without sounding patronizing. “Colbey’s the greatest swordsman in existence, but he’s not all knowing. Just because he chooses to believe otherwise doesn’t make it truth.” His timbre managed to make the gentle point that the last applied to Kevral as well.
A blur of silver cut the air, mangled the chair, and returned to Kevral’s sheath so swiftly that Matrinka never had the chance to feel menaced. Hunks of wood sailed across the audience chamber, clattering and skidding across the tile.
A dense silence followed.
For once unable to dispel a problem with violence, Kevral attacked Ra-khir with words. “You smug, rigid bastard! Just because it isn’t yours doesn’t mean you can destroy my baby’s life!”
Matrinka winced.
*She didn’t mean that.*
*No,* Matrinka agreed. *Ra-khir gets the honor of suffering anger she can’t vent on King Cymion or Griff.*
Clearly stunned, Ra-khir swallowed hard. “Kevral, we’ll discuss this later.” He bowed apologetically. “Forgive the outburst, please, Your Majesty. She’s under a lot of stress.”
“Understandably,” Griff gave each of them a nod. Having already explained his obligation to the matter, he returned to the other detail of Cymion’s request. “Captain said he might manage to key his spell down to seven of the original eight, though not without the risk of losing it altogether.”
Matrinka simplified, “We might be able to take Kevral out, but we couldn’t replace her.”
Every eye roved to the seething Renshai. Unless Griff forced the issue, which he would not, only she could make that decision.
“I’m not pulling out,” Kevral said categorically, adding almost too late, “Sire.” Her knuckles blanched, fingers screwed to fists. “If it’s what that fool in king’s guise wants, I’ll do the opposite every time.”
Ra-khir softened the reason. “Your Majesty, we can’t risk the mission.”
Griff studied his silk shoes, and Matrinka tensed in anticipation. “Sir Ra-khir, in this instance, we can. The heir to a throne actually does take precedence over the fertility of the rest of the world. If I had no heirs, or the Eastlands, or the North, we could argue otherwise.”
Kevral broke into agitated pacing. “I’d plunge a knife through my womb before I’d let that pompous dullard decide my life.”
*She’d do it, too.* Mior sat up on the cushion.
“Kevral,” Ra-khir hissed. “Control.” He addressed the king next. “Sire, we need Kevral’s swordarm. And we need to save the option of keying to seven in case Rascal runs or, gods will it, someone dies.”
Matrinka looked to her husband. Though he had not taken the staff-test, the world still believed him the ultimate creature of justice. If anyone could find the right answer, he could.
“I’ll apologize to King
Cymion for placing his heir at risk. I’ll inform him that removing Kevral from the mission would doom it to failure and promise that she will use appropriate caution to see that the baby survives.” He leaned forward. “That means no plunging of knives. Agreed?”
Kevral gave a sullen nod. Then, at Ra-khir’s pleading glare added, “Agreed, Your Majesty.”
“Dismissed.” King Griff said.
Ra-khir and Kevral turned, heading up the golden carpet. They would have a lot to discuss that night.
*It’s not over.* Mior raised a hind leg, cleaning it with delicate strokes of her tongue.
*Not,* Matrinka answered, *by a long shot.*
Griff flopped his head to his hands.
* * *
In the royal suite, Darris sat with his back pressed to the wall, Marisole balanced against his drawn-up knees. For the moment, innocent joy usurped all other emotion. He found his gaze singularly locked on the infant, incapable of distraction. Softened by baby roundness, the coarse, Béarnian features seemed a living perfection that even his oversized nose could not ruin. Brown eyes with barely a hint of residual blue examined him with the same intensity as he did her. Wholly captivated, the bard smiled.
The baby’s tiny lips bowed upward in response, and Darris’ smile muted into an all-encompassing and silly grin. He laughed, stroking the fine wisps of dark hair. I love you, little princess. For now, his devotion to the fragile life in his hands distracted him from the driving need to accompany and guard the king. Safe in Kevral’s and Ra-khir’s presence, Griff had little use for his bodyguard, and Darris knew worry for his charge played no part in his desire. Bard curiosity alone goaded him to take part in that meeting. The idea that his friends shared a secret he could not distressed him beyond all reason.
As the familiar yearning prickled through Darris’ chest, his thoughts slipped for the millionth time to Jahiran. The idea of sharing his ancestor’s fate, the raving loneliness and madness, was repulsive; yet two details clung resolutely. The knowledge of the universe. Darris shook his head in awe, the thought finally tearing his attention from the infant he had sired. All of it. The same bard-driven wonder that caused him so much pain allowed him to revel in the understanding, forever riveted and longing. That same knowledge, without the obsessive need to seek it or the accompanying eternal life, could finally free his mind of the agonizing quest that had haunted his line since Jahiran’s original mistake. Darris could not help considering that his ancestor should not have abandoned his wish, simply phrased it more clearly.
Marisole’s face screwed into wrinkles, and her mouth opened to emit a deep noise, a prelude to crying.
“What’s wrong, pretty girl?” Darris gathered the baby into his arms, and she snuggled against his chest without another sound. For an instant, Darris felt trapped in a cycle far beyond human control. Grandparents generations removed had passed Jahiran’s curse to their firstborn sons and daughters for centuries. Beyond human control. Darris shook his head at the thought. Surely, any of his ancestors could have put an end to the bardic curse simply by choosing a life of celibacy. For the first time, he wondered why not one of them had considered doing so. Clutching Marisole tighter, he dared not imagine the world without her, the consummate testament to love defined. And believed he understood.
The second detail haunted Darris next. Jahiran claimed Odin had lifted part of the curse from the bard’s line, that Darris suffered it only because he chose to do so. He said I can speak openly, without fear of gods’ reprisal. The freedom those words inspired held him in quiet awe, wings that could carry him to a once-forbidden world others took for granted. He hugged Marisole. She would benefit at least as much if he proved the original bard right, but the cost might prove too high. If Jahiran was wrong, if Darris incurred the wrath of gods, he might place not just himself but his companions, his blood-daughter, and the city of Béarn at stake. Even if they chose to punish him alone, or if he plunged into the same madness as Jahiran, it would leave Marisole without a kindred soul to guide her through the realities of the curse, to teach her to embrace rather than despair over her affliction.
Marisole grumbled again, this time followed by a steady rush of crying.
Darris cradled the baby in his arms, rocking gently, beginning the soft lullaby sung by loving parents to all Béarnian children. Its simplicity required little attention from Béarn’s bard, unable to fully distract him from the worry racing through his mind. A baby. The next bard. Darris had never in his life felt so overwhelmed and incompetent. Tears burned his eyes, and he realized he desperately missed his mother. What do I do? How do I do it? Why couldn’t you be here to help me? His agitation grew as Marisole’s faded. Her cries stopped, and her eyes drifted slowly closed.
Once again, Darris studied Griff’s daughter. She needed more than just a father. Perhaps some day he would test Jahiran’s claim but not until he had guided the princess through the frightening maze of a childhood damned by firstborn bardic blood. One day, when she no longer needed him, he would teach without song and, perhaps, win his successors their freedom. Marisole might not benefit from his sacrifice, but her eldest child and subsequent generations might.
As the baby glided into sleep, Darris found his thoughts wholly on his mother.
CHAPTER 10
The Collector
Renshai place their trust in circumstances, not plans.
—Colbey Calistinsson
ASSISTED by elfin magic, Tae’s injuries fully healed by the time the chosen eight gathered to seek the second Pica shard. With renewed enthusiasm, he set to the task of overseeing Rascal, preparing for situations that would afford him the opportunity to teach. The Pudarian did not make it easy for him, avoiding conversation, even direct questions; when she did respond, she did so in surly monosyllables meant to incite. Distracting himself from these small failures became tenfold more difficult because Kevral and Ra-khir clung to one another in a way that only making up after a cruel fight could explain. The intensity of their concentration on one another made Tae marvel that Ra-khir had not lost a major body part prior to reconciliation. Or maybe it’s just not one I can see. Tae entertained himself with that thought for several moments.
Once again, elves filled the strategy room, remaining near the walls to allow the voyagers ample space in the center. Captain stood upon a table where all of the participants could see his every gesture. Servants collected Saviar and Subikahn from Ra-khir and Kevral, and Matrinka held up Marisole so that Darris could get one last glimpse. Pain tingled through Tae’s chest, and he watched the servants’ disappearing backs through stinging eyes. Though he had spent the last several days with his son, he already missed Subikahn. He worried for the amount of time he might lose should it pass differently on other worlds. He had asked Captain about that possibility and received only a vague and barely sensible answer. Either the elf did not know, or he preferred that Tae did not.
Ra-khir and Kevral also watched after the babies as they departed, her right hand enclosed in his enormous left. Tae doubted they had chosen the position accidentally; Ra-khir would want to keep his dominant hand free for combat while Kevral, like all Renshai, favored neither. Darris rubbed at bloodshot eyes. He had spent most of his free time poring over books in the library and the sage’s tower when Griff could obtain consent. The king’s protectiveness of Darris’ abstraction, relieving the bard from his entertainment, as well as his guarding responsibilities suggested that Darris’ pursuit held a personal interest for the king. Even Griff would not deliberately tether himself on a whim to someone as irritating as Rantire.
Chan’rék’ril and El-brinith stood quietly in the center of the throng, likely communicating their “good-byes” in khohlar. Andvari kept a hand near the haft of his ax, and Rascal crouched in the pose of feigned disinterest that street gangs had perfected. He knew she would face any threat with equally-contrived bravado or, if possible, a hasty exit. Only then, Tae realized his demeanor mimicked Rascal’s closely, though he sought anonym
ity rather than the appearance of control.
*Ready?* Captain sent.
*Ready,* Chan’rék’ril and El-brinith returned simultaneously. Ra-khir, Darris, and Kevral nodded without cadence. Andvari lowered his head once. Tae and Rascal gave back nothing, another affectation that Tae doubted he would ever lose. Matrinka had pegged him right when she said he still hid behind street-learned defenses, but many of those served him well, both now and then.
Too late, Tae remembered the vision-shattering flash that accompanied jumping worlds. Light stabbed his eyes, raw agony. He slammed his lids closed with a curse at his own stupidity. Colors striped his retinas, and he blinked repeatedly, uncontrollably. Gradually, his sight cleared to reveal every one of his companions staggering. They had all forgotten, too. Beyond them, rare trees, each a different type, shaded patches of grassland holding mounds of desks, weapons, jewels, cloth, foodstuffs, artwork, and every other thing Tae could conceive of. A cow and a chicken milled through the piles, and a cage holding a large, pacing creature stood at the farthest edge of Tae’s vision.
“Wow.” Darris expressed the stunned thought on every mind.
Overwhelmed, Tae found himself focusing on the expression. An oddly short word to represent the concept of infinite wonder. His eyes flitted between objects, incapable of settling. He found simple beds and a wardrobe of intricate design. Toys lay carelessly heaped upon delicate sculptures. Capes, blankets, and tunics of myriad designs fluttered over devices unlike anything Tae had ever seen. Flags of every obscure city flapped in an intermittent breeze, and he could not identify the origins of several. Writing implements, furniture, and iceboxes dotted every tiny portion of ground, grass, dirt, and rocks jutting through the gaps. Quills and waterclocks, plates and polearms, curtains and horseshoes, jewelry and parchments spread across the plane, stretching to each horizon. It seemed only logical that a shard of the Pica existed amidst such plenty, but he dreaded the need to dig through even a single stack to find it.
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