“. . . with a Renshai has definitely improved your sword work, never your best weapon. But you must see that it doesn’t overtake your other training.”
Ra-khir’s face flushed past his ears, and his cheeks felt on fire. He could not tolerate his own disrespect for his commander and his father. “Yes, Captain.” He acknowledged what he had heard and hoped he had not missed much.
The knight captain made a dismissing gesture toward Harritin, and the spar commenced in a blur that Ra-khir could barely recall scant moments later. The morning stretched into an afternoon of protocol and drill, even the jousts unable to drag Ra-khir from the density of his contemplation. He had hoped that the normalcy of knight’s exercises, the mock battles if not the tedium of manners and rites, would draw him from the worry that plagued him. He contributed little to the discussions of ethical dilemmas, glad so many of his peers chose to voice their opinions; and only the need to concentrate on pike, shield, and horse brought him any reprieve. To atone for slighting his captain father, Ra-khir deliberately practiced through his lunch break, though his heart did not accompany his actions and Kedrin had clearly taken no notice of the affront.
By the time Kedrin broke the off-duty ranks for time out, exhaustion lead-weighted Ra-khir. The need to return to home and family pressed him, but he ignored the call. The timing of his arrival would not change the elves’ findings, and the idea of coming to the room before Kevral and waiting in suspense for answers became unbearable. Instead, he turned his attention to his horse, Silver Warrior, brushing aside stable hands to tend to the animal himself. Only after he had groomed the white coat until it shimmered all over and plucked the mane until every coarse hair fell to exactly the same length did he turn his attention to his other charge.
Frost Reaver stood with his head across the stall partition, as if measuring Ra-khir’s every action with his own stallion; yet the dark eyes remained soft and nonjudgmental. The head formed a gentle triangle, the nostrils broad, and the ears pricked forward to catch every sound. The graceful neck arched over the barrier, and the mane fell in tangleless clumps across both sides. Ra-khir turned toward Colbey’s stallion once more as he scrubbed every speck of dirt and manure from Warrior’s white hooves. As he rose, his hat bumped Silver Warrior’s chin, sending the calm animal a single step backward with a sharp whinny that seemed more irritated than alarmed. The hat tumbled into the straw.
Ra-khir hefted it before he or the stallion accidentally stepped on it. Usually, he removed as much of his uniform as the weather and propriety allowed while grooming his mount, but his current abstraction usurped even that usual action. He brushed seeds and flecks from the hat with even strokes of his hand, then looked for a place to put it while he finished. The consistent walls of the stalls provided nothing. He glanced at Frost Reaver, who seemed to return his gaze, and smiled. “Would you hold this for me a moment, my friend?”
Frost Reaver bobbed his head, as if in answer.
Finally, Ra-khir managed a smile, carefully balancing the hat over Frost Reaver’s ears and crown. Like most knight’s horses, the ageless stallion tolerated the indignity without attempts to dislodge it. The brim settled across the broad nose, tipping the whole into a jaunty angle. Wisps of forelock escaped from beneath it, like errant strands of unkempt hair. Ra-khir laughed aloud at the image, then continued with his work. Likely, the hat would slide from Frost Reaver’s head, but he trusted the horse not to deliberately trample it when that happened. He would wash it, along with his cape and silks, that evening.
Kedrin’s voice wafted to him. “Ah, Ra-khir. You’ve changed.”
Ra-khir leaped up so fast he slammed his head against the door latch. Fighting through the pain that followed, he belted out a clench-toothed, “Captain!” Vision unfocused, he reached for his hat to deliver a respectful salute, only then remembering it sat on another’s head. He staggered to Frost Reaver.
“Relax,” Kedrin said. “It’s ‘Father.’ You’re off-duty.”
Ra-khir clapped a hand to his headache. “I’m sorry. I still shouldn’t have . . .” He reached for the hat.
Leaning across the stall door, Kedrin stopped Ra-khir with a motion. “I haven’t known a knight yet who didn’t try that at least once.” He pointed at Frost Reaver with a wink of understanding. “Including me.” He added without malice, “Though I have to admit you’re the first to humiliate a god’s own horse.”
Apparently guessing himself the center of attention, Frost Reaver raised his head and trotted around his stall, the hat proudly aloft.
“He doesn’t look too shamed to me.” Ra-khir watched Frost Reaver prance with amusement. “Being trusted with a knight’s paraphernalia hardly seems a dishonor.”
“That’s because . . .” Kedrin snatched the hat with a single graceful movement, flourished it, and placed it over his own red-blond locks. “. . . you’re not a horse.”
The implication seemed obvious. Ra-khir gave his father a mock-stern look. “And you?”
“Also am not.” Kedrin removed the hat, absently plucking lint from the brim and unwittingly leaving a straw in his hair. Muscles bunched, visible as thick knots even beneath the layers of clothing. His cape flowed fluidly over broad shoulders, and even familiarity with similar features in his room’s mirror could not keep Ra-khir from noticing his father’s striking handsomeness. The knight’s captain had always seen his beauty as more handicap than boon, tainting his dealings with all but the blind.
Ra-khir tested the water he had filled for Silver Warrior moments before, finding it still comfortably lukewarm. He gathered curries, brushes, picks, and combs. Taking that as a finished cue, Silver Warrior turned his attention to his hay. Ra-khir placed most of the tools into their bucket. Still clutching a brush, he approached his father, leaned on the partition, and asked casually. “What do you think happens to us when we die?”
A brief pause followed. Kedrin shrugged. “It’s not a matter of thought, Ra-khir. We slump to the ground and never move again. Depending on situation, religion, family, and colleagues, we’re disposed of in one form or another and return to the earth as dirt.”
Ra-khir had grown accustomed to his father’s dodges on the matter during his adolescence and had avoided the topic for years. “I meant to our souls.”
“Only the gods know that for sure.”
Before the religions had banded together, the Easterners had followed a single all-powerful deity, the Northmen their pantheon, and the Westerners an unrelated one. The old religions still existed in small pockets throughout the world, but most now acknowledged the Northern gods as the viable ones. Even within the religion once considered Northern, major differences existed, not the least of which was the Renshai’s and the Northmen’s staunch belief in the dichotomy of Valhalla, the haven for warriors who died bravely in combat, and Hel, the icy and miserable end that awaited cowards or those who succumbed to illness. The remainder of the West still subscribed to the theory of the Yonderworld, trusting either that all souls found the same resting place or that only strivers toward Valhalla faced the possibility of Hel. Ra-khir had seen Valhalla. Kevral had insisted on visiting it once before taking up Colbey’s cause of chaos, and he had granted that wish. Tae and Ra-khir had accompanied her.
Yet even that glimpse left Ra-khir in doubt. Did Valhalla exist for all or only for believers? And what role did his own, Kevral’s own, and even Colbey’s own faith play in the situation? Ra-khir abandoned answerless questions to press his father. “You still haven’t addressed my question. I asked what you personally believe happens to our souls after death.”
Kedrin shook back his head, dislodging the straw enough to send it drifting toward his eyes. He removed it, bending the golden strand between his fingers. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It does to me.”
Kedrin shifted, one hand still on the partition, eyes distant. “Ra-khir, it’s not my place to speculate, nor to judge. I’ve seen men murder, sometimes en masse, for details of doctr
ine whose difference I can’t fathom.” He dropped the straw, watching it flutter to the ground to join more. “Whenever faith is involved, whenever men believe something so intensely that they know in their hearts the gods share their convictions, they lose their compassion for disparity and grow blind and deaf to others. When so many conflicting people clash, each believing themselves utterly correct, I don’t see how any of them possibly could be.”
Ra-khir refused to release his point. “And you believe?”
Kedrin sighed deeply. “I believe, Ra-khir, that ultimately it doesn’t matter what happens to our souls after death. I’ll attempt to handle whatever comes with my honor intact.” The pale eyes met Ra-khir’s. “In reality, the truth matters far less than what men believe is truth. And how they handle the dissent that constitutes others’ outlooks.”
Ra-khir had learned to find lessons in his father’s riddles, though understanding never struck without thorough contemplation. He changed his tack. “So, if a god came to you and offered the truth, you wouldn’t take it?”
Kedrin remained silent several moments, before a grin worked its way across his lips. “Once I would have dismissed the question as ludicrous. Times have certainly changed.”
“Evasive again,” Ra-khir noted.
Kedrin responded with the directness he usually reserved for his knights. “Knowing the truth would change nothing. My actions vary with circumstances, but honor itself is not situational.”
Ra-khir dove for the loophole, “Unless you discovered that some action before death affected your circumstances after death.”
Kedrin placed the hat on Ra-khir’s head, adjusting it to the proper pitch. “I don’t believe that would happen.”
The response confused Ra-khir. Almost every religion, no matter how defunct, had based itself on such a point. “Why not?”
“Because, if the gods wanted us to act in a certain way, supplying afterlife rewards and punishments for doing so, they would have let us know. Unequivocally.”
“The faithful of most religions and variations would say the gods already have.”
“A sure violation of the word ‘unequivocally.’”
Ra-khir could not argue that. He only knew that the discussion that had begun as a concern for Kevral could never wholly pull him from that worry. Like the rest of Béarn, the knight’s captain knew nothing of the spirit spiders. Until the elves determined their effects on Kevral, Andvari, and Chan’rék’ril, he could not speak of them. It would become the council’s responsibility, with the input of those affected, to determine what, if anything, to tell the populace. As a member of that group, Kedrin would soon have the details, yet Ra-khir did not have the right to reveal the problem in advance. Just asking the question came dangerously near to violating confidentiality and his honor.
When Ra-khir said no more, Kedrin continued, “Ra-khir, as knights, we’re called to handle missions of ultimate diplomacy. Fixed or—hopefully—open, you have your religious beliefs. Keep them to yourself as much as possible, and don’t let them taint your dealings with strangers.”
Ra-khir nodded, understanding that simply voicing his opinions could interfere with negotiations, now or in the future. “You can’t even tell your son?”
Kedrin stared. “You’re still after my beliefs?”
Ra-khir nodded.
“I believe,” Kedrin said carefully, “that no one religion or individual has exclusive access to truth.”
A non-answer. Ra-khir grinned weakly, expecting nothing different from his father. It seemed barely possible that Kedrin truly held no personal opinion on the matter, which allowed him to look at situations from anyone else’s point of view as the need arose. Yet, Ra-khir realized, his mother’s and stepfather’s ideas had long ago lost meaning for him; and his experiences changed his own thoughts and approaches, even ones he once staunchly protected, daily. He let his father off the hook. “Good enough.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kedrin replied. “That’s all you get.”
Silver Warrior stomped away a fly.
An ominous sense of discomfort suffused Ra-khir suddenly, and the need to change the topic swept through him. If he did not, his mind would cling to the image of Kevral lost to Valhalla and mourning an afterlife that must have some significance, whether or not any specific religion had fathomed it. “Is it all right if I take Frost Reaver for a ride?”
Kedrin made a broad gesture toward Colbey’s stallion, the expression suitable for royalty. “He’s your charge.” He backed away from the door.
Tripping the latch, Ra-khir swung open the stall door, stepped onto the walkway, and closed the door. “Who’s been taking care of him while I’m gone?”
Frost Reaver removed his head from over Silver Warrior’s partition. Ra-khir’s horse followed the movement with ears and, presumably, eyes then returned to his eating.
“Stable hands, mostly. One’s taken a particular liking to him. Various knights have volunteered to ride him.” Kedrin gave Ra-khir an easy smile. “I’ve taken him out once or twice. It’s not too hard to find people who want to exercise him.”
Finding common ground excited Ra-khir. “Isn’t he the smoothest animal you’ve ever ridden?”
“Snow Stormer’s no slouch.” Kedrin defended the animal he had ridden for longer than a decade, a magnificent stallion with a conformation at least as impressive as Frost Reaver’s. “But Reaver’s marvelously gaited. And responsive.”
Ra-khir agreed. “Practically reads your mind.” He heaved his saddle from its shelf just outside Silver Warrior’s stall, then dangled Frost Reaver’s nonceremonial bridle across the seat.
“Practically.” Kedrin’s tone implied it might not be as unlikely a possibility as it seemed. Centuries in Asgard had surely formed Reaver into something more than an ordinary horse, even had he not received training from a superior horseman who also happened to be immortal. He opened Frost Reaver’s stall for Ra-khir, then took off the hat again as he went past. “You won’t be needing this.”
Sliding the bridle over his wrist, Ra-khir placed the saddle onto Frost Reaver’s back. The stallion stood statue still as Ra-khir reached for the cinch.
“Or this.” Kedrin reached across his son’s shoulder as he bent, unfastened the pin, and took Ra-khir’s cape.
As Ra-khir tightened the leathers, he quipped, “Didn’t know you were training to become a maid.”
“Valet,” Kedrin returned easily, folding the cape. “No more odd than my son becoming a groomsman.”
Ra-khir would have begged to differ had the entire point not been absurd.
“Actually, I’m rescuing the launderer and the seamstress. You go through more clothing than any other knight.” Kedrin added, anticipating, “And no. You do enough of your own laundry already. In all seriousness, I really am proud of the way you insist on handling your own mount. The bond you forge with the animal could save your life one day.”
Ra-khir did not know enough to deny it, even if he had wished to contradict his father. He tacked and groomed his own mount for other reasons, the least generous of which was that he trusted no one to do a better job. “My horse deserves at least as much of my attention as my armor.”
“Indeed.” Kedrin left the stall, boots crunching over straw and oat hulls.
Finishing the saddle work and placing the bridle in its proper position, Ra-khir led Frost Reaver toward the exit, his father moving aside to let him pass.
“You think you and Kevral could bring the boys by to see me tonight?” Kedrin’s voice turned wistful. While Ra-khir and Kevral fulfilled their mission, Subikahn and Saviar stayed with Kevral’s parents. Most of Kedrin’s time with Ra-khir consisted of directing and admonishing him within the framework of the knights.
Though he hated to disappoint his father, Ra-khir doubted Kevral or himself would feel much like socializing no matter what the elves discovered. “Tomorrow,” Ra-khir promised. By then, the council would know as much as he did about Kevral’s future.
�
��Tomorrow.” Kedrin accepted the change without challenge or obvious disappointment. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Ra-khir quashed the natural urge to say the same. Though he coveted his time with the father from whom he had been estranged through most of his childhood, he would not risk a lie. This night might herald misery that a single day could not disperse. Without a reply, he gave Frost Reaver gentle kicks to the flanks that sent him across dead grasses at a rolling lope. Ra-khir reined toward the open farms.
The effortless flow of Frost Reaver’s movement lulled Ra-khir as nothing else had managed. He watched ground scroll beneath each hoof-fall and the pleasant bob of the landscape growing ever closer, then disappearing behind him. A cluster of Béarnian children cleared a barren field of debris, tossing stones, stems, and sticks onto a hay rack pulled by a drooping, sway-backed bay. A hand jerked up toward him, and the children looked in his direction in an undirected mass. Several leaped onto the hay rack, following his progress with awed interest.
Ra-khir gave them a cheery wave before they passed from his sight. The legends of the knights spanned centuries and all corners of the world. Awe and trust swathed them like a mantle, their very word law in the outlying areas of the world. Accustomed to remaining at the castle or among friends, where familiarity usurped reverence, Ra-khir had nearly forgotten the respect knights commanded elsewhere. He kicked Frost Reaver into a canter.
The white charger sprang into ice-grained winds, the momentum sweeping Ra-khir’s hair into a fiery mane. His cloak flapped like a flag, and cold air shot through the sleeves. It felt surprisingly invigorating. Concerns finally disappeared, replaced by a raw joy that made even the physical discomforts of winter bearable. Reaver eased into a gallop, without Ra-khir’s command, clearly delighting in the run every bit as much as his rider. Although a knight’s horse should remain as rigidly attentive and controlled as his person, Ra-khir did not reprimand. The wind tearing past him, the rushing scenery, the mellow sensation of lightning movement culminated in a sensation eerily akin to flight. Like some massive and magnificent bird, he soared through late afternoon’s chill, and the boundaries of world and worry disappeared far beneath him.
The Children of Wrath Page 31
