The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Finally, Javonzir’s gaze found the king, and he performed a careful bow without pretension. Cymion let out a pent-up breath he did not even realize he held. Javonzir displayed his disagreement with his king’s policies by becoming irritatingly formal. Cymion craved one of the intimate discussions he could get only from this man with whom he had shared a childhood. For the next hour or so, he wanted a friend, not a subordinate.

  “Thanks for coming,” Cymion said, the boom necessary to carry his voice across the broad room echoing.

  Javonzir avoided speaking what they both knew. When the king requested a person’s presence, the summoned one dared not refuse. “My pleasure, Sire.” He closed and latched the door behind him, the click lost to distance. His softer voice barely reached the king’s ears. “May I approach?”

  “Please do.” Cymion wished they could dispense with even this formality, but it served an important purpose. If Javonzir dropped all of his pretenses, others might, too. It also denoted respect and reminded them both whose word must always carry the most authority.

  Javonzir headed past the table, meeting Cymion near a window. Reading something on the king’s face, he pursed his thin lips until they nearly disappeared. “Is it your adviser that you need, Your Majesty? Or a friend?”

  “Both,” Cymion admitted.

  Javonzir shuffled one step nearer. For an instant, Cymion thought the smaller man might hug him. He stiffened, only then realizing that he would appreciate an affectionate gesture he had not experienced since his wife died and his sons had grown. Then, the cousin-turned-adviser glanced through the glass at the workers. Apparently worried about appearances, he did not complete the embrace. Instead, he indicated a chair at the table. “Would you like to sit, Your Majesty?”

  Having never considered the obvious position, Cymion stared stupidly at the myriad chairs, “Thank you, Javon. A good idea.”

  Javonzir pulled out one near the head, and Cymion perched on the edge. He motioned for his adviser to join him. Pulling out a second chair to comfortable speaking distance, Javonzir also sat.

  Cymion did not wait for him to settle into place before clapping the parchment to the table. “What did you think of this?”

  “I . . .” Javonzir spoke very slowly, “. . . found some parts pleasing, Sire. King Griff plans to turn over Pudar’s heir. He’s appropriately sympathetic about the . . . incident.”

  “The incident.” Cymion raised and lowered the parchment again. “That so-called ‘incident’ was an attempt on my son’s life.”

  Javonzir acknowledged the words with a sideways tilt of his head. “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

  “By the same ignominious bastard who murdered Severin.”

  “Apparently, Sire,” Javonzir said carefully. “Tae denies—”

  Cymion’s hand struck the table again, this time with venom. “Don’t ever use that name in my castle. Not even in my kingdom!”

  Javonzir shifted his chair further from the table. “Sire.” He emphasized each word, “He Who Shall Not Be Named denies killing Severin.”

  The point seemed as unnecessary as the title. “Did you think he would confess?”

  “He confessed to the attack against Leondis easily enough, Your Majesty. If we take his word for one, why not the other? It could have occurred as his father said. The dark elves could have played a part.”

  Cymion did not see it the same way. “He’s just becoming more cocky, throwing it in our faces. Now that he’s a prince and—apparently—immune to justice, he’s saying he can do as he pleases.”

  Javonzir cleared his throat. His muddy eyes measured his king. “Sire, once Kevral accepted his punishment, he was immune for the first crime also. No reason for him not to admit to Severin’s assassination, especially if he’s ‘throwing it in our faces.’”

  Cymion calmed, considering the familiar wisdom of his adviser’s words. Possibilities remained to explain Tae’s behavior, but they did not matter. The crime to which Tae had confessed was enough. “He may need to maintain his innocence, or his so-called integrity, to keep the goodwill of Béarn. Caught in the act, he could not deny the attack on Leondis.”

  As usual, Javonzir read a lot from a single comment. “You think it’s an Eastern plot to win over Béarn, Your Majesty?”

  Cymion trusted his adviser’s opinion more. “What do you think?”

  “The first step to successful invasion is cutting off a kingdom from its strongest allies.”

  Cymion studied Javonzir. The words made sense but did not directly address his question. He guessed at the point, “You think the East is deliberately stirring war between us? That I’m playing into their hands?”

  Javonzir shook his head, well-oiled locks barely moving. “I doubt they assumed we’d go to war, Sire. In fact, that might foil their plan since Pudar is the stronger kingdom. And likely to win, Sire.”

  A rush of uncertainty kept Cymion silent several moments. He did not even challenge the word ‘likely,’ though it expressed inappropriate doubt about Pudar’s power. “Am I doing the right thing?”

  Javonzir said nothing.

  Cymion lowered his head, gray-flecked auburn curls dipping into his eyes, his beard like wire against his throat. “I never used to wonder, Javon.”

  Javonzir attempted to console, “Aside from Kevral, Sire, no one has ever questioned.”

  The words raised unexpected anger. Cymion’s fingers closed over the parchment. “I was not wrong about Kevral.”

  Javonzir developed a sudden, intense interest in the hem of his tunic, a sure sign of nervousness. He had tried to warn Cymion of the danger of his preoccupation with keeping the Renshai, without success. The king had executed the capture and impregnation of Kevral without his adviser’s knowledge, and Javonzir had deftly handled the Renshai and her consort when the plan broke down. It was one of the few times they had differed on major policy matters, and Cymion still struggled to make his cousin understand.

  “I was trying to forestall a war of succession.” Cymion lifted his head. “Some three centuries ago, such a thing destroyed the royal line that preceded our own. Baronies were laid to waste. A quarter of Pudar’s citizens died of violence, disease, and subsequent famine.”

  Javonzir’s interest in his hem grew fanatical. The same tutors had taught him history.

  Driven to justify actions he had already believed well-understood by his cousin, Cymion continued, “The discomfort of one Renshai in my employ seemed worth avoiding a repeat of that tragedy. It still does.” He softened his tone. “I regret only that it had to be accomplished through physical restraint and forced intimacy.” His fingers winched tighter, crushing Béarn’s message. “She made those things necessary. And they were necessary. I will take it to my grave that I did the right thing.”

  Javonzir remained silently in place, plucking agitatedly at his garment. His upbringing would never allow him to admit that his king had erred.

  Guilty for his outburst, and the discomfort it caused one he so fully trusted, King Cymion sighed and released the parchment. “Javon, I asked you a question.”

  Javonzir acknowledged the statement with a nod. “Yes, Sire, forgive me.” Even through the king’s tirade, he had not forgotten. He proved his attentiveness by repeating the query, “Are you doing the right thing now?”

  Cymion’s heart rate settled back to normal, and he shed defensiveness like a mantle. “Yes.”

  Javonzir released his hem. “Sire, I can only give you my opinion on the matter.”

  Cymion dismissed the comment with a brisk gesture. “As always.”

  Javonzir cleared his throat. “I believe, Your Majesty, that King Griff’s cooperation attests to the rightness of your decision about Kevral and the heir.” He measured Cymion’s reaction to each word now. “Whatever my previous, personal concerns about the circumstances of the conception, the gods must have sanctioned it, Sire. No other union of Leondis’ resulted in pregnancy.”

  Cymion sucked in a deep breath, loosing it slow
ly. “Javonzir, I’ve told no one this, and you must never mention it.” He did not wait for a vow from his adviser; none was necessary. “Kevral claims the baby isn’t Leondis’. That some deity impregnated her to rescue her from repeated couplings with the prince.”

  Javonzir’s thick brows lifted. “A deity, Sire?”

  “A desperate story.” Cymion shrugged. “An attempt to hurt him. A dream.”

  Emboldened by Cymion’s acceptance of even his most indelicate utterance, Javonzir continued to speak openly, “Sire, I would say the same if Leondis had fathered one other child before or after the sterility plague. He’s never been particularly . . .” He clearly searched for the most diplomatic word.

  “. . . celibate,” Cymion supplied, not wanting ginger politics to interfere with an opinion he desperately needed. “So you believe a deity sired Kevral’s baby?”

  “Your Majesty, I believe . . .” Javonzir hesitated, considering. “. . . I believe it’s not wholly impossible that another man sneaked into Kevral’s cell and fathered that baby. She was helpless, weakened by childbirth, emotionally distraught. Sire, the mind can do wondrous things in bad situations. She might convince herself that a guard was a deity come to rescue her from misery.”

  “A guard,” Cymion repeated, dispelled anger returning in a cold rush. “One of my guards?”

  “Who else would have had a key, Your Majesty?”

  Cymion struck the table again, this time so hard the boards squeaked a protest. “I’ll kill the bastard.”

  Javonzir skittered beyond reach. He used his most soothing tone. “Your Majesty, with a request for forbearance if you find the words treasonous, he may have done you a favor.”

  Cymion rose, whirling on his adviser. “How so?”

  “You have an heir who, for all appearances, is Leondis’. Does the bloodline really matter?”

  The question struck King Cymion dumb. He blinked several times, seeking to clear his head. “Yes,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “Enough, Sire, to leave the throne of Pudar open for dispute?”

  “No,” Cymion admitted. “Not enough for that.” He resumed pacing, faced with a new problem. “Kevral is already committed to silence. We would need only to find the guilty party and quiet him as well. The child and the citizenry would never know there was a possibility he or she did not carry Pudar’s royal blood.”

  “We would know, Sire.”

  “Yes.” Cymion knew his cousin well enough to feel certain he did not face a threat. Javonzir would never give away a secret of the king, and the lack of royal blood would not bother Javonzir at all. His rare and special personality allowed for no prejudice. Less impartial, Cymion would see the possibility of tainted blood in the child’s every failing. Yet he believed time and his training could overcome even that. “But that baby is Pudar’s only hope. Of royal lineage or not, it is Leondis’ only heir.” Another thought struck with gale force. If the truth comes out, we could embellish the deity claim of Kevral’s. It could only work to Pudar’s advantage to exaggerate the already common belief that the kings carry divine blood. Most would never doubt that a god took possession of Leondis’ body to refresh the lordliness of our line.

  Javonzir fell into another hush.

  Cymion spun about to look at his cousin. The adviser’s expression would explain why he chose quiet contemplation over response. He discovered peaceful, nonjudgmental features, lacking the formality that would suggest disagreement with his king. Relieved, Cymion managed a tight smile. The other matter still confronted him, the one for which he had believed he actually needed insight. Until Javonzir had raised the possibility that Kevral’s claim about the baby could hold some merit, he had thought his handling of the attack against Leondis his only possibility for error. Now, he realized, he had harbored residual doubt about the heir, fully dispelled by their discussion. “What about the assassin? Do you believe I have a right to demand extradition?”

  Javonzir stared. “Your Majesty, you have the right to demand anything.”

  The hint of formality in Javonzir’s answer troubled Cymion. The stuffiness only appeared when he disagreed with his king. “Of course. But am I making a mistake in this matter?” He forestalled the obvious answer, “And, yes, I know the king never makes a mistake.”

  Javonzir followed the careful tacks of a king who clearly needed his advice. “Sire, I believe you have every right to demand T—” He caught himself. “. . . the assassin’s extradition.”

  “Really?” The confirmation on the heels of rigid propriety surprised Cymion.

  “Really,” Javonzir confirmed. “I don’t believe any loving father who happens to be a king would demand anything else. If Leondis had stabbed . . . the assassin, King Weile would surely insist on Leondis’ extradition there.”

  “Kahn,” Cymion corrected.

  “What?”

  “King Weile Kahn. Easterners consider shortening names a grave insult.”

  “I know, Sire,” Javonzir said, hazel eyes twinkling. “Under the circumstances, it seemed appropriate.”

  Cymion’s grin grew, almost to normal size. “I get it.”

  “I’m not sure you do, Sire,” Javonzir’s comment bordered on insubordination, not for the first time. “Would you allow your prince’s extradition?”

  “If he tried to kill another prince? Yes.”

  Javonzir stroked his chin, clearly not getting the answer he sought. “What if it were Severin instead of Leondis?”

  Even after so long, a pang of regret struck Cymion at the mention of his elder son. His smile disappeared. “Severin would not do such a thing.”

  Javonzir sucked air through his teeth. “For the sake of the discussion, Sire. Imagine it.”

  Finally, Cymion considered Javonzir’s point and the difficulties it raised. “I would attempt to bargain with the other king. At least assure a fair trial. And that the punishment of a prince, not a commoner, was forthcoming.”

  Javonzir made no comment, allowing time for the king to infer what had to follow.

  “I understand, Javon. I need to push for extradition. And, once I win it, the trial must be fair. The punishment appropriate.”

  Again seizing on Cymion’s willingness to listen, Javonzir spoke freely, “We can’t try him for Severin’s murder, only Leondis’ wounding, Your Majesty. We can consider imprisonment, exile, a whipping. But not execution. Never execution.”

  Cymion clenched his fingers. Nothing could have pleased him more than throttling Tae with his own hands, yet he knew Javonzir spoke wisely.

  “And King Weile Kahn should have a say in the matter.”

  Cymion kept his fingers laced. “He’d tie our hands.”

  Javonzir did not agree. “From what I’ve heard of Weile Kahn, Sire, he might encourage a few lashes to teach his son a lesson.”

  The words did not surprise Cymion. He might do the same for Leondis. Then reality intruded. “That’s assuming the king’s not a part of whatever plan Tae has to turn Béarn against Pudar.” He spoke the name easily this time, a sure sign discussion had dispelled much of the bitterness and anger that had plagued him for so long.

  “That’s the best part of the whole thing, Your Majesty,” Javonzir insisted. “It doesn’t matter. The fastest and most secure alliances are usually born of hardship. Sire, if you handle this right, you could gain an ally of tremendous power.”

  “The East?” It seemed an impossible suggestion. The West and East had remained enemies for so long. When the chance for unity opened to Cymion, it brought the promise of so much more. Joined to the high kingdoms of North and East, Pudar would become all-powerful, virtually invincible.

  “Sire, you can address the best interests of Pudar and still satisfy the vengeance of every man, woman, and child who loved Severin.” Javonzir found a diplomatic way to address Cymion’s rage, which always slipped beyond the reasonable when it came to Tae. “But it all hinges on convincing Béarn to extradite.”

  Cymion sat, staring at the crumpled p
archment. “King Griff won’t surrender him.”

  Javonzir settled back into his own chair. “Perhaps, Sire, if you explained to King Griff that you intend to prosecute . . .” He met Cymion’s cold blue gaze, “. . . Tae as a prince. That you’ll confine him without resorting to the dungeons. That you’ll consult Stalmize and rule out the possibility of execution. He might prove more willing, less apt to see it as sending his own savior to slaughter.”

  “Maybe.” That information might ease Griff’s concerns, but it would not change Béarnian law. He wished the naive adolescent who perched upon Béarn’s throne could recognize the threat that Leondis had elicited. If Stalmize continued to work its way into the graces of Béarn, at the expense of Pudar, the East would rule the world. “And if he continues to refuse?”

  “Then, Sire,” Javonzir said carefully. “There is still war.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Loki’s Citadel

  Loki means “fire” in the Northern tongue. Grand, glorious, beautiful. Necessary for security and warmth, when controlled. Searing to the touch. Freed, it becomes mischievous, evil, and devastating. As unpredictable as chaos itself.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  MAGIC tugged at Colbey through the single remaining gap in the boundaries he had formed to separate his chaos’ realm from the other worlds. He recognized the signature of the caster, Idunn, which surprised him. Before Colbey had become the literal Prince of Demons, magic had fully lacked understanding and logic. The Cardinal Wizards, and the few gods who dabbled in it, rarely dared its use for the danger of its unintended side effects. Now, the magic sought him amid the everchanging soup that only his will held to patterns. It called to him as it would to a demon; but, where those before had summoned the regular denizens of chaos, this one clearly demanded him.