The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  *No!* The khohlar wafted from the middle of the svartalf’s irregular ranks, in Tresh’iondra’s mind-voice. *Now you are lying. Khy’barreth did that to himself—by grasping the Staff of Law and the one of Chaos at the same time.*

  Captain bowed to one present at the time of the incident. *A misunderstanding, not a lie, though the facts do not wholly explain the result. Others have held both staves without damage.* He attempted to salvage his point. *Regardless of the cause, Dh’arlo’mé did abandon Khy’barreth when he most needed assistance*

  Pre-han, who had once impersonated Béarn’s king, spoke next. “We knew you would not allow the humans to harm him, and he seemed safest locked up until age can claim him and his soul can return to the pool.”

  “Best locked in a human dungeon for centuries?” Captain shook his head at the ludicrousness of the suggestion. “Do we not owe it to one of our own to assist when he needs us?”

  “We could do nothing for him,” Pre-han insisted. “He’s mindless.”

  “No.” Captain had worked closely with Khy’barreth in the months since taking residence at Béarn Castle. He had even taken the damaged elf on his trip through West and North lands to repair the damage the svartalf had inflicted. “Not mindless.” He met Khy’barreth’s sapphire eyes. “Khy’barreth, tell us about the dungeon.”

  The attention of every elf jerked to Khy’barreth. Seven lysalf watched from on and around the ship. The svartalf remained in various positions on the beach.

  “The . . . cage?” Khy’barreth managed, his voice loud and dull.

  “The cage,” Captain confirmed, encouraging. “Tell us, Khy’barreth.”

  “Dark,” said the feeble-minded elf. “Dirty. Stink. Not room. Need air. Trees.” He pouted. “Not like.”

  Near the front, the lips of a few svartalf parted. They had seen Khy’barreth at his worst: staring with seeming blindness, incapable of khohlar or speech.

  Captain explained. “He needed our time, our effort. With attention, he can relearn so much more. Perhaps even khohlar.”

  Vrin’thal’ros belittled the miracle. *Anyone could have made a mistake escaping amid human threats. Dh’arlo’mé and the others should have taken Khy’barreth. Instead they left him with someone with the time and inclination to help him. No harm done there.*

  Captain swiveled his head to the speaker. *By luck alone, no harm. My point is that Dh’arlo’mé has abandoned you just like he did Khy’barreth. As Odin, he has no further use for you.*

  *That remains to be seen.* Vrin’thal’ros continued to speak for the others. *What do you want from us?*

  Captain smiled, the expression feeling right on features that had once harbored little else. *I want you to give up your bitter crusade against mankind. I want to unite lysalf and svartalf together again as elves.*

  *Lav’rintir, we have no interest in joining your betrayal.*

  A tiny voice barely rose above the lap of waves on the shore and the rustle of wind through serrated leaves. “I do.”

  All eyes zipped toward the sound. Even Captain did not recognize the speaker by voice alone. He followed the focus of every eye, zeroing in more easily as his gaze neared the proper position. A child no older than thirty-five years stood on the sand, red-black bangs dangling into golden eyes.

  Oa’si, the elves’ only child, quailed under the intensity of hundreds of gazes; but he did not back down. “I—I have memories of another time. When elves played all day and worried for nothing. I want to be a part of that again.”

  Captain knew those memories did not belong to Oa’si but to the elf whose soul he used. The elder suppressed a smile. Once the first stepped from the pack, others usually followed swiftly.

  Yet, this time, no one did. Sad eyes followed Oa’si’s course toward Captain, and several held out their arms as if to cradle the babe until he returned to his senses. Likely, they bombarded him with singular khohlar so thick he could read none of it. No one physically intervened; Dh’arlo’mé had sworn not to stop any elf who wished to join Captain’s band, though he would name them traitor. They would all miss the child they had raised together.

  Vrin’thal’ros’ smile outdid Captain’s own. *One taker. Too young to understand the folly.*

  As Oa’si came to Captain, he placed long fingertips on the child’s shoulders. *Youth clearly has nothing to do with this. The oldest and the youngest made the same decision.*

  *The oldest,* Vrin’thal’ros said. *Is addled. Svartalf and lysalf are your terms. To us, your followers are the lav’rintii, the destroyers of our peace. We are the dwar’freytii, the chosen of Frey. Our creator.*

  *A poorly chosen name,* Captain sent with a snideness that sent several recoiling. *You have abandoned Frey to follow Odin.*

  *When the Ragnarok threatened to destroy all of elfinkind, it was Dh’arlo’mé who intervened for us, not Frey. Your misplaced loyalty is understandable, Lav’rintir. You were not with us when the fires killed thousands and left the rest of us in agony. Others are young, born here after the tragedy.* Vrin’thal’ros gestured at Dhyano, Reehanthan, Tel-aran, and Ke’taros in turn. *Willing to violate our unity from ignorance.* He pinned Sal’arin and Irrith-talor with his piercing, violet gaze. *These two, I do not understand.* Vrin’thal’ros’ fingers traced a faded scar on his wrist, visible beyond his sleeve. He jabbed a hand toward the sea. *You’re not welcome here. Now go!*

  Captain glanced one last time over the nearly two hundred elves who had selected uniformity over ethics. Though he knew every name and face, they appeared different to him at that moment: squatter, harder, less fluid of movement. He had failed, utterly, to convince them. As he folded his arms over Oa’si, he consoled himself with the realization that saving one young life made the trip worthwhile for elfinkind, if not for Béarn. He sent a last wordless plea in khohlar for the svartalf to save themselves from the trap of their own bitterness. With all his soul, Captain wanted them to see Khy’barreth as a symbol for their society, crippled by a hatred that Dh’arlo’mé had fostered and exploited, then abandoned by the one they followed with steadfast and zealous blindness.

  The svartalf gave Captain nothing but wordless stares.

  The eldest of the elves gestured for his followers to assist Khy’barreth and Oa’si on board. Head low, smile vanquished, Captain turned toward the ship. The sails wilted, folding the Béarnian bear into unidentifiable, brown triangles. A flag at the front danced gaily in the breeze. Masts towered, arms opened like angry parents, demanding obeisance and promising the only salvation. Beaten, Captain shuffled toward the ship.

  *Odin was right!* A voice boomed like thunder from the heavens. *You are unworthy.*

  Captain froze. Elves rolled their eyes, seeking the speaker without jerking their heads about in wild, undignified confusion.

  A moment later a tall figure appeared on the shore, not far from the Béarnian ship. His purple cloak flapped in the wind, snapping like a gale-tormented sail. His hood flopped free, spilling yellow war braids that swirled around handsome features. Blue eyes glared out from the perfect angles of his face, rolling from one pocket of elves to another.

  Captain whirled to face Frey. He had not seen their creator in centuries, not since the god had lived among them on Alfheim.

  *Millennia ago, at the beginning of the mortal worlds, all of the gods submitted designs for the keepers of Midgard. Odin created a qualifying test on a world where time passes swiftly. Simply walking across the plain spans fifty years, at which time the aged being must confront its younger self and prove he bettered himself during the journey, for Odin wished to assure that only mortal creatures geared toward positive progress should populate the worlds we created.* Frey’s glare gained an intensity that made it impossible to meet. In waves, the elves turned their gazes to the ground. *Those creatures who passed returned to their youth. Humans accomplished most.* Faces rife with accusation spasmed upward to find Frey’s eyes once more. Every elf who dared challenge the claim met Frey’s angry features and loo
ked away. *And won Midgard as their charge. Giants also passed, given to Jötunheim. All of the others failed. These remained fifty years older or died on the test plain.* Frey paused, granting his charges time to understand the significance of his words.

  Even Captain clenched his hands. All the knowledge of millennia, even in the company of Wizards, had not revealed this story.

  *Your salvation: I granted you near-immortal life spans at the expense of individual souls and character. Unlike the others, fifty years did not trouble your reproductive capacities. On Alfheim, elves thrived.* Frey continued to stare at what remained of his followers. *Odin told me I would live to regret my deceit, but I never believed that. The happy, frivolous creatures I designed could never disappointment me. Or so I believed.*

  A long silence followed, filled with the patience of gods and elves alike.

  At length, Frey broke it. *Those of you who remained with Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-krin because he convinced you he followed my expectations may still league with Arith’tinir Khy’loh’shinaris Bal-ishi Sjörmann’taé Or.* He inclined his head toward Captain, who took inordinately long to recognize his own given name. Millennia had passed since anyone had used it.

  Elves drifted almost immediately, some with clear relief etched on their faces, others trembling with terror. And, when the shifting ended, Vrin’thal’ros remained staunchly in place, some forty elves still supportively ringed around him. Only one of the Nine had abandoned him; She of Slow Emotions joined Captain without her usual need for long consideration.

  Frey watched the division with an air of wistfulness, yet he seemed pleased by the relative numbers. Captain worried more for his ship. It would require fifteen to twenty trips to ferry so many to Béarn.

  *Those who prefer the path of Odin shall become elves no longer,* Frey explained. *I will find a dark quiet place where you can simmer in your hatred for eternity. One day, you will serve the gods with talents born of brooding, magical crafts, and secrets that must accompany such isolation and intensity. You may call yourselves svartalf or even dwar’freytii, for you are, in a way, my chosen. Chosen no longer to represent me. You shall remain a people, but no longer my people.*

  Captain saw the solution to his own problem. If Frey removed the svartalf/dwar’freytii, the lysalf could remain on Nualfheim. Those who wished to live among humans could come aboard, and any who preferred to remain here, including his crew, could do so instead. Eventually, he would extend that option to those already living in Béarn and in Pudar. His discussion with Colbey gave him information that obviated Frey’s visit and all of his plans. If Odin managed to destroy the world, nothing they did mattered, yet it made no sense to make plans based on this eventuality. Annihilation required no preparation. The re-creation of the elves did.

  Captain turned to thank their benefactor. Unlike humans, elves did not worship gods, not even their creator. Alfheim’s close proximity to Asgard had brought them in direct contact on many occasions, and their more similar lifespans made them less mysterious. But Frey had disappeared, taking the svartalf with him. Nothing remained but the lap of surf, a dying wind, and the mass of followers who awaited Captain’s command.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Laws of Ascension

  When circumstances change, I change my mind.

  —Sir Ra-khir, Kedrin’s son

  KEVRAL had scarcely pulled on her clean clothes when a knock sounded on the door. Dashing past Ra-khir, she ignored the towel slipping from her head to jerk open the panel. “How is—” she started, not caring which of the healers had come to deliver the news. Then, recognizing Tae, himself, she bit back the question.

  A bandage speckled with blood formed a band around his head. A cleaner one supported his right ankle, and cloth encased his right hand. “May I come in?”

  Kevral stepped aside, finding speech impossible. The towel slid to the floor, and water dripping from her hair left dark spots on her tunic.

  Tae limped inside, his every movement stiff. He walked only as far as the first chair, then plopped himself down on the seat. His dark eyes held a glaze Kevral usually associated with death. She let the door swing partway closed.

  Ra-khir hurried to his friend’s side. “Tae, what are you doing here?”

  Tae smiled weakly. “Glad to see you, too.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Ra-khir scolded rather than explained. “Did the healers say you could . . . I mean they haven’t even reported—”

  Another rap on the door silenced Ra-khir, and the panel swung open at the touch. A young Béarnide stood in the entryway, long dark hair tied back from broad shoulders. She wore the simple gray robe preferred by a group of Béarnian healers who believed it their god-sanctioned mission to end suffering. “The queen sent me to tell you the Prince of Stalmize is alive. You may come—oh!—” She broke off abruptly at the sight of Tae. “You’re here, Sire.” Her brows knitted in desperate consideration, and she looked back into the hallway.

  Tae’s smile turned sweet. “I thought they’d worry less if they heard it from me.”

  “Well, yes, Sire, but . . .” The healer licked her lips furiously. Pounding footsteps suddenly filled the corridor behind her. She stepped aside to admit Matrinka, two elves, and an unfamiliar Béarnide.

  “Kevral. Ra-khir.” Matrinka’s gaze fell on Tae, and she stopped cold. Her expression went from alarmed to irritated, and she waved the others away. “Let them know we found him, and he’s all right.”

  The healers scurried to obey, leaving Kevral, Ra-khir, Tae, and Matrinka. The Queen of Béarn closed the door. Turning back to her friends, she made a flourishing, though somewhat facetious, gesture of respect. “Thank you all for your service to Béarn. Another successful mission.” She narrowed in on Tae. “You idiot! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Think?” Tae said with a dismissive gesture. “I gave up thinking a long time ago.”

  “Clearly.” Matrinka surrendered her attention to Kevral. Ra-khir managed to refrain from any grand displays, but he did stand at attention.

  “Tae’s alive and well?” Kevral guessed.

  “Alive,” Matrinka conceded. “Though obviously deranged and confused.”

  Ra-khir could not resist. “So he’s normal.”

  “Hey!” Tae protested, without the strength to muster his usual sarcastic edge. Despite his bravado, Kevral noticed that he sat crookedly in the chair, allowing the back and sides to support him. For once, he did not look as if he could evade any threat in an instant.

  Matrinka sketched out a scenario no one could confirm. “From what I can put together, his fall down the stairs caused all but one of his injuries but saved him from a crushing. Lots of scrapes and bruises, especially the ankle. Bashed his head on a step, I think. Opened a good-sized gash and knocked him out.” She stared fiercely at Tae. “Not long enough. The only damage from the falling stone seems to be his hand.”

  The door quivered, as if in the wake of a guard patrol.

  Tae raised the white bundle that represented his right hand. “Same one as on the ship.” He had broken several fingers about a year previously falling off the mast of Captain’s ship during a magical storm created by elves. Then, too, Matrinka had worried he might have crushed some bones in his hand. He replaced the damaged limb into his lap. “My left hand’s jealous. Demanding equal punishment.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll inflict it,” Matrinka said tiredly. Her tone went deadly earnest, and she surely addressed all of them. “I’d like to tend some other patients for a change. I understand there’re only two shards left. Please be careful.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Ra-khir promised.

  The door fluttered again, and Kevral thought she heard a scratch.

  “Tornadoes and hurricanes,” Tae said cryptically, a reference that defeated Kevral.

  “Yes,” Matrinka returned. “But you were supposed to be the man of reason.”

  Tae opened his mouth, but Matri
nka ran over his reply.

  “Yes, I know you were reining in a tornado at the time, but you can’t justify running away from healers in your weakened state.”

  “I thought—” Tae started, again interrupted by Béarn’s queen.

  “Yes, I heard. You thought our friends would worry less if they heard your condition from you.”

  Kevral shook her head, deliberately staying out of the conversation, as did Ra-khir. Matrinka and Tae had an unusual relationship that worked for them.

  The door vacillated irregularly. Though soft and gentle, its persistence sent Kevral to the panel. She opened it a crack. No one stood in the hallway, but a yellow eye glared up at her through the opening.

  Matrinka continued, “Not good enough, Tae. I don’t believe it.”

  Kevral admitted Mior, who huffed out an indignant meow before stalking deliberately across the room.

  Matrinka rolled her eyes to the cat, softening the demanding gaze once wholly on Tae.

  Though partially freed from the queen’s focus, Tae answered the ultimatum, though it forced him to show vulnerability. “I guess I thought if I could make it up here, I wouldn’t die.”

  Matrinka knelt, holding out a hand to pet Mior. The calico ignored her mistress, pacing a deliberate arc around her, then leaping into Tae’s lap.

  “Ungrateful little furball,” Matrinka muttered, only then seeming to notice she had spoken aloud.

  “Me?” Tae asked facetiously, running his hand over the spotted fur while Mior purred loud enough for Kevral to hear.

  “You, too.” Matrinka could not wholly suppress a smile. Usually, she managed to keep her conversations with the cat wholly silent. Either she had become comfortable with her companions’ knowledge, or she had grown tenser than any of them realized. “You could have died pushing yourself too hard too fast, and no one might have found you in the hallways.”