The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The last assertion seemed ludicrous to Kevral. Obviously, Matrinka had surmised where Tae had gone and would have discovered him en route to, if not in, their room.

  Tae shifted in his chair, wincing as he did so. “I kept drifting in and out of awareness. I worried I might not wake up, and I didn’t want to die in a sickbed. So long as I’m moving, I’m alive.”

  Matrinka gave him a sidelong look, lacking its previous hostility. “Tae Kahn, I believe you’re afraid of dying.”

  Kevral closed the door harder than necessary. The short distance allowed for only a sharp click, not a slam. Matrinka had essentially called Tae a coward, the worst insult in Renshai vernacular.

  But Tae took no offense. “Not afraid exactly. Let’s say I’m not quite ready to go. I’ve got a son to raise. A father to assist. A kingdom that might actually need me.” He added hastily, “Not because of my vast wisdom, fine blood, and experience, but because of the hordes of criminals and ousted nobles who would fight over the throne if anything happened to my father. Because of the people—dangerous people—who would follow no one but my father and his chosen successor.”

  Ra-khir diffused the guilt that Kevral’s training would not allow her to consider. “Tae, you don’t have to justify wanting to live. It’s perfectly normal and natural.”

  Tae’s hand went still on the cat, his dark britches speckled with her short, multicolored hairs. “Then why does it feel so odd? And humiliating?”

  Kevral hoped one of the others had the answer. She still did not understand.

  Matrinka said, “The prime minister has often said that ‘youngsters’ like Griff and me believe themselves immortal. With age comes true understanding of mortality. From my experience, I’d say that serious injuries bring the same understanding.”

  “It’s not the first time Tae’s gotten hurt,” Kevral supplied.

  “No.” Matrinka ran her hands over hair tied in the back. She wore it this way while she worked, to keep it from falling onto patients. “But there’re other things to consider, like he said. His son. The Eastern kingdom. And we’re all getting older.”

  “Twenty in three months,” Tae said, shaking his head only slightly and stopping nearly as quickly as he started. “Twenty years old.” He stared into space a moment, while Mior butted his good hand with her head.

  “Landmark ages like that make a difference, too,” Matrinka said softly, without referring to the detail they all now knew. Not only did it signal the end of a decade but also the age when Tae’s father agreed that, if Tae survived, he would receive his inheritance. Though the details of that birthright had changed, and Weile had accepted his son back early, the date still had to hold significance for Tae.

  Kevral cleared her throat. Her youth and upbringing stole import from the whole situation. “So does this mean you’re not going to finish the mission with us?”

  Tae’s head jerked toward Kevral, then he loosed a noise of pain. “Of course I’m finishing the mission. I’m not becoming a different person, just changing the way I do certain things. Like, maybe next time Matrinka has a baby, I’ll come visit through the door.”

  “Maybe,” Matrinka repeated sadly. Unlike Kevral, she had chosen to sacrifice fertility to dedicate herself to the one child she had managed to carry. Though optimistic, the elves did not know for certain whether they could lift the sterility spell, even after the group regathered the Pica shards.

  “And I don’t want to get sent to Pudar.” Tae spoke so softly the words would have gotten lost if not for the hush that followed Matrinka’s lament.

  Matrinka nodded her understanding. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  Tae shrugged, without answer.

  Matrinka mulled her next words so long that Tae finally filled the hush.

  “My only crime was eavesdropping. I don’t deserve execution for that.”

  “Execution’s not an option. Even Pudar admits that.” Matrinka meant to reassure, but the words raised questions.

  “When did that get decided?” Tae sagged further into the chair, a gesture contrary to his obvious interest. Either his injuries, or the healers’ elixirs, finally threatened to overtake him.

  Matrinka glanced at Ra-khir and Kevral, as if begging them for an interruption. When none came, she elucidated. “We’ve exchanged messages with Pudar and your father. More than once. The council meets tomorrow to make a final decision.”

  “I want to be there,” Tae said.

  “You can’t.” Matrinka turned away. “Nor Leondis, either. But Darris and I will be.”

  Ra-khir read more from the exchange. “This isn’t settled yet?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Matrinka sighed. “But at least we’ve gotten Pudar to agree to treat Tae like the prince he is.”

  “A prince.” Tae laughed.

  That did not satisfy Ra-khir. Features crinkled with irritation, he paced a few steps before heading for the door. Grabbing the latch, he opened it.

  Kevral started after her husband. “Where are you going?”

  Ra-khir walked into the hall. “I’m going to finish this.” Without further detail, he shut the door behind him.

  Matrinka looked worriedly at the silent panel. “Should we stop him?”

  Kevral saw no need. “He’s a Knight of Erythane. How much trouble can he get into? His honor won’t let him do anything wild or stupid.”

  Tae needed only history to contradict. “As opposed to personally declaring war on Pudar?”

  “He’s not going to declare war on Béarn.” Kevral shrugged off the concern. “Let him expend some anger however it pleases him. You know he won’t endanger Béarn. Or its innocents.”

  “Not willingly.” Matrinka continued to stare at the door. “But he doesn’t know we’re already on the verge of war with Pudar.”

  Kevral flinched. “Because of me?”

  Matrinka chose not to answer, sparing her companions. Finally, she glanced at Tae, finding him asleep. Only then, she deigned to address Kevral’s question. “Because of . . .” She inclined her head toward the Easterner. Either she worried that speaking his name might awaken him or that he had not fully passed beyond consciousness. “. . . actually.” She lowered her head, sucking in a long, deep breath, then faced Kevral directly. “The baby is no longer an issue. It stinks, Kevral, but there’s no legal way we can refuse Pudar.” She paused, awaiting a savage reaction before continuing, “Griff has already promised to fully cooperate.” Again she watched intently for Kevral’s rage. “Of course, if you run, catching you becomes Pudar’s problem.”

  Kevral had never considered such an action. She knew she would not have to go far. The Fields of Wrath would shield her, and she doubted even Pudar would attempt to breach the Renshai settlement. Then, she recalled the desperation that fairly defined King Cymion when he demanded Kevral’s imprisonment and impregnation. The Renshai would battle to their deaths sheltering one of their own, especially once she convinced them the baby carried Colbey’s blood. Eventually, they would succumb to Pudar’s numbers, dying in glory but leaving no legacy behind, not even the baby. She dared not delve into the agony such action would cause Ra-khir, torn between love and honor. Once before, he had chosen her over his vows to the Knights of Erythane; but, then, the ethics of the situation had fallen far into her favor.

  Matrinka did not await an answer, nor even reassurance. She had spoken the facts and left a way out; in the same situation, no friend could do more. “I’ll send some people up to collect him.” She waved toward Tae. “Shall I have them bring the twins?”

  So much kept Kevral’s concern for the babies buried: the excitement of the tasks, the lives of friends, the fate of the unborn; but only shallowly. “Please. Though I wonder how long till Tae’s up here stealing Subikahn.”

  “At least a day or two, I hope.” Matrinka gave Tae a motherly look. “He needs the rest.”

  Mior glanced toward Matrinka, yawned, stretched, then paced a circle across Tae’s lap. Ignoring Matrinka, she lay
back down, a self-appointed guardian.

  Shaking her head at the cat’s antics, Matrinka looked at Kevral. “And you need the rest, too.”

  Kevral knew Matrinka spoke the truth, yet a long time had passed since she had managed a full night of sleep. Physical and emotional pain had haunted every night since before her return from Pudar. She doubted this one would prove any different.

  * * *

  Standing between his seated king and queen, Darris scarcely noticed the familiar ministers and dignitaries clustered around the long, rectangular table in Béarn’s Council Room. By convention, the walls remained bare, symbolizing the importance of the discussions that occurred here. An ancient prime minister had decreed it so, concerned for anything that might distract the council, even momentarily. For the first time, Darris wondered whether that strategy might not backfire intermittently. The plain gray walls stood in interesting contrast to the murals, tapestries, and finery of the remainder of the castle. Without something to exercise his eyes, he found his thought guiding his attention in a much more engrossing fashion.

  Griff opened the meeting, as he must. He raised massive hands, his sleeves gliding backward to reveal sparse black hair growing nearly to his wrists. “I’d like to start by talking about the latest message from Stalmize.”

  Stall discussion of Tae as long as possible, Kevral had told Darris that morning, charging off before he could question. That practically assured Griff would start with it. Deliberately avoiding Kedrin’s gaze, Darris made a broad, unmissable gesture that demanded the floor. The knight would not approve of interrupting the king, especially when he had barely commenced.

  Despite the grossness of Darris’ motion, proximity rendered it all but invisible to Griff. “King Weile wrote that he appreciated Pudar’s reassurances, but . . .”

  Darris repeated the gesture, this time punctuating it with a touch of his foot against Matrinka’s ankle under the table. She looked up in time to catch the end of the signal.

  “. . . he prefers that extradition not occur.”

  Matrinka waited until Griff finished the sentence and took a breath before intervening. “The bard has requested our attention.”

  Griff lowered his arms, blinked twice, then crinkled his brow in confusion. He turned to Darris. “You may speak.”

  Darris cleared his throat silently, seeking the mellow, confident voice with which he taught morality in song. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I understood you wished to take matters today in order of importance.”

  Griff had expressed no such intent, but he accepted the comment without challenge. Either he believed he had mentioned it in private, casual discussion with his bodyguard or trusted Darris to have good reason for lying. He held out a hand to indicate the bard should continue.

  “As most of you know, I’ve spent many months researching the ascension laws.” Darris finally glanced at Kedrin, who returned his regard with a mild frown. “I’d like to discuss amending the law.”

  Suddenly, Darris had the full attention of every minister and the knight’s captain. Only Thialnir seemed disinterested, studying the calluses on his massive hands. Regimentation concerned him little, except where it involved relations with his people. Kedrin demanded, and was granted, the floor.

  “I respectfully submit that while modification of a Béarnian law does take precedence over nearly any matter of diplomacy, especially one we’ve been handling over so long a time; the amendment of a law should occur only when such has been rendered obsolete, unfair, or dangerous.” Kedrin’s lengthy and overly formal sentence sent Thialnir beside him into a disrespectful pantomime of sleep which, luckily, Kedrin did not seem to notice.

  “Acknowledged.” Darris knew he needed to focus on the most conservative members of the council: Minister Saxanar and the Knight of Erythane. If he could convince those two, the others would not argue. “I’m simply suggesting we add the word ‘elf.’”

  No one interrupted this time, awaiting details.

  Darris pulled a folded sheet of vellum from his pocket. Opening it, he read words he knew by heart, “. . . Béarn’s heirs may marry only a woman or man, in the case of the crowned ruler more than one, from the primary noble line of Béarn approved by a majority vote of the Council . . .” He lowered the parchment. “I’d like to add ‘elf’ to ‘woman or man.’” He looked up, realization striking hard and almost too late. “In fact, I’d like to add ‘elf’ to several laws, granting them the same rights as other citizens of Béarn.”

  Minister of Foreign Affairs Richar seemed glad to have a positive matter to consider after longer than a month of balancing the East against Pudar. “The elves have helped us so much. We’ve invited them to live among us. The least we can do is give them equal rights and protections under our law.”

  Internal Affairs Minister Franstaine raised bushy brows. “Is there some reason why elves can’t be people? Their males men? Their females women?”

  The ministers considered in silence, some nodding immediately and others reserving the right to respond after further consideration. So far, Darris knew, the peaceful lysalf had done nothing to violate any criminal statutes. For day-to-day privileges and responsibilities, Béarn had simply granted them to the elves as they would to any guest of the castle. If anything, the guards had proved more lenient, accepting ignorance of law as excuse for minor infraction.

  Pleased by the suggestion, old Saxanar bobbed his head. “It would place them on a level with every other citizen of Béarn, without necessitating a complete rewriting of every statute.”

  Darris stepped back, trying not to smile. The irony had become magnificent. He had focused so hard on fixing the one problem, he had missed the simple, more global solution.

  The king took over the meeting. “I would entertain a vote on this matter, unless anyone wishes to speak. Or delay.” He glanced around the group, but no one indicated an interest in saying more. “All right then. On the matter of including elves as ‘people,’ ‘men,’ and ‘women’ . . .”

  Unanimous gestures of assent followed.

  “Executed,” Griff said. At the far end of the room, the sage’s servant furiously scribbled the result.

  Kedrin waited only until the king had finished. “Bard Darris, I applaud your raising a subject too long ignored, meaning how to reconcile elves to Béarnian law. But I believe we all know your real intent. Noble as it is, you have not accomplished it.”

  Darris winced, knowing it would not prove as easy. At least he had managed to stall. He only hoped Kevral realized he could not do so interminably.

  “I’m certain I speak for all of us when I say that we treasure the happiness of our king and would like to see him married to the one he loves, especially since it would also benefit Béarn with another heir at a time when babies of any kind have become a cherished rarity.” Kedrin paused to allow his lengthy objection to sink in before continuing. “Correct me if I’ve gotten this wrong, please. I believe among the tangle of definitions, ‘primary noble lineage’ requires a certain number of generations to pass after a person not born to nobility becomes honorarily titled before his or her offspring become acceptable for marriage to members of the king’s direct line.”

  Darris pursed his lips. They both knew Kedrin had the circumstances exactly right. Certain marriages could render a line previously considered primary nobility to lose that status. And it took three generations of noble marriages to bring nobles who earned their titles honorarily to primary status. He had researched every loophole, every convoluted definition, discovering that some who could trace their line directly to Sterrane the Bear did not qualify while some who carried little of any king’s blood did. “I’d like to disabuse that law on two bases.” Sweat spangled Darris’ brow. The service of a direct duty granted him the right to speak long discourses, even to teach, without song. His mother had explained it by demonstrating the ludicrousness of lapsing into accompanied poetry while fending off enemies from the king’s person. Logistically, he kne
w he could present policy cases directly to the king and to his council, yet it felt inherently wrong and his lack of experience trebled an already difficult task.

  Brows rose, and several ministers settled back in their chairs. No laws had changed during their service at all, and it seemed unlikely they would start with something as staid and respected as those that governed the ascension.

  “First,” Darris said, adopting a singsong tone to appease his perceived need for song. “If we hold elves to our generational requirements, it’ll take millennia for any of them to become primary nobles.” Recognizing the flaw in his reasoning, he amended, “Actually, it can’t happen, since elves raise their children communally and don’t acknowledge parentage.”

  Minister of Internal Affairs Aerean raised a new concern. “What about the neutrality?”

  Several glanced at her with crinkled features. Darris suspected he appeared as puzzled as the others.

  Aerean continued, “The Béarnian rulers maintain the balance of the world.”

  Darris waited expectantly for her to move beyond the obvious. When she did not, he stated simply, “Blood does not wholly determine the bent of a man. Perhaps not at all.”

  Aerean shook back her black locks impatiently, as if irritated with having to explain details that seemed perfectly plain to her. “The elves seem to have a more strict and . . . um . . . well, primitive system. Lysalf good; svartalf bad.”

  Franstaine broke in, “One could argue that we define lysalf as “good” solely because they’re on our side, svartalf as “evil” because they’re enemies.”

  No reaction. The philosophical argument was either lost on or immaterial to the others.

  Darris tried to assist. “Captain maintained his neutrality even while directly serving the champion of all morality. Clearly, there are neutral elves. Besides, the inherent leanings of a ruler’s spouse has never been addressed by the law. It’s up to the staff-test to choose an unbiased heir.”