Darris panted, trying to make sense of the words. Only the knowledge mattered, his goal since birth. Ignited by the gods’ curse, his blood burned like fire in his veins. All his life, all the lives of his ancestors, had culminated in this moment. To deny him access to the Spring of Mimir was as cruel as teasing a starving dog with steak.
Lost in the hysteria of unbridled lust, Darris felt himself hefted and carried. With every step, more of his senses returned. He saw the well-lit cavern that contained Yggdrasill’s root to the centermost plains, watched the grainy wood glide past him in a blur. He smelled the moist odor of soil and the crisp, sweet aroma of growing plant life. His companions’ grips pinched him, though they supported him lovingly. They remained quiet, except to communicate an imbalance that needed correcting or an irregularity in the cavern that might affect others’ footing. The reckless, headstrong urgency had died to a fascinated tickle of want. The chance to know all still clutched him, a desire he would never wholly lose. Yet, now, he felt he could consider the situation without surrendering self, family, companions, and anything else it might demand. “I’m all right now,” he told Ra-khir, but no one responded.
Not until they hauled Darris to the trunk of Yggdrasill did his companions lower him to the ground. Their hands winched open, clammy from the enormous time spent clinging and carrying. Then they surrounded him, the largest taking positions between him and the cavern they had just exited.
Darris sat up but otherwise made no movements. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “Odin’s curse condemns the bard—”
“We know.” Ra-khir did not let Darris finish. “We’ve suffered from your quests for knowledge in the past, though never as much as Tae does now.”
Darris swiveled his gaze to the Easterner who closed the circle behind him, seated on the Asgard root with his head clutched between his hands. Blood matted the bangs that flopped over his fingers. Chan’rék’ril moved to assist.
Darris winced. “I’m truly sorry, Tae. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Tae released a hand to silently wave off the bard’s concern. His voice emerged muffled through his palms. “I’m used to friends attacking me.”
Kevral took offense. “Hey! I haven’t done that for months.”
“Months. Right.” Tae raised his head, his bleary eyes revealing the intensity of his headache. “Sorry I complained.”
“That’s the answer,” Andvari said suddenly, his attention beyond Tae, toward Yggdrasill.
Darris followed the Northman’s gaze, watching the squirrel skitter up the World Tree again.
Andvari left his position, drifting toward the trunk. “Ratatosk, the squirrel. El-brinith located the shard deep below us but moving. Ratatosk carries insults from the dragon to the eagle perched at Yggdrasill’s summit. Deep, but moving.”
Darris considered, the thought clever but only one possibility.
Kevral voiced the same cynicism. “Isn’t it as likely the dragon who has the shard? He moves, too.”
“Well, yes.” Andvari turned to Kevral. “But I saw something blue in the squirrel’s mouth. That’s what gave me the idea.”
Now, every head swiveled toward the squirrel perched on one of Yggdrasill’s branches, tail twitching with the sharp, mechanical movements of a water clock. Darris stared at the mouth, seeing nothing. Then the paws flicked upward, and a flash of sapphire struck the light momentarily. Ratatosk shoved the sliver into his mouth, dropped to all fours, and skittered up the trunk in looping spirals.
An instant later, only Ra-khir remained with Darris, the others abandoning their charge for this new concern. Only the knight remained steadfastly between the bard and the Spring of Mimir.
“I won’t run,” Darris promised, watching his companions discuss the matter, though he could not hear their words.
“Under ordinary circumstances, I would believe you.”
Darris tried to reassure. “I won’t deny I want that knowledge more than anything in the universe, but you already promised I could have it if I thought the matter through on my own.” The idea of repeating Odin’s sacrifice no longer appealed to Darris, only because it seemed unlikely he could survive a nine day hanging with a spear in his side, which might explain why the spring had requested a different price from him. His music had often seemed a burden. Surrendering it for a chance at ultimate knowledge seemed more blessing than cost. “I have no reason to run away now.”
Ra-khir shook his head. He did not understand. “The knowledge of the universe. It seems so daunting. Why would you want it?”
Darris found Ra-khir’s position equally inscrutable. “Why wouldn’t you?”
Ra-khir crouched near his friend. “You’ve sought bits and pieces of understanding your whole life. Wouldn’t this take away any reason you have for living?”
“Not at all.” Darris pinched grass spears between his fingers. “I still have Matrinka to love. Marisole to teach. The king to advise. And now, my advice would have the knowledge of the universe behind it.” He grinned, the thought awesome. “The knowledge of the universe.”
“But wouldn’t it take away . . . I don’t know . . .” Ra-khir struggled for his point. “. . . the newness of understanding. The joy of everyday learning.” He considered, still seeking words. “Wouldn’t everyone else seem . . . well . . . simple? In every way. Ordinary. Dim-witted. And wouldn’t you feel obligated to solve everybody’s problems and as if every mistake you made was a world-shattering failure.” Ra-khir sighed, clearly frustrated by his inability to convince.
Darris resisted the urge to remind Ra-khir that having the knowledge of the universe would rescue him from moments like this one.
“Remember your ancestor?”
Darris pictured Jahiran, the madness that overtook the first bard except when engaged in song. “Age, not information, addled him. The Spring of Mimir grants past and present knowledge, not future or eternal life.”
Ra-khir found another, more exact, comparison. “Look what drinking at the spring did to Odin.” He clamped a hand over his mouth, surely worried he had spoken his sacrilege too loud and too close to Asgard.
“I believe,” Darris said carefully, “that Odin was contemptuous and merciless long before he drank from Mimir’s spring.”
Ra-khir shrugged, without the knowledge to argue.
Kevral came to Ra-khir and Darris, crouching beside them. “Any thoughts?”
Darris managed a smile. “Many. Why?”
“I meant about Ratatosk.” Kevral looked over Darris’ head to Yggdrasill. “The elves have tried flying, but the squirrel won’t let them near him. Tae’s climbing up there now, but the squirrel’s evading him, too. I think it’s teasing him. And with those deer and goats whizzing about, I’m afraid he’ll get hurt.” Kevral released a deep breath through vibrating lips. “I’m ready to wait till it comes down and jump on it. None of us thought to bring a bow. Tae says he can throw stones with reasonable aim.”
“My love, I don’t think stoning a pet of the gods is the best option.”
Kevral made a brisk gesture, accompanied by a harsh expression, to show that she had relinquished the matter to Ra-khir.
Darris rose. “Tell Tae to come down. I’ll handle it.”
Kevral also stood, pausing for an explanation. When none came, she headed toward Yggdrasill’s trunk.
Darris unslung his lute and set to the strings. Notes chirped out, tuned well enough to appease most human ears; but Darris could hear the minuscule differences between nearly and right. He adjusted with movements so tiny they scarcely existed until every sound peeled forth as true as perfection allowed.
By the time Darris had finished his tuning, Tae stood among the others, a fresh bandage wound over his forehead. His eyes still held a glaze of pain; the need to focus on climbing had likely incited the headache Darris’ wild blow had caused. Washed with fresh guilt, Darris started with a comforting melody and words that bore no meaning in sequence yet eased the worst physical agonies mankind suffer
ed. An ancient bard had constructed it on a battlefield to soothe a dying prince, and his descendants had enhanced it through the centuries. Only when the creases smoothed from Tae’s face and his eyes softened back to their dark normal did he launch into a song of the trees.
Darris’ fingers moved as swiftly and jerkily as Ratatosk himself, weaving the corkscrew movements of a squirrel on a branch. His voice simulated the click of ripe acorns against their branches, swaying in a gentle breeze. He added ripe, juicy riffs, wordless description that conjured images of Yggdrasill’s fruit dripping its sweet dew for the bees to gather. He launched into a wild mating dance, squirrels chasing one another at startling speeds through limbs that bowed and pranced beneath their weight. A contented chatter spoke off the fourth string at intervals, piercing the human words of Darris’ song, which he hoped Ratatosk understood. It seemed likely that one capable of communicating a dragon’s insults to an eagle should understand more than seemed otherwise logical for a squirrel.
Darris glanced through boughs thick with leaves. The stags and goats stood in place, listening. Ratatosk perched on a low branch, head cocked to allow one black eye full gaze at the bard below him. The Pica shard sparkled between his paws.
Darris changed his tactic, still simulating squirrel play yet mixing in strains intended to tame and call it to him. The coaxing music rang softly beneath voice and melody, successful on the humans before the squirrel. Every one, he noted with amused satisfaction, took a half step toward him.
Finally, the squirrel, too, succumbed to the song. Moving directly over Darris, it released the branch. It plummeted, landing on the lute with a thump and jolt that nearly stole it from Darris’ hands. He lost the thread of his playing; harmony disappeared. He managed to keep the song going with his voice, leaping octaves and rocking quavering notes to the gentle gibber of playful squirrels. Struggling to balance the lute, Darris abandoned his playing altogether, relying on voice alone to keep the animal in place. He reached for it with a slow, fluid motion devoid of threat. His fingers closed over the shard, feeling the sharp smoothness of claws against his fingers. He sang of its release.
Ratatosk clung, hind feet rattling against the wood, and the sound echoed deep within the instrument. Finally, he released the sapphire fragment to Darris’ care, and the singing drew to a quiet close. “Thank you, my friend.”
Ratatosk paused for a moment longer. Then, as if awakening from a spell, he skittered to the ground, bounded to the trunk, and launched himself up the tree.
Darris never knew who started the clapping. By the time he noticed, all of his companions were applauding his song with a raw joy that made him smile.
“My headache’s gone,” Tae announced.
“Mine, too,” Kevral said, though she had never claimed to have one. “And I don’t think I’ll ever get another.”
“I was going to heal him when he held still long enough.” Chan’rék’ril clamped a long-fingered hand to Darris’ shoulder. “You have great talent, my friend. It is, in many ways, more powerful than my magic.”
Though accustomed to others lauding his music, Darris flushed at the compliments. From these companions, all so capable themselves, the praise meant so much more. Their appreciation was genuine; he saw it in their eyes and expressions. For the first time, he recognized the joy his talent brought to so many; it had reached a new level of mastery this day. He only wished his mother could have heard it.
That thought brought memories shallowly buried. Darris could never forget the hours of practice his talent had cost him, his mother’s loving hands guiding his at every step. She had taught him songs through the ages, the ones she had written and the ones of all the bards before her. He still measured the passage of seasons by the location of her teaching: summers in the gardens, striving to match her perfect harmonics floating with the warm and delicate breezes; autumns in woodlands seeking to capture the vibrant beauty of the multicolored wash of leaves, the stalwart finery of the trunks; winters indoors, chasing the power of roaring flames; and the tales of birth and wonder her voice brought with the spring. She had taught him not simply fingerings and notes. She had taught him to live and to teach, dragged him to depths of emotion that humans rarely plumb, and dredged forth a love and closeness that had set the foundation for his relationship with Matrinka, the very essence of his trust. He would always love his father; but nothing could ever match his time with his mother, the endless passing of bardic understanding, the desperate thirst for knowledge that others could not comprehend, the frantic frustration of teaching only with song. He would cherish her efforts and her memory forever.
Another idea struck Darris then, a ghostly wisp of a future that had faded from recollection. The man upon Béarn’s throne bore the crown proudly upon thick black hair, his face enclosed in the standard mane. Darris could not remember his name. His face dulled to a detailless blur. Yet Darris did recall the bloodline, the second born child of Marisole by the son of Griff’s third wife. Marisole stood proudly beside him, as robust and handsome as her mother, her hair white with age, her fingers callused by lute strings and swords. Marisole’s firstborn, a daughter, watched proudly from amid the nobility, awaiting her chance to guard her brother when old age or accident claimed her mother.
Darris grinned at the many thoughts his mind filled in between, as the image disappeared from his memory forever. He imagined the rapport with his daughter, as strong and magnificent as the one he had shared with his own mother. And Marisole and her daughter would have that, too, and all of the bards through eternity. He glanced once more at his companions, the joy just beginning to fade from their faces. Through the ages, the bards had brought so much happiness to Béarn, had taught so many lessons they could not otherwise learn. Even Colbey Calistinsson spoke fondly of Darris’ ancestor, Mar Lon, a man of peace who had brought knowledge through song to Colbey and the Cardinal Wizards in his time. My gift with music is not mine to sacrifice. It belongs to my children and their children. It belongs to the many who needed it and will need it through past and future.
Darris tossed the shard to El-brinith, who caught it gracefully from the air. “Let’s go home.”
Ra-khir nodded, this time understanding. He smiled broadly as he closed his eyes in preparation.
CHAPTER 32
Griff’s Testing
The rulers of Béarn are neutrality incarnate, the very fulcrum of the world’s balance.
—Colbey Calistinsson
EL-BRINITH’S magic brought the travelers back to the strategy room from which their many journeys began. A page stood beside a toppled chair, obviously aroused suddenly from a quiet vigil. On the table, a square of silk covered a lopsided object; and Kevral could make out several smaller lumps beneath that shroud as well. By its size and shape, she guessed it the malformed Pica Stone awaiting the uniting of its final pieces. Likely, Captain had covered it in case they could not locate the last shard, so it would not stand as a testament to their failure. El-brinith placed the newest piece beside the silk.
“Welcome home,” the page tossed over her shoulder as she dashed from the room. No sound filtered through the open door, which suggested that some event must have disrupted the usual bustle of Béarn Castle. Kevral lowered her head in silence, unable to keep the worst possibilities from her mind. Though the season had not changed since their departure, the balmy warmth of late spring registered as it had not for the last week. The world seemed new and different, full of promises and a peace it could not have harbored even the previous day.
The page returned, a troupe of elves filing into the room behind her. Their descriptions defined a vast spectrum. They wore their hair in myriad styles, some even copying human bows and braids. Soft locks of blacks, golds, browns, and whites glimmered red in the torchlight. The canted, steady-colored eyes flickered from the newest shard to the returned heroes, and smiles decorated nearly every face. Captain entered among them, his features timeless, the smile wrinkles deeply etched by the largest grin she ha
d ever seen. The chance to rid the world of the dark elves’ magic, to restore joy to humanity, brought them more pleasure than she ever would have guessed.
“Thank you,” Captain said. “For your sacrifice.”
Kevral blinked. The words sounded odd from one who gained nothing but satisfaction from their success.
Captain explained, “King Griff asked me to say so. He apologizes for not being here to greet you. His wedding party yesterday tired him, and the new baby kept him awake through the night.”
“Tem’aree’ay’s baby?” Ra-khir guessed.
Darris rolled his eyes, though he could not hide a smile. “Only our king would spend the night with a wailing newborn when any of a thousand servants would happily take his place.” The bard dashed for the exit. “Excuse me. The king needs me.” He mumbled at Kevral as he ran, “Rantire’s the last thing he should have to deal with right now.”
Kevral watched Darris go, finally managing a grin of her own. She doubted her overzealous cousin would do anything but watch over Griff who, after suffering through two ceremonies led by Knights of Erythane, entertaining hundreds of guests, and settling in a new wife and baby was probably in a coma. She hoped Matrinka was happy with the arrangement, then wondered a moment later why she ever doubted.
Tae also headed for the door, stopped by Ra-khir’s sudden proclamation. “If you don’t fill in some details about the little one, you’re going to force the Prince of Stalmize to climb a wall to find them.”
Tae turned back sheepishly. Clearly, the search for information was the thing that drove him to leave before Captain worked his long-awaited magic.
“A girl,” Captain informed. “A bit small even for an elf, but healthy. The consensus is that she looks like her father, but the elves can see some subtle things. No official name yet. He wants Ivana. She wants Shorith’na Cha-tella Tir Hya’sellirian Albar.”
“At least they’re close,” Tae quipped.
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