The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Realizing she had lost track of Griff and his trials, Matrinka rejoined him in another familiar scenario. He perched upon his throne in the courtroom, as so often in the past. Darris stood at his one hand, Captain Seiryn at the other. In front of him knelt a cowed line of men and women in chains, their clothing ragged and their feet bare. Matrinka recalled a recent treaty with LaZar, a city of the East. Tae had told her that his father had outlawed slavery soon after taking the throne, but the staff-test made even anachronisms seem utterly real. This scenario required LaZar and Béarn to exchange slaves, once a standard treaty-sealing practice of the East.

  Like Matrinka, Griff had deftly substituted animals for humans, allowing the king’s delegates to pick out the ones they felt constituted a proper, even trade. The LaZarian contingent had gone to do so, leaving Béarn’s king with a dilemma that had appalled Matrinka in his place. He now owned slaves, a clear violation of Béarn’s law. Matrinka recalled what she had done in his place, a solution that had brought more damnation from her divine testers. Embarrassed by her breach of law, she had commanded the slaves freed, then promised to deliver each and every one to a desired location or home.

  One of the guards asked the same question of Griff that he had once delivered to Matrinka. “Your Majesty, what shall we do with these?” He indicated the slaves.

  Griff glanced over, clearly taken aback by the question. “Unchain them, Zapara. Béarn has no slavery. When I accepted them, I could only have done so as citizens of the city.”

  The scenario ended, sweeping Griff into another warm spiral, carrying him gently into the next task, without imprecation. Brow furrowed, Matrinka contemplated the differences between Griff’s handling and her own, this time more subtle. It seemed like an eternity before she discovered the two particulars that separated his success from her failure. First, he had never worried for breaking Béarn’s law. Unlike her, he did not consider himself to have brought slaves that needed freeing into his kingdom but rather that the instant he accepted them as his charge, they were no longer slaves. Second, he had not suffered the empathy and resultant pity that forced her to promise those freed slaves special treatment. He had given them the exact opportunities of any Béarnian citizen. The neutral solution, not necessarily the kindest one. This understanding, too, placed her mind and soul at rest.

  The time spent analyzing minutiae stole most of the third scenario. Matrinka rejoined Griff at the moment of judgment, memory dragging her back to her own desperate concerns. A Pudarian healer had come to Béarn at a time when the kingdom suffered from a plague of lumpy-consumption, promising a cure-all that Matrinka, and now Griff, allowed him to sell without tariff, even purchasing some for the castle staff. The Pudarian had skipped town with a large sum of money in exchange for a worthless tonic. Captured by the guards, he was hauled back for sentencing, his money confiscated and his panacea exposed as fraud.

  Matrinka did not hear Griff’s pronouncement of punishment, though she felt confident enough of her two year imprisonment followed by permanent exile to suspect his would be similar. Now, the final moment of judgment came, the place where she had made her mistake.

  A guard approached and bowed, “Majesty, what would you have us do with moneys confiscated from the guilty?”

  Griff answered without hesitation, the same as Matrinka, “Return it to those who paid for his product.”

  “Yes, Majesty. And what would you have us do with the extra?”

  Matrinka pursed her lips. She had told the guard to divide the remaining hundred coppers between those who had suffered from the scam. Now Griff’s hand stroked his beard. “Place it in a special fund to be used toward finding a real cure. And for victims of the disease.”

  The scenario ended with his words, yet again it did not label Griff the unworthy failure it had Matrinka. She discovered the differences more easily this time: Griff saw no reason to reward those duped by a scam artist when he could better use the money to rescue future victims of the plague. Though compassionate, her choice did not suit the ultimate neutrality that always characterized Béarn’s ruler.

  Matrinka’s test had ended with that third failure and the one success that preceded it. Griff’s continued through a hundred more scenarios, each more difficult than the one that came before it. After the first six, Matrinka breathed a sigh of relief that she had not needed to suffer these. The situations twisted her emotions in desperate knots. From that moment on, she became a quiet spectator, not bothering to guess how she would have handled each matter. She simply sat back and enjoyed Griff’s triumphs.

  Then, as the last objective drew to a close, Griff sat back. His hands fell from the Pica Stone, and he glanced at Matrinka. “Are you all right?”

  “Me?” Matrinka stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Griff’s face resembled that of a scolded puppy. “Did I say something offensive?”

  “Not offensive,” Matrinka hastened to console, rising to her feet and offering a hand to the king. “Just unbelievable. After all you just endured, you’re asking me if I’m all right?”

  Griff smiled tiredly. “I think I passed.”

  “Of course you passed.” Matrinka took Griff’s hand and pulled. “You performed magnificently.”

  Barely allowing any weight to fall on Matrinka, Griff stood, leaving the Pica in place. He flushed at the praise. “I didn’t do anything special. Just what I had to do.”

  Matrinka shook her head, startled by a realization she could never have anticipated. With all its taxing quandaries and harsh analyses, the test had not changed innocent Griff at all. But it had a profound effect on its spectator. At the time, she had believed every specific would remain with her for eternity, frozen in time by an intensity of emotion that spanned every gamut and beyond. Yet, already, the scenarios faded from her memory as if reclaimed by the stone for future use. Whether or not she remembered enough to coach her children made no difference. Once sucked inside the stone, they would respond with the raw depths of self and character. Circumstance could only shape so much. Like the myriad of kings and queens before him, Griff had, indeed, been born to rule.

  Matrinka grinned. “The whole world is waiting for you to emerge from this room and give them an answer.”

  Griff nodded once, opening the door to a life that had not substantially changed. “I passed,” he said in a small voice that barely suited the grandness of the claim. Yet, for him, it was enough.

  Helana caught her son into an embrace, while the prime minister and the bard watched proudly.

  Mior leaped into her mistress’ arms. *You’re fixed!*

  *Fixed.* Matrinka cradled her best friend, the fur warm against her face and arms. *I’d say wiser. More at peace.*

  *I love you.* Mior purred, rubbing her ears against Matrinka’s chin. *And I have some happy news.*

  *Happy news?* At the moment, Matrinka did not know if she could stand any more.

  *More babies in Béarn.*

  Matrinka’s smile widened until it strained the edges of her face. Her heart seemed to flutter in her chest as she shared the joy of thousands of barren women, eventually celebrating her own gain as well. Someday, she hoped, she would carry another, too. *The elves lifted the sterility spell?*

  *I don’t know about that.* Mior turned in Matrinka’s arms, settling her tail on the woman’s hands and her nose in Matrinka’s face. *These babies are mine.*

  Epilogue

  OVER the next two months, Kevral’s sorrow settled into a dark corner of heart and mind, disturbed at intervals but no longer the center of her attention. Sunlight filtered through the window, striking gold highlights amid the red mop of Saviar’s hair and adding a blue sheen to the sheer black of Subikahn’s fine locks. The differences seemed more striking than ever. By size, Ra-khir’s son seemed the older, yet he still clutched furniture to walk, toddling only a few steps unassisted before flopping on his bottom. Subikahn ran from Tae to Kevral, frequently returning to stroke Marisole’s chubby leg, to pull at her d
ress, or simply to point.

  Beside Darris, Matrinka clutched the nine-month-old in her lap, Marisole squealing with delight whenever Subikahn touched her. “Baby!” Saviar declared for the hundredth time, looking to his father for confirmation.

  “Baby,” Ra-khir repeated, also for the hundredth time. “Yes, Marisole is a baby.”

  “Say ‘baby,’” Tae coaxed Subikahn. “Come on, say ‘baby.’”

  “Dada,” Subikahn shouted, clutching his tiny wooden sword. “Da Da Da.” Laughing happily, he dashed toward the corner of the room where Mior lay with her three kittens. The males, one black and one ginger, kneaded her belly as they nursed. The gray tabby female curled near her mother’s tail.

  Tae swooped in to rescue the cat. “No, no, Subikahn. You could hurt those babies.” Playfully, he wrestled the toddler to the ground, growling like an angry bear. Subikahn giggled, joined a moment later by Saviar who scrambled over Tae’s back.

  Kevral smiled, counting her many blessings. Her promises in Pudar’s dungeon had cost her a son but gained her two every bit as precious. Duty usually called at least one of their group away, making their quiet times together especially glorious. She pulled her legs onto the bed with an ease that still felt awkward. Even three months after the birth of Pudar’s prince, she still expected the inconvenience of the familiar bulge in her abdomen. In truth, worry and the intensity of her practices had stolen a bit too much weight, leaving her unattractively thin. She had not cycled since the birth, but the elves had found no new baby growing inside her. Not for the first time, the rigorousness of her lifestyle had caused the irregularity. The weight loss had not helped either.

  In contrast, Matrinka had managed to throw off only half of her extra girth. Only a few moments earlier, she had verbally surrendered to it, certain it had become a permanent part of her anatomy. Ra-khir and Tae had swiftly reassured her, but Darris’ insistence, in song, that the extra weight only enhanced her beauty was the detail that finally put her at ease. The perfect flow of the melody left Kevral wistful for a few more pounds.

  A bold knock on the door interrupted their quiet reunion. Kevral winced, dreading what would come next. She tried to guess whether political affairs, knight duties, or Renshai training would pull one or more of them away. Ra-khir rose from the floor, his manner resigned. “Who is it?”

  In reply, the panel swung open to reveal Weile Kahn, resplendent in tailored silks and wearing a smile as fresh as the sunlight. He made a grand display of closing the door on the milling crowd in the hall, surely to the distress of Béarn’s sentries and his own personal bodyguards. “Where’s my grandson?”

  Every adult but Matrinka skittered suddenly to their feet, Tae pausing to catch Saviar before he fell. Already standing, Ra-khir reacted first, the hurriedness of his bow stealing most of its grandeur. He fussed at his hopelessly wrinkled tunic.

  “None of that formal crap,” Weile bellowed. Then, his head whipped to the only Béarnide. “You must be Queen Matrinka,” he said with a sheepishness Kevral would not have believed possible from him. “Sorry, Your Ladyship.”

  Matrinka hefted Marisole and finally stood also. “None of that formal crap,” she repeated. “Bothers me as much as you.”

  “Great.” Weile clapped his hands together. “Now, where’s my grandson?” His eyes went directly to Tae and the twins clinging to either arm.

  “Guess,” Kevral said, certain he could pick the proper baby. Tae had claimed Subikahn closely resembled his paternal grandfather, but she had never believed it until that moment. Now, she could see the similarities in the stubby forehead, softly rounded cheekbones, and gentle chin.

  The King of Stalmize crouched, holding out his hands. Tae turned Subikahn toward his grandfather. For a moment, the child clung. Growing braver, he took slow steps toward Weile Kahn, finally falling into his arms. As if uncertain what to do next, Weile consulted his son, who smiled. The arms closed cautiously around the toddler.

  “No one told us you were coming.” Matrinka broke the peace with necessary politics. “I hope you received a proper greeting.”

  “Absolutely.” Weile Kahn did not look at the queen as he spoke, as if entranced. He rose, lifting Subikahn. “I met with King Griff. Told him not to bother any of you till I got here.”

  Subikahn turned a watchful eye to his parents and started to squirm.

  Reluctantly, Weile released the boy, gaze following Subikahn’s run back to his mother. Smiling, the king held out his arms again, this time for his son.

  Tae came forward, greeting his father with a hug that contained genuine warmth. As soon as they separated, Weile approached Kevral. A strange light danced in his dark eyes. “Good to see you again, Kevral.”

  “And you.” Kevral retook her seat on the bed, cradling Subikahn. Her relationship with Weile had, so far, been rocky.

  “Well,” Weile Kahn said. “Perhaps this will earn me a hug.” Backpedaling, he opened the door and called into the hall, “Daxan.”

  The squatter of his bodyguards approached, clutching a bundle in his arms.

  Kevral’s heart quickened, and she fought against quashing hope. She rose for a better look.

  Weile took the baby from his bodyguard, opening a corner of the blanket to reveal a closed-eyed blond breathing in the slow, quiet cadence of sleep. Though larger than Kevral remembered, she recognized him at once.

  Kevral had the baby in her arms before she recalled moving. She stared at him, watching the blue eyes glide open, the tiny face screw into angry lines. Suddenly, he loosed a lusty wail that drew the toddlers’ attention in an instant. Subikahn rushed back to his father and brother. Kevral clutched the infant to her shoulder, cooing and swaying to calm the screams.

  “So I still don’t get my hug,” Weile lamented beneath the baby’s cries.

  Ra-khir seized the King of Stalmize into a massive embrace. “Maybe not from her.” He released the king, unable to stop himself from a respectful bow. “But you have my appreciation.”

  “Not exactly what I was looking for.” Weile Kahn reassured Ra-khir’s uncharacteristic action with a friendly expression. It had taken a struggle for Ra-khir to shed his knight’s formality to joke with a king.

  Kevral could not take her eyes from the baby. Finding his fingers, he sucked avidly, eyes drooping closed again. Colbey had told her the battle belonged to one “appropriately concerned for the well-being of his grandson’s mother.” Over the ensuing months, she had tried to broach the subject with Kedrin and Tainhar. Weile Kahn had never occurred to her.

  “Thank you.” Ra-khir addressed Weile, but his attention kept slipping to wife and baby. “How did you manage such a thing?”

  “Once the elves proclaimed Prince Leondis’ wife pregnant, it wasn’t that hard.” Weile Kahn downplayed his role. “There was talk of keeping him until after the birth of a healthy baby, but I convinced Cymion that wasn’t necessarily in Pudar’s best interests.” He smothered a smile along with details better left unspoken.

  Finally, Kevral released the baby to Ra-khir and gave Weile Kahn the embrace he had earned. “Thank you,” she said, choking around unexpected tears. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Weile clutched Kevral with the pride of a father. “And now, my price.”

  Kevral jerked free. Tae groaned.

  “I’d like to take my son and grandson back to Stalmize.”

  Kevral bit her lower lip. She had dreaded this moment.

  “For a few months a year,” the king added, softening the request.

  Kevral shook her head. “His Renshai training—”

  Weile Kahn interrupted with the answer. “—can be handled by you after a three-week training session. Or so Thialnir said.”

  Realization dawned. I’m invited, too. Kevral glanced at Ra-khir, who deliberately kept his face toward the infant. He would leave the decision in her hands, a difficult one that involved tearing up the family into pieces of varying sizes. To reunite them with the baby, then tear husband
and wife apart seemed cruel. “Ra-khir—” she started.

  Weile broke in again, “—can represent Béarn as the king’s diplomat. Or so the council decided. His captain agreed to spare him, and King Griff requested him by name.”

  “Give up now,” Tae told his friends. “He’ll have an answer to every objection you can raise.”

  Kevral looked at Ra-khir, who shrugged. “If the king of Stalmize really wants to travel with three infants, who am I to tell him no?” The knight lifted his chin toward Tae. “I’ll need diplomat lessons. I’m new to this.”

  Tae grinned mischievously, leaving the twins to explore the room without him. “You start by making a grand entrance. Say, climbing the castle . . .”

  Ra-khir blanched, rocking the baby with the natural rhythm all parents seemed to know. “On second thought, maybe I’d better figure this out on my own.”

  Matrinka and Darris glanced at one another, smiling. They could spare their friends one season a year.

  “And I’d like to learn the Eastern language,” Kevral announced, surprised to find herself excited by the prospect of a long trip with loved ones and a chance to visit Tae’s home.

  “Settled, then.” Weile Kahn headed for the door. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  Tae went to Mior, stroking the calico from the backs of her ears to the tip of her tail. Kevral knew he would miss Matrinka’s cat as much as the queen herself. After a moment, he hefted the tiny tabby with the delicate caution of a prized glass figurine. “Father, add one more to the group.” He displayed the kitten. “She wants me to have her.”

  Weile Kahn paused, one hand on a slender hip. “She?”

  “Mior,” Tae responded.

  The calico purred, seeming almost to grin.