Though channeled through the hallways in quiet bursts and pressed into puddled shadow, Griff could not help noticing Béarn’s finery. Murals etched and painted on the walls depicted scenes that did not break, even for doors. He recognized a few historical and mythical scenes from his father’s stories. On the left wall, a massive, one-eyed being with arms like tree trunks and face a study in rage battled a formless force. Clearly a representation of Odin banishing the primordial chaos from man’s world, it captured the terrible divinity of the god. The single eye seemed to glare at the dark, coiling winds, and the muscles bulged with a maximal effort captured for eternity. A face, more impression than reality, glowered amid the shapeless entity. The scene continued, its forms and colors absorbing Griff’s perception and twisting his mood to share the gods’ desperation. Repeatedly, Rantire had to drag him away from images he longed to study for days, and each movement made his eyes ache as if physically tearing his gaze from their fixation.
Finally, Griff reluctantly turned his attention to the torch brackets that broke the artwork at regular intervals. Fashioned into the shapes of animals, they held his regard without the intensity of the murals. Satisfied to glance at each, identify it, and move on, he paid no further heed to the beckoning stories that covered Béarn’s wall. If he became the king, Griff assured himself, the pictures would fascinate him forever. Never would he take such beauty for granted.
At length, they reached the end of the corridor and turned into an alcove. A double set of doors appeared in front of them, little resembling the finery of the remainder of the castle. Black indentations, ridged with ash, revealed where fire had eaten at the wood. A bronze plaque drooped from one, holes still evident where it had held a door ring in place. A faded crescent marred the other in the same location. Apparently, once, these had represented the sun and moon. The colossal panels buckled and splintered where someone had clearly pounded a heavy object against them.
Matrinka and Darris stopped suddenly, eyes wide. Matrinka’s hand clamped over her lips, and Mior padded a step backward before sitting on her mistress’ foot. “Gods,” the bard breathed.
Rantire signaled the others to remain in place, then poked her fingers into the holes that once held the ring. Bracing herself against the wall, she pulled the door. Sweat beaded her pale forehead, and her muscles knotted as much from pain as effort. When Griff came forward to assist, she frowned but did not challenge. Together, they inched the panel open, the hinges protesting every movement. At length, a crack appeared. Rantire looked through it, then waved the others to her.
Matrinka, Darris, and Captain came, slipping inside while Griff supported the door and Rantire stood guard. Once they’d all passed through, heir and Renshai followed, the door creaking closed behind them. Matrinka stiffened, anticipating a familiar crash that never came. The lapse made her visibly nervous. She fidgeted, glancing anxiously over her shoulder.
The acrid odor of charred wood and fabric smelled stale. The wreckage of what had once been padded benches lay in heaps on either side of a stone aisle. At the front, a dais black with ash lined the farthest wall. Glass speckled the floor, shattered from tiny windows near the vaulted ceiling. Moonlight filtered through the openings.
“Gods,” Darris repeated.
The word galvanized Matrinka. She loosed a stifled scream, more like a sob, then ran around the room examining every lump and alcove. “Gods,” she repeated. “Gods. Gods. Gods.” All else seemed to have fled her vocabulary.
Griff did not bother to reconstruct the temple in his mind. Instead, he knelt amid the soot and prayed. Silently, he channeled his fear and sorrow into concept, reaching out not to the gods, but to the friend who had made his childhood bearable. He begged for his mother’s consolation, for the chance to rescue Béarn from looming chaos, to bring peace to a shattered kingdom as he had done for Baltraine’s soul. Griff did not ask for the strength or wisdom to pass the staff-test. For reasons he could not define, the test seemed more formality than barrier. He only hoped he would find the ability to rule Béarn with the intelligence, strength, and mercy it needed. The burden the world had placed upon him seemed unbearable. He did not want to rule, yet to do otherwise would condemn both mankind and elfinkind to ruin.
A familiar voice disrupted Griff’s prayers. “I see I chose his guardian wisely.”
Griff whirled, hopes soaring. Rantire crouched in the damaged hallway, sword drawn and stance offensive. Ravn stood in front of her, eyes fixed on the bared steel. He made no move to touch the swords at his hips.
“Ravn?” Tears poured freely from Griff’s eyes, and he raced toward his friend before he could think to do otherwise.
Rantire had little choice but to scramble aside as the huge Béarnide charged past her and wrapped Ravn in a suffocating embrace. Griff had never touched the young god before. In his youth, he had not thought to do such a thing. As an adolescent, he had feared such action would prove the ephemerality of a friend conjured from imagination and need. Now, he savored the feel of small, taut sinews and the soft leather of cloak and tunic against his arms.
Ravn laughed, returning a squeeze before extricating himself from Griff’s hold. “Easy, Griff. If you pin down my arms, your guardian might just kill me with my own sword.”
“She’ll have to answer to me if she does.” Griff spoke in jest, though he did release Ravn and glance at Rantire to ascertain that she had no intention of attacking.
Ravn readjusted his clothing. “A lot of good that would do me.”
Captain, Darris, and Matrinka drifted over, studying Ravn in the smoky light the high windows admitted. Griff prepared for introductions, but the doubts and sorrow that had assailed him in the Room of Staves returned in a sudden rush that stole his breath. “Please,” he finally managed to say. “Let me talk with my friend alone.” His eyes rolled to Rantire.
The Renshai frowned, shaking her head slowly. “I cannot leave your side.”
Ravn’s head tipped sideways, and he examined Rantire as if to assure himself of her sincerity. “I protected him long before he knew of your existence. I think I can handle the job.”
Rantire crowded between Ravn and Griff. “A god placed him in my charge. I will not leave his side.”
Griff lowered his head, burying his face in his hands. He appreciated Rantire’s dedication and in no way wished to hurt her, but his need stung. He tried to empower himself with the realization that, soon, his needs would cease to matter as he bonded to the kingdom and lived only for its requirements, but the rationalization proved of little use. He needed time with Ravn.
Ravn stamped his foot, his blond hair as functionally short as his father’s and his blue eyes as keen as a falcon’s. “Damn it, Rantire. I am the god who placed him in your charge!”
The proclamation jolted Darris and Matrinka, who exchanged wild glances. Matrinka fidgeted in a lopsided circle, then dropped to one knee in deference. Darris seemed incapable of movement. Captain continued to stare.
Rantire hesitated a moment, but she did not sheathe the sword. Her eyes fell from Ravn’s face to his hands. When she spoke, her tone granted no quarter. “It doesn’t matter. I vowed to protect this heir from anyone. Colbey Calistinsson fought gods who stood against him. I will do no less.”
Griff paced frantically behind Rantire, but he did not challenge her space.
“Colbey is my father!” Ravn spat an exasperated sigh. “Rantire, I appreciated your devotion then as I do now. But if you don’t let me talk to Griff alone, you’ll leave me no choice but to kill you.”
Rantire smiled, the expression ghoulishly out of place. “I would relish the opportunity to fight. And if I lost, I would find joy in method and cause.”
Ravn dismissed the bold words with a bored wave. “Yes, yes. I know that. A pity and a waste it would be, though you’d never see it as such. It’s the Renshai’s job to guard the heirs, not the king himself. Soon, you’ll have no choice but to yield your guardianship to Darris. I hope, but doubt, you’ll
treat him with more respect than me.”
Rantire shrugged, saying nothing.
Griff could stand the pain no longer. “Stop it!” Sobs stole all authority from the command. “There’s been enough killing. No one will die over me. I’d rather suffer alone.” Turning, he headed for an alcove, blinded by tears and not bothering to listen for Rantire’s ever-present footsteps behind him.
Matrinka’s voice wafted softly to him. “Shame on you, Rantire. It does you little good to guard him from friends if he dies of grief instead. I’d kill you myself if I had the skill or nerve to do it.”
Though mired in his own sadness, Griff could not help hearing. He would never have believed Matrinka capable of even such a gentle threat.
Ravn’s tone softened. “If I can’t convince you as a deity, perhaps you will yield your charge to me as a fellow Renshai.”
Griff heard no reply from Rantire, Ravn’s sudden presence beside him the only confirmation that she had relented. Griff felt weak as a rag as his friend gathered him into warm, strong arms and rocked him like a giant’s baby. “You can handle this. It’ll be all right.”
Griff wanted to trust his friend, but too many barriers lay in his path. “Please tell me my mother’s well.”
“She lives,” Ravn told him, the answer too vague to comfort.
“Her heart can’t take losing me, too.” Griff’s own chest felt as if it might explode. “Someone has to tell her I’m fine, but to send a messenger would condemn him to death.” Griff tipped his face down to meet Ravn’s eyes. “Please help me.”
Ravn released Griff, perching on the lip of an alcove and shaking his head in disbelief. “You want me to act as a courier? You’re dangerously pushing our friendship.”
Griff understood the sacrilege. “I’m not ordering you to do anything, I’m appealing to you as a friend.” He wiped his nose on a sleeve, battling for control of lungs that forced gasping breaths at irregular intervals. “Ravn, I . . . I don’t want . . .” He abandoned the effort. “You were the only one I could talk to. Now I have no one.”
Ravn closed his eyes, wincing. “My father was right, Griff, though no son likes to admit such a thing. He told me every tiny action of mine would spiral beyond control. After I foiled the elves’ attempt on your life, I faced the beating of my life on the practice field. I gained permission to join you in the elves’ prison only by besting my father in spar. You meant enough to me to try my hardest, and I won through luck, not skill.” Ravn opened his eyes, the light of mischief that seemed always to fill them finally gone. “I shouldn’t have come, but I knew you needed me. I came to tell you this: Trust your friends and in who and what you are. Your job may seem the most difficult, yet your natural instincts make it simple.”
Griff wanted desperately to believe in Ravn’s faith, yet it made little sense to him. “I have no friend but you.”
Ravn glanced at Griff’s companions. “Give it time. As things settle into a routine, you’ll see another side even to Rantire. There’s humanity tucked behind the mechanical dedication to duty. I can’t read the future. I don’t know if man’s world can be saved. But if it happens, and you live to take your throne, you’ll find love and happiness amid the loneliness that is a king’s lot. And, one way or another, I’ll always be with you.”
“Thank you,” Griff said, feigning a courage he did not feel. Ravn’s words gave him scant hope.
Ravn’s gaze held Griff’s, and the young god sighed. “You win. My father will practice me into oblivion for interfering, but I’ll find a way to let your mother know you’re well.”
A sad, lonely smile parted Griff’s lips, and he gave his old friend one last bear hug. For a moment, he could imagine them back in the Grove skipping stones, without the weight of the worlds and kingdoms dangling like blades above their heads.
Finally, Ravn pulled free. “I have to go now.”
Griff nodded a stiff gesture of understanding. A boulder seemed to lift from his spine, and he headed back toward Rantire. A moment later, he turned for one last glimpse of Ravn Colbeysson. He saw only the sooty stone of Béarn’s ravaged temple.
* * *
Sunlight filtered through the branches of Asgard’s bulbous trees, dappling the soft, blue-green sea of grass. Multicolored seed pods littered the ground like children’s toys, tossed and bounced by mild breezes. Colbey Calistinsson paid their beauty no heed. He would never lose his appreciation for scenery that daily dwarfed the splendor of Midgard’s finest landscapes and weather; but, for now, his sword practice took precedence.
Colbey’s long sword cut the sweet-smelling air into perfect segments, weaving and arching like a second being. Every movement flung silver highlights that betrayed its position; its speed made it otherwise invisible. Colbey’s feet skimmed over the velvety carpet of grass, never in one place long enough to leave an indentation. With the grace of an acrobat, he wove and gamboled, yet no one could mistake his lethal devil-dance for entertainment. His svergelse combined the deadly force of a whirlwind with the capricious brutality of fire. His blond hair whipped around his clean-shaven face, cut short enough that no part of it ever fell into his eyes. Of average height, yet small for a Northman, daily practices had honed his sinews, though he lacked the bulging musculature of most warriors. He chose his weapons for balance, not weight; the Renshai maneuvers relied on quickness, rarely on strength.
No movement escaped Colbey’s blue-gray eyes, from the gentle rock of branches to the slightest shift of the sun’s course in the heavens. The faint perfume of the trees, the delicate drift of the bubble-shaped pods, the glitters the sun sparked from every object became an integral part of the obsession that was sword work. Excitement thrilled through every part of his being even as the need for further refinement and understanding drove him to work his limbs past exhaustion. The pain and perspiration, the scream of overtaxed muscles, had become simultaneously his desperate lot and his greatest pleasures.
Colbey launched into a savage maneuver created just the previous day, polishing it into a repertoire that had gone millions beyond counting. Imagined enemies recoiled from the onslaught, then bore in with a skill and speed that matched his own. One by one, he dispatched them, never losing track of the others as they charged tirelessly into the melee. Experience taught him that no man or god could have dodged those lightning blows, yet he pictured his enemies doing so. Where reality failed him, the opponents in his mind supplied the challenge he needed to hone his skills.
As the warriors closed on Colbey en masse, double sword techniques became necessary. Usually he savored working himself to the utmost, forced to track not only enemies but weapons working independently in either hand. Here dwelt a fascination that familiarity could never quell. Forever, he had pitied non-Renshai for their adherence to shields or their inability to comprehend the use of a second weapon, except to block. The skills the Renshai used to coordinate such attacks were based on hard work, long-suffering practice, and techniques of mental control. Even most Renshai never reached this level of ability, yet the vow that prevented Renshai from teaching their maneuvers to any but Renshai had spawned rumors about natural dexterity, tricks, or magic. Colbey shook his head as he pulled Harval, the Gray Sword of Balance, from its sheath. So many centuries past his birth, the lazy would still rather discount the hard work they could scarcely comprehend and attribute others’ ability to gimmicks.
As Colbey drew Harval, his usual joy became tainted by its weakness. Crafted to his specifications, the sword had served him well in his mortal years until a battle with a demon had broken it, though not a single blow had landed. The Eastern Wizard, Shadimar, had repaired the blade, at the same time imbuing it with magic so that Colbey could fight the demons their misguided enemies sent to kill him. Years later, Odin had brought the balance of forces together into the sword. Law and chaos, good and evil had become Colbey’s charge, and he their champion for eternity.
Colbey launched into a vicious flurry of strike and counterstrike, intermingled
with a defense that consisted almost entirely of dodging. Thoughts of Odin annoyed him viciously. The AllFather’s proclamations, though unanimously hated, seemed fated always to reach fruition. Only once had Odin failed in his pronouncements, when he set up Colbey to rescue him from his own prophesied doom. Only then had Colbey managed to betray him. Even after death, however, Odin’s decrees haunted his following. Colbey continued to champion balance, though not because Odin had placed the responsibility into his hands. With the unshakable faith Colbey had once devoted to the gods who were now his peers, he believed in the necessity of balance and the demand for a competent custodian. He simply trusted no one else to handle the charge Odin had given him.
Harval and its essence had become a nearly impossible burden. As the balance on Midgard swung dangerously, the sword in his hands became desperately unreliable. Colbey flipped it in a delicate arc, and it thrashed the air like a clumsy bird unused to flight. Seventeen times in half as many seconds, he adjusted his action to suit the sword. No onlooker would have noticed the difference, but the endless concentration that controlling the blade cost Colbey might also cost him his life in battle. Only if no other sword existed, would he have used such an inferior blade in combat during his mortal years. Now he wielded the sword as a constant reminder of work that required his doing and an imbalance only he could correct. Should he fail, humans, elves, and gods would crumple into annihilation. Now, as always, he gave his all to his practice, hampered only by the ceaseless need to adjust for Harval.
A figure appeared at the farthest range of Colbey’s vision. For an instant, guarded irritation trickled through the exhilaration that naturally accompanied every svergelse. Interrupting a Renshai’s practice spelled death, and he had given every denizen of Asgard rash enough to do so the only warning they would ever receive. The idea of battling gods or their minions raised both regret and pleasure. He despised the thought of harming one he respected yet, at least, they might supply Colbey with a rousing battle. Perhaps the god might manage to best him.
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