Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Tae expected her to argue his point, but she grinned instead. “You think I’m beautiful?”

  To his surprise, Tae found his face growing noticeably warm. From the moment he had met her, he tried not to think of Matrinka in those terms. She had a lover, and, eventually, also a husband. She was like a sister to him, special and adored, but never in a romantic sense. “It’s a simple fact, Matrinka. The bard of Béarn himself sings arias to the loveliness of Béarn’s queen.”

  Matrinka rolled her eyes. “The bard of Béarn is Darris.” She did not have to add that they had loved one another since childhood, that Darris had fathered her children.

  “Which doesn’t change any of the stated facts. You are beautiful. But, more to the point, you’re not trained to spy, and I’m not sure you know which end of a sword to hold.”

  “Give me some credit. I did travel with a knight and a Renshai.”

  “And me,” Tae reminded. “Which is how I know you the way I do.” He grabbed her hand and opened it. It looked soft and supple beside his filthy, callused palm. “Missions like this one aren’t for people like you.”

  Matrinka jerked her hand from his grip. “Except you need me. And I’m going. I don’t have to know how to spy or fight, because you and Subikahn do. My job is to remain on the ship and gather the information you send me.”

  Matrinka had a good point, but the idea of her in harm’s way bothered Tae too much to consider the use or necessity. “Does Captain know he has a stowaway?”

  “Of course. Why do you think he distracted you until we were underway?”

  That bastard! Tae suddenly understood why Captain had required so much assistance to launch the ship this time. “Here I thought I’d gotten away with something by switching Subikahn for Rantire.” Realization struck hard; she had outclevered him. “That was the plan all along, wasn’t it? Captain never had any intention of bringing Rantire.”

  Matrinka’s grin broadened. “And you thought I wasn’t a capable spy.”

  Tae felt like he just took a kick to the head. “So it was all your idea?”

  Subikahn loosed a snort, ruining his pretense of having fallen asleep.

  “Who knows you better than I do?”

  Tae shook his head. “Well, if you’re half as crafty with the Kjempemagiska, they don’t stand a chance.”

  Matrinka lay down, seized Imorelda, and rolled to her side to leave her back toward Tae.

  Tae threw himself down on the only empty pallet, glad to find it unoccupied. Within moments, he was asleep.

  Saviar imagined some people thrived on consistency, on knowing exactly what would happen every moment of every day, the same thing, day in and day out, through eternity. For him, it was torment of the worst kind. Each morning, the same breakfast arrived, thrust through the invisible opening: a shapeless lump of meat surrounded by barley gruel and a bowl of crushed berries, more pulp than juice. These he always ate, then shoved back through the magic portal before it disappeared. At midday, a bowl of water came. Then, in the evening, scraps of whatever dinner the Mages of Myrcidë had enjoyed: gray wads more gristle than meat, unidentifiable roots, and cold vegetables, usually too mushy to classify.

  Saviar tried to ignore the bite marks on the foodstuffs, the evidence of cutting, the wateriness suggesting he got whatever remained on others’ plates after their meals. If he contemplated what he put into his mouth too long, he might not allow himself to swallow it or might do so, then vomit it. He needed the energy, whatever its source; and, if the mages chose to treat him like a dog, he had little recourse. It was still an improvement over the once a day bowl of tasteless roots they had inflicted upon him for the first week. Hating them for it would not serve anyone.

  Between meals, Saviar practiced svergelse as well as he could without a weapon. Body and mind needed the exercise, even if it contributed little to enhancing his skill. Without it, his muscles would wither, his circulation might congeal. Even with it, his thoughts turned in strange directions. Initially, he found himself obsessing, so he focused instead on rehearsing spelling or language details, creating math problems to solve, devising new techniques for battle, or contemplating the questions of the universe. Later, he found his mind strangely empty, thoughtless, utterly devoid of emotion or drive. It felt as if his consciousness descended into a pit and, if he reached its bottom, he would simply die. Despite the regularity of his meals, he tried to vary his toileting, worried to fall into a rut so deep his mind escaped only into madness.

  Though not usually taken by regret, Saviar found himself desperately wishing he had allowed Subikahn to rescue him. When it came to interacting with other people, Saviar had always considered himself a bit on the shy side. Yet, now, he desperately craved human company of any sort. Even debating with a Renshai-hating Northman who considered him a gods-damned demon would be preferable to the silence to which the Myrcidians had condemned him for far too long.

  Despite the regularity of his meals, and his view of the outside through the one-way windows, Saviar had no idea how long he languished in his tiny world of granite. Time lost all meaning, and minutes passed like years. He pleaded with the walls, uncertain when, who, or even if anyone could hear him.

  One morning, when his gruel came through the wall, Saviar did not take it. Instead, he leaned his mouth against the spot where the dish penetrated, floating in rock. “Please.” His voice emerged as a dry croak, unfamiliar to his own ears. “Let me die with honor rather than steeped in insanity.” The misery in his tone brought tears to his eyes. He could never eat food he knew was poisoned; to die in such an ignoble way would doom him to Hel. Yet he could not help secretly hoping they did it without his knowledge. There seemed no reason to drag out the end. “No man can live this way.”

  Saviar did not expect an answer. He had never gotten one before. But, this time, a thin voice replied. “Are you . . . ill?”

  Saviar blinked, frozen in position, his right ear steeped in barley gruel. It was not the first time he had imagined voices; yet, this time, he did not sense the fog of delusion closing in around him. He did not feel as if he had to shake madness off before it fully engulfed him. “Isolation is the worst form of torture. I can handle bodily pain. This . . . this destroys a man’s mind.”

  This time, Saviar received no answer. “Imaginary.” He slumped, not caring that it drenched the side of his face in warm mash, that he had clumps of gruel in his hair and bodily filth in his breakfast. “Again.”

  The thready voice returned. “I’m real. I just paused to think.”

  Saviar could not remember the last time anything had made him this happy. “Talk to me. Please.”

  “What . . . What . . . ?” The person on the other side seemed confused but clearly did not want to leave Saviar in silence again. “What . . . do you want . . . to talk about?”

  “Anything,” Saviar croaked. “The weather. The dietary habits of insects. The current price of Pudarian tea. I just want to hear a human voice.”

  “All . . . right.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, as it should. Saviar had met all of the Mages of Myrcidë, had lived among them for several months while recuperating from his injuries. Then, they had considered him one of them and treated him like a friend. As they numbered only twenty-six, he knew them by name, although he had not spoken to most of them individually. “Um . . . are you all . . . right?”

  The question seemed patently ridiculous, but Saviar did not judge. At the moment, hearing speech seemed like a lifeline he could not risk. “I’ve suffered a festering wound that would have been fatal had you not brought me around with magic. I’ve been smacked in the head with a sword’s broadside so hard it knocked me out. I was in a coma for months. This is worse than all of those. Please . . .” Saviar started to ask for terms of freedom, then decided not to overreach. At the moment, he would take any dispensation. “Do you think . . . someone could talk to me every day? Even i
f it’s just . . . telling me a story? You can torture me at the same time, with magic or knives or hunks of wood, so long as you talk to me. Otherwise, at least let me die quickly and with dignity.”

  Again, silence fell. Saviar’s neck was developing a cramp from the unusual position. His fingers trembled, entirely against his will, and nausea bubbled in his gut.

  Apparently realizing what he had done, the other abruptly filled the hush. “I’m still here. I’m just pondering what you said.”

  Relief flooded Saviar. The quivering increased.

  “It’s really . . . that bad?” The tone suggested genuine amazement. “Worse than . . . torture?”

  Saviar was desperate enough to tell the truth. “Much worse. It’s like my mind . . . is turning to dust. I’m trapped in a dark and eternal misery where even my thoughts don’t work. It’s . . .” Words came from Saviar’s mouth that he never thought any Renshai would say, “It’s worse than a coward’s death.”

  “We . . . had no idea.” The man drifted off again, much to Saviar’s chagrin. “Saviar, my name is Dilphin. I’d like to discuss this with the others, but I’ll have to leave you to do that.”

  Saviar wanted to say he understood, that Dilphin could go, but the words would not leave his mouth. What if the others chastise him for speaking to me at all? What if he never returns? What if I never hear another real human voice again? It bothered him that these thoughts even mattered, but they did. And more than he would ever have guessed. He wondered how Griff had survived as a prisoner of the elves and gained new appreciation and insight into Rantire. She had endured both isolation and terrible, daily torture. “Dilphin . . . don’t go.”

  Dilphin’s hesitation, though minuscule, seemed to stretch into an eternity. “Saviar, listen. I’m trying to help you, but I can’t if you don’t let me talk to the others. Whatever is decided, I promise to come back.”

  “What if they decide you can’t?”

  “It makes no difference. I’m a man of my word.” There was a spare hint of malice in his tone, as though he had found others wanting in the same department. “I have promised, and I will return.”

  Saviar knew it did not truly matter. He had no way of keeping Dilphin against his will. He also worried to ruin what little he had already gained. “Should I stay where I am? What happens to our ability to talk if I lose hold of the tray?”

  Now, Dilphin sounded amused. “Take your breakfast, eat it, and return the tray as you have in the past. We can reopen the way for communication.”

  “All right.” For the first time reluctantly, Saviar pulled his breakfast into the cell. With talk came hope, not only for his sanity but for his mission that had, until that morning, seemed hopeless.

  Ra-khir had worried Tem’aree’ay would stall the mission until it became pointless, rendering any assistance too late. Yet, to his surprise, she beat him to the meeting site. By the time he and Darby had their horses packed and prepared, it was too late to assist Griff’s second wife and daughter. Tem’aree’ay had selected a sleek dark brown mare for herself, while Ivana sat astride a fat, cream-colored pony with a flaxen mane and tail. Three groomsmen had assisted the women, and they tacked up three more horses for the remaining members of the group.

  Silver Warrior stood out from the others. Gleaming white from nose to fetlocks, his hooves buffed to a sheen, his mane and tail festooned with ribbons of blue and gold, he was the unmistakable symbol of a knight’s steed. The bridle, reins, and saddle blanket were Erythanian black and orange. Alone or in a group, Knights of Erythane never rode incognito.

  Marisole arrived next. Ra-khir attempted to assist her, but she politely waved him away. “On this mission, I’m the bard’s heir first and a princess second.”

  Ra-khir backed off with a convivial salute. Marisole would need to toughen up to properly do her job. He found watching her juggle her property, weapon, and instrument too painful, so he turned his attention to the last two members of the team.

  Calistin and Valr Magnus arrived together, laughing at some joke they did not share with the others. Again, Ra-khir felt a spike of annoyance, though he hid it behind a mask of knightly sobriety. He did not know which bothered him more: the need to interact competently and coolly with his wife’s slayer or the fact that Calistin seemed to do it easily. Ra-khir could not remember Calistin ever chuckling so freely over anything and never believed the boy had a sense of humor. The only things that had amused Calistin in the past were other’s frailties and misfortunes. He wondered if the Northman’s champion had a similar cruel streak that attracted Calistin, and that bothered Ra-khir all the more.

  Tem’aree’ay waited until everyone had mounted and she had the pony’s lead rope tethered to her own saddle. “I can now state with assurance that the elves are still on Nualfheim, also called Elves’ Island. King Griff sent a ship to meet us, with rowing boats, on the beach of the Western Plains. They will also watch our horses until we return.”

  Even with only one open passage through the Southern Weathered Mountains, overland travel to the southmost tip of the Western Plains was quicker than a sea voyage. Ra-khir knew the ship would have to have departed days earlier to arrive before or at the same time as them. More likely, Béarn had initiated regular navy patrols off the coastline since the “pirate” incursions had started. It would be easy enough to add a rowboat rotation at the proper location for when the elf-finding party finally arrived.

  The route to the Western Plains remained fresh in Ra-khir’s mind. He had recently traveled that way, following the path of the exiled Renshai toward the Eastlands. He had never actually reached the mountain passes separating the settled Westlands from the barren sand that comprised the Western Plains. He had caught up to the Renshai and was diverted northward into the central areas of the Westlands where his sons had gone. Soon thereafter, the Knights of Erythane had called him back to Béarn for the war.

  And, now, it all seemed for naught. All three boys had survived the war, yet two had disappeared soon after. The third was with him but might as well be missing, too, for all the heed he paid his father. Calistin seemed to prefer the company of his mother’s killer, and that bothered Ra-khir even more than the way he had left things with Saviar. Only Darby appeared interested in anything he had to say or do, in any aspect of knowledge he might impart.

  As they headed toward the Road of Kings and the first leg of their journey, Ra-khir had a feeling he was in for a difficult ride.

  Whenever faith is involved, whenever men believe something so intensely that they know in their hearts the gods share their convictions, they lose their compassion for disparity and grow blind and deaf to others.

  —Knight-Captain Kedrin of Erythane

  WHEN SAVIAR LEANED BACK in his padded chair, stretched out his feet, and closed his eyes, he could imagine himself free to walk among the Mages of Myrcidë. Though still small, the room little resembled the squalid prison in which he had spent the last few weeks. Pillowed chairs and benches lined the walls, and a table occupied most of the middle. At the moment, it contained only a covering cloth; but Jeremilan, the leader of the Myrcidians, had assured Saviar it would soon contain fresh foodstuffs, the like of which he had not seen for many days.

  Currently, six of the mages shared the room with Saviar, all male and most sitting bolt upright, certain they would be called upon to contain a rush of violence. Saviar did his best to put them at ease. He had no intention of attacking. Without a sword, he felt naked and vulnerable. Even unarmed, he suspected he could handle all of them, if not for the magic they could cast upon him in an instant. That, Saviar did not understand, though he felt certain it would undo him. Again.

  Jeremilan cleared his throat. He was clearly old, with skin like wrinkled parchment, his thinning hair snowy white and receding. Still, Saviar found it difficult to believe any human had survived for over two hundred years, as Subikahn claimed. “Dilphin tells me you prefer death
to imprisonment.”

  Saviar did not want the old mage to misunderstand. “I prefer death to the type of solitary and changeless imprisonment you inflicted on me. I was becoming . . . unhinged.”

  Jeremilan pondered the words as if tasting a fine wine. He had the slow deliberateness of an elf. “Are you usually . . . of a claustrophobic nature?”

  Saviar shrugged. “Not to my knowledge.” He tried to explain; this went far beyond a feeling of entrapment. “I’ve never been confined before, but I don’t mind solitude as a rule. I think . . . isolation can damage any man’s mind if it goes on long enough.” He tried to recall anything he had read on the topic, but his thoughts felt thick as pudding and it was not a subject on which he had had previous reason to focus. “I . . . recall some mention of societies using solitary confinements as a form of torture. People rescued after spending days trapped in buildings or under fallen trees often report incalculable rages, depthless sadness, as well as seeing and hearing things that did not actually exist.”

  “Really.” Jeremilan seemed more pensive than his companions, whose faces displayed everything from shock to thoughtful discomfort. When he finally spoke, his words surprised Saviar. “I’m sorry.”

  Saviar blinked, expecting anything but an apology. “You . . . are?”

  “Of course we are.” Jeremilan seemed almost offended by Saviar’s question. “Our only intention was to keep us safe while we decided what to do with you. We had no intention of driving anyone to madness.”

  Saviar almost expected him to add, “That was just a lucky consequence.”

  “We’re not like any other people you know. We don’t wish to harm anyone. Ever. Only to repopulate ourselves and live in peace.”