Tem’aree’ay and Ivana had remained behind with the elves, and that decision, made without King Griff’s input, nagged at Ra-khir. He did not believe the elves would harm them, but he worried the two might not find themselves fully welcome among her people. He did not want them to suffer or to try to blunder home unaccompanied if things did not work out well on the island. The queen consort’s horse now carried Chan’rék’ril and El-brinith, who had agreed to join the group in order to speak for their people.
The arrangement had not suited Valr Magnus or Calistin, both of whom would have preferred to bring the entirety of the elfin clan back to Béarn. Only after the elves had explained their ability to craft a magical portal to Béarn had the two relented. At the time, Ra-khir had wondered if the elves might also be capable of transporting the entire human party back to Béarn, to save them the bother of travel, but he did not request the favor for three reasons.
It seemed impolite to suggest the elves tax themselves magically and impolitic to request such indulgence when the elves were already reluctantly considering a major request. Ra-khir’s third reason was more self-serving, and he hoped it had not swayed his decision. He wanted to pass through Keatoville on the return trip to visit Darby’s mother and younger sister. In any case, the elves did not offer and no one else had suggested the service. Only after they had ridden for several hours did Ra-khir dimly remember that transport from one part of a world to another required magic at both ends of the voyage.
Since their return to the mainland, the members of the expedition had kept mostly to themselves. The elves had rebuffed Marisole’s entreaty to remain with Tem’aree’ay, and it had taken Ra-khir’s best arguments, answered with sullen and passionate song, to convince her that her duty lay solely with Béarn and its king rather than with his second wife. Darris was the current bard, which placed him directly at Griff’s hand; but, as the bard’s heir and recipient of the attendant curse, Marisole had to back him up if Darris was incapacitated or killed. Subsequently, her duty lay with the future ruler of Béarn, whomever the Pica Stone chose. In any event, she had no real obligation to guard Tem’aree’ay.
As they rode toward Keatoville on the main roadway, Ra-khir contemplated the oddity of Marisole’s situation. She was the bard’s heir by virtue of bloodline but officially a princess of Béarn. That put her in the unique and unenviable position of possibly becoming the ruling queen of Béarn as well as her own bodyguard. He wondered if the fates or gods might inflict that very circumstance upon her. If they did, how would it affect the bardic curse and the monarchy? He wondered if Matrinka, Griff, and Darris had considered the same possibility and supposed they surely must have behind closed doors.
Valr Magnus had mostly avoided Ra-khir since their verbal spar over Calistin’s behavior. There was no overt hostility; the general of the Northern tribe of Aerin listened to Ra-khir’s suggestions and instructions, responded appropriately and politely, even occasionally put forth an opinion. However, he did not initiate conversations with Ra-khir or Calistin nor offer unsolicited advice again. Early on, Calistin seemed to make a concerted effort to avoid the Northman. At first mistakenly, then unthinkingly, their interactions were becoming more normal, though they had not yet returned to their previous level of camaraderie.
Ra-khir tried not to think too hard about the situation. Logically, he knew he needed to throw off the yoke of irritation Valr Magnus’ presence inspired, but the resentment and deeply seated anger refused to be fully banished. He was, first and foremost, a Knight of Erythane. He had no right to hold personal grudges, to allow such things to temper his judgments or even his manner. Yet his hatred for the Aeri general remained only partially suppressed. The look of glee on Valr Magnus’ face as he had struck Kevral the fatal blow remained vivid in Ra-khir’s memory. The idea that the Northman intended to steal the loyalty of one of Kevral’s sons as well drove him near to madness. It was all Ra-khir could do to mitigate the compulsion to drive his own blade through the bastard’s heart.
From moment to moment, Ra-khir found himself torn between cursing the need to suppress his emotions and guilt that those emotions needed suppressing. Valr Magnus had done everything humanly possible to soothe frazzled nerves, to explain his mostly innocent role in the betrayal, to undo the misdeeds of himself and his fellow Northmen. He had apologized at least half a dozen times, every one delivered with unquestionable sincerity.
If someone had asked Ra-khir what he wanted from Magnus, he could not have answered. He could think of nothing further to reasonably demand. His heart felt otherwise, shredded by Kevral’s death, squeezed by the realization that, what had seemed like a challenge was actually a cold-blooded murder, driven by vengeance. Ra-khir focused, as he had so many times before, on words his father had spoken: “Revenge is a bull men mistake for a steed. He who attempts to tame it, to ride it, will inevitably be the one broken.”
It had never made sense to Ra-khir in the past. Now, he considered the words more carefully, seeking clarity where little previously existed. As a youth, he could scarcely imagine a man blithely attempting to saddle a snorting, pitching bull, blind to the bulging muscles, the gleaming danger of its hooves and horns. He had seen bulls grazing calmly amid the herd, but one only needed to watch the animals half a day to understand the danger beneath their placid exteriors. Ra-khir knew his father subscribed only to fairness, to morality, to justice. Surely, Kedrin had not been telling his son that any attempt to quell the need for vengeance would result in the destruction of the man.
The bull is not the need for vengeance; it’s the consequences of the vengeance. It was a strange epiphany that should have hit Ra-khir much earlier in his life. Long ago, he had discarded the saying as something he would never understand; but a few moments of concentrated thought in his adulthood had finally brought realization to light. He’s not saying to avoid all thoughts of vengeance. He’s saying that if you take revenge, the consequences of your actions may destroy you instead of your intended target.
Chan’rék’ril made a soft sound, similar to a baby’s coo. Though far different than gruff human throat clearing, Ra-khir recognized it as a plea for attention. He shook off his thoughts to look in the elves’ direction. Their horse walked alongside his own, and both of them studied him through gemlike, canted eyes. He wondered how long they had waited for him to break loose from his thoughts and spare them a moment.
Ra-khir forced a smile of welcome. He knew the topic of conversation, the one his elfin companions reverted to as often as possible since joining the group. “How can I assist you, Chan’rék’ril?” As a knight, Ra-khir was honor-bound to use the preferred name of those he addressed. He appreciated that both Chan’rék’ril and El-brinith had never revealed their full elfin names to him. It made it so much simpler to remember.
“Your son,” Chan’rék’ril started, and Ra-khir knew exactly where the rest of the sentence would go. “He has the ejenlyåndel.” Chan’rék’ril had pointed this out three times now.
Ra-khir nodded. “So you’ve said. He’s acquired a soul.”
“Yes. It’s not a trick, not a mistake.”
Ra-khir had suggested neither, though Chan’rék’ril had obviously considered both possibilities.
“Your son is not . . .” Chan’rék’ril hesitated, struggling for the right word or, perhaps, a careful, non-insulting one.
“. . . friendly?” Ra-khir tried.
“Approachable,” Chan’rék’ril filled in, while El-brinith silently watched the exchange. Both elves shared the saddle, with El-brinith in front, which seemed exceedingly uncomfortable to Ra-khir. He could not tell which of them steered. They kept the reins neatly tied to the pommel. “When he’s not eating or sleeping, he’s swinging a blade around. Dangerously.”
Ra-khir doubted Calistin would appreciate his practices referred to as “swinging a blade around dangerously.” “Calistin’s pretty simple to understand that way.” Realizi
ng he had said nothing helpful, Ra-khir prodded. “Did you ask him where he had acquired his soul?”
Chan’rék’ril shifted backward, appearing surprised or affronted by the question. “Of course.”
Ra-khir listened to the clop of hooves on the roadway, rocked by the familiar, sure movements of Silver Warrior. “What answer did he give you?”
Chan’rék’ril looked at El-brinith who made a foreign gesture. He addressed Ra-khir again. “Calistin said he didn’t know what I was talking about. Then rode away. He hasn’t said another word to us. When we approach him, he leaves.”
Ra-khir nodded thoughtfully. Keatoville was not much farther, and he found it difficult to keep his mind from the small town where Darby was born and lived. They needed supplies, and he felt inexplicably nervous about seeing the boy’s mother, Tiega, again. He did not want any distractions, but this matter of Chan’rék’ril’s had to be addressed. Ra-khir suspected it had everything to do with why the elves had finally relented, agreeing to examine Ivana and even to entertain the possibility of assisting in the war, depending on the meeting between Chan’rék’ril, El-brinith, and King Griff. It would not do to upset the elfin ambassadors before they even reached Béarn. “Give me some time. I’ll talk to him.”
Both elves looked visibly relieved, and Ra-khir gave them an upbeat smile. He knew little about souls. Up until Kevral’s visit to Valhalla, he had secretly believed them a construct of the human mind. After she had witnessed the Einherjar battling in Valhalla, he could no longer question their existence. From the moment Kevral had been bitten by the spirit spider, he had worried incessantly for her; so he appreciated the elves’ desperation and insistence on answers.
When Ra-khir had learned that Kevral died with her soul intact, allowing her her place in Valhalla, an enormous weight had lifted from his shoulders. Then, guilt had savaged his first moments of real comfort. It had seemed evil to revel in her wholeness when it meant the same terrible emptiness had been inflicted on their son instead.
The irony was not lost on Ra-khir. The very thing that had stolen all other sources of joy from Calistin had also caused him to dedicate himself entirely to the afterlife he could never attain. Except, Ra-khir realized, if Chan’rék’ril was right, Calistin had regained or acquired a soul. Whatever the process, Chan’rék’ril needed to know it, had to alleviate the anxiety that had to tear at him every moment of every day in the eighteen years since the spirit spiders’ attack.
Ra-khir studied Chan’rék’ril. The elf had almost human lines on his face, and his gemlike eyes held a hint of something deeper and darker, an angst Ra-khir had never before read in elfin eyes. Anxieties similar to Kevral’s had assailed Chan’rék’ril, not a concern for the eternal warring afterlife promised by Valhalla but for the future of his entire race. One elfin soul contained the knowledge and history of multiple lifetimes; its loss was a tragedy Chan’rék’ril had to bear. The ancient soul that had once inhabited him was gone.
Suddenly wishing he had not waited to address the matter, Ra-khir asked softly, “Knowing what happened with Calistin is vital to the elves, isn’t it?”
Chan’rék’ril bowed his head. “You know our great secret, Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son. The number of elves is finite and dwindling. We lost so many at the Ragnarok and can’t afford to lose more. Then, there is me . . .”
Ra-khir bobbed his head to let Chan’rék’ril know he understood without the need to articulate. Although many humans had learned of the cycle, the elves still clung to the knowledge, holding it close and dear. “Whether you succumb to natural causes, accident or slaughter, your soul is already lost.”
Chan’rék’ril’s head sank lower. “If a way exists to regain one’s soul, we do not know it. But we need to. What your son did, what he knows, might be the key to elfin survival.”
Ra-khir now believed he fully grasped the significance. The hope of the elves, and thus their cooperation, lay in Calistin’s experience. “Are you quite sure Calistin ever lost his soul? By the time of his birth, the elves had already gone into seclusion.”
Chan’rék’ril mumbled something unintelligible into his chest, and El-brinith answered in his stead. “We have pondered the problem of the spirit spiders since the bites occurred. Remember, immediately afterward we examined Kevral and found ejenlyåndel, the immortality echo. At the time we did not know much about the human soul, though, and we made some inaccurate assumptions. It was not until Kevral’s death that we discovered she had retained a fully developed soul. Only then, I remembered she was pregnant at the time of the bite, and we finally realized what must have happened. We surreptitiously tested the boy and discovered the truth.”
“No soul,” Ra-khir filled in, then frowned. “Are you the ones who told him?” Calistin had mentioned it during the father-son discussion that had occurred after the Paradisian attack on the Renshai women. Until his proclamation on Elves’ Island, Ra-khir had kept his suspicions a secret. He had wondered how Calistin knew.
El-brinith tented her long, slender fingers. “We didn’t reveal ourselves in any way. I still worry he would have chopped us into elfin salad had he known we furtively cast magic upon him.”
Ra-khir suspected she was right. Kevral had died less than a year ago, which meant however Calistin had obtained his soul, it had happened recently. All three of Kevral’s boys had left Ra-khir to join the Renshai diaspora that came as a consequence of her losing the battle. He had not reunited with them until the war. Since then, Ra-khir had noticed significant changes in his youngest son: the willingness to parley with his mother’s killer, the sudden and intense emotion when reminded of Valr Magnus’ actions, the uncharacteristic questions about love and courtship accompanied by a hint of what appeared like embarrassment.
“And now, he has one,” Chan’rék’ril reminded. “And we must know how he obtained it.”
For Ra-khir, it meant hope and appeasing curiosity. For the elves, much much more. He wanted to know, nearly as much as Chan’rék’ril, but he also realized that once the elves had an answer, they might lose all desire to assist the human armies against whatever threat the Kjempemagiska posed. “I’ll get that information,” Ra-khir promised, unsure why Calistin had chosen not to share it with his father yet. That did not bode well for Ra-khir’s chances, but he felt certain he could get Calistin to open up now that he seemed to have developed a more normal approach to social conventions and people in general. “But it may take some time. For now, I need to focus on Keatoville just around the corner. We need supplies, and I have to present myself properly. The duty to represent the Knights of Erythane is mine, regardless of any desire on my part.”
Darby rode up in silence. When all eyes turned to him, and the conversation had clearly finished, he spoke, “Sir Ra-khir. So sorry to interrupt.” He gave the elves a formal nod of greeting, as his training required.
“No need for apology, Darby.” Ra-khir assured him. “We had finished.”
“Thank you, sir.” Darby slowed his horse to Silver Warrior’s pace. “It’s just that you’d said we were stopping in Keatoville, and it’s due south now. If we ride any farther, we’ll pass it by.”
Ra-khir pulled up his steed. “Thank you, Darby.” A tiny hamlet a few steps from the beaten path, Keatoville was easy to miss. He would never have noticed it the first time without Darby. “I had forgotten quite how . . .” Ra-khir searched for the proper words, “. . . quaint and diminutive it was.”
“Tiny, you mean,” Darby supplied helpfully and with a smile that showed he took no offense. “It’s this way.” He steered his mount through a thin wall of brush to reveal a path more suitable to game than humans.
Ra-khir followed. Almost immediately, the neat rows of cottages appeared, surrounding the village’s few businesses and the communal meeting hall at the direct center. The townsfolk looked up from their chores, dropping brooms and rakes to stare at the travelers.
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�Do you think we’re too large a group?” Ra-khir murmured. The last time, he had come accompanied only by Darby and a donkey cart filled with trinkets from an abandoned battle site where Northmen and Renshai had clashed.
“They’ll be fine,” Darby returned. “Once they recognize the two of us.”
Recalling his last visit, Ra-khir imagined Darby was right. The villagers had seemed thrilled to meet a Knight of Erythane. He recalled the cottage of Darby’s family, a dilapidated wooden construct, horrible and leaning. The father had died in an accident that had also claimed the life of a competent and popular leader. The villagers had blamed Darby’s father and, subsequently, shunned the widow and her two children. Ra-khir had shamed them into promising to build the family a new cottage and left with the understanding that he would return to see how well they had performed.
By the time the entire party appeared from the woods, the citizens of Keatoville were gathering on the edge of the village. Quietly, they watched until Ra-khir and Darby became fully identifiable. Then, a great cheer arose, and the group surged to meet them. Cries of “Darby!” and “Sir Knight!” wafted from the crowd.
Darby sat up proud and tall, as befit a knight-in-training. Ra-khir glanced behind them to ascertain that the crowd was not unnerving Calistin. The youngest of Kevral’s sons had never taken an interest in his father’s work, the way his twin brothers had, had never witnessed the adulation of a crowd unaccustomed to a regular presence of knights. Ra-khir worried that a horde of people rushing toward him might rouse the warrior instincts of a Renshai, or even of Valr Magnus.
But if either of the men at the back of the party felt menaced, they did not show it. Schooled to instant action without revealing intention, Calistin always appeared cool and in control, and now proved no exception. However, his features betrayed a trace of surprise and uncharacteristic interest. He seemed more curious than troubled. Valr Magnus’ face was also easy to read, though he clearly attempted to school his expression. The corners of his mouth showed the barest hint of a bemused smile.
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