Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Ra-khir turned his attention to his other companions. Riding beside him, Darby looked calm aside from a barely visible trembling. In the center of their group, Marisole was the only one who seemed entirely at ease. The oldest of Béarn’s princesses and princes, she had been born and raised under constant surveillance and always in the public eye.

  The elves studied the humans massing around them. Ra-khir still found their emotions difficult to read; they bore remarkable similarities to humans in some respects and distinct differences in others. He worried more for their comfort than that they would perform any dangerous actions out of distress or fear.

  Having assured himself that no one with him was in, or posed, any imminent danger, Ra-khir finally focused on his adoring crowd. He had always preferred to fade into the background, though his knightly education forced him not only to tolerate crowds but to maintain his dignity, respond appropriately to demands and requests and to radiate fairness and justice. Now, the residents of Keatoville barraged him with so many questions and comments, he could not distinguish them, let alone address them all.

  Under normal circumstances, few noticed the knights-in-training who had not yet earned their titles or brilliant white steeds; many never made it to knighthood. Here in his hometown, Darby had, apparently, become legend. The crowd called out to him by name, their pleas every bit as eager and loud as the ones they addressed to Ra-khir. Soon, the two men found themselves as enclosed as the relatively small population of Keatoville could make them. Silver Warrior stood stock-still, but Darby’s mount rolled its eyes, whickered, and repeatedly pawed the ground. Ra-khir worried someone, probably one of the children weaving through the crowd, might get kicked or stomped.

  Ra-khir raised a hand, and the people of Keatoville quieted. Conversations still buzzed through the mass at the rear, and the squeal of excited children pierced the air occasionally, usually followed by a stern look or shushing plea for silence. “Good citizens of Keatoville, thank you for your welcome.” Ra-khir bowed grandly, brandishing his hat in a single, fluid motion. “I am Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet and His Majesty, King Griff. This is my squire, Darby Emmer’s son. And these are our traveling companions.” The introduction finished, he replaced his hat without naming the others, allowing them to do so in their own time and fashion.

  A murmur rose from the crowd, mostly greetings of various types.

  Ra-khir took over again. “We have business with Darby’s family, if you will please allow us passage and privacy. Afterward, we intend to purchase supplies for our return journey from anyone who has provisions to sell or barter. At sundown, we will adjourn to the meeting hall to address any issues or questions.” Ra-khir hoped that pronouncement would allow them free passage and assure the villagers the group would provide sufficient time for them all before leaving.

  “Some of my companions are socially inexperienced and may choose not to join us. I humbly request you allow them their space and bring any issues to me or Darby instead.” He hoped including his young apprentice would elevate Darby in the eyes of his hometown villagers as well as help defray the myriad questions certain to come their way. The citizens would expect Ra-khir to adjudicate disputes, beg news of Béarn, Erythane, and the war, as well as satisfy their curiosity about their mission and the knights in general.

  Ra-khir addressed his companions next. “Feel free to look around, camp outside the village, or wait for us at the meeting hall.” He glanced around at the waiting Keatovillers. “If you need help finding things, I’m sure the good citizens of Keatoville will assist.” A settlement this small would not have a market, per se, or organized areas of commerce. Darby had described a village where visitors rarely came and, when they did, stayed at the homes of the family or friends they were visiting. The central meeting hall served as a gathering place, a shelter in times of need, and a tavern at other times.

  Ra-khir encouraged Silver Warrior to edge forward carefully. The crowd parted around him to allow the knight and his squire access to the street leading to the edge of town, where Darby’s family lived. Marisole rode toward the center of town, surely driven by the intense and inescapable bardic curiosity. The elves turned their mount and headed back the way they had come, clearly preferring the forest. Ra-khir expected Calistin to join the elves; instead, he claimed the space Marisole had vacated, at Silver Warrior’s heels. Valr Magnus hesitated, as if to follow as well, then headed toward the center of town and the meeting hall instead.

  Taking Ra-khir at his word, many of the villagers dispersed, but more than half remained, walking alongside the three horses headed for Darby’s home. Most remained quiet or talked softly amongst themselves, but a group of teens surrounded Darby, ribbing him in what seemed to Ra-khir a good-natured manner. Darby ignored them, for the most part, remaining stiffly in the saddle, his eyes forward, though his mouth twitched into a half-smile in response to their questions and comments.

  It did not take long to arrive at the site of Darby’s family’s cottage. The moment they did, all eyes fixed on the knight and his squire, clearly awaiting a response. One deep male voice rose over the others, “So what do you think, Sir Knight?”

  The wilting wooden framework was gone, along with the rotted and leaking thatch roof, the patchwork handfuls of muddy straw, and the haphazard caulking. In its place stood a neat and sturdy cottage that rivaled any along the roadway. Fresh timbers formed a robust scaffolding larger than its predecessor. Neat washings of mud caulk filled every crevice and crack in painstaking lines that followed the grain, for appearances as well as utility. The thatch on the rooftop looked fresh. Smoke curled from its stone chimney, indicating a fire in the hearth. Ra-khir doubted the previous sloppy construction had allowed for such a luxury; they had probably done all their cooking outside.

  A grin stretched the knight’s face. “You’ve done a magnificent job.” He tried to look at all the men in turn. “Absolutely superb. This must have taken a lot of time and effort from all of you.”

  The remaining townsfolk cheered.

  One of the two front window flaps stirred. An eye appeared briefly, then the door swung open and Tiega emerged. Tall and slender, she wore a dress of blue satin that cascaded over delicate curves no longer lost to hungry gauntness. Milky skin accentuated large, long-lashed eyes that matched the brilliant cyan of her dress. Her cheeks swept high, her nose strong and straight, and honey-brown hair fell in waves to just below her shoulders. Ra-khir stared, incapable of speech, entranced by her beauty.

  A moment later, Keva appeared at her mother’s side. On Ra-khir’s last visit, Darby’s sister had appeared to be composed entirely of gathered twigs. Now, she had transformed into a fledgling version of her mother, caught in that mystical twilight between childhood and adolescence and destined to become similarly striking.

  Teiga broke the silence that had overtaken the group. “Darby!” She held out her arms.

  Darby looked to Ra-khir for guidance. He would not perform any action until his mentor condoned it.

  Ra-khir slid from Silver Warrior’s back and gestured for Darby to dismount as well. The moment he did, Tiega rushed forward and enfolded him in her arms.

  The scene warmed Ra-khir and brought memories flooding back of his sons’ younger days. Kevral had never placed much stock in displays of affection. From infancy, she had trained the boys as Renshai: hard, tough, destined for warrior greatness. They always knew she loved them, but she never coddled them. Her lullabies were songs of war, her touches corrections in technique, her praises never followed anything short of perfection. Hugs were scarce and required earning. Swordsmen had to learn to find their own solace, to tend their own wounds.

  As a father, Ra-khir had proven a softer target. He remembered several times when the twins displayed the tears for him that they would never allow their mother to see. He recalled the warmth of their little bodies against
him, the anguish gradually melting in his loving grip, and wondering how Kevral could bear to let her sons face such pain alone. Saviar, in particular, would come to the Bellenet Fields, where the knights trained, to seek out the sort of parental conversations he could only have with Ra-khir.

  Ra-khir could never remember a time when Calistin had sought his succor, every bit as hard and seemingly cold as his mother. Not that Kevral lacked passion. No matter how late she stayed training Renshai, she always returned at night to warm their marital bed. She did not always do a great job of showing it, but he never doubted she loved him as much as he did her. Their boys were a great source of pride to her; and, though she had a hard time demonstrating affection, Ra-khir always knew she felt it deeply.

  Calistin studied Tiega and Darby with undisguised interest bordering on awe. He remained on his horse after the others had dismounted, his head tipped to one side, his intent blue gaze fully focused on mother and son. Surely, he had seen mothers embrace their children before; but, this time, it drew his attention in a way it never previously had.

  After a long hug, the two separated, but not fully. Tiega kept hold of Darby’s hands. “How is the training? Do you still want to become a Knight of Erythane?”

  “More than ever!” Darby exclaimed with a measure of enthusiasm the best actor could not feign. “It’s hard, but it’s amazing.” He pulled free of his mother to study the cottage, jaw sagging open. “They’ve done an incredible job.” He turned toward the citizenry, his voice cracking and a tear spilling from his eye. “Thank you. Thank you so much for all you’ve done for my family.” Keva glided forward, and Darby threw his arms around his sister.

  Tiega turned to Ra-khir and opened her arms again.

  Ra-khir stepped forward, and Tiega scooped him into an embrace, her movements fine and sure, as agile as any dancer. In a moment, they were wrapped together, her body soft and warm against him, the satin gliding along his sleeve and catching on his callused hands. She snuggled into his chest, and her breath on his neck excited him wildly. His heart rate quickened, and blood rushed toward his thighs. He knew he had to pull away before he became irrevocably aroused, before she noticed, but he wanted to hold her in his arms forever.

  Disengaging, Ra-khir gazed into Tiega’s eyes. His father and blood son had eyes so pale they looked nearly white. Tiega’s were darker, bluer, deeper. Like the swirl at the base of a waterfall, they dragged him in, denying escape. They held a wild mixture of love and hope, desire and pain, intelligence and need. He worried he might drown in those eyes.

  For a time, she returned his stare. Then, her gaze rolled beyond him to the waiting citizenry of Keatoville. She smiled. “Sir Ra-khir, won’t you please join us inside?”

  Inside. The word seemed to lack all meaning beyond the context of Tiega’s eyes. Inside Tiega. Ra-khir could think of nothing he would like better, but he shook the thought away. It was still too soon. “Thank you,” he managed, trying to appear casual as he straightened his breeks and tabard to hide his arousal. He hoped no one, especially Tiega, had noticed it. “I’d love to accompany you.” Remembering Calistin, he glanced toward his own son, still mounted. “Would it be all right if Calistin came with us?”

  Though Tiega had never met Calistin, she could easily deduce to whom Ra-khir referred. “Of course.” She gestured broadly toward the Renshai.

  Finally reclaiming his bearings, Ra-khir turned to his squire, “Darby?”

  As Darby already clutched the cheek pieces of his own bridle and Calistin’s, Ra-khir said nothing more. He flicked Silver Warrior’s reins over the stallion’s head, waited for Calistin to dismount, then followed Darby to a small paddock at the end of the road holding six sheep and a cow browsing on a pile of hay. A trough held clear water, and a small flock of white chickens pecked around the larger animals.

  Ordinarily, a squire would handle the knight’s charger as well, but Ra-khir had long ago made it a habit to always see to the comfort of his own mount. As Darby had his hands full, Ra-khir tripped the latch and shoved open the gate. They led the three horses inside, then stripped off the tack, leaving it just outside of the paddock. After he finished his business with Darby’s family, Ra-khir would return to groom Silver Warrior and would see to it Darby did the same for the other two horses.

  With the horses safe, Ra-khir and Darby returned to the cottage. Having seen their reactions to the renovations, the remainder of the townsfolk disbanded, leaving only a few gawkers. These watched the knight and his squire enter the dwelling and shut the door behind them.

  A fire burned in the hearth, filling the large common room with warmth and light. A cauldron huddled amid the flames, making steady bubbling noises. Tiega had hauled out the sleeping pallets. Calistin sat uneasily on one, Tiega on another, and Keva on the third. Ra-khir took a position next to Calistin, while Darby claimed the area beside his sister. Bags of foodstuff hung from the rafters, protected from mice and rats. He could make out what appeared to be root vegetables, dried fruit, and cheese as well as a sizable ham.

  Tiega spoke first. “I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and my children. I don’t know why you’ve taken such keen interest in Darby, but I’m so glad you have.”

  Ra-khir said what he had to say. “Darby’s a good boy, ma’am. Well-raised and polite, bright, competent, dedicated.” He glanced over at the young man to find him looking at his hands, his cheeks flushed. “He’ll make a fine knight someday.”

  Tiega took the compliments to her son in stride. “No doubt.” She did not press further, but a smile lit up her face, making it appear even more attractive.

  Finding himself staring at her again, Ra-khir returned to his study of the cottage. The planking still held its fresh, tannish color, though the muddy odor of the caulking had dissipated and the straw gave off no aroma at all. The fire crackled gaily, and the bubbling sounds of the kettle made him salivate in anticipation. Home-cooked meals had always been a special surprise. Kevral had usually sparred or taught sword forms well into the night, and Ra-khir had grabbed most of his meals on the run. His fondest food memories came from childhood or lazy evenings with his companions in the Knight’s Rest Tavern. Now, after weeks of nothing but featureless hard tack, the idea of a fresh meal beckoned.

  Tiega broke the uncomfortable hush that had settled back over the group. “Calistin tells us the war in Béarn was won.” She added, “He also informed us he’s your son.”

  A pang of guilt assailed Ra-khir. He should have performed a more thorough introduction before inviting the young man into a woman’s home. “My youngest of three. The other two boys, Saviar and Subikahn, are twins.” He did not get into the details of parentage. It would invariably lead to discussions potentially unsuitable for mixed company. All three boys were born while Kevral was married to him, and he had raised all of them on at least a part-time basis. Though he tried not to tread on Tae’s parental claims and time, he did not love Subikahn any less nor believe himself any less committed to Tae’s son and his future.

  “Your wife must be very proud.”

  Ra-khir’s attention went fully to Tiega. The entirety of Béarn, the North and Erythane knew how Kevral had lost her life. He could scarcely believe he had neglected to mention his widower status to Tiega. “She was, most of the time. But I lost her last year.” Ra-khir tried to keep his response matter-of-fact, steady; but he still choked on the words. He wondered if he would ever be able to speak them without fighting back tears.

  “I’m so sorry.” Tiega’s expression showed appropriate concern, but Ra-khir thought he heard a faint hint of something else in her tone, an emotion he could not quite identify. Neither joy nor relief, which would have been inappropriate, it had a trace of hope or longing. Ra-khir supposed talk of his bereavement brought back memories of her husband’s death. “Accident or illness?”

  Ra-khir would have rather mumbled something equivocal, but
he knew that would upset Calistin who took pride in Kevral’s valiant death. “She was a superior warrior slain in combat.”

  That drew Tiega’s attention and Keva’s as well, and Ra-khir knew he had to explain. Darby already had most of the details and could fill in any gaps after Ra-khir left the cottage.

  “She was Renshai, as are all of my boys.”

  “Oh.” There was clear disappointment in Tiega’s tone, which upset Ra-khir. He had not pegged her as the type who held prejudices, though most Westerners and nearly all Northerners did when it came to Renshai. “She must have been a fine warrior, indeed. A very special kind of woman.”

  The last part did not seem the type of thing a Renshai-hater would say. The combination confused Ra-khir, though clearly not Calistin who came to the immediate defense of his mother.

  “She was probably the most talented swordsmistress of our tribe.” Calistin spoke with an exuberance he showed for nothing other than battle. “Few, men or women, could best her in spar, and she was an outstanding torke.”

  “Teacher.” Ra-khir translated the Renshai word. “It also means sword instructor.”

  “Very impressive.” Tiega’s tone fit her words, though there remained the barest undercurrent that now seemed to most favor disappointment. “It’s no wonder you haven’t remarried. I don’t imagine many women could fill your wife’s shoes.”

  Suddenly, it all became clear to Ra-khir. Tiega was not disparaging his choice of a mate; she was comparing herself to Kevral and worried she could never meet the impossibly high standards Ra-khir apparently sought in a wife. She likes me. His heart pounded so fast and hard he worried everyone around might hear it. He hastened to reassure her. “I loved Kevral wholly and completely. I was devastated by her death, but given her desire to die in valorous combat, we never really had the option of growing old together.” Ra-khir sighed. He had known it all along but never fully internalized it. He missed her terribly.