Tae nodded. “The elves could, almost certainly, do that. But how many warriors do you know who could handle aerial combat? Especially with only a week or two of training.”
“Some of the Renshai, maybe?”
Tae shrugged. “I don’t think so. The Renshai maneuvers rely too much on quickness and split-second timing to work without a single foot on the ground. It seems safer to rely on familiarity.”
Matrinka felt certain the elves could come up with something useful. “What about changing the terrain only as the giants step on it?”
“Maybe,” Tae returned. “However, the small amount of experience we have suggests we can better use our limited magical access to tie up the Kjempemagiska’s war magic, which requires the elves to work as a cohesive group. That would limit the giants to mundane tactics familiar to our soldiers and generals.”
Matrinka saw the obvious flaw. “Except we can’t possibly win in regular hand-to-hand combat. Even if we have superior numbers, and that’s not certain . . .”
“That is certain.”
Matrinka studied Tae.
“We know they’re overpopulated, but the descriptions provided by Mistri and Arturo don’t suggest they’re to the point of literally living on top of one another. You’ve seen the size of their island. It’s big, but only a twentieth the size of our continent at best.”
Matrinka knew Tae was not stupid, but he seemed to be missing something obvious. “True, but it’s not as if we’re standing on top of one another, either. There’s plenty of space between most of our cities and still more forests than inhabited areas overall.”
“Maybe.”
“And we won’t manage to gather every male on the continent in time for the war.”
“Yes,” Tae agreed. Then he continued, “But we certainly cover far more than a twentieth of the land here. And we’re much smaller, so we can fit a lot more of us in the same area without noticing it. I’m willing to bet we’ll outnumber the Kjempemagiska a hundred to one on the battlefield.”
Matrinka bobbed her head, realizing she had gotten sidetracked again. “Fine. Even if we have superior numbers, our weapons can’t harm the giants. So what’s the point of close fighting?”
Tae mimicked Matrinka’s gesture, indicating the entire room. “That’s what we’re trying to rectify, Matrinka.”
Matrinka felt as if the argument had come full circle. “But, Tae, isn’t that exactly the problem? We know elves don’t have the power to make objects magical one by one. How can they possibly do it with a whole bunch of weapons all at the same time?”
Tae tossed his head, then laughed. “I guess I thought you already knew this part. Otherwise, we could have avoided a lot of words when you first asked the questions.”
Matrinka put her chin in her hands and leaned toward Tae to express her full interest in whatever he had to say.
Tae obliged. “We know that the few true magical items in the world can harm Outworlders. For example, Thor’s hammer could flatten the Kjempemagiska, demons, and elves. When Colbey wielded the Sword of Balance, legend states the gods themselves ran scared.” Tae’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you remember Captain’s treatise after I had scouted the Kjempemagiska warship and brought back the rope and the knives?”
Matrinka recalled having a conversation on the Sea Skimmer, filled with strange elfin terms, but the details had not stuck with her. “Vaguely.”
Tae refreshed her memory. “Objects prized by and long-exposed to creatures of chaos gain some minor magical properties the elves call skyggefrodleikr or shadow magic. For example, Kevral’s sword, previously wielded by Colbey, could cleave demons. In Calistin’s hands, that same sword killed the only Kjempemagiska we faced in the last war. We have a few weapons we already know are effective against Outworlders. There’s Saviar’s sword, used for centuries by an Einherjar in Valhalla; Rantire’s sword, given to her by Ravn; the six utility knives I acquired, and Valr Magnus’ weapon, also previously Colbey Calistinsson’s. They weren’t deliberately given magic. They acquired it through sacrifice and exposure.”
Finally, Matrinka understood. “So, the hope is, if we pummel our weapons with random elfin magic, they may get enough exposure in a short time to acquire the magical properties that usually require . . . much longer exposure.”
Tae bobbed his head with a taut grin. “Basically. It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m told. Captain also mentioned reipfrodleikr, trace magic.” He gave Matrinka a sideways glance.
Though uncertain what her friend wished to convey, Matrinka realized his explanation had jogged her memory. Captain had said this “trace magic” was a side effect of his specialty, which if she remembered correctly, was adding magical strength to structures. She nodded. “That’s right. I remember.” She tried to put it all together. “That’s a little more active and deliberate than shadow magic, but it’s not . . .” She did not know how to finish. “. . . real and permanent?”
Encouraged, Tae finished, “As I picture it, probably badly, it’s kind of like soaking our weapons in a magical bath. It’s not random, though. They’re emphasizing the type of magic that strengthens solid objects.”
Matrinka had to ask, though she knew she might not like the answer. “What do the elves think about this? Do they believe it will work?”
“Cautiously optimistic.”
Matrinka pressed. “Meaning specifically?”
“They don’t know.” Tae leaned back in his chair. “Captain hopes the magic will stay on the blades for a couple of weeks, long enough to fight the war before it dissipates. It’s apparently futile to hope for anything more.”
“Except,” Matrinka started, “couldn’t we just have the elves hand out their personal weapons? They’ve been exposed to elves every day, so shouldn’t they have the same properties as the giants’ rope-cutting blades?”
“Weapons?” Tae asked mildly, brows cocked. “Elves?”
“Not a single weapon?” Matrinka had spent enough time chatting with Tem’aree’ay to know Tae spoke truth. “What about utility knives?”
“They don’t build,” Tae reminded. “They come from a world without weather, and they’re impervious to cold.”
Matrinka grasped for straws. “What about the trees on Elves’ Island? They’ve been long-exposed to magic. Maybe if we carved out clubs . . .”
Tae laughed. “Even true magical items don’t retain their properties if their shape and intention is altered.” He added quickly, “Or so I’m told.”
Matrinka realized others had clearly given the situation at least as much consideration as she had. They were all equally desperate. “Well, then. I suppose this really is the best the elves can do.”
Weile finally spoke again, and Matrinka stiffened. She idly wondered how she could possibly have forgotten him a second time. “I’d rather say it’s the best the elves are willing to do.”
That seized Matrinka’s attention, and she could not help staring at Tae’s father. His swarthy skin and black hair helped him blend into the darkness of the corner, and the whites of his eyes contrasted starkly with irises that seemed merely an extension of his pupils. “You think they can do more?”
“Probably not, but I can’t help wondering. As Outworlders themselves, they have everything to fear from weapons that can strike creatures of magic. Especially in the hands of humans.”
The words sparked outrage. Matrinka leaped to her feet. “We would never harm them. They have to know that.”
Tae waved at her to sit.
Weile looked blandly amused by Matrinka’s outburst. “Even if they believe it, they know how short-lived we are compared to them. They have no way to extract promises from our unborn grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Once armed, we will not be easily disarmed.”
Agitated, Matrinka remained standing. It pained her to believe the elves hesitated to trust them. “Wha
t if we drew up some sort of treaty?”
Tae rolled his eyes. “Matrinka, if the elves are really holding back because they don’t trust us, no piece of paper will make any difference.” He turned a stormy glare on his father. “But I don’t believe that’s what’s happening. And even if it were, what could we possibly do about it? A week ago, the elves refused to assist us at all. How can we complain about how they choose to do so now?”
Tae was right, of course. Desperation could not allow them to appear ungrateful at the risk of losing the magical support they had won only with great effort. The negotiating between Béarn and the elves, Béarn and the Myrcidians, had gone on behind doors closed even to Matrinka. She had no idea of the true cost of their allegiance, but their magic had become priceless and they could have asked for nearly anything. She made a mental note to demand the information from her husband, then put the idea aside. She was not at all certain she wanted to know.
Your enemies will not give you quarter for weakness, and the worst of them will target those most-vulnerable moments.
—Kyntiri, a Renshai torke
ALONE IN A TINY, seldom-used study on Béarn Castle’s highest floor, Barrindar and Marisole clutched one another tightly, fiercely, jealously. They sat on the floor; piece by piece, the furniture that had once filled this room had been plundered by family members to replace older, more put-upon furnishings. Marisole, herself, had scooted out the last plush chair a year ago to place it into her own room in front of her dressing table. Nothing remained but four gray walls and a plush carpet spanning the entire floor. Woven from the sheared hair of Eastern fiber goats, it had a luxurious texture finer than anything manufactured in the West. And, though more than several years old, it still maintained the faint hint of exotic spices that had traveled in the same merchant’s wagon.
Over the last several months, this room had become the young lovers’ favorite place. Here they sat for hours in the warm beam of sunlight streaming through the only window, fingers entwined, talking about their likes and dislikes, complaints and triumphs, their hopes and dreams for the future. Sometimes, they could catch only a few minutes between lessons and practices: him with weapons and politics, her with music, and both with academics. Marisole was the only female who attended sword training by the Béarnian masters, and they granted her no quarter. Many times, the two had compared bruises or nursed sore muscles in the deep pile and softness of the carpet.
Now clenched in Barrindar’s strong embrace, Marisole felt whole for the first time in many months. She had missed him terribly during her journey to visit the elves, her dreams of him starry. Often, she had found her hand drifting habitually toward one of her male companions, only to remember she was far from home and the one hand she wished to hold. She had worried her absence would grant him the opportunity to find a younger woman to love. Given time alone to think, he might consider the couple of years between her birth and his. More likely, he would realize the folly of their forbidden pairing. To the populace, they were brother and sister, though only distant cousins by blood. Béarnian law strictly regulated who heirs to the throne could marry.
“Kiss me,” Marisole said.
Barrindar happily complied, his lips and tongue as eager as her own. His mouth tasted of honey bread and grapes; his arms gripped her protectively. Against her thigh, she could feel the first stirrings of his arousal, and a fire grew in her own loins. She wanted him, every part and thought and mood of him. Gripping his firm, warrior’s buttocks in both hands, she pulled him even more tightly against her.
Barrindar grunted into her mouth. He released the kiss long enough to say, “Stop, Marisole. If you don’t, I’ll—” He seemed suddenly incapable of finishing the thought.
Marisole laughed sweetly. “You’ll what, Barri? Rape me?”
Barrinadar disengaged completely, a look of horror etched on his features. “You know I couldn’t harm a hair on your beautiful head.”
Marisole refused to let him go. “But I want it, Barrindar. I want you more than anything in my life.” She added in a small voice that sounded more frightened than she intended, “How can I have found the match to my very soul and still die a virgin?”
“You’re not going to die, Marisole.” Barrindar clearly tried to sound certain, but under the circumstances no one could. Barrindar intended to fight beneath Béarn’s banner, assuming King Griff would allow another young prince to risk his life at war. His life was more at stake than Marisole’s, but he could not honestly declare her safe. Based on the actions of their servants, if the giants won the war, they would slaughter every human, no matter their age or gender.
“No one is safe,” Marisole pointed out, drawing him close again. “Especially the royal line of Béarn.” She gazed into dark eyes radiating warmth and intelligence. “Do you want to die a virgin?”
Barrindar managed a laugh. “No man does. But I’d rather die a virgin than sleep with any woman who isn’t you. I love you, Marisole. I always will.”
His words were as sweet as any music in Marisole’s ears. “I love you, too, Barri. That’s why I want to surrender my virginity . . . to you and only you.”
Barrindar closed his eyes. “We can’t, Marisole. You know we can’t. If we’re caught . . .”
Marisole’s longing had become desperate need. She whispered, “Who’s going to catch us?”
“But what if we... ?”
When Barrindar did not complete the thought, Marisole tried to. “. . . enjoy it? . . . hate it? . . . make too much noise?”
“No.” Barrindar stopped her with a finger to her lips. “What if we . . . make a baby? You promised your mother we wouldn’t do that, we’d be careful.”
Marisole kissed him again, slowly and tenderly. She could feel him stirring again. Whatever his doubts, his body wanted hers. “We’re both virgins, right?” She paused a moment, suddenly worried he had not told her something.
Barrindar did not hesitate. “Yes, Marisole. Of course.”
“Well, everyone knows two virgins can’t make a baby.”
Barrindar tipped his head and studied her in the beam of sunlight. “I . . . didn’t know that.” He acquired a hungry look that only made Marisole adore him more.
In the entirety of her life, Marisole could not imagine loving anyone as much as she did Barrindar, with such raw and real intensity. He was her world, her life, her every desire lay with him. And she suddenly knew, without need to question, he was the rightful heir to Béarn’s throne. They would remain together forever, her protecting him and him her, as the gods ordained.
Unless the war killed them first.
A chill wind blew across the castle rooftop. Miserably huddled in her cloak, Matrinka allowed her gaze to sweep the Béarnian beaches, once again swarming with warriors in patches that revealed their origins. She easily picked out the blue-and-gold flags and uniforms of Béarn as well as the black-and-orange banners of Erythane. She found the aqua and bronze of the Northman’s Aeri, led by the famed and formidable General Valr Magnus. He had remained at the service of Béarn even after the other Northmen had gone home, accompanying Marisole, Ra-khir, and others on their quest to convince the elves to assist. At his call, his men had been among the first to arrive, disheveled and wearied by their fast march but immediately prepared to serve him.
Matrinka picked out other continental armies, including the famed silver and green of the Northern high kingdom of Nordmir, a contingent from the Eastlands bearing black and gold, and others in colors she did not recognize. These were mixed with bands of disorganized farmers in well-worn homespun, citizens of every variety in street clothes and clutching trade tools or rusty weapons, and several banded groups from various Western towns, most of whom comprised town guards or vigilantes lovingly wearing the retired weapons, shields and, occasionally, armor of their forebears.
As always, the Renshai chose a position front and center. Like most of the pe
asant classes, they sported no armor or helmets, no shields or even jewelry that might accidentally foil a blow. They neither bore nor wore any colors to define them, fought under no banners, and their functional garb spanned the rainbow and beyond. They did not even have an obvious leader. Unlike the other units, which contained no female warriors Matrinka could spot, the Renshai had about equal numbers of each gender. And, of course, every one carried a sword or two and no other visible weapons.
As with the last war, for the most part, the archers took the lead, the infantry at their heels, and the cavalry behind the beachhead. The strategy had worked well during the last war, and it seemed foolish to change it, especially since not a single member of the enemy forces had escaped alive to report it to superiors. Of course, this was a very different type of war, Matrinka realized, and multiple reminders of it accompanied her on the roof.
In one corner, Mistri, Tae, and Imorelda crouched in apparent silence, carrying on a mental conversation she longed to hear, if only to have catspeak, once again, in her mind. Some twenty-five or thirty elves joined them, appearing almost human except for a propensity toward fragility, lean angularity, and reddish highlights, their eyes slanted and colored like gemstones. Silent as ghosts, they took their unobtrusive places around her and did not even whisper amongst themselves. Matrinka suspected they communicated regularly with one another, using direct khohlar so no one else could hear them. Accustomed to that form of communication, they gave no outward sign, not even a gesture or twitch, an eye roll, a look toward the recipient of their mental language.
Griff stood in the middle of it all, surveying the battlefield, his hands clasped and his brow furrowed. He also did not speak, his head low, studying the battlefield until he must have memorized every detail. Like Matrinka, he clearly despised the danger into which he placed so many lives, yet he could do nothing other than to try to play the game with cunning and logic. Experienced generals and their appointed captains and lieutenants commanded those armies. Griff could do nothing useful from the front. He had learned strategy but never warcraft due to a sheltered upbringing as a farmer’s stepson in the shadow of his father’s death. And the combined forces needed his guileless wisdom and neutrality alive and intact as long as possible to keep their world from shattering.
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