Charletha directed the caretakers of Béarn’s livestock, gardens, and food, the youngest of the high kingdom’s ministers. Like Abran, she had earned her title honestly, in Baltraine’s opinion. She descended from Kohleran’s uncle’s line, born into her nobility.
The minister of courtroom procedure and affairs, like Baltraine, came from a long line of titled gentry that had lost its link to the king’s line in the distant past, if it ever had one. Named Weslin, he had paler features, a lighter bone structure, and browner hair than most Béarnides, suggesting a foreign “contaminant” somewhere in his history.
Limrinial, the minister of local affairs, oversaw relations between Béarn and her closest allies: the Renshai and Erythane, especially the knights. Her wavy hair refused to stay in place longer than a few moments after combing, and a clump always trailed down her forehead. A broad nasal bridge made her eyes seem to never quite look in the same place, as if she could focus each one independently. Baltraine treasured her homely, middle-aged features; she would prove no competition for his daughters as a queen for the next king of Béarn.
Baltraine’s gaze swept the internal affairs minister, Fahrthran, last and shortest, as if too long a scrutiny might pollute his eyes. Genealogy traced his ancestry to an Eastern woman and an Erythanian archer, his distant predecessor’s title honorary. Although fourteen generations of Béarnides had since married into his family over three hundred years, Baltraine still attributed Fahrthran’s dark hair and eyes to his Eastern ancestor. Baltraine knew nothing but disdain for his so-called peer. New blood, and especially foreign blood, tainted Béarn’s royalty.
Long reconciled to tolerating King Kohleran’s minister of internal affairs, Baltraine kept his aversion well-hidden. Instead, he turned his attention to the matter at hand. “As you all know, our king is dying.”
Vague noises of sorrow and resignation greeted the pronouncement. They had lived under the threat of losing their king for two years now. Though muffled and short-lived, their regrets were heartfelt, Baltraine believed. Kohleran was a caring and honest ruler, well liked by the people over his thirty-three-year reign. In fact, history showed that Béarn had not had an unpopular monarch, king or queen, since Morhane the Betrayer got ousted three hundred twenty-one years ago. His successor, Sterrane the Bear, had been in power during the Great Fire that left the northeastern portion of the Westlands a vast wasteland and now the most fertile of farm ground.
Pedigrees had always fascinated Baltraine, especially that of the Béarnian kings, and this was what goaded him to call a special, covert session of Kohleran’s ministers. “We need to think about his successor.”
Limrinial shook the ever-present forehead curl from her eyes, though it immediately slid back into place. Accustomed to dealing with Renshai, she did everything with a directness that bordered on blunt rudeness. “What’s to think about? The order of ascension is a matter of record, and the staff-test assures the proper monarch finds the throne.”
Charletha and Abran, youngest and oldest, murmured agreement. Weslin looked confused. Fahrthran studied Baltraine mildly, saying nothing, apparently waiting for the prime minister to speak his piece.
Baltraine addressed Limrinial’s point. “True, the order of ascension is a matter of record. I’ve traced out King Kohleran’s line and numbered all with a potential claim to the throne.” He gestured to the drawing on the slate board. “Now, the law states that the title passes only down or across. That means only our king’s legitimate progeny, their legitimate progeny, or his siblings have a claim. King Kohleran is the only living descendant of Yvalane, so the sibling option disappears.” Baltraine crossed the room, plucked the drawing stone from his pocket, and scratched out all of Kohleran’s brothers and sisters. “Unlike most of his predecessors, our beloved liege chose a single wife.” He tapped the drawing stone against the figure representing Queen Mildy who had died of old age four years previously. Previous kings had held as many as ten wives and queens up to four husbands. The law did not limit their marriages, except by bloodline.
Always impatient, Limrinial interrupted. “And King Kohleran has four sons and two daughters. We know all this.”
Baltraine smiled as the local affairs minister proved his point. “Apparently not. Our king had six sons and three daughters.”
Fahrthran chuckled, without malice. Abran shrugged and nodded simultaneously; he had lived through the birth of each of Kohleran’s children.
Limrinial glared, muttering, “Doesn’t change anything.” However, she went silent, allowing Baltraine to speak his piece.
Baltraine elaborated. “Queen Mildy’s fourth pregnancy ended early. Twins, a boy and a girl, and they died within days. His youngest son, Petrostan, left Béarn at the age of about twelve some eighteen or nineteen years ago. Apparently some minor scandal surrounded that exodus.” Baltraine looked to Abran for details.
The elder obliged. “As far as I remember, it was pretty innocuous. Non-noble girlfriend or some such. I heard he died a few years later.”
Limrinial’s left eye pinned Baltraine. “So, for our purposes, King Kohleran had four sons and two daughters.”
She had a point that Baltraine refused to concede. “He also has ten grandchildren and four great grandchildren.”
Fahrthran performed the math quickly. “That’s nineteen heirs. I should think one of them could pass the staff-test.”
Baltraine disputed the numbers he had espoused moments before. “No. One great-granddaughter is illegitimate. We lost one son five years ago when the consumption swept through the city. Two more sons and a daughter fell to the curse.”
“If you believe in such things,” Limrinial managed to insert.
Baltraine ignored her. “That leaves one daughter, Ethelyn, forty years old, unmarried, and without offspring.” The latter details held little import until the time came for her successor, but Baltraine hoped his fellow ministers read his unspoken concern about her ability to pass the staff-test. The populace knew little or nothing of the test that had measured the worthiness of every Béarnian king since Sterrane. Only those who had undergone the test understood its details. From the ministers’ standpoint, it involved leaving the heir-apparent alone in a room with two plain-looking wooden sticks called the Staves of Law and Chaos. If the staves found him or her worthy, meaning innocent and “neutral” in affairs of law, chaos, good, and evil, the tested became the new monarch. If not, the next heir in line underwent the same process. No one knew how an heir discovered whether or not he passed, only that, if anyone had lied about the outcome, no punishment had ensued. Undoubtedly, magic suffused the staves. Of those tested, some claimed to have forgotten the events and others gave vague stories of going to an elsewhere or elsewhen and facing moral dilemmas they had handled well or poorly.
Kohleran’s last living child, Ethelyn, had never married because no man had yet found the prospect of possibly becoming king enough to overcome an infamously nasty disposition. In turn, Ethelyn had taken no interest in any man. Baltraine believed her marriage or lack did not matter. Nothing neutral or innocent about her. Surely, the staves would not accept her.
Baltraine examined the line of Kohleran’s grandchildren: six girls and four boys. The odds bothered him in principle. If a woman took the throne, his daughters could not marry into royalty. “The next in line.” He tapped the slate board with his finger, indicating the eldest son of Kohleran’s eldest son. “Sefraine died last month of illness. Of the others, only four have attained the age of consent.” He picked them out individually. “Sefraine’s sister and brother. The only child of Kohleran’s second son, a girl of sixteen; and the older child of Kohleran’s second daughter, a sixteen-year-old boy. The others are all ten years old or younger, as, of course, are the three legitimate great-grandchildren.”
Limrinial waved her arms, still missing Baltraine’s point. “Age doesn’t exclude them. They can still rule with a regent.”
“Exactly.” Baltraine knew he had to get to the crux o
f the matter soon or lose any support he might once have gained. “Only five potential heirs of age, the first two of whom are patently unsuited.” He touched the figures representing Kohleran’s remaining daughter and his oldest living granddaughter, pleased the females seemed most obviously unworthy. The eldest granddaughter had a reputation for vanity and resisting authority. She had even borne a child out of wedlock. “And a curse has already taken the four most promising heirs in the space of a year and a half.”
“If you believe in such things,” Limrinial repeated.
Baltraine shrugged. The facts spoke for themselves.
Fahrthran drove for the point. “What do you think we should do, Baltraine?”
Baltraine grinned, his moment diminished only by the fact that the lowliest of bloodlines had asked the necessary question. “We should staff-test all the heirs now. That way, we can prime the one who passes, especially if he or she is young, as seems likely. If the heir turns out to be one of those not yet of age, we can get explicit instructions from King Kohleran regarding the line of regents. And we know who to concentrate on protecting from ‘the curse.’” Baltraine studied every face for reaction to his unorthodox suggestion. Surely no one could doubt his intentions. As always, he truly believed he had the best interests of Béarn and the Westlands in mind. And, if he wished to curry favor for himself or to kindle friendship between his six daughters and Béarn’s king, no one could blame him. Childhood associations often led to trust or romance.
Weslin cleared his throat. “If it’s a curse, what makes you think we can safeguard against it?”
Fahrthran raised a more pertinent issue. “I’ve heard that those who fail the staff-test often become despondent. More than a few went on to suicide.”
Baltraine shrugged, seeing little reason to speculate about a test none of them had or could undergo. “Perhaps they would have done so anyway. Maybe that’s why the staves failed them.”
Fahrthran looked skeptical but had no information with which to argue. Whether the magic of the staves suppressed memory of their testing or the heirs simply chose silence did not matter. No one knew enough about the process or its effects to surmise. Nevertheless, he put forth an opinion. “I see no reason to test now. It only makes sense to safeguard all of our king’s heirs, regardless of their chances at the throne. We understand that our next king or queen is likely to be young. That’s enough for now.”
Limrinial sided with Fahrthran, as usual. “I agree. There’s no need to traumatize the children. According to ancient law, the heir to Béarn’s throne must be guileless as well as neutral. An experience of this sort could jade them all.”
The argument seemed ludicrous to Baltraine. “That’s a nonissue. Whether now or later, no one gets crowned without undergoing the test.”
Charletha glanced from speaker to speaker without adding her opinion. Apparently, she had not yet made up her mind. Weslin waited for Abran to speak. He had always placed most emphasis on the elder’s wisdom and experience.
Abran took the middle ground. “I can see both sides. For now, I say we wait and reconvene in a week. If the king’s condition worsens meanwhile, we can discuss the matter again.”
He’s dying, you old fool. How much worse can it get? Baltraine despised his companions’ caution, but he did not allow his feelings to taint his tone. In some ways, delay worked to his advantage. As the prime minister, he would handle affairs of state when Kohleran became too weak or until an heir was coronated. “Consideration for another week, then reconvene? Everyone agree with Abran’s plan?”
Each minister nodded agreement, and the meeting came to an end.
Chapter 2
The End of Innocence
What makes a Renshai is not kinship, but a single-minded devotion to swordcraft.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Béarn’s courtyard seemed unnaturally bright after the grim interior of King Kohleran’s sickroom. Matrinka strolled through tended flower beds aglow with spring sunlight, the multihued blossoms swaying and bowing in the breeze like dancers. Benches carved from whitestone broke the contours in symmetrical patterns. Men in waistcoats and women in dresses of myriad colors and styles dotted the garden at intervals, various nobility seeking solace or enjoyment in the familiar beauty of the courtyard. Matrinka nodded to those she knew as she passed, the calico cat padding in her wake. The mingled perfumes of the flowers made her as giddy as a child, and she acknowledged the many statues in the courtyard with the same silent greeting as she did the sunning lords and ladies. Béarn’s stonework had stunned the world for centuries, the city’s greatest export aside from the wisdom and grandeur of its high king. In the courtyard, as in citizens’ yards, the bear symbol of the kingdom predominated.
*Poor Grandpapa,* Matrinka thought deliberately, knowing the cat would understand. Since the day King Kohleran had given her the grimy, little furball rescued from a sewage trough, Matrinka had believed the cat special. They had bonded in an instant, the bedraggled kitten simultaneously shivering and purring in her arms. An instinct as strong and primal as motherhood had risen, goading Matrinka to protect her tiny charge no matter the cost; and the communication that developed between them seemed as natural as breathing. But only to her and the cat she named Mior. She had tried to explain the connection twice, once to her mother, who “admired her imagination and love for animals,” and once to the cousin nearest her age, the closest she had to a brother, who teased her for months afterward.
*Poor Grandpapa,* Mior repeated, as always reading mood as well as words. *No flowers. No warm sunshine on his back. No walks through the pretty garden.*
Matrinka waxed poetic in a way the cat could not. *Senses muddled by sickness. The world seen, heard, tasted, and smelled always through dusty glass and filtering curtains.* She added unnecessarily, *Oh, poor Grandpapa.* This time the words opened a whole new depth of sorrow. *Poor, poor Grandpapa.*
Mior added nothing more, the conversation having reached an intrinsic conclusion. She sprang onto an empty bench, padding across its surface with dexterity, then rolled gleefully across the sun-warmed surface. Belly exposed and paws drawn in, she writhed and rubbed on the whitestone.
Matrinka tipped her head to a deer statue that appeared to be grazing on a rosebush dotted with pink blossoms and buds. In the distance, children screeched and giggled in play, and Matrinka headed toward the sound. She enjoyed overseeing the games of her younger cousins. As much as she cared for animals, she cherished children more. One day, when she found a man she loved who was of proper stature, she would bear as many of her own offspring as the gods blessed her to have. Someday.
Matrinka paused to let the dream overtake her, imagining a large bear in the center of a garden as a handsome suitor inviting her to dance. Catching the forepaws in her long-fingered hands, she pranced a graceful circle once around him. Her black hair flowed over her cheeks and shoulders like silk, and she pictured herself in a shimmering betrothal gown. The flower beds became wedding decorations: sculptures carved from butter, ice, and ground meats as well as bouquets. The lounging courtiers turned into servants, winding through the milling guests and the twirling dancers.
Mior’s amusement trickled through Matrinka’s reverie. *Aren’t you getting a bit old for fairy tales?*
*Never.* Matrinka let the images lapse, blushing despite her negative retort. She glanced about to assure herself no one had watched her flitter around a stone figure and found the courtiers involved in their own relaxation and conversations. No one seemed to have noticed. *Someday, I’ll find the one.*
*Someday,* Mior replied, *you’ll discover you’ve already found him.*
It was an old argument, not worth discussing now. Mior had a point. Matrinka already knew all the Béarnian nobility reasonably within her age, and propriety decreed she must marry one of them or no one at all. Still, the fantasy persisted, long past the age of magical perceptions and daydreams. Sorcery did not exist in the world, at least it hadn’t for the last three hundre
d years, ever since the tales of Cardinal Wizards had turned from their miraculous abilities to their destruction. If Wizards had once lived, and few believed they had, they no longer did. Yet, the inexplicable bond between herself and a cat, a communication no one seemed capable of believing, convinced Matrinka that magic had not wholly died with its keepers.
Matrinka left the flower bed for the next, now drawn not only by the sounds of the children but by a nearer music. Mandolin strings sang an introduction that seemed to float on the air like the fragrances of the flowers, chords and runs as intertwined as the mingled scents. The beauty of the song left her certain about the identity of the musician, and the perfect voice that rose above the instrument’s harmony clinched it. Darris. Matrinka smiled, as she always did, at the thought of the bard’s heir. She quickened her pace, trailing the mellow wave of sound past a grove of trees pruned into the shapes of a flock of chickens, through the grape grove, to the beds of hacantha, each patch gorged with blossoms of a specific color, the whole forming a circle around a thronelike bench. A few lords and ladies clustered around a familiar central figure.
Darris strummed the mandolin without bothering to unsling his favorite lute from his back. The backpack resting beside him on the bench surely held an assortment of smaller noisemakers, for Darris lugged sundry instruments like a portable arsenal. A sword dangled from his belt, knocked askew by the mandolin. Curly, brown hair swept back from his forehead, unmasking the thin brows that revealed his mostly Pudarian heritage. Though a bit large, his straight nose and broad lips gave him an exotic look that Matrinka appreciated. Though not classically comely, Darris had an attractiveness about his features and bearing that always left her slightly unbalanced in his presence. His gentleness made her discomfort seem foolish, especially since he had no suave lines with which to woo the women Matrinka believed he should need to turn away in droves. An ancient curse passed to the eldest child down through the centuries assured that the bards desperately craved knowledge but could teach what they learned only with song. Having grown up with Darris, who was the same age as she, Matrinka had developed the patience to sit through arias, if necessary. Most people, however, found him tedious—except when he played for their entertainment.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 5