Spotting Matrinka, Darris smiled and winked a hazel eye in greeting. The pause caused a slight stumble in his otherwise flawless song, but no one seemed to notice and Matrinka detected it only because she had heard him perform the piece hundreds of times in the past.
Mior caught up to Matrinka as she stopped to watch the show, winding between her mistress’ legs. The instant the cat drew within communication distance, she complained. *Rush, rush, rush. Couldn’t wait a moment for me?*
Without taking her eyes from Darris, Matrinka stooped and hefted the calico, scratching beneath the chin and behind the ears until Mior could not help purring. *I’m sorry. I thought you were right behind me.*
*Fell off the stupid bench twisting to watch you go,* Mior explained sullenly. *Silly seamstress laughed at me, and I don’t think I convinced her I did it on purpose.*
*Poor, suffering Mior.* Matrinka belittled the cat’s self-inflicted need to maintain dignity at all times. *What do you care what the seamstress thinks?*
Mior gave no answer beyond satisfied purring, an acceptance of Matrinka’s unspoken apology. The question had no logical answer, and the music precluded any need for stale disputes. The song swept princess and cat into a fantasy world peopled with ancient ancestors. Darris sang of twin princes of Béarn in the centuries before the staff-test when birth order alone determined succession. The eldest, Valar, gained the throne. Bitter, the younger, Morhane the Betrayer, slaughtered his brother and all but one of his seven children. The last, a son, escaped with the aid of the Eastern Wizard.
The song painted vivid images so strong the audience seemed to shrink, smashed into a nearly airless, hidden corner with the young heir, Sterrane, while the sounds of slaughter and the odor of blood fouled the castle that once served as all that defined security. The young prince returned as an adult, reclaiming the kingdom from his traitorous uncle, somehow uncorrupted despite the trauma of his family’s murder. No death screams haunted his innocent dreams. No desperate need for vengeance burned his heart to a hardened core. No memories of helpless horror made him believe the gods had abandoned him. Simplicity, neutrality, naïveté incarnate, Sterrane had become the template by which all Béarnian kings and queens must rule.
Darris then chanted of a god-mediated mission, one that ended in the suicide of the Cardinal Wizards, sweeping all magic from the world. He sang, too, of Sterrane’s traumatic death by a Wizard’s hand, instilling a grief that drove tears to Matrinka’s eyes though she already knew the story ended happily. The audience became a blur so indistinct she could not tell if the song affected others as strongly as herself, nor did she care. Few truly believed Sterrane had died and returned to life, though the myth abounded; and the joy of his return only made her cry the harder. He had come back to Béarn with tales of gods and with the Staves of Law and Chaos. From that day forth, Renshai, once crazed Northern warriors eager only for battle, became charged with guarding the king’s heirs with the same loyalty as the bard protected the king or queen and oversaw the ascension. Their own religion bound them to this task above all others.
As the last notes pealed from the mandolin, a finale that drifted after Darris’ last word, the small crowd shuffled restlessly. Several shouted for an encore, only a few suggesting specific pieces. Darris shook his head, replacing the mandolin beside the lute on his back, replying with words Matrinka could not decipher above the noise. As the entreaties became more plaintive, his responses gained a sharper edge. Finally, the group dispersed, leaving the bard’s heir a free path to Matrinka. He hefted his pack and walked to her. “Hello.”
Matrinka blushed, then felt stupid for being embarrassed by a perfectly normal greeting. “Hello. That was magnificent.”
“Thank you, m’lady.” Darris bowed, flicking back his cape, though it barely moved, pinned in place by his instruments. He had learned graciousness from a bard mother ceaselessly barraged with compliments, then later from the mass appreciation of his own growing skill. “How’s your grandfather?”
“As well as can be expected.” Matrinka relished the question, wishing more of her cousins showed the same interest in their ailing king. Then, realization struck, and she furrowed her brow. “How did you know I was visiting him?”
Darris stiffened, momentarily uncomfortable, then covered awkwardly. “You’re often there. Lucky guess.” He avoided her dark eyes, rolling his gaze to his feet. “All right, I saw you go in there. Is it a crime to follow the movements of a beautiful woman?”
Matrinka’s cheeks felt on fire, and she found herself unable to meet Darris’ stare either. She wished she handled praise as well as her peer. “Beautiful? Me?” Suddenly fearing the need to force Darris to insist, possibly cornering him into agreeing with her assessment, she turned to humor. “And, yes, it’s a crime. Should I call the guards to haul you to the dungeon?”
“Ach, no.” Darris feigned fear. “Will you let me go this time if I promise not to do it again?”
Matrinka pretended to consider. “Maybe this time.”
Darris chuckled. He stroked Mior with a finger, following the line from nose to tail. “And ‘hello’ to you, too, little lady.”
Mior rubbed against the bard heir’s hand, her purring gaining volume. She swatted lazily at his finger, claws retracted.
“You little flirt.” Matrinka nudged the calico, and Mior clambered across her shoulders. Experience told them both she could balance well enough there even to sleep, though Matrinka’s muscles would cramp if the cat lay there too long.
Darris ignored the dispersing spectators. To catch their attention would almost certainly lead to another song. “Where are you going? I’ll walk you there.”
Not wanting to admit she had followed his music, Matrinka hesitated. Then, recalling the other sound that had caught her attention, she used it as an excuse. “I was just going to watch my young cousins play.”
Darris brightened, face open beneath curly bangs. Apparently, he enjoyed becoming part of the audience for a change. Instead of words, he offered his arm in reply. Like nobles in a courtroom, they strode toward the giggling, the image ruined only by the peasant’s cut of Darris’ tunic and the cat draped across Matrinka’s shoulders.
As usual, the children frolicked in the statue garden, amidst the most lifelike of Béarn’s sculptures: seven rearing bears with every hair intricately detailed, two dogs with haunting eyes, and a family of deer that included a massive stag with antlers that became indistinguishable from tree branches and held an egg-laden nest in a high fork. According to legend, King Aranal had commissioned a statue for the newest garden that every craftsman in Béarn had fought to make. A contest ensued between the seven most competent. The winning bear held the place of honor on a pedestal in the garden’s center, but the king insisted on buying the other six exquisite pieces as well. The garden became a statue showcase, the spaces between turned into grassy paths to allow viewing of every detail of every creation. The large open spaces, climbable artwork, and weaving pathways formed a wondrous playground that seemed irresistible to Béarn’s children.
More than two dozen children cavorted around the statuary now, most involved in a wild game of “take” that consisted of chasing the person carrying a silver chain and touching him. Once tagged, the carrier would surrender the chain to the toucher who then became the carrier. Matrinka and Darris sat on a bench just outside the garden, watching the action through a gap in the enclosing bushes. Mior leaped from Matrinka’s shoulders to her lap, curling contentedly, disinterested in the games.
Matrinka recognized every one of the children. All four of Kohleran’s great-grandchildren played “take”: the five-year-old twin boys who had lost their father to the same illness as Matrinka’s and the two four-year-old, girl cousins. Matrinka’s first cousins, a six-year-old boy and his four-year-old sister joined them. Their ten-year-old sister played a quieter game involving dolls with a cousin, a guard’s daughter, and a daughter of the prime minister, all of the same age. The last sibling of the fo
ur, an eight-year-old girl, pestered the ten-year-olds with a regularity that sent her sister into snapping rages. Matrinka knew the other children as the offspring of various sentries and nobles, identifying each without difficulty. A cluster of nursemaids perched upon or around a pair of benches on the opposite side of the garden. Occasionally one would interrupt the play to guide or chastise a young charge.
An aging Renshai oversaw the activity, lounging against a hedge. Though he did not sit, boredom made his features sag. Inside the courtyard walls, the children had nothing to fear and the Renshai nothing from which to protect them. His graying hair and grizzled features reminded Matrinka that ancient folklore once claimed Renshai drank the blood of enemies to remain eternally young. According to her history lessons, the impression had come from an assortment of facts, some still valid. First, they once had a racial quality that made them look younger than their ages, a tendency that persisted to a lesser degree in those who still carried a significant amount of original Renshai blood. Second, they named their babies for warriors who died in glorious combat, usually before the age of thirty. Though Renshai of both genders still dove into every war and skirmish with an enthusiasm that awed or frightened those of less violent backgrounds, they no longer initiated battles with just anyone when they found no better reason to fight. In ancient days, an old Renshai was an anomaly. Now, though not nearly as common as elderly Béarnides, they drew no strange looks or comments any more.
Unable to think of anything short of inane to say to Darris, Matrinka studied the children’s games. She chose silence over the possibility of sounding foolish. Darris seemed content to sit quietly at her side, as he often did. He had explained his apparent shyness once, in song. The bard’s curse damned him to constant observation and a fiery longing for knowledge. Only by remaining still and noiseless could he absorb the nuances of every situation. Every moment of every day taught him something new, and he learned from the patterns of breezes, the colors of a mural, and even the crunch of courtiers chewing food. In addition, the need to impart true knowledge only with music limited his conversation.
Somewhat timid and withdrawn herself, Matrinka appreciated Darris’ company the way she rarely did others of her age. She always felt awkward and uncertain, and the need to guard every word made the ones she chose sound stilted. Among adults, she had no difficulty expressing herself. Among peers, she perceived herself as ungainly as a hatchling learning to fly. Yet, with Darris, somehow, she felt comfortable.
Matrinka’s gaze strayed to the walls surrounding the castle and its courtyard. The Renshai had good reason for apathy. Carved directly from the mountain, castle and wall held a timelessness that spanned all history. No army had ever breached its defenses. In tens of thousands of years, only one man had entered the castle or its grounds uninvited. More than three hundred years ago, the bards sang, a Western warrior had slipped inside to help Sterrane reclaim the throne after Morhane the Betrayer had slaughtered his way to rulership. The intruder had had the assistance of a secret passage and a Cardinal Wizard, neither of which existed any longer.
As Matrinka’s attention swept the castle, a momentary light caught the edge of her vision. It seemed more intense than a glint of sunlight from chips of quartz in the stonework. Curious, she glanced toward it. As she swung her head to see, another light seized her awareness fully, a brilliant flicker in a fourth-story window that disappeared almost as quickly as she saw it. A third flash blinded her with its sudden brightness. She closed her eyes reflexively, jerking backward with surprise and pain.
Mior sprang to stiff legs, spitting, fur fluffed into rigid spikes. Darris leaped from the bench, and Matrinka felt the warmth of his presence directly in front of her.
Matrinka wrenched open her eyes. Colored aftereffects scored her vision in spots and squiggles, and she could see nothing around the patterns except Darris’ back. “What’s happening?” she demanded, but screaming children drowned her question. Terror enfolded her, yet ignorance rooted her in place. Until she understood the danger, she could not choose a direction to run in. Desperately, she peeked around Darris who had spread himself as large as possible to shield her.
Mior stood with all four legs braced, back tented, and tail jutting. *Danger!* she shouted mentally, taking stiff backward steps. *Danger!* Panic accompanied the assessment. One foot came down on empty air, and the cat tumbled from the bench into a yowling heap. She sped off in the direction from which they had come.
Matrinka’s vision cleared enough to reveal a dark, rounded shape flying through the air, trailing splashes of red liquid. Darris choked out a horrified gasp. He stood only a finger’s joint taller than Matrinka; and, on tiptoes, she managed to peer around his head. Three immense bears towered over the screaming mass of children, mouths gaping and claws as long and sharp as daggers. At least one had already claimed a victim; its nails dripped congealing trails of blood. Matrinka took in other details in an instant: three missing bear statues in the garden, a decapitated body, children screeching and crying from what seemed like a million places. Some sprawled on the grass, knocked over by others fleeing or their own panicked clumsiness. A few froze in place, as still as the statues had once been. Still others sprinted for the safety of the hedge line or huddled behind sculptures that still stood as proper stone. One grandchild spun in frantic circles.
“Modi!” The Renshai dodged and hacked at all of the bears in turn, his grace belying his age and his sword a silver blur. His tunic hung in tatters, and red lines scored his ribs. Only one bear returned his strikes, the others avoided him, intent on the children. Repeatedly, the bear’s jaws fell finger’s breadths short of the Renshai’s face or limbs. Had the warrior had only himself to defend he might have managed to battle the three effectively or slay the one attacking him; but to limit his cuts to one meant leaving its two fellows free to shred Béarn’s young heirs. Instead, he bounced from one to the next in an obvious attempt to draw all the danger onto himself. The more the bears separated, the more difficult the strategy became.
Darris continued to shield Matrinka with his body, gradually forcing her backward with shuffling, smooth steps. Two bears charged the fallen children. A wild chorus of terrified screams filled the air, followed by a haunting shriek of pain that cut off in mid-shrill. “Modi,” the Renshai shouted again; this time it sounded more like a curse than a war cry. Matrinka fixed on Darris’ back, not daring to look, though droplets of blood sprayed through her peripheral vision. “No,” she whispered, grief aching through her fear. “Do something. Do something. Do anything!” She meant the words to spur those who could not hear them, the distant guards who had no reason to suspect danger inside the courtyard. No course of action came to her own mind, and she appreciated Darris’ protecting presence, though she felt guilty for it. “The children,” she sobbed.
Arrows fluttered down from bowmen on the walls. The Renshai howled, making a final, desperate lunge that precluded defense. His sword glided beneath one bear’s rib cage, but the maneuver opened his head. A massive paw slammed against his ear, hooked his neck, and tore. The Renshai went limp as the bear’s own momentum impaled it deeper. They collapsed together, the bear on top, the Renshai crushed beneath it.
Another child’s pain-scream throbbed through Matrinka’s hearing. She buried her eyes in Darris’ instruments, shivering and bawling without control. She barely felt the continued backward movement, could not register the battle cries of guards who had finally arrived to assist in the combat. Moments stretched into hours in Matrinka’s mind. Then, suddenly, Darris whirled. He hefted her awkwardly, her Béarnian size making her nearly as large as him despite her gender, and hurried toward the safety of the castle.
Matrinka clung, too weak and frightened to do anything more.
* * *
Matrinka startled awake to a deeply rooted sensation of terror and dread. She sat up in her own bed, heart pounding, memory returning in a wild, ugly rush that made her wish she had remained asleep. Her mind flashed imag
es of events she would rather forget: bear statues mutated to murderous reality, blood and bodies, one cousin dead at least, the panic that rendered her helpless to rescue herself let alone the child whose slaying would haunt her conscience through eternity. Was it all a nightmare? Hope trickled through her, easily staunched by recollection too vivid to deny. Oh, gods. Let it all be a dream.
Firmly grounded in reality, her mind would not allow the deception. The events of the previous day had happened, leaving a wake of grief, outrage, and terror that had made her certain sleep would never come. Yet, exhaustion had finally taken her, leaving soldiers, ministers, and the king to sort the events without her assistance. More than a few courtiers, nannies, and children had witnessed the massacre.
Mior marched up Matrinka’s leg and settled onto her chest, face close and purring a loud rumble in her ears. Freeing a hand from the coverlet, Matrinka stroked her companion absently. Her thoughts felt lead-weighted and slowed by sorrow, but something still seemed out of place. She concentrated, at first believing the tragedy had sapped her memory of events equally significant, if anything could seem so. Then, she recognized her additional discomfort as a feeling of being watched, an intruder in a familiar place. Her heart rate quickened further, and her lungs felt crushed and suffocated.
Mior responded to the concern and its effects. *Don’t blame my weight for your funny breathing. We have guards.* She made it sound like an illness.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 6