Matrinka scanned the darkness. A chink between the curtains admitted an indistinct glaze of moonlight that allowed her to make out contours. Long familiarity helped as well. She followed the vague lumps that represented her desk, dresser, and wardrobe to the door. Someone perched upon the wooden chair near the desk, and the lute-shaped shadow in his hands identified him as the bard’s heir. Matrinka smiled, relaxing. If Darris was present and unconcerned, no one else posed a threat. She continued to survey the room, finding two human figures crouched in the blackness near the door. They wore standard tunics and breeks, swords hanging from their belts. Their vigilance but lack of armor or Béarnian tabards suggested Renshai.
Matrinka clutched Mior, stroking the cat with a rapidity that generated static sparks and made the fur stand on end. She had occasionally seen Renshai before, usually distantly overseeing herself and other Béarnian heirs in the courtyard or called to affairs of court. For the most part, they looked like Erythanians: smaller than the Béarnides in height and breadth, their facial hair sparser though some still sported beards. Darris’ songs claimed the Renshai had once been Northmen, though they now lived exclusively on a plain near Béarn, called the Fields of Wrath. The preponderance of blonds and redheads offered some truth to the story, and many wore the war braids of Northern soldiers. Their worship of Northern gods, however, added little to the impression. Béarn and Erythane also glorified Odin and his pantheon. For the most part, the Renshai kept to themselves, surfacing only to assure the line of Béarnian rulers proceeded according to some specifications Matrinka did not fully understand. Based on that knowledge, it made sense that Renshai would become more prominent now.
The rationalization soothed Matrinka, and her ministrations to the cat grew more normal. She gave Mior a pat, to indicate she planned to move, and waited until the cat found a comfortable position against her side. She sat up, modestly keeping the blankets wrapped over her sleeping gown. “Good morning.”
Darris rose and bowed. “Good morning, m’lady.”
The Renshai remained in place, their mumbled respects lost beneath Darris’ more exuberant greeting.
Though glad of his presence, Matrinka dared not smile. More important matters needed tending. “My cousins? Are they . . . ?” She left the question open-ended.
“I’m sorry.” Darris lowered his head. “We lost Ukrista and Nylabrin.” He named two young girls, aged eight and four, both daughters of Kohleran’s fifth child. He continued, describing the fate of the ten-year-old daughter of Kohleran’s fourth child, an aunt who had, herself, been lost only months previously to a freak accident, a fall from a tree. “Fachlaine was badly injured, but is alive. One of your male cousins suffered minor injuries trying to escape. I’m not sure which one.” He winced, obviously discomforted by what could be considered inattentiveness. Had Matrinka not loved children so much and spent so much time with the twin boys since infancy, she might have been hard-pressed to tell them apart as well. Darris continued, voice thick with misery, “A guard’s son got trampled. The prime minister’s youngest daughter got scraped up a bit. A Renshai and a Béarnian guard were killed.” He looked up.
Matrinka’s eyes burned, spilling tears. She sank back to the coverlet, sobbing, unable to imagine her younger cousins dead. She pictured Ukrista, her dark eyes always shining and black braids flying behind her as she ran. Nylabrin’s giggles would never again fill Béarn’s halls, and the statue courtyard would seem a chill, empty graveyard without them. She scarcely noticed when Darris enfolded her in a sympathetic embrace, rocking her like a child. She buried her hands in Mior’s soft fur and let the motion take her back to the innocent days of her own infancy. She clung to Darris, lost in a dark hole of grief that seemed endless and bottomless. The motion became a necessary foundation for her sense of self and sanity, and it came to an end too soon. Gently, Darris pulled free, raised his lute, and played.
At first, Matrinka felt lost without the merciful, rhythmic swaying that had carried her from the depths of sorrow. Then the music settled over her like a consoling blanket, easing into her heart and mind, soothing the pain. The words of the song glided past her, unheard; but the succor they left behind was real enough. Gradually, she drifted back to sleep.
* * *
When Matrinka awakened again, late morning sunlight oozed through the slit between curtains. Mior’s warmth and weight felt familiar and pleasant against her leg. She opened her eyes. No longer shapeless blurs, the Renshai crouched in the same positions she had seen them in earlier, like statues. The comparison sent a shiver of revulsion through her, and she could not suppress an image of the bear rearing and slashing at harmless children. Once it, too, had been a monument, unmoving. Somehow someone had replaced it and two others with all too real killers.
Darris sat in the chair, sprawled across its back. His brown curls had fallen across his forehead into his eyes, making him appear childlike. He breathed deeply and regularly, his long vigil over, apparently wrested from him by sleep. She wondered how he had gotten permission to spend the night in a princess’ room.
Matrinka managed a smile for her longtime companion, then turned her attention to the Renshai, both women. The taller sported close-cropped, blonde hair and a wiry frame that made her look like a Béarnian adolescent. Her face told a different story, her heavy features those of a woman approaching middle age. Sandy war braids swung around the other’s face, and she appeared little older than Matrinka. Both wore serious expressions to match their simple tunics and breeks, clearly cut to allow freest movement in battle. Both studied her as she did them, seeming aware of her awakening even before her lids fluttered open. Their inhuman wariness made her skin crawl.
Despite her discomfort, Matrinka remained polite. “Hello. I’m Matrinka, and this is Mior.” She poked the cat in the ribs teasingly.
Mior rolled, catching the finger between paws that allowed just a warning hint of nails.
The blonde rose and bowed. “Kristel Garethsdatter of the Renshai tribe of Modrey.”
Her sandy-haired companion waited until Kristel resumed her defensive stance before repeating the gestures of respect. “Nisse Nelsdatter of the Renshai tribe of Rache.”
Matrinka had deliberately omitted her own title to keep their relationship on a less formal basis. Clearly the tactic had failed. Both women remained rigidly attentive after reciting their full names as if in court. Matrinka glanced over at Darris to see if their conversation disturbed him, but the bard’s heir continued to sleep despite his awkward position. The Renshai returned to their quiet vigil.
Silence left Matrinka’s mind too free to mull events she could not affect. Her eyes already felt swollen and painful; more tears would not rescue those already dead nor her injured cousin. She considered the relationship between the flashes of light she had witnessed in the fourth-story window and the bear statues coming to life. Surely ministers and advisers throughout the kingdom already pondered the specifics of the attack while grief stole curiosity from Kohleran and his offspring. Though the wounds remained raw within Matrinka, she rediscovered her concentration and her interest in details. It made no sense that live bears had sneaked into the courtyard and less that they could or would pose as statues prior to the attack. Magic. The explanation came to Matrinka instantly, though she doubted others would draw the same conclusion. They would search for a logical explanation they seemed unlikely to find. The facts remained: no one could have penetrated the courtyard unseen and no vicious killer of a bear could have remained unmoving so long.
Matrinka needed nothing more. Her innocence would not allow her to contemplate the possibility of treason, that one of Béarn’s trusted had made the switch from inside the courtyard. She did consider the possibility that the creatures that so closely resembled bears were something else altogether. She had heard a bear could rip through hordes of adults in moments. Three of them should have slaughtered all the children in less time than it took her to register their presence, yet this last tangent had an a
nswer. She had seen the guardian Renshai charge from bear to bear, battling with a skill and fury that seemed nearly as inconceivable as the presence of the creatures. Matrinka believed in sorcery, as few did anymore, accepting the whispered tales of Renshai tapping demons for their skill. Her eyes told her she had seen bears, flesh transformed from stone. Whatever its source, the old Renshai’s skill and, later, Béarnian archers, guards, and more Renshai warriors had rescued the remaining children.
Matrinka returned her attention to the two Renshai in her room, hoping to ease their tension as well as divert her thoughts. Wiser heads got paid to find the solution she did not have enough information to piece together. She had found an answer that worked for her, and its name was magic. “The tribe of Mowdray? The tribe of Rackee?” She sounded out their titles as carefully as possible. The Renshai’s musical accents rendered them difficult to understand, especially when using words not of Western origin. “I thought Renshai was a nationality. Like Béarnide.”
Kristel addressed the comment that was not quite a question. “Actually, it’s a culture and a style of combat more than a race. Centuries ago, the tribe got whittled down to three couples from whom all current Renshai can trace their roots. The line of Modrey has the most original Renshai blood. The line of Tannin has about half, and the line of Rache descends wholly from Western blood.”
Nisse cut in, obviously irritated. The argument, Matrinka guessed, was an old one and the distinction more a point of contention than useful history. “Of course, the lines have interbred so much, the differences have become nonexistent. No matter who your father is, you’re considered to belong to the tribe of your mother. And some Renshai do get permission to marry outside the tribe as a whole if the man is worthy and can pass or teach positive features to his offspring.”
Nisse glared at Kristel, who could not help adding, “But it’s harder for Modreys to get permission.”
Nisse nodded once, grudgingly.
Matrinka thought it best to change the subject again. “I guess you were hired to guard me.”
Nisse nodded again, sandy war braids bobbing around a face that relaxed noticeably with the diversion.
“Why me?”
Nisse studied Matrinka. “All of the king’s heirs have personal guards now. Women got female guards and men males.” She shrugged. “We were assigned to you.”
Matrinka’s gaze strayed to Darris once more.
Apparently interpreting the gesture as a question, Kristel said, “He insisted on staying with you last night. We deemed him harmless so deigned not to kill him this time.”
“Kill him?” The words were startled from Matrinka.
Kristel continued, composed, as if discussing nothing more serious than the courtyard flowers. “Anyone who comes too close receives a warning. If they don’t heed it, we have no choice but to kill them.”
The Renshai’s matter-of-fact coldness sent a chill shivering through Matrinka. She imagined her life, boxed in by ruthless demon-soldiers hired to protect her, and the picture made her queasy. She had seen the swarm of guards eternally surrounding King Kohleran and supposed the comparison fit, but she had never expected to hold the title of queen nor sit upon the Béarnian throne. Even now, after the slaughter or accidental death of so many heirs, three Béarnides, an aunt and two cousins, still stood ahead of her in the line of ascension.
Kristel’s voice turned contemptuous. “Though an obvious coward, he showed no inclination to harm you during the attack. There is no honor in slaying a craven.”
Matrinka’s mouth fell open, but she found no response to an insult worsened by the understanding that no curse was crueler or more derisive in the Renshai language than “coward.” Matrinka believed Darris uncommonly brave during the attack. He had thrown his body across her own, fearlessly taking whatever punishment the bear might mete in order to give her the opportunity to escape. That the bears had focused their attack elsewhere made the act no less heroic in her estimation. But, apparently, the Renshai saw things otherwise. Before Matrinka could question further or defend her companion, someone knocked on the door.
The Renshai tensed, holding their positions near the door. “Who is it?” Kristel demanded.
A meek voice floated beneath the solid panel. “Just the page again. May I speak with Princess Matrinka now?” His tone suggested he had made the request previously, presumably while Matrinka slept, and had been denied.
Kristel took her cue from Matrinka, who nodded vigorously. She had no intention of spending the rest of her existence locked in her bedroom with Renshai.
Awakened by Kristel’s shout through the heavy, wooden panel, Darris yawned and stretched. Then, recognizing his location, he came suddenly alert.
“You’re alone?” Kristel called back.
“Alone? Yes,” came the reply.
Kristel inclined her head in a silent command, and Nisse pulled the door open. A Béarnian boy of about twelve stood in the hallway, dark eyes darting nervously from Renshai to Renshai beneath a fringe of bangs. When they made no move to leap upon him, he directed his gaze to Matrinka. “Sorry to bother you, m’lady. Your presence is requested at the Room of Staves.”
The staff room? Horror clutched Matrinka. If they needed to test her, it could mean only one thing. “Gods, no. Is the king . . . ? I mean, he’s not . . .” She could not finish. She had known Kohleran’s death was imminent, but that barely cushioned the blow.
The page guessed her obvious, though unfinished, question. “Don’t worry, m’lady. King Kohleran is alive. No worse than yesterday.”
Relief flooded Matrinka, and she managed a shaky smile that turned into a confused stare. The Room of Staves had only a single purpose, to test for Béarn’s next heir. “Then why . . . ?” She stopped herself. A page could not be expected to have the details of such matters.
However, this page had surmised enough and chose to share his opinion. “I don’t know for certain, m’lady; but I can tell you I’ve sent seven heirs there already today. You’re number eight. And there hasn’t been any particular order to it that I can see.”
Matrinka glanced to the Renshai. They remained quietly in place, awaiting her command. She returned her attention to the page. “Give me a moment to change from my sleeping gown, and I’ll be right with you.”
The page nodded and took a step back, though he had never actually entered the room, apparently intimidated by the guards. Kristel raised a hand, waving for Darris to leave as well.
Darris obeyed without comment, pausing only long enough to nod politely to Matrinka as he left. The Renshai closed the door on his heels, and Matrinka slipped from beneath the covers to dress.
Chapter 3
The Staff-Test
This is going to be the most frustrating, difficult, annoying thing you’ve ever done in your life. And that’s the way it should be.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Matrinka knew the Room of the Staves held a central location on the castle’s first floor, tucked between a meditation area and a library. Scarcely larger than a closet, it contained only the Staves of Law and Chaos; nothing about their plain, wooden construction suggested the need for lighting or public display. She threaded through the castle corridors, clutching Mior, preceded and flanked by the two Renshai warriors. Grief still hounded her, and concern for her grandfather’s health remained despite the page’s reassurance. Other worries crept into her consciousness to join those already aching within her; these new ones involved her ability to pass the test for the crown, with or without her thoughts scattered and distracted by tragedy. Long ago, she had considered and discarded the idea that she might someday need to undergo the staff-test. Too many stood between her and the throne, especially now that her father was dead and could not pass the title.
Mior allowed Matrinka to mull the many problems without her counsel, and the princess appreciated the cat’s silence as well as the Renshai’s stolid hush. She loved Mior, yet the animal had her limitations when it came to issues req
uiring deep contemplation. For all her ability to communicate, the calico still had the basic mentality of an animal, tending to divide life into simple slices: avoid the uncomfortable, seek warmth and shelter, eat the tastiest available food whenever possible. Mior would prove of little assistance to Matrinka when it came to composing herself for or undergoing the test. The cat’s presence alone proved a solace; no exchange of thoughts was necessary.
As Matrinka and her escort approached the Room of Staves, they discovered only two figures waiting in front of it, both male Béarnides dressed in royal blue and tan. The larger wore the dress silks of Kohleran’s ministry while the other sported a servant’s tabard. As they drew closer, Matrinka recognized Prime Minister Baltraine and a scribe whose name she could not recall. Remembering Darris’ pronouncement that Baltraine’s youngest daughter had gotten injured during the bear’s attack, Matrinka winced in sympathy.
The Renshai shifted, placing themselves between Matrinka and the men.
As Matrinka approached, the scribe bowed low and Baltraine nodded respectfully. “Good morning, Princess,” the minister said.
“Good morning, Baltraine.” Matrinka looked around Nisse and Kristel at the kindly featured, middle-aged Béarnide who had been a member of the king’s cabinet since her childhood. Years ago, before affairs of state had completely consumed his attention, he used to crouch to her eye level and chat when they passed in the hallways. His eldest girl was Matrinka’s age, an occasional playmate in childhood. “I pray your daughter is well.”
Baltraine pursed lips lost in a mane of facial hair. “She’s fine. Just a few scrapes and bruises.” He lowered his head in sorrow. “Unfortunately, some of your cousins did not fare as well.”
“I know,” Matrinka said softly. Not wishing to hear a repeat of those murdered, she turned the conversation toward the king. “How’s Grandpapa?”
“Sad, of course.” Baltraine shook his head to imply King Kohleran had suffered more misfortune than any one man should have to endure.
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