The response addressed Matrinka’s concern indirectly. A dead king could feel no sorrow.
Baltraine continued, nudging their talk toward the matter at hand. “We’ve lost the king’s health and six heirs in less than two years, and another life hangs by a thread. This last incident makes it clear we’re not dealing with just bad luck or a curse.”
The Renshai remained in place, their postures relaxed but their features alert. Matrinka tightened her hold on Mior. “Murder?”
Baltraine dismissed the one-word question. “Murder definitely. Possibly treason.” He spoke freely in front of the scribe and Renshai. The former served the sage, his job to convey details, information, and even the most confidential of the king’s judgments only to his master. The Renshai would repeat nothing that might jeopardize the heirs. The core of their religion forbade it.
“Treason?” The idea confused Matrinka. “Why would anyone kill heirs?”
The prime minister tossed his hand in a gesture that implied no explanation.
The staff-test discouraged dissension among the heirs. One who would murder siblings for the throne could never pass the test. An outside force wishing to invade might believe the lack of a king would weaken Béarn, but a troublemaker from within seemed to have nothing to gain. Unless they could abolish the staff-test. The thought seemed madness. Surely no one would dare challenge an institution the gods themselves had devised. Matrinka needed one piece of information even to surmise. “What happens if the king dies without a living heir?”
Baltraine shuffled his feet, obviously uncomfortable. “I don’t know. No one does.” He looked up, his expression deadly earnest. “The law clearly specifies who can and cannot take the throne, and no contingencies exist for such a situation.” He let the implication hang.
Kristel spoke scarcely above a whisper, but her words carried for their import. “The Renshai will see an heir in place. The Béarnian ruler is the central balance of the world. Without him or her, Midgard would collapse into Chaos-ruin.” Religious faith alone supported her view, yet that seemed enough. They all worshiped in the same temples.
Matrinka felt as if frost speckled her skin, and she shivered. “So the reason for testing me now?”
Baltraine nodded, obviously anticipating a question he had probably answered seven times before. “King Kohleran and I thought it best to test all the heirs before we lose him or any more of you. Only those most trusted will know who passes. We can focus our security and plans based on the outcome.”
The explanation satisfied Matrinka. She tossed back her long, black locks as she mulled the potential consequences. If she passed, she stood a reasonable chance of becoming Béarn’s next queen, but she would probably have to spend the remainder of King Kohleran’s illness triple guarded like a prisoner. Should she fail, her life could become her own again, without the constant Renshai escort. One thing seemed certain. She would pass or fail on her own merits, and the possible repercussions would not affect her trial by magic. “All right, then. What do I have to do?”
The scribe stepped aside. Baltraine pulled a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door to the Room of Staves. The panel swung open to reveal a dark interior, lit only by the light streaming in from the hall torches, bare except for a wooden staff leaning in each far corner. Baltraine gestured at the interior with a flourish. “Take both staves in hand, and the test begins. Once finished, you need only place them properly back and exit.”
A flush of fear struck Matrinka, gradually displacing the chilling feeling that Kristel’s words had invoked. She willed herself to put Mior down, but her arm would not release the cat. “Can I bring her?” She inclined her head toward the calico.
Baltraine’s massive shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t see why you can’t, unless the staves tell you otherwise. None of the others remained inside longer than a few moments, though they all seemed to believe it had taken hours. I think she’ll be fine, in with you or out here.” He took a torch from a bracket shaped like a wolf and passed it to Matrinka.
Matrinka managed to set Mior down and accepted the light. “Then I’ll let her decide.” She headed into the room, the cat scurrying directly at her heels.
*Like I’d leave you to handle this alone,* Mior chastised.
*No offense, but I don’t think you can help much.* Matrinka heard the door click closed behind them. *In fact, you probably shouldn’t even if you can. The staff-test is supposed to measure my appropriateness to rule, not yours.*
*Too bad. Think how much better off this world would be if cats controlled it.*
Nervous, Matrinka could not think of a gibe to return, though Mior had left her a more than adequate straight line. After placing her torch securely in the room’s only wall bracket, she wiped sweating hands on her dress.
Mior turned appropriately serious. *Maybe I can’t help directly, but I can be here for you.*
Matrinka hoped Mior could read her gratitude, because she did not waste words. The cat’s loyalty lessened her discomfort, but the uneasiness provoked by the staves could not be wholly banished. She dried her hands again, reaching for the first staff with a grip that quivered the more she tried to keep it steady. As her fingers closed over the wood, she braced for a rush of magic that did not come. It felt smooth and cool against her palm, without a single rough grain or knot. She wasted several moments, holding it and waiting for tingling or some other sensation to indicate she clutched something more significant than sanded ash.
Speculation bombarded Matrinka, from the fear that the staff had already judged and found her unworthy to a wonder about whether or not the whole would prove a hoax. Perhaps Béarnian heirs down through history had simply stepped into this booth and made their own decisions, based on self-judgment, about whether or not they should become the next monarch. Her first inclination to expose the test as a sham passed quickly. Whatever the method, the staff-test had resulted in a succession of benevolent and competent kings. The difficult part involved whether or not she found herself worthy of the honor.
Matrinka reached for the second staff, and never knew for certain whether or not she grasped it. Pain shot through her, starting at the fingertips of both hands and exploding through her entire body. Agony stole mastery of movement and senses; she could not even find the control to scream. Something unseen struck her hard enough to send her tumbling, end over end, through a void whose presence she never questioned. The sensation of spinning seemed to last an eternity, gradually becoming more prominent than the suffering. The spasms that racked every part of her body, an instinctive response to pain, became a greater anguish than the pain itself. She forced herself to breathe deeply, relaxing her cramping muscles and opening eyes she never recalled closing.
The twirling stopped. The pain settled into a dull, nagging discomfort. She lay on a bed, studying blurry surroundings through eyes coated with an irritating, sticky layer of mucus. She rubbed at her eyes, the pressure sparking flashes of light across her retinas, but the beclouding film persisted and a glimpse of her wasted-looking hand made her pause in fear and wonder. She stared at it, trying to recall how she had come to lie here and whether it truly belonged to her. Her mind registered body part and bed as standard, normal situations, assuring her the confusion stemmed from post-sleep amnesia. She was an ancient queen of Béarn, dying of illness and decades past her prime. Now, familiarity defined the vague outlines of richly carved and jeweled furniture, three windows, and Prime Minister Baltraine, who stood patiently near the door.
Matrinka forced a smile, though it took more energy than she would have imagined. She willed away concentration on her own, chronic distress to ease that of her minister. His solemn stance made her certain he had matters of grave importance to discuss. “What can I do for you, Baltraine?”
Once addressed, Baltraine bowed graciously. “Majesty, I deeply apologize for the intrusion. I hope I have not disturbed your sleep.”
Matrinka dismissed the possibility, unable to recall whethe
r she had been resting. Time passed in fits and starts. Sometimes pain dragged each second into infinity, and other times sleep and disorientation stole days. “Speak freely, Baltraine.”
Baltraine bowed again, though the gesture was unnecessary. It seemed more like nervous habit or delay. “I regret to inform you that a situation occurred in the statue garden. Somehow, three live bears got substituted for sculptures and attacked a group of children.”
Grief shocked through Matrinka, then settled to a dull throb that made listening difficult. As if through a thick sheet pulled over her ears, she listened to Baltraine describe casualties, including her grandchildren, with a feeling of twice-hearing, as if she had listened to someone detail the dead and injured before in another context. The sorrow, though genuine, seemed stale. She saw little reason to question him further. The dead would receive proper rest; care of the injured would fall to the royal healers whom Matrinka trusted implicitly. When Baltraine’s list finished, she had to force speech. “Where did these bears come from?”
“We don’t know, Majesty.” Baltraine shook his head sadly and took a step nearer. Now Matrinka could see his eyes had gone red and bloodshot from tears. “We’re investigating the details. Every child, nursemaid, and guard has sworn he or she didn’t notice the switch until the bears attacked. The bears themselves seemed normal enough, aside from their absolute concentration on killing. We’re examining their corpses now. The statues haven’t been found. Oh, and there’s been some reports of odd things that might have preceded the incident: lights, sounds, movements, color, and so on. Nothing consistent or confirmed.”
“Magic?” Matrinka supplied without thinking.
Baltraine shuffled from foot to foot. “Perhaps, Majesty. If we don’t find a more . . . um . . .” He searched for the proper word, apparently trying to avoid insulting the suggestion. “. . . mundane possibility.” He glanced sidelong, obviously trying to read his queen’s face for clues to whether she considered his dispatch of her suggestion an affront.
Matrinka shifted, fluid from her illness settling into the new position. She struggled for breath, hampered by a swollen abdomen and sodden lungs. “Well, yes, of course,” she murmured with careful matter-of-factness intended to placate Baltraine as much as to handle the situation. “Logic must always come before mystical considerations.” She coughed, tasting blood-tinged froth. “I’m just not certain standard reason will reveal the answer this time.”
Baltraine nodded attentively.
If they could not piece together a physical explanation, sorcery would obviously have to fall under consideration. But there would be no precedent for discovering the identity of a wielder of magic. Experience suggested only a god could stand behind any such act. Matrinka shoved aside her speculations about Baltraine’s thoughts, certain he had come for more reasons than just delivering information.
Baltraine got to the point. “Majesty, the ministers, including myself, have concerns that we’re dealing with assassins.”
Matrinka chewed her lower lip, seeing no other way to interpret the current events. She coughed again, the effort sparking pain through her chest. “I would agree with that assessment, though I can’t fathom why someone would deliberately disrupt the succession.”
“Nor can I, Majesty.” Baltraine bowed again. “It’s under consideration now by Béarn’s wisest. Once we have a motive, we can start to find a culprit. We’re working on that from every side: searching for clues, observation, trying to discover a motive that might direct our search.” The set of Baltraine’s head made Matrinka believe he had trained his gaze directly on hers. “The one thing we can do now is protect the heirs.”
“Agreed.”
Baltraine finished his thought. “Majesty, I believe the best interests of the kingdom will be served if we learn just how dangerous the situation has become.” He drew himself to his full height as he came to the heart of his intentions. “I think we should have all of Béarn’s remaining potential heirs undergo the staff-test. I seek your support in this matter.”
For reasons Matrinka could not explain, the unorthodox suggestion did not wholly surprise her. She considered the implications. Historically, the staff-test resulted in the decreed innocent, neutral rulers; but the ones who failed often became despondent. Her father had ruled Béarn into old age, leaving her one of his last surviving children, the youngest of Yvalane’s progeny. Her cousin who failed the staff-test drank himself into an oblivion that ended with his death. However, although the sage’s records indicated more than one suicide, the vast majority of heirs dealt with their disappointment in less destructive ways. Confronted with the need for a decision, Matrinka frowned. It seemed cruel to inflict the test on anyone unnecessarily. “You sound as if you’re suggesting testing every heir, no matter his order in the ascension.”
Baltraine did not stir, remaining deadly earnest. “I am, Majesty.”
Taken aback, Matrinka squinted, though this pooled the mucus in her eyes, all but blinding her. “Would it not be wiser and kinder to test them in order until one passes?” She returned her eyes to their normal configuration, blinking the film back to its usual arrangement.
“I think not, Majesty.” Baltraine contradicted with a respect that did not offend. “For several reasons. First, discretion seems necessary in this instance. Should people learn the identity of the heir, the assassin or his employer may also. If we test only until one passes, the heir will become obvious to too many. Second, it behooves us to know exactly how many appropriate heirs we have in case we lose the first.”
“We can guard the first.”
“Majesty, Renshai are superior warriors but not invincible. And even the best sentries cannot thwart illness should it choose to take our beloved heir.”
The explanation made sense. “Continue,” Matrinka encouraged.
“Thank you, Majesty. I’ve stated my case.” Baltraine remained in place, rock steady. “I cannot and will not take action without your support.”
Matrinka sensed she had come to a decision somehow even more significant than it already seemed, yet the additional details eluded her. Instinct told her to reject Baltraine’s plan since it hinged on inflicting emotional trauma on others. That those others consisted of her children and grandchildren only made the action more onerous. Still, Baltraine had a point she could not deny. The kingdom of Béarn had always served as the Westlands ruling monarchy, taking precedence over all the kings and queens of cities, towns, and villages. According to the tenets, the very foundation of Béarnian, Erythanian, and Northern religion, the monarch in Béarn served as the focal point of balance. She could not last much longer; and, without a ruler, Béarn would topple, dragging the remainder of the world along with it. To staff-test all the heirs might traumatize a few, but to ignore the need to protect the proper heirs at all costs might mean the destruction of the entire world. Matrinka sighed, hating both options. The greater good lies with preserving the kingdom. “You have my support,” she said. “Proceed.”
A feeling of closure washed through her, bringing a pleasant, personal satisfaction though the Staves of Law and Chaos revealed no emotion or sense of passing or failing. Matrinka’s identity returned, and she recalled her purpose. Her palms grew warm. King Kohleran’s room faded around her. The spinning resumed, whirling her through a soundless, sightless vortex. She considered the events of a moment before in this new context. For all intents and purposes, she had become a duplicate of her grandfather. She had known his illness brought him pain, but never contemplated that the discomfort was a constant that would have made its absence a joy as sweet and primal as the most beautiful stroll through the tended gardens. The simple things she took for granted, such as clear vision, moving, and breathing became wondrous in comparison.
As she continued to tumble, Matrinka pondered the test she had undergone, wishing the staves would give her some indication of whether she had done well or ill. The fact that she had begun the staff-test indicated she had chosen the same cours
e as King Kohleran. Since he had already passed the staff-test, it seemed certain she had performed as a proper innocent, neutral heir should. The success pleased her. Is that it? Was that the test? It seemed unlikely. Offered only two possibilities, half of the heirs would pass the tests based only on random guessing. That did not strike Matrinka as likely to constitute a magical task so steeped in religion and mystery. Soon, she imagined, she would undergo another scenario. She clung tightly to her identity and the staves, hoping this time she would not become lost in staff-created delusion.
Suddenly, Matrinka struck solid ground. Terror flashed through her briefly as she naturally imagined the pain that must ensue from landing after falling so far. But she thumped to sand with barely enough impact to notice. Still clutching the staves, she sat up and looked around. She had settled on a tiny island half a dozen paces across. It contained nothing but sand, and a tumultuous ocean pounded every beach. Matrinka knew nothing about land forms in the sea, but she guessed that the waters would eventually claim this tiny scrap of sand. This time, the staves’ magic had not thrown her into another persona, at least she did not believe so. How would I know? The question defied answer, so Matrinka discarded it. She felt like herself, but she had not questioned her identity as the dying queen of Béarn either.
Matrinka rose, using the staves to assist her, wondering what her task would consist of this time. Her mind told her that escaping the island would not satisfy the staves. The scenario involved something more significant, including other people. Other people? On this tiny island? As certain as she felt about forthcoming events involving others, she could see she was alone. From end to end, no one else shared her minuscule piece of the world. She looked out over the ocean, scanning the horizon as she walked the perimeter of the beach. About halfway from her starting point, she found a massive shadow towering through fog and spume kicked up by the waves. Salt burning her eyes, she followed the shadow to its source, far out to sea. Gradually, she made out the form of what appeared to be a giant scale, perfectly balanced, with a person in each tray. Their waving arms made it clear they had seen her and desperately requested her aid.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 8