Matrinka did not challenge the oddity of the situation. Two people hovered over surging ocean, and they needed her help. Whether or not she could assist them remained to be seen, but she could not assess the possibility from such a distance. Neatly setting down the staves in the center of the island, where the waters could not snatch them away, she prepared to dive.
Waves hammered the shore, foaming like a rabid animal. Matrinka hesitated, concerned the ocean might swallow and pound her to oblivion as well. Yet she would not stand back while others lost their lives. Only she could rescue the two people on the scale, so she plunged into the ocean without further deliberation.
The tide gripped her, flinging her back toward the shore. She fought the current, floundering through water that seemed hell-bent on drowning her. A wave flung her into a crazed spiral. She fought it, diving beneath it, and the moment’s reprieve allowed her to gain control of her limbs and swim. She clawed to the surface, salt burning her lungs and throat, coughing and sputtering to clear it. The icy waters numbed her joints, making her fight against the current seem futile. Nevertheless, she noted that the island lay some distance behind her. Taking solace from the progress, she pushed onward.
Soon waves no longer closed over her, though the current still dragged at her, towing her toward shore. She gritted her teeth, concentrating on the scale, not daring to check whether she had made any progress. Every three tedious lengths forward seemed accompanied by at least two backward. It felt like an eternity before the scale drew nearer, the people in the trays now obviously a man and a woman, both studying her approach.
As the swimming became easier, facts slipped into Matrinka’s mind that her vision could not tell her. Without an iota of doubt, she knew that neither could extract himself or herself from the tray. Something, presumably magic, held them in place so that only an outsider could free them. Furthermore, she realized that the man had a wife and four hungry, young children. He worked as a woodcutter, trading his product for the food his family needed and for cloth so that his wife could patch their clothing. He asked a fair price for his goods and often gave his wood free to cold orphans or other folks living on the street.
The woman, Matrinka understood as she swam, had disowned her parents and never married. She stole what she wanted and killed on occasion. The day before the powers of the staff-test plucked her from her life and spirited her here, she had murdered an elderly couple then robbed their cottage. As Matrinka hauled herself onto the base of the scale, her sympathy for the woodcutter flared nearly as hot as her hatred for the woman and her cruelty. The scale’s center had metal handholds for her to climb to the level of the balancing arms. She considered the mechanics. When she added her weight to one side, it would dip toward the ocean. Presuming she could haul the occupant free quickly, she could shove him into the water and dive in afterward to assist him to shore.
Matrinka’s mind outlined the events that would follow, though whether from normal logic or the assistance of the staves, she could not tell. Once the pan no longer held a person, the other would fall rapidly, plunging its resident into the depths. Magically trapped, this other would surely drown. Unless I can get to him or her swiftly. Matrinka shook her head. Burdened with one of the people, she felt certain she could not rescue the other from the sea’s bottom. If she tried, all three of them would probably die.
Matrinka began the climb up the central mast as she continued to outline the situation. To rescue one meant drowning the other. All logic assured her such was the case, and the decision inherent in this scenario seemed obvious now. I have to choose between them. It seemed too easy. Who would ever select a murderer over a kindhearted family man? She drew herself up to the level of the arms.
The woman shouted to Matrinka. “Please, save me. I can reward you. I can shower you with riches. In addition, I can promise you the heart and soul of a handsome, young man or my own body if such are your proclivities. Whatever you desire, I can see that it becomes yours.” Matrinka knew with the same certainty as other details that the woman could deliver on her promises. She glanced toward the man, who shook his head sadly.
“I have nothing,” he said. “Nothing but as many warm nights in my family’s cottage as you desire. We would share all we have but that would not be much, I’m afraid.”
Matrinka pursed her lips, cold wind chilling across her sodden body. She had not braved the ocean to select an option that placed greed over morality. She had made her decision the instant she reached the base of the scale. Without a word to either party, she headed toward the man, the balance of the scale controlled wholly by her movement.
Light sparked through Matrinka’s vision, stealing the situation from vision and reality in an instant. Again, she fell into the vortex, body spinning in spirals that seemed infinite. Sharp pains lanced through her head, laced with a guilt she could not fathom. This time, it seemed, the staves had chosen to judge and they deemed her actions unworthy.
The verdict shocked her, and she struggled to discover her mistake. Her own mind called her blameless, yet the staves bombarded her with aspersion until she felt on fire with shame. What did I do wrong? What was my mistake? She shot out the same questions a million times, yet no answers came. The magic chose to humiliate without explanation, persuading her that an honorable ruler would know. Tears smeared the blackness of the whirlwind to gray. Self-loathing sparked through her, not only at the obvious low-mindedness of her decision but at her own apparently warped morality that could not fathom the impropriety.
Soon, the rotation stole all of the revulsion in addition to sense of self. Matrinka found herself in the king’s high seat of Béarn’s court. To her left, the bard, Linndar, wore the proper, stately blue and tan and carried no instrument. To Matrinka’s right, Seiryn, the guard captain, oversaw a semicircle of sentries. Courtiers filled the benches, watching a foreign dignitary tread the center aisle toward the dais. The man led a dozen young men and women, chained in a line by collars.
A Béarnian guard introduced the foreigner: “Tichhar, representative of King Shaxchral of LaZar.” He named a large city in the Eastlands, one whose relations with Béarn had always been strained at best. The guard stepped aside to allow the Easterner to speak.
Tichhar bowed, and those accompanying him knelt.
Matrinka studied him in silence for several moments. Bard Linndar cleared her throat, politely reminding her queen that she needed to speak first.
Matrinka felt slightly off balance, as if she did not belong to this place or time. She discarded the thought, attributing it to lack of sleep the previous night. “Rise, please, Tichhar of LaZar, and speak your piece.”
Tichhar stood, though the chained ones remained in place. He used the common trading tongue. “Your Majesty. I have brought an offering of peace from my country to your own in the hope of long-lasting good relations between us.”
The silence became unnerving, reinforcing the significance of such an agreement. Few duties of a ruler seemed more satisfying than turning enemies to advocates, especially in masses. She recalled the conversation Linndar, Baltraine, and she had had before the session, though it seemed faded and distant, a cardboard memory. Eastern law upheld slavery. Their kingdoms sealed alliances with a slave exchange, and the mightier party gave fewer slaves to seal the difference in power. Awarding not enough, or those in poor health, jeopardized the association and had, on more than one occasion, ignited a war.
Matrinka could not understand why her prime minister and bodyguard had not advised her on the details of this situation. Now left to her own devices, she longed for the assistance of wiser heads. Delay, she knew, could also ruin this rare and wonderful opportunity; yet Béarn was opposed to slavery. How can I uphold Béarnian principles without offending LaZar? The answer, everyone seemed certain, should rest inside her, as straightforward and basic as breathing.
Matrinka shifted, knowing she could not expect the empty pause to carry her much longer. Soon, she had to speak. “Béarn thanks
King Shaxchral for this alliance as well as his generous gift.” She spoke slowly, trying to gather her wildly flailing thoughts in the moments this gained her. The difference between peace and war lay in the words she spoke . . . and something more that she could not place, something beyond the confines of the courtroom and a single decision. Phrase carefully. Don’t judge LaZar or apologize for our moratorium. “It is our wish to return a gift of appropriate merit, but Béarn’s only slaves bleat, whinny, and moo.”
Matrinka turned her attention to the minister of livestock. “Charletha, take Tichhar and his party to the royal barns and stables. Let them choose whatever animals they would and in numbers they believe fair.” She returned her attention to LaZar’s dignitary. “We hope you find this just reconciliation of the differences between our laws and customs.” She raised her brows, throwing the burden of rejection or acceptance into LaZar’s hands.
Tichhar considered, avoiding Matrinka’s stare. Although the East no longer reviled its women, they still believed them secondary to men. That bias would work against Matrinka now. Then, Tichhar looked up, a slight smile bending his dark cheeks. Like many Easterners, he wore a beard without other facial hair, unlike the Béarnides’ standard manes. “We accept your offer and would consider this treaty valid.” He bowed again, with a different flourish that Matrinka believed indicated farewell.
The exchange of slaves only bound the contract LaZar and Béarn had already written. Although Matrinka did not recall the details of it, she knew she believed the terms fair. Nothing remained but to seal the pact. “Béarn considers the treaty valid also. You may inform King Shaxchral. Dismissed.”
The guards led Tichhar from the courtroom amidst the whispered mumbling of the crowd of courtiers on the benches. Matrinka remained in position, unbreathing, until the LaZarian left the room. Only then, she loosed a sigh of relief; and the courtroom erupted into a frenzied chorus of speculation. Bard Linndar placed a hand on Matrinka’s arm to indicate a problem averted and a job well-handled. Pride trickled through Matrinka, interrupted only by a question from the one of the guards below. “Excuse me, Majesty.”
Matrinka looked down to the speaker and the chained line of slaves waiting on the path.
“Majesty, what would you have us do with these?”
Matrinka froze, so caught up in handling the treaty she had forgotten that her actions had allowed slaves in a free kingdom. I broke the law. The thought chilled her, and she could not find words to remedy the matter. If the queen of Béarn breaks the laws she makes, how can she expect others to follow them? For several seconds, she stared, speechless, seeking precedent from history. Yet, bargaining with Eastern kingdoms was history-making and she could think of nothing on which to base her next course of action. Do I apologize to my populace? Do I change the law to allow temporary slavery in court situations? Do I make amends? The latter course made the most sense to her. “Free them. Then find out where each wishes to be taken, and we will do everything in our power to see them all safely home.”
Agony seized Matrinka with a sudden fury, flinging her into a darkness that transcended space and time. Once again, she became Matrinka the tested, the throne and her queen-ship disappearing into a fantasy something assured her was unlikely to reach fruition. Once again, the staves proclaimed her unworthy of sitting upon Béarn’s throne. The pride Matrinka had celebrated for making choices with a skill and smoothness she never knew she had disappeared in a red slash of humiliation. Where did I go wrong this time? No answers came. Exchanging animals for humans had not only rescued the treaty but also resulted in happiness for a dozen slaves who would otherwise have lived only in suffering. How could I have done any better? Matrinka reviewed every word, every nuance of the exchange, and her conscience condoned all that had transpired. Yet a greater power, one backed by gods, condemned her with a vehemence that made her own assessments seem foolish. If she had the morality to rule Béarn, she would understand her mistake.
Self-doubt became a lash with which Matrinka punished herself repeatedly before the third scenario of the staff-test became the fourth and, she understood, the last. Forever, she had believed herself a conscientiously ethical person. Always, she had tried to choose the moral path in every aspect of her existence, doing her best to make life special for everyone around her. Yet, now, she could not help questioning every action and every decision she’d ever made. No longer could she trust her judgment alone.
Suddenly, the blackness receded; and Matrinka again found herself in the court high seat believing herself queen of Béarn and surrounded by officials and guards. A wiry, Pudarian man stood before her, making a pitch in earnest tones, eyes remaining always fixed on her face: “Your Majesty, I’d like to present ‘Wonder Tonic,’ a concoction of rare herbs guaranteed to cure even the most advanced case of lumpy-consumption.”
Matrinka sat up straighter at this proclamation. Memory told her that too many Béarnides had already succumbed to this disease. The Pudarian promised a miracle, and joy filled her.
The Pudarian shook his mop of brown hair, though it fell back into an equally boyish position. “My aunt put together the mixture, and I found the final root that gives Wonder Tonic its strength.” He lowered his head, studying his feet “Majesty, I’d like to give Wonder Tonic away for free so that it can help as many as possible, but many of the ingredients are rare and expensive and, well, I just need to recoup my costs and, well . . .” He glanced up, eyes soulful. “Majesty, I seek your permission to sell Wonder Tonic to your citizenry without tariff so that I can keep the cost reasonable for those who need it. Majesty, I will, of course, reserve as many bottles as you wish for use by the kingdom, first. I can even give you one free.” Despite his generous offer, his tone made it clear that he would need to make up the cost on his other bottles.
Matrinka grinned, scarcely able to contain her excitement. “Of course you may sell this tonic without tariff. As for the kingdom, we can better afford to pay for your product than my citizenry can. How many bottles effect this cure?”
“One, Majesty.” The Pudarian bowed.
“Then we’ll take six. Thank you for coming to Béarn with your product. It will find good use here, and we appreciate your travel. If you discover Béarnides in need who cannot afford your precious elixir, please send their relatives here.”
“Thank you, Majesty. You’re too kind.”
Too kind? Impossible. Matrinka kept the thought to herself. “Dismissed for now. Return if you encounter any problems at all.”
A sense of time passing filled Matrinka, a gray swirl of dreamlike change that brought her to another time within a week of her discussion with the Pudarian healer. Magic filled in the significant events since the courtroom decision: The healer had promised the tonic would heal in four days. He had sold all of his wares the first day and disappeared on the second. By five days, none had recovered; in fact, three died. Natural innocence had driven Matrinka to trust the Pudarian’s promises; but, confronted with the facts, she had no choice but to order his arrest. The guards had caught up to and captured the self-proclaimed healer. Now Matrinka sat in the court, deliberating the Pudarian’s fate.
No law covered such a situation. No one had ever attempted to defraud the kingdom and its inhabitants before, at least not in such a widespread fashion. Matrinka’s judgment would set new precedent, make new law; and she would not do so without careful contemplation.
When Matrinka’s silence stretched into an hour, the hissed speculations disappeared, replaced by the more routine, dull roar of conversation. Many thoughts and possibilities underwent her scrutiny and were tucked away or discarded. Finally, she cleared her throat, and the courtiers fell into a startling hush. The Pudarian remained in front of Matrinka, pinioned between Béarnian guards.
“The wrong your deceit inflicted upon my people cannot go unpunished. The false hope you gave and then spirited away caused a pain no man should have the right to inflict on others.” Matrinka tried to meet the Pudarian’s gaze, b
ut his eyes dodged hers. “In punishment, I sentence you to two years in the dungeon followed by permanent exile from our country.” She turned her attention to the guards. “Dismissed.”
A buzz swept through the courtiers as each added his or her own personal opinion to the queen’s decision. Matrinka wished she could make out individual voices from the crowd, uncertain of her sentence. As the guards escorted their prisoner from the courtroom, another approached and bowed. “Majesty, what would you have us do with moneys confiscated from the guilty?”
Matrinka did not need to consider her answer long. “Return it to those from which it came.”
“Yes, Majesty. And what would you have us to with the extra?”
“The extra?”
“Yes, Majesty. We calculated the amount each person paid and the number of bottles. There’s a surplus of approximately one hundred coppers.”
Matrinka believed the solution should seem as obvious to her as the previous one, yet it did not. She would not return money to a thief, yet she could not see Béarn’s kingdom profiting from the Pudarian’s deceit either. Only one other possibility came to her. “Divide it equally among those who lost money to the scheme.”
The moment she spoke the words, the magical whirlwind claimed her. Matrinka spun, assailed by voices with the strength and power of gods: “Failure. Unworthy failure.” Every sense seemed to leave her. Only the condemnation remained, driving into her head, offering no explanations for how her performance had displeased the gods. The words echoed through her ears, entering her skull, and encompassing the core of her being. Failure. Unworthy failure.
Matrinka struck ground with a pain that seemed insignificant compared with the fires of shame inside her. She lay on a stone floor, sobbing. The staves in each hand felt cold and accusatory in her grip. She remained in position for a long time, tears stinging her eyes and guilt slamming her conscience. “Unworthy,” she whispered.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 9