Something furry rubbed across her face more than once before she acknowledged its presence. Only then a familiar mind-voice touched her. *I love you.* Mior managed to convey her sympathy and affection at once.
Matrinka sat up, somehow managing a smile. Pulling the cat into her arms, she wept into the clean-smelling fur.
Mior purred, the sound like gentle music.
Chapter 4
The Last Heir
Honor comes not from the method of warfare, but in defeating your enemy with nothing but skill, wits, and, perhaps, a sword.
—Colbey Calistinsson
A light drizzle pattered down on Erythane’s Bellenet Fields, and clouds dulled the day to dreary gray. Through armor and underpadding, Ra-khir scarcely noticed the rain, though it had turned the packed earth to mud and glistened in his mount’s black mane. For the last time, he charged along the central practice fence under the watchful eye of Armsman Edwin and his three fellow knights-in-training. He clutched his pike in supple gauntlets, supporting it level despite its weight, gaze locked on the hovering ring that was his target. As always, Ra-khir marveled at how fast he reached the ring yet how long the heavy pull of armor and pike seemed to last in contrast. The sensation of too much time, yet not nearly enough, felt nonsensical. Now, as always, the ring suddenly filled his vision, and every hoof fall made the pike tip bounce, frustratingly beyond his control. Nevertheless, he managed to skewer the ring. Metal rattled down his pike, and his balance wavered. Great, Stupid. Unhorse yourself. He flung his weight sideways, instinctively remembering not to overcompensate; the heavy armor made momentum difficult to stop. Managing to keep his seat, he rode back toward Edwin and his peers, holding up lance and ring like a banner.
“Good show!” Edwin clapped twice to display his approval, a moderate gesture. The number of claps usually indicated his degree of pleasure, and the armsman had applauded a spectacularly good maneuver on rare occasions. Usually, though, he limited his tribute to a single clap.
Ra-khir reveled in the praise but showed no outward signs that could be construed as gloating. He had accomplished two successful passes, and only one of the others had speared a single ring. Another year, and I’m in for sure. Excitement suffused him, though guilt followed immediately. I shouldn’t feel joy for besting companions. Training sessions, his father assured him, were not a competition but a chance for knights-in-training to assist one another. Only twenty-six knights existed at any time, a dozen rotating through Béarn, a dozen on duty in Erythane, and two extra to fill spaces left by death or illness. Currently, Erythane had only twenty-five, and Ra-khir hoped to become the twenty-sixth in about a year, when he completed his training. As the son of Knight-Captain Kedrin, he had to prove his competence for the position so obviously that no one credited his lineage as gaining him special favors.
“If that ring had been properly placed, you would have had an easier time of it.” Edwin glanced around his students’ faces, catching the eye of the eldest, a compact lad of twenty. “Can you tell me the problem with the set of that ring?”
Ra-khir’s colleague responded hesitantly. “It was set too . . .” He paused just long enough for Ra-khir to wonder if he was guessing before giving the correct answer. “. . . high.”
“Correct.” If Edwin noticed the pause, he made no comment on it. “That forced Ra-khir to aim for the head, a notoriously small and mobile target. Better to strike for the torso.” Edwin assisted Ra-khir’s dismount, then waved him away. “You’re done for the day. Everyone else, take one more pass.”
Ra-khir retreated to a quiet corner, removed his pack from behind the saddle, and left the gray to graze. Removing his gauntlets, he set to work carefully peeling away armor and padding. The cold sprinkle soothed his hot limbs and sore muscles. He stripped down to the undertunic, letting the spray wash sweat from his face and hair, ignoring the red curl plastered to his cheek. He rose, perspiration and rain forming a foul-smelling adhesive that made his clothes cling with every movement. Doffing his undertunic, he packed his armor in naked comfort, letting the rain wash away the grime and odor.
Caught up in the pleasure of the natural shower and placing each piece of armor into its proper place in the pack, Ra-khir became oblivious to the movement and sounds around him. As he placed the last joint into place, he gradually grew aware of spying eyes. Concerned a young woman might have wandered to the practice area, despite the rain, he looked up quickly.
Kevral perched upon the fence, rocking slightly and studying him with obvious curiosity. Rain sheened the childish face, pasting blond strands in random patterns around forehead, neck, and cheeks. Once again, the child wore loose-fitting combat garb, although a long sword had replaced the short sword in the overlarge belt “Hello, Ra-khir Kedrin’s son. Do knights-in-training always practice in the nude?”
Irritation trickled through Ra-khir, enhanced by the high-pitched, singsong voice that brought back vivid memories of their encounter a week earlier. His honor told him to remain polite, even to one he did not like, so he smiled tolerantly. “Hello, Kevral. I hadn’t seen you for a while. I thought maybe you’d gone away.” He allowed his tone to imply that he would have preferred such a thing. Even politeness did not seem reason enough to lie, and he did not want to encourage the irksome child to bother him on a regular basis. Taking a rag and clean clothes from his pack, he dried off as well as the continued rain allowed and donned the fresh tunic and britches.
“I’ve been busy,” Kevral said. “Did you miss me?”
Ra-khir could think of several ways to answer that question, none of them kind. Instead, he made a noncommittal grunt and let Kevral interpret it. Finished dressing, he set to lacing his pack. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could make an excuse to leave the practice field. And Kevral.
The youngster continued to watch Ra-khir work, swinging one leg in circular motions from atop the fence. “I thought you might like to spar again. This time we could drop the other on his head instead of his butt, or until the first butt gets severed, the first head gets severed, the first head comes out the first butt.” Kevral jumped lightly down onto the muddy field, seeming oblivious to the mud spattered over shoes and pants legs.
Ra-khir took scant satisfaction from the fact that Kevral would probably catch hell at home for the mess. “What is it with you and butts?”
Kevral grabbed the opening. “Me and butts? You were the one parading yours baby-naked.”
Ra-khir leaped to his defense. “I wasn’t parading. You were spying. Only knights are supposed to come up here.” Though true, Ra-khir knew others did watch the knights practice, but rarely in any but the balmiest weather. For years, knights-in-training had used the area to change as well as train, and Ra-khir saw little reason to apologize for long tradition. “Anyway, I’m not interested in sparring with you again. You proved your point. You’re pretty damned good for a boy. Someday, you’ll make Erythane a great soldier, and so, I hope, will I. I’m not going to challenge you again, especially not to the death.” He added so as not to leave it open for later discovery, “If you challenge me, I’ll have no choice but to fight. But I believe you’re smart enough to see such a battle would not be in your, mine, or Erythane’s best interests.”
Ra-khir thought he had spoken well, complimenting Kevral and even generously implying that the child was the better warrior. Yet Kevral’s hostile expression suggested offense. He could only assume the reaction came of comparing Kevral’s skill to that of other boys rather than the man this child apparently attempted to become too quickly.
The accusatory tone of Kevral’s response displayed the bitterness Ra-khir had already read from the narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “So what do you knights do in Béarn anyway?”
“Do?” The abrupt switch in topic caught Ra-khir off guard. He finished lacing his pack and hefted it. “First, I’m just an apprentice, remember?”
Kevral made a vague gesture to indicate the detail did not matter. “I just wondered because I noticed Ren
shai are protecting the heirs and knights aren’t. So I wondered about the purpose of the knights at all.”
To Ra-khir’s relief, Kevral’s voice went from condemning to genuine interest.
Ra-khir ignored the issue of how and why a child might have traveled to the king’s city. More likely, Kevral had heard stories rather than seen the actual guarding. “The Knights of Erythane perform special missions for the king. And they lead Béarn’s military into battle.”
“Oh?” Kevral seemed taken aback by the answer, literally shifting a step in reverse. “Well, then. I guess the king’s army must be slow to ride behind warriors buried in . . . in . . .” The youngster pointed at the pack in Ra-khir’s hands. “. . . table wear.”
The description sparked an ire that Ra-khir reined in with difficulty. He hoisted the pack, flinging it onto the gray’s haunches. At the sudden weight, the horse stiffened, ears flicking backward and left hind leg cocked. It resumed grazing while Ra-khir fastened the pack in place. “This ‘table wear,’ as you call it, has rescued a lot of heroes otherwise lost to enemies or stray attacks.” Believing the child jealous of a shielding only kingdom-supported warriors could afford, Ra-khir attempted to teach though his previous experience told him it would prove futile. “Champions maintain honor no matter the circumstances; weak men revile what they cannot have.”
Kevral laughed, returning a different quotation Ra-khir had never heard. “To rely upon any defenses but one’s own skill is cowardice of the worst kind. A real warrior needs no props to win the battle or to die with dignity.”
Ra-khir continued to tie his pack in place, finding the words ridiculous. “Who said that?”
“A wise prophet named Colbey.” Kevral’s voice practically dripped admiration, the starry-eyed tone that of an adolescent girl in love.
Colbey. Ra-khir finished affixing the pack, suddenly jarred toward a chain of thought he had once discarded. Until now, he had believed Kevral an Erythanian child, a reasonable thought since travel between Erythane and any city but Béarn occurred rarely; and Kevral lacked any Béarnian features. For reasons lost to obscurity, Béarn and Erythane followed the same religion as the Northmen rather than that of their Western neighbors. All who followed Odin’s pantheon knew of the heavenly prophet, Colbey; but Renshai alone revered him like a deity. Renshai also believed the Great Fire had signified Ragnarok, while Béarn and Erythane still dreaded the coming of the Great Destruction that would see the end of humanity and nearly all the gods.
Ra-khir studied the child again, seeing nothing different on this inspection. Moppet features peered at him from beneath shaggy yellow bangs; and the blue eyes seemed more mischievous than cruel. He did not know how to tell a Renshai from an Erythanian, but traveled knights had assured him and his peers it would be obvious. Kevral, Ra-khir decided, was just a young Erythanian boy with a bad disposition, trying to simulate being Renshai to look tough and impress his friends. Given the number of Erythanians who wished to become knights, or feigned the training around companions, it only made sense one might someday choose to emulate Renshai. This child’s apparently natural skill granted the tools that might allow the charade to work.
These thoughts raced through Ra-khir’s mind in an instant, immediately trailed by others. Is Kevral an orphan? A street kid? A boy with a bad family life who seeks notoriety when he can’t have love? The train of thought drew Ra-khir to his own family situation, raising sorrow and anger at once. Since the assassination of three Béarnian heirs to the throne, his father had needed to remain in the king’s city. Ra-khir understood, but could not stop, the loneliness that crept through him every night of his father’s absence, leaving him too much time to contemplate the decision he had made nearly a month ago. He could not regret the choice. His mother’s selfish insistence on lying about Ra-khir’s father had lost him a lifetime of Kedrin’s love. He could not brook the conditions she placed on her devotion to him, not when Kedrin had tried so hard to become a part of his life and loved, even now, without reservations or prerequisites. If only his mother could respect the bond he had with his father, he would have a family again—a broken one, but nevertheless a family.
Ra-khir shook off his considerations. Finished with his pack, he patted the gray’s rump then headed around to mount. Though hardly silk, Kevral’s garb made it clear this was no poverty-stricken orphan. The sword, though not fancy, could not have belonged to a starving father. More likely, Kevral had a happy home and a stable family. That realization only made the child more irritating. If Ra-khir could choose an honorable path despite his difficult childhood, then he saw no excuse for Kevral. “Thank you for this . . .” Ra-khir searched for the proper word that might end future run-ins without insulting Kevral into a challenge. “. . . interesting discussion. But I need to go now.”
Without awaiting a reply, Ra-khir clambered into the saddle and rode toward home.
* * *
Prime Minister Baltraine paced a too-familiar course from door to table and back, though he had already called the meeting to order with appropriate ceremony. As he approached the door, his back to the politicians and leaders, he believed he gathered enough composure to discuss a problem no prior prime minister had ever had to handle. He turned to meet the gazes of a dozen somber men and women, and realization crushed him to silence again. Just facing Béarn’s other five ministers seemed difficult enough. Abran sat quietly, paper-thin hands twitching through his beard. To his left, the other four ministers formed a line: court attendant Weslin, Charletha who oversaw animals and their caretakers, homely Limrinial with her mismatched eyes and blunt manner, and lowly Fahrthran with his mixed heritage and honorary royal title.
The other side of the table held less commonly assembled leaders: Thialnir, a Renshai chieftain, always met Baltraine’s gaze first. Broad-boned and -featured, he sat with a stillness that defined calm, hands resting lightly on his thighs. Blond braids tumbled around placid features and sharp, green eyes. Beside him sat Knight-Captain Kedrin of the Erythanian Knights. His dress uniform and tabard, combining Béarn’s blue and tan with Erythane’s orange and black, made a glaring contrast to the plain battle garb of the Renshai. Next in line, Béarn’s own guard captain, Seiryn, studied his dirt-rimmed fingernails on the tabletop. Though naturally Béarnian large, Seiryn’s battle skill stemmed as much from strategy, delegation ability, and physical and mental quickness as from strength. Though of smaller peoples, Thialnir and Kedrin seemed nearly as massive as Béarn’s own war leader.
The bard, Linndar, occupied the last seat on the left-hand side of the meeting table. Her mixed heritage made her look frail in the presence of so many Béarnides and warrior officers, yet she seemed the calmest of them all. She practically sprawled in her chair, alert and respectful but comparatively comfortable. In her lap, she cradled a lonriset, a ten-stringed lutelike instrument invented by a distant ancestor.
Baltraine headed back toward the table and its eminent array, opening his mouth to speak the piece for which he had called them together. But, once again, discomfort betrayed him. One more pass, he promised himself for the third time, emphasizing the finality in his mind. Again he pivoted, delaying his oration though he had already chosen the words. The postponement diffused his tension only slightly as procrastination itself became an increasing worry. This time, for sure, he would speak.
The path to the door had become too routine, the six steps over too quickly. Once more, Baltraine turned, this time resolved to continue the meeting. He had no intention of shirking his responsibility, only of sparing the others bad news that had wrested sleep from him and still kept his heart pounding, his thoughts locked on a tragedy that seemed foregone. He returned to the table, pressed his fists to the smooth surface, and met each and every gaze in turn. Locking last with the soft-eyed bard, he directed his words to her. “As you all know, every heir to the throne of Béarn underwent the staff-test yesterday.”
Polite murmurs followed the declaration. They all understood the reason for their
meeting.
“Leaders and friends of Béarn, I do not need to remind you that every word spoken here must remain in strictest confidence. More so than usual, we must protect the results and our kingdom. No one other than King Kohleran, too ill to sit among us now, can be privy to a syllable of our discussion today.” Baltraine had prepared a long speech to help him ease into the problem, but fancy words seemed unlikely to soften the blow. Politicians alone might have preferred the method he had originally selected. Now, Baltraine thought it best to finish his announcement quickly and spare the warriors the agony of a litany. They liked their news quick, straightforward, and specific. As minister to Renshai, Limrinial also favored directness. Usually, Baltraine did not cater to her whims, but this time forthrightness struck him as the superior course. “No one, no heir to Béarn’s throne, passed the staff-test.”
A stunned silence followed. Baltraine watched his peers as his lead-weighted words gained meaning in every mind.
Charletha broke the lull. “But that means . . .” She did not finish her sentence, face reddening with obvious embarrassment. The youngest of the ministers, she had not yet totally mastered the art of control.
Baltraine finished the thought to rescue any of lesser intellect too embarrassed to admit their failing. The warriors, he assumed disdainfully, would need his assistance. “It means that when the gods take our king, we have no one to replace him. It means there is no heir to the throne of Béarn.”
“No heir,” Limrinial repeated, fingers tapping the tabletop nervously. “Is that possible?”
Nearly every head swung toward Linndar for the answer. The bards sought and held the wisdom of the centuries in their songs. Only one other person stored Béarn’s knowledge, the ancient sage who dwelt in the westernmost tower with the myriad books and scrolls that chronicled their history through the ages. The sage and his apprentice never left his tower, however; so they could not join the meeting.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 10