Ra-khir began noticing other people as well as the statues and shrubbery. Lords and ladies sunned themselves, enjoying the midday warmth as much as he did. Children chased and giggled on the garden pathways, under the watchful eyes of nursemaids or parents. Near one flower bed, Ra-khir discovered a quieter game that involved five children, three nannies, and two somber-eyed, sword-armed guards who could only be Renshai. Apparently, at least one heir played among this group.
Ra-khir watched the interplay for several moments. The Renshai looked little different from Erythanians, but they stood out in a courtyard full of burly Béarnides. They held attentive stances without any apparent cooperation or communication between them. Even when only in pairs, the Knights of Erythane worked as an obvious team, each movement countered, every article of clothing a perfect match down to the angle of sword in sheath. In comparison, the Renshai’s actions seemed haphazard. Yet, his scrutiny did not go unnoticed. The first moment of his hesitation brought measuring gazes, and he read violence there should he tarry too long or draw too close. Their gazes did not fixate, moving on, perhaps, to more significant threats.
Thinking it rude to become a concern to guards at their post, Ra-khir continued on to a vegetable garden shaded by a stone ceiling. Many benches lined the area, apparently a place diehard outdoorsmen went when rain made other parts of the courtyard soggy. Though not the first roofed area Ra-khir had seen, this one had an occupant where the others had not. A boy of approximately his own age sat on a central bench staring absently at the wall. Curly brown bangs fell across his forehead, and a mandolin lay on the bench beside him. A sword hung at his belt, and he wore no standard to indicate his identity or station. His size and coloring did not fit Béarn’s norm.
Pleased to discover a possible friend with whom he had at least age and foreignness in common, Ra-khir approached. “Hello.”
The stranger stiffened with a gasp. Hazel eyes swung from the wall to Ra-khir in an instant, and he grabbed for the instrument though his sudden movement had not dislodged it. “Oh. Hello. You startled me.”
Ra-khir agreed. “To the moon, almost.”
The dark-haired youth smiled, avoiding the usual adolescent need to defend himself from embarrassment and thus displaying a likable self-confidence. “Almost. I’m afraid you caught me thinking.” He laughed ruefully. “I suppose pining would be more accurate.”
Though the other had given him the opening, Ra-khir thought it improper to press for personal details prior to introductions. “I’m Ra-khir of Erythane, son of Knight-Captain Kedrin and . . .”
The stranger spoke the rest of the title simultaneously with Ra-khir. “. . . apprentice knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Kohleran.”
“Yes,” Ra-khir finished, uncertain how to react to the other’s recitation. He might have taken umbrage had the musician not used such a friendly tone and looked so inoffensive. “Well. How did you know?”
The dark-haired teen gestured at Ra-khir’s uniform, including the standard tabard with Béarn’s colors on the front and Erythane’s black and orange on the rear. “Pretty obvious really. And I’ve heard knights speak titles often enough to memorize the words, even if memorizing words wasn’t already my job.” Realizing the conversation had continued without the necessary exchange, he backtracked. “I’m Darris, by the way . . .”
Ra-khir put the pieces together fast enough to recite Darris’ title in another duet. “. . . the bard’s heir.”
They both laughed.
“You got me,” Darris cradled the mandolin in his lap, tapping the bowl-back lightly. “I won’t ask what gave me away.”
Glad to have found a potential friend so quickly in a new place, Ra-khir gestured at the bench across from Darris. “Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all. Please do.”
Ra-khir complied, racking his brain for details of the bard and recalling that he or she was charged with acting as the king’s personal bodyguard as well as an entertainer. The musical ability was supposed to be some sort of bane passed through the line, though most people saw it as more of a windfall. He had heard no one could come close to matching the talent of Béarn’s bards. “Interesting city, Béarn.” Realizing “interesting” could have many different meanings and not wishing to sound insulting, Ra-khir added, “I really like it so far.”
“This is your first time?” Darris shook the curls from his forehead, though they fell right back into place with the first movement of his head. “I didn’t think I’d seen you before. But then again, why would I? The apprentice knights don’t usually come here.” Though not a question, the last statement left an opening for an answer.
“I’m here with my father.”
“Knight-Captain Kedrin.”
“Right.”
Darris nodded, the topic obviously spent.
When Darris did not open a new matter, Ra-khir did. He had found someone his own age to talk with who seemed reasonably bright and sociable, and he had no pressing needs to attend. “You said you were pining.”
“Pining,” Darris repeated, as if he had never heard the word before. “Pining. Yes, pining. I suppose I am.” He flushed, this time appropriately embarrassed. “I guess that’s not something one usually discusses with strangers. I’m sorry. You must have startled me worse than I thought.”
“No need for apology. Please.” Ra-khir worked hard to save face for his companion. He rather liked the refreshing openness of the bard’s heir. It might allow them to become friends where time constraints and personal defenses might otherwise prevent any but the most superficial associations. “What are you pining for?”
“It’s not a ‘what,’ it’s a ‘who.’” Darris sighed, obviously wrestling with the decision of whether to share his pain with a brand new acquaintance or continue to dismiss his earlier lapse behind social convention. Then he drew the mandolin into playing position. His fingers skipped lightly over the strings, plucking out sounds that seemed too mellow for any instrument of man’s making. Usually, it took at least a second playing for Ra-khir to warm to any song; but the beauty of the chords and notes Darris picked drew him to the same quiet awe he knew when he watched the best knights sparring.
But the words that followed the introduction drove all thoughts of warfare and contest from Ra-khir’s mind, replacing it with a vision of a Béarnian princess of such beauty, kindness, and grace he could not help adoring this noble woman he had never met. Darris sang, his voice blending so perfectly with the mandolin that Ra-khir could not have separated one from the other even should he have wanted to ruin the listening trying. The bard’s heir described a friendship most could only envy, one that spanned childhood and promised to last far beyond. Yet, though the words claimed no love beyond that of siblings, the emotion seeped through the tone of the music. Ra-khir felt as if his new companion had opened his soul to reveal a romantic passion he did not acknowledge, even to himself.
The verse changed, a bitter touch to a sweet song of love long nurtured. Guardians protected the princess, ones to whom Darris felt a debt of gratitude and a hatred at once. For though they kept the object of his passion alive and well, they kept her cloistered from him and every other. And this, he believed, at a time when she most needed his consolation.
As the last notes drifted in wordless epilogue, Ra-khir startled free of the trance Darris created, to discover tears in his own eyes. He rubbed them away, feeling foolish for the lapse. “That was amazing. Truly amazing.”
“Thank you,” Darris said with routine modesty.
Ra-khir fumbled helplessly for the words he really wanted to speak to express his appreciation for Darris’ abundant talent. So much of his knight’s training included courtly talk, manners, and protocol; yet, when it came to expressing himself, Ra-khir still felt hopelessly muddled. For now, he spent so much time concentrating on format that little thought remained for content. “Your playing and singing makes everything else I’ve ever heard called m
usic sound like a herd of sheep.”
“Thank you,” Darris repeated with less assurance. “Or should I say I’m sorry I ruined others for you. There’s music in everything, you know, every sound has its own special associations. Even sheep.” To demonstrate, he played a short ditty about a shepherd. The background music simulated bleating in a stylized manner that Ra-khir wished all sheep could emulate. He could smell the clover/manure mixture that practically defined a herd’s pasture, could see the lambs capering, and could feel the more ponderous steps of the older sheep.
When Darris finished, Ra-khir laughed. “You are good.”
“Thank you,” Darris said with good-humored finality. “It’s my blessing and my curse.”
“I’d heard that about the bard.” Ra-khir seized the chance to discover the truth about other rumors. “I’ve also heard you get so good because you sing everything. That you’d rather sing than eat.” He amended, realizing he addressed the heir, not the actual bard. “Or, rather, your father would.”
“Mother,” Darris corrected.
“Mother?”
“My mother is the current bard. My father’s the head pastry chef.”
“Oh.” The revelation took Ra-khir aback. An image came instantly to mind, of a meek, flour-speckled man beside a warrior woman whose sword guarded the king of Béarn. Without thinking, he chuckled and was immediately mortified.
Darris took the insult in stride, easily guessing the root of Ra-khir’s amusement and smiling to place him at ease. “Weird image, isn’t it? But around here, no one thinks much of it. I mean, Renshai women all wield swords, and we see them occasionally, so my mother carrying one doesn’t seem so out of place. Besides that, she mostly travels a lot and sings. There really hasn’t been much need for her martial training.” He shrugged. “And my father makes a vanilla cream cake worth dying for, though it’s never killed anyone.”
Ra-khir laughed again, this time at Darris’ words. “I think you answered my other question, too. Obviously, you don’t quite sing everything.”
As if to prove Ra-khir wrong, Darris resumed his playing with a heavy, complicated tune. This time, he sang of a young man named Jahiran; and words and music defined an era at least a millennium past. Jahiran, it seemed, had an insatiable curiosity from birth and sought the knowledge of the gods and the universe from the moment he spoke his first words. The song followed this man as he grew and gained understanding, without accompanying common sense and wisdom. From one of the Cardinal Wizards, he was granted the form of an aristiri, a hawk that sings with more beauty than any mere songbird. Apparently, in Jahiran’s time, the winged predators had been common before men shot them for sport or trophies. Now, only an occasional hunter or woodsman claimed to spot one etched against the sky or to hear its fine, clear voice penetrate the forest.
In aristiri form, Jahiran learned much more, hearing the things men and gods do not usually speak of freely. Among so much else, he witnessed the god, Thor, engaged in a tryst with a mortal woman and made the mistake of reporting his observation to Thor’s wife, Sif, the goddess of Renshai. Ra-khir cringed as he experienced the quaking rage of Thor in Darris’ words and notes. Ra-khir felt mighty Odin, the father of gods, as he hefted the errant man in aristiri guise and sliced the bird’s tongue into silence, then returned Jahiran to man’s form and world. Though unable to speak, Jahiran still had the voice of the aristiri whose shape he once held. And he and his line became condemned to an endless curse: to quest desperately for knowledge but reveal it only in song.
Once again, Ra-khir became lost in story and melody, and the return to Béarn’s courtyard seemed like a heavy and sorrowful landing. He interpreted what he had heard. “So you can talk about regular things, but when you teach you have to sing.”
“Right,” Darris confirmed, replacing the mandolin on the seat beside him. “It irritates some people.”
“Not me,” Ra-khir hastened to place the bard at ease. “I could never get tired of listening to your voice.”
Darris smiled, sad knowledge evident. “Not yet, maybe. But it grows tiresome. Sometimes it’s easier just to sit quietly with people than to have to keep resorting to music, especially when there’s no yet-known song for a certain situation and I have to make one up.”
“What happens if you teach without singing?” Ra-khir asked the question that seemed necessary, though it might force Darris to music again. A glance at the sky revealed more time had passed than he would have guessed. He only had a few more moments with his new friend before he had to rush to his afternoon session.
“Oddly, that’s one of the few pieces of information no bard has ever managed to gain.” Darris shrugged. “Used to be the Wizards would kill him, but there aren’t any Wizards anymore. Now, we mostly think Odin might strike us down. Of course, the Renshai believe the Ragnarok has come and gone, that Odin’s dead, so they just think we’re stupid and tedious.” Darris shifted restlessly, as if fearing he might find out the correct answer if he said much more without switching to song. “Nowadays, I think it’s just tradition and honor. We promised every eldest child would continue to follow the laws Odin set down for Jahiran’s descendants. And we stick with that family honor as seriously as the knights to their order.”
Ra-khir appreciated the comparison as few could. “Makes perfect sense to me.” He rose reluctantly. “I have to go now. I’ve got a practice. But I’ll be around again tomorrow. Where can I find you?”
Darris smiled again, clearly as happy to have made a new friend as Ra-khir. “Here’s a pretty good bet these days. I’ve got some even quieter places outside the walls. I’ll show you those sometime.”
“Great.” Ra-khir smoothed his practice silks then headed from the garden. Behind him, Darris strummed softly, mouthing words to a new song sparked by the conversation.
* * *
In the three and a half months since the staff-test, Matrinka’s despair had faded from an all-consuming obsession to a dull scar that ached in mind and heart. The need to serve the kingdom in other ways still nagged at her, and she goaded her still-nameless Renshai guard into spar as often as the young blonde would allow. Now, they squared off in the center of Matrinka’s room, the Renshai having not yet drawn and Matrinka eyeing her guardian. For the moment, there seemed myriad openings for attack, all of which would close in the instant between when Matrinka committed to her move and before the blade struck. In the last few days, she had at least managed to discard the fear that she might accidentally kill the Renshai, a triumph that seemed to mean far more to the Renshai than to herself.
Mior watched from the bed, silent mentally and physically. She had long ago abandoned trying to assist Matrinka with maneuvers. The instinct that came with owning claws did not translate well into sword strokes, and Matrinka lacked the necessary animal quickness and agility. Mostly, Mior’s instructions just made an already difficult, unnatural-feeling task more so.
“All right,” the Renshai said, seeming oblivious to Matrinka’s menace, an attitude that only fed Matrinka’s feelings of inadequacy about her physical skill. “The trick is to commit to each attack enough to give it the power to become a potential killing stroke but still recover quickly enough that, if you miss, you’re not helpless.”
Matrinka nodded. In theory, the Renshai made sense. But translating word into action seemed impossible. The princess had begun to wonder if she lacked some organ that connected understanding to execution. “I’ll try.”
“Any time.” The Renshai made a gesture that encouraged Matrinka’s attack.
Concentrating hard, Matrinka bit her tongue as she lunged for the Renshai’s chest. Her guardian drew and cut fluidly, parrying the attack into a harmless circle, then returning a “killing” strike that sang over Matrinka’s head.
“Recovery too slow!” the Renshai shouted. “Are you listening to me at all?”
Matrinka did not reply with words, having long ago learned her lesson about speaking during combat. She still had a bruise beside on
e knee where the side of the Renshai’s sword had slapped to make the point. Matrinka swept low. The Renshai’s sword slammed just above the crosspiece, jarring the hilt from Matrinka’s hand.
Once disarmed, Matrinka usually let the Renshai recover the sword. The young warrior saw serious dishonor in allowing the weapon of one she respected to touch the floor. Matrinka did not know whether the Renshai’s deference was to the sword’s wielder or owner, but the girl instinctively bore in to snatch the grip just as Matrinka did the same. The princess’ hand bumped the hilt, sending it into an awkward reverse-spin. The Renshai’s hand closed over the blade, and whetted steel sliced her left index finger to the bone. Nevertheless, she snatched the weapon out of midair, blood splashing a line across the coverlet and wall.
Matrinka gasped, recoiling. The Renshai sheathed both weapons, growling out a string of words Matrinka could only guess were curses by their harshness. Before tending the wound, she studied Matrinka’s hands.
Shocked that the Renshai had the presence to worry about her charge after suffering such an injury, Matrinka stammered. “I–I’m fine.”
Assured by that insistence, the Renshai sat on the desk chair, pulled a rag from her pocket, and clamped it to the wound.
Pained sympathetically, Matrinka grasped her own finger in a hold equally tight. She sucked air through her teeth, guilty for the wound she had accidentally inflicted. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
The previous epithets seemed to completely take away any anger the Renshai might have harbored. “No problem. I know you didn’t mean it. It’s nothing to get upset about.”
“Nothing to get upset about?” Matrinka repeated, stunned. “I cut your finger.”
Beyond Ragnarok Page 14