Kedrin accepted the weapon without consideration. His mouth clicked shut, and he showed the prime minister a crinkle-faced expression of surprise.
As the knight’s hand closed over the hilt, Baltraine skittered sideways with a cry of alarm, fully exposing the blade to the Béarnides’ view.
Reacting immediately, the guards charged. Baltraine screamed, a perfect simulation of innocent fear. “No! Don’t! Think what you’re doing!” Then the guardsmen arrived, easily hammering the knife from Kedrin’s fist with the haft of a spear. One placed his person between threat and prime minister, bundling Baltraine to the safety of the hallway. The other two cornered Kedrin against a teak door. The knight surrendered easily, not bothering to speak a word against Baltraine or in his own defense.
Baltraine clung to his “rescuer,” forcing a shiver that he hoped would pass for terror. The corners of his mouth started to tug into a triumphant smile, but he quickly schooled his expression to display only sober concern as the guards marched their prisoner toward detainment.
* * *
Rantire awoke to damp, spongy ground and the smell of leaf mold. As she did every morning, she achingly flexed muscles overtaxed during svergelse, but her left shoulder throbbed and ground beyond all reason. She attempted to switch position to take pressure from her injured shoulder. Her limbs did not obey. Something narrow as a ribbon and cottony soft ringed her wrists and ankles, but it did not bite into her flesh like rope. Then memory flooded back into her awakening senses. She had battled a band of strangers whose racial features fit no description she had ever heard. Worse, she had lost the battle and survived.
Guilt hammered Rantire, followed by self-directed anger. No Renshai worth the title could ever become a prisoner. She had fought with honor and should have died in glory in that battle. Yet, apparently, she had not. A Renshai a prisoner of war. The idea left a bitter taste in her mouth that no logic could banish. She had dishonored herself and her tribe. Her only hope lay in escaping her captors, then destroying them or dying in the attempt. For now, though, she needed to understand her predicament. Rantire opened her eyes and cautiously shook aside her yellow-brown hair.
The room was dark, but enough light penetrated a mesh doorway to reveal her surroundings. Vertical stripes on the walls gave the impression of wood paneling. She lay on mulched leaves, like the ground of a forest though evenly spread and patterned like carpet. Through the triangles formed by the bars of the door, she caught glimpses of manlike shadows etched against the light. Although the difference in illumination gave her the advantage of vision, she lay with her back mostly to the only exit or entrance her brief inspection uncovered. To look through, she would need to shift position and reveal her awakening. Eventually, she would do so, but not until her eyes had fully explored what they could without moving.
The ribbons that bound Rantire were white, faintly luminescent in the darkness. Though not tight enough to chafe or cut, they did not allow enough movement for her to explore them with her fingers. Her impressions came from vision and their feel against her wrists and naked ankles. Soft as silk, they seemed unlikely to hold against more than a few moments of struggling. Yet, her inability to loosen them with careful movements revealed a strength far out of proportion to size and composition. The knots seemed equally peculiar, dainty loops that would make sailors jeer in derision.
Having discerned as much as she could from her current position, Rantire dared cautious movement, wriggling to a far corner of her cell. The construction she had, at first, taken for lumber felt smooth, humid, and cold to the touch. Stone, she guessed, though she could not fathom why anyone would paint strong granite to appear like flimsy wood. For that matter, it seemed madness to bother to decorate a prison in any manner. Whoever had captured her came of a culture that defied any logic she could fathom. That realization brought a frown of displeasure. How did one escape captors insanely unpredictable?
Rantire recalled her battle on the Road of Kings, certain no weapon stroke had undone her. She had taken, delivered, and witnessed blows to the head before, and any that could have stolen her consciousness would have guaranteed pain, muddled thinking, and vomiting on awakening. But her thoughts were as clear as always. She knew only the agony of her injured shoulder, arm strain, a mild throb she could attribute to the grazing blow of the statue-king’s ax, and the ordinary pain of a worthwhile practice.
Voices wafted to Rantire from the hallway, their words rapid, light, and incomprehensible. She twisted her head to the mesh doorway to discover several alien faces studying her through triangles more appropriate for a dog’s kennel than a human’s cell. Framed against light whose source Rantire could not see, they appeared even stranger than on the road, where urgency had limited scrutiny. Delicate oval faces balanced proportionately on slender necks. High, sharp cheekbones framed timeless features that possessed few wrinkles. Canted eyes, rounder and broader than any Rantire had ever seen, sported a variety of solid colors, without twinkle or blemish. Greens, aquas, reds, ambers, and blues studied her, all lacking variations in hue or the starlike core that many human eyes bore. Experience gave her an impression of blindness; surely no one could see through eyes like marbles. Yet, apparently, these people could.
Rantire stilled, locking her face into an angered pall despite her undignified position, hoping these foreigners would read sobriety as fearlessness. Their power over her did not frighten her, but their ability to steal honor from her death did. One way or another, she would find the glorious end in battle they had stolen from her with powers she could only attribute to magic. She listened while the strangers discussed her in a language that seemed closer to Renshai or Northern than any of the Westland tongues. Eastern, she had heard, sounded harsh and guttural, filled with deep-throated consonants that could not be enunciated without spitting and vowels that randomly varied in pronunciation. The musical tongue of the magic users did not fit the description.
The need to demand answers raged, but Rantire did not succumb. Observation might reveal the same information, accompanied by the advantage of their ignorance of the extent of her knowledge. Every detail that she divined on her own became a tool against them. With that in mind, she focused on their every word, seeking repetition and accompanying action to give clues to meaning. For now, it all seemed gibberish. Over time, she hoped, understanding would come. Every Renshai spoke at least the trading and Renshai tongues. Most, like Rantire, also knew Western and at least rudimentary Northern. Each new language, she had discovered, became easier to learn than the one before.
A louder voice funneled up a corridor, and all but one of the strangers scurried from Rantire’s door. The Renshai remained in place, awaiting the speaker who, she believed, would prove a leader of the others.
Rantire listened for the booted footsteps of a soldier on stone, but no such sound wafted to her. Too late, she recalled the spongy floor that cushioned her. The speaker had arrived and was peering at her through the mesh, the same who had issued commands on the road. He sported heart-shaped lips and features similar to the others who had crowded in front of her cell. Alert, green eyes scrutinized her through neighboring triangles of metalwork, their steadfast color reminiscent of glazing. Thin, red-blond hair fell to slender shoulders that seemed more suitable to an adolescent girl. In fact, Rantire now realized, all of the strangers had features she would normally consider androgynous; yet, for reasons she could not explain, she had no difficulty determining gender. Their line on the Road of Kings had contained equal numbers of males and females, yet only the former had carried weapons. All of those who had analyzed her awakening had been men or boys as well. Their ages, however, eluded her completely.
The newcomer spoke the trading tongue in a melodic singsong that put even the lilting Northern speech to shame. “My name is Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin.” He seemed to have lapsed back into his native speech. Then he continued in trading, and Rantire realized he simply had an inconceivably long
name. “Assuming you share the memory limitations of all humans, you may address me, and the other elves, simply as ‘Lordship.’”
Stunned, Rantire lost her stolid mask. As far as any who followed the Northern gods believed, elves existed only in charming fairy stories to draw children to temple and faith. Those who clung to their infantile notions claimed elves existed on a separate world and never interacted with humans. Even the holy tales spoke only of elves alone or facing gods. The odd appearances, unpredictability, and behavioral eccentricities were consistent with the claim of this one of whose name she had caught only Dh’arlo’mé. Yet their ruthlessness and mayhem seemed the furthest thing in the world from the happy-go-lucky, capricious creatures her grandmother had described in bedtime stories.
Dh’arlo’mé continued to study Rantire, as if memorizing everything about her. “What’s your name?” he asked.
His scrutiny awakened paranoia, and Rantire picked a Western name. “Call me Brenna.” Or “ladyship” will do. She kept the last to herself; it seemed a bad time to antagonize him.
The elf accepted the name. “I’m going to ask a series of questions. Answer them fully, honestly, and quickly, and you will not suffer.”
The obvious other side to the proposition sparked a frown from Rantire, and she took an instant dislike to the elf. “What happened to my companions?”
The sparse reddish brows rose, leaving a massive gap between eyes and forehead. “Did I choose words too long for a soldier to understand? I will ask the questions. You will answer.”
Rantire’s face flushed; the word “soldier” instead of “warrior” bothering her as much as the insult. “I understood you. Mutual cooperation will go a long way toward earning your answers.” She deliberately chose a complicated way to make her point, thereby putting the insult to rest as well.
The elf’s thin shoulders rose and fell in a gesture of grim dismissal. “I have no reason nor need to cooperate. Difficult or easy, I’ll get my answers. Your fate is in your own hands. You decide whether or not you suffer along the way.”
Rantire lay still, despising the helplessness of her position yet unwilling to give Dh’arlo’mé the satisfaction of watching a graceless struggle to sit. He would get no answers from her. Rantire discovered one light in the dark quagmire of her present situation. Apparently, the elves could not read her mind; otherwise, they would have no use for her responses. Therein lay her greatest strength.
Dh’arlo’mé did not await a retort but launched into her interrogation. “Who is leader of humans?”
The query seemed nonsensical. Each Northern tribe and all of the cities of the Westlands and Eastlands had a king who ruled a section of territory. In turn, every one of these myriad kingdoms answered to a higher power: the superior kingdom of the North in Nordmir, of the East in Stalmize, and of the West in Béarn. Even then, some peoples slipped through, such as the tribal barbarians in the West with their own customs and language that few outsiders had managed to breach. Rantire wondered what plans the elves had for such information, even should she give it, and could think of nothing positive. Obviously, they had designs on the human cities, ones she would never assist or foster in any way.
Rantire let her thoughts roam, as other details slipped to the fore and found their niche: The murders of Béarnian heirs in sloppy ways that made them difficult, then impossible, to pass off as accidents. The illnesses that seemed unlike any other in human history and affected only heirs. The ridiculous constructions of the building that held her prisoner, including stonework painted like paneling, a leafy carpet, and a cell door designed for animals smaller than humans. These latter, she guessed, had to do with elfin misinterpretation of human architecture. So far, the elves had gotten most of their information through glimpses, whether ordinary or magical. Now, apparently, they required direct information, knowledge they would not get from her. Their need, the general nature of the questions, and the cleanliness of her cell suggested they had captured no other human before her. Given the strength of their magic, that discovery surprised as well as pleased her. The elves’ magic had caught her off guard on the Road of Kings. Now, she would use every Renshai mind-trick at her disposal to convince the elves that humans could resist their power.
The Renshai grimaced, envious of the quick wit of Colbey Calistinsson and some of her more intellectual cousins. They could concoct a reasonable story that would convince as well as thwart the elves and save themselves the agony. But Rantire knew she would stumble awkwardly should she attempt such a thing, and she worried that her tale might inadvertently endanger rather than rescue the West. Silence seemed the better weapon. At least it might buy her time. She rolled gray eyes to meet her captor’s emerald glare and rose to a crouch with far less bumbling than she anticipated. “I choose the hard way.”
“Very well.” Dh’arlo’mé seemed unaffected by her decision. His expression remained stiff and essentially unreadable. “Bring on the torturer.”
Chapter 9
Knight’s Honor
Honor comes only of sticking to my own vows and dignity after lesser foemen have abandoned their own.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Courtiers filled every bench of Béarn’s courtroom to capacity, leaving peasants to hover in the aisles. Guards threaded amidst them, forcing spectators against walls or seats when necessary, repeatedly clearing the central carpetway for the players in the trial.
Ra-khir sat near the back, squashed between Darris and Matrinka, fighting the restless need for movement. His head pounded, tears spoiled his vision, and a tingling in his chest made him fear for his own life as well as his father’s. Shortly before entering the room, he had vomited. That relieved the pain in his gut temporarily, but it was returning in dangerously throbbing increments. Only Matrinka’s lulling grip on his hand and Darris’ soft voice kept him in place when compulsion prickled at him to batter a path through the crowd and plead his father’s innocence in a scream that even the gods could hear. His assurances would prove meaningless. He had not witnessed the incident, had not yet even heard the details. He knew only that his father had been brought up on charges of treason; and, if found guilty, Knight-Captain Kedrin faced execution.
The whole seemed madness. Ra-khir doubted any man would sacrifice more for Béarn and its monarchy. He was outraged at the thought that anyone could accuse his father of such a crime, let alone take the possibility of blame seriously enough to demand a trial. He glanced to the front of the room where Prime Minister Baltraine sat upon his gilded chair on the dais, protected by a semicircle of half a dozen guards. The bard, Linndar, Darris’ mother, held an attentive stance to his left while the captain of the Béarnian guards, Seiryn, stood to the right. More guards filled the area between the dais and the first row of spectators, keeping order among the otherwise milling chaos. The ten remaining Knights of Erythane, who had not accompanied the envoy, formed two rigid lines on either side of the dais. They presented a perfectly matched wedge dressed alike down to the set of their tabards and the jaunty angle of their swords in their sheaths.
Baltraine raised his hands to initiate the trial, and conversation gradually faded. As the last unobservant speakers recognized their indiscretion and fell silent, Baltraine spoke. “Friends, cousins, other citizens of Béarn. The time has come to try a man, Sir Kedrin Ramytan’s son, for the crime of treason. Your presences here reinforce the severity of this accusation and its consequences should King Kohleran find him guilty. Therefore, I ask that you remain quiet so that I may hear all aspects of the case without missing any detail that might bias the information for or against Sir Kedrin. We cannot suffer traitors, nor the execution of innocents.”
Baltraine paused, looking out over the crowd to reinforce his points. Ra-khir fidgeted like a child. His friends’ consoling touches became more evident in response.
“Call the primary witness,” Baltraine commanded.
The audience shifted, heads turning toward the double doors into the courtroom, directl
y across the room from the dais.
Linndar stepped forward, clearing her throat loudly, then nodded toward the prime minister. “That would be you, Lord.”
“It would indeed,” Baltraine accepted the burden as surprised heads snapped back toward the front to witness this unconventional beginning. “I was on my way to King Kohleran’s room to discuss the day’s business and judgments when Sir Kedrin intercepted me in the hallway. He had done this once before and been reprimanded for the interruption; so, of course, I met him with some impatience. Nevertheless, he was a respected member of Béarn’s entourage, the captain of Erythane’s knights, so I agreed to converse with him. We moved up the corridor to speak privately. Once there, he accused me of not assisting strongly enough in decisions about Kohleran’s successor. He had made this accusation once before, in front of the other ministers, so it did not catch me wholly by surprise. However, when I denied the accusation, reminding him of the many policies instituted by myself and the council, all of which King Kohleran had approved, he drew his knife and lunged at me. If not for the quick action of my guards, he might have killed me.”
Despite Baltraine’s insistence on silence, voices rose from every corner, the whole blending into an indecipherable cacophony. Ra-khir appreciated that even the nearest whispers disappeared into the hubbub. One condemnation of his father might send him over the edge, though whether into violent rage or despair, he did not dare to ponder. The prime minister’s story defied logic. Ra-khir knew his father would never have disrupted a consultation with the king nor charged any official of Béarn with dishonesty. Those parts he could easily dismiss. Perhaps the prime minister and knight-captain had stumbled upon one another, an accident of location. Words had many interpretations, and Baltraine could have misunderstood or become offended by something innocent. But the drawing of a weapon went beyond believability, especially when Ra-khir alone knew Kedrin had discovered his ceremonial knife missing the previous evening. Ra-khir’s mind raced in several directions at once to theories that ranged from lies to impersonation to treason of a different sort. Only one possibility never occurred to him: that his father was guilty of the charge.
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