Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The next four witnesses consisted of a scribe and three Béarnian guards, all of whom seemed reluctant to testify. Each told a similar story that confirmed Baltraine’s tale, though none could comment on the actual conversation between prime minister and knight-captain. They verified the drawn knife and its unmistakable appearance; Béarn had awarded a similar one to each affirmed knight-captain for as long as any historian could remember. Each knife remained with its wielder, burned in his pyre then buried with his ashes. Ra-khir clung to his imposter theory, discarding the possibility that Baltraine had lied. No threat or payment could turn three of Béarn’s most loyal against a fellow soldier, and their slumped and somber demeanors displayed the guards’ pain vividly.

  As the last of the guards departed, Baltraine shouted over speculation the crowd could not keep to itself. “Call the last witness.”

  Linndar complied. “Calling Knight-Captain Kedrin Ramytan’s son as witness.”

  Conversation vanished instantly, as if choked. Every gaze, including Ra-khir’s, turned to the doorway; and Kedrin’s proud figure strode down the central carpetway accompanied by four Béarnian guardsmen. A wiry, nervous-looking Béarnide led the group, wearing gray and purple street clothes that clashed with the escort’s royal blue and tan. Ra-khir’s heart felt as if it sank into his abdomen. No charlatan this. The thick, red hair, aristocratic features, and piercing blue-white eyes could not be duplicated. More so, no pretender could simulate the dignity and grace of the knight-captain’s bearing. Every movement and step bespoke duty and loyalty. No heavy burden of guilt weighted those grand shoulders. He kept his head high, gaze straight and unwavering, and the stolid expression on his face revealed neither fear nor smugness. He could have led his knights boldly into battle in Béarn’s defense and looked no different.

  No one spoke in the moments it took for Kedrin to reach the base of the dais. No coughs or sneezes shattered the stillness. Dizziness touched Ra-khir’s senses before he realized he was holding his breath, and the intensity of the silence around him suggested that everyone had done the same.

  Knight-Captain Kedrin executed a respectful bow, filled with ancient custom and detail. The Béarnide in purple and gray spoke for him. “Prime Minister Baltraine.” He bowed, then turned. “Gentlemen and ladies.” He bowed again, then spun back to face the dais. “Lord, my client does not wish to speak in his defense but has agreed to answer questions. Is that acceptable?”

  Baltraine’s attention whipped to Kedrin, as if trying to anticipate a trick. The knight returned his scrutiny mildly. Baltraine shrugged at the peculiarity. “Proceed.”

  The man in purple and gray smoothed his garb, his face ashen. Ra-khir whispered to Darris. “Who is he?”

  “Lawyer,” Darris returned. “He’s the one they use for people who don’t request anyone specific to defend them.”

  Ra-khir nodded his understanding, confused by his father’s lack of choice, which had become a decision in and of itself. He hoped Kedrin’s replies would reveal his motivation.

  The lawyer addressed Kedrin. “State your name and title, please.”

  The knight’s voice rang in reply, filled with stately power and no trace of humiliation or remorse. “Captain Kedrin of Erythane, son of Ramytan and knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Kohleran.”

  The lawyer hesitated a moment, presumably to allow the length and prestige of the title to sink into the spectators’ minds. “Would you please tell the court your version of the events that occurred yesterday afternoon.”

  Darris sighed, obviously put off by the lawyer’s word choices but wisely remaining silent. Ra-khir could almost hear the bard’s heir saying, “And they call me tedious,” and appreciated that Darris kept the thought to himself at a time when Ra-khir had no attention to spare for anything but his father’s fate.

  “No,” Kedrin said. “I will not.”

  The lawyer knotted his fingers, unnerved but apparently not surprised by his client’s refusal to defend himself against accusations that would otherwise assure his death. “Why not?”

  A year seemed to tick past while Kedrin drew breath to answer. “Because affirming my innocence would not be in Béarn’s best interests.”

  “How so?” the lawyer pressed.

  “Answering that would be equally contrary to Béarn’s welfare.”

  “You would rather die . . .”

  “I would.”

  “. . . then say anything that might cause harm to Béarn.”

  “Yes.”

  The lawyer sighed, loudly enough to echo in the coiled silence. “You understand that your accuser will adjudicate your guilt or innocence in that he will present the facts to the king and return Kohleran’s decision.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you also know that, in such a circumstance, the law allows for you to insist that a party not directly involved in the proceedings adjudicate in his place?”

  A murmur swept through the audience, sounding like a roar after the intensity of the silence. Ra-khir latched his attention onto Baltraine, and because he was watching so closely he realized the prime minister had not known about this legal point. Clearly, the lawyer had evoked an old prerogative lost to obscurity since such a situation probably had not arisen for decades or centuries, if ever.

  Kedrin barely moved. “I did not know such law exists. However, I see no reason to invoke it. King Kohleran trusts his prime minister implicitly, so how could I do less? Lord Baltraine, too, would do nothing he believed was outside the best interests of Béarn.”

  The lawyer stared, surprised, for longer than decorum allowed. Gradually, he awakened from his trance to ask the captain one last question. “Knight-Captain, did you commit an act of treason?”

  Kedrin hesitated nearly as long before replying. “That is for King Kohleran to decide.”

  “Thank you,” the lawyer said, though whether to Baltraine, the spectators, or Kedrin was unclear.

  Baltraine reclaimed the floor as lawyer and client prepared to leave. “While I am appreciative of Sir Kedrin’s faith, I believe it would serve justice better if a scribe accompanied me to the king’s chamber and ascertained that I did not inadvertently bias my presentation. He could also witness the king’s decision, as the law decrees.”

  Whispers and a polite smattering of applause met this proclamation.

  Ra-khir remained rooted in place as his father and the entourage trod back up the aisle carpet and out the courtroom doors. Kedrin’s few words left him little to ponder, yet Ra-khir felt certain he would find the answers if he only studied the situation long enough. Terror, rage, and uncertainty battled within him, making coherent thought difficult; but he concentrated on the story Baltraine had told, the facts he already knew, and his father’s taciturn replies.

  No flash of insight heralded an answer, but Ra-khir’s mind worried the matter even as each knight took the floor to describe Kedrin’s long dedication to his post and to his kings. Though honored by his father’s deeds of heroism and allegiance, the litanies flowed past Ra-khir, mostly unheard. He already loved Kedrin, and the long-winded speeches seemed more tedious than helpful. Gradually, though, truth spun a single scenario in Ra-khir’s head, based on the kernel of unshakable understanding of Kedrin’s innocence. Loyal to Béarn and her king, Kedrin had chosen death over allowing mistrust and disfavor to fall on Kohleran’s chosen regent. Apparently, the captain believed that, in all circumstances but this one, Baltraine would act in Béarn’s best interests. But Baltraine was lying. No other explanation fit. Ra-khir held the final piece to the puzzle, the knowledge that his father did not have the knife in his possession on the day of the so-called act of treason. Now he knew: Baltraine did.

  Yet Ra-khir could do nothing with the answer. Even if he convinced the audience of the truth, the final ruling still rested in Baltraine’s hands by his father’s own decree. The repercussions that would follow Ra-khir’s revelation, ones Kedrin had alread
y considered and deemed worse than his own unjust execution, could devastate Béarn. The loss of faith in King Kohleran’s regent might lash Béarn’s citizens into a froth of civil war from which they would never recover. The weakness and schisms that followed would open the king’s city to her enemies. The resulting upheaval was frightening to consider, even in a theoretical way. To undermine Kedrin’s decision would besmirch his honor.

  Honor meant everything to the Knights of Erythane, to Kedrin more than any other. Ra-khir discovered no action that could display his father’s innocence and rescue his honor as well as his life. One without the other meant nothing. No good could come of the selfish desire to win Kedrin back only to have Béarn fall and his father suicide in shame. Still, Ra-khir could not let go, could not surrender his father without a fight.

  * * *

  Baltraine’s heart pounded, blood throbbing through his head like a drumbeat as he marched somberly through the hallways toward King Kohleran’s room. The lawyer had raised a point of law so archaic that even Baltraine’s meticulous studies had missed it. Only Kedrin’s fanatical sense of honor had rescued Baltraine’s plot from possible disaster. He trusted his presentation and witnesses, as well as the lack of defense, to convince the courtiers, peasants, and king. Still, he dared not allow Kohleran to judge this case with clear-headed justice. His respect for the Knights of Erythane and their captain would interfere.

  Four guards and a scribe named Lakorfin accompanied Baltraine as he shuffled past grand, historical scenes, painted and carved by Béarn’s finest artists through the centuries. Baltraine saw none of it. His thoughts riveted on the words he had spoken and their consequences at a time when he had expected to focus only on upcoming events. From the start, he had planned to bring a scribe as a witness, though it seemed unnecessary and simpler to work alone. A society based on absolute trust for a single ruler, sanctioned by gods, little understood suspicion; and Kedrin’s faith in the king’s regent had surely quelled any remaining doubts. Nevertheless, Baltraine insisted on a witness now to avoid future speculation. As knowledge of the king’s deterioration and the lack of a suitable heir became more common, the populace would grow more cynical. It only made sense to snuff all possible sparks of mistrust before they could begin to smolder.

  Careful preparation, not impulse, had brought Baltraine this far. He had deliberately scheduled the trial on a day Lakorfin held courtroom duty because the young man had proven himself malleable, reverent of Baltraine, and easily daunted. Baltraine had given King Kohleran a dose of a painkiller that dampened his voice to a shaky whisper and awakened him in a slow-witted state. Though alert enough to respond appropriately to questions, the king would prove directable, would parrot formalities or recent conversation, and would forget most of the events when he next awakened—including having taken the herb.

  Just before he left King Kohleran to attend court, Baltraine had detailed the events leading up to the trial, substituting a fringe-noble soldier for Kedrin. Under the guise of anticipating his king’s need to consider the severity of the crime, and its punishment, Baltraine had left a book for the king to peruse while the painkiller took hold. Now Baltraine had little choice but to trust in the situation he had created and to counter unforeseen details. He drove all thought of the courtroom from his mind, fought the nervousness that unsettled his stomach, and steeled himself for the intense concentration required.

  When Baltraine reached the door to King Kohleran’s room, he waved the guards aside. The four stationed themselves stiffly along the wall as Baltraine tripped the latch, ushered Lakorfin through, and followed the young scribe. The stench of sickness slammed Baltraine suddenly, intensifying his queasiness. His stomach heaved, and he gasped down a burning mouthful of bile. Desperately, he regained control of his gut. Despising the taste left on his tongue, he managed a thick, “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

  Baltraine took a position at the king’s side, and Lakorfin eased anxiously up beside him. He had to strain to hear Kohleran’s breathy reply, “Good morning.”

  Baltraine and Lakorfin bowed, the boy’s head nearly touching the floor. Only then did Baltraine look directly at the sallow, withered features of his king. Kohleran’s skin sagged into narrow wrinkles as fine as parchment. “Do you feel well enough to judge, Sire?”

  “Well enough to judge,” Kohleran sent back in a whisper, the echoing not unexpected.

  Believing it safer not to indulge in small talk, Baltraine launched into his story. He substituted “the accused” for Kedrin and interchangeably used “me” and “the accuser” for himself as the situation warranted. He strove to keep his account as accurate as possible, quoting whenever he recalled exact words and summarizing when those failed him or required referral to Kedrin by name or title. He mentioned the Knights of Erythane only once, collectively calling them the “accused’s peers.” As he spoke, Baltraine glanced occasionally at Lakorfin, as if to ascertain that he was keeping the details impartial. Each time, Lakorfin gave him a shy, encouraging nod.

  Finally, Baltraine reached the end. He met Kohleran’s watery eyes, the yellowing of the whites and the paling of the irises by mucus blurring the whole into puddled shadow.

  The king said nothing, only stared at Baltraine as if waiting for him to continue.

  Baltraine did not allow the lapse to grow prolonged. Such would cast suspicion on the king’s mental state. “Majesty, it’s time for your judgment. Is the accused guilty of the crime of assaulting the king’s regent?”

  “Guilty,” Kohleran repeated carefully. He coughed wetly, though the words that followed emerged equally rattly and thin. “Guilty of the crime.”

  Though a plain answer for such a lofty decision, it would serve Baltraine. Lakorfin lowered his head sadly. Though inevitable, the conclusion seemed nonetheless grim.

  “Guilty,” Baltraine repeated, studying the king as if to reaffirm. He glanced at Lakorfin, who nodded to indicate he had heard the pronouncement.

  “And the punishment for high treason?” Baltraine held his breath. Success or failure rode on the king’s answer. Béarn’s kings and queens were renowned for their mercy. The most famous, Sterrane, had never handed down a death sentence, though traitors nearly destroyed the royal line. The bards sang of a devoted friend who created personal reasons to kill Sterrane’s enemies, thereby rescuing the kingdom from its king’s compassion. Monarchs since that time had found rare reason for execution. Some had ordered them, and some had not. Until now, no capital offense had occurred during Kohleran’s reign.

  “The punishment for high treason . . .” King Kohleran repeated, running a hand through his hair as if to physically clear his head. He stiffened, and clarity seemed to burn through the filmy eyes.

  Baltraine held his breath, unmoving.

  Then King Kohleran gasped in a long breath, and the glassiness returned. As if on cue, he quoted the book Baltraine had given him, “. . . must prove a permanent solution. The guilty party cannot have the opportunity, through intention or accident, to come into the presence of royalty again.” The king’s brow lapsed into pensive creases, as if he could not understand the origin of the words he had spoken.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Baltraine did not give the king time for further consideration. “We don’t envy your difficult decision, and we will carry out the verdict and sentence you decreed.” He herded Lakorfin toward the door, clearing his own throat to cover the soft drawing of breath that indicated the king had more to say.

  The scribe had already emerged into the hallway and Baltraine had nearly escaped through the door when the wheeze of Kohleran’s voice trickled into his ears like the last fading notes of a song. “I need more time . . .”

  Baltraine closed the door, blotting out the words. A glance toward Lakorfin and the guards showed no indication that they had heard that final whisper. Soon, the king would drift off to sleep, his judgment and Baltraine’s rudeness forgotten.

  An unexpected pang of remorse stabbed through Baltraine as
he, Lakorfin, and the guards headed back to the courtroom.

  * * *

  Ra-khir worried the problem during Baltraine’s absence. The roar of speculation fell on ears deafened to external sound, and any words spoken by Ra-khir’s friends became similarly lost. Hypnotized by his own unwinnable position and the ideas that poked and analyzed every action, he might have become a statue for all the attention he paid the world around him. When Baltraine returned, Ra-khir was still searching for an answer.

  The audience’s drop into silence broke Ra-khir’s trance the way their shouts and comments had not. Baltraine had retaken his position on the chair, surrounded by his guards; and the sage’s scribe fidgeted at his right hand near Captain Seiryn. Kedrin and his escort, including the lawyer, had returned to their places at the base of the dais. Baltraine rose, his manner as solemn as a tolling bell. He spoke, tone grave, “It is the feeling of our beloved monarch, King Kohleran, that an act of treason was committed in his castle yesterday afternoon.”

  The scribe confirmed the verdict with an exaggerated nod.

  Baltraine directed his final comment to Kedrin, gaze trained on the knight as if no other in the room existed. “You are sentenced to death by poisoning tomorrow.”

  Baltraine turned, anything more that he might have said drowned beneath the ensuing tumult. Kedrin was swept from the room. Courtiers rose. Peasants shuffled toward the door. Darris nudged Ra-khir. “Do it,” he whispered loudly.

  Ra-khir stared into hazel eyes that seemed to pierce his head despite their softness. “Do what?”

  “Talk! Say what you need to say, gods damn you, or you’ll despise yourself for eternity. Speak your piece before it’s too late, Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, or I’ll do it for you.”