The tone of the bard’s heir charged Ra-khir with the final impetus he needed. He had planned to shove, swim, and crawl his way to the dais before Baltraine’s return, then lost all time in the struggle for words and direction. “It’s already too late! I’ll never get through this crowd.”
“Through it, Hel!” Darris leaped onto his chair, strumming an earsplitting discord on his mandolin that froze every person in his or her tracks and demanded attention.
Ra-khir required no further coaxing. He clambered onto his own seat as Darris relinquished the position to him. His concern over finding words that would not come disappeared. He spoke from the heart, true to his father’s honor . . . and to his own.
* * *
Baltraine froze as the musician attracted the crowd’s interest and Ra-khir launched into his unexpected and belated litany.
“Béarnides! I am Ra-khir. Sir Kedrin’s son.”
Though simple and remarkably unadorned compared to diplomats and full-fledged knights, the youngster’s pronouncement caught the attention of every man and woman. Among peasants, the straightforward delivery of one unused to public speaking might prove more asset than handicap. “I lost my father today. . . .” The proud voice cracked, reeking of tears withheld and sorrow that touched every heart, Baltraine’s included. “Just another judgment to some. To me an agony that will haunt my every thought, every sight, every word, and every action through eternity. I cannot let that go without saying something. Please, hear me out, just this once. Then you can all go home to your own families and do as you always do as if nothing happened here today.”
Baltraine listened to Ra-khir’s words with an intensity that bordered on dread. He hated tension, though it always heightened his intellect. Common sense told him that interrupting the boy while he held the sympathy of all would turn Béarn against himself. No choice remained but to let the child speak and hope the citizens’ trust in their king would carry them beyond the grief Ra-khir shared.
“When I was small, my mother took me away, told horrible lies about Kedrin, and forced another father on me.” Unable to hold back any longer, Ra-khir lost control. Though too far to see the tears, Baltraine witnessed enough to assure him of their presence: sobbing breaths that made speaking more difficult, the occasional need to wipe reddened cheeks, eyes that faded to red blurs of distress. The crowd remained silent, latching onto every word. “My father never denied the evil my mother accused him of. To do so would have done nothing but confused me and tortured me with the constant struggle of wondering who to love and who to hate. He suffered for me, letting her nastiness shred his life and reputation, if it would, to spare me a moment of pain. That’s the kind of man my father is.”
Ra-khir glanced about wildly, trembling, as if suddenly realizing he addressed hundreds of people. He swallowed hard.
Baltraine remained in place, allowing the youngster to speak, desperately anticipating. Affairs of city and court had occupied him fully, and he had not realized that Kedrin had dragged his child to Béarn. Surely, Ra-khir knew someone had stolen his father’s knife. For now, at least, he held the crowd’s compassion. Should he mention such an absurdity, they might believe him, turning the tables on Baltraine’s plot. The possibility of discovery had not escaped the prime minister in the planning stages, and he had prepared contingencies. Ra-khir, however, he had not foreseen, nor the power of a young man’s love for his father.
“I saw my father return from a battle against raiding pirates with a fresh wound that stained through bandages and colored his uniform black. Yet he wept openly for the death of a patriot lost in the battle, a faithful, young Béarnide who had given his life for all of you. His own injuries and pain did not matter. That’s the kind of man my father is.” Ra-khir lowered his head. “The healers said he refused their aid until all his men got tended first. And that’s the kind of man my father is.”
“Every day of his young life, my father struggled and practiced until his muscles ached to become the best knight he could. To serve Béarn. And Erythane. In that order. Every day of his adult life, he trained more knights to protect all of us and our families. And everything he did, he did with honor. That’s the kind of man my father is.” Ra-khir lowered his head and joined the audience’s silence.
Baltraine waited with the others, heart hammering but expression betraying nothing but pity. He had come too far to lose control now. He would need to speak next, and he gathered the words needed to evoke the natural loyalty every noble and peasant held for their beloved king. The judgment had already come down from on high. Yet, Baltraine surmised, he would need to find some balm to assuage the guilt of every man and woman who had planned to return home and gossip about the incident in the courtroom this day. So far, Ra-khir had granted no opening for compromise, had presented no contingencies, feasible or otherwise. Baltraine took some comfort from the realization that the child had mentioned nothing of the knife. He hoped that the boy did not know about its disappearance or that the father’s grandiose honor would keep the son silent as well.
Apparently, Ra-khir had not finished. He glanced to someone nearby for support, probably whoever had sounded the horrific chord that opened the air for Ra-khir to speak. “Neither my father nor I would question the judgment of our king. If King Kohleran, may he reign forever in happiness and peace, decrees my father guilty of treason, then he is so.”
Son like father. Baltraine resorted to an ancient cliché, glad that the knight’s overbearing code would work in his favor again.
“I simply wonder if he should give the same punishment to one who has served so faithfully as to some despicable renegade who raises armies to slaughter our innocents in droves.” Ra-khir finally turned the floor back to Baltraine. The knight-in-training looked as pale and wobbly as the ailing king.
Baltraine’s mind raced, the seriousness of situation and decision legitimately giving him the time to think. Lifelong imprisonment or banishment would serve as the king’s “permanent solution” as well as death. Baltraine had trusted rumor, his opening statements, and his pronouncement of execution to keep Lakorfin’s thoughts from these other possibilities. Now Ra-khir had offered a settlement the prime minister did not dare to dismiss out of hand. A simple promise against his honor would hold Kedrin to either of those options and keep him out of Baltraine’s way. The lighter sentence, and the mercy he would therefore show guiltless Ra-khir, would soothe many consciences, including his own. Something in Ra-khir’s words, stance, and manner convinced him that the child could have mentioned the missing knife but did not. It only seemed fair to meet such unspoken compromise partway.
As Baltraine cleared his throat to speak, he discovered the best reason of all to keep Knight-Captain Kedrin alive, one that would enhance his own power even long after the new king took the throne. This thought turned Ra-khir’s suggestion to foregone conclusion.
Baltraine rose, forcing a quaver into his voice. “Thank you, Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, for rescuing Béarn from a tragic mistake.”
Sobs racked the audience, as those most moved by Ra-khir’s words loosed pent up breath or tears in hysterical relief. Ra-khir stiffened, the sudden movement nearly knocking him from his chair.
Baltraine’s lie came easily, a skill of which he was not proud. “King Kohleran rendered the guilty verdict. When it came to sentencing, he spoke riddles that I now believe I misunderstood. He asked for a permanent penalty. In the name of fairness, I chose the standard punishment for treason; yet now I do not believe our king intended that at all. With your help, the meaning has become manifest.” Baltraine cleared his throat again and continued in a loud voice reserved for judgments and proclamations. “Please bring back Sir Kedrin so that I can amend sentencing.”
Béarnides clogged the exit, having prepared to leave prior to Ra-khir’s speech. Guards opened the pathway with brisk shoves and gruff commands, and one slipped out to relay Baltraine’s order.
Gradually, an opening appeared in front of the doors. Moments dra
gged by, the suspense of Baltraine’s new sentencing a strain on all. Finally, the prisoner’s guards reappeared, escorting a bewildered Kedrin between them. They traversed the carpet at a mercifully snappy pace, though not quickly enough for some. The roar of the audience rose in cycles as those too impatient clambered to become the first to tell Kedrin he would live. Individual comments got swallowed in the noise, and Kedrin’s features still bunched in perplexity as he came directly before the dais again.
“Knight-Captain,” Baltraine said.
Kedrin acknowledged Baltraine with a respectful bow.
“Your son, and the people of Béarn, have convinced me that your sentencing was too harsh. Instead, you will spend the rest of your natural life in Béarn’s dungeon.”
Applause accompanied Baltraine’s words, but he remained standing, unfinished. “You will keep your title and position.”
Gasps and muttered comments swept the crowd, followed by more vigorous clapping.
Baltraine held his smile. His new plan hinged on keeping Kedrin the knight-captain. That it also made him seem more lenient and compassionate was a bonus he appreciated. “Others will need to assume your day-to-day duties, of course, but will consult with you. Further details will be worked out to the satisfaction of King Kohleran and his ministers. You’re dismissed.”
With appropriate pomp, the guards again led Kedrin from the room. This time, the knight-captain paused long enough to execute a grand gesture of honor to his son. Only the three of them understood. For all his nervousness and lack of grandiloquence, Ra-khir had managed to rescue his father’s life without sacrificing his honor. Kedrin understood and appreciated that effort as few others could.
Baltraine watched the father leave, finally allowing the slight smile to creep onto his face. Similar ones decorated so many countenances now, though those came of relief and, he hoped, renewed trust in and gladness over their king’s regent. Only Baltraine’s held the joy of personal gain. Kedrin’s controlled power turned him into a pawn. Had he been executed, Erythane would have selected his replacement from among the knights. With Kedrin imprisoned, Baltraine could place his own Béarnian choice into power, a man who would relay Kedrin’s commands. Baltraine had not yet decided who, but he would select a man of physical strength and unbudgeable loyalty not only to Béarn, but to Baltraine. The arrangement would serve for as long as Kedrin remained alive, just as Baltraine’s current power lasted so long as the healers prolonged Kohleran’s illness. Yet, where Baltraine would soon need to sacrifice his rulership to the heir for the good of the kingdom he loved, his power over Erythane’s knights could last indefinitely. The support of Béarn’s citizens, which he now held absolutely, would serve him well.
Baltraine’s grin widened.
Chapter 10
The Torturer
A man is as strong as he allows himself to be, and no more.
—Colbey Calistinsson
The word “torturer” evoked images of a massive, ugly-faced man with a permanent leer of sadistic pleasure; but the elf who answered Dh’arlo’mé’s summons could easily become lost among his peers. He studied Rantire through glossy sapphire eyes, wearing an unfamiliar expression she could only describe as quizzical. White hair fell to his shoulders in thin, soft waves. His dainty features could have adorned a child’s beloved doll.
The other elves retreated beyond Rantire’s sight, yet she could still hear them exchanging conversation in light, high-pitched bursts of their strange language. When she compared their phrases and accent to Northern rather than the more familiar trading tongue, she found a basis for beginning to interpret their lyrical speech. Yet, for now, she found the torturer’s presence too absorbing to concentrate closely on words. She had heard gates click into place as the elves left her presence, but the layout of the prison still eluded her. She found little basis on which to surmise; even the architecture of her cell made little sense to her human-rooted logic.
The torturer said something, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke. After a moment, another elf joined him. Also male, this one seemed cautious to the point of paranoia, keeping the torturer between himself and Rantire’s door and flinching at every sound that rumbled or clinked through the corridors. When the torturer came directly up to Rantire’s door and spoke in the trading speech, the other elf tensed in a startled crouch.
“We just look at answers for basic questions.” The torturer’s human speech lacked the fluency of Dh’arlo’mé’s, and his musical accent rendered it almost incomprehensible. “You tell to me, we not hurt at you. Stop anytime you tell to me answers. Understand of me?”
Rantire nodded carefully, testing her bonds and anticipating transfer to a room with devices as inscrutable as magic. She guessed communication might prove more difficult than Dh’arlo’mé’s articulation had initially suggested, but she understood this elf’s speech well enough to catch the gist of his questions. His ability or lack with the trading tongue did not matter. Whatever the question, she would not answer, at least not without assuring that her words would have no adverse effect on anyone but the elves themselves. She had adjusted to the presence of the otherworld ropes that limited movement but did not cause pain. Trial and error revealed she did not have the strength to break them, yet their benign nature allowed experimentation. She could move her arms in a full arc as long as she kept her wrists together. She could stand but not walk, although she believed she might manage a jump.
The torturer checked to his right, as if for reassurance. Rantire could not see if he received it; but, when he returned his attention to her, he seemed more confident. “I do not wish hurt to you. You answer, no hurt to you.”
Rantire blinked, bewildered by the preamble. The gentleness with which the other approached inflicting screaming agony seemed impossible, especially after Dh’arlo’mé’s intimidation. Already tensed for sudden attack and steeled for punishment, she considered the elves’ tactics. Is he trying to lull me off my guard? Does he think his mercy after threats will make me warm to, even befriend, him? Is this a part of the torture? No answers came, and Rantire dropped the speculation, seeing no means to prepare for strategy that defied common sense as fully as everything else about the elves. She had little choice but to remain quietly defensive until she learned what she could about elves and their purposes. And to seize whatever openings they left for escape.
Rantire’s first came almost immediately. The torturer fitted a bulbous key into the lock of her cell door and twisted. The tumblers gave with a crisp sliding sound that scarcely resembled the anticipated click. The door swung open toward Rantire, and the torturer stepped inside. As he reached to close the door behind him, Rantire sprang, hands clamped and swinging. Her shoulder slammed into his chest, and she met far less mass than she expected. Her hands crashed down on his head. Without a sound, he plummeted, tangled into Rantire’s dive for freedom. They hit the ground in a snarl of arms and legs. Rantire rolled free, lumbering awkwardly down the corridor on hands and knees.
The other elf sprinted in the opposite direction, shouting wildly. Rantire saw a closed mesh gate ahead and a sea of elfin legs. She cursed her luck, wasting a moment to look behind her. The elf ran toward a similar barrier, also mobbed by peers. More cells lined the hallway, all but one as clean as her own. She did not pause to study the last, gaining an impression of bloodstains as she sped past. Instead, she trained her gaze on the gateway and the mass of elves beyond it. Trapped. Rantire continued to crawl, features fiercely determined and simulating madness. She had two choices now: retire meekly to her cage or battle her way through metal bars and an army of elves. She would not lower herself to the former action, thus committing herself to a blind, futile charge. She hurled herself at the gate.
Elves scurried backward with a quickness and grace that belied their gawky-adolescent appearances. Rantire jarred against metal with a rattle that echoed down the corridor. The gate gave only slightly, then sprang back into position. The elves studied her in a strange silence, broken
suddenly by Dh’arlo’mé’s command from the back.
At the sound of his voice, the elves snapped to attention, squaring into lines. The crooning Rantire had heard on the Road of Kings began again.
“Magic.” Rantire muttered the word like a curse, not even trying to guess what would follow. Instead she channeled her energies into a single action: breaking through before the elves overpowered or killed her. Repeatedly, she threw her body at the mesh. Each time, the gate quivered, more flexible than human-worked steel, then dropped back into perfect alignment. Her efforts accomplished nothing except to aggravate the strained muscles in her arms and the dull buzz of the head injury she had sustained in the battle.
Dh’arlo’mé prattled over the elfin chant, his words harsher in tone and syllable than the melodic elfin-speak. The ropes at Rantire’s wrists and ankles grew warm. At first, she believed exertion accounted for the change. Sweat trickled from her brow and stained her tunic in patches. Surely the ropes had grown sodden, though they felt more dryly heated than wet. Rantire continued to fling herself at the gate, even long after she knew it gained her nothing.
Gradually, Rantire’s bonds grew hotter until they became a burning agony she could no longer ignore. “Modi!” she growled through gritted teeth, channeling the pain into anger and will to fight. But the enemy held a solidity she could not breach, though she tried even long after agony drove her to mindless motion and, eventually, to unconsciousness.
* * *
Rantire awakened to a dull throbbing in her arms that ached beyond the older muscle pain. A restless need to rescue her arms became an obsession, and she tried before awareness fully returned. Her arms would not obey her. She snapped her eyes open. The ceiling consisted of woodlike paneling that, she reminded herself, was actually painted stone. The floor looked similar, and it had warmed to her body heat. To either side, the walls were made of the same striped granite, but the one at her head was wooden and the one at her feet held a carpet that reeked of mildew and damp. The ceiling was composed of the mesh bars she recognized as elfin-work. Rantire’s mind registered this arrangement as too odd, and her eyes reoriented to a more logical perspective. She was not lying supine as she’d first assumed but standing, her weight supported by her arms and the rope at her wrists. A hook passed between her hands and beneath the rope, suspending her just high enough that her feet could hardly touch the ground. She shifted her weight to her toes and managed to take some of the pressure from her arms, though they still tingled and throbbed from lack of circulation.
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