“I will not go, Grandpapa.” Matrinka finally managed to meet his gaze again; and, this time, he glanced away. “You can’t hold love hostage. You can prevent my becoming a commoner, but I will still leave Béarn. Then my death is assured. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Kohleran admitted. “I want my granddaughter to be proud of her heritage, no matter who threatens it. I want her to be proud of her lineage, whether lowliest gutter stock or kings. I want her to love her grandfather, the memory of her father, and her many cousins enough to remain a part of us and not abandon us in times of trouble.” He closed his eyes. “I had thought you among the best. I misjudged.”
“I love who and what I am!” Fierce tears and a growing lump in Matrinka’s throat rendered the words all but incomprehensible despite volume. “And I love you!” Matrinka turned her attention to Mior. *I have to tell him. I can’t leave him like this.*
*Not safe.*
*It’s unavoidable.*
*No one should know. Him least of all. Sick people blather.*
Matrinka could never win a battle with her own conscience, and it told her that the truth would soothe the hurt she had inflicted. *He deserves to know.*
Mior did not argue. The cat had an understandable soft spot for King Kohleran and would hate to see him left in inexplicable pain every bit as much as Matrinka.
Matrinka sighed, voice dropping back to a conversational level. “Grandpapa, I don’t want to be disowned. I have to be.”
Finally, their gazes met, and Kohleran waited patiently for explanation.
“My friends and I must be able to travel freely and inconspicuously, without having to fight assassins or evade guards.”
“Travel? Travel where? Why?”
“Please, Grandpapa. No one should know about this.”
Kohleran looked bewildered. “Not even your grandfather? Not even the king of Béarn?”
“No one,” Matrinka insisted.
King Kohleran considered her words somberly for several moments, then shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. I cannot disown my granddaughter without understanding why.”
Matrinka accepted his judgment, trusting his experience and wisdom as well as the worthiness assigned to him by the same test that had condemned her. “Then I have no choice but to tell you. We’re going to bring back the last heir. The only one who has not yet undergone the staff-test.” She smiled, but it was strained. “In exchange for a granddaughter who can’t rule Béarn, you’ll get a grandson who just might.”
Kohleran frowned, wrinkles deepening. “I don’t need my granddaughter to take such a risk. We’ve sent scouts for him already.”
Scouts? The declaration confused Matrinka. “The scouts must have failed, because an envoy was sent. It also has not returned. Knight-Captain Kedrin believes we can succeed where others could not.”
“Ah.” Kohleran ran clawed fingers through his brittle, white beard thoughtfully. “Kedrin has always been a clever man. A small, secret band of youngsters might go unnoticed.” He studied Matrinka through narrowed eyes no longer tear-filled but again filmed with rheum. “Who besides me and Kedrin knows about this?”
“Only my companions.”
“Good.” Kohleran relaxed visibly. “Baltraine spoke of the possibility of treason. Besides that, even loyal retainers change their behavior when privy to information. To divert attention from you and your friends, we’ll need to keep even the prime minister ignorant. That way, Béarn and her council can continue to operate as they would.”
Warmth suffused Matrinka at the realization that Béarn’s king had faith in an inexperienced, eager band of adolescents that most would dismiss out of hand. “So you’ll disown me?”
“No,” Kohleran said.
Matrinka froze into shocked silence.
“But I will make it look as if I have. I will proclaim it so, but the sage’s notes will reflect the truth. You will always be my granddaughter.”
Pleased and frightened at once, Matrinka considered the implications. She had never truly wished to abandon her family, and Kohleran seemed to have solved the problem. But if Tae could steal and read the sage’s notes, others might do so also. Kevral had detailed Tae’s methods from her observation the previous night The Renshai claimed that he used self-created tools to climb walls that most believed unscalable. Split second timing had allowed him to slip past the guards; even then, Kevral had needed to distract one to rescue Tae from an otherwise fatal error. Luck had played as strong a hand as skill, especially the first time. For all intents and purposes, the sage’s notes were secure. If not, the information Kohleran added scarcely mattered. Anyone with access to the truth about her abdication could also uncover the details about Griff that would prove much more valuable and dangerous.
*Seems fair,* Mior suggested.
The compromise more than satisfied Matrinka. Her grandfather’s ability to settle major dilemmas in a simple fashion that left everyone happy never ceased to amaze her. Herein, she believed, lay the means of passing the staff-test. Though too late for her, she would do everything within her power to ascertain that her children developed this skill. She only hoped her grandfather lived long enough to help instruct them. “I love you, Grandpapa,” she said, though the words, even repeated this many times, barely described the depth of her fondness for him.
They embraced one more time, clinging with a desperation neither bothered to conceal. Both knew they would likely never see one another again.
Matrinka remained in place until Kohleran’s grip failed and he sank back to the bed. At first, she feared he had fallen asleep. But his gummy eyes peeled open and he spoke in a tired voice scarcely above a whisper. “Go, Matrinka. Please, send in the scribe so I can proceed with what we discussed while it’s still strong in my mind.” He added sadly, “I forget things sometimes or remember them wrong. But I’ll always love you. I wish you and your friends the grace of every god.”
From one god-sanctioned, the words meant everything. Matrinka resisted the urge to hold him again. She could say “good-bye” a thousand times, and it would never seem nearly enough. “Thank you,” she whispered. Mior rubbed across a withered hand one more time, then hopped down from the bed. The cat and her mistress left the room together.
* * *
The elves’ torture took a strange tack so subtle Rantire barely recognized it for what it was. One day, she did not eat the peas on her dinner tray. When asked if peas poisoned humans, she admitted that she simply did not care for the taste of them. A week followed during which she received only peas for all her meals: pea paste, pea porridge, even pea cobbler until she sickened of the color green. They supplied her with itchy, woolen blankets, then with nothing but the leafy carpet and its pervading odor of mold. They bombarded her with visitors, elves studying and whispering about her for hours that stretched into days. Other times, they left her in lonely, silent darkness. None of these maneuvers caused anything worse than discomfort; even the indecency of toileting in front of the multicolored, gemlike eyes soon ceased to bother her. Modesty became a luxury she discarded from necessity. She held her silence, practicing combat maneuvers at least once per day whether alone or under scrutiny.
During one of the periods of intensive quiet, a single elf strode boldly to the mesh front of her cave. Though unafraid, he did not radiate the aura of confidence she felt in the presence of Dh’arlo’mé and others. This one seemed more curious, too young or ignorant to fear her. The meager light struck red highlights from black hair that hung to fragile shoulders. Unwinking golden eyes watched from beneath a fringe of bangs. He stood much smaller than any other elf she had seen thus far, and he gave her an impression of childishness much the way the elder had seemed old.
The elf’s voice and mannerisms enhanced the image, though he used the human Northern tongue fluently. “Are you a girl-human or a boy-human?”
Rantire could not help smiling, though she did not slip into the high-pitched, simple speech patterns most adults used to address
children. In the Renshai culture, skill determined stature far more than age. “I’m a girl-human. A woman.”
“Oh.” The canted eyes roved up and down, then settled on Rantire’s face again. “How can you tell?”
Rantire had no wish to sexually educate someone else’s offspring, especially that of an enemy. “The same way you know you’re a boy-elf.”
“Oh.” The elf accepted the answer, though his expression betrayed confusion. “My name is Oa’si-Brahirinth Yozwaran Tril’frawn Ren-whar.” He paused for breath. “What’s your name?”
Rantire clung to her previous lie. “Brenna.”
He waited patiently for her to continue. When she did not, he pressed. “That’s all?”
Rantire realized she had said more to this elf than to any other. She found it hard to admit to herself that she preferred his company to solitude. “Humans can’t remember long names, and we have more important things to do than worry about such details. Do you mind if I call you Oa’si?” She pronounced it “WAY-see” and did not bother to surmise the spelling. Surely the elfin alphabet bore little resemblance to anything human; and, even if it did, a child might not yet know how to spell.
“All right,” he said, face scrunched in confusion. “How come?”
“It’s easier,” Rantire explained briefly, clinging to the belief that revealing weaknesses might harm her people. Oa’si seemed like a harmless child plying her with questions from natural infantile curiosity, but she could not escape the possibility that the elves had sent him purposely, believing she would open up to a child as she had not to their weak version of torture. She felt comfortable in his presence. As long as she guarded her tongue and did not reveal any major information, she could chat with this youngster. It gave her an outlet other than the madness that accompanied protracted solitude. Better, whether or not the elves had planted Oa’si, she could glean more information from him then he could from her. A child would likely give innocent and honest answers.
“Oh,” Oa’si said again, though he still seemed unconvinced. “Oa’si.” He tried the name out like a new suit of clothes. “Oa’si’s all right, I guess.”
“Thank you.” Rantire smiled, moving toward the mesh for a more personal discussion. “We use short names so it doesn’t take all day to warn someone he’s in danger.”
Oa’si fidgeted a step backward at her approach, then settled into a nervous crouch. His garnet eyes studied her with guileless fascination. “Danger?”
“Trouble,” Rantire explained. “That something might hurt him.”
Oa’si mulled her description over for longer than any human child would have. “Why would something hurt someone?”
The concept of threat seemed too integral to life to require explanation, so Rantire did not try. “I don’t know. Let’s just say something did.” She tried another tack, “Or we needed to get someone’s attention fast. You can’t say long names quickly.”
Oa’si remained in place, eyes focused on Rantire, and his discomfort seemed to disappear as he concentrated on their conversation. “You could always call a . . .” He hesitated, obviously groping for a translation that didn’t exist. “. . . call a khohlar.” He tipped his head sideways, examining her reaction with an intensity that made him seem much less childlike.
Rantire shook her head to indicate lack of comprehension.
“It’s like a squashing together of a whole lot of words into a . . . a . . .” He trailed off, at a loss again. “. . . a magic ‘thought’ sort of thing,” he finished lamely. He brightened suddenly. “Like this.” His scrutiny became even more intense, if possible.
A concept caressed the edges of Rantire’s mind. She got an image of address, the way Oa’si pictured her; and with it came a barrage of uncertainty and questions. He saw her as an enigma, a puzzle requiring understanding.
The touch finished before Rantire could think to pull away. Startled by the contact, she dropped into a wary crouch that brought her down to Oa’si’s level. “How did you do that?”
Oa’si shrugged. Clearly, the skill came naturally to him.
“Can other elves do it, too?”
Oa’si nodded.
“Can I?”
Oa’si blinked, then widened his gemlike eyes incredulously. “Don’t you know?”
“No,” Rantire admitted. “Can I try?”
“That’s up to you.” Oa’si’s eyes returned to their normal configuration, then narrowed in disbelief. “How could I stop you?”
Rantire had no idea where to begin, nor whether or not the process could be halted or controlled. She did feel certain the information she learned from this child would prove invaluable. “What do I do?”
“Just think at me and draw up magic.”
“How?”
“How?” Oa’si shot back.
“Yes, how do I do that?”
“I don’t know.” Oa’si apparently found the process impossible to describe. “I just do it, and it happens.”
Making magic bore no logic Rantire could fathom. Closing her eyes, she riveted on a message of friendship and willed herself to send it to him. After several moments of total concentration, she opened her eyes.
Oa’si still stared at her. “Ready to start now?”
Rantire chuckled, her first laugh in as long as she could remember. “I already tried,” she admitted. Only then, concern struck. Is this a trick? If I attempt to open my thoughts to him, will he then be able to read everything I know?
But if Oa’si knew anything more about her than before, he showed no sign of it. “Then you probably can’t do this either.” He lowered his head, flapped his arms once, then rose from the floor to a height at which he could chat comfortably with her had she remained standing. He dropped back down. “Or this.” He mumbled a few words and held out a delicate hand with slender, tapering fingers. A colorful lump appeared on his hand, like a solid piece of a rainbow.
Rantire’s heart seemed to sink in her chest. Obviously, even the youngest elves could perform magic individually. Oa’si’s presentation shattered her hope that she could face them one-on-one in fair combat. She dodged the question of whether or not she or other humans could perform such feats, clinging to the hope that she could learn enough about her captors to find a way to thwart them and escape. “That mind-magic thing is fascinating.”
Oa’si shrugged. “Not to me.”
Rantire continued questioning despite her companion’s loss of interest. Any race that could bandy about eighteen syllable names would not succumb easily to boredom. “Can you tell what I’m thinking?”
“No.” Oa’si clenched his hands in his lap and examined the rainbow lump thoughtfully. “We can’t tell what anyone’s thinking. We can just call a khohlar. Like I did.” He heaved an elfin sigh. “That means we can say lots of words at someone with a . . .” He borrowed Rantire’s description, “. . . mind-magic thing.”
“Can you talk that way to more than one person at a time?”
“We can call to one or everyone nearby.”
Rantire sought clarification. “So if you had four other elves with you, you could talk to just one or all four but not to just two.”
“Uh-huh,” Oa’si confirmed. “Can we talk about something else?” Without waiting for an answer, he changed the subject. “Want some . . .” Again he struggled for the word, as he rarely did. “. . . candy?” He broke the multicolored lump into two pieces and offered both to Rantire.
Rantire squeezed her thumb and forefinger through a triangle of the mesh. She plucked a half from the elf’s soft, moist palm, as much from politeness and curiosity as hunger. She did not fear poisoning; the elves had already had ample opportunity to place any herb they wished into her food. Nevertheless, natural caution made her wait for Oa’si to take a bite, chew, and swallow before she followed suit.
The candy tasted unlike anything Rantire had eaten before. Her tongue compared it to honey and a mixture of sweet spices, but its flavor resembled these only marginally. “Deli
cious,” she said, hoping her enjoyment of it did not mean she would never have any more. Again, paranoia reared. She had heard of herbs that, eaten too often, created an irresistible craving for more. Stories of men killing for addictions abounded, though she had seen nothing more formidable in that regard than a drunkard pleading for swallows of leftover ale from uncleaned mugs when his money ran short. Rantire did not worry over this possibility long, however. Renshai training included the balancing of spirit and body and the channeling of power between them. Weaker women might fall prey to such a tactic, but Rantire trusted the fortitude of her mind to see her through such a situation. And it would only make her stronger.
Oblivious to Rantire’s worries, Oa’si ate in happy silence.
“I wish I could create candy from air.” Rantire fished for more information about magic that she could use, not only to assist her escape but to take back to humans to help protect them from elves.
“Me, too,” Oa’si returned, as if she had fabricated the idea from whole cloth.
Rantire made a noise of amusement. “You just did.”
Oa’si’s chewing slowed, and he studied the last bit of candy in his hand. The sparse light gleamed from smears of sugar on his palm. “Create? I can’t even make it from roots and flowers and sugar. My mama does that.”
“But I saw you make it,” Rantire insisted, keeping her voice low so elves on the sidelines could not hear. Her ears told her that no elf but Oa’si stood within listening distance, but she could not view the ends of the hallway where she had once become trapped against a gate. “Your hand was empty. Then it was full.”
“I didn’t make it.” Oa’si used a disparaging tone that children reserved for classmates who made stupid comments that all but demanded ridicule. “I called it.”
“You called it?”
“I told it to come.”
“Really?” The applications of that ability seemed incredible and limitless. Rantire felt awash in fascination and apprehension. In the hands of friends, it would prove an invaluable tool. Unfortunately, the same held true for enemies. “Where was it before you called it?”
Beyond Ragnarok Page 27