Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  A bird trilled in a tree directly overhead, its call answered in spreading lines. It was a cheerful call that attested to the safety of this part of the forest; his still presence no longer bothered them. Tae’s inner turmoil contrasted sharply with the serenity of his surroundings. As a child, he had not understood his father’s business, though often conducted in front of him. Weile met with a host of strangers, many of whom became familiar to Tae over the years. These ranged from gruff, affluent types to shifty-eyed street scum in rags. Until his mother’s murder, Tae never wanted for food, clothing, or attention. Whatever his father did earned him plenty of money.

  Only much later Tae broke the code of euphemisms and pieced together the many weird bits of advice his father had given him. The men who visited Weile spoke of deals, murder, and mayhem. They talked often about trust and loyalty, two values his father took great pains to instill, at least verbally. Using every extremity, Tae could not count the number of times Weile Kahn told him to treat allies with generosity, love, and loyalty and enemies with swift justice. “A man who breaks your trust once,” Weile always used to say, “does not deserve a second chance.” Although he never said it directly, Tae came to know the penalty for a single act of disloyalty must be death.

  Tae kicked at the leaves wind had piled against the deadfall, his anger against Ra-khir and the others now fully expended. Tae, not they, had lied. Ra-khir’s reaction had been no more severe than his own father’s, less so because Weile would have slaughtered him for the deception. Rather, Weile’s men would have done so. For all the illegal activities his father supported—contraband sales, murder, theft, and collusion—Weile had never taken a direct hand in any of it. Instead, he had organized criminals into a unit that followed his commands, a feat no one before him had considered or accomplished. On the surface, it seemed ludicrous to expect those who followed chaos to band together, yet they became more effective and secure as a unit. Tae had learned that from the street gang his father had encouraged him to join, while other parents prayed their children would never have to. Occasionally, however, someone within the organization rebelled, attempting to seize Weile’s power for their own. Some had even managed to create rough bands of their own. Weile took the revolutions in stride, dealing death and vengeance where necessary and handling every setback calmly—even the death of his wife and the mutilation of his son.

  A long time had passed since Tae thought about his childhood in such detail. Now he considered his father’s parenting style and judged it, not for the first time. Deep down, Tae believed, Weile loved him. It came out in their private talks, in the time he occasionally took away from directing pursuits and quelling uprisings to walk, talk, or wrestle with his only son. Several times, he had caught his father staring at him while he slept or drawing a blanket over him when the early morning chill filled his bedroom. “I just want you to be tough,” Weile had often told him. “I want you to survive.” And so, Tae spent months at a time living among orphans and ruffians on the street, sleeping hungry though his father had much more than enough to spare, curled into a shivering ball while his bed and coverlets lay empty, dodging routine predators as well as his father’s enemies.

  Four years had passed since Tae had last seen his father, four years of living hand to mouth and evading those who would slaughter him for the Kahn name. That, too, had been an invention of his father’s, to pass a name to his child other than the standard “son.” In the North and West, they also used the suffix “datter” for girls, though the East had not adopted the convention. Women did not need a second name, though Tae felt certain that, had he been born a girl, his mother would have seen to it he still took the name Kahn. When Tae turned fourteen, his father drove him away. “Come back when you’re twenty,” he had said, his last words to his child. “If you’re still alive, all this will become yours.” He had waved a hand, the gesture encompassing the city of Stalmize or, perhaps, the world. And four years of running had taught Tae two things: first, survival would prove more difficult than he ever expected; and second, he had no interest at all in taking over his father’s business. The wealth and power would prove little reward for a lifetime of sidestepping assassins. Nothing short of eternal agony was severe enough punishment for an enemy who murdered Tae’s family, and only then if his grief could bring wife and children back to life.

  Thoughts of future family brought Tae full circle. Again, he pictured Kevral, and it frightened him that he could imagine spending the rest of his life with her. Her strength, competence, and outward assurance intrigued him, and he emulated her confidence. He could no longer hide from the truth. He loved her. The realization that he had plotted her downfall, and that of their mutual friends, just moments before horrified him. Guilt tingled through him, quelled by the realization that he was only mentally responding to frustration and anger. He would never have implemented any of his evil thoughts. Not even against Ra-khir. For all his irritatingly high ideals and the billion rules that governed his actions from speech to sleeping to handling enemies, Ra-khir was likable in his own way. He had a human quality about him that, Tae suspected, his manners would someday mask.

  Exhausted by consideration of the long, dangerous turmoil he called his life, Tae remained in place, drained of all emotion. His next course of action did not follow naturally, and he found himself unable to make a decision. He hoisted himself from the log, seized the horse’s bridle, and led it east, more from habit than intention.

  A soft rattle in the brush froze Tae. He had traveled woodlands long enough to recognize the sound as that of a small creature, low to the ground. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed it instantly; but his instincts grew more wary as the sharp edge of his thoughts became dulled by fatigue and emotion. He glanced toward a cluster of dense brush, the ground around speckled with mayapple, and a cat slithered toward him. He recognized Mior at once, the calico’s fur peppered with bits of leaves, twigs, and stems. Grass stains smeared long streaks across her sides. As she came upon Tae, she stopped and meowed loudly in complaint. Delicately, she stretched each leg, shook free the most superficial of the dirt, and rubbed against his legs.

  The cat’s fur tickled through holes in Tae’s britches, and he smiled for the first time since Ra-khir had banished him. “What are you doing here, you ugly old cat?” he said, with affection. “Your mistress is probably spinning in circles looking for you.”

  Mior meowed again, looking up at him with steady yellow eyes. She twined between his legs, purring. Tae sighed, shoving her away with a foot. “Go on, you. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

  When the cat did not respond to gentle prodding, Tae looped a booted toe beneath her belly and tossed her two arms’ lengths further. “Go on, Cat. Don’t make me hurt you.”

  Mior continued to purr, running back to his feet with her tail held high. Again, she twined around him.

  “Get out of here, or I’ll kill you and eat you.” It was an idle threat. Tae knew he had at least a week before he grew desperate enough to feast on the princess’ cat. He poked the boot into her ribs. “Come on! Go.”

  Mior ignored his threats, as well as his increasingly forceful suggestions. Finally, driven past control, he gave her a kick in the ribs with a side of his foot that flung her into a patch of nettles. The cat yelped in surprise as much as pain, the sound sending shivers of remorse through Tae. He had not meant to hurt her.

  Even so, the cat returned. Its purring became more intermittent, it rubbed more cautiously, and it watched him more closely. Tae sighed in defeat, its persistence a lesson like everything in his life. The cat’s gentleness and easy forgiveness reminded him so much of her kindly mistress. He could not help remembering the happy times he had shared with his one-time companions, one of whom he cherished and all of whom he respected. If his father’s lectures, the strength of his mother’s love, and the gang security that allowed him to survive the rigors of Stalmize’s streets had taught him nothing else, it had ingrained a sense, almost a need, for belong
ing. Always before, he had considered himself like a stag, a desperate loner who used others as necessary. Now, he realized, group mentality had become a personality trait. Without him, Kevral and the others might not find Pudar, would surely take a too-long route to Santagithi, if they ever found it, and might fall prey to enemies who came upon them undetected.

  “I’m sorry, Mior.” Tae hefted the cat, stroking her with fond apology, as he would never have done in front of the others. Status, often membership itself, in a gang relied on toughness. He had learned to hide all signs of weakness. Here, alone, however, he could pet a cat and enjoy the calming effect it had on both of them. “Here, you’re safe with me.” He placed her on the horse’s saddle and veered northward, leading his mount.

  Tae had come to a decision that surprised even him. He would do all he could to regain the trust he had lost. Whether they wished him to or not, he would see the party safely to Pudar and to Santagithi. He would assure they found food and shelter, and he would divert enemies and passersby who might stumble upon them because they did not understand the best places to camp. And he would see Kevral again.

  * * *

  Nightfall brought a light rain that pattered like drumbeats against the high foliage. Safe beneath a blanket stretched, clipped, and tied between the trees, Matrinka stared into the quiet darkness with Darris’ hand clamped between both of hers. His skin felt warm and dry, despite the damp. His fingers hooked around her palm, deliberately holding; and she thrilled to his strength and touch. He sat beside her, enjoying their togetherness as much as she did. Darris’ need to impart knowledge only in song had accustomed both of them to long lapses in their conversations. Only his wheezy breathlessness when he spoke more than a few words at a time reminded Matrinka of his injuries.

  It seemed easier not to speak at all, to allow their nearness to say all that needed to pass between them. He was recovering well under her ministrations alone, still a half day’s travel outside of Pudar; but Matrinka knew it was not the wound itself that placed him in danger. His lung would either heal and reexpand, or he would learn to get by with only one. But the dirty arrowhead embedded in his chest would remain a nidus for infection until someone removed it. For now, she kept him on herbs to prevent the wound from festering, but they would only work temporarily. Patients who took those medications too long not only suffered side effects but eventually developed the most rapid and deadly infections. Until a surgeon removed that foreign body, Darris would surely fall prey to one fever after another, until one claimed him.

  The idea winched Matrinka’s hands tighter. For a moment, she surrendered to the irrational belief that he could not die so long as she clung. “I love you,” she whispered, saying the words to him for the first time, though she did not look at him. “I wish . . .” She let the rest hang, unable to express the concept of the two of them living together, forever committed to one another’s arms as well as hearts. The details did not matter. Live or die, they could never marry.

  “I love you, too,” Darris responded easily, as if they had expressed their feelings for one another a million times. He paused several moments, to gather either words or breath. “Matrinka?” He tightened his grip as well, and she finally turned to meet his gaze. The hazel eyes seemed to grasp hers as solidly as their hands held one another. “I’m going to be with you always. No responsibility to the world, to the king, or to my bardship will ever compromise what we have together. If I cannot have you, I can serve you. And I can serve the lucky man who marries you, as well.” Despite the hardship of his words, his voice did not waver.

  Tears glazed Matrinka’s eyes. “You’re the one I love, and I will never marry another.”

  Darris swallowed hard, shaking his head to the extent dizziness allowed. “You will. You have to. Promise me you will.”

  Matrinka refused. “I can’t make that promise.”

  “For the good of the kingdom, Matrinka. Especially if I die. You have to promise.”

  “I can’t promise.”

  Darris grimaced, in as much pain from her words as he had been from the injury. Balms and herbs could not assuage this type of agony. “Would you let the next bard of Béarn live with the guilt of helping destroy the kingdom?” His hold weakened. “I’d rather die now.”

  Matrinka reconsidered. “I’ll relinquish all claims for myself and my family. You mean more to me now even than bonds of blood.”

  “No,” Darris said. Then more loudly. “No! I will not come between you and your family. Don’t forsake all that is Matrinka for a dying man. I know surgery is risky. I’d rather die knowing you’ll find happiness again and with your honor intact than leave you a grieving widow without ties to your own blood. Knowing you share my love is enough. It is everything.”

  Matrinka wrapped her arms around Darris, and this time they kissed unabashedly. Years of anticipation added the sweetness that his sickness stole, and Matrinka felt airborne with joy. He fell asleep a moment later, driven to exhaustion by the effort of a lengthy speech and leaving her with an incredible longing she never anticipated. Always, she had seen a kiss as an end, yet now it seemed only a shallow beginning to wonders she would never experience.

  *Finally!* Mior’s thought startled Matrinka, and she nearly dropped Darris. *I told you to do that a long time ago.*

  Matrinka lowered Darris to the ground, arranging him into a comfortable position, then covering him with a blanket. *You evil beast! Who gave you permission to spy?*

  Mior shook water from her fur. *I’m a cat. The gods gave me permission to spy.* She sat delicately. *Besides, I wasn’t spying. I just happened to see.* She licked her fur back into place.

  Recognizing guilt as the source of her irritation, Matrinka searched for a less emotionally charged topic. *I’ll never understand how you dry yourself with a wet tongue.*

  *Skill, my friend. Great skill.*

  *Skill, indeed. One I’ve no interest in learning.*

  *You’re just jealous.*

  Matrinka laughed, surprised at how strained the sound emerged. Concern for Darris poisoned her every thought and action. *You’re the one who’s jealous, my dear. That’s why you’re so interested in kissing.* She stretched her lips into an exaggerated pucker.

  *No, thank you. I’d take a good tongue bath over some man’s spit in my mouth anytime.*

  *Odd words from one who once stuck her whole kitten face in the king’s cup of buttermilk.* Matrinka grabbed Mior with playful roughness and drew the animal into her lap. *Odd words from one who drinks from dirty puddles.* Matrinka sensed more than saw Mior wince at the manhandling. All joking disappeared, replaced by worry. *What’s wrong?*

  *He kicked me,* Mior admitted with obvious reluctance.

  *Who?*

  *Tae.*

  *You found him?*

  *Of course.*

  Matrinka wanted more information on their missing companion, but tending the cat came first. *Are you hurt?*

  *Not really. Not enough to worry about.*

  Matrinka stroked Mior, reflexively feeling along the ribs for fractures or swelling and finding neither. *How is Tae? What’s he doing?*

  Mior leaned into her mistress’ touch. *Hey! I’m still in pain here.*

  *You claimed it was nothing to worry about,* Matrinka reminded, smiling at the realization the cat could not be badly injured if she had the presence of mind to demand sympathy.

  *Well, you could worry a little!*

  Having found nothing amiss, Matrinka petted Mior with firmer strokes that dislodged twigs, leaf shreds, and shedded hair. *Poor Mior. Poor, poor Mior.*

  *Too late. You don’t sound sincere.* The cat lamented, then added quickly, *But keep up the petting. It helps.*

  Matrinka studied Darris where he had fallen nearly instantly asleep again. She did not concern herself with the rapidity; he needed rest to heal. She ran her hand along Mior from neck to hindquarters, pausing occasionally to scratch behind the ears and under the chin. The exercise proved therapeutic for both of them,
and it stimulated Mior to address the earlier questions.

  *Tae wasn’t ranging ahead the way he usually does, more like dragging behind. He mumbled something about Ra-khir killing him if he caught us together.*

  Matrinka broke in to clarify. *“Us” meaning you and him?*

  *I think so.*

  *What else did he say to you?*

  *Nothing much. Except for that, he pretty much didn’t talk to me after he told me to go away. And kicked me.*

  *Tae never struck me as the sort to talk to himself.* Being exactly that sort, Matrinka had discussed matters with Mior long before they learned to communicate.

  *Himself? Hey! That’s an insult, isn’t it?*

  Matrinka considered her words, recognizing she had called Mior a nonentity without meaning anything hurtful. *Not an insult, Mior. Most people see talking to a cat the same as they do talking to themselves. Cats don’t usually answer back.*

  Mior accepted the explanation. *I don’t think he thinks he’s one of us anymore. Although he did snare some rabbits and put them on the trail just up ahead.*

  *He did?* Matrinka furrowed her brow, though the only logical explanation followed swiftly. *He knows we’re getting short on rations. He wanted to feed us. But why didn’t he just bring them into camp. And why has he avoided us all day?*

  Mior gave no answer, and a long pause followed, finally interrupted by Ra-khir’s puzzled voice as he and Kevral drew nearer. “We can’t just eat them. Rabbits don’t just drop dead in the middle of a trail.”

  “So maybe they fell off a merchant’s wagon,” Kevral shot back. “So what? They haven’t gone bad. Why throw them away?”

  Matrinka hefted Mior and headed toward the discussion. Apparently, Tae wished to give his gifts anonymously, and she would not interfere with that decision, especially since doing so would require an explanation she did not feel ready to give. Discussing her relationship with Mior had gained her enough ridicule for one lifetime, and she did not wish to risk her friendship. Though she had not known them all that long, she felt closer to her current companions than even her many cousins. But she would see to it Tae’s labor did not go to waste. “What’s going on?”