Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Ra-khir defended his position. “There’s nothing dishonorable about bringing a guilty man to justice.” Matrinka heard the desperation in the knight-in-training’s voice, his desire to temper need with principle without rationalizing an unjust decision. She stayed out of the argument, uncertain where she stood. She saw no way to win, only to trade the life of one friend for another. And with Tae’s whereabouts once again unknown, the discussion seemed academic anyway. She clutched Mior in a swirl of worry and listened to the men argue over a problem without solution.

  “First,” Darris asserted, “we haven’t established that Tae’s guilty. Second, Kevral willingly took Tae’s place, without coercion. That frees Tae from any obligation to Pudar.” Darris glanced at Matrinka, squirming in a fashion that had become familiar. The bard’s laws did not constrain him as tightly as his mother, yet. Still, long discussions outside of song always made him uncomfortable.

  Ra-khir lowered his head, conceding the point but obviously unnerved by it. He fidgeted nearly as much as Darris.

  “It’s Tae’s decision.” Matrinka finally added her piece. “And I’m not sure there’s a right choice.”

  Ra-khir whirled to face her now, the sudden movement momentarily unbalancing him. He corrected his equilibrium with an irritable side step, but the look he gave Matrinka was harsh with betrayal.

  Matrinka defended her words, “You’re asking Tae to sacrifice his life for Kevral’s.”

  Ra-khir shrugged. “She agreed to do it for him.”

  “That was her decision.” Matrinka returned. “It’s not fair to expect everyone to do what Kevral did. Not any more than you can expect everyone to follow knight’s honor.”

  The last point clearly hit home. Ra-khir’s expression became more horrified.

  Not meaning to worsen the situation for him, Matrinka reviewed her words. Only then, she realized she had raised the very issue that had kept Kevral at Ra-khir’s throat for the first part of their journey: the assumption that knights insisted their enemies follow their honor. Matrinka redirected her point. “I’m just saying Kevral’s braver than most. There’re many things she does that I wouldn’t think to try.” She continued with what seemed like a more important detail. “Remember, too, that Kevral put Tae into a difficult situation. He might have evaded Pudar’s guards forever. Kevral’s the one who created the current dilemma.”

  Ra-khir stared. “I can’t believe you’re saying this! Kevral did what she did to save our mission. So we wouldn’t get stuck in Pudar. Damn it, Matrinka, she did it for you.”

  “For the world,” Darris corrected. “Our mission reaches far beyond Béarn.”

  Ra-khir winced. This time, Matrinka believed physical pain responsible.

  “Let’s go home,” Matrinka said, looping an arm through Ra-khir’s and inclining her head toward him to cue Darris. Ra-khir’s pride probably would not allow him to request the assistance he needed.

  Darris moved into position, his long relationship with Matrinka making words unnecessary. They helped Ra-khir walk toward home; and, though he placed little of his weight on Matrinka, he seemed unusually heavy. Ultimately, they all knew the decision came down to worth, to who mattered more, a young Renshai or a ruffian. And the only man who could make that assessment was the ruffian himself.

  Ra-khir threw one last comment, “I’d do it. I’d give myself for Kevral if only she’d let me.”

  Neither Matrinka nor Darris responded; it was clearly unnecessary. Yet Mior did so in Matrinka’s mind. *That’s because he loves her. But it still remains to be seen whether Tae loves her enough to do the same.*

  * * *

  The natural movements that accompanied breathing sent waves of pain through Ravn, and he sat as still as possible on the river’s shore. Beside his son, Colbey stared at the breeze-ruffled waters, showing no guilt or residual anger for the intensive practice that had left Ravn aching for days. Freya paced with the impatience of a caged animal, her displeasure still unspent. At length, she stopped directly in front of her son, waiting until he met her sapphire gaze before speaking.

  “How could you do such a thing after what we told you last time?”

  Ravn sighed. Until recently, he had taken his mother’s beauty for granted. Now that adolescence had come upon him, he found it painful to look at her, embarrassed by the thoughts her perfect features raised. Her eyes shone from sockets flawlessly set, surrounded by long, thick lashes. Her nose perched straight and strong, and her full lips seemed always to beckon, even when, as now, they were thinned to an angry line. Symmetrical and set at just the right height, her cheeks held a youthful flush.

  Yet, for all its radiance, her face scarcely prepared a man for the delicate curves of a body no mortal could ever match. Though a thousand human artists might spend their entire lives trying, they could never capture Freya’s loveliness. The gods, themselves, had not managed to do so either. For more than a year, Ravn had wondered whether all sons saw their mothers in such a light. But eventually he had eavesdropped on enough of the gods’ conversations to realize his mother was unique. Goddess of fertility, Freya embodied the perfect appearance of a woman, the standard against which all others would always be measured. And he did not know whether to view this as blessing or curse.

  Freya’s lips pursed still more. “Raska, answer me.”

  Jarred from his unholy thoughts, Ravn stared, desperately trying to remember the question. Though the words would not come, he guessed it had something to do with his reasons for protecting Griff again. “I didn’t attack. I used the same disguise you did when you took care of Father. What did I do wrong?”

  Freya’s face reddened, and she looked away.

  The impression that she had given up on her son hurt worse than any words. Ravn looked toward his father.

  “You did better this time than last,” Colbey admitted, the concession unusual. When it came to sword work, he expected each practice to exceed the last. Anything less meant a student had not given his all, an insult to his sword and to his teacher. “But you still fought that mortal’s battle for him. Neither man’s world nor ours can afford the repercussions that might come of such action.”

  Ravn kicked at a stone. Dislodged, it rolled into the water with a muffled splash, and tiny rings widened from its landing. “So I should have let him die?” He felt certain no words could convince him that such was the case.

  “Perhaps.” Colbey kept his gaze directly on Ravn. “There are actions between. Subtlety is a virtue all gods and their kith should know and practice, along with patience.” For the first time in weeks, he smiled. “And I could use the lesson better than most. At least we know for certain you’re my son.”

  Freya glared. Surely Colbey had meant the comment as an insult to self and son, not to Freya; yet the implication remained. Stories about her wanton nature abounded, mostly exaggerated.

  “So what do I do?” Ravn pleaded with his father, but Freya answered.

  “Nothing,” she said softly. “Until you learn control, you’re forbidden from interacting with humans.”

  Ravn jerked his head toward Freya, dread like a dense cloud in his chest. “But he’ll die.”

  “I have spoken,” Freya said. “And I am done.” Without further word, she tossed back her cascade of golden hair and headed toward home.

  “Please,” Ravn appealed to his father, though his mother usually proved more reasonable. As the Keeper of the Balance, Colbey could allow little leeway. The mistakes of gods had far-reaching repercussions. “He’ll die without my help. I’ll do better. I promise.”

  Colbey sighed deeply, his expression thoughtful. “I wouldn’t dare gainsay your mother.”

  Ravn sagged, beaten for the moment.

  “However,” Colbey continued. “I will teach you the control she mentioned, freeing you to do as you must. Come.” He offered his hand.

  Eagerly, Ravn accepted it, realizing too late it would prove far less painful to stand at his own pace. As Colbey helped hoist Ravn, ev
ery muscle in his body screamed for mercy. Ravn fought to hide the agony. He would not give his father the satisfaction.

  Colbey studied Ravn wordlessly, with only mild curiosity. He would punish but never taunt. “Ready?”

  “Now?” Ravn could scarcely believe his luck. “Are you going to help that Renshai girl?”

  “Yes,” Colbey admitted. “With subtlety.”

  Ravn could scarcely wait to learn.

  Chapter 32

  Affairs of the Heart

  I’ve got my sword, my horse, and my trusted friends. What more could I need?

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Kevral Tainharsdatter looked through the bars of her cell, watching the three Pudarian guards as they watched her. She did not bother to test the locks. She had come as a willing replacement for Tae. Escape would only make fugitives of them both. Worse, it meant cowardice, and no crime more violated Renshai tenets and honor. She had made her decision. No matter how foolish it seemed now, she would suffer the consequences honestly.

  Kevral stepped away from the front of the cell to explore it more fully. Never having been in a dungeon before, she did not know exactly what to expect. She had, however, anticipated more grime and dankness, as well as other prisoners. Her cage contained a bed and a sewage hole with a curtain for privacy. A plate of salted pork and vegetables and a bowl of water lay neatly on the floor. Kevral suspected they had placed her in a place little used, perhaps reserved for upper class suspects, foreign dignitaries accused of wrongdoing, or those who seemed likely to be proved innocent and set free. Or maybe they used it for circumstances such as her own, in which the prisoner agreed to accept punishment for another. Like that happens all the time.

  In the cottage, taking Tae’s place had seemed natural, a way to keep Matrinka from doing the same and of rescuing a mission already delayed too long. The courage such a commitment required had seemed secondary, a small test of a bravery she would never allow to fall into question. Only now, the implications of what she had done were finally beginning to become clear. She would die, outside of battle and without valor. She would never find Valhalla. The goal she had worked toward since birth would elude her, not from cowardice or lack of training, and not because a better foe had bested her in combat. She would die in shame for friendship and Béarn’s need.

  With a sigh of resignation, Kevral sat on the bed, face clasped in her hands. She did not fear death. As a Renshai, she’d always believed it would find her sooner rather than later. She feared only the means of her death, one that condemned her to the frozen wastes of Hel rather than the eternal war for brave warriors who died giving their all in battle. All of the previous Kevralyns, including the last one, her namesake, would look down from Valhalla in sorrow. The name would die with her. No Renshai would call their baby after one who went to Hel; it would leave the child without a guardian and might doom her to the same fate.

  For an instant, panic scattered Kevral’s thoughts. She stiffened, calling on the Renshai mind powers she had learned along with her sword work. She reined in pieces of her shattered concentration, stalwartly ejecting fear from her consciousness. She would not let it taint her otherwise pure spirit. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling regrets. She would never fight in a war. She would never have a husband or a family. She would die a virgin.

  Kevral sprang to her feet, fighting misgivings. She sought solace in the only thing that could fully occupy her mind. Even without a sword, she could and would practice. Ordinarily, she sought privacy for her training. Now, she had no choice, and the need to work her sword arm had to take precedence over any detail the guards might glean from her. She prided herself on the speed and complexity of her tactics, far beyond her years. Another pang followed the thought. She already knew herself to be one of the greatest swordsmen, but she would never have the chance to prove it to the world.

  Kevral launched into a svergelse, determined to make it her best ever. She dedicated her effort to Sif, goddess of Renshai, and promised sword work worthy of prayer, though she had no weapon. Imagining a sword in her hand, Kevral leaped, swept, and arced. Her pretend weapon sliced air, hacking through a mass of enemies, one by one. Her limbs never stopped moving, her prayer a wild dance of lethal fury. Like fire, she capered and twisted, consuming every life in her path.

  Soon, the bars and stone floor disappeared. She no longer saw the guards who now stared, transfixed. One went to fetch more, and they came in larger numbers, filling the area that contained her cell. Kevral never noticed. They posed her no threat, so her mind dismissed them. Then, suddenly, a presence touched her, a joyful lightness in her mind that quickened an already near-perfect practice. She became a swirling flash of gold hair and blue tunic, her movements unstoppable and all but invisible. The imagined weapon in her hand gained weight, a reality her rational mind could not disprove. Its presence became a reassurance that trebled the significance of the presence in her head. Her goddess, she believed, had come.

  Joy exploded through Kevral. She laughed, further quickening her efforts. Every shred of strength, mental and physical, channeled into her practice. Raw power seemed to flow through her veins instead of blood; and fatigue remained at bay. At first, she strained to concentrate on the maneuvers, afraid thinking too hard about the mysterious sword would make it go away. But the more she tried to redirect her attention, the more it settled on the sword. Yet, even when she let her thoughts go where they would, the sword remained, a pressure in her head and an image in her eye. It etched silver lines through air and imaginary opponents. It filled her hand, settling against the calluses as if it belonged to her alone. She could feel its leather against her palm, and its hilt warming to her grip.

  And still the guards gathered, each bringing more as the ruthless dance of Kevral’s practice showed no sign of abating. And still, she noticed nothing but the sword in her fist, the conjured enemies, the fancied combat. Only if one of the guards attacked could he enter the world she now inhabited, and none of them seemed foolish enough to try.

  For hours, Kevral’s practice continued, and no one dared to interrupt it. Exhaustion caught up to her, and she fought it. She would rather keep going until all of the water seeped from her body as sweat. Death in this fashion would prove far more satisfying to her. Yet, she knew, it would cheat the executioner and, therefore, might not satisfy the terms of the exchange. She did her companions no good if she killed herself, the king still blocked retreat from the city, and Tae remained hunted. Reluctantly, she quit, lowering her arm to her side and allowing reality to come rushing back. A sea of Pudarians met her gaze, the scene striped by the bars of her cage. Words touched her ears, a brief exchange near the front:

  “Wasn’t she searched? Where did she get that. . .?” The voice trailed off as the practice ended.

  Yet another answered what must have seemed an obvious query to anyone but her. “It isn’t real.”

  The king of Pudar had joined his men, near the front of the gathering. He studied Kevral, pale eyes full of wonder.

  Kevral blinked, surprised by the enormity of her audience. Exhilaration still overwhelmed fatigue, and she looked upon the multitude with shining eyes, her breathing only mildly quickened. Anticipating the rush of shakiness and pain that always followed intense effort, she sat. She balked at showing discomfort to anyone. A good torke would chastise her for it with additional lessons. A warrior who revealed weakness to enemies guaranteed her own deserved death.

  “Go away,” the king commanded softly. “All of you, go away.”

  For a moment, no one moved, as if replaced by an army of statues. Then, gradually, the guards responded to their king’s order. The ones in the back dispersed first, heading off to tend to the duties they had left to watch the show. Others followed in a steady stream, until only the dozen dressed in inner court silks remained.

  Kevral watched them impassively, more intent on controlling her breathing than worrying about the guards’ obedience. She sucked air through her nose and funnell
ed it through her mouth without gulping.

  Sweat wound a trickle down her forehead, and she cursed even that small show of effort. Casually, she wiped it away with her palm, scratching a pretend itch in the same area.

  A frown deeply scored the king’s features, and he gestured for the remaining sentries to leave. Some addressed him with a soft meekness that kept their words incomprehensible to Kevral. She guessed they begged the right to stay and protect him.

  But the king granted no quarter. Again, he waved them off, this time with an impatient gesture that brooked no ignoring.

  The guards dispersed with obvious hesitancy. Only one remained stalwartly at his king’s side. He did not look at his monarch, as if he feared he would get sent away as well. So long as he could not see the dismissal, he could ignore it.

  The king overlooked this last of his men. Instead, he spoke to Kevral in the same deep baritone she remembered from his court. “Kevral, I presume you understand that by taking a criminal’s place you have brought his exact sentence upon yourself.”

  Kevral’s mind felt thick and slow, drained as much as her muscles by the practice. She forgot to curtsy. “Sire, if you’re asking if I know I’m going to get killed in Tae’s place, I understand.”

  “You’re a brave woman, Kevral.”

  Kevral shrugged. “I would be an embarrassment to my people if I wasn’t.”

  The king’s brow furrowed as he considered the statement. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  Kevral nodded, preferring to stay on track with the conversation. The means of her death held more relevance than any other topic they could discuss.

  “You have a great talent.”

  Kevral ignored her natural inclination to respond with the same phrase as before. Antagonizing the man who determined the means of her death seemed madness.

  “My men could well use your expertise. Training from one such as you would prove invaluable.”