Kevral fought anger by biting her lip and causing pain instead. “With all respect, Sire. That was not a part of our agreement. Though no enemy of Pudar, I dislike the idea of doing favors for one about to execute me.”
The king looked to his one remaining man. Initially, Kevral had assumed him a soldier, like the others. Since all Renshai strove toward the same goal, and every one clutched a sword from the day his or her hand could close around a grip, it seemed a logical mistake. Now she guessed he served as an adviser or confidant. This other Pudarian bowed encouragingly, and the king continued.
“What if I offered you your freedom in exchange for that favor?”
Kevral’s heart skipped a beat. She leaned forward, not bothering to hide her interest. “It would depend on the details.”
King and adviser whispered back and forth for a few moments, words occasionally audible above Kevral’s breathing and the boom of her heartbeat in her ears. She found herself unable to connect these, so she waited for the king to address her again.
Shortly, he did. “You intensively train my men for at least one year. If an obvious improvement results, you’re free to go or stay on as you please.”
Kevral bit her lip harder to keep from blurting out agreement. Confronted with this new situation, her mind raced. She wanted to ask who determined whether or not this improvement occurred, but she had a more important matter over which to quibble. She had a previous commitment, and seeing that done took precedence over worrying for her later freedom. “If there’s no improvement, I have to stay?”
“Until there is,” the king said. “Correct.”
“And this takes the place of my execution?”
“Exactly,” the king agreed.
The other man cut in. “May I add something, Sire?”
The king gestured good-naturedly for him to add his piece.
“We expect you to put real effort into this project. For that one year, or longer if you choose, training Pudar’s soldiers must be your primary concern. Under those circumstances, I don’t see how improvement could not occur.” He answered the question Kevral had chosen not to ask. “Improvement will be determined by a test performed on the guard force before and after your teaching. You will have a hand in determining what that test will entail.”
Kevral nodded. It sounded fair. “I have only one condition. I’m already committed to a mission outside Pudar. When it’s finished, I’m free to fulfill my obligation to you.”
The king squinted, frowning. He looked to his companion for guidance. As if it were contagious, the other frowned, too. Finally, the king spoke. “I appreciate your loyalty to a cause. I’ll appreciate it more when your cause is Pudar’s guards. But can you assure us you’ll return?”
Kevral considered. “I give you my word as a Renshai. I swear to the gods of my people: Sif and Modi. And I promise on the memory of Colbey Calistinsson, our greatest hero. If there’s life left in me by the time my mission ends, I will return to Pudar to train your guards.” Kevral did not bother to mention that she could not show Pudar’s guards any of the maneuvers uniquely Renshai. Improving their skills would not require it.
Again, the king silently consulted his companion, receiving a definitive nod in answer. “That vow from a Renshai, I would trust.”
“Settled, then,” the king said, his smile slight but unmissable. “Free her.”
* * *
Colbey and Ravn shared Odin’s vast throne, Hlidskjalf. The stone had claimed their body warmth long ago, while they looked out over the entirety of man’s world as they pleased. The mansion of the father of gods had changed little since his demise. It had seemed sacred, even to the gods, a shrine no one dared disturb. Rarely did the gods find reason to concern themselves with affairs of mortals. Likely, each had tried the throne, from curiosity at least, then chose to leave it alone inside the silver-roofed palace that had once been the private domain of Odin and his wife, both lost to the Ragnarok.
Though embroiled in serious lessons, Colbey reveled in the special time spent with his son. Throughout his mortal life, he had desperately wanted a child to nurture and teach, whether a boy or girl did not matter. His closeness to Ravn now brought back bittersweet memories of a young man named Episte. Though not his by birth, the child had become in every other way his son until tragedy claimed the boy’s sanity and forced Colbey to take his life as well. At the time Episte had been close to Ravn’s age.
Colbey gave his son a hearty pat on the shoulder, followed by a loving squeeze. This one, he would train right, not just in matters of sword work, but also in matters of logic, love, and understanding. The learning had begun from birth, and Colbey hoped his mortal’s impatience would not ruin the need to stretch his lessons over a lifetime. “Well?” he prompted.
Ravn looked at the scene again, while guards released and talked softly with Kevral. “You created the illusion of a sword?”
Colbey shook his head. “I have no such magic. You know that.”
“I know that.” Ravn shifted to the jeweled arm of the throne, impiously perched like an errant child on a new and expensive couch. Colbey did not chastise his son. Furniture, especially Odin’s, held little interest for him, and the expensive construction would prove its own punishment. Soon the inset gemstones would take their toll on Ravn’s buttocks. “But I also know what I saw.”
“You know what you think you saw.”
Ravn’s brow crinkled. “All right, then. What I think I saw.” The grooves in his forehead deepened. “You’re telling me she held no sword.”
“Exactly.” Colbey smiled at Ravn’s quick perception.
Slowly, the creases disappeared, and Ravn’s eyes widened with an interest that pleased his father. Ravn had always proved a willing and eager student when it came to battle. Academics, however, he had pursued more to please his parents than himself. “What did you do?”
Colbey continued to smile, pausing to give Ravn more time to consider the possibilities. The lesson would accomplish more if Ravn found the answer on his own.
“You influenced the guards’ minds.”
“Close,” Colbey said. “But remember, I can’t enter more than one mind at a time. And you saw it, too.”
Again, Ravn’s brow knitted. He fidgeted on Hlidskjalf’s arm. “You influenced . . .” He hesitated, brightening suddenly. “. . . Kevral! You made her believe she really held a sword. And she convinced the rest of us by the way she performed her kata.”
Colbey beamed. “Exactly! Good job, Ravn.”
Ravn looked away, but his face revealed happy pride. He squirmed, seeking a more comfortable position. “It only worked because she’s Renshai.”
“It only worked,” Colbey added, “because she’s among the most skilled of Renshai. Not many could have created such an illusion. It requires speed and changes in movement and balance so minute that otherwise imperceptible differences can fool the mind and eye. Nothing magical here. No personal interference. No magnificent suggestions or strategies. Just a spark of an idea.”
“That’s proper interference?”
“Even that could prove too much for older gods less grounded in mortality.”
Ravn sat in silent consideration for a long time, oblivious to the discomfort of his position. Finally, he shook his yellow mane in frustration. “But that kind of subtlety wouldn’t work for Griff.”
“Of course not,” Colbey admitted. “Every situation calls for different strategy. You only have to find the right action for the moment.”
Ravn glanced back at his father, worry straining his young features. “But what if it doesn’t work?”
“Then you chose the wrong action.”
“And Griff dies.”
“And Griff dies,” Colbey concurred.
Ravn stared at his father, his aggrieved expression a plea.
“Mortals die,” Colbey said, the lesson one he knew only too well. “That’s why gods rarely befriend them.”
“Gods die, too.” Ravn observed ast
utely as he rose. “Just not of age or illness. If either of those took him, I would understand. If he died in glorious combat, I would celebrate his passing. But I can’t stand back while enemies destroy him.”
Colbey sighed deeply. “Then you must do as your mother bid. You must stay out of the affairs of mortals until you learn to properly interfere.”
Ravn paced, clearly agitated. “You mean interfere as you do.”
“With care, yes. Not necessarily using my methods.”
Ravn sighed, still moving. “May I continue our friendship? May I watch him?”
Colbey nodded. “You may, if you feel certain you can do so without influencing the course of human events. Have you that much control?” He smiled with kindness. “Few adolescents do. I know I didn’t when I was more than your age.”
“I do,” Ravn said softly, giving the situation the serious attention it deserved. “I’m sure I do.”
Colbey did not hold Ravn’s faith, yet he also knew it would prove safer for mortals and gods if the youngster made his mistakes now. Over time, the significance of his every action would increase, just as Colbey’s had. Soon, he, too, would have to limit appearances and advice even more than he already did. “Then you may go as friend and controlled observer. But don’t disappoint me.” Colbey added the last as an explicit warning. Should Ravn fail, he would pay with worse than just an exhausting, painful sword practice. If Ravn caused strife between Freya and Colbey, father and son would both suffer her wrath. Colbey feared no enemy, but the punishment Freya could inflict made him shudder. No one could hurt a man as much as a woman he loved. Particularly a goddess. Especially Freya.
* * *
King Cymion’s court progressed in a whirlwind of excitement that carried into the evening. Buoyed by the newest addition to his supporters, a Renshai of considerable talent who had agreed to train his guards, Cymion tempered his judgments with a mercy that went beyond fairness. The merchants who bartered their taxes that day would brag of their fortune, and permission for every function from parties, to hunting on royal land, to weddings all met the same exuberant agreement. Nothing, it seemed, could sour the king’s mood until the nineteenth situation of the afternoon.
A smile felt permanently pasted to the king’s face, and his mind kept wandering back to the deal he had made in his prison. No other king could boast a Renshai armsman, not even the high monarchy in Béarn. Kevral-trained, elite guards would become Pudar’s equivalent of the Knights of Erythane. And with any luck, Kevral would enjoy her year in Pudar enough to remain forever. If he treated her like royalty, and he would see to it his staff did so, perhaps she would become permanent. She might even bring her Renshai husband, a warrior likely to exceed her in skill; and their offspring might serve his son in turn.
The thought sparked grief at once. Tears sprang to his eyes unbidden, the fires of excitement dampened. An image of Prince Severin filled his mind, the edges frayed. Have I already begun to forget my firstborn? Panic spiked through him. He fought it down, calling up the control he needed in the courtroom. Emotional swings did not suit a monarch, even one still grieving for a son lost to an assassin. He would never exact the revenge he once believed he needed to place sadness at rest. But the reward he had gained instead might, poetically, prove more valuable. If he could convince Kevral to remain in Pudar, if he could establish a convention that her offspring became Pudar’s armsman, he would give his second son a peerless gift.
“Majesty? Your Majesty?” A cautious nudge roused King Cymion from the depths of thought.
Blinking away tears, the king turned his attention back to Adviser Javonzir beside him. Discreetly, the other man’s eyes traced a semicircle to the patch of floor in front of the dais. A man stood there, gaze trained unwaveringly on Cymion, neither bowing nor kneeling despite the guards’ weapons leveled around him. The king recognized him in an instant, the way a wolf knows the scent of a rabbit. The tangled black hair and air of defiance were unmistakable. His son’s murderer had returned.
Excitement disappeared at once, replaced by a raw hatred Cymion could not banish. He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was standing, glaring at the Easterner who stood before his throne, uncowed. The brown eyes met his, eyes remarkably hard in an otherwise youthfully innocent face. He read no fear nor remorse in those features, and the lack of the latter further infuriated him. “You,” he finally managed.
The Easterner bowed in acknowledgment. “My name is Tae Kahn. I refuse to let a friend die for a crime you believe I committed. I surrendered myself; you may ask your guards if you doubt my word.”
Nods bobbed through the ranks, and the distance they kept from Tae added to their sincerity. Had they captured him under duress, they would have bound and dragged him to the court.
Tae finished. “I could not stop you should you choose to execute my friend and myself. I can only trust in the honor of a king and hope you make the just decision. Free Kevral, and you may do as you wish to me.” Despite the atrocities Tae’s words might have committed him to, he continued to stare at the king. His bravado seemed as permanent a part of him as any limb. Now, however, he had placed even those at risk.
Murmurs swept the courtroom, a steady buzz intensified at intervals. Surely, it had started when Tae first appeared, yet Cymion had not noticed it until this moment. Words formed, hot, hateful epithets that burned his tongue. He recalled the wicked agony of punishments he had conjured once anger had joined grief in his heart. But to speak such words in front of visiting dignitaries and nobles would not suit his station. The necessary control became a curse, but he steeled himself to hide emotion as well as Tae had so far managed. “Lock him up. Take him away. I’ll deal with him later.”
Javonzir cleared his throat, the sound soft beneath the hubbub of the dispersing crowd in the courtroom. Yet King Cymion heard it. They had shared the signal for years, Javonzir’s way of suggesting Cymion take another look at a judgment without allowing the rest of the court to hear him questioning the king. As the guards led Tae from the courtroom without resistance and the crowd dispersed, King Cymion turned his attention to his adviser again.
“Majesty, you have to let him go.”
Rage joined hatred, a wild bonfire King Cymion could scarcely contain. “The murderer of my son? The crown prince’s assassin? You would have me free him?”
Javonzir lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Majesty. Justice allows no other course.”
“Never!”
“A sentence was already carried out against this charge. The law does not allow us to punish twice for the same infraction.”
King Cymion refused to concede the point. “I can do as I please. I’m the king.”
Adviser Javonzir bowed. “You’re right, Majesty.” The look he turned on the king showed savage disappointment. As cousins, the two had shared a childhood, and always before Cymion had given his relation the respect great wisdom and insight earned him.
For a moment, King Cymion dared to believe the issue had another side, and that consideration widened into a well-spring of understanding. Emotion battled logic, and the latter won, as it always must for a king.
Javonzir did not once look back. He twisted the doorknob.
“Wait,” Cymion said as the door wrenched open. “Please wait, Javon.”
The adviser stiffened, then turned slowly, closing the door. A moment passed in a silence that tore away the many years since their days of sparring for money and honor and their competitions for girls.
“You’re right,” the king finally said. “Damn you, you’re always right.”
Javonzir did not smile. “I’ll release him. Then I’ll recommend he voluntarily exile himself from Pudar.”
“Thank you,” Cymion said, not daring to sort the specifics of his gratitude. Whether for preventing a travesty of justice, for rescuing his soul, or for handling the matter for the king, Cymion would rather not even know himself. Right now, he just felt dirty and wanted a long, warm bath.
* * *
Once free, Kevral did not waste a moment, packing up her belongings with neat efficiency. Finished, she placed her pack near the cottage door, beside those of Darris, Matrinka, and Ra-khir. The cat, the princess, and the bard’s heir waited together in the main room, in plain view of the doorway. They sat in silence, as they often did, sharing one another’s company without need for words. Though Darris and Matrinka threw Kevral happy glances at intervals, a deep-rooted sadness always seemed to pervade them. Kevral no longer bothered to pity. The love they could never act upon had become a too-familiar burden.
Ra-khir returned a moment after Kevral finished, leading a string of five horses. She recognized her red bay, Matrinka’s chestnut, and Darris’ nervous mare. Ra-khir had exchanged his Erythanian Knight’s training gray for two dark brown geldings. “I made arrangements for a stable owner to keep and use my horse until we come back.” His words reminded Kevral of her promise to Pudar’s king, and a catch in Ra-khir’s voice revealed sadness at the parting. “He’s too light-colored for safety.” He did not add the obvious, that hiding would prove more difficult without Tae.
Kevral’s hand fell to the strange gem in her pocket, the one Tae had given her. When the king’s men had escorted her from the castle, they had told her of the sacrifice Tae had tried to make for her. At the time, he could not have known that she had already bartered her freedom. She had expected him to rejoin the party afterward, but he had not. Apparently, Ra-khir’s threat held him as much at bay now as it had when newly spoken in the woods outside Pudar. Kevral guessed, from Ra-khir’s decision to buy an extra horse, presumably for Tae, that the knight-in-training felt guilty for his actions.
Matrinka and Darris rose to look over the animals, while Ra-khir moved to Kevral’s side. She stiffened at his approach, mind scrambling for the proper words. She owed him a debt of gratitude, yet sentiment did not come easily to her. She tended to forget her manners in polite company, and ceremonies made her giggle. She was already considered an adult by Renshai standards, but she still had the experience and emotional maturity of a fifteen-year-old girl.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 61