“I believe so,” Matrinka said emphatically. “Obvious as it sounds, it makes sense.”
“So,” Kevral said. “I should do precisely as you don’t.”
Matrinka stared, clearly startled, stricken from her role as psyche healer for the first time. “What do you mean by that?”
“A blind, deaf man could see how much you love Darris, but you still insist you’re just friends.”
“More like brother and sister,” Matrinka clarified.
Kevral snorted. “Brothers and sisters could get arrested for the things you want to do to one another.”
Stunned beyond words, Matrinka said nothing.
Kevral waited, guilty about her cruel delivery, yet feeling vindicated. Hypocrisy between word and deed irritated her.
Finally, Matrinka found her tongue. “Is it really that obvious?”
The calm reply to what had, essentially, been an accusation softened Kevral’s response. “Remember, I’m the one who can’t tell for certain how men feel about me. But I have no doubt whatsoever how Darris feels about you.”
“That’s a different situation,” Matrinka defended herself. “I’m an heir to Béarn’s throne. The law is strict about who I can or cannot marry.”
The explanation seemed moot. “But you’re not an heir anymore. You’ve been disowned. Doesn’t that leave you free to marry anyone you want?”
Matrinka sighed. “It’s probably better that as few as possible know this, but my grandfather refused my request. I’m still an heir.”
Kevral lost her voice momentarily. “But I saw . . . I was there when. . . .” Memory gave her no definitives. “You’re still an heir?”
“Not that I could ever sit on the throne, but, yes. I’m still officially an heir.”
Kevral’s gut twisted with the nausea that accompanied betrayal. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Would it have mattered?”
Kevral considered. “No, I suppose not. I’ve guarded you just the same. I wouldn’t stop or anything.” She let the matter rest, realizing it had distracted her from a problem that seemed closer to resolution than she would have expected possible. “So what you’re telling me is that in matters of the heart I should follow my heart, but you should follow law and logic.”
Matrinka fidgeted, eyes restless. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. I wish I could follow my heart, too. I really do. But I can’t do something illegal just because I want to.”
The disorientation that had plagued Kevral since Tae returned to the party dispersed, replaced by the familiar over-confidence that had won her enemies even among her own people. Her path seemed clear. She had an inheritance, too. She was Renshai, first and foremost, and Renshai placed one love above any other. Sword work had proved the one essential capable of fully capturing her mind. She doubted any human lover could ever claim her so fully, without distraction. Suddenly her lapse seemed more than preoccupation. It had grown into an evil that nearly affected the most important purpose her life could ever have: her need, her destiny to become the world’s best swordmaster. From this moment, she would give everything to her sword and to her cause. She would become the most skilled, and the whole world would know it. Ra-khir and Tae would have to find other women to love. “Thank you for talking to me, Matrinka. You’ve helped a lot.”
Matrinka’s features returned to their normal, friendly configuration. Then her brows dropped into a squint as she pondered Kevral’s gratitude. “You’re very welcome, though I don’t feel as if I’ve clarified anything. I feel like I muddled things worse than before.”
Kevral placed her hand on her hilt, thoughts on the many battles she would need to fight to win her title. A frenzied whirlwind of excitement eclipsed a deeper sorrow.
Chapter 33
The Last Supper
Battles are won by deeds, not words.
—Colbey Calistinsson
The sky stretched like a gray pall over the landscape, and the irregular sunlight burning through clouds scarcely distinguished day from night. Mist tickled Griff’s face and glistened like dew in his thick, black mane. More than two weeks had passed since Griff visited the Grove. Concerned about the effect on his overanxious mother, Griff had taken his stepfather, Herwin, aside to discuss the events that had occurred in his special place. Herwin had listened with alarm. Together, they had carefully swept through the area, its sanctity disturbed by the presence of another, even one Griff loved like the father he had lost. They had found nothing, not even a bloodstain or a feather to confirm a story that seemed outlandish even to Griff. It began to seem more logical to question his own sanity than to defend experiences he dared not presume true.
Griff sighed deeply. Fear and confusion had kept him away from his sanctuary; his love for the companion he had so long believed a figment of his imagination brought him back. Real or illusory, he had to know the truth about Ravn. For too long, he had refused to investigate, afraid that knowing would make his best friend disappear. Now, too much lay at stake. Either his life had twice fallen into jeopardy or he had spiraled into a desperate quagmire of madness. Neither option pleased him, but if he could at least distinguish reality, he could address the problem.
Griff pressed forward, courage faltering. Desperately, he wanted his stepfather and mother at his side while he waded back into the shambles. I’ve been sheltered too long. He never doubted his mother’s sincere desire and need to keep him safe, but her overprotectiveness had become the framework for his madness. She had walled him into a life of helpless dependence, one he might never have recognized if not for the information mother and stepfather occasionally let slip in their stories. Real or imagined, Griff’s near-death experiences had brought a clarity of thought he never knew existed. Details he had packed away since his early childhood emerged to haunt him. As a boy, he had traveled to town with his father and brother. He had buried those memories, now dragged back to the fore. They remained fragmented, faded and interspersed with the sharper images of more recent events. His young mind had been unable to analyze. Now, as a teenager, he saw the events in a new light that frightened him.
Griff reached the edge of the forest, brushing by trees that showered him with collected moisture. Droplets pelted him, icy pinpoints that scarcely punctuated the general coldness that accompanied being damp. Griff recalled a feebleminded adult, past the age when he should have separated from his parents to begin his own life and a farm of his own. The man had drooled and babbled, clinging to his parents like a huge child. Whispers had touched Griff’s ears, meaning little to his toddler self yet oddly consequential now. That young man had been eighteen, only a year older than Griff.
Two weeks spent examining the events that had frightened him and finding nothing, two weeks with only the simple, safe chores that had become his lot had left Griff with too much time to think. Every night, he lay awake, realizations rushing down upon him like water held too long by a dam now broken. Whether his insanity had come as a result of his impregnable lifestyle or from the revelations that had assailed him more recently, he needed to face it alone. Were the recent attacks the reason for his mother’s excessive caution, or were they fancy that stemmed from the strangeness of his lifestyle? Did she know something about him that she had told no one else, some information that might cause inhuman creatures to hunt him? It seemed unlikely. Griff knew he descended from Béarn’s royal family, but he had always believed noble blood a positive feature. Nothing in his past seemed horrible enough to warrant assassins. The deaths of his father and brother, definitely accidental, were reason enough for his mother’s paranoia. More likely, his mother sheltered him because of his specialness. Like the teen he had met as a child, Griff had a diseased mind. At the least, his illness took the form of creating friends and monsters. Perhaps he, too, was dull.
Griff’s pace slowed as he stepped onto the familiar overgrown path to the Grove. He and Herwin had already searched it minutely. He did not expect to find anything that might prove the veraci
ty of the attacks so vivid in his memory. He came because he missed Ravn like a brother. This day, he would confront Ravn as he had not dared to before. Griff would discover the truth in undeniable detail, even if it lost him the only friend he ever had. If Ravn existed only as a part of Griff, he would make the sacrifices to join his parts together as they belonged. Anything less would only aid the madness.
Griff’s walk seemed to last for miles, the usual landmarks appearing strange in his current mind-set. Wet leaves clung to then peeled from his hands and cheeks, tickling. Tiny raindrops obscured his vision, and he wiped away accumulations so like tears. The urge to bring Herwin along became nearly overpowering, but he ignored the childish need. Threat or waking nightmare, it did not matter. He would neither endanger nor rely on his parents. He had to do this himself.
The branches parted to reveal the clearing Griff knew so well. The ordinariness of it promised security yet disappointed at the same time. Somehow, it seemed wrong for him to change so much and his sanctuary turned battleground so impossibly little. His boots left ovoid impressions in the mud, his prints unmistakably large when compared with the stepfather he had already overgrown. Griff perched on a deadfall, his near-drowning too strong a memory for him to go near the creek. He waited with long developed patience, knowing from experience that Ravn would come of his own accord. No amount of calling, coaxing, or wishing would bring him sooner.
A birdcall glided through the Grove, a pretty cry that Griff did not recognize. Others answered, in a chain, growing progressively more distant. Griff cocked his head, listening. Only then, with his concentration directed, he noted other noises so natural his mind had dismissed them. He heard a squirrel chattering far above his head, followed by the sound of a nut dropping. It rattled against the leaves in a line, the sound of its movement soon joined and eclipsed by the tick-tacking of dislodged droplets falling in a spreading pattern. Leaves whisked, revealing the motions of animals through the brush around him. The creek rumbled over the stones, its song deep and mellow.
Griff could not help smiling. No matter how weighty his thoughts, the Grove always cheered him. Its sights, odors, and sounds formed a special world that he happily shared with every creature and object the gods could devise. Even as peace lulled him, a song swelled into a surrounding chorus. For a moment, he listened, caught by its beauty. At first he attributed it to birds, and he reveled in the joy of hearing nature at its finest. Then memory reminded him of its source, and interest prickled into alarm. The ones who had come to kill him sang like this.
Griff clambered to his feet in an instant, heart rate doubling as he did. The desire to flee did not last long, tempered by the certainty that Ravn would protect him as he had twice before, as his mother and stepfather had always done in the past. Griff knew little of fear, nor the correct response to it. No one in his parents’ stories ever faced firsthand danger; his mother had seen to that.
Another voice rose above the chorus, strong and lyrical. Yet its harmony clashed with the tune of the others, a strange, chaotic discord that jangled at his nerves. Griff tensed, adrenaline surging through him, uncertain whether to run or fight. For several moments, he froze in indecision, waiting for Ravn’s arrival. Naïveté, as well as previous experience, stole his opening. Gradually, all concern fled before magic designed to soothe. Curiosity became Griff’s only driving force, and exhaustion fogged his mind. The song became a lullaby in his mother’s voice, one he prayed would never end.
Griff made no attempt to battle the magic. Trust alone had served him well for a lifetime. Suspicion and wariness had no place in an emotional repertoire molded otherwise since birth, a life fully without pain or struggle. It never occurred to him to wonder about Ravn’s absence. Blissfully, he sat and slid into a quiet sleep.
* * *
Baltraine had come to despise his conscience. It burned inside him like a brand, sending heat flashing through his body though autumn was nearly a month old. He sat amid an odd assemblage, guilt tearing at his insides and churning bile through his throat. He had vomited twice since the meal began, unable to eat even had he not known about the poison lacing every plate. He wondered if the toxin would cause pain as horrible as what he suffered, and even dared to fear that the elves had betrayed him. Obviously sick, he shoved aside his dinner, untasted.
Beside Baltraine, the master healer placed a comforting arm around him, features coarse with concern. “Are you well, my lord? Can I help?”
“Just some gut upset,” Baltraine explained away his nerves. “Probably something I ate.” The lie intensified the pain, all the more discomforting for his knowledge of the truth. “It’ll pass.”
“I have herbs that might—”
Baltraine dismissed Mikalyn with an irritated wave. Sympathy from one about to succumb to murder only sparked more nausea, and Baltraine worried that he might vomit again.
The healer backed away with a knowing nod, skilled enough to surmise the nervousness that underlay Baltraine’s illness, though he would surely wrongly attribute it to the need to reveal King Kohleran’s death.
Baltraine glanced around the room, morbid fascination claiming his attention for a time. The familiar faces of Béarn’s council swept through his vision as they concentrated on food whose taste gave no hint of its deadliness. Aged, loyal Abran ate in silence, head cocked to the side as always and food drooling from the corner of his mouth as he ate. The old minister of foreign affairs kept to himself, still self-conscious about the lingering effects of the stroke that had claimed some of his facial muscles. For him, death might prove as much blessing as curse, or so Baltraine convinced himself.
Baltraine’s gaze shifted to Minister of Courtroom Procedure and Affairs Weslin. The young man assisted Abran cautiously, helping with tasks that the older minister’s shaky hands could not successfully perform with a subtlety that did not compromise Abran’s dignity. Weslin’s light brown hair and eyes, his Pudarian complexion, and his lighter frame stood mute testament to his distance from the line of kings. Again, Baltraine crushed down his guilt, this time with consideration of worth. Béarn could find a far better minister to fill his place.
Internal Affairs Minister Fahrthran sat between the two female ministers, and Baltraine concentrated on him to avoid considering the other two. Fahrthran, he would miss least of all. The minister of internal affairs had never belonged among the council, having descended from honorary nobility, originally with no Béarnian blood. Commoners not only tainted his line but defined it, and he had never deserved to sit among Béarn’s ministers. His years of decision-making had already proved far more than he merited.
In addition to Béarn’s council, Bard Linndar and the master healer had been asked to join them. The closest of the king’s pages sat in the kitchen, rewarded with minister’s portions of their own for reasons they did not care to question for fear of losing the bounty. Baltraine continued to fight down guilt with self-righteous, internal struggles that placed him above those who had to die. His own life hinged on how well he cooperated with Dh’arlo’mé and his followers, and his death could only become lost in the purgings. Alive, he could serve Béarn better.
Thoughts of Dh’arlo’mé sent shivers through Baltraine. The single, green eye always seemed to pin him in place, to rip through his every defense to the very core of his being. Emotion evaporated into mist before an onslaught that consisted of nothing more physical than a stare. The elves looked young and frail, but therein lay their power. Unable to rely on appearances, Baltraine found them impossible to read. In their presence, his courage always failed him. His life and sanity hung on a thready balance.
Baltraine buried his head in his hands. Xyxthris and he had directed the elves to those humans who needed destroying. The council required replacing, and those who might insist on frequent close contact with the king must go also. In particular, the bard, who served as the ruler’s personal bodyguard, had to die. Baltraine clamped his fingers to his scalp so tightly his nails dug into the flesh. He l
iked Linndar, her faithfulness and competence as well as her talent with music. The realization that he might have a hand in destroying a god-established institution hurt as well. Linndar would die this day, leaving only an heir who had disappeared months before her, almost certainly a previous victim of the elves. The loss, though painful, paled before a larger one. The Béarnian line of kings had ended. Only magic could rescue Béarn now, and only elves could perform magic. So what choice did Baltraine have but to support them?
A few other options prickled at Baltraine’s conscience. He cast them aside. The course that worked best for him required maintaining the status quo, and his thoughts would not allow him to consider anything else. The elves would save Béarn. He would assist them, whatever their methods. And if it furthered the status of himself and his family, no one could begrudge him.
The sickness receded, a pleasant reprieve. Baltraine rose. Dizziness assailed him, and the room seemed to spin into a blur that masked the faces of those soon to be dead. Their features turned skeletal in his mind’s eye, empty, round sockets staring helplessly while bony hands shoveled food toward lipless mouths. “Excuse me,” Baltraine moaned to no one in particular. He left the room at a fast walk that quickened to a run the moment the door clicked closed behind him. He raced blindly through the castle hallways, the images of dead creatures dripping flesh always just a few steps behind him. He headed for the room with the nearest sewer hole, having already vomited there twice; but fear took him past it, then past the next. Onward he charged through Béarn’s corridors, never quite certain where he headed, only noticing that the images grew more faded and the pain less intense the farther he got from the conference room.
Baltraine’s feet carried him to the temple, an obvious sanctuary once his mind caught up to his actions. His eyes cleared again, the images of living grave-creatures subsiding. Before him hovered the engraved bears that decorated the temple doors, their sapphire eyes gleaming and their shaven pearl inlay reflecting myriad colors in the scant light of torches. He slowed, panting, uncertain how many servants and nobles might have seen his undignified flight. He had noticed no one.
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