To her surprise, chaos seemed pleased with the answer. *Good. You’re learning. This world’s gone so long without chaos, its people don’t know how to mistrust. They’re prey, Khita, and why shouldn’t someone as competent and right as you rule them? Would you rather I went elsewhere? I’m sure I could find someone who would take my power and use it to his own ends. Someone without your basic morality.*
Khitajrah considered, seeing a logic to the words, though the underlying concepts seemed too corrupt for her law-based mind to grasp. *First, you tell me how to bring Bahmyr back. Then, we discuss this bonding.*
*I will give you the basic knowledge you need to raise your son. Then I will start the binding process. When you’ve performed one task of significance for me, and the binding is complete, I will go through the life-restoring procedure with you, step by step.*
*You’re untrustworthy. I get all of the information first—*
Chaos interrupted. *And you’re getting paranoid.* Complacence trickled through the thought. *I like that in a companion. But don’t worry. Once bound, all my knowledge is yours, and I cannot lie to you.*
*What happens to me?*
*Nothing. You remain as you are. I simply become a small part of your day-to-day thoughts, completely under your control. I will no longer remain a separate entity.*
Still skeptical, Khitajrah asked, *What do you get out of such an arrangement?*
*It’s difficult to explain.*
*Try.*
*I’m not truly an entity in and of myself. The Primordial Chaos is without form, and I am merely a tiny piece of a bodiless whole. Therefore, I have no power of my own on a world where shape and form are necessary. Without a person, I’m impotent. Bound to someone, I still have little influence, but at least I can share my ideas.*
The explanation made sense to Khitajrah, though she suspected that chaos had not told all. She considered.
*You can do with my ideas as you wish. You and I both know that the world has grown too stale. That’s why I chose you. You’re wise enough to understand that without change the Eastlands will die. All I promise is a freedom for your thoughts and ideas for ways to accomplish what must be done. You will still have your own judgment and the power to execute it.*
Khitajrah’s heart rate slowed as she mulled chaos’ offer. About this, it seemed genuine, yet logic told her it could seem no other way. Still, its words carried a reasonableness that held doubt at bay. She believed it was being honest, at least mostly. She had little experience to fall back on when gauging deceit, and nearly all of that had come in the last few days. Her best guess was that chaos would gain a larger toehold in her decisions than it would admit. Still, she might prove stronger and tougher than it expected as well. And Bahmyr meant too much for her to dismiss chaos’ promise out of hand.
*How do I free Bahmyr?*
Chaos hesitated. *We have a deal, then?*
*Though I fear I’ll regret it, yes. We have a deal. That is, so long as Bahmyr comes back as the same son I remember.*
*Nothing will change. He will have all of his memories up to the moment of death. And he will not have aged.*
Now eager, Khitajrah pressed. *So tell me the procedure.*
*Quite simply, when an item instilled with magic undergoes a transformation, it can develop properties at random.*
*I don’t understand.*
*Magic is chaos. Even when used correctly, the results can be unpredictable. When it’s placed into an item, it always has unexpected side effects. That’s why Wizards so rarely use props.*
*So there are magical things in the world?*
*A few.*
*Made by the Cardinal Wizards?*
*Do you know of any others?*
*There are rumors—*
*They are false.*
*And the fairy tales about the four Wizards—*
*Are not fairy tales.*
*And Sheriva . . .?* This time, Khitajrah trailed off intentionally, anticipating chaos’ interruption.
*. . . is a construct. Not real.*
Khitajrah shook her head. *If you’re right, and I’m not admitting you are, the Eastlands based an entire religion on fiction and faith alone. It’ll collapse the whole foundation of our civilization, especially of the temples.*
*I’m counting on that.* If it had had a face, chaos would have smiled.
*So, somewhere, there’s an item instilled with magic that got ruined, and now it can bring people back to life.*
*Close. There’s an item that was instilled with magic. It got damaged, but only partially. Now, it can bring a person back to life. One. If you take it to Bahmyr’s grave and touch it to any part once his, you will have him back.*
Khitajrah held her breath, needing one more piece of information. *And that item is?*
Chaos laughed. *A detail. As promised it comes later. There are other matters to consider first: a binding, and a favor.*
* * *
Arduwyn stared out the chamber window of his castle suite, listening to the wild chime of steel from the Renshai’s practice in the courtyard. A spring breeze riffled his spiky red hair, and his single brown eye followed the graceful war dance of his daughter’s intended, Rache Garnsson. Even in the face of an imminent wedding, Rache’s mother, Mitrian, had not allowed her charges a rest from their daily practices. Arduwyn knew he should have expected nothing else. In the months he had spent traveling with Colbey Calistinsson, the old Renshai had never allowed danger, excitement, or injury to keep himself or his charges from giving less than their all to their sword drills. Still, Arduwyn had anticipated that Mitrian would let the importance of her only child’s marriage come before at least one practice, the one on the day of the ceremony. Clearly, this was not the case.
Arduwyn shifted his gaze to the village beyond the castle wall, the Western high king’s city of Béarn, nestled in the arms of the Southern Weathered Range. Though tastefully crafted from piled and mortared stone, the cottages and shops paled before the towering palace. Strong and ancient, it had been carved directly from the mountains, and the artisans had spared no expense, inside or out. Still, despite Béarn’s finery, Arduwyn felt alone. In the last half decade, illness had taken his wife and two of her three children, whom Arduwyn had adopted after his best friend’s death. The eldest girl had married years ago and had her own family and problems to attend. Now, Arduwyn was about to surrender his last child, the only one Bel had borne for him, and he was about to give her over to a life with Renshai.
Arduwyn sighed, now balancing guilt with his sorrow. In his youth, he had been taught to hate and fear Renshai by relatives old enough to remember the tribe’s killing rampages. Yet, it was the Golden Prince of Demons himself, the most savage and dedicated of all Renshai, who had taught Arduwyn that there was more to the tribe than merciless slaughter. He had watched Mitrian indoctrinated into the sword skill and the culture; and he had remained her friend before, into, and after Colbey’s training. Rache seemed to have inherited the best qualities of both of his parents, and Arduwyn never doubted that the boy loved his daughter dearly. He tried to console himself with these thoughts.
Arduwyn’s eye strayed to his daughter, Sylva, perched on a courtyard bench, watching the practice. In many ways, she, too, had found the best features of both parents. She sported her mother’s oval face, full lips, and doelike eyes, softened by youth. Though red, like her father’s, Sylva’s hair had the long, thick texture of her mother’s. She was too thin, again like her father; yet she bore the first traces of her mother’s robust curves. He had given his consent to the union, expecting it to occur many years in the future. Yet Sylva and Rache had pressed for sooner rather than later; and, to Arduwyn’s surprise, Mitrian had supported their decision. Fifteen years old. Barely fifteen. What’s the hurry?
Arduwyn rose, seized by a sudden urge to enfold the child in his arms and hold her, safe, until old age claimed him. A tear rose in his eye. He had been a friend of the Renshai for a long time, and his loyalty to Mitrian an
d her son would not falter. Yet there were too many tragedies his mind would not let him escape. The Renshai’s life of violence killed them young. Worse, death seemed to strike bystanders first, the innocent who dared to bond their lives with Renshai. In the last year, Arduwyn had witnessed more slaughter than his heart could handle, and the Renshai had lost half of their members and friends before his eyes. Though not of the tribe, Rache’s father, Garn, had lost his life to an enemy of the Renshai. A barbarian who had become Colbey’s blood brother had died at the elder’s own hand. The Renshai had lost three of their members as well. Though months had passed, Arduwyn had still not regained full use of the arm he had broken escaping Renshai enemies while delivering an innocent message.
Just fifteen years old today. Prior to the Great War, a woman could not marry until she came of age at sixteen. But, with the Westlands’ population whittled by wars and disease, the kingdom had found need to relax the laws. Arduwyn drew some solace from the realization that not even two years separated Rache from Sylva, a couple in love rather than an adult man ravaging a child.
A knock sounded on the suite’s main door, the sound echoing through the confines. It reminded Arduwyn how massive the connected series of rooms seemed since he had lost his family. Without Sylva, he saw no reason to keep the suite. Every scrap of furniture and every corner reminded him of the woman and children who no longer shared his life. Solace came to him in one place only, in the woodlands he had traipsed first with his father, then by himself, and later with Sylva. Surrounded by the trees, all worldly problems fled Arduwyn, and he knew nothing but animal needs, instinct, and survival. Now, he remained in place, hoping the person at the door would assume he had left and would go away.
But the door handle turned, and the panel made its familiar soft creak as it opened. “Ardy?”
Arduwyn recognized the voice instantly as that of King Sterrane. Despite the somberness of his thoughts, Arduwyn could not help smiling. More than a decade ago, when Mitrian, Garn, Colbey, Sterrane, and he had traveled together, Sterrane’s slowness, simple justice, and inability to master the common trading tongue had convinced them that he had the mentality of a child. After Mitrian, Garn, and the Eastern Wizard had restored Sterrane to his throne and Arduwyn had seen the king make decrees and judgments in his native language and in his own element, Arduwyn had discovered a depth of thought and person he had never believed possible. Wealth and power had not corrupted Sterrane at all; he shared it freely. And it seemed not to affect his sense of fairness either. In his sluggishly methodical and guileless way, he seemed the central epitome of neutrality. And he always knew what to do or say to make even the worst situations seem better.
“Ardy?” Sterrane repeated. His heavy boots clomped across the floor, and he stopped at Arduwyn’s back. “Ardy?” He shuffled closer, staring out the window over Arduwyn’s shoulder, his beard tickling Arduwyn’s ear and his enormous chest and belly warm against the little hunter’s back. “What look at?” Apparently following Arduwyn’s gaze, he did not wait for an answer. “Get handsome new son.”
Arduwyn laughed, unable to remain sullen in Sterrane’s presence. “Leave it to Sterrane to see the good in a bad situation.”
“Bad? What bad?” Sterrane seemed genuinely confused. “Sylva marry Rache. That good.”
Finally, Arduwyn turned, finding himself staring directly into Sterrane’s huge chest. He tried to back-step, but the window ledge gouged his back. “My daughter’s about to go live with Renshai.”
Sterrane said nothing, clearly waiting for Arduwyn to go on.
“And that means . . . well, you know . . .” The conversational positioning finally got the better of Arduwyn. “Sterrane, as much as I love the royal tunic, it’s easier to talk to your face. Could you find a chair, please?”
Sterrane retreated immediately. He glanced around the sparse furnishings of the sitting room, from its three chairs, to its padded chest, to Arduwyn’s favorite stool. He sat on the chest, watching the hunter expectantly.
“I don’t want my daughter in a tribe constantly at war.” Arduwyn paced.
“Renshai not start war anymore.” Sterrane’s soulful, dark eyes watched Arduwyn. “No war.”
“But at the earliest inkling of war, anywhere, you know the Renshai will be the first to take a side and fight.”
“Rache fight. Not Sylva.”
“But everyone around Renshai seems to get killed.”
“Not me. Not you.”
Arduwyn came to the end of his track and turned. “Garn did. And that barbarian.”
“Bel not fight. Children not fight. Not near Renshai. They die, too.”
“They died of illness.”
Sterrane’s huge shoulders rose and fell. “What difference? Renshai not catching, like consumption. Garn not die of Renshai nearness. Renshai just people. Good people. Friends.”
Arduwyn turned in his tracks, though he had not yet reached the end of his course. “It’s one thing to die of illness and another to die of violence before you get a chance to get ill.”
“Death is death,” Sterrane said. “More people here. More sickness here. Renshai there. More chance violence there. Death go every place, and everyone die of something. Some people think sickness better death. They live here. Some people think war better death. Live in North.”
Again, Arduwyn turned, this time facing Sterrane directly. “I can’t lose Sylva, Sterrane. I just can’t. I love her too much.”
“You not lose her.” Sterrane looked pained, clearly from sympathy. “She nearby, with Mitrian and Rache. They let you visit as much want. I come with you.”
Arduwyn lowered his head, trying to explain to Sterrane that the loss he feared was death, not marriage.
Sterrane obviated the need. “Sometime happy more important than safe. And sometime safe not safe.”
Though the final statement seemed nonsensical, Arduwyn understood. The last time he had seen Bel, she had tried to force him not to go on a trip to help the Renshai. She had feared for his life. Yet, when he returned, she was the one who had succumbed to illness. “Sometimes safe not safe.” Arduwyn repeated the words numbly, his eye becoming moist.
“Only gods know whether Sylva safer here or there. But we know she happy with Rache. Can’t know safe, so have to do happy.” Sterrane rose, taking a step toward his friend. “Anyway, not your choice. It Sylva’s.”
“You’re right about that at least.” Arduwyn allowed Sterrane to wrap him in an embrace, and his last words emerged muffled against the king’s tunic. “It’s Sylva’s decision.” And though Arduwyn tried to console himself with the king’s points, experience and worry held him captive. And he feared for his daughter’s life.
* * *
The man awakened confused, empty of all thought and memory, sprawled across a fur-covered floor. He opened his eyes, cringing in anticipation of a pain he had no reason to expect. But his body remained numb, beyond his control, and he rolled his eyes to find some familiar object to spark his identity. His gaze scarcely moved before riveting upon a woman crouched at his side. Her skin looked so smooth and pale that he at first believed her to be an ivory statue. Her perfection only gave credence to the misconception. Surely, no living woman could have captured the male fantasy so exhaustively, yet it appeared that this one had. She wore a short, low cut dress of some gauzy material that hid just enough to enhance beauty with mystery, and the man could not stop his mind from completing the figure with the same flawlessness as that which he could see. Yellow hair billowed around her face, enhancing widely set, blue eyes that caught light into a sparkle, heart-shaped lips, and a straight, fine nose. She wore several brooches, and a gold choker entwined her throat. The world beyond her faded to a blur.
“Ah, so you’ve awakened,” she said. Her voice matched her appearance, moderately pitched and distressingly elegant. “You were fortunate.”
“Fortunate,” the man repeated, still fully disoriented. He tried to focus on self and identity. When that faile
d, he locked his attention on the woman. Surely, if he considered for a time, he could remember the name for perfection. Fortunate, indeed, if I have friends who look like this. He tried to rise, but his body would not obey.
The woman stepped around his prone form and knelt directly at his head. He focused on her hands, nervously clasped. A gold ring striped every finger. “I had no right to take you.” She glanced around, as if afraid someone might overhear. “I can take my share of the dead, but only from the battlefield. I can steal from the AllFather, but not from Hel.”
The woman’s discomfort made her seem vulnerable. Some men might have found that attractive, but it distressed the man on the fur-covered floor. For reasons he could not recall, he preferred his women strong and competent.
“I’ll put you back. No one has to know. No one can enter my hall without my permission. You’re safe here.” She fidgeted, her obvious concern incongruous with her statement.
The man knew that the woman had already made a mistake. Beyond her, he could hear the faint patter of footfalls, and he sensed another presence nearby. He opened his mouth, trying to warn her, but no words emerged. He willed his hand to touch her. It did not move. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the woman whose beauty nearly blinded him, trying to send a mental message that would make her understand.
The other entered the room and crept toward the woman’s back.
“Behind,” the man managed. “Look.”
Before she could turn, a new voice filled the air, light and taunting, yet certainly male. “Is this the Thunder Child, lady?”
The woman whirled. The man on the floor rolled his eyes far enough to study the newcomer. He looked fair enough to pass for the woman’s twin, pretty with youth and finely featured. Only his mouth broke the image, thin-lipped and leering. His green eyes sparkled with mischief.
The woman hissed, rising. Brooches, rings, and golden threads that wound through her dress winked and gleamed. Her necklace seemed to writhe, snakelike.
The man on the floor willed himself to stand and protect her, if not from the newcomer, from the jewelry that seemed to have come alive. But he scarcely managed to crane his neck further.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 11