Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Reluctantly, Khitajrah pulled her gaze from artwork so detailed it seemed to change the depth and dimensions of the hallway. One of the sentries at the door spoke first, in the bland language of the citizens.

  Khitajrah’s escort gave a monosyllabic response.

  The door guards lowered their weapons, and the speaker said something further in the same language. Both men nodded. The escort spun on the ball of one foot and headed back the way they had come, the back of his tabard flapping with the briskness of his walk.

  Though Khitajrah had not found the gate guard friendly company, his absence left her feeling uneasy and alone. She had never met with a king before and understood amenities and respectful gestures only in a general sense. Though Harrsha had held General/King Siderin’s next highest rank, Khitajrah, as a woman, had never come into the king’s presence. From conversation overheard, she knew the Eastern king would as soon slaughter a man as hear his complaint, and his moods had been nearly unreadable even to his closest officers. She hoped King Sterrane would prove more tolerant and less moody and that guards would brief her on court formality.

  But the guards pulled the doors open without a word. As the crack widened, brief snatches of conversation escaped, uninterpretable to Khitajrah. A thick, tan carpet stretched from the opening to a granite throne, and benches lined the area on either side of the aisle. Currently, less than a dozen people occupied the benches. All but two were sturdy, dark Béarnide men, one a woman and one a child of about ten years old, perhaps the king’s heir learning affairs of court. Eight figures stood in formation around one man perched on the throne. From a distance, she could make out few details of the king and his entourage.

  Khitajrah’s mouth dried, and a sudden urge to flee seized her. Only the momentum of the paired sentries kept her heading toward the throne. She had rehearsed her questions and speech to the king a thousand times, yet it seemed to have escaped permanently from memory. And chaos remained strangely silent, its composure only mildly soothing. As an entity without form, it had nothing at risk and no punishment to fear.

  As they drew closer, details of the king and his entourage became apparent. Chaos studied the men through her eyes, dragging her into its curiosity. They examined the king first. Even sitting, he exuded size. Clearly, he would stand taller than even most of the Béarnian men, and his muscled arms and protruding gut would make him seem like a giant in the Eastlands. She guessed he would outweigh her three times over. He wore the standard Béarnian beard, and his gray-flecked, black hair framed features younger than her own. He wore a silk shirt, linen pants, and an embroidered, multicolored cloak trimmed with fur. A band circled one finger, and the oddity of the jewelry caught and held Khitajrah’s attention. Crafted of gold and detailed down to individual hairs, an impeccably etched bear clutched a gemstone like nothing Khitajrah had ever seen: a milky pearl surrounding a central black one. If the craftsmen had cut one stone to fit the other, he had used tools beyond Khitajrah’s understanding. More likely, she looked upon a perfect, singular act of nature. The king also wore a gold necklace, the medallion disappearing beneath his shirt. Otherwise, he wore no adornment. His thick cascade of hair bore no crown nor compressed areas to indicate it habitually did.

  Mar Lon stood at Sterrane’s right hand. He had not bothered to change clothing, which explained how he had managed to arrange the meeting so quickly. His simple tunic and breeks seemed out of place amid the uniforms of the surrounding guardsmen. He wore a sword at his hip, and she saw no sign of his mandolin. The only other man who specifically attracted Khitajrah’s gaze stood at the king’s left hand. He wore the same blue cloak over the familiar royal tabard and guardsmen’s mail, but a blue plume arched rakishly from his helmet. An occasional black curl peeked from beneath his headgear, and his features revealed him as a man well into his thirties. His sword and hilt seemed wider and longer than the others, a promise of great strength.

  As Khitajrah came to the carpet’s edge, her escort took a step back, as one. The focus of the room turned on her, and she felt as if every eye in the court burned her flesh. Rooted in place, she could not even back away, and it seemed wiser to overguess her gesture of deference than to risk insulting the king. She fell to her knees, then prostrated herself, face flat to a carpet that smelled of soap and deeply ground soil.

  A murmur washed into silence. A bass voice directly in front of Khitajrah said something booming in Béarnese. Mar Lon replied. Then the first speaker addressed her directly. “No! Not lay on floor. You fall? Sick?”

  Though the tone emerged strong, with authority, the speech pattern mimicked that of a young child.

  Khitajrah looked up to find the king’s huge, brown eyes focused on her face. He had left his chair to crouch closer to her level, and the guards had shifted with him. Stunned speechless, she found herself capable of nothing but returning the stare. Her mouth seemed too painfully dry to allow speech.

  “You not well?” King Sterrane asked.

  “No,” Khitajrah managed through lips that felt thick. Then, uncertain whether she had responded correctly to the question, she amended. “I mean, yes.” She clarified, forcing herself to breathe. The words came more easily. “I’m well . . . majesty.”

  Despite the reassurance, the king persisted. “You trip?” His gaze rolled to the paired escort, noting positions of feet and halberd butts.

  Khitajrah had no wish to cause any guardsman trouble. They had treated her well enough, and every man in her family had been a soldier. “No, majesty.” She clambered to her knees. “Just showing my respect, majesty. I’m honored you would agree to see me, majesty.”

  Mar Lon said something too low for Khitajrah to hear, and the king rocked back on his heels. He turned his attention to his personal bodyguard. “Throwing self at floor?”

  Mar Lon said something equally soft. This time, Khitajrah caught only the word “custom.” He gestured her to her feet with obvious impatience.

  Khitajrah stood.

  King Sterrane shrugged. Taking a backward step, he returned to his throne and sat. “Greetings,” he said, this time in perfectly enunciated trade. “I hope you fared well in your travels and that your business with Béarn is handled to your satisfaction.”

  Having just become accustomed to the king’s broken speech pattern, his sudden fluency completely confused Khitajrah.

  Yet, though chaos usually thrived on inconsistency, it seemed more pensive than excited. *Don’t let things rattle you. Feigned or real, the appearance of composure will serve you better most times.*

  Khitajrah found the advice currently impossible to follow, but it did give her a moment to think. She had met people who found any language but their own birth tongue impossible to manage. She had believed them lazy or chauvinistic until she had watched a neighbor’s son struggle himself into tears trying to learn a few words of Western trading. Apparently, the king had learned a few pat phrases and little more. She could not help admiring him for his attempt. Few men would have the courage to risk their dignity, and a king could just as easily use a translator.

  When Khitajrah said nothing for some time, King Sterrane prompted her. “State your business, please.”

  “Yes, majesty.” Khitajrah glanced around the room, unsettled by the king’s undivided attention. Discovering that everyone else watched her as carefully, she returned the king’s scrutiny again. “There are two matters. First, I brought a horse, majesty. Your . . . um . . . Mar Lon told me you’d like to have it. I would like you to have it, majesty. A gift.”

  *What!* Chaos seemed to roar through her head. *What are you doing? We need that horse.*

  There was more guile to Khitajrah’s idea than chaos seemed capable of grasping. *Right now, the information about Colbey is more important than speed. We need the king’s goodwill more.*

  Sterrane nodded. “Mar Lon know horses. He say me want horse, so want horse. He pick trade. If not think fair, let me know.”

  Khitajrah wondered if she had heard correctly, s
o she chose her reply with care. “I didn’t ask for reimbursement, majesty. I’ll give you the horse for nothing.”

  King Sterrane frowned, in obvious consideration, though it did not last long. “Thank you. Me take horse.” He kept his gaze on Khitajrah, not bothering to seek counsel with Mar Lon or his guards. “Then me give you gift. Other horse.” He raised his brows, placing the burden of graciousness upon his guest.

  Khitajrah wondered if the king was less naive than his broken speech patterns made him seem. In one transaction, he had switched the favor, losing nothing in the deal. Yet, in truth, it worked well for her, too. Though she no longer held the king on the receiving end of a gift, she did still have a mount to reach Pudar. “Thank you, majesty.”

  “That all?”

  Khitajrah hesitated, for a moment concerned that her gratitude had not seemed heartfelt enough. But the king’s demeanor seemed curious, not annoyed, and she rerouted her train of thought. Apparently, he wanted to know if she had come before him only to trade horses. “No, majesty. I have an important question, too.” She glanced around the court, reluctant to speak in front of an audience.

  The courtiers, including the child, watched with mild interest. Sterrane encouraged Khitajrah with raised brows, saying nothing.

  The question seemed innocent enough. To look uncomfortable about it would only raise suspicions. “I’m seeking a man who traveled with you once, majesty. I wondered if you could tell me where to find him.” Khitajrah glanced casually from the king to Mar Lon.

  A slight smile formed on the bodyguard’s lips, but it was uninterpretable. Both men watched Khitajrah. “Might know,” Sterrane said. “Who man?”

  Recalling the trouble she had gotten into the last time she mentioned the Renshai, Khitajrah found his name difficult to pronounce aloud. “Colbey Calistinsson.”

  Mar Lon’s smile vanished at once, and wrinkles appeared around his eyes. Clearly, he had expected her to inquire about someone else. Sterrane stroked at his beard, head swaying in a negative response. His thick lips pursed, nearly lost in his beard. “Travel together long time ago. Long time ago. Before king. See only once since. He come here then.” He gestured to where Khitajrah was standing.

  Disappointment fluttered through Khitajrah, and she gathered breath to thank the king for his help. However, Sterrane did not seem finished, so she held her breath and waited.

  “Not sure where find Colbey now. Not North, sure. Not East. Would try Pudar.” King Sterrane changed focus so smoothly, it took Khitajrah a moment to follow his tack. “Why you want know?”

  Caught off guard, Khitajrah responded without thinking. “What?” She added quickly, “Majesty.”

  “Why you look for Colbey?”

  Anticipating the question earlier, Khitajrah had rehearsed tactful ways of proclaiming the knowledge private. However, she had done so in her mind. Now, she seemed unable to form words from the concepts, especially in a second language when she already felt exhausted. Approaches that had seemed clever and facile currently sounded like flimsy excuses. No matter the words, telling a king to mind his own business while in his court seemed blatantly disrespectful, if not dangerous.

  Following the obvious direction of Khitajrah’s thoughts, chaos intervened. *Fool! Don’t tell him. He’s a friend of the Renshai.*

  Though bothered by the need to lie again, Khitajrah found the sin easy enough to dismiss this time. She had come too far to let small untruths stand in the way of rescuing Bahmyr. Not wanting to delay too long, she responded with the first words that came to mind. “He’s my father.”

  Mar Lon’s eyes went hard. Otherwise, his expression did not change. Sterrane’s lips bent into a massive smile befitting his hugeness. Suddenly, he leapt from his throne and rushed Khitajrah.

  Caught by surprise, Khitajrah never thought to dodge. A moment later, she found herself smothered in a giant embrace. The king’s presence felt warm and strong against her, his joy so genuine it reawakened her conscience to a dull ache.

  “Colbey daughter.” King Sterrane’s voice boomed in Khitajrah’s ear, and his chest rumbled as he spoke. “Celebrate. Need feast.”

  The guards pressed in closer. Clearly, they had not anticipated the king’s reaction either.

  “No, majesty. Please.” Khitajrah tried to formulate the remainder of her story in an instant. If he insisted on discussing details with her, especially without sleep, she would surely make a fatal mistake. “I’m in a hurry, and I’m already late for a meeting elsewhere, sire.”

  Finally, Sterrane’s grip loosened, and Khitajrah caught a huge breath. “Mar Lon give fast horse. Rested horse. You need sleep, too. Stay night?”

  Nothing sounded more attractive to Khitajrah than a night of sleep between royal silk sheets in a well-protected castle. But she dared not take the risk that Arduwyn might catch up to her. “Thank you, majesty, that’s most generous. But I have to leave as soon as possible. My father doesn’t know I’m looking for him, or even that I exist. Majesty, if I don’t keep moving faster than he does, I’ll never find him.”

  Sterrane fully released Khitajrah, disappointment clearly etched on his features. The guards shifted closer, the one that had stood at his left hand politely edging between the king and his guest. Sterrane turned his head to Mar Lon. “Take care Colbey’s daughter. Give best horse can. Help find right way. Pack whatever need or want.”

  “Right away, sire,” Mar Lon responded briskly and cheerfully, though the look he threw Khitajrah still seemed rock hard. He studied her for only a moment before turning to the other officer. “Captain Baran?”

  Baran nodded crisply. “Things are under control here. Take as long as you need.”

  “Come with me please, Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow.” Mar Lon trotted past the woman, then made a beckoning gesture behind his back that indicated she should follow.

  Something in the bodyguard’s manner worried Khitajrah, and his formal emphasis of her name hinted at things unsaid. Cautiously, she complied.

  * * *

  Fatigue became a hovering fog that dulled Khitajrah’s senses and made thinking a chore. She waited on a garden bench in the Béarnian castle courtyard near the royal barn while stable boys and grooms scurried to prepare her mount. It seemed strange to lounge while men worked to assure her comfort, but exhaustion drove all irony from the situation. Gradually, she nodded off on the hard granite and, warmed by the sun, she slept for a few moments.

  Mar Lon’s voice awakened Khitajrah. “Ready now, lady. Come with me.”

  Khitajrah jerked awake, stifling a yawn with her hand. “Thank you,” she said, only half oriented. Mechanically, she rose, following Mar Lon and a muscled bay gelding toward the outer gates. It moved with docile self-assurance, placing each hoof solidly on the ground. It seemed clearly the equal of the paint she had brought, with one important benefit. Presumably, this horse had no enraged master hunting her as a thief. A well-oiled bridle graced the animal’s head, its buckles glittering in the evening sunlight. The flaps of the saddle held intricately tooled Béarnian bears with pearls set as eyes. Two bulging packs hung on either side of the horse’s rump, bound together and to the back of the saddle. Khitajrah had only requested food and a clean cloak, so the amount of the supplies surprised her as much as the expensive tack that far surpassed what she had brought.

  Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Khitajrah considered appropriate responses as she followed Mar Lon from the courtyard, past the sentries, and into the streets of Béarn.

  When Mar Lon still did not stop to allow Khitajrah to mount, the focus of her attention shifted to her host. Although she could not muster alarm, she could feel chaos fretting in her mind. Either something seemed amiss to it as well, or it damned the delay caused by waiting for preparations. Now that she studied Mar Lon directly and closely, Khitajrah noticed that he carried his mandolin again, slung across his back. He wore a close-fitting pair of leather work gloves. Although the sword still hung at his hip, his hands checked the instrument’s faste
nings repeatedly, never settling near the hilt. Apparently, he was more prepared to play than to fight.

  Mar Lon continued leading the horse, Khitajrah following a step behind. Béarnides watched them pass from cottage windows or looked up from chores. Some waved at Mar Lon, and he responded with efficient gestures that seemed friendly yet foiled conversation. A few of the more persistent citizens shouted or begged for songs, all of which Mar Lon dismissed with hand signals. He did not bother to speak.

  As they continued toward the outskirts of town, Khitajrah started to wonder if some law forbade riding horses through Béarn. Her eagerness to arrive in Pudar turned into impatience, and lack of sleep added a belligerent streak that she scarcely managed to stifle. Silence taxed her least, and she worried what might emerge from her mouth if she tried to speak in her current mood. Yet she knew she would have to say something soon, or Mar Lon might accompany her all the way to Pudar.

  As cobbled street gave way to forested, earthen pathways, Khitajrah cleared her throat. She concentrated on the amenities she had considered earlier to keep from saying anything inappropriately harsh about Mar Lon’s delay. “Your king is too generous.” She indicated the fancy tack and protruding packs.

  “Yes,” Mar Lon replied, though whether out of rudeness or because his thoughts had distracted him from the gist of Khitajrah’s comment, she could not tell. At length, beyond sight of the city, Mar Lon fastened the lead rope securely around an oak and turned to face Khitajrah directly. “Sit.” He indicated a rock.

  Khitajrah hesitated, wariness finally cutting over exhaustion. “Why?”

  “Consider it part of the king’s generous hospitality.”

  Khitajrah responded in kind. “The king has been far too generous already,” she reminded, her voice as steady as his. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I know,” Mar Lon said. “And I believe I know why. Rest assured, no one else will harm you here. I’ll see to that.”