Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  *Else?*

  Khitajrah did not need chaos’ help to find the important word in Mar Lon’s promise. “No one else? So you would hurt me?”

  “I have no plans to do so.” Mar Lon removed his plumed cap, spilling brown hair to the nape of his neck. “So long as you grant me an audience.”

  “Ah.” Khitajrah nodded sagely, though she spoke with sarcasm. “You must be one fine musician to need threats of violence to hold your audience.” Nevertheless, she sat in the indicated place. The townsfolk’s entreaties for his talent had sounded sincere and so had his threat.

  Mar Lon’s expression did not change, and he gave no sign that he took offense at the comment. “You may assess my competence after you’ve heard me play. But you will hear me play.”

  Many questions came to Khitajrah’s mind at once. She wondered why Mar Lon believed she feared an attack. Though it was fact, he had no way to know such a thing. Even if he did, he had given no sign that he understood the specifics. It seemed madness for a king’s bodyguard to insist on accompanying her beyond the borders of the royal city and even stranger to insist on a concert once there. The oddity brought a flicker of memory to the fore, though she could not quite place its detail or significance.

  Mar Lon ducked through the strap of his mandolin. Leaning against the horse’s oak, he balanced the instrument on his knee. His body shielded the lead rope. Clearly, he was taking no chances that Khitajrah might try to grab the horse and escape before he finished.

  Khitajrah settled comfortably on the stone. For now, Mar Lon seemed to have no intention of violence. His king had spoken; and the law bound Mar Lon to obedience, unless he sensed some threat to Sterrane. Since she had no designs against the Westlands’ high king, Khitajrah did not see such a thing as a legitimate concern. If Mar Lon wanted her dead, it made no sense for him to serenade her first; though Khitajrah could think of no logical reason for him to sing to her in any case.

  The first chord chimed from the mandolin, each note crisp and clear, the blend so pure it seemed like a single note itself. Those that followed held equal skill, intermingled with runs and trills that came so fast Khitajrah’s mind longed for each previous note before the next pealed out and made her forget the one before. Despite her fatigue, she found herself becoming lost in the fragile web of sound, and that pleased her. Her body felt light, free of the ponderous burden lack of sleep had laid upon her. Her mind stretched and lifted, as if it might float into a distant eternity, a world without war or responsibilities, where sons lived out their natural lifespan in happiness. Though wary, she reveled in the freedom the bard’s song gave her. A long time had passed since she had known joy, and its source did not matter.

  Then, Mar Lon began his song, using the Eastern tongue, striking each note so solidly they seemed to have no resonance:

  “Our world began in chaos shadowed,

  Nothing could be real.

  Then Odin banished magic, placed

  Man’s world on even keel.

  “Law has ruled us since that day

  With honor and faith and form.

  It gives our world logical pattern:

  Night follows day; clouds storm.

  “But Odin guides things near and far

  His hand too strong for men.

  So he placed four Wizards here

  As mankind’s guardian.

  “One champions evil in the East,

  His manner cruel and vile.

  Northward, the Sorceress of good

  Combats him all the while.

  “The last two champion the West,

  Neutral, it appeared.

  Never dreaming of the fate

  That Odin deemed their wyrd.

  “With law alone, the world remained

  Stable and safe for all.

  Yet long routine brings stasis that

  Slows genius to a crawl.

  “Though chaos harbors Odin’s doom

  And that of gods and men.

  With law alone, our worlds stagnate

  Into oblivion.

  “A day would come, Odin declared

  A Wizard would arise.

  Bold enough to wield the source

  Of dishonor, sin, and lies.

  “The Gray God made a trial that

  Would kill all but the best.

  Millennia later, Colbey came

  And passed Odin’s great test.

  “Now causes four and Wizards four

  Trained to sanction extremes.

  Yet three to one they champion law

  And the last must die, it seems.

  “Generations lived and died

  While Odin picked the one,

  Competent to moderate

  The amount of chaos done.

  “Yet the Cardinal Wizards see only

  Their own causes to fight.

  The dedication that empowers them

  Also blinds them to the light.

  “They say: battle chaos with its own,

  Forgetting in their rage,

  That law embodies honor kept

  No matter the war they wage.

  “When chaos conquers Wizards four

  Mankind seems sure to fall,

  Especially when some have already

  Heeded chaos’ call.

  “The gods cannot come to our aid

  Their power too vast to balance.

  The Wizards all have fallen prey

  Our world to them a dalliance.

  “The time has come for men to join

  Together in desperate need,

  To sacrifice personal interest,

  To cast aside their greed.

  “No champion left, men must fight

  Or collapse again into the void.

  Chaos’ promises: hollow lies boding

  A ruin even gods can’t avoid.”

  As the last notes pealed forth from the instrument, Khitajrah found herself in tears. The individual words had not registered, rather the seamless combination of melody and voice had seemed to flay open her soul to reveal the ugliness inside. She felt innocent as an infant, cleansed of the crimes she had committed, in her own name and in that of chaos. The music of the forest replaced Mar Lon’s talent, revealing the steady wash of leaves in wind, the first faint chirrups of birds, and the muffled clanks and rattles of working Béarnides. Reality returned to Khitajrah in a rush, making camaraderie between communities of mankind seem like a naive and foolish dream. Chaos’ presence felt like a lead weight in her mind. Though it lay still and silent, Khitajrah directed her thoughts at it accusingly. *Is what he sang true?*

  *It is his interpretation of truth.*

  The answer seemed like a dodge. *What does that mean? Are you afraid to answer the question?*

  *No.* Chaos seemed unruffled. *I simply see no reason to bother answering. If I told you he spoke lies, would you believe me?*

  Khitajrah considered for a moment. *Probably not.*

  *Then the question is as pointless as the answer.*

  Chaos made sense to Khitajrah this time, though she cared little for its approach or its attitude. *Tell me which parts you find truth and which lies. I’ll form my own opinion, but wouldn’t you like to have a say?*

  Apparently, the logic behind her comment convinced it. *He’s right about the history; I’ve told you that before. Odin did banish chaos, and the world has stagnated under the influence only of law. But the Chaosbringer’s bounty is knowledge and cleverness, not destruction.* Chaos lapsed into its vibrating equivalent of laughter. *And this singer-man has sadly misinterpreted the Wizards and their motives.*

  *Which are?* Khitajrah pressed.

  *You’re not ready for the explanation at this time.*

  *Try me,* Khitajrah insisted.

  Chaos went dormant, spreading its formless tendrils through her thoughts, its touch almost imperceptible.

  Before Khitajrah could protest further, Mar Lon’s singing again caught her attention, the chords forming a golden harmony to his
words. This time, he used the trading tongue, though he chose an Eastern rhyme scheme:

  “War raged like a stallion across the dark plains;

  Eastern sword met Western in a wild clash of steel.

  The West for its own, the East for land gains,

  Each soldier concerned for the hand death might deal.

  “The Great War spawned heroes, much more than its share:

  Child, swordsman, then corpse in less than a day.

  West, Santagithi’s strategies blazed the battle fare,

  His soldiers bedecked in his black and his gray.

  “Grand in his helmet of spires and spines,

  Sheriva’s chosen, Siderin, sparked his Eastern horde

  Two skilled lieutenants kept his ranks in perfect lines

  Boldly, they stormed westward for love of their lord.

  “As prophecy promised, the West’s proven champion:

  A Golden-Haired devil from the North tribe of Renshai.

  Colbey slashed through East ranks in a reckless run

  And every blade slash drove an Easterner to die.

  “The great axman, Narisen, met death in this fashion,

  Skull staved by the hooves of the Renshai’s bay mount.

  Siderin’s other sent many men crashin’

  Harrsha’s skill claiming too many Westmen to count.

  “The War’s other two Renshai brought Harrsha to bear.

  Killed amidst many, in the war’s thickest heat.

  Sword mistress Mitrian and Captain Rache did share

  The burden of slaying the Eastlands’ elite.

  “Colbey fought the final battle as the Eastern king fled.

  Renshai blade against poison and spiked chain flail.

  Yet a moment before sword could stab Siderin dead,

  A blue and gold arrow pierced Siderin’s mail.

  “So the West won the war, thanks to a demon prince

  And a one-eyed archer who dared steal a Renshai’s kill.

  And I hope that you‘ve gathered from all of my hints,

  That I know who you are and that you serve chaos’ will.

  “Your lies are transparent; Colbey’s sterile, I know.

  And you came riding the horse of the king’s best friend.

  Warriors never hold grudges against fair-fighting foe,

  Honorable death, not for mother nor wives to defend.”

  The first mention of her dead husband had stunned Khitajrah deeper into her silence. Initially, she believed Mar Lon had responded only to her name and her quest for Colbey, yet the last verses told otherwise. Clearly, he had ad-libbed the song, or at least its final lines; and the wisdom inherent in it shuddered panic through her. *He knows everything! How could he know everything?*

  *Calm!* chaos demanded. *He doesn’t know everything. There were mistakes in his history, and he’s wrong about you, too. He thinks you’re after Colbey from revenge.*

  Chaos’ explanation soothed Khitajrah enough to delve rational thought from beneath fear and fatigue. She forced composure to settle over her expression and voice before attempting speech. “How do you know so much?”

  Mar Lon lowered his instrument, but he did not duck back through the strap. “It’s the curse of the eldest child of my line to seek knowledge, Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow. And it’s also my job to support the king of Béarn. He stands for neutrality, true central balance. He doesn’t judge, and neither do I.”

  Khitajrah yawned, pressed by the need to give the bard her full attention. Even the threat of death seemed unable to breach the fog. “So what happens now?”

  “That’s your decision.” Mar Lon stepped aside, no longer blocking Khitajrah’s route to the horse’s lead rope. “I know Arduwyn well, and I can think of no more competent judge of human nature than he. In the woodlands, no one could find Arduwyn, or his camp, unless he arranged it. If he let you come close enough to steal his horse, then he trusted you. That means he saw something he respected deep within you, perhaps something chaos has suppressed.” Mar Lon frowned at a thought that must have just arisen. “I don’t believe you harmed him. You carried no weapon, and even Colbey would find slaying Arduwyn a challenge in the forest. I can only hope that the spark Arduwyn saw grows strong enough to shake the yoke chaos has lain upon you.”

  Rage coursed through Khitajrah, though the tired haze precluded strong emotion. Clearly, chaos had responded to Mar Lon’s words, and the intensity of its reaction gave Khitajrah pause to wonder. Later. Right now, I’m too tired to think. She studied Mar Lon again. His features seemed plain, yet the plumed hat shadowing his face lent him an air of mystery and the coordination of his movements marked him as a trained warrior. Though mousy hazel in color, his gaze tended to fix unwaveringly on subjects, deeply socketed and hard with character. His dress seemed conservative and flashy at once, the cut allowing free movement. Yet the tailoring was crisp and the colors boldly Béarn royal. Surely, he had deduced much from the moment he heard her name and saw her perched upon Arduwyn’s horse. But he had had the patience to keep his understanding to himself, directing events with a gentle hand that gained him knowledge yet yielded nothing.

  When Khitajrah did not speak, Mar Lon added one more thing. “You may go. I’d like to leave you with another song.”

  Though Khitajrah hated the idea of more delay, she saw no means to refuse the request. Mar Lon’s information, in some hands, would surely prove another death sentence. It seemed madness to do anything but remain as much in his favor as possible. And, although she hated to admit such a thing, she longed for more of the bard’s sweet talent. Despite their topics, his songs had relaxed her in a way she had not known in more than a decade, since the first hint of the Great War had touched the Eastlands.

  This time, the gentle desperation of Mar Lon’s melody nearly soothed her into sleep. He sang in the Eastern tongue, of harmony in a time of strife, of wolves and rabbits curled together in quiet sleep, and of enemies laying aside weapons to teach one another the best of their cultures. Within half a verse, Khitajrah found herself humming along with the tune. And, by the second verse, the words came to her as he mouthed them. I know this song. It seemed impossible. I do know this song.

  The answer followed in an instant, bringing a rush of the memory that had defied her and now filled her eyes with tears. The words and tune had come to her in a much cruder form, from her youngest son who knew poetry, not music. She pictured his soft, brown locks and eyes. Lighter colored and smaller than his brothers had been at the same age, he seemed frail in every way. Yet, she remembered the excitement that had made him prance around the cottage, strumming an imaginary instrument, his eyes alight with purpose. Khitajrah waited only until the echoes of the last note partially faded. “You’re him. You’re the bard, Marlon.” She twisted the crisp Western pronunciation to fit the Eastern vowels. It sounded more like My-er-layne, the three syllables slurred into a single word and the last part enunciated.

  “That’s what Ellbaric and his friends called me.” Mar Lon’s expression remained serious, and genuine sorrow filmed his eyes with tears as well.

  “Ellbaric,” Khitajrah repeated. The name she had given her youngest son sounded strange after so many years. “You remember him?”

  “I remember all of the young men who supported peace. They could have started a new generation of tranquillity between all men and women, if Siderin hadn’t grabbed them for his troops.”

  “Ellbaric died in that war.”

  “I know that.”

  “He never wanted to be a soldier, like his father and brother. He wanted to become a bard.”

  Mar Lon restrung his mandolin. “I’m flattered. He had talent with poetry. With the right teacher and a world at peace, he might have succeeded.”

  “Yes,” Khitajrah said. She had many things to consider, but for now it seemed easier to let them lie. Currently, she could not feel certain she knew chaos’ will from her own. One thing seemed certain, talk of her youngest child only made her lon
g more for Bahmyr and the single act of violence, killing Colbey, that stood between them.

  “Someday,” Mar Lon said. “When and if our causes ever come together, I’ll sing you the lyrics that Ellbaric wrote for me.”

  Khitajrah’s first instinct, to beg for the tune, passed quickly. Even through exhaustion’s veil, she remained dimly wise enough to understand that the timing was wrong. Someday, she might hear that song; but, for now, the price of another son’s life seemed too much to pay. “I look forward to that.” She headed for the horse.

  Mar Lon untied the lead rope, holding the gelding in place while Khitajrah mounted. “Take the forest path north. Whenever you come to a branch, always take the largest and best traveled route. Pudar is the center of trade, even for Northmen and Easterners. Every road in the West, by land or river, will eventually get you there.”

  Khitajrah placed a foot in the left stirrup, then flung her other leg over the bulging packs. Once she settled into the saddle, Mar Lon handed her the lead rope. “Farewell,” he said. “But I hope you’ll understand that I won’t wish you luck.”

  Khitajrah looped the rope around the saddle horn. “Well, good luck to you, then. And to King Sterrane. Please thank him profusely for generosity I have no way to repay.”

  “Kindness is simply his way. Your gratitude will only confuse him, but I’ll deliver it anyway.” Mar Lon let the obvious answer to repayment remain unsaid.

  Kicking the horse into a slow trot, Khitajrah headed toward Pudar, looking from the first for a likely place to set up camp.

  CHAPTER 19

  Crossroad Fyn’s

  A quarter moon straggled lines through Pudar’s straight, wide streets, glimmering silver from irregularities amid the cobbles. Dressed in the tan shirt and britches of his guard uniform, Lirtensa patrolled the upper east side, his partner pacing a parallel course several streets farther westward. He marched a winding path between the dark shapes of the flophouses and rented cottages that housed most of Pudar’s temporary visitors from more distant locales. This late, even the rowdier foreigners had settled into taverns or gone to bed for the night, and only an occasional individual or small group whisked through Pudar’s alleyways.

  Unlike the majority of his fellow guardsmen, Lirtensa preferred night duty. The cool twine of fresh night air through Pudar’s alleyways seemed like an old and welcome friend. He especially preferred the western breezes that brought the smell of damp from Trader’s Lake. During the day, the ceaseless rush and shuffle of patrons through Pudar’s market, and the petty skirmishes this caused, annoyed him. He found nothing interesting or exciting about breaking up housewives tussling over fruit or pacifying enraged patrons who felt they had gotten the raw end of a sale. The all or nothing pattern of Pudar’s nights intrigued him more. Usually, the city remained quiet once the shops and stands had closed, leaving Lirtensa to conduct his own personal business. When a problem did occur at night, it was rarely trivial; but his connections to the seedier parts of the great trading city often allowed him to resolve the situation quickly.