AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Children of Wrath is the last book of the Renshai Chronicles trilogy, a follow-up to The Last of the Renshai trilogy. In this, the last DAW edition, the publishers requested I write this note to explain some of the motivations behind both series:
When I wrote the first draft of The Last of the Renshai, I was a nineteen-year-old freshman attending the Thomas Jefferson Medical College. My editor, Sheila Gilbert, recognized the series’ potential and also, luckily, my inexperience. She suggested I put the books aside until I gained the competence to handle such a complicated and ambitious project. Five novels and five years later, I finally tackled Renshai again. The final version little resembled the original; but I had gained in distance, craft, and life experience.
I had three goals in mind while writing The Last of the Renshai trilogy. First, I wanted each volume to stand alone. Few things irk me more as a reader than shelling out money for a novel and dedicating days of my life to its reading, only to have a wimpy or “continued in the next book” ending. Then, either the next book never comes out or it comes out so much later I can’t remember what happened in the previous volume. I was more interested in satisfying Readers than leaving them “hungry” for the next book. My Readers are the very overseers of my career, and pleasing them seems to me far kinder and wiser than teasing them.
Second, I wanted my Readers to live the story as they read, to feel as if every moment was reality happening to them. Every stunt, every sword stroke, every sound effect was simulated by myself or one of my experts. No human or animal was killed during the making of this series. No animal was harmed, but the humans suffered their share of black eyes, bruises, and smashed fingers. There was only one major injury—a concussion inflicted on myself, and even that pain wound up useful for later descriptions. Our horses have become used to what once seemed like insanity and no longer balk at having people crawl up their sides using only their hands, having cats sit on their rumps, or the swish and clatter of steel above their heads. I wanted the battles to ring true, the warrior mentality to work, the wounds and consequences to fit. Being a physician who once worked in big city emergency rooms helped with the wound descriptions, with the intensity of emotions, and with the reactions to disaster and death. For the rest, I surrounded myself with all-or-nothing athletes, martial artists, and historians. Together, we created the Renshai maneuvers, the swords, the unorthodox but effective strategies of the better swordsmen in the story. Their selfless dedication of time and expertise were priceless and appreciated.
Third, I wanted the plot to advance and all themes and threads to carry consistently, not just through each volume, but through the entire trilogy. I was determined to have each subsequent book take the story to a higher, more complex level. I’ve read trilogies where the author clearly had no goal other than to sequelize a popular novel. The books meander and deviate, or the second and third volumes are clearly tacked on as random continuations of the characters’ lives. I refused to fall into that trap. In each trilogy, I made sure I knew where book three was going to end before I wrote the first page of book one. I’ve spoken with authors who claim they never plan their novels ahead because they “don’t want to ruin the story for themselves” or “don’t enjoy the story as much if they know what’s going to happen.” My personal philosophy is that I write for the enjoyment and satisfaction of my Readers, not myself. My job fulfillment and joy derive from accomplishing that goal rather than from reading my own book. I’d rather let other authors entertain me with their works. An added benefit is that writer’s block is virtually impossible when an author has prepared him or herself in advance.
I also didn’t want to fall into the rut of writing the same novel or trilogy repeatedly. Therefore, when I was asked to write a sequel trilogy to The Last of the Renshai novels, a massive epic for which a sequel seemed entirely unnecessary, I determined to write something completely different. The events in The Renshai Chronicles take place some three hundred years after the last volume in the previous series. Though there is some minimal overlap of characters, and others are mentioned in a historical context, the stories share little more than a common setting. Those Readers who picked up Chronicles first can go back to the original series without worrying about rehashing.
If you have any other questions or comments, please send them with a SASE to me in care of DAW Books, Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Thank you,
Mickey Zucker Reichert
December 1998
DAW Books Presents
the Finest in Fantasy by
MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
FLIGHTLESS FALCON
SPIRIT FOX (with Jennifer Wingert)
The Novels of Nightfall:
THE LEGEND OF NIGHTFALL
THE RETURN OF NIGHTFALL
The Books of Barakhai:
THE BEASTS OF BARAKHAI
THE LOST DRAGONS OF BARAKHAI
The Renshai Trilogy:
THE LAST OF THE RENSHAI
THE WESTERN WIZARD
CHILD OF THUNDER
The Renshai Chronicles:
BEYOND RAGNAROK
PRINCE OF DEMONS
THE CHILDREN OF WRATH
The Renshai Saga:
FLIGHT OF THE RENSHAI
FIELDS OF WRATH
The Bifrost Guardians Omnibus Editions:
VOLUME ONE:
GODSLAYER
SHADOW CLIMBER
DRAGONRANK MASTER
VOLUME TWO:
SHADOW’S REALM
BY CHAOS CURSED
Copyright © 1998 by Miriam S. Zucker.
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-101-66391-2
Cover art by Jody A. Lee.
Map by D. Allan Drummond.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1087.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
First paperback printing, June 1999
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
Version_1
To Koby Moore,
whose very presence
allowed me time to finish.
Acknowledgments
The following people assisted in making this a better book:
Mark Moore, Sheila Gilbert, Jonathan Matson, Jody Lee, Caroline Oakley, and the PenDragons.
Also thanks to my support staff:
Sandra Zucker and Ben, Jon, Jackie, and Ari Moore.
Contents
Prologue
1. The Fathers’ Worth
2. The Pica Stone
3. The Summoning
4. Alone Again
5. The Chosen
6. The Price of Understanding
7. Return of the Father
8. All for One
9. A Hero’s Welcome
10. The Collector
11. Plans Awry
12. A Deeper Chill
13. Preparing for the Worst
14. Brothers
15. Law’s Reach
16. The Ultimate Sacrifice
17. Unbelonging
18. When Honors Clash
19. Turmoil
20. Justice
21. Devils’ Play
22. Threats and Decisions
23. Desperation
24. Loki’s Citadel
25. Relative Morality
26. The Laws of Ascension
27. Parley
28. Measurements of Worth
29. The Stalking Horse
30. The Fatal Mistake
31. The Spring of Mimir
32. Griff’s Testing
Epilogue
Prologue
DRY leaves of myriad hues rattled on their branches, and evening’s grayness settled over the kingdom of Béarn. Autumn winds whipped Tae Kahn’s hair around his Eastern-swarthy features, hindering vision. Aided by self-made bracers fitted with steel claws, he clung to castle walls carved directly from the mountain. He knew King Griff stood on a balcony on an adjacent side of the keep, the king’s voice and the cheers of the crowd beneath him wafting to Tae as a distant cacophony of muffled sound. The smoothed granite afforded the Easterner little purchase. The claws ticked and skimmed from the rare irregularities, and the slipping of his booted feet seemed more regular than the solid footholds he gradually managed. Impatience and curiosity had driven him to such unorthodoxy, accompanied by a silly need to appear collected and in control ingrained in him from his years alone among Stalmizian street thugs.
The sun disappeared behind the west tower. Tae paused in a precarious position, one hand winched around a fourth-story sill, relying on friction to keep his feet in place. With cautious movements, he flicked black hair from eyes nearly as dark and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. Father would disapprove. Tae rolled his eyes at the thought. Not long ago, he would not have cared if Weile Kahn dropped dead in a crowded market. So much had changed over the past several months, including the embroidered silks and expensive travel leathers that had taken the place of his ragged linens and vest.
The irony drove a smile to Tae’s lips. Here I am assailing Béarn Castle yet worrying about my father’s reaction to four months without a haircut and dirt on my clothes. Shaking his head, he continued his climb to the fifth story, singling out the queen’s private chamber as much by the delicate weave and colors of the curtains as by its location. The excitement of a recognized goal made many men careless, but experience kept Tae from falling prey to a mistake that might cost him his life. He inched toward the opening more slowly than before, metal claws rasping across stone to settle into minuscule depressions. At length, he reached the queen’s window, studying the interior through the gauzy film of curtains.
The room seemed to stretch forever, ending in a dark rectangle that surely represented a door. Bureaus, wardrobes, and shelves lined every wall; clothing, knickknacks, and bric-a-brac cast strange shadows that Tae could not wholly interpret. A massive bed stood in the room’s center, tall and canopied. A person reposed on the mattress, large yet with obvious female proportions, unequivocally a Béarnide. She clutched something in her arms. Tae grinned, memory filling in the details of Matrinka: thick, ebony hair that flowed past her shoulders; soft, doelike eyes; gentle features pleasant, though few would consider her beautiful. Her kindness had brought him and his friends through harshness and bickering, and her knowledge of herbs and healing had rescued several of them from death. He had not seen her in a year, since before she became the queen of Béarn.
Balanced on the sill, Tae removed the gauntlets, drawing the claws into the leather so they would not click together as he moved. He tied them to the right side of his belt to avoid the long knife at his left. Silently, he shifted the curtains, the gossamer fabric slithering along his cheek. Matrinka carried a bit more weight on her already Béarnian-large frame; yet she appeared otherwise unchanged from the last time he had seen her. She wore a loose-fitting robe best suited to sleeping. The bundle in her arms wiggled. She studied it, oblivious to his sudden presence. Tae eased into the room.
Another was not caught so unaware. A calico cat leaped from the coverlet and galloped to Tae, claiming him with raucous purring and fierce rubs against his ankles that all but knocked him back through the window.
Mior. Tae hefted the cat, hugging her to his chest. In a moment, he knew, Matrinka would learn of his presence, too. Cat and queen shared a unique bond that few would believe, a form of mental communication.
A moment later, Matrinka whirled toward Tae. Brown eyes sparkled beneath a fringe of bangs, and a smile split her broad mouth. “Tae,” she said, the quietness of her greeting making it no less exuberant.
Tae’s gaze fell to the baby in Matrinka’s arms. Born that very day, it still carried flecks of blood and vernix in its dark hair. A generous nose for one so young poked from tiny, doll-like features. Matrinka laid the baby on a blanket. Startled by the movement, it jerked, then settled back into placid sleep. A moment later, Tae realized Matrinka struggled to rise. He moved swiftly to the bed, saving her the effort.
As Tae drew to her side, Matrinka lunged for him. Mior scrambled to his shoulder, claws piercing silk and gliding around leather to tear flesh. Tae winced as the queen caught him into a wild embrace and Mior rescued herself from a crushing . . . at his expense. “Tae. Oh, Tae.”
Tae wrapped his arms around a friend whom he loved like a sister, savoring her warmth and presence. He sought the proper words to maintain his dignity without belittling their reunion.
Matrinka beat him to speech, whispering into his ear. “Tae, you’re the East’s diplomat to Béarn, as well as a prince. You don’t have to sneak through windows anymore.”
Tae chuckled, loosing Matrinka. “Old habits die hard.” The words emerged without thought, adequate but untrue, at least in the current circumstances. “So this is the heir to Béarn.”
Matrinka hefted the baby again, love evident in her eyes and expression. She had never looked so attractive to Tae. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Tae rubbed at the fresh line of scratches Mior had gouged into his right shoulder and chest. “How could she not be with you as her mother?”
Matrinka’s cheeks flushed.
Tae peeled the cat from his shoulders and placed her on the bed. “I believe this is yours, too.”
Matrinka rolled her gaze to Mior, then frowned, obviously in response to something the calico had communicated. “Your father sent a message announcing your imminent arrival.” She cradled the infant in the crook of one arm and took his hand. “You really should have used the door. The guards could have rightfully shot you. Not only would your death sadden me, the king, and several others, but it could spark war.”
Tae dismissed Matrinka’s concern. He had long ago learned to consider death inevitable, to rely on caution and accept the consequences should it fail. That philosophy had kept him alive for nineteen years. Barely, he reminded himself. Before his father had turned from the East’s first crime lord to its king, Tae had dodged enemies daily. At the age of ten, he had suffered sixteen stab wounds, drifting toward oblivion hearing his mother’s dying screams. Yet he had survived that and so much more. If fate decreed he would die plummeting from Béarn’s walls, he had little say in the matter. He resorted to the truth. “I could have gotten into the castle but not to you. I wanted to see the baby.”
“You would have seen her.”
“Not today.”
Matrinka laughed. “Tae-logic. Risking death and war to glimpse a tired, disheveled friend and a baby before its naming.”
Tae dodged a discussion that no longer mattered, attentive to every movement and sound around him. He watched Mior pace an indignant circle on the coverlet, then settle against Matrinka’s leg. “You and Griffy.” He shook his head at the strangeness of the coupling. “Who would have guessed?”
Matrinka stroked fine hairs from the baby’s forehead. “We call him King Griff now.” It was a warning as well as information.
“King Griff,” Tae repeated thoughtfully, unable to banish the image of the childlike bear of a farm boy whom he, Matrinka, and three friends had rescued from the elves’ prison. He glanced back at the baby, noticing the elegant patterns on canopy and blankets as he shifted his gaze. “I hope the heir gets a fancier, more royal-sounding name than her—” He broke off suddenly, recognizing the large, straight nose. “This isn’t Griff’s baby,” he blurted, his usual composure lost. Damn me to the pits, did
I say that aloud? He stiffened, avoiding Matrinka’s eyes.
“Of course, she’s Griff’s baby.” Defensiveness coarsened Matrinka’s tone. She hesitated, as if to reveal a secret, then finished simply with, “He’s my husband.” She did not add that, spoken by a Béarnide, the accusation Tae made would be considered treason.
Tae said nothing, simply turned a measuring stare on his onetime companion. Long before they had bonded as a team to rescue the heir to Béarn’s throne, Matrinka had loved Darris, Béarn’s bard. Struck by a curse that passed always to the bard’s oldest child, Darris suffered an inhuman curiosity that drove him to learn everything, though he could teach others what he discovered only in song. Most found him an entertaining oddity, tedious when the bardic malediction forced him to arias in the middle of conversation. Somehow, the two had seen beyond Matrinka’s soft-hearted shyness and Darris’ prolonged silences to discover a depth of love few shared in a lifetime. Unfortunately, Matrinka’s royal blood forbade them from marrying. Presumably to strengthen the waning bloodline of Béarnian nobility, Matrinka had wed her cousin instead.
Matrinka sucked in a deep breath and loosed it slowly through her nose. She would never lie, especially to a friend. She caressed the baby’s hand with a finger. “Is it that obvious?”
“Noticing details keeps a boy alive on the streets.” Tae squeezed Matrinka’s fingers. “And hope had a lot to do with it. You and Darris belong together.”
“The king thinks so, too.”
Tae’s eyes widened. “Griff knows?”
“Of course, he knows. It was his idea. What kind of adulterous whore do you think I am?” Even as the words left her lips, Matrinka cringed as if she worried she might have offended Tae.
Freeing his hand from Matrinka’s grip, Tae searched among elaborately carved furniture for a chair. Finding one in front of a desk, he pulled it to the bedside. High-backed, plush, and patterned, it smelled pleasantly of polish. He crouched rather than sat. “I have to hear this.”
“There’s not much to tell.” Matrinka shrugged. “The populace demanded our wedding, and their king denies them little. But Griff and I are friends, not lovers. He also worried that the closeness of our bloodlines might result in cretins.”
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