Griff went utterly still; even his heart seemed to stop. He stood staring, unable to speak.
Darris stepped aside, revealing the familiar plump figure of Griff’s mother. Though only thirty-three, she harbored wisps of white hair among the black, and a few wrinkles scored her face. She had aged years in the months of their separation. For a moment, their eyes met, exact dark duplicates. Behind her, less than a finger’s breadth taller, Griff’s stepfather awaited his chance for reunion.
Helana rushed to Griff, silks supplied by the palace fluttering in her wake. She wrapped him in a bear hug; and he clung to her, sobbing. Her warm tears dripped down his collar.
“Mama. Oh, Mama,” Griff breathed out at length.
Simultaneously, they said, “I worried so much about you.”
Then tears turned to laughter, and Herwin joined the embrace. Though large for a Westerner, he seemed tiny to Griff who had grown substantially in the last year and become accustomed to Béarnides. The sandy hair and gray eyes seemed particularly out of place. A work-hardened hand clutched Griff’s arm, calluses rasping against satin. The farm seemed a million years and a trillion miles away.
Mama. Griff closed his eyes, thoughts gliding backward. The odors of fresh-turned earth, damp, and manure filled his nose, accompanied by the snort of the horses, the clank of the plow, and a man’s occasional muffled curse. After the accident that had claimed the lives of Griff’s father and brother, Helana had refused to allow Griff even to assist with heavy chores, preferring to give up luxuries, even necessities, to pay laborers to tend the farm in Dunwoods. Herwin had been the last of these. Guarded by his mother to the point of suffocation, Griff had found reprieve in a wooded grove near the farm. There, he had spent the happiest times of his childhood listening to the birds and chirruping insects, skipping stones, and exchanging stories with a young blond he had once believed a creation of his own imagination. Only after elves captured him did he finally discover his childhood friend was Ravn Colbeysson, the son of the immortal Renshai and a goddess.
Griff snuggled into the warm security of his parents’ arms, and the responsibilities of a kingdom disappeared.
Darris cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, a Northman, a guard in the employ of Pudar accompanied them. We’ve treated him to a good meal and a warm bath, but he says he can’t stay. He has duties in Pudar.”
“Give him—” Griff started, then stopped abruptly, embarrassed to order others while in his parents’ presence, let alone their embrace. He gently disengaged himself, still trapped in his younger years. Scarlet crept across his cheeks, and the command refused to emerge. He felt like a child caught playing king.
Darris sensed Griff’s discomfort. “Majesty, I’ll see he gets anything he needs or wants for the trip. And a fresh horse.”
“Thank you,” Griff said humbly. He returned his attention to mother and stepfather. “Did I mention? I’m king now.”
Helana laughed kindly, sharing a wink with the departing bard. “We heard, dear.”
The family fell back into another cycle of hugging while Tem’aree’ay looked on happily.
* * *
Tae sprawled in the window seat, back against the frame, right leg tucked in front of him, and left leg dangling nearly to the floor. A cross draft from the opposite window sucked in rain that pelted him like grains of ice. Seated on a nearby chest, Kevral clutched her hands in her lap; he had never before seen her so nervous. Ra-khir sat beside her, dressed in his best silk colors. Two chairs occupied the center of the room beneath a candelabra, holding eight burning tapers, that dangled from a ceiling beam by a chain. Occasionally, an unusually heavy gust sent the lamp swinging, and light swirled around the room in erratic ovals.
Tae looked out over the Fields of Wrath from the second floor of the Renshai common house. Cottages scattered without pattern, and occasional paddocks held pigs, horses, goats, or sheep. The clang of steel striking steel rang over the patter of rain against wood and thatch, punctuated by indecipherable commands. Weather made no difference when it came to Renshai sword practices. They preferred to vary sites and conditions, prepared to war under any circumstances. Violence was the very essence of the Renshai, the desperate need to die in glorious combat and find a place in Valhalla. Tae, Kevral, and Ra-khir had once visited the haven for the souls of those bravest warriors. He had watched them battle through the day, those slain rising every evening to join the victors in a grand feast until morning brought a new round of warfare. Tae believed he would prefer a more peaceful after-death experience.
The door latch clicked.
Kevral hissed through clenched teeth, “Tae.”
He glanced over.
Kevral made a sharp gesture for him to find a more dignified position as the door whipped open and two men entered. The first looked as massive as any Béarnide, middle-aged, broad-boned and -featured with green eyes. He wore his golden hair in braids, the style of Northern warriors. The smaller, younger man who accompanied him kept his dark blond hair clipped as short as Kevral’s. Hard blue eyes settled on the bench’s occupants. Both sported leather tunics and breeks, a sword thrust through each belt. Their pale skin revealed their once-Northern origins.
Tae shifted from his slouch to a wary crouch. Warriors should appreciate his caution, mannerly or otherwise.
The huge Renshai took the farther chair. “I am Thialnir Thrudazisson.”
The second nodded a stiff welcome. “Gareth Lasirsson.”
Ra-khir rose and executed a sweeping gesture of greeting that impressed Tae, though neither Renshai seemed affected. “Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, Knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Griff.” When no one else made a move to take the floor, Ra-khir indicated Kevral with a polite motion. “You know Kevralyn Tainharsdatter.”
“Kevral,” Kevral interrupted gruffly. She had always despised her full first name. “As you know.” She glared pointedly at Ra-khir.
A hint of a smile entered Gareth’s expression. “Your peers call you Kevral the Overconfident.”
The insult clearly stung. Kevral’s hands blanched in her lap, and her face gained the flush her fingers had lost. “My peers choose to ridicule when they cannot compete.” Kevral had a right to pride. At fifteen, she had gained her status as a Renshai adult by accomplishing the difficult series of maneuvers rarely mastered before eighteen.
Gareth recoiled, grin disappearing. Tae guessed he had a child or children who would consider themselves among those peers. Thialnir represented the Renshai at meetings of the Béarnian council. He redirected the proceedings back to introductions by turning Tae a stern, questioning look.
Tae did not bother to move, though he did brush away mist that had gathered on his bangs. “Tae,” he said simply. In the East, shortening a person’s name was grave insult. In the West, people did so routinely.
Kevral gave Tae a squint-eyed stare that held warning. Though she had demonstrated her anger at Ra-khir and Gareth, Tae held initial responsibility for her mood. It seemed he refused to view the proceedings with proper seriousness. “Prince Tae Kahn, son of Weile Kahn, ruler of Stalmize, the East’s high kingdom, and the East’s diplomat to Béarn.”
Tae shrugged. The only person in the world with a title longer than Ra-khir’s. He could not wholly explain his apathy, feeling trapped into an unwinnable situation. Ra-khir’s courtly upbringing, classically handsome features, and manners defied competition. Tae never doubted his friend would be found worthy. His own lack of value, to Renshai or others, seemed a foregone conclusion. It did not matter that his father had taken over a kingdom nor how many referred to him as “prince.” In his own mind, he would always remain a gang-running, sneak-thieving son of a crime lord. He alone seemed to realize the farce of this testing. Ra-khir’s son would join the Renshai and his own would have to deal with the shame of exclusion. Tae did not need to undergo the scrutiny of these two to know he would fail.
Thialnir cleared his throat. “Duly
noted.” He nodded at Gareth to indicate the younger man should initiate the proceedings.
Gareth obliged. “We’ve had the children examined. Both healthy. And it does seem as if your claim of different fathers may be correct.”
Kevral’s scowl deepened. Tae knew she would not allow suspicion about her word or her morals. The process did not require either.
“In that light,” Gareth continued, “who would like to go first?”
Ra-khir glanced around Kevral to Tae, offering.
Tae shook his head.
Ra-khir stood, brushing back his tan cape to reveal the Béarnian bear on his blue velvet tunic. “I will, sir.” Black breeks and an orange brooch and sash finished his colors. A sword graced his left hip. He adjusted its position from habit, by flicking the edge of the sheath rather than touching the hilt.
“Very well.” Gareth also rose, the candles sparking yellow highlights through his darker hair as he moved. He pinned his icy gaze on the Erythanian. “What does your bloodline have to offer the Renshai?”
Ra-khir launched directly into his reasoning, clearly having dedicated much thought to the matter, a preparing Tae did not share. “First, history suggests that red-haired Erythanians descend from Renshai conquerors, so my child may restore some lost blood back to the tribe.”
Thialnir nodded thoughtfully. Gareth remained in place, lips pursed, waiting expectantly for more.
Tae settled back into a sitting position, glancing out the window again and seeing nothing through sheets of rain. Droplets bounced from the sill, cold prickles against his cheeks. From habit, he measured the construction of window and building.
“Second, sir,” Ra-khir went on, “I offer size and strength.”
Renshai maneuvers rely on quickness, not strength. The Colbey quotation came instantly to Tae’s mind, though he could not recall whether he had learned it from Kevral or from the biography of Colbey he had stolen from Pudar’s castle and gifted to her nearly a year ago. She cited the ancient Renshai often.
“I name patience and determination among my assets. Without them, I could not have become a Knight of—”
Gareth interrupted. “What determination does it take to follow rigid codes? And to expect enemies to do the same?”
Tae jerked his attention back, surprised by Gareth’s hostility.
Ra-khir stiffened slightly but otherwise showed no offense. “Sir, there is nothing rigid about morality. And while I do grant all men and women their dignity by assuming they will act with honor, I know how to handle a situation should they choose otherwise. I will always steer friend or opponent toward the reputable path; but I’m not foolish enough to believe they will always take it. I won’t apologize for expecting the best from everyone.”
Gareth made a wordless, noncommittal grunt. “Determination?” he reminded.
“Sir, the training is years long and grueling. The testing takes an entire day, and any break means instant failure.”
“Renshai train from infancy.” Gareth snorted. “An entire day of standing in pristine lines is hardly an accomplishment.” Turning his back, he headed toward his chair. In most areas of the Westlands, such a gesture indicated trust. From Renshai, it cast profound aspersion, suggesting the other could not muster the competence to prove a threat to an open target.
Ra-khir had spent enough time with Kevral to recognize the insult. His nostrils flared, and his hands tensed. “Sir, you’re coming dangerously close to belittling knight’s honor.”
Gareth spun slowly. “Close?” He took a menacing forward step. “Try this, then.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “No self-respecting Renshai would couple with a narrow-minded, inflexible man of pseudo-honor whose only worth is that an ancestor might carry some Renshai blood.”
Tae flinched. Even he had never baited Ra-khir so harshly. Kevral’s hands leaped to her hilts, and her face purpled. She could not interfere.
The knight maintained his temper admirably. He turned Kevral an apologetic glance before returning his gaze to Gareth. “Sir, I’m going to have to call you out.”
Thialnir stood up and moved quietly toward the door. Once there, he did not exit, just leaned against it, watching.
Gareth grinned insolently. “Good.”
Ra-khir drew breath. Erythanian law dictated that whoever called the challenge chose time, place, and weapons.
“Don’t bother with your details.” Gareth deliberately placed a hand on his hilt. “I’m not waiting.”
“Proof my patience could serve the tribe.” Ra-khir’s sword rasped from its sheath.
The Renshai drew quicker, cutting in the same motion.
Anticipating, Ra-khir raised his blade only to block. Sword hammered sword with a clang that echoed through the small room. Both disengaged. Again, the Renshai moved more swiftly, and the knight defended without riposte.
Tae scrambled to a cautious crouch on the sill, prepared to disappear should the battle muddle in his direction. Kevral did not even bother to rise, though her eyes followed every detail of the combat and her hands twitched in her lap, no longer entwined.
Repeatedly, the Renshai’s sword slashed, swept, and jabbed. Ra-khir met each attack with a block or parry. Superior size and strength worked to his advantage; he gained no ground but neither did he lose any. Perspiration slicked his hair and beaded the area between nose and upper lip. Every lightning movement flung moisture. In contrast, the Renshai seemed tireless. His slim sword skipped around Ra-khir like a fairy, flashing silver in the candlelight.
Then, suddenly, Kevral sucked in a breath. Ra-khir apparently saw the opening, too. His sword speared through, his first attack. The tip rammed Gareth’s crosspiece, and the sword left the Renshai’s hand.
He’ll try to catch it. Tae wished he could send a mental warning to Ra-khir. The Renshai belief that touching the floor dishonored a sword would make Gareth’s next action predictable.
Ra-khir leaped for Gareth as the Renshai sprang for his flying weapon. The knight willfully cast aside his own sword as the two slammed together and his bulk sent the slighter blond rolling. Ra-khir moved with him, grappling for the Renshai’s arms and using his weight to pin the other down. Gareth eeled out from under him. Ra-khir followed too slowly. The Renshai pitched, scrambling for his sword. Thialnir clapped his hands. “Enough.”
Red-faced, Gareth reclaimed his weapon as Ra-khir climbed to his feet, seeking his own sword. Abruptly, Gareth lunged. Ra-khir recoiled, but not far enough. The flat of the Renshai’s sword slammed the side of his head, sprawling him.
Tae winced.
“I said enough!” Thialnir growled.
“Bastard!” Kevral rushed to her husband’s defense, placing herself between them and glaring with the ferocity of a wolf guarding cubs. The law that forbade her interference strained her to the limit of endurance.
Ra-khir lay still a moment, then clambered up awkwardly. A reddening bruise marred the perfect curve of his cheek. His green eyes blazed, but he did not translate that anger into action. He recovered his sword, only to sheathe it and battle with words instead. “I’ll suffer that for my wife and son. Otherwise, Gareth, I’d have no willing dealings with a group that finds you worthy of membership.”
“We had to take him. He was born Renshai.” The fierce intensity of Thialnir’s glower at Kevral stole the humor from his joke. “You taught the knight a Renshai maneuver,” he accused.
Ra-khir adjusted his clothing and sword belt.
Kevral’s mouth fell open. “I did nothing of the kind.”
“Where did he learn floyetsverd?”
“Ask him,” Kevral suggested. Her gaze followed Gareth as he sheathed his sword and retreated beyond range.
“You mean the disarming, sir?” Ra-khir guessed, touching the wound carefully.
“Yes.” Thialnir turned the suspicious stare toward Ra-khir.
“With all respect, sir, the Renshai didn’t invent disarming.”
Gareth made a noise deep in his throat. Thialnir ignor
ed him. “True. But most others would have left Gareth minus a hand or a few fingers at least.” He tossed a braid behind his shoulder, his features placid. “But that was floyetsverd, sloppily done but adequate to undo Gareth.”
Tae admired how the Renshai’s representative managed to offend both parties with a single sentence.
The flush returned to Gareth’s features. “He dishonored me and my sword. He deliberately let it touch the ground.”
Thialnir raised his brows. “Under the circumstances, I would have done the same.”
“But—” Gareth started.
Thialnir silenced him with a gesture, refusing to be sidetracked. “Where did you learn that maneuver, Ra-khir?”
“Sir, I’ve seen Renshai fight many times.” Ra-khir took Kevral’s hand, heading back toward his seat. Only a slight stumble revealed his dizziness. “After the nine thousandth time Kevral disarmed me, I figured it out.”
Thialnir nodded, accepting the explanation.
Ra-khir looked at Gareth. “Colbey Calistinsson was a Knight of Erythane. Do you doubt his honor, too?”
“Colbey a knight?” Gareth’s blue eyes widened. “That’s sacrilege.”
“It’s truth,” Kevral defended. “Colbey told us himself.”
Tae remembered well. Colbey had first appeared to Kevral and Ra-khir, then the entire party. Later, he had attempted to recruit Kevral to wield the Staff of Chaos against Dh’arlo’mé. Learning it would destroy Kevral, Tae and Ra-khir had argued against Colbey’s choice. Whether because of them, or matters Tae did not understand, Colbey had reprieved Kevral and chosen to champion chaos himself. They had not heard from him since.
Thialnir shook his head. “Delusion, Kevral. Colbey died fighting the fires of Ragnarok more than three centuries ago.”
Kevral abandoned a stale argument. “Believe or not. I know what happened. And I’ve met with him more than once.”
The Children of Wrath Page 4