*You didn’t ask a question. And you didn’t “go out for a few moments,” either. You were gone an hour. Quit acting like I left the country.* Matrinka addressed Darris. “Likely. Or in the gardens with her.” She gestured for him to lead.
Darris obliged, heading toward the stairway. They first passed the door to the king’s adjoining room, emblazoned with the royal crest, a rearing bear with ruby eyes. Torches in the corridors struck green highlights from outlining emeralds. Carved and painted scenes filled the walls, brilliantly incorporating real doors and animal-shaped torch brackets into the picture. Despite a lifetime in the castle, the mastery of Béarn’s craftsmen still floored Matrinka. She found herself staring, finding details that eluded her even after seventeen years.
Mior clambered to Matrinka’s shoulders, waiting until they had descended the entire flight before observing, *You won’t find him with the elf maiden.*
*How do you know that?* Matrinka whisked after Darris, toward Tem’aree’ay’s quarters. She stopped suddenly, accusing, *You know where he is, don’t you, you little demon?*
The tail spiraled into Matrinka’s face, tickling. *So what if I happened to run into him?*
“Hold up, Darris.” *Where is he?*
Darris halted, turning. Brown curls fell into his eyes. “What’s the matter?”
*With the sage.*
*With the sage?* Shocked, Matrinka needed confirmation, though the method of their communication did not allow for mishearing. The reclusive keeper of all of Béarn’s knowledge rarely received visitors, and Griff’s flawless ability to rule came of his simple, naturally-neutral naïveté, not wisdom.
Darris came instantly to Matrinka’s side. “Is something wrong?”
*With the sage,* the cat repeated smugly.
“Nothing’s wrong. Mior claims Griff’s with the sage.”
Darris’ brow crinkled. “That’s odd.” A strange light danced through his eyes. The bard’s curse, passed always to the oldest child, endowed him with a painful, persistent thirst for knowledge he could only share in song. The sage guarded his scrolls and books with desperate fierceness, and Darris rarely found opportunity even to pass near the twelve-storied tower that housed the sage and a treasure beyond the value of all the kingdom’s gold, at least to Darris. He headed back the way they had come. Had Mior chosen to divulge her knowledge sooner, she could have saved them all the steps they had thus far taken.
Matrinka followed. *Just happened to run into him? At the top of the south tower?*
*In the main hallway, actually. I followed him there. Is curiosity a crime?*
*Only when you accuse me of abandoning you. No wonder your fur wasn’t cold. You’ve been running around inside the castle.*
Fur brushed Matrinka’s cheek, then two huge, yellow eyes appeared in her face. *Excuse me. I found him for you, didn’t I? Where’s my thank you?*
Oblivious to the mental conversation, Darris tousled Mior’s ears. “Thanks, Mior. You saved us a tedious and probably fruitless search. Not to mention an impatient room full of ministers and diplomats.”
Matrinka stifled a giggle. *There you are.*
Mior rubbed against Darris’ hand. *At least he appreciates me.*
*That’s because he doesn’t know you like I do.*
*Very funny.*
Darris continued talking as they moved quickly past pastoral scenes. The pigs seemed real enough to grunt and the cows to give milk. Occasionally, their own movement transferred to the paintings and tapestries. Matrinka had to stare straight at a grazing horse to convince herself the tail was not twitching. “Knight-Captain Kedrin, the elves, and some of the more seasoned ministers could sit all day, but I sure wouldn’t want to face Guard Captain Seiryn or the Renshai’s Thialnir after an hour’s delay.”
*Humans are so edgy,* Mior inserted.
*As opposed to cats.*
Missing the sarcasm, Mior settled back into a comfortable position on Matrinka’s shoulders. *Right.*
The remainder of the walk continued in a verbal and mental silence that Matrinka appreciated. She wondered about Captain’s message, as well as Griff’s mission, but focused on neither for long. Time would bring answers, and supposition would add nothing. Pausing only to nod to guards and servants, they continued briskly toward the sage’s quarters.
The final flights of the south tower contained portraits of the kings, beginning with a partial work only just beginning to resemble Griff, moving upward to a striking rendition of King Kohleran in his middle years. He had taken the throne at forty, seventeen years before Matrinka’s birth. If not for the artwork, she could never have imagined him without white hair; and the commanding presence had disappeared during his slow decline and eventual death after thirty-three years on the throne. Despite Darris’ worry about time, Matrinka had to stop and stare. Memories flooded back, and she lost the details to a blurriness that confused her until she realized she was crying.
Darris conveyed his understanding with a touch between her shoulder blades.
*Who’s that?* Mior asked.
*That’s Grandpapa.*
Mior cocked her head, an ear poking into Matrinka’s. *Nice. But doesn’t look much like him.* The cat had a soft spot for the dying king since he’d rescued her from a rain gutter as a sodden, grimy kitten and given her to Matrinka.
*Exactly like him. Before he got old and sick.*
Mior’s head tipped further. *Are you going to change that much, too?*
The question raised a wave of sadness. Matrinka tried not to think about the difference in life span between cats and humans. Not that you’ll ever see, Dear One. She kept that thought to herself and tried to hold sadness from her deliberately simple reply, *No, Mior. Not that much.*
*Good.*
Darris’ contact grew more pronounced, a clear but polite request to move on.
Matrinka wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. Of all of Kohleran’s line, she alone had continued visiting him after the stench and deterioration from his illness drove the others away. She loved him dearly, missed his firm voice and tender merciful manner, yearned for his fond presence and his stories. He had seemed more parent than grandfather or king in her middle teens, after the death of her father from a peculiar illness later traced to the svartalf’s magic. Thoughts of death, past and future, desperately saddened her; and she sought solace in the need to focus on the task at hand.
As Darris and Matrinka continued upward, the faces of past kings and ruling queens spiraled by, all huge and dark. She recognized many from their portraits elsewhere, especially Sterrane, the best known king; modern dating began at zero from the day he took his throne. Statues of him graced the courtyard and the Road of Kings, the legendary route by which the ancient Eastern Wizard, Shadimar, returned him to his throne.
Yet, though modern history considered Sterrane the first king and the forefather of all of Béarn’s blooded nobility, the portraits did not end there. Beyond him, a face leered out, crudely interrupted by a twist of parquet like an angry scar. “Morhane,” Darris explained as they rushed past. He had a song to cover the situation should Matrinka beg details.
Having heard it several times, Matrinka did not bother. She glanced at the next picture. Though it bore a striking resemblance to Morhane, this one seemed notably gentler-featured. Not an artist, Matrinka could not explain the differences, only marvel at and enjoy them. She knew these two, identical twins. The second, Valar, Sterrane’s father had rightfully claimed the throne, only to be betrayed by his brother, Morhane, whose portrait came first.
The rest flashed past quickly, lovingly restored through the years before they could crack beyond recognition. Matrinka’s history books contained their names; but she found them impossible to remember, which drove her tutors to distraction. She could recall the designation, description, and use of the rarest herb with an accuracy that defied understanding. Neither she nor they could explain why that talent did not extend to matters in which she had less interest. Matrinka
wondered, but dared not ask, if that strange gift bore any relation to her singular ability to communicate with Mior. Since her mother had laughed at her and her closest cousin had teased her for her claim, she had told no one but Darris, Kevral, Ra-khir, and Tae. Even they had forced her to prove it before believing.
Finally, Matrinka and Darris reached the door to the sage’s suite, fully outfitted and served so that the old man and his apprentice never needed to leave. Now it was Darris’ turn to pause in awe. Sages had chronicled Béarn’s history for millennia, the current one for over forty years. The information contained in multimillions of scrolls and books drew Darris with the fatal fascination of a moth to an open fire. The sage’s job included rewriting the older texts in more standard language before time and the elements destroyed them.
The door was flung open, and a page several years younger than Matrinka darted through so quickly he nearly crashed headlong into Darris. Both jerked back in time to avoid collision, but the young man attempted a bow simultaneously that his balance could not afford. He tumbled to the ground. “Sorry, Ladyship,” he squeaked. “There’s a big meeting starting and . . .” He trailed off suddenly. “Oh, but you’d already know that, Ladyship.”
Matrinka assisted the young man to stand, though his cheeks flushed bright red at the contact. “No hurry. It won’t start without us.” Or without the king. She realized that either Griff had already left the sage or the page rushed for some other reason than the imminence of the council. The sage’s assistants attended both the most minor and the most secret conferences and affairs of state, relaying the details to their master. Béarnian law forbade even the king from excluding them. The sage chose only the most trusted, and falsification or slacking was grounds for far worse than dismissal. “Did you notice His Majesty in there?”
“Oh, yes, Ladyship,” the page returned breathlessly. “I always notice King Griff. Everyone does.”
“So, he’s still there,” Darris clarified.
“Yes, sir. He’s still there.”
“Thank you,” Matrinka said, releasing him.
The page charged down the stairs, sandals clomping echoes through the sound-funneling walls of the tower.
As the noise receded enough to talk, Matrinka said, “Do you suppose Griff already knows about the meeting then? And has decided not to go?”
Darris drew a deep breath, hesitating. Matrinka recognized the subtle signs of debate. If he told too much, he would have to resort to song.
Matrinka considered, trying to rescue him from the effort. “Wait. The sage guards his knowledge. He would know about the meeting because Davian would send a message through his pages, but he might not necessarily have told the king.”
Darris smiled broadly. “Exactly. But don’t judge too harshly. The sage might have assumed the king already knew and had decided not to attend.”
“Griff’s going to want to hear Captain.”
“Of course.” Darris seized the latch, drew open the door, and ushered Matrinka through it.
The aromas of ink and old parchment filled the room, accompanied by a faint odor of grease but no hint of mold. Griff perched on one of the two chairs, hands clenched to his head and enormous shoulders hunched over a length of parchment sleeved, top and bottom, over two sanded dowels. Rantire leaned against a table without managing the aura of casual alertness for which she, apparently, strived. She more resembled a coiled spring an instant before breaking. Such an attitude in a place so safe might have seemed odd to Matrinka had she not grown accustomed to Rantire’s fanatical dedication. The Renshai’s shadow fell directly over Griff’s reading material, and she violated his personal space, but he seemed not to notice. Nearly as close, the sage looked up from his own parchment, pen poised in withered but steady hands. Gray curls clung to a veiny scalp, the hair carefully cut away from his eyes. His attempt to work dispassionately seemed as much a desperate act as Rantire’s. His attention was fixed on the paper reluctantly surrendered to his king rather than on his own or on the newcomers. His apprentice sorted through a stack of books, glancing up as the door opened.
Rantire crouched, granting Darris and Matrinka a hostile glare. Griff continued reading, oblivious.
*You don’t suppose she’s the reason for the page’s hasty exit,* Mior surmised.
*Wouldn’t doubt it.*
Darris cleared his throat. “Your Majesty?” His gaze flicked from king to scroll. Then, need won out over politeness, and he locked his attention on the parchment.
Griff almost leaped from his chair. Rantire’s scowl intensified, and she moved between them and the king. “I’m sorry, Darris. Matrinka. How long have you been there?”
“Only a moment, Sire.” Darris painfully dragged his stare to the king. “Captain’s back, and he’s called the council. We’ve come, Sire, to see if you wish to attend.”
Griff released the parchment, and it rolled closed. “Of course.” He glanced toward the apprentice, who made a non-specific gesture.
“I’ll keep looking, Majesty. And send a message about whatever I find.”
“Thank you, Aron.” Griff rose, Rantire practically on top of him.
Matrinka did not even know the sage’s apprentice had a name. She had never heard them referred to in any manner except as the sage and the sage’s apprentice.
“And thank you, Rantire,” Darris said firmly. “I’ll take things from here.”
The guarded relief forming on Griff’s features stabbed guilt through Matrinka. The king had done so much for her and Darris, finding a way for them to share a love forbidden by Béarnian law. All three knew he assigned Darris to her for the sole purpose of allowing them time alone together. When he did so, he suffered Rantire. When it came to the job, Matrinka would trust no one to do it more competently. She never doubted Rantire’s ability, only Griff’s patience for her.
Rantire’s gray eyes stared at Darris. Bronze hair lay braided away from her face, styled for war. “You have your charge.” She inclined her head toward Matrinka. “And I have mine.”
“His Majesty is my charge,” Darris reminded.
“But he assigned you to the queen.” Rantire drew herself up to her full height, though that left her the shortest in the room by a few fingers’ breadth. Despite that, she was, by far, the most menacing.
“And now I’m back with him,” Darris insisted as vehemently.
“Who’s guarding Her Ladyship, then?”
To reply that he would handle both would not suit Rantire. Like most Renshai, she believed Darris incompetent, along with nearly every other ganim, the term they used for non-Renshai. Darris gave the only answer Rantire could accept, “Her Ladyship is not my concern. Or yours. You’ll have to take it up with her assigned guardian.”
Matrinka winced.
Even without words, Mior seemed to read her mind. *Kevral’s not going to like that.*
Distant cousins, the two Renshai had argued frequently over their varied methods of guarding. Kevral trusted her reflexes and sword skill enough to grant Matrinka some freedom. Besides, Kevral’s responsibility to Matrinka technically ended when she failed the staff-test. The Renshai were charged with guarding heirs to Béarn’s throne and, in peaceful times, usually did so as a group rather than in individual assignments. In Matrinka’s youth, often a single Renshai warrior had watched over all of Kohleran’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren while they played chase games in the courtyard.
Grudgingly, muttering something Matrinka could not decipher, Rantire stepped aside. Griff, Matrinka, and Darris departed the room with the Renshai at their heels. They headed silently down the stairs, and Rantire took her leave at the bottom. “Let me know the moment you need me again, Sire. I’ll come at once.”
“Thank you, Rantire,” Griff said. “I know you will.”
Darris waited until their separate courses took them well apart before asking. “Sire, how did you manage to say that without laughing?”
Griff smiled, then recovered his sober-faced demea
nor. “Because I’m serious, Darris.”
“You don’t have to suffer her, you know,” Matrinka reminded the childlike king. “You can pick someone else.”
“I couldn’t.” Griff sounded scandalized. “First, I promised her. She’s Darris’ official relief.”
Matrinka shrugged. “Posts don’t have to be lifelong. Things don’t always work out.”
“But Ravn chose her. And I’d never doubt his judgment. Never.”
They both understood Griff’s loyalty, and neither would disparage it. Darris stepped in. “She’s certainly competent, Majesty. I worry less for your safety in her hands than in my own.”
“I’m safe with either,” Griff insisted, and could not help adding, “you’re just more fun.”
*Faint praise,* Mior inserted.
*Hush,* Matrinka admonished gently.
The three made their way toward the conference room, murals flowing by them and strings of gems dangling from the torch brackets fluttering in their wake. Occasionally, they nodded, waved at, or called brief greetings to servants and nobles they passed. Darris seemed particularly preoccupied, his salutations little more than wordless grunts and the jerkiness of his slightest movements revealing otherwise well-hidden discomfort.
Just as Matrinka decided to question the bard, Darris addressed his charge. “Your Majesty, at the risk of prying and in the hope you won’t find this improper—”
Griff interrupted, “I was looking up old law. Trying to find a loophole that might allow me to marry Tem’aree’ay.” He glanced suddenly at Matrinka. “I guess I should have brought that up with you first.”
Excitement and concern clutched Matrinka at once. She liked Tem’aree’ay and appreciated the joy that the elf brought Griff. Yet she had suffered the details of castle laws regarding the marriages of Béarnian heirs too long not to know he fought a losing battle. “Oh, Griff.” Matrinka placed a comforting arm around him. “You know I’d welcome Tem’aree’ay. She’s wonderful.”
The Children of Wrath Page 6