A sense of alarm filled the room, all of it emanating from the humans. Although khohlar allowed elves to reveal emotions, they rarely did so.
Betrayed by his own innocent faith, Griff sat utterly still. Matrinka’s fingers glided to her mouth, and Mior rubbed reassuring arcs against her sleeves. Prime Minister Davian finally verbalized the concern. “So it’s hopeless.”
“Not hopeless,” Captain returned distractedly, though his tone conveyed no confidence. He explained what Kevral had already inferred. “There’re pieces missing. We can’t find them with magic and so can’t draw them.”
That sounded hopeless to Kevral. Along with the others, she silently waited for Captain to finish.
“If we can locate what’s missing, we should be able to retrieve it.”
Strong but tiny Chaveeshia interjected from her seat between Thialnir and Kedrin, “But if you can’t find them with magic, how then? We’re not likely to stumble upon them.”
“Exactly.” Captain looked up suddenly. His face gave away nothing, but his eyes refused to focus on anyone in particular. Something troubled him deeply. While he worked toward verbalizing it, the others remained silent. Even the warriors, less used to diplomacy and elves, barely fidgeted. Kedrin, of course, never moved a muscle.
Finally, Captain spoke again. “There’s only one way to obtain information beyond magic. To call the last shards of the Pica, we need to summon a . . . demon.”
Khohlar suffused the room, contrasting starkly with verbal human comments and the squeak and thump of movement. Rantire glanced at Kevral, cheek twitching. They remembered the demon Dh’arlo’mé had called, swooping down on Captain’s ship. Only the Sea Seraph’s magical nature had held it together while they fought, and even that did not prove enough. They had slain the demon as the ship shattered. Battered, bruised, nearly broken, Kevral had then wrestled the Southern Sea and barely won. While battling the demon the svartalf called against Pudar, she had lost her consciousness and the use of her arm for nearly a week. Without the attendance of a cluster of the best healers in existence, she might have lost her life as well. The idea of deliberately drawing a demon to Béarn Castle, especially in the presence of king and queen, seemed madness beyond contemplation.
“No!” Rantire’s voice rose over the assembly, and she shook back her bronze braids with fierce determination. “Too dangerous.”
“It is dangerous,” Captain admitted. “But I think we can handle it.”
“What, exactly, are we risking?” Davian asked.
“Lives,” Rantire said, before Captain could answer. “Our king’s most of all.”
Captain ignored the outburst to address the details beneath Davian’s question. “With the help of the other lysalf, I’d have to draw the creature here, then bind it according to Odin’s law. Once done, it would have to answer questions and, if we wished, perform a service. Then, I’d need to banish it.”
Fear entered the elves’ sendings, and they quieted. They’d had an experience that Captain and the humans did not share. They had watched Dh’arlo’mé and one of their most magically competent, named Baheth’rin, call the demon sent after the Sea Seraph, had seen them lose control. It had shredded Baheth’rin in moments, her screams desperate and haunting, her blood and flesh a warm, pink-red rain. Still tied to its task, the demon had whisked out to sea with the rumbling threat to return for the rest of the elves when it finished.
“Where’s the danger?” Richar pressed.
Captain swung his attention to the minister of foreign affairs. “Twofold. I could lose control or fail to gain it in the first place. Then, it would kill me first and move on until someone either killed or banished it.”
Shivers traversed the room.
Captain continued, “Second, banishment requires payment, and demons are bound to accept only blood. Depending on their bent and the situation, Wizards have sacrificed everything from followers to self.”
“Blood,” Griff repeated gently, head shaking. For that reason alone, he might not allow the summoning.
Captain nodded. “Human or elfin. Animal will not suffice. But not necessarily death, although it will ensue if the summoner loses control or takes too long with the banishment spell.”
Kedrin demanded the floor. Matrinka recognized him since Griff seemed incapable, too overwhelmed by the horrible details.
The knight-captain rose. “The blood of one willing sacrifice seems to me worth the lives of our unborn through eternity.” He performed a mild bow toward Captain, tan cape fluttering back from the royal blue of his tunic. Kevral could not see his lower half but knew he wore Erythane’s orange and black somewhere on his person as well. “I volunteer my own.”
The words surprised no one but upset many, including Kevral. She would despise losing her father-in-law in such an ignoble way, though she knew him well enough to believe the demon would not take more than a taste without a battle.
“Thank you, Knight-Captain.” Captain returned the gesture of respect. “But I can’t accept your sacrifice. The claw strikes of a demon claim ten years apiece, and they usually shape four.”
Kevral recalled Captain leaping in front of the demon, enduring an arm wound to spare Ra-khir’s face. “Ten years each,” he had gasped. “I can spare it. You can’t.”
Apparently locked into the same thought, Captain rubbed his forearm beneath the light linen. “It only makes sense for an elf to accept the risk.”
“For the cause of human fertility?” Kedrin shook his regal head. “I think not.”
“Forty years means nothing to an elf,” Captain insisted. “It’s barely a sacrifice and the least we can do after our own kind caused the plague.”
“The svartalf caused the plague,” Davian reminded.
Kevral’s experience gave her the means to understand Captain’s point, even before he spoke it.
“Elves are elves, Prime Minister. We all have the same origins and, until recently, thought with essentially the same mind. Dh’arlo’mé had to borrow words from human language to define my crime. Disloyalty, individuality, betrayal. Those things did not exist in elfin society until we turned against them.” Captain glanced around the lysalf. “If we stood together, you could not tell us apart. We call them svartalf because we find their actions dark, but they call us the destroyers of the peace, the lav’rintii. Which side is correct depends on which side you stand.”
“I believe,” Kedrin finished, “that I humbly speak for all mankind when I state that we prefer the lysalf’s peaceful coexistence to the svartalf’s war.”
Captain shrugged. His millennia gave him experience and wisdom beyond what any human could ever share. “Most humans still don’t know of our existence. Only time will tell whether we chose the right course or they did. I just have to keep reminding myself that Dh’arlo’mé believes in his cause as strongly as I do in mine.”
Humans and elves filled the short pause that followed with thought. At length, Captain returned to the practical issues. “I will use myself as sacrifice.”
A jumble of khohlar met this statement, too many voices for Kevral to sort. A smile again twitched onto Captain’s features, wrinkled from sun and sand. “My peers worry that I’m too old to spare forty years either. I have many willing replacements, all more appropriate than the commander of the Knights of Erythane.” He made a genteel motion of dismissal. “Though we all appreciate your offer.”
Kedrin returned the gesture with a heartfelt one of his own, though he did not argue the point. To do so would demean his heroism to stupidity.
Davian cleared his throat loudly. “None of this matters if the king chooses not to allow the summoning.” He pushed for the necessary knowledge. “So what exactly is the risk? Numerically, I mean. What can we do to see that things happen smoothly, if they happen at all? Do we have options should you lose control?”
The entire room tensed for the answers, and Captain addressed each point in the order asked. “There’s one important complication. When the el
fin Council, the Nine, outcast me, they confiscated my library. Including the tomes that described the proper spells. I believe I remember them, but I have nowhere to turn if I make a mistake. The quieter the room, the better my concentration. I would request that, if we decide to perform the summoning, as few humans as possible remain here.”
“No problem,” Minister Aerean said with clear relief. Several others nodded or whispered agreement.
Captain continued, “The summoning itself isn’t difficult, nor the initial binding. Without distractions and with the jovinay arythanik behind me, I can virtually guarantee no problems there. For simple answers, I could and would call the least powerful demon possible. They grow in strength the longer they stay here, while the bindings only weaken. Though forced to truth while constrained, they tend toward the shortest possible answers, heavily interspersed with threat. Delay. I’ll think out the phrasing before we summon to minimize the number of questions. We won’t ask it to perform a service, and I’ll banish it quickly.” He glanced around the room, then focused in on Davian. “Any numerical risk would be a guess. Ten percent, perhaps? As far as options if I lose control, I can attempt to banish it or it can be slain.”
Even with weapons capable of harming it, the Renshai women would suffer a savage and violent battle that Captain’s description skirted. Excited by the prospect, Kevral stifled a grin. She would savor the battle and, if it came, her death in the combat; but more than her own life lay at stake.
The room fell silent. King Griff should have enough information for a decision. Further details, if necessary, could wait until he made it.
For several moments, Griff seemed not to realize the next move was his. He sat in quiet contemplation, meaty hands folded on the tabletop. In the dim light of the conference room, the seventeen-year-old ruler looked extremely young and inexperienced.
Darris leaned toward the king and made a gesture unreadable to Kevral, though it mobilized Griff. The Béarnide lifted his face to the ceiling, coarse black hair gliding backward in even layers. He sighed, then turned his cowlike eyes on Captain. “Call the demon.” He did not bother with explanation. His absolute trust in Captain, as well as in Kevral and Rantire, came through clearly. “All ministers will have to leave.”
Kevral watched as several loosed pent-up breaths, their features lapsing into expressions of clear relief.
“Darris, I’m going to need you with me.” Apology entered Griff’s tone, strange contrast to its previous gentle command.
Darris closed his eyes and lowered his head, disappointed but resigned. Missing such a grand display clearly tormented his god-compulsed curiosity. “Yes, Sire.”
“Thialnir, Kedrin, Seiryn.” Griff glanced at the Renshai’s spokesman, the knight-captain, and the captain of Béarn’s guardsmen in turn. “Your choice. Someone should stay behind in case . . .” He trailed off, clearly unable to state the possibility that Kevral or Rantire might die and someone competent should remain to take up their swords and their battle.
“Staying, Majesty,” Thialnir said gruffly. No Renshai would turn away from such an opportunity.
Kedrin made a fluttering maneuver with his hand that dismissed any possibility of leaving. Seiryn looked from the gathered elves to his king. Kevral doubted he could assist much if the demon killed three Renshai and a Knight of Erythane. “I’ll attend you, Sire,” Seiryn finally said. He glanced at the lysalf’s leader. “Captain, give me a few moments to organize defenses, please.”
The elf nodded. “Granted, Captain. We’ll need that time for strategy ourselves.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Kevral bit her lip, glad Kedrin had not joined the conversation. One more person calling the others “Captain” would spark the laughter she had, so far, stifled.
“Best luck,” Griff said, rising and heading for the door, his movements revealing no trepidation. His faith would not waver. Darris scrambled after him, throwing only one longing look at those remaining. Matrinka went with Darris, Mior riding her shoulders. Then the others followed, chair legs scraping and footfalls thumping over soft conversation. Rantire’s gaze followed the king, twisted features nearly as pained as the bard’s. Torn between directly supervising the king’s security in a dangerous situation, and joining in the battle itself, she agonized over Griff’s decision. Kevral knew that Rantire believed she belonged at Griff’s side, though they needed sword and sword arm more here.
Captain Seiryn hurried after king, queen, and bard, ahead of the dispersing ministers. These last filed out in a leisurely disarray, their conversations crescendoing from whispers into tumultuous speculation. Finally, the door slammed shut behind them, leaving the quiet group of elves, a page, Rantire, taciturn Thialnir, and politely silent Kedrin. Tae slipped into a corner near the door, crouching there. The king had given him no instructions, and he had chosen the role of soundless observer. Kevral nodded once in his direction, acknowledging his presence, then set about measuring the room with her gaze, memorizing the position of every chair and the angle of each corner. Unexpected stumbles had turned the tide of many battles.
Khohlar replaced the ministers’ conversations, the bombardment of foreign concept every bit as distracting to Kevral. They discussed magical strategies that mystified her and chose a young male of whose name Kevral caught only In’diago to serve as temporary blood sacrifice until Captain’s banishment took effect. Although he had offered himself bravely, his persistent questioning suggested that he later wished he had lost the honor to another volunteer. Kevral remained as aloof from the proceedings as Tae while Kedrin offered himself in the elf’s place and was, again, politely refused.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of deliberation, the elves fell into position. Captain finally turned his attention to Kevral and Rantire. *If I lose control, the demon will kill me before it attacks any other. After that, its actions become predictable only in that it will kill anything of law.*
Kevral nodded her understanding. The knowledge would help focus attacks, should battle become necessary. Kevral moved between her father-in-law and the Renshai’s spokesman. “Sirs, please stay out of combat unless one of us dies.” She indicated Rantire with a wave.
Kedrin frowned but nodded in agreement. Thialnir’s eyes narrowed. “Kevral,” the Renshai warned. “You’re overstepping your bounds commanding us.”
A flash of angry irritation passed through Kevral.
The knight-captain made a careful gesture of forbearance. “The strategy is valid, and someone needed to raise the point. Only those two have weapons that can strike the creature. If we all naturally leap into war, we’re likely to hamper more than help.”
“Renshai fight without strategy,” Thialnir said gruffly, the words usually true, though unimportant. No tenet of honor held them from it as it did from using shields, armor, or protections of any kind.
Kedrin turned Thialnir a fatherly look, lips pursed and brows arched.
Thialnir cleared his throat, the sound more like an animal’s growl. “I’ll stay out until I’m needed,” he promised. “I just don’t need an overconfident, young upstart—”
“Stop,” Kedrin said, voice flat and deliberately emotionless. “You’re talking about my daughter-in-law. Please don’t force me into a challenge we’d both regret.”
Thialnir made a brisk, dismissive gesture, dropping his point without apology. He managed to keep the motion just shy of offense and back down without appearing cowardly. Kevral wisely chose distance. She had spoken her piece and did not need to get swept into a war of wills and honor, though she had initiated it.
*Everyone ready?* Captain sent, all other khohlar instantly disappearing.
The humans made various signals of concession, all except Tae, who remained motionless. Apparently, the elves again directed their singular khohlar to Captain, because they gave no direct replies Kevral could sense. They spread along the back and side walls again, their eyes like inset gemstones and their angular faces ranging from nearly human t
o chillingly alien.
The concept of the last sending before the magics commenced accompanied Captain’s khohlar, *I’ll summon it here.* He turned toward the farthest corner from the door. The nearest elves shifted away, leaving sufficient room for the two young Renshai to glide to Captain’s either hand. Kevral took up a position to his right, Rantire to his left. Thialnir and Kedrin stood in guard positions near the door.
Captain lowered his head, and Kevral could feel him steeling nerves and self-confidence as he cut off the deliberate contact, reestablishing it a moment later. *Jovinay arythanik.*
The elves began a low chant, like music.
Suddenly, Captain jerked his arms upward. Sounds escaped his lips, a harsh and sibilant contrast to the tranquil chant that fed its power.
Kevral crouched, gaze on the same point as Captain’s, though she did not allow her attention to lock fanatically there. To do so might blur her vision and blunt her responses to peripheral dangers.
Gradually, a dark smudge stirred the air in front of Captain, barely visible contrast to the corner’s shadows. The tone of the words shifted dramatically, still guttural yet flowing in a more patterned delivery. In response, a silver thread appeared in the area of conjured blackness. Gradually, it twined around the figureless shadow, first in slow loops. Captain’s speech quickened into a rush that Kevral could not match, even in her first language, and the bindings whipped into rapid coils as the blackness collected into a shape smaller than either of the demons she had battled.
Attributing the difference in size to the professed weakness of the demon Captain called, Kevral wrapped her left fingers around the hilt of her sword. Renshai training deliberately overcame hand preferences in early childhood, focusing practice always toward weakness. Experience taught her that chaos’ demons took form only when summoned, and even that proved fleeting. They changed appearance at will.
The Children of Wrath Page 9