The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  In reply, the stranger shifted his chair so that it directly faced the group. Wind lifted the hair on the left side of his head. The smoke trailed it, twining like a wraith through a snowy streamer.

  As they drew closer, Darris could see the wrinkles that scored the ancient face like parchment. Withered hands clutched the chair sides, the flesh between the fingers sunken into deep crevices. Veins traversed thin skin overlaid with freckles. The cottage listed slightly backward, though it seemed otherwise sturdy, its planks surprisingly uniform and the cracks caulked with a substance resembling ship’s tar. The construction of the roof was odd enough to hold Darris’ gaze despite the potential danger that might lurk inside the cottage. Scraps of wood about the size of his hand tiled the surface, pitch frozen into oozing patterns beneath them. Darris wondered how it shed rain and if it might not work as well as the regular thatch used by most of the civilized lands.

  Ra-khir stopped at a reasonable and nonthreatening distance that would not require shouting for communication. A wooden railing, and the length of two men, separated him from the elder. Ra-khir used the trading tongue, “Hello.” He lowered and raised his head in greeting.

  The old man watched Ra-khir for several moments in silence.

  Only then, it occurred to Darris that they might have no means to communicate with this stranger or any on the other worlds they would soon explore.

  Ra-khir filled the awkward hush. “Can you understand me?” He spoke in the slow, loud voice so common to those confronting one who cannot speak their language.

  Usually, Darris saw the humor in such an action, but this time he wondered if someone so old might not benefit from such a strategy. Time could have dulled his ears or intellect.

  The stranger rose with an unhurried deliberateness that revealed no infirmity. He removed the pipe from his mouth, speaking in a clear voice and at a speed Darris could scarcely follow. “Hello. Good weed, excellent weed.” He waved the pipe. “Knights and Renshai and Northmen and elves.” Watery, hazel eyes traveled over the party. “Renshai wars weren’t enough for Colbey when he was your age. He used to join other Northern tribes on their raids, and once became captain of a ship. Didn’t know anything about sailing. Hoho.” The sound emerged more as a word than a laugh. “But he got by. That was before the Northmen’s attack. Of course, now, there’s whole different wars going on in the North . . .” He continued in an endless banter that switched subjects nearly with every sentence.

  Ra-khir allowed the elder to ramble, glancing at his companions for suggestions.

  El-brinith and Chan’rék’ril listened in polite silence. Andvari looked stunned, even after the topic of Northmen grew distant.

  Kevral fidgeted like a child at a ceremony led by knights. Before anyone could think to suggest anything, she interrupted the swift and belabored litany. “Excuse me, but have you seen a fragment of blue gemstone?”

  If the elder noticed Kevral’s rudeness, he showed no sign. “Blue, yes.”

  Hope bubbled to life, quickly squelched as the man continued.

  “Blue, aquamarine, indigo, sea, sky, steel, beryl, sapphire—”

  “Sapphire,” Kevral jumped in. “That’s what we’re looking for. A shard of a sapphire. Have you seen such a thing?”

  “Sapphire,” the man repeated. “A particularly pretty color. A gem, too, I’m sure you know. The most magical stone ever was a sapphire. The Pica—”

  Darris stiffened, along with Ra-khir.

  “That’s it!” Kevral shouted. “The Pica. A piece of the Pica!”

  “It broke, you know,” the man continued, his patter directed somewhat by Kevral. “Lost its magic. But once no item rivaled it. Of course there was Shadimar’s permanent storm. And Trilless’ . . .”

  Kevral threw up her hands in disgust. She turned and headed back toward the edge of the woods, gesturing for the others to follow.

  Ra-khir, Andvari, and the elves obeyed immediately. Tae slithered from a shadow of the cottage to join them. Darris hesitated. The more he heard of the old man’s random babbling, the more he felt certain of its extent and accuracy. He could learn much from this stranger, if the method of teaching did not drive him fully insane. Reluctantly, he joined the others, studying the man over his shoulder as he walked.

  The elder watched them leave, his voice wafting after them, “. . . as compared with insects with four wings who hover . . .” As they reached the edge of the woodlands, the pipe returned to his teeth, and he retook the chair as if they had never come.

  They stopped at the forest’s boundary, within sight but beyond earshot. “This is pointless,” Kevral said with clear contempt. “We can’t bargain with a nonsensical moron.”

  “He’s no moron,” Darris insisted. “Everything historical sounded right to me, and the rest seemed plausible enough.”

  Tae agreed with Darris. “He slipped in some foreign words now and again—used correctly and in places where it would have taken whole phrases in trading to say the same thing.”

  El-brinith turned Chan’rék’ril a smug look. “I thought I heard elfin once or twice.” The male elf returned nothing.

  “Semantics.” Kevral waved an arm wildly. “Brilliant or stupid, he’s insane. We’re not going to get straight answers.”

  Ra-khir glanced toward the cottage. “What are you suggesting? We attack him? Break into his home?” He did not wait for a reply; an affirmative would only enrage him. “We can’t do either.”

  “Violence,” Chan’rék’ril said, “would be unwise.”

  “Unnecessary, perhaps,” Tae corrected. “And maybe dishonorable. But unwise?”

  El-brinith’s emerald eyes snapped to Tae, and she switched to khohlar. Her sending brought a concept of ambient magic, ancient and sourceless. She believed the old man was warded in an inexplicable fashion, by something larger and older than any elf.

  Ra-khir shivered. “Kevral’s questions seemed to divert him somewhat. Maybe if we work together, we can corral him into answers.”

  “Maybe.” Darris hoped his eagerness came through plainly. He wanted a part of it, to hear enough of the elder’s ravings to learn things he never knew, including the identity of this stranger. No mythology explained the presence of an aged human possessed of lunacy and lore alone on a wooded world. Yet, to trust El-brinith’s khohlar meant considering that gods had placed and sanctioned this madman. To justify his interest, however, would require song.

  Kevral said, “And just in case, I suggest Tae searches the house for entrances and the obvious presence of the Pica shard while we talk.”

  Ra-khir whirled on his wife. “No, Kevral. I won’t be a party to theft.” He added more gently, “I can’t be a party to it. You know that.”

  Tae’s depthless eyes flashed. “I’m not a thief, Ra-khir, and I’m getting a bit tired of you suggesting otherwise.”

  Ra-khir lowered his head, his look conciliatory. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to offend. I know you’re not a thief. I’d trust you with anything mine, even my family.”

  Darris tried not to smile. He realized the significance of Ra-khir’s words, a verbalization of ultimate faith in their friendship. The knight intended to express that he would turn over his prize possessions to Tae and never worry for them, though Tae openly coveted his wife. Yet, Darris could not help noting that Ra-khir risked little by handing over his family to Tae since it would take an army to harm Kevral.

  Ra-khir continued, “It’s just that I know you’d do whatever you felt necessary to rescue fertility, especially if Kevral asked you. And your methods don’t always jibe with mine.”

  Kevral took Ra-khir’s hand. “I’m not suggesting he steal. I just believe it best to know whether or not this man even has the shard. Otherwise, we’re wasting our time.”

  Tae dropped his argument and his look of offense. A moment later, he glided into the woods mumbling, “Why is it more noble to kill than to steal? I’ll never understand . . .”

  “Strategy,” Ra-khir said, watching
after Tae with a bemused expression that bordered on guilt. His brows dipped low across his forehead. “We need a plan.”

  “I’m not sure one’s possible.” Kevral looked toward the cottage with an intensity she usually reserved for battle. “Let’s just say what seems right and model the victories.”

  Andvari stood aside, listening but not joining the discussion.

  Darris shrugged. Hearing a Renshai say they could not devise tactics convinced little; they exulted in battle without pattern or tactics. Yet this time, he had to agree. Rigid plans seemed unlikely to succeed when it came to directing insanity.

  “Let’s go, then.” Ra-khir again headed boldly for the cottage, Darris, Kevral, Andvari, El-brinith, and Chan’rék’ril trailing.

  As before, the old man arose as they drew nearer, removing the pipe when Ra-khir opened his mouth to speak. “Good day, sir.”

  “Day,” the elder repeated. “One light cycle and one dark. The time it takes for a world to pass around its sun . . .”

  Darris considered the first wholly nonsensical words the stranger had spoken. Worlds going around suns? He shook his head.

  Ra-khir chimed in as the old man switched to tedious and nebulous definitions of the word “good.” “Have you seen a fragment of blue gemstone?”

  “Gemstones: minerals cut, polished, and used in jewelry. Sometimes petrified . . . why I remember one—”

  Kevral interrupted next, “A blue gemstone fragment.”

  The elder barely wavered, eyes wandering to the Renshai in her turn. “—topaz that caused a war between Pudar and Corpa Bickat in the era of King Horatiannon. And an uncut diamond once caught the eye of Queen Cenna. Lovely lady. Not unlike the East’s—”

  And so it went, with even the elves verbally nudging the native and Darris entering now and again. For the most part, his curse allowed questions, since they left him the recipient, rather than the purveyor, of knowledge. Snippets of understanding: lore, mythology, methodology, and language colored the elder’s ramblings. Darris found himself captivated, nearly as fascinated as frustrated. For all the elder’s inability to focus, his green-brown eyes retained an alert brightness that belied the obvious madness.

  Hours of guiding and questioning gleaned no information about the Pica shard, and his companions’ vocalizations grew more tense and terse. At length, even the elves grew twitchy, and Ra-khir threw up his hands. “Regroup.”

  Humans and elves retreated back to the edge of the woods, and the man calmly returned to his chair. Ra-khir ran a gloved hand through hair slick with sweat. “Did anyone notice anything useful? A method? Something he said that might give us a clue?”

  Kevral shook her head, the blonde feathers falling into wild disarray. “Nothing we didn’t already attempt to use. It’s hopeless.” She sighed. “Look, maybe if we leave a suitable amount of money in its place it wouldn’t be stealing. How much could a chip of sapphire be worth? If Tae—”

  Darris cringed, awaiting a fierce reaction from Ra-khir. But, before the knight could speak, Tae’s voice wafted from the brush. “Won’t work. Couldn’t tell it from here, but there’s glass in those windows and it won’t budge. There’s no chimney, and the door’s locked.” He turned Ra-khir a painless glare. “Despite what our redheaded man of honor thinks, locks and bolts thwart even me.”

  Ra-khir executed a gesture of respect, an obvious apology. “I’m sorry, Tae. I didn’t mean insult.”

  Darris deliberately hid his amusement. The two had come a long way since their months of bickering that had, more than once, nearly led to violence. For whatever reason, Tae was playing victim amid friends who knew him too well. Ra-khir had not misread Tae’s intentions; thief or not, he had planned to steal the Pica shard. And his years of running from predators and existing on Stalmize’s streets had taught him skills with little other practical use.

  Kevral ignored the exchange for the more important matter. “You can’t get in?” She addressed Tae, incredulity tainting her tone.

  Tae shrugged. “The glass is sturdy. I’m not strong enough to break it.” The words left a clear opening, which Ra-khir ignored. After a brief pause, Tae continued, “And I do think it’s in there. There’s a mug resting on an irregular blue disk that sheds light brilliantly.”

  Kevral loosed a snorting laugh, then clamped her hand over her face. “A Pica shard coaster. Now there’s a good use.”

  El-brinith watched Kevral, clearly missing the humor. “Maybe Tae can get the key from the man?”

  “He doesn’t keep it in any of his pockets,” Tae returned instantly.

  Ra-khir’s openmouthed expression swiveled to Tae, who quickly stopped speaking and retreated a few steps.

  Darris clamped his lips closed around a chuckle, thoughts returning to the tiresome and redundant exchange between the old man and their party. Only once had the elder maintained a thought longer than two to three sentences; he had sung two verses of a song about the gods without missing a single word. At the time, Darris had focused on the need to steer the old man toward the entreaties of his companions to let them search for the sapphire fragment in his cottage. Now, Darris realized, the man had sung with a pitch as perfect as his own. The voice had risen with an astounding resonance, free from the grating that tainted his speech. Darris would have believed such talent beyond the ability of one so frail from age. Only now, another thought struggled to consciousness. During the song, Darris had felt an odd kinship with this elusive stranger that seemed more driving than just a talent shared. “May I try something?”

  Ra-khir abandoned his exchange with Tae. “What are you thinking, Darris?”

  “I’m thinking,” Darris started, then broke off with a sigh. He shrugged the mandolin from his shoulder to his hands.

  Ra-khir raised a hand to stop him. “Does it involve violence or stealing?”

  Darris shook his head.

  “That’s all I need to know.” Ra-khir saved Darris the need for song. He glanced around to ascertain none of their companions felt differently. Finding no sign, he said, “Carry on.”

  Darris knelt with the instrument on his lap, tuning the eight strings in moments to the remembered proper tone.

  “Darris,” Ra-khir said gently, careful not to interfere with the process. “You know we always love to hear you sing, but you really don’t have to explain.”

  “I’m not explaining.” Darris frowned. The need to justify his lack of explanation might prove more difficult and dreary than the explanation itself. “You’ll see.” He appreciated Ra-khir’s diplomacy as well. Throughout Béarn, citizens begged him for songs but when forced to ad lib rhymes, his talents proved barely tolerable. Rising, instrument still in hand, he headed toward the porch once more. This time, the others trailed him.

  As before, the ancient met them at the railing, pipe balanced in his hand.

  Having seen the uselessness of salutations on the last two visits, Darris did not bother with one. Instead, he launched into a song the instant he reached conversational distance. Sound flowed from the strings in a mellow wave, interspersed with notes that fluttered crisply from beneath each stroke. After a short introduction, Darris added his voice to a shocking cacophony of chaotic, four-note chords. The music perfectly simulated madness, plunging listeners into a frightening world that only psychotics knew at other times. His words held a balanced edge of sanity, at times wavering enough to threaten a plunge into depthless insanity from which there was no escape.

  Gradually, the music gained pattern, weaving toward balance and beyond. Then, another voice joined Darris’: the old man’s, remarkable in its beauty. It added happy discovery to every word, and its notes blended smooth harmonies that complemented music and pitch in a way even Darris could not anticipate. The tone flickered gradually from tumult to tranquility, then slid beyond to a joy Darris could not help but share. When the song ended, he glided immediately into another, this one a complicated, exuberant dance that promised to tax self and companion to a level beyond the last. The
old man kept pace with barely a waver as one tune turned to the next. Darris did not attempt to guess how his partner knew the words to a song he had written as a young man; exhilaration did not allow for consideration.

  The melodious voice followed Darris’ through jumps of more than an octave, pitch never wavering from perfection. The speed of the chord changes wore even on Darris’ trained fingers, but the old man found the speed no barrier. His harmonies blended into sweet precision, steady even as he clambered down from the porch and groped beneath it. A moment later, he emerged with a case embroidered with intricate designs. Though his efforts scarcely allowed for observation, Darris could tell that the case had once been expensive. A loving hand had soaped and oiled it, unable to wholly block the ravages of time.

  Gradually, the song wound to a quiet close, little resembling the jerky, jabbing sounds that had characterized the opening. Darris lowered his mandolin, finally turning his attention to his companions. They stood, spellbound, even the elves; and a familiar disappointment scored their features. They wanted more.

  Darris watched as the old man laid the case on the porch’s planks. The native hesitated as the sounds of Darris’ music died away, head cocked as if to catch the last faint echoes. He flipped open the case, revealing a lute, affectionately and artistically crafted into a droplet with the slender grace of a deer. The rare scratches and warping scarcely detracted from the beauty of an instrument that looked nearly as old as its owner, though far more appreciated. “Jahiran,” he said, poking his own chest with a withered finger. He froze in place then, trenches creeping across his brow, as if he had forgotten his intention. Nestled in cloth surrounding the instrument, something brass caught the light for an instant.

  Jahiran. The name paralyzed Darris, even as his companions broke from their trances. Jahiran? Impossible.

  Kevral prodded Darris. “Play something else,” she hissed. “Before he reverts back.”

  Jahiran. Darris scrambled to obey, his mind suddenly emptied of the usually endless parade of ideas. One song filled his head, viciously holding all others at bay. And he sang it with question that all but pleaded, his need to understand growing desperate: