Modi shrieked. “You’re not my brother.” His foot lashed toward Colbey.
Releasing his right hand from his hilt, Colbey seized the leg and twisted. He lost the hilt lock instantly, but the jerk sent Modi flopping to the ground. His blade scratched harmlessly down Colbey’s. Instantly, Colbey executed a deft backswing that slammed the flat against Modi’s head.
Stumbling to safety, Modi shrieked, “You are not my brother.” The argument was wasted breath. Despite their shared blood, Colbey had always denied their relationship, the mortal Renshai who had raised and trained him the only parents he needed. Abruptly, the god of wrath howled down on Colbey, sword raised.
A simple stop-thrust sent Modi dodging aside, not quite battle-crazed enough to skewer himself. Colbey slashed as the god raced past, opening a line across Modi’s forehead. Only then, he wondered how much of Modi’s tactics were delay and why it was taking so long for the backup he clearly expected. Colbey shoved the thought aside to face another bull rush from Modi. Blinded by blood and rage, the god flung his sword in desperate figure eights, a wild attack/defense sequence. Colbey retreated, biding his time. As the pattern of Modi’s sword became clear, he cut his own weapon through the sequence. The blades capered over and around one another like deadly silver dancers. Then Colbey spiraled through an opening. His sword sped for Modi’s head, even as the god cut for Colbey.
A fiery line of pain tore the muscle of Colbey’s back, and cold air kissed through the slice in his tunic. The flat of his sword smacked Modi’s temple. The god crumpled, Colbey catching the falling sword but not bothering to assist Modi. High on a rush of action, Colbey recognized an irony that had eluded him for centuries. Renshai would not allow a respected enemy’s sword to touch the ground, but the man himself could flounder in mud without concern for his dignity.
The idea flashed through Colbey’s mind in an instant, not worthy of consideration when lives might lie at stake. Although Magni and Modi had attacked him and deserved whatever end resulted from a bad decision, he knew Odin’s influence underlay the assault. He understood their trust. Even he had feared the father of gods the vast majority of his life, respecting him for all of it. The eerie, evil charisma of the one-eyed god defied human logic or even, it appeared, that of deities. If anyone could turn his own family against him, Odin could; and Colbey suffered a frenzied flash of anger at the realization that he had already said his good-byes. To even attempt contact with Ravn and Freya might mean losing the battle he had sacrificed himself to win.
Colbey pressed his fingers to Modi’s neck. Warmth accompanied the touch, and a pulse throbbed against his fingers. Trickles of blood rolled down his own back. As the sweat of exertion waned, winter cold chilled him to the bone. He sheathed the chaos sword. Seizing Modi by the shoulders, he pulled. Pain throbbed through both hands, and the tendons of his wrists sent flashes of sharp agony with even slight tension. Unable to drag the massive god, Colbey addressed the sword. *Take us home. Both of us.*
The sword hesitated only a moment, as if to remind Colbey how dangerous such an action would prove to Modi. Apparently placing the chance to destroy a powerful creature of law over loyalty to its champion, chaos did as instructed.
The swirling colors of chaos’ world appeared suddenly, immediately formed by Colbey into a stone box with walls thick enough to prevent escape and the penetration of sound. Transported inside his creation, still clutching Modi, he let the god flop to the floor.
*Now what?* the sword asked with clear sullenness.
*Back to where we were.*
*Can’t.*
Colbey gripped the hilt, prepared to bash the sword to pieces against the walls if it deliberately refused to cooperate.
But imprisonment suited the Staff of Chaos even less than Colbey. *Walls constructed of chaos. No magic born of chaos can escape this.*
*All magic is born of chaos.* Colbey reminded.
*Exactly.*
Colbey smiled at the unexpected boon. *Excellent.*
The staff/sword sent a splash of surprise to Colbey. *Our definitions of “excellent” don’t seem to jibe.*
*For a force that believes itself the source of all imagination, you lack one, my friend.* Colbey created a door from chaos soup, exiting into the main part of chaos’ world before disposing of the opening. *Apparently, only creation-magic defies the rules, and I can perform that here. More importantly, it means only Odin or I can free them from the box; and if I can draw Odin here, I’m already the winner.*
*By winner, of course, you mean loser.*
*It’s all a matter of perspective.* Colbey touched the hilt of his sword. *Now, back to the mountains. Before Magni awakens.*
With a flicker of warning, the staff/sword did as Colbey commanded.
* * *
Ra-khir recognized his ride as delay only after he started on the homeward leg. Suffering the guilt of leaving Kevral with problems better handled in her husband’s arms, he found no joy at all in this journey. Even pride of ownership of Frost Reaver could not penetrate the shame seeping through his every part and deep into his soul. It became a guilty cycle; the simple realization that he still had a soul to harbor the shame became as painful as the shame itself.
Only the hope that Matrinka, and perhaps Tae, consoled Kevral soothed the fires of Ra-khir’s self-condemnation. The queen always seemed to know what to say, with an easy understanding that bordered on instinct. Ra-khir knew better. His manners and strict adherence to honor probably seemed as natural, though it came only of daily hours of practice and constant self-judgment. Like a protective older brother hovering over a dying sister, he wished some surgeon could slice away what Kevral needed from him and somehow graft it onto her. Even guided by father, mother, and Colbey, he still had no particular beliefs about the afterlife. Knights of Erythane, he finally decided, needed no life but the blessed one they found here. If he could have, he would have given his own soul to Kevral.
Though he hated to do so, Ra-khir left Frost Reaver in the care of a competent stable hand before sprinting to the castle. Later tonight, if Kevral could spare him, he would check on the stallion and tend to any needs not already met. When he saw his father the following day, he would discuss the disposition of Silver Warrior. Those things, though important, could wait.
Ra-khir ignored the courtyard gardens and the occasional noble lovers who braved the cold and thunder to find some moments alone. He strode past statuary and earth beds that had been raked into rows before the dirt froze beyond manipulation. He passed the pond into which Tae had fallen, frozen into irregular bulges as nature repaired the gaps, holes, and jutting hunks of ice. The walk to the entrance seemed to span an eternity; though, once there, he was little delayed by the guards. All of them knew him, respecting the elite Knights of Erythane. And they surely wanted the door shut, the winter air closed from the corridors, as he did.
Ra-khir dashed first to his room, finding no one there. Though driven to run, he forced himself to change clothes before traversing the stairways and corridors to tap gently on the queen’s door. It opened to reveal Darris pointing out objects through the window, clutching Saviar to the sill with his other hand. Seated on her bed, Matrinka looked toward Ra-khir, Marisole supported in her lap. Subikahn sat in front of the younger baby, touching her nose, her hands, her hair while the girl stared curiously back. Mior curled beside them, just beyond reach. A twist in her fur suggested she had once served as the baby’s source of entertainment, though probably not for long. To Ra-khir’s surprise, it was Captain who held the panel open.
Without thought, Ra-khir performed a flourishing bow that earned him Matrinka’s angry glare. “Forgive me . . .” he choked off the title, only then remembering Matrinka’s discomfort with formality from friends.
“Matrinka,” she supplied.
“Yes, My Lady,” Ra-khir responded from habit, catching himself again, this time too late.
Matrinka’s tone went flat. “Glad I could be of assistance, Sir Ra-khir.”
Ra-khir flushed, her use of titles only reminding him of his informal orange tunic, blue-and-tan cloak, and black britches. Even at their most casual, the knights wore these colors. Kevral had even teasingly accused him of tying on painted head sashes while they made love.
Darris turned from the window with a bemused smile. Tae appeared suddenly, closer than Ra-khir would have believed it possible for him to miss. Startled, he leaped backward and into a crouch. “How do you do that?”
“Emerge from the shadows?” Tae guessed.
“Exactly.” Ra-khir regained his composure, entering the room and allowing Captain to close the door behind him.
Tae explained with a twinge of mockery, “I stand in the shadows. Then I step out of them.”
Despite his anxiety, Ra-khir managed a smile. “Thanks. That clears it.”
“Glad I could be of assistance, Sir Ra-khir.” Tae deliberately mimicked Matrinka’s words, with an apologetic wink toward the queen.
Reassured by his companions’ teasing, Ra-khir managed to keep most of the worry from his question, “Where’s Kevral?”
Tae answered, “Headed toward the practice room last I saw.” He gave Ra-khir a look of mild disdain. Usually, the knight knew enough to check there first.
Ra-khir dismissed the insult, more excited by the hope that choice of location inspired. “So she’s . . . I mean she’s not . . .” He looked expectantly at Captain.
The elf did not crack a smile through the friends’ jabs, nor now, unusual for one with wrinkles set into grin lines. “Her injuries were tended. The cramps have stopped, and she’s not going to lose the baby.”
Ra-khir relaxed only slightly, gaze still fanatically trained on the elf. Kevral had survived worse injuries. She had never mentioned the cramps to him, and he had not thought to worry for the baby. “Her soul?” he pressed.
“Can’t tell,” Captain admitted.
Ra-khir winced, awaiting more.
“We’ve definitely lost Chan’rék’ril’s. Andvari, it seems, is fine. With Kevral . . .” Captain shook his head, bothered by the failure. “I can tell there’s something missing, but I catch a sense of ejenlyåndel.”
Ra-khir blinked. “A sense of what?”
Captain did not bother to repeat the strange word. “It’s an elfin concept. Essentially, an immortality echo. The sense of infinality that’s a normal part of every human and, more so, of elves. From our ejenlyåndel, we can read details of past lives and . . .” He struggled for words, then gave up with another toss of mahogany locks. “. . . magical things.” He waved a hand. “Things that don’t matter here.”
“Kevral,” Ra-khir reminded, trying to pull the whole together and losing track of the significance beneath the details.
“I’m not sure,” Captain reminded. “There’s something not right but also something there.” He shrugged helplessly. “I’ve never examined a human without a soul before.” He delivered the blow in a careful monotone. “It’s possible it feels like this. All I have is speculation, not truth.”
“The truth,” Ra-khir returned as carefully, essentially quoting his father, “matters far less than what Kevral believes.” Words that had confused him earlier suddenly made perfect sense.
Riddles bothered Captain less. “For that, you’ll have to go to Kevral.”
With a stiff gesture of farewell, Ra-khir started for the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. He met Captain’s amber gaze again. “Colbey gave me a message for you.”
Captain’s features paled. “You saw Colbey?”
“He came to ask me to keep his horse.” Ra-khir tried to remember Colbey’s exact words, certain that would prove important. “He said to tell you ‘the leader has abandoned Nualfheim for Asgard.’”
Captain waited with his head tipped, clearly expecting more.
“That’s it,” Ra-khir said, watching the color return to Captain’s high cheeks.
The once everpresent smile stretched the elf’s broad lips. “Good news from Colbey Calistinsson. Who could expect such a thing?”
“Good news?” Ra-khir pressed, looking around at his companions to see if the phrase meant more to them than him. Tae chewed his lower lip. Matrinka watched the babies, but her brows slid toward her eyes. Darris nodded thoughtfully. Only he had fathomed the message, which soothed Ra-khir. Darris had information the rest of them did not, which made Ra-khir feel less stupid.
“Dh’arlo’mé’s gone to Asgard to take his place as Odin,” Captain clarified.
“Oh.” Of course. As Ra-khir realized that he did have the knowledge to decipher Colbey’s words, he felt foolish once again. Realization struck harder. “Oh!”
Tae put the last together as Ra-khir did the same. “He’s left the svartalf leaderless.”
“Not leaderless,” Captain corrected, the gem-like eyes swinging to Tae. “There’s still the Nine, the elfin council. But without Dh’arlo’mé’s impatience to guide them, they won’t decide anything swiftly. Weeks or months to realize he’s not returning. Another month to decide who will take his place on the council—and that short only because it’s the oldest one not already part of the Nine who takes the empty slot, by unbroken convention.”
“It certainly explains why we’ve had no more trouble from them . . . don’t do that please, honey.” Matrinka caught Subikahn’s hand as a finger jabbed toward Marisole’s eye. Mior rubbed against the infant, distracting him.
Captain made a gesture of agreement. “It’s a chance for someone else to take over, one with a vision of peace or one who follows Dh’arlo’mé’s bitter course. Elves have a long history of rarely changing, even over millennia. The Ragnarok and Dh’arlo’mé affected a change. His wake seems the right place to affect another.” Realizing he mostly addressed himself, Captain bowed in Matrinka’s direction. “Ladyship, will you please inform His Majesty that I must leave Béarn? I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
Ra-khir deliberately blocked Captain’s way. “You can’t leave now. We haven’t finished gathering the shards.”
“I’ll send you toward the next one. Then, Marrih can take over my part in the jovinay arythanik.” Captain paused in front of Ra-khir, gaze on the door. “It won’t harm your mission. If I can rescue my people, I can’t abandon that chance.”
Ra-khir marveled at the arbitrariness of magic, that it mattered if one of them left the quest, but the one who had controlled and managed the whole operation could pass his role to another without price.
Darris finally spoke his piece. “You just said elves do nothing fast. Can’t you wait until we’re finished so we can assist you?”
Captain paused, rubbing his hands together in a nervous gesture nearly unheard of among elves. He had spent the longest on man’s world and picked up more of their habits. “No. I can’t afford the possibility that Dh’arlo’mé’s impatience has affected them or that he left a successor. This is something I have to do now.” He anticipated the possibility that one might suggest placing the fertility mission on hold. “With only other elves to help me.”
Ra-khir opened the door and stepped aside, offering a knight-sign of fidelity. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
“Exactly where,” Captain reminded before exiting into the hallway.
Ra-khir followed him through.
* * *
On the first floor of Béarn Castle, not far from the main entrance, the practice room enclosed as much space as the king’s and queen’s bedroom suites together. Ra-khir had collected his sword on the way back past his room, knowing Kevral would expect it. He had long ago discovered that the only safe way to interrupt a Renshai’s practice was with an attack. That strategy held additional advantages: it showed an interest in working his own swordarm, which Kevral appreciated, and it gained him a workout with a competent, if somewhat brutal, teacher. And it’s taught me to stab with an ax. Ra-khir remembered his session that morning with mild chagrin.
Ra-khir edged open the door, marveling, as a
lways, that a small war could take place in a room so large. At times, he had discovered every Renshai in Béarn training there, their swords slashing and weaving like a silver forest of weeds in chaotic winds. This time, however, he found only Kevral. She capered and leaped, more graceful than the kingdom’s finest dancers. She had laid out terrain carved from wood for this purpose: several deadfalls, trunks, and rocks. Straw-filled burlap bags that represented bodies lay strewn around the room. Ra-khir could not help wondering if they represented Kevral’s suppressed wrath, the corpses a warrior of lesser morality might leave in a wild and violent rush of despair.
Ra-khir shook his head. Stop guessing. Let her tell you how she feels. Stepping inside, he closed the door. For several moments, he could only watch, absorbed by the deadly beauty of her sword work. The blade skipped around her so quickly he could not have seen it save for the occasional flash of highlight from torches scattered on the periphery. Her limbs moved with silken smoothness, her clothing close-fitting so as not to entangle the weapon. Her hair feathered tightly around fierce features softened by youth, the locks deliberately too short to fall into her eyes. Sweat sheened her Northern-pale skin.
Certain his staring would agitate Kevral if it lasted too long, Ra-khir drew his sword and charged his wife. Kevral rushed to meet him halfway, lunging in with a ferocious zigzag that parried his attack and slapped his cheek with the flat in the same sequence. The blow stung, as much for its humiliation as its force. Ra-khir retreated, but Kevral followed his movement, boring in with a wild flurry that touched right shoulder, left hip, and forehead in turn. He managed to dodge the last by enough to make it unlikely a mediator would have called it a hit, though it hardly mattered. The other two would have proved fatal enough outside of spar.
“Damn.” Ra-khir spun aside, managing to avoid Kevral’s next frenzied assault and even jabbing through an opening. Kevral parried the attempt, stabbing for his face with enough vigor to cause real damage. Ra-khir leaped backward, sweeping low as she went high. The maneuver might have gained him a hit had his foot not mired on one of Kevral’s placed “corpses.” He tumbled too quickly to attempt catching his balance, sprawling into an awkward heap. Pain shot through the back of his head, and a wooden rock bruised his spine. Kevral’s sword descended toward his chest. He managed a desperate roll that saved him only because she did not pursue.
The Children of Wrath Page 33