The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Leondis banished the vision with grim memories of Severin’s corpse. Beloved by the people, admired by his younger brother, all but worshiped by King Cymion, Severin had died needlessly at that murderer’s hand. Tae had barely survived a life of violence, but the prince refused to pity it. No matter how the Easterner’s beginnings had inured him to killing, no matter how many times Tae’s tragic existence caused others to bury knives into his body, he had had no right to inflict the same on innocent Severin.

  Boshkin sought the source of Leondis’ pain. “Does your shoulder hurt, Sire?”

  Absently, Leondis shook his head, placing a hand over his chest to indicate the location of the pain. “If I ruin this, my father will have my head.”

  “Sire!” Boshkin’s voice held a derogatory tone few others would dare. Their long association and confidences allowed it. “Don’t talk that way. Your father would never harm you.”

  Leondis shrugged, not so sure. “He’s never really considered me worthy. Not like Severin.” No bitterness entered thought or tone. The elder prince had been groomed for the kingship since birth, and his natural kindness and intelligence made him the obvious choice. Since his mid-teens, Severin had walked the streets of Pudar with the town watch, learning the details of street life and his populace. In the end, the very action that made him so popular had cost him his life. Leondis had planned to become an officer in his brother’s army, taking advantage of the freedoms that came with royal lineage and no claim to the throne: the parties; the entertainment of foreign dignitaries, especially the women; and the recreation his generous allowance could supply. Tae Kahn had changed all of that. And now a second time. “I’m not stupid, Boshkin. I know Father’s planning to pass the crown to this baby when it comes of age. He’s plotted out its life, boy or girl, to the end of its years. It means everything to him. He would sacrifice me for it in an instant if such a situation arose.”

  Boshkin cocked his head, trying to reconcile tone and words. “Sire, are you jealous of your own child?”

  Though wrong, the steward’s guess did not offend. “Not at all.” Leondis recalled the pride that had swept through him at the sight of Kevral’s bulging abdomen. At that moment, the truth of the baby’s existence had become real. Propriety, and the realization that Kevral would not tolerate it, had held him back from the exuberant embrace he had wanted to deliver. A smile eased onto his features. “I’m excited. A papa at last, and Alenna will make a radiant mother.” The point that had to follow stole his grin. “The only thing worse than worrying over losing our child is the realization that Father might kill me, and others, if I do.”

  “That won’t happen, Sire,” Boshkin soothed. “It can’t.”

  Leondis returned to the window. “It can. If Kevral breaks her vow . . .” He trailed off, allowing Boshkin to interrupt without offense.

  “The knight will keep her silent.”

  Leondis made a subtle gesture of uncertainty. “His love for her and his own desire for the baby might make him sloppy.” He drummed his fingers on the sill. “And I’m not sure anyone can control that demon in woman’s guise.”

  “The king made that arrangement, Sire,” Boshkin reminded. “He can’t hold you responsible if it falls through.”

  Leondis’ hand stilled. “But Tae is my problem. If Béarn believes him . . .” He shook his head at the enormity of the dilemma.

  Boshkin moved to the prince’s side. “He gave up all credibility when he attacked you.” He indicated the bandage without touching it. “No one could deny he meant to kill you, and the fact that he crept up from behind makes it clear he did not deliver the blow in defense.”

  Leondis stomped on rising guilt, too shamed to even admit the truth to his faithful retainer. Yet he believed he had acted for the greater good, not only of Pudar but of Béarn. A technicality kept King Cymion from punishing Tae for Severin’s murder, and it seemed fitting that a falsehood would correct that injustice. Furthermore, they needed a capital crime to silence the spy who had discovered what no one outside the king’s inner circle must know. First rape, then false accusations and lies. All of Leondis’ reprehensible actions had occurred in the last year, too common and easy. Is this the price for the crown? He shook his head. I don’t want it. “Kevral might find a way to confirm Tae’s claims.” He turned, lips pursed. “We can’t let that happen. Tae has to be permanently . . . hushed.”

  Finding the prince suddenly too close for protocol, Boshkin retreated. “He hushed himself when he attacked a prince.”

  The steward’s optimistic certainty fell prey to complications. “He’s considered a prince, too. He helped rescue the king of Béarn,” Leondis reminded. “And he’s become a confidante of Queen Matrinka. It won’t prove as simple as you believe.”

  A sudden rapping on the door interrupted any reply Boshkin might have given. The latch rattled, then the door glided open a crack. Leondis could see a hint of Pudarian brown uniform. “Your Majesty, Béarn is ready to see you now.”

  Leondis closed his eyes and siphoned a slow stream of air through his nose. Calmed by the maneuver, he released the breath through his mouth. He sought a demeanor of ruffled dignity and the composure to remind the king and queen that their alliance had spanned more centuries than anyone could remember. In contrast, Béarn’s relationship with the East had wavered from desperate hostility to wary unity over the ages.

  “Good luck, Sire,” Boshkin said, joining Prince Leondis as the guard opened the door more widely.

  The dozen guardsmen assembled in a tight rank in the hallway bowed as their prince emerged. In front of them, a young page in Béarn’s blue and gold rubbed his hands nervously together. Though only three quarters grown, he stood as tall and broad as many of Pudar’s soldiers. His bow swept him nearly to the floor, the coarse black hair barely moving even with so enthusiastic a motion. “Your Highness, King Griff and Queen Matrinka asked if you would prefer to present yourself and your case before the council or them alone.”

  Leondis considered this turn of affairs. Unlike the seventeen-year-old rulers, the members of the council would have history and age’s wisdom to guide them in such matters. Also, none of them would have a close personal relationship with his enemy.

  Apparently having drawn the same conclusions, Boshkin spoke his piece in the gentle whisper he had perfected through the years. Even in quiet situations, he could advise the prince without others hearing, so long as he dropped as many words as possible, including titles. “Council.”

  Experience prevented Boshkin’s approach from feeling offensive. Leondis mentally filled in the “Sire, I believe it would be best if we appeared before the . . .” Both knew the steward only intended to suggest, never mandate.

  “I would like very much to address the council,” Prince Leondis said in a mannerly fashion. “I thank His Majesty and Her Grace for the opportunity.” Words and attitude scarcely conveyed his joy at the opportunity. “Should we wait for them to gather?”

  The page flushed, as if he worried Leondis might misinterpret what followed. “They’re gathered, Sire.” He added hurriedly, “Just in case you chose that option, Sire. Not because anyone assumed . . .” Seeing the understanding half-smile on Leondis’ face, he broke off. “Follow me, Sire.”

  The guards fell into formation, trooping through the hallway with Leondis and Boshkin at their center. Leondis passed through the grand corridors without noticing any of the tapestries and art. He kept his thoughts trained on the coming discussion, seeking words that might convince the council, if not the king and queen. Certain thoughts kept reoccurring: to handle this well or suffer the worst wrath of King Cymion, the absolute need to silence Tae Kahn, the loss Pudar would endure should he fail. He discovered his hands shaking and forced himself to focus on the necessary amenities, proprieties, and composure. He had never taken those details as seriously as he should have, trusting his brother to forgive him. Until her death, Leondis’ mother had made excuses for his wildness; and his father had centered hi
s attention on Severin. The last year had proven a trial for both survivors.

  Prince Leondis scarcely noticed as the page led them past the courtroom where he had expected his audience and to the regular meeting room of Béarn’s council. Boshkin slipped through the ranks of soldiers to announce the prince’s arrival. The door flew open, and the guards ushered him to it.

  Prince Leondis found every person in the room standing respectfully around a rectangular table, Griff and Matrinka conspicuously absent. Likely, those two had awaited him in the courtroom in case he chose not to meet with the entire council. Two empty chairs at the far head of the table assured that they intended to join the others soon, and the seat nearest the door remained for Leondis himself. As the prince came to the entrance, all of the assembled bowed or curtsied in grand fashion. Another page identified the members of the council quietly for Leondis’ benefit, beginning at the left-hand corner and continuing down the long side toward Leondis. “Prime Minister Davian.” A middle-aged man with the proper Béarnian darkness and beard bowed at the sound of his name, an awkwardness to his motion suggesting that he had not grown up around nobility. The scars on his face also fit that image. Having performed his individual act of obeisance, he sat.

  The page indicated the next man in line, a dour-faced elder who executed his bow with meticulous formality. “Minister of Courtroom Procedure and Affairs Saxanar.” More white than ebony, every portion of his neatly trimmed beard touched his neck at the same level, and the thick hair on his head matched its length exactly. He also sat without speaking, as convention demanded.

  “Minister of Household Affairs Franstaine.” The younger man attempted a flourish that seemed more dance than courtesy. His dark eyes held a sparkle of mischief, and Leondis took an immediate liking to him. Under other circumstances, he seemed exactly the sort who would enjoy a good joke, drink, or party. Probably, he was a blood relation to the king, a cousin or uncle. Had life dealt Severin a different hand, Leondis could have become the equivalent of Franstaine had his military career not come to fruition.

  As Franstaine sat, Leondis politely turned his attention to the familiar man beside him. Richar, the minister of foreign affairs, had attended to the prince’s needs more than once since his arrival. He had also traveled to Pudar to discuss diplomatic situations, including the unborn heir, with King Cymion. Exuberance, an ingrained fairness, and a natural tact made him ideal for the position, despite his youth. Surely, he, too, carried the blood of Béarn’s kings, known for their instinctive flare for justice.

  Also male, the last minister on that side of the table bowed graciously, if a bit nervously. Taking his cues from those who had gone before him, he imitated their demonstrations of respect and sat before the page could speak his name. “Zaysharn, overseer of the caretakers of Béarn’s livestock, gardens, and food.”

  Leondis smiled reassuringly, understanding that the rapidity of Zaysharn’s greeting stemmed from discomfort, not disrespect. His gaze traveled from his own seat, which he had not yet accepted, to the opposite side of the table where the members of the council still stood.

  Directly across from Zaysharn sat a burly guardsman dressed in Béarn’s colors and decked with symbols of office. “Captain Seiryn,” the page said as the highest leader of Béarn’s military executed an easy gesture of dispensation that he had clearly made thousands of times before. He sat at wary attention, and it seemed clear that he had come to secure Leondis, not his king and queen.

  “Local Affairs Minister Chaveeshia.” The page indicated a tiny woman, invisible until the captain had taken his seat. Leondis’ smile increased at the thought that they had chosen her to handle problems with Béarn’s Renshai neighbors, like the massive blond to her right. She also would have to coordinate relations between Erythane and the kingdom, which might explain her size. Her lighter hair, slightness, and the tinge of green in her brown eyes suggested a mixed heritage, probably Erythanian. She curtsied pleasantly, then sat.

  The blond finally turned his head, giving Leondis a sharp look. “This is Thialnir,” the page said, substituting extra words for the missing title. Thialnir plopped his bottom to the chair with barely a nod, and the page explained apologetically. “He represents the Renshai.”

  The next man could not have proven more opposite. Though also powerfully built and red-blond, he added every rich, archaic flourish to his bow, as if to make up for the Renshai’s lack. He wore the unmistakable uniform and colors of the Knights of Erythane, pristine in every aspect. Ra-khir’s father. Caught up in the situation, Leondis had forgotten that Ra-khir descended from the captain of the knights, but the uncanny resemblance brought remembrance to the fore. Blue-white eyes that he did not share with his son expertly kept below Leondis’ own. Probably shouldn’t be here. He has a vested interest. Leondis chose not to mention the impropriety. They had come to discuss Tae, not the baby; and he trusted the knight to remain impartial no matter how closely the judgment impacted him. His training demanded it.

  The page cleared his throat to recite the long title that Kedrin’s etiquette would not allow him to shorten: “Knight-Captain Kedrin, Ramytan’s son, knight to the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Griff.” Kedrin finally took his seat, leaving only one last woman to introduce.

  Dutifully, the page gestured at an energetic young Béarnide whose fidgeting clearly irritated the oldest of the ministers, Saxanar. “Internal Affairs Minister, Aerean.” He leaped to sudden attention as she sat. Leondis turned to his guards as they stepped aside, allowing a lane for the king and queen of Béarn, accompanied by the king’s bodyguard/bard.

  The entire room rose again. Leondis nearly groaned. As impatient as Aerean, he hoped they would not have to suffer an exact repeat of the formality. Dutifully, he stepped to his seat, joining the others in animated gestures of esteem. Griff and Matrinka bowed to Leondis as he did to them, then the king’s gruff bass echoed across room and corridor simultaneously. “Sit, everyone, please.”

  Thialnir obeyed at once, the others doing so in ragged singles and pairs. Convention dictated that royalty find the position of comfort first, reigning monarchs before heirs. Torn between the strict discipline beaten into him by his father and tutors and placing the courtiers at ease, Leondis took his seat swiftly. Boshkin followed. That allowed the ministers the security of maintaining their manners for the foreign prince, if not for the king who had commanded his own indignity.

  Only Kedrin remained standing by the time King Griff and Queen Matrinka reached their seats at the far end of the room, his loyalty to convention taking precedence over the king’s informality. As king and queen settled into position, even the knight finally joined the others. Darris remained standing just behind and to the right of the king. Hyperalert, Leondis did not miss the high eyebrow the knight turned the bard. Darris gave back a helpless shrug. He could advise the farm-raised king on formality for decades and still not convince him of the necessity for the knights’ immaculate devotion to procedure.

  King Griff did follow the rule that he must speak first, though more likely from simple exigency than decorum. No minister would break the silence, and Leondis knew better than to do so also. “Prince Leondis, all of Béarn apologizes for any wrong that was inflicted upon you while under our protection.”

  Leondis acknowledged the king’s regret with a deep nod. “No one holds you or yours responsible, Your Majesty.” He made a motion toward Seiryn to personally absolve him. “My own guards are at least as much to blame for missing the assassin during their inspection of the room.” He chose the worst possible word for Tae without lowering himself to cursing. “Your Majesty, no one could have predicted his presence.”

  King Griff continued, “At your request, Prince Leondis, we have allowed Tae no contact until you have spoken your piece.”

  Leondis plucked the significant from the king’s comment. Clear convention dictated that the king and queen hear royalty speak before any other. In this case, th
ey could have chosen to let Tae speak first, since he also qualified as a visiting prince. Three details worked in Leondis’ favor, however. First, his father had already announced him as the crown prince whereas Tae’s had not yet publicly named his successor. Second, at least by appearances, Leondis was the wronged party in the dispute. Third, Pudar’s long association with Béarn should also give him precedence. Only after these thoughts sped through Leondis’ mind did he recognize a lengthy silence.

  At Leondis’ side, Boshkin nudged him gently.

  Leondis cleared his throat. “Your Majesties. Representatives of Béarn’s council. I apologize for providing a temptation, my presence in your castle, that one man could not resist. Tae Kahn—” Catching Kedrin’s frown from the corner of his eye, he amended, “Prince Tae Kahn has reason to dislike the royal family of Pudar, but I never expected him to resort to violence. Otherwise, I would have warned my guards to watch for him.”

  Foreign Minister Richar bounced slightly in his chair. He knew history that others did not and Saxanar sought to elucidate. The elder executed the gesture requesting clarification that Leondis nearly missed. Pudar had long ago discarded such archaic formality.

  In case others had not seen the motion, Leondis turned toward the aging minister of court procedure. “Minister Saxanar, it was this same man who assassinated my brother, Prince Severin.”

  Several ministers recoiled from this information. The queen opened her mouth as if to correct the accusation, then closed it without speaking. Her bias as Tae’s close friend would force her to vindicate him and also render her excuses meaningless. The Easterner’s defense came instead from an unexpected source. The knight-captain gestured for an acknowledgment granted by his king. “Prince Tae Kahn’s version of those events differs, Your Grace.”