Tae appreciated that she did not say she could not allow it to happen, which would imply that she intended to work against him. He had not thought of the situation in that light. Though it pained him, he spoke the necessary words, “What if I promise not to speak of it? Again?”
Matrinka scratched beneath Mior’s chin, and the cat threw her head backward as far as it could go. “If you were Ra-khir, I think that would satisfy Pudar enough that they might not insist on your execution.”
Trapped, Tae demanded, “So what am I supposed to do?”
Matrinka gave no immediate reply.
“Become a Knight of Erythane, then make the vow?”
Matrinka adopted a sarcasm that ill-suited her. “That could happen.” Mior twisted her head back to give Matrinka a withering look, and the queen continued in her normal tone. “Perhaps if you made a remarkable conciliatory gesture with clear good faith, Prince Leondis might trust your intentions enough to accept your promise.”
Tae did not like the sound of that. At all. “Like admit to a crime I didn’t commit.”
“And apologize. And throw yourself on Griff’s mercy.”
Responding to a sudden surge of anger, Tae slammed his fist into the bedspread. It left a harmless indentation that barely diffused his rage. “What’s the punishment for stabbing a prince?”
Matrinka answered only indirectly. “Your surrender would put you solely under Griff’s authority. He couldn’t extradite you, and he would never order your execution.”
Tae had other concerns. “He might imprison me for life.”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me.”
Tae lowered his face to his hands, anger waning, leaving terror in its place. “I didn’t do it.”
Matrinka’s silken arm settled across Tae’s shoulders. “I know that. And so does Prince Leondis. It’s unfair, but few others will believe it. And, if you force them to convict you, it’ll go much harder.”
A long pause followed, during which Tae realized he had nothing to consider. “When do we do this?”
Matrinka’s touch conveyed tender consolation. “As soon as you get composure.”
Composure. Tae shook his head. That should only take a decade or two.
* * *
Fingertips tented against the window, Ra-khir watched clouds bunch over Béarn’s courtyard, bundling gardens, whitestone benches, and ponds into a gloom beyond evening. For more than two hours, his thoughts had followed as many pathways as he could see from his bedroom, yet always they spiraled back to the same answers. Only one course remained true to his honor. That he did not like it did not matter. Ethics and preferences rarely overlapped. Honest men, knights and others of virtue, followed their principles. Evil chose the selfish route.
The door clicked open, and Ra-khir froze. The glass pressed coldly against the ends of his fingers, twisting a chill through him. The first of the feared moments had arrived, and he had no choice but to face it bravely, no matter the cost. He waited for the crash of the slamming door, but it did not come. The panel hit the jamb with little more force than usual, and the clack of the latch echoed only because of his own intense silence.
Ra-khir turned to look at his wife. Her hair lay in sweaty disarray. Her cheeks bore the glow of a grueling practice, and the blue eyes glimmered with new-found purpose. The split leather hilt of her nearer sword lay dark with moisture, the other hilt hidden by the bulge of her abdomen. “I’m keeping my baby,” she announced defiantly.
Kevral’s tone proved the final, overwhelming burden for Ra-khir. “It’s not your baby, Kevral. It’s our baby.”
The blonde brows lowered, too wispy to form an effective glare. “You, too, Ra-khir?”
“Me, too,” Ra-khir admitted. “You did not, cannot, make a baby by yourself.” He added pointedly, “Neither could you rear one alone. Three parents for the twins, and we’re still relying heavily on nursemaids and grandparents.”
“You’re not blaming me for the mission.”
Ra-khir shrugged. “If not this mission, another one. Renshai have always shared the trials of raising children within the tribe. According to Thialnir, it’s not unusual to leave every child under ten with a few adults while the rest ride off to war.”
Kevral ran her fingers through her hair, raking it back into untidy feathers. “Your point?” she demanded.
“I have a say in this matter, too.”
Love should have granted him at least that much, but Kevral already knew which side he would take. And she refused to hear it. “I’m the one who’s carried it for longer than six months. And nearly three more to come. I’m the one who thrills to its movements. No one could ever care for him or her as I do.”
Kevral’s words cut Ra-khir to the heart. For an instant he stood on the verge of tears before will bubbled up like anger. “How dare you!” For the first time in his life, he felt a slash of hatred for the woman he would have sacrificed his knighthood to marry.
“It’s true.”
“That a couple of months of feeling movement before birth takes precedence over a lifetime of love and caring? You know better.” Ra-khir took a menacing step toward Kevral, though he would not have harmed her even if he could have. “You’ve reduced fatherhood to a silly charade and parenting to insignificant parody. Dare tell me that months in your womb makes you the better parent to Subikahn than Tae. Dare tell me that you love either of those boys more than I do. Dare it, and our marriage can go the way of my parents’.” Ra-khir could no longer hold back the hot tears that blurred his vision. He could not bear to live with anyone who would denigrate a love so expansive and inexorably real. “My mother said that I was ‘more hers than my father’s because she carried me inside her.’ I don’t remember my time in the womb, but what came after remains vivid. Note well: I’m with my father now. By choice.”
Kevral turned away, though the wilting of her stance cued Ra-khir that she did not plan to fight. All of the confidence she had gained by violence seemed to disappear in that moment.
Ra-khir found his hands trembling. The memories that had accompanied his own words returned to haunt him, raw wounds incapable of healing. Worried he might lose control, he forced himself back to the genuine issue at hand. “Kevral, we have to surrender the baby to Pudar.”
Kevral snapped back to attention. “No!” Desperate beyond worry for consequences, she jabbed for the open sores. “You’re only saying that because it’s not really your child.”
Ra-khir exploded into a fury that seemed depthless. Red scored his vision, stealing sight of the familiar furnishings. He struggled against a hatred that threatened to ruin his devotion to Kevral irrevocably. The intensity sucked in all focus, making it seem too permanent to deny. He soothed himself with quiet determination: This, too, will pass; but the words contained a hope that seemed meaningless and foolish. He managed to hide his rage beneath a flat tone that could ignite at any moment. “That baby is real, Kevral. And so am I. Your words are not only gross effrontery, they’re cruelty. And I expect better from you.”
Kevral opened her mouth, but Ra-khir lunged back in. Anything she said could only loosen his tenuous hold on composure.
“Tell Griff that he’s not Marisole’s real father. Or that his love is lesser for the blood they don’t share. Tell every man or woman who has taken in an orphan, a half orphan, or an abandoned child.”
Again Kevral tried to speak, and Ra-khir did not allow it.
“Tell every man who has succored the children of a friend or brother, every woman who has wet nursed the baby of a sister killed by childbirth.” Ra-khir added the coup de grace. “Tell Colbey himself.” Colbey had shared the dense suffering his infertility had wrought, his love for the orphaned Renshai he had raised strengthened by an appreciation for children that the fertile took for granted. Even centuries after Calistin’s death, Colbey still considered himself the son of the mortal who loved and raised him, not of the immortal who sired him. Only
then, Ra-khir let Kevral say her piece, bracing for the worst.
Kevral sat heavily on the bed, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. “You’re right.”
Expecting other words, Ra-khir took an unreasonable amount of time to absorb them. The surges of emotion became as exhausting as physical effort. “I just realized I may owe Khirwith an apology.”
Kevral swiveled her head to look at her husband, her face still pudgy with youth. She seemed far too young to have given birth to children. “Your stepfather?”
Ra-khir nodded. “I’ve always blamed him equally for lying to me about my father. Though wrong in our case, Prince Leondis had a point about men loving their women enough to believe things that would otherwise seem outlandish.” He took a seat beside Kevral, still thoughtful. “Like that my knight father treated her harshly. And that he wanted no part of raising me.” Ra-khir did not know whether he had assessed the situation correctly after so long, having never before considered it in this light. “Too much a child himself, Khirwith never made a good father, but I do believe he loved me as much as he could any child.”
Kevral sat quietly.
Ra-khir winced at the need to tack again. Though emotionally wracking for him, the turn of the conversation to his past reprieved Kevral. Discussion of the baby had to happen now, while she remained willing to listen. “Kevral, it’s not as if we’d be turning the baby over to a pack of wolves to devour. He or she would have a better life than we could offer: an adoring father dedicated to warcraft, a doting grandfather, a mother who appreciates him as only one who has known the pain of a barren womb can.”
“No,” Kevral said, softly this time.
“Three babies,” Ra-khir reminded. “Even with three parents, I feel overwhelmed by two.”
“Some women have eight or nine,” Kevral reminded.
“Over a lifetime.” Ra-khir smoothed Kevral’s hair with gentle affection. “I don’t know anyone with three under a year old. Can they all get the time and attention they deserve?”
“We have plenty of help.” Kevral’s volume started to rise again, the defensiveness returning to her tone, though she resisted the accusations that had so angered him before.
Ra-khir slid his arm down the back of Kevral’s neck to shoulders tensed like rocks. “I’m not saying we can’t handle it, only that the baby’s best interests might lie with Pudar.”
“Never.”
“Kevral.” Ra-khir kept his touch light, knowing his next words might anger her as much as hers had him, but needing to speak them anyway. “You’re still thinking of this baby like an organ. A kidney, perhaps. Or a heart. A part of you. But that ends the day it leaves the birth tract. Babies are born innocent, without preconceived notions or prejudice. They have only needs. They love the ones who satisfy those needs, their parents. Blood does not become significant until their minds become warped by societal bigotry.”
“You’ve already made that point,” Kevral sulked.
“New point.” Ra-khir raised his free hand. “Relies partially on the old. The truest, purest gesture of love: sacrificing one’s own happiness for the other.”
Kevral jerked her head to Ra-khir. Only the suddenness of her gesture made him realize the significance of his words to his own decision to surrender his knighthood and life to rescue her from King Cymion.
“Set aside your desires. Set aside pride of ownership. Set aside your anger and your hatred, no matter how burning or significant. For the moment, set aside even Béarn’s security. Now, decide what is best for our baby.”
Kevral closed her eyes. “Not Cymion. That cannot be the answer.”
Ra-khir lowered the hand, placing it firmly on Kevral’s abdomen. Tiny flickers of movement drummed against his palm, and a warm rush of affection for that baby nearly overwhelmed him. His honor committed him to a cause that made his decision more certain than Kevral’s, though no easier. He abandoned opinion and lecture for the words he had to say. “Kevral, I’m bound by the vows we made, but I’ll always love you and respect your decision.” Fresh tears sprang to his eyes, these cold pinpricks that washed away the old. “Even if I have to oppose it.”
“I understand,” Kevral said with unexpected tranquility. She entwined her fingers with his.
They spent a long time in silence.
* * *
Asgard’s sky stretched above Ravn’s head, as smooth and changeless as a massive sapphire and interrupted only by the perfect, yellow circle of sun. Limbs bathed with perspiration, he longed for the whisper of breeze that had once wound through the otherwise still air, keeping the temperature just a hair cooler than perfection. With it had gone the gentle rattle of leaves and branches, leaving a dead silence that emphasized his every breath. He had practiced the Renshai maneuvers since awakening that morning, yet mastery still eluded him and frustration became a constant, irritating companion.
Again, Ravn launched into the sequence, sword sweeping in blurry loops as quick as lightning, legs pumping their graceful rhythm. His father’s words rose to his mind as they often did: “Skill has no limits, and anything will come with practice. If it does not, look to your own dedication and will.” Focus! Ravn tossed his all into the next sequence, the one that had tripped him up at the time of Kevral’s visit. At that moment, his father’s voice became a shout that foiled his concentration. *How can you focus when you’re torn? Like skill, chaos has no limits.*
Startled by the sudden intensity of the thought, Ravn lost control. His left-hand sword clipped his knee with a pain that made him howl. He dropped to his opposite side, rolling to draw attention from the agony.
The voice in his head assisted. *Betray the gods and join me. Father and son. Together, we have the power to rule the universe.*
Something ignited in Ravn’s thoughts, feeding on a stress that transcended the morning and the anguish hammering through his leg. Fueled by the frenzy, he leaped to his feet despite the injury, glaring around for the source of the intrusion. A uniform plain of green carpeted the ground. Trees sat motionless, branches sagging with heavy bubbles of fruit. Paranoid that the other poised behind him, Ravn whirled, momentarily inciting an injury whose pain had already diminished to a dull, aching reminder of his own incompetence.
*Strength beyond Modi’s. Battle wrath sweeter than any candy. Knowledge that Odin himself cannot comprehend. The source of creation. Genius. The sustenance of magic.*
“Show yourself!” Ravn screamed. “Show yourself, you coward.” His words shattered the stillness and seemed to linger endlessly before the world returned a soft echo.
A second challenge followed, making his sound puny in comparison. *Coward, indeed! Rescue your own, or I will destroy him. Utterly.*
Before Ravn could make sense of the words, before the bonfire that had sparked inside him could recede, the words disappeared as completely as his memory of their speaking. Only his own voice returned to him, unheeded.
A figure appeared at the edge of Ravn’s vision as he suffered a fiery need for violence that erupted from some place he could not name. He charged it, stopped short by the recognition of his mother. He spun the other way, his wound no longer bothering him, though the wrath it had spurred remained.
And the voice returned to his head: *Ravn, I fought what I should have embraced. Forsake the balance. Forsake the gods. You owe them nothing.*
“Where are you?” Ravn growled, brandishing his swords. “Show yourself.”
Again, the intruder transcended Ravn’s thoughts. *Last chance before I scramble his brains like a shattered melon!* Then, as before, the call melted into obscurity, a nonentity that, to Ravn’s ability to remember had never happened.
Words seemed to glide into Ravn’s head, gentle as his mother’s kiss. *Things are not as they seem.* Then Colbey appeared at the edge of the practice grounds.
The sight of him lit something primal inside Ravn. All rationality fled, burned away by the fire, and he attacked with a madman’s fury.
One sword to two, Colbey blocke
d the attack, driven three steps backward by its ferocity. He managed only a single riposte before the sword of balance and its partner careened for him again. Colbey dodged a low strike, cutting and ducking simultaneously. Steel cut coldly along Ravn’s rib cage. Then Colbey spun free, leaving a gap that could have allowed for talk.
For an instant, Ravn felt nothing. Abruptly, pain enveloped him, all consuming. He glanced at the wound, finding the gap in his tunic and the sticky scarlet stream gushing through the opening. Fatal. Ravn assessed in an instant, surprised to find himself standing and coherent. Then rage and desperation stole the last of his logical reserves. “Modi!” he screamed, charging his father like a rabid bull. Nothing mattered anymore but dying in glory. And taking the traitor with him.
Steel rang like a clarion symphony as Ravn hacked and slashed with a speed and strength borne of urgency. True to his teachings, Colbey did not speak or invade Ravn’s mind again. The old Renshai simply met each thrust with a parry, each feint with a spinning redirection, each sweep with a dodge. Trapped in a crimson world devoid of deliberation, Ravn fought tirelessly and with a ferocity beyond the ability of his own mind to conjure.
Even Freya’s voice barely penetrated. “No! Stop! Leave him alone!” A stone flew from the sidelines and crashed against Colbey’s ear. Sparks flew from a contact enhanced by magic.
The old Renshai staggered, losing his attack. Ravn bore toward the opening this created. Only a wild leap rescued Colbey from a sword blow powerful enough to fracture his skull. Something akin to sorrow flashed through his blue-gray eyes, yet surely not for himself.
Ravn hesitated for a moment, needing to understand. Then, a flood of power crushed that tiny spark, and he launched himself at Colbey again.
More rocks flew. This time, Colbey avoided them, even as he wove in and out of Ravn’s deadly attacks. A string of mental insults berated Ravn’s mind, scarcely penetrating the fog and out of synchrony with Colbey’s actions. Ravn noticed none of it, battling to his last breath to take the chaos-bound abomination with him; though, from the moment of death, they would part. Ravn hoped he would live on in Valhalla while the creature in front of him, and the chaos it represented, simply ceased to exist.
The Children of Wrath Page 42