Griff continued, “King Weile Kahn is on his way here to discuss the matter face-to-face.”
The words caught Darris wholly off his guard. He had hoped the king would bring such matters to him for opinion, then realized the soft brown eyes did rest on him. We’re in council, stupid, Darris berated himself. What better place to solicit advice? He nodded, forcing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. If Griff could still think clearly after winning the battle for a desire he had believed unattainable, Darris should manage to concentrate also. “It would also give you a chance to discuss the possibility of war with Pudar. And establish an alliance.”
The nods that traversed the room were somber. No one liked to consider the possibility of long-term colleagues going to war, yet the practicalities remained. If Pudar attacked, Béarn would need every new proponent it could muster.
“When do we expect him?” Richar asked the practical question. He would become responsible for the visiting king and his entourage at a time when he already had two princes to consider.
“I’m not exactly sure from his message.” King Griff glanced around the bare walls. “But his answer came a week sooner than it should have.”
“Which suggests he intercepted the message somewhere in the Westlands,” Internal Affairs Minister Aerean said. The messenger lines consisted of stationed horses and riders, allowing galloping travel throughout the day and night. These royal messengers took priority over everything else. Interfering with their missions meant death, assuring no delays. In this fashion, they condensed months of travel to weeks. She mulled over her own words. “Could make it here in a month.”
Less. Darris chewed his broad lower lip. Accustomed to light travel, Weile Kahn had once scattered his men through the Westlands in what had seemed like no time at all.
“We’d best let Prince Tae know,” Aerean finished.
“He knows.” Darris could hardly believe those words had come from him. Tae had made no mention of the impending visit. “I mean, he likely knows. He’s been exchanging messages since his arrival. If the King of Stalmize wants his son to know, he surely already does.”
A knock resounded through the room. Saxanar’s brows knitted. Few would dare to interrupt a meeting of Béarn’s council. Captain Seiryn drifted nearer to the king, as did Darris. Only an emergency would prompt such rudeness, and it might pose a threat to Griff.
The panel swung open gently, and Prince Leondis poked his head through the crack, flanked by his guards and steward. “Please forgive the interruption.” He bowed nobly. “May I speak, Your Majesty?”
“Certainly.” Griff made a wide gesture.
The prince stepped into the room, leaving his entourage to crowd in the entryway. “Sire, I apologize for wasting the council’s time, now and in the past. I would like to dismiss the charge I brought against Prince Tae Kahn.”
Darris did not believe he had ever heard a hush as intense as the one that followed that pronouncement.
Protocol demanded that the king break the silence; but he only stared, eyes round as well-minted coins.
Darris gently nudged Griff, who finally found his tongue. “That is very generous of you, Prince Leondis.” They all knew he did not just refer to Tae, but to the myriad who might die in the coming battle. “Thank you.”
Leondis bowed again, his expression deadly earnest. “Do not thank me, Your Majesty. It is I who should thank you and apologize for placing you in this situation. Had I known, Your Majesty, how my father would react to the situation, I would not have reported it.”
Griff looked contrite, like a sad-eyed puppy. “Prince Leondis, please don’t apologize. I need to know what happens in my castle, especially things like . . . what happened.”
Courtesy demanded an explanation for the change of heart, but Leondis did not give one. The knowing glances of most of the council suggested they believed he did so to avoid war. Darris suspected Kevral’s need for stalling bore some relation to the prince’s announcement, and he hoped she had not threatened Leondis’ life. He looked toward Matrinka, who smiled at him. She had described Ra-khir’s irritated storm from the room the previous night. The knight had assisted in some manner, and he would not allow intimidation.
Leondis went on, “Your Majesty, I believe I can explain the matter to my father best in person. I plan to take leave of your city in a few days and thank you for your hospitality.”
“You’re quite welcome, Prince Leondis,” Griff said. “And I’m sorry about . . . what happened.” He seemed stuck on the phrase. “Will all of your people take their leave at one time?”
“No, Your Majesty.” Leondis’ staunch expression left no room for compromise on this matter. “Lady Kevral has promised to surrender Pudar’s heir at birth. Your Majesty, by your leave, the wet nurse and some others will remain to collect the baby.”
Darris closed his eyes. Though he had suspected the outcome long ago, the news fell hard on his sensibilities. It now seemed likely that Kevral and Ra-khir had surrendered the baby for Tae’s freedom, yet the assessment seemed patently unfair. Pudar had demanded the baby and Tae, and King Cymion had made it clear he would not settle for only one. Leondis’ willingness to do so demonstrated his love for the child, that he could sacrifice vengeance for peaceful fatherhood. Where Tae did not recognize the wisdom of his own father in choosing him as successor, King Cymion did not see the gem of a ruler he had for a second son. Darris shook his head at the irony.
* * *
Elves lined the walls of the conference room, surrounding the travelers in what had become an almost too-familiar pattern to Kevral. One hand draped casually over the hilt of the sword Colbey had given her, the other lightly touching Ra-khir’s wrist, she shed the last vestiges of annoyance remaining after her argument with those who insisted she had become too pregnant to go. The same healers and worriers would claim her unfit after the birth as well, requiring months of rest. With only two tasks left to complete, Kevral refused to delay. Tae took less than a week to recover, and she insisted they leave the following day. Whether because he worried about delay or because he refused to argue with an irritable Renshai, Griff allowed the process to continue.
Led by Marrih, the elves’ chant rose like a gentle chorus of windblown bells. Her harder-spoken words intertwined with the sound that was not quite a melody, as if shaped to fit it. Darris tipped his head sideways, clearly trying to capture the tones, though he did not forget to shut his eyes. Kevral squeezed her lids tight, feeling the brightness and warmth of the magical flash. Then the stuffiness of an overfull room disappeared, replaced by the delicate tug of wind.
Kevral snapped open her eyes. The ground stretched in every direction in a flat plane. No trees, hills, or rivers interrupted earth packed as flat as a trading route. She saw none of her companions nor any other signs of life. Worry went through her in a short, sudden flash. The magic failed. Captain had warned them of the impreciseness of the operation. It had worked so well until that moment, it had never seriously occurred to Kevral to worry for it. Where am I?
A voice rang over the plain. “You’re on the proving grounds.”
Startled, Kevral jerked so hard she strained muscles. She whirled to face a woman of immense proportions, half again as tall as Ra-khir. She bore features so seamed, Kevral could not have guessed her ancestry, although the creases held too little color for an Easterner or Béarnide. Recessed by wrinkles, the pale, watery eyes looked slitted. Thinning white hair curled around broad shoulders pinched by age. A simple dress of Northern cut dangled to her ankles.
The giantess raised her hand.
Kevral crouched, studying every movement. “Where are my friends?”
“They must pace their own courses.” The voice boomed with a power that seemed impossible for one so ancient and apparently frail. The hand remained raised.
“Their own courses?” The words made no sense to Kevral. “What does that mean? And what is this proving ground?”
“A test, crafted by Odin, t
o measure the worth of the gods’ living creations. Plot your course well, young Renshai.” The giantess dropped her arm, then disappeared, leaving Kevral in a lonely silence so intense she wondered if she had imagined the other and her words; yet, the memory remained with her, strong and certain. The reality of the moment seemed less sure. The plain appeared impossibly flat and empty. A light film of fog lent it a ghostly quality that stole clarity and left a bland wonderment. Only the kicks of the baby seemed sharp, viable, and real.
Finding no landmarks, Kevral took a step in a random direction. Time flew in that instant, the future unscrolling with the speed and ease of a carpet at the feet of the king. Plunged into prospective tomorrows that seemed sharper than present reality, Kevral launched into discussions, into practices, and into battles with the fury that characterized nearly every action. An instant afterward, the memory faded from her mind, desperately dreamlike. Attempts to cling to the knowledge failed miserably, no more successful than capturing smoke.
Within three strides, another joined Kevral on the path, an infant who grew to childhood within a dozen paces. Golden hair flopped over comely features, sparkling with youth. The limbs grew from pudgy to slender overnight, and toddler clumsiness melded swiftly into remarkable grace. All else about him defied Kevral’s memory, but she clung to the comfort of his presence. A second giantess appeared along the trail at intervals, her existence as fleeting as the betrayal of Kevral’s memories. Kevral noticed only that she resembled the first closely, except that her face bore few lines and creases, her light eyes bright. From her, Kevral came to understand that she faced only one of a myriad possible futures and that the events, and even her reactions to them, mattered less than the end result. Understanding must flee like threatened wraiths from her attempts at recollection. True knowledge of one’s own fate would drive any human to insanity.
The child abandoned Kevral after less than a thousand steps, leaving only a waning impression of a handsome youth with a hint of stony gray in his blue eyes, and a motherly wistful sense of loss. Then other things shifted in to fill Kevral’s life and attention. These, too, faded into an unremembered blur, trailing impressions no more significant than a rambling tale told by a street drunkard. The impression of time slipping inexorably past remained, a life lived but unremembered. Age marked her physically, but memory shied from her mind like a frightened foal whipped by a previous master.
At length, Kevral reached an end, of sorts. The plain continued into a vast eternity. Or, perhaps, she had walked in a full circle around it without knowing. The scenery that had scrolled past as she walked belonged to her world, not this one; and nothing on this place seemed ever to change. A giantess stood in front of her, this one enough like the others to be a triplet, except for the youth that softened her features nearly to childlike innocence. Wind twined a full head of yellow hair, and the blue eyes studied Kevral with a mischievous playfulness. Though she wore a dress similar to that of the first giantess, it swirled about a firm and curvaceous figure. Around her neck she wore a tear-shaped blue stone strung on a thong.
Caught in the study of the immense and impressive figure, Kevral nearly missed another at the woman’s side. Dressed in stained linens and leathers, the woman appeared tiny at the giantess’ side, yet anything but frail. The creased features held a fierceness that defied their age, distinctly familiar. White hair hacked short barely stirred in the wind. She wore a pair of long swords, one at each hip, equally matched for grip, length, and, surely, balance. Grandmama? Kevral took a hesitant forward step, struck suddenly by reality. She did not face an ancestor. She faced herself: the end result of all that living she could not remember.
The giantess raised her arm, so like the gesture the other had used to begin Kevral’s trials. Only then, the Renshai surmised her identity: Skuld, Future. And with that knowledge came more. The elder she had first encountered could only be Urdr, Past; and the one who had intermittently accompanied her on the path was Verdandi, Present. She had met the Fates, the very keepers of time and reality, those whom even the gods could not escape. Clear and solid, Skuld’s voice resembled the crash of steel in wild sword play. “Only one of you can return to your world.” A smile danced over the youthful features. “Begin.” Her hand slashed downward, and she, too, disappeared.
The elderly Kevral stepped forward, and Kevral prepared to talk. It seemed only logical for her to return, still in her youthful prime. She would become the other soon enough.
Yet the older Kevral did not give her junior a moment for discussion. The swords sprang from their sheaths faster than Kevral’s eyes could follow. She barely managed a back-step that rescued her from a head slash, her own swords freed an instant slower. She managed to catch the second attack on the blade of the sword Colbey had gifted, surprised by her elder self’s strength. Any lesser sword would have suffered a damaging notch.
Kevral scarcely managed a riposte that the other dodged neatly. She charged in with a flurry of attack that, she hoped, would confound her older self. The elder Kevral met each attack with a block, parry, or dodge, returning a stroke for every one of Kevral’s. Then came a complicated Renshai maneuver that Kevral had never managed to perfect. A desperate dance brought her through the flying blades unscathed, though not without a heart-pounding moment of desperate worry. A blade skimmed her cheek, stinging. Then, Kevral cut in with a bold frontal cut that all but impaled her on a stop-thrust. She retreated.
The elder pursued, grinning as she charged. Though perhaps a hair’s breadth slower, her strikes contained a refinement Kevral could not match. Awe at the other’s competence turned to pride. She had strived for the elder’s abilities, had always hoped she would become this able. When she reached this age, she might actually manage her goal, to challenge Colbey himself.
The moment of thought became a fatal lapse. The elder cut through an instantaneous gap to slam Kevral’s right sword from her hand. Faster than sight, she caught the hilt, now facing Kevral three swords to one. Yet, the battle still did not finish. Kevral dove in with renewed energy, challenged rather than defeated by the inequality. She launched in for a frenzied over/under combination, drawing on youthful vigor. The older Kevral evaded the complicated sequence with a minimum of movement, a dodge Kevral hoped she would live to analyze. Then, an invisible blitz stole her grip on the second sword. Both dove for the errant hilt. Kevral arrived first, foiled by a deadly weave of steel in front of her face. Forced into withdrawal, she watched helplessly as the elder claimed the last of her weapons.
No! Shocked, Kevral watched as her opponent raised her blades in triumph. She did not worry for her life or for the disgrace. The better warrior had triumphed, yet the cost would prove her youth. The baby would never exist. The future she had sped through on this world must become her past, whatever its unrememberable content. She would return to Midgard having accumulated fifty years, a sixty-six-year-old woman married to a knight not yet eighteen.
Skuld studied the combatants as if she had never left. The elder’s shoulder seemed to disappear beneath the giantess’ massive palm. “You have demonstrated betterment of self during your lifetime journey.” A dizzying swirl of magic surrounded Kevral. She back-stepped several paces, but it gained her nothing. The spell intensified, stealing all sensation of position. Upended mentally and physically, Kevral howled and fought, clawing and kicking at currents that took no notice of her savage movements. The Northern rune for “success” swirled past her.
* * *
At Skuld’s side, Ra-khir’s red hair lay speckled with white, the foremost line receding. Eyes green as emeralds met those of his youth, and a smile split a face still handsome despite time’s ravages. The years had proved kind to the skin of his face and hands, thinning with nary a wrinkle. The veins in his arms appeared more prominent, yet the skin did not sink between the tendons of his callused hands. Though still tall, his body had become more lean and sinewy than the muscular powerfulness that characterized his late teens. He wore knight-colored sil
ks perfectly tailored to conform to this new figure.
Ra-khir tried not to stare, instinctively knowing, as Kevral had, that he faced himself fifty years in the future. Still, he felt the need to ask. “Are you me, sir?”
The figure spoke with the gently patient tone that characterized the best knight instructors. “Maybe.”
Ra-khir’s brows rose at an answer that seemed evasive when definitive seemed both possible and polite. “Either you are, or you aren’t, sir.” Though he challenged the response, he would remain always gracious to an elder, especially a Knight of Erythane.
The elder’s tone gained an edge so slight it did not offend. Ra-khir found himself overattentive to the delivery, seeking to emulate. “Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son, the future holds more than one possibility. Events and consequences have their own significance, but the wisdom we gain from them matters more.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ra-khir believed he understood.
“Come.” The elder held out a hand. “Let me teach you.”
Ra-khir obeyed, shocked to discover the discourses that followed, filled with guided demonstration, reminded him closely of his father’s own patient wisdom. At times, the elder’s comments seemed as cryptic as his father’s own; yet the kindness of their speaking softened them to challenging puzzles rather than the frustrations that Kedrin often left him feeling. It seemed as if Ra-khir had, over time, refined his father’s strengths and weaknesses, remembered from his youth.
The time ended too soon. Skuld made a gesture Ra-khir could not read, though his older self apparently could. The elder sat, tapping the ground to indicate Ra-khir should join him. With a bow of respect, Ra-khir performed as requested. The elder stared into the distance, as if seeing something interesting in the vast expanse of flat dirt. “Ra-khir, imagine that the love between Kevral and yourself becomes lost.”
The Children of Wrath Page 58