The Children of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  So much remained to discuss and consider, especially those few events remembered. Kevral wondered whether time would bring back snatches of recollection from her journey, if those would merge with or confuse the reality of future, or if they would simply slip away. In the time before they searched for the last Pica shard, she would muse over what little she remembered of what she had lived and consider whether those events were truly predictive of the next fifty years. A boy? Or just one possibility?

  Once again, Kevral felt herself enwrapped by magic, this time El-brinith’s transport.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Stalking Horse

  The larger the enemy, the larger the victory.

  —Renshai proverb

  KING Cymion lunged at the padded and armored warrior in his practice room, sending his massive opponent into awkward retreat. The king pressed his advantage with a quick thrust. The soldier slapped it aside, a desperate defense. A tinny clang rose from the contact, sour compared to the crisp music of exchanged strikes and sweeps that had filled the room moments ago. Barely diverted, Cymion’s blade wobbled through the opening, scoring a nonfatal touch on the thickly padded breastplate. The tip flipped to the man’s throat. “Done.”

  When the threat disappeared, the soldier bowed, then strode to the “dead man’s” corner to join six other casualties of the king’s practice.

  Cymion pulled a rag from his pocket, wiped beads of perspiration from the steel, then mopped his face. He turned to the door, with its water pot and dipper, only to find Javonzir waiting. Dressed in colors, the adviser clearly attended kingdom business, not seeking a spar. Cymion sighed and sheathed his blade. His cousin worked his arm less and less, and his skills slowly withered.

  As the king’s attention found him, Javonzir performed a flawless bow. “Your Majesty, I hate to interrupt.” The seriousness of his tone warned Cymion not to delay.

  “Dismissed.” The king made a high gesture at the “corpses,” then another at those still anticipating the chance to pit their swords against him. When only his personal guards and servants remained, Cymion peeled off his practice armor and padding, attendants scurrying to claim each piece and arrange for its cleaning. Others ran ahead while some hovered for a command. “What do you need, Javon?”

  “Your son has returned, Your Majesty.”

  King Cymion froze in mid-movement, leaving a servant nervously reaching for a sodden undertunic. Ordinarily, Leondis’ appearances did not warrant attention. Now, heat flashed through the king, not wholly attributable to exertion. He doffed and flung the tunic so suddenly, the attendant had to chase it. “What’s wrong with that whelp? I didn’t give him permission to return.” His eyes narrowed at the only condition that would legitimize the homecoming. “Does he have my grandchild?”

  Javonzir shook his head once, not in answer, but to indicate the king should not speak ill of the crown prince in front of servants who might gossip. A time would likely come when Leondis needed their respect. “The baby is not yet born; but the prince is not alone, Your Majesty. The King of Stalmize is with him.”

  King Cymion’s pale eyes winched open in increments as the significance of the words trickled ever deeper. “King Weile Kahn is here?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “In Pudar?”

  “In the Waiting Area.”

  “Gods.” Cymion threw off the last of his clothes and lowered his voice. “What’s his disposition?”

  Javonzir hesitated. “He’s a difficult man to read, Your Majesty.” He addressed the servants. “Draw His Majesty’s bath. Prepare the best clothes.”

  Those who had not already done so scurried to obey.

  King Cymion managed to maintain a regal air despite his nakedness. The workout pumped his muscles into boulders. “Has he brought an entourage?”

  “Two guards only, Your Majesty. And your son.”

  “My son.” It made no sense. “Now how do you suppose Leondis. . .?”

  Javonzir’s silken shoulders rose and fell. “Your Majesty, they surrendered weapons easily enough and haven’t caused any trouble. I believe, as his other Majesty says, they’ve come for a friendly discussion. He claims the prince talked him into this visit.”

  The royalty became confusing. “His prince? Or my prince?”

  “Prince Leondis, Sire.”

  Cymion headed toward his bath, servants and guards trotting to keep up with his long strides. “What in heaven’s name do you think he’s up to?”

  Javonzir fell into step beside his king. “I don’t know, Sire. I’m sure he has a good reason.”

  Cymion stopped dead. “What logic can there be to bringing a hostile king, the father of Severin’s murderer, into my home without warning?”

  Javonzir seized the king’s arm and encouraged him to keep walking. It would not do to keep a king waiting nor to stand too long unclothed in open hallways. “Your Majesty, Prince Leondis has a good head. If he believes it best—”

  “Threatened, no doubt,” the king grumbled, though he had no proof. “Separate them. I trust you to do so tactfully. Find out what’s going on.” As he reached the bathing room, the door flew open. “Tell the king I’ll be with him shortly. Apologize for not being prepared for him.”

  “Your Majesty, he’s already expressed regret for coming unannounced.”

  Cymion stepped into the room, slamming the door as the servants positioned to close it dashed out of his way. King Weile Kahn of Stalmize is here. He clapped a hand to his face. And hoped the high king of the Eastlands had come in peace.

  * * *

  Nobles filled the benches of King Cymion’s court, eager to watch a confrontation between kings, to observe the dealings that might finally bring closure to their beloved Severin’s murder. On his throne, Cymion prepared for a verbal offensive as strong as his swordarm. He held the upper hand in his own court, surrounded by a dozen of his guards and with morality squarely on his side. He did not worry for Weile Kahn’s arguments. Even another king would not dare attempt to bully him under those circumstances, and every run of possible scenarios through his mind went the same. Weile Kahn could only guess what had happened that night based on his son’s description. Cymion had been there when his watch returned, wailing like banshees and cradling Severin’s lifeless body. They had dragged Tae to the worst of the dungeons. Had he not already been unconscious from the beating he had received from rival Easterners on the street, the guards would have finished the job.

  Cymion’s thoughts slid to the image of Tae, striped with blood, lying still on the cold stone floor. Rimed with dirt, his hair a dark snarl, his clothes tattered rags, he had seemed the epitome of classless street scum. The urge to kick him beyond oblivion had seized the king then and every time since that he dared to recall the scene. Had he followed his instincts, succumbed to a father’s honest rage, he would not face this difficulty now. And Tae would have died as the vagabond he was, gaining no benefit from his father’s takeover, his crimes unforgiven, never protected and coddled as a prince.

  Apparently sensing his king’s distress, Javonzir clamped a placating hand onto Cymion’s arm. He stood to the king’s left, prepared to counsel and console as the moment required.

  The great doors swung open. The court guards snapped to attention, spear butts clicking to tile. They carried the polearms only for show. Should violence ensue, the size of the room would require shorter weapons, and each also wore a sword crafted to Kevral’s rigorous specifications. Two of Béarn’s guards stepped through, followed by a page who announced loudly, “Prince Leondis.”

  Dressed in travel silks, Leondis stepped grandly into his father’s court. The dark brown hair, so like his mother’s, tumbled to his shoulders. He bowed with a grandeur befitting a Knight of Erythane, then took a position to the right of King Cymion’s focus, leaving space for the visiting king and his entourage. No longer a foppish child, he had grown into a cultured man that Cymion might not have recognized except for the chiseled cheekbones, the proud
nose, and the alert blue eyes that distinguished their line. For the first time, Cymion noticed well-defined sinews enhancing an otherwise slender body. Leondis could not have changed so much in a few months. Rather, the time apart had given the king new perspective.

  Cymion did not have long to consider before the page stepped up again. “King Weile Kahn of Stalmize.”

  The audience of nobles rose with varying degrees of decorum. Cymion also stood, a formality the situation allowed him to violate. After discussion with the visiting king, Cymion’s advisers and ministers had decreed it best to dispense with protocol of any type rather than attempt to define the boundaries of each king’s obligations when it came to displays of respect. Low-born, Weile Kahn did not place proper significance on these gestures, which annoyed and pleased Cymion simultaneously. The missing “Sires” and “Your Majesties” would bother his ear; but he appreciated that he would not have to speak them himself either, nor bring a chair to properly place Weile Kahn at his level.

  Another pair of Pudarian guards stepped through the courtroom door, followed by an imposing figure dressed in cleaned, tailored leathers lacking colors. Blue-black curls hugged his head, without a hint of gray. A stubby forehead curved to large eyes so dark they seemed to lack irises. A well-set nose perched above spare lips. His swarthy skin bore a healthy hue that made Cymion’s guards seem sallow in comparison. A man walked at his either hand, both wearing expressions so densely solemn they appeared as if they never laughed. They made an oddly matched pair, the left one tall yet with a sturdy compactness. The other looked huge, even to a warrior king, taller than the first but more classically proportioned.

  Despite his lack of finery, the man in the middle carried himself with an ironhanded confidence that identified him as the king. Cymion’s first impression, that Weile Kahn was large, failed with comparison to his bodyguards and to his own warrior frame. The Eastern king stood a full head shorter than the smaller of his entourage, yet the impression defied logic. His largeness came wholly of demeanor, and his ability to carry himself in such a fashion fascinated as well as unnerved. Cymion found himself emulating the man’s movements, attempting to memorize them for his own future use.

  Cymion remained silent only until Weile Kahn came to a halt. The dark eyes whipped to Cymion’s, depthless and unrevealing.

  Unaccustomed to others directly meeting his gaze, Cymion fought the urge to shift nervously or to look aside. Instead, he attempted to distract Weile Kahn, the nobility, even himself, with speech. “Welcome to Pudar . . .” He caught himself about to tack on a “Your Majesty.” “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Cymion felt it best to address his guest’s agenda before his own, though likely they overlapped. Aside from Tae and the possibility of an alliance, no other business seemed conceivable.

  The dark eyes never wavered. “We were en route to Béarn when your son suggested we stop here first and handle some unfinished business.” Weile shook back his curls. “I was not opposed.”

  Nothing. Cymion still read no emotion in the Easterner’s unwavering gaze nor in the pleasant tenor of his voice, even harshened by its accent. “Which business would you like to finish?”

  Weile made a conciliatory gesture, yet still retained his authority. “You choose, King Cymion.”

  Cymion made a mental note of the movement, surprised that one untrained in the ways of rulership could manage so much nonverbal power. He sought a tactful way to raise the issue of Tae, without losing his vengeance or the chance for an alliance. He had worried for Béarn’s kinship with the East; now, he grew concerned that he himself might drive it. “If I were King Weile Kahn of Stalmize, I would want my son to be brought to justice.”

  A slight smile crawled onto Weile Kahn’s features. “If I were King Cymion of Pudar, so would I.”

  The words took Cymion aback, leaving him with none of his own for reply. He touched Javonzir’s wrist, a plea for assistance.

  The adviser’s reassuring voice hissed into Cymion’s ear. “I believe he’s speaking of Leondis now, Sire. Meaning your own son is not wholly innocent.”

  The subtlety of the attack unmanned Cymion. He could not even raise anger. He tried to use equal tact, talking around the issue so as not to embarrass kings or princes. “Do you think things other than they appear?”

  “The facts,” Weile said carefully, “do not fit the outcome.”

  “He has a point, Your Majesty.” Javonzir’s whispering continued, “If Tae could best Severin knife to sword, why would he have trouble killing Leondis with a surprise attack from behind?”

  Cymion tossed off the question with a shake of auburn hair as curly as Weile’s, though liberally flecked with white. He had a solid twenty years of age on the East’s high king. The situations held little comparison. One had occurred on Pudar’s streets, with myriad players. The other had taken place one-on-one in a castle room. “Prince Tae Kahn has not denied the charges.”

  Weile spread his hands. “An error in morality or in judgment? Not the first time my son has chosen to protect others over himself.” His grin became sharklike. “He didn’t learn that from me.”

  The assertion seemed outlandish. “Who is he . . . protecting?”

  Weile gave nothing away, resisting the opportunity to implicate Leondis with a directed glance. “If I said, it would defeat my son’s sacrifice, would it not?”

  Cymion read relief on his own prince’s face, and his certainty wavered for the first time. He revived it with the memory of his favorite son lying so still, so handsome, the hopes of a kingdom buried with his corpse. The chance to avenge Severin, even with cultured imprisonment, seemed worth any deception. The solution rose directly from Weile’s words, and Cymion seized it triumphantly. “Refusing to allow justice would defeat that sacrifice also, would it not?”

  Weile Kahn’s grin disappeared, replaced by an expression that rewarded Cymion’s success.

  Now Cymion smiled. It seemed he had outwitted the master schemer, and the King of Stalmize’s deference on this one matter pleased him more than he expected.

  “Very well, then,” Weile Kahn said. “If you insist, I will remove Tae from Béarn’s law. And her protection.” He glanced at his leftmost bodyguard, as if noticing the man for the first time. The dense guardian stood like a statue, his eyes as active as his body was still. “In Eastern tradition, the king is law. I can spare Tae for . . .” His hand flickered as he considered, then he lowered it. “. . . say five years. Let him work on your kitchen staff, serve as your personal steward. Or hold him in a cell; he might learn more as a prisoner.”

  Cymion had the distinct impression he had just received an agile insult, one too subtle to protest.

  “Now, perhaps, we can move on to more important matters.”

  Another insult, Cymion believed, existed in the suggestion that discussion of trade routes should be considered more significant than regicide. Yet Weile’s discretion rescued him from a hostile response. It would not, however, spare Tae from Cymion’s pronouncement. He drew breath to suggest a more physical punishment accompany the imprisonment, prepared to bargain to acceptable compromise.

  Before Cymion could speak, Leondis broke in. “Father, I apologize for disrupting the proceedings out of turn, but you must know one thing.”

  Cymion’s eyes flitted to Leondis, his annoyance clear. He would not spare his son his wrath. “What is it, Leondis?”

  “I pardoned Prince Tae Kahn.”

  “What?” The word was startled from the king.

  “I pardoned him, Father,” Leondis repeated. “I have conclusive proof that he didn’t kill Severin, and he didn’t attack me either. Under the circumstances, it was the least I could do.”

  “No,” Cymion said, using a monotone to hide burgeoning rage. “The least you could do was nothing.” He glanced at Weile Kahn, suddenly realizing that the whole of the Eastern king’s casual generosity with Tae’s future had been a sham. Surely he had known of the pardon before offering Cymion five years
of his son’s life. Pudar’s king also understood now why Leondis and Weile Kahn had returned together. The Eastern king had become Leondis’ “stalking horse,” sent ahead to rescue Leondis from punishment. Irritation disappeared, replaced by grudging respect, for Leondis as well as Weile Kahn. Cymion suspected his expression closely resembled the one Weile Kahn had turned him moments before. Trapped, he gave the only answer he could, “Well, then. I suppose this matter is finished.”

  Javonzir leaned into the king. “Might I suggest we retire and reflect before we bargain away the greater part of the city to this aptly named king?”

  Cymion caught the pun. Though the Easterner pronounced his name Way-lee, it came near enough to “wily” in Western dialect to make the point. Cymion prepared to speak as Javonzir advised. He would not bargain treaties with Weile Kahn until he amassed an army of wise men around him. One thing seemed certain. It might be worth the greater part of the city to have the King of Stalmize on his side.

  * * *

  A splash of warm water on Ra-khir’s legs awakened him from sleep with his heart pounding. He jerked toward Kevral, finding her bolt upright in bed, face more pale than usual. A puddle soaked the sheets and blankets. “Kevral, are you well?” He reached for her.

  Kevral nodded. “The baby’s coming.”

  Ra-khir bit his lower lip. They had expected this for so long, yet he still felt unready. He had often lamented that he could not be there for the twins, offering his support to his wife and watching the miracle of birth. Now, the experience he had wished for in secret seemed more burden than joy. “How long?”

  “I don’t know.” Kevral winced but showed no other sign of pain. “Matrinka said the second time happens much faster.”

  Matrinka. We need a healer. Ra-khir wondered why he seemed to have turned so muddle-headed. “Stay here. I’ll get help.”

  Kevral bunched the blankets around her. “Thank you.” Ra-khir dressed swiftly, hearing her mutter as he stepped out into the hall. “We’ll see who arrives first, healers or Cymion’s vultures.”