Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

The door swung open to reveal Rantire crouched fiercely, peering through the opening to assure no danger faced King Griff in Matrinka's room. The Renshai bodyguard glared at Darris. By law, the bard was the king's most personal bodyguard; but, in his absence, Rantire performed his job with savage and tactless seriousness. Granted the position by Colbey's son, Ravn, Rantire believed herself sanctioned by gods; and Griff had promised she could guard him in Darris' absences. Often, Matrinka knew, he regretted that decision, but he would never go back on his word. Behind Rantire, the king waited patiently, his black hair disheveled but his beard neatly combed.

Two cats wound around Griff's feet, mewing plaintively for attention.

"Darris is here," Griff announced.

Rantire snorted. "He's always here." She meant it as insult, not judgment. The triangular relationship did not matter to the Renshai; Darris' inadequacy as a proper bodyguard did.

"Nevertheless," Griff said, "you're dismissed."

Rantire grumbled something unintelligible, her bronze braids swaying around sharp features. "I'll be right outside if you need me, Sire."

"Duly noted." Griff looked pleadingly at Matrinka. "May I please come in?"

The cats did not wait for an invitation but slithered through the opening and leaped onto the bed, butting their heads against Matrinka's hands to demand a proper petting.

"Of course." Matrinka did not bother to dry her eyes as more tears joined the puddle on her dress and coverlet. "Please join us." She did not have the energy to attend to the cats.

Griff stepped inside the bedroom, shutting the door behind him, much to Rantire's obvious chagrin. Seeing Matrinka's mental state, he went right to her, gathering her into his arms.

The differences immediately became apparent. The huge bear of a man enveloped Matrinka where Darris had merely embraced her. His beard tickled her cheek, soaking up the moisture clinging there. "I'm so sorry," he said, and he clearly meant it.

Matrinka could hear Darris gathering the cats and shoving them back out into the hallway.

"It's been a year for tragedy, Matrinka. Our son, your friend, and so many good men lost."

"And now, we're without guards for the rest of our heirs. All the Renshai will have to leave."

"Not Bearn."

The words shocked Matrinka. She turned her face up to look at Griff, but he held her too closely.

The king explained, "I'm not bound by any agreement made by the king of Erythane."

Matrinka had never considered that. A glimmer of hope rose where none had existed before. "So the Renshai can stay? They can move here?"

Griff relinquished his grip, allowing them to see one another's faces. His looked tired. Lines had developed along his mouth and eyes, and a hint of gray touched his temples. "They can, but I doubt they will."

The suggestion upset Matrinka. She saw her last chance slipping away. "Why not?"

"Because, while I am not bound by the agreement, the Renshai are. I wouldn't banish or punish any Renshai who didn't obey it, but I think most of them, maybe all, will leave with their people."

"Even… Rantire?" Matrinka could think of no one more likely to stay, though she would not miss Griff's overeager guardian.

"Rantire will have to make her own choices." Griff shrugged. "It won't be easy."

"No," Matrinka admitted, her thoughts already far beyond the conversation. "But couldn't we…" She turned Griff a desperate look. "Couldn't we just… tell the Northmen to leave. Banish them and let the Renshai… just stay."

Darris paced wildly. Clearly, he wished he could be the one doing the comforting, the one providing explanations that might help her mood; but Matrinka's demand had robbed him of the opportunity.

Griff's gaze followed Darris' frantic path, but he did not tell him to stop. "Matrinka, you know it's not that simple. The Renshai made a contract. Whether or not most believe it, they are a people of great honor. And the Northmen… I'm afraid we need them. Without their ore, without their sword arms, we will lose this war."

The word struck Matrinka hard. "War?"

Griff's massive shoulders rose and fell. "I don't know what else to call it. Over the years, the pirates have been coming at us in ever greater numbers, and they've begun to fight with a coordination and ferocity that doesn't make sense for simple bands of looters. They've been testing our defenses far longer than we've acknowledged or realized. This is… well, it's a war, Matrinka."

"What are we going to do?" she whispered.

"What can we do? We're going to fight it, however we can. And, right now, that means with Northmen."

Darris glided to the edge of the bed. "Who are these pirates, Sire? Do we know yet?"

Griff shook his head, lips pursed. "You're well-studied, Darris. Perhaps you can tell me."

"I'll… try."

"Redheads," Griff started. "Nearly to a man, and their hair tends toward the thick and curly." He ran a hand through his own bushy mane. "Their skin is medium in tone, their features run the full gamut, except for the eyes which are always dark." He paused for input from Darris, who gave him nothing but an interested and curious stare. "They use short, curved swords, serrated and balanced well. Some of our men have reused their armor. It's well-crafted leather including helms and gloves. Sound familiar?"

Not to Matrinka. An entire battalion of redheads seemed unthinkable, even in the North, where blonds predominated anyway. Excluding Renshai, every Northman she had ever met had pale eyes and skin. Even Darris stood in stark confusion, brows deeply furrowed.

"But we did finally manage to capture one."

Darris came alive. The other piece of his curse sent him on an eternal quest for knowledge. "What does he say, Sire? Who are these brutes? Why are they attacking us?"

Griff managed a slight smile at the anticipated barrage. For all his inability to teach without song, Darris had no problem seeking answers. "Whatever he's saying, no one can understand it. The language isn't anything recognizable to any of our translators. It's as if he came from-"

"-another world?" Matrinka tried. It no longer seemed far fetched to her since Darris, Kevral, and Ra-khir had traveled to such places by elfin magic.

"Well, yes." Griff cleared his throat. "As if. But we're not at the point where we think that's so. The elves deny having opened any portals, and they have no reason to lie about it. No other creature on our world has the power to-"

Darris fairly trembled with need. "What about the gods? They could-"

"I don't have any direct connection to the gods, Darris." It was not completely true. As a child, Griff had enjoyed the company of what he thought was a make-believe playmate. In fact, Ravn Colbeysson had watched over him, knowing he would one day become the king of Bearn. They had not, however, made contact for many years, not since Ravn had charged Rantire with the responsibility. "But I hardly think the gods would bombard us with an otherworldly army without announcing a reason."

Matrinka nodded thoughtfully. The gods rarely worked in subtle ways. Everything they did, they did with pomp and grandeur. "Maybe the magic originated in the other world. We did not open a way for them; they opened a way to us."

Griff's shoulders heaved again. It was an unanswerable question. "We might know if we could find a way to communicate with our prisoner."

Darris took his lute in hand; though, true to Matrinka's request, he did not play. "Music has a language all its own, Sire. One anyone can understand."

Griff studied the instrument in his bard's hands, releasing Matrinka and rising. "Your music certainly does. It's worth a try."

Matrinka considered. Darris' songs could charm anything: animal, human, even god. He could transform his listeners through emotion, evoking calm or agitation, grief or wonder, anger or joy in an instant. If the prisoner knew any of the common languages, Darris could surely coax him to use it. But the more she heard about these invaders, the more Matrinka believed they came from another world, where an overlapping language seemed unlikely. Darris' gift allowed him to provoke emotions; but, unless his listener was also under a bardic curse, he had no way to respond to whatever Darris invoked. "There is another possibility."