The Immortal Renshai, page 15
As Matrinka expected, the problem concerned Ivana. She listened intently as Tem’aree’ay outlined the problem: the strange mutating substance that filled the half-human head and would probably eventually kill her, the possibility of cure, of normalcy, the need for a human healer with experience working within the skull to join forces with the elves. For the most part, Matrinka remained silent as the details unfolded, occasionally offering an empathetic noise or asking an edifying question. In the end, uncertain whether Tem’aree’ay wanted assistance with the decision, a recommendation for a surgeon, or only a sympathetic ear, Matrinka held her fellow wife and waited.
Silence filled the room, tangible, far more than just a lack of sound. For other elves, ones who had not spent much time among humans, they might sit and wait for days before speaking. Tem’aree’ay had lived in the castle too long not to understand the human discomfort that came from pauses that lasted longer than a few moments. She had learned that humans tended to fill them, even if it required them to babble. Matrinka also knew Tem’aree’ay, so she waited patiently for the elf to speak again.
After several moments, Tem’aree’ay asked, “What should I do, Matrinka?”
Matrinka drew breath to reply, but Tem’aree’ay forestalled her by suddenly disengaging from the queen’s arms and speaking first.
“And don’t give me the healer’s non-answer that ‘it’s my decision to make.’ Believe me, I’m all too aware of that. I want to know, as a friend, what would you do if you had to make this choice? For Marisole or Halika.”
Disarmed, Matrinka sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Tem’aree’ay was right. She had been about to give the pat answer. Healers weighed the odds all the time. When the patient could not advocate for himself, and no family emerged, they used their best judgment to decide the course of treatment. When the choice was obvious, they frequently steered the sick and injured to proper treatment without presenting the alternatives. The more evenly balanced the scales, or the more dangerous the remedy, the choice had to shift to the sufferer or their loved ones. “Tem’aree’ay, you know I can’t tell you what to do here. What if I give you the best advice I’m capable of giving, and it results in . . . ?” Matrinka found herself too distraught to finish.
Tem’aree’ay had no difficulty. “. . . Ivana becoming even less capable? Dying? Don’t you think I’ve considered those possibilities?” She paused, looking askance at Matrinka. “I know there are no good answers, no guarantees. Griff says he’ll support whatever I decide, and I know he will. The final decision is mine, however. You have experiences and information I don’t. Matrinka, please. I want your opinion.”
Matrinka’s healer training drove her to throw the question wholly back at Tem’aree’ay, but her conscience would not allow it. This was not a stranger’s child or a situation she could not possibly understand. Though a splendid source of support, Griff could not help in the way Tem’aree’ay needed it most. He had a layman’s knowledge of injury and illness. He could predict most people’s reactions to situations and words in a courtroom, in a Strategy Room, even on a battlefield, but he knew nothing of the body’s struggles against evil humors, festers, damage. Even the most experienced surgeons did not understand why some strong patients died under the knife while some frail ones thrived on doses of medication that would kill a mule. As always, he would remain neutral. It was his talent, his saving grace and also his bane.
It suddenly occurred to Matrinka why Tem’aree’ay needed her opinion so desperately. Tem’aree’ay had only an elf’s knowledge to draw upon, but Ivana was demonstrating flaws only humans could. As Matrinka understood it, elves were immune to the capriciousness of weather, so they never developed heat stroke or frost bite, and they never caught the illnesses that laid humans low, temporarily or permanently. Birth defects, organ failures, contagions did not plague the elves. They had developed a thousand ways to handle injuries, their greatest threat because an elf who died of unnatural causes meant one less soul, one less elf for all eternity.
Tem’aree’ay’s thoughts must have gone the same route as Matrinka’s because she explained. “To my knowledge, only one elf has ever been . . . mad. Khy’barreth Y’vrintae Shabeerah El-borin Morbonos became damaged by grasping a pair of magical items too powerful for his psyche.” The gemlike eyes pinned Matrinka. “We keep him confined for his own safety as well as ours. He receives food and water, of course, but there’s nothing more we can do for him. We have no choice but to keep him alive until old age catches up to him, sooner I hope than later. Still, many worry about the state of his soul. How will it affect the elf who inherits it? Will he or she suffer the same insanity? Have any of the memories from the previous elves who borrowed that soul survived?” She shook her head. “Many elves claim never to have been visited by a single prior thought, but most get at least glimpses of those who came before them and others remember whole incidents.” She shivered at the idea of someone having to relive parts or all of Khy’barreth’s life.
It surprised Matrinka someone so attentive to her own abnormal child could find such horror in the suffering of another. Yet, Matrinka realized, it was the way of living beings to deftly handle their own offsprings’ secretions, excreta, and behavior they would never tolerate from anyone else. The truth was that Matrinka had no more experience with situations like Ivana’s than Tem’aree’ay. Severely abnormal children were humanely slaughtered or left to die in the elements. Animals treated their flawed issue similarly. All human societies currently believed it was nature’s way of weeding out those who used up scarce resources without any potential to contribute. Children like Ivana did not exist—not because they did not happen, but because rightly or wrongly they were not suffered to live.
Matrinka cleared her throat. She needed to say something, but the right words refused to come. She did the best she could. “If nothing is done, Ivana will at best remain as she is. More likely, she will become less and less capable until she dies.”
Tem’aree’ay acknowledged the description with a nod.
“The elves believe they can intervene, with the help of a human healer or surgeon. It would be dangerous to the point of life-threatening, but it could result in a cure. Ivana might get a normal or, at least, more normal life. And a chance to live it fully.”
Again, Tem’aree’ay nodded.
Matrinka had merely restated the facts in a succinct fashion. As Ivana’s situation had never happened before, the elves could give them no odds. The decision would become so much easier if they knew whether the chance for cure was 10% or 90% and the likelihood of life, whether it was the same, worse, or improved versus death.
Tem’aree’ay asked timidly, “Do you think Ivana is suffering? Does she have any understanding of her . . . differentness? And does it cause her pain?”
Matrinka considered. “Older people sometimes develop something we call senility. It usually starts with them losing words or names, a mild annoyance. But it progresses. Soon, they begin to forget recent actions, how to perform complex, and eventually even simple, tasks. That frustrates them, often to rage and aggression or plunges them into the depths of despair. They are clearly suffering.”
Tem’aree’ay’s expression turned thoughtful, but Matrinka knew she was hiding discomfort.
“But, unlike Ivana, they had prior knowledge of what it’s like to be in full control of their faculties. Perhaps when someone has never known normal, they do not regret what they never had.” Matrinka added reassuringly, “Ivana hasn’t seemed particularly unhappy to me. She clearly loves you and greets people she knows with excitement. And you have done everything to make her life as pleasant as possible.”
Tem’aree’ay sighed, a most unelflike sound. “You haven’t seen her at her worst. Few have, other than me. When she rages violently or howls her troubles to the moon, it tears at my heart. It used to only happen a few times a week. Now, it’s every day.”
Matrinka winced. Tem’aree’ay had kept her affairs mostly private since arriving at Béarn Castle, and everyone attributed that to elfish nature. Matrinka had access to the family quarters, had seen Ivana act out at times, but Tem’aree’ay always promptly removed her daughter from these situations. What horrors had Tem’aree’ay witnessed and endured that family and servants barely knew? How much worse had it become as Ivana grew and became larger and far heavier than her elfin mother? When it came to making the decision of whether or not to muck about in Ivana’s brain, the scales had seemed relatively balanced. When Matrinka added in Tem’aree’ay’s adversity, they tipped dramatically. “If Ivana were my daughter, I would do whatever was necessary to give her that chance, even one in a million, to have a normal life. I would call in the best western surgeon from Pudar to assist the elves and have the procedure done.”
“Even if it killed her?”
Matrinka did not allow any doubt to enter her voice, tamped down any misgivings. “Even if. If I could take the danger onto myself, I would, but life doesn’t work that way. I would miss Marisole or Halika, but I would sleep well knowing I tried everything, gave her every chance.” Knowing elves tended to consider circumstances longer than human endurance, and the elves involved would gleefully do nothing until Tem’aree’ay pressed them, she added. “Time is not on our side. Every day you delay, the growth inside Ivana’s head degenerates further until there may come a time when nothing can be done.”
The smile returned to Tem’aree’ay’s face, and determination filled her eyes. “Thank you, Matrinka. I appreciate your candor. The decision is difficult enough without . . .” She placed her hand on her belly in a characteristic gesture.
Matrinka thought her own eyes might pop out of her head. “You’re pregnant?”
Tem’aree’ay’s grin faded at the edges. “I am. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I’m not so sure.”
Matrinka’s smile made up for whatever Tem’aree’ay’s lost. “Of course it’s a good idea. Griff must be thrilled.”
“He is,” Tem’aree’ay admitted. “He’s wanted it a long time. But what if—”
Many conversational beats went by, and Tem’aree’ay did not finish. Matrinka considered the possibilities. They might have a normal child, which could only tighten relations between elves and humans. Reportedly, it was Ivana’s abnormalities more than their differences that had kept the elves at bay. They worried their freely sexual culture would cause many elfin-human interbreedings resulting in populating the world with what they once interchangeably called anathema or ivanas. Knowing they could create viable mixed offspring might help stem the gradual attrition of elfin souls or, at least, assure elfin blood did not disappear entirely. If Tem’aree’ay and Griff made another abnormal child, it seemed unlikely to make the situation any worse, other than on Tem’aree’ay herself. “We will find a way to deal with ‘if’ if it happens. There are many more ‘ifs,’ Tem’aree’ay. Happy ‘ifs’.”
“Happy ‘ifs,’” Tem’aree’ay repeated. “Thank you, Matrinka. You always know how to put a positive spin on everything.”
Matrinka rose. “If you decide to go through with the procedure, let me know. I’ll send for Tonaris in Pudar. He’s the most competent surgeon I know and has more experience than most with opening skulls.”
Tem’aree’ay floated to her feet, the smile still in place, though not nearly as broad as usual. “Please,” she said. “Send for him.”
CHAPTER 9
The world is not as black or white as the Knights of Erythane make it appear; and, sometimes, the choices that confront you are all, in some way, bleak.
—Weile Kahn
DUSK PAINTED THE SKY a fiery red that started at the horizon and flared irregularly into the blue-gray net of clouds. Leaves of myriad colors rained from the trees with each puff of wind. Dressed in warm cloaks, wool hats, and knitted mittens, Ra-khir and Tiega scarcely noticed the cold. Earlier, he had thrown himself into his knightly training, and the time had flown past in anticipation of his time alone with his beloved.
Now, they strolled through the forest on the edge of Erythane, talking, laughing, kicking up leaves. Even though or, perhaps, because they came from such different backgrounds, they never seemed to run out of things to talk about nor did anything become off-limits. Tiega was the first person Ra-khir found with whom he could talk about Kevral without feeling strangled with grief, and she chatted just as easily about her late husband, Emmer.
Ra-khir leaped over a deadfall, then reached out to assist Tiega. She took his mittened hand with both of hers as he hoisted her, steadying her with a muscled arm around her waist, then placing her gently onto the mostly barkless trunk. She looked beautiful: her smile broad and genuine, her cheekbones high, her eyes long-lashed and striking as a bluebird’s plumage. She was taller than Kevral and not as slender or sinewy, though nearly as pale. He appreciated Tiega’s curves; they made her seem warmer, kinder, and the touch of her brought a longing to his loins he had worried he might never feel again. She shivered.
Ra-khir sat down beside her, looped his arm around her back, and drew her closer. “Are you cold?”
“A bit. But I don’t want to leave. I love this.” Tiega added carefully, “I love you.”
Warmth grew inside Ra-khir, and joy tingled through his chest. Her closeness, her words, made him happy. He could have sat here all night with her, unspeaking, unmoving. Instead, he slid from his perch, untwining his grip from Tiega, to land on one knee in front of her, as if bowing to a queen. “I love you, too, Tiega. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Tiega’s eyes widened. Her nostrils flared. She peered deeply into Ra-khir’s green eyes, and her sweet moist lips moved soundlessly for several moments that passed for him like hours. The dampness of the leaves seeped into the knee of his britches, chilling. Finally, she managed speech. “I can think of nothing in my life that has ever made me happier. Yes,” she said. “Yes. I accept you as mine.”
Ra-khir gathered her into his arms and kissed her mouth, salty with tears of joy. “When,” he asked joyously. “When?”
They parted breathlessly.
Ra-khir swung Tiega from the deadfall to the ground, wanting nothing more than to run all the way back to the Knight’s Rest Inn in Erythane, to shout the news from every balcony. He seized her hand, then practicality took over and he stopped mid-movement. “We need to tell our children first.”
Tiega waited until Ra-khir clambered back to her side. “All at once, so none of them feels less favored.”
Ra-khir added softly, his words slowing. “All five at once.” He brushed honey-brown hair from her cheeks. “Which means we have to wait until Subikahn’s . . .”
“Rescue,” she chimed in. “Yes.”
Tiega made it sound simple. Ra-khir had learned patience in spades through his knight training, but eagerness and the need to hide an exciting secret were not really the issue. Subikahn’s fate was still uncertain. He might already be dead, or the elves might not find a way to bring him home. Even if they did, he might have changed in some substantial and dangerous way. Ra-khir’s thoughts went back to the days when he had traveled the Outworlds with Kevral, Tae, and others to seek the shards of the Pica Stone. The things they had encountered could never be unseen, the changes in them negative and positive, every one permanent and, in its own way, terrible. So many times, he had felt certain they would not survive.
Ra-khir studied Tiega. By everything she did and said, she loved his boys as much as her own two children. He saw no need to worry her. “Rescue, of course. We can keep this to ourselves until Subikahn’s rescue.” He glanced at his feet, then back at Tiega. “Can’t we?”
“We can,” she assured him. “And it will make the announcement all the sweeter.”
Ra-khir hoped so. He knew the news would excite Darby and Keva. The boy already considered him a father, and the girl adored him. His own boys worried Ra-khir more. Calistin had accepted Tiega in his usual seemingly uncaring way, but he had also once assaulted Darby in what resembled a jealous rage. Usually, Saviar was the most predictable and reasonable, but his recent mood had become so irascible the knight had breathed a sigh of relief when his eldest had ridden off with Weile Kahn. Saviar also seemed even more uncomfortable than Calistin with their father’s growing closeness with Darby. And Subikahn’s reaction was utterly unpredictable, assuming the elves managed to save him.
Uncertain what to say, Ra-khir scooped Tiega into his arms once more to deliver a more passionate kiss.
* * *
This time, nearly all of the remaining Mages of Myrcidë chose to accompany Saviar and Weile back to Béarn, surprising Saviar beyond words. Before each war, he had exhausted his every power of persuasion trying to coax them from their communal dwelling. Jeremilan had kept them so cowed and terrified of outside humanity most had never left it, even to gather food or enjoy the feel of the sun or the wind in their faces. They had grown so fearful of anyone discovering they existed that, when Saviar and Subikahn had coaxed Chymmerlee to Béarn to assist in the Pirate War, none of them had dared follow, even to rescue her. Or so he had believed. Now, he felt certain most of the reason they had allowed her to leave was the opportunity, upon her return, to convince her one or both of the twins had raped her.
Indignation rising again, Saviar put that thought out of his head to contemplate the change in heart of all but three of the mages. Arinosta had remained behind. Though not nearly as old as Jeremilan claimed he was, she had not aged nearly as well. Even if she survived the trip, it would slow their pace to a crawl. Chestinar also stayed. Eternally sickly, he clearly would not weather change well physically or, probably, emotionally. The third was a sexless, faceless figure so terrified of strangers he or she had never appeared within Saviar’s sight during any of his visits. If the third member of the trio had a name, Saviar had never heard it spoken.
