The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Near the hearth, Shadimar spun about again. As part of the Wizards’ vows to Odin, they must always keep their number at four. If Shadimar could prove the Western Wizard had died without a successor, the Southern and Northern Wizards would have to help him replace Tokar. But until Shadimar could gather enough evidence to verify his theory, he had no right to call a Wizards’ meeting. And this near the war, he had only three choices: gather evidence, during which time he left the Westlands unprotected against Siderin’s attack; assume the Western Wizard was alive and working on his prophecies; or presume the worst and try to fulfill the Western Wizard’s tasks himself.

  The final realization brought Shadimar’s thoughts full circle to Rache. The freedom of the Westlands lies in the hands of a hopeless cripple. Shadimar sat, drawing his fingers through his white beard and across his too-sharp chin. There must be another way. He considered the prophecy, aware the hero of the Great War must meet the Renshai’s definition of one of their own. Carcophan’s demon was wrong about Rache. Perhaps there was another survivor. Shadimar frowned, aware the only way to know for certain required him to summon another demon at great peril to his own life. I can’t afford to risk myself now that I’m burdened with the tasks of two Wizards. Still, something squirmed at the edges of his consciousness. Shadimar tried to conceptualize his discomfort, but the image remained, frustratingly just beyond his grasp. Something about the Renshai meeting the definition of his own people.

  Shadimar rose and headed for the door, the wolf padding silently behind him. Opening the panel, he trotted through the awkward, piled granite of the ruins of the city of Myrcidë, once the home of his people before the banished Renshai had ravaged it like so many others in the Westlands. Shadimar no longer held a grudge. Those Renshai who had caused the slaughter had passed away, along with everyone Shadimar had known in the mortal years before he had become the Eastern Wizard, and Shadimar was not the type to loathe children for the sins of their parents.

  Striding past several doors, Shadimar and Secodon passed through the entrance to his library. Unlike most of his crude, handmade furniture, he had lavished attention on the sturdy shelves lining every wall of this room, crammed full with texts. He went directly to the upper section of the eastern wall. The second shelf contained informative and historical texts written by the Eastern Wizards, some of the entries in Shadimar’s own hand. The Wizard’s mind contained the memories of his predecessors, accompanied by their misconceptions, gaps in recall, and mistakes, and he was handicapped by his own limited ability to sort through the information.

  Shadimar scanned the stack. Selecting the volume entitled Human Societies and Their Codes of Honor, Shadimar pulled it free, leaned its back against the edge of the shelf and opened it to the page on Renshai. Familiar with the history and general rules of behavior, he skimmed them, settling at length on the passage that interested him:

  “The convention of accepting only full-bred Renshai as members of the tribe at first seems incongruous to a people whose pride stems from valor not bloodline. In truth, certain characteristics have already become ingrained, and inbreeding may weaken the tribe enough to prove their downfall.”

  Not a likely problem anymore, Shadimar could not help adding, aware he would need to update the material. For now, he continued reading:

  “But the decision makes more sense when viewed in the context of the ‘Western Renshai.’ As the Renshai made their way back to the Northlands from which they had been banished nearly a hundred years earlier, two male members of the tribe, Sjare and Menglir, chose to marry women in the Westlands and remain there. These men were treated by the Renshai as exiles of the exiles, and at first were condemned to death. Finally, it was decided they could stay so long as they agreed that the Renshai’s special, hard-won battle techniques would never be taught to their offspring. That compromise reached, it was committed to law that only full-bred Renshai could be considered Renshai and, thus, had the right to learn the now legendary Renshai maneuvers.

  “In this light, it could be said that what makes a Renshai truly Renshai is not bloodline, but the privilege of learning the battle skills. Viewed in this fashion, the Renshai’s decision not to accept the ‘Western Renshai’ as their own makes sense. If they had, distance would have separated them from a piece of their tribe that would have been unrecognizable, darker of features and different of culture, and circumstance and their love of battle could pit them against one another in time. By refusing the ‘Western Renshai’ the knowledge of their superior battle techniques, they never had to concern themselves with decimating one another in battle.

  “This particular theory of battle skills, not blood, making a Renshai is borne out by the laws concerning the last Renshai. Should a time come when the tribe contains only one member, or any number of a single gender, any and all heirs could learn the battle techniques, no matter how mixed their blood. Additionally, if there were no heirs, the last Renshai could teach the maneuvers to an outsider who would then continue the line. These conditions support . . .”

  Shadimar closed the book with his finger still marking the page. The last sentence had jarred loose the idea at the corner of his mind. Therefore, anyone to whom Rache has taught Renshai maneuvers is technically Renshai. And there is one person. Shadimar frowned, slipping his digit from the book. He returned the volume to its place, leaving it slightly forward to remind him to make revisions. A teen-aged girl who knew nothing of war and collected battle techniques the way others hoarded baubles seemed little better than a crippled sword master when it came to pinning the hopes of a nation upon her. And other things bothered Shadimar. Again, he recalled the inscription in the Crypts of Kor N’rual, a prophecy forecast by an ancient Northern Wizard for a future Western Wizard to fulfill:

  “. . . Hero of the Great War

  He will hold legend and destiny in his hand . . .”

  The distinct reference to a man made Shadimar question his theory. It had become convention to use the male pronoun for groups of mixed gender, but individuals were usually referred to by their proper sex. Unless the Northern Wizard didn’t know the gender and simply assumed. Besides, anyone can make a mistake, and the prophecies usually turn out differently than their letter would imply. Shadimar considered. If correct, his theory granted slim possibility to what had become a hopeless situation. Carcophan, and, therefore, Siderin, won’t expect a woman. It’s not over yet.

  Shadimar stepped back from the shelves. Nimbly, Secodon leapt aside, saving his paw from his master’s boot. But how am I going to get this sheltered girl to take the burdens of a world upon her, not to mention instill the heritage of the Renshai in her? The thought seemed madness. Heroism could not be thrust upon a person; it had to be taken willingly, as if by the person’s own design. As a Wizard, it’s my job to direct, not to manipulate. It’s man’s world, not the gods’ or the Wizards’. Mitrian must take this responsibility on her own or not at all. I can only guide her.

  Thoughts scattered and mingled in Shadimar’s mind. He stood, frozen like the whole and fragmented statues in his courtyard for longer than he knew. The wolf left for meals and returned twice before Shadimar finished molding his plan. Then, possessed of a way and a means, Shadimar awaited his opportunity.

  * * *

  Mar Lon, son of Davrin, sat cross-legged on the floor of Mizahai’s Tavern in the Eastern city of Rozmath, singing “The Tale of Sheriva” to the accompaniment of his lonriset. Dedicated to the Easterners’ god, the song had been written by a forefather of Mar Lon. Its range spanned three and a half octaves, assuring that no one but the current bard and his heir could properly manage it; and the compact, ten-stringed lonriset, crafted by Mar Lon’s great-grandmother, held a richer, more mellow tone than the best made lute or mandolin.

  As always, patrons packed Mizahai’s Tavern, a shifting mass of swarthy men spending the day’s coppers on beer. The reek of unwashed flesh ruined the intricate patterns of Mar Lon’s breathing, spoiling the fine, delicate timbre of the mus
ic, but the Easterners did not seem to notice. Those nearest listened with joyful intentness. The buzz of conversation started just beyond the area of his audience and gained volume only with distance.

  “. . . and when the foeman’s god lay dead at Sheriva’s feet,

  “The Favored One created the world from its parts.

  “The four moons:

  “An eye, a shuddering lip, a clipped nail crescent, and a gullet dark,

  “Each takes its turn in the sky Sheriva made. . . .”

  Mar Lon sang on, pleased by the swaying, pious circle surrounding him because he had brought peace to his listeners in a time of approaching war. As the bard Davrin’s heir, Mar Lon knew that the Easterners’ god was no more real than the pantheon of his own Western people, that only the Northerners and a few of the mixed cultures of the Westlands worshiped the true gods. Yet the Easterners followed their mythology, and their leaders, with a dedication and fanatical honor few could match. To argue against centuries of deeply set belief would gain Mar Lon nothing but violence. And if the gods, Wizards, and centuries of previous bards had chosen not to interfere in the Easterners’ religion, who was he to belittle it?

  Mar Lon launched into the most difficult bars of “The Tale of Sheriva.” The music vacillated between major chords and diminished minor sevenths. Notes jumped sixteenths, and Mar Lon met them with the perfect pitch passed from bard to eldest child for millennia. Now, all corners of the common room quieted, and the spectators listened in spellbound silence. Still young in the ways of the bards, Mar Lon drew pleasure from their intensity and pride from performances that had not yet grown routine. It was still his father’s job to guard the high king in Béarn, which left Mar Lon both free and obligated to travel and learn to understand the many cultures of the world. Without that knowledge, his lyrics and music would lack the emotional overtones of pieces like the one he performed now.

  As Mar Lon slipped back into a part of the song that required less concentration, he considered the people of the East. Like the Northmen, they mistrusted outsiders. But unlike their good cousins in the North, they crammed into cities that sprawled ever further into the farm fields and forests, until nearly every tree had become a stump and the crops, though healthy, were not plentiful enough to feed them and all their livestock. Mar Lon considered his own Westlands, the expansive forest teeming with wildlife and the checkerboard of farm towns and fields that spanned from just west of the Granite Hills nearly to the great trading city of Pudar. Beautiful scenery. An abundance of food. No wonder the Eastern army has had its eyes and swords turned westward for centuries.

  Mar Lon played the last note, then lowered his lonriset to hearty applause. A gaunt serving girl wove through the listeners and handed Mar Lon a mug of ale, on the house. Needing a break, he set the instrument down beside him and sipped at the bitter, watery brew. As conversation once again picked up, the barroom filled with a wild hubbub that sounded unusually discordant in the wake of Mar Lon’s talent.

  The bard had harbored doubts about visiting the Eastlands. It seemed recklessly insane, almost certainly fatal, to visit towns devoted to Carcophan’s evil. Yet Mar Lon had found himself intrigued by the peoples east of the Great Frenum Mountains. Big-boned, dark-haired, and bronzed, they closely resembled the people of the most southern parts the Westlands, particularly the Béarnides and especially the Béarnian line of high kings. Or rather, Mar Lon reminded himself as he took a swig of his drink, the kings resemble the Easterners.

  Davrin’s history lessons had taught Mar Lon that the line of kings contained a heavy dose of Eastern blood. In fact, creation legends often started with the Westlands as a vast, empty vista. According to these stories, disgruntled Northmen and Easterners had come to this new land and interbred. And there was some truth to the story. No doubt the Westerners were a mongrelized race, though they did exist as a people even before the rare Northern and Eastern stragglers came to live among them.

  A shadow fell over Mar Lon. He glanced up at a broad, heavily-featured stranger who dropped to a crouch in front of him. The man reeked of sweat and beer. “Play ‘The Aristiri’s Lament,’” he demanded. He thrust his wide-fingered hand into his pocket, emerging with an Eastern silver, and tossed the coin toward Mar Lon. It struck the floor near the bard’s left knee, bouncing into the hollow between his folded legs.

  Ignoring the coin, Mar Lon studied the man before him. The Rozmathian’s brusque manner and lack of amenities fit the Eastern culture, a strange contrast to the Northmen’s cold politeness toward outsiders. Mar Lon took another sip of beer, weighing the length of his pause to maintain his dignity without inciting the Rozmathian to violence. Then he set aside his drink, wiped his hands the length of his breeks, took his lonriset in hand, and plucked out the chiming introduction to “The Aristiri’s Lament.”

  The Easterner squatted, listening at first in stony, expressionless silence. When the melody began, his eyes drifted shut as he sacrificed vision to concentrate on sound, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward in appreciation.

  The compliment fueled Mar Lon’s pride. It did not matter that the man before him followed the ways of evil, or that the Wizard’s prophecies foretold that he and his people might one day slaughter the Westland races who were Mar Lon’s relatives and neighbors. For now, they were two men communicating through song the thoughts and emotions they could never share in words. The next bard. I am the luckiest man alive.

  Yet the song told otherwise. The stranger had chosen to hear the story of Mar Lon’s first bardic ancestor. And, though Mar Lon had found nothing but joy in his birthright, the legend reminded him that Odin had intended the duties of bards as a curse upon his line. “The Aristiri’s Lament” was only one of seven versions in the Eastern tongue. It spoke of gods the Easterners found pagan, and the translated rhyme scheme did not work as well as Mar Lon would have liked. Still, the Easterners seemed to enjoy the tune and the fable:

  Jahiran was born on a warm Western day.

  The babe looked at his father, and then he did say:

  “Father, why is the way of the world the way?

  Why does the hen, not the rooster, lay,

  While our men, not our women, enter the fray?

  And why do the gods rule us all?”

  Jahiran turned ten on a spring day so cold,

  And vowed to know all by the time he grew old.

  That night he read every use for mined gold

  Why the wisule is timid, the aristiri bold.

  But he understood naught of laws Wizards uphold,

  And why the gods rule us all.

  When Jahiran turned twenty, he had to know why

  The stars took the patterns they did in the sky.

  Why aristiri hawks sing as well as fly,

  Why the fox slinks from brush to rock on the sly,

  The messages hidden in a baby’s cry,

  And why the gods rule us all.

  At thirty, he knocked on the West Sorceress’ door

  Said, “Natalia, please,” and he knelt to implore.

  “There’s a fire inside me that burns to my core

  It feeds not on air, but on knowledge and lore.

  I will die if some power won’t help me learn more.

  And I must know why gods rule us all.”

  Natalia fixed him with an ancient’s knowing eye.

  “You cannot learn all, and you shouldn’t even try.

  There is danger in knowledge,” and her look went wry.

  “Understanding cost even the AllFather an eye.”

  But the pain on his face almost made her cry,

  Though she knew why the gods rule us all.

  So Natalia, she gave him aristiri’s shape,

  And he saw things that men and gods usually drape:

  Saw the passion of love and the violence of rape,

  Saw upstanding men fall prey to wine’s grape,

  Saw Thor coit with a mortal, and that made him gape,

  But he still knew
not why the gods reign over all.

  The first bard learned much of the gods and their rule,

  But facts don’t bring wisdom unto a fool.

  Jahiran used singing hawk form as a tool,

  And he crooned to Thor’s wife of his tryst by a pool.

  Though Jahiran’s purpose was stupid, not cruel,

  Thor showed him why gods rule us all.

  Odin stepped in before Jahiran was flayed.

  “I realize your need, but this can’t go unpaid.”

  Then the One-Eyed god grasped the hawk by its head

  And cut out half its tongue with a razor sharp blade.

  Then, where once perched a hawk, now a wounded man lay

  Who wished he knew less of the gods.

  Then Odin spoke, and his voice it did ring,

  “You can no longer speak, but you can still sing,

  And your fingers will keep the grace of hawk’s wings;

  They will dance across any instrument’s strings.

  Yet your quest to know all will continue to sting.

  Mortal life is too short to know gods.”

  Mar Lon let the last notes fade, hearing the near and distant conversations drop with them, as if the patrons needed to catch the final vibrations regardless of whether they had listened to the body of the song. He put the lonriset aside, cradling his drink again, the gesture ridiculously casual in the tranquil wake of his music.

  The Rozmathian opened his eyes, flopped to a sitting position beside Mar Lon, and gestured to a serving girl for a beer.

  For Jahiran’s descendants, the curse took a less brutal form. Though it was still their job to study other cultures and chronicle the world’s history, the subsequent bards kept their tongues. Only a vow bound them from revealing any of the information they gathered, except in song.