The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Is that a wagon?” a leather clad figure asked Nantel, and Mitrian recognized him as a guard who had remained behind. “Did they take a wagon?”

  Nantel shook his head. “Hopefully, they needed it for treasure.”

  “Or wounded,” the other guard muttered.

  Nantel glared. But before he could speak, a tearful woman beside him hissed. “Quiet! I won’t have you wishing tragedy upon my husband and the others.”

  The rest of the conversation disappeared beneath the mingled din of the crowd. Mitrian peered over the child. She knew Rache wore only a jerkin of sable leather, as always refusing the chain mail Santagithi gave his officers because, he said, it hampered his swordcraft and took some of the glory from battle. As the war party closed the gap, Mitrian discovered Rache near the back. Most of the men appeared wearied and glum, their heads sagging, their clothes stained. Many horses carried no riders, and the ranks were greatly whittled.

  Rache alone seemed the piece that jarred. He carried his blond head high and with great dignity in his bearing. A smile creased his lips, and his cheeks fairly glowed. He still wore a sword at each hip, the bow and quiver slung across his back. The crowd broke into relieved or grieving huddles as all the men came into view. Bitter howls cut over conversation, more than Mitrian could ever recall. One woman raced toward the war party, as if she could only believe her husband’s death by examining the survivors up close.

  Mitrian half-heard more than one whispered comment about Rache’s callousness, but she understood. For the others, death was an unfortunate consequence of war. For Rache, it was the goal, to triumph and triumph again until a superior opponent took his life in a wild blaze of glory. If he was the one killed, he would want the others to feel as happy as he did now, to celebrate and honor his death, not mourn it. Mitrian knew that but others did not, and they judged him from their own narrow definition of morality. Mitrian backed away from the crowd, and Rache pulled up his horse beside her. His blue eyes sparkled, and he laughed.

  They walked together, Rache mounted, Mitrian on foot toward Rache’s cottage. Excited by the prospect of showing Rache her sword and asking the many questions her dream-visit to the Eastern Wizard had raised, Mitrian waited only until her voice could not be easily heard by the townspeople. “Practice tonight?”

  Rache threaded through the throng, so glad he did not even cringe at her public request. “Mitrian, the battle went well for me, but I’m exhausted. Tomorrow, I promise we’ll have the best practice yet.”

  Mitrian’s heart beat a joyous cadence, buoyed by Rache’s mood. She felt certain the demon in the gems had revealed true details of the battle, and she could hardly wait to show the new sword to Rache. “Deal.”

  Rache drew rein before his cottage. There, Emerald met them. She helped Rache from the saddle and onto his chair, then hurled herself into his arms, dark eyes glaring at Mitrian.

  Rache gave Emerald a reassuring hug, but returned his attention to Mitrian. “Can you take my horse back to the stable?”

  Mitrian nodded. Centered on Rache, she scarcely noticed the milling crowd. She headed toward the animal.

  “Wait.” Rache gestured her to him, apparently oblivious to Emerald’s discomfort. Mitrian felt certain he did not intend to be cruel. “I have something for you.” He offered the bow and quiver. “I won’t be needing these anymore. I thought you might want them.”

  Mitrian’s jaw sagged. She turned the shocked gesture into an open-mouthed grin. “Thank you,” she breathed, not daring to believe her luck. First the sword and now her own bow. She reached for it.

  Before she could take it, a meaty hand clamped over the top of the bow and wrenched it from Rache’s grip.

  Emerald sprang to her feet with a tight-lipped scream. Rache stiffened, dropping the quiver. Silver and black fletched arrows spilled to the ground. Mitrian whirled to face Santagithi. His pale features wrung into a tight grimace, and his eyes went dark as flint. He hurled the bow to the ground, whipped free his sword, and slammed it down on the shaft. The wood snapped.

  Santagithi jabbed his sword back into its sheath. “Rache, I don’t want you giving my daughter any more presents. Do you understand that?”

  Mitrian had never seen her father so angry. She stared, too shocked to speak.

  Rache looked away. His handicap made it impossible for him to leave with dignity or even under his own power. The first joy Mitrian had seen in Rache for a long time drained away. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. He addressed his next words to Emerald. “Take me inside.”

  With an apologetic glance at Santagithi, Emerald spun Rache’s chair and wheeled him into the cottage.

  Rache’s humiliation touched Mitrian deeply, rousing her to rage. “Why did you do that to him?” she screamed, her voice rising an octave.

  Respectfully, the crowd dispersed to leave father and daughter alone, but Mitrian did not notice. Her hands shook at her sides, and she could not have stemmed her question had she wanted to do so.

  Santagithi frowned, waiting until Emerald closed the cottage door before replying. “Weapons from a war do not make appropriate gifts for a young lady.”

  Mitrian could not believe what she was hearing. “You didn’t mind me using a bow before.”

  “I thought your interest then was helping Rache. I see now it was otherwise. I was wrong the entire time.”

  Mitrian tried to consider what might have happened on the foray to make her father so unreasonable. She knew many men had died and he felt responsible, but she could not fathom what relation that had to Rache. “What do you mean?”

  Finally, Santagithi turned his attention to his daughter. His glare chilled her. “For one thing, young lady, I mean you’re not allowed on the archery range. For another thing, you’re not going to back talk me anymore today. Go home.” He stabbed a finger at the citadel.

  Enraged, Mitrian did not consider punishment. Few things seemed worse than denying her Nantel’s lessons and her time spent with the archers. “I will not go back home! Quit commanding me. I’m your daughter, not one of your soldiers!”

  Santagithi’s jaw clamped tight. A pulse pounded at his temple, and Mitrian could hear the sound of his teeth scraping before he opened them to speak. “I never lost this many men in a foray before in my life. All the rough jokes, all the gutter humor, all the low-life practical jokes my men play on one another while they’re on the range or in the barracks is what forms them into a unit. Little things like those are why the men are willing to fight and die for one another. Then, they’re not just acquaintances, but brothers. You’ve been at the range. The men have changed. You haven’t noticed it because you don’t know what they were like before. But they have. During this foray, they were a lot more quiet and a lot more restrained. And I’ve never lost this many before.”

  Taken aback by the ferocity and candor of her father’s explanation, Mitrian found no reply.

  “It’s not your fault, I know it’s not,” Santagithi said quickly. “But these men trust me. I’m not willing to take the chance that your presence has softened them. If you won’t accept it for your own good, then think of it as for the good of my men. You’re not allowed on the range. Now back to the house with you.” He added with an authority too firm to resist, “Now, Mitrian!”

  Mitrian went.

  * * *

  Mitrian lay on her bed, her door shut and the sword between her hands when a fist pounded on the keep’s front door. Usually, the sound would not have carried this far, but the visitor had struck the wood with brutal force. Curious, Mitrian sheathed and hid her sword, crept to her door and opened it a crack.

  Rache’s voice wafted clearly to her. “I want to talk to Santagithi.”

  Apparently, the guard, Jakot, was in the citadel and had answered the knock, because his gruff bass replied. “Santagithi’s busy right now. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  Rache’s voice rose in bitter anger that scarcely passed for sarcasm. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get down a
nd walk in to talk to Santagithi. Damn it, Jakot. Bring him here!”

  A short silence ensued as Jakot considered whose wrath he feared more, his captain’s or his general’s. “All right,” he said at length, though whether in answer to Rache’s tone or some threatening gesture, Mitrian did not know. “I’ll talk to him.” She heard the sound of Jakot’s footsteps sweep past. A cross draft whipped through Mitrian’s window, and she knew Jakot had left the front door open for Rache. She remained still, tucking her hair behind her ears to make listening easier.

  Rache’s horse snorted twice. Otherwise, Mitrian would not have known whether he was still waiting.

  Soon, Santagithi’s heavy bootfalls clomped down the passageway, and he approached Rache alone. “You know the procedure, Rache. What’s the idea of yelling at Jakot?”

  Rache’s question rang equally loud. “What’s the idea of you yelling at me in front of a crowd?”

  “Let’s talk in private.”

  Mitrian felt a sudden gust as the door swept closed, then the air stilled. Damn! She wanted to hear the explanation as much as Rache, perhaps more, and the fact that it was a personal matter made no difference. She felt certain it involved her, and she might be able to help. Unless he’s mad because many of the archers died under Rache’s command. Mitrian frowned, doubtful. If Father didn’t completely trust Rache’s abilities as a commander, he would never have made him captain. Mitrian considered slipping from her room, out the front door and following, but she knew one of the few things worse than spying was getting caught at it. She hesitated in indecision.

  Santagithi’s voice came faintly through her window, alternately discernible and muffled beyond comprehension. “. . . you know . . . that’s about. . . . been around . . . long enough to know. . . .”

  They’re talking by the side of the house. Excitement shivered through Mitrian, and she bounded across the room. As she approached the window, she crept forward more cautiously. Rache was shouting, and his words came to her distinctly. “Maybe I’m just stupid, but I don’t understand. You always allowed me to be a friend to your daughter before. You used to trust me. Now, all of a sudden, because some crazed animal of a slave hit me across the back of the neck and I can’t walk, I’m not allowed to see her. Am I not good enough anymore? I’m no longer whole enough to be a brother to her?”

  A hush seemed to follow, and it took Mitrian a moment to realize her father was speaking. After Rache, he sounded unnaturally quiet. Cautiously, she edged her head into view. She saw a grassy field studded with trees and laced over a background of forest. She could not spot Rache or Santagithi and knew they stood by the side of the house. She pushed aside the shelf before the window. She could squeeze through, but climbing back inside would prove difficult; and, just by sticking her head through the opening, she could hear even Santagithi without difficulty. “. . . You know that’s not it.”

  “Then what is?” Rache demanded.

  Santagithi’s voice rose to the same volume as Rache’s. “You’re standing here yelling at me? I should be yelling at you. My daughter’s of age now. When have you ever given me a straight answer about her?”

  Mitrian held her breath. Rache did not answer, but Santagithi did not seem to need one.

  The general continued. “When, Rache? You never have. I’ve asked you your intentions. Now you say you’re like a brother to her. Brothers don’t spend that much time off alone with a sister. Then you not only bring her back presents, you bring her ones unbefitting her sex and her station. How am I supposed to read that? At first, I was worried about you taking advantage of my daughter. Now I’m worried about you making my daughter into my son.”

  Mitrian bit her lip until it hurt, trying to staunch the guilt. She knew it was her fault, goading Rache to train her with a sword and later with a bow. She had always known Rache might pay the consequences, but it had proven easier to pretend it would never happen than to give up the opportunity.

  This time, Rache had a reply. “You may want a pretty flower that just sits there, but you don’t have one. Mitrian is every bit your daughter. Why did we go on this last raid? We didn’t need food. We didn’t need money. You just couldn’t bear to sit anymore.” He added quickly, apparently not wanting to make the wrong point or to appear judgmental, “And that’s the way it should be. If you don’t go out looking for death, you never find life. Mitrian’s the same way as you. She has to go out and search. There’s a whole world out there that you, as her father, have always given her tantalizing glimpses of with your stories. All the things you’ve seen, all the things you’ve done. Finally, she gets old enough to experience her own piece of the world, and you tell her she can’t. You don’t tease your dogs that cruelly.”

  Mitrian held her breath, awed by Rache’s insight. At first, she had believed he taught her swordcraft because she had manipulated him into it. Later he seemed to get a personal pleasure from watching her in action. It reminded him of something or someone distant. Now she realized he knew her a lot better than she suspected. Yet she understood him, too. She waited, certain her father must feel equally impressed by Rache’s points.

  “Fine,” Santagithi said coolly. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Mitrian laced her fingers, grinning, scarcely daring to believe it might work out.

  But the remainder of Santagithi’s reply struck like granite. “I very well may have been making a mistake for the last ten years. But I’m no fool. That mistake has ended. No more stories from me. And nothing from you. Nothing, Rache. I don’t want you seeing her anymore.”

  “No,” Mitrian whispered. Tears welled in her eyes, and she missed Rache’s answer, if there was one.

  “I have eyes and ears throughout this village,” Santagithi said firmly. “Any leader does. I know you’ve been sneaking off to see my daughter. That belies everything you said about being like a brother. Mitrian is my daughter. I won’t have her hurt, even by someone I consider a friend.”

  Rache’s tone went dangerously flat. “That’s not what’s been going on.”

  Mitrian felt as if she had been ripped in half. Part of her wanted Rache to keep the secret, truly believed that if he said nothing, things could continue the way they had. Another side knew Rache had to protect himself from Santagithi’s anger and wished he would place the blame on her, where it belonged. If for no other reason, Santagithi would be less harsh on his daughter than on a soldier.

  “I’ve gotten enough different accounts.” Now Santagithi had lost control. “All of them can’t be liars, and only one needs to be telling the truth. If you were anyone else, I would kill you out of hand. It’s going to stop. And it’s going to stop now. I won’t kill you, but I will throw you out of this village. I’ll give you a horse and whatever you own. And I better never see you again.”

  The world fragmented around Mitrian. Nothing existed but the two voices around the corner and the shards of a shattered dream.

  “You’re overreacting,” Rache said.

  The simple phrase helped Mitrian bring things back into perspective. It’s not over yet.

  “I am not,” Santagithi screamed. “Mitrian is my own daughter, my only child. She stands to inherit a lot of things. She’s all my hope for the future. Like it or not, I’m going to die, no matter how strong I am. And she’s what of mine is going to continue. There are very few people in this world who would trifle with me. Fewer still had better trifle with my daughter.”

  Now Mitrian found it was Rache she was straining to hear. “But that’s not why I’m seeing her.”

  Mitrian held her breath, her chest clenched into knots.

  “Fine,” Santagithi said. “Then you explain it.”

  “I’m teaching her something.”

  Lack of air made Mitrian dizzy, and she forced herself to inhale. This is it. She fondled the bedpost, glancing to the location of the sword, irrationally afraid. Even if Rache and her father came to blows, either could defend without her help. And whose side would I take?

  “
Rache, what you might be ‘teaching her’ is exactly what bothers me.”

  Rache did not mince words. “I’ve been teaching her to use a sword.”

  This is it. Mitrian cringed, awaiting the explosion.

  But Santagithi’s voice emerged too calmly. “You’ve been teaching her to use a sword.” He repeated, as if trying to make sense of the words. “You’ve been teaching her to use a sword? A sword?” A thud sounded as Santagithi struck something, perhaps the wall of the house. “You’ve been teaching my daughter to use a sword! You stupid, pigheaded, overly aggressive, Northie bastard! How dare you! Are you insane?”

  Silence. Mitrian had a sudden fear her father might have hit Rache; the Renshai’s lack of reply spoke louder than words.

  “Are you willing to marry my daughter today?”

  “No,” Rache admitted.

  Santagithi regained his composure, though a sharp edge still tinged his explanation. “A very important part of what Mitrian’s going to become and what’s going to happen to this town depends on how and who my daughter marries. Men do not want to marry other men. You make my daughter unweddable. After what you’ve taught her, any man who does marry her is not going to be interested in her, they’re going to be interested in her dowry. Mitrian deserves better than that. I’m not going to let you take it from her.”

  Mitrian waited, aware Rache’s view of a woman’s place differed from that of the rest of the village, and she wondered if he could even understand her father’s concern.

  Rache spoke evenly. “First, Mitrian is not a man. Anyone who believes she is a man is completely blind . . . and stupid, too. Second, your daughter is a strong woman. Any man who isn’t tougher than her and able to, at least, compete with her on an equal level doesn’t deserve her and couldn’t handle her anyway.”

  Despite the danger of the situation, Mitrian could not help but smile at the compliment.

  “That’s not your decision to make.”