The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  In the dream, Nantel’s arms tightened around her. She felt the warmth of his presence against her. For an instant, the haunting, relentless “thing” seemed to disappear. Then Nantel went cold and limp in her embrace. He stared at her with eyes wide as a puppy’s and liquid with betrayal.

  “No!” Even as Mitrian opened her mouth to deny his murder, Nantel’s eyes flared as red as the gems in her sword had done. Blood flowed through her fingers. As Nantel crumpled to the ground, she recognized her sword in his back.

  “Yu-l-kil-a-fren. You-will-kill-a-friend.” As the creature drew up behind her, its cry gained sense.

  Mitrian whirled to face a young, blond warrior, the Renshai who had become the demon imprisoned in the Eastern Wizard’s topaz. He clutched an exact duplicate of her wolf-hilted sword, its gems the grim scarlet of the blood smeared across her hands.

  Startled, Mitrian backed away. Her heel crashed into Nantel’s corpse. She overbalanced, twisting to avoid his body, and fell into eternity.

  The demon’s laughter chased her.

  * * *

  Mitrian jerked awake. Her heart slammed in her chest, her breaths came in a shallow pant, and sweat slicked her brow and palms.

  Garn’s hand closed over one of hers. “Are you all right?”

  “Bad dream.” Mitrian realized her throat felt painfully dry. Her eyes burned, empty of tears. Until now, her sorrow had occupied her thoughts too completely to admit memory of Shadimar’s warning. Now, reminded by her subconscious, she realized Nantel was the friend her acceptance of the magical sword had condemned to death.

  As her pulse slackened, Mitrian felt fresh tears sting her swollen eyes. She tried to remember Shadimar’s other words that night. She recalled only something about fighting in the Great War and restoring a prince to his throne, a prince whom her overly romanticized vision of the world had turned into the brave and dashing husband who would rescue her from the drudgery of becoming a simple townswoman.

  Recognizing Mitrian’s distress, if not its cause, Garn tried to comfort her. “I’m sorry about what happened to Nantel.”

  Mitrian bit her lip. Thoughts of the archer captain’s death had crushed her beneath a sour avalanche of grief. But it was the misery of a trusted friend’s blood on her hands that tore her conscience to tatters. The demon’s war joy and Colbey’s lessons, which had driven the necessity of committed strokes to become instinctive, sickened her. Despair struck like madness, and she turned her anger against the man she loved and his hollow reassurance. “Damn it, Garn. Don’t lie to me.” Her words emerged as a weeping-hoarse roar. “You hated Nantel. You’re glad he’s dead.” She lapsed into a wild storm of crying.

  “Mitrian.” Garn wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. “I admit I hated Nantel. Given the chance, I’d have killed him long ago.”

  Mitrian sobbed, wishing she had anyone else in the world here to soothe her. Garn could never understand.

  “But,” he continued, “I don’t have to have liked Nantel to know you did. I have friends, too. I can imagine how I’d feel if I had to kill Arduwyn to save Sterrane. Or the other way.”

  No. Mitrian denied the comparison. You can’t possibly imagine. She felt the grief cut deeper than any she had ever known before. “I need to talk to someone else. Someone who didn’t hate Nantel.” She sprang from the bed, not caring if her words stung, hurting too much to worry about anyone else’s pain. She dismissed Sterrane as a confidante, doubting the childlike man had ever taken any life, let alone a friend’s. Arduwyn seemed a more likely candidate. His sensitivity to the term “archer” suggested he had killed before and disliked the memory. At the least, he knew how it felt to betray Kantar, and his natural empathy might enable him to understand. “I’m going to see Arduwyn.”

  Apparently sensing Mitrian’s need for support he could not supply, Garn did not object as she made her way past Kinesthe’s crib and down the loft steps. Dressed only in her nightgown, she crossed the floorboards without pausing and exited through the front door.

  Night breezes chilled Mitrian’s sweat-dampened forehead. The sky lay in darkness except for the wedge of moon and an occasional star that shone through the haze. Barefoot, she trotted across the yard, ignoring the tickle of weeds against her ankles. The chortle of the river formed a sweet duet with the rhythmical shrill of insects. Though soft, Mitrian’s knock on the door of Bel’s cottage seemed misplaced.

  Some time passed without answer. Just as Mitrian raised her fist to tap louder, the door slid open a crack. A single dark eye peered through, at the level of her own. Arduwyn, Mitrian guessed by its location. Sterrane would have towered over her, and Bel stood half a head shorter than Mitrian.

  Shortly, the door wrenched open and confirmed Mitrian’s guess. Dressed in wrinkled breeks and a cloak wrong-side out, Arduwyn stared at her with concern. Sleep had plastered his stiff, red hair onto one side of his head. He would have appeared comical if Mitrian could have found any humor within herself. Briefly, she wondered how Arduwyn had heard her gentle tap from his bed in the loft despite Sterrane’s snoring in the main room.

  “Can we talk?”

  Arduwyn stepped outside, clutching his cloak over his chest with one hand and closing the door with the other. “What’s wrong?” Apparently recognizing the seriousness of Mitrian’s problem by her manner, alarm entered his tone. “Are you all right? Is Garn all right?”

  Mitrian wanted to reassure him but did not feel she could do so honestly. Saying nothing more, she led Arduwyn to the river bank where the waters would muffle their exchange. She sat in the grass.

  Arduwyn squatted before her. He ran a hand through his hair but managed only to rearrange the untidy spikes around his head. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Something happened last night.” Mitrian met his gaze, then wished she had not. His sincere concern made her words that much more difficult to voice.

  Arduwyn waited for her to continue.

  “Garn and I killed some men in the streets.”

  “Oh, no.” Arduwyn closed his eyes, as if that might keep him from hearing the rest of Mitrian’s confession.

  “That’s not the worst,” Mitrian said, her voice wavering as the tears returned.

  Arduwyn’s lids flared open. He made a pained noise.

  “They were soldiers from the town Garn and I came from. They attacked him. I came to help, and, in the process, I killed their captain.” A rush of grief transformed Mitrian’s words to a squeak. “He was a friend. A good friend. Gods, I can’t believe I killed Nantel.” She expected Arduwyn to hold her then.

  Instead, he caught both of her forearms and shook. “Captain? What do you mean, captain? That’s a military title? Who was this captain? Where does that put him in the chain of command? Damn it, Mitrian. Talk to me.” He jostled her again, frantic.

  Mitrian swallowed around a lump forming in her throat, not daring to believe Arduwyn’s callousness. “Captain,” she shouted. “You know, captain. Archer captain, actually. I don’t know. I suppose Nantel was third in command.”

  Arduwyn groaned.

  Shocked by Arduwyn’s attention to trivia while she ached with the burden of killing a friend, Mitrian threw up her hands. “Who cares about his position? Don’t you understand? I killed someone I care for very much.”

  Arduwyn released his hold on Mitrian. “What was this captain doing in Pudar?”

  “He comes every year. He trades. Why are you doing this to me? Don’t I have enough to worry about?”

  “More than you understand, Mitrian.” Arduwyn looked out over the river. “And I’m as much to blame as anyone. I should have known Garn couldn’t handle his temper without my help. Now he’s going to die.”

  The conversation had taken so many turns, Mitrian could no longer follow it. “What are you saying?”

  Arduwyn seemed to be having enough difficulty ordering his own thoughts. “Did any of the soldiers escape?”

  Mitrian nodded. “And there’s certainly more at their camp,
wherever that might be. Nantel never took less than ten men.” The tears dried on her face. “All the gods damn you, Arduwyn. You can’t say Garn’s going to die without explaining why.”

  Arduwyn breathed a hefty sigh. “King Gasir’s greatest concern is Pudar.”

  Anger touched Mitrian as Arduwyn seemed to be going off on another unrelated tangent.

  “In his mind, the city and its survival comes first, then its citizens. Lastly, there’re the foreigners.”

  “All right,” Mitrian grasped the connection slowly. “But it sounds to me like that should give us the advantage, being citizens.”

  “True. If Nantel was some Bruenian rowdy. But a diplomatic captain, a third in command representing another town, falls under city affairs. Politics and diplomacy, city alliances, always come before individuals.”

  Tiring of double-speak, Mitrian pushed for a point. “What does that mean?”

  “If this case goes to court, and it almost certainly will, King Gasir will probably give Nantel’s men anything they ask for. How likely is it they’ll demand Garn’s head?”

  Terror swept Mitrian’s mind of a reply.

  Mitrian’s silence was enough answer for Arduwyn. “I thought so.”

  “We’ve got to run away.”

  “That’s one possibility.” Arduwyn’s tone made it clear he thought other courses of action might work better. “Unfortunately, there’s consequences to having the largest city in the Westlands hunting you. Not to mention the town you came from. And, by running, you’d be admitting guilt. If they have to track you down, there’s no way you’d get a fair trial.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Arduwyn shook his head sorrowfully. “There’s no good answer. We could wait and see. Maybe Nantel’s men won’t press charges. Or we could go to the king first. That would show our intentions are good, at least. We might even manage to win the trial. If you decide to use the course of justice, I’ll do what I can. I can’t promise I’ll find the right words to spare Garn, but I’ll do my best.”

  None of the options pleased Mitrian. “There has to be another way. A better way.”

  “Confront the problem, run from it, or ignore it.” Arduwyn shrugged. “What else is there?”

  “I don’t know,” Mitrian admitted, her grief for Nantel forgotten for the more urgent matter of Garn’s life. And possibly her own. She raised her head, meeting Arduwyn’s soft stare. “What should we do?”

  “It’s not my decision.”

  Mitrian felt suddenly, completely alone. “You’re not going to help?”

  “I already said I’d help. I’m just not going to make the decision.”

  Mitrian rose. “That’s not fair. You’re the only one who understands this city, its rules and its power. How come you’re willing to throw your opinion around about food and toys and money, then when it comes to something important, you back out? Thanks a lot . . .” She emphasized the last word with distinct sarcasm, “. . . friend.” She turned.

  “Wait.” Arduwyn seized the hem of Mitrian’s sleeping gown.

  She whirled back to face him.

  “If I talk you into a course of action, and it gets Garn killed, I’m going to feel like it’s my fault.”

  Mitrian crouched beside Arduwyn. “True. But if you don’t give your opinion, we do the wrong thing, and both Garn and I get killed, you’re going to feel worse.”

  Arduwyn twined his fingers nervously.

  “Right?”

  Arduwyn heaved a long sigh. “Probably right. I think the worst thing you could do would be to ignore the problem. It happened. There were witnesses. Running means spending the rest of your lives watching your backs, hiding, mistrusting anyone who might turn you in to face a justice you could handle far better now.”

  The idea of Kinesthe growing up isolated from people and afraid of all strangers pained Mitrian. “You think we should see the king now?”

  “It only seems logical. Ignoring relies on luck, the idea that Nantel’s men will worry more about appearances than justice or revenge. Running presumes you don’t get caught. In either case, if you do get hauled back to Pudar, you’ll have to face the same trial less prepared. If you and Garn see King Gasir now, before Nantel’s men have a chance to lodge a complaint, it’ll be to your credit. At least, the matter will be settled.”

  Mitrian frowned. Which is worse, having Kinesthe raised as an outlaw or as an orphan ?

  Arduwyn let Mitrian’s gown flutter from his grip. “And we’re not without a case. King Gasir wouldn’t have kept Garn among his guards unless he saw some potential. A good soldier might be worth some political dissent, especially if the Great War is as imminent as Colbey seemed to think. We are citizens, and Garn wouldn’t have attacked without provocation. And I’m not a bad talker. I got him and Sterrane jobs, didn’t I?”

  A thoughtful pause was spoiled by Arduwyn’s chuckle.

  Seeing no humor in the situation, Mitrian glared. “What’s so funny?”

  Arduwyn stood, stretching cramps from each short leg. “Kantar used to tease me by saying the only thing worse than a salesman is a lawyer. I wonder what he’d say if he was here now and knew I was both.”

  Arduwyn laughed.

  Mitrian did not share her companion’s mirth, but the realization that she might also have a trick at her disposal raised her spirits enough for a smile.

  * * *

  By the time Mitrian and Arduwyn gathered their loved ones, explained the situation, and left Kinesthe in Sterrane’s care, dawn streaked the sky. Thick, serrated clouds lifted to admit the colored rays of sunrise, and wind howled down the cobbled streets. Mitrian wore her newest dress, Garn his uniform, and both kept their swords strapped to their waists. Only Arduwyn carried no weapons. He walked beside Mitrian, answering her questions optimistically. Yet, between replies, he held his head low, and the fires in his flat, dark eyes seemed more desperate than hopeful.

  Mitrian kept her gaze locked on the distant spires of the castle, blind to the regular, business-opening bluster of merchants. Cobbled market streets passed to packed-dirt alleys to near-mazes of thready avenues. As they approached the castle, Mitrian’s pulse quickened and her palms went clammy. Repeatedly, she rubbed her hands on her dress.

  A crooked branchway brought them directly before King Gasir’s keep. Formed of the same carved granite as most of the buildings in town, its four stories towered over the next tallest structure. The spires did not rise from the castle itself, but served as crenellated guard towers at the corners of the rectangular walls enclosing the keep and courtyard. Vines curled and tangled over every wall, interspersed with half-open blue and yellow flowers. Huge windows overlooked the yard. Guards paced the catwalks, their tan uniforms hazy in the weak light of morning.

  Arduwyn led Garn and Mitrian to a black, wrought-iron gate where four guards stood at attention. At the sight of Garn, they broke formation. Two opened the gate without awaiting a word or signal from the newcomers. One of the others addressed Garn. “I’m sorry, Garn.” He sounded sincere. “We’ve been ordered to arrest you.”

  Arduwyn swore beneath his breath.

  Mitrian understood her companion’s consternation. Apparently, Nantel’s men had arrived first. Though not wholly unexpected, it would give Santagithi’s soldiers time to shift the odds in their favor.

  Garn nodded, offering no resistance as the guards stripped him of his sword, then led him toward the keep, one on either side.

  A thought struck Mitrian, spiraling fear through her. She whispered her concern to Arduwyn. “You don’t think they’ll chain or imprison him, do you?”

  Arduwyn shrugged his uncertainty, gaze on the guards.

  “Kadrak.” Mitrian hoped captivity would not drive Garn to panicked attack. Worried for Garn, it took her several seconds to realize the remaining guards waited for her to identify herself. “I was there during the fight.” Mitrian avoided details for now as Arduwyn had suggested.

  “And I’m Garn’s advocate,” the lit
tle hunter added.

  The taller of the two remaining guards ushered Arduwyn and Mitrian inside. He helped his companion close the gate before leading his charges across the courtyard. By that time, Garn had already disappeared.

  The sentry took Mitrian and Arduwyn inside the castle, past the entry hall to a comfortable room with several plush chairs and couches around a low table supporting a bowl of fruit. “Wait here. We’ll come for you when the trial’s ready to start. You’ll be seated on the bench to the king’s right. That means you’ll have to pass before the king, and the appropriate social procedures will be expected. Don’t get in the way of the guards or you’ll have to leave. No weapons allowed in the courtroom.” He held out a hand. “You’ll get them back when you leave.”

  Mitrian hesitated. Arduwyn carried no sword, but he fumbled his skinning knife from his breeks and passed it to the guard. Noting her companion’s easy surrender, Mitrian handed over her sword, trusting the demon to remain quiescent in the absence of Renshai. The sentry accepted the sword. With a smile of amusement, he tossed back Arduwyn’s dagger. “We can handle the knife. Just keep it in your pocket.”

  Arduwyn returned the knife to its proper place.

  Emotion entered the sentry’s tone. “Garn’s one of us. We stand by our own. Best of luck.”

  “Thank you.” Mitrian managed a shaky smile, hoping but doubting the king would prove quite so loyal. However much Gasir might have come to trust Garn in the last three weeks, he certainly had known Nantel for years.

  The guard turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Mitrian sat in one of the chairs, sinking so deeply into the cushions she felt lost in folds of plush. Arduwyn plucked an apple from the fruit bowl, munching as he waited. Stomach knotted, Mitrian found the thought of food nauseating, but she did not begrudge Arduwyn his fruit. His reaction to stress always diverged widely from her own.

  Shortly, the sentry returned. He gestured Arduwyn and Mitrian out the door, down a corridor, to a door inlaid with carvings of howling wolves. Opening the panel, he waved them through.