“No.” Rache delivered what he believed was the coup de grace. “I’ve thought of that. I’ll claim the boy as my own, if I must. And I’ll continue Mitrian’s lessons no matter what anyone thinks.”
“And Garn?”
“Will die, yes.”
“Why does Garn have to die?”
Arduwyn’s question seemed ludicrous to Rache. “Because he’s evil, dangerous, and unpredictable. Why would anyone want him to live?”
“He’s been with Mitrian nearly a year. He’s never harmed her. She loves him more now than ever.”
The suggestion pained Rache like fire. “She only thinks she loves him.”
Arduwyn snorted. “Loves him, thinks she loves him. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is . . .” Rache could feel rage boiling up inside him again. “. . . that when I kill Garn, she’ll come to realize she never loved him at all.”
“Or she’ll come to realize you never loved him at all. I don’t think that was ever in doubt.”
“Modi’s wrath!” Rache exploded. “The gladiator crippled me. I’m supposed to love him for that?”
Arduwyn leaned closer, no longer afraid of Rache’s swords despite his building temper. He spoke quickly, so as not to give Rache space to interrupt. “First . . .” He extended his index finger. “I’m not asking you to love him, only telling you that Mitrian does. She’s already agreed to return home under the condition that her husband is accepted as her husband. I don’t think that’s much to ask. Second . . .” He drew out his middle finger beside the other. “It’s been nearly a year. Garn’s not a gladiator anymore. He’s a man. No one is born with a gladiator’s personality; that savage temper of his was created. And third . . .” Arduwyn added his ring finger to the previous two. “You crippled him, too. Or your people did. Someone trained him to meet every crisis with violence and no more thought than a bird needs to fly.” Arduwyn was shaking now. “Could that someone be the same man who would kidnap a stranger at sword point to thank the man for saving his life?”
Rache caught himself with his hands halfway to Arduwyn’s throat. Self-consciously, he turned the gesture toward himself, running his hands through golden hair which had so many times born the crimson stain of blood and triumph-sweetened sweat. A breeze blew the yellow strands back into his face. “Who told you I trained Garn?” Dropping one hand, he fondled the hilt of his sword, the one love that had never failed nor betrayed him.
“No one had to tell me.” Arduwyn’s gaze traced the course of Rache’s hand all the way to his sword. “Anyone who becomes competent forms a strong bond with his teacher. Usually, like Mitrian and Colbey or me and my father, it’s a positive bond. For Garn to learn as much as he did of a skill he believes he never wanted to know, he must have had strong ties, indeed. That such closeness went the route of severe hatred rather than love, I’m not surprised.”
Rache’s brow furrowed as he assimilated Arduwyn’s oddly worded explanation.
“You and Garn are much alike.”
Those words Rache understood, and they infuriated him. “You have little respect for your own life, archer.”
“Hunter,” Arduwyn corrected. “And maybe. But I have a lot of respect for your life as well as Garn’s and Mitrian’s. One thing I know for certain, the only way to get Mitrian back is to accept Garn. If you kill him or even try, she’ll want nothing to do with you.”
Unless Garn clearly attacks first. She can’t blame me for self-defense. Rache kept that thought to himself. “So what do you suggest? I enter Pudar bearing gifts for Garn?”
“No.” Arduwyn seemed to read Rache’s mind. “That’ll only provoke Garn.” He started to slide from Bein’s withers, making his intentions clear enough that Rache could halt him with a command before violence was called for.
Rache said nothing.
Arduwyn landed lightly on the ground, standing near Bein’s head. Freed of the extra weight, the black stallion lowered his head to graze. “Have you ever seen dogs fight?”
Rache nodded.
“Often, if you can get them to meet on neutral territory, they become friends. Pudar is Garn’s home. The town you came from is yours. I’d like some time to speak with Garn as freely as I just did with you. Then, I promise, I’ll get the two of you together on neutral ground. That place you’ve been staying near the Southern Mountains will do.”
Rache considered. He had promised not to identify Iaplege as a town of outcasts, but Peusen had not put limits on the number of friends he could meet there. He could not speak for Arduwyn, but Mitrian or Garn could be accepted into the Iaplegian forces based on their pasts and abilities. The thought of riding to war at Garn’s side sent a shiver through his body. Accustomed to fighting as an individual and trusting no one, Garn could became as large a danger to his companions as to his enemies. “You’re not lying to me again? Because if I find out you are, you may find I’ve learned a few tricks from Colbey.”
Arduwyn raised a hand. “I swear it. I will lead Garn and Mitrian to you within the month.” He broke off with an inappropriate oath. “What am I doing? I can’t lead Garn anywhere. I promised my wife I’d be home every evening.”
It seemed like an odd vow to Rache, but he saw no reason for Arduwyn to make up such a thing. Yet.
“Listen, Rache. I still think this is a good idea. I can’t lead them, but I’ll see to it that they get to you. I’ll talk Sterrane into . . .”
The familiar name jolted Rache. “Sterrane?” He smiled as pleasant memories rose to the forefront of his consciousness. “Little Sterrane?”
“Little?” Arduwyn shook his head vigorously. “I don’t think this could possibly be the same Sterrane.”
Rache laughed. “That was the joke. He was several years younger than me. But, between me aging too damned slowly and him being the size of a small building, we looked like we came from different worlds.” He chuckled again. “Big, black-haired monster. Looks like he ought to be tripping over his own feet, but the only thing clumsy about him is his speech. Real good with a crossbow.”
“That’s him,” Arduwyn admitted. “How did you know him?”
“He lived in our town for a while by the Eastern Wizard’s decree. Where’d you find him?” Another realization sent him into a fresh round of laughter. “Sterrane is the giant imbecile you’ve been traveling with?”
“Eastern Wizard?” Arduwyn looked startled. “Why would Wizards have an interest in Sterrane?”
Rache stared. “You don’t know?”
Arduwyn shook his head.
“When you bring Mitrian and Garn to neutral territory, I’ll tell you all about him.” On that note, Rache wheeled Bein and sent him into a canter.
Arduwyn shouted after him. “Wait! I told you I can’t . . .” The rest was lost beneath the rattle of branches.
Soon, Rache’s mount slowed, winding between the trunks, retracing the path by which he had come to Pudar. Wind ruffled Rache’s hair like the hand of a lover. Birdsong preceded him through even the densest growth of forest, but Rache concentrated on motivations that went deeper than his surface thoughts could handle. Months ago, no man’s words would have been enough to delay his vengeance against Garn. But experience had made him patient, and Arduwyn’s words held the same wisdom that Nantel consistently displayed.
Without intention, Rache’s thoughts wandered to a future he had evaded as a child. He imagined the sting of the Northern king’s whip, the heavy pull of chains, the daily bars to freedom. The more he pondered, the more the vision became real. Gradually, something ancient responded, hot, ugly hatred for the men who kept him. To fight and kill enemies and to die in battle was the glory and life of a soldier. But to fight and kill strangers for an enemy’s entertainment and to die in a cage reduced war to slaughter and honor to irony.
For a moment, Rache thought he understood.
CHAPTER 22
The Source of Strength
Rain battered the treetops, rolling through gaps in the stiff umb
rella of foliage to soak the three hunters below. Chilled to the bone, Garn shook his head hard, flinging water over his companions and leaving his hair nearly as spiky as Arduwyn’s. Within moments, the ceaseless drip of rain plastered the mahogany strands flat to his head again.
Despite the drenching, Garn felt dirty. The odor of rancid trap bait and musk pervaded him. Heedless, Arduwyn and Sterrane quartered deer, packing the bundles onto Stubs, whistling and humming as if neither could think of anything more enjoyable in life than standing in the wet fondling raw meat.
Garn had come to the conclusion that he would never make a good hunter. After years of watching archers huddled like cowards behind drawn crossbows while stronger, more stalwart guards took the risks of training and moving gladiators, Garn held little interest in or respect for the weapon. He enjoyed walking through the woods, savoring his freedom, but the time spent butchering and skinning bored him, and even a caged gladiator knew enough to avoid rain by whatever means at his disposal.
While Sterrane lashed the final bundle of meat into place, Arduwyn took Garn aside. The hunter’s sodden leathers clung to his skin, making him look smaller and scrawnier than usual. Water darkened his hair to copper, and droplets wound from the strands. Still, despite his comical appearance and love of the woodlands, he appeared soberly out of his element. “Garn, there’s something we have to discuss that I know you don’t want to talk about.”
Now some distance from Sterrane and the donkey, Garn faced Arduwyn. Resting one foot on a stone, he leaned forward to indicate his willingness. It seemed foolish to discuss in the rain what could as easily be discussed in a cottage, but Garn did not question Arduwyn’s purpose. Soaked to the skin, he found the rain scarcely bothered him.
Arduwyn kept his gaze on Garn’s hands as he spoke. “That incident with Nantel made me realize just how much danger we’re in so long as this feud between you and Mitrian’s people continues.” His eyes flitted to Garn’s face then back to his hands. “Imagine what could have happened if those soldiers had ambushed us out in the woods. With arrows, for example. There’s really no way we could defend against that, even now that we know they’re hunting you.”
Garn listened patiently but found only concerns without solutions in Arduwyn’s words. Discussing Santagithi’s people irritated him. The tug of his clinging undergarments and the dribble of rain into his eyes became a more noticeable nuisance. “So? What’s your point?”
“My point.” Arduwyn licked his lips, and Garn recognized the gesture as delay. It seemed ridiculously unlikely they could have felt dry in the downpour. “We’ve got to find a way to make peace. We don’t need more enemies. As it is, we can’t even say Mitrian’s a . . .” He mumbled the next word, “. . . Renshai . . .” He resumed his normal tone, “. . . without upsetting everybody in the world. We don’t need everybody in the world plus four hundred soldiers as enemies.”
Garn still sifted no plans from Arduwyn’s words. It was not his way to speculate, so he waited.
Arduwyn scuffed his boot through the mud. “There’s an envoy from Santagithi’s Town who wants to see you and is willing to make peace.”
Intrigued, Garn stared. “An envoy?” Suspicion aroused, he narrowed his eyes to hostile slits. “You’re lying. Santagithi didn’t come to Pudar with that bunch of coward-led peons. He’s the only one who can speak for the entire town.”
“There might be one other.”
Garn’s mind drew a blank. The only high officer he had seen convince large numbers of Santagithi’s people of anything had been Nantel. “Who?”
Arduwyn squirmed. “You know him, I’m certain. He’s got a lot of qualities you have to respect. He’s an outstanding fighter. He’s got more courage than any single person ought to have. And he cares for Mitrian every bit as much as you do.” He clarified quickly. “Though with a brother’s love.”
Garn felt anger growing warm in the pit of his stomach, but he dared not contemplate its source. “Who is it?” he demanded, dimly aware speculation might destroy his self-control. “Arduwyn, who is this so-called envoy?”
“It’s Rache.”
“What!” Garn shouted before he realized he had spoken. “That bastard child of wisules is here?”
“He wants to make peace,” Arduwyn reminded hurriedly. “He realizes you two really aren’t that different. . . .”
“What do you mean not that different?” Rage crescendoed to an explosion of hatred. “When did I ever whip slaves? When did I ever force men to fight to the death? When—”
Arduwyn broke in. “Garn, calm down. Rache understands what you went through. He’s sorry—”
Now Garn interrupted. “This conversation is over!” Garn advanced on Arduwyn, thoughts on the hot seed of anger within him. Unlike the usual superficial wrath of daily conflict or the generalized homicidal frenzy that seized him in the pit, this rage had a deep-seated source that Garn had never before experienced. It came neither from his body nor his mind but from a part of himself he had never learned to consciously use, his soul, perhaps, or a flicker of divine inspiration. Elemental or spiritual, Garn did not know, but he felt suddenly, unequivocally certain he had found the source of Colbey’s strength. Caught by this experience, he nearly forgot where he was and the cause of his new emotion.
Arduwyn back-stepped. Fear showed clearly in his eyes. “Garn. He realizes he made a mistake. Rache—”
If Arduwyn finished his sentence, Garn never knew it. Bitterness shattered his control, pitching him into a flaming agony of hatred and rage. He lunged at Arduwyn, his thoughts feverishly muddled. “If I ever see Rache, I’m going to kill him.”
Arduwyn sprang backward, but not quickly enough. Garn’s sinewy hands ground into his shoulders. The ex-gladiator hefted the smaller man, slamming him into the trunk of an oak.
Arduwyn cried out in pain, surprise, and fear.
Sanity lost, Garn hammered his quarry against the tree again. “The only time I want to hear that name mentioned is when you tell me where he is.” He battered Arduwyn against the trunk again. “Where is he?”
Arduwyn gasped. He went limp in Garn’s grasp.
Nearby, someone bellowed. Something half again Garn’s weight struck him at a full run. Fingers gouged Garn’s side. The impact broke his grip on Arduwyn and sent him airborne. Wind knifed beneath his sodden clothing, then he landed in a patch of briars. Branches snapped beneath him, jabbing into his back and rump.
Howling in rage and frustration, Garn leapt to his feet and faced the man who had hit him. Sterrane crouched protectively between Arduwyn and Garn, his rain-plastered hair and beard making him look like a drowned animal.
“Garn, stop it!” Arduwyn hollered. “If you hate Rache, that’s your decision. But don’t hurt your friends.”
Friends. Garn’s world returned to focus. He stared at Sterrane and Arduwyn blankly, watching long enough to see the red-haired hunter climb painfully to his feet. Guilt descended over him, banishing anger and accompanied by an excitement of a discovery he could not quell. He hated what he knew he had done to Arduwyn, yet his unschooled mind could not conjure the necessary words to express his misgivings. “I’m sorry,” he said. And though he knew it was not enough, he turned and stomped back toward home alone.
* * *
Spring rain pattered on the rooftop of Garn’s and Mitrian’s cottage in Pudar. In her bed in the loft, Mitrian slept, lulled by the steady rhythm of the droplets. Garn sat on a bench in the main room, ignoring the throb of muscles locked too long in one position and the burning of eyes held open in a stare fixed on Kinesthe in his crib. The infant seemed to be looking back with the same intensity, blue eyes half-opened but unblinking, perhaps in sleep.
“Kinesthe.” The movement cracked Garn’s dry lips, reminding him how prolonged his stillness had been. He felt refreshed, as if he had slept, yet he remained fully aware. While Mitrian rested, Garn had explored a depth of person he had never known existed. “Kinesthe,” he repeated. “Strength.” There was magic
in the name. Spoken now, it filled Garn with a strange elation that bordered on understanding. He rose.
Crossing the room, Garn gathered Kinesthe, snug in his woolen blanket. “Tonight, we’ll find the secret together.”
The infant settled against Garn’s chest, innocent, oblivious to the hopes and goals placed upon him by eager parents and an aged Renshai.
Walking to the door, Garn tripped the latch and carried Kinesthe into the dark depths of night. Stars winked down on father and son as they crossed the tangled stretch of weeds, passed the shielding spread of blackberry vines, and sat on the great rock. Garn selected a position where the trees shielded him and Kinesthe from the rain. “One day, Kinesthe, a man twice my age will come to train you. He’ll teach you to fight until no man or woman can best you. Don’t forget your father. I can do things even the old man cannot.”
Since Colbey had broken the horseshoe in the woods between the farm towns, Garn had wondered if he had more strength than the elder. Now, when the question went unasked, his mind and body responded together. He did not need to ask; he knew. All that remained was to test that knowledge.
Garn set Kinesthe on the rock beside him. Reaching into his cloak pocket, he retrieved the broken halves of metal he had carried since Colbey’s display of strength. If the rain still pounded the leaves or Kinesthe stirred, Garn did not hear them. His mind filled with the self-control he had sought so long to harness. Taking one of the horseshoe pieces into his hands, he shut his eyes, feeling the smooth coolness of the steel in his mind. Nearly an hour passed in what seemed like a moment to Garn. Slowly, the metal warmed to his grasp.
Sweat beaded Garn’s brow. His massive muscles pulled. And steel gave. Hurriedly, Garn opened his eyes. The metal had bent, not completely, but noticeably. I can do it. Faced with the evidence, Garn’s strength erupted in an explosion of will. Throwing himself into the task, he snapped his arms downward.
The Last of the Renshai Page 55