Flight of the Renshai fotr-1

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Saviar wondered whether or not the spar had finished. He felt uncomfortable with a grubby practice weapon where his zealously tended sword should sit. He remembered what his grandfather had told him. "Did you come to barter iron ore with King Griff?"

  Verdondi chuckled, then covered his mouth, clearly mortified by his reaction.

  Confused, Saviar sought clarification. He shook back red-blond hair damp with sweat. "What?"

  "I'm sorry." Verdondi glanced around the empty practice area, as if concerned someone might overhear. "It's just such a simple name for a man of such might and power."

  Now, Saviar laughed. He had grown accustomed to the unpretentious name of Bearn's great king. It fit the childlike, bearish man whose rulings seemed guileless and easy when he spoke them. Yet, when examined, those same proclamations held a complexity belied by the man's unpretentious wording and relaxed manner. Few could remain so consistently fair and proper. He never seemed to make a single mistake.

  A common feature of all the greatest kings of Bearn, that effortless shrewdness soothed the populace, who treasured it and the man who displayed it. They would not have loved him any less had he borne the name Dirt, and they spoke his common moniker with a sweet reverence that made it seem as worthy as any knight's title. For centuries, a test designed by gods chose the proper heir to the throne, and Griff had passed with ease.

  "It is a simple name for such a great and wonderful man. But it suits him."

  Verdondi nodded, though he had no experience on which to base his own judgment. "Any merchant could deliver a load of ore, normally. But with the pirates off Bearn's coast, it seemed prudent to bring warriors."

  "Like you and your father."

  "Yes." Verdondi raised his head. Sunlight sparked highlights through the pale mane of hair, sweat plastered into an array of spikes. Wispy brows seemed to disappear against skin as white as skimmed milk. "Also, we came to offer assistance against the pirate scourge and the Renshai."

  Saviar shook his head, trying to clear his ears. He had to have imagined the last word. "And the… what?"

  "The Renshai,"Verdondi repeated clearly. "You must have heard of the Renshai. Everyone has.You know, 'the golden-haired devils.' "

  "Devils…" Saviar ran his fingers through the tangles of his hair. A lump formed in his throat. "We don't call them that."

  Verdondi finally headed for the racks where he had left their true weapons. "That's because a Knight of Erythane would never deliberately offend anyone, no matter how evil or creepy. You're too polite."

  Evil? Creepy! The words hit Saviar like tongues of flame. He wanted to spit back an angry retort, but he held his tongue. Not only would his father and grandfather not approve, but it might start a very real battle in the practice court. Killing the son of a visiting dignitary would result in a dangerous, international incident.

  Verdondi looked away from Saviar to retrieve his sword.

  At the moment, that casual gesture came across as a grave insult. No one dared turn his back on a Renshai.

  "Everyone else calls them demons or devils, and rightly so."

  Saviar's heart pounded. He had reached a point of no return. In his place, his mother would announce her heritage and wind up killing the brash young Northman. His father would sanction neither a lie nor a battle. Ra-khir would see an opportunity to educate, but he would also find the right words to do so. I'm not a Knight of Erythane, and I'm not Kevral. Saviar chose his own course, though it involved a lie of omission. "I appreciate warriors no matter their origins. The Renshai are superior swordsmen. They have protected the heirs of Bearn for decades, and our enemies are their enemies."

  Verdondi exchanged his own sword with the mangled practice weapon, then grasped Saviar's from the rack.

  The lump in Saviar's throat became a boulder. Instinctively, he sought the best way to reclaim his sword and dodge any attack the Northman might initiate. No matter who held it, any sword in any room with a Renshai could belong to him in an instant. If the Renshai wanted it, it was his.

  Apparently oblivious to his companion's upheaval, Verdondi carefully turned the sword around and offered the hilt. "Here you go."

  Relief washed through Saviar. "Thank you." He accepted the offering, swiftly exchanging the practice sword for his own in his sheath. Its presence calmed him.

  The entire procedure came across as boring routine. Verdondi clearly had no idea he was talking to a Renshai, and Saviar had no intention of telling him. "I'm not going to argue the sins of the Renshai with you, Saviar. Knights clearly know how to find the best in everyone and everything. That's a virtue."

  "I'm not a knight," Saviar reminded.

  "Not yet." Verdondi smiled. "But you were raised in a family of them, and that's going to reflect strongly on your character." He raised a hand, as if to forestall an argument. "Don't get me wrong; I think that's wonderful. I can't imagine what it would be like to grow up that way, but I'd consider it a high honor, indeed."

  The irony might have sent Saviar into spasms of laughter if not for the seriousness of the situation. The upbringing that so awed Verdondi was based on a misconception. Despite his parentage, for all intents and purposes, Saviar was raised the same way as any other Renshai. He answered the only way he could, "Thank you."

  "But," Verdondi continued. "But you have to understand that your neighbors are not so tolerant and high in their ideals. They have not forgotten the rampage of the Renshai that left so many innocent Westerners dead."

  "Rampage…?" Saviar could scarcely believe they were having this discussion. "People are holding a grudge for things that happened centuries ago?" As he understood it, the Northlands banished the Renshai for their ferocity, a quality normally prized in the warrior Northlands. Well over three hundred years ago, the other Northmen drove the Renshai out, mostly for their tactic of dismembering those dead enemies they wished to dishonor and demoralize. Then, all Northmen believed that only an intact body could ever reach Valhalla.

  Angered, the Renshai had swept across the Westlands and Eastlands in a blaze of war that had left entire cities in ruins. They battled anyone who would fight them and took the offerings of those who refused. Then, as now, the Renshai knew nothing but swordcraft. They had obtained their necessities through slaughter as well as barter.

  "Centuries, indeed."Verdondi's hand went to his hilt, his eyes distant. "Centuries during which the Renshai have pretended to grow more civilized. Yet, they still practice secret warcraft and witchcraft. They still fight like demons."

  "What?"

  "They drink the blood of innocents to maintain their youth and vigor, living vast lifetimes of which others only dream."

  "No, that's not-"

  "They make unholy alliances with creatures of the icy darkness to grant them sword skills beyond anything a normal man could accomplish."

  Saviar could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "Verdondi, that's just insane! They're great swordsmen because they practice. Pretty much every moment of every day."

  "Maybe." Verdondi did not argue. "But most Erythanians think otherwise. Bearnides, too. In fact, groups of Erythanians have come to us to try to reclaim Paradise Plains."

  Saviar's brows furrowed. He had lived in Erythane his entire life and never heard of the place. "Where are these Paradise Plains?"

  "You would know them as the Fields of Wrath."

  The lump in Saviar's throat had grown large enough to interfere with swallowing. "But that's… where the Renshai live."

  "Now." Verdondi studied Saviar. "The Erythanians who lived there before the Renshai drove them from their homes, the Paradisians…" He pronounced it Paa-rah-dee-shins. "They feel their homeland was taken unfairly. That the Renshai should be killed or driven out so they can return to the land rightfully theirs."

  Saviar laughed. No other reaction seemed appropriate.

  Verdondi looked personally affronted. "What's so funny?"

  "Well, first. Historically, the Fields of Wrath were just barren, worthless
land when the Renshai settled on them, with the permission of the Erythanian and Bearnian kings of the time. So infertile, in fact, that no crops grow on them to this very day."

  "History written by the conquerors, no doubt."

  Saviar conceded the point. Normally, the victors did write the accounts, usually by default; but that did not necessarily make them inaccurate. "Second, even if it were true, how can we right a wrong that took place several centuries ago? It would set an unbearable precedent. Every border in the Northlands would have to get redrawn, and many Western towns would simply not exist."

  "But no one else is complaining."

  No one else is complaining about Renshai, you mean. Saviar knew this so-called repatriation had little to do with logic and everything to do with prejudice. In those situations, it made little sense to argue. Whatever solution he and Verdondi agreed upon, if it were even possible to concur on the matter, meant nothing. The important conversation was currently taking place in the Council Room in Bearn. Suddenly, Saviar wished with all his heart that he had insisted on accompanying Kedrin there rather than allowing Ra-khir to talk him out of it. "But what if someone else does complain? What if this sets a standard so widespread that everyone wants the right to return to land claimed as ancestral? To what year, decade, century, or millennium do we set the map?"

  To his credit, Verdondi gave the question due consideration. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "But is concern for precedent ever a reason not to do what's right?"

  "I think," Saviar replied slowly, realizing he had entered the most earnest discussion of his life, and it was with another youngster. Had it not struck so personally, he might have enjoyed philosophizing. "… it depends on whose idea of right."

  CHAPTER 10

  Violence cannot solve every problem.

  -Arak'bar Tulamii Dhor (aka Captain )

  A cheery fire flickered through the gathering dusk of the Dancing Dog, sending orange-and-yellow highlights leaping through the press of people. Alone at a wine-stained table, Subikahn sat with his back to the corner, trying to focus on the many patrons in the bar. But the images swirled into a gray wash of movement, and their conversations became a hum as indecipherable as night insects. Never in his life had he been among so many people at once; never in his life had he felt so unutterably, unconscionably lonely.

  The darkness of Subikahn's corner washed over him. The same thoughts had paraded through his mind so many times, he had nowhere else to take them. They left him numb, uncertain, and incapable of understanding. In one horrible moment, he had lost everything: his beloved, his perfect father, his royal life. All the things that had ever made him happy had vanished with a single proclamation. His slumped shoulders held a burden heavier than anything he had ever before imagined. Even breathing took a massive effort. His food grew cold, his ale warm, and he still found himself incapable of mustering the will or strength to consume them.

  The proprietor appeared to hover over Subikahn, a short, heavyset man with greasy hair. "Is the food not to your liking, Sire?"

  Subikahn finally looked at his meal. Clearly, someone had gone to great lengths to make it presentable as well as tasty. Fresh pork took up most of the plate's center, surrounded by a wall of mashed, orange roots garnished with salt and herbs. The periphery contained a mixture of vegetables, cut into intricate designs. A second plate held a chunk of unusually light bread baked to a delicate gold and sprinkled with seeds. The rich, amber ale was clearly the best the inn had to offer. "The food is fine, sir. Wonderful even. I'm just not… hungry." He wondered idly if his appetite would ever return.

  Subikahn pulled his purse from his pocket. It seemed woefully empty. Tae had severely limited his traveling funds, just enough to get him started. Enough for now. Subikahn realized he would have to ration what little the king had granted him or swiftly wind up sleeping in unsavory or vulnerable places. He dumped the entire contents into his hand. "How much do I owe you?"

  The proprietor stared at the coins. His nostrils flared, then he looked at Subikahn with a sincere expression. "Your money's no good here, Sire."

  A wave of heat passed through Subikahn. He felt suddenly chastened and guilty. "I-I didn't know. I-" He jerked his attention from the proprietor to his own palm, worried his father had given him dummies. Why would he torment me? Though not a large amount, the two silvers and seven coppers did appear properly minted. "But it's good coin of the realm."

  The proprietor grinned. "I just meant I won't take money from you, Sire.You may have whatever you want, and it's on the house."

  "On the house?" Subikahn knew what that phrase meant from his travels to and from Stalmize and Erythane. "But I have to-"

  The proprietor did not allow Subikahn to finish. "Just tell your friends and father what a grand place we have here. The Dancing Dog is an inn worthy of nobility. True, Sire?"

  Subikahn had chosen the inn at random, not for its appearance or decor. "Well, of course, but-"

  "Enjoy yourself, Sire. I won't take payment from you." With that, the proprietor turned on a heel and headed back toward the kitchen.

  Subikahn slumped into his seat, staring at the food. Now that he knew it would cost someone else money, he felt obligated to eat every bite. He took a spoonful of roots, whipped and soft but no longer steaming. They smelled spicy and inviting, but he still found himself incapable of hunger. He stuffed the spoon into his mouth before he could change his mind. It tasted like ashes; anything would, he guessed. The food slid down his throat and thudded into his stomach.

  Memories descended on Subikahn like a flock of crows, pecking and poking at his sanity. He remembered romping on the floor with his father, mimicking dogs or snakes or monsters, whatever struck his fancy. No matter his workload, no matter the affairs of state, Tae had dropped everything, anytime, to play with his son. Subikahn's mind turned to his twin, Saviar, and their wild times in Erythane. When not engaged in the lightning exchange of swordplay, they shared their deepest fears, hopes, and dreams in quiet whispers that no one else could understand. He thought of Talamir, his Tally, the confidences they shared, the moments of tenderness that felt too flawless, too magnificent to be anything less than love. He longed for the gentle hand stroking his hair, for the firm grip of his lover's hand adjusting a sword maneuver, for the doting, almost violent passion of his kiss.

  Subikahn realized he might miss the trappings of the castle in a vague sort of way, when the cold nights of winter set in, when his clothing became filthy and tattered, or when he slept on a bed of moldering leaves. But the people he loved mattered most.Without his brother, his lover, his father, he was not certain he could last another day.

  A tear splashed onto the tabletop, followed by another. Only then, Subikahn realized he was crying. He lowered his head, afraid someone might see him. His mother disdained weakness, as all Renshai did. He had found little to snivel about in Stalmize Castle; and, when he did, his father had always presented a swift distraction. Now, in the depths of his despair, Subikahn was incapable of holding back the tears. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

  For once, Subikahn's Renshai instincts failed him. He did not hear another claim the chair beside him until a light hand ran through the silky black strands of his hair. For the moment, he did not care if the other meant him well or ill. Whoever had come could have all the money in his purse, could stuff a knife through his ribs for all he cared. Grief stilled even the deeply embedded desire to live.

  Nimble fingers unglued wisps of hair from Subikahn's forehead and brushed them into place. Then, gradually, warm arms enwrapped him, pulling him close. The softness of the clothing, of the chest, told him his quiet comforter was a young woman. She held him in an embrace that radiated warmth and caring, made him feel safe as he once had only with his father. Whether from pity or compassion, she knew how to hold a crying man.

  For several moments, they sat this way, him weeping, her embracing. Then, soft lips touched his ear and a voice whispered comfortingly into it, "
I'm taking you to your room. I'll have the rest of your meal sent there."

  Subikahn did not protest. It seemed best to take him away from where others might see and judge him. Head down, feet shuffling, he allowed her to guide him up the stairs, through a short hallway and into one of the inn rooms. She steered him to the bed, where he sat numbly, uncertain what to do next.

  The woman did not suffer from the same uncertainty. She caught him into her arms again, crushing him against her, stroking his hair, muttering words that sounded more like doves cooing than speech. To Subikahn's surprise, he appreciated her efforts. His mother had had her tender moments, and he knew she loved him. Yet, he could not remember her ever clutching him with such sweetness, ever radiating as much caring for his pain. He knew he should feel embarrassed for acting so helpless, so childlike, but strength and words mostly failed him and he managed only, "I'm so sorry."

  "Sorry? Sorry for what?" Her closeness muffled her speech.

  "Sorry for humiliating myself. And you. Sorry for making a scene in a crowded barroom."

  She finally pulled away far enough for Subikahn to look at her. She appeared to be about his age, but world wise, with soft, brown skin and dark eyes that radiated knowledge beyond her years. She had boyish features that Subikahn found more attractive than the classic ideal of feminine beauty: her face round, her blue-black hair cropped short, her brows prominent, and her lips bow-shaped and thin. Though dark in every way Kevral was light, she still reminded Subikahn of his mother. "You didn't make a scene. And you needn't apologize for feeling sad."

  Sad barely grazed the scope of what he felt. "My name is Subikahn."

  She smiled. "I know that, of course, Your Highness. My name is Saydee."

  "Nice to meet you, Saydee." To Subikahn's surprise, he did not want her to leave. She seemed capable of distracting him from his wretched contemplation as no one else had. "And just call me Subikahn, please."