"All right, Your-" Saydee flushed, the redness barely tinting her dark features. "-Subikahn." The name fell hesitantly from her tongue, and the color of her cheeks deepened. She released him completely and sat nervously beside him.
Subikahn looked around the room, noticing his surroundings for the first time in days. He sat on a straw pallet covered with a blanket woven with fancy designs. Though old and worn, poked through with bits of straw, it was skillfully plaited and patterned. A plain, but solidly built, chest sat at the foot. Balanced on it, he found a pitcher and bowl, a chamber pot, and a crock of tallow. A torch burned in a bracket on the wall, and the only exit was the door through which they had entered. He looked at Saydee again. She wore a clean, patched dress with an ale-stained apron. Solid legs peeked out from beneath it, and woven sandals hugged clean feet.
Saydee quailed beneath Subikahn's scrutiny. "Well, I guess I'd better be going now."
"Wait." Subikahn placed a hand over hers on the pallet. "Please stay a bit longer."
At his touch, Saydee's face seemed to glow. She glanced demurely at her hem.
Not wishing to give her the wrong idea, Subikahn added, "I'd like to talk a bit, if you can spare the time."
"I can. As much as you wish." Saydee gazed into his eyes and smiled.
Subikahn could not help smiling back, his first in what seemed like a very long time. "I…" His grin wilted. "I… lost someone special… to me." That was the most he felt comfortable confiding in a stranger, but it felt good to get even that little bit in the open.
Saydee nodded knowingly. "Do you want to talk about her?"
It intrigued Subikahn that she knew at once he meant a lover, even though she made the obvious mistake assigning gender. "No," he found himself saying before he could think. He had lost too many days to pining. He could not remember much of those but aimless wandering and self-inflicted starvation. Already, he had had to tighten his sword belt and tie up his britches. "No, for the time being, I just want to forget."
"I can help you," Saydee said softly, looking at him with passion as well as uncertainty. She shifted closer.
Nothing. Subikahn felt no attraction to her; no woman had ever excited him, not even the ones who gyrated around him or feigned accident to reveal a breast, a belly button, a thigh. Tae's words came back to haunt him now: "Subikahn, this will give you a chance to experience… other things." Other things. He knew exactly what his father meant by that. He wants me to try loving women the way I do Tally. He wants me to try… to be… normal.
Without thinking, Subikahn dropped his head in shame. His love was deviant, evil to the lawmakers of the Eastlands, yet it seemed so right and real. His father had given him so much through the years, had always done right by him. He owed it to Tae to try. Steeling himself, Subikahn leaned toward Saydee, caught her into an embrace, and closed his eyes.
Her lips touched his, then locked into a kiss. For a moment, it was a dry, dispassionate coupling. Then, Subikahn imagined her mouth as Talamir's, brought his lover's face fully to life in his mind's eye.The kiss grew moister, hungry. She sucked his tongue into her mouth and, to his joy, he finally responded. They fell together onto the bed, his hands exploring but avoiding those most womanly places, the ones that might break the fantasy Subikahn constructed in his mind.
Though desperately inexperienced, Subikahn found the proper places, made the appropriate motions, did what was expected. He dared not prolong the experience for fear of losing his nerve or his enthusiasm, so it ended quickly in an explosion of guilty pleasure that left him feeling dirty and embarrassed.
Neither his speed nor discomfort seemed to bother Saydee. She readjusted her clothing, which he had not bothered to fully remove, and snuggled into the crook of his shoulder with a satisfied sigh. He left an arm around her, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he ought to feel. He supposed the second time would come easier, and the third. Eventually, perhaps, he could even learn to enjoy coupling with females. Maybe Tae would accept Talamir if Subikahn also married a woman and created royal heirs. Many kings kept concubines, and Bearnian royalty married many times to assure a strong and continuing line.
Perhaps Talamir could live with that arrangement. Perhaps Tae could, too. At the moment, it seemed like a simple compromise; and Subikahn forced himself not to delve too deeply into this solution. If he did, he might discover its many flaws, might shatter the only dream that currently gave him hope.
Though engrossed in a complicated svergelse, Calistin Ra-khirsson never lost track of his surroundings or the goings-on around him. He found the scarlet cocoon of violence, the perfect world that all Renshai knew when their every movement reached the ultimate level of competence. Nevertheless, he could count and identify every member of the small crowd that invariably gathered to watch him. His swords became an invisible blur, rarely appearing to the mortal eye as streaks of dancing silver. His hands merged with the hilts, and his arms traced seamless arcs, lines, and circles through the air. At the moment, no one challenged him, a fact that both relieved and disappointed him. He enjoyed his svergelse. Few had the skill to seriously oppose him, and he remained his own most formidable opponent.
Finally, one man broke from the crowd to leap between the deadly, steel slices. Kwavirse met one of Calistin's strokes with a solid block, then parried it into a low cut. Instead of the anticipated retreat, Calistin launched a blazing neck cut with his second blade, one his opponent scarcely dodged. In total control, Calistin bore in. Kwavirse retreated, spun leftward, then lunged into a perfect, and unexpected, latense maneuver.
Calistin whirled gracefully to meet it as a small blur of movement entered his peripheral vision. A second opponent joined the first, a small redhead who seemed awkward as a plow horse. Forced to pull a solid, committed stroke, Calistin found himself off-balanced by his own momentum. He turned a stagger-step into a graceful, spinning retreat, his swords forming a flying web of steel to protect him from either opponent's next strike. Only then, he recognized his second "opponent" as the unarmed, untrained Erythanian he had rescued from bullies.
"Kid, get out of here!" Calistin bellowed, prepared to defend against Kwavirse's next move.
Grinning, Kwavirse bore in. Calistin raised a sword for an easy parry, just as Treysind threw himself between the two blades. Fear touched Kwavirse's expression, and the grin became a grimace. Both combatants pulled their strokes, Kwavirse's tearing a piece of the boy's sleeve and Calistin's missing cleanly.
Calistin swore, driving around the boy to attack Kwavirse at his weakest. "Treysind, you moron." Calistin neatly flipped his sword to the flat to score a slap on the older man's left shoulder. He had to pull the second blade to keep it from skewering Treysind on its way to Kwavirse's hip. "Get out of the damned way!"
Kwavirse withdrew and gestured an end to the battle. "You win, Calistin."
He always did. It had reached the point where only three types of Renshai dared to challenge him: the youngsters full of themselves and their progress, the most competent who could find few other opponents at their level or hoped they had reached his, and the sickest and oldest of the Renshai who would throw themselves upon Calistin, wishing to die in furious combat rather than of illness, to find their places in Valhalla.
Attention focused on Treysind, Calistin barely nodded. He spoke in hopeful Renshai, "Another spar, another time, perhaps?" He could fight every moment of every day and never get tired of it. Each new opponent, every motion, taught him something new to expect in combat.
Kwavirse rolled his eyes toward Treysind, who stood quietly in front of Calistin, examining the new hole in his sleeve. "Only if you lose the shadow. I almost killed the little guy."
Calistin gritted his teeth, already angry at the boy. "Killing him might teach him a lesson."
Kwavirse chuckled. "True, but not one he could use in the future."
Calistin seized Treysind's arm with a violence so sudden the boy cringed. He looked up at his savior with stoic blue eyes that carried only
a trace of fear. Others who had grabbed him in the past had clearly beaten him. "Come on," Calistin growled in Common, half-walking, half-dragging the Erythanian toward a patch of withered briars. "We need to talk."
Once there, Calistin practically threw Treysind to the ground. "What in coldest Hel is wrong with you?"
The boy gathered his feet under him to crouch at Calistin's feet. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Well," he started very slowly, his pace quickening with every word. "Fo' starters, I's a orphan what's growed up on tha streets. I's small an' weak ish. Kinda ugly. Not smart at all. I don't talk so good. I looks kinda like a Renshai wit' dis orange… red hair, an' a lotta folks don't like that so's they beat me 'round, but I don't know how ta 'fend mesself wit' a sword an'-"
"No, no, no!" Calistin dropped to a crouch in front of Treysind. "I don't mean 'what's wrong with you' in general. I mean, why do you feel the suicidal need to interfere with everything I do?"
Treysind lifted his head. Hair fell in wild strands in every direction, including into his face. "I's jus' pratectin' ya, Hero. I owes ya my life."
Calistin heaved an exasperated sigh. They had already debated this point several times. Treysind would not leave him, and nothing he said would convince the boy not to die for his hero. "Fine, then. You owe me your life; I get it. But what good does it do me for you to skewer yourself during a simple spar? If you just want to die for no reason, why don't you go throw yourself in the well?"
"Well, I…" Treysind rearranged his legs under him in a pattern Calistin had never seen before. "… can't do that. I's gotta die savin' ya, Hero."
The Renshai thought he knew every wary position, but this one allowed the boy to look casually relaxed while still able to move in any direction in an instant. Calistin marveled at the simple logistics of the position. He adjusted his own crouch, modeling it, and found it as comfortable as his usual cautious squat, without looking so guarded and alert. "So jump between me and an arrow sometime, would you? If you insist on spending your life for me, that would be an actual useful way."
To his credit, Treysind gave the idea due consideration before speaking. "That would be fine, if I's could. But it don't do us no good if ya's daid 'fore tha' arrow comes."
Calistin sighed. He was wasting time with this silly discussion, time he could be spending sparring or practicing. "Kid, the best thing you can do for me is go away and leave me alone."
Treysind shrugged. "Can' do that."
The poor speech threw Calistin, and he dared to hope. "Did you just say you can do that?"
Treysind shook his head vigorously, sending his inhumanly orange hair flying. "Can not be doin' that. Can not. I owes ya m'life, Hero."
Calistin hesitated, torn between two actions. It seemed a simple matter, an act of mercy, just to run a blade through the boy and be done with it. No one would miss Treysind. Yet, though Calistin had killed a few pirates and several mortally sick or injured Renshai, he found himself incapable of slaughtering an unarmed, pitiful child. Explaining anything to Treysind seemed equally abhorrent. The Erythanian appeared incapable of grasping the concept that Calistin could defend himself better than anyone else in the world. He finally settled on something quick and easy. "Look, kid. Renshai sparring may look dangerous, but it's not."
"It's not?" Treysind's skepticism was tangible
"Not to other Renshai, no."
"But ya's usin' real sa-wards. An' so… so angry-like, deadly-like."
"It's how we train. But no other Renshai would ever hurt me."
"No?"
A thrill trickled across Calistin. He actually seemed to be getting through the boy's bricklike skull. "Never. I'm more likely to die tripping over you and… and falling into that well."
"I'd be fishin' ya's out, Hero. Right 'way, I's would."
Calistin was not so sure he would return the favor. "Of course you would."
Treysind nodded vigorously and somberly.
"So, we're agreed, then? No protecting me from other Renshai?"
Treysind considered for a very long time, gaze distant, features screwed up tightly. "I… s'pose… I… most times… I…"
It was hardly the sterling promise Calistin wanted; but, for the moment, it worked.
CHAPTER 11
The genius of one man can surpass the superior forces of another.
-General Santagithi
Saviar opened the guest room door to a heated discussion that ceased instantly. The Knights of Erythane would never inflict their personal problems on anyone, not even a family member. Father and grandfather gave Saviar welcoming smiles despite his sweat-soaked, filthy clothing and the hair dangling into his eyes. Though they remained perfectly meticulous, as always, they never expected the same of others.
Saviar dropped to his bed, delicately removed his sword, and pulled his cleaning kit from his pocket. A Renshai always tended his swords before his person. "So, how did things go with the Northmen?" He unraveled a spotless white rag and a vial of sword oil.
The ensuing silence piqued Saviar's curiosity. He looked up in time to see the knights just breaking a serious, nonverbal exchange.
Ra-khir cleared his throat. "Not bad, Saviar; but not as I might have wished either."
Saviar set to cleaning his weapon, concentrating on the blade but still allowing himself to glance up often enough to read expressions. "Let me guess, it wasn't all about ore."
"It wasn't," Ra-khir admitted.
"They brought up Renshai."
"Yes."
"And the 'right' of Paradisians to return to their homeland."
A stunned silence followed. Saviar feigned total engrossment in his weapon but could not suppress a grin. It was rare that he could startle his father speechless.
When the hush continued long past surprise, Saviar finally looked directly at his father. The moment he met those green eyes, Ra-khir spoke, "How could you possibly know that?"
Saviar considered leaving the knights in suspense, but swiftly discarded it. They would worry about a leak in the Council Room, which could turn into a grave political incident. "I sparred with Verdondi Eriksson, the captain's son.We also talked." He did not have to add the last sentence, usually. Most warriors would not think twice about chatting during practice. For Renshai, it was a dangerous offense. Like turning one's back, it implied that one's opponent was so poorly skilled that concentration and wariness were unnecessary in his presence. It was regarded as grave insult.
Kedrin's eyes widened. "Does Verdondi know you're Renshai?"
Saviar returned his attention to his sword. "It didn't come up."
Ra-khir asked in a cautious voice pitched to sound matter-of-fact but not quite succeeding, "Did your relationship to the Knights of Erythane 'come up'?"
"Yes."
Kedrin added, "Probably just as well."
"Yes," Ra-khir agreed. "Probably."
Though Saviar continued to work directly on his sword, he could feel his father's gaze upon him. He set aside his project for a moment. "Papa, I'm not a fool."
"What?" Ra-khir sounded offended. "Of course you're not, Saviar. I've never suggested otherwise."
"I didn't lie, and I won't if directly questioned. But it wouldn't hurt to have Verdondi see me as a friend before he knows what I am. It might give him a reason to rethink the prejudice his people have drummed into him since birth."
"Timing is everything," Kedrin said softly.
Father and son looked at him simultaneously.
He wore his formal knight garb: the tabard with Bearn's rearing golden grizzly on a blue background on the front and Erythane's black sword against orange on the back. Though matured, his features remained strikingly handsome, and the red-blond hair he once shared with son and grandson had turned a distinguished silver. His appearance, his stance, commanded attention and obedience; and Saviar understood how the knights were known and respected even as far away as the Northlands. "In battle, in life, in diplomacy. Everything is timing."
; Ra-khir smiled. "Don't tell me…" He closed his eyes and held his fingers to his temples, as if concentrating very hard and receiving an answer whispered by the gods: "General Santagithi."
Finding the origin of Kedrin's quotations had become an easy matter. As Kedrin studied the writings and history of the ancient Western leader/general, he had become more enamored of his wisdom and methods. Considered the best strategist of his era, Santagithi had essentially single-handedly won the Westlands biggest war, the Great War, against a then-hostile Eastlands. He also had a connection to the Renshai. His daughter, Mitrian, was the mother of the half-breed tribe of Tannin and the grandmother of the non-blooded tribe of Rache.
Kedrin shrugged. "Scoff if you must, my son. Great men deserve their due, even long after death."
"Or, in Colbey's case, without the need to die at all." Ra-khir threw up his hands, as if in surrender. "And between my father and my wife, I'm starved for original thought."
"That," Kedrin returned playfully, "is what adolescent sons are for. After all, they know everything."
Ra-khir returned his attention to his son. "In Saviar's case, I'm starting to believe that's true. Do you understand what your grandfather is saying, albeit secondhand, about timing?"
"I do." Saviar did not want to miss a detail. He had to find a way to prove to his father that he was as much a man as Calistin, despite not yet having passed his Renshai testing. "He's saying that I need to reveal the truth at the right time and in the best way. I can't wait until someone else tells Verdondi I'm Renshai or leave him feeling as if I'm deliberately misleading him and using him for information."
Ra-khir nodded sagely. "You do understand."
"Of course, I do." Secretly thrilled by his father's approval, Saviar returned to his oiling. Neither of his parents could be impressed easily. "Like I said, I'm not a fool."
"Ra-khir?" Kedrin said.
Ra-khir apparently caught the reference. "Yes, all right. I suppose you do know better."
Finished with his task, Saviar returned the sword to his belt. He started stripping off his training clothing. As the wet cloth peeled away, it left him damp, cold, and covered in gooseflesh.
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