Flight of the Renshai fotr-1

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Still a sentence behind, Calistin stopped Treysind again. "You were trying to attract… me?"

  "Course. I'd losted ya. An' I knowed Renshai ain't great food makers, so's I thought-"

  Shocked silent, Calistin let Treysind continue without interruption while he considered the meaning of what he had just heard. The boy was clearly resourceful, and a lot more clever than Calistin would ever have given him credit for.

  "-if I's could learn, I could bring ya ta me, since I weren't havin' much luck findin' ya, least not since that town where ya killed that man…"

  "So, basically…" Calistin spoke slowly. "… you taught yourself to accurately shoot game with a bow, cook it, and spice it, as a way to find… me?"

  Treysind cocked his head, clearly not understanding the point of the question. "Worked, dint it?"

  "It did," Calistin had to admit. "And what a clever, simple little plan. Teach yourself to become a first-rate hunter and a topnotch epicure just to find someone who…" Originally intending to insert "didn't want you to find him," Calistin decided it might sound too offensive. He had ditched Treysind on purpose, and not for the first time; but speaking the words might gravely affront at a time when he preferred to understand. "… just to find someone."

  "Ya's wort' findin', Hero. Whatever it tooked."

  Calistin understood his appeal to Renshai and other adults who might envy or hope to benefit from his prowess. The boy's motives, however, confounded him. "You mean, because I can protect you?"

  The look Treysind gave Calistin was fierce, and he took a snapping bite at his food. "Not 'cause a that." He chewed as he spoke. " 'Cause ya needs me ta 'tect ya."

  Calistin laughed before he could stop himself, great humiliating belly guffaws that left Treysind looking vexed and angry. The boy returned to eating, shoulders hunched over his meal.

  Calistin turned his attention back to his own food. Usually, long pauses never bothered him, but this one did. The conversation was clearly over, at least until the next stop. And, though he could not explain it, he felt as if he had lost something important.

  CHAPTER 31

  You can search forever in an empty well, but you will never find diamonds.

  -Mior

  They called themselves the Mages of Myrcide, and they descended upon Saviar like a tidal wave. At first, Subikahn hovered over them, clinging to Motfrabelonning's hilt. Soon, however, the flashes and flares of their auras became a distraction that sapped, rather than increased, his alertness. He had no choice but to trust Chymmerlee's tribe. Without her aid, he knew, Saviar would already be dead.

  Chymmerlee took Subikahn's arm and led him from the chaos, and he found himself following in silent gratitude. For three days, they had traveled together, her magic buoying her end of Saviar's litter. Subikahn had exhausted himself with worry as well as effort. Yet, somehow, Saviar clung always to a life that seemed more like a lingering death.

  Chymmerlee had finally brought them to a series of hidden caves at the edge of the Weathered Mountains. So well-hidden, in fact, that magic had to play a part in their concealment. The Myrcidians lived simply, it seemed, without frippery or finery to mar the homey simplicity of their interconnected lodgings. However, they looked reasonably fed, their clothing free from holes and patches. Windows opened onto the mountains, revealing their grandeur and beauty, yet, somehow, invisible from outside the caves. The mages did not suffer from a darkness that should plague any society so secreted.

  Though he doubted he could escape through it, Subikahn still felt more comfortable next to a window overlooking the forests of the Westlands. Clouds partially swathed the sun, keeping the temperature comfortably cool, and a breeze blasted occasionally through the opening, carrying the aroma of flowers and summer greenery. For a concealed cave, it wholly lacked the stifling dusty, moldy odors he expected.

  Chymmerlee delicately lowered herself into a wooden chair nearby. For the first time, Subikahn noticed she had a grace suitable for swordsmanship. "You should sit, too."

  Subikahn shook his head and started staring through the window at the bobbing branches. "I prefer to stand, if you don't mind."

  "As you wish." Apparently intrigued by Subikahn's attention to the outdoors, Chymmerlee leaned in her chair to look through the window also. "If anyone can save Saviar, they can."

  Subikahn made a noncommittal noise. He had already trusted his brother to these strangers, these Mages of Myrcide. "And if they can't?"

  It was a foolish question, with only one answer. "Then he will die. But at least we will have given him a chance no one else could."

  Subikahn made another wordless noise. He had no right or reason to complain, only the knowledge that the Myrcidians could not fail. His own life ended the moment they did. Suicide would condemn him to Hel; at least, he would join his brother there. He could never enjoy the perfect rewards of Valhalla knowing he had damned Saviar never to experience them.

  Chymmerlee took Subikahn's hand. Hers felt soft, comforting, so unlike Talamir's callused fingers. Her touch alone eased some of the pain. "How did Saviar get that wound?"

  It was not the first time Chymmerlee had asked, not the first time Subikahn had dodged the question. "First," Subikahn said, "tell me about your people. They clearly aren't elves. So where does their magic come from, and why do they hide from the world?"

  Chymmerlee hesitated, avoiding Subikahn's searching gaze, becoming sharply focused on the scene outside the window that even Subikahn, in his short time there, had memorized. Finally, she sighed. "You've trusted us with the most precious thing in your life. I suppose it's only fair we trust you as well."

  Subikahn nodded encouragingly. He truly was interested, and he felt certain the long story would also distract her from wondering about Saviar's injury, perhaps for a few more days.

  "The Mages of Myrcide did not always seek the shadows," Chymmerlee began. "Once, we were a powerful people. Some of the world loved and revered us, others feared our magic; but all knew us as a necessary part of society." She smiled sheepishly. "At least that's what I'm told. It was centuries past, long before my grandparents' births, that Myrcidians walked freely among the peoples of the West."

  "And yet," Subikahn said softly, "you're not in the legends, not in the annals of history. I've never heard tell of the Mages of Myrcide."

  "Though we went by that very name, even then. And if we've been scrubbed from history, it is only because of one group of people, the most savage to ever slaughter their way across our world."

  The Fenris Wolf came to Subikahn's mind. The evil god, Loki. The hordes of Hel's dead who rose up for the Ragnarok that nearly ended the world. Yet, he was not surprised by her next words.

  "The Renshai." Chymmerlee fairly spat the name. "The Renshai's spree of murder saw the end of every mage. They branded the Myrcidians their greatest challenge, and they refused to end the battle until every mage was dead. Every mage, that is, but one. And that one mage, though he never fathered a child, did make it into the historical writings."

  Subikahn forced his thoughts past her hatred of Renshai, knowing it too well to show any giveaway expression or gesture. He worried not for himself, but for Saviar. What if his ill brother said something in ignorance, something revealing? Could Subikahn convince the Myrcidians to discard the crazed ramblings of a dying man? Instead, he forced himself to focus on the one surviving mage. He knew he had heard of at least one Wizard. "Was it… the Eastern Wizard? The one credited with returning the great King Sterrane to his throne?"

  "Shadimar," Chymmerlee supplied the name, and Subikahn recognized it. "That was him. The most powerful of the last four Cardinal Wizards, and the only one born to Myrcide. Nearly immortal, he was forced to see his people destroyed, their utmost treasure plundered."

  Chymmerlee's words brought back stories from the opposite viewpoint. Subikahn guessed which item the Eastern Wizard had prized, but every Renshai knew that the greatest of the Cardinal Wizards had been Colbey Calistinsson himself, the Western
Wizard forced to stand against the other three-in triumph. "The Pica Stone."

  Now, Chymmerlee stiffened, revealing the discomfort Subikahn had so well hidden. "You know of the Pica Stone?"

  "Everyone knows the Pica. It was shattered, its pieces scattered throughout the many worlds. When its magic was needed, mankind and elves worked together to find its shards and re-create it. Now, it's Bearn's treasure, the testing item used to select the future high kings and queens."

  Chymmerlee stared. "The Pica Stone was mended?" Her eyes widened with innocent awe. "It still exists? Our elders will want to know this. Will need to know this."

  Subikahn wondered how they could not already know this. It had happened eighteen years ago. Shortly after his birth, his own parents had led the expedition. He had believed the recovery of the Pica common knowledge, but he supposed the secrecy of the mages might keep them ignorant of the goings-on in the rest of the world. "You said all of the mages were killed but one, and that one never fathered a child. So… where do you come from?"

  The question jarred Chymmerlee back to the story, though she clearly needed to further mull his revelation. "The mages… were never allowed to marry commoners; it was thought to dilute the line, our power. Yet, apparently, a few did sneak off and create mixed offspring. Either these were unknown or deliberately ignored. But, centuries later, Jeremilan was born to common parents. Apparently, he carried the blood of two of those secretive unions, enough to grant him the power to discover and open the secret store of our ancestors."

  "Secret… store?"

  "A trove of lore and information, hidden for centuries and magicked so that only one of sufficient mage potential could happen upon it or open it."

  "So," Subikahn put the details together. "This Jeremilan, born of common parents, had enough mage blood to become the new father of Myrcide."

  "Exactly."

  "And the mothers of Myrcide?"

  "Well-it helps that mages can see auras."

  The answer seemed to bear no relation to the question, and Subikahn stared questioningly at Chymmerlee. "Auras?"

  "That glowy thing you saw around me that made you all crazy. That's an aura."

  Subikahn remembered. "In all fairness, I thought you were a minion of Hel, and you were going to use that 'glowy thing' to kill my-" Abruptly realizing he once again sounded crazy, he laughed. "What's the purpose of that 'glowy thing,' that 'aura,' anyway?"

  Chymmerlee also laughed. "I'm not sure auras have a purpose, other than helping magical beings recognize each other. It's just a byproduct of magic." The explanation made sense to Subikahn, but the words that followed did not. "You have one, you know."

  "I have one?" Understanding seeped through. "You mean a glowy, aura thing?"

  "Yes.You have an aura. A 'glowy, aura thing,' if you prefer."

  "But I don't have any mag-" I do, Subikahn realized suddenly. I have the sword.

  "You do." Chymmerlee echoed Subikahn's thought, then took a different tack. "Apparently, you have enough mage blood in you to grant you one. I haven't seen an aura on your brother yet, but he's been unconscious."

  And I have his sword. Things came together in that instant. Chymmerlee only helped Saviar because of my aura, because she believed we're of mage lineage. Subikahn shivered at a terrible realization. He had no idea how long he could hide the truth from wielders of magic, no way to understand in how much danger it placed them. Clearly, the Myrcidians had the potential to wield great power, and they did not like Renshai. Saviar had demonstrated a bit more caution and craftiness than his famously guileless father and grandfather, but he would not know to hide his origins. They had, after all, intended to create a new, friendlier face for the Renshai.

  If Chymmerlee had any inkling of the desperate boil of thought consuming Subikahn, she gave no notice. "Jeremilan searched for auraed people. When he found them, he got to know them. And, if they showed proper interest, he inducted them. At length, we had a small band with which to repopulate the mages."

  "A small band?" Subikahn forced himself to keep his attention on the story, though more concerned for what Saviar might say upon awakening. He remembered the problems the Renshai had when they had been forced to re-create their tribe. Inbreeding remained a Renshai concern, which he assumed was why they agreed to accept him and his brothers despite their half-blood status. "Doesn't repopulating take a rather large band? Otherwise, you wind up marrying brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters."

  Chymmerlee blushed. "It helps that mages outlive other humans, so we had time to pick, find, and choose. But, yes, we do have trouble finding new and unrelated blood. That's one of the reasons we're so eager to help you and Saviar. It's been many decades since we've added anyone not already in the clan."

  Subikahn chewed his lower lip.

  "You have the aura; and, unless your mage blood comes wholly through your father, your twin should have some, too."

  Needing at least as much goodwill for Saviar as himself, Subikahn said quickly, "Oh, it's definitely not from my father."

  Chymmerlee's brow beetled. "How do you know that?"

  "Because my father can trace his wholly Eastern lineage to kings." It was at least partially true. Tae Kahn's bloodline was as pure and regal as mud, but it was almost certainly solely Eastern. And he was the king, though it had nothing to do with bloodline. "Mama's the Westerner." Also true, though not by blood. It was all Subikahn could do to suppress a chuckle at the irony. His life depended on fooling mages into believing he descended from their pure line, when, in fact, he did not carry a single drop of even the meanest Western blood.

  Chymmerlee clasped her hands, and her face lit up. "That's wonderful!"

  Her exuberance surprised him. Subikahn could not recall the last time he had seen such obvious joy. "Wonderful?"

  Chymmerlee brought her hands in front of her face, clearly trying to suppress her excitement. "It means Saviar has mage blood, too." Her efforts at hiding her mood failed. Her happiness came out in a light tapping of her toes that resembled pent-up dancing.

  Subikahn rolled his eyes. He had seen that expression before. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

  "In love?" Chymmerlee narrowed her eyes, simulating horror; but the flush growing across her cheeks gave her away. "Why, I hardly know him. I've never even spoken to him. He's in a coma, by the gods." She pursed her lips sternly. "Besides, I'm sure a handsome man like Saviar already has too many girlfriends."

  Subikahn returned his gaze to the window. The scene outside had not changed, the only movement the bowing of branches in a light breeze. He wanted to lie, to tell her Saviar's heart was taken; but he could not bring himself to do it. Right now, he needed the mages to like them, and Chymmerlee had done enough for Saviar to deserve better.

  "Oh, they notice him, all right. But Saviar's always too caught up in swordwork to pay them any attention. I suppose some young woman will turn his head someday, but it hasn't happened yet." Subikahn smiled kindly. "You're free to try."

  Chymmerlee lowered her head demurely, but Subikahn could tell just by her forehead that she wore an enormous grin.

  Gradually, a morose feeling stole over Subikahn, for reasons he could not explain. Jealousy seemed impossible; he felt no attraction to Chymmerlee. For a moment, he wondered if he worried over losing Saviar's attention, but his heart told him otherwise. It was Talamir he missed, the courting dance, the heady days when a young man feels those first stirrings of affection but does not yet know where to take them and worries that the object of his interest will not return his love.

  Chymmerlee's voice disrupted Subikahn's thoughts. "I'm eighteen."

  The words seemed so out of place, Subikahn had to wonder. Did I ask her? I don't remember asking her.

  "Well, I said we outlive other humans, which is true. I didn't want you to think that I only look young because I'm magical. And I'm really thirty or something."

  Subikahn had never considered the possibility. "We're nineteen." Suspicions aroused, he
asked, "And just how long do mages live?"

  "True mages, the original mages, they went five hundred or so years."

  Subikahn jerked his gaze from the window to stare at Chymmerlee. "Five hundred?"

  "Sometimes seven or eight hundred. But we mixes may not live so long. Jeremilan is over two hundred, I believe-"

  "Jeremilan is still alive-"

  "-but we've had others who lived normal mortal spans or only slightly longer. In general, it seems like the more mage blood, the longer the life; but a lot of the purer bloods actually die in infancy or childhood."

  Inbreeding. Subikahn nodded. The mages had a definite problem.

  "I'm sorry. I'm boring you with all this information."

  It should have been tiresome, yet Subikahn found himself intrigued. In the back of his mind, he realized he held a serious stake in knowing these details. The Myrcidians helped us because they think we're mages.They need new blood. A sharp lump filled his throat. Could it be they want us for breeding stock? The idea sent a shiver of dread through Subikahn. He had already suffered all the loveless sex he could stand, and he had no intention of attaching himself to these mages for the remainder of his life. For now, however, he had no choice but to play along. "Boring me? No, I'm fascinated." Subikahn finally sat. Placing his hands on his chin, and his elbows on his left thigh, he leaned toward Chymmerlee. "Please, tell me more."

  As Treysind had predicted, they reached a town the following day. Surrounded by farm fields lush with summer crops, the buildings clustered at the center. Treysind stopped to fill the waterskins at a well, while Calistin glanced around the streets seeking some logical gathering point, such as a tavern. Finding none, he turned his attention to the people, all of whom stared at the strangers as they passed but none of whom paused to talk.

  Treysind seemed to take forever. Besides carrying at least six waterskins by Calistin's count, he also kept careful track of his companion's location at all times. Apparently, he worried that Calistin would take advantage of an inattentive moment to disappear again. It was not an unreasonable fear.