"Thank you." A sense of relief washed over Saviar, but it did not last long.
"Do you suppose it's possible to bring your mother here?"
Subikahn pushed his way to Saviar's side. "I'm afraid that's impossible."
Saviar was struck by a fresh wave of grief. He thought he had moved well past this stage, but tears formed in his eyes and leaked before he could stop them. He felt weak and ill, and very much in need of his mother.
"She's dead." Subikahn announced flatly. "Accidental. She got caught in a feud not of her making."
"Accidental" pushed the boundaries, but it was otherwise strictly true. Saviar lowered his head and let his brother speak for him.
But Subikahn let his words disappear into a dense silence, finally broken by Jeremilan.
"Well, this is sad news for all of us. Would it be too much to hope for uncles? Aunts?"
Subikahn shook his head.
"Well. At least we have the two of you."
Have? Saviar did not like the phraseology. Are we prisoners? Subikahn's quiet demeanor, as usual, gave him no clue.
The next two weeks progressed in a blur of activity and exhaustion so complete that Calistin never remembered sleeping, eating, or attending to hygiene. The weather came and went without notice; if he got soaked or cold, he did not recall. Every new maneuver, every nuance of swordplay, however, remained indelibly engraved on his mind, muscles, and psyche. He became the eager student every torke prayed for, the one who pushes himself past pain and human endurance, the one who can never learn enough.
The questions went unconsidered, unasked, so it caught Calistin by surprise when his torke demanded an answer of his own. "Calistin, what is it you're preparing to do? Why are you heading North, and how does it serve you to slaughter the best warriors of the Westlands?"
Calistin shook his head to settle the new contents. Buried beneath techniques and details, he had to dig for the answers to actions that no longer drove him inexorably northward. "I… have a battle to fight. One that my mother fought for me… and lost."
Amazir summed up the explanation in a single word, "Vengeance."
Calistin saw it differently, "In a manner of speaking, I suppose; but it's not blind anger. As I said, it should have been my battle."
"Calistin." Amazir sheathed his swords and motioned for his student to do the same. "No one blames you for suggesting your mother take your place. No one believed you seriously meant those words, not even Kevral when she accepted."
Calistin's brows rose. They felt heavy, difficult to move even that far. The exhaustion he cast aside hours earlier now threatened to overwhelm him. He sheathed his blades gingerly, worried more for their security, their needs, than his own. "So you were there, too?" This torke drove him to madness. "Do you have a trove of disguises? How can it be that you've lived among my own people, but I've never noticed you before?"
"Calistin, it's time."
"Time?" Calistin had no idea what his torke meant. "Time for what?"
"Time for you to learn how to win back Valhalla." Amazir headed toward the clearing and cook fire where Treysind prepared another meal.
It was the moment Calistin had waited for ever since he discovered Amazir might have a solution, yet he found excitement impossible to ignite. He was just too achy, too tired, too full of ideas to grasp more. Nevertheless, he trailed his torke in expectant silence. Clearly, he intended, as always, to include Treysind in the discussion.
As the two men approached, the boy went into a flurry of activity, shuffling food from ground to warming fire to the piled leaves they used for plates.
"Thank you," Calistin said to Treysind, meaning it. Without the boy, they surely would have starved by now. He wondered how many meals had passed that he had devoured in silent fatigue, without a single word of gratitude to the hardworking cook.
"Ya's so verry welcome, Hero," Treysind replied with bubbly eagerness. "Hopes ya likes it."
I'm so hungry, Calistin realized, I could eat bark and appreciate every bite. He did not speak the words aloud. He was not sure exactly how, but they might insult Treysind. "Oh, I'll like it," Calistin managed. "I always do."
Amazir smiled and crouched in front of his own pile of food. He, too, seemed starved, shoveling food into his mouth without bothering to breathe between bites.
Treysind must have already eaten, because he stood between them, replacing any food they finished, whisking away bones and stems, and attending the two Renshai like royalty.
"When your mother was trapped in Pudar, she asked me to help her out of her predicament," Amazir explained. "And sending my son was the only solution I had at the time."
Calistin braced himself, bite of roasted meat half-chewed.
"He was young, Calistin, a virgin. And he left the decision entirely to her." Amazir stopped eating in order to directly meet Calistin's gaze, to speak plainly and clearly. "She wanted Ra-khir to father any child she had; we all know that. But, at the time, that was not one of her choices. She could carry a prince or a Renshai, and she chose Ravn."
Ravn? The name brought it all together in a rush. Abruptly, Calistin found himself sitting on the ground, his usual wary crouch forgotten. Flat on his buttocks, he paused in stunned silence, dizzy with fatigue and understanding. Everything came together in that moment: the aged, unknown Renshai who seemed to know everything, who could best him in a battle and teach him concepts beyond anything he had ever considered. "You're… you're… Colbey. My blood grandfather is… is… Colbey Calistinsson?" How apt his own name finally seemed, shared with the great grandfather who now watched over him from Valhalla.
Colbey laughed at a situation that seemed anything but humorous to Calistin. "Only a Renshai would find more awe in a Renshai's bloodline than a goddess'."
Calistin's bones seemed to turn to water. He could scarcely maintain his position, even with his rear firmly planted on the ground. "My blood grandmother is… is…" It seemed like sacrilege merely to think it, to suggest it aloud might bring the gods' wrath down upon him.
"Freya, yes. Can you imagine anything grander?"
Calistin found himself incapable of imagining anything. Nothing in the world seemed more fantastical, more impossible, than the truth. "So I'm a… a…" He did not know how to finish. He carried the blood of gods, yet also of mortals. "What the hell am I?"
"You're Calistin Ra-khirsson. The son of Kevral Tainharsdatter and Sir Ra-khir, and a Renshai of great potential skill."
Though Calistin already knew the answer, he could not help feeling disappointed. "I'm not immortal?"
Amazir Colbey Calistinsson shook his head sadly.
Calistin scrambled to a crouch, besieged by emotions that baffled and enraged him. "If none of this matters, if nothing has changed, why are you telling me this? I could have gone to my grave blithely believing myself the fruit of my father's loins. Now, I'll find myself reexamining every moment of my childhood, suspecting every word my parents told me." He rose, pacing, though every movement hurt and his limbs felt lead-weighted. "Everything I've done and been is a lie. What other deceptions have my loved ones hidden from me?"
Treysind's gaze followed Calistin's every step, and the expression on his face looked painfully pinched. Clearly, he wanted to help but did not know how.
Colbey twirled a finger through a mound of mashed roots, then licked it from his fingers slowly, savoring.
For reasons he could not explain, the immortal's nonchalance fueled Calistin's irritation nearly as much as his own inability to determine his next course of action. He wanted to distance himself from everyone related to him, whether by blood or family ties. He had already lost Kevral. He had run from Ra-khir, from his brothers, even from his people. It seemed only natural to rid himself of Colbey as well, yet he needed one more answer. "You said…" he started, bothered by the sulky surliness in his own voice, "that I might find a solution to my problem in this story you dumped on me."
Colbey's brows edged upward. For an instant, Calistin t
hought his impudence might lose him his soulless existence, but then the immortal Renshai laughed. "You're lucky I have an adolescent son of my own, Calistin. I'm accustomed to being spoken to in that manner, though not often. Ravn pays dearly for it. Next time, you will, too."
Ravn? It sounded ridiculous to compare the man who had sired him to himself for age. Yet, Calistin realized, if gods and immortals grew older at the same pace as humans, they would all look like wizened piles of ash and bone. At the moment, he did not care what Colbey did to him. He doubted the practices could get any harder, any more brutal. He believed his torke knew his every limit and deliberately took him just beyond them. He worried more for never getting the information he so desperately needed, and for that reason alone he softened his tone. "How do I save my soul, torke?"
"You can't."
The simple negative response made Calistin's temper boil again. "Then why are we having these discussions? Why don't you go away and leave me to my misery?"
"Because I remember my own all too well. I was in my eighth decade before I discovered my blood parentage, wondering why I remained spry while others withered around me. No one dared claim a lack of courage kept me from my destiny with Valhalla, but Odin taunted me, swore I would never find that one place that matters most to Northmen of every tribe but, especially, to Renshai."
Calistin gritted his teeth. He had his own problems to worry about without listening to those of another man, even one dubbed the greatest Renshai of all time. Calistin's mother had spent most of her life emulating Colbey, his sword skill, his wisdom, even the feathered cut of his hair. "Odin lied, didn't he?" Even as the words emerged, Calistin wished he had not spoken them. The gods could do far worse to a man than kill him.
Apparently Calistin's concern showed on his features, because Colbey reassured him. "Odin died at the Ragnarok. He cannot hurt you."
It was a serious point of religion; knowing the truth might end much of the world's bickering. Renshai, most Bearnides, elves, and a few others believed the Ragnarok, the Great War prophesied to end the reign of the gods had occurred. In their version, Colbey had intervened, changing the projected tide of the battle and rescuing some of those slated to die. Most Northmen believed the Ragnarok had yet to come. Those two main beliefs, and myriad related ideas, accounted for most of the current religions of the world. Only a few still worshiped the old gods of the West or the East's single unnamed deity.
Calistin knew no one would change his or her beliefs based on a truth pronounced by him, but curiosity forced him to ask, "Exactly which gods did the Ragnarok claim?" He did not expect an answer.
Yet Colbey gave a straightforward one, "Odin, Aegir, Heimdall, Thor, Loki, Bragi, Tyr, and the goddess Hel. The monsters Fenrir, the Midgard Serpent, and King Surtr of the Fire Giants went with them."
Calistin could only stare, blinking occasionally. "You… told… me?" he finally sputtered out.
Colbey shrugged. "You asked. And a man needs to know who he can freely curse and blaspheme." He added conspiratorially, "But don't go overboard. Vidar leads the pantheon now, and he is still Odin's son. Some of the others left behind loyal wives, and there's nothing more dangerous than a woman insulted."
Calistin laughed awkwardly, taken aback by the whole situation. It seemed impossible that he was sharing a guilty grandson moment with an immortal from Asgard.
Colbey's expression turned serious again in an instant. "I felt caught in the ultimate unwinnable situation. The more I tried to die in battle, the more I honed my craft. And the more skilled I got, the less likely anyone could kill me in battle. I seemed destined to die of age or illness, a coward's death, yet even those things seemed in no hurry to take me."
Now the parallel came together for Calistin. "The god blood you carried aged you slower."
"So far, Odin's decree has proved correct. My soul has not entered Valhalla, because I haven't died. Odin did not expect me to get this far. He intended to kill me centuries ago." Colbey glanced at the sky, and those predatory eyes gained a glint of pure evil. Clearly, he delved into memories so intense he would not share them. "Things did not work out that way. And I have been to Valhalla, many times, though only as a visitor."
"My mother visited Valhalla, too." Realizing how obvious that sounded, Calistin amended. "Before she died, I mean." He looked intently at Colbey, needing confirmation of the story. He had never doubted it until now, when nothing about his family seemed real anymore.
"Twice," Colbey confirmed. "She remains the only mortal to do so while alive. What you don't know is that the Einherjar invited her to remain with them, a situation the Valkyries abhorred but could do absolutely nothing about. At the time, Kevral believed her soul lost, not yours."
Under any circumstance, it was the greatest thing that could ever happen to a Renshai. Given the chance, Calistin would accept the opportunity in an instant, without a single thought. His heart pounded as he imagined battling the bravest warriors throughout history, day in and day out for eternity. Lacking a soul became meaningless so long as he remained alive. And, if someone managed to kill him, it would be worth the time he had had, even if only a morning.
Colbey clearly knew exactly where Calistin's mind had gone. He added softly, "They even promised to pull any lethal blows they might manage to land, to keep her alive and soulless there forever."
Calistin sighed at the perfection of it. "No chance on Asgard, Midgard, or any other world could match it. What could be more perfect?"
"An' yet…" Treysind spoke his first words in so long Calistin had forgotten the boy remained with them. "… she dint stay."
It made no sense to Calistin, "Why?"
"Why do you think?" Colbey made a gesture at Treysind, urging silence. He wanted Calistin to answer the question.
Calistin considered several moments but could find no answer. Nothing could top the Einherjar's offer. No sane Renshai would refuse it, especially one who had no other means to get there. He shook his head, pondered the situation a bit longer, then shook his head again. "I don't know." He thought about the time line: after the bite of the spirit spider but before… before what? He sought an important clue. "Was I born yet?"
"Still inside."
Calistin gasped at the vast magnificence of his next thought. If Kevral had accepted the Einherjar's gift, he would have been born in Valhalla. Raised and trained by the best swordsmen in the world, he would have known no other world but the heaven to which every Renshai, every truly great warrior, aspires. Were he not already sitting, he might have collapsed. "There could be no greater reward, no better life, than one from birth to afterlife in Valhalla."
"Perhaps," Colbey said, the word a Renshai sacrilege, at best. "But then, what would a hopeful young warrior have to strive for? History has shown that children raised with every whim indulged learn to appreciate… nothing."
Calistin supposed Colbey spoke truth. His mother quoted him so often, so enthusiastically, that the boys learned to accept his every word as profound scripture. Yet it seemed utterly impossible that anyone could tire of Valhalla. After all, the Einherjar spent eternity there, and they were the most content beings in any world. "Why?" he sputtered out, more in anger than curiosity. "Why did she refuse? Why?"
Colbey frowned, then turned his attention to Treysind. The boy raised and lowered his skinny shoulders, an expression that begged tolerance on his face. Colbey shook his head, lips pursing in clear exasperation. "She had a set of infant twins who needed their mother and her guidance. She had a man who loved her enough to die for her. In fact, he would surrender his life today if he had any reason to believe it would bring her back."
Calistin did not think anything Colbey said could vex him further, but that managed. "That's stupid. He knows she's in Valhalla."
"Does he?"
"How could he not?"
"Because, like all pure mortals without swords imbued with magic, Ra-khir doesn't see Valkyries. He's not even entirely certain Kevral didn't lose her soul to the spirit
spider. Not a day has passed since her death that he has not begged me for a sign, anything to reassure him that Kevral found Valhalla and is happy."
"You see my father every day?"
Treysind rolled his eyes. "He's meanin' through prayers, ya rock-dense moron."
Every eye jerked to the Erythanian, who turned a brilliant shade of red and feigned a sudden interest in cleaning up the meal.
Colbey smiled. "I mean through prayer, you rock-dense moron. He begs me through prayer."
Calistin felt as if he floated above the clearing, detached and confused. He had heard all he could handle for one day. Tact and logic, never his strong suits, fled entirely from his repertoire. "So why are you torturing him? Why don't you tell him?"
Colbey must have realized that his charge had reached his limit, because he accepted, without comment, the disrespectful question in addition to the tone of voice. "Because, Calistin, the denizens of Asgard have more important things to do than interact with mortals. It is the job of Ra-khir's sons to comfort their father, to put his mind at ease, to point out what they already know as indisputable fact."
"Saviar…" Calistin started, thinking back to when they left Erythane. Saviar had insisted they not awaken Ra-khir. At the time, Calistin had known it was the wrong thing to do, knew it would crush Ra-khir to find his sons missing; but Calistin had trusted his older, wiser brother. Only now, he realized Saviar's irritation and impatience with their father's grief had caused them both to mistreat him terribly. "Saviar said… and I thought…" Calistin could not remember the last time he found tears in his eyes. "We were cruel."
"Yes."
"To someone we profess to love."
"Yes."
Calistin could no longer control the exhaustion that pressed him to the ground. He believed the swirl of thought and emotion that battered him would keep him awake all night but found himself asleep so fast he remembered nothing more.
CHAPTER 37
If one chooses a course of action solely for the purpose of dying, it loses all glory, honor, and meaning. It diminishes a warrior to desperate self-destruction.
Flight of the Renshai fotr-1 Page 53