Bobbin found himself at Mistri’s side, having apparently retreated there for comfort, without conscious intent. Mistri wrapped her arms around him.
Mistri’s father, Kentt, came running into the room from one of the four doorways. Though not present for the nursemaid’s playacting, he somehow seemed to know what she had communicated to the other women.
Kentt went straight to his daughter, ruffling Bobbin’s hair before lifting Mistri in his arms. “Are you all right?”
Mistri beamed. “Not hurt, Poppy.” She looked down at Bobbin. “Bobbin save me. Save me jarfr.” She made a swooping gesture to indicate the animal’s attempt to pounce on her. “It want eat me.” She opened and closed her mouth, hands raised, fingers curved and separated to indicate claws.
Kentt stuck his face in hers. “Well, it’s a good thing it didn’t eat you.” A mock snarl twisted his features. “Because then I wouldn’t get my dinner.” He feigned biting at Mistri, making exaggerated chewing noises.
She giggled, planting her hands on his face as if to stop him.
Kentt reached for Bobbin. Bobbin stiffened, uncertain what to expect; but the giant merely hefted him with his free hand, so that he now held them both aloft. “What a fine and loyal pet you have here, Mistri. Can I have him?”
“My Bobbin.” Mistri grabbed him fiercely, arousing pain in his partially healed back. Fresh blood oozed along his spine.
One of the women, Bobbin could not see which, let out a noise of revulsion. “Kentt, please. It’s hard enough to get blood out of clothing, you have to share it? If you’re going to allow Mistri to romp with animals, at least have the decency to keep it a clean one.”
Kentt lowered Mistri and Bobbin to the ground, only then looking at his tunic, now smeared with rust-colored lines. The freshly reopened wound had not touched him, but it currently dripped on the floor. “Your Aunt Floralyn’s right, Mistri. Time you and Bobbin both got baths.”
Mistri skipped happily toward the bathing room, the nursemaid chasing after her.
Hortens swept the crockery bits and tea from her chair. “Kentt, he spoke. Bobbin actually talked.”
Bobbin turned his gaze to Kentt, worried. He had no idea whether revealing his ability to speak helped or harmed him.
To his relief, Kentt grinned. “Well, why not? His throat looks much the same as the Servants, so we always knew he had the capacity. What exactly did he say?”
“Well . . .” Hortens looked at her female companions for assistance. “It was crude and broken, but I believe he essentially said he loved Mistri and would never hurt her.”
The third woman glanced at the ceiling, then quoted Bobbin exactly, though in a dull monotone. “No. Love Mistri. Not hurt Mistri never never.”
Kentt shrugged. “Well, that’s clear enough. Discarding the double negative, which was surely spoken from ignorance, I think we can safely say he intends to continue protecting Mistri.”
Though he did not understand every word, Bobbin caught the gist of Kentt’s pronouncement and nodded.
Kentt’s hand fell to Bobbin’s head and tousled his hair fondly. “Every child should have a Bobbin.”
Floralyn pursed her lips but gave some quarter. “Well, Bobbin does seem worth keeping. But I wouldn’t trust something strong enough to do that . . .” She indicated the dead jarfr. “. . . with the life of my child, if I had one.”
“Bobbin’s safe,” Hortens said firmly, sweeping the last bits of teacup into a pile. “I think that’s abundantly clear. Now, if another one, another Bobbin, came along, it would have to prove itself. But I think Bobbin himself has done enough.”
Kentt smiled at Bobbin. “Good ol’ boy.” He patted Bobbin’s cheek. Though he clearly did not intend to harm him, a tap of that huge hand felt more like a slap. “Let’s get you cleaned up and rested. Then we’ll work on teaching you a few more words, eh?”
Bobbin returned the smile. He could not remember feeling so contented and right. Then, again, remembering was not his virtue.
Involving oneself in the affairs of wizards should never be done in ignorance.
—Colbey Calistinsson
SAVIAR RA-KHIRSSON TOOK the castle stairs two at a time, rushing past servants and guardsmen, a sword on each hip. Strawberry-blond hair, still wet from his bath, streamed wildly around his young features. He had doffed his blood-soaked battle clothes for a fresh tunic and breeks, had slept off the exhaustion of a hard-fought war, and finally felt clean enough to face his darling.
In his haste, Saviar nearly skidded into two Béarnian guardsmen who stood, spears crossed, in front of Chymmerlee’s door. To their credit, they remained firmly in place despite the muscular Renshai careening toward them, their expressions grim. Both wore standard blue and gold, with the rearing bear symbol of the high kingdom on their tabards. Saviar thought he saw a hint of fear in one’s deep brown eyes.
An instant before collision, Saviar rescued himself with an agile sidestep. “Sorry,” he said, smiling to put them at ease. “I just came to see Chymmerlee.”
“We’re under orders,” the larger one said. “You cannot enter.”
Saviar accepted the formality easily. As the son of a Knight of Erythane, he had become accustomed to much more extensive and oppressive decorum. Only the Knights knew how to turn even the most marvelous feast into tedium. “Tell her it’s Saviar. She’ll see me.”
“Begging your pardon.” Though smaller than his fellow, the other guard still had greater mass than Saviar and the majority of men in the Westlands. Most Béarnides did. “But you, specifically, cannot enter.”
“Me? Specifically?” The words caught Saviar completely off his guard. The united armies of the continent had just won a massive war, in no small part because of Chymmerlee’s magic and his own sword arm. She had doted on him since the moment his twin had led her to him, comatose, blood poisoned by a festering wound. She had saved his life and nursed him through his recovery. Later, they had held hands, laughed together, even kissed. She alone of her people had accompanied them to the war, the only mage who had assisted in a battle of epic proportions. It made no sense for Chymmerlee to turn her back on him now. “You must be mistaken. Can you please just tell her I’m here? She’ll see me.”
The Béarnides glanced at one another, the somberness of their expressions never changing. Their spears remained in place. The first speaker cleared his throat. “There is no reason to ask. It is by Chymmerlee’s own orders that we are barring you . . . and your twin.”
Saviar’s hands drifted instinctively to his hilts. Renshai resolved most problems in a wild flurry of swordplay.
Apparently, the guardsmen had noticed Saviar’s movement. Though they stayed in place, they clearly looked alarmed. The smaller one’s voice cracked slightly as he explained, “We know you’re Renshai, Saviar. You can probably gut both of us without breaking a sweat, but we hope you won’t.”
The first added, “We’re only doing our jobs and protecting a woman you clearly care about.”
Saviar deliberately took his hands from his hilts. Renshai trained to the sword from infancy, with both hands and in all conditions. Little mattered in their lives besides dying in glorious combat, thus earning the exquisite and violent afterlife of Valhalla. “I’m not going to attack you.” Saviar saw little sense in doing so. He could kill them with a few lazy sword strokes, but he would bring the wrath of Béarn down upon him, make the Renshai even more hated, if possible, and dishonor his knightly father and grandfather. “I wouldn’t do that.”
Well-hidden relief barely changed the guards’ stances, just a nearly imperceptible loosening of sinews.
To Saviar’s surprise, tears pressed against his eyelids. He knew he had to leave as quickly as possible or risk embarrassing himself. Turning on his heel, keeping his head high, he went back down the steps and into the courtyard.
Once there, Saviar found himself m
ore angry and confused than sad. He forced back the tears and pounded a fist on the natural granite wall of the castle. Pain flashed through his hand, but did little to distract him. He punched the wall again, harder.
A familiar voice wafted to him. “Not enough bruises from the war, Savi? You need to break a few fingers, too?”
Saviar spun, drawing his sword, glad for a target on which to sate his rage.
His twin, Subikahn, did not respond to the challenge. He stood near a neat hedgerow, watching Saviar curiously, his black hair in its usual disarray, his small wiry form a stark contrast to his brother’s powerful one. Though born of the same pregnancy, each resembled his different father more than either of his brothers. “Sheathe it, Savi. We have no enemies in Béarn’s courtyard.”
Saviar blinked, suddenly realizing he stood in broad sunlight amid the numerous gardens that characterized Béarn’s courtyard. So focused on his own problems, he had not noticed the myriad blossoms and shrubs, the neat rows of vegetables, or the many stone statues, with bears predominating. The sweet aromas of petals and pollen surrounded him. Feeling a smile edging onto his features, Saviar forced it down. “Renshai spar anywhere, anytime.”
Subikahn could hardly deny it. “And Béarn supplies us with the best sparring room in existence. Don’t we owe it to her not to trample her beautiful grounds and crops now that the war has ended?”
Saviar slammed his sword back into its sheath. Uncertain what to say or do, he spoke simple fact. “I’m angry.”
“I noticed.” Subikahn stepped around the hedge to sit on one of the whitestone benches. He patted the space beside him. “Besides having just fought the war of a lifetime, having slept what seemed like months, and attending myriad feasts, what’s bothering you?”
Saviar did not move. “Chymmerlee refuses to see me.”
Subikahn’s grin wilted, and his brow furrowed. “Chymmerlee? Really?” He shook his head. “You were all over each other before the war.”
Saviar made a wordless noise. It was not like Subikahn to repeat things they both already knew.
“Did she give you a reason?”
This time, Saviar twisted and slammed the bottom of his boot against the castle wall. “She wouldn’t even see me. How could she give me a reason?”
Subikahn rose and walked to his brother. “You’re strong, Savi; but I don’t think even you can topple a castle formed from a mountain.”
Saviar whirled. “What?”
Subikahn studied the muddy boot print on the wall. “If you’re trying to shake her out the window, I don’t think you can. Besides, someone else might get hurt.”
Saviar was in no mood for humor. “You’re not helping,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Fine. Why didn’t you ask whoever told you she wouldn’t see you for the reason?”
“Because I—” Saviar had no good answer. He would never admit he had almost cried. “Because I didn’t, that’s all. I didn’t.” Something Subikahn had said stuck in his mind. . . . shake her out the window . . . Saviar glanced sidelong at his swarthy brother. “Your father taught you how to climb buildings, didn’t he?”
Subikahn chuckled, though it seemed a bit forced. He had reconciled with Tae Kahn, his father, only the previous day. The rift was still healing. “Your father teaches you manners and honor and responsibility, mine swinging on chandeliers and slide-racing down banisters. King Tae and his courtly lessons on . . . the thrill of being shot by one’s own guards breaking into one’s own castle.”
Saviar walked carefully around the subject. He knew the king of Stalmize from their family’s once-a-year visits when they were children. Saviar had looked forward to it, eagerly, for months. The journey was grueling, but well worth it. Tae had always frolicked with the boys, more playmate than adult.
Now, however, it seemed wrong to joke about the childlike behavior of Subikahn’s father. Tae had volunteered for a wartime spying mission that had left him so near death no one had expected him to survive. Though his recovery now seemed certain, he still suffered from the ordeal. “I’m just thinking . . . if someone climbed up to Chymmerlee’s window . . .” He measured Subikahn’s reaction as he spoke. For the moment, his twin half-brother seemed to be listening. “. . . he wouldn’t have to deal with the guards . . .”
Still no sign from Subikahn.
“. . . and she might talk?” Now, Saviar went silent, wishing Subikahn would give him something, some sign that he was listening.
Subikahn looked back, brow furrowed. “Sounds like a reasonable idea to me. Why don’t you try it?”
Saviar took a backward step. “Me?” He made a grand gesture that outlined his large physique. “Do you really think I could climb a wall?”
Subikahn shrugged. “You’re as competent as I am.”
Saviar snorted. “At Renshai maneuvers, maybe.” Then, worried he might have offended his brother, he added more forcefully, “Maybe.” Saviar had lost some recent memory when he had awakened from his near-fatal injuries. Subikahn had once claimed Saviar had won a spar between them that he could not recall fighting. Saviar did not know the details of that battle, nor would Subikahn further enlighten him. Saviar assumed he had used a trick Subikahn did not want repeated. “But I’m clearly not built for climbing. My fingers and toes might just bear my weight, but I doubt I could find room for my massive hands and feet on tiny ledges. And the ledges would likely crumble beneath me.”
“Ah.” Subikahn’s dark brows rose in increments. “So you really were trying to punch down the castle. You seriously believe solid granite can’t hold you?”
Saviar studied his abraded fist. Tiny spots of blood had developed, but nothing worse. “I’m not applauding my own strength. I’m just saying the weakest part of stone is the tips of ledges. I weigh a lot more than you, and I don’t move as quickly.” The fact that he had to explain what seemed painfully evident further fueled his irritation. “I’m sick to death of discussing this. Will you do it for me, or not?”
“Not . . .” Subikahn said.
Saviar’s hands balled to fists, though he had no intention of using them.
“. . . for you. But I will do it for Chymmerlee.”
Saviar breathed a sigh of relief and finally came over to sit beside his brother. Subikahn’s reasons did not matter, so long as the job got done. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Subikahn’s gaze rolled over the castle wall, measuring its height and its windows. “Just because I can climb doesn’t mean I’ll have the words to fix whatever blundering mistake you made that has her unwilling to even talk to you.”
“To us,” Saviar corrected, remembering the guard’s words. “She won’t see you, either.” Few things could make less sense to Saviar. He, his father, and Subikahn had kept Chymmerlee safe, battling waves of attackers commanded by the enemy Kjempemagiska to kill her. The other side had had only this one user of magic while the allies of the continent had two: Chymmerlee and King Griff’s second wife, the elf Tem’aree’ay, who had backed her up from the castle rooftop. The three men had worn themselves far past exhaustion protecting Chymmerlee.
Subikahn’s brow furrowed. “So you got her mad at me, too, huh? Thanks.”
Saviar wanted to punch the wall again, but he remained seated. “I didn’t do anything. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since the war. When the Kjempemagiska fell, our soldiers hustled her out.” He shook his head. “There must be some mistake.”
Subikahn looked thoughtful, still studying his route. “Must be.” He rose and headed toward the castle wall, seemingly oblivious to everything else in front of him.
Saviar stood up and walked alongside his brother to steer him around obstacles, though he need not have bothered. Like all Renshai, Subikahn remained attentive to everything, even when he seemed incapable of noticing.
When he arrived at the base of the castle wall, Subikahn poi
nted upward. “It’s that one, right? Fourth floor?”
Saviar looked in the indicated direction, shielding his eyes from the sun. He had irises so soft a blue they appeared nearly white, exactly like his grandfather’s; and that pallor seemed to make him so much more vulnerable to light than his dark-eyed twin. “One over to the right.”
Subikahn glanced from window to window. Both had frilly curtains fluttering in the morning breeze. “One over to the right. You’re sure?”
Irritation flared anew. “Of course I know Chymmerlee’s window. Why wouldn’t I know?” Then, remembering Subikahn was about to do him a huge favor, he moderated his tone. “I’m saying one over from directly above my head. That’s not necessarily one over from what you’re looking at, though.”
“I’ve got it.” Subikahn continued to stare upward. The sunlight did not seem to bother him at all. “I just don’t want to get arrested for crawling into a princess’ window. That might look very bad.”
Saviar could not help smiling. Only a scant handful of people knew Subikahn preferred the company of men. Sodomy was a capital crime in the East, and Tae’s fear for his son’s life had resulted in the temporary rift between them. “True, but as a prince, you’d probably get little more than disdainful glances, a few whispers, and a rap on the knuckles.”
Subikahn shrugged. “Maybe. But I could do without the scrutiny of my love life.” He pressed his fingers into irregularities in the stone construction, kicked off his boots, and found similar notches for his toes.
“Careful,” Saviar hissed, though he needn’t have whispered. In open morning sunlight, anyone spying could see what they were doing farther away than they could hear it. Standing directly beneath Subikahn, prepared to support him if anything went wrong, Saviar glanced around the courtyard. Though he saw a few other people strolling through the pathways or sitting on benches beneath shading canopies, none were looking in their direction.
Fields of Wrath Page 2