“And when you woke up, you made a promise to your brother.”
Saviar managed a weak grin. Ra-khir finally understood. “One I could not violate, although I wanted to several times. Vows, I’m told, are not situational; and a man is only as good as his word.”
Ra-khir laughed. His very own words had come back to bite him. “I’ve heard you made vows to Chymmerlee as well. Ones she worries you won’t keep.”
Saviar felt his blood warming again and gritted his teeth to hold back rising anger. “And I am certain you assured her I would never break my word.”
“I assured her you had always kept it before, and I would do my best to see you remained the upstanding and wonderful man I raised.”
Saviar tried to find an underlying insult, seeking any reason to justify the irritation toward his father that he currently suffered. “Did you also tell her there must be some logical reason why I didn’t tell her about being Renshai?”
Ra-khir gathered his hat and his gloves, pulling them into his lap. “I don’t second-guess the motives of any man without speaking to him first.”
Saviar snorted.
“Why didn’t you tell her yourself?”
Saviar suspected Ra-khir knew the answer to his own question, at least in a general sense. He also had enough knowledge of his son’s vows to Chymmerlee not to ask about her and her people. “I can’t get near her. When Subikahn tried to help, she nearly killed him.”
“She’s not open to explanation.”
That being self-evident, Saviar saw no reason to reply. Finally believing himself free from the mostly irrational anger, he asked softly, “You’ll talk to her? Help her understand?”
Ra-khir sighed, winching his hands around the gloves in his lap. “I’m sure we’ll talk; but, as I’ve already stated, she’s clearly not open to explanation. I suspect that, in her case, the trust issue, while significant, is not what most bothers her.”
Saviar cocked his head, not fully certain of his father’s point. “So now that you’ve lectured me to death on trust, you’re saying that’s not even the problem?”
Ra-khir shook his head, face crinkled with dismay. “Oh, that’s a significant transgression, one I’m glad to hear you didn’t commit simply to save yourself discomfort. But, having listened to you and observed her, I suspect she hates you more for being Renshai than for neglecting to tell her.” He peered intently at his son, obviously expecting a strong reaction.
Saviar only shrugged. Chymmerlee had never met a Renshai before he and his twin had come into her life. She knew them only as the bloodthirsty savages who had slaughtered all of her people more than three hundred years ago. Regaled with stories of cruelty and hatred since birth, she could feel no other way about them. She had cared deeply for Saviar once, before she knew what he was. Surely, he could make her see that he had not become a different person only because she had learned the race of his mother. “Then there’s hope.”
Ra-khir sat up. “Hope?”
“Prejudice stems from ignorance. If I educate her, she may not only come back to me but come also to understand Renshai.”
Ra-khir remained frozen in place, clearly worried to display any sort of reaction. That, in and of itself, told Saviar that he had concerns about his son’s words.
Saviar felt the old ire rising again. In the last day, it had become a familiar companion. “What’s wrong with what I said?”
“Nothing,” Ra-khir admitted. “It’s a noble pursuit.”
“But . . .” Saviar added questioningly.
Ra-khir hesitated, as if debating whether or not to continue. “I . . . know women, as much as a man can. And I know young men well. You will want to begin her schooling immediately. She will not wish to speak to or about you for weeks. Those two do not mesh well. Far better to give her the space and time to miss you.”
“Except, you’re about to take her away.”
Ra-khir could hardly deny it. “If it’s meant to be, she’ll come back to you. I can’t tell you the details of my mission, but you have to know all of us want her to like us, to return should we need her services again.” He frowned deeply, warningly. “You also must know I’m bound to protect her against anything that might harm or upset her. Please, Saviar, don’t place me in the position of having to defend her from you.”
Truly Renshai, Saviar’s thoughts went immediately to prowess. I’d beat you senseless, old man. He kept the idea to himself. Ra-khir would not consider the danger. If he had to fight Saviar to complete his knight’s mission, he would do so no matter the certainty of the outcome. Saviar had no doubt he could defeat his father, but to what purpose? It might impress someone who held the knights in high esteem, but it would mortify Chymmerlee, break his father’s heart, imbue him with guilt, and accomplish nothing positive. The desperate turn of his thoughts fueled his irritability. This could not end well. “Can’t I go with you?”
Ra-khir had already answered that question. “No.”
“He’s going though, isn’t he?” Saviar jabbed a finger in the general direction of the waiting horses.
Ra-khir looked genuinely puzzled. “Silver Warrior?”
Saviar rolled his eyes. “I mean the boy. The one who tags after you everywhere.”
Ra-khir’s lids widened. “You mean Darby? Of course he’s coming with me. He’s my squire, a knight-in-training. It’s his job to tag after me everywhere, to observe and question, to anticipate my needs.”
Unsure why he had taken such an instant and intense disliking to the youngster, Saviar merely grunted. He had only met Darby once, only long enough to exchange pleasantries. Not yet trained in the use of weapons, Darby had remained behind the lines during the war, though he had protested mightily.
Ra-khir seemed to have more insight. “Saviar, it’s never too late to attempt to join the Knights of Erythane. We have no age requirement. If you’re still interested and can make yourself available for the training, you’re welcome to try.”
“But you’ve already taken a squire.” Saviar folded his arms across his chest.
“That was never an option.”
Shocked by the words, Saviar stared.
“I’m not entirely sure I have the competence and control to impartially evaluate my own son, nor that you would display the same respect for me as you would for a stranger.”
Saviar seemed incapable of seeing his father’s words in any but the worst light. “So I’m a bad son.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just letting you know that, if you chose to squire, you would be assigned to another knight than me.”
That only further confused Saviar. “If I chose it?”
“It’s not a requirement. It’s normally reserved for those of less enlightened background, those who need more experience with the knights before attempting the actual training. I never squired, nor had the inclination to teach one.”
“Hence Darby.”
Ra-khir smiled. “Darby just sort of happened. We discovered one another while I was searching for you and your brothers, and he was looking for a better life for himself and his family. He’s perfect knight material, and he wants it more than anything in the world.”
As opposed to me, you mean. Saviar held his tongue again. Sometimes the desire to join his father and grandfather consumed him like a bonfire, while other times he barely gave it a thought. The life of a Renshai also required a dedication beyond that which most could give. Every moment not spent in spar or practice, in warfare or honoring one’s sword was considered wholly wasted, including the time he had just spent conversing with his father. The added burden heaped upon him by agreeing to succeed Thialnir as titular leader of the Renshai only made things more difficult. “What if I squired to one of the knights accompanying you on your mission?”
Ra-khir rose, sweeping his hat to his head. “Not if you were Colbey Calistinsson himself.” With
that, he seized his gloves, left the tent, and headed toward his waiting charger.
Saviar also stood, watching from the flap as Ra-khir and Darby exchanged a few words, mounted their horses, and headed for Béarn. The suggestion that Saviar might feign interest in the Knights of Erythane for the sole purpose of attending this mission should have earned him a much heavier rebuke. Ra-khir had chosen that moment to leave as much to end the conversation as to meet up with his companions. Though a common Renshai brush-off, Ra-khir’s last words were not something Saviar had ever heard him say; and Saviar could not help wondering if they contained more meaning than the mere syllables implied.
Colbey Calistinsson was the only Renshai to ever become a Knight of Erythane, too. True, he had only had to kill a knight in fair combat. At the time, the intensive training that included mock battles, protocol, drills, jousts, and ethical dilemmas already existed, but so did the loophole that granted Colbey his charger and his title. To Saviar’s knowledge, no one had ever called on Colbey to fulfill any knightly duties. Who would dare? Perhaps Ra-khir intended to remind his son that even the immortal Renshai of legend had not managed to integrate the two worlds. Or, perhaps, he wished to point out to his son that the two worlds had collided once before and could again.
Saviar shook his head at the contradictory interpretations, then came full circle. Or, perhaps, he was just trying to end a senseless conversation with a classic brush-off.
In any case, it seemed, the point was lost on Saviar.
Nearly three hundred strong, all but a handful of the tribe of Renshai headed together toward the Fields of Wrath. Left arm still splinted, Calistin Ra-khirsson walked at the head, beside the massive, aging Thialnir. Most chatted as they strode, in happy tones, and laughter wafted on the foggy air. They had not looked upon their homes and land for several months, not since the now-retracted duel had sent them into exile.
Most of their conversations centered on favorite practice areas; the Renshai bore little attachment to objects other than their swords. A barren plain devoid of useful soil, the Fields of Wrath had never supported crops or livestock, even had the Renshai time or knowledge of how to tend them. They bought their necessities, went without most luxuries, and spent minimal effort on construction. Nevertheless, it was home, and they had missed it.
Calistin had always approached life boldly, without concern for emotions: his own or anyone else’s. Now, strange doubts descended on him, raising memories he would rather ignore. He had spent most of his life on the Fields of Wrath, yet they had changed forever the day Captain Erik Leifsson had brought Valr Magnus and proposed the challenge. The Renshai had picked Calistin as their champion, but the Northmen had called foul, deeming it inherently unfair for anyone to have to fight the best of the Renshai.
The details and logic of that argument eluded Calistin. Only cowards would call a duel, then press their opponents to call forth a weaker contestant. Calistin had dismissed the Northmen with the claim that it did not matter, even his mother could defeat the most skilled Northman in any duel. This sarcastic challenge they had taken in earnest, and Kevral had instantly agreed to the battle.
It was the only time in his life Calistin could remember feeling guilt or fear, both of which had swarmed down on him like an angry hive. The oddity of the emotions had only added to his discomfort. It was the one time he had turned to his older brother for assistance, though Saviar could offer little solace. When the battle commenced, Calistin could tell by their movements, their builds, their speed, knowledge, and dedication to the fight that Kevral should win. Magnus had the advantages of size and strength, but she had every other, especially the Renshai maneuvers. She got off the first attack. She took first blood. She scored the first serious wound.
Except that Calistin had not counted on the Northmen cheating to turn the tide. He could still envision the well-paid Erythanian leaping from a tree branch at Kevral. She had dodged him and Magnus’ attack admirably, but the plummeting man had struck her a glancing blow that caused her to lose her balance and the fight. As the details returned too vividly to Calistin’s mind’s eye, he could practically feel the sharpened blade slicing through his mother’s side.
Off-balanced by his own memories, Calistin veered leftward and into Thialnir. Hard as rock, the elder did not budge, but he did glance toward his companion. Only then, Calistin noticed the anguished look on their leader’s face. If even he could read it, anyone could. “What is it?”
“Where’s your brother, Calistin?”
Calistin had two brothers. He knew Thialnir had to mean Saviar, but he answered for both. “I haven’t seen either of them since yesterday at the practice room.” He smiled at the memory. He had taken them both on at once and bested them, despite his broken arm. “Subikahn spends as much time with the Eastlanders as us, so I never expect to see him. Saviar did not sleep in our tent last night, either. I figured, with Father gone on his mission, he didn’t want to spend the night alone with me.”
Thialnir returned to his silent contemplations. Calistin saw no reason to further bother the old Renshai. He had opened the gates of conversation. If Thialnir wished to say more, he would. Instead, Calistin focused on creating a new Renshai maneuver, one the entire tribe would be clamoring to learn.
As the familiar outline of the Fields of Wrath came into view, memories pushed aside the necessary single-mindedness required to manufacture complicated swordplay. Calistin found himself staring at the foggy skyline of cottages that defined home: the slanting roof of Arsvid’s home that had undergone so many temporary fixes it now consisted almost entirely of patches, the blocky common storage facility, the scraggly twisted trees that made up his favorite sparring grounds. Deeper inside, he would find his childhood dwelling, where they had lived as a family until the duel that had not only ended his mother’s life, but began a new nomadic existence.
Worried a glimpse of the Fields of Wrath might raise bad feelings, Calistin relished the joy welling up inside him in its stead. His mother had died a valiant, hero’s death, guided to Valhalla by a Valkyrie he had seen with his own eyes. He now wore one of her swords proudly at his hip. She did not want them to mourn, but to celebrate the glory of her life and her death. Though never the sentimental type, this time Calistin found himself drawn to the excitement of his peers. After months of uncertainty, the Renshai had come home.
Suddenly seized by a feeling of imminent threat, Calistin exchanged one form of excitement for another. His heart pounded with the slow, sure cadence that always preceded a battle. Only then, movement touched the corners of his vision. Gradually, figures appeared in the fog, between the Renshai and their village. They were not mounted, nor did they carry readied weapons. As the clot of Renshai drew closer, it became clear the others wore no swords at their belts. Most came barehanded, though a few clutched pitchforks or hammers clearly balanced for forges rather than warfare.
Their builds seemed light, almost emaciated after dwelling among Béarnides and warriors for so long. Though most stood taller than Calistin, he saw children among the mass. Dressed frugally, mostly in patched homespun rimed with dirt, they presented a pitiful front that would give the Renshai swords no challenge. Disappointed, Calistin studied them, looking for some sign of competence. Though he noticed some possibilities in the contours of a few, even those had either not developed their potential or had already lived past their prime.
As the group did not give way, the Renshai stopped. Calistin did not recognize any of those who thought they could bar the Renshai’s passage, but that did not surprise him. Anyone who could not give him at least a reasonable spar did not warrant his interest. Few enough ganim fulfilled that requirement. These might just as well be sheep.
When the Renshai said nothing, one of the strangers stepped forward. White and dark hair mingled into inseparable gray, receding from his forehead and temples. Veins ran like tortuous blue snakes through his thinning skin, and an artery thro
bbed at his temple. “You are not welcome here.”
Uncertain what to make of the statement, Calistin looked behind him. Confusion knit across the Renshai faces.
Thialnir cleared his throat. Although Renshai paid little attention to formality and leadership, they had become accustomed to the old Renshai speaking for them. “The Fields of Wrath belong to us. You have no authority to welcome us or not. Step aside so we do not have to plow through you.”
The old man did not budge, though his limbs trembled, betraying his fear. Those around him remained speechless, but Calistin could see a strange emotion taking form on their faces, similar to the expression his enemies wore as he cut them down in battle. Several stepped warily from foot to foot, and some of the children skittered behind the elders.
“The Paradise Plains belong to us,” the man countered. “You took them from us once. We will not allow you to do so again.”
Thialnir blinked, brows crushing inward in confusion. He glanced back, apparently still seeking Saviar, though he disguised the movement with a casual flick of his braids from his face. “You’re talking nonsense. Our ancestors settled on barren land they called the Fields of Wrath. Never has this place borne any other name.”
The elder snorted. “Perhaps according to history rewritten by Renshai. Our peaceful ancestors lived here before you savages destroyed them and took their land. We have reclaimed it, and we will not leave.”
Calistin had little book learning, especially in regard to history. Once the tribe saw his potential, they encouraged him to dedicate himself solely to the sword. They supplied his needs and nearly all his desires, not wishing to distract him from the quest to become the ultimate warrior. He did not care about ancient history. Since long before his birth, his people had lived there. “Get out of the way or die. Either way, we will take back our homes.” Calistin did not give the self-called Paradisians time to respond but raced toward them.
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