Thialnir glanced around the group with a patience Calistin did not share. The younger Renshai thumbed the edge of his pommel, needing to expel his discomfort in svergelse or spar, if not all-out war. It irked him he had lost a chance at Colbey because of a creativity Colbey usually encouraged and admired. Calistin could feel similar tension building through the tribe. They all needed to sate emotions.
Still, Thialnir waited until they stopped jabbering and turned their attention back to him. “I never suggested we run. Those homes belong to us, and we will retake them.”
A cheer went up from the masses.
Again, Thialnir waited for quiet before speaking. “I’m not entirely certain what we should do, but I’d like to try something.”
To indicate their willingness to listen, the Renshai found various places to crouch or perch. Only the youngest among them dared to sit. An unwary Renshai set himself up as a target for enemies, torke, and fellow Renshai seeking a challenge.
Thialnir explained. “We will return to our homes and live as we have done in the past.”
Calistin watched looks of interest, followed by confusion, take shape on each face. He had no idea what Thialnir meant to propose, but he listened without showing any visible reaction.
“We will spar and train wherever we please, as always. We will eat as we have eaten, eliminate where we have eliminated, fix up our houses as we always have.” Thialnir looked out over the group, perhaps to make sure he still had their attention. Mostly, they continued to look uncertain. Thialnir shrugged. “That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Mumbles trickled through the group; but, this time, they did not break out in loud conversations. The same question blossomed in every mind, including Calistin’s.
Gareth gave it voice. “What about the squatters?”
Thialnir’s enormous shoulders rose and fell again. “What about them? They can’t understand what we say in Renshai. They can’t stop us from doing what we do. We need only learn to ignore anything they say to us.”
Calistin finally caught on. “Without weapons, they can’t harm us. And, if one does happen to attack, then it’s within our rights to kill in self-defense, right?”
“Of course.” Thialnir’s smile still seemed strained. He had developed an interesting tactic that might or might not work in practice. “Don’t let them goad you to do anything stupid. Interact with them, or ignore them, as you see fit. If it helps, pretend you don’t speak a word of Common Trading or Erythanian. If they stand in your way, walk around them. If they lie in your beds, find something else to do—”
“—or join them!” someone called out, and the entire group laughed, including Thialnir.
“Why not?” Thialnir’s face eased into its normal wrinkles as the other Renshai got into the spirit of his suggestion. “We certainly don’t want to make children with these wisules.” His words served as gentle warning. “But they might find our pallets uncomfortable with extra bodies on them. And our homes a trifle crowded.”
“What about food?” someone Calistin could not see yelled out. “We don’t have enough money to feed them and us, do we?”
Calistin had not given it much consideration. Renshai did not waste time or knowledge on hunting, fishing or gardening. They bought what they needed, stored it commonly, and shared.
Thialnir spread his hands broadly. “I’m sure we’ll find many small issues that we have to sort out in time. As far as food, I’m guessing they’ll bring in more than we do. The Fields of Wrath won’t support crops, but they’ve kept themselves alive this long. If someone chooses to cook a meal in my hearth, I’m going to have some. Won’t you?”
Everyone seemed to agree that they would.
Calistin could see the possibilities in Thialnir’s plan. No Westerner could possibly find it easy living with a group of people that consisted solely of warriors. A Northern saying went: “One need meet only one Renshai, man, woman, or child, to know them all.” On general matters, they thought with one mind, focused blindly on swords and battle craft. He had a feeling it would not take long for the Paradisians to pack their gear and find a more welcome home.
Families love each other, even when we can’t stand each other.
—Calistin Ra-khirsson
SAVIAR HAD NO DIFFICULTY tracking the Knights of Erythane northward through the Western woodlands. They stuck to the main roads, their snow-white horses plainly visible even in moonless darkness. They moved slowly, hailed by every passerby, stopped multiple times to render assistance or petty judgments, always patient, always kind.
Saviar found his own tolerance perpetually pressed to the brink. He had brought a pack full of rations, keenly aware he had no skill at hunting, no particular competence distinguishing safe plants from deadly poison. The slow pace kept him constantly wondering if his provisions would hold, and he found himself rationing tightly. His growling stomach only increased his annoyance, especially when he saw the knights, their apprentice, and Chymmerlee feasting on roasted pheasants and conies that made his own hard, jerked pork smell like bark.
Erythane had a maximum of twenty-four full-fledged knights at any time, and most citizens of Erythane knew them all by name. The children made circle and rope-jumping games out of reciting the list without making a mistake. Saviar had watched his father’s practices enough to know not only their names, but to recognize them all by sight as well. Not that he found it necessary, in this case. The Knights of Erythane recited their full titles to everyone they met.
Sir Vincelin had the wiry figure of a Renshai, with quick brown eyes, darkly tanned skin, and mahogany hair that hung in a neat curtain to just below his ears. The quietest of the three, he led the way, consulting a map at intervals. The oldest, Sir Alquantae had traded a bit of his muscle mass for an abdominal bulge, but he still kept a strong hand on his mount’s reins and he laughed easily. He kept his short hair plastered against his scalp, a perfect silver mix of black and white. The perfume he used had a distinctive smell that grew on Saviar. At least, he could follow them by scent when sight became too risky.
Chymmerlee rode a small, bay gelding, barely tall enough to qualify as a horse instead of a pony. Darby had his usual chestnut, and Saviar finally had a chance to assess it. He was no expert on horses, but even he could tell the gelding had a nice conformation and disposition, more than a widow’s son should be able to afford. He suspected Ra-khir had purchased it for the boy from their own family funds.
Saviar had never concerned himself with matters of money, and the thought bothered him more than he expected. He did not know what his father saw in the lean, lanky teen. Darby had copied everything from Ra-khir, from the style of his hair to the blue-and-gold ribbons twined into his gelding’s mane and tail. Saviar even thought he saw a hint of added red in the boy’s previously mouse brown hair. Although he had not yet earned his tunic and tabard, Darby wore only the kingdoms’ colors: blue and gold, black and orange. He watched Saviar’s father with the eyes of an aristiri hawk, copying his manner, his gestures, even the patterns of his speech.
Saviar looked at his own clothing, filthy and tattered. While the knights paused every night to wash their costumes, bathe, and brush the tangles and twigs from their hair and their mounts’ manes, Saviar used that time to practice sword forms and work out his frustrations in the violence of his svergelse. To his bewilderment, his imagined enemies often took the form of Darby, though much quicker, more agile and deadly.
Exhaustion and hunger plagued Saviar, problems the mounted knights did not share. As a week dragged into two, he waited for his opportunity to catch Chymmerlee alone. The Knights hovered over her, attending her every need, plying her with questions he could not quite hear. Apparently they joked and told stories, because Saviar could pick her familiar, sweet laughter from the others at regular intervals. Over time, her guardians became less obsessive, though she spent increasing amounts of time alone with Darby. Sav
iar could not help noticing how they sat closer and closer as they talked and how her slender arm shot out occasionally to touch him lightly on the arm or shoulder.
One dark evening in the second week of their journey, Saviar practiced sword maneuvers a short distance from the clearing where the knights had set up camp. The sweet aroma of burning wood blended with the acrid odor of fire, and the first faint smells of sizzling meat twined through the mixture. Saviar concentrated on a small piece of a complicated maneuver, a two-sword attack that had the blades moving in different directions.
Saviar knew the general locations of the knights and their charge. Vincelin and Alquantae hunted game while Ra-khir dragged in wood to keep the fire going through the night. Chymmerlee and Darby sat on a barkless deadfall in the clearing, watching the fire, the packs, and the horses but—mostly—enjoying the warmth and the bright spray of stars across the sky. They pointed upward frequently, apparently tracing patterns in the heavens. At one point, Saviar saw them hold hands.
Saviar realized, with a sudden stab of anger, that Darby had stolen his life. He had always craved more of his father’s attention, sneaking out after grueling Renshai practices to walk home with Ra-khir. Now, Darby had Ra-khir’s favor, along with Saviar’s chance to become a knight and even his woman.
Chymmerlee left the clearing to relieve herself. As always, Saviar averted his gaze while she did so, accustomed to her immediately running back to join the knights. This time, however, she paused to study a plant growing near her chosen toilet. Her body language told him she had made a happy discovery, and he watched her curl up the bottom of her skirt with one hand and pluck berries into it with the other.
Silently, Saviar sheathed his swords and wiped sweat from his brow. He ran through the positions of the knights in his mind. If he had calculated correctly, she would only need to take a few more steps to give him several moments of access before discovery. He crept closer, watching.
Chymmerlee continued to pull objects off the vine, following a line of plants that took her away from the clearing. Saviar drew near enough to see that she gathered green-and-orange–striped sugarberries, an awesome find indeed. He wondered how she had recognized them in the near-darkness.
When Saviar felt she had strayed as far as he could hope for, he slipped close enough to touch her with an outstretched sword. If she noticed his presence, she gave no sign. The Renshai maneuvers had initially come from combining the best techniques of all the world’s warriors, including furtiveness from the barbarians living in the southwestern forests. Subikahn had always outdone Saviar in stealth classes; but, apparently, he had learned enough.
Saviar eased nearer, keeping his swords deliberately sheathed and his hands away from the pommels. He needed to remind her of the affection they had once shared without bringing to mind her image of Renshai: all swords and blood and violence. He had prepared his speech since that day in the courtyard when she had almost killed his brother; yet, now that the moment had come, words failed him. He managed only a soft hiss, “Chymmerlee.”
The mage stiffened and whirled toward him. Berries tumbled from her makeshift carryall, and her skirt dropped back to her ankles. She was still beautiful, her hair a thick and honest mahogany that shimmered in the starlight, her features nearly as pale as a Northman’s, her freckles hidden by the gloom. Light flared suddenly near her feet, blinding Saviar and revealing her. Before he could recover his vision, she screamed, high-pitched and deafeningly loud.
Brush rattled from all directions.
Torn between running and reasoning, Saviar chose the latter. He seized her arm, pulling her toward him. “Wait, Chymmerlee, please. Just hear me out.”
A slap stung Saviar’s face, followed by a knee slammed forcefully into his groin. Icy pain clutched his belly, and he staggered, unable to gasp out another word. It took all the mental training of the Renshai not to collapse; but, even though he kept his feet, he still felt helpless, vulnerable. Numb throbbing overcame his body, and agony shot up through his stomach and seemed to take over his brain. At that moment, it occurred to him he had to run, but his body refused to respond. It implored him to curl up in a fetal position and vomit out his guts.
Ra-khir arrived first. His expression turned from concerned surprise to scarlet rage in an instant. “Saviar!”
Chymmerlee raced back toward the clearing.
Vincelin arrived next, an arrow nocked, its shaft pinned to the handrest by a finger. Not recognizing Saviar as quickly as his father had, he drew and pointed the arrowhead directly at the Renshai.
As feeling rushed back into his body, Saviar ignored the weapon aimed at his heart. Even disarmed by Chymmerlee’s attack, he knew he could move faster, dodging and drawing simultaneously, cutting through Vincelin’s guard. But, for now, he waited in stalemate. Time would gain the knights another companion, but it would also give him a chance to recover fully. Facing three Knights of Erythane at his best seemed wiser than taking on two with his testicles on fire.
Alquantae arrived last, while Darby and Chymmerlee peeked at the group from the edge of the clearing. Darby kept a protective arm around Chymmerlee, which only upset Saviar more.
“What are you doing here?” Ra-khir demanded. If his green eyes had not blazed with anger, Saviar could still have read it from the tightness of his lips, the hand clenched around his sword hilt, or the darkening of his features. “I specifically commanded you not to come.”
The pain and numbness faded enough for Saviar to demonstrate some anger of his own. “Commanded me? I’m not a knight-in-training. I’m a grown man by . . .” He trailed off. He was about to say, “by Renshai standards”; but, at the moment, that would only further alienate Chymmerlee. Frustration fueled his own rage. If only she would let him talk, he could fix things. She had fallen for him at first sight, nursing him through the months of fever fog and agony, even going so far as to chew up his food and administer it through a tube. It seemed nonsensical that one tiny piece of information could curdle that attraction into a forever hatred. “I’m a grown man, and I will do as my honor bids me.”
“And I am your father,” Ra-khir reminded him. “Do I deserve no respect at all?”
At the pronouncement, Vincelin lowered the bow and released the nock.
It took self-control for Saviar not to snort in answer. Ra-khir had earned his son’s respect, as well as that of the knights and, through them, Erythane and the world. At the moment, however, Saviar did not feel particularly civil toward anyone or anything. He could not have wholly explained his exasperation, but it was as real as anything he had ever experienced. “With all respect due, Sir Ra-khir, you only stated I could not join you. You said nothing about . . .” Saviar hesitated, trying to find the right words.
Vincelin filled in different ones. “. . . sneaking around behind us like a thief.”
Saviar gritted his teeth, taking a sudden disliking to Vincelin as well.
Ra-khir raised a hand to beg forbearance, and Vincelin lowered his head. “Would you like some privacy, Sir Ra-khir?”
Ra-khir bit his lower lip, still staring at Saviar. “No,” he said slowly. “I want you all to witness this exchange, so no one . . . misremembers it.”
Saviar made a wordless noise. His father had essentially just said he expected his son to lie.
Ra-khir continued, “And I don’t want him slipping away before I finish, so he can claim he never heard me.”
Saviar made a louder noise. Ra-khir no longer just walked the edges of insult. “So you don’t trust me anymore?”
Ra-khir dodged the question. “I worry the adolescent intensity of your emotions might cloud your otherwise very sound judgment.”
Saviar saw no reason to address his father when the person he needed to talk to had strayed within earshot. “Chymmerlee, please. I can explain everything.”
Every man’s gaze followed Saviar’s to the young mage. She on
ly shook her head, turned, and headed back into the clearing. Darby glanced at Saviar, his expression conveying something that looked like apology or understanding but which Saviar interpreted as withering disdain. Then, the boy followed Chymmerlee back into the clearing.
Ra-khir said softly, “She doesn’t want to listen to you, Savi.”
That being self-evident, Saviar saw no reason to reply. He tensed to follow her, but the knights moved between him and the clearing. Renshai instinct drove him to hack through all three men, then Darby, to face the object of his desire. He would enjoy every moment of the challenge. But reason overcame emotion, this time, at least. His body still felt tingly from the pounding his groin had taken, the anger throbbing through his skull seemed heavy as war drums, and forcing himself on Chymmerlee would not make her love him again.
Father and son had already discussed the matter, and Ra-khir did not seem eager to repeat his previous arguments. Instead, he took a resolute stance. “Savi, go home. Your people need you, and nothing good can come of following us. I’m fully bound to this mission, as are my companions.”
Vincelin and Alquantae nodded in response.
“We do not want to brawl with you but will do so if you force our hands.”
Fighting words Saviar understood, but he did not rise to the challenge. Ra-khir did have a point; nothing good could come of his slaughtering three Knights of Erythane, assuming he bested all of them. Most Renshai would win a fight against three equally matched ganim, but Saviar did not feel fully confident he could overcome these three. One at a time, certainly; but, all together, he had his doubts. He did not share Calistin’s inhuman confidence, nor the godlike skill that inspired it. Most Renshai dismissed the knights as overly moral fools who learned too many weapon types to become competent at any of them. Saviar, though, had actually watched many of the knights’ practices, spars, and challenges. Though not his best weapon, Ra-khir could handle a sword better than most ganim.
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