Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Saviar paced the sitting room floor from corner to corner in mindless patterns while the five male Myrcidians who shared the room watched his every movement. He appreciated the improvement in his conditions. At least now he had company in a rotating arrangement, fresher food, and furniture. But, as a week went by without a change of scenery, Saviar found himself feeling nearly as trapped and crazed as he had during his solitary imprisonment. The Mages of Myrcidë decided nothing quickly.

  Saviar tossed himself into a plush chair with a bored sigh, focusing on the pressure of the chair against his clothing, the odor of his too-long-unwashed body, the grain of the weave. These details failed to distract him any longer. An instant later, he found himself standing again, swept into the same senseless movement he had abandoned moments earlier.

  The Myrcidians continued to watch Saviar. At length, one man, named Giddion, spoke. “Young man, what’s the purpose of this roaming?”

  Saviar froze in position. Slowly, he turned to face the speaker who appeared middle-aged, his skin nearly as pale as Saviar’s, his eyes dark, and his hair a russet brown. He wore the standard, loose-fitting Myrcidian garment and perched in his chair like a predatory bird. “Purpose?” Saviar shook his head, trying to clear a fog that grew denser every passing day. “There’s no purpose. I can’t control it anymore. It’s . . . madness.”

  The Myrcidians glanced amongst themselves before Giddion spoke again, “You’re still . . . suffering?”

  Saviar forced himself to sit again, curling his legs against his chest and clasping them to remind himself not to pace. “I’m still a prisoner.” He did not wish to sound ungrateful for what they had done to try to accommodate him. “Thank you for providing me with better food, for the company; but I’m afraid it’s just not enough to keep me . . . healthy. I’m used to sky and sun and fresh air. To working my body until it aches. To the randomness that comes naturally from interactions with other people.”

  “We’re people,” said a short, round man named Archille defensively.

  “Of course you are.” Saviar fought his instinct to rise again, to pace restlessly. “But our interactions aren’t . . . conventional. Aren’t casual.” He had trouble forming coherent thought, and that bothered him. He had always considered himself intelligent and facile, at least with the Common Trading tongue. “For me, it’s the same room moment to moment, hour after hour, day after day. I’m having trouble keeping my thoughts in line, my body from aimless motion.” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it. I don’t think it’s possible to understand unless you’ve experienced it.”

  A small blond seated on a hard chair in the corner spoke softly, “I understand it.”

  Every eye went to him. Saviar had never spoken to this man before, but had heard others call him Paultan.

  “Some of us have taken turns in your previous cell, trying to recreate this madness you spoke of.” Paultan drew in his shoulders and clasped his hands, clearly uncomfortable with the memory. “I lasted almost a day and a half.” He shivered. “It’s horrible.”

  “Torture,” Saviar agreed. He concentrated on the spoken words, unwilling to allow his mind to drift back to those terrible days of near-total isolation. “But I’m afraid this isn’t much better. I’m not sure if it’s the quiet or simply the lack of freedom.”

  Paultan nodded. “Some time alone with one’s thoughts is a good thing. Too long, and they do nothing but condemn.”

  Saviar had deliberately avoided mentioning that phase, concerned the mages would see it as apt punishment for his demonic Renshai sins. “You can feel your body withering and your thoughts grow distant, numb. You start to question everything you see and hear, some of it real, some of it only in your imagination.”

  Every man in the room winced. Paultan fixed hazel eyes on Saviar. “I didn’t get to that stage. I demanded they let me out.”

  Saviar was on his feet before he could stop himself. He took three steps before he realized he had resumed pacing and forced himself to sit down again. “Maybe if I had a window? More talkative company?”

  The nods of the group told Saviar he had not asked for anything unreasonable yet.

  “Even a little bit of freedom would make all the difference.”

  Now, several of the men’s lips bowed downward into budding frowns. Giddion spoke the words on every mind. “As it is, some worry we’re risking lives by remaining in the same room with you.”

  Though Saviar suspected he should have anticipated the comment, it struck him as wholly nonsensical. A laugh emerged before he could stop it. “You’re holding me hostage, remember? There are a couple dozen of you and only one of me. I’m disarmed, weakened, and half-crazy. What do you worry I’m going to do? Think you to death?”

  Archille piped up, as if simply reminding Saviar of something obvious. “You’re a demon.”

  Saviar jerked his head toward the squat man who perched in a chair similar to his own. “I’m a what?”

  “A demon,” Archille repeated. “A Renshai.”

  Saviar would not lie, even if doing so might actually help him. “I am Renshai. And, like all Renshai but one, I’m distinctly and entirely human.”

  A tall willowy man with a wispy gray beard, Netheron spoke next. “Then why do you have an aura? And your brother, too? You’re certainly not Myrcidian.”

  Saviar knew where the aura came from, the sword now in Subikahn’s possession; but he doubted they would believe him given the rarity of items imbued with magic. It also might compromise Subikahn’s safety. “I don’t know enough about magic to speculate, but it’s not impossible we carry some Myrcidian blood.”

  Archille snorted. “How could that be? The Renshai slaughtered all of us, leaving no Myrcidian alive aside from the Eastern Wizard.”

  The evidence against Archille’s statement stood directly in front of Saviar. “And yet, men and women exist with the blood of Myrcidë flowing through their living veins.” Saviar did not pause to allow Archille to explain. He already knew the wizard blood of those who had imprisoned him was greatly diluted. “Not long after the destruction of your people, the tribe of Renshai met a similar fate, vastly outnumbered by the other Northern tribes and assaulted in the middle of the night.” It was the bitterest moment in all Renshai history, tempered through the centuries until Saviar could recite it without discomfort. “But, no matter how cohesive the tribe, it’s made up of individuals. Some Renshai had interbred with other peoples.”

  “Raped them, you mean,” Netheron groused.

  Saviar frowned and shook his head. “I can’t say it never happened; history records the deeds of individuals only when they have an effect on the world, or a society, as a whole. However, there are many known cases where Renshai legally married tribal outsiders. My parents, for a recent example. My brother was named for a half-barbarian child raised as a full-fledged member of the tribe. His Renshai mother was reportedly raped herself.”

  The evidence was scanty and poorly recorded; Saviar had always wondered how anyone could force a Renshai woman to do anything she did not wish to do. Only very recently he had learned his own fierce mother might have suffered a similar, terrible fate. “It’s also known that some full-blooded Renshai had chosen to remain in the West rather than return to Renshi. Our current tribe descends from those half-breeds and traitors.” He looked Archille fully in the eyes. “How Myrcidë is recreated is very similar, isn’t it?”

  Archille grunted. The Myrcidians had reconstituted only because Jeremilan had discovered his powers and sought out others with auras, binding them in secrecy. All of them descended from whatever traces of Myrcidian blood remained in the world after the indiscretions of sorcerers introduced their magical bloodline into common humans.

  A deep silence followed. The expressions on the mages’ facies varied considerably. Netheron wore a ruddy guise of outrage, Archille’s eyes had gone round as coins, Giddion’s features sc
rewed up until he seemed close to tears, Paultan looked away, and the other man, who had not yet spoken, tipped his head and dipped his lids, in clear contemplation.

  Jeremilan stepped through the wall, into the room behind the other mages. Apparently, some sort of magical door existed in that precise location, one that refused to yield to Saviar, because the mages always entered and exited from the same place. There could be no mistaking the anger Jeremilan dragged into the room with him. His dark eyes flashed, his cheeks bore a flush, his fists balled at his sides. He embodied all the warmth and calm of a raging blizzard. “Stop that at once.”

  Every eye went to him. As no one was moving or speaking, his words seemed nonsensical.

  “Do not compare Renshai to Myrcidians, not ever. They bear nothing in common but magic. Where the Myrcidians’ originates in light and decency, the Renshai’s is evil and raw, demon-play.”

  Saviar could not let that claim pass unchallenged. “Magic is one of the few things we don’t share with Myrcidë. In fact, it’s the main reason we have a population of a few hundred, despite our many enemies, while you have only twenty-six, even though no one knows you exist.”

  Apparently, Archille did not make the connection. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying magic makes us more vulnerable?”

  Saviar never took his attention from Jeremilan. In spite of his age, the leader of the mages was the most powerful and dangerous creature in the room. “Unlike us, recruiting is barely an option for you. You can only attempt to bring in those with an aura, those with magical blood. That also greatly hampers your ability to breed.” Saviar knew the Renshai, too, preferred to keep their bloodline pure, mostly because centuries of war had weeded out the weakest members and bolstered the strong, the quick, the competent. However, they remained open to permanently adding outside blood, so long as it enhanced the tribe in some respect. His father, and Subikahn’s, had proven their offspring worthy of the training in very different ways. “Despite what you might believe, Renshai are wholly human. Our abilities come from dedication and training, not blood. Therefore, we can interbreed more freely, less carefully, than you and not have to worry about diluting our power.”

  “That’s not right,” Netheron said. “Renshai abilities stem from foul rites and consummation of human blood. From demon magic.”

  Saviar found himself incapable of allowing this misconception to pass. “Renshai abilities come from hard work and a dedication to the art of the sword. We begin studying it as infants and devote our entire lives to becoming the most competent swordmasters in existence. The pinnacle of Renshai existence is to have no responsibilities other than swordcraft, to die in a blaze of glory and be found god-worthy of Valhalla.”

  Jeremilan waved off the description. “It’s the goal of all Northmen to earn Valhalla, yet none of the other tribes bears the Renshai’s dreadful reputation.” He clamped his hands to his hips. “You see elders among the other Northern tribes, those who do not maintain their youth with demon magic.”

  Saviar tipped his head. “We have many elders who look their age. My wrinkled, gray-haired grandmother can still give me a worthy spar, though she can’t always remember the names of the maneuvers she uses against me. No one would mistake her for my mother, let alone my sister.”

  Jeremilan scoffed. “I’ve never seen an old Renshai.”

  Saviar could not believe he had to argue this point. “With all due respect, when’s the last time you’ve seen any human outside the walls of your own village? Chymmerlee met my grandmother and many other older Renshai. Ask her.”

  All the rage returned to Jeremilan’s ancient features. “Leave Chymmerlee out of this!” he barked.

  Saviar could think of no Myrcidian he would prefer to discuss, but he could tell pursuing the matter against Jeremilan’s objections would only result in more isolation. He knew the historical basis for the blood libel that still existed centuries after its disproval. “In your day, Renshai spent nearly all their time in battle. We spurn armor and shields, so we tended to die in our teens and twenties. Back then, a thirty-year-old Renshai was considered quite aged. Traditionally, we name our infants after a Renshai who died in battle and, presumably, reached Valhalla. So, you can see how it might seem as if one Renshai lived long and appeared youthful rather than that several Renshai of successive generations had used the same name.”

  Saviar did not mention the additional detail that the Renshai bloodline seemed to carry a propensity to appear a few years or a decade younger than chronological age. Its contribution seemed minuscule in comparison and only brought the discussion back to the possibility of magic in the blood. Overworked people, especially women, grew into adulthood more slowly. Many Renshai women never menstruated, never bore children, never even attained the proper curvaceous proportions of other women. But it had nothing to do with rites or demons.

  Jeremilan cleared his throat. “I know the truth, Saviar. Your words will not convince me otherwise.”

  It was a non argument. “And where did this so-called truth arise? Can you prove I’m any older than the nineteen years I claim? Have you ever witnessed a Renshai drinking any kind of blood, human or otherwise?”

  Jeremilan rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to touch the sun to know it’s hot. Or be bitten by a jeconia snake to know it carries poison.”

  Now it was Saviar’s turn to consider another’s statement foolish. “But we could easily find men who have seen the results of a jeconia bite. And we feel the heat of the distant sun on our skin.” He shrugged at the ease with which he had felled Jeremilan’s point. “It’s true we believe some things on faith alone, but one man’s point of faith often contradicts another’s. Clearly, then, one of them must be wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong about the Renshai.” Jeremilan sounded as certain as any priest.

  Saviar sighed. “I’ve lived among the Renshai all my life and never saw one use magic, fail to grow older, or consume human bodily fluids.” At least not on purpose. It seemed unnecessary to mention that, during battle, blood could fly anywhere, and a splatter on an open mouth or lips could happen to any warrior. “How can you explain that?”

  Jeremilan had an easy answer. “You haven’t come to the age when those secret practices are introduced to you. Or you’re simply lying.”

  “Ah.” Saviar feigned comprehension of the ludicrous. “So you determine what’s truth and what’s fiction. And anyone who disagrees is lying.”

  Saviar had meant it sarcastically, but Jeremilan played it perfectly straight. “Or ignorant.”

  “Lying or ignorant,” Saviar repeated. “Which must mean you’re never wrong.”

  “Rarely.”

  “So, you are . . . sometimes wrong.”

  “Rarely,” Jeremilan said again, stressing the word. “A man doesn’t get to be my age without learning things about the world that you will probably never understand.” He took a seat beside Giddion and gave Saviar a pointed look. “I’m older even than I look.”

  Saviar had no idea what a two-hundred-year-old man should look like. “So . . . the older the man, the more right he is?”

  “In general.”

  “Making no allowances for intelligence, wisdom, experience? No accounting for a bent toward deceit?”

  Jeremilan leaned toward Saviar. “I did say ‘in general.’ Would you not agree the gods have more knowledge than you?”

  “Of course. But gods are divine and immortal. I’m willing to bet elves who have lived for hundreds or thousands of years still make mistakes. That their faith can be shaken, perhaps even broken, in the right circumstances.”

  Jeremilan hunched farther forward until Saviar worried the brittle old man might fall off his seat and break some bones. “The right circumstances meaning . . . proof?”

  “Proof, fine.” Saviar surrendered the point, at least superficially. “But how does one disprove a lie that another man ta
kes on faith? Especially when that man dismisses the only eyewitnesses as liars based on nothing but his own beliefs. It’s impossible to prove a negative, that a group of people does not do a particular thing. That’s why rumors and gossip spread so wildly and, once in place, become difficult to dislodge, no matter how false they are.”

  “But the truth comes out eventually. Why would the legends of Renshai blood magic still exist if they had no basis in fact?”

  Saviar had a ready answer. “Because faith is a tricky thing. It requires no proof, no truth, no basis other than belief. It allows people to ignore, avoid, or discard facts to cling to ideas based solely on personal considerations and biases. In this case, prejudicial hatred of Renshai, which is rampant in many cultures.”

  Jeremilan’s eyes narrowed to a mass of wrinkles. His lips puckered. His clenched fists whitened. “Dislike for Renshai can hardly be called baseless or prejudicial. Without cause or reason, those demons wiped out our people, stealing all magic from the human world.”

  Saviar winced and considered. He could defend the actions of ancient Renshai in a much different time, under circumstances current–day people could barely comprehend. However, better arguments came to mind. “Jeremilan, I’m not going to try to justify or excuse the behavior of my long-ago ancestors. Correct or not, I’ll grant you the premise that they behaved inhumanely, that their intentions were nothing but evil, that they slaughtered innocents in the name of sport. Certainly, I could argue that others of their era performed acts equally barbarous, if only because we know the other tribes of the North banded together and all but obliterated the Renshai, too.”

  The Myrcidians studied Saviar, clearly waiting for the moment when he would make a viable point. No one interrupted, allowing him to continue.

  Saviar knew he had to say something clever now that he had gotten them to listen. “Some three hundred years and more have passed. The Renshai from that era died during the battle of Renshi, only scant years later.” Saviar deliberately left out Colbey for the moment, worried the discussion might take a tangent and he would lose an opportunity when he still had their attention. “The current tribe of Renshai lives in Erythane, works for Béarn, and has never slaughtered indiscriminately. We don’t even share a direct bloodline with the slayers of Myrcidë.” As the final words left his mouth, Saviar suffered mild stirrings of guilt. He did not know whether the so-called Western Renshai split from the main tribe before or after the destruction of Myrcidë, so he added, “Even if we did, we’re the children’s children’s children of their children. What crime have we committed?”