While King Griff and his entourage prepared to visit the battlefield, Tae Kahn sat with Kentt and Arturo on a matching set of plush chairs while Mistri napped in her bed. The Kjempemagiska had to squash his ample bottom between the armrests, but he made no complaints as he studied Tae and the cat curled contentedly in his lap. Tae’s hands stroked and scratched her intently, eliciting a nonstop and contented purring. Rantire crouched near the door, looking bored.
“Will we accompany them?” Kentt addressed Tae, but his gaze remained on Imorelda. Everything about her seemed to fascinate him. He found it particularly interesting that the growl-like sound she made was actually a joyful noise.
Tae considered Kentt’s interest in Imorelda a positive sign. He could see parallels between his relationship with the super-intelligent cat and Kentt’s with Arturo. “I don’t think it’s wise.” He gave extra attention to the area behind Imorelda’s ears and under her chin. “The warriors know your people only as lethal enemies. We need to give the king a chance to explain you before you come walking onto the battlefield.”
“I would be noticed,” Kentt admitted, tipping his head to study Imorelda from a different angle. “And they won’t know I mean them no harm.”
Though he had insisted on being present, Arturo watched the conversation without speaking. Tae suspected he understood most of the exchange but worried his pidgin usaro could add little to it or would make him look stupid. Tae made a mental note to help the young prince learn the language so he could take a greater role in any future negotiations. Hopefully, Kentt, and maybe others among the Kjempemagiska, had a soft spot for their former pet.
Tae tried the direct approach. “Do you?” He realized it was a nebulous question. “Mean us no harm, I mean. Your people did come here to annihilate us, after all.”
“Yes,” Kentt said thoughtfully, though it seemed an extreme and dangerous admission. “But that’s no longer an issue. You won the war, and we’d be foolish to attack again. It will take several generations, many centuries, before we could possibly begin to forget our losses. And, having lost so many, we no longer have need for your land.”
Tae attempted humor. “Is that an apology?”
Kentt laughed. “No, but I will grant one if you want it and believe it will make any difference. Mistri and I are at your mercy. You have not imprisoned us behind bars, but we are just as surely trapped. We have no way to get ourselves home.” His gaze went to Arturo, and the smile forming on his lips convinced Tae he correctly understood their relationship.
Tae thought back to what the lost prince had told him. While Arturo did not have a full understanding of the Kjempemagiska hierarchy, he believed Kentt held some sort of nonmilitary leadership position. Kentt’s job, apparently, had something to do with studying the plants, animals, and minerals of Heimstadr and its surrounding ocean. Arturo believed he was alive because of Kentt’s curiousity about him as much as Mistri’s desire to keep him; over time, that had grown into real affection. While the other Kjempemagiska had treated him like a worthless animal, Kentt had taken a particular interest in his ability to learn spoken language alongside his daughter. Tae knew their relationship would have to change, but he hoped they could maintain their mutual affection for Mistri, and for one another, as Kentt learned to see Arturo as an equal.
“Your magic won’t take you home?” Tae asked.
Kentt tipped his head. “If it could, would we have arrived by ship?”
“I suppose not.”
Imorelda rolled onto her back. *Pet me.*
*I was sure that was what I was doing, my love.*
*Oh, is that what you were doing? I thought you were using me as a hand rest.*
Tae increased the rate of his ministrations, though he doubted anything would fully satisfy Imorelda. He knew the conversation bored her. She did not understand a word of it, and, thus, could not chime in as she usually did. “I imagine your ships are still where your bretheren left them.”
Kentt’s brows shot up. “Could you singlehandedly sail to Heimstadr?”
“No,” Tae admitted, then realized he knew someone who could. “We have some sensational sailors, though. I’m sure they could get you home.”
Kentt sat up straighter. “Would they?” His tone betrayed only a bare hint of hope. In the reverse situation, Tae doubted the Kjempemagiska would consider assisting one of the people of the continent.
But we are not them. The Kjempemagiska had lost all of their warriors, which might make them more amenable to treaties and cooperation, perhaps even to sharing their magic and technology with the peoples of the continent. The royal family of Béarn had every right to execute Kentt and Mistri, but Tae knew the giants were in no danger. Matrinka would insist on helping anyone in need, no matter their loyalties or proclivities. Before Griff could even speak, Arturo had decreed that no harm would come to either of them, but especially to Mistri. His love for her was clear and genuine, and Tae could not help wondering if Imorelda felt the same way about him.
“I believe it’s a real possibility, Kentt. Of course, you’ll need to give them a reason to risk their lives bringing the two of you home.”
Kentt studied the ceiling for several moments, then met Tae’s gaze with an earnest smile. “Consider us unusually tall humans. And name your price.”
Twilight bathed the battlefield, lulling the soldiers, warriors, and civilians into a well-deserved sleep. To General Valr Magnus, the broken trees looked like skeletal arms clutching at the moon. The stars winked in, one by one, in a vast expanse of cloudless sky. The Aeri general had finally finished chronicling his survivors and casualties, bid the living and wounded a good night, and set up his infantry and cavalry captains to handle guard rotations and pyre preparations for the morning.
The necessities finished, Valr Magnus found his thoughts straying in an unlikely direction: to Ra-khir and his sons. Gradually, he had come to recognize and understand Ra-khir’s enduring hatred. The intensity of love between the Knight of Erythane and his lady went beyond anything Magnus had known or experienced. He could only imagine what such a unique and special bond felt like, the agony of having it torn asunder for, as it turned out, no legitimate reason. Nothing had been gained by Kevral’s death. Those involved in the deceit had dishonored not only themselves, but Kevral and Magnus as well. Magnus had rightfully vacated the contract, nullifying his win and returning the Fields of Wrath to the Renshai.
Magnus had apologized repeatedly for the ignoble way he had won that battle. But, though Ra-khir had tolerated him throughout the mission, he had never truly forgiven. The Knight of Erythane surely understood that Magnus had been an unwitting pawn, but he was still the instrument of Kevral’s destruction. It’s not as if I can bring her back to life. Magnus knew Kevral would not have wanted that anyway; she had found her rightful place in Valhalla.
War had a way of redefining perspective, and Valr Magnus finally realized his mistake. He now knew he needed to give Ra-khir a different sort of apology, one that focused less on the means of Kevral’s death and more on the effect it had had on her family. Unintentionally or not, he had destroyed something rare and beautiful, an affair the world might never see again, two of the world’s most unlikely lovers creating a family of great character and talent. Then, he had destroyed it with a single act of violence. The next time he and Ra-khir came together, no matter the reason, he would give the proper apology and hope that, this time, Ra-khir would find it in his heart to forgive.
A voice touched Magnus’ mind. Although he had little experience with such things, he felt certain it was not the elfin Captain’s this time. *We need to talk.*
Magnus knew of no way to respond. Instead, he looked around, trying to spot the source of the contact. He did not attempt a verbal response. It would only make him appear crazy to anyone watching or listening.
The other continued as if Valr Magnus had voiced the question in his mind. *It
’s Colbey, Valr. I can read your thoughts as well as send mine.*
Valr Magnus shivered. Even the magical elves could not get into his head. At least, they did not address his thoughts as Colbey had just done. He tried focusing on a question. *Where are you?*
*Just beyond sight, in the forest. Go straight southwest from your current position. If you don’t find me, I’ll find you.*
Though weary, Magnus complied. It seemed foolish to show disrespect to a mind-reading Renshai, especially one fabled to have lived for centuries. Carrying nothing but his two sheathed swords, one of which Colbey had personally given him, he headed in the indicated direction.
As Magnus passed the camps and neared the trees, a hand emerged from the brush to wave him to the indicated spot. The general shoved through dangling branches, most displaced by the storm, to find himself in a tiny clearing. Colbey Calistinsson stood near a massive, pure-white stallion regarding Magnus with one strangely wise eye. Patches and flecks of bloody gore covered the wizened Renshai, except for his swords’ sheaths and hilts, which were meticulously clean.
Realization dawned on Magnus, and he found himself speaking before he could think. “So you’re the one who spurred the troops! Many mistook you for a Knight of Erythane.”
Colbey replied simply, “I am a Knight of Erythane.”
Magnus laughed. Then, realizing Colbey had not joined him, he said dubiously, “Really.”
“Really.” Not a hint of mirth entered Colbey’s tone. “It’s a long story, and I don’t wish to tell it now. But I am a Knight of Erythane, and I came at the call of my commanding officer.”
Believing himself tricked, Magnus furrowed his brow. “So how come your name isn’t mentioned with the other twenty-four? And I’ve never seen you drill with them?”
Colbey clearly did not wish to discuss the matter further. “I’ve never been invited before.” His blue-gray eyes turned searching. It was the first time Magnus looked long enough to notice scarred lines across the Renshai’s cheek. It appeared something enormous had clawed him long ago. “But that’s not why I called you here.”
Magnus guessed the immortal Renshai’s purpose. “I imagine you wanted this.” He unclipped the scabbard from his belt and cautiously offered the borrowed sword back to its owner.
Colbey made no move to take it. “No, Valr. I want you to keep the sword. A gift from me.”
Valr Magnus bowed. “You honor me.” Suddenly suspicious, he added, “And I’m guessing you want something equally valuable in return.”
Colbey did not deny the accusation. “It’s time, Valr Magnus. Time to mend the rift between the Renshai and the other Northmen.”
Magnus stared, surprised by the Renshai’s words. It took him several moments to find his voice. “You might just as well ask the sun to remain in the sky after dark, water to flow upward, cows to fly. Renshai and Northmen have hated one another for centuries. It’s ancient, primal, ingrained.”
“It is ancient,” Colbey confirmed. “And ingrained, but never primal. Hatred is not natural; it is taught.”
Valr Magnus saw no reason to argue. His gaze swept the hulking shadows of the trees. The broken canopies admitted wide swaths of stars. “Well and deeply taught. No one man can change that.”
“One man,” Colbey pointed out, “can change the tide of war.”
Magnus could scarcely deny it. “The Renshai would argue you’re no mere man. And, now, I would have to agree.”
“I’m not talking about me,” Colbey said softly. “You killed some of those giants, too, inspiring the warriors at the center of the combat front. Calistin and Saviar did the same at the farthest end. I merely did my part here.” He gestured toward the side of the forest they currently occupied.
Magnus shook his head. “Neither of us could have inspired anyone without the magical swords you gave us.”
“Swords are only tools. It’s what you do with them that matters.”
Once again, Magnus studied the immortal Renshai, from the gold-and-silver hair that fell around his face in feathers to the boots on his feet. Magnus towered over the older man, yet he still could not help feeling intimidated by the slight, sinewy figure. “You speak sacrilege by Renshai standards.”
Finally, Colbey laughed. “Perhaps, but it’s true. The bards will write songs about the Slayer Magnus, not the weapon he wielded.”
Magnus returned to the original point. “As near impossibility as it was, defeating magical giants was easier than brokering peace between two factions who insist on hating one another.”
Colbey said the last thing Magnus expected, “The Renshai do not hate the Northmen as a group.”
Valr Magnus took a step backward, guarded. “Colbey, surely you’ve lived long enough to know every dispute has two sides.”
“Always,” Colbey confirmed. “But we oftentimes make the mistake of believing both sides are inherently equal in a moral sense and, thus, the solution lies always in the middle. That, my friend, is a dangerous assumption.”
Magnus did not like the turn of the conversation. “You’re saying the Renshai are superior.”
“Not superior,” Colbey said. “Merely better directed. For the last three hundred and twenty years or so, I’ve seen to it personally. Unlike the other Northmen, we don’t teach our children that people we dislike are the spawn of demons or animals, that their mere existence is anathema. The Renshai aren’t clamoring for the other Northmen to be wiped from the face of the world. They will gladly end a war, but they will never start one.”
Magnus’ training told him differently. “But the Renshai were banished from the North because of their savagery against the other Northmen. They started wars all the time, and they butchered those they killed to prevent them from reaching Valhalla.” He trained his gaze fiercely on Colbey. He could scarcely deny it.
“We did that,” Colbey admitted. “And we were rightly banished.”
Magnus could not help noticing that Colbey had adopted the pronoun “we” to refer to the ancient Renshai, while he had previously used “they” for the living tribe. “You can’t be saying you were there at the time.”
“I was.”
“How old do you claim to be?”
“We don’t count birthdays on Asgard.” Colbey grinned. “I think the goddesses prefer not to know how old they are. I believe my four hundredth is imminent, though.” He took over the narrative. “And after our banishment, we sowed a path of destruction all across the West. By the time the year was out, however, we regretted our ferocity, our mistakes. We returned to the North to reclaim our homeland. The Northmen finally agreed to a duel: we got the island now known as Devil’s Island if we won; permanent banishment if we lost.”
“And you lost.” Magnus stated history as he had learned it.
“We won,” Colbey corrected. Then, in response to Magnus’ dubious expression, added, “I was there, remember? We settled on Devil’s Island and lived there several years in peace. Then, one night when I was away assisting a seafaring band of Nordmirians, the Northmen banded together, sneaked onto Devil’s Island, and slaughtered as many Renshai as possible in their sleep. Eventually, the Renshai rallied, but they were outnumbered more than ten to one. Even our youngest infants were not spared.”
Magnus had heard the lie. “That’s a story the Renshai made up.”
“I was there,” Colbey repeated for the third time. “I cleaned up the mess, recreated the tribe. If you doubt me, you merely need to read the true histories recorded by the scribes of Béarn at the time. Denial of the sneak attack, the mass killing of Renshai, is a revision the Northern tribes have made to history.”
Valr Magnus had no proof of his assertion and, thus, no right to argue. Neither was he ready to accept the unverified word of a Renshai, even one whom the gods had, apparently, accepted as a near equal. “Let us assume everything you say is true. What can I do to change th
e situation? I have no control over what others teach their children, and I have none of my own.”
Colbey sighed deeply. Clearly, the years weighed heavily upon him. “I’ve dedicated several lifetimes to this issue, not wholly without success. I’ve redefined the Renshai from the most savage tribe of the North to a group still dedicated to swordwork but using it only in the employ of rightful causes. Imagine what you could accomplish by steering the time, energy, and passion of the Northmen from destruction of the Renshai to the construction of something positive, something better. As long as they remain mired in hatred and revenge, the Northmen can never advance, never become more than what they used to be three hundred and twenty years ago.”
Magnus dared to consider the possibility. Colbey had an undeniable point, in theory. In practice, he had no idea where to begin. “I don’t have three hundred years.” Not knowing how Colbey had gotten them, he added cautiously, “Do I?”
“Probably not.” Colbey did not rise to the bait. “But you can do as much as you can with the years you do have. You’ve shown yourself to be decent and honorable. Your people revere you for your skills, your dedication, and your kindness. Lead by example, always, by explanation when necessary. Right now, the Northern tribes have no choice but to work together; they have lost too many men not to do so. This seems like the perfect opportunity to reclaim the Renshai as your own as well.”
Valr Magnus glanced at his hands, where he still proffered the borrowed sword.
Colbey’s gaze followed his. “It needs a name.”
Magnus clipped the scabbard back onto his belt. “The sword?”
“Circumstances suggest so.”
Magnus considered a moment. “How about Handeleggcolbeyr?”
“The arm of Colbey.” The Renshai laughed. “I suppose that’s apt enough, assuming a general of Aerin is willing to carry a weapon named for a Renshai legend.”
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