Darby stared. “Two males cannot reestablish anything.”
“Especially,” Ra-khir continued, “when one died young and the other was infertile. But it turned out that a few Renshai had not actually returned to the North. And, though the Renshai who did originally deemed them traitors, it was through them that the current line was established. Less purely, of course, but the sword training mattered as much as the bloodline. However, because the Renshai tried to maintain both, it has taken them centuries to get their numbers back into the hundreds. Because, for a half-blood Renshai to receive any training, his non-Renshai parent has to be deemed worthy at the time of his birth. Renshai standards are near-impossibly high, so that happens only rarely.”
A light appeared in Darby’s eyes. He had made the connection. “And you were deemed worthy, so your half-blood sons are Renshai.”
“Yes,” Ra-khir admitted. “Though I’m still not entirely sure how. Renshai do not have the same opinion of knights that the remainder of the Westlands does.”
Darby studied Ra-khir with an expression akin to worship.
Suddenly, Ra-khir wished he had not broached the subject. He had not meant to brag. He dropped the tangent to finish his point. “The Renshai’s numbers have apparently gotten large enough to bother some Northmen. As near as I can figure it, they intend to get the Renshai banished from every part of the world. That would put every world leader in the position of having to execute any Renshai they found. One by one, the Renshai would get killed or go into hiding, which would make it unlikely they could find one another. The ultimate hope would be that Renshai parents would not train their children for their own safety, and the race would die out entirely.”
“That’s . . .” Darby sputtered. “That’s . . . just . . . evil.”
“It is.”
“We should help them. We should attack the Northmen and—”
“No.” Ra-khir knew lack of experience, not morality or intelligence, sent Darby toward thoughts of war. “Hatred cannot be combated with more hatred, and not every Northman is to blame. While a large majority do hate Renshai only because of lies their parents taught them, there are still some who see no problem with peaceful coexistence or have even managed to overcome their learned prejudice. What good would come of slaughtering the good with the bad?”
“But—”
Ra-khir had not yet finished. “Also, the Northmen have done such a thorough job spreading their lies and prejudice, that most Westerners have lost their objectivity. Even when the Renshai do nothing more than defend themselves, they are seen as the aggressors and condemned. Even when they do nothing whatsoever, it is said that they stole the land they occupy and they should be driven from it.”
Darby’s mouth remained open, but no words emerged. His expression mingled rage with bewilderment.
“It’s a tricky problem, one Renshai and logicians have struggled with for centuries. You and I are not likely to solve it in a fortnight, let alone a single discussion.”
Darby closed his mouth. “So what can we do?”
“We do,” Ra-khir said calmly, “exactly what I’ve just done. We change the minds of people slowly, one by one, if necessary. We do it morally and honestly, for a single lie would betray us. And we hope that, eventually, right prevails.”
CHAPTER 30
One man cannot be skilled at everything; each has his own special excellence.
—General Santagithi
THOUGH IT MEANT FALLING farther behind, Ra-khir took the time to dry out and neaten himself, his steed, and his gear before riding into the first Western city he and Darby came upon. He had no way of knowing exactly what route his boys had taken, but it seemed logical to ride straight northward and ask about them as he traveled.They would stand out in the small villages and towns, not only for being strangers but for the oddness of their trio: one enormous redhead, one wiry and dark, and the last childlike and as golden-pale as any Northman; and yet all brothers. Their obvious weaponry would also draw attention, and Ra-khir knew no Renshai would ever hide his swords.
As promised, Ra-khir never forgot that he represented the Knights of Erythane. By the time they found the first small village, he had combed his hair, washed out every stain, straightened each bit of his clothing, groomed his steed to gleaming white, and properly worked the ribbons back into Silver Warrior’s mane and tail. Darby watched each chore with fanatical interest, as if to memorize not just the actions but Ra-khir’s individual movements and even his breathing. That Darby’s intentions were sincere, Ra-khir never doubted, and he promised himself not to let circumstances drive him to irritability. Darby meant only well, and his intensity would make him not only a bother, but an excellent knight candidate.
Forest gave way to farmland, which opened onto a quaint little village. Though it was broad daylight, few people walked the streets, still muddy from the rain. Water dripped from the thatched roofs of myriad cottages, and the people Ra-khir passed seemed not to notice them at all. They kept their eyes downcast and conversed only in ragged whispers.
For the first time since leaving Erythane, Ra-khir made it all the way to the central tavern seemingly unnoticed. Intending only a short stay for information, he hitched Silver Warrior to a nearby railing, tended briefly to the animal’s comfort, then waited while Darby did the same for his mount. Almost immediately, the stallion dropped his head, eyes closed, to nap.
Ra-khir held the door open for Darby but entered first, as good sense warranted. More trouble lurked in unfamiliar drinking places than on quiet village streets, and he had a duty to protect his smaller, younger charge.
The door opened on a warm tavern with only nine tables, all but one unoccupied. A few more stools stood empty around a rickety, wooden bar. A dying fire flickered in its grate. Though stale, the odors of last night’s dinner and spilled ale piqued Ra-khir’s hunger. Travel rations could not compare with a home cooked meal, even if it only consisted of cold leftovers.
Since he needed information, Ra-khir chose the barstool nearest the occupied table. Four men sat around it, talking softly in a huddled mass. A stout barkeep approached, his beard outlining a face filled with a combination of discomfort and outrage. He leaned on the counter, which groaned under his weight, and displayed flabby, freckled arms. “Good day. What can I get for you men?”
Darby grinned as he took the stool beside Ra-khir, clearly pleased at being addressed as a man.
Ra-khir hated to spoil Darby’s thrill, but it needed doing. “We’ll have two plates of whatever you have, please. Some ale for me, and a bowl of goat milk for the boy.”
The barkeep turned, muttering something under his breath, of which Ra-khir caught only the word “boy.”
Believing he would get more information from the gathered men than the prickly barkeep, Ra-khir turned toward them and waited to catch one’s eye.
It took longer than he expected, but a burly, coarse-featured man finally looked his way.
Ra-khir smiled. “I apologize for interrupting, but I wondered if any of you gentlemen might have seen three young strangers pass through here recently?”
Heads shook, a few mumbled words passed between them, then the one who Ra-khir had addressed finally answered. “No groups of strangers, sir. Only one.”
A younger man covered in dirt added, “Aye, one we wish had never come.” He squinted, studying Ra-khir. “Pardon me, sir; but are you a knight?”
Ra-khir rose from his seat as courtesy demanded and gave his familiar introduction with a bow and a flourish. At the conclusion, he had the full attention of all four of the men.
“Pleased to meet you, Sir Ra-khir,” the burly man said. “Pardon us if we wish you could have gotten here a few nights earlier.”
Ra-khir could only give the men an empathetic gesture and his attention. He had had no way of knowing they had need for a Knight of Erythane. “Oh? What happened then?”
“Stranger came in here.” This time the eldest at the table spoke, a squat man with sagging,
weather-beaten skin in faded leathers. “Not much more’n a boy, really. Challenged one of our best farmers to a duel, which he naturally refused.”
As the speaker paused for breath, the first man took over the narrative. “But the stranger wouldn’t stop badgering him until they had that duel. And the boy butchered ol’ Karruno right out there in the street, then walked away like it weren’t nothing.”
Ra-khir’s throat squeezed. He had to know. “Was this stranger a childlike blond with absolutely no sense of humor and two swords at his hips?”
All four men stared. At length, one spoke. “Sure was. Is Erythane looking for him?”
“No,” Ra-khir said honestly. “But I am. Personally. He didn’t happen to leave his name, did he?”
“I heard he did, sir,” the younger man said, putting his ale aside. “But no one remembers exactly what it was. They say it started with Cal, sir.”
Ra-khir only nodded as thoughts raced through his mind. Calistin had come here alone, causing trouble.Thialnir was right, Calistin did need the wisdom of his older brothers; but, apparently, they had not caught up with him. At least not as of that previous evening.
Darby watched the exchange in total silence. Ra-khir appreciated that he did not blurt out anything regarding Renshai or Ra-khir’s direct relationship to Calistin. He already felt responsible.
“Does Karruno have a widow? Children?” Ra-khir knew money would not make up for such a loss, and it would seem crass to offer; yet the man’s family would need something to tide them over until they found relatives to assist them. If he gave his coinage directly to them, no one would know.
A few of them chuckled. The first man replied. “No, sir. A lot of women was interested, but he wasn’t ready to settle down.”
The news relieved Ra-khir of some of his burden, but he still felt responsible for the tragedy. Relatives or other farmers would take over Karruno’s property and deal with his crops and livestock, but no one could ever truly replace the man himself. He looked at Darby, making no effort to hide his pain.
Darby made a noncommittal gesture but remained silent. It was not his place to speak.
The barkeep swept back in to toss down two plates of meat, tubers, and vegetables along with the requested drinks. He paused suddenly, studying his patrons more carefully. “Hello. You wouldn’t happen to be Sir Ra-khir, a Knight of Erythane, would you?”
Ra-khir’s heart skipped a beat. They know. Nevertheless, he would not lie, even if it meant taking the punishment for his son’s indiscretion. “I am.”
The barkeep nodded smugly. “Thought I recognized a man of character.”
Ra-khir felt grimly undeserving of the compliment.
“Messenger rode through this morning. If we saw you, we were to tell you to go back to Erythane.”
“Back to—” Ra-khir could scarcely believe it. His father knew he had no intention of returning without finding his missing sons. Clearly, Calistin needed someone with common sense to guide him.
“Apparently, Béarn’s under attack, and they need every able sword arm.”
No! Ra-khir knew as much about the Pirate Wars as anyone, yet no one had ever before considered it frank warfare. Apparently, something had changed for the worse. If Béarn needed him, he had no choice but to abandon everything and return. He looked at Darby. “As soon as we finish eating, I need to take you home.”
Darby took a long gulp, then turned Ra-khir a stern look that brooked no argument. “My ‘home’ is now Erythane. I have as much right to protect the high king’s city as anyone.” His brave words would have landed more forcefully had he not sported a mustache of goat’s milk.
Ra-khir graced the sentiment with the dignity it deserved. “Very well, Darby. As soon as we’re finished eating, we’ll head for Béarn.” He had no real intention of allowing the boy to fight, but Darby could remain reasonably safe with the other knights’ apprentices in Erythane. He wondered in how many towns and cities the messengers had left word for him and how many additional swordsmen would heed the call as well.
Ra-khir dropped three gold coins on the countertop. “Whatever is left from our payment needs to go to Karruno’s funeral and family. A man that beloved deserves the best.”
The barkeep’s nostrils flared as he swept up the coins. “That’s very generous, Sir Ra-khir. Please return anytime. Anytime!”
“Most gracious of you.” Ra-khir gave back the polite reply, though he did not believe his family would prove as welcome as himself. He worried for Subikahn and Saviar, for Calistin most of all; but he knew where his loyalties had to lie. His father knew how important this mission was to Ra-khir. Knight-Captain Kedrin would only have called him back from necessity. He had no choice but to heed the call. When Béarn is in trouble, the Knights of Erythane will always be there. Ra-khir realized something else. Right now, Béarn needs the bodyguards to its heirs, and the Renshai’s swords, more than ever.
Calistin awakened in a wet and shivering fog. A week had passed since his adventure in the Western tavern, a week spent slogging through a forest that seemed inexhaustible. Using the sun as a guide, he tried to keep his movements as northward as the towering trunks and tangled undergrowth allowed. After twice catching himself wandering in circles, he learned to stop walking at sunset, devoting himself to swordcraft and sleep until the morning. It not only honed his skill but also served as distraction from the hunger gnawing always at his belly.
Desperately thirsty, he sucked at leaves on the nearest tree, singling out the curled ones that had best collected the rain. Each sip was frustratingly small, insect portions that barely touched the fire in his mouth, the parching of his throat, and still dropped like lead into his empty stomach. He had tried eating the plants around him, but the nettles stung his gums and the others tasted more like dirt than food. Tough and stringy, he found them tasteless and impossible to satisfactorily chew. He tried cooking roots, but they charred into ash rather than plumping into the fragrant tubers he knew. In the past, food and water came to him. The Renshai saw to it that their great champion never wanted for anything.
Now, the effects of slow starvation frustrated Calistin into fits of rage. His lightning-fast reflexes slowed, and he found himself struggling to remember the intricacies of the more difficult maneuvers. When engaged in svergelse, nothing else mattered; but, the instant he stopped, the hunger bore down on him again, insistent and impossible to ignore. As of yet, he had not found plant matter he could stand. No bird or bunny stayed long enough to accept a physical challenge, and Calistin had never trained to chase down cowards who could fly.
Uncertain when he would find his next collection of water, Calistin lapped moisture off every leaf within his reach. Surely, his travels would soon bring him to civilization or, at least, a stream. He dreamed of stumbling onto a farm field. A pig or sheep would not think to run from a lone human, and he could swiftly make up for a week of hunger.
Torn between finding every drop of water and the need to move onward in the hope of locating more, Calistin finally continued walking. Every muscle in his body ached, and his kidneys felt like boulders. He could not remember the last time he had needed to relieve himself. His clothing reeked, touching his skin in icy patches, then peeling away. Wind cut through myriad holes, and enemy blood had stiffened to prickly wrinkles.
As Calistin walked, he imagined a feast of roasted pheasant and spiced cider, laid on a bed of fancy greens and succulent roots, dressed with vinegar. He could almost smell the odor of roasting meat, then he believed he did. He knew it had to be his nose playing tricks, but his mind told him otherwise. A light breeze from the east definitely carried the irresistible scent of cooking.
Calistin’s mouth went thick with something not quite saliva. He no longer cared whether or not the odor was real; he could not tear his concentration from it. He had little choice but to follow it. He ran a few scenarios through his thoughts as he half-ran, half-stumbled toward the food. They were traveling merchants, or bandits, or royals on an
outing. It did not matter. They would share, or they would die. If he had to kill someone to get it, he would relish the opportunity to fight. In the end, he felt hungry enough to roast and eat his opponent as well.
As Calistin drew nearer, all doubt vanished. The smell grew stronger, and smoke curled through the bushes. He sprang into a small clearing to find a rabbit skin laid out on a log and the meat hissing and spitting in the fire. No nearby human tended it. Calistin found himself shaking. Even in his desperation, he knew better than to reach into open flames with hands he relied on so completely. He also refused to dishonor a sword, instead casting about to find a large enough stick. Abruptly, he found himself face-to-face with Treysind.
A grin split the boy’s dirty face, and he flung himself into Calistin’s arms. “Hero, I’s finded ya! I’s so glad I’s finded ya!”
Startled beyond words, Calistin allowed the boy to fully embrace him. “Treysind? Is that your dinner?”
Calistin’s damp and filthy tunic muffled Treysind’s reply. “It’s ya’s if ya’s wants it, Hero.Ya hungry?”
The question was gross understatement. Finding a stick, Calistin poked the meat from the fire, not caring about the dirt he dragged across it. He ripped off a chunk. Feeling the first stirrings of pain that indicated he would burn flesh if he didn’t let go, he popped the morsel into his mouth instead. Logically, he knew it was stupid. The grease burned his tongue much quicker than it would callused fingers, but Calistin did not care. He barely chewed before swallowing, then tore off another hunk. Before he knew it, he had the carcass stripped to the bones.
Treysind watched him, beaming.
Only then, as the warmth spread through his gut, Calistin realized two things. First, his tongue and throat stung from the too-hot meat. And, second, he had not left a scrap for his companion. “I’m sorry, Treysind. I guess I was too hungry to think about you.”
Flight of the Renshai Page 45