“Don’t worry ’bout me.” Treysind gestured at the fire, where a second coney already roasted. “Ya’s kin have that one, too, if ya’s want. I kin git plenty more.”
Calistin looked from the boy to the fire and back. Then he repeated the motion. “You can?” He did not understand how a child who could not fight his way through an empty field could succeed at something at which a Renshai had so miserably failed.
“Sure.”
“How?”
Treysind held up a long bow. “Wit’ dis.”
Calistin could not help recoiling in distaste. Renshai shunned bows as cowards’ weapons. Yet, he realized, Treysind isn’t using it for battle. “Where’d you get . . . that?”
“I taked it off a dead Nort’man.”
“A dead . . . ?”
“When’s they ’tacked yas. ’Member?”
Calistin could not forget. “You stole it?”
Treysind shrugged. “He weren’t usin’ it no more. I thinked I could put it ta better use.”
Calistin had to admit Treysind had. He looked eagerly at the cooking rabbit. It would take a lot of food to make up for several days without. “You’re a marvel, Treysind.”
Treysind threw out his chest, grin enormous. He seemed to glow with pride.
Only then it occurred to Calistin how important his praise was to the boy. And how rarely he gave it.
“I’s gots more food, too, if ya’s want it. An’ some water.”
“Water?” Calistin grew even more excited at the prospect of a full swallow of liquid. “You have water?”
Treysind dragged a pack from a cluster of brush into the clearing. He rummaged through it, then tossed a skin to Calistin. “Here. Have as much as ya wants ta. There’s more.”
Calistin uncorked the skin and poured water into his mouth. Though silty, it soothed the pain of his tongue and throat. To him, it tasted like a wave of golden honey: sweet, silken, and utterly welcome. He chugged it down, unable to stop until he had drained the contents. Only then, he lowered it. “Thanks.”
“Ya’s welcome,” Treysind said, with far more enthusiasm than the phrase warranted. “Ya’s verry verry welcome.”
An awkward silence ensued. Calistin looked skyward, through the tapestry of branches, like brown knitting against the blue expanse of sky. “Ready to move on?”
“Wit’ ya?” Treysind’s smile grew broader, if possible. “Ready.” He slung the pack across one skinny shoulder. “Where’s we goin’?”
“North.” Calistin started walking, then stopped. “Ultimately. For now, the nearest town.” He turned to face the boy. “I don’t suppose you happen to know where that is?”
Treysind’s head bobbed, and he pointed westward. “ ’bout a day thataway.”
“Thataway it is.” Calistin switched direction. “Perhaps you should lead.”
“Wit’ plesher, Hero.” Head held high, Treysind marched in the indicated direction.
Calistin followed, silently running sword maneuvers through a brain already much clearer for nourishment. A sensation kept intruding on his thoughts, a feeling of foreboding that had nothing to do with enemies. His mind told him he had left something important undone, something of as great a significance as missing a daily practice. As much as he tried to put the feeling aside, it gnawed at him, grinding, almost unbearable. He believed it involved Treysind in some fashion, but that did not make sense. He had, after all, remembered to thank the boy.
As the two travelers moved lightly and easily through the brush, Calistin remained silent, lost in his own thoughts. Treysind stayed quiet also, apparently in deference. He frequently paused to study the Renshai, opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing ever emerged. Their walk continued, clambering over deadfalls, shoving through overgrowth, dodging briars. Treysind occasionally paused to pluck flowers, leaves, and stems, and stuff them into his pack.
By midday, the pack seemed to have grown much heavier; Treysind fairly dragged it. And Calistin found himself assailed by hunger again.
“Time for a break,” the Renshai announced, crouching against a wall of foliage that consisted of a massive fallen branch, wound through with vines and caught by bushes. “Are you tired, Treysind?”
Treysind nodded, dropping the pack. “An’ hungry, too. Ya wants me ta shoot more food?”
Calistin nodded. He could think of nothing he desired more. “I’ll make the fire.”
Treysind removed bow and arrows from the pack. “There’s more water in here, too, if ya’s wants some. He’p yasself.” Without waiting for a response, Treysind rushed into the woods with his weapon.
Calistin gathered twigs and branches, mouth watering with real saliva now, at the prospect of another roasted rabbit. By the time he had the fire blazing and the initial kindling charred, Treysind returned with three birds dangling from his hand: a quail, a dove, and a larger, colorful species Calistin could not identify.
Calistin had no idea what constituted a successful hunt, nor whether Treysind had real talent compared to others who made their livings catching food. He saw only a quick, satisfying meal brought by the boy he had, for so long, considered utterly incompetent.
Treysind raised his hand to display his catch.
Calistin grunted his appreciation. And smiled.
Treysind dumped the birds on the ground at his own feet, sat on a stump, and started plucking.
Leaving the fire and meal preparation to the boy, Calistin launched into life-affirming svergelse. A sword in each hand, he felt free from earthly worries, unfettered from the normal forces that bound him to the world. With movement came ultimate power. His swords sliced, jabbed, and glided through air, never in one position longer than an instant. Faster than sight, they skipped away, powered only by his arms and his imagination. For the first time in days, he felt good, his mind cleared to fully follow the lethal dance of his blades.
“Hero!” Treysind shouted, clearly not for the first time. “Hero!”
Irritated by the interruption, Calistin shoved aside the instinct to slaughter the boy. It would be so easy, barely a dip in motion; yet that thought bothered him enough to stop the practice instantly. “What is it?” He could not so easily keep the gruffness from his tone.
“Sorry if I’s botherin’ ya, Hero. Food’s gettin’ cold, though.”
Calistin looked at the fire, still burning brightly, to the seared, unidentifiable meat laying nearby on beds of leaves.Tiny onions, cooked brown, surrounded the feast. He sheathed his swords. “Looks delicious. Where’d you get the onions?”
“Picked ’em while we’s walkin’.”
Calistin crouched in front of the food.
“Gots some sweet canes, too.”
“Canes?”
Treysind handed Calistin a warm, thick stem, then dropped to the ground with one of his own. He took a huge bite off the top.
Calistin did the same. The piece was woody and tasteless. He chewed for several moments while Treysind watched in fascination.
Finally, the boy spoke. “Ain’t ya gonna spit it out?”
By this time, Calistin had it ground into enough pieces he had to sweep it from his mouth with his fingers. It took more than a few tries to dig and spit out all the little bits.
“Ya don’t eat canes, Hero.Ya sucks ’em.”To demonstrate,Treysind put the tube up to his mouth.
Again, Calistin copied the motion. Warm, sweet sap flowed into his mouth, an unfamiliar taste for which he had no comparison. Startled, he jerked the stem away to study it.
Treysind tipped his own stalk farther and farther back, then lowered it and wiped his mouth on the back of a grimy sleeve. “Good, ain’t it?”
“Very,” Calistin admitted. “I’ve never had anything like it.” He took another experimental taste. “How’d you figure it out? How to eat it, I mean. I’d have tossed it as a tasteless hunk of wood.”
“When ya’s hungry, ya figures out lotsa stuff.”
Calistin disagreed, still staring at the cane. “I was st
arving. I never figured it out.”
“It he’ps if ya’s hungry alla time.”
“Yeah.” Calistin found himself staring at Treysind now, considering him in a whole new light. The boy was a survivor in a way he could barely comprehend. His torke always taught that a brave and competent man needs nothing but sword skill, and it always seemed right. Yet Calistin had learned in the past few days that the best swordsman in the world could not bully his dinner from trees. “Treysind,” he started.
“Yeah?”
Calistin paused, not at all certain what he had planned to say. It seemed important, the type of thing a preoccupied father says to a son to make up for all the time he did not give the boy when it really mattered. But no further words came to him, and he managed only, “Could you pass me some meat?”
Treysind cupped his hands around the largest portion and shoved it, and its protective leaves, toward Calistin. “Try this. I don’t know ’zactly what it is, but I’s haded one bafore an’ it tasted real good.”
Calistin accepted the portion and tore off a piece of dark meat. More patient this time, he made certain it was not too hot before popping it into his mouth. It had a richer, moister flavor than most fowl, and the well-crisped skin made a pleasant contrast. He also thought he tasted some spice. “Wonderful,” Calistin agreed. “Thanks.”
Treysind dug into the quail, making appreciative smacking noises as he ate.
The more he ate, the more certain Calistin became that Treysind had added something savory to the meat.Yet that seemed nonsensical. Finally, curiosity got the better of him, and he lowered the bone he was stripping to ask. “Treysind, how is it that a boy who thinks moldy cheese is a prize knows how to fix food like a palace gourmet?”
Treysind dropped his own food to bounce excitedly. “Rilly? Ya thinks I’s that good?”
Calistin had some actual experience to use as a comparison. Unlike Saviar, he had never dined at Béarn Castle, but he had eaten with King Tae as a child. “I think so. How?”
The words came out in such a rush, Treysind seemed to trip over them. “Well, I dint know. I mean, I’s never had ac’shul meat ta work wit’. Least never more’n a scrap a somethin’ I cou’n’t figure out what it’s used ta be. Just taked whatever I could from trash or streets or whatever. So’s I never knowed how good . . .”Treysind paused, clearly trying to focus. “So’s once’t I’s figgered out how ta use this thing.” He gestured at the bow. “I’s tryed ta figger out how ta make—”
“Whoa!” Calistin had to stop the flow of words. “You just figured out how to use it? You mean, just since you took that particular bow?”
Treysind bobbed his head repeatedly. “Never gots one bafore. So’s I’s started workin’ on how ta make ’em smell good cookin’, ya know, see if I’s kin ’tract ya. I’s tryin’ lotsa flowers, plants . . .”
Still a sentence behind, Calistin stopped Treysind again. “You were trying to attract . . . me?”
“Course. I’d losted ya. An’ I knowed Renshai ain’t great food makers, so’s I thought—”
Shocked silent, Calistin let Treysind continue without interruption while he considered the meaning of what he had just heard. The boy was clearly resourceful, and a lot more clever than Calistin would ever have given him credit for.
“—if I’s could learn, I could bring ya ta me, since I weren’t havin’ much luck findin’ ya, least not since that town where ya killed that man . . .”
“So, basically . . .” Calistin spoke slowly. “. . . you taught yourself to accurately shoot game with a bow, cook it, and spice it, as a way to find . . . me?”
Treysind cocked his head, clearly not understanding the point of the question. “Worked, dint it?”
“It did,” Calistin had to admit. “And what a clever, simple little plan. Teach yourself to become a first-rate hunter and a topnotch epicure just to find someone who . . .” Originally intending to insert “didn’t want you to find him,” Calistin decided it might sound too offensive. He had ditched Treysind on purpose, and not for the first time; but speaking the words might gravely affront at a time when he preferred to understand. “. . . just to find someone.”
“Ya’s wort’ findin’, Hero. Whatever it tooked.”
Calistin understood his appeal to Renshai and other adults who might envy or hope to benefit from his prowess. The boy’s motives, however, confounded him. “You mean, because I can protect you?”
The look Treysind gave Calistin was fierce, and he took a snapping bite at his food. “Not ’cause a that.” He chewed as he spoke. “ ’Cause ya needs me ta ’tect ya.”
Calistin laughed before he could stop himself, great humiliating belly guffaws that left Treysind looking vexed and angry. The boy returned to eating, shoulders hunched over his meal.
Calistin turned his attention back to his own food. Usually, long pauses never bothered him, but this one did. The conversation was clearly over, at least until the next stop. And, though he could not explain it, he felt as if he had lost something important.
CHAPTER 31
You can search forever in an empty well, but you will never find diamonds.
—Mior
THEY CALLED THEMSELVES THE Mages of Myrcidë, and they descended upon Saviar like a tidal wave. At first, Subikahn hovered over them, clinging to Motfrabelonning’s hilt. Soon, however, the flashes and flares of their auras became a distraction that sapped, rather than increased, his alertness. He had no choice but to trust Chymmerlee’s tribe. Without her aid, he knew, Saviar would already be dead.
Chymmerlee took Subikahn’s arm and led him from the chaos, and he found himself following in silent gratitude. For three days, they had traveled together, her magic buoying her end of Saviar’s litter. Subikahn had exhausted himself with worry as well as effort. Yet, somehow, Saviar clung always to a life that seemed more like a lingering death.
Chymmerlee had finally brought them to a series of hidden caves at the edge of the Weathered Mountains. So well-hidden, in fact, that magic had to play a part in their concealment. The Myrcidians lived simply, it seemed, without frippery or finery to mar the homey simplicity of their interconnected lodgings. However, they looked reasonably fed, their clothing free from holes and patches. Windows opened onto the mountains, revealing their grandeur and beauty, yet, somehow, invisible from outside the caves. The mages did not suffer from a darkness that should plague any society so secreted.
Though he doubted he could escape through it, Subikahn still felt more comfortable next to a window overlooking the forests of the Westlands. Clouds partially swathed the sun, keeping the temperature comfortably cool, and a breeze blasted occasionally through the opening, carrying the aroma of flowers and summer greenery. For a concealed cave, it wholly lacked the stifling dusty, moldy odors he expected.
Chymmerlee delicately lowered herself into a wooden chair nearby. For the first time, Subikahn noticed she had a grace suitable for swordsmanship. “You should sit, too.”
Subikahn shook his head and started staring through the window at the bobbing branches. “I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish.” Apparently intrigued by Subikahn’s attention to the outdoors, Chymmerlee leaned in her chair to look through the window also. “If anyone can save Saviar, they can.”
Subikahn made a noncommittal noise. He had already trusted his brother to these strangers, these Mages of Myrcidë. “And if they can’t?”
It was a foolish question, with only one answer. “Then he will die. But at least we will have given him a chance no one else could.”
Subikahn made another wordless noise. He had no right or reason to complain, only the knowledge that the Myrcidians could not fail. His own life ended the moment they did. Suicide would condemn him to Hel; at least, he would join his brother there. He could never enjoy the perfect rewards of Valhalla knowing he had damned Saviar never to experience them.
Chymmerlee took Subikahn’s hand. Hers felt soft, comforting, so unlike Talamir’s ca
llused fingers. Her touch alone eased some of the pain. “How did Saviar get that wound?”
It was not the first time Chymmerlee had asked, not the first time Subikahn had dodged the question. “First,” Subikahn said, “tell me about your people. They clearly aren’t elves. So where does their magic come from, and why do they hide from the world?”
Chymmerlee hesitated, avoiding Subikahn’s searching gaze, becoming sharply focused on the scene outside the window that even Subikahn, in his short time there, had memorized. Finally, she sighed. “You’ve trusted us with the most precious thing in your life. I suppose it’s only fair we trust you as well.”
Subikahn nodded encouragingly. He truly was interested, and he felt certain the long story would also distract her from wondering about Saviar’s injury, perhaps for a few more days.
“The Mages of Myrcidë did not always seek the shadows,” Chymmerlee began. “Once, we were a powerful people. Some of the world loved and revered us, others feared our magic; but all knew us as a necessary part of society.” She smiled sheepishly. “At least that’s what I’m told. It was centuries past, long before my grandparents’ births, that Myrcidians walked freely among the peoples of the West.”
“And yet,” Subikahn said softly, “you’re not in the legends, not in the annals of history. I’ve never heard tell of the Mages of Myrcidë.”
“Though we went by that very name, even then. And if we’ve been scrubbed from history, it is only because of one group of people, the most savage to ever slaughter their way across our world.”
The Fenris Wolf came to Subikahn’s mind. The evil god, Loki. The hordes of Hel’s dead who rose up for the Ragnarok that nearly ended the world. Yet, he was not surprised by her next words.
“The Renshai.” Chymmerlee fairly spat the name. “The Renshai’s spree of murder saw the end of every mage. They branded the Myrcidians their greatest challenge, and they refused to end the battle until every mage was dead. Every mage, that is, but one. And that one mage, though he never fathered a child, did make it into the historical writings.”
Flight of the Renshai Page 46