“No!” Treysind leaped between them, forcing Calistin to harmlessly redirect his attack or skewer a friend.
Calistin chose the former, reluctantly. At the moment, it seemed more satisfying to cut through boy and man alike.
Howall tumbled to the dirt, Treysind flopped on top of him. “Don’t kill ’im!” the boy shouted, scrambling for a better position. “He’s jus’ doin’ his job.”
“Fine.” Though he would have preferred a clean beheading, Calistin sheathed his weapon. “Not worth cleaning his coward’s blood off my sword.” He stomped on the grounded weapon, the ultimate Renshai insult, then turned toward the farm fields. “Let’s go.”
Treysind sprang to his feet with a muttered apology. Grabbing his pack and waterskins, he scrambled after Calistin.
Not a word passed between the two until they had left the farm fields of Sheaton far behind and settled into a clearing beneath a thick overhang of trees. Though they prematurely darkened the area, the interwoven roof of branches also kept the ground free of underbrush. Calistin crouched, glancing around for kindling.
Treysind walked to the opposite side of the clearing, his back to the Renshai.
For several moments they remained in this awkward position. Calistin finally broke the silence. “I’ll build the fire again, if you’ll catch the food.”
Treysind muttered an answer Calistin could not hear.
Calistin rose and walked to Treysind. “I said—”
“I heared ya,” Treysind said, his words muffled by the hands he placed over his mouth and chin. “An’ I sayed ‘no.’ ”
“No?” Calistin repeated, puzzled. “You want to make the fire and brave eating what I find?”
“I’s leavin’, Cali . . . Cali-Stan.Ya ain’t my hero no more.”
“I . . . ain’t?” Calistin did not know whether to question further or celebrate. He found himself laughing.
Treysind’s arms slammed against his own chest. “Shouldn’t figger ya’d care.”
Calistin considered, surprised to find he did care. After trying so hard, so long, to lose the boy, he had finally come to grips with the realization that it would never happen. In the last day, he had even come to appreciate Treysind’s wit and company. It seemed impossible he would lose it now. “I do care.”
Treysind turned, as shocked by the sentiment as Calistin. “Ya cares?”
Now that he had spoken the words, Calistin realized they were true. “Of course, I care. If I didn’t, I’d have killed you a long time ago.”
“Then why’s ya always laughin’ at me?”
“I don’t—” Calistin started, but Treysind interrupted.
“Ya do. Ya never laughs at nothin’ funny. Only . . . only mean stuff.”
“Mean?” Taken aback, Calistin did not know what to say. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner. His first instinct, to dismember the boy, passed swiftly. Calistin had spoken honestly; if he was going to kill Treysind, he would have done it long ago. “What do you mean by . . . mean?”
“Mean! Mean!” Treysind unfolded his arms. “Ya know, not nice.”
Calistin shook his head. He did not need the word defined. He simply did not understand the concept. “You’re saying I laugh at mean things?”
Treysind cocked his head, and his brilliant orange hair slid across one ear. “When someones trips an’ looks silly, tha’s funny. If they breaks they leg, it ain’t funny.”
Calistin shook his head. “I wouldn’t find either of those things funny.” Still, he considered Treysind’s point beyond the poorly worded explanation. He did tend to find himself silent when others laughed with great amusement. He also frequently laughed alone, like just moments earlier when he belittled Treysind about his decision to leave. Clearly, denouncing his hero had meant a lot more to the boy than to Calistin.
Treysind turned away. “Ya’s right. It prob’ly wouldn’t be funny ta ya till ya breaks they’s other leg, then kills ’em.”
“What?” That went way beyond the explanation, and it seemed utterly unfair. “Treysind, what’s actually bothering you? I’m not good at riddles.”
Treysind’s eyes became blurry puddles of white and blue. “When they’s telled me ya killed that guy in the streets fo’ no reason, I dint belief ’em. Then I seed what ya nearly done in Sheaton . . . y’ain’t my hero no more.”
Calistin rolled his eyes but did not dare to laugh. “Treysind, you’ve seen me kill before.You know it’s what I do.”
“I seed ya kill men what attacked ya, men what woulda kilt ya if they could. But I ain’t seed ya torture no ones bafore. I ain’t likin’ bullies what kills fo’ no reason.”
Suddenly, the whole situation gained clarity. Calistin remembered how he had rescued Treysind from street toughs and understood how the boy might liken what had happened in Sheaton to the day they met in Erythane. Only now I’m the one hurting a helpless innocent; and he’s the one who swooped in, at great risk to himself, to save the victim.
Calistin found himself desperately uncomfortable. He had never bothered to consider the world from another’s viewpoint before. Many times, in conflicts with his brothers, his father had asked him to consider how Saviar or Subikahn might feel. Always, he had dismissed the idea, focused on his own innocence, his own needs and desires. He would say whatever it took to extract himself from the situation.
Nothing mattered but his swords, his practices, and becoming the consummate Renshai. Other people were merely props to use in his quest to become quicker, faster, more deadly. Anyone who could not significantly exercise his sword arm was unworthy of his attention, or even of life itself. They deserved nothing but derision and ridicule. Laughter. A band seemed to abruptly circle Calistin’s heart, tightening and squeezing painfully. “Ya never laughs at nothin’funny.Only . . . only mean stuff.”The little ganim is right.
Treysind was still talking. “. . . prob’ly gots a wife an’ chillen.They dint do nothin’ ta deserve losin’ they’s Papa. An’ all’s he did was try ta keep tha law—’s not like he was tryin’ ta hurt ya . . .”
“You’re right,” Calistin said softly, expecting his concession to please his companion.
But it merely sent Treysind off on another track. “Ya’s a killer, Cali-Stan, but I’s never belief thems what sayed ya’s jus’ a killin’ device without a—”
“—soul,” Calistin finished. It explained so much.
Treysind blinked away tears. “I’s gonna say a cons’ience. I knows ya gots a soul. Ever’one’s gots a soul.”
“I don’t,” Calistin said. “The gods say I don’t. And if I don’t have a soul, how can I be expected to think of anyone but myself?”
Treysind stared. The tears he had been fighting to keep back jarred loose, rolling down his cheeks. “ ’Cause doin’ what’s nice and what’s right don’t gots nothin’ ta do wit’ havin’ a soul. It’s choosin’ ta be a good person. An’ havin’ a cons’ience. That ain’t something ya’s borned wit’ or the gods gived ta ya. Tha’s somethin’ ya decides ta have fo’ yaself.”
That put the onus back on Calistin, and he did not like it. “But I wasn’t raised to—”
“I wasn’t raised atall,” Treysind interrupted. “But I still knows it ain’t good ta hurt people what ain’t hurtin’ ya.”
Calistin sighed. He found all the talk about morality irritating, and he always vented his strongest emotions on battlegrounds and practice fields. He had skimmed into a deep part of his psyche he had never tapped before, and it seemed dark, terrifying, and completely unnecessary. “Treysind, you can’t catch a rabbit with a sword. Believe me, I’ve tried. I haven’t got any money either. So, if you leave, I’ll have no choice but to kill other travelers for their food.”
Treysind wiped away his tears swiftly, and none followed. “So’s, if I stays wit’ ya, ya ain’t gonna kill no ones?”
Calistin could not promise that. “Treysind, I’m challenging these warriors for a reason. I’m preparing to face my mother’s killer. When I find
him, I’ll have practiced in real battles with many different ganim and will have built a reputation.”
“Does that repoo . . . repyute . . .” Treysind started again. “Does ya gots ta be knowed fo’ bein’ a rut’less killer?”
“It helps.”
“Rilly?”
“Yes.”
Treysind sighed and tried again. “Can’t ya be a rut’less killer a . . . a rut’less killers insteada nice folks?”
“That,” Calistin had to admit, “would be even better. But—”
“Ya’d git knowed fo’ bein’ a killer, but pee’ple could still like yas. Ya could be ever’one’s hero.”
Once again, Calistin forced himself not to laugh at an idea that Treysind clearly found important. “It’s not that simple, Treysind. The best fighters in town aren’t always going to be demons. Even if they are, finding them would take time I don’t have.”
Treysind finally smiled. “Tha bestest villains often is tha bestest fighters ’cause no one kin catch ’em ta punish ’em wit’out gettin’ kilt. If I kin finds ’em for ya, will ya practice on ’ems ’stead a guards an’ good men?”
It seemed the perfect compromise, though Calistin worried that he might tie himself to something irritatingly hampering. “So long as you can locate these men quickly, and they give me at least a good challenge.”
“I kin,” Treysind promised.
“And, when I’m fighting, you stay out of it. Completely.You can’t be diving in to ‘protect’ me.”
Treysind’s lip quivered, and he stood in silence several moments before finally forcing out, “All righ’.”
“Then I will,” Calistin agreed. “And now, will you please handle the meal?”
Treysind rushed to his pack for his bow.
CHAPTER 32
Success never happens by luck; it is a matter of careful planning that, sometimes, closely resembles happenstance.
—General Santagithi
MATRINKA REPOSED ON THE tall, canopied bed in the center of her bedroom, the curtains drawn back to reveal the bureaus, wardrobes, and the shelves that lined her room. Back propped against the headboard and knees drawn up to support the large, silver tabby in her lap, she petted Imorelda with the wistfulness that seemed to assail her whenever she found herself alone with her thoughts.
Three weeks had passed since Rantire had smashed Tae’s nose. Gradually, the blue-black bruises had faded from around his eyes; and a bump had formed in the center where the bones knitted together without her ministrations. He looked more gaunt and haggard at every meeting, and he imparted less and less useful information. Meanwhile, the pirate attacks grew more frequent, more deadly, and the news coming from the front more harsh and horrible. She guessed it was worse even than she knew; Griff tended to protect her from the worst of it.
“I’m worried about him,” Matrinka told the cat as she ran her hands over fur slick from her repetitive stroking. Few hairs came free, most already swirling through the air of her room. “Your master is courageous, but he’s also a fool.”
Imorelda purred heartily. Matrinka suspected she agreed. The queen could almost hear the cat’s response in her head, as she had heard Mior for so many years. It seemed petty and self-indulgent to pine over an animal when so many humans were dying for her kingdom. Yet Mior had been so much more than just a cat: a confi dante, a physician, a sister, and her closest friend. “I hope he knows how lucky he is to have you.” Matrinka smiled as she spoke. She knew how precious their bond was and took pleasure in the realization that Tae had such an extraordinary relationship that no one but Matrinka knew about or understood. “You’re a beautiful cat and a special friend.”
Imorelda rolled over, still purring.
Matrinka rubbed her belly with appropriate gentleness. Few cats enjoyed the enthusiastic scratches that dogs preferred in this area. As she worked over the cat’s favorite places, she studied her room. Once, the shelves had held an assortment of wooden and ceramic knickknacks, most of which closely resembled Mior. Now, they lay empty. The myriad cats that filled the castle had shattered enough for Matrinka to pack the rest away.
*Can anyone hear me?* Matrinka sent her plaintive call into the emptiness. She used to test every newborn kitten, every cat she passed; but months had gone by without even a single attempt. *If you can, please answer, even if only to say you don’t wish to talk.*
*I can hear you.* The response touched Matrinka so faintly, she thought she had imagined it.
Matrinka froze, her hands stilling on the cat.
Imorelda caught Matrinka’s hand, clawing lightly.
*Did . . . did someone . . . answer?* Matrinka held her breath, scarcely daring to believe. Failing the Pica test had driven her cousins and siblings mad, those not slaughtered by elves before the truce. She, too, had failed. Perhaps she had finally succumbed to insanity as well.
*I answered.* The voice came to Matrinka’s head, louder now, more sure.
Matrinka’s heart pounded. Still afraid to trust what she had heard, she hesitated before asking, *Where are you?*
*I’m right here.* Imorelda grabbed Matrinka’s stilled hands. *Right here in your lap.*
Matrinka looked down to find Imorelda staring at her through intent green eyes. *You, Imorelda?*
*Yes.*
It should not have wholly surprised Matrinka. Mior had eventually managed to communicate with Tae as well as her. Yet she and Imorelda had never managed to directly converse before. *How?*
Imorelda righted herself and shook out the remaining dislodged hairs. *I don’t know. I was listening to you talk about how stupid my stupid master is and agreeing with every word. Then, I realized I could coordinate your words with your thoughts. Finally, I found your voice. It’s different than Tae’s, like on a different . . . pitch. Like how meows vary in deepness from cat to cat.*
Matrinka suspected it translated better as the range of human voices, but she veered from the technical. It did not matter. *So . . . * She scarcely dared to hope. *Can we talk now? Or is it a temporary thing?*
*I’ve locked on your pitch,* Imorelda reassured. *We should be able to talk same as me and Tae. *
Matrinka sat up and released a whoop of joy.
Imorelda rolled out of her lap onto the bedspread with an angry hiss. *Unless you insist on throwing me. Then, I just won’t talk to you at all.*
Matrinka gathered the cat and hugged her. *I’m sorry, Imorelda. I’m just so happy.* It did not matter that she and Tae lived so far away. At least, when he visited, she would have the opportunity she had awaited for so long.
*Me, too. * Imorelda began to purr again. *Now I can tell you all the best places to pet.*
Matrinka laughed. Imorelda reminded her so much of Mior. *Of course, you can. But, also, you can take messages between me and Tae, if you don’t mind. And I’ll have someone to talk to whenever you visit.*
*You mean besides my stupid master?*
*Besides your master, yes. He’s like a brother to me, you know. I love him dearly.*
*I know. But loving him doesn’t make him any less stupid.*
Matrinka could not help worrying that she would lose the future opportunities, that Imorelda would forget how to communicate with her, or something might happen to the cat in the Eastlands. *Imorelda, why do you suppose I could talk to your mother, and now to you?*
Imorelda settled back into Matrinka’s lap, still purring. *I suppose it’s because you’re one of the rare humans with a gift for speaking with your mind. And you’re good-hearted, and—*
Matrinka waited breathlessly for the cat to finish. When she did not, Matrinka continued to stroke the striped fur casually and questioned. *And—*
*And, you have a closeness, a bond for—* Imorelda was clearly having difficulty putting the concept into coherent words. *—certain cats.* She stopped purring to concentrate. *I’m not sure exactly, but it seems to require a certain type of closeness in the early relationship.*
Matrinka considered. She had first met Mio
r when her grandfather, King Kohleran, handed the calico to her as a grimy ball of fur rescued from a sewage pit. Imorelda had come to Tae as a gift of love from Mior herself. *I think I understand. The cat has to come into our possession by the kindness of a loved one.*
Imorelda’s purring resumed. She rubbed a shoulder against Matrinka’s hand. *You have too many cats.*
“What?” It was the last thing Matrinka expected to hear from a feline.
*You have too many cats. They interfere with talking and bonding. Even if you had one you could communicate with, how would either of you know it?*
The proclamation left Matrinka speechless. Many people had told her, in ways ranging from tactful, to careful, to irritated, that her cats had overrun Béarn Castle. The servants griped about it all the time, though never to her face. Most put up with it because they loved the soft-spoken and gentle queen of Béarn and accepted her one eccentricity. But it had never occurred to Matrinka that the very thing she had done to try to breed another Mior might be keeping her from accomplishing that exact goal. *Oh, Imorelda. What should I do?*
Imorelda looked up at Matrinka as if she found the queen particularly dense. *Get rid of all these cats.*
Though simply spoken, the words were madness. *How can I possibly do that?*
Imorelda continued to stare. *Surely you don’t have a deep attachment to all of them.Why, I doubt you know how many you have or that you can even tell a lot of them apart.*
Matrinka had to admit that Imorelda spoke the truth. *But I’ll never find homes for all of them.There must be hundreds.*
*Thousands, if you don’t do something soon.* Imorelda butted Matrinka’s hands, twining between them to get the attention back to its previous level. *Put them out; they can fend for themselves.*
Matrinka doubted it. *Not all of them.*
*Then build sheltered cages and pile them inside with food and other things they need.There are herbs and surgeries that can render them sterile, and we know elfin magic can do that as well.*
Flight of the Renshai Page 48