Cautiously, Dh’arlo’mé peeled aside the tent flap to reveal four humans in various positions of repose. Two huddled beneath silk-soft coverlets of rich design while the others curled under comfortable but modest blankets. A flowery odor wafted from the former, while the others smelled of leather and horses. Decades of observation had revealed hierarchies far more detailed than the simple council/not council arrangement the elves had conformed to over millennia, but Dh’arlo’mé still understood little of human motivation and custom. Currently, magic obsessed him too fully to leave attention for particulars. Without bias or pattern, he killed these four, nostrils so saturated with the odor of blood and death it seemed as much a taste as a smell.
Revolted at last, Dh’arlo’mé hesitated momentarily before time constraints drove him to the second and third tents. Each held four people, and every one succumbed to the quiet danger that magically-enhanced sleep concealed from them. But the effort wore on Dh’arlo’mé as well. Clenched too long around the dagger’s hilt, his hand cramped to an agony that begged soothing. The sliminess of blood-soaked leather forced him to tighten an already tiring hold. The long presence of controlled chaos dizzied him, and the sight and stench of human blood stole the last of his reserves. By the time he returned to the remaining human, even the excitement of killing elfin enemies no longer drove him. A swift conclusion and a transport home enticed.
Dh’arlo’mé stood over his last victim, only now realizing exhaustion and mental strain sent him weaving and bobbing in place. Oblivious, the human slept, breathing deeply and silently, the regular, soft whooshes of air lost beneath the rising and falling cadence of night insects and the buzz of magic that washed through Dh’arlo’mé’s head. Caution drove him to kill and be finished, but logic intervened. His original decision, to take a new hostage and make the previous one unnecessary, remained too steeped in wisdom to ignore.
The elves’ leader drew rope from his pockets, the same slender magic-weave that had held “Brenna” prisoner until they freed her in the cell. He studied the human as he did so. He little trusted his ability to guess a mortal’s age or gender, but this one appeared young and male. No wrinkles scored the features, even lax in sleep. Although he lacked the telltale beard or mustache that allowed Dh’arlo’mé to guess sex without error, the roughness of the facial skin suggested shaving. Sandy hair fell haphazardly around his head. Dh’arlo’mé stripped away the blanket to reveal simple, loose clothing that did not bag and a body with tight sinews shorter than any elf’s but without the solid bulk of most of the others at the camp. Sleep brought an innocence to the human’s countenance, raising a short-lived stab of guilt and tainting the cruel happiness that had made Dh’arlo’mé so eager to kill more humans. Slaughter, for any reason, did not suit elves. Not long ago, the actions he had taken this day would have been inconceivable.
Dh’arlo’mé wound rope around the human’s ankles, glancing repeatedly at the features for any response to touch and movement. Spells weakened over time, and lesser manipulations might awaken its victims now where it would have taken gross and foolish mistakes to do so before. The stasis spell had other associated problems. It froze the chanters into a steady, hyperalert state that would eventually wear them into a dangerously deep sleep or into madness. Already, he could feel his support faltering.
Dh’arlo’mé jerked the rope taut, preparing to tie the knot. For a moment, he tore his gaze from the man’s face to watch his own fingers at work. That nearly cost him his life.
*Dh’arlo’mé’aftris’ter Te’meer Braylth’ryn Amareth Fel-Krin!* The mind-shout shot through his head. Blind to the danger, Dh’arlo’mé leaped backward. A sword slashed crookedly across his forehead, the bridge of his nose, and one eye. Shock and pain, as much as impact, toppled him backward, and the world spun in a blur of brown, silver, and green. He rolled and scrambled, visionless. Something whistled through the air near his ear, then voices pounded his hearing and his thoughts, some aloud and others in desperate mind-call.
“Modi!” The human’s battle cry rang over the frenzied observations, concerns, and suggestions of the elves. Ducking, protecting his head, Dh’arlo’mé scrambled away from the man. He felt and heard many presences around him, and he slammed into more than one leg before discovering an opening and diving through it. Only then, with elves between himself and the human, did he dare to look.
Dh’arlo’mé’s injury allowed vision through only one eye, and dripping blood distorted even that to a flat, red plain. He managed a glimpse of the human he had attempted to capture, cutting and howling like a rabid animal, shouts shattering into distant echoes. Dh’arlo’mé swore, concerned for the reinforcements the noise might bring as well as elfin lives that might already be lost to his decision. The last remnants of guilt fled, never to return. Now, more than ever, hatred boiled inside of Dh’arlo’mé. Elves could never find peace with a species so attuned to murder they could awaken instantly to attack. The speed and effectiveness with which the man had dealt Dh’arlo’mé’s wound could come only of a life dedicated to sword and slaughter.
*Kill and go!* Dh’arlo’mé mind-called, not caring that his need to generalize the words meant the human would hear them as well. *Kill and go!*
Dh’arlo’mé collapsed to a crouch, vertigo buffeting him and a vast, buzzing wall of whiteness stealing his vision.
*Home chant,* someone sent, the concept lost in a maelstrom of unrelated thoughts. Magic washed over Dh’arlo’mé, none of it his own, then darkness overtook him.
Chapter 16
A Renshai’s Kill
A rousing battle seemed more fun.
—Colbey Calistinsson
The insults started earlier on the second day of travel, again ended prematurely by Kevral’s insistence on practicing sword forms. Now well into their third day of riding, Ra-khir kept his temper with heroic effort. Kevral’s jabs at knight’s honor seemed to have run their course, at least until some situation arose to reawaken the barrage. Even Tae’s attempts to spur their hostility had fallen flat over the last hour. Biting down on his anger and remaining silent had become a marginally effective strategy. Once Kevral realized how superficially buried Ra-khir’s irritation remained, he suspected the cycle would begin again. Daily, he prayed for the control that allowed his father to listen placidly to even the nastiest of affronts before taking swift and calm action, the same that allowed him to accept punishment for a crime he did not commit. But punitive strikes only worked for one whose competence exceeded that of the person he wanted punished. Kevral had already proved herself the better swordsman, but that did not justify the chaos she considered honor.
This thought saw Ra-khir through the afternoon and into a too-familiar dinner of jerked venison and hard bread. He could not help but question the very technique he had admired earlier. Putting a person in his place with agility or violence did not justify one’s point of view. It only cowed a disputant into silence. Yet Ra-khir realized, his father never bullied. Usually, he made his points with words as sharp as blades; only when the security of Béarn or Erythane lay at stake did he resort to violence.
While Kevral practiced, Tae deliberately carried on a conversation designed to spark Ra-khir’s temper. “So . . .” The Easterner spoke with partially chewed food unswallowed. “. . . we all agree Knights of Erythane have more bluster than talent.”
Ra-khir could hold his tongue no longer. He had to tolerate Matrinka’s bodyguard, even held grudging respect for her skill; but he would not allow a common street thug to judge a brotherhood he did not have the brains, virtue, or breeding to understand. “We’ve agreed on nothing,” Ra-khir growled, no longer caring that the bickering had driven Matrinka and Darris to the opposite side of camp. Squelched anger expanded to account for hours spent in silent vexation. “And what the Hel kind of name is Tae anyway? T-A-E, pronounced like none of the vowels in it. Why not Tay? Or Tah-yee?”
Tae closed his mouth into a tight-lipped smile and swallowed his food before replying. “
It’s pronounced ‘Tie.’ Eastern vowels get said different depending on the letters around them. And there’re lots of exceptions.” His grin became insolent. “That’s what makes our language special and yours so incredibly easy to learn.”
“And you think that’s a positive thing?”
Tae shrugged, still grinning. “Sure. I can call you a gynurith, and you don’t know if I insulted you or not.” He pronounced the foreign word “ga-nar-ayth.”
Ra-khir frowned. His honor would not allow him to affront someone he respected, no matter the tongue, although in this circumstance, respect did not apply. “So, did you insult me?”
“That depends on if you think being called feces is an insult.”
Ra-khir pretended to consider. “Only because it would make me your kin.”
Tae let the matter drop before it degenerated into childish name-calling. “How’s Ra-khir spelled?”
Ra-khir obliged, letter by letter.
Tae snorted. “You worry about how my name’s said? Is that a silent hyphen, or does it have some importance I’m not getting from the way you say it?”
Ra-khir flushed, realizing he had gotten caught in his own trap. “Actually, it helps people who read remember to put the accent on the second syllable. Rah-keer, not Rah-keer.” The need to explain defused much of his pent-up anger also. “My father named me Rawlin at birth, and my stepfather tried to change it to Khirwithson, after himself. I was old enough to remember my original name and young enough to keep getting it confused. I called myself Ra-khir, and it finally stuck.” Ra-khir had not considered the details of that story for a long time, and he wondered if the mixed name ever bothered his father. If so, Kedrin had given no indication. Unlike mother and stepfather, Ra-khir’s father placed more significance on their relationship than on who gave him his name. No matter what they called him, in his heart he had always been Kedrin’s son.
For several moments, Tae made no comment about the personal information Ra-khir had volunteered. He seemed lost in distant thoughts of his own, finishing his meal in a silence Ra-khir enjoyed. He wished he had not told such intimate details to one he despised. He did not have to justify his name, or anything else, to a thief.
Only after he’d brushed crumbs from his britches, did Tae finally break the long silence. “You’re not the first boy to grow up without his father. A stepfather who claims you as his son is better than no father.”
Ra-khir was surprised Tae had sensed the hostility he felt toward Khirwith. Apparently, it had come through in his tone if not his words, but he had never considered Tae the sympathetic or insightful type. Ra-khir’s first thought, to change the subject, passed quickly. The pain branded him too deeply to keep silent. He also saw the potential benefit of sharing intimacies with Tae. It might take some of the animosity from their relationship and decrease Tae’s incomprehensible need to bait Ra-khir for Kevral’s sake. “That may be true if a boy loses his father to death or apathy. But I had a living father who loved and still loves me and wanted more than anything to remain my father in every way. My mother and stepfather denied him and lied to me. There’s no justification for that, other than pure nastiness. My mother was willing to hurt me, still is by the way, just to hurt my father. That’s not love. It’s revenge hiding behind false compassion. And I’m tired of playing her games.” A decade of bitter memories finally found an outlet, and Ra-khir felt better for the sharing, even with someone he did not trust. There was truly nothing Tae could do with the information to make the situation any worse.
Tae listened with surprising interest throughout a speech too long considered and withheld. “Some fathers are better than others.”
Ra-khir shrugged, not seeing the connection. Recalling his family rerouted his anger, and talking mostly reduced it to a bitterness still raw and painful. Suddenly, he wanted to be alone. “I can’t expect a street orphan to understand.”
“I never said I was an orphan,” Tae returned.
Ra-khir studied the companion he’d never wanted half-heartedly, continuing the conversation only from politeness. Tae had listened to him pour out his heart, and he could do nothing else but return the courtesy. Besides, it seemed safer to have as much personal information on Tae as Tae did on him. “So you’re not an orphan?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
Ra-khir snorted. “So you’ll say whatever works to your advantage at the time.” Directed at himself, Ra-khir would have found the suggestion offensive, but he knew Tae did not operate under the strict code of honor that he did.
Tae’s brows rose, and he gave Ra-khir a scathing look. “No. Just because I choose not to talk about certain things doesn’t mean I’d lie about them.”
“All right, then,” Ra-khir pressed. “Are your parents alive or dead?”
Tae shook his head, the unkempt, black locks flopping into his eyes. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”
“I talked about my family. I told you a lot of personal stuff.”
“Was I the first?”
“That I told?”
“Yes.”
“The second,” Ra-khir said. “I told Darris. And I’ve discussed parts of it with my father. He won’t let me say negative things about my mother, though.”
“And before Darris?”
Ra-khir grew wise to Tae’s strategy. “I wasn’t ready to talk about it,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “Point taken.”
Tae smiled, but this time it seemed genuine rather than one of the smug smirks he usually offered the knight-in-training.
“All right, then,” Ra-khir fished for other information while he had Tae in a confiding mood. “So why did you really want to join us?”
Tae stuck with his original story. “I already told you that.”
“You wanted company.”
“Right.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“There always is.”
Ra-khir fidgeted, gripped by frustration. “And you’re not going to tell me.”
“No,” Tae admitted.
Ra-khir made a disgruntled noise.
“Want me to tell you something you didn’t expect about me?”
“I’ll settle for that.” Ra-khir forced a smile, hoping to spur an honest confession.
Tae leaned closer, dark eyes glittering through greasy bangs. “Those notes were only the second thing I ever stole. Besides food.”
“Really?” Ra-khir’s skepticism remained high, and he wondered if his irritating companion was setting him up as the butt of some nasty joke.
“Really.” Tae seemed sincere. “Only the second time. And as far as I’m concerned, it can stay the last.”
“Wait a moment.” Not yet convinced, Ra-khir pushed for more information. “Getting those notes seemed awfully easy for someone who claims to have so little experience.”
Tae contradicted. “Oh, I didn’t say I had little experience. I said it was only the second thing I ever took besides food.” He shrugged, shoulders slender as a woman’s. “I took a lot of food.”
“So you are an orphan.” Ra-khir believed he had found the hole in Tae’s story.
“I didn’t say that,” Tae reminded.
“And you’re not going to.”
“No, I’m not going to. Not yet.”
Seeing the camaraderie slipping away, Ra-khir changed his tack. He had no interest in becoming close to one so unworthy, yet he believed friendship might make Tae less likely to betray them in the end. Assuming he has any scruples at all, which seems unlikely. “So what was the first thing you stole?”
Tae winced, as if he had anticipated that question only after he made his confession. “I can’t tell you.”
Ra-khir sighed loudly.
Tae shook his head, surprisingly apologetic. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. Believe me. We’ll both be much happier if you don’t ever know.”
Finally driven to exasperation, Ra-khir rose, shaking his head. “I don’t tell you this. I won’t tell you that.” G
reen eyes met brown, and Ra-khir tried to simulate the piercing quality of his father’s glare. “When you finally decide you really want to join us with more than just your physical presence and your insults, let us know.” With that, Ra-khir retired to Darris’ and Matrinka’s side of the camp.
Tae remained in place, performing his normal camp routine with a methodicalness that revealed nothing. Eventually, Kevral finished her practice, ate, and took her place among the blankets. The weary travelers drifted off to sleep in shifts.
* * *
Darris’ shout jarred Ra-khir awake in a cold sweat. Sleep-fogged, he lurched to his feet, fumbling for his sword in the moonlight. By the time his hand closed around the grip, six strangers were bursting into the camp. All sported dark hair and beards without mustaches. They wore leathers travel-dirty and stained with old blood. One crossed swords with Darris while the others charged past, apparently seeking another victim. Matrinka, Ra-khir guessed, racing to her rescue.
A blanket snagged Ra-khir’s foot, and he fought desperately for balance. He toppled, half-rolling and half-crawling to Matrinka’s defense. His mad dash tumbled him directly into Kevral’s path. She hissed, sidestepping with swift agility, a sword gripped lightly in each fist.
Ra-khir did not have a moment to curse his awkwardness. Even as he staggered to his feet, two men closed in on him at once, jabbering words in a language he did not understand. He dodged one’s strike, managing to catch the other sword against his own. Spar had not prepared him for the power of the impact. The other man’s strength drove his sword arm nearly to the sheath, even as his companion looped for another attack.
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