Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “I’m glad you asked that.” Lirtensa retreated slightly, making it easier for Khitajrah to view him through the bars. “Let me give you the perfect example. Which of the Golden-Haired Devils were you inquiring about?”

  Khitajrah had a vague recollection of him asking this question previously, but she knew she hadn’t given an answer. “Colbey Calistinsson.”

  “Ah.” Lirtensa dropped back to a sitting position. “The Deathseeker. The Golden Prince himself.” He shrugged. “I think he’s dead.”

  “He’s not.”

  “He’d be about eighty.”

  “Seventy-seven.”

  “Oh.” Lirtensa looked perplexed. Then, he dropped all seriousness and laughed. “Well, well, well. Who’d have thought I’d meet a woman with more knowledge than myself? I’m not sure I can help then. What did you want to know?”

  “Where I can find him.”

  “Why?”

  Khitajrah hesitated.

  “I’m your lawyer, remember? Nothing you say goes past me unless it’s in your best interests. The more I know, the better I can serve you.” Lirtensa spoke with a placating sincerity.

  Still, Khitajrah shook her head. *Careful,* chaos cautioned. *It wouldn’t do to have someone warning Colbey about you.*

  Lirtensa went to the obvious root of the problem. “If it makes you feel better, my feelings toward Colbey are neutral. He led the Pudarians in the Great War. He was heroic, but to the point of stupidity. And he is still a Re—well, you know what.”

  Chaos judged. *Tell him.*

  *Are you sure?*

  *Tell him. If I’m wrong, it jeopardizes my task. I’m not going to make mistakes with this one. Tell him. Just don’t get specific.*

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Lirtensa nodded multiple times. He started to speak, stopped, and started nodding again. Again, he opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a stream of laughter. He clamped his mouth closed, turning it into a snort.

  The reaction outraged Khitajrah. She seized the bars, wrapping her hands just below his. “Death is not funny.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lirtensa managed between spurts of laughter. “I’m not laughing at death, or at you. It’s just that I’ve seen this Northie fight. If someone could talk him into a battle against the six best warriors I know, I’d pull all the money I own on the Deathseeker. With that in mind, imagine me imagining you attacking him.” He lapsed into peals of laughter again.

  Khitajrah’s annoyance dispersed as the reason for Lirtensa’s mirth became clear. She had wondered about the same thing, and she would not hold a grudge against him for having a similar thought. She could worry about chaos and strategy later. For now, nothing could happen until she found Colbey Calistinsson. “Do you know where he is?”

  Lirtensa sobered quickly. “I thought he was dead, remember? I do think I could send you in the right direction though. I know some friends of his that he used to travel with. In the meantime, I could hunt down my sources and find out the truth. If you don’t find him where I tell you to go, we’ll meet back in Pudar in, say, two weeks.”

  The meaning of intangibles finally clicked in place for Khitajrah. “And you charge me for this information?”

  “That’s the way it works.”

  “How much?”

  “The first one’s free, since I’m not sure it’ll get you anywhere. If we need to meet again, we’ll discuss payment then.”

  The terms sounded fair to Khitajrah. “Where are you sending me?” The coldness of the bars against her palms reminded her of more pressing matters. “That is, if you get me through this alive.”

  “Trust me,” Lirtensa said.

  Khitajrah wanted to do exactly that, but she could not help noticing the joy that chaos seemed to feel in this man’s presence.

  “The first thing I need to know is this.” Lirtensa became businesslike, removing his hands from the bars as if to write on a nonexistent piece of paper. “Who have you spoken to in the West? And what did you say?”

  Khitajrah began her story.

  * * *

  The Sea Seraph rose and dipped, lifting from swell to swell in a bobbing dance. At the fore rail, Colbey leaned against the staff and stared at the familiar craggy fjords of the Northland’s coast through a misty film of fog. The whistling refrain of Captain’s sailing song floated from the aft tiller, the melody ghostly through the damp, close haze. Colbey remained still. Every movement caused a wild chaos of pain, though the stab of broken ribs into his lungs had become familiar enough to fade to an aching background. Now that he had left the Tasks behind him and was returning to the world he had known since infancy, his thoughts went to concerns that Wizard’s matters had dwarfed. Soon, Colbey would ride Frost Reaver again.

  The image made Colbey smile, despite the dull throbbing in every part of his body. He pictured the white stallion, its proportions nearly perfect and its every movement responsive to his command. Colbey had won the horse by besting a Knight of Erythane in fair challenge. The Renshai had been knighted in the other’s place, as was the custom; but the Erythanian king had never called in his loyalty or service. Apparently, the king had the wisdom to curry Colbey’s favor rather than enter a battle of wills. So the horse remained Colbey’s, identifying him as a knight without burdening him with the responsibilities. And Colbey had the finest steed he could remember.

  For horses, Colbey’s memory stretched far. The great beasts had fascinated him since childhood. Of the Renshai maneuvers from horseback or against horsemen, he had created nearly every one. Still, despite all the mounts he had ridden or trained, he could recall none as well conformed or as intelligent as Frost Reaver. In his youth, Colbey had never allowed bonds of emotion to chain him. It was the way of Renshai to die young in battle, and the dead who reached Valhalla were celebrated, not mourned. He would have willingly fought and died for his parents, friends, or tribe, but not because of love. Even his own life had been unimportant; only his death mattered. More recently, he had become concerned for the welfare of the last remaining Renshai, especially for the teen, now dead, who had seemed like a son. And now, too, he cared for Frost Reaver, an animal. I’ve grown old and sentimental. The thought intrigued and satisfied him. The sweet chorus of the captain’s song fit the mood, coming nearer as the elf approached.

  A shadow appeared on the deck, expanding like spilled ink. The movement drew Colbey’s attention at once. He crouched, glancing up, prepared to face any monstrosity the Wizards might muster against him. Instead, he saw only a hawk gliding in narrow circles above the ship. It perched in the rigging, studying Colbey through a black-rimmed, blue eye. Sunlight struck aqua highlights from the black trim of throat, wings, and tail. Dark bars striped its underbelly vertically from neck to feet. Otherwise, its plumage was russet. Suddenly, it loosed a musical warble, dove from its perch, and plummeted toward the Renshai.

  Dropping the staff, Colbey drew Harval.

  Less than a man’s height above Colbey, the hawk checked its swoop. Strokes from its powerful wings carried it beyond sword range. It orbited the Sea Seraph once, then wheeled for the mainland.

  A fresh breeze stretched the sails taut, and the Sea Seraph skipped toward land. Captain went suddenly silent, abandoning his song in the middle of a verse. “An omen, Colbey. Hawks of any type seldom fare so far from land, and that was an aristiri. It welcomes you home and brings a fine wind.” Without awaiting an answer, Captain trotted back to the tiller. He hove to, and the ship lurched forward. “Aye, a fine omen indeed.”

  Surf crashed against the distant shore. Colbey recognized the same beach where Captain had met him and Shadimar nearly a month ago. Retrieving his staff, the Renshai walked aft and sat on the gunwale near the captain. “An aristiri. Those are hawks that sing.”

  “The males do. In the spring. And it’s well worth hearing.” Captain stared into space, less attentive than the rocky landing required. “Used to be you couldn’t walk through woods without spotting half a dozen. I always wish
ed we had some on the world of elves. Thought of taking some there, but we wouldn’t have anything for them to feed on.” Captain adjusted the tiller, adding sadly, “Of course, the hawks have gotten shy as wisules since men started hunting them for challenge and trophies.”

  It seemed ludicrous to mention the graceful hawks in the same breath as wisules, rodents so timid they would abandon their young rather than face a potential threat; but the analogy fit in this case. The details of bird history meant little to Colbey, but oddities and things out of place raised wariness. “Why would a hawk come to us here?”

  Waves slapped the deck, and the fog tightened. Captain responded despite his obvious attention to steering. “It came for you, of course. You’re the Western Wizard. You’re supposed to have a rapport with birds.”

  Colbey frowned, not liking the unsteadiness of the ship, yet trusting the elf’s millennia of experience. “I felt scant mastery over that hawk. When it stared at me, I felt more like prey.”

  Captain smiled. “You might ask whether master or subject serves the other. Or you could find the bird and discuss the problem.”

  “Discuss it? You mean I can actually talk to these birds?”

  Captain’s grin broadened, and he burst into laughter. “Talk to the birds.” He voiced a random series of whistles, squawks, and trills. “As far as I can tell, it’s like Shadimar and Secodon. You can share basic emotions, within the birds’ understanding. There may be magics that actually let you converse. That’s beyond my knowledge . . .” He added carefully, “. . . and into your own.” All laughter fled him. “I appreciate your need for self-reliance, but it might be in everyone’s best interests for you to call upon your predecessors once in a while. At least for this kind of rudimentary information.”

  A sudden jolt saved Colbey from an answer, though it reawakened every ache. The ship’s prow sank into the surf until he feared she would pitch pole. He clutched the rail, agony flashing through his body, watching the fog whirl dizzily about him. Then the ship leveled. It rode a wave, dangerously close to shore. Sand scraped the hull, and the Sea Seraph ground to an abrupt halt.

  Colbey relaxed, and the pain settled back into its familiar dull throb. “I guess it’s my turn to laugh now.” He brushed spray-dampened hair from his eyes, not cruel enough to crack even a smile. “You’ve got hours before the tide rises enough to lift the Sea Seraph, if she can still sail.”

  Captain strode to the bow and lowered a rope ladder. A surge of foam tore at it, and it fell back to slap the ship’s hull. “I apologize for your wet walk to land, but I’ll get no closer. Don’t worry for the Seraph. My lady is a strong one.” He pointed to the ladder.

  Colbey approached, looking doubtfully at the eddies. “You’re going to need some help. Your ‘lady’ will need caulking after grounding so hard.”

  The captain shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but we’ll be fine. Already, the other Wizards are calling me back.” He smiled wickedly. “It’ll be well worth the time spent driving cotton between planks to watch a Cardinal Wizard wade through ocean. Granted, watching Carcophan or Shadimar try to preserve their precious dignity would make a better show. But you’ll do.”

  Colbey thought Trilless floundering through the waves in her white gown would prove even more amusing, but he did not voice the comment. He understood Captain’s racial loyalty to the champion of goodness. Everyone needed a cause to follow blindly. In this world, faith was a given; the worth of the man depended on the choice of his cause. Soon enough, that will change. The thought brought Colbey back to the burden he had inflicted upon the world. He bound the staff to his sword belt, despite its awkwardness. Clambering over the rail, he balanced on the outer edge of the gunwale. His many wounds ached, but concern allowed him to ignore pain for the moment. “Captain, a time will come when loyalties clash, and the boundaries between opposites blur. I have had a hand in that, but I did not and will not work alone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “No,” Captain admitted. “You’re becoming as vague as the other Wizards.”

  The insult stung, but Colbey did not have enough knowledge himself to speak details. For reasons he could not quite fathom, he wanted the elf to understand, if not condone, his decision. It was not a matter of recruiting allies; it was a matter of one kindred soul capable of comprehending the need for a balanced change, even if his loyalties forced him to fight against it.

  Apparently afraid he had offended, Captain amended. “But don’t worry. The Cardinal Wizards’ subtlety never bothered me. Their words give me puzzles and deep thoughts to ponder on the sea.”

  “Good,” Colbey said. He fitted his feet onto one of the higher rungs. “Then think about this. There comes a time when every child has to learn to walk alone. Men and elves are the gods’ offspring, and the time has come for the rigid, easy definitions of good and evil, honor and loyalty to disappear. Change is frightening but not always bad.” He descended into the frigid water. The riptide’s swift water eddied around his boots and buried his feet in sand. A wave drenched him. He clambered to the safety of the rocks. His clothes clung in places and sagged heavily in others, like an old man’s skin.

  Captain watched from the fore deck. His eyebrows rose and lowered once as he fought to restrain a wry smile, without success.

  “Good-bye, Captain. I hope the show was as amusing as you hoped.” Colbey believed that, if the elf did not tend to the Sea Seraph, he would ultimately end up wetter than the Renshai.

  Without obvious impetus, sand rasped beneath the Sea Seraph’s hull, and the ship glided back toward the ocean. The tide drove her toward the open sea. From the stern, Captain waved. “Farewell, Western Wizard.”

  Colbey raised a hand to return the salute, but a shrill screech stole his attention. He glanced upward, ears tracing the sound. Stone rose in craggy increments. On a shelf just ahead and above him, the aristiri eyed him impatiently. It hopped along a pale line of sand.

  Colbey drew Harval and dried the blade on his sleeve. Pulling his opposite sword free, he tended it as well. He carried them both in one hand to allow their sheaths to drain and dry. Grasping the ledge he had jumped down almost a month ago, he clambered, aching, to the crest.

  The hawk stayed three handholds ahead of Colbey.

  At the summit, Colbey stared out over the Northlands. A rocky beach rose gradually to a series of grass-crowned dunes that paralleled the shoreline. Beyond them, evergreen forests stretched to the horizon. Still clutching the swords, Colbey headed south. His wet breeks clung to his thighs, and sand grated against his skin. The grit chafed as he walked, and he had to keep adjusting the staff to stop it from slapping against his leg. The hawk fluttered and flapped along the sand. Nothing about it seemed threatening, yet Colbey watched it cautiously.

  Shortly, exhaustion pounded Colbey, reminding him that he needed sleep to heal his many wounds. The aristiri’s presence became familiar. Twice it flew toward him, and twice Colbey dodged from its path. The third time, curiosity and fatigue kept him in place. The bird flapped upward, its wing beats hammering Colbey’s eardrums. It alighted on his shoulder, and he braced for the pain of its claws. But the needle sharpness never came. The hawk sat, still and contented, using balance rather than grip to keep its perch. Ignorant of hawks, Colbey did not try to guess how strange this action might seem to ones more versed.

  For now, Colbey lowered his head and trudged onward. Though he wanted to reunite with Frost Reaver, his injuries had to take precedence. Directly south, cradled in the Weathered Mountains that formed the boundary between the Northlands and the Westlands, he would find the familiar cave of the previous Western Wizards. And there, Colbey hoped, he would find a secure and protected place to rest.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Ahktarian Trial

  The sun hovered behind the highest crags of the Southern Weathered Range, spreading first light across the crushed grasslands of the Fields of Wrath. Mitrian Santagithisdatter balanced atop a boulder, performing sword maneuvers
with a vigor that never seemed to die. Her sandaled feet skimmed over the rock surface, as quick and light as any cat’s, and her sword cut gleaming arcs through the spring air. Her hand felt familiar and right upon the haft, as if molded to fit both its stillness and its every movement. The wolf’s head hilt had become the one stable focus in an otherwise frenzied existence. Violence had taken the lives of her father, husband, and friends. War had stolen the town of her birth and childhood, and it had thrust the legacy of the Renshai upon her. That challenge, she had taken gladly.

  As the rosy glow of dawn touched the sky, Mitrian leapt from the rock to the barren patch that served as the open practice ground and turned her attention to the small cluster of cottages. At any moment, before the sun edged above the mountains’ crests, Tannin Randilsson would arrive for his sword lesson.

  The thought made Mitrian smile. Since infancy, she had loved to watch her father’s sword master, Rache Kallmirsson, perform svergelse or train the guards, his sword flinging highlights that her eyes could not help but follow. Standing still, Rache had been more attractive than any man Mitrian had ever known. With a sword in his hand, nothing could match his grace or beauty, and he honored his swords and his training more than any person except Colbey. In many ways, Tannin reminded Mitrian of that first Rache, the man after whom she had named her son.

  Mitrian drew an image of Tannin in her mind. He had the standard Renshai features: blond hair, blue eyes, and a lithe firm body that came from long hours of training and practice. A strange racial feature tended to make the Renshai look younger than their actual ages, though Tannin had inherited little of this. He carried every one of his twenty-six years with dignity, and Mitrian appreciated that. Having no Renshai blood of her own, she appeared little younger than her own thirty-two years. And, for reasons she could not explain, she wanted the six years between them to disappear.

  Since the other Northern tribes had all but decimated the Renshai, most of the survivors chose to follow Western styles. Tannin alone emulated the North, keeping his yellow locks long and braided. At one time, the practice had bothered Mitrian. She had learned to associate the look with the wild hordes of Vikerians who had swept into her father’s village and killed all but a handful of his men. But during the last year, it had come to symbolize only Tannin, and Mitrian had learned to love the war braids as well as the rugged face they framed. Though Tannin had more true Renshai blood than any other in the current tribe except his sister, he had not had the opportunity to learn the Renshai sword maneuvers until the past year. At that time, he had tracked the tales of Colbey Calistinsson until he found the Renshai elder, Mitrian, and Rache. Therefore, Tannin approached the practices as an honor, with a seriousness that only Mitrian and her son matched.