Mitrian sheathed her sword, waiting, still lost in consideration. Thoughts of Rache Garnsson turned her mind in a new direction. When Tannin had first joined the Renshai, he had become locked into fierce competition with Rache. Though Rache had the advantage of Renshai training by Colbey since infancy, Tannin had age, exuberance, and a devotion that drove him to work. They had also competed for Sylva’s attention.
Mitrian frowned. At the time, Garn had still lived, and she had had no reason to consider other men as anything but friends. She had encouraged Tannin’s identification with her young son, though Rache was more than a decade Tannin’s junior. Now, she worried that Tannin would always see her as a generation ahead of him, the six years stretched into a gap impossible to bridge. Their positions as teacher and student only widened the chasm; in the Renshai culture, no position demanded more respect and reverence than a torke, the Renshai word for sword master and teacher. Still, there had been a few times when she had directed his sword arm to demonstrate an angle or maneuver and believed she saw an emotion in his soft, blue eyes that matched her own.
Mitrian’s frown started to edge back into a smile. Then the sun tipped over the far peaks, glaring into her eyes, and her lips arrested midway. Tannin should have arrived, yet he had not. Lateness to a sword lesson was a blatant display of disrespect, a crime second only to cowardice in the Renshai culture. Mitrian had only seen one student late to one of Colbey’s practices, Rache Kallmirsson’s son, Episte. She had watched in sympathy while Colbey had grilled the boy long after the other Renshai had quit for the night. Outside of war, it was the only time she had seen someone lapse into unconsciousness from exhaustion.
Ire rose in an instant, almost immediately replaced by fear. If Tannin’s not here, he’s injured or dead. Concerned for Tannin’s welfare, Mitrian charged toward the four cottages that made up the Renshai’s town. She came first to the newest, the one they had built for Rache and Sylva. The Renshai’s six horses grazed on brush in the yard, joined by Arduwyn’s stocky paint. The couple waved to Mitrian from the window, and Arduwyn called out an uncomfortable welcome from the front stoop. Mitrian made a brisk gesture that she hoped passed for a greeting. She slowed to a trot. Ducking around her own home next door, she headed onto the dirt pathway that led from her own dwelling to that of Tannin’s elder sister, Tarah, her husband, Modrey, and their year-old child, Vashi.
Near the front door, Tarah sewed a tunic. Vashi toddled in circles before her mother, her fingers wrapped around a tiny, blunt-edged sword, proportionately balanced like a real weapon. Mitrian could see Modrey hacking weeds from the garden between their cottage and Tannin’s own. They appeared calm and their actions seemed normal. If some harm had befallen Tannin, they knew nothing of it.
Tarah looked up as Mitrian galloped past. “Good morning. What . . .?” She broke off as Mitrian did not slow.
Only then, Mitrian skidded to a stop. She whirled, biting down on her rage. “Where’s Tannin?”
“Tannin?” Tarah’s hand stilled, and she dropped the needle to her lap. “He’s . . . well . . . he should be at his sword lesson. With you.”
“I know where he should be!” Mitrian fairly snarled. “I want to know where he is!”
Apparently frightened by the shouting, Vashi scooted to her mother’s side.
Tarah let the toddler clutch her leg, but she did not coddle. She would allow Vashi to feel safe, yet she would not reward running or hiding. To do so would only reinforce childish fears. To become Renshai, Vashi would have to learn to face threats with boldness. “I . . .” Tarah started, obviously cowed by her torke’s rage. “He . . . I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. You don’t think . . .?” She stammered, leaving the question open-ended.
The normalcy of the other Renshai’s routine only reinforced Tannin’s lapse. Mitrian spoke slowly, each word solid and menacing. “I think that he had better be sick, trapped, or dead. Or he’s going to wish he was.” Without awaiting a reply, Mitrian stalked toward Tannin’s cottage, only half as outraged as she seemed. She had called upon anger to cover the worry that threatened to suffocate her. Finally, she had discovered a man she believed she might come to love as much as the husband she had lost, a man with whom she could have another child. And he probably lay dead on the floor of his cottage. Mitrian quickened her pace.
At length, Mitrian veered around the garden and came to the front of Tannin’s cottage. Without bothering to knock, she opened the wooden door and charged through, finding herself in the familiar entry room. Old ashes filled the hearth. Two chairs stood crookedly askew before a central table. A stained, empty mug perched on the seat of one chair. Another mug, half-filled with cold tea, sat on the table. Tannin’s clothing was flung across the backs of the chairs, and an undergarment lay crumpled in front of the fireplace. Despite the mess, Mitrian saw no evidence of a battle. She jerked open the only door in the room, the one leading to Tannin’s bedroom.
Sun rays funneled through the outer door and into the bedroom, throwing light across two figures in the bed. The creak of hinges awakened Tannin, and he sat up so abruptly he bashed his skull against the headboard. His golden hair fell around his head, wildly disheveled and still kinky from the braids. Instinctively, he yanked up the blanket to cover his nakedness, and the movement bared the woman beside him. Her eyes remained closed, and she rolled toward him, flopping an arm across his abdomen. Long, dark hair dragged into a sparse curtain across her unfamiliar, teenaged face. The high cheekbones and small nose identified her as an Erythanian, and Mitrian estimated her age at between sixteen and nineteen.
Rage exploded through Mitrian’s mind. For an instant, no coherent words came to her. Then she shouted. “Tannin Randilsson, what in Loki’s dark, ugly, icy cold Hel are you doing?”
The teen’s eyes flew open, and she sat up, without bothering to cover pendulous breasts that seemed more suited to a woman Mitrian’s age. Tannin had enough modesty for the two of them. He tightened the blankets around himself, shielding his body to the neck. Though Mitrian’s startlement should have given him time to think, he had an even more difficult time finding words. “I’m late, aren’t I?” His voice contained all the remorse his words did not.
Mitrian took a threatening forward step, her foot miring on a homespun dress. She kicked the offending garment aside, and it skidded across the planks. “You’ve dishonored your swords, and you’ve dishonored your torke.” She glanced at the Erythanian who was arching her back so that her breasts jutted, as if daring Mitrian to compete. Mitrian added, with obvious disgust, “And you’ve dishonored yourself.”
Tannin lowered his head. His eyes were moist, and it was all Mitrian could do not to soften her tone.
“I’m going back to the practice ground. You are going to get dressed and arrive ahead of me. When I get there, your sword had better be perfectly tended and your maneuvers flawless. Then, you’re going to work through everyone else’s practice and into the night. You’re not going to stop to eat. You’re not going to stop to drink, and you’re not going to stop to piss! And, if you’re ever late for a practice again, I’m just going to kill you. Understand?”
“I’m sorry, torke.”
The Erythanian threw off the covers, fully exposing herself. “I think his maneuvers were flawless.” She snuggled against Tannin, mashing her breasts against his ribs and sliding a hand beneath the covers to touch him. “Are you going to let your mother talk to you that way?”
Tannin’s whole body stiffened momentarily, then he pushed the Erythanian away. “Not now, Sharya. Please.”
Rage speared through Mitrian, and she all but lost control. Her hand whipped to her sword hilt, and the blade rasped free.
Sharya recoiled. Tannin froze, weighing options, obviously not liking what he found.
But Mitrian maintained her composure. She skewered Sharya’s dress on the point of her sword, then thrust it toward the Erythanian. “Put it on. Get out.”
Sharya’s dark eyes widened, and she shifted closer
to Tannin. She opened her mouth, presumably to appeal to the man.
“One word,” Mitrian added, her blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on the teen, “and I drive this sword right through your guts.”
Sharya made a squeal of frustration, fear, and rage. But she gingerly unhooked her dress from the sword point and pulled it over her head.
“Out!” Mitrian pointed at the door with the sword.
Sharya threw one last glance at Tannin, goading him to do something. But the man sat in miserable silence, still clutching the blankets to hide his nakedness. The Erythanian spun, her dark hair swirling into a fan, then stalked out the doorway. The outer door slammed violently shut, and ash pattered to the hearth.
Mitrian channeled all of her hurt and anger against Tannin. “How dare you! How could you!”
Tannin gripped the blankets between fingers white with strain. “Torke, I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”
“No excuses!”
“It’s not an excuse. It’s an explanation. I dishonored my sword and my torke. I deserve every punishment you said.” Tannin squirmed, and his voice sank. “It was all my fault. Did you have to scare Sharya?”
“I shouldn’t have scared her.” Mitrian’s eyes narrowed. “I should have killed her. She’s a dirty, rude, ill-bred whore, and I can’t believe you or any Renshai would lower himself to sleep with her!” Mitrian glared at Tannin, her rage coming as much from emotional pain as from actual anger at Tannin’s transgression. She knew she should leave now, while she had the upper hand, and let Tannin contemplate his crime. Yet, deep inside, she needed a personal apology, something to explain why he would chose a teenaged trollop over the only unmarried Renshai woman.
Finally driven to the edge, too, Tannin threw the blankets aside, revealing himself to the waist. His blue eyes bunched to slits, and his cheeks flared red. “With all the respect due you, torke, I have one thing to say.” He pronounced each word definitively, his voice bland with rising anger. “Men fuck.” Without another word, he turned his back.
The urge to slaughter Tannin rose instantly, then disappeared as quickly. Unexpectedly, tears stung Mitrian’s eyes, and she knew she was about to lose control completely. Instead, she whirled. The need to cry struck suddenly then, welling into a torrent; and it was all she could do to keep from rushing, sobbing, from the cottage. But she kept her steps measured, forcing her breaths to normalize until she left the cottage and bashed the door shut every bit as hard as Sharya had done. Grief rushed down on her, mingling with self-pity and rage. She felt hot as fire, seized by an urge to curl into a ball in some private corner where no one could find her, where the flames could consume her and she had to answer to no one. Instead, she ran, choosing a course that would not take her past anyone.
At length, Mitrian left the Renshai’s cottages behind her. She stopped short on the grassy plain, out of sight of the training ground, not wanting to arrive before Tannin despite her threat. Men fuck. Mitrian noted he had switched to the Western tongue to find the most vulgar euphemism for sex. Logic told her that she should find nothing attractive or interesting about a man who would sleep with women like Sharya. Yet her mind clung to the image of his kind gentleness and savage dedication to the arts she taught him. Her heart ached within her, and the tears quickened. She tried to drive away sorrow with violence, concentrating on the anger and leaving the hurt behind. She whipped her sword from its sheath and launched into a wild svergelse.
The sword sang around Mitrian in controlled arcs and gliding slashes. Escaping into the practice, she thought of her fondness for the weapon, recalling the day of its forging. The Eastern Wizard, Shadimar, had given her a pair of amber gems to become the eyes of the hilt’s wolf head, once forged. He had promised her the “only magic sword of the Eastern, Western, and faery worlds.” In fact, the sword’s enchantment had come from a Renshai soul locked in the gems, the last remnant of a warrior who had died of illness and had begged a previous Eastern Wizard to trap him rather than let him slip away to Hel. Mitrian had learned nearly as much of the Renshai sword maneuvers and philosophy from the soul caged in topaz as she had from Colbey.
Mitrian’s strokes grew bolder and stronger, and her tears evaporated in the breeze raised by her movements. She recalled how the excitement of the Great War had sent the Renshai in the gems into a wild battle madness. It had dragged her with it, stealing the self-control she needed to experience the war herself and to keep track of her loyalties. His war passion had caused her to slaughter one of her father’s own men. Then, Mitrian had cracked one topaz, freeing the soul to its rightful place in Hel and taking, so she had believed, all magic from the sword.
Mitrian allowed herself to become conscious of the gems, feeling the solid facets of the wolf’s left eye and the irregular pinch of the crack winding through the right. Apparently some sorcery remained, or else the Wizard had enchanted the blade in other ways, because the edge still held the sharpness and shine of first forging. No notches marred the blade, and its steel remained as strong and straight as always. Then, abruptly, Mitrian’s thoughts collapsed back to memories of Tannin. The hot mixture of agony and rage returned in a rush, and her eyes burned with the threat of reemerging tears.
Arduwyn’s voice cut through Mitrian’s thoughts and her practice. “There you are!” It held accusation.
Mitrian froze in position, the sword poised in a high arc, her stance closed. Her eyes rolled, finding the little archer riding toward her from the direction of the cottages. His spiky red hair looked more disheveled than usual, and his single brown eye held no sparkle. Though Colbey’s height, his scrawny frame made him seem tiny. The random black and white blotches of his paint horse only added to the unkempt appearance of the hunter and his mount.
“Not now, Arduwyn. I’m busy.”
Arduwyn did not slow, but continued heading toward her. “This can’t wait.”
“Anything can wait.”
“Not this.” Arduwyn reined up at the border of comfortable speaking range, just beyond a sword stroke. His eye narrowed, and his voice softened. “Are you crying?”
“No!” Mitrian lowered her sword, but she did not sheathe it. She wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand, trying to keep the gesture casual. The suggestion only made her feel more like crying, and the effort of preventing it did nothing to improve her temper. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about giving a sword to a baby.” The archer’s tone made it clear he was chastising, not seeking advice.
“What are you talking about?” Mitrian had no interest in riddles and even less in lectures. “Be direct and quick. I have students to teach.” It was a lame excuse off the practice ground and alone, especially since she taught daily and Arduwyn would find no other time more convenient to speak with her.
Still, Arduwyn went straight to the point. “I just watched an infant drop a sword on her foot. It’s badly bruised, and she probably broke some toes.” The paint snorted.
Mitrian cringed in sympathy. “Vashi hurt? I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Arduwyn sounded incredulous.
“Yes, I’m sorry. Do you think I want her to be in pain?”
“I don’t know,” Arduwyn admitted, the accusation fully returning to his tone. “Why would you give a sword to a baby?”
“First, if she can hold a sword, she’s not a baby. Second, it’s the Renshai way.”
“The Renshai way of what? Killing off its children?”
“No one is killing off anyone.” Mitrian jabbed the sword back into its sheath. Though this took the weapon out of her hand, the violence of the gesture served as equal warning. “It’s how the Renshai became the finest swordsmen in the world.”
“It’s stupidity!”
The insult jabbed straight to the heart. “It’s none of your business.”
“It’s my business when I see an adult I admire and respect giving weapons to a child as toys.” Arduwyn changed his tactic. “Come on, Mitrian. I’ve got a daughter
of my own. It’s torture to see a little girl injuring herself because she has something she shouldn’t have.”
“Shouldn’t have!” Mitrian knew that her own son had been given a tiny sword in place of a rattle. His early training would allow him to far surpass her, as he nearly had already. Because of the training she had missed her first sixteen years, Mitrian understood that she could never become the best. So long as she lived and led the Renshai, no man, woman, or child would ever feel cheated of that opportunity. “We’re Renshai, Arduwyn. Renshai! Not flabby-butted, floppy-breasted, Erythanian farm whores. If you and your people choose to train your children to become cowards, that’s your decision!”
Arduwyn’s face flushed scarlet. “Are you calling Sylva a flabby-breasted whore?”
“No, of course not.” Mitrian knew the insult was aimed at a completely different Erythanian girl, but she had no wish to detail her target now. “I’m just saying that Renshai didn’t become the best swordsmen by accident. It’s training. It works. And it’s none of your damned business.”
The paint snorted again, pawing at the ground with a forehoof. Arduwyn jerked on the reins, and the pawing stopped. “Mitrian, don’t you see. It’s not the training in infancy that makes Renshai the best. That’s just tradition and superstition. An infant can’t learn sword maneuvers; it’s impossible. What makes Renshai the best is technique and a dedication to their art once they become old enough to understand it.”
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 22