The Cardinal Wizards and Dh’arlo’mé sat in conference near the forest’s edge, apparently no longer feeling a need to guard their prisoners closely. The Renshai kept to a huddle of their own, trading opinions and suggestions. It seemed wrong to sit idle while others kept the world’s greatest swordsmen weaponless and prisoner, even willingly. Yet for now Mitrian saw no wiser course. She believed Carcophan’s assertion that they had created another world, consisting of a small section of the old one rolled into a ball. When she considered it in this manner, she believed she recognized portions of the forest, misplaced but otherwise the same.
Vashi, the toddler, roamed about the clearing that defined a portion of the Fields of Wrath, avoiding the stabbing branches that jutted from the forest. Tannin lay in restless sleep, an involuntary moan occasionally escaping with an exhalation. Mitrian winced in sympathy, hating herself for caring. At intervals, her gaze fell to the least respectful of her students, marking the hair still partially held into randomly loosened braids or that spilled in golden waves to the grass. The blue-white eyes rolled open at intervals, childlike in their pain. For the thousandth time, she damned the youthful masculinity that made him act like an idiot, cursed the love that might have been.
“Renshai willing prisoners.” Rache’s voice startled Mitrian’s attention back to where he, Modrey, and Tarah sat, watching Vashi’s every movement. “I don’t care what they say. I won’t stand against Colbey.”
Mitrian shuffled to her son’s side and took a seat beside him. “It’s not a matter of standing against him. Shadimar’s going to help him.”
Rache made a wordless sound that expressed his doubt clearly enough. “Trusting Wizards before one of our own.”
Mitrian sighed. She did not appreciate the possible need to work against Colbey any more than Rache did, but she knew things he could not. “Shadimar has protected us since long before you were born. Without him, I, and therefore you, would never have become Renshai. King Sterrane would have died with his brothers and sisters. I wouldn’t have had the courage to run away with your father, and you wouldn’t exist. Without the Eastern Wizard convincing me to go, and later doing the same for my father, the West would have lost the Great War. Sterrane would never have tried to reclaim his throne. Without Shadimar’s sanctuary during our own war, all of us would have died at the hands of the Northmen’s armies.” She turned to face Rache directly. “Surely you remember when Colbey came to Shadimar so near death I would have finished the job to end his suffering. Without the Wizard’s help, he would already be dead. Shadimar cares for Colbey, and I believe he’ll do what’s right for him. And for us.”
Rache went sullenly silent, not wholly convinced.
Oddly, Mitrian did not feel quite right about the situation either, despite her attempt to remain just in a volatile situation. The Shadimar she knew had done all the things she mentioned and many more. Yet he had also once wrongly accused Colbey of becoming a demon. The Eastern Wizard had always seemed eternal and serious, as hard as the ancient mountains his gray eyes invariably brought to her mind, yet never had he seemed so cold or determined. Always before, he had faced life’s problems with proper sobriety, but the rabid desperation and intensity she noticed about his person now seemed out of place. When the time came, she would let her own judgment determine her course of action.
“Did you ask about Sylva?” Rache’s question seemed more like a plea.
Mitrian nodded. She had chatted minimally with Shadimar on the walk back to the fields, but she had asked about her daughter-in-law. “He said she wasn’t with us when they cast the spell that made us sleep. She must have gone for an early morning hunt.”
Rache nodded thoughtfully. Sylva often rose before the sun to catch the last of the night animals or to find a suitable position to wait for those who awakened at dawn.
Mitrian did not tell Rache about the strange glances Shadimar and Carcophan had exchanged, as if her mention of the huntsman’s daughter had answered an important question. Long consideration made her wonder if they believed Sylva responsible for the arrow that had injured Secodon. It made little sense to her. If Sylva were here, she would have joined the Renshai, not just fired at an animal she presumed an enemy. And Mitrian knew something Shadimar did not. The archer had shot at her prior to hitting the wolf. A wild tangle of brush, a tree trunk, and a sudden stop had rescued her from the attack. Secodon had not proved as lucky.
Tannin rolled in his sleep. Pain caused him to tighten reflexively, which only seemed to make it worse. He gasped, pale eyes falling open.
Rache sighed, wincing in sympathy. He started to rise.
Mitrian caught his arm. “I’ll take care of him this time.”
Rache’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. Although none but Tannin and Mitrian knew the details, the other Renshai could not help but notice the strained coldness between their torke and Tannin. Without explanation, Mitrian headed over to tend the ailing Renshai.
Shadimar had gathered a variety of herbs for his wolf, giving the Renshai as many of the leftovers as they could use. Colbey’s training had included healing, history, and philosophy as well as sword technique. To die in any manner but heated combat doomed a Northman’s soul to Hel, the worst of tragedies. When the Ragnarok came, the hordes of Hel would war against the gods while the souls of heroes in Valhalla fought bravely by the Divine Ones’ sides. Therefore, the treatment of disease and wounds following nonlethal battles held strong precedent in Renshai society. Mitrian tended Tannin’s injuries as muscle strains, with warmed compresses of herbs mixed with berries that opened skin pores to allow sinew to absorb the cure. She tugged his tunic up, noticing the bruises for the first time. Someone had pounded on Tannin with fist, boot, or weapon.
Tannin kept his eyes open, submitting to Mitrian’s ministrations without a word or sound. He trembled beneath her touch, though whether from pain or something else, she could not tell. Though she despised herself for it, she enjoyed examining the naked flesh of his chest, muscles honed and defined by her training. Dried herbs matted the hair, and the smooth bulges felt comfortable beneath her hands. She knew guilt for the pleasure the sight and feel of him gave her. His beauty hid a core as rotten as any enemy’s. No foe had scarred her as deeply.
Tannin seemed to grow more agitated by her attempts to soothe and heal. Finally, she pulled his tunic back into place, massaging the poultice onto a neck knotted as hard as a boulder.
“Why did you do it?” Mitrian spoke softly enough so the others could not overhear, though she still sounded loud after the previous lengthy silence.
Tannin blinked, long lashes hiding and revealing the sea-foam blue eyes. “Torke, I hoped the rest of you would escape while I fought.”
Mitrian redirected Tannin. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” Tannin blinked again, with cautious deliberateness. “What did you mean, torke?”
Mitrian saw no need to recall the situation in detail. It would only raise rage again. “You know what I meant.”
Tannin laced his fingers, stalling. “You mean—”
“Yes.”
“Back at home.”
“Yes.”
“The late lesson.”
“No. I mean the reason for the late lesson.”
Tannin squirmed, ignoring the pain movement must have caused him. The emotional discomfort seemed worse. “Men have needs.”
“Women have needs, too.”
Tannin finally met Mitrian’s gaze.
Mitrian drove the point home. “Why would you choose some brainless, unwashed whore over another Renshai?”
Tannin stared, eyes locking with Mitrian’s, though the flush that tinged his cheeks made it clear he would rather look away. “You, torke? You would have . . .” Unable to find a suitably respectful euphemism, he skipped the concept altogether. “. . . with me. You and me?”
Now that she had bared her soul, Mitrian went defensive. “Why not?”
“You and me.” Tannin smiled de
spite the pain. “I can’t think of anything I’ve ever wanted more.”
Now, it was Mitrian’s turn to blink in stunned wonder. “Then why did you do . . .” The same words failed her. “. . . what you did?”
Tannin craned his neck as well as he could. Unable to find the location of the others, he sat up stiffly, making certain no one else had come within range of his voice. “Need, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to get your attention.”
“My attention.” Mitrian snorted. “You got it, all right. Was it worth it?”
“No,” Tannin admitted. “I destroyed everything, didn’t I? There’s no chance anymore.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me?”
“I invited you over lots of times. We just talked about sword strokes.” Tannin sighed, seeking an explanation Mitrian could understand. “You’re my torke. If you didn’t feel the way I did, it might have ruined my chance to become the best swordsman I can. I didn’t want to lose my lessons for boldness.”
“So, instead, you nearly lost them for stupidity.”
Tannin bit his lip, clearly torn between his need to defend his actions and to appease his torke.
Mitrian shook her head, still attracted to her only unmarried student, yet wondering if she dared start something with a man whose judgment she did not trust. She tried to place herself in his position; and, strangely, the comparison fit. She had had a crush on her father’s sword master, her first teacher, from the day she started liking members of the opposite sex. Yet she had always considered him leagues above her, even ignoring the ten years of age between them. The feelings she had known for Colbey could have defined respect, and she would never have considered romance with the Golden Prince of Demons. First, he seemed incapable of the depth of emotion necessary to sustain a relationship. Her awe for him placed him above the level of manhood, and the idea of considering him performing the same functions as other men seemed the nearest thing to blasphemy.
Suddenly, Mitrian felt sorry for Tannin. He had battled his own fears and surrendered to respect. In order to protect her status, he had chosen a foolish way to gain her attention. Yet, in the end, the maneuver had come full circle. In a warped, difficult way, he had finally learned the knowledge that could have come with a simple question. Now, Mitrian believed, he had learned his lesson. If and when they returned home, things would change significantly, and the prospect excited her.
Now that he had defined the situation, all of Tannin’s hesitation disappeared. Seizing Mitrian’s arms, he pulled her down on top of him, kissing her with a depth and passion she had never known. The rest of the world seemed to disappear around them.
* * *
The woman had no understanding of self or location, only the unshakable certainty that she owned the woodlands and the “others” did not belong. She perched on a boulder, slender frame lost amid vines and sheltering brush, red hair falling in a wild and tangled wash around her face. She could identify every bird in the treetops by a few notes of song, yet her own name defied her.
She picked one limb from the pile she had gathered, sighting along it to ascertain its straightness. Making a slit in the front, she added the last triangular stone head. Soon she would need to resort to whittled wood, her dagger barely sharp enough to aid nature when it came to shaping stone. She bound the tip in place with rabbit gut dried to leather, then started working on the feathers, placing and tying with practiced precision. She added one more arrow to the ten in her quiver, among them the more capably made ones with feathers dyed pink and green. Those, she had found with her upon awakening, their source a mystery. No bird in this forest bore wings of either color.
The woman set to work carving a chunk of wood with the utility dagger she carried in her pocket. Someone, she could not recall who, had hurt her badly. Someone had, apparently, struck her head hard enough to steal consciousness, identity, and all semblance of memory, except for long-ingrained knowledge that had become like instinct. The force had sent her tumbling across sticks and rocks that had torn bloody furrows from her arms, legs, and torso, stamping bruises across hips and shoulders. That someone would die, as would all who dared set foot in her forest.
She continued, shaving wood to partially bevel the edges to deadly sharpness. A breeze riffled the branches overhead, dropping a single green leaf that spiraled to the ground at the woman’s feet.
* * *
Caught by surprise by Frost Reaver’s murderous frenzy, Mar Lon and Khitajrah skittered from the stallion’s path, inadvertently leaving Colbey to face the monster alone. Colbey held his ground, not even bothering to draw a sword. By choice, he would battle his friend with one weapon only, and it had no edge. Ignoring his companions, he thrust his consciousness into the stallion’s mind.
The probe crashed through the same hovering fog of chaos it had met before, frozen in place and no larger than when he had last faced it. Time had softened it, and natural horse instincts impinged on every corner: hunger, thirst, desperate need to protect the hooves, a catalog of odors, and the danger of things thrashing suddenly into peripheral vision. It still reeked of the need to kill, directed at Colbey’s scent alone.
Distantly, Colbey heard the slam of approaching hoofbeats and the crash of gear scattered in the stallion’s frenzied charge. The magic could be easily destroyed now, but he might not find the time before massive hooves pounded him to oblivion. Desperately, he swiped at magic locked in place and shape. It gave like cobwebs wherever he touched, effortlessly dispelled, yet not fast enough. Colbey gave up this course of action, mind leaping for the site of Frost Reaver’s spirit and loyalty.
It lay crushed and haggard beneath the heavy brunt of Shadimar’s now-failing magic. Colbey directed the flow of his energy there, lending his own strength where Frost Reaver’s had become damaged. Methodically, he added life and power to the bond that had once existed between them. He heard a warning scream that sounded leagues distant. Afraid for Mar Lon’s sword or Arduwyn’s bow, Colbey pulled back from his task just long enough to shout a message. “Don’t hurt him! No matter what, don’t hurt Reaver!”
The lapse nearly proved fatal. The stallion’s chest slammed into Colbey hard enough to send him rolling, and a hoof scraped hair from his scalp, missing the skull by a whisper. Rescue or defense. Colbey made the decision instantly, as always. He had only the time it took the stallion to rear and to smash speeding hooves, backed by three-quarters of a ton of muscle, against his head.
Once he made the choice, Colbey committed fully to it. He seized the growing strand of loyalty, channeling all the power he could muster to it. The tendril glowed red, like a sword first drawn from the forge. Then, Shadimar’s magic collapsed to colored powder around him, taking the horse’s killing rage with it.
But momentum proved Frost Reaver’s undoing, rechanneling a mass of moving force nearly impossible in mid-stroke. The stallion whinnied in terror.
Colbey found strength where he thought he had given all, scissoring awkwardly aside as the hooves crashed to ground, gouging turf. Dust filled his nose and mouth, the last vestiges of Shadimar’s spell grating between his teeth and driving him to a sneeze he could not muster.
A soft, pink nose whuffled in Colbey’s face, lipping at his shoulder until greenish slobber glazed his tunic. Around Frost Reaver’s head, he could see that Mar Lon and Sterrane crouched, the bard with sword and the king with ax in hand. Beyond them, Arduwyn stood with bow drawn, sweat spangling his spiky hair. He had wrestled hard with the decision of whether to let the arrow fly.
Colbey allowed his lids to fall back in place, sick with the strain. He sank peacefully into unconsciousness, his last thought to wonder whether Frost Reaver’s apology might drown him in snot before he awakened.
* * *
Colbey awakened later in the day, strength returned and companions hovering. Apparently, Khitajrah noticed the similarity between Colbey’s current state and that after he had helped her repel chaos, because no one asked Colbey how he came to lie unco
nscious without a mark of injury on him.
“You all right?” Arduwyn asked cautiously.
Colbey glanced about until his gaze fell on Frost Reaver, grazing with the other horses. A newcomer had joined the animals, a blotchy paint as well-conformed as its neighbors, apparently Arduwyn’s mount. “I’m fine now.” To demonstrate, he sprang to his feet, bounding to Frost Reaver’s unsaddled back.
The stallion stiffened, then trumpeted a joyous whinny as he recognized his rider. Colbey whipped his sword free, lashing into a wild practice that tuned mind as well as body. The remainder of his pressured fatigue disappeared, replaced by a clarity that made life a joy, despite the threat to the other Renshai. Nothing seemed impossible. Somehow, he would free his loved ones, and the staff would remain in the proper possession of the Western Wizard and his successors.
Arduwyn followed the crisp sweeps and lunges as swiftly as his single eye could move. “A simple crawl would have sufficed.”
Colbey laughed, passing the hilt from hand to hand, never allowing it to fly long enough that an enemy might capture it in the instant he had no control. “I’ve got my sword, my horse, and my trusted friends. What more could I need?”
As if in answer, the aristiri dove from its perch and dodged through the perilous flurry of attack, banking and maneuvering like a bird a third its size. Arduwyn watched in awe as the creature challenged the world’s quickest and most skillful sword master. No normal animal would have dared such a feat; survival instinct would have prevented even consideration of such a thing. Colbey suspected that Arduwyn’s interest stemmed as much from seeing his own audacity reflected in its actions as from its unnatural risk. In the last several decades, few men but the little hunter had dared to confront the elder Renshai in any manner.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 54