Ra-khir drove for the point. “Sir, it doesn’t matter whether you believe we interacted with Colbey. I doubted, too, at first. Research proved me wrong. I can show you documentation that Colbey joined the Knights of Erythane and rode a white charger called Frost Reaver.”
Still does. Tae did not add his piece aloud. Whatever divine magic had kept Colbey alive for more than four hundred years did the same for the stallion.
“Sir, whatever you might think of knight’s honor, at least we would never blindside an honored foe after the war was declared ended.”
“Enough!” Gareth roared.
“Enough,” Thialnir agreed, though for different reasons. “No need to drag this out longer. Sir Ra-khir, the Renshai find you worthy of marrying into the tribe and siring warriors. From this moment forth, your son shall bear the name Saviar Rakhirsson, a full-fledged member of the tribe of Renshai.”
Gareth presented a grudging nod, Ra-khir a broad but lopsided grin. “Thank you, sir.”
“No need for gratitude,” Thialnir returned, taking his seat. “You won the honor for your child on your own merits. The Renshai do not bestow charity.”
Every eye turned suddenly to Tae where he poised in the window. Pinned, he froze.
“Your turn, Tae,” Thialnir said.
My turn. Tae remained in place, ignoring the sting of droplets on the back of his neck. He felt trapped, torn between worrying about his son’s self-esteem and his own need to parent. It might hurt the boy to know his brother received an honor refused him; yet turning his child over to Renshai seemed more condemnation than reward. He thought of the life the child would have as a Renshai: unforgiving teachers, daily violence, the eager pursuit of a savage and bloody death not only for enemies but for himself. I’m not fighting any Renshai. He had neither the courage nor competence to do so.
Tae shrugged. “I—” he started, catching Kevral’s brisk gesture for him to stand from the corner of his eye. With a sigh of resignation, he sprang to the floor. “I have nothing to offer.”
“Tae!” Kevral’s sharp retort reverberated.
Tae whirled toward her, tiring of the entire situation. Ra-khir had worked so hard yet had still suffered humiliation. Tae knew he had no chance at all. “Damn it, Kevral, it’s true. I’m not big. I’m not strong.” He outlined a wiry frame little taller than Kevral’s. Standing, Ra-khir and Thialnir would tower a head above him, and Gareth half that. “My blood is Eastern farther back than anyone would bother to trace it, and mediocre is a compliment to my sword skill. What do I have to add? Dark eyes? Dark skin? Dark—?”
Gareth’s rash draw-cut caught Tae wholly unprepared. The wall prevented retreat, and a dodge forward or to either side would place him squarely in its path. Desperate, Tae dropped and rolled. The blade kissed his scalp, severing strands of hair. A jab followed, foiled by a wild dodge.
Tae scampered to the center of the room. “Why—?”
Gareth’s sword whipped for Tae’s head again. Tae ducked, deliberately clumsy. As he expected, an instantaneous low attack followed, while he transferred his balance. The sword swept for his legs. Tae jumped to the chair, then to the candelabra as the sword raced for him again. Certain it would not hold his weight long, he scrambled up the chain to the support beam. Swinging his feet onto the beam, Tae crouched and reassessed the situation. Light swept crazily through the room, disrupting every shadow. Gareth leaped to the chair, and the sword stabbed for Tae again. Gauging in an instant, Tae sprang from his beam to the next, then hurled himself through the window. Gareth’s boots hammered the floorboards in pursuit.
Catching the sill, Tae flung his body upward. Instead of a two-story fall, he slammed against the wooden construction above the window. Fingers gouging into chinking, he scurried to the roof, rain pounding his back. A moment later, Gareth’s head thrust through the opening, naturally looking downward. Tae searched for a rock but immediately discarded that strategy. It would only enrage the Renshai. Instead, he studied the layout of the rooftop. Three rain barrels perched on the thatch, connected to a cistern beneath the common house. Now what? Finding nothing else of use, Tae seized the upper ring of the nearest barrel. Water slicked his hands, and the wind chilled them painfully. The ring would not budge, so he tried another. This one slid free without a struggle. Clutching it in his teeth, Tae clambered down the opposite side of the building, toward his window seat.
Tae entered silently, transferring the ring to his hand. Kevral and Thialnir glanced toward him but said nothing to give him away. Gareth still stood at the opposite window, seeking him through the gloom. Ra-khir watched the Renshai, standing, his expression worried.
“Hey!” Tae said, tossing the ring toward Gareth and anticipating the Renshai’s movement. Gareth whirled, stepping perfectly. The ring glided over him as if made for that purpose. In the instant it pinned Gareth’s sword arm, Tae drew his own blade and charged.
The maneuver gained Tae less time than he expected. His sword barely cleared its sheath when Gareth decreased his girth with breaths and motion. The ring thumped to the floor, clanging, and the Renshai howled toward the challenge.
Tae backpedaled just as Thialnir’s voice cleaved the air. “Gareth, enough!”
This time the younger Renshai obeyed, jamming his sword back into place. Familiar with Renshai quickness and with Gareth’s temper, Tae bounded to the window seat.
Gareth did not pursue, instead retaking his chair.
Finally, Tae finished his question. “Why in Hel did you do that?” Terror caught him in a rush, and he hid his shaking hands.
Gareth grinned. “Downstairs, Kevral said you were quick. I wanted to see for myself.”
Tae’s heart thrashed in his chest. “You could have killed me.”
“I thought I did with that first strike. A little lower . . .” Gareth shook his head, frustration obvious.
“And killing me would have proved. . . ?” Tae pressed.
“That you don’t deserve to father a Renshai’s child.”
Fear transformed to anger. Tae tipped his head toward Kevral, careful not to take his gaze wholly from Gareth. “Death for failure wasn’t part of the deal.”
Kevral shrugged helplessly, as ignorant of the process as he.
Thialnir broke in, his features still maddeningly composed. “Tae, until today, I would have said no one could dodge more than one of a Renshai’s strokes. If you can teach some of that to us, no doubt you and your son belong among us.”
Damn. Tae cursed his misfortune. Run from people whose ultimate insult is “coward,” and it impresses them. To win this one, I’d have had to let him kill me. “Simple. No teaching needed. The first stroke was the only one that caught me slacking. After that, easy logic. Because of positioning, a jab was the only thing that could get me the second time. After he went high, it only made sense to attack the legs, where I’d placed most of my weight. After that, I was just running.”
Thialnir shook his head. “The hoop. How could you possibly know Gareth would swing left when he turned?”
Tae settled deeper into his crouch, heart still racing and guard high. “He had his sword in his right hand. Most warriors would naturally spin right, a stronger defense. I’ve noticed Renshai tend to turn to weakness.” He shrugged. “I took a chance.”
Tae’s methods obviously did not bother Gareth as Ra-khir’s had. He seemed more curious this time. “Why’d you come back at all? You knew I wasn’t sparring.”
Tae considered the words in a lengthy silence. The answer, when it came to him, both grated on and pleased him. “My best friends were here, including the mother of my son. I wouldn’t leave them at the mercy of a Renshai obviously gone deranged.”
Kevral and Ra-khir jerked toward Tae simultaneously, both gravely offended, though they surely appreciated his loyalty, too.
Thialnir shook back his war braids. “Kevral also said you’re the only person who has ever managed to approach her undetected. Long ago, the Southern barbarians taught us many stea
lth techniques. Your antics fall into that category. Three hundred years later, we’ve refined what we’ve learned, but the barbarians have remained reclusive.” He studied Tae gently. “We can teach warriors to anticipate, but not to react to that knowledge so well or so quickly. We have use for your skills, both what you can teach and your natural agility.”
Tae scarcely blinked. No one had ever praised him to such a degree before. His father had always proved a harsh guide.
Thialnir continued, grinning, “We have a special name for your son. We have assigned it to no one through the centuries, seeking one worthy of the honor. Named for Colbey’s father, we would call him Calistin Taesson.”
The compliments made Tae bold. “It would have to be Calistin Kahn Taesson.”
Thialnir’s smile wilted. “Why?”
“Family tradition,” Tae explained. “Tae Kahn. Weile Kahn.”
“No.” Thialnir shook his head vigorously. “No. No, we can’t do that. The child must have a guardian in Valhalla. Same name or no guardian.”
Tae looked at Kevral. She stared at him, blank-eyed and disappointed. He sighed, taking another breath to relent.
Before he could, Gareth broke in. “I think I have a solution.”
Thialnir looked at him.
“Pseubicon.”
Thialnir’s lids narrowed, and he seemed about to challenge. Then his lips twitched. The smile returned. “At least a century ago, during a battle in the far south, a Renshai child got lost. Barbarians found and raised her, but she never forgot her roots. Eventually, she found her way back, along with her barbarian husband and son, Pseubicon.” Thialnir started to pace. “The boy was three. By Renshai tradition, a child not uniquely named for a warrior in Valhalla by one year of age is considered uvakt or ‘unguarded.’” Turning, Thialnir headed back toward his chair. “As you can guess, the husband was found worthy. Despite being uvakt, Pseubicon became a great warrior and died in glory. However, no one since has cared to take the odd name for a son.”
“All right. Pseubicon.” Tae understood the connection but did not necessarily believe it a solution. “But is it spelled the same? K-A-H-N?”
Gareth laughed. “That’s the beauty of it. The barbarians don’t have a written language. You can spell it any way you please.”
Tae glanced at Kevral. “Do you mind?”
Kevral would not lie. They both knew she preferred Calistin. “I can live with Pseubicon so long as you don’t insert a bunch of weird Eastern vowels.”
Tae made a throwaway gesture. “I spelled the kahn part. You handle the rest.”
Kevral pursed her lips briefly. “Let’s make it fair, then. Four letters to four letters. S-U-B-I-K-A-H-N.”
Tae turned his attention to Gareth and Thialnir. “And now, if you’re done attacking me, I’ve got a son who’s waiting to hear his new name.”
Thialnir gestured at the door.
Subikahn Taesson. It was not the name Tae would have chosen, but it suited well enough. He only hoped he could grow as accustomed to his child’s tribe. Father a crime lord, son a Renshai. Tae groaned. I’m going to have to learn to sleep with both eyes open.
CHAPTER 2
The Pica Stone
I can’t suffer the idea of the Pica in a stranger’s hand. If we both claim it for our people, then our peoples must become one and you my brother.
—Colbey Calistinsson to Shadimar
MIDDAY light trickled through a high window, spreading a happy glow through the queen’s chambers. Matrinka sat beside Darris on her bed, left hand wrapped around one of the canopy pillars, brown eyes locked on the baby clutched in the bard’s arms, and smile permanently pasted on her features. He twined a finger through the wisps of Marisole’s dark hair, strands catching on his calluses. Long lashes swept from tiny lids, and the bowlike mouth emitted regular, soft breaths. Matrinka had loved Darris for years, since long before she denied being more than friends, but never more than at this moment.
A firm knock echoed through the chamber. Sighing, Darris rose and passed the baby to Matrinka. Griff’s blessing or not, it would not do for Béarn’s servants to find him in the queen’s bed cuddling the king’s baby. “Who is it?” he demanded, his gruffer-than-usual tone his only expression of disappointment.
The answer wafted through the panel. “Prime Minister Davian, Darris. Are His Majesty and Her Ladyship with you?”
Outranked, Darris dropped his brusqueness immediately. “Come in, Lord.”
The door edged cautiously open, and the middle-aged prime minister of Béarn looked through the widening crack. Only a year ago, the ex-carver had led a scraggly band of renegades that had, with the help of the Knights of Erythane, ousted the svartalf invaders from Béarn and placed Griff upon his throne. His scarred face seemed out of place among the nobility, yet the properly sculpted mane of beard, no-nonsense bearing, and silks made it obvious he took his job seriously and would brook no doubts about his worthiness for the position. Catching a glimpse of Matrinka, he bowed. “Your Ladyship.”
Matrinka accepted the formality with only a twinge of displeasure. Over ten months, she had grown accustomed to it. “What can I do for you, Prime Minister?” The warmth of the baby felt comforting against her chest, most of it from Darris.
“There’s a meeting of the council about to start, if you wish to attend, Ladyship.”
Meetings bored Matrinka. She had already decided to turn down the offer as Davian finished.
“I’m sorry for the lack of notice, Ladyship. Captain has returned, and he called the meeting.”
Darris stiffened, obviously eager to attend, though he would have no choice but to stay if she declined.
But the prime minister’s words banished that thought from Matrinka’s mind. The leader of the light elves, or lysalf as they called themselves, Captain had gone to assist those humans harmed by the Easterners’ blockade of Westlands travel. Not only had Captain become a trusted adviser and friend, but the oddity of an outworlder convening a meeting suggested matters of great import. A human year passed like days to elves. Most still felt shy and awkward around the conventions of Béarn, alternately forgetting or overplaying decorum. Like deer among the bears, they usually worked with quiet grace, amiable and gracious but socially withdrawn. Having lived among humans millennia longer than his peers, Captain seemed less distressed by human law and custom, but even he had never before called the council.
“Thank you, Davian.” Matrinka rose, shifting the baby into a more balanced position against her chest. The tiny eyes opened, then drifted closed again. “I’ll be there as soon as I find a nursemaid.”
Davian’s attention shifted to Darris, and the minister winced obviously enough that the bard clearly noticed. Darris’ thick brows arched over hazel eyes, more brown than green in the spare light. “Did I do something to offend you, Lord?”
“No, certainly not.” Davian sighed deeply. “I’m only thinking that, if you’re here . . .” He drifted off, apparently believing his thought obvious.
Matrinka did not understand.
More familiar with the situation, Darris caught on faster. “If you don’t mind, Ladyship, perhaps Davian could find the nursemaid. And we could seek His Majesty.”
Matrinka still did not decipher the problem, but she trusted Darris and Davian. “A good idea. Do you mind, Prime Minister?” She offered Marisole.
Davian entered the room and bowed. “An honor, my Lady.” He took the baby into his arms with a gentleness that bordered on paranoia, as if he worried he might break her. “The meeting will begin with your arrival.” He left, heading down the corridor, eyes locked on the infant princess.
Matrinka dragged down her shawl from a canopy post carved its length with bears. Throwing the garment across her shoulders, she demanded, “Now what was that all about?”
Absently, Darris arranged the fabric for Matrinka, pressing creases from the back. “La—” he started, catching himself. Alone, she discouraged his using titles. “When I’m not guar
ding King Griff . . .” he offered.
The answer clicked suddenly into place. “Rantire.” The Renshai warrior protected the king with the wary savagery of a lioness and an absolute absence of tact. She had won the honor from Ravn with bold words and promises before Griff became king. By convention, Béarn’s bard warded the king while Renshai protected the heirs. From the day of Griff’s coronation, Rantire grudgingly sacrificed her position; but Griff allowed her at his side while the bard attended other matters.
“Exactly.” Darris chuckled. “The prime minister has enough to worry about now. We’re used to Rantire and know she means no harm.”
“No harm?” Matrinka headed for the door. “Are we talking about the same Rantire?” They had once watched her fling herself, war-howling, onto dozens of Eastern soldiers who posed a danger to Griff. Matrinka had tended the near-fatal wounds afterward, and a still-frenzied Rantire had barely stopped short of attacking her healer. Matrinka grinned broadly to indicate she protested his choice of words, not actions. “Anyway, an excellent idea.”
A flurry of white, black, and orange galloped up the corridor toward Matrinka. *Where were you going without me?* Mior complained, accompanied by a demanding, verbal wail.
*We’re looking for Griff. Then going to a meeting of the council.* Matrinka hefted the calico, smoothing the twitching, striped tail. The fur felt warmer than she expected after a venture outside to relieve herself in the gardens.
Darris followed Matrinka into the hallway, closing the door behind them. “Oh, hello, Mior.” Then, to Matrinka, “She looks angry.”
The cat ignored the bard’s greeting. *I go out for a few moments, and you try to disappear.*
Matrinka responded to Darris first, “Mior believes humans exist to serve cats, and the doings in Béarn revolve around her.”
Mior purred, tail movements becoming more sinuous. *All true, of course. But you haven’t answered me.*
“In her case, she’s probably right.” Darris winked to show he meant no offense. “The prime minister would have checked the courtroom and knocked on the king’s door first, so we can assume Griff’s not in either of those places. Tem’aree’ay’s quarters?”
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