“Fine. If and when this town is attacked, if you want Mitrian to be stuck here, helpless, to be used at the whim of the enemy, that is your decision. If she was my daughter, I’d rather she could fight, to have a chance to die with some semblance of honor and dignity.”
“Fathers are not normally concerned with the way their daughters die,” Santagithi roared. “They’re concerned with the way their daughters live. You’re taking a possibility, a remote possibility, and putting it at the forefront in this conversation. I’m talking about what is going to happen. Rache, you’ve got a different background then the people of this town.” Santagithi started out diplomatically, but his tone and his words rapidly degenerated to thinly veiled bigotry. “That may be the way you were raised. That may be what you believe. But you’re different here. Normal people don’t think that way. If we were in your culture, you’d be right. But we’re not. And you’re not.” Apparently, the words did not achieve the desired effect, because Santagithi tried another tack. “Rache, I’m not asking that you agree with me. A soldier doesn’t have to agree with his commander. But he does have to follow orders. You’re not seeing Mitrian again. Is that clear?”
Mitrian strained for Rache’s reply. So much of her happiness and her future rested on it.
“Completely,” Rache said. “Yes.” He added, as if in afterthought, “Sir.” The rhythm of hoofbeats echoed between the stone of house and wall, then receded into silence.
Mitrian withdrew from the window and flopped down on her bed. She felt drained and empty. In one day, she had lost all those things most important to her: the stories, the sword and bow lessons and, perhaps worst of all, Rache’s company and the beauty of his movements as he demonstrated a sequence. It’s over. But she couldn’t give up so easily. I can’t let it happen. I won’t let him take it away from me. Yet Mitrian saw no way around her father’s decree.
An act of defiance. The phrase came to Mitrian in Shadimar’s voice. Was this the act the Wizard meant? That I should defy my father and continue to see Rache? Mitrian curled into a fetal position on the covers. It’s one thing to defy my father, another to put Rache’s life in danger. If we’re caught, my father will banish Rache; he’s never been one for empty threats. A worse thought displaced the one before. When Shadimar said I’d kill a friend, did he mean Rache? Terror ground through her. She recalled the image of Rache lying, pale and still, on a pallet in the guardhouse and the seconds of pure panic that had held her when she thought he might be dead. Not Rache. Please not Rache. No adventure is worth the price of Rache’s life. As an abstract, nameless idea, the death of a friend seemed tolerable or, at least, distant. Given a face, it drove her nearly to madness.
An act of defiance. Mitrian coiled tighter. Though she had not yet eaten dinner, she cried herself to sleep.
CHAPTER 7
Foes and Friends
Mitrian sprawled in her bed, staring at a ceiling blurred to a gray smear by tears that came and went in head-pounding intervals. Moonlight filtered through the window to the opposite wall, forming dappled patterns she had learned to associate with midnight. Sleep came only in spurts.
No stories. No sword or bow lessons. No Rache. The loss made her feel hollow, stripped of all the things she loved, and she gritted her teeth until her jaw trembled and self-pity transformed to rage. I won’t stop seeing Rache. My father can’t stop me. No one can. She catapulted out of bed so suddenly that dizziness swam down on her. Catching the headboard, she waited until the swirling lights passed and her balance returned. The lapse only fueled her anger. Rache means too much to me. And I mean too much to him. She pictured the sword master as she had seen him so many times, practicing sword figures for hours that passed, for her, like so many moments. His blade cut arcs as swift and silver as lightning. Even sweat-soaked and disheveled, his face, figure, and grace defined the West’s standard for male beauty.
I need to talk to Rache. We’ll find a way past my father’s unreasonable demand. Without bothering to change, Mitrian belted her sword over her sleeping gown and hastily bound her sandals to her feet. She glanced toward the window. The shelf beneath it still lay askew, where she had shoved it aside to hear the conversation between Rache and Santagithi. Its contents were scattered across the floor, aside from the pouch of collected gems which, she guessed, must have slid beneath the bed. A late summer breeze carried the first cool touch of autumn, nudging the curtains so that they alternately flared open and spiraled closed. And, if we can’t find a way around my father, we’ll run away together. The thought brought a smile, and the tears subsided. She pictured herself riding at Rache’s side, her sword skill nearly matching his since he no longer needed to train anyone but her.
An act of defiance. Mitrian considered the words, but she received no support, no confirmation that she had found the feat to which the Eastern Wizard had referred. Nor did she need it. For now, her father’s treatment of Rache infuriated her, and the need for Rache’s lessons and company drove her to act without full consideration of the consequences. With long practiced stealth, she crept from the citadel to find Rache.
* * *
Darkness settled over the Town of Santagithi, broken only by the watery lines the moon drew over roads so familiar to Mitrian that she knew every rut and stone. She kept to the shadowed edges, not wanting to be seen, especially carrying a sword. Rows of cottages stood like identical dark lumps, yet memory filled in the details she could not see: the miller’s grinders, the stonecutter’s yard full of blocks and statues, and the blacksmith’s forge.
Behind Mitrian, something rustled.
She whirled, going utterly still, using her ears to scan the darkness her vision could not. The repetitive trill of night insects and her own breathing filled her hearing, nothing else. An uncomfortable sensation of false memory settled over her, as if she had lived this moment before. She shivered, exploring rather than shying from its strangeness, and discovered the cause. She felt as if someone was spying on her, and the idea of being seen without seeing raised the same vulnerable uneasiness that had frightened her the night she had seen the red eyes in the practice clearing.
Far to the left, an explosive grunt broke over the insect noises.
Mitrian drew in a sharp breath, her body going rigid so suddenly that pain shocked through her. Slowly, her mind identified the source of the sound as the aging workhorse that belonged to Listar’s father. Of course. So that’s all I heard. Mitrian used humor to force herself to relax. Mitrian, the great shield mistress, died in fright because a horse snorted. She shoved aside the apparent misperception that the first sound had come from behind her.
More at ease, Mitrian headed along the roadway again. Soon she picked Rache’s home from a huddled group of dwellings and tapped on the door.
After a long pause, the panel edged open. Emerald peered at Mitrian through the crack. Folds from her pillow had left creases on her cheek, and her hair hung in a disordered tangle. Though glazed with sleep, her eyes betrayed a hostility her concerned greeting did not match. “Mitrian? Is something wrong?”
“I have to talk to Rache.” Mitrian frowned. In her haste, she had forgotten Emerald.
The woman’s gaze fell to the sword at Mitrian’s hip, and her eyes widened in surprised question. Her lips pursed, and the annoyance now spread to encompass her expression. “Rache just came home from a battle. And he had a bad evening.” She glared at Mitrian, as if holding her accountable. “He’s asleep.”
The last was a blatant lie. Mitrian knew just glancing at Rache could awaken him. If Emerald had heard the knock, surely the sword master had also. The rage Mitrian knew for her father now channeled against the woman who stood between her and the man for whom she had decided to risk so much. “Wake him.”
“Not without a good reason.” At last, Emerald’s tone matched her mood. She started to close the door.
But Emerald’s belligerence only incited Mitrian. She slammed her shoulder into the panel so hard it knocked Emerald back a step. The door swung fully
open, crashing against the wall. “My good reason is this. If you don’t move aside and let me talk to Rache, I’m going to cut your arms off and feed them to you.”
Emerald paled, hastily retreating.
Rache’s voice sounded from the darkness in the direction of the bed, booming with an anger of his own. “Mitrian, that’s enough! Emerald, it’s all right. Let her in.”
Mitrian skirted Emerald, finding her way through the darkened cottage by memory. Most of the furniture lay shoved against the walls to accommodate Rache’s chair, and the wide open space held little clutter. She whirled back to face the older woman. “I need to talk to Rache. In private.”
Night hid Emerald’s expression, but her stance held the deadly stiffness of a wolf protecting cubs.
Rache sounded tired. “Emerald, please. This won’t take long.” His enunciation made it clear the last sentence was intended for Mitrian. Flint scraped steel. Sparks flared then settled to a steady flame on a candle’s wick. The circle of light illuminated Rache’s fair features and stormy eyes. He sat in the bed, his back propped against the headboard, his legs and abdomen covered by a light blanket. He set the candle in a holder on the bedside table.
Emerald backed outside, flinging the door closed with a force just short of rude.
The click of its latching sent Mitrian scurrying to Rache’s side. A lump formed in her throat; her words seemed to tumble and garble around it. “I know what my father said to you tonight and. . . .”
Rache interrupted. “How do you know that?”
It was the last response Mitrian expected. “I heard him. I was listening.”
Rache drew the edge of the coverlet over his chest, pinning it in place with one hand. “Mitrian, that was personal. You had no business listening.”
“Personal? It was about me!” Mitrian started to justify her eavesdropping. Then, realizing it was indefensible, she redirected the conversation back to the pertinent. “Rache, that’s not the issue. My father wants to keep us apart.”
“It’s no longer just a matter of what he wants. He’s given me a direct order. Mitrian, if you heard what your father said, then you know that your coming here puts me in danger.”
Rache’s bitterness scrambled the ideas that had seemed so obvious to Mitrian moments before. “I . . . we. . . .”
“Why are you here?”
Rache’s question shocked Mitrian, but the malice in his voice struck her even more. She slammed her fist to the table so hard the candle jumped, and only Rache’s swift steadying grab kept it from falling. “You know damned well why I’m here! I’m here because we can’t let him do that. We can’t let him destroy everything we’ve worked so long and hard for.”
Rache looked away. “It’s over, Mitrian.”
“Over? Over!” Mitrian’s voice became a squeal. “No, Rache. It’s not over. It’s not over. It can’t be over. You know how much your training means to me.” Mitrian’s rage left no room for modesty. “And I know I’m your best student.”
“Were my best student. Damn it, Mitrian. I don’t like it any more than you do. But Santagithi made his decision, and he gave his orders.”
Mitrian gaped, torn between anguish and outrage. Her hand fell naturally to her sword hilt. “And that’s it? You’re just going to give up now?”
“This has nothing to do with giving up.” Rache’s cold blue eyes seemed to bore through Mitrian, and his voice betrayed no emotion. “Santagithi is my general, my leader, and the wisest man I’ve ever met. And you’re his daughter. If he says I can’t see you, then I can’t see you. Mitrian, you’re going to have to leave. Before you get me into trouble.”
Mitrian was seized by a sudden urge to hit something. Her fingers tightened over the haft. “Since when does Captain Rache cower from a little trouble? Are you telling me you’re sacred to stand up to my father?”
“It’s not a matter of fear, Mitrian. It’s a matter of loyalty.”
“Loyalty to whom?” Mitrian screamed. The pattern of the sword hilt gouged her palm. “My father means more to you than I do?”
“I didn’t say that.” Rache spoke with a casual softness that cut Mitrian to the heart, especially when he did not directly deny the accusation. “I’ve followed your father for sixteen years. I don’t always agree with him, but I’ve never seen him make a bad decision—not at home and not on the battlefield. I’m his guard captain. You’re his daughter. If he can’t trust us, Mitrian, who does that leave? And if we don’t obey him, why should anyone else? If this town lost Santagithi, it would become as poor, weak, and barbaric as most of our neighbors.”
Mitrian scowled, saying nothing.
“When I came to this town, I was an annoyingly cocky, little orphan. A foreigner, by Odin. Worse, a Northman. Your father would have been within his rights to execute me or to just hurl me into the gladiator pit. Hel, he could have simply stood back while I antagonized his entire guard force into hacking me to pieces.” Rache met Mitrian’s gaze. “I owe Santagithi my life, my position, and most of all, my allegiance.”
Mitrian felt her face grow hot. Pressure throbbed behind her eyes, and she bit her cheeks. Rache’s loyalty to his general was obvious. She needed to understand his feelings and loyalty toward her. “But this time, my father is wrong!”
“I’m not so sure anymore.”
“What?” The word slipped out before Mitrian could think. She dared not say anything more or she would certainly burst into tears.
“Look at what my training has done to you, Mitrian.” Rache closed his eyes, leaning back with an anguish that obviously went beyond his words.
This time, Mitrian could not hold her tongue. “What are you talking about?” The tears seemed to explode from her eyes, and her voice emerged in a hysterical shriek. “It made me competent to face a threat.” Angrily, she used her free hand to brush tears from her cheeks. “It made me happy. It made me feel . . .” Mitrian broke off, unable to say that Rache’s teaching had made her feel special, as if she had a rapport with the emotionally reclusive sword captain that no one else could understand. Now it had become obvious that he had always meant more to her than she did to him. I was as foolish as Emerald.
Rache’s eyes whipped open, and he caught Mitrian’s sword arm so suddenly that she did not even think to pull away. “It turned you into something unfit for this village. Mitrian, you barged into a friend’s cottage in the middle of the night, knowing your presence alone might get him banished or executed. You threatened an innocent townswoman with dismemberment.” He gestured at the door through which Emerald had exited. “And you’re clutching that sword tight enough to shatter it. What were you planning to do with it? We both know that, outside of spar, you don’t draw a weapon unless you’re prepared to kill. Were you going to try to kill me, Mitrian?”
At the moment, the idea seemed morbidly welcome. Mitrian jerked her hand from the hilt and Rache’s hold, staring at the creases the knurling left in her palm. She opened her mouth to defend herself, tried to find the words to make him understand how much he and his lessons had meant to her.
Rache spoke with infuriating calmness. “Mitrian, it’s cold outside. Emerald needs warmth and sleep. And you have to leave now.”
The arguments Mitrian had prepared collapsed into a jumble of words she no longer had the rationality to string into proper sequence. Her hands gripped and opened like gaping fish. She wanted to run outside and warn Emerald how foolishly she was acting, to tell the older woman she could no more own Rache than Listar would ever have Mitrian. She needed Rache to know how hard she had tried to reach him. And I thought he understood me, too. It was all an ugly lie. She felt on fire, and only one thing managed to emerge from the boil of words, tears, and emotions. “I hate you!” she screamed. Crying coarsened her voice, lending frenzied credence to the accusation. “You don’t care, and you never did! I hate you, and I hate my father!” Whirling, she ran out into the night.
Rache’s voice chased her. “Mitrian, wait. . . .”
/> Mitrian paid him no heed. She blundered through the darkness, wanting to go somewhere, anywhere that fathers did not crush their daughters’ dreams and heroes did not become enemies overnight. She ran at random, but her legs carried her naturally toward the citadel that had been her home since birth.
At the bottom of the hill, her destination came to conscious understanding, and she hurled herself to the dirt. Her sobs sounded loud in the stillness of the sleeping village; she did not care. There’s nothing left for me here. The Wizard promised me adventure, and I’m going to find it. With or without Rache. Images of the golden sword master drove her to more tears, until she was crying so hard she could no longer think. The noises of the night beasts disappeared, and her vision dimmed to black.
Strong arms enfolded Mitrian then, and a soothing voice whispered in her ear, “It’s all right, Mitrian. You’ll be all right. I love you.”
Beyond caring, Mitrian went limp in the embrace, burying her face against a chest as hard as stone. She wanted to believe that it was Rache who had come after her, yet he could never have transported himself this quickly. And the arms that gathered her held a power that made Listar feel weak and Rache seem insubstantial. Despite his strength, he clutched her with the same exaggerated gentleness as her father’s hounds did when they pretended to bite her in play. He rocked her cautiously, as if afraid he might accidentally crush her.
Gradually, Mitrian’s tears diminished, and curiosity cut through hatred and rage. She tried to catch a grip on her benefactor’s back, but her hands slipped from taut muscles, and her fingers closed only over damp and tattered leather. Still, that gave her the support she needed to pull away far enough to see his face.
Alert, green eyes stared back at her, looking too time-worn for a face only a few years older than her own. Bronze hair fell to shoulders clothed in buckskin that had blackened with age. The features seemed vaguely familiar, but his wary crouch seemed even more so, and she guessed his movements would be crisp and confident simply by the way he held himself. She knew every person in the village, especially the other teenagers. It made no sense for a man to appear familiar but unidentifiable. Still, it seemed rude to ask his name; he clearly knew hers.
The Last of the Renshai Page 20
