Filled with new resolve, Mitrian uncoiled and stretched out over the rocks. To her left, the coals of the fire warmed her nearly as much as Garn’s presence to her right. I want Garn, and I want adventure. But we’re ill-prepared to face the elements, let alone a war. The darkened sky and high position of the moon told her she still had several hours left to sleep. But this revelation could not wait for morning. “Garn,” she said aloud. “Are you awake?”
Garn did not reply in words, but he squeezed her hearteningly.
“We’re going home.”
Garn went utterly still.
Mitrian flipped over to face him. His green eyes lay open, flat and dangerous in the silence. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“And?”
“I heard you.”
“What do you think?”
“I think,” Garn said slowly, “I think that hunger has driven you mad. And it saddens me.”
Mitrian frowned, doubting Garn’s assessment, though plainly fatigue had affected her clarity of mind. Still, she felt more lucid now than at any time since she had allowed rage to cloud her judgment. “No, you don’t understand.” Excitement urged her on. “We’ll go back home. I’ll explain to my father what really happened with Mukesh, that it was all a mistake, and how much you mean to me now. Then they’ll let you free and. . . .”
“No!” Garn sprang to a crouch, dumping Mitrian to the stone.
Mitrian scrambled to her feet. The coiled violence in Garn’s stance alarmed her.
“Santagithi would kill me.”
“No, he wouldn’t do that,” Mitrian insisted. “Not if I explained.”
“Especially if you explained.” Shadows draped Garn’s face making it look lean and hungry. “They’d think I forced you to say those things. And if they found out what we did last night, they’d dismember me with dull knives.”
The image horrified Mitrian. “That’s just stupid. That won’t happen.”
“It won’t,” Garn agreed. “Because I won’t go back.” He finished so softly Mitrian had to strain to hear him. “. . . yet.”
The afterthought suggested that Garn would eventually return to the Town of Santagithi. While it should have raised Mitrian’s hopes, his strange, savage expression frightened her instead. “So you are planning to go back?”
Garn tossed logs on the fire, then hefted a stick as thick as his forearm, passing it from hand to hand. “Eventually.” He sounded unsure. “Maybe. I don’t know. There’s a score that still needs settling.”
Horror strangled Mitrian. “You’re not going to try to hurt my father?”
“No,” Garn said, to her relief. “Santagithi is not the one.” His fingers clamped down over the stick. “And I love you too much to hurt your father.”
“Then who?”
Garn said nothing. The back and forth movement of the branch quickened. “It’s personal.”
“Who?” Mitrian pressed, knowing in her heart that it was Rache, yet needing to hear the name from Garn.
Garn changed the subject with awkward abruptness. “You’re not going back.” For an instant, his words seemed a threat, then he softened them with a question. “Are you?”
The Garn that Mitrian had known last night, the man whose naive tenderness she had enjoyed seemed to have disappeared, replaced by the gladiator about whom she had heard so many tales of directed, mechanical killing. She turned away. “I have debts to handle, too. My dreams are telling me I left things undone, and I said evil things to someone who means too much to me to leave that way. I ran away in a infantile tantrum. My home and my people mean everything to me.”
Garn looked stricken. The stick sagged in his hand. “And I mean nothing.”
“That’s not right.” Mitrian took a hesitant step toward Garn. “If I don’t love you yet, and I’m not sure I don’t, then I could. Soon.” The sentiment did not emerge well, but she felt certain Garn would understand. “I asked you to come back with me.”
“Mitrian, you know I can’t. If Santagithi didn’t kill me, one of his guards would. Or Mukesh’s father.” Garn went rigid, the stick clamped in both hands, his eyes cold. “Worse, I’d probably kill them. Then it would all start again. If anyone so much as showed me a whip. . . .” His voice trailed into a growl. The log bowed in his grip.
“I have to go back.” Mitrian wanted to believe Garn was wrong, but she could not banish the images of Santagithi smashing the bow Rache had given her and the cruelty of his words to his captain. If my father would exile Rache for spending too much time with me, what would he do to Garn? She tried to rationalize, reminding herself that her father would not have interfered had Rache agreed to marry her. But much as she wanted to return and to exonerate Garn, she knew her father would never let them wed.
“So you’re going back? You’re going to just leave me after all we shared?”
Mitrian lowered her head, the answer obvious. “I’ll stay with you long enough to get supplies and find an escort to take me home so I don’t have to worry about bandits.” The memory of the attack pushed its way into her mind, and she brushed it aside for more urgent matters. “When I get there, I’ll tell my father not to send guards after you. You won’t have to fear for your life anymore. Eventually, we’ll find each other again. I’m sure of it.” Mitrian felt far less certain than her words implied. Having lived all her life in the Town of Santagithi, just the Granite Hills seemed endless. And Nantel and Santagithi had told stories of vast farmlands and huge cities beyond the mountains.
Garn froze, anguish etched across his features. As much as their lovemaking meant to Mitrian, it had obviously meant far more to him. Suddenly, he came to life. He slammed the log against a rock outcropping with a force that shattered the wood. The broken end skittered harmlessly into the darkness, but chips of flying bark stung Mitrian.
Garn whirled, charging off into the night. He moved without a noise, and darkness swallowed him before Mitrian could think to follow.
Alone, Mitrian shivered, tears tracing cold lines along her cheeks. Uncertain what to do next, she curled up beside the fire and once again, cried herself to sleep.
* * *
The strains of Mar Lon’s song wound through Mizahai’s Tavern, weaving between the patrons in a musical tapestry of peaceful coexistence and harmony. Over time, he had added serenity to his message of unity, and he had changed his repertoire to less subtle stories of enemies laying aside their weapons to live and work as neighbors. Limited by a language with no single word for “peace” and a dozen for “war,” it had taken Mar Lon weeks to compose the finest piece of his experience. Now, at his first performance of it, he concentrated with a grim solemnity that left little room for observation of his audience. And threads of his own despair wound through the music, adding a deeply personal sincerity to its message.
The last sequence rang from Mar Lon’s lonriset, the concluding note quivering across the string, leaving a crisp, perfect echo that did not sharpen or flatten so much as a quarter tone. Mar Lon stilled it to silence with a finger, reveling in the quiet stillness of an audience enraptured by his talent. For the first time in weeks, joy tempered Mar Lon’s depression. He pictured the radiant notions of peace taking form behind the wall of blank faces, culminating in a vast brotherhood that would span from the Southern to the Amirannak Seas.
Gradually, expression returned to the Eastern features. A man at the next table raised a full mug of beer. “Beautiful.”
Mar Lon smiled.
“Very beautiful,” another said.
Joy thrilled through Mar Lon. I reached them. Finally, I reached them. If not for the gravity of his lesson, he would have laughed aloud.
Then a third voice cut through the growing buzz of returning conversation. “Play ‘The Bastard Tinker of LaZar!’”
Cries of approval flashed through the crowd, then blended into a dull roar of consensus.
Mar Lon’s grin wilted. A drinking song. They want a damned drinking song. Exciteme
nt died, snuffed in an instant. Alone at a corner table, he let his lonriset sag into his lap, his fingers feeling too weak and clumsy to play. Sorrow returned, trebling in an instant. He recalled his father’s performances, the sweet, solid grief trembling from every word and sound, every nuance of instrument and voice driving his listeners to tears. The staunchest atheist left his shows believing in gods and Wizards, if only for the moment. If only I could share that skill. If only I could show them the virtue of universal peace. For the first time in his life, Mar Lon hated the curse that Odin had inflicted upon the line of bards. Given the right to speak outright, I could convince them. Folding his arms on the tabletop, he lowered his head to the crook of one elbow.
Snorts of disappointment wafted to Mar Lon, as if from a great distance. These coalesced into a goading, clapping chant that he did not try to decipher. As the patrons bored of prodding an unmoving bard, their collective shouts died to a few disparaging remarks amid a humming undercurrent of conversation. Mar Lon thought he heard at least one murderous threat before his mind shut out all but his own thoughts.
* * *
Mitrian awakened alone, cradled between two jutting formations of rock, her sleeping gown dried into clinging creases. She sat up amid the rustle of cloth. Her sword hilt had left a painful impression in her side, as had her pouch of gems laced beside the sheath. The horse stood near its bridle and saddle, head sagging, leaves hanging from its whiskered lips. Dressed in his buckskins, Garn crouched before a small glade, his sword drawn.
Though relieved by Garn’s presence, his caution alarmed Mitrian. She stood, rearranging her belt into a more comfortable position. “What is it?”
Garn raised a hand for silence. Slowly, he shifted his weight, examining all sides of the brush. Apparently finding nothing, he advanced. Now Mitrian could hear the rattle of brush as something moved in front of Garn. He took a wary step back, and the thing went quiet.
What is it? This time Mitrian kept the question to herself, certain Garn had no answer.
Garn crashed into the weeds, and the stems closed around him. Mitrian held her breath, now fully awake. She edged forward, wanting to back Garn but uncertain what to expect. The glade parted again, and Garn emerged, dragging a deer onto the rocks.
The horse shied, snorting its displeasure. Mitrian stared. It was still late summer; starvation could not have started culling the deer population yet. Picking her way over the rocks, she knelt beside the carcass. Tentatively, she touched its side. It felt warm beneath her hand. Fleas parted trails through the gray-brown fur, having not yet abandoned it for a living host. “It’s fresh,” she said, not daring to believe their luck. Maybe it died of illness. The animal appeared relatively healthy, a well-fleshed doe with sharp, dark eyes only just starting to glaze. More likely a man or beast injured it, and it staggered here to die.
Garn hesitated, apparently trying to make sense of Mitrian’s announcement. “You mean we can eat it?”
“Yes.” Mitrian laughed with joy. Hunger had settled into a constant dull ache, but the thought of food made her stomach growl anew. “You skin it, and I’ll make the fire.”
Garn looked doubtfully at the deer. He drew his dagger; but, from that point, he appeared lost.
Mitrian turned her back, not wanting to admit she knew nothing of preparing deer. In Santagithi’s Town, the hunters and some of the off-duty guards would shoot the game, skin it, and haul the carcass to the butcher to dress. By the time Mitrian’s mother received her family’s share, it came as a glistening, nearly bloodless packet of muscle.
When Mitrian did not offer any suggestions, Garn set to work with his dagger, mutilating a pelt that might have made a warm suit or blanket. Mitrian used the bow and drill to light the twigs and logs she had gathered the previous night. Dry, the kindling caught more easily, and she finished while Garn was still struggling to separate fur from muscle. Blood covered the hair on his arms, speckled his face, and stained his already grimy clothing.
Trying to forget the rumbling in her gut, Mitrian concentrated on other matters. The battle against the bandits filled her memory. I froze. She lowered her head, humiliated by the realization. The best student of the greatest sword master I’ve ever known; and when the time to fight came, I reacted like a panicked townswoman. I left Garn to defend me, one man against three. And it’s my fault he got wounded. She thought of the wild chaos of battle, of Garn’s sword flying in all directions. The main body of the conflict had passed in less than fifteen heartbeats, but that seemed time enough for Mitrian to have done something. If I’m going to find adventure like the Wizard promised, if I’m going to war at Rache’s side, I’ve got to get past this fear of killing.
Unconsciously, Mitrian kneaded the wolf’s head hilt of her sword. Do I really want to become a heartless killer? She considered Garn, his sensitive innocence one moment, followed by a rage so intemperate it drove him to smash fire logs with his bare hands. She thought, too, of Rache, so crazed in battle, yet so beautiful and quietly dedicated in peaceful times. It’s like two different people, a war-Rache and an everyday-Rache. I need to find a war-Mitrian. I need to cross that fine line between knowing the techniques and using them to kill. Rache had always taught her not to pull her strokes in spar, to treat him instead as a real enemy. He claimed that if he could not counter anything a young student tried, he deserved to die. Maybe if I just keep practicing, the swordcraft will become so routine I’ll use it without hesitating.
An answer seeped into Mitrian’s consciousness, a grim certainty that her solution was not enough. Mitrian, what you seek does not come from skill but from inside yourself. Mitrian startled at the foreign concept, her hand falling from the yellow gems in her hilt. The presence faded from her mind, its strangeness lingering. Mitrian knew the idea must have emanated from the demon in the gems. She doubted Shadimar had tried to harm her with this magical sword, but she could not shake the feeling that there was something awful about this once human creature trapped in topaz, not so much evil as unholy. Still, she had chosen to accept the Eastern Wizard’s gift. With that responsibility came a trust, and the demon’s lesson intrigued her. Again, she clamped her fingers to the hilt.
The change will come when you accept your own death as inevitable, when you come to seek it as a reward. Death in glory! A place in Valhalla! A savage wave of pride suffused Mitrian, wholly foreign. The joy does not come from the killing, it comes of testing your skills against a worthy opponent and proving yourself the better. The more capable the enemy, the more honorable the fight, and the more deserving your opponent of the death you deal him. Those meriting life will seek death in battle. The others, like the bandits, you kill because their lives have no value to mourn.
Mitrian tried to mull over the demon’s points, her thoughts muddled, mixed inseparably with his. Once you’ve learned to look upon death as a goal, every battle takes you one step closer. Death screams become music, the clash of steel applause. The odor of blood and death is perfume, the slash and counterslash art, a perfect, final dance. Something struck Mitrian as wrong, dishonorable, beyond yet still beneath the laws of all humanity, but the demon carried her like a new bride across the threshold of its madness. She launched into a kata, unmarred by days without practice. She tried to concentrate on her choices, but her thoughts tumbled as swiftly as the blade. Visions of strange men and women filled her head, a Westland town set upon by golden-haired reavers as merciless as starved wolves. Flailing swords flashed, trailing a wake of corpses.
Trying to rip free of the demon’s images, Mitrian changed her grip, envisioning Rache and leaping into his favorite maneuver. Immediately, she formed a picture of the sword master upon a white charger, a sword in each fist and his face a blank mask of concentration. He spurred his mount toward a wall of attackers, mouth splitting into a grin. The mental picture came to Mitrian so vividly that she recoiled from it. Then a wild yearning seized her. Death, blood, and glory no longer repulsed, they enticed. Her mind buzzed with growing excitement.
Suddenly, her inner control snapped, and the sword’s power overwhelmed her with battle madness.
When Mitrian regained her senses, she stood panting on the crags, the soles of her sandals slashed and torn by loose stones. Her heart hammered. She felt certain she had executed a dozen maneuvers, though she remembered none of them. Afraid she might lose control again, she swiftly sheathed the weapon. Why? Why would Shadimar give me a weapon that does this to me? Assaulted by fear, anger, and frustration, Mitrian wanted to scream. The dangers of a weapon that could twist her thoughts were obvious, its subtleties less so. Now free of the grip, she fell back into her normal pattern of thought, still Mitrian in every way.
Mitrian tried to remember all Shadimar had promised about the sword: “The magic I offer will add to your sword skill, give you a new perspective and a heritage, nothing more.” A demon that could lecture her on war and death, that could infuse battle rage like euphoria seemed like much more to Mitrian. “This sword will grant responsibilities as well as abilities. It will offer a culture of warrior men and women, a heritage of blood and glory dedicated to the battle goddess, Sif.” Mitrian considered. So far the demon had acted within Shadimar’s description. Its views on battle fit clearly within a warrior heritage, a heritage the demon had once referred to as Renshai. It can help me breach that wall between practice and reality. Still, Mitrian could not forget Shadimar’s other warning. “Magic comes of Chaos, unpredictable even in a Wizard’s control.” Does Shadimar know this demon can infiltrate my very thoughts? In no position to ask, Mitrian shook her head. For now, it’s the only weapon I have. There is much this demon can teach me. So long as I can release the hilt, the decisions are mine. I’m in no danger.
A stranger’s voice interrupted Mitrian’s deliberation. “Thank you for skinning my deer.” He used the common trading tongue with a Western accent.
Mitrian whirled. Garn sprang to his feet, dumping the carcass to the stone. A small, thin man stood just beyond Garn’s sword reach. He wore a tattered, brown cloak over a woolen shirt and pants of forest green. Short, brilliantly red hair covered his head, dirty and standing nearly on end in places. He clutched a longbow of yew, an arrow notched against its string. A quiver of matching shafts lay slung across his shoulder.
The Last of the Renshai Page 27
