Colbey tried to soothe. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’ve done. Garn’s blood can bring strength into the tribe.”
Garn relaxed, his lips bowing into a pleasant smile. Blindly, Mitrian sat, not bothering to choose a comfortable spot. Colbey could almost feel Mitrian’s thoughts spinning, then channeling in a single direction. Her expression changed from panicked to careful. Fixing her gaze on Colbey, she started to speak. “You almost—”
Colbey’s madness did not fail him. He interrupted, aware completing her thought word for word would convince her more than anything else he might say. “—had me believing you told the truth. I only met Garn a couple of days ago. Even if I was carrying a child, how could you possibly know about it?”
Mitrian’s jaws clamped shut so quickly, her teeth clicked together. “How did you . . . ? How could you . . . ?”
“Know what you were going to say?” Colbey shrugged. “I don’t know. But I did. And I also know you’re carrying Garn’s son.”
Tears filled Mitrian’s eyes, and she slumped to the stone, no longer able to pass off Colbey’s words as the ramblings of senility. Setting aside the food, Garn approached, crouched beside her, and placed an arm around her trembling shoulders. Before he could speak, Mitrian screamed, “Leave me alone!” Leaping to her feet, she dodged Garn’s grip. “Just leave me the hell alone!”
Again, Garn reached for her. Mitrian lashed a hand across his cheek; the slap rang out. Garn went perfectly still, shock etched across his features. “Mitrian?”
Whirling, she ran into the woods.
“Mitrian?” Garn started after her, but Colbey caught his arm.
“Let her go.”
Restrained, Garn stopped without a struggle. His words emerged softly, aimed at Mitrian and tinged with anguish, but Colbey heard them clearly. “Do all your people hit?” Garn tensed, as if to pull free of Colbey’s grasp. Then, apparently deferring to the older man’s judgment, he turned to face the Renshai instead. “I’m not good enough for her.” It was as much question as statement.
“You are.” Colbey reassured Garn. “She just doesn’t know it yet. Give her some time alone to think.”
Garn rubbed at his cheek, obviously more pained by the fact that Mitrian had struck him than by the blow itself. He glanced in the direction she had gone.
No longer facing Garn directly, Colbey smiled wryly. He suppressed a laugh, amused by a savage fighter who could give dirty technique lessons to Renshai but seemed innocent as a child regarding affairs of the heart. “She’ll be back. In the meantime, let’s get the food ready.”
“No need.” Arduwyn’s voice preceded him from the woods.
Unsettled by the realization that Arduwyn had approached without his knowledge, Colbey frowned, his mood soured.
Oblivious to Colbey’s annoyance, the flame-haired archer stepped into the makeshift camp. His bow lay, draped across one shoulder. The quiver swung from his back, and he carried three hares in his fists. “We’ve got fresh meat tonight.” He dumped the rabbits beneath a low overhang, unslung the bow and quiver, and sat on the ledge. “If there’s any pursuit, it’s way behind us. I erased a good part of our trail. But curiosity is killing me. What the hell happened back there?” Drawing his skinning knife, he used it to gesture vaguely northward.
Colbey wandered off to gather kindling while Garn explained the incident in the tavern, using as few words as necessary and leaving Arduwyn to guess many of the details. By the time Colbey returned with enough wood to build the fire, Arduwyn had skinned one of the rabbits and was working on gutting it with his knife. “But I still don’t understand,” the little hunter said with the exasperation that comes of having asked the same question too many times. “What did you do or say that started the fight in the first place?”
Garn sighed, obviously trying to find the answer that would satisfy Arduwyn.
Colbey rummaged through his pocket for a block of flint. “I simply told them the truth. That I’m Renshai.”
Arduwyn slit his hand with the knife. He scrambled backward with a cry of pain, his own blood mingling freely with that of the hare.
Arduwyn’s reaction seemed far more normal to Colbey than Garn’s or Mitrian’s had.
Apparently unwilling to drop the knife, Arduwyn did not try to stem the flow of blood. “That’s not funny.”
Colbey tossed the flint to the ground beside his piled wood. “It wasn’t intended to be funny.”
“But I’d heard the Golden-Haired Devils were all dead.”
“You heard wrong.” Unlike with Mitrian, Colbey saw no reason to waste time convincing Arduwyn of truth. Flipping his dagger to his hand, he set to work sparking a fire. When the shavings flared to red life, he glanced toward the place where Arduwyn had sat. But the little hunter had disappeared, and only Garn met his gaze quizzically. Colbey laughed. Once the world discovered Renshai still lived, the difficulties one archer could cause would be insignificant. Colbey returned his attention to dinner.
* * *
Mitrian curled on a boulder, her legs tucked to her chest, and her tears soaking through the fabric covering her knees. Leaves and needles from the trees overhead speckled the coarsening linen of her sleeping gown. Despite her large-boned, sturdy frame, she felt small; despite her friends, alone in a world that seemed to have grown impossibly large. A baby. Mitrian buried her face against her knees. Garn’s baby. Terror shivered through her, tinged with anger and self-pity. Why did I do something so stupid?
In spite of the thought, Mitrian could not shake the feeling that her night with Garn had been beautiful, yet the consequences seemed anything but. I can’t go home. What man would have me while I’m carrying a gladiator’s baby? A gladiator, by Kadrak’s sword. And not just a gladiator, the one who crippled Rache. Self-loathing twined with her other emotions. How could I do that to Rache? How could I do that to myself? Guilt wrenched a fresh volley of tears from her eyes. What am I going to do?
Mitrian shoved aside the frenzied tangle of emotion that disrupted logical thought. Maybe the baby won’t survive the pregnancy. In an era when fewer than half of all pregnancies came to term and fewer still survived to adulthood, the thought seemed sensible. Yet Colbey’s certainty that she would bear a son made the possibility of the pregnancy failing unlikely. If I accept that Colbey can predict a pregnancy days after conception, how can I doubt I will bear a son ? Her belief in the revelations of an aging Northern soldier who muttered to himself seemed insanity. But, in that respect, Colbey reminded her of Shadimar: both men stated as facts things they could not possibly know. And Mitrian believed. But there the comparison ended. Though aging, Colbey lacked the Wizard’s timelessness, and the Renshai’s power stemmed from sword skill rather than magic and mystery. Where Shadimar seemed aloof, above the problems of the mundane world in the same manner as the gods, it seemed more as if Colbey caused those problems, holding anyone who could not kill him in contempt.
Somewhat calmer, Mitrian considered her options. If I return home carrying Garn’s baby, not only will no man have me, they’ll scorn me. My mother would live in shame. My father. . . . Mitrian could not put the concept into words, but she felt certain the relationship between Santagithi and his guards would change. At the least, he would hunt Garn down like an animal; Garn had convinced her that her father would never believe the baby came of anything but rape. And the baby? Would they kill my baby? She hugged her legs tighter protectively, unable to feel anything but love for the son she carried.
What if I don’t identify the father? The answer came quickly. They’ll try to figure it out. Mitrian considered where the blame would fall. They might think Garn raped me. A worse thought came to mind. Or they might condemn Rache. After the rumors our sword lessons caused, who would believe either of us? Recalling Santagithi’s threats the previous evening, Mitrian harbored no doubt Rache would pay and dearly for her indiscretion. She imagined him driven from the town, Nantel and the others restraining her father from shooting down the horse an
d stabbing Rache where he lay, crippled and helpless, on the ground. Mitrian quivered, not daring to risk Rache with her silence. Only one other option came to mind. I could seduce Listar. Then he and the others would believe the child his. But I’d have to marry Listar. Though the idea seemed preferable to letting Rache take the blame, Mitrian hated it. If I had to, I could live with it. But there has to be another way.
Suddenly, Mitrian remembered the decision was not wholly her own. Garn’s last words had struck deep, chasing her between the trees: “Do all your people hit?” It seemed ludicrous for a trained killer to ask such a thing, yet the simplicity and innocence of the question burrowed deep into her conscience. My father hit him, the guards beat him, and now his childhood friend, the one he’s fantasized as his wife, the woman carrying his son, just struck him without a reason. Sympathy for Garn displaced the remainder of her thoughts, and Mitrian felt shamed by her selfishness. I’m so busy worrying about what my people will think of me, I’ve forgotten about Garn. I think I do love him. And it’s his baby, too. The realization opened a whole new set of problems. But before Mitrian could consider them, Arduwyn drew up beside her.
The little hunter looked raw with concern, glancing behind him as if he expected pursuers to burst from between the trees at any moment.
Alarmed, Mitrian sat up straighter, letting her feet drop to the ground below her stone seat. “Are we being followed?”
Arduwyn shook his head, but a darting glance behind him took all reassurance from the gesture. Blood striped his fingers, and he kept the heel of one hand clamped against the palm of the other.
“What’s the matter?” Mitrian pressed, glad for the disruption but aware she needed to settle her own problem before returning to Garn and Colbey. Another thought struck her. “And how did you find me?”
The latter question amused Arduwyn. He smiled, and his manner relaxed somewhat. “I trailed a wounded deer for two days from the western forests and through the Granite Hills. Did you think you would be harder to find?” He noticed the tear lines on Mitrian’s face, and his grin disappeared. “You know, don’t you?”
Mitrian hesitated, uncertain as to which revelation Arduwyn referred.
Before she could ask, Arduwyn clarified. “You know the Northman claims to be Renshai.”
“Yes.” Mitrian thought that was the least of her problems.
Arduwyn stared. “Renshai,” he repeated, as if certain she had not heard him the first time. “You know, Golden-Haired Devils from the North.”
Mitrian was tired of what had started to seem like a game. She knew Colbey’s revelations about her future required a great deal of thought, but, for now, the baby seemed all-consuming. “Look, Arduwyn, I have more important things to worry about than which tribe Colbey comes from.”
Arduwyn blinked twice in rapid succession. He seemed to be looking through Mitrian. “You don’t know what Renshai are, do you?”
“Of course I do.” Now Mitrian was annoyed. “They’re a warlike tribe of Northmen.”
Arduwyn accepted her description with the same lofty disbelief as Colbey. “Correct. But rather in the same way as saying King Siderin of the Eastlands is a not too friendly fellow. I assume you have some idea of what Northmen are like?”
Mitrian nodded.
“Well, the Renshai were exiled from the Northlands for being too violent. Can you imagine being considered too violent by Northmen?”
Mitrian frowned. She recalled Santagithi’s citizens whispering about Rache’s callousness in matters of war, but such complaints never came from trained warriors, such as the guards. The idea intrigued her; obviously, there were things she did not know about the Renshai as a people. She doubted the Northmen would exile a tribe simply for being capable swordsmen. “No,” she admitted. “What did the Renshai do?”
Discussing his concerns with Mitrian seemed to dispel some of Arduwyn’s discomfort. He rested a foot on the rock Mitrian used as a chair. “They were constantly at war with other tribes. They demoralized the warriors. They hacked apart the dead. That last, apparently, is considered the vilest thing one Northman can do to another. I consider it disrespectful. To Northmen, it’s much worse.”
“Why?” Mitrian asked. Then, realizing the question could refer to anything Arduwyn had said, she specified. “Why would the Renshai cut apart the dead?”
“Northmen believe a corpse has to be intact to reach their Yonderworld. Can you think of a better way to destroy enemy morale than to bar them from the pleasures of the afterlife?” Arduwyn shivered. “As to why the Golden-Haired Devils directly disobeyed Northern law to desecrate their neighbors, it makes no sense. Since the beginning of time, every race has had its code of honor. I may not agree with the laws, particularly those of the East, but I’ve never heard of any group or citizen violating the tenets of its culture.” He added rapidly, “Except the Devils. Some say they were touched by magic.” He shrugged, looking more uncomfortable, if that was possible. “Other things about them fit that notion.”
If I’m going to be considered Renshai, I may as well hear all the horrible details from a knowledgeable outsider. “Go on,” Mitrian encouraged. “Tell me more about the Renshai.”
Arduwyn shrugged. “The rest is legend. Supposedly, after becoming outcasts, they wandered for a century or so. Where they thought they could learn new warcraft, they tarried. Elsewhere, they slaughtered their way across the continent. Few were spared. It is said that their sword skill comes from blending the best methods of the world: Northern ferocity, Eastern quickness and stealth, and the Westerner’s mental discipline. Or else it’s magic.”
Arduwyn turned, sitting on the edge of the stone, his back to Mitrian. “I don’t know how much is truth, but I do know the Renshai have their weaknesses. Their techniques center on swordplay, so they have little skill with other weapons. Some say they ravaged the West, leaving their trail of destruction and death, simply because they couldn’t get their own food and supplies by hunting. Their war tactics are based on speed and skill; armor hampers them, so they leave themselves mostly unprotected.”
That explains Rache’s refusal of the officers’ chain mail he was due. Mitrian felt certain there was more to Renshai avoiding armor than Arduwyn’s description explained. A strange but strong sense of honor and the desire to die in battle came to the front of Mitrian’s thoughts.
Arduwyn continued, “Then there’re the stories that sound more farfetched, but are grounded in truths I don’t understand. They say the Golden-Haired Devils used dark magic to summon demons to torment the souls of those they killed and that they drank the blood of the dead to stay forever young.”
Recalling her first impression of Colbey as a senile soldier, Mitrian laughed. “At least we know that last idea is untrue.”
Arduwyn twisted far enough to meet Mitrian’s gaze. He wore a grimace, obviously displeased by her amusement. “I used to think the claims of dark sorcery were nonsense, too. But survivors old enough to remember the Renshai’s rampage claim the Golden-Haired Devils never aged. They also recall a town mostly filled with mages at the southern edge of the Granite Hills.”
Shadimar’s ruins. Mitrian stiffened as the pieces fell together. And the Golden-Haired Devils are surely the ones who ravaged the Western town where my father and our people used to live. Mitrian dismissed the idea, unable to carry a hatred for events that had occurred decades before her birth. If my father can forgive them, so can I. And maybe now I’ll find out Shadimar’s connection to Renshai and my sword. She noticed Arduwyn was staring curiously at her and knew she would need to encourage him to go on. “What happened to the mages?”
Arduwyn hesitated, as if to press Mitrian for her thoughts. Instead, he shrugged in resignation and continued his description. “The town was called Myrcidë; its people were reclusive. Supposedly, their power ran in the bloodline, and they didn’t want to dilute it with us inferiors. Or maybe its source was a secret they didn’t wish to share. In any case, everyone believed the mages would de
stroy the Golden-haired Devils, but Myrcidë fell as quickly as the other Western villages.” Arduwyn stroked his chin thoughtfully. “In Myrcidë, the sun shone through the night. When it rained, any mage who wanted to remained dry. It’s a miracle and a sin that anyone should destroy such a people, and a feat that, in most people’s opinion, could only be achieved by sorcery.”
Thoughts bunched in Mitrian’s mind, too many to address at once. Her concern for the child she carried became lost in a snarl of questions and ideas. As horrible as Arduwyn made the Renshai sound, Mitrian could not forget the aura of beauty, agility, and honor that had always surrounded Rache. Certainly, he seemed younger than he should, but she felt sure that if he drank the blood of the dead she would have heard rumors. And while some attributed his skill to sorcery, Mitrian knew enough of the Renshai maneuvers and Rache’s dedication to them to realize his abilities came of knowledge and constant, hard practice. But Mitrian’s understanding of Rache did not extend to Shadimar, and the Wizard’s decision to help revive the Northmen who had destroyed his village seemed inexplicable.
Arduwyn drove his point home. “Mitrian, to befriend a Renshai is simply dangerous. To travel with one is insane. In many towns and villages, they put men to death merely for speaking their name.”
Mitrian had become so intent on gleaning information, it never occurred to her that she was hiding an important fact from Arduwyn. Aware he would find out soon enough and better from her than Colbey, she felt obliged to explain. “Arduwyn, I’m Renshai, too.” The words sounded strange from her own lips.
The Last of the Renshai Page 34
