Without fanfare or sound, the steel broke.
Nothing around Garn had changed, except himself. For the first time, he noticed the simple beauties of the wet leaves and the sweetness of the rain. Suddenly, nothing was impossible. Garn laughed. Kinesthe’s eyes seemed to shine like diamonds as Garn hefted him and ran toward home. He skipped across the yard, slipped in the mud, caught his balance, and continued running. He tossed Kinesthe into the air until he cried, then tickled him until he smiled.
Garn burst into his cottage. “Mitrian! Mitrian!”
The beam of moonlight through the doorway lit red streaks across the floor. “Mitrian, you have to see this.” He charged up the stairs. “Mitrian!” Through the darkness, he could see their bed lay empty.
“Mitrian?” Garn pawed the blanket. Seizing the lantern from its bracket, he sparked it with a block of flint against a chest latch. The wick caught, and lantern light spun crazily about the deserted room.
Garn could scarcely catch his breath. The broken quarters of horseshoe fell from his hand, ringing hollowly against the floorboards. “Mitrian!” Panic edged his cry. He pounded down the stairs.
The lantern played along the blood-splashed floor.
“Mitrian!” Garn screamed frantically. He sank to the boards. “Mitrian.”
Kinesthe wailed. Garn hugged the infant more closely, and his gaze fell upon a small pile of crushed, white feathers. The image of the circle of Leukenyan priests surrounding Sterrane came vividly to mind. “No,” he hissed.
* * *
In the wee hours of the morning, Arduwyn startled alert to a frantic hammering on his door that pierced even Sterrane’s familiar, raucous snores. Shortly, the snores disappeared, but the pounding continued, undaunted. Bel caught Arduwyn’s hand, her fingers fragile and cold in his callused grip. He squeezed once in reassurance, then threw off the covers, careful not to expose Bel at the same time. Pain flashed through his back. Bruises and strains from Garn’s wild rage stiffened his gait. He winced, trying not to let Bel see how much his head and neck ached, then headed down the stairs.
As he reached the bottom, he found Sterrane standing with one hand on the knob. The larger man had paused long enough to light a candle in the bracket near the door. Arduwyn watched while Sterrane pulled open the panel and Garn charged through it. He clutched Kinesthe in one arm. The other hand, clenched to a fist, fluttered anxiously. He wore the same rumpled tunic and breeks as the previous day, and his brown hair lay slung in a snarl across one shoulder.
“Garn,” Arduwyn said. It was an identification, not a greeting.
“Mitrian’s gone! They’ve got Mitrian!”
It was impossible to miss the panic in Garn’s demeanor, yet Arduwyn was in no mood to soothe nor to draw out the story from a frenzied companion with a history of violence. “Garn, calm down. Who’s got Mitrian?”
In reply, Garn opened his hand. A wash of stained, white feathers floated to the floor.
“Firfan.” Arduwyn watched the feathers fall. “Leukenyans. Why? How?” Concern for Mitrian displaced all hostility against Garn.
Garn shook his head. “I don’t know. Why would they want Mitrian? There was blood. What if they hurt her?”
Sterrane took the baby from his father’s shaky grasp.
Arduwyn snapped to action. “Sterrane, Garn, pack supplies for a few days’ travel. We’ll each need a horse. I know you two already have one. See if you can buy another one or two this early.” He passed a generous number of silvers to Garn. “And don’t forget weapons. We’re going to Corpa Leukenya.”
Garn whirled and headed out into the night. Sterrane passed Kinesthe to Arduwyn and started on his packing. Aching from a myriad of abrasions and bruises, Arduwyn climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the loft. Setting Kinesthe on the coverlet, he sat at the foot of the bed and gave Bel’s ankle an affectionate pinch. “Mitrian’s in trouble . . .” Arduwyn started.
“No.” Though Bel spoke only one word, the coldness in her tone was unmistakable.
Shocked by Bel’s nonsensical response, Arduwyn stared. “What?”
Kinesthe gurgled. Arduwyn poked at the child playfully, and it grabbed his finger.
“I heard what happened downstairs.” Darkness disembodied Bel’s voice. “You promised me you’d be home every night.”
Arduwyn disengaged his finger from the baby. “And I have been. I love you, Bel. You know that. But Mitrian’s life may be at stake. What do you want me to do, abandon her?”
Bel made no reply.
“I thought you liked Mitrian.” Arduwyn knew that while he, Sterrane, and Garn worked, the women often shared chores and shopping. Bel had become attached enough to Kinesthe to start hinting about a new baby of their own.
“I do like Mitrian.” Bel’s tone softened, but she did not compromise. “But I know you. They’ll get you out in the forests for a few days, and you’ll never come back.”
“That’s ridiculous.” The need for haste tore at Arduwyn’s sensibilities every bit as much as the necessity of comforting Bel. “I spend every day in the forest, and I’m still here.” Arduwyn had never revealed the real reason he had chosen to return to hunting. While he did appreciate employment that Sterrane, Garn, and he could perform together, he had actually chosen the pursuit to place him near the gate when Rache reached Pudar. His meeting with the Renshai on the very first day had been sheer coincidence.
“Familiar, close forests,” Bel clarified. “Once you get out in new territory, even your friends won’t be able to drag you home.”
Arduwyn tossed his hands in frustration. Arguing the depth of his love for Bel and his intentions was getting him nowhere. Instead, he tried showing her the reverse side of the situation. “What do you want me to do? Abandon Mitrian to a temple of priests who probably sacrifice human lives to their bird-god idol? Is that what you’d want me to do if they had taken Rusha or Jani instead of Mitrian?”
Bel sat up, nearly dislodging Kinesthe as she moved. “Of course not. But why can’t Garn and Sterrane rescue Mitrian? They’re big and strong.”
Arduwyn caught up the baby and shifted to sit near Bel’s head. “Because Sterrane is . . . well . . . Sterrane. Garn’s not stupid, but he’s got the social grace of a corpse and he’s never had to plan a strategy. He’s more apt to respond to his temper than his common sense. He’ll get all three of them killed.”
“So you’re going to do all the thinking for Garn and Sterrane for the rest of their lives?” Bel accepted Kinesthe from Arduwyn. “For once, can’t you let them solve their own problems?”
Arduwyn recalled Rache’s deadly speed and how helpless he had felt in the Renshai’s grip. The wrong words might have seen him maimed or dead on the forest floor. Every painful movement reminded him of Garn’s unbridled rage at the mere mention of Rache’s name. He knew his loyalty to his friends might still become the cause of his own death, yet he dared not discard the closeness, especially not when understanding had cost him dearly in time and misery. “Bel, if not for Mitrian and Garn, I would never have returned to you. Until I met them, Kantar was the only person who could stand me long enough to call me a friend. He saw something in me that I didn’t see myself until Mitrian helped me find it. Without it, I could never have made the commitment to you. I can’t abandon her when she’s in need.” He took a deep breath, not liking the words he had to say. “At the least, you know Mitrian and Garn will come back for Kinesthe. I do love you, Bel. I’ll leave you plenty of chroams and my promise to return. If that’s not enough, I’ll understand if you use the time my money buys you to find another man.”
Tears turned the room into a dark smudge. Arduwyn turned away and headed for the stairs, the pain in his limbs insignificant compared with the agony in his heart. Grabbing a change of clothes, he descended the stairs.
* * *
A long sword in each fist, Colbey leapt and swayed, whipping the blades in complicated patterns faster than the thoughts that spawned them. Steel flashed firelight across the g
ranite of the Western Wizard’s cave in swirling highlights of silver and gold, wound through with the ruddy reflections of dawn. Despite the intensity of maneuvers no other man could perform with such speed or accuracy, Colbey remained aware of all that occurred around him. A rabbit roasted on the campfire. Songbirds twittered from a myriad of holes in and around the Wizard’s cave, and a dark spot circled the sky above Colbey’s practice.
As the black shape descended, it became discernible as a small hawk. Without missing a beat, Colbey sheathed one sword, using the other to flip the rabbit in the coals. In the same motion, he whisked that blade into its rest as well. Despite an hour of constant sword sweeps and patterns, he was scarcely winded, more concerned with the spiraling, sinking falcon than the single droplet of sweat winding along a strand of hair near his ear. Surely, the bird had not mistaken him for prey, and he doubted any wild hawk would have the audacity to steal food from a man.
Leaning against the cold stone of the cave mouth, Colbey waited, savoring the clarity of mind he had achieved since he had conquered the final voice of madness soon after his arrival at the Wizard’s cave. Since then, the prophetic images and the certainty of courses of action had left him, though he had had no opportunity to test whether or not he could still steal thoughts verbatim from strangers’ minds. The world had regained the perfect, crystal definition he had known as a child.
The falcon approached, a tiny flame caught in a whirlwind of blue-pink sky. Suddenly, the bird dived, landing between Colbey and the campfire. It flapped red wings and regarded the Renshai with a near-human expression of intelligence. A ridge of silver surrounded its amber eyes and gave them a glare of timeless divinity.
Curious, Colbey watched in silence. In all the time he had spent in the Western Wizard’s cave and at the boundary of the Weathered Mountains, he had seen numerous birds. The brush around the cave mouth was choked with thrush, sparrows and gaunt, gray birds of prey. But he had never before seen a hawk so compact nor so completely red.
The falcon cocked its crested head and seemed to study Colbey with matching intensity. Without warning, it flapped to Colbey’s forearm. Long, dark toenails gouged the Renshai’s naked arm, piercing deeply.
Pain stabbed through Colbey’s flesh. Instinctively, he snapped his arm straight.
Unsettled, the falcon tightened its grip for balance, then, as if realizing its mistake, it released, fluttered to a stone near the cave mouth, and waited.
Colbey stared at the bloody punctures and gashes, wondering what sort of idiot falconer had taught his bird to alight on exposed flesh. Concerned this might signal war training, Colbey glared at the bird.
But it stood with its crest low and its feathers ruffled, looking as close to mortified as a falcon could manage.
Taking a rag from his pocket, Colbey clamped pressure against his mauled forearm to stop the bleeding. It hurt, but he had felt far worse in battle, and he had to guess the creature had inflicted injury unintentionally. Surely, anyone wise enough to train a bird to combat would teach it to attack for the eyes first.
The falcon cried out shrilly. It shook scarlet plumage, its neck feathers standing nearly horizontal. Only then, Colbey noticed the message bound to one scaly leg.
Cautiously, Colbey approached, careful to keep his forearms straight and angled downward, discouraging the falcon from perching. The bird watched the Renshai’s approach impassively. It did not move as he reached for it, knelt, drew a dagger, and gently slashed the thong from its leg. The strip of parchment tumbled to the dirt. Still studying the falcon’s every motion with suspicion, Colbey took the message. He stood.
The falcon waited.
Taking his gaze from the bird, Colbey unrolled the parchment and read in the Common runes:
“The War is started. Warn the West.”
—Shadimar
Beneath the signature, Colbey noted the flourished script symbol he had seen on all of Tokar’s correspondence, the mark of a Cardinal Wizard. Colbey crumpled the parchment in his fist. He stared into the sky, cold eyes flashing. “Thank you, Odin. The Great War has begun at last, and no one can find more joy in it than I.” A lifetime of lightning swordplay, of awakening to the ache of overused muscles and tendons, of timing honed to perfection would find the chance to end as it was meant: in the wild chaos of war. Too long ago, Colbey had realized that his skill would not allow death in single combat. Three to one, six to one, ten to one, the odds did not matter. But in war there was the constant chime of weapons and the savage exchange of battle, blades sweeping in wild, directionless frenzy. Surely, here, in the greatest of all wars, the oldest of the Golden-Haired Devils might find his peace at last.
Colbey glanced over at the falcon. It remained in the same position, as if awaiting an answer. It was not Colbey’s way to address creatures that could not understand him, but the actions of this falcon seemed to demand that courtesy.
Colbey dropped to his haunches before the bird. “Don’t worry, falcon. The Western Wizard is dead, but I’ll deliver your message in his place.”
Apparently satisfied, the red falcon loosed a guttural trill and soared into the sky.
CHAPTER 23
Corpa Leukenya
The back of Mitrian’s head and her tightly bound wrists and ankles ached with each steady throb of her heart. The stone floor of the cavern on which she lay had warmed to her body heat. Once more, she struggled against the ropes. As before, the knots held, and she managed only to further abrade the skin beneath them. Pain cut through her wrists. Blood ran in a hot and sticky wash across her fingers. The sweat of her exertions stung the wounds. She cried out in frustration and pain, then went still while the agony faded.
Stymied, Mitrian sought clues in the memory of her capture. They had come in her sleep, two Leukenyan priests and four Western followers all chosen, Mitrian guessed, for their size and some experience with weapons. The six men had not caught Mitrian completely unaware. Responding to an unexpected noise, she had met them downstairs in the main chamber. She had even managed to injure one before another caught her with a blow from behind. From that moment she remembered nothing but awakening in this rough-hewn chamber, tied and alone. From the intensity of her headache, it felt as if her attacker had struck her with a block of granite. She was still dressed in her sleeping gown, but her sword was missing.
As the pain waned to a baseline of aches, Mitrian went still, concerned for the fate of her baby. Upon awakening, she had found Garn and Kinesthe missing. Garn commonly wandered outside at night to collect his thoughts, usually with a handful of horseshoes. Mitrian never understood why the latter gave him solace, but when he refused to tell her she had never pressed. If Garn had fought the Leukenyans before her, Mitrian harbored no doubt that the noise would have awakened her sooner. It seemed improbable that the priests had killed or captured Garn and far more likely he had simply strolled off for some time alone. She felt less certain about her baby. Does Garn have him or the Leukenyans?
Recalling the albino who had accosted her near the berry vines just before Nantel’s death, Mitrian shivered. Until now, the image had become buried and lost in the avalanche of guilt and sorrow that had followed Nantel’s slaying. The stress of the trial had chased all thoughts of the encounter from her mind. Now she remembered that the priest had said his people wanted Kinesthe for enlightenment. She had doubted his intentions then. Aware the priests could have killed her rather than take her prisoner, Mitrian realized it had been her they wanted all along.
The door creaked open. Mitrian twisted her head to watch a barefoot albino dressed in the accustomed white robes and feathered headband enter her room and close the door behind him. Silently, he padded across the uneven surface of the floor, stopping beside Mitrian’s head. He dropped to a crouch.
Mitrian blinked, meeting eyes as soft and blue as her own.
“Ah, good, you’re awake,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was worried we’d killed you.” Despite his words, his tone did not contain the slightest
hint of concern.
“If you want me alive, I suggest you loosen my bindings.” Mitrian tried to hide her fear behind reason. “If they amputate my wrists and ankles, I’m sure to bleed to death.”
The Leukenyan shrugged off the necessity, his thin, silver hair rising with his shoulders. “God just likes his sacrifices alive. As far as I know, he doesn’t care if they have hands and feet.”
Surprise shocked through Mitrian, verging on panic. No god she had ever heard of demanded men as sacrifices, though Rache had spoken of Odin whose female messengers, the Valkyries, accepted the souls of the bravest warriors from battlefields. “You kidnapped me to sacrifice me to some god?” The suggestion seemed ludicrous. If Pudarian citizens were routinely taken by Leukenyans, Mitrian felt certain she would have heard rumors. She doubted King Gasir would allow such a plague to strike his city without taking vengeance on Corpa Leukenya.
“God,” the priest corrected. “With a capital ‘g.’ The one and only true god. The White God, the All Mighty.” He made a grand gesture of reverence. “He who stays with His chosen people and stands guard over His altar.” Having corrected Mitrian’s error, he addressed her question. “And no. We took you to lure the Renshai who follows you here. We’ve left enough of a trail for him to track you. Now we no longer have need for you. If we give you to God, he will bless this endeavor, giving us the strength we need to kill Rache.”
Rache? Perplexed, Mitrian stared. Before, when the priest had called her Santagithi’s daughter, Mitrian had marveled at the information he had managed to collect. Now, having heard one link her name to a sword master she had not seen for nearly a year, she realized that, as true as the information was, it was sorely dated. Mitrian considered, recalling that Arduwyn had mentioned something about Rache after the trial. She tried to remember his exact phrasing, but her state of mind at the time had been hazy enough that, combined with her current headache, she could not recall a single word. Hoping to ascertain Kinesthe’s safety, she tried a different question. “I thought it was my baby you wanted, not me.”
The Last of the Renshai Page 56
