Only a year or two older than Aerean, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Richar, handled the visiting dignitaries, usually Western merchants and disputants in claims too difficult for local kingdoms to handle. Fair and tactful, he grew positively exuberant when his charges became more exotic. Though greatly contaminated, by Saxanar's standards, his line did contain royal blood in its distant past.
Though essentially devoid of noble blood, Zaysharn never seemed to bother Saxanar at all. The Overseer of Bearn's livestock, gardens, and food had a quiet attentiveness that made him nearly invisible, despite his Bearnian sturdiness and size. He dwarfed the tiny woman at his side, the Minister of Local Affairs, named Chaveeshia. Her size alone revealed her mixed heritage, but she also had brown hair and a tinge of green in her eyes. She tended the relationships between Bearn and its close neighbors, mostly Erythanians and Renshai. Her commanding manner and sharp tongue made her a natural for the position, despite her lack of size.
This time, her usual charges were conspicuously absent, apparently because of the suddenness of the meeting. The Captain of the Knights of Erythane and the leader of the Renshai also held regular seats at the Council table. Queen Matrinka, too, had a right to attend, though she frequently waived it. Darris appreciated that no one had fetched her to the Council Room this time. She did not need to hear bleak news until after wise heads had pondered meanings and crafted solutions.
King Griff took his seat, and the others followed suit. Only Captain Seiryn remained standing. Prime Minister Davian called the meeting to order. The years had not treated the ex-carver's face kindly, adding wrinkles to the mass of scars that already marred it. It now appeared more homely than heroic. "Your Majesty, I apologize for calling you here so abruptly."
Griff waved off the need for explanation, though Davian continued in the same vein.
"This news cannot wait." Despite his bold words, the prime minister cleared his throat in obvious delay. He glanced at Saxanar, who relinquished the necessity for protracted protocol with a gesture, clearly to Davian's dismay. "Sire, it seems the pirates have struck again, this time in two attacks. The first was against our forces on the shore, the second against ship number Seven."
Seven? Darris' throat seemed to close; breathing became all but impossible.
Griff jerked up his head, his lips pursed into a bloodless line, his gentle eyes wide. "What… what… was the… outcome?"
Darris forced a tight swallow, allowing air to wheeze into his lungs. It was not the first time the pirates had led a minor assault on the coast; they seemed to be carefully testing Bearn's defenses. But Seven had gone on a routine mission; its presence alone was supposed to keep the pirates at bay. Jhirban had assured them that mere thieves would never dare attack a Bearnian warship, especially in her own waters; and, thus far, the pirates had limited their conquests to merchant vessels. Arturo was on that ship. Darris stared at Davian, needing to know the details for reasons far beyond bardic curiosity.
"The onshore army repelled the invaders, Sire."
Though good, that was not the news Darris awaited. Seiryn allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile.
"Fifteen casualties, twenty wounded on our side, Sire." Davian read the numbers through gritted teeth. He fairly spat the rest, "All thirty-seven invaders dead."
The ship. Darris needed to know the fate of his biological son. His only son.
Though surely just as concerned for Arturo, Griff asked the necessary questions first. "No enemy prisoners?"
"No, Sire."
For once, Zaysharn did not hold his tongue. "There were Renshai among the troops, Sire." His tone held an odd note of disdain that bordered on anger. "Renshai do not take prisoners."
The words shocked the room silent. Zaysharn rarely spoke; when he did, he nearly always made a point of great import. It was not like him to blurt out anything, especially so clearly imbued with emotion.
Davian's blemished cheeks barely allowed a tinge of red. He spoke with the evenhanded patience Zaysharn had discarded. "Your Majesty, once Renshai become embroiled in battle, it is difficult to… er… unembroil them."
Zaysharn broke in again. "They kill everyone in sight."
"Not everyone." Darris could not help entering the discussion. One of his closest friends was Renshai. "Not companions." It was not a wholly fair defense. He had traveled with Kevral on several serious missions, and she had, on occasion, threatened the lives of allies. Friends less skilled or quick might have lost their lives.
"Even companions, sometimes, Darris." Captain Seiryn entered the discussion. Though negative, his assessment did not seem judgmental. "I've seen it. Renshai are highly skilled, brave warriors; but commanding them is a challenge. Rather like commanding a palace full of cats."
The seriousness of the circumstances kept anyone from laughing, but they all understood the reference. Bearn Castle had become nearly overrun with the offspring of the queen's favorite pet, a calico named Mior.The mother of these multitudes had passed away a couple of years earlier, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Only Darris and a handful of friends knew how severely her passing had affected Matrinka. She had had a bond with the cat that went far beyond mistress and pet. With a process no one seemed capable of explaining, they had exchanged a form of mental communication. Matrinka kept hoping she could create a similar attachment to one of the kittens, but every attempt had failed so far.
When no one laughed, Seiryn clearly felt obligated to explain. "Renshai don't use strategy or repeat patterns when they fight. Their only driving goal is glorious, individual death in battle. They are not only impossible to hold to a plan, they are also unpredictable." He shrugged in clear apology, not wishing to speak ill of a group of people the king admired. "Furthermore, a mortally ill or injured Renshai will attack anyone to assure himself or herself a death in combat. Any other death they scorn as cowardice."
Griff turned his attention directly on his captain. "Are you saying we shouldn't have Renshai among our troops?"
"No, Sire, I-" Seiryn started, interrupted by Zaysharn, who seemed to have completely abandoned his quiet persona.
"That,Your Majesty, is exactly what he is saying."
A scowl pinched Seiryn's face, and he glared at the overseer. "I am perfectly capable of making a point, Lord Zaysharn-and that was not it."
Zaysharn stood, presumably to level the argument. "Your men would agree with me."
"My men," Seiryn said through clenched teeth, "are not your concern."
Though wild with worry for Arturo, Darris could not help getting swept up in the discussion. His bardic curiosity demanded it.
The king swallowed hard, looking pained. "Is that true, Captain Seiryn? Are the soldiers unhappy about serving with Renshai?"
Seiryn backed down from Zaysharn with clear reluctance to face the king directly. "Sire, there is some discomfort in the ranks. Nothing I can't handle."
Saxanar made an archaic gesture indicating that he wished to speak, and the others yielded to his preeminence. "Some of the soldiers have threatened to quit."
"Let them," Seiryn grumbled. "I've enough real men among them; I don't need defeatists."
Saxanar ignored the interruption. "Others have simply expressed concern, and more just want reassignment. Perhaps if we went back to separating the Renshai into their own platoon-"
This time, Seiryn refused to allow the old minister to talk over him, "That didn't work. The Renshai need oversight, and we need their sword arms."
Zaysharn broke in again, "Instead of our own?"
"In addition to our own." Seiryn turned the overseer of livestock another pointed glare.
Aerean bounced to her feet. "I've heard a lot of talk in recent weeks about Renshai. Even the servants and commoners are talking about how fierce they must have been to become exiles from the Northlands for… for violence. How they slaughtered a path through the West and East before seizing the Fields of Wrath.
Though silent to this point, Darris could not help adding
the perspective his studies gave him. "But that was hundreds of years ago!" He wanted to add more, that the Fields of Wrath had been considered uninhabitable wasteland when the Renshai settled there, but it seemed an insignificant point. The Renshai thrived on a barren plain because they did not need proper growing or grazing land. They dedicated every moment of their lives to learning warcraft and purchased their necessities by selling their one and only talent, mostly to the kings of Bearn. For far longer than the memory of anyone living, the Renshai had served as guardians to the princes and princesses of Bearn. Even the king had a Renshai who guarded him obsessively whenever business took Darris from his post.
Zaysharn turned on Darris. "Hundreds of years have not bred the ferocity out of wolves, nor out of Renshai either."
Aerean seemed not to realize the tangent the discussion had taken. "It's said they burn off horn buds at birth and hide the scars beneath golden hair. That some have seen tails tucked into their trousers."
A sudden silence gripped the room, and every eye turned to Aerean.
Aerean's cheeks flushed a brilliant red. "I'm just saying what I've heard, not whether I believe it."
Golden-haired devils from the North, the Westerners had called them in the years when Renshai ravaged the countryside. The prejudice lived on, long after a coalition of Northern tribes had all but obliterated the Renshai and the last surviving few had proven themselves reliable heroes in the Great War against the East. In the more than three centuries since, hatred for the Renshai had come and gone in cycles; each time, the legends grew more odious and, now it seemed, more literal.
Chaveeshia finally broke the silence. "They're not really demons." As the diplomatic link between the Fields of Wrath and Bearn, the diminutive woman voiced an opinion that carried the weight she did not. "I've seen bald Renshai without scars and Renshai newborn. No horns. No tails."
King Griff cleared his throat loudly. "No one believes the Renshai are actual demons."
Aerean shrugged but did not gainsay her liege. Darris doubted she personally expected to find horns and tails, but the common folk might. Since elves and their magic had come to Midgard, the populace had reason to believe in legends once dismissed as utter nonsense.
"What matters is keeping our troops strong and focused, especially given the enemy at our ships and coastline." Griff turned his attention fully back to Prime Minister Davian.
Though clearly reluctant, Davian returned to his report. "Your Majesty, I recommend we table the discussion on Renshai for another time. I…" He swallowed so hard, his words faltered. His eyes became a blurry smear of black. "I regret… to inform you… that…"
Torn between wanting to tear the words from Davian's throat and never having to hear them, Darris waited in the same breathless hush as the others.
"… the ship called Seven…" Davian lowered his head.
The wait had become intolerable. Darris felt tears forming in his own eyes, though he had not yet heard the words spoken. By all the gods, please let Arturo be all right. He felt selfish for the thought. The others aboard the ship also had kin, but he could only concentrate on the fate of his boy.
Davian tried to finish, his voice a gasp, "… and all aboard her…" He lapsed into a silence no one dared to break. A tear coursed down one cheek.
"… were… lost."
Horror gripped the room. His vision blurred, and Darris realized he was also crying.
King Griff clasped his hands over his lowered face, his cheeks seeming to melt into his palms. His voice emerged muffled. "All?"
Agony spiked through Darris. He wanted, needed to console his king, but he found himself unable to move. His thoughts remained frozen in place, incapable of further contemplation.
Davian addressed the hovering question. "It appears so, Sire." He glanced around the room, as if for help, but no one leaped in to rescue him from the words he needed to speak. "We have ships recovering… remains, Sire. We have found… no… survivors." He studied the king as he spoke, clearly weighing the effect of every word before allowing it to leave his lips. "I'm so, so very sorry, Your Majesty."
"As are we all," Saxanar said, tone made gravelly by grief. "This is a sad day for Bearn."
His fervor spent, Zaysharn disappeared back into his usual quiet position, his head bowed.
King Griff looked up from his hands, tears freely flowing and a line of moisture stringing from his mouth to his palms. "Did they… find Arturo's…?"
Davian did not force him to finish before replying, "No, Sire."
"Then there is hope."
"No, Sire. No hope." The prime minister dashed the last pretext. "We recovered both of his…" He avoided the word "Renshai" in light of the previous conversation. "… guardians. They clearly fought to their deaths, Sire. The water-frigid, and sharks…" Caution kept Davian's speech choppy. He struggled to make his point without provoking images of Arturo's mangled corpse.
Hacked by blades, eaten by sharks, freezing, none of those seemed pleasant ways to die. Darris tried not to speculate.
Aerean wrapped her arms around the massive king, rocking him ever so slightly to remind him of her presence without shoving him out of his seat.
Griff's face returned to his hands. His body shuddered rhythmically. "My son," he whispered. "My son."
Darris suffered a pang of jealousy he had long ago convinced himself he never harbored. Not Arturo. He could not help feeling responsible. Matrinka had protested, but Darris had backed the boy's decision. Griff had allowed Arturo to sail, mostly on the advice of his bodyguard and bard. What have I done? What have I done?
The king looked up abruptly, his face a wet mask of grief. "And so many other sons. Has anyone informed the families of those aboard the Seven?"
"Not yet, Sire," Davian said, looking around the room. "We thought you should know first."
"Yes. Yes, of course." Though obviously sad, the king never fully lost his composure. "I will leave it to you to inform them and to provide proper compensation for heroes lost in the line of duty to Bearn."
Davian bowed, "Yes, Sire."
The exchange passed in an incoherent fog. Darris found himself staring at his fingers and seeing nothing until the king seized his hand.
"Come, Bard Darris. We must inform the queen."
"The queen," Darris repeated dully. He rose, dazed, the word defying meaning. He wrestled with it until the single syllable found definition, the king's wife. He moved toward the door, more from Griff's steering than any intention. The king's first wife. He was through the door before he noticed it opening, and its closing became equally lost. Matrinka! That realization cleared Darris' mind in a terrified rush. "We're going to tell Matrinka…?" he managed breathlessly.
The king finally released Darris' arm, speaking in a low whisper, "You're going to tell her, Darris. You're the one she's going to need."
"But…" Darris kept moving without memory of a single step. Before he knew it, they stood just outside the queen's bedchamber. "But…" He could think of no way to finish the sentence he had now started twice. All envy vanished, replaced by an intense fear bordering on panic. By law, Arturo was Griff's son; and their bond was as real as any father's and child's. Arturo had gone to the grave believing himself the product of the king's seed. Yet, Darris, Griff, and Matrinka knew otherwise. The king was right, as always. Matrinka needed her one true love. At a time like this, she needed Darris.
Darris found himself alone, staring at the familiar teak door emblazoned with the royal crest, a bear with ruby eyes rearing in a circle of emeralds. Griff had neither the build nor inclination for sneaking, but he had managed to disappear without his bard's notice. Some great guardian I am, he thought. Then his mind narrowed to Matrinka. He would do anything not to hurt her.
Darris put a hand on the latch, closed his eyes, and twisted.
CHAPTER 4
Only a Renshai could find entertainment in charging toward death.
-King Tae Kahn,Weile's son
Stars gli
mmered in the dark expanse of sky, partners to a blazing sliver of moon. Calistin Ra-khirsson perched on a hill overlooking the Road of Kings, a freshly oiled sword still balanced on his knees, the perspiration of a satisfying workout still cooling his scrawny, childlike limbs. He loved sitting alone late at night, after all his torke had gone to bed, seeking patterns in the lights overhead. It had surprised him to realize that, unlike clouds, each star held a steady and predictable place in the sky, varying only with the seasons.
Calistin knew that certain of the Renshai maneuvers, such as stjerne skytedel, "the shooting star," or musserende, "sparkling", took their names from these heavenly bodies. Over the last year, he had begun to wonder if others also did so, in less obvious ways. One of the most advanced techniques was called andelig mannhimmel, which literally meant "spirit man of the sky." Calistin had identified a figure in the autumn heavens that reminded him of the maneuver in its pose as well as the pattern of its gradual motion across the sky. He thought of more subtle ones, too, such as krabbe, "the crab" and mulesl om natten, the "night mule."
But it was not Calistin's job to seek the details of history or the reasons behind the realities, only to plumb the physical and mental skills necessary to make him the most capable swordsman in existence. Every thought, every movement, every action should bring him closer to this goal and no other. He rose, sheathing his weapon, and stretched with leisurely grace. Right now, he needed sleep most of all.
A sound from below claimed Calistin's attention, and he dropped to an instinctive crouch. Figures appeared on the Road of Kings, a group of young men or boys by their movements. Calistin counted seven, one smaller than the rest and clearly resistant. The other six remained clustered around him, driving him forward with occasional jabs that sent him stumbling. Their voices wafted to Calistin as an indistinct rumble pierced by occasional laughter.
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