Curious, Calistin watched. He had not left the Fields of Wrath since early childhood, and nothing in his Renshai experience explained this situation. The larger ones formed a crooked ring around the smallest. Then, suddenly, one slammed a fist into his face. His victim crumpled. As he collapsed, moonlight glimmered from his orange mop of hair. The darkness otherwise limited Calistin's vision to dull black and white, and a vast spectrum of gray.
Redhead. Calistin knew the majority of Westerners sported locks in colors that ranged from wet sand to a deep ebony black. Blonds and redheads predominated only among those of Northern origin, and just one Northern tribe lived in the Westlands. Renshai. Idly, Calistin wondered how this young member of his tribe had come to be on the Road of Kings so late at night and unarmed. No Renshai would willingly travel anywhere without at least one sword.
Another blow followed the first, then the six young men fell upon their quarry like hounds on a rabbit. Arms rose and fell, fists flew, then the action disappeared beneath the press of flailing bodies. Their conversation degenerated into jubilant shouts and desperate screams.
Calistin found himself halfway down the hill before he realized he had moved. He knew some prejudice existed against the Renshai, but he could not imagine anyone finding glory in a battle of six on one, even against a master swordsman.
The group seemed to take no notice of Calistin's approach. He could see and hear them clearly, aside from the child on the bottom, concealed and muffled by his attackers. They shouted curses and insults in the Western tongue with Erythanian accents.
Slowing to a walk, Calistin stepped up to the roiling mass of bodies and tapped one youngster on the shoulder. "Who's winning?"
Four of them disengaged to whirl toward Calistin. The other two remained in place, pinning the struggling boy. Calistin could no longer discern the color of his hair through the darkness, but he could see liquid smeared across the child's face. He looked about nine or ten years old, which was not terribly helpful. Well-blooded Renshai appeared much younger than their ages, including Calistin himself.
"Git 'way, boy!" one snarled, features close-set and sneering. "Or ya's next."
Calistin ignored the threat to continue studying what remained of the battle. The young men all wore stained and ragged clothing, their expressions fierce, aside from the one on the bottom. He turned Calistin a pleading look with large, light-colored eyes.
"All right," Calistin finally said. "I'm game. But I think you'll need a few more punks to make it interesting." He met the child's frightened gaze. "Your current fight doesn't seem very challenging. Why not use this one against me, too?" He gestured at the cowering boy, still pinioned beneath his attackers.
The biggest of the young men rose, towering over Calistin by a head and a half. "Ha, ha, ha. Thinks lots a yasself, don't ya, boy?"
The question seemed ludicrous. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?" Calistin smiled. "And I'm not a boy. I'm a man, by Renshai law."
The largest paled visibly in the moonlight. The others looked at him for guidance. Then, one of the ones holding down the boy, a powerfully built youngster with a wicked scar along one cheek spoke up, "Renshai or no, Parmille, we's kin take him."
The one assisting him hissed, "But he's blooded, Avra. Blooded."
Calistin waited with calm patience while the group discussed whether to attack him. He did not bother to correct their misconception. Hundreds of years before his birth, when the Renshai spent most of their time battling Northern neighbors or slaughtering their way across the Westlands, they achieved adulthood at the time of their first kill rather than by testing. Western beliefs remained rooted in the ferocity of those long-ago days. If these young men chose to believe a myth that made Calistin seem more dangerous, he saw no reason to dissuade them.
The one called Avra rose, revealing a lean, muscular figure as tall as Calistin's father. "Blooded's he?" He jerked a long knife from the folds of his ragged tunic. "Then let him bleed."
Other knives in other hands joined him, some with clear reluctance. The remaining youth still holding down the boy looked from his charge to his leaders, clearly uncertain whether to join the fight. Calistin judged their competence in that moment and found it lacking. Avra had strength and Parmille a hint of dexterity; but the others looked slow, cloddish, and weak. Calistin did not worry about any of them, even en masse. He wondered only why the redhead did not seize this moment to disarm his last tormentor. Perhaps he has serious injuries.
Calistin anticipated a sudden attack that never came. Instead, the young men gathered just beyond the range of a sword stroke, leading with their knives. They clearly had experience working together. Leisurely, Calistin watched their every movement, more bored than excited or amused. He did not yet feel threatened, so did not bother to draw a weapon.
"C'mon, Renshai," Avra sneered, his stance low and his movements measured. "Ain't ya even gonna defen' yasself?"
"Defend myself?" Calistin addressed Avra, though his gaze followed every man. "Against what?"
The last of the toughs released the boy on the ground. He slammed his heel into the boy's gut, driving breath from his lungs and sending him into a curled knot of pain. Only then, the last punk joined his friends. He hurriedly produced a short, crude blade.
Avra made a curt gesture. " 'gainst this!" All six lunged at Calistin in a ragged semicircle.
Calistin drew and cut. His blade wove between his adversaries, now licking through a grip, now tapping a hilt. He finished in the same fluid motion, his sword back in its sheath, their knives thumping to the ground, and every young man staring at his hand. Most disarming maneuvers would have claimed two or three fingers, and the Renshai finesse left them too startled to move or speak.
"More?" Calistin suggested as the group backed carefully away from him.
As one, they turned and fled, abandoning their knives, and their victim, in the dirt.
Calistin could have caught at least one hilt before it fell, but he had chosen not to do so. Renshai honored the blades of sparring partners and respected enemies, but these rowdies deserved none of his consideration. Instead, he stomped their blades into the dirt.
Finally, the redhead stood, face smeared with a sticky combination of blood, tears, and snot. A snarl of carrot-colored hair fell over one large eye to a mass of freckles on his cheek. A crooked nose gave his face an odd, lopsided look. Remarkably skinny, he looked more like a straw doll or scarecrow than a living boy.
Calistin spoke to him in the Renshai tongue, "My name is Calistin." Any tribesman would already know of him, but he could think of nothing better to say.
The boy took no notice of the words, though he apparently accepted them as a show of friendship. He ran to Calistin.
It was clearly a nonthreatening gesture, yet Calistin did not know how to react. He remained still as the boy hurled himself at Calistin and wrapped scrawny arms around him. "Thank ya's, thank ya's, thank ya's! Ya's 'mazin'! M'hero, thank ya's, thank ya's thank ya's!" He spoke Western with the same Erythanian accent as Parmille.
He's not Renshai. Calistin's interest in the boy evaporated. He tried to walk away, but the death grip on his legs made that impossible. "Go away."
The boy's grip tightened. "I owes ya m' life! M' life! Thank ya's so much, m'lord. M'savior!"
Calistin blamed exhaustion for causing him to make such a ridiculous assumption. His own father had no Renshai blood at all yet sported the reddish-blond hair usually associated only with Northmen. He wondered why it had never occurred to him to ask about Ra-khir's coloring in the past. Not that it bore any significance; nothing mattered to Calistin but his swordwork and becoming the best. "Let go of me."
The boy's voice muffled as he buried his face in Calistin's tunic. "I owes ya ever'thin'."
Calistin tried to pry the boy loose without aggravating his injuries. "You owe me nothing. Go away."
"Ever'thin'. I owes ya absolutely ever'thin', m'savior."
Tact and politeness had failed, so Calistin wen
t for shock. "I only saved you by mistake."
"By mistake?" The boy looked up suddenly. "It don't-I means it shouldn't matter if-" A light dawned in his pale eyes. "It's 'cause a m'orange hair, ain't it?" He smiled broadly, his mouth enormous. "Ya's thinkin' I's… thinkin' I's…"
"… Renshai. Yes," Calistin admitted, managing to free one leg. "But you're not, are you?"
"Don't know. I's might be bein'."
Calistin rolled his eyes. He would not ordinarily waste this much time on anyone. "You'd know if you were."
"Mebbe not." The boy kept a death hold on Calistin's left leg, and the Renshai finally noticed the crimson mess the boy had smudged along Calistin's clothes where he had buried his face in gratitude. "I's been 'lone 'long's I kin 'member. Avra an' them ones ain't likin' me 'cause they says redhead Er'than'yans gots Renshai blood in 'em." He grinned. "An' 'cause I's taked this off 'em." He held up a wad of something white and green that reeked of rot and foliage.
Calistin made a mental note to ask Ra-khir about red-haired Erythanians when he found a chance. It might explain how Calistin had inherited so many of the ancient Renshai features despite his father. "What in Hel is that thing?"
"Cheese," the boy said triumphantly. "Want some?"
Calistin shoved the proffering hand away. "I'd rather eat my own puke."
The boy shrugged and raised the mass to his mouth.
Torn between revulsion and morbid curiosity, Calistin waited a full beat before slapping the moldy, unrecognizable lump from the boy's hand. "Don't eat that. It's disgusting!"
The redhead yelped and finally released Calistin. He hesitated, clearly torn between obedience and hunger.
"Leave it there." Calistin sighed, not wishing to further bind himself to the irritating child yet feeling responsible for at least a decent meal. "I'll get you some real food. All right?"
The boy's face lit up, and he lunged for Calistin again.
Calistin shifted into agile retreat, and the boy missed; but the gratitude still tumbled out, "Thank ya's, m'savior. Ya's most most grashus, m'savior."
"Quit calling me 'savior.' " Calistin started back up the hill, not bothering to see if the boy followed. "It sounds too much like my brother's name, Saviar."
Grass crunched as the boy scurried after Calistin. "Then what's I s'posed ta call ya, hero?"
"My name is Calistin."
"M'name's Treysind, Calis… Calitsan… Calee."
Calistin winced as Treysind repeatedly mangled his name. "Calistin."
"Caleetsin," Treysind tried. "Caliti. How's 'bout if I's jus' callin' ya's Cali?"
Calistin wanted to say he did not care, that the boy could call him anything since they would soon part and not see one another again; but he knew he would never hear the end of it if Saviar heard the child call him Cali. "Let's just stick with 'hero.' "
Saviar Ra-khirsson dashed from the cottage after a cursory breakfast from family stores, hoping for a few moments of practice before facing his torke. Though spring had already arrived, the early morning air still held a winter chill. Dressed only in his short-sleeved tunic and breeks, he shivered beneath an onslaught of goose bumps but gave no thought to his cloak. Exertion would warm him even before the sun's rays thawed the ground, and extra folds of fabric would only hamper his sword arm.
As Saviar raced toward his first lesson, he collided with a boy. Breath huffed into his face, and the child collapsed beneath him, tangling his legs. Unable to save his own balance, Saviar tumbled, rolling as his torke had taught, and coming up in a wary crouch.
With a peep of surprise, the boy scrambled to a secure position as well.
Saviar did not recognize the small redhead, who did not carry a sword. Mortified, he berated his own clumsiness with flush-cheeked apology, speaking Renshai. "I'm very sorry. I didn't see you."
The boy waved a hand toward the cottage Saviar had just vacated. He used the Western tongue. "I's sorry I's gots in ya's way. I's jus' waitin' for Hero."
"Hiro?" Saviar rose, confused. It was not a Renshai name, not even an Erythanian one. He switched to the same language as the boy. All but the most dedicated and reclusive Renshai knew Western and the Common Trading tongues in addition to their own. "Who is Hiro?"
The boy smiled, eyes glazing like an adolescent girl in love. "He's my hero. He rescueded me from bullies an' gived me food good 'nough fors a king. I's so full I couldn't even eat m'breakfast." He held out a lump of something reeking and greenish, displaying it like a trophy.
Saviar's nose wrinkled, and he sucked air through his teeth. "You're going to eat that?"
"It's cheese."
"Was it?" Saviar made a dismissive gesture, suddenly guilty for the scraps he had left on his plate. "So, does this hero of yours have a name?"
"Cali-" the boy started and stopped, brow furrowing. He returned the moldy parcel to his pocket. "Cali… something."
Saviar could scarcely believe it. "Calistin?" he tried.
The boy's face brightened. "Tha's it! Cali… Cali… what ya's sayed. Ya's knowin' Hero?" He made it sound like just having made the acquaintance of the excruciatingly irritating blond was a god-sanctioned honor.
Unfortunately. "He's my brother," Saviar admitted.
The boy pranced in an excited circle, clearly unable to contain his enthusiasm. "Ya's must be Sayvyar."
"SAV-ee-ar." Saviar restored the inflection of his name.
"An' ya's gots orange hair, jus' like me!" the boy finished in an animated squeak. " 's no wonders Hero thinked I's Renshai."
The boy had only one thing right: his tangled mop bore the brilliant hue of a pumpkin or carrot, accompanied by a wild wash of freckles. Though a mix of wheaten and burgundy that passed for a light gold-red, Saviar's locks in no way resembled the boy's. No one could mistake the two for relatives. "When it's hair, most people call it red or strawberry, not orange."
"Red, then." The boy accepted the correction easily. "M'name's Treysind."
"Saviar," Saviar repeated from politeness. Though he had lost much of his solo practice time to the encounter, curiosity held him in place. "Did Calistin really save your life?" Calistin always said he firmly believed anyone incapable of defending himself deserved to die. Saviar could not imagine Calistin troubling himself to rescue one of his own brothers, let alone an Erythanian.
"Yup."
"Really?"
Treysind closed his eyes and sighed. "He's tha greatest hero ever. I's owin' him m'life."
"Did he ever figure out you aren't Renshai?"
"Yup."
"And then?" Saviar could picture Calistin chopping the boy to pieces, along with the bullies, simply for wasting his uniquely valuable time.
"An' then he tooked me home an' feeded me."
Saviar blinked. "Calistin did?"
"Lots an' lots an' lots." Treysind patted his stomach. "I's still filled. Too filled ta-"
Saviar interrupted, not wanting Treysind to display his vulgar prize again. "Yes, yes." He stroked his chin, feeling the first soft wisps of beard. "And you're absolutely sure it was Calistin?"
"M'hero, yup. Tha's tha name he gived me." Treysind seemed incapable of not smiling anytime he heard the name, the same one that jarred Saviar into scowling exasperation.
Knowing better than to arrive late for his lesson, Saviar finished a conversation he preferred to dissect. "Well, then, you should know. His highness, I mean his 'heroness,' got in quite late last night. He'll probably sleep till midmorning."
"I's gonna wait." Treysind stood as tall as possible, which barely brought him up to Saviar's chest. " 's long's it takes."
"Very well, then," Saviar saluted Treysind as he headed toward his lesson. "I wish you good day." He broke into a trot, bewilderment not yet sorting itself into wonder or amusement. If Calistin had a softer side, he kept it well-hidden; yet, confronted with direct evidence of his brother's generosity, Saviar could not refute it. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is some good in Calistin after all.
For reasons Saviar cou
ld not explain, the idea that his savage, perfectionist brother had done something charitable buoyed him through another grueling day of lessons. Though bulky compared with his classmates, he felt nearly weightless. His maneuvers came intuitively, requiring little thought; and he managed a quickness that pleased his torke enough for several to insist he test again for manhood in the coming months.
Late into the afternoon, Saviar still found himself too interested and busy to notice the exhaustion that usually enveloped him. Even his mother, his last torke of the day and his harshest critic, found nothing to complain about in his performance. She had won her own Renshai womanhood at fifteen, and it clearly pained her that two of her sons remained children three years longer.
Kevral's class froze in the last position of its current svergelse, and she moved around them making miniscule corrections to the positions of arms, swords, and stances. At last, she came to Saviar and clapped her hands. Her expression gave away nothing, but joy sparkled in her pale eyes. She did not speak and made no changes to his positioning, a true compliment.
In that moment of satisfied silence, Saviar heard distant hoofbeats, drumming nearer.
Kevral returned to the front of the class. "All right, then."
Swords whisked back into sheaths. All eyes pinned their torke to see whether she would move on to the next maneuver or drive them to another performance of the same. Every boy and girl forced his or her breaths to emerge evenly, quietly.To appear winded would assure a longer and more difficult session.
Two white horses topped the rise above the practice field. Knights' horses. Saviar stared, filled with awe and joy. He loved the strong movements of those well-muscled steeds, the crisp authority of their riders. The other students also took their gazes from their torke. Kevral frowned but turned to see what interested her pupils behind her back.
Slowed to a walk, the stallions approached. As they drew nearer, Saviar could make out the familiar uniforms and plumed hats. A moment later, he recognized his father and grandfather. From a distance, they appeared like twins, both tall and stolid with straight, handsome features. As they drew up to Kevral, Knight-Captain Kedrin's age became more obvious. His hair matched his mount's pure white fur, equally clean and bright; while Ra-khir's reddish-blond locks showed only a hint of silver at the temples. Kedrin's features had grown craggy while Ra-khir's still held their youthful smoothness. The grandfather's eyes, however, betrayed no age at all. An uncommon whitish blue, like Saviar's, they gave away nothing.
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