The reactions to this statement could not have been more different. Subikahn's "Of course" made strange contrast to Chymmerlee's shouted, "No!"
Saviar waded to shore, keeping his step as light as possible so the water could wash out his boots. "Chymmerlee, there's no decision to make here. Subikahn and I have to defend Bearn."
"No!" Chymmerlee ran toward Saviar as he emerged. "I just found you. I can't lose you."
Saviar embraced Chymmerlee, suddenly uncomfortable with the wet and dirt that had seemed so entertaining moments earlier. "I'm not going to forget you. We'll come back."
"Better yet," Subikahn said softly. "Your people should come with us."
"What?" Saviar found himself shocked again.
"You've heard the stories coming out of Bearn. These attackers, they seem to have access to magic. Why shouldn't we?"
Chymmerlee answered before Saviar could. "Because my people can't afford to lose even one mage. We're in hiding, for hundreds of years now, for a reason."
Subikahn shook his head. "Well, it seems your time has come. This enemy isn't logical or decent. They don't parley, and they don't take prisoners. If Bearn falls, the rest of the West will go with it, and the North and East will find themselves in a far worse position when the pirates come to them."
"Really?" Chymmerlee said, very softly. The hand she brought to her mouth trembled.
"Really," Subikahn said.
Saviar released her. "We'd better wash and change, then. I'm not sure anyone could take us seriously the way we look right now." Chymmerlee seemed willing to consider the possibility, but he doubted the others would be so easily convinced. He would need the bathing time to think, to pick out the words necessary to convince. He alone had leadership and speaking training. The job, he knew, would fall to him.
Traveling through the Westlands, Calistin had become accustomed to pristine farmland that gave way abruptly to bunched and solid cities, so the scattered layout of Aerin caught him unprepared. Here, the ragged farmland consisted mostly of gaunt animals grazing on stunted grasses and fowl scavenging dung for insects and undigested seeds. The dwellings were communal longhouses as much as cottages, and smoke twined from every chimney.
People scurried about in the twilight, carrying groceries and water, conversing in their musical language. Hammers rang on forges, sheep bleated plaintively, and the swishing and banging of woodworking filled the evening air. Odors mingled: cook fires, smoke, and the syrupy scent of lumber. As usual, Calistin found himself hungry and not for the usual travel fare, as good as Treysind made it. More than anything, he wanted a platter of freshly roasted mutton and a frosty mug of ale.
It took Calistin's ears time to adjust to the language delivered in its native singsong. But, after catching enough snatches of passing conversation, he realized, with relief, that his training had been adequate. He could understand Northern and, he hoped, speak it well enough to be understood. He also recognized the letters that spelled out "inn" on a nearby building. Relieved, he hurried toward it, Treysind directly on his heels.
As he walked, Calistin noticed other details. Towheads and redheads predominated to the point where the rare man with even a hint of brown seemed out of place. In Bearn and Erythane, they called a person with lighter brown hair a blond. Here, Calistin imagined, they might consider that same person dark. Many of the men openly carried weapons, and some of the boys play-sparred with twigs when they thought their parents were not looking. No one seemed aware of the newcomers who looked enough like the Aeri to pass for neighbors.
Calistin opened the door to the inn. Smoke billowed out the opening, funneled by the wind. Coughing, Treysind scampered inside, leaving just enough room for Calistin to quickly shut the door. The smoke returned to wrap the patrons in a warm, comfortable haze. Calistin supposed his eyes would adjust quickly enough and chose the nearest table so as not to stumble around awkwardly in the mist. Treysind flopped into the chair across from him. "Ain't unner standin' a word what they says."
Calistin nodded, starting to look around until a barmaid distracted him. She placed herself directly at his right elbow and leaned onto the table. Dressed in a tight uniform of black with white lace, her plump body bulged at the cleavage. Not yet caught up in his adolescence, Calistin scarcely noticed.
"Hallo," she said with a well-practiced cheerfulness. "What can I get you, boys?"
"I'm a man." The words came out as easily in Northern as they did in Common. "I've earned my manhood."
The barmaid's brows rose, but she did not question. She stood up straight and turned her attention to Treysind. "Does that go for you, too, young sir?"
Calistin started to look over the other patrons again, only to realize that Treysind would not answer. He had enough trouble with the Common and Western tongues. "No, he's still a boy; but you can call him Treysind."
"Treysind," she repeated. "What an exotic name." She brushed back long, yellow hair, tacking it behind one ear. "I like it."
Calistin did not bother to tell her it meant "offspring of the ashes" in the Erythanian dialect.
"Ya's talkin' 'bout me." Treysind recognized his name. "What's ya sayin' 'bout me?"
Calistin forestalled his companion with a raised hand. "We'll have two plates of mutton and two mugs of ale."
"Ale?" she repeated.
"Ale," Calistin confirmed. "Don't you have any?"
"Of course we have ale. But don't you… boys…" She amended quickly, "… boy and man. Don't you think you're a bit young for full-fledged ale?"
Not again. Calistin stared at the barmaid. She was pretty in the way all young women are but had large, broad features that appeared somewhat asymmetrical. "Do you question the choices of all your patrons? Or only mine?"
The barmaid's face turned a brilliant shade of pink. "I'm not… I mean I don't… It's just that the younglings…who drink ale… don't grow as well or as clever as…" The color faded from her cheeks, and her expression turned stern and motherly. "Is Treysind your little brother?" She did not await an answer before continuing. "Because I don't think your mother would approve-"
Calistin caught his own hand slipping toward his sword, the only outward sign of building rage. "My mother is dead, you nosy wench. And it's none of your damned business how I raise my little brother! Now, get me the damned ale and the damned mutton before I go back there and get it my damned self!"
The barmaid retreated without another word and disappeared into the mist.
The door opened, and another group of Northmen came inside, stirring up the smoky interior just as it had started to settle.
"Why's ya yellin' at her, Hero?"
Calistin sighed and turned his attention back to Treysind. "Nothing important, Trey."
The boy sat up straighter. "Ya called me 'Trey.' "
"Yeah. So?"
"So's, no one's ever called me 'Trey' bafore." Treysind mulled the situation. "I likes it. Sounds like somethin' a brother would call me."
Calistin shrugged, bobbing his head. "I guess that fits, then. She called you my little brother."
"She did?" Treysind bounced in his chair. He looked positively giddy. "That why ya getted mad?"
"No. I just don't like a stranger asking me personal questions and judging me when her job is just to fetch me food when I ask for it." Calistin smiled at the realization. "In fact, that irritated me so much, I even called you my little brother."
Treysind's eyes widened so they seemed enormous. "Rilly?"
It obviously meant a lot to Treysind, and it did not hurt Calistin in any way. "Sure, why not? You practically are. I mean, we're both basically orphans, you irritate me as much as Saviar or Subikahn, and we're together all the time." All the damned time; I can't get rid of you. "And you look about as much like me as either of my actual brothers."
"Ya thinks ya's papa would… 'dopt me?"
Calistin had never considered it. "Ra-khir?" He frowned in consideration. "I… don't know. I really don't know him as well as I should." The em
otions that followed caught Calistin by surprise. He had always realized his father was a good man, but he had dismissed all the Knights of Erythane as deluded, untalented do-gooders. Since he had outgrown horsy rides and kiddy games when he was very young, he had given his father little attention or thought. Nothing mattered but the Renshai way: the sword, the arm, and the craft that bound them. "It wouldn't surprise me if he did, but it's not really necessary. I'm a man, and I can choose my brothers with or without my parent's blessing."
Treysind's smile seemed to loop around his face. It sparkled in his eyes and displaced his cheeks upward. It even seemed to show upon his brow. "I gots a brother. A hero brother. Someone what… what…" Treysind bit back his next exuberant word, then allowed it to slip out as a question, "… loves me?" The smile wilted. "Tha's too much ta ask, ain't it?"
Calistin felt the usual cold barrier slide into place, the one that kept him at arm's length from the world. He did not like the realm of emotion; it distracted him from the one truly significant concept in life. Yet, when Calistin looked upon the boy's desperately hopeful features, he knew he could not ignore the question. The cruelty such action would inflict would be too great. "Of course, I love you, Trey. Families love each other, even when we can't stand each other. Even when we want to cut one another's guts out, we don't do it. Because, no matter how obnoxious, inane, and annoying we find one another at times, deep down, the love is always there."
Treysind stiffened. For an instant, he seemed poised to leap into dance, to shout or whoop, to display his joy in a whirlwind of uncon tainable action. Somehow, he managed to control his glee, but it still showed in the ecstatic glimmer in his eyes, the glow of his cheeks, and the quiver of excitement that seemed to take over his body.
The words came. Much to Calistin's surprise, he found Treysind's joy contagious. He could not help grinning, could not help feeling pleased with himself and the effect he had had on his companion. It had taken some effort; yet, for the first time in his life, it seemed entirely worth the bother. His own words, as untried and crude as they were, had brought untold happiness to a boy who had had little enough of it in his short lifetime. All it had taken was a few words more carefully chosen than usual.
The barmaid returned shortly. Calistin noticed at once that she carried nothing in her hands. "Avard wants to know if you got money to pay for what you ordered."
Money again. Calistin did not know how to react. The last time someone had demanded it from him, in the tavern in Ainsville, he had killed Karruno and skipped town in the chaos that followed, without paying. Back home, he had never had to worry about money, had barely even bothered to learn the value of the various coinage. He had no idea if the North used a system in any way similar to the West's. In all of his experience, he had never seen anyone pay for something before receiving it, and he had noticed other patrons tossing down coins only as they left. Calistin recognized an insult when he received one. "Why should I pay for food and drink you haven't brought me yet?"
The barmaid fidgeted, clearly nervous. "Avard says you're young, and he's never seen you in here before. He just wants to make sure you have enough money to pay for what you eat."
The barkeep in Ainsville had made the same request and not nearly so politely. Calistin looked at Treysind, but the boy only stared back at him, still smiling. He did not speak a word of Northern. "My brother handles all the money."
The barmaid's brows narrowed in suspicion, but she turned her attention directly on Treysind. The boy squirmed in his seat.
"What's goin' on?" Treysind asked softly in Western. Usually, they conversed in the Common Trading tongue, but that was the most used language in the world. Likely, the barmaid spoke it, and Treysind wanted to keep this private.
"Money," Calistin said. "She wants it in advance."
"Why are you whispering?" the barmaid said loudly. "And what language are you speaking anyway?"
Calistin did not wish to draw attention that might give away his heritage, not after Colbey had cautioned him against it. Only one tribe of Northmen lived in the West. "It's our tribal tongue," Calistin lied. "My little brother had an accident as a baby and has trouble learning languages. He's only mastered tribal, and he's not particularly good at that, either."
"Tribal, huh?" The explanation did not satisfy the barmaid. "I've never heard anything like it. What tribe are you from?"
Calistin picked the farthest tribe, the one with which she would probably have the least experience. "We're Gelshni, if you must know. But it's not-"
A voice boomed out from behind them. "Ah, boys. There you are. I've been looking all over for you."
Calistin whirled to see a huge form emerge from the haze. A massive hand touched his shoulder.
The newcomer spun a chair from a nearby table, then thrust it between his legs to sit between Calistin and Treysind. He looked askance at the barmaid. "I'm sorry, Griselda. Have my boys been giving you trouble?"
The woman curtsied hurriedly. "I'm so sorry, Valr. I didn't know they were with you." She turned toward the kitchen, then stopped abruptly. "Is it all right for me to bring them mutton? And ale, sir?"
Valr. The name rang through Calistin's ears. Ignoring the conversation, he studied the man who claimed to know them, who had joined them, uninvited, at the table. He wore heavy leathers stained by sweat and travel grime; but the large, lithe figure was unmistakable. Calistin might forget a face but never a warrior figure. Valr Magnus. He had not only run into the very enemy he sought, for reasons currently beyond comprehension, the man had come to him.
"Aye, fine. Whatever they want. I'm paying."
The barmaid scurried to obey with newfound deference.
Only then, Calistin met the other man's gaze with a coldness that could have frozen a summer pond. The familiar, handsome features completed the picture. He looked the part of the hero, his cheeks rugged and high-formed, his nose not too prominent and perfectly straight, his chin chiseled. Fine blue eyes studied Calistin from beneath a tousled mane of golden hair. "Valr Magnus." Calistin fairly spat the name.
That caught Treysind's attention. He already stared unabashedly at the man who had joined them so unexpectedly. Now, his expression revealed revulsion and fear.
Magnus nodded as if Calistin had merely spoken a polite greeting. "Calistin Kevralsson. I thought you would find me."
"Calistin Ra-khirsson," Calistin corrected, though he took no insult. He was at least as proud of his maternal heritage. "And it would appear you found me."
The large man belted out a laugh. "Well, I suppose so, seeing as how I recognized you from a whole two tables away. That's clearly more significant than you trailing me across the entire Westlands, through the Weathered Mountains, and into Northern tribal lands.
Calistin did not allow himself to see the humor in it. He refused to share a joke with his bitterest enemy. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't follow you."
Valr Magnus' brows rose, and he tipped his head. "So you're not here to face me in fair combat?"
Calistin saw no reason to lie now. "Of course, I am. But I didn't follow you. I expected to find you in Nordmir."
"Why Nordmir?"
"Because… you're Nordmirian."
Valr Magnus' expression did not change. "That will come as a great surprise to my Aeri parents."
"Aeri…" Calistin realized he had no real reason to assume the tribe of the proclaimed best Northern swordsman was Nordmirian, other than knowing it was the site of the North's high kingdom and the source of the most vicious Renshai hatred. Valr Kirin had come from there, and the legend must have stuck in Calistin's mind. "Fine. Aeri, then. What's the difference? All Northmen are the same."
"Including Renshai?"
"Of course not."
"Ah." Valr did not bother to delve deeper.
The barmaid appeared swiftly, balancing two heaping plates of mutton and two mugs of foamy ale. She placed them in front of Calistin and Treysind, then curtsied. Light seemed to dance in her eyes as she addre
ssed Valr Magnus. "And you, Valr? Would you be having more, sir?"
The Northman turned her a smile, and her knees buckled. For a moment, Calistin thought she would melt onto the floor in front of him. "Just a bit more of that ale, please."
Regaining her equilibrium instantly, the barmaid rushed away.
Valr looked at Calistin's drink. "It's good. Not like that horse piss that passes for ale in the West."
Calistin felt no obligation to defend the Western taverns, but it irked him that Valr Magnus seemed determined to turn the ugliest of feuds into normal conversation. "Maybe it's just you they're serving horse piss. Maybe they think it's all you deserve."
"Maybe," Valr added conspiratorially, "it isn't even horse!"
It took Calistin a moment to realize what Valr meant, that the barmen and maids might be the source of the urine. His face wrinkled in revulsion reflexively. "That's disgusting."
"But all I deserve," Valr reminded Calistin in the Renshai's own words.
Treysind finally cut in, using the Common Trading tongue. "Can't yas two speak Common? I wants ta know what ya's sayin'."
Valr responded before Calistin had a chance. "I speak a few languages. Perhaps we can use the one that you know most fluently."
"That's it," Calistin explained. "Trading. I'm afraid that's as articulate as he gets."
"So's I don't talk so good," Treysind said around a mouthful of shredded mutton. "Least now I kin unnerstan's yas." He looked directly at Calistin. "So ya's finded him."
Calistin nodded.
"Ya's gonna fight?"
"Yes," Calistin said, not caring what Valr Magnus answered. "We're going to fight. To the death."
Treysind turned his attention to Valr Magnus. "That righ'?"
The Aeri shrugged. "To the death, apparently. Assuming that was, in fact, a serious challenge."
"It was," Calistin confirmed.
Treysind shoveled in another mouthful of meat, speaking around it. "So what's yas waitin' for? Yas talkin' terms out?"
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