Saviar grunted, knowing better. “If that were true, we’d have burned your pyre long ago.”
Ra-khir snatched for his hat, caught it, and placed it on his own head, apparently oblivious to the hay stalks this added to his locks. “You’re right.” He sighed, then shrugged. “Can’t fathom how all the others manage to look perfect all the time.”
Saviar helped his father back Silver Warrior fully into his stall and close the door. “Well, for starters, they don’t roll around in straw and feces playing with horses.” The conversation remained at the level of shallow banter. Saviar noticed that happening a lot more in the last year. As a child, he had never worried about looking foolish or silly in front of his father; he had plunged into the most embarrassing topics without a moment’s hesitation. Now, as a budding adult, he tended to weigh his words and worry about their effect. It felt like everyone, even his parents, was judging his every utterance and action. Saviar pulled a stem from his father’s hair and handed it to him.
As Ra-khir claimed it, Silver Warrior arched his neck over the partition and delicately wrested it from Ra-khir.
Ra-khir shook his head as the stalk disappeared into the horse’s mouth. “That’s right, Warrior. That particular piece of hay is the best one in the entire barn.”
“Apparently.” Saviar also watched the horse eat, loath to allow his thoughts to return to the Fields of Wrath. He loved these moments alone with his father and wondered why he could remember so few from his childhood. “Are you finished here?”
“Just.” Ra-khir wiped his hands on the rag, then hung it, and the brush, on a nail outside Silver Warrior’s stall along with his halter, comb, and curry. He turned to face Saviar directly, showing no sign that he missed the opportunity to relax with his peers in the Knight’s Rest. “Now what can I do for my beloved oldest son?”
Saviar shrugged, not certain himself what he had expected. More than anything, he just wanted some alone time with his father. “Nothing, really, I—”
Ra-khir gave his full attention to Saviar. He would allow no horse or human to steal this moment. He nodded for Saviar to continue.
Uncertain how to phrase his thoughts, Saviar blurted out, “Is it immoral to hate one’s own brother?”
Ra-khir’s lips went tight, as if he fought a smile. He would not belittle his son. “Is this a general ethical question? Or are we talking about Calistin?” As Silver Warrior reached for his hat, Ra-khir stepped aside, then moved several paces toward the front of the stable. There, he found a hay pile protected from the floor’s dampness by a hatchwork of crate slates. He motioned for Saviar to sit.
Saviar walked to the indicated spot and crouched amid the slats. His Renshai training would not allow a less defensible position, even in the presence of no one but his father. “How do you know I didn’t mean Subikahn?”
“Lucky guess.” An unusual hint of sarcasm touched Ra-khir’s tone. He sat beside his son. “What did Calistin do . . . this time?”
Now the words came pouring out. “He won’t leave me alone. He’s constantly badgering me, acting like my torke instead of my smug little brother.” Saviar knew Ra-khir would not approve of his insulting a loved one, but he found himself incapable of stopping, “He’s so damned conceited. He thinks he’s the best swordsman in the world.”
“Isn’t he?”
Saviar scowled. “Are you taking his side?”
Ra-khir’s brows rose in increments. “As far as I’m concerned, there are no ‘sides’ in this family. I’m only asking for a simple truth.”
“Maybe,” Saviar grumbled. “But he doesn’t have to keep shoving it in my face.” He mimicked Calistin’s childlike voice, “Stop trying to use your strength against me . . . Renshai don’t do that . . . you’re doing this wrong . . . I’m a man, and you’re not . . .”
Ra-khir nodded sagely. “That’s what it really comes down to, doesn’t it?”
“What?” Saviar said guardedly, suspecting he would not like his father’s next words.
“You’re . . . jealous?”
“No,” Saviar said, too quickly. Then, after a moment of contemplation, “Well, maybe.” He added in his defense, “I wasn’t. Not at first. I was really proud of my little brother. I mean, a man. At just thirteen.” He shook his head in genuine admiration. “He’s amazing.”
“Yes, he is.” Ra-khir encouraged, “What changed your feelings?”
“Calistin.” Saviar could not take the edge from his tone as he spoke the name of his tormentor.
When nothing followed, Ra-khir said, “I need more.”
Saviar bit his upper lip, suddenly ashamed about raising the subject. Ra-khir was as much Calistin’s father as his own. An attack upon one’s child required a defense, regardless of the accuser. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m putting you in a difficult position.”
Ra-khir smiled. “I’m a Knight of Erythane married to a Renshai. I live for difficult positions.”
Saviar also grinned. “Clearly.” He loved his mother with all his heart, but he also knew how challenging she could be, especially for a man of such high and exceptional honor. As his own thoughts began turning to women, Saviar had taken to wondering how Kevral had managed to entice not just one good man, but two, to care so deeply for her. Subikahn’s father had also once proposed, and the rumor was that she had so badly broken his heart that he refused to court again. Only the Renshai trained its women, as well as men, to warcraft; and the ferocity of Renshai women confused and frightened most ganim, the word Renshai used to refer to outsiders.
The enduring relationship between his parents confounded most people, but never Saviar. Usually a relentless taskmaster of a torke, Kevral softened visibly in Ra-khir’s presence, and he never failed to make her smile. In the privacy of home, and on voyages beyond the Fields of Wrath, they held hands like adolescents in the throes of first love. The knight still called his wife the most beautiful woman in the world, with clear and undisputable sincerity, no matter how sweaty and dirt-streaked she appeared. The looks they gave one another defined love in its purest, rawest form; and it spilled out to encompass their entire family.
“So,” Ra-khir pressed, not as easily sidetracked as his son. “What about Calistin changed your feelings?”
Saviar knew generalities would not suffice. His father would need some indication that he had thought through the matter and had a legitimate concern. “I guess it’s his decision to keep smacking me in the head—and not just with the flat of his sword. He actually uses his accomplishments to . . . to demean me.”
“Is it possible you think Calistin does well only to make you look bad?”
Saviar did not believe it had become so specific and personal. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t do well just to make everyone look bad.
He kept the thought to himself. Voicing it would make him sound petty and childish. “Not at all. I don’t even mind him crowing about his achievements. It’s not modest, it’s not what an honorable man does, but he earned them.”
Ra-khir leaned forward and nodded encouragingly.
“But does he really have to tack on how little I’ve accomplished in comparison?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m trying to concentrate on the maneuvers I need to know for my testing. If he would at least distract me in ways that help me perfect what I need to know, instead of constantly trying out his new inventions and interests or things to improve his own swordwork.” Saviar studied his father’s features to ascertain how Ra-khir was handling this information. As he appeared reflective and interested, Saviar continued, “Under the guise of helping me, he’s only helping himself. And undermining my confidence.”
Ra-khir wiped his forehead with the back of a gloved hand. Like all of the knights always did, he wore the blue and gold of Béarn as well as the black and orange of Erythane. “Have you told Calistin this?”
Saviar turned his gaze to his own hands, the nails filthy and broken. Blood traced the creases of his right palm. “I’ve tried
.” He sighed. “Papa, I love him because he’s my brother. But, if he weren’t, I don’t think I’d even like him.”
“Does anyone? Outside of our family, I mean.”
The question caught Saviar off his guard. He looked up to meet his father’s emerald gaze. “They all think he’s awesome. The ultimate Renshai. The Colbey Calistinsson of our time.”
“But do they like him?”
“I . . .” Saviar did not know how to answer. “I . . . don’t . . . really know.” He tried to divine his father’s purpose in asking such a question. “Does it matter?”
Ra-khir’s brows rose. “To Calistin, it probably does.”
“Maybe.” Saviar was not so sure. Calistin did not seem to care what others thought of him personally, so long as they envied his sword skill. “Papa?”
“Hmmm?”
“How can two brothers be so completely and utterly different?”
Ra-khir laughed. “How similar are you and Subikahn? And you’re twins.”
Ra-khir had essentially made Saviar’s point. “Subikahn and I are half brothers, actually. And, yet, we’re still more alike in personality than either of us is to Calistin. And we’re close enough in age to practically be triplets.”
Ra-khir shrugged. “Look at the princes and princesses of Béarn. They’re as disparate as Béarnides get.”
Once again, Ra-khir appeared to be arguing the wrong point. “But, Papa, they have three different mothers. And some have a different father, too.”
“What?” The word was startled from Ra-khir.
“Prince Barrindar and the princesses, Calitha and Eldorin are King Griff and Xoraida’s children. Princess Ivana Shorith’na Cha-tella Tir Hya’sellirian Albar . . .” Saviar prided himself on knowing and pronouncing the full elfin name, though the populace knew her only as Princess Ivana. “. . . is the offspring of King Griff and his elfin wife. Princess Marisole, Prince Arturo, and Princess Halika are Queen Matrinka’s children. All three of them were clearly sired by Bard Darris.”
Ra-khir’s tone turned stiff. “That’s not common knowledge, Saviar.”
“I’m not speaking it commonly.”
“You won’t?”
“Of course not. Was I raised by fools?” Saviar turned his father a wicked grin.
Ra-khir released a pent-up breath, ignoring the question. Addressing it would require him to defend or damn his own intelligence. “Who told you?”
Saviar rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of the query. “Anyone with a reasonable education knows how the bardic curse gets passed. The bard’s heir is always the firstborn child of the bard. In this case, Marisole.” He shrugged. “Once I realized that, I started looking. Only Halika didn’t inherit Bard Darris’ snout—”
“That’s not nice, Saviar.”
Saviar ignored the interruption to finish his reasoning. “—and she’s too normal-sized to be the product of two massive Béarnides.”
“Queen Matrinka is not massive. She’s—”
“—big-boned and curvaceous,” Saviar finished. “My point stands.” Suddenly realizing his father had sidetracked him, Saviar added, “Both of them. Brothers of full blood should not be as different as Calistin and me.”
Ra-khir said nothing for several moments, which surprised Saviar. The older man could easily argue that the physical resemblance between Saviar and Calistin was real enough that complete strangers sometimes recognized them as relatives. Saviar knew plenty of examples in his own life of siblings who bore few or no similarities in appearance or temperament. An intelligent boy with a dupe for a brother. A runaway-wild girl with a painfully timid sister. Saviar even knew a set of twins, one with striking dexterity, the other laboriously clumsy. Mothers seemed to love comparing their children to one another, sometimes labeling them as the pretty one, the obedient one, the nice one. Siblings often turned out remarkably different, yet Ra-khir did not resort to these familiar examples. Either Saviar’s deduction about the royal siblings utterly disarmed him, or he was hiding something else.
The latter thought raised Saviar’s suspicions. “You know something about Calistin, don’t you?”
Ra-khir answered with a touch of defensiveness. “I know everything about Calistin. He’s my son.”
“Something,” Saviar pressed, “that you haven’t told either of us.”
“I have told you,” Ra-khir said in a flat tone, “everything I can tell you.”
He was hiding something, yet Saviar knew no amount of weasel ing or cajoling would bring it to the fore. Ra-khir’s honor would never allow him to do anything his word bound him against. Continuing in this vein would only upset Ra-khir at a time when Saviar wanted his father’s assistance and empathy. Instead, he found himself uttering a self-imposed secret he had never spoken aloud, “Papa, sometimes I wish, I mean, I think I wish, I wasn’t . . . Renshai.”
Ra-khir closed his eyes. The words clearly hurt him.
“Are you all right?”
Ra-khir’s lids snapped open, and he smiled, though it looked forced. “I’m fine, just worried about you. You’re unhappy with the life your mother and I chose for you?”
Saviar hurried to undo the damage. “Not unhappy, Papa, no. I mean I love the swordwork, the religion, the history. I just . . . sometimes . . . I’d just like to do . . . other things.” He added belatedly, “. . . too.” He laughed at his own suggestion, dismissing it. “Ignore me. It’s the intensive training that’s made me what I am. I just want it all, I guess. No one could become a knight and a Renshai.”
“A knight?” Ra-khir’s forced grin turned genuine, almost wistful. “You want to be a Knight of Erythane?”
Saviar laughed again. “Silly, huh? The huge amount of training involved in either would preclude the other.”
Ra-khir gave no answer.
“Right?”
“Well,” Ra-khir said hesitantly. “I would think so. And yet . . . ?”
“Yet?” Saviar encouraged.
“There is someone who is both.”
Startled silent, Saviar stared. He knew of no other Renshai who would even consider the staid, stuffy life of a knight, filled with long-winded ceremony, multiple weapons’ training, and stifling ethics. His father’s use of the present tense, however, suggested the man he spoke of currently lived. It was not some hypothetical historical figure. “Who?” he finally managed.
“You’ve clearly studied,” Ra-khir said, finally regaining the upper hand. It was also a subtle, probably unintentional insult to Calistin. The youngest son, bound to a life of relentless swordwork, would never manage more than a basic education, mostly Renshai language, history, and tradition. “This one, you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”
CHAPTER 3
Biases are always justifiable when they’re yours.
—Sir Ra-khir Kedrin’s son
BARD DARRIS SQUIRMED in his seat at King Griff’s right hand, attentive to every movement in the courtroom yet bored by the seemingly endless procession of nobles, merchants, and complainants down the woven-wool carpet. The inner court guards surrounding them managed to look fresh and eager despite the length of the proceedings. Darris envied their ability to at least appear to maintain their alertness indefinitely, even if it was a farce. He wished he could have retired with Queen Matrinka hours earlier; but his main duty as bard was to serve as primary bodyguard to the king of Béarn.
At Griff’s other hand, Guard Captain Seiryn stood as often as he sat, assisting in those matters that involved the guardsmen of Béarn no matter how tangentially. His gaze swept the dwindling audience of nobles and commoners seated on chairs on either side of the aisle-way. His watchful eye kept the inner court guards vigilant and the sentries escorting the various visitors and prisoners mannered and within protocol. He had no authority over Béarn’s bard, however, and paid no attention to Darris’ progressively drooping posture.
That left Darris free to brood and dream, his mind slipping always to Queen Matrinka: her soft brown eyes, the thick ebony h
air that his fingers captured, her gentle loving features, and her plump Béarnian body still soft from the three children she had borne. Darris had loved her since adolescence first turned his thoughts toward women; and she loved him, too. When the populace demanded she wed her first cousin, King Griff, to keep the bloodline strong, Darris had thought his heart would shatter like a glass figurine. As always, Griff had found the simplest solution, one designed to keep everyone happy. It was Griff who married Matrinka but Darris who shared the queen’s affection. The resultant offspring, Marisole, Arturo, and Halika, though sired by Darris, belonged to the king and queen by law. Ignorant of, or deliberately blind to, the arrangement, the people of Béarn accepted the prince and princesses without question.
Béarnian law allowed and encouraged its kings, and only its kings, to wed many times to assure the birth of at least one heir who could pass the gods’ test. Griff next married his elfin sweetheart, Tem’aree’ay. Darris smiled at the memory. He had played an important role in that. Obsessively rereading and reinterpreting ancient Béarnian law, Darris had found what was needed to allow that union despite the many strict rules that governed who could marry an heir to Béarn, the same ones which had kept Matrinka and himself apart. With help from the populace and his Council, Griff had selected a third wife, Xoraida, who met the bloodline criteria for royalty. She, too, had borne him a son and two daughters.
The double doors at the end of the room crashed open, sending the banner behind the thrones into a fluttering dance and drawing Darris’ full attention. A Béarnide entered the courtroom without escort, wearing the on-duty uniform of the guards. A blue-and-gold tabard speckled with dirt lay twisted over his mail, the rearing grizzly on the front still vividly clear. His thick, black hair sat on top of his scalp in a frizzy, uncombed ball, and he clutched his helmet in his hand. Every eye followed his walk down the golden carpet, and Darris noticed that he left muddy footprints in his wake.
As he approached the dais, the guard looked nervously at Captain Seiryn, then bowed deeply.
Flight of the Renshai Page 4
