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 Béarn.”
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 GLIMMERED 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 musserënde, “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 åndelig 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.
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 al
l 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 went 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.
Calist
in 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.”
Flight of the Renshai Page 6
