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 could 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.
Kevral walked to the knights. Usually, any interruption of her instructions left her scowling and irritated. Now, a ghost of a welcoming smile traced her lips, overwhelmed by growing furrows of concern. Saviar knew what cued his mother; Ra-khir knew better than to intrude on a Renshai practice without grave reason.
Ra-khir spoke first, clearly worried Kevral’s impatience might drive her to say something unbecoming. “Good evening, my darling.” He flourished his hat with a grand gesture befitting a noble lady. “I deeply apologize for interrupting your lesson.”
Kevral gave him only an expectant, “Yes?” She hated the knight’s formality and forbade it within the confines of their home; but Knight-Captain Kedrin’s presence and Ra-khir’s official garb required it. They were on duty.
“I’m afraid the Knight-Captain and I have been called away to Béarn.” Ra-khir added in a less formal tone, “Prince Arturo’s gone missing.”
Kevral’s demeanor softened abruptly. The trace of a smile vanished. “Missing?”
“Presumed dead.”
Fear clutch
ed Saviar’s heart, and his hands went suddenly cold. He remembered Marisole’s little brother from freer days when they had had more time for play away from the grueling sword training that tied them always to the Fields of Wrath. Two years younger and in awe of his older sister, Arturo had toddled in her wake, his enormous brown eyes sweet and irresistible. Any attention from her friends made his face glow with pleasure and his toothless mouth open into a broad smile.
Knight-Captain Kedrin gripped Ra-khir’s arm in warning. Such matters did not warrant discussion in front of children, usually; though nothing about death startled or bothered young Renshai. So long as it occurred in battle, they welcomed and glorified it, their goal since infancy. Even Saviar had every intention of dying in fevered and magnificent combat, freeing his soul for the perfect afterlife in Valhalla.
“Oh . . . no.” Kevral glanced at the ground, then kicked it savagely. “Oh, no.” She seemed on the edge of asking about Matrinka, about Griff, Darris, and Marisole, all of whom must be crazed with grief. Instead, she took the tack of a true Renshai. “His escort? Where were they? They should have kept him safe.” A hard edge of disdain and anger entered a tone that, only a moment before, had displayed all-too-human concern.
“They’re dead, my lady,” Ra-khir defended the prince’s Renshai guardians.
Before Ra-khir could explain further, Kedrin spoke sharply, “Sir Ra-khir! That is not an appropriate topic for youngsters.” He made a gesture that encompassed Kevral’s entire class, advanced boys and girls ranging in age from fifteen to twenty-two.
Kevral’s cheeks darkened, and Saviar grimaced, prepared for a barrage of maternal anger that never came.
Ra-khir held her at bay with a pleading gesture, then turned on his own father. “Captain, I beg to differ. For Renshai, this is not only an appropriate topic, it is a necessary one.”
Kedrin’s lips clamped closed, but he gave his son permission to continue with a brittle nod.
Ra-khir obliged. “They died in battle, defending Arturo to the end.”
Kevral managed a smile, tempered by the gravity of the situation. The slain Renshai would surely be celebrated that evening, their names added to the roles of heroes for use in naming newborns. It was this practice, Saviar knew, coupled with the Renshai propensity to look younger than their ages that had once made them seem invincible, demonic. The other Northern tribes had referred to them as djevgullinhari, the “golden-haired devils.”
Kevral took Ra-khir’s hand, speaking so softly Saviar could scarcely hear her. “Please give Matrinka my condolences. And do what you can to help her through this.”
Though upset by the situation, Saviar enjoyed his mother’s rare moment of softness. Though Renshai through and through, she could still place herself in the position of an anguished, kind, and gentle queen who was also her friend.
“I’ll do my best,” Ra-khir promised. Saviar could tell he wanted to say more, perhaps to remind Kevral that others more appropriate were already at the queen’s side; but he stopped with those words. Saviar wondered if his father hesitated to mention Darris and Griff because of their conversation the night before. Ra-khir would not want anyone else to divine Arturo’s blood parentage on account of his words.
Memory of that talk brought a sudden idea to Saviar’s mind. As the knights turned to leave, he spoke it aloud. “Torke?” He knew better than to refer to Kevral as “Mama” during lessons. “May I go with them?”
Ra-khir froze with his mount half-turned, and Kedrin stiffened.
Kevral glanced at Saviar. “I wasn’t aware that you were invited.”
Ra-khir turned his attention to his own father. Clearly, he wished to extend that invitation, but the hierarchy of the knights gave him no right to do so.
Kedrin rescued his subordinate son. “Of course, Saviar may accompany us. We’d be delighted to have him, with your permission, good lady.”
Kevral continued to study her son. Saviar remained in position, not even daring to breathe. She would see pleading as weakness and surely deny him. Until he became a man, however, Saviar could not make this decision without her.
Kevral turned away from Saviar, and his heart sank. She curtsied in the general direction of Kedrin, more in deference to his status as father-in-law than Knight-Captain. Saviar bit his lip, forcing himself not to cringe. No telling what a Renshai as committed as Kevral might say to any man who interrupted her practice, especially when she considered him her martial inferior. “Excuse me, Captain. Might I borrow your companion for a few moments of private conversation?”
Saviar released a pent-up breath. Whatever irritation his request had inspired, Kevral intended to vent on her husband alone. At least, for the moment. Saviar tried not to consider the punishment she could heap on him under the guise of training. Sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to involve you, too.
Once properly dismissed by his superior, Ra-khir eagerly followed Kevral beyond earshot of her students. Even after all these years, he still enjoyed watching her from behind. Every tiny movement, from her rare curtsy to her confident strides, held a grace trained into her nearly since birth.The most seductive dancers could not compete for his attention. For all their girlish dexterity, their motions lacked the absolute power and commitment of Kevral’s; and few could boast such tightly muscled buttocks.
Kevral turned suddenly, and Ra-khir had to stop short to keep from running into her. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, staring at him instead. “You’re grinning like a lunatic.”
Ra-khir’s smile turned wolfish, and he crooked an eyebrow. “I like what I see.”
Kevral clearly could not suppress her own grin. “Gods, that really is all you men think about, isn’t it?”
“Not all.” Ra-khir mocked defensiveness. “Just nine times out of ten, give or take one.”
“Still?” Kevral shook her head, eyes rolling. “We’ve been married for like a hundred years. Granted, I only had two pregnancies, but I’ve given birth to three sons.” She indicated her lower regions with an agile gesture. “What’s left to leer at?”
Ra-khir could scarcely believe the question. “Eighteen perfect years, not a hundred, and it seems more like eight.You’re more beautiful now then ever.” He drew her into his arms, her body like taut bundles of wire. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
Kevral kissed him, the touch of her lips deliciously soft and yielding. She was a fierce, and strangely gracious, lover.
Ra-khir returned her kiss and tightened his embrace. Sinewy and more potentially lethal than a serpent, she still felt small and helpless in his massive arms. His desire to protect her, though misplaced, consumed him. He might have stood there all day if Kevral had not gently disengaged.
“I didn’t bring you here to . . . slobber and tickle.”
I’ll be quick, Ra-khir nearly quipped before seeing the serious look on Kevral’s face. Instead, he stepped back and waited patiently for her to explain.
“Ordinarily, I’d never let a student travel this close to his manhood testing, but it seems important to Saviar.”
Ra-khir had to agree. “He’s never dared asked before.” When it came to Renshai training and the boys, Kevral outranked him as fully as Kedrin did among the knights. “It’s obviously something he feels strongly about.”
“Why?”
Ra-khir hesitated, confused. “Are you asking me?”
Kevral shrugged. “Even if Saviar knows why, and he probably doesn’t, he wouldn’t tell his mother.”
The words made no sense to Ra-khir. “Why not?”
Kevral studied Ra-khir as if he had grown wings. “Because he’s an adolescent boy, and all adolescent boys hate their parents.”
Stunned, Ra-khir could do nothing but stare. They stood in silence for several awkward moments before he finally managed to stammer, “Th-they do?”
Apparently mistaking his surprise for an act, Kevral laughed. “Of course they do. You know that. You were an adolescent b—” She broke off abruptly and ended with
a simple “Oh.”
Ra-khir’s thoughts drifted back to a bitter childhood he rarely consulted when raising his own sons. When Ra-khir was quite young, his parents had separated. His mother had remarried and insisted that her new husband was his father. She had held Kedrin at bay with threats and trickery, lied to Ra-khir about his origins, and the fool she married assisted her deception. Ra-khir had not learned the truth until his teens. When his mother gave him an ultimatum, he chose his father over her and started the relationship he should have had throughout his childhood. “When I was an adolescent boy, I was just getting to know and love my father. And I had every reason to dislike my mother.”
Kevral turned him an apologetic look. She had clearly not intended to dredge up those memories. “Adolescent boys who grow up with loving parents reach a stage where they sort of . . .” Kevral cocked her head, as if trying to quote someone verbatim and not quite finding the correct words. “. . . distance themselves from their parents in order to find their own place in the world.”
Ra-khir guessed at the source of Kevral’s words. “Matrinka?” Usually, she quoted Colbey Calistinsson, but child rearing was not the purview of the consummate Renshai.
Kevral smiled sheepishly. “Darris, actually. He was in Erythane several months back doing . . . something diplomatic . . .”
Ra-khir marveled at how such brilliance with martial training could be accompanied by such complete ignorance about anything political.
“. . . and I asked him why my boys went from treating me like a fount of wisdom to treating me like a humiliating and utter moron.”
Ra-khir huffed out a relieved sigh. “So it’s not just me?”
“No, it’s all parents. Apparently, we’re all morons. For a while, at least.”
Glad to find a logical and less personal reason for the change in his relationship with Saviar, Ra-khir glanced back toward the class. It did not appear as if the Knight’s-Captain, or any of the Renshai students, had moved a muscle.
“So, do you think Saviar had a reason for wanting to accompany you? Or do you think he’s just avoiding his lessons?”
Flight of the Renshai Page 7
