“As I understand it, you single-handedly declared war on the Westlands’ largest city.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And engineered a prison break through the high kingdom’s impossible maze.”
“That was—”
“Looked upon Valhalla while alive, volunteered to face unknown physical and magical dangers on multiple worlds, and even took Colbey Calistinsson’s prized stallion.”
“Now wait a second! I didn’t take Colbey’s horse. He gave it to me.” Ra-khir realized how ridiculous that sounded even as the words left his lips.
But Thialnir only smiled more broadly. “I rest my case.”
It was not worth arguing, even if it weren’t all true. Ra-khir sighed. “You couldn’t stop Calistin?”
“I could more easily have stopped the Ragnarok, I think.” Thialnir’s grin turned lopsided. “Besides, he disappeared immediately after the battle. There was no chance for talking.”
Ra-khir knew he had no choice but to go after Calistin, to keep him from committing suicide out of a sense of obligation or, worse, retaliation. “And Saviar?”
Thialnir looked around Ra-khir toward the fire. “Saviar, I could have stopped. But I didn’t.”
Ra-khir blinked. It sounded like a foolish answer, but Thialnir was no fool. For the moment, he reveled in the knowledge that both boys had survived the battle and let Thialnir explain.
“His brothers needed him more than we did.”
“Brothers?” Ra-khir felt certain he had heard the plural. “You mean Subikahn was here, too?”
As always, Thialnir got right to the point. “Yes, though not officially. He remained hidden.”
Ra-khir’s brow furrowed, and he fell silent as he pondered the significance of that information.
As if in direct response to the thought, Thialnir explained. “Calistin’s too impulsive and would benefit from Saviar’s common sense. And Subikahn returned without his torke, which means he’s in some kind of trouble in the East. Given that he’s a prince, it’s likely serious; and his refusal to actually join us, his own people, suggests he may have murdered Talamir and can’t face us. Saviar claims he got himself banished from the Eastlands.”
“Subikahn banished from the East?” It seemed utterly impossible.
Thialnir’s huge shoulders rose and fell again. “I don’t know if it’s true, but Subikahn and Calistin needed Saviar more than I did. So, I told him to go. It didn’t take much encouragement.”
Ra-khir loosed a pent-up breath, thrilled to learn all three of Kevral’s boys still lived, at least until their own stupid, adolescent bravado got them killed. At any rate, they’re together. United, it would take an army to bring them down.
“By the way,”Thialnir added, not quite conversationally. “I promised not to tell anyone about Subikahn.”
Ra-khir froze. He raised his head ever so slowly to meet Thialnir’s gaze. “Then . . . why did you tell me?”
Thialnir loosed a chuckle. “Because you needed to know. If I’d mentioned in advance it was something I wasn’t supposed to pass along, you wouldn’t have let me tell you.”
“Of course not.”
“But now that you know, you’ll have no choice but to keep the secret, too. So, no harm done.”
Though glad he knew, Ra-khir wished Thialnir had not deceived him. No Knight of Erythane would willingly become complicit in the breaking of confidences. But now that he had the information, Thialnir was right. He had to keep it confidential. “Not very nice, Thialnir.”
Thialnir rolled his eyes. “Renshai aren’t known for their sweet dispositions.” He extended a hand in friendship. “Can I make it up to you with a good meal and a protected place to spend the night?”
Ra-khir knew he had a lot of work ahead of him. Tracking hundreds of people moving together to a known destination had proven easy. Following three youngsters randomly northward across the enormous Westlands would prove a much more formidable task. “I accept your hospitality with gratitude, though I question your honesty about that meal.”
Thialnir’s brows rose in question.
“Any group of men about to hurl an unskinned, unbutchered deer onto a blazing fire knows absolutely nothing about cooking. The stink of burning hair itself might kill us all, and it will take a week to cook through whole.”
“Ah, but I didn’t lie, Ra-khir.You and your . . .” he paused.
“Apprentice,” Ra-khir filled in. “Darby.”
“You and your apprentice are here to oversee the cooking; so, if you stay, you will get the good meal I promised.”
Ra-khir could not deny the reasoning. “Thank you, Thialnir. We accept your kind, and honest, invitation. I consider it an honor to dine among Renshai.”
Thialnir smiled but said nothing. The words were diluted by the realization that, not long ago, Ra-khir ate with Renshai every day. I consider it an honor to dine among Renshai. Likely, Thialnir had never heard such a thing before. And it pleased him.
Subikahn awakened with a start to find himself flopped over a deadfall, his brother’s sword still clenched in his fist. He had no memory of falling asleep nor of what might have awakened him. The fire had burned down to ash and glowing cinders. Beside it, Saviar sprawled beneath piles of clothing, breathing in uneven snores and moans.
Breathing. That one realization reassured Subikahn. He sprang to his feet, shaking the last vestiges of slumber from his thoughts and movements. Only then, he realized it was a misplaced sound that had awakened him. He cocked his head, trying to rediscover it: the shuffle of a human footstep, a ladylike sneeze. Poking his head through the brush, he glanced along a path so lightly traveled he had assumed only deer walked it toward the pond from which he had filled their waterskins. Now, he saw a young woman striding along it, carrying an earthen jug.
Hel? Dressed in a light, swirling fabric, auburn hair billowing in the breeze, she little resembled the half-rotting, centuries-old depictions of the Underworld goddess Subikahn had seen. Yet, he also knew the gods had magic to shapechange. They also had plenty of minions.
Subikahn leaped onto the pathway, sword raised. “You cannot have him!”
The girl screamed, dropping the jug, which shattered in the dirt.
Torn between attacking and apologizing, Subikahn lowered his sword.
The girl ignored the broken crockery to focus fully on Subikahn. She turned sideways, raised her hands, and took a cautious backward step. “Stay away from me! I’m warning you!” A breathy quality stole all threat from her tone. Terror leached through her bravado. A misty outline, like heat haze, grew around her.
“Are you a minion of Hel?” Subikahn demanded, afraid to immediately discount the possibility. If he guessed wrong, he might doom his brother’s soul.
“Am I . . . what?”
“A minion of Hel,” Subikahn repeated impatiently. “Are you a minion of Hel?”
“A minion?”
“Yes!”
“Of . . . Hel?”
“Yes!”
The young woman paused. Even from a distance, Subikahn could see her eyes narrow. “Are you entirely moonstruck?”
Subikahn knew he had to sound insane, yet he dared not take a chance. He stuffed the sword into his belt. If she was a supernatural creature, she ought to disappear. Yet, she remained, although he could no longer see the shimmering vapor that had encompassed her. Not all was normal about this stranger. “I’m not crazy. I’m just protecting my brother.”
“From minions of Hel?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure you’re not—”
“I’m not crazy.” Subikahn continued to watch her every movement. “And you know I have reason to be wary of you. You’re not entirely . . . human.”
The girl jerked up her head. “I’m not?”
Subikahn touched the hilt of Saviar’s sword and again saw the haze he had previously noticed. When he released the weapon, the glow disappeared. “There’s an unnatural fog around you. Is it magi
c hiding your true appearance?”
“A fog . . .” The girl’s hands went to her mouth. Her demeanor tightened, seeming more excited than distressed. “You can see it?”
That being self-evident, Subikahn saw no reason to answer.
“My name is Chymmerlee.” She pronounced it Kim-er-lee, with a faint trace of an accent Subikahn could not identify. “Look again. Can you still see the aura?”
Discreetly, Subikahn touched the sword and studied the figure in front of him. She had the lean, lanky appearance of a teen, perhaps a year or two younger than himself. Straight, red-brown hair fell just past her shoulders, cut short in layers around an oval face with large eyes and a pert nose. The shimmering haze had disappeared. “No,” he admitted. “It’s gone. And you look otherwise the same.”
Chymmerlee took a few cautious steps toward Subikahn. “You’re a mage.”
For reasons he could not wholly comprehend, Subikahn took the pronouncement as an insult. “I am not.”
She stopped again, this time near enough he could see that a few freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were a pale blue-gray. “You know nothing of magic?”
Subikahn tightened his grip on the hilt, warningly. “I know enough not to let someone who hides behind it near my injured brother.” He crouched, prepared for battle. “I also know nothing human can cast spells, only gods and elves.”
Chymmerlee made a clicking noise with her tongue, and her hand went to her mouth again. “Your brother’s injured? And we’re standing here bandying words?”
Subikahn remained in stance.
Chymmerlee closed her eyes, seemingly oblivious to the threat. Either she had powerful magic that she believed could get her safely past a readied Renshai or she was wholly ignorant of combat. “You thought I was . . . and your brother . . .” Her features opened in sudden understanding. “Your brother’s not just injured, he’s dying. And you thought I came to—”
“You cannot have him,” Subikahn repeated.
“I don’t want him!” Chymmerlee rushed toward Subikahn. “At least, not in the way you think I do.”
The sword whipped up.
Chymmerlee stopped abruptly, loosing a frightened squeak. Finally, she recognized the danger. “Don’t hurt me. Please. I’m trying to help.”
Subikahn wanted to believe her. “How?”
“I have some healing skill. Not a lot, but if I can get him stabilized, we can transport him to my people. They might be able to save him.”
Subikahn hesitated. It had to be a trick, yet hope gripped him with such suddenness he found himself shaking. “How do I know you’re not going to kill him? That you’re not a minion of—”
“—Hel?” she filled in. “Is he well enough I have time to convince you?”
No, Subikahn realized. His father had an uncanny ability to read people’s intentions, one he at least partially shared. But he saw a vast difference between guessing the intent of a human stranger and an Outworlder. If she’s sent by Hel, and I let her touch him, I’ve doomed him. But if she is what she says, and I don’t, I’ve killed him. His intuition told him to trust Chymmerlee, but his mind warned otherwise. The only elf he had ever seen was the second wife of King Griff. It seemed a coincidence beyond believing that a friendly Outworlder would happen to show up at the same moment he expected a hostile one.
Chymmerlee said nothing. She no longer had the aura, and she looked inarguably human.
In the end, Subikahn trusted his heart. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “But if you harm him, you will not live to gloat about it.” With trepidation, he led her to the camp, focused on her every movement.
Chymmerlee moved with the grace of an acrobat, but not the awesome glide of an elf or goddess. Dutifully, she watched him for cues, attentive to the sword that he kept locked in his hand. If magic flared, Subikahn wanted to make certain he saw it at its earliest incantation.
Saviar still lay where Subikahn had left him, buried in a pile of laundry beside the failing embers. Attention on Chymmerlee, Subikahn cautiously removed each fire-warmed cloak, tunic, or undergarment and dropped it into a heap beside the sleeping figure. The last layer was damp, soaked through with sweat, and pulled free to reveal the pallid figure beneath it. Saviar’s wet clothing clung to his finely-chiseled muscles. His hair hung in limp, red strands.
Chymmerlee spoke for the first time since the pathway, in the awed whisper usually reserved for religious ceremonies. “He’s beautiful.”
It was a common reaction, and true, yet it seemed remarkably out of place. To Subikahn, his twin looked hideous: his breaths rattling, his skin sallow, his lids fluttering strangely over glazing eyes.
Chymmerlee sank to her knees beside Saviar, Subikahn hovering like an anxious father. She raised a hand, and a faint glowing outline appeared around it.
In a flash, Subikahn threw himself between them, sword at Chymmerlee’s throat.
She staggered backward with a desperate whimper, her features twisted in a mask of terror, her arms drawn tightly against her.
“What are you doing?” Subikahn demanded. “That was magic.”
Frozen in position, clearly afraid to move, Chymmerlee stared wide-eyed at Subikahn. “Of-of course it was magic. How-how else did you expect me to help someone this far gone?”
How else, indeed? Subikahn had not thought that far ahead. Every healer he had ever known used herbs to treat their patients. He lowered the sword but remained between the sorceress and his brother. “How will I know if it’s healing magic . . . or murder?”
Chymmerlee’s arms fell back to her sides. The fear drained from her face, replaced by a grim determination that made every freckle stand out. “We haven’t time for a dissertation on types of magic, and I didn’t come here to be assaulted. I’m trying to save your brother’s life. Are you going to stand aside or not?”
She had a point Subikahn could not deny. Either he trusted her and let her work, or he dispatched her. No one could succeed at anything under the conditions he had created. Subikahn stepped aside, jamming the sword back into his belt. “Just don’t hurt him. Please.” He knew he sounded pathetic, but he found it impossible to do otherwise. “Please. My twin means everything to me.”
Chymmerlee stiffened, clearly startled, but she moved back toward Saviar and knelt beside him. Once again, the glow surrounded her palms. She glanced warily at Subikahn, who deliberately raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. Apparently satisfied, she drew circles over Saviar’s still form before stopping directly over the bandages encircling his leg. She looked up. “May I take these off?”
Subikahn nodded stiffly, reassured by the question. If she had intended to steal his soul, she would not need to worry about such details.
Chymmerlee unwound the bandages. As each layer fell away, the stains became larger and darker, until the last pieces came free, releasing a torrent of red-brown pus. The edges of the wound had blackened, and snakelike bands of scarlet wound under his tunic and down to his toes. Saviar stiffened slightly and loosed a coarse grunt, but he did not otherwise move. His eyes remained closed.
“This wound has festered badly.”
“I know,” Subikahn said softly. “I know. Is there anything you can do?”
Chymmerlee’s expression revealed nothing, and a year seemed to tick past before she answered, “I’ll try.” Her hands hovered over Saviar’s leg, shining brightly, and every movement left a sharp trail of light. “I’ll need some quiet time. Why don’t you fashion a litter? My work will be for naught if we can’t move him to a more capable healer.”
Subikahn appreciated having something to do other than study her every movement and worry. Hel could not come for Saviar as long as Chymmerlee moved him always a few moments farther from death. He saw no real purpose to her request. He was not strong enough to carry Saviar alone, and it seemed unlikely she could do much to help. They might manage to drag him short distances, with great effort, but it would take a month to reach even the nearest town.
&n
bsp; When Subikahn returned with an armload of sturdy wood, Saviar did not appear much different. The flow of pus had stopped, though whether because Chymmerlee had staunched it or the amount trapped in the bandages had run its course, he did not know. The edges of the wound did seem more purple than black, and the red streaks looked, perhaps, a trifle less angry. Saviar continued to sleep. He no longer grunted, and his chest rose and fell in regular breaths. Though he had hoped for more, Subikahn would take whatever help he could get. Without Chymmerlee, Saviar would not have lasted the day.
Subikahn crouched at his brother’s head, peeling away copper-colored hairs sweat-plastered to a forehead that still felt dangerously fevered. He stared at Chymmerlee, suddenly feeling desperately indebted and ashamed. He wanted to apologize but worried that talking might interrupt her concentration. He had so many things he wished to say, so many questions to ask. But, for now, he concentrated only on his project.
CHAPTER 29
The hardest task in war is to lie in support of those engulfed in the fight.
—General Santagithi
WHEN SUBIKAHN FINISHED CRAFTING a litter large enough to support his broad-boned, powerful brother, he found Chymmerlee pawing through their packs. A thief, too? Irritation flared, swiftly suppressed. She could have everything he owned in payment for bringing Saviar back from the brink of death. “Looking for something?” he asked, trying to hold judgment from his tone.
Chymmerlee dropped the pack, cheeks flushing in raw circles. “I’m sorry. When I expend that much energy, I get desperately hungry. Your packs are practically empty. Don’t you men carry anything to eat?”
Subikahn dropped down beside her, feeling foolish. “I’ve got all our clothing piled on Saviar, and I’m afraid we’re better warriors than hunters.”
“Saviar,” Chymmerlee repeated, looking toward the sleeping figure. “Is that your brother’s name?”
“Yes.” Subikahn suddenly realized his major breach in etiquette. “And I’m Subikahn. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Well, you were too busy . . . um . . . threatening me.” Chymmerlee’s smile made it clear she meant no malice.
Flight of the Renshai Page 43
