Subikahn forced his thoughts past her hatred of Renshai, knowing it too well to show any giveaway expression or gesture. He worried not for himself, but for Saviar. What if his ill brother said something in ignorance, something revealing? Could Subikahn convince the Myrcidians to discard the crazed ramblings of a dying man? Instead, he forced himself to focus on the one surviving mage. He knew he had heard of at least one Wizard. “Was it . . . the Eastern Wizard? The one credited with returning the great King Sterrane to his throne?”
“Shadimar,” Chymmerlee supplied the name, and Subikahn recognized it. “That was him. The most powerful of the last four Cardinal Wizards, and the only one born to Myrcidë. Nearly immortal, he was forced to see his people destroyed, their utmost treasure plundered.”
Chymmerlee’s words brought back stories from the opposite viewpoint. Subikahn guessed which item the Eastern Wizard had prized, but every Renshai knew that the greatest of the Cardinal Wizards had been Colbey Calistinsson himself, the Western Wizard forced to stand against the other three—in triumph. “The Pica Stone.”
Now, Chymmerlee stiffened, revealing the discomfort Subikahn had so well hidden. “You know of the Pica Stone?”
“Everyone knows the Pica. It was shattered, its pieces scattered throughout the many worlds. When its magic was needed, mankind and elves worked together to find its shards and re-create it. Now, it’s Béarn’s treasure, the testing item used to select the future high kings and queens.”
Chymmerlee stared. “The Pica Stone was mended?” Her eyes widened with innocent awe. “It still exists? Our elders will want to know this. Will need to know this.”
Subikahn wondered how they could not already know this. It had happened eighteen years ago. Shortly after his birth, his own parents had led the expedition. He had believed the recovery of the Pica common knowledge, but he supposed the secrecy of the mages might keep them ignorant of the goings-on in the rest of the world. “You said all of the mages were killed but one, and that one never fathered a child. So . . . where do you come from?”
The question jarred Chymmerlee back to the story, though she clearly needed to further mull his revelation. “The mages . . . were never allowed to marry commoners; it was thought to dilute the line, our power. Yet, apparently, a few did sneak off and create mixed offspring. Either these were unknown or deliberately ignored. But, centuries later, Jeremilan was born to common parents. Apparently, he carried the blood of two of those secretive unions, enough to grant him the power to discover and open the secret store of our ancestors.”
“Secret . . . store?”
“A trove of lore and information, hidden for centuries and magicked so that only one of sufficient mage potential could happen upon it or open it.”
“So,” Subikahn put the details together. “This Jeremilan, born of common parents, had enough mage blood to become the new father of Myrcidë.”
“Exactly.”
“And the mothers of Myrcidë?”
“Well—it helps that mages can see auras.”
The answer seemed to bear no relation to the question, and Subikahn stared questioningly at Chymmerlee. “Auras?”
“That glowy thing you saw around me that made you all crazy. That’s an aura.”
Subikahn remembered. “In all fairness, I thought you were a minion of Hel, and you were going to use that ‘glowy thing’ to kill my—” Abruptly realizing he once again sounded crazy, he laughed. “What’s the purpose of that ‘glowy thing,’ that ‘aura,’ anyway?”
Chymmerlee also laughed. “I’m not sure auras have a purpose, other than helping magical beings recognize each other. It’s just a byproduct of magic.” The explanation made sense to Subikahn, but the words that followed did not. “You have one, you know.”
“I have one?” Understanding seeped through. “You mean a glowy, aura thing?”
“Yes.You have an aura. A ‘glowy, aura thing,’ if you prefer.”
“But I don’t have any mag—” I do, Subikahn realized suddenly. I have the sword.
“You do.” Chymmerlee echoed Subikahn’s thought, then took a different tack. “Apparently, you have enough mage blood in you to grant you one. I haven’t seen an aura on your brother yet, but he’s been unconscious.”
And I have his sword. Things came together in that instant. Chymmerlee only helped Saviar because of my aura, because she believed we’re of mage lineage. Subikahn shivered at a terrible realization. He had no idea how long he could hide the truth from wielders of magic, no way to understand in how much danger it placed them. Clearly, the Myrcidians had the potential to wield great power, and they did not like Renshai. Saviar had demonstrated a bit more caution and craftiness than his famously guileless father and grandfather, but he would not know to hide his origins. They had, after all, intended to create a new, friendlier face for the Renshai.
If Chymmerlee had any inkling of the desperate boil of thought consuming Subikahn, she gave no notice. “Jeremilan searched for auraed people. When he found them, he got to know them. And, if they showed proper interest, he inducted them. At length, we had a small band with which to repopulate the mages.”
“A small band?” Subikahn forced himself to keep his attention on the story, though more concerned for what Saviar might say upon awakening. He remembered the problems the Renshai had when they had been forced to re-create their tribe. Inbreeding remained a Renshai concern, which he assumed was why they agreed to accept him and his brothers despite their half-blood status. “Doesn’t repopulating take a rather large band? Otherwise, you wind up marrying brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters.”
Chymmerlee blushed. “It helps that mages outlive other humans, so we had time to pick, find, and choose. But, yes, we do have trouble finding new and unrelated blood. That’s one of the reasons we’re so eager to help you and Saviar. It’s been many decades since we’ve added anyone not already in the clan.”
Subikahn chewed his lower lip.
“You have the aura; and, unless your mage blood comes wholly through your father, your twin should have some, too.”
Needing at least as much goodwill for Saviar as himself, Subikahn said quickly, “Oh, it’s definitely not from my father.”
Chymmerlee’s brow beetled. “How do you know that?”
“Because my father can trace his wholly Eastern lineage to kings.” It was at least partially true. Tae Kahn’s bloodline was as pure and regal as mud, but it was almost certainly solely Eastern. And he was the king, though it had nothing to do with bloodline. “Mama’s the Westerner.” Also true, though not by blood. It was all Subikahn could do to suppress a chuckle at the irony. His life depended on fooling mages into believing he descended from their pure line, when, in fact, he did not carry a single drop of even the meanest Western blood.
Chymmerlee clasped her hands, and her face lit up. “That’s wonderful!”
Her exuberance surprised him. Subikahn could not recall the last time he had seen such obvious joy. “Wonderful?”
Chymmerlee brought her hands in front of her face, clearly trying to suppress her excitement. “It means Saviar has mage blood, too.” Her efforts at hiding her mood failed. Her happiness came out in a light tapping of her toes that resembled pent-up dancing.
Subikahn rolled his eyes. He had seen that expression before. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“In love?” Chymmerlee narrowed her eyes, simulating horror; but the flush growing across her cheeks gave her away. “Why, I hardly know him. I’ve never even spoken to him. He’s in a coma, by the gods.” She pursed her lips sternly. “Besides, I’m sure a handsome man like Saviar already has too many girlfriends.”
Subikahn returned his gaze to the window. The scene outside had not changed, the only movement the bowing of branches in a light breeze. He wanted to lie, to tell her Saviar’s heart was taken; but he could not bring himself to do it. Right now, he needed the mages to like them, and Chymmerlee had done enough for Saviar to deserve better.
Chymmerlee lowered her head demurely, but Subikahn could tell just by her forehead that she wore an enormous grin.
Gradually, a morose feeling stole over Subikahn, for reasons he could not explain. Jealousy seemed impossible; he felt no attraction to Chymmerlee. For a moment, he wondered if he worried over losing Saviar’s attention, but his heart told him otherwise. It was Talamir he missed, the courting dance, the heady days when a young man feels those first stirrings of affection but does not yet know where to take them and worries that the object of his interest will not return his love.
Chymmerlee’s voice disrupted Subikahn’s thoughts. “I’m eighteen.”
The words seemed so out of place, Subikahn had to wonder. Did I ask her? I don’t remember asking her.
“Well, I said we outlive other humans, which is true. I didn’t want you to think that I only look young because I’m magical. And I’m really thirty or something.”
Subikahn had never considered the possibility. “We’re nineteen.” Suspicions aroused, he asked, “And just how long do mages live?”
“True mages, the original mages, they went five hundred or so years.”
Subikahn jerked his gaze from the window to stare at Chymmerlee. “Five hundred?”
“Sometimes seven or eight hundred. But we mixes may not live so long. Jeremilan is over two hundred, I believe—”
“Jeremilan is still alive—”
“—but we’ve had others who lived normal mortal spans or only slightly longer. In general, it seems like the more mage blood, the longer the life; but a lot of the purer bloods actually die in infancy or childhood.”
Inbreeding. Subikahn nodded. The mages had a definite problem.
“I’m sorry. I’m boring you with all this information.”
It should have been tiresome, yet Subikahn found himself intrigued. In the back of his mind, he realized he held a serious stake in knowing these details. The Myrcidians helped us because they think we’re mages.They need new blood. A sharp lump filled his throat. Could it be they want us for breeding stock? The idea sent a shiver of dread through Subikahn. He had already suffered all the loveless sex he could stand, and he had no intention of attaching himself to these mages for the remainder of his life. For now, however, he had no choice but to play along. “Boring me? No, I’m fascinated.” Subikahn finally sat. Placing his hands on his chin, and his elbows on his left thigh, he leaned toward Chymmerlee. “Please, tell me more.”
As Treysind had predicted, they reached a town the following day. Surrounded by farm fields lush with summer crops, the buildings clustered at the center. Treysind stopped to fill the waterskins at a well, while Calistin glanced around the streets seeking some logical gathering point, such as a tavern. Finding none, he turned his attention to the people, all of whom stared at the strangers as they passed but none of whom paused to talk.
Treysind seemed to take forever. Besides carrying at least six waterskins by Calistin’s count, he also kept careful track of his companion’s location at all times. Apparently, he worried that Calistin would take advantage of an inattentive moment to disappear again. It was not an unreasonable fear.
As Calistin waited for Treysind to finish, he noticed a placard posted atop the well:
Sheaton Laws:
1. No killing
2. No stealing
3. No brawling
4. Do not display weapons of any kind
5. Only the bucket may enter this well
Calistin smiled, rearranging his sword belt to assure his swords showed prominently. Only a competent warrior would dare confront a man violating any of the first four rules, especially one so obviously well-equipped. While Treysind continued filling waterskins, Calistin leaned casually against the well, in flagrant violation of the law, and waited for the repercussions.
Now, Calistin noticed that the citizens whispered to one another as they passed, and a small crowd began to gather along the closest buildings, a safe distance from where he stood.
As they did so, Treysind grew visibly nervous. He paused frequently to glance at the growing chaos of spectators.
Finally, a man approached. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-shaven, he appeared to be about thirty. He wore a clean pair of brown britches, a tan woolen shirt, and a tunic belted at the waist. A cloak covered his outfit, but Calistin could make out a hilt buried beneath it. Though not openly, the man clearly carried a sword.
Calistin’s opinion of the stranger plummeted. No Renshai would hamper his sword arm by pinning his weapon beneath fabric. He turned the newcomer a look of bored nonchalance.
Treysind stopped his task, set aside the last of his waterskins, and drew up beside Calistin.
The man extended a hand in greeting. “Welcome to Sheaton.” He used the Common Trading tongue.
Calistin only nodded.
“Thank ya’s!” Treysind said exuberantly.
Calistin frowned but said nothing, leaving the next move to the stranger.
The man let his hand drop to his side. “My name’s Howall. I keep the peace here in Sheaton.”
Calistin met his gaze.
Treysind looked at Calistin. Taking his cues from his hero, he also went silent.
The crowd seemed to lean forward collectively, listening for an answer that never came.
Locked into a one-sided conversation, Howall continued, “Just wondering if you read, young man.”
Not wanting Treysind to answer and make them both look stupid, Calistin finally spoke, “I read.”
Howall’s brows inched upward. Clearly, he had assumed illiteracy accounted for Calistin’s flagrant violation. “Did you happen to notice the laws of our town?” He tipped his head toward the placard.
Calistin did not bother to turn. “I noticed.”
Treysind whirled, staring at the sign, though it seemed unlikely he could make anything out of it.
“Then, you know we don’t allow the open display of weapons here.”
Having already decided to answer only direct questions, Calistin said nothing.
Treysind looked from Calistin to Howall and back. “We ain’t meanin’ ta vi’late no laws . . .”
Calistin frowned, wishing the boy would just shut up, and not for the first time. “Yes I am. I’m meaning to violate the law.”
Treysind’s jaw clamped suddenly closed.
Howall’s nostrils flared. “You mean to . . .”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Calistin also meant to irritate. “Why not?”
Treysind reached for Calistin’s hand, but he jerked it away. The boy whispered, “What’s ya doin’, Hero?”
Howall kept his attention on Calistin. He peeled aside his cloak just far enough to grant access to his own weapon. “Then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Calistin never moved from his cavalier position against the well. “Ask, then.”
Howall’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“You said you would have to ask me to leave.”
“Yes.”
“So ask.”
Howall’s hands balled to fists. He had clearly lost patience, which pleased Calistin. “Young man, you’re not funny. Will you either put away your weapons or leave Sheaton forever?”
“No.”
“No, you will not pack up your weapons? Or, no, you will not leave?”
The conversation had grown tedious to Calistin, who was ready for his battle. “No, I will not ‘either put away my weapons or leave Sheaton.’ ”
Again, Treysind reached for Calistin’s hand, this time managing to brush it before Calistin knocked Treysind away.
“Neither?”
Treysind hissed, “Let’s jus’ go, Hero.”
Now, Calistin recalled why he wa
nted to ditch his devoted companion. “I believe I made myself clear.”
The crowd had shuffled closer. Howall seemed to take no notice. “Then you leave me no choice, stranger. I’ll have to remove you from Sheaton.”
“All right.” Calistin finally stood up straight. “You may try.”
Howall’s brows shot up. He seemed more curious and uncertain than angry. “Very well.” He reached for his hilt and started to draw.
Faster, Calistin whipped his blade out and slammed it against Howall’s hilt, pinning it. A foot sweep sent Howall toppling, with Calistin’s sword at his throat.
The crowd gasped, shrinking from the violence.
Calistin sheathed his sword in one fluid motion, exasperated by the ease of his victory.
Howall clambered to his feet. The light had gone out of his eyes, replaced by a flicker of fear.
“Would you like to try again?” Calistin suggested.
Howall set his jaw, then grabbed for his hilt. This time, he got it free before Calistin’s blade licked through, chopping it from his grip.
Calistin could have caught it but did not respect his opponent enough to do so. Howall’s sword crashed to the cobbles as Calistin sheathed his own weapon. He looked askance at the self-proclaimed peacekeeper. “Is that the best you can do?”
Howall’s gaze went to his weapon on the ground. He started to reach for it, watching Calistin as he did so. Clearly, he did not wish to make himself any more vulnerable.
Calistin stepped away, less in a show of good faith than to denigrate. He did not need any advantage to destroy this pitiful excuse for a town guardian.
Howall picked up his sword but made no move toward Calistin. Nor did he look at the crowd behind him.
It was all too easy, and that bothered Calistin more than anything. This man, this best Sheaton had to offer, was not worth the time it had taken to talk to him. He addressed the crowd. “You deserve better.” With that, he lunged in again.
Howall attempted to parry. Once more Calistin cut the sword from his hand, and then bore in for a power stroke that would claim the man’s head.
Flight of the Renshai Page 47
