Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

"Ya's wort' findin', Hero. Whatever it tooked."

Calistin understood his appeal to Renshai and other adults who might envy or hope to benefit from his prowess. The boy's motives, however, confounded him. "You mean, because I can protect you?"

The look Treysind gave Calistin was fierce, and he took a snapping bite at his food. "Not 'cause a that." He chewed as he spoke. " 'Cause ya needs me ta 'tect ya."

Calistin laughed before he could stop himself, great humiliating belly guffaws that left Treysind looking vexed and angry. The boy returned to eating, shoulders hunched over his meal.

Calistin turned his attention back to his own food. Usually, long pauses never bothered him, but this one did. The conversation was clearly over, at least until the next stop. And, though he could not explain it, he felt as if he had lost something important.

They called themselves the Mages of Myrcide, and they descended upon Saviar like a tidal wave. At first, Subikahn hovered over them, clinging to Motfrabelonning's hilt. Soon, however, the flashes and flares of their auras became a distraction that sapped, rather than increased, his alertness. He had no choice but to trust Chymmerlee's tribe. Without her aid, he knew, Saviar would already be dead.

Chymmerlee took Subikahn's arm and led him from the chaos, and he found himself following in silent gratitude. For three days, they had traveled together, her magic buoying her end of Saviar's litter. Subikahn had exhausted himself with worry as well as effort. Yet, somehow, Saviar clung always to a life that seemed more like a lingering death.

Chymmerlee had finally brought them to a series of hidden caves at the edge of the Weathered Mountains. So well-hidden, in fact, that magic had to play a part in their concealment. The Myrcidians lived simply, it seemed, without frippery or finery to mar the homey simplicity of their interconnected lodgings. However, they looked reasonably fed, their clothing free from holes and patches. Windows opened onto the mountains, revealing their grandeur and beauty, yet, somehow, invisible from outside the caves. The mages did not suffer from a darkness that should plague any society so secreted.

Though he doubted he could escape through it, Subikahn still felt more comfortable next to a window overlooking the forests of the Westlands. Clouds partially swathed the sun, keeping the temperature comfortably cool, and a breeze blasted occasionally through the opening, carrying the aroma of flowers and summer greenery. For a concealed cave, it wholly lacked the stifling dusty, moldy odors he expected.

Chymmerlee delicately lowered herself into a wooden chair nearby. For the first time, Subikahn noticed she had a grace suitable for swordsmanship. "You should sit, too."

Subikahn shook his head and started staring through the window at the bobbing branches. "I prefer to stand, if you don't mind."

"As you wish." Apparently intrigued by Subikahn's attention to the outdoors, Chymmerlee leaned in her chair to look through the window also. "If anyone can save Saviar, they can."

Subikahn made a noncommittal noise. He had already trusted his brother to these strangers, these Mages of Myrcide. "And if they can't?"

It was a foolish question, with only one answer. "Then he will die. But at least we will have given him a chance no one else could."

Subikahn made another wordless noise. He had no right or reason to complain, only the knowledge that the Myrcidians could not fail. His own life ended the moment they did. Suicide would condemn him to Hel; at least, he would join his brother there. He could never enjoy the perfect rewards of Valhalla knowing he had damned Saviar never to experience them.

Chymmerlee took Subikahn's hand. Hers felt soft, comforting, so unlike Talamir's callused fingers. Her touch alone eased some of the pain. "How did Saviar get that wound?"

It was not the first time Chymmerlee had asked, not the first time Subikahn had dodged the question. "First," Subikahn said, "tell me about your people. They clearly aren't elves. So where does their magic come from, and why do they hide from the world?"

Chymmerlee hesitated, avoiding Subikahn's searching gaze, becoming sharply focused on the scene outside the window that even Subikahn, in his short time there, had memorized. Finally, she sighed. "You've trusted us with the most precious thing in your life. I suppose it's only fair we trust you as well."

Subikahn nodded encouragingly. He truly was interested, and he felt certain the long story would also distract her from wondering about Saviar's injury, perhaps for a few more days.

"The Mages of Myrcide did not always seek the shadows," Chymmerlee began. "Once, we were a powerful people. Some of the world loved and revered us, others feared our magic; but all knew us as a necessary part of society." She smiled sheepishly. "At least that's what I'm told. It was centuries past, long before my grandparents' births, that Myrcidians walked freely among the peoples of the West."

"And yet," Subikahn said softly, "you're not in the legends, not in the annals of history. I've never heard tell of the Mages of Myrcide."

"Though we went by that very name, even then. And if we've been scrubbed from history, it is only because of one group of people, the most savage to ever slaughter their way across our world."

The Fenris Wolf came to Subikahn's mind. The evil god, Loki. The hordes of Hel's dead who rose up for the Ragnarok that nearly ended the world. Yet, he was not surprised by her next words.

"The Renshai." Chymmerlee fairly spat the name. "The Renshai's spree of murder saw the end of every mage. They branded the Myrcidians their greatest challenge, and they refused to end the battle until every mage was dead. Every mage, that is, but one. And that one mage, though he never fathered a child, did make it into the historical writings."

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 Myrcide. 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 Bearn'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?"