Mickey Reichert: Flight of the Renshai

"As are we all," Saxanar said, tone made gravelly by grief. "This is a sad day for Bearn."

His fervor spent, Zaysharn disappeared back into his usual quiet position, his head bowed.

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 Bearn."

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.

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 musserende, "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 andelig 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.