Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Amazir rose with a quickness that belied his age, though Calistin had become accustomed to it. Only as the swordmaster disappeared into the brush to change did some of the more important queries rise to Calistin's mind. It seemed petty to worry about appearances when so much of his origins still remained obscure. Amazir could answer so much, if Calistin only thought to ask the right questions.

Treysind moved closer. "Yas all righ', Hero?"

Treysind's worry seemed nonsensical. "Of course I'm all right," Calistin snapped. Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"He gived ya big news. Don't it matter ta ya?" Treysind threw himself into Calistin's arms, embracing him.

Uncertain how to handle the situation, Calistin remained still, allowing the warmth of the boy to reach him. It was a hug that radiated brotherhood and understanding, and it did make him feel a bit better. He would die before he would admit it, however. "Get off me, Treysind." He gave the boy a light shove. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin'." Treysind backed away. "Jus' tryin' ta make ya feel better." A glimmer of disappointment flashed through his pale eyes. "Ain't I doin' it right? 'cause I ain't got much practice."

Once again, Calistin found himself looking at the world through Treysind's eyes, an orphan scarcely old enough to remember a mother's love, if he had ever known it. "No, I'm sure you're doing it right… if I was a great big girl. I can handle my own problems, no matter how overwhelming they might seem to you."

Clearly hurt, Treysind turned away.

Calistin closed his eyes and sighed. "Look, Treysind. Don't think I don't appreciate your trying to help me. I do, but-"

To Calistin's relief, Amazir returned before he had to come up with the words to finish. Previously, his torke had appeared ancient; now, he seemed merely aging. His hair was Northern golden, with a liberal sprinkling of silver. His features looked solid, chiseled, with blunt cheekbones and a gently-arched chin. Four straight scars marred one cheek, in lines, just in front of his ear. The body remained lithe, lean, and sinewy; but the skin now looked healthy and well-veined instead of paper thin. The eyes remained the same timeless and intense blue-gray. It was not, Calistin realized, a particularly handsome or homely visage, but one that might easily disappear into a crowd. And he believed he did see some resemblance in the oval of his torke's face, the fine straight nose, pointed chin, and the average-sized lips; but, most of all, in those damnable, piercing eyes.

The questions remained, but Calistin found himself nearly incapable of asking. Hating one's torke was a time-honored occurrence among Renshai; he doubted a single one of his students could stand him. He demanded only respect and obedience, never love. Yet to discover that this man's son had raped his mother would drive him past outrage to murder. Amazir's words still rang in his ears: "Your blood grandfather gave his blessing to Ra-khir as your father. He promised that his family would not interfere." What cold and terrible arrogance would cause a man to believe he had a right to any child conceived to his family through rape.

But Calistin did not ask. He could not. For to do so meant losing the one truly good thing that had happened since the Northmen had come to Bearn. If he never learned the answer to that obvious question, the truth became solely what he made it out to be, nothing more and nothing less. He might never learn to love or trust this man who had taught him so much; but, at least in ignorance, he could continue to learn from Amazir's spectacular talent.

Something brushed Saviar's forehead. His fingers inched instinctively for his sword, but his hand closed around nothing. Someone had apparently managed to disarm him. He turned the motion into a sleep movement, judging his surroundings in eye-closed darkness. He felt the heat of a nearby body, and a hand touched his face again. Quick as a snake, he grabbed the stranger's wrist, only to find his own movement unbearably clumsy. As he opened his eyes, a high-pitched scream rang through his ears.

Saviar stared into a terrified, young female face. Intelligent eyes, gray-blue in color, were wide open. The nose was straight above large lips in a longish oval face, and her ears were invisible beneath thick waves of mahogany hair. A spray of freckles decorated her cheeks.

An instant later, Subikahn also stood over him. "Savi! Saviar, you're awake."

That being self-evident, Saviar saw no reason to reply. He lay in an unfamiliar, stone-walled room with no memory of how he had gotten there. "Where are we?" His voice emerged as an unrecognizable croak, and his throat felt on fire.

"You tell him." The girl pulled her hand from his grip, and Saviar made no attempt to stop her. His twin did not look entirely at ease, but they clearly were not in any imminent danger. He also noticed, at once, that Subikahn wore Motfrabelonning. "I'll go let the others know."

Saviar struggled to sit up, surprised at how difficult he found that simple motion. He felt strangely weak, thinner than he remembered, but he still managed to demand the necessary. "Give me back my sword." Now seated on a blanket-covered pallet, he looked at Subikahn's wildly uncombed hair and lines impressed onto his cheeks by whatever folded cloth he had used as a pillow. "And you look awful!"

A smile touched Subikahn's lips, but he did not respond to the insult, even with friendly banter. He passed over the sword, and Saviar drew it protectively into his lap. "I'll explain everything soon. For now, just promise me you won't tell anyone we're…" He lowered his voice to the barest whisper. "… Renshai."

"Why not?" Saviar managed hoarsely. He tried to fasten the sheathed weapon to his belt, his fingers responding with a sluggish, frustrating awkwardness.

Subikahn glanced over his shoulder. "I'll explain later. Just promise me."

"But I-" It took him twice as long as it should have, but Saviar managed to reattach his sword. An immediate sense of relief fell over him.

"Promise!" Subikahn's voice remained low but gained force. "Just do it."

"All right." Saviar knew he would learn nothing more until he did as his twin asked. "I promise; I promise." He dropped his own voice to a whisper that kept the pain to a bare minimum. "Now tell me where we are."

Subikahn sighed and back stepped. Before he could answer, however, a group of strange men and women burst into the room, all talking simultaneously. They used the Western tongue with an accent Saviar did not recognize, and he found it impossible to follow any particular conversation.

An elder at the front of the pack raised a hand, and the group gradually fell silent. Though feeling dizzy and sick, Saviar studied his every movement. He had a slow deliberateness about him that would make him an inferior swordsman, and his muscles had clearly withered with age. However, his limbs did not tremble and his light brown eyes remained clear as he returned Saviar's scrutiny. "Tell us your name, young man."

Saviar opened his mouth, but Subikahn answered first. "I told you. That's my-"

Frowning deeply, the elder cut Subikahn off with a gesture. "I need to hear it from him."

The young woman Saviar had caught earlier threaded her way through the pack to stand at Subikahn's side. She spoke softly to him, and Subikahn nodded reluctantly.

Saviar cleared his throat, then wished he had not. It felt as if tiny shards of metal had become embedded in it. "My name is Saviar Ra-khirsson." True to his word, he said nothing more, leaving off the details of his tribal affiliation.

The elder smiled. "And mine is Jeremilan Ham's son."