Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Subikahn stiffened, and his gaze whipped to the speaker. He stared, which cued Saviar to be on his guard. He noticed nothing special about the man. White hair fell to narrow shoulders, and his wrinkled face told little about his mood. He wore a robe that, though not inordinately tight, fit well enough to reveal weapons, if he had carried any.

Apparently oblivious to the Renshai's interest in him, Jeremilan made a casual gesture toward Subikahn. "Do you know this young man?"

Saviar rolled his gaze to Subikahn, more from politeness to the elder's request than from necessity. Subikahn had not instructed him to avoid any topic but their status as Renshai; and he felt certain his brother would have warned him if any other information was dangerous. "That's my twin brother, Subikahn."

Murmurs traversed the group. Either Subikahn had not told them the relationship; or, more likely, they had thought him a liar.

Jeremilan's next question gave Saviar no insight. "Saviar, do you know where you are?"

Saviar shook his head carefully, so the movement did not intensify his vertigo. "I have absolutely no idea. Can you please tell me?"

The girl turned Subikahn a dirty look, and he shrugged. She had specifically instructed him to explain their location while she gathered the crowd now filling the room, but Subikahn had spent that time extracting a promise instead.

"You're with the Mages of Myrcide, Saviar." Jeremilan studied him for some reaction to the news, but Saviar gave him nothing but honest bewilderment. The word "mage" had magical connotations, but he had never heard of this Myrcide.

"Mare-see-DAY?" Saviar tried.

Jeremilan restored an inflection that sounded more Western than foreign, "Myrcide. Long before either of our births, it was a village. Now, it's simply a title."

Either of our births? The comparison seemed ridiculous. Jeremilan appeared older than dirt. "I see." Saviar could think of nothing better to say.

Murmurs and nods ran through the crowd. Clearly the words struck them far more profoundly.

"Saviar, at the risk of alarming you, I'm going to perform a little spell over you." Jeremilan continued quickly, "It won't hurt, and it won't harm you in any way."

Saviar touched his hilt but did not seize it. He wanted the reassurance, without appearing to threaten. He looked to Subikahn for guidance. His brother had clearly taken the measure of these mages while Saviar was sleeping.

Subikahn's lids swept unhurriedly down and upward, and he nodded encouragingly.

Jeremilan lowered his head and muttered a few guttural syllables that sounded more elfish than human. A glow blossomed from his fingertips.

Saviar's hand tightened on the hilt.

The mages did not move, though Saviar got the impression of them all pressing closer. Only Subikahn noticed his brother's defensiveness, and he spoke in reassuring tones, "Easy, Saviar. It's all right."

A fuzzy light sprang to life around Saviar, and the crowd retreated slightly with whispered comments and measured smiles.

Then, as suddenly as it had all come, it disappeared. Jeremilan stepped back.

"What was that all about?" Saviar demanded, gaze fixed on Subikahn.

This time, the girl answered. "We just needed to know if you had an aura. If the blood of Myrcidians runs through your veins."

Saviar could not imagine that to be true. "And… does it?"

"It does!" Jeremilan called triumphantly, to scattered applause. "In both of you. Which must mean it comes from your mother."

Our mother, the Renshai. Saviar could not wait to get Subikahn alone.The last thing he wanted now was questions about their mother, especially on the heels of Subikahn's warning. As the vertigo dissipated, the nausea resolved into an intense and angry hunger. He felt as if someone had stabbed him deep in the gut; yet, somehow knew that food would help quench the fire. "I'm famished," he announced, mostly to change the subject but also as an abrupt and overriding realization. Strangely, he felt as if he had not eaten in days.

Jeremilan's expression looked stricken, and several members of the audience lowered their heads. A pair nearest the door rushed from the room. "Of course, you're famished. We'll get you something to eat and drink."

"Thank you." A sense of relief washed over Saviar, but it did not last long.

"Do you suppose it's possible to bring your mother here?"

Subikahn pushed his way to Saviar's side. "I'm afraid that's impossible."

Saviar was struck by a fresh wave of grief. He thought he had moved well past this stage, but tears formed in his eyes and leaked before he could stop them. He felt weak and ill, and very much in need of his mother.

"She's dead." Subikahn announced flatly. "Accidental. She got caught in a feud not of her making."

"Accidental" pushed the boundaries, but it was otherwise strictly true. Saviar lowered his head and let his brother speak for him.

But Subikahn let his words disappear into a dense silence, finally broken by Jeremilan.

"Well, this is sad news for all of us. Would it be too much to hope for uncles? Aunts?"

Subikahn shook his head.

"Well. At least we have the two of you."

Have? Saviar did not like the phraseology. Are we prisoners? Subikahn's quiet demeanor, as usual, gave him no clue.

The next two weeks progressed in a blur of activity and exhaustion so complete that Calistin never remembered sleeping, eating, or attending to hygiene. The weather came and went without notice; if he got soaked or cold, he did not recall. Every new maneuver, every nuance of swordplay, however, remained indelibly engraved on his mind, muscles, and psyche. He became the eager student every torke prayed for, the one who pushes himself past pain and human endurance, the one who can never learn enough.

The questions went unconsidered, unasked, so it caught Calistin by surprise when his torke demanded an answer of his own. "Calistin, what is it you're preparing to do? Why are you heading North, and how does it serve you to slaughter the best warriors of the Westlands?"

Calistin shook his head to settle the new contents. Buried beneath techniques and details, he had to dig for the answers to actions that no longer drove him inexorably northward. "I… have a battle to fight. One that my mother fought for me… and lost."

Amazir summed up the explanation in a single word, "Vengeance."

Calistin saw it differently, "In a manner of speaking, I suppose; but it's not blind anger. As I said, it should have been my battle."

"Calistin." Amazir sheathed his swords and motioned for his student to do the same. "No one blames you for suggesting your mother take your place. No one believed you seriously meant those words, not even Kevral when she accepted."

Calistin's brows rose. They felt heavy, difficult to move even that far. The exhaustion he cast aside hours earlier now threatened to overwhelm him. He sheathed his blades gingerly, worried more for their security, their needs, than his own. "So you were there, too?" This torke drove him to madness. "Do you have a trove of disguises? How can it be that you've lived among my own people, but I've never noticed you before?"

"Calistin, it's time."

"Time?" Calistin had no idea what his torke meant. "Time for what?"

"Time for you to learn how to win back Valhalla." Amazir headed toward the clearing and cook fire where Treysind prepared another meal.

It was the moment Calistin had waited for ever since he discovered Amazir might have a solution, yet he found excitement impossible to ignite. He was just too achy, too tired, too full of ideas to grasp more. Nevertheless, he trailed his torke in expectant silence. Clearly, he intended, as always, to include Treysind in the discussion.

As the two men approached, the boy went into a flurry of activity, shuffling food from ground to warming fire to the piled leaves they used for plates.