Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Barrindar's gaze swept the ocean, where the pirates massed in a swarm of nearly identical ships. From a distance, they looked like enormous birds, their brown triangular sails spilling wind as they remained anchored in tight formation. No worldly ship had gotten through the harbor in more than a fortnight; the pirates owned the open water. Three hundred ships, someone had estimated, with crews of a hundred, more or less. Thirty thousand ferocious pirates massed for nothing but slaughter.

In contrast, the many and varied peoples that had come to Bearn seemed pitifully ragtag. Commanded by at least thirty different generals, it seemed impossible to keep them all simultaneously focused. Many had little or no training; decades had passed with nothing more serious than border skirmishes, feuds, and general rattling of sabers for those outside of Bearn. Many of the alliances, strained in the best of times, might fray or shatter in the fury and chaos of war.

Bearn had grown massively and far too quickly. In addition to the cramped military camps, tent cities had sprung up around the borders in vast semicircles that continued out to Erythane, Frist, and beyond. These housed Bearn's women and children, her elders, the tradesmen with no weapon training or skills who could better serve in professional capacities. Supply lines curved outward in every direction, far beyond the extent of Prince Barrindar's vision.

It occurred to him to wonder how the pirates kept themselves provisioned. Surely, their capture of merchant vessels, their killing of the crews and seizing of property were grossly inadequate to keep their bellies full, especially in the last month when no ships had dared to sail the waters and all trade came overland.

The lethal ocean. The thought raised memories of Prince Arturo's death and a flood of devastating sorrow. Only two months apart in age, the princes had played together since infancy, like twins. No two brothers had ever been closer, and the loss left a hole in Barrindar's heart he doubted anyone could ever fill. He felt alone, lost and betrayed by gods who had stolen his courageous half brother for no logical reason. A man like Prince Arturo, a good-hearted, able person who had seemed to Barrindar the most suitable to take over Bearn's throne, should never die without high purpose.

Barrindar wished he could fight the coming war in Arturo's place, hacking down enemies with the swift, strong strokes his half brother displayed in practice and Barrindar could only emulate. But he understood the practicalities that came with his position. He was sixteen, still a few years short of his full growth. His war skills were adequate at best, and the world could not spare the life of another Bearnian heir. With Arturo dead, Marisole slated for the bard's position, and Ivana barred from the lineage by her elfin blood, even if she possessed a full range of faculties, it left only Barrindar, his two little sisters, and Matrinka's youngest child in line for the throne. In the past, the staff-test, now the Pica Test, had failed dozens in the search for a proper king or queen. No one cared for the current remaining odds.

The prince's thoughts shifted from his own agonizing loss to those of the people around him. He wondered how many women sobbed quietly in their beds, how many children curled in helpless balls at the realization that their fathers, their mothers, and they themselves might die in hopeless, screaming terror.The coming war would claim many lives, and the unfairness of who it took had already reached Barrindar personally, with the loss of Arturo. If they won, they kept their land, filled with wailing widows and orphans. If they lost, every one of them died. Barrindar was not sure which was worse.

Light footsteps behind him could not rouse Barrindar from the torture his own thoughts inflicted. The bare thought of such misery cut him to the depths of his heart and soul. When he opened himself to the suffering of his people, it proved a burden he could scarcely bear. Tears filled his eyes, his chest squeezed shut, and the simple act of breathing became a laborious chore.

If the newcomer spoke to him, Barrindar did not know, too desperately lost in his misery. But, where no words or touch could penetrate, something else did. The light notes of a mandolin, soft but powerful, seemed to envelop him. And the sweet voice that followed drew him inexorably into another world.

She sang of war and pestilence, of grief and regret. The bitter-sweetness of Marisole's song came to him as emotion rather than words. Barrindar could not have recalled a single poetic lyric; he absorbed it as a thing inseparably whole, a heart-searing expression of reality. He surrendered to the sound, unable to escape it, drawn wherever it might take him.

Barrindar's ears rang with the clash of steel, and he became snared in a battle for his life. Though not a warrior himself, though he had never tasted real battle, the slash and parry still seemed strangely real. His powerful arms rose and fell with need. He knew only a courageous swell of patriotism, a need to protect his precious family and friends from the hordes of pirates that assailed them. Dragged to a mind-set Barrindar could never have found on his own, he discovered each victory brought a fresh wave of joy, an unshakeable certainty that he would survive. If his companions died, he would see to it they never, ever did so in vain.

Transformed into a valiant soldier, Barrindar found a song-world that turned battle into delight, that transformed desperation into driving courage. He would succeed because failure was unthinkable, impossible. These pirates were humans, albeit vicious ones, and they would fall to his blade like wheat to a scythe.The thrill of victory went from desire to reality. With the help of so many allies, Bearn won the war. Women embraced their triumphant warriors or consoled their hapless neighbors, regaling them with stories of fallen bravery.

Swept along by the song, Barrindar hurled himself into Marisole's arms. Impact knocked the mandolin to the ground, where it loosed a sour note. The song died instantly and, with it, the intensity of misplaced emotion it inspired. But Barrindar found himself lost in another. Marisole felt so fragile in his arms, a perfect porcelain doll that needed his protection. He held her close, suddenly excited in a new and more powerful way. Though blood sister to Arturo, Marisole had never seemed like a sibling to Barrindar as her brother always had. He had considered her more like a beloved cousin, perhaps because she resembled her Erythanian blood father while Arturo favored their Bearnian mother, Matrinka.

Marisole broke free and rescued her mandolin. Examining it carefully, she smiled and leaned it solidly against the low granite railing. "I'm glad you liked my song."

Freed from its spell, Barrindar stared at Marisole. Though tall for a woman, she barely reached Barrindar's chin. Her dark-brown hair, a bit too light for a full-blooded Bearnide, fell in a thick cascade, clipped together at the back. Her nose and lips were generous, her eyes a deep hazel, and her face soft and youthful. She had, only recently, turned nineteen; and the grim anticipation of the coming war had utterly eclipsed the celebration. "Your song was marvelous, as always, Marisole. But, right now, I'm driven by something else." Difficult words came with surprising ease, "I just never before realized how stunningly beautiful you are." It was a lie. He had noticed her beauty every moment of every day since even before Arturo's death, but he had only just found the courage to say so.

Marisole flushed from the roots of her hair to the tip of her chin and allowed him to draw her into another tight embrace. She wrapped her arms around him as well, and her touch felt as light and gentle as butterflies. If Barrindar squeezed just a bit harder, he could break her in half.