Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

"Leave it there." Calistin sighed, not wishing to further bind himself to the irritating child yet feeling responsible for at least a decent meal. "I'll get you some real food. All right?"

The boy's face lit up, and he lunged for Calistin again.

Calistin shifted into agile retreat, and the boy missed; but the gratitude still tumbled out, "Thank ya's, m'savior. Ya's most most grashus, m'savior."

"Quit calling me 'savior.' " Calistin started back up the hill, not bothering to see if the boy followed. "It sounds too much like my brother's name, Saviar."

Grass crunched as the boy scurried after Calistin. "Then what's I s'posed ta call ya, hero?"

"My name is Calistin."

"M'name's Treysind, Calis… Calitsan… Calee."

Calistin winced as Treysind repeatedly mangled his name. "Calistin."

"Caleetsin," Treysind tried. "Caliti. How's 'bout if I's jus' callin' ya's Cali?"

Calistin wanted to say he did not care, that the boy could call him anything since they would soon part and not see one another again; but he knew he would never hear the end of it if Saviar heard the child call him Cali. "Let's just stick with 'hero.' "

Saviar Ra-khirsson dashed from the cottage after a cursory breakfast from family stores, hoping for a few moments of practice before facing his torke. Though spring had already arrived, the early morning air still held a winter chill. Dressed only in his short-sleeved tunic and breeks, he shivered beneath an onslaught of goose bumps but gave no thought to his cloak. Exertion would warm him even before the sun's rays thawed the ground, and extra folds of fabric would only hamper his sword arm.

As Saviar raced toward his first lesson, he collided with a boy. Breath huffed into his face, and the child collapsed beneath him, tangling his legs. Unable to save his own balance, Saviar tumbled, rolling as his torke had taught, and coming up in a wary crouch.

With a peep of surprise, the boy scrambled to a secure position as well.

Saviar did not recognize the small redhead, who did not carry a sword. Mortified, he berated his own clumsiness with flush-cheeked apology, speaking Renshai. "I'm very sorry. I didn't see you."

The boy waved a hand toward the cottage Saviar had just vacated. He used the Western tongue. "I's sorry I's gots in ya's way. I's jus' waitin' for Hero."

"Hiro?" Saviar rose, confused. It was not a Renshai name, not even an Erythanian one. He switched to the same language as the boy. All but the most dedicated and reclusive Renshai knew Western and the Common Trading tongues in addition to their own. "Who is Hiro?"

The boy smiled, eyes glazing like an adolescent girl in love. "He's my hero. He rescueded me from bullies an' gived me food good 'nough fors a king. I's so full I couldn't even eat m'breakfast." He held out a lump of something reeking and greenish, displaying it like a trophy.

Saviar's nose wrinkled, and he sucked air through his teeth. "You're going to eat that?"

"It's cheese."

"Was it?" Saviar made a dismissive gesture, suddenly guilty for the scraps he had left on his plate. "So, does this hero of yours have a name?"

"Cali-" the boy started and stopped, brow furrowing. He returned the moldy parcel to his pocket. "Cali… something."

Saviar could scarcely believe it. "Calistin?" he tried.

The boy's face brightened. "Tha's it! Cali… Cali… what ya's sayed. Ya's knowin' Hero?" He made it sound like just having made the acquaintance of the excruciatingly irritating blond was a god-sanctioned honor.

Unfortunately. "He's my brother," Saviar admitted.

The boy pranced in an excited circle, clearly unable to contain his enthusiasm. "Ya's must be Sayvyar."

"SAV-ee-ar." Saviar restored the inflection of his name.

"An' ya's gots orange hair, jus' like me!" the boy finished in an animated squeak. " 's no wonders Hero thinked I's Renshai."

The boy had only one thing right: his tangled mop bore the brilliant hue of a pumpkin or carrot, accompanied by a wild wash of freckles. Though a mix of wheaten and burgundy that passed for a light gold-red, Saviar's locks in no way resembled the boy's. No one could mistake the two for relatives. "When it's hair, most people call it red or strawberry, not orange."

"Red, then." The boy accepted the correction easily. "M'name's Treysind."

"Saviar," Saviar repeated from politeness. Though he had lost much of his solo practice time to the encounter, curiosity held him in place. "Did Calistin really save your life?" Calistin always said he firmly believed anyone incapable of defending himself deserved to die. Saviar could not imagine Calistin troubling himself to rescue one of his own brothers, let alone an Erythanian.

"Yup."

"Really?"

Treysind closed his eyes and sighed. "He's tha greatest hero ever. I's owin' him m'life."

"Did he ever figure out you aren't Renshai?"

"Yup."

"And then?" Saviar could picture Calistin chopping the boy to pieces, along with the bullies, simply for wasting his uniquely valuable time.

"An' then he tooked me home an' feeded me."

Saviar blinked. "Calistin did?"

"Lots an' lots an' lots." Treysind patted his stomach. "I's still filled. Too filled ta-"

Saviar interrupted, not wanting Treysind to display his vulgar prize again. "Yes, yes." He stroked his chin, feeling the first soft wisps of beard. "And you're absolutely sure it was Calistin?"

"M'hero, yup. Tha's tha name he gived me." Treysind seemed incapable of not smiling anytime he heard the name, the same one that jarred Saviar into scowling exasperation.

Knowing better than to arrive late for his lesson, Saviar finished a conversation he preferred to dissect. "Well, then, you should know. His highness, I mean his 'heroness,' got in quite late last night. He'll probably sleep till midmorning."

"I's gonna wait." Treysind stood as tall as possible, which barely brought him up to Saviar's chest. " 's long's it takes."

"Very well, then," Saviar saluted Treysind as he headed toward his lesson. "I wish you good day." He broke into a trot, bewilderment not yet sorting itself into wonder or amusement. If Calistin had a softer side, he kept it well-hidden; yet, confronted with direct evidence of his brother's generosity, Saviar could not refute it. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is some good in Calistin after all.

For reasons Saviar could not explain, the idea that his savage, perfectionist brother had done something charitable buoyed him through another grueling day of lessons. Though bulky compared with his classmates, he felt nearly weightless. His maneuvers came intuitively, requiring little thought; and he managed a quickness that pleased his torke enough for several to insist he test again for manhood in the coming months.

Late into the afternoon, Saviar still found himself too interested and busy to notice the exhaustion that usually enveloped him. Even his mother, his last torke of the day and his harshest critic, found nothing to complain about in his performance. She had won her own Renshai womanhood at fifteen, and it clearly pained her that two of her sons remained children three years longer.

Kevral's class froze in the last position of its current svergelse, and she moved around them making miniscule corrections to the positions of arms, swords, and stances. At last, she came to Saviar and clapped her hands. Her expression gave away nothing, but joy sparkled in her pale eyes. She did not speak and made no changes to his positioning, a true compliment.

In that moment of satisfied silence, Saviar heard distant hoofbeats, drumming nearer.

Kevral returned to the front of the class. "All right, then."

Swords whisked back into sheaths. All eyes pinned their torke to see whether she would move on to the next maneuver or drive them to another performance of the same. Every boy and girl forced his or her breaths to emerge evenly, quietly.To appear winded would assure a longer and more difficult session.