Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

"You're welcome. See how easy that was?"

"Very easy," Subikahn admitted. "This whole thing has been too easy." His voice held a twinge of pain, one only Saviar could notice. Though Saviar did not believe his brother was lying, Subikahn was definitely hiding something excruciating.

"Well, you're out of the Eastlands now. No one will treat you like a prince. And the North…" Saviar examined his brother's small form, from his black mop of snarled hair, past the sword at his belt, to the battered Eastern-crafted sandals on his swarthy feet. "They'll notice you don't belong there, but, at least, they'd never guess you're Renshai."

"Yes," Subikahn said. "And you're stalling. You promised to go home."

"And you promised me a spar tomorrow."

"Yes."

"You'll be here, right?"

"Would I forget to wish you a happy birthday?" Subikahn shuffled backward, his dark form disappearing into the shadows. Some of the early Renshai maneuvers came from time spent with wild barbarians during their travels. Subikahn excelled at those moves, enhanced by his father's agility and training. "Now go."

Happy Birthday. As hard as he tried, Saviar could not forget. Nineteen tomorrow and not yet a man. Grudgingly, he went.

The morning dawned clear and crisp, warm for autumn yet with a breeze that kept Saviar's sweaty muscles comfortable. He faced off with his torke, Nirvina, who had already twice knocked him on his buttocks. Most days, he found her a close match. Now, distracted by concern for Subikahn, he launched into his third attack. His sword glittered in a deadly arc that she met and parried. Saviar bore in, attempting to use his strength against her. Nirvina dodged easily, ducked beneath his sword arm and came up behind him.

Saviar whirled to face her, but not quickly enough. She slammed the flat of her blade against his chest. For the third time, he found himself sitting in the grass.

Nirvina glared, her features sharper than usual. Her thick, sandy hair lay stick straight nearly to her shoulders. Bangs dangled over her broad forehead, shadowing harsh blue-green eyes and a pinched nose. "Saviar, what in darkest, coldest Hel is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry, torke." Saviar sprang to his feet. "My mind is elsewhere."

"Your mind is elsewhere than battle? What good is worrying about the future when you're dead?" Nirvina rushed him with drawn sword.

Saviar ducked under the strike, then spun and cut with proper dexterity. His sword wove over hers, and the tip found her hilt. He prepared to flick it from her hand, but she withdrew too swiftly. Her blade drove under his with lethal speed. He batted it down, recovered in a loop, then swept for her head. Nirvina ducked, opening her defenses for a split second that Saviar seized. He slammed his blade across her shoulders with enough force to send her staggering. This time, she toppled.

"That's better!" Nirvina rolled to her feet in an instant and clapped her hands. "Fight like that during your testing tomorrow, and you're a certainty. Fight like you did a moment ago, and you'll be nineteen before you reach manhood."

Saviar flinched. "I am nineteen. Today."

"Today?" Nirvina raised her brows. "Well, happy birthday, boy. Now that we've got your mind back, let's see what you can do."

She squared for another assault just as Erlse rode up, his brown mare frothy, her nostrils dilated. "We're gathering on the testing grounds," he announced, then pointed directly at Saviar. "Thialnir's asked for you especially." He spurred his mount into a gallop.

"What's this about?" Saviar wondered aloud.

"I don't know," Nirvina said, tone full of question and caution, "but I suggest we get there quickly."

They both hurried toward the enormous open field that served as the main square for celebrations and rare pronouncements, mock battles, and testing. They raced through stubble-strewn practice areas, around a cluster of cottages, and through a scraggly field of prairie grass. A mixed hubbub of voices, speaking at least two different languages wafted to them long before the main square hove into view. Ahead, Saviar noticed, a crowd of Renshai were already gathering. He also saw the black and orange banner of King Humfreet and several white chargers. Knights. The run itself scarcely winded Saviar, but his heart pounded as if he had raced for miles. He scarcely noticed he had lost Nirvina in his headlong rush.

Saviar slowed to a walk, weaving between the waiting Renshai. What he could pick out of their conversations seemed expectant and surmising; they did not yet know why the King of Erythane had come to call. Though he would have preferred to join his mother, who stood with Calistin in the midst of the crowd, Saviar dutifully headed toward the mounted king and his entourage. He would surely find Thialnir there.

As he drew closer, Saviar sorted out the visitors. About a dozen Northmen milled amidst the mounted king, his bodyguards, and six Knights of Erythane, including Ra-khir and Kedrin. Only one Renshai had joined them, the massive Thialnir, who scanned the crowd expectantly. As his gaze found Saviar, he called out, "There he is," and gestured broadly for the youngster to join them.

Saviar came, trying not to slouch. His every adolescent instinct pleaded for him to run and hide, yet he knew better than to delay, or even display poor posture, in the presence of the knights. Instead, he approached warily, his gaze scanning the most likely threat: the Northmen. All adult males, but one, they watched his every movement with clear suspicion. Saviar could not help meeting the familiar gaze of the last Northman, Verdondi Eriksson, the one he had sparred with in Bearn's practice room. The boy stared back at him, pale eyes wide and jaw gaping.

Ra-khir frowned, shook his head, and rolled his gaze to King Humfreet.

Catching the gist of his father's discomfort, Saviar swiftly performed a deep and gracious bow.

Thialnir chose that moment to thrust a scroll into Saviar's hands. "What do you think of this?" The political leader of the Renshai had always seemed so massive, solid and competent; yet his clammy fingers betrayed a nervousness his demeanor otherwise hid. His look seemed almost pleading. In the past, Thialnir had always seemed unflappable, terrifying, and rock-stable. Saviar wondered if the Renshai leader had softened in the past few months or only seemed to have because Saviar had seen his vulnerable side and learned the inner workings of the leader's job.

Attempting to appear nonchalant, Saviar rose, unrolled the top portion of the scroll, and silently read. The cause for Thialnir's discomfort became instantly clear. Written in a flowery hand, gratuitously verbose, it betrayed its author as a royal advocate. The entire first paragraph spoke of a binding agreement between the Northmen and the Renshai, discussing who represented each of these at the signing, how they would be referred to throughout the document, and the presence of the king of Erythane. Like most Renshai, Thialnir was a simple, proud man who cared little for anything other than swordwork, and the sheer mass of the contract might drive him to distraction.

Saviar looked up to find every eye upon him. He wished he could melt into the weeds like liquid, yet he also knew that Thialnir needed him. Desperately. He had little choice but to appear in charge. He bowed to King Humfreet again. "Your Majesty, if it pleases you, this is a long document. May I have some time to read it?"

The king smiled, his lips nearly disappearing into the thick, jowly creases of his moon face. "Of course, Saviar Ra-khir's son. Take all the time you need."

Relief flooded Saviar. His weeks in Bearn had given him courage when it came to addressing royalty, yet he had never spoken to the king of Erythane before. While formality ill-suited the commonly named Griff of Bearn, King Humfreet seemed to wear it as a mantle.