Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Unlike the Fields of Wrath, the streets of Erythane lay deserted after sundown. Smoke rose from the cottage chimneys, and the savory aromas of cooking meat, grains, and breads filled the empty spaces. Saviar's gut churned with excitement. Renshai practiced hungry and thirsty or on a full stomach, all conditions that might exist in a real battle. They rarely ate as families, instead snatching mostly raw foodstuffs from communal stocks as the urge struck them. No Renshai knew how to hunt or fish, how to tend vegetables in small plots or massive farms. It was all time better spent honing swordcraft or cleaning and sharpening blades. Every moment dedicated to swordplay meant an improvement in ability or endurance. Every one given to cooking, sleeping, talking, playing, or resting was considered wasted.

At length, the familiar shape of the stable came into Saviar's view. Not much farther along, he saw the Knight's Rest, a high-scale tavern that catered to the upper class. Many of the unmarried knights gathered there after a grueling day of drills, and Ra-khir sometimes joined them. If Saviar could not find his father in the stable, he might at the Knight's Rest. At the least, they could walk home in the darkness together.

Upon reaching the stable, Saviar poked his head inside. The sweet, distinctive odor of horses wafted to him, and the snowy forms of the knights' chargers showed vividly against the darkness. One of the animals nickered and snorted, the sound rising over the background din of crunching hay. Letting himself inside, Saviar walked quietly down the row, stroking whichever heads rose to look at him over the half-doors of their stalls. He paused longest in front of his grandfather's mount. Ten years old, Snow Stormer bore the same name as his predecessor, a tribute the mischievous stallion had not yet earned. Saviar had watched, fascinated, as Knight-Captain Kedrin mourned the loss of the animal that had borne him through so many journeys, practices, and battles during his then-twenty years as a Knight of Erythane. Accustomed to Renshai, Saviar had never before seen a grown man cry.

A shrill whinny shattered the near-stillness from halfway down the second lane, followed by Ra-khir's voice. "Give me that, you rascal!"

Saviar smiled and quickened his pace, tucking the bloodstained rag into his belt and knotting his tattered sleeve. As he turned the corner, a lantern lit Silver Warrior prancing an excited circle, a fancy hat with an arched plume perched precariously upon his head. Ra-khir watched the horse's antics, still dressed in his practice uniform, damp and covered with dirt. He held a brush white with horsehair in one hand and a rag in the other. His red-gold hair lay in hopeless disarray, sweat-plastered and smashed in patches where the hat had once perched jauntily. Even the look of consternation could not mar the rugged handsomeness of his features: eyes the green of polished emeralds, his features bold and chiseled, his cheekbones high and fair. Saviar never considered himself good-looking; yet, when he took the time to study his father's features, it startled him to think he closely resembled this paragon.

"You're a bad, bad horse." Ra-khir's gentle admonishment held none of the seriousness of his words.

"Either that," Saviar said, leaning against a nearby stall, "or he's an embarrassingly disheveled Knight of Erythane."

Ra-khir jerked toward his son, and his cheeks flushed visibly, even in the darkness. He smiled warmly, revealing a row of teeth that matched the brilliant fur of his steed. "That description would fit either of us." He indicated his muddy, crumpled uniform with an all-encompassing gesture. "My father would kill me if he saw me this way."

Saviar grunted, knowing better. "If that were true, we'd have burned your pyre long ago."

Ra-khir snatched for his hat, caught it, and placed it on his own head, apparently oblivious to the hay stalks this added to his locks. "You're right." He sighed, then shrugged. "Can't fathom how all the others manage to look perfect all the time."

Saviar helped his father back Silver Warrior fully into his stall and close the door. "Well, for starters, they don't roll around in straw and feces playing with horses." The conversation remained at the level of shallow banter. Saviar noticed that happening a lot more in the last year. As a child, he had never worried about looking foolish or silly in front of his father; he had plunged into the most embarrassing topics without a moment's hesitation. Now, as a budding adult, he tended to weigh his words and worry about their effect. It felt like everyone, even his parents, was judging his every utterance and action. Saviar pulled a stem from his father's hair and handed it to him.

As Ra-khir claimed it, Silver Warrior arched his neck over the partition and delicately wrested it from Ra-khir.

Ra-khir shook his head as the stalk disappeared into the horse's mouth. "That's right, Warrior. That particular piece of hay is the best one in the entire barn."

"Apparently." Saviar also watched the horse eat, loath to allow his thoughts to return to the Fields of Wrath. He loved these moments alone with his father and wondered why he could remember so few from his childhood. "Are you finished here?"

"Just." Ra-khir wiped his hands on the rag, then hung it, and the brush, on a nail outside Silver Warrior's stall along with his halter, comb, and curry. He turned to face Saviar directly, showing no sign that he missed the opportunity to relax with his peers in the Knight's Rest. "Now what can I do for my beloved oldest son?"

Saviar shrugged, not certain himself what he had expected. More than anything, he just wanted some alone time with his father. "Nothing, really, I-"

Ra-khir gave his full attention to Saviar. He would allow no horse or human to steal this moment. He nodded for Saviar to continue.

Uncertain how to phrase his thoughts, Saviar blurted out, "Is it immoral to hate one's own brother?"

Ra-khir's lips went tight, as if he fought a smile. He would not belittle his son. "Is this a general ethical question? Or are we talking about Calistin?" As Silver Warrior reached for his hat, Ra-khir stepped aside, then moved several paces toward the front of the stable. There, he found a hay pile protected from the floor's dampness by a hatchwork of crate slates. He motioned for Saviar to sit.

Saviar walked to the indicated spot and crouched amid the slats. His Renshai training would not allow a less defensible position, even in the presence of no one but his father. "How do you know I didn't mean Subikahn?"

"Lucky guess." An unusual hint of sarcasm touched Ra-khir's tone. He sat beside his son. "What did Calistin do… this time?"

Now the words came pouring out. "He won't leave me alone. He's constantly badgering me, acting like my torke instead of my smug little brother." Saviar knew Ra-khir would not approve of his insulting a loved one, but he found himself incapable of stopping, "He's so damned conceited. He thinks he's the best swordsman in the world."

"Isn't he?"

Saviar scowled. "Are you taking his side?"

Ra-khir's brows rose in increments. "As far as I'm concerned, there are no 'sides' in this family. I'm only asking for a simple truth."

"Maybe," Saviar grumbled. "But he doesn't have to keep shoving it in my face." He mimicked Calistin's childlike voice, "Stop trying to use your strength against me… Renshai don't do that… you're doing this wrong… I'm a man, and you're not…"

Ra-khir nodded sagely. "That's what it really comes down to, doesn't it?"

"What?" Saviar said guardedly, suspecting he would not like his father's next words.

"You're… jealous?"

"No," Saviar said, too quickly. Then, after a moment of contemplation, "Well, maybe." He added in his defense, "I wasn't. Not at first. I was really proud of my little brother. I mean, a man. At just thirteen." He shook his head in genuine admiration. "He's amazing."