Mickey Reichert - Flight of the Renshai

Weile remained composed, his every movement controlled. He seemed less oblivious to the fact that he faced a troubled Renshai with only two apparently unarmed guards, than unconcerned about it. "My grandson has passed the boundaries of the Eastlands."

"He's a competent warrior." Talamir still did not understand why Weile worried so much about Subikahn's safety.

"But naive," the regent said. "For all his sword training, he's young and inexperienced in the ways of the world."

It all seemed to come back to the same answer. "Then let me go again. I'll find him, keep him well."

Weile shook his head. "No, Talamir. That will not end well for you."

The pronouncement, though somber, seemed utterly nonsensical. "Well," said the Renshai. "Not letting me go will definitely end badly for me."

"You can't run from Tae forever."

"I can try."

"Not if you really love Subikahn."

Talamir's attention jerked fully to Weile Kahn. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that it's impossible to have a strong relationship with someone whose parents hate you."

"Why?" The word emerged as more of a demand than a question.

"Because it's not a sustainable situation; it's highly uncomfortable for the one caught in the middle. Sooner or later, your beloved will have to make a choice between lover and family. And that choice, however it is made, never results in long-lasting happiness for anyone involved." Weile's dark brows edged upward. He waited for Talamir's reply, clearly expecting something significant.

Talamir considered, knowing whatever came out of his mouth needed to be intelligent. So far, he had not managed to impress Subikahn's father. He could not risk alienating the grandfather as well. When nothing of great usefulness came to him after several moments, he tried to elicit a hint without sounding stupid. "I know I need to win over the king. I just don't know how to do that from a cell."

Weile waited expectantly, in silence, so Talamir glanced past him toward the guards. The squatter one bobbed his head slightly, encouraging.

Talamir cleared his throat. "I could guard Subikahn…"

The guard's head shook hastily, in slight motions.

Cued, Talamir added, "But we've already tried that unsuccessfully. I could go…"

The guard cringed, head still shaking.

"I could stay…" Talamir amended. "I could stay here and…"

The guard raised and lowered his head once. Talamir wished he could see the man's expression.

"… and do something that might make a good impression on King Tae."

The guard pantomimed drawing a sword and thrusting.

"I could… kill…"

The guard's head shook faster.

Weile Kahn said, "He's suggesting you offer to train the regular guards." He twisted his head to look at the elite guardsmen behind him. "Right?"

Both men stood utterly still, their expressions hidden behind silver veils.

Weile did not wait for a response but returned his attention to Talamir almost immediately.

More surprised by the suggestion than by Weile's apparent ability to see behind him, Talamir stammered, "Me? Train Eastern guardsmen?" It made no sense. "Tae would never allow that."

"But I would. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, I'm in charge."

Talamir wanted to say more, but words failed him.

Weile did not suffer a similar fate. "You're a teacher, right? A sword instructor."

"Well, yes." Talamir wondered why his brain seemed to refuse to fully function. "A torke. I train Renshai."

"Regular guardsmen would be… easier?"

"Easier,"Talamir repeated."Yes, surely easier. But-" What's wrong with my damned tongue. "I can't teach them Renshai maneuvers."

Weile shrugged. "So don't. Teach them basic things. Things that make them better, more confident warriors.Things that make you… indispensable."

"I…"Talamir started, uncertain where he was going. "… can do that." As the words left his mouth, he realized they were true. "I can do that. But, if you let me out, how do you know I won't just run."

"I don't,"Weile admitted, but he did not seem the least perturbed. "But if you do, I will have learned something important about you."

Talamir knew better than to ask what that lesson might be. "Thank you." The words seemed woefully inadequate. Despite having surrendered the throne to his son, Weile Kahn still held more power than most kings; and Talamir understood that the leader of the underground had no obligation to him. "You've shown me mercy and many kindnesses I don't deserve."

"You will earn them." It was not a show of trust but a clear warning. "If you hurt my grandson, if you break his heart, you will face agony beyond the sensibilities of Tae Kahn to inflict."

Talamir had no idea what Weile meant but felt certain he preferred ignorance. As much as he loved Subikahn, as right as their relationship seemed, he could not help believing his life might have been better had he never traveled to Stalmize, never became a torke, never met Subikahn at all.

Howling curses at his captors, Tae stumbled through the hallways to his cell, his arms pinched and pinioned by a pair of Bearnian guards, each twice his size. His hair hung in a lank filthy snarl, his clothing torn and frayed, his skin already bruised by the roughness of their handling. One released him to unlock the cell door. Still playing, Tae lurched to free himself. The other guard tightened his grip, squeezing until Tae's arm throbbed and the pain nearly incapacitated him. The instant the door jarred open, he felt himself thrown angrily inside. He tumbled, heels over head, slamming his skull against the stone wall that comprised the back of the cell. Pain exploded through his head, scrambling his thoughts. Then, the door slammed shut, and the lock clicked with ominous finality.

Suddenly, Tae wished the Bearnian royals had let a few more people in on the truth. His head hurt so badly he nearly vomited, and returning blood flow made his arms throb. He forced himself to rise, though it severely tested his balance, and tried to look tough and unruffled by their treatment.

Instantly, Tae's mind retreated to his days in Pudar's prison, under sentence of death. Then, he had shared his cell with other prisoners, ones happy to kill or maim a newcomer for his share of the food. Panic assailed him in a sudden rush, scattering his thoughts. He wanted out, he needed out, and no tactic seemed too farfetched to earn his freedom. He ran to the bars and pulled at them, only to find them so solid he could not move them in the slightest. He lowered his head and focused his view, aware he needed his wits wholly about him. The terror receded, replaced by familiar, cold rationality. He was not a prisoner; he was only on a mission.

Assailed by pain but with his heart rate slowing back to normal, Tae slumped against the bars. Next, he did what any prisoner would, surveying the area around him with a feigned composure that suggested he could handle anything that dared to threaten him. The prisoner to his right studied him through harsh, dark eyes beneath a prominent knitted brow. Though no larger than an average Bearnide, he still towered over Tae. Wide shoulders and broad hips spoke of a stoutness he had lost in the Bearnian dungeon, and his nondescript clothing hung from his slowly thinning frame.

Tae locked eyes for only a moment, and the cold of the contact seeped through him. There was hatred in those predatory orbs and also a hint of despair that might make him as dangerous to himself as to Tae.

A smaller and leaner, but no less desperate, man occupied the cell to Tae's left. He wore similar bland clothing, more filthy, with old bloodstains on the sleeves. Though softer, his brown eyes also revealed a deadly loathing, either for Tae or, more generally, for his surroundings. To Tae's surprise, he read fear in this man's expression, unmatched by his fellow, yet strong and clear. Hand gestures, words, tone could vary from culture to culture, but expressions remained the one constant on which he could rely. His left neighbor was terrified of something, and Tae sincerely doubted it had anything to do with himself.