Flight of the Renshai

CHAPTER 10

A cheery fire flickered through the gathering dusk of the Dancing Dog, sending orange-and-yellow highlights leaping through the press of people. Alone at a wine-stained table, Subikahn sat with his back to the corner, trying to focus on the many patrons in the bar. But the images swirled into a gray wash of movement, and their conversations became a hum as indecipherable as night insects. Never in his life had he been among so many people at once; never in his life had he felt so unutterably, unconscionably lonely.

The darkness of Subikahn's corner washed over him. The same thoughts had paraded through his mind so many times, he had nowhere else to take them. They left him numb, uncertain, and incapable of understanding. In one horrible moment, he had lost everything: his beloved, his perfect father, his royal life. All the things that had ever made him happy had vanished with a single proclamation. His slumped shoulders held a burden heavier than anything he had ever before imagined. Even breathing took a massive effort. His food grew cold, his ale warm, and he still found himself incapable of mustering the will or strength to consume them.

The proprietor appeared to hover over Subikahn, a short, heavyset man with greasy hair. "Is the food not to your liking, Sire?"

Subikahn finally looked at his meal. Clearly, someone had gone to great lengths to make it presentable as well as tasty. Fresh pork took up most of the plate's center, surrounded by a wall of mashed, orange roots garnished with salt and herbs. The periphery contained a mixture of vegetables, cut into intricate designs. A second plate held a chunk of unusually light bread baked to a delicate gold and sprinkled with seeds. The rich, amber ale was clearly the best the inn had to offer. "The food is fine, sir. Wonderful even. I'm just not… hungry." He wondered idly if his appetite would ever return.

Subikahn pulled his purse from his pocket. It seemed woefully empty. Tae had severely limited his traveling funds, just enough to get him started. Enough for now. Subikahn realized he would have to ration what little the king had granted him or swiftly wind up sleeping in unsavory or vulnerable places. He dumped the entire contents into his hand. "How much do I owe you?"

The proprietor stared at the coins. His nostrils flared, then he looked at Subikahn with a sincere expression. "Your money's no good here, Sire."

A wave of heat passed through Subikahn. He felt suddenly chastened and guilty. "I-I didn't know. I-" He jerked his attention from the proprietor to his own palm, worried his father had given him dummies. Why would he torment me? Though not a large amount, the two silvers and seven coppers did appear properly minted. "But it's good coin of the realm."

The proprietor grinned. "I just meant I won't take money from you, Sire.You may have whatever you want, and it's on the house."

"On the house?" Subikahn knew what that phrase meant from his travels to and from Stalmize and Erythane. "But I have to-"

The proprietor did not allow Subikahn to finish. "Just tell your friends and father what a grand place we have here. The Dancing Dog is an inn worthy of nobility. True, Sire?"

Subikahn had chosen the inn at random, not for its appearance or decor. "Well, of course, but-"

"Enjoy yourself, Sire. I won't take payment from you." With that, the proprietor turned on a heel and headed back toward the kitchen.

Subikahn slumped into his seat, staring at the food. Now that he knew it would cost someone else money, he felt obligated to eat every bite. He took a spoonful of roots, whipped and soft but no longer steaming. They smelled spicy and inviting, but he still found himself incapable of hunger. He stuffed the spoon into his mouth before he could change his mind. It tasted like ashes; anything would, he guessed. The food slid down his throat and thudded into his stomach.

Memories descended on Subikahn like a flock of crows, pecking and poking at his sanity. He remembered romping on the floor with his father, mimicking dogs or snakes or monsters, whatever struck his fancy. No matter his workload, no matter the affairs of state, Tae had dropped everything, anytime, to play with his son. Subikahn's mind turned to his twin, Saviar, and their wild times in Erythane. When not engaged in the lightning exchange of swordplay, they shared their deepest fears, hopes, and dreams in quiet whispers that no one else could understand. He thought of Talamir, his Tally, the confidences they shared, the moments of tenderness that felt too flawless, too magnificent to be anything less than love. He longed for the gentle hand stroking his hair, for the firm grip of his lover's hand adjusting a sword maneuver, for the doting, almost violent passion of his kiss.

Subikahn realized he might miss the trappings of the castle in a vague sort of way, when the cold nights of winter set in, when his clothing became filthy and tattered, or when he slept on a bed of moldering leaves. But the people he loved mattered most.Without his brother, his lover, his father, he was not certain he could last another day.

A tear splashed onto the tabletop, followed by another. Only then, Subikahn realized he was crying. He lowered his head, afraid someone might see him. His mother disdained weakness, as all Renshai did. He had found little to snivel about in Stalmize Castle; and, when he did, his father had always presented a swift distraction. Now, in the depths of his despair, Subikahn was incapable of holding back the tears. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

For once, Subikahn's Renshai instincts failed him. He did not hear another claim the chair beside him until a light hand ran through the silky black strands of his hair. For the moment, he did not care if the other meant him well or ill. Whoever had come could have all the money in his purse, could stuff a knife through his ribs for all he cared. Grief stilled even the deeply embedded desire to live.

Nimble fingers unglued wisps of hair from Subikahn's forehead and brushed them into place. Then, gradually, warm arms enwrapped him, pulling him close. The softness of the clothing, of the chest, told him his quiet comforter was a young woman. She held him in an embrace that radiated warmth and caring, made him feel safe as he once had only with his father. Whether from pity or compassion, she knew how to hold a crying man.

For several moments, they sat this way, him weeping, her embracing. Then, soft lips touched his ear and a voice whispered comfortingly into it, "I'm taking you to your room. I'll have the rest of your meal sent there."

Subikahn did not protest. It seemed best to take him away from where others might see and judge him. Head down, feet shuffling, he allowed her to guide him up the stairs, through a short hallway and into one of the inn rooms. She steered him to the bed, where he sat numbly, uncertain what to do next.

The woman did not suffer from the same uncertainty. She caught him into her arms again, crushing him against her, stroking his hair, muttering words that sounded more like doves cooing than speech. To Subikahn's surprise, he appreciated her efforts. His mother had had her tender moments, and he knew she loved him. Yet, he could not remember her ever clutching him with such sweetness, ever radiating as much caring for his pain. He knew he should feel embarrassed for acting so helpless, so childlike, but strength and words mostly failed him and he managed only, "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" Her closeness muffled her speech.

"Sorry for humiliating myself. And you. Sorry for making a scene in a crowded barroom."

She finally pulled away far enough for Subikahn to look at her. She appeared to be about his age, but world wise, with soft, brown skin and dark eyes that radiated knowledge beyond her years. She had boyish features that Subikahn found more attractive than the classic ideal of feminine beauty: her face round, her blue-black hair cropped short, her brows prominent, and her lips bow-shaped and thin. Though dark in every way Kevral was light, she still reminded Subikahn of his mother. "You didn't make a scene. And you needn't apologize for feeling sad."

Sad barely grazed the scope of what he felt. "My name is Subikahn."

She smiled. "I know that, of course, Your Highness. My name is Saydee."

"Nice to meet you, Saydee." To Subikahn's surprise, he did not want her to leave. She seemed capable of distracting him from his wretched contemplation as no one else had. "And just call me Subikahn, please."

"All right, Your-" Saydee flushed, the redness barely tinting her dark features. "-Subikahn." The name fell hesitantly from her tongue, and the color of her cheeks deepened. She released him completely and sat nervously beside him.

Subikahn looked around the room, noticing his surroundings for the first time in days. He sat on a straw pallet covered with a blanket woven with fancy designs. Though old and worn, poked through with bits of straw, it was skillfully plaited and patterned. A plain, but solidly built, chest sat at the foot. Balanced on it, he found a pitcher and bowl, a chamber pot, and a crock of tallow. A torch burned in a bracket on the wall, and the only exit was the door through which they had entered. He looked at Saydee again. She wore a clean, patched dress with an ale-stained apron. Solid legs peeked out from beneath it, and woven sandals hugged clean feet.

Saydee quailed beneath Subikahn's scrutiny. "Well, I guess I'd better be going now."

"Wait." Subikahn placed a hand over hers on the pallet. "Please stay a bit longer."

At his touch, Saydee's face seemed to glow. She glanced demurely at her hem.

Not wishing to give her the wrong idea, Subikahn added, "I'd like to talk a bit, if you can spare the time."

"I can. As much as you wish." Saydee gazed into his eyes and smiled.

Subikahn could not help smiling back, his first in what seemed like a very long time. "I…" His grin wilted. "I… lost someone special… to me." That was the most he felt comfortable confiding in a stranger, but it felt good to get even that little bit in the open.

Saydee nodded knowingly. "Do you want to talk about her?"

It intrigued Subikahn that she knew at once he meant a lover, even though she made the obvious mistake assigning gender. "No," he found himself saying before he could think. He had lost too many days to pining. He could not remember much of those but aimless wandering and self-inflicted starvation. Already, he had had to tighten his sword belt and tie up his britches. "No, for the time being, I just want to forget."

"I can help you," Saydee said softly, looking at him with passion as well as uncertainty. She shifted closer.

Nothing. Subikahn felt no attraction to her; no woman had ever excited him, not even the ones who gyrated around him or feigned accident to reveal a breast, a belly button, a thigh. Tae's words came back to haunt him now: "Subikahn, this will give you a chance to experience… other things." Other things. He knew exactly what his father meant by that. He wants me to try loving women the way I do Tally. He wants me to try… to be… normal.

Without thinking, Subikahn dropped his head in shame. His love was deviant, evil to the lawmakers of the Eastlands, yet it seemed so right and real. His father had given him so much through the years, had always done right by him. He owed it to Tae to try. Steeling himself, Subikahn leaned toward Saydee, caught her into an embrace, and closed his eyes.

Her lips touched his, then locked into a kiss. For a moment, it was a dry, dispassionate coupling. Then, Subikahn imagined her mouth as Talamir's, brought his lover's face fully to life in his mind's eye.The kiss grew moister, hungry. She sucked his tongue into her mouth and, to his joy, he finally responded. They fell together onto the bed, his hands exploring but avoiding those most womanly places, the ones that might break the fantasy Subikahn constructed in his mind.

Though desperately inexperienced, Subikahn found the proper places, made the appropriate motions, did what was expected. He dared not prolong the experience for fear of losing his nerve or his enthusiasm, so it ended quickly in an explosion of guilty pleasure that left him feeling dirty and embarrassed.

Neither his speed nor discomfort seemed to bother Saydee. She readjusted her clothing, which he had not bothered to fully remove, and snuggled into the crook of his shoulder with a satisfied sigh. He left an arm around her, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he ought to feel. He supposed the second time would come easier, and the third. Eventually, perhaps, he could even learn to enjoy coupling with females. Maybe Tae would accept Talamir if Subikahn also married a woman and created royal heirs. Many kings kept concubines, and Bearnian royalty married many times to assure a strong and continuing line.

Perhaps Talamir could live with that arrangement. Perhaps Tae could, too. At the moment, it seemed like a simple compromise; and Subikahn forced himself not to delve too deeply into this solution. If he did, he might discover its many flaws, might shatter the only dream that currently gave him hope.

Though engrossed in a complicated svergelse, Calistin Ra-khirsson never lost track of his surroundings or the goings-on around him. He found the scarlet cocoon of violence, the perfect world that all Renshai knew when their every movement reached the ultimate level of competence. Nevertheless, he could count and identify every member of the small crowd that invariably gathered to watch him. His swords became an invisible blur, rarely appearing to the mortal eye as streaks of dancing silver. His hands merged with the hilts, and his arms traced seamless arcs, lines, and circles through the air. At the moment, no one challenged him, a fact that both relieved and disappointed him. He enjoyed his svergelse. Few had the skill to seriously oppose him, and he remained his own most formidable opponent.

Finally, one man broke from the crowd to leap between the deadly, steel slices. Kwavirse met one of Calistin's strokes with a solid block, then parried it into a low cut. Instead of the anticipated retreat, Calistin launched a blazing neck cut with his second blade, one his opponent scarcely dodged. In total control, Calistin bore in. Kwavirse retreated, spun leftward, then lunged into a perfect, and unexpected, latense maneuver.

Calistin whirled gracefully to meet it as a small blur of movement entered his peripheral vision. A second opponent joined the first, a small redhead who seemed awkward as a plow horse. Forced to pull a solid, committed stroke, Calistin found himself off-balanced by his own momentum. He turned a stagger-step into a graceful, spinning retreat, his swords forming a flying web of steel to protect him from either opponent's next strike. Only then, he recognized his second "opponent" as the unarmed, untrained Erythanian he had rescued from bullies.

"Kid, get out of here!" Calistin bellowed, prepared to defend against Kwavirse's next move.

Grinning, Kwavirse bore in. Calistin raised a sword for an easy parry, just as Treysind threw himself between the two blades. Fear touched Kwavirse's expression, and the grin became a grimace. Both combatants pulled their strokes, Kwavirse's tearing a piece of the boy's sleeve and Calistin's missing cleanly.

Calistin swore, driving around the boy to attack Kwavirse at his weakest. "Treysind, you moron." Calistin neatly flipped his sword to the flat to score a slap on the older man's left shoulder. He had to pull the second blade to keep it from skewering Treysind on its way to Kwavirse's hip. "Get out of the damned way!"

Kwavirse withdrew and gestured an end to the battle. "You win, Calistin."

He always did. It had reached the point where only three types of Renshai dared to challenge him: the youngsters full of themselves and their progress, the most competent who could find few other opponents at their level or hoped they had reached his, and the sickest and oldest of the Renshai who would throw themselves upon Calistin, wishing to die in furious combat rather than of illness, to find their places in Valhalla.

Attention focused on Treysind, Calistin barely nodded. He spoke in hopeful Renshai, "Another spar, another time, perhaps?" He could fight every moment of every day and never get tired of it. Each new opponent, every motion, taught him something new to expect in combat.

Kwavirse rolled his eyes toward Treysind, who stood quietly in front of Calistin, examining the new hole in his sleeve. "Only if you lose the shadow. I almost killed the little guy."

Calistin gritted his teeth, already angry at the boy. "Killing him might teach him a lesson."

Kwavirse chuckled. "True, but not one he could use in the future."

Calistin seized Treysind's arm with a violence so sudden the boy cringed. He looked up at his savior with stoic blue eyes that carried only a trace of fear. Others who had grabbed him in the past had clearly beaten him. "Come on," Calistin growled in Common, half-walking, half-dragging the Erythanian toward a patch of withered briars. "We need to talk."

Once there, Calistin practically threw Treysind to the ground. "What in coldest Hel is wrong with you?"

The boy gathered his feet under him to crouch at Calistin's feet. He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Well," he started very slowly, his pace quickening with every word. "Fo' starters, I's a orphan what's growed up on tha streets. I's small an' weak ish. Kinda ugly. Not smart at all. I don't talk so good. I looks kinda like a Renshai wit' dis orange… red hair, an' a lotta folks don't like that so's they beat me 'round, but I don't know how ta 'fend mesself wit' a sword an'-"

"No, no, no!" Calistin dropped to a crouch in front of Treysind. "I don't mean 'what's wrong with you' in general. I mean, why do you feel the suicidal need to interfere with everything I do?"

Treysind lifted his head. Hair fell in wild strands in every direction, including into his face. "I's jus' pratectin' ya, Hero. I owes ya my life."

Calistin heaved an exasperated sigh. They had already debated this point several times. Treysind would not leave him, and nothing he said would convince the boy not to die for his hero. "Fine, then. You owe me your life; I get it. But what good does it do me for you to skewer yourself during a simple spar? If you just want to die for no reason, why don't you go throw yourself in the well?"

"Well, I…" Treysind rearranged his legs under him in a pattern Calistin had never seen before. "… can't do that. I's gotta die savin' ya, Hero."

The Renshai thought he knew every wary position, but this one allowed the boy to look casually relaxed while still able to move in any direction in an instant. Calistin marveled at the simple logistics of the position. He adjusted his own crouch, modeling it, and found it as comfortable as his usual cautious squat, without looking so guarded and alert. "So jump between me and an arrow sometime, would you? If you insist on spending your life for me, that would be an actual useful way."

To his credit, Treysind gave the idea due consideration before speaking. "That would be fine, if I's could. But it don't do us no good if ya's daid 'fore tha' arrow comes."

Calistin sighed. He was wasting time with this silly discussion, time he could be spending sparring or practicing. "Kid, the best thing you can do for me is go away and leave me alone."

Treysind shrugged. "Can' do that."

The poor speech threw Calistin, and he dared to hope. "Did you just say you can do that?"

Treysind shook his head vigorously, sending his inhumanly orange hair flying. "Can not be doin' that. Can not. I owes ya m'life, Hero."

Calistin hesitated, torn between two actions. It seemed a simple matter, an act of mercy, just to run a blade through the boy and be done with it. No one would miss Treysind. Yet, though Calistin had killed a few pirates and several mortally sick or injured Renshai, he found himself incapable of slaughtering an unarmed, pitiful child. Explaining anything to Treysind seemed equally abhorrent. The Erythanian appeared incapable of grasping the concept that Calistin could defend himself better than anyone else in the world. He finally settled on something quick and easy. "Look, kid. Renshai sparring may look dangerous, but it's not."

"It's not?" Treysind's skepticism was tangible

"Not to other Renshai, no."

"But ya's usin' real sa-wards. An' so… so angry-like, deadly-like."

"It's how we train. But no other Renshai would ever hurt me."

"No?"

A thrill trickled across Calistin. He actually seemed to be getting through the boy's bricklike skull. "Never. I'm more likely to die tripping over you and… and falling into that well."

"I'd be fishin' ya's out, Hero. Right 'way, I's would."

Calistin was not so sure he would return the favor. "Of course you would."

Treysind nodded vigorously and somberly.

"So, we're agreed, then? No protecting me from other Renshai?"

Treysind considered for a very long time, gaze distant, features screwed up tightly. "I… s'pose… I… most times… I…"

It was hardly the sterling promise Calistin wanted; but, for the moment, it worked.