Flight of the Renshai

CHAPTER 23

On his sixth day in the Bearnian dungeon, Tae found himself trundled roughly into a thick-walled interrogation room no larger than his cell. Shoved inside, he stumbled. He could have caught his balance but did not bother, instead easing his tumble onto the solid stone floor. The guards did not need to know the full range of his dexterity, nor did he need to risk tearing muscles or ligaments. A few more bruises added to the mass seemed a much smaller price to pay.

The door slammed shut, leaving Tae in utter darkness. He lowered his head, reveling in the sudden peace and quiet, the chance to drop his guard and fully assess his person. He stank. Bruises stamped his body, the worst at his throat where the pirate had attempted to strangle him. His hair hung in tangles, and filth covered every part of him. Though once his natural state, it bothered him now. He had not felt so disgustingly vile for the latter half of his life. I'm getting too old for this.

The door winched open, admitting a beam of light. Tae remained in place, taking his cues from whoever opened the door.

Several moments passed in silence until Tae finally raised his head to see who had joined him. A tall, broad figure in a blue cloak played lantern light across him, then closed the door. "Oh, Tae," she said.

Recognizing the voice, Tae leaped to his feet and tried to look happily animated. "Matrinka. What in the name of all gods are you doing here?"

Carefully setting down the lantern, Matrinka caught Tae into a fierce embrace. "Oh, Tae," she repeated. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but you don't want to touch me." Tae added with a smile, "I reek."

Tae's words did not put Matrinka off, though she did finally release him. "A good bath will take care of that." She ran her fingers into his hair, though they barely penetrated. "Then a combing-"

"No, Matrinka. No." Tae untwined her from the no-longer-silky black strands. "I can't come back from a torture session groomed and perfumed."

She hugged him again, speaking wistfully and with clear personal pain. "Must you go back?"

"Yes." Tae's answer left no room for argument. He had not accomplished nearly as much as he had hoped. "One thing I wouldn't mind, though, is getting out of small, enclosed places."

"Of course." Matrinka let go. She swished off her cloak and placed it lovingly over Tae. While he adjusted the sleeves and hood to hide his features, Matrinka scooped up the lantern and opened the door.

Swiftly, they walked down a corridor that did not take them past any prisoners, out of the dungeon proper, and into the torchlight of the main castle passages. Something brushed against Tae's leg, then twisted to twine along the other one, stealing his equilibrium. Tae hopped, stumbled, and barely caught his balance.

Matrinka steadied him. "Are you all right?"

Tae looked down to see Imorelda purring up at him.*Watch your feet, you oaf.You nearly crushed me,* she accused.

Tae responded to both of them, "Imorelda tried to break my legs." *I did not!*

"She can talk," Tae added conspiratorially to the only person who knew it. "You'd think she'd warn me before doing something stupid." *I shouldn't have to warn you. And claiming you is my right, not 'something stupid.'*

"Mior used to do that, too," Matrinka said wistfully. "I miss that."

"You miss having your legs broken?" Tae shook a head lost beneath the folds and hood of his cloak. "The day I miss that, you have permission to kill me."

Matrinka snorted. "Killing you would be easy. It's keeping you alive that drives us near to madness." She ushered him into one of the first-floor meeting rooms.

Tae stepped around her and into an enormous room filled with plush chairs and a single large table with smaller, harder seats around it. King Griff rose to face the door, his bodyguards, Rantire and Bard Darris, at attention beside him. The room's only other occupants were the ubiquitous silent page in one corner and a couple of cats lounging in the most comfortable chairs.

What caught Tae's attention, though, was a steaming plate of food on the table. The aromas of real meat, baked bread, and freshly cooked vegetables twined across the room, overwhelming even his own stench; and Tae found himself walking toward it before he could think to practice the decorum a king's presence demanded.

Luckily for Tae, he was also a king and among friends who did not require formality. Darris bowed low; Rantire afforded him a respectful, though grudging, nod. King Griff merely smiled in happy welcome. Either from her usual concern, or to cover his rudeness, Matrinka ushered Tae swiftly to the table. "Eat, eat!"

Tae took his place at the head of the table, seizing a fork and shoving the first piece into his mouth without bothering to identify it. It was a tuber, buttered and seasoned, and the taste seemed to explode as he bit into it. Flavor washed through his mouth, so intense it overwhelmed his other senses. He chewed happily as the rest of the world faded in comparison.

Griff sat at the opposite end of the table, while his guards took the chairs on either side of him. Matrinka placed herself beside Darris, at Tae's right hand. Only the seat across from her remained vacant, at least until Imorelda claimed it as a stepping stone to the table and Tae's feast. * Gimme, gimme, gimme!*

Lost in his personal heaven, Tae could not have stopped Imorelda from taking whatever she wished. The cat hooked a piece of meat, pulled it toward her, and grabbed it with her teeth.

Tae finally swallowed. "Wow, this is good." He watched Imorelda worry her piece of meat, growling softly. "Sorry about the animal on the table."

Griff waved off the apology. "Believe me, we're used to it." He turned Matrinka a loving smile, and her cheeks gained a pinkish hue.

Tae savored a few more bites of tuber, lamb, and greens before putting down his fork. As good as it tasted, he knew better than to eat too much. Gaining weight on prison food would look mighty suspicious, and he knew the others waited eagerly for any news he might have. "They're definitely from far elsewhere. Not only is their language completely foreign, but their gestures as well."

"Outworlders?" Griff suggested. "Or from across the sea?"

"Yes." Tae suspected Griff wanted to know which, but the Easterner had no certain answers. "The Outworlders we've faced or heard of always have some sort of magical abilities. Gods, elves, dwarves. Spirit spiders and other creatures. These pirates seem human. At least, I would have used magic, if I had it, in their situation."

Griff nodded guardedly.

Tae suspected the King of Bearn was hiding disappointment. Tae had promised miracles and, so far, delivered very little. "They don't talk to one another nearly as much as I'd like or expect, and the ways I have to goad them usually don't work out well for me." His hand went instinctively to the bruises at his throat. "But I have managed to learn the basic rules of their language and enough individual words to make crude conversation, if I had to."

Griff 's next nod held out more hope.

"All I really know so far is that they hold us in complete contempt. They look at us…" Tae paused to regroup and make the proper point. "… all of us, not just the other prisoners, as animals to slaughter at their whim. They don't seem to differentiate at all: soldiers, guards, men, women, children."

Matrinka shivered. Griff 's expression turned sour. Darris leaned in to listen, but Rantire seemed more interested in watching the door. The page simply recorded everything, as custom dictated. He could not share one word of what he witnessed with anyone except the Sage who guarded Bearn's history and secrets with the spirit and ferocity of an eagle.

Tae wished he had divined more, though he had not intended to tell everything. It all needed refinement that could only come with time. "As far as I can tell, the two you captured are foot soldiers.They refer to their commanders as the Kjempemagiska." Tae assumed the accent of the pirates as he spoke the word. "And they seem to hold them in great awe."

Tae looked down at his plate. He had to take just a couple more mouthfuls before he went back to the hell of Bearn's dungeon. He stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth, chewed, savored, and swallowed.

Griff clamped his lips shut and waited for Tae to finish. Only after the bread completely disappeared did he speak. "Tae, do you really think you can learn more from these… pirates?"

"I'm sure I can." Tae harbored no doubts. "I just need more time."

"Don't go back." Matrinka spoke so softly, Tae could barely hear her. "Please don't."

Tae understood her point. He did not relish returning to living like a beast in a cage, antagonizing deadly neighbors and earning the ire of the guards. Age seemed to compound everything he despised as a youth. The pain hurt worse and lasted longer, his reflexes seemed slower, his demeanor less useful, and his accuracy less lethal. On the other hand, he had gained in wisdom and patience. Those things would see him through the necessary hardships. "Matrinka, pardon me if I sound like I'm using you as a common servant; but, could you get me another piece of that wonderful bread?"

Matrinka grinned and rushed to do so. She had obviously put together the feast to soothe and please him. "I'd love to." She hurried to the door.

Tae waited only until it clicked closed behind her to climb out of his chair and walk toward Rantire. "Hit me," he said.

"What?" the word startled from Griff, and he half-rose from his seat.

Tae had eyes only for Rantire. "Hit me, Renshai. I can't come back looking better than when I left. The guards, and my cell mates, believe I'm getting-"

Rantire moved like a shadow. Tae barely had time to blink before the Renshai's fist filled his face and agony blasted through his nose. Driven backward, Tae became tangled in the empty chair and toppled to the floor. It scraped his ear and left arm, barked his right shin. Tae scrambled free, only to find his hands, cloak, and tattered shirt covered with blood.

"Damn it!" Tae shouted, catching the flow in his cupped hands. He tried to staunch the bleeding with a fold of the cloak, but it hurt too much to add pressure. "I didn't mean for you to break my stupid nose!"

Rantire looked at Tae, arms folded across her chest, her lips pursed in a self-satisfied smile. "If you don't want something done right, don't ask a Renshai."

Tae knew he had taken his chances going to Rantire, but he also knew Darris and Griff would not have had the nerve to harm him at all. They might even have stopped Rantire had they known what he planned to do. But he had thought she might show some restraint. At least, as a woman, she might not prove so strong.

The door opened, and Matrinka slipped inside, displaying a fresh piece of bread and a mug of something steaming. Her eyes widened, she let out an outraged scream, and dropped food and drink. The mug bounced, splashing hot liquid across the floor, furniture, and Tae's ankles. Still focused on the pain in his face, Tae barely noticed the burn.

Matrinka slammed the door and rounded on her husband. "I leave for one moment, and you attack him?"

Gingerly, Tae clamped hold of his aching nose.

"We didn't attack him," Griff explained. "He asked Rantire to hit him."

Matrinka's head swiveled toward the Renshai and her cocksure expression. The queen's hands balled to fists. For an instant, Tae thought the peaceful Bearnide might actually start a fight; but Matrinka's hands loosened, and she tended to Tae instead. "You're an idiot," she said in exasperation. "You're both stark raving idiots."

Under the circumstances, Tae could hardly disagree.

The miles disappeared beneath Silver Warrior's sure white hooves, now speckled with mud and loam. Wind tangled Ra-khir's red locks around his knight's plumed hat, and his cape chased him, snapping as his pace rose and fell in comparison to the wind. The trees sailed past him, on either side of the road, and he admired the leaves, buds, and flowers as if awakening from a long, deep sleep. Each branch seemed crystal clear, the leaves showed spidery veins he had never noticed before, and the rich purples, pinks, and yellows of the petals were bright enough to hurt his eyes. It seemed as if the entire world had changed while he slept, oblivious.

Oblivious. The word seemed to suit him. What am I missing? What did I say? What did I do? The last week had passed in an empty blur. Ra-khir had performed his duties in a blind, deaf trance. He knew he had groomed Silver Warrior, because the horse still whickered at the sight of him, and white hairs clung to every set of clothing. He knew he must have taken in food and water; he was still alive, still breathing. His body had taken over the dull routine without need for mind or spirit.

The agony of his loss had not left him. It still twinged at the slightest memory of his beloved Kevral.Yet she no longer wholly occupied his thoughts. Saviar and Calistin, his sons, had left him in the dark of night, without so much as an explanation or even a "farewell." He knew his words and wishes had no power to keep them safe; yet he could not help feeling as if the crazy superstitious notion could somehow manage what he had physically failed to do.

Did I insult them? Ra-khir hoped his suggestion that they remain in Erythane had not violated some deeply ingrained Renshai tenet. Did I drive them away? He believed he understood the Renshai as few ganim ever could. Most thought them lawless and unstructured, the very definition of chaos. Nearly all of the Renshai disparaged the Knights of Erythane for their rigid adherence to a code of honor. Yet few understood that the Renshai, themselves, had conventions equally unyielding and strict.

Renshai did fight without pattern or strategy, but were consistent in this observance. They all shunned armor or adornment that might deflect a blow, believing that depending upon anything but one's own skill in battle was tantamount to cowardice. They insisted on making every member of the tribe ambidextrous, they refused any weapon not a sword, and they forced sword-training even onto their infants. Complete and utter attention to the sword was their only way: they demanded the most enduring iron, the finest temper, and their devotion became like that between priest and deity. A sword touching ground was a sword gravely dishonored. And every single Renshai sought Valhalla as his final reward.

Ra-khir had done his best to understand and support every detail of the Renshai way, yet he had clearly failed. His wife was dead. His sons hated him for reasons he could not fathom. Saviar and Calistin had done worse than abandon him; they had not found him worthy of a simple "good-bye."

Or did they? Ra-khir wondered if he had mislaid the conversation. He had lost track of time so often since Kevral's death. Things happened in a floating fog, done but not remembered. Reality and dream mingled inseparably, but neither brought him the knowledge he needed. His sons had not said a word before departing. They were good young men, raised right, which meant the fault fell on their father. And that left Ra-khir with the glaring question that had troubled him since before he had left Erythane. What did I say? What did I do to make them hate me?

Ra-khir could not recall ever feeling so alone, so very lost. He had faced demons and armies, treachery and betrayal, even stood on the perfect fields of Asgard, spoken to gods, and looked upon Valhalla. All of these things he had done with trepidation, yet with courage. Kevral's death had shaken him as nothing else ever had, and it seemed so very senseless. She had courted death even before he had first met her, when he believed her a boy, taunting him on the knights' practice grounds. Like all Renshai, she had rushed recklessly into every battle, desperately seeking the glorious death that would earn her eternity in Valhalla.

Yet, Kevral had never died. And, as the years passed, it had seemed as if she never would. Like Colbey Calistinsson himself, the more she hurled herself at danger, the more skilled she became until it seemed inevitable that the death she sought would always evade her. It was a paradox that perplexed the most competent Renshai, but it had secretly pleased Ra-khir. Despite being a consummate Renshai, Kevral had seemed destined to live to a ripe, old age. So destined, in fact, that Ra-khir had unconsciously come to count upon it. But she had not even lived long enough to meet her own grandchildren.

She's in Valhalla, Ra-khir reminded himself for the thousandth time. The boys will name a grandchild for her, and she will look down upon her young namesake and guide her every sword stroke. Yet doubts descended upon Ra-khir, as they always did. Kevral had battled demons, kings, and immortals. Though it had occurred in battle, her death fighting a mortal Northman had seemed so unnecessary, so ordinary. He worried the Valkyries might find it too inglorious to warrant Valhalla.

And there was still the item of the spirit spiders. Ra-khir had been present when Kevral got bitten by one, had heard the elves proclaim that the creatures fed upon their victims' souls. Later, Kevral had told Ra-khir that the Fates had proclaimed her intact. She had a soul, and she could still find Valhalla. Those words had never fully reassured him, however. He worried she had spoken a lie only to assuage his fears. What if Kevral had no soul? What if she never found Valhalla? The thought was too terrible for him to contemplate.

Enough! Angrily, Ra-khir chased doubt from his mind. He had dwelt too long upon his anxieties, upon his losses. The time had come to find himself again, to display the honor and courage that had, heretofore, defined his life. Right or wrong, Kevral had made her choice. Overconfident Kevral, her peers had called her; and, if that audaciousness had led to her ultimate demise, it was also the quality that had drawn him to marry her. Kevral had died the way she had lived, battling foolishness and injustice without a hint of fear.

Finding himself withdrawing into his thoughts again, Ra-khir forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Again, he marveled at the decorative patterns of the leaves and flowers, found familiarity in the pocked roadway, where the tracks of boots, hooves, and cart-wheels marked the way. The few passersby waved cheerily at Ra-khir, and he tipped his hat in silent greeting to each and every one. Birds twittered in the treetops, flitting between branches and sending showers of berries down upon the trail. Ra-khir heard a few tap down on his hat and wondered how disheveled he must look. It never failed to astound him how the older knights, especially his father, managed to look pristine and proper in every circumstance. Ra-khir always felt gritty and sweat-slicked, and his clothing seemed to require cleaning and pressing from the instant he decided to wear it. Though as long as Ra-khir's, Kedrin's hair never knew a knot, while Ra-khir's seemed to snarl in a mere whisper of breeze.

As dusk fell over the road, forest gradually gave way to tended fields and scattered buildings. Silver Warrior slowed to a walk to avoid the ankle-turning stones until they became packed into cobbles. His hooves clopped against the solid stonework, and he lowered his long, white neck to study every footfall.

Ra-khir found his own attention trained on the upcoming village. At first, he thought a herd of animals ran loose inside it; but, as he drew closer, he realized the movement came from gathered people. They stood at the border, clearly awaiting something momentous. The children ran in giggling circles, trailing long strings of knotted rags. The adults stood, attentively facing the roadway and Ra-khir. His heart quickened, and he wondered if he should skirt the town. He hated to think he might have interrupted an important celebration: perhaps a significant marriage or a local holiday.

As they drew closer, Silver Warrior's gait grew increasingly slower until each hoof fall landed with a singular, unrhythmical thump. The crowd stood in silent contemplation. Even the children went still, some to stare and others to hide behind parental legs. Finally, Ra-khir drew his steed to a halt in front of the line of waiting people.

A long silence followed. No one seemed to know what to say or do. Finally, Ra-khir executed the most formal bow he could from atop his charger, flourishing his hat in a genteel motion.

Applause followed Ra-khir's bow, gracious and loud. One man stepped forward and also bowed, his head nearly touching the roadway. "Welcome Knight of Erythane. Thank you for gracing our town with your presence."

A cheer went up. Rags of various colors fluttered through the air, and the bolder children screeched excitedly. Others peeked out from behind their parents.

This is for me? Shocked, Ra-khir could think of nothing to do but introduce himself, "I am Sir Ra-khir Kedrin's son, Knight to the Erythanian and Bearnian kings: His Grace, King Humfreet, and His Majesty, King Griff."

Cheers and more applause followed his pronouncement, as if he had performed some spectacular feat. Embarrassed by their attention, Ra-khir found himself staring at the blue-and-gold ribbons braided into Silver Warrior's snowy mane. Knightly honor decreed he remain properly dignified and in control at all times. He had not done that over the last week; but he had, apparently, managed to maintain the image.

The spokesman smiled. "Welcome to Dunford, Sir Ra-khir. Have you time to join us for a meal? Our inn is not fancy, but the food is better than tolerable."

The entire group seemed to hold their breaths collectively, awaiting his answer.

Though desperately hungry, and even a bit tired, Ra-khir wanted nothing more than to find a few answers and move onward. However, his honor as a knight would not allow him to insult good people who, he now realized, had gathered solely for him. "I would love to join you all for a better than tolerable meal."

Another cheer went up from the crowd. They stepped aside to allow Ra-khir to pass.

Ra-khir dismounted in a single, fluid motion. Flicking back his cape, he seized Silver Warrior's wide leather bridle by the cheek strap spanning between decorative conches. He flipped the reins free and gathered them into his gloved left hand.The horse regarded its master through one dark eye, its delicately arched neck sheened with foam and sweat. "Hey, old boy," Ra-khir whispered, and an ear twitched sideways to listen.

With his hands full of bridle and reins, Ra-khir could spare nothing for his clothing. His tabard hung askew, his black silk shirt lay wrinkled and sweat-plastered to his chest, and the angle of his broadsword was completely wrong. Knight-Captain Kedrin would verbally flay him, but the citizens of Dunford did not even seem to notice.

The speaker and two others led the way. Everyone else walked alongside Ra-khir in a great band, chattering amongst themselves. Ra-khir tried not to listen, but he could not help overhearing parents telling their children the significance of a knightly visit.They spoke of ancient legends and how the word of a knight should be trusted implicitly. To hear them tell it, the Knights of Erythane were the human incarnations of honesty and honor, and their word was absolute law. They pointed out his colors: the blue and gold of Bearn and the black and orange or Erythane, worn at all times by every knight. The children ogled the broadsword at his hip, and some reached out to touch him or his horse as though such a thing might heal them of afflictions.

For the first time since leaving Erythane, Ra-khir secretly wished his father had let him quit the knights. The attention, though kind, unnerved him. He would rather ride off immediately with a handful of jerky and a few answers. Though accustomed to dreary, long-winded formality, he found himself saddled with all-too-human impatience. Yet, he had no choice but to display the honor of his kind, to weather the hospitality of his hosts, and to hope the Renshai did not get too far ahead of him meanwhile.

Though large for a village inn, the building could hold only half the residents at one time. The women and children veered away from the mud-and-stone building, pausing only to well-wish, curtsy, or touch their guest. Obliged to respond to each and every one, Ra-khir bowed what seemed like a million times, spoke several hundred thanks, and granted all verbalized requests for light contact. Some simply touched a sleeve or a glove, others kissed the hem of his cape or tabard, while the children seemed to favor a stroke of Silver Warrior's lathered chest or flank.

At length, only the men remained, streaming into the inn or talking in small groups. A stable boy approached Ra-khir and lowered his head.

Ra-khir granted him a grand bow, which brought a smile to the young man's lips.

"Beggin' youse pardons, sir. May I tends to youse horse?"

Ra-khir pursed his lips. The vast majority of the knight's chargers got their care from grooms, but Ra-khir had always insisted on tending Silver Warrior himself. In this circumstance, however, it seemed insulting to put the horse before his many eager hosts. Reluctantly releasing the bridle, he nodded. Worried they might not allow him to pay for anything, Ra-khir slipped the boy a couple of silvers. "He's very special." A whole litany of needs sprang to his tongue, but he knew better than to speak them. This youngster knew exactly how to treat a fine animal, and the payoff would see to it that Silver Warrior received the best of care. "But getting a bit long in the tooth."

The stable boy pocketed the silver and nodded. "I'll sees ta it the ol' boy gits plenty o' lovin' cares."

"Thank you."

Several men gestured for Ra-khir to enter the building, and he did so at their urging. Afraid to cause a pile-up at the entrance, he walked the length of the common room to a large, round table in the farthest corner. The instant he chose a seat, the men of Dunford rushed to fill the nearest ones like children playing one-chair-less. Soon, men filled every position, scooting chairs and tables, while others found the best places to stand.

Though uncomfortably closed-in, Ra-khir suffered in silence. His honor prevented him from demanding breathing room or, even, from shedding a cape or tabard from his oppressive amount of clothing. He did, however, remove his hat and gloves, as was proper inside any establishment. "Hello," he said.

A hundred hellos answered him, like a loud, uncoordinated echo.

Ra-khir cleared his throat, feeling it impolite to rush right into business. The gesture resulted in a painful cough, his throat dry and dusty from travel.

In an instant, a barmaid appeared at Ra-khir's shoulder, clutching a mug of light-colored ale. He had no idea how she had negotiated the crowd so quickly. "Here, sirra," she said, placing the mug in front of him on the table. "This is for you, courtesy of Lenn." She gestured toward the bar. "He said to tell you the house special is on the way."

Ra-khir followed the movement of her arm to a portly, middle-aged man wearing an apron over his linens. He threw a friendly salute toward the knight.

Ra-khir returned the salute more grandly and briskly; he knew no other way. "Tell him, thank you. And to keep track of my tab."

"He said to tell you…" The girl took a deep breath, clearly trying to quote her boss exactly right, "… if you try to pay, he'll break your arms."

"Ah!" Ra-khir could not help smiling. "How can I refuse such a gracious invitation?" He sifted a few coppers from his purse and pressed them into her hand. "Did he say anything about not tipping the staff?"

Her fingers closed over the coins, and she threw a surreptitious glance toward Lenn.

"Don't tell him, eh? I like my arms the way they are." Ra-khir distracted Lenn by rising and making a formal bow of appreciation in his direction.

Lenn bowed back, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Other serving girls pressed through the crowd, amid a sudden flurry of drink and food orders throughout the common room. Apparently, serving the knight cued the others. Had Ra-khir known that bit of etiquette, he would have ordered before entering; his throat felt parched, and his stomach rumbled.

"Thank you, sirra," the girl whispered before diving into the crowd to take her share of orders.

Ra-khir remained stiffly formal, as his title dictated. He glanced at the faces around his table: sunburned, dust-etched, wrinkled, nodding to each in turn before asking, "I wondered if a group of warriors preceded me to Dunford, about three hundred strong and in need of supplies."

Murmurs ran through the crowd, denying such a sighting. Only after the noise died did one man speak alone, "Sir Knight, I did not see such an army. But, only two days ago, I sold my wares to the beams to a group of five men who packed out my cured and fresh meats in a horse-drawn cart. Every one of them wore a sword at his hip. They could be feeding a multitude like you describe."

"Aye," said another. "And they bought out my cheeses, didn't care the type."

"And my vegetables," piped in a third.

Suddenly, every memory was jogged, and several started talking at once about the clothing, foodstuffs, and other necessities they, a wife, or a friend had sold to this apparently enormous group.

Ra-khir had no doubt they spoke of the Renshai, glad the tribe had shown the sense to mostly remain in hiding. Even smaller villages did not take well to the sudden appearance of a militia.

A man swaggered up to Ra-khir's table, ignoring the elbows jabbed at him by his peers. "Sir Knight," he slurred, huffing fetid breath on all of those around him. Clearly, he had started his drinking hours earlier. "There were Renshai in the woods. A friend of mine barely escaped with his life."

"Ignore him," those nearby suggested. "He's always-"

But Ra-khir could not afford to dismiss him. "Renshai, you say?"

"Renshai," the man repeated. In some parts of the world, it was considered a swear word too vile to speak. "They all carried swords, even the women and the tykes, he said."

"That sounds like Renshai." Ra-khir had no choice but to encourage him. "Are you certain they attacked him, though?"

"They're Renshai," the man reminded, as if this was enough to guarantee violence. "He barely escaped with his life."

"So…" Ra-khir tried carefully, "… they wounded him."

"Cor, no!" The man made a wild gesture that sent others ducking and scurrying to avoid getting hit. "Renshai don't wound. They get holt of a man, they kill him… brutally."

Ra-khir heaved a large sigh. It seemed unnecessary to point out the ludicrous flaws in the drunkard's statement. If three hundred Renshai wished to catch a man, he would be caught. And, if they intended him harm, he would be harmed. "I do not believe your friend was ever in any danger."

The drunkard froze in his strange and awkward position, arms akimbo. Whispers spread through the common room, then died to silence. The group hung on Ra-khir's next pronouncement.

"It is true that Renshai are skilled warriors and that their women learn warfare alongside their men."

The crowd did not discuss Ra-khir's words, clearly awaiting the "but" that had to follow.

Ra-khir did not disappoint. "But… in all other ways, they are like every Westerner."

"Westerner." The word swept the room. One man finally addressed Ra-khir directly. "You consider them Westerners, Sir Knight? Like us? Our allies?"

Ra-khir could scarcely believe they did not. "Of course, the Renshai are Westerners. They have lived in the West for centuries and have wielded their swords in defense of Bearn's heirs. They are more than our allies. They are… us!"

Now conversations flared like fires throughout the common room. The drunkard toddled off, shaking his head. The serving girl seized the sudden lull to slip through the crowd and deposit a plate of food in front of Ra-khir. The tantalizing aroma of roast pork and roots, boiled greens and brown bread tickled his nostrils. Dirt-specked saliva filled his mouth, lubricating his throat.

Cautiously picking up a steaming root, Ra-khir took a small bite, closed his mouth, and savored the sweetly starchy flavor. Luckily, it was not hot enough to burn his tongue, and he followed it with a swig of what turned out to be excellent ale.

By the time Ra-khir swallowed, the first question reached him.

"Knights of Erythane cannot lie, can they?"

Though more interested in his food, Ra-khir knew the conversation had to take precedence. He had an obligation to help a society overcome ignorant bigotry, especially against his family. "It is against our code of honor to do so.The Order would never maintain a knight who had knowingly spoken falsehoods."The explanation seemed unnecessary. Even if knights spent their entire existence spewing lies, anyone answering such a query would say nothing different than Ra-khir had. "A knight would willingly die rather than forsake his honor in such a way."

Again, the common room buzzed with conversation, this time accompanied by nods. Ra-khir pounced on the opportunity to eat and drink, cursing the deeply ingrained manners that forced him to do so slowly and with decorum. He wanted nothing more than to tear into that food, without having to worry what dripped down his chin, what soiled his uniform, or what noises accompanied his feast. But, ever the proper knight, Ra-khir attended to every manner as the men in the common room came to a consensus. His father's words, an echo of his own, haunted him. Remember this: anything you say or do reflects back on the Knights of Erythane, on King Humfreet and on King Griff, who you represent.

At last, the largest man at his table, who now also nursed food and ale, spoke. "Sir Ra-khir, we have been taught since infancy to dread Renshai. They are the demons who steal away naughty children in the night, the cause of every inexplicable death because they need to drink our blood to keep their youth and vitality. But none of us has encountered a Renshai, at least not that we recognized as anything but another man. If a Knight of Erythane swears that these self-same Renshai are our fellows and our allies, we have no choice but to believe and trust you."

Ra-khir nodded with respect though his thoughts raced. He could scarcely believe he had solved a centuries-old problem with a single proclamation. Is it really this easy? He knew the truth, had witnessed it in Bearn and in Erythane, where they knew firsthand that the Renshai served as faithful bodyguards to the princes and princesses, where Renshai assisted them in every skirmish. It did not take much to scrape off the veneer of tolerance and find a teeming mass of festering hatred beneath it. Still, a surface layer of forbearance was a start. "Leave them in peace, and the Renshai will not bother you. Ask them for assistance in wars and battles, and they will happily provide it."

After that, the male citizenry of Dunford dug into their repasts, and Ra-khir finally got a chance to eat-unhurriedly and with proper etiquette.