Flight of the Renshai

CHAPTER 38

The stream bubbled merrily through the mountains, a silver sliver reflecting sunlight into Saviar's eyes. He perched on a deadfall that bridged the water, his legs dangling, right hand clasped around Chymmerlee's, the left clutching a flat stone. He drew his arm back, flicked his wrist, and sent the stone skipping.

Chymmerlee counted aloud, "One, two three, four, five… six. You beat me."

Saviar watched the rings widening from each touch, then his stone sank, leaving a wake of tiny bubbles.

"And with your left hand." Chymmerlee gave their entwined hands a shake. "And I thought I was so good at this."

Saviar did not bother to mention that which hand he used did not matter. Renshai trained to use both equally; any tendency to favor one got fixed in childhood drills. He pulled her hand toward him, drawing her along, and pushed forward for a kiss.

"Saviar!" Subikahn appeared out of nowhere.

Startled, Saviar dropped Chymmerlee's hand, reaching for a sword hilt, leaping in front of her to guard her. Instead, his quick movement sent her careening from the log. She tumbled gracelessly into the muddy stream with more thud than splash.

Subikahn's tone changed from one of excitement to horror. "Sav-ee-ar!" He charged into the water.

Aghast, Saviar stared at Chymmerlee in the stream. Sitting, the water came up to her waist, her clothing soaked, face and hair a mucky mess. "Chymmer, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Helplessly, he ran first one way, then the other, trying to divine the fastest way to her. Jump, you idiot. He sprang into the stream, the weight of his landing spraying Chymmerlee and Subikahn, who had grabbed her elbow to help her out of the water.

An instant later, Saviar found himself standing in brown water up to his shins, staring at his brother and his friend splattered head to toe in wet filth. Subikahn graciously held Chymmerlee's arm, his hair dripping plant matter and mud.

Realizing he had only managed to make things worse, Saviar flushed. "I'm sorry," was all he could think to say. "I was trying to help."

"Yes," Subikahn noted, shaking the mess from his hair. "How thoughtful. Thank you."

Saviar looked at Chymmerlee, waiting for her to slap him, to cry, to call him something worthy of the idiocy he had just displayed. She started shaking, gently at first, then harder. Laughter emerged from her, sweet and bell-like. She stooped, scooped up a handful of mud, and threw it at Saviar.

Saviar could have dodged it, but surprise held him rooted in place. The mudball hit him in the stomach, slapping against his tunic, then running in a wet line back into the water. He remained in place until the second handful of mud sped toward him. Then, he attempted to duck. Mud splattered into his hair as it whizzed by, the bulk of it missing. "You… wench," he sputtered.

Subikahn joined the action, dredging up handfuls of muck and hurling them at his brother.

"Hey," Saviar yelled. "Hey!" Opening his mouth turned out to be a bad idea. The mud tasted of fish and greenery, and he spat out bits of rock and filth. "All right, then! If that's how you want it." He grabbed his own muck, feeling a ball smack against the top of his head as he dropped into a crouch.

It devolved swiftly. Water splashed in mighty, man-made waves, mud flew in all directions, shattering into watery bits as it hit a target. It became a three-way war, as Chymmerlee's aim betrayed her and she hit Subikahn one too many times.

Saviar laughed, careful to keep his lips clamped tight as he did so. Mud weighted his feet and gushed over his boots to leave him wading through mush. His filthy, sodden clothes clung to every part of him, and his hair dripped large clumps of grime. He had to squint to keep the mud from his eyes, though he could see it clinging to his lashes. Whenever he tried to wipe it away with the back of a hand, he only wound up adding more. He could not remember the last time he had had so much fun.

Shielding her face, Chymmerlee giggled, finally wading to shore.

Saviar stopped, an unthrown mudball dissolving through his fingers. He sneaked a glance at Subikahn, who looked like a man-shaped swamp monster. "Truce?" he suggested.

Subikahn lowered his arm.

"Do I look as bad as you two?" Chymmerlee asked, stripping mud from her hair.

"Worse," Subikahn exclaimed before Saviar could say something more comforting. "But, then again, Saviar was smart enough to anticipate the battle by shoving you in first."

Saviar cringed, wishing Subikahn had not mentioned the initiating event, even in jest. He liked Chymmerlee's reaction to his foolish and clumsy mistake. So many women would have gotten angry and flayed him, at least verbally, for it. "I really am sorry about that. I didn't mean to-"

"-cheat?" Chymmerlee supplied; and, now, Subikahn laughed.

"No." Saviar thought back to how the mud war had started. "I didn't expect to get startled by my brother running up sounding like he had news of great import, then accidentally sweeping a beautiful girl off her balance." The smile disappeared from his face. "Did you shout out my name for an actual reason?"

Chymmerlee smiled at the compliment, the movement barely cracking the mud on her face.

Subikahn brushed futilely at his clothes, his demeanor growing more serious. "Actually, I did." He glanced at Chymmerlee, then apparently decided she had paid enough to hear the news as well. "Remember how I told you I saw a small army pass through the lower woodlands last week?"

Saviar nodded. He had not believed it, thinking Subikahn had misinterpreted what he saw. "And another one, a smaller one, yesterday."

"Yes," Subikahn confirmed. "And a bigger one today. And, this time, I talked to some of the soldiers."

Saviar froze. "You did?"

"They were Northmen." Subikahn shook like a dog, dislodging large chunks of drying muck. "I think they liked meeting an obvious foreigner who could speak their language."

Apparently more surprised by Subikahn's revelation than concerned for passing armies, Chymmerlee chimed in. "You speak Northern?"

Saviar held his breath, wondering if his brother was about to reveal their secret.

But Subikahn waved off the question. "I speak a lot of languages. My father, I think, could communicate with creatures from distant stars if he had to."

Saviar made a gesture to hurry Subikahn to the important issues. "Why are armies moving through the mountain passes?"

"Apparently, Bearn is under siege."

"What?" The word was startled from Saviar.

Dutifully, Subikahn repeated, "Bearn is under siege. The pirates are massing just offshore."

Saviar flipped his arms to dislodge more mud, wishing Subikahn had stopped the game in light of this information. "We have to go.We have to do whatever we can."

The reactions to this statement could not have been more different. Subikahn's "Of course" made strange contrast to Chymmerlee's shouted, "No!"

Saviar waded to shore, keeping his step as light as possible so the water could wash out his boots. "Chymmerlee, there's no decision to make here. Subikahn and I have to defend Bearn."

"No!" Chymmerlee ran toward Saviar as he emerged. "I just found you. I can't lose you."

Saviar embraced Chymmerlee, suddenly uncomfortable with the wet and dirt that had seemed so entertaining moments earlier. "I'm not going to forget you. We'll come back."

"Better yet," Subikahn said softly. "Your people should come with us."

"What?" Saviar found himself shocked again.

"You've heard the stories coming out of Bearn. These attackers, they seem to have access to magic. Why shouldn't we?"

Chymmerlee answered before Saviar could. "Because my people can't afford to lose even one mage. We're in hiding, for hundreds of years now, for a reason."

Subikahn shook his head. "Well, it seems your time has come. This enemy isn't logical or decent. They don't parley, and they don't take prisoners. If Bearn falls, the rest of the West will go with it, and the North and East will find themselves in a far worse position when the pirates come to them."

"Really?" Chymmerlee said, very softly. The hand she brought to her mouth trembled.

"Really," Subikahn said.

Saviar released her. "We'd better wash and change, then. I'm not sure anyone could take us seriously the way we look right now." Chymmerlee seemed willing to consider the possibility, but he doubted the others would be so easily convinced. He would need the bathing time to think, to pick out the words necessary to convince. He alone had leadership and speaking training. The job, he knew, would fall to him.

Traveling through the Westlands, Calistin had become accustomed to pristine farmland that gave way abruptly to bunched and solid cities, so the scattered layout of Aerin caught him unprepared. Here, the ragged farmland consisted mostly of gaunt animals grazing on stunted grasses and fowl scavenging dung for insects and undigested seeds. The dwellings were communal longhouses as much as cottages, and smoke twined from every chimney.

People scurried about in the twilight, carrying groceries and water, conversing in their musical language. Hammers rang on forges, sheep bleated plaintively, and the swishing and banging of woodworking filled the evening air. Odors mingled: cook fires, smoke, and the syrupy scent of lumber. As usual, Calistin found himself hungry and not for the usual travel fare, as good as Treysind made it. More than anything, he wanted a platter of freshly roasted mutton and a frosty mug of ale.

It took Calistin's ears time to adjust to the language delivered in its native singsong. But, after catching enough snatches of passing conversation, he realized, with relief, that his training had been adequate. He could understand Northern and, he hoped, speak it well enough to be understood. He also recognized the letters that spelled out "inn" on a nearby building. Relieved, he hurried toward it, Treysind directly on his heels.

As he walked, Calistin noticed other details. Towheads and redheads predominated to the point where the rare man with even a hint of brown seemed out of place. In Bearn and Erythane, they called a person with lighter brown hair a blond. Here, Calistin imagined, they might consider that same person dark. Many of the men openly carried weapons, and some of the boys play-sparred with twigs when they thought their parents were not looking. No one seemed aware of the newcomers who looked enough like the Aeri to pass for neighbors.

Calistin opened the door to the inn. Smoke billowed out the opening, funneled by the wind. Coughing, Treysind scampered inside, leaving just enough room for Calistin to quickly shut the door. The smoke returned to wrap the patrons in a warm, comfortable haze. Calistin supposed his eyes would adjust quickly enough and chose the nearest table so as not to stumble around awkwardly in the mist. Treysind flopped into the chair across from him. "Ain't unner standin' a word what they says."

Calistin nodded, starting to look around until a barmaid distracted him. She placed herself directly at his right elbow and leaned onto the table. Dressed in a tight uniform of black with white lace, her plump body bulged at the cleavage. Not yet caught up in his adolescence, Calistin scarcely noticed.

"Hallo," she said with a well-practiced cheerfulness. "What can I get you, boys?"

"I'm a man." The words came out as easily in Northern as they did in Common. "I've earned my manhood."

The barmaid's brows rose, but she did not question. She stood up straight and turned her attention to Treysind. "Does that go for you, too, young sir?"

Calistin started to look over the other patrons again, only to realize that Treysind would not answer. He had enough trouble with the Common and Western tongues. "No, he's still a boy; but you can call him Treysind."

"Treysind," she repeated. "What an exotic name." She brushed back long, yellow hair, tacking it behind one ear. "I like it."

Calistin did not bother to tell her it meant "offspring of the ashes" in the Erythanian dialect.

"Ya's talkin' 'bout me." Treysind recognized his name. "What's ya sayin' 'bout me?"

Calistin forestalled his companion with a raised hand. "We'll have two plates of mutton and two mugs of ale."

"Ale?" she repeated.

"Ale," Calistin confirmed. "Don't you have any?"

"Of course we have ale. But don't you… boys…" She amended quickly, "… boy and man. Don't you think you're a bit young for full-fledged ale?"

Not again. Calistin stared at the barmaid. She was pretty in the way all young women are but had large, broad features that appeared somewhat asymmetrical. "Do you question the choices of all your patrons? Or only mine?"

The barmaid's face turned a brilliant shade of pink. "I'm not… I mean I don't… It's just that the younglings…who drink ale… don't grow as well or as clever as…" The color faded from her cheeks, and her expression turned stern and motherly. "Is Treysind your little brother?" She did not await an answer before continuing. "Because I don't think your mother would approve-"

Calistin caught his own hand slipping toward his sword, the only outward sign of building rage. "My mother is dead, you nosy wench. And it's none of your damned business how I raise my little brother! Now, get me the damned ale and the damned mutton before I go back there and get it my damned self!"

The barmaid retreated without another word and disappeared into the mist.

The door opened, and another group of Northmen came inside, stirring up the smoky interior just as it had started to settle.

"Why's ya yellin' at her, Hero?"

Calistin sighed and turned his attention back to Treysind. "Nothing important, Trey."

The boy sat up straighter. "Ya called me 'Trey.' "

"Yeah. So?"

"So's, no one's ever called me 'Trey' bafore." Treysind mulled the situation. "I likes it. Sounds like somethin' a brother would call me."

Calistin shrugged, bobbing his head. "I guess that fits, then. She called you my little brother."

"She did?" Treysind bounced in his chair. He looked positively giddy. "That why ya getted mad?"

"No. I just don't like a stranger asking me personal questions and judging me when her job is just to fetch me food when I ask for it." Calistin smiled at the realization. "In fact, that irritated me so much, I even called you my little brother."

Treysind's eyes widened so they seemed enormous. "Rilly?"

It obviously meant a lot to Treysind, and it did not hurt Calistin in any way. "Sure, why not? You practically are. I mean, we're both basically orphans, you irritate me as much as Saviar or Subikahn, and we're together all the time." All the damned time; I can't get rid of you. "And you look about as much like me as either of my actual brothers."

"Ya thinks ya's papa would… 'dopt me?"

Calistin had never considered it. "Ra-khir?" He frowned in consideration. "I… don't know. I really don't know him as well as I should." The emotions that followed caught Calistin by surprise. He had always realized his father was a good man, but he had dismissed all the Knights of Erythane as deluded, untalented do-gooders. Since he had outgrown horsy rides and kiddy games when he was very young, he had given his father little attention or thought. Nothing mattered but the Renshai way: the sword, the arm, and the craft that bound them. "It wouldn't surprise me if he did, but it's not really necessary. I'm a man, and I can choose my brothers with or without my parent's blessing."

Treysind's smile seemed to loop around his face. It sparkled in his eyes and displaced his cheeks upward. It even seemed to show upon his brow. "I gots a brother. A hero brother. Someone what… what…" Treysind bit back his next exuberant word, then allowed it to slip out as a question, "… loves me?" The smile wilted. "Tha's too much ta ask, ain't it?"

Calistin felt the usual cold barrier slide into place, the one that kept him at arm's length from the world. He did not like the realm of emotion; it distracted him from the one truly significant concept in life. Yet, when Calistin looked upon the boy's desperately hopeful features, he knew he could not ignore the question. The cruelty such action would inflict would be too great. "Of course, I love you, Trey. Families love each other, even when we can't stand each other. Even when we want to cut one another's guts out, we don't do it. Because, no matter how obnoxious, inane, and annoying we find one another at times, deep down, the love is always there."

Treysind stiffened. For an instant, he seemed poised to leap into dance, to shout or whoop, to display his joy in a whirlwind of uncon tainable action. Somehow, he managed to control his glee, but it still showed in the ecstatic glimmer in his eyes, the glow of his cheeks, and the quiver of excitement that seemed to take over his body.

The words came. Much to Calistin's surprise, he found Treysind's joy contagious. He could not help grinning, could not help feeling pleased with himself and the effect he had had on his companion. It had taken some effort; yet, for the first time in his life, it seemed entirely worth the bother. His own words, as untried and crude as they were, had brought untold happiness to a boy who had had little enough of it in his short lifetime. All it had taken was a few words more carefully chosen than usual.

The barmaid returned shortly. Calistin noticed at once that she carried nothing in her hands. "Avard wants to know if you got money to pay for what you ordered."

Money again. Calistin did not know how to react. The last time someone had demanded it from him, in the tavern in Ainsville, he had killed Karruno and skipped town in the chaos that followed, without paying. Back home, he had never had to worry about money, had barely even bothered to learn the value of the various coinage. He had no idea if the North used a system in any way similar to the West's. In all of his experience, he had never seen anyone pay for something before receiving it, and he had noticed other patrons tossing down coins only as they left. Calistin recognized an insult when he received one. "Why should I pay for food and drink you haven't brought me yet?"

The barmaid fidgeted, clearly nervous. "Avard says you're young, and he's never seen you in here before. He just wants to make sure you have enough money to pay for what you eat."

The barkeep in Ainsville had made the same request and not nearly so politely. Calistin looked at Treysind, but the boy only stared back at him, still smiling. He did not speak a word of Northern. "My brother handles all the money."

The barmaid's brows narrowed in suspicion, but she turned her attention directly on Treysind. The boy squirmed in his seat.

"What's goin' on?" Treysind asked softly in Western. Usually, they conversed in the Common Trading tongue, but that was the most used language in the world. Likely, the barmaid spoke it, and Treysind wanted to keep this private.

"Money," Calistin said. "She wants it in advance."

"Why are you whispering?" the barmaid said loudly. "And what language are you speaking anyway?"

Calistin did not wish to draw attention that might give away his heritage, not after Colbey had cautioned him against it. Only one tribe of Northmen lived in the West. "It's our tribal tongue," Calistin lied. "My little brother had an accident as a baby and has trouble learning languages. He's only mastered tribal, and he's not particularly good at that, either."

"Tribal, huh?" The explanation did not satisfy the barmaid. "I've never heard anything like it. What tribe are you from?"

Calistin picked the farthest tribe, the one with which she would probably have the least experience. "We're Gelshni, if you must know. But it's not-"

A voice boomed out from behind them. "Ah, boys. There you are. I've been looking all over for you."

Calistin whirled to see a huge form emerge from the haze. A massive hand touched his shoulder.

The newcomer spun a chair from a nearby table, then thrust it between his legs to sit between Calistin and Treysind. He looked askance at the barmaid. "I'm sorry, Griselda. Have my boys been giving you trouble?"

The woman curtsied hurriedly. "I'm so sorry, Valr. I didn't know they were with you." She turned toward the kitchen, then stopped abruptly. "Is it all right for me to bring them mutton? And ale, sir?"

Valr. The name rang through Calistin's ears. Ignoring the conversation, he studied the man who claimed to know them, who had joined them, uninvited, at the table. He wore heavy leathers stained by sweat and travel grime; but the large, lithe figure was unmistakable. Calistin might forget a face but never a warrior figure. Valr Magnus. He had not only run into the very enemy he sought, for reasons currently beyond comprehension, the man had come to him.

"Aye, fine. Whatever they want. I'm paying."

The barmaid scurried to obey with newfound deference.

Only then, Calistin met the other man's gaze with a coldness that could have frozen a summer pond. The familiar, handsome features completed the picture. He looked the part of the hero, his cheeks rugged and high-formed, his nose not too prominent and perfectly straight, his chin chiseled. Fine blue eyes studied Calistin from beneath a tousled mane of golden hair. "Valr Magnus." Calistin fairly spat the name.

That caught Treysind's attention. He already stared unabashedly at the man who had joined them so unexpectedly. Now, his expression revealed revulsion and fear.

Magnus nodded as if Calistin had merely spoken a polite greeting. "Calistin Kevralsson. I thought you would find me."

"Calistin Ra-khirsson," Calistin corrected, though he took no insult. He was at least as proud of his maternal heritage. "And it would appear you found me."

The large man belted out a laugh. "Well, I suppose so, seeing as how I recognized you from a whole two tables away. That's clearly more significant than you trailing me across the entire Westlands, through the Weathered Mountains, and into Northern tribal lands.

Calistin did not allow himself to see the humor in it. He refused to share a joke with his bitterest enemy. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't follow you."

Valr Magnus' brows rose, and he tipped his head. "So you're not here to face me in fair combat?"

Calistin saw no reason to lie now. "Of course, I am. But I didn't follow you. I expected to find you in Nordmir."

"Why Nordmir?"

"Because… you're Nordmirian."

Valr Magnus' expression did not change. "That will come as a great surprise to my Aeri parents."

"Aeri…" Calistin realized he had no real reason to assume the tribe of the proclaimed best Northern swordsman was Nordmirian, other than knowing it was the site of the North's high kingdom and the source of the most vicious Renshai hatred. Valr Kirin had come from there, and the legend must have stuck in Calistin's mind. "Fine. Aeri, then. What's the difference? All Northmen are the same."

"Including Renshai?"

"Of course not."

"Ah." Valr did not bother to delve deeper.

The barmaid appeared swiftly, balancing two heaping plates of mutton and two mugs of foamy ale. She placed them in front of Calistin and Treysind, then curtsied. Light seemed to dance in her eyes as she addressed Valr Magnus. "And you, Valr? Would you be having more, sir?"

The Northman turned her a smile, and her knees buckled. For a moment, Calistin thought she would melt onto the floor in front of him. "Just a bit more of that ale, please."

Regaining her equilibrium instantly, the barmaid rushed away.

Valr looked at Calistin's drink. "It's good. Not like that horse piss that passes for ale in the West."

Calistin felt no obligation to defend the Western taverns, but it irked him that Valr Magnus seemed determined to turn the ugliest of feuds into normal conversation. "Maybe it's just you they're serving horse piss. Maybe they think it's all you deserve."

"Maybe," Valr added conspiratorially, "it isn't even horse!"

It took Calistin a moment to realize what Valr meant, that the barmen and maids might be the source of the urine. His face wrinkled in revulsion reflexively. "That's disgusting."

"But all I deserve," Valr reminded Calistin in the Renshai's own words.

Treysind finally cut in, using the Common Trading tongue. "Can't yas two speak Common? I wants ta know what ya's sayin'."

Valr responded before Calistin had a chance. "I speak a few languages. Perhaps we can use the one that you know most fluently."

"That's it," Calistin explained. "Trading. I'm afraid that's as articulate as he gets."

"So's I don't talk so good," Treysind said around a mouthful of shredded mutton. "Least now I kin unnerstan's yas." He looked directly at Calistin. "So ya's finded him."

Calistin nodded.

"Ya's gonna fight?"

"Yes," Calistin said, not caring what Valr Magnus answered. "We're going to fight. To the death."

Treysind turned his attention to Valr Magnus. "That righ'?"

The Aeri shrugged. "To the death, apparently. Assuming that was, in fact, a serious challenge."

"It was," Calistin confirmed.

Treysind shoveled in another mouthful of meat, speaking around it. "So what's yas waitin' for? Yas talkin' terms out?"

"Not really." Valr Magnus looked up as the barmaid wound her way toward him. "I just wanted to get to know the man who's going to send me to Valhalla. Assuming he wins, of course."

Calistin found his rage giving way to confusion. He had envisioned his meeting with Valr Magnus many times, and it never went anything like this. In his mind, the Northman immediately assaulted him as soon as he pronounced his name and tribe. "Oh, I'll win," he mumbled as the barmaid set down the mug by Magnus' right hand.

"Thank you," Magnus said, waving the barmaid away.

She hesitated a moment, as if to say something, then scurried off in silence.

"Very well, then," Magnus said, without a trace of fear. "Any messages you want me to take your mother?"

Calistin's eyes narrowed, and he studied the man in front of him, seeking offense in his question. The mere mention of the mother Magnus had killed suggested flippancy and intent to rattle.Yet, Calistin realized, in one question the Aeri had essentially decreed Kevral a courageous warrior and Calistin the better swordsman.

When Calistin gave no reply, Magnus turned his attention to Treysind, eating and drinking with gusto. "What's your name, young man?"

Treysind waved a hand. "Oh, ya kin call me 'boy.' It don't 'fend me like it do him." He swallowed a wad of food so huge, Calistin could see it go down his neck. "Name's Treysind."

A few moments passed in silence before Valr finally said. "Is that your whole name?"

"Yep." Even though he continued talking, Treysind stuffed more mutton into his mouth. "I's a orphan, so's I ain't got no Nobody's son ta tack on there. Don't know whose son I is, acshly. An' I ain't got no title or tribe or nothin' neither."

"You're not Renshai?"

"Hel, no." Treysind said it with an enthusiasm that surprised Calistin, given how much Treysind wanted to become his brother. "An' as Hero says it, I wiel' a saword 'bout as good as a cat do." He held up grimy hands with bits of mutton stuck to them. "Paws, appar'ntly."

Magnus took a sip of his ale. "I suppose it's reasonable for me to assure you that, if you lose the battle, I'll make sure no one harms your friend."

Calistin had not even considered Treysind's welfare; and, in light of Colbey's recent words, that bothered him. He tried to attribute the lapse to courage. "That's not necessary, since I'm not going to lose. Not to you."

"Probably not," Magnus did not lapse into false bravado, though he demonstrated no fear either. "But even the greatest of warriors makes a mistake sometime. And that mistake is usually his last."

Calistin appreciated the implication that he was, in fact, the greatest. "I don't make mistakes."

Magnus smiled. "Well, whatever your possible errors, you certainly don't suffer from a surfeit of humility."

Calistin was not entirely sure whether or not he faced an insult. "False modesty is not a virtue."

"Nor pride," Magnus added. "Be that as it may, aren't you going to eat your dinner?"

The plate beckoned but, thus far, Calistin had managed to resist. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To face me slowed by a bellyful of meat."

Valr Magnus clamped his jaw, obviously biting back his own irritation. "Not at all. Nor slowed by starvation. I want to find Valhalla in the most magnificent battle of my life. I want to love every minute of my existence as Einherjar. I don't want to spend years or decades waiting for you to join me so I can finally face you at your best. And if I won? What joy or pride can come from defeating an opponent not at his best? Then, when I finally joined you in Valhalla, would it be to find you stewing in bitterness? I think not."

Calistin could barely believe what he was hearing. "It didn't seem to bother you any that your people cheated so you could murder my mother."

For the first time since he had joined them at the table, Valr Magnus lost his suave composure. He simply stared at Calistin, his features pinched, an artery throbbing at his temple. "What," he finally managed, "are you talking about?"

"The man who jumped on her. Surely you noticed."

Magnus moved nothing but his mouth. "You mean the Erythanian spectator who slipped and fell? He could just as easily have landed on me."

"But he didn't, did he?"

"Dumb luck." Magnus ran a finger through the condensation on his mug. "Many a misstep, many a falling branch, even the weather has turned the tide of battle."

"Yes," Calistin agreed. "But this wasn't a natural phenomenon, was it? This was the work of a man."

"I would say the 'misfortune' of a man."

"And I would say the deliberate action of a hired cheater."

"That's a strong accusation." Magnus' jaw remained clenched after speaking. "One that begs proof."

Calistin closed his eyes, trusting his other senses implicitly to warn him of danger. He could still vividly picture the scene on the Fields of Wrath. He opened his eyes before speaking, "I saw the man in the tree, the only one in the tree. That Erythanian did not fall; he leaped with intention and deliberate aim."

"Forgive me if I seem unreasonable. I just don't believe my own people would practice such trickery nor demonstrate such little faith in me." Magnus met Calistin's gaze directly, his pale eyes full of honest wonder. "It's not uncommon for the losing side of any battle to see fouls where they do not exist, to call them even when they don't see them."

Calistin leaned toward his rival, holding his gaze with as much intensity as he could muster. He tried to emulate Colbey's dire stare and hoped he had inherited the necessary color and power. The mountain-hard gray tinting the standard Northern blue eyes seemed to make all the difference. "I am trained to notice everything. I can see the potential in any warrior just by studying the layout of his muscles, can evaluate his training in a single move. That Erythanian was an arrow well-timed and trained. His fall was no accident."

Valr Magnus did not quail beneath Calistin's stare, but he did back down with a deep sigh. "Calistin, I can tell you're sincere. You believe every word you spoke-"

Calistin did not wait for a "but." It would enrage him, and he did not want to start their battle inside a tavern. It could never lead to the fair one-on-one fight he needed. "I believe because it's true." He leaned in further, straddling his food with his arms. The intoxicating aroma of the mutton filled his nose. "I'm not a deluded child rushing in to defend his mama. I'm a man, older than I look, a competent warrior who has won many battles, in and out of real warfare."

"Yes, but-"

Calistin continued over the Aeri. He needed to finish. "I'm considered not only the best of the best when it comes to combat but also when it comes to teaching the most capable warriors in all the world. These eyes…" He raised his brows and fully opened his lids, "… miss nothing."

"But that Erythanian, they explored his history. And there was nothing-"

"Of course not. That deceit was well-planned and executed. It had to be." Calistin saw the uncertainty on Valr Magnus' face and knew he had scored an important victory, one that, for once, had little to do with swords and combat. "And you had to know-"

Treysind placed a hand on Calistin's leg in clear warning.

Valr Magnus seemed to emerge from his trance, and his considered look turned angry. "If you're accusing me-I most certainly didn't-I bested a Renshai in single combat." He started to stand. "I did it with honor and integrity. Don't impugn my-"

Treysind jumped in to rescue his hero again. "He's jus' sayin' ya had ta know he's got good seein', not ya had ta know 'bout tha trick."

"Oh," The Aeri dropped back into his seat. "I thought you were going to accuse me of having a hand in deceit or of knowing about it in advance."

It was exactly what Calistin had been about to say, but he was smart enough to take the reprieve Treysind had won him. The truth was, he no longer believed his intended accusation was right. "Of course not. No warrior brave enough to face the best of the Renshai, twice now, would sully his courage by trickery. The gods would never have such a man in Valhalla."

Valr Magnus sat back with a guarded smile, arms crossed over his chest. They were a warrior's arms, strong and sinewy but not bound by muscle. He had that rare, near-perfect build that left his abilities nearly limitless. Calistin would pay money for a class of students exactly like Magnus, at least in figure. "Calistin, if you give me some time, I can find answers to your accusations. If I discover that we bested your people by trickery, I will do whatever is in my power to lift their exile or, at the very least, base the future of the Renshai on a truly fair fight. Or we can have that battle now and let the details fall where they may. I leave the choice, Calistin Kevralsson Ra-khirsson, entirely up to you and will abide by whatever decision you make."

Calistin knew what he wanted. He had not come so far, had not inflicted his rage on the best warriors of the West, to wait.

A hand fell to Calistin's shoulder. For an instant, he imagined it was Colbey's, reminding him of his need to act in ways that affected the history of the entire world, not just of himself. Killing Valr Magnus, while infinitely satisfying, would not save the Renshai from their plight. But the fingers belonged only to Treysind, the touch a silent gesture of warning and support. "I-," Calistin started, unable to finish, torn between right and need. "I want-" He knew exactly what he wanted and doubted he could suppress it. Other words would not flow from his tongue.

The door to the tavern banged open suddenly, sucking the smoke and warmth from the room. An army stood in the doorway, bristling with weaponry and dressed in matching colors: aqua and bronze.

Calistin's heart raced with excitement. Only one possibility occurred to him: they had discovered that a Renshai sat among them and had come to do battle, a hundred or more to one. And, he realized, he relished the challenge.

Valr Magnus sprang to his feet. "What's wrong, Olvirn?"

The leader of the mass blinked in the hazy light. "It's Bearn. Pirates are overtaking the coast en masse, and King Griff has asked for every army, every warrior the world can muster."

Calistin sprang to attention. His heart rate quickened still further, galloping like hoofbeats in his chest.

"I'm coming," Valr promised, then looked at Calistin. "If I can bring my… friend. He may not look like much, but he's the best swordsman I know."

Calistin had no choice but to nod, their feud forgotten for the moment. If the West's high kingdom fell, the rest of the world would surely follow. He had at least as big a stake in the outcome of that war as any of the gathered Northmen.

The army retreated from the doorway, and Valr Magnus looked at Calistin. "I'll insist they put you under my direct command."

Calistin glared. "I won't obey you."

"Nor anyone else, I don't imagine." Valr Magnus headed for the door. "You'll infuriate any Northern commander; but, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that, when it's all over, we'll battle one-on-one to the death."

Choiceless, even in his own mind, Calistin followed in silence.

And Treysind dutifully trailed his hero.