Flight of the Renshai

THE SUN BEAMED DOWN upon the Fields of Wrath, glazing the thatch roofs of the simple Renshai cottages. In a patch of ground trampled to mud, Saviar Ra-khirsson practiced the complicated maneuvers he had learned that day in a wild flurry of svergelse. His swords pranced and twined through the air with a speed that made them appear liquid. He whirled on well-muscled legs, oblivious to the sweat trickling over his entire body. His red-blond hair grew moist, sheened with golden highlights, and droplets flew with every motion. His deadly dance was as much prayer as practice, a tribute to Modi, god of wrath, and his mother goddess, Sif. Six months past his eighteenth birthday, Saviar had finally nearly mastered the sequence of training that would allow him to be considered a man among Renshai. He had only to demonstrate his skills to his torke, his teachers, to achieve his goal; and he begged the gods for the agility and focus to pass this vital test in the next few months.

The comings and goings of Renshai around him seemed to disappear as Saviar concentrated on his task, but a nearer movement caught his attention. Something threatened off his left flank. Immediately, Saviar spun to meet another sword in the hand of his brother, Calistin. Steel chimed against steel, live and sharp. Renshai never lowered themselves to dulled or wooden practice blades. A Renshai who could not dodge quickly enough deserved to die. Renshai defense relied wholly on speed and dexterity. They shunned armor as cowardly, and even clothing or jewelry that might accidentally help fend off a blow had no place in their society. Life consisted of thrust and parry, the lethality of a blade, the music of clashing steel.

The impact vibrated through Saviar’s hand, and he found himself face-to-face with Calistin. Though only nine months younger, his brother stood a full head shorter than Saviar. Yellow hair in need of cutting flashed around childlike features that wore an expression of calm intensity. As fast as it had woven into battle, Calistin’s sword retreated and reappeared. Saviar sprang to the right, barely catching the other blade on his own. It scratched down the length to his hilt. Anticipating a disarming maneuver, he bullied forward, attempting to off-balance his smaller opponent. Calistin gave no ground, instead leaping nimbly aside. The tip of his blade flicked under Saviar’s crossguard to tap the hilt. Saviar tightened his grip, too late. The sword flew from his hand.

Saviar drew his other sword, even as he dove in to catch the weapon he had lost. Allowing it to touch the ground would gravely dishonor it. Calistin wove a silver web of steel in front of Saviar, forcing him backward, then snatched the hilt from the air himself. Now, with two weapons to one, Calistin charged his brother, his own second sword still in its sheath.

Though accustomed to his little brother’s superior skill, Saviar still found it irritating. Rejecting the mistake that had lost him battles in the past, he did not charge in anger. Instead, he focused on Calistin’s every precise, lightning movement, prepared only to defend himself. Calistin kept his own sword high, Saviar’s captured one low. His attacks came so swiftly, Saviar found himself losing track of the blades despite his concentration. He met the first blade with his own, ducking the second. Sword against sword, he used his superior strength to shove Calistin backward. The younger Renshai caught his balance with a single, delicate step. He did not even seem to shift his weight before diving in again, a blurred whirl of motion. As always, he moved with the speed of a tornado and with deadly accuracy. One sword disarmed Saviar a second time, while the other ended its course at the redhead’s neck. Bested, Saviar froze, glaring at his brother through eyes so pale blue they were nearly white, a perfect match to those of their paternal grandfather, Knight-Captain Kedrin.

Saviar shoved aside the hovering blade at his throat and wished he could bury a fist in his brother’s self-satisfied face. Even if his parents had allowed it, he would miss. Calistin’s swift grace would make him look like a lumbering fool in comparison. “Sure, okay. You got me. Hurray for you.” He glowered at features that barely resembled his own, baby soft with blunt cheekbones and long lashes. Calistin had blue eyes, too; but his were darker, like their mother’s, and held a hint of stony gray. “Now give me back my damned swords.”

Calistin watched his brother’s every movement. Even standing still, he seemed to exude a grace that Saviar tried his hardest not to covet. The gods had bestowed on the youngest of three brothers every possible gift that might make him the consummate Renshai. He personified quickness and agility and had achieved the sequence of skills that earned him adult status at the youngest age of any Renshai, just thirteen. He sported the sinewy, light-boned figure, the classical golden hair, fair skin, and pale eyes; and his features even bore some resemblance to the greatest Renshai in history, the hero, Colbey, who now lived among the gods. Like all Renshai, Saviar and Calistin were each named for a brave warrior who had died in battle and earned a place in Valhalla among the Einherjar; but Calistin had received the honored name of Colbey’s own father. Calistin was the best; worse, he knew it. “Renshai maneuvers rely on speed, never strength.”

It was true, which only made the words sting more. Saviar had inherited their father’s strapping build, as well as his stunning good looks; but those things seemed more curse than blessing to a Renshai. The Renshai leaders had found them worthy of the tribe, despite being half-breeds; but Saviar often thought he would have done better following his grandfather and father into the Knights of Erythane instead. His bulk fit their ranks better, and the constant attention of women embarrassed and distracted him from the swordwork that was supposed to be the only thing in life that mattered. Saviar often wondered how two boys with the exact same bloodline could wind up looking so completely different. “You’re my brother, Calistin, not my torke. My baby brother, at that.”

Calistin might just as well have buried a blade in Saviar’s gut. Anger flashed through him, and it took strength of will to keep from attacking his brother. The urge to draw both weapons and fly into a battle to the death seized him, and only the words of their wise father rescued him: “A man of honor never allows emotion to control him.” Instead, he turned on a heel and stalked toward home.

Ra-khir would never allow his son to vent his rage on family, so Saviar veered away from their cottage, seeking a quiet corner where Calistin might not think to look for him. He found his solace in a sandy clearing filled with stones, shattered crates, and other bric-a-brac meant to simulate a city battle. Many a misstep had claimed the lives of otherwise competent warriors, and the Renshai practiced in all weather conditions, in darkness as well as light, on hillsides and in the thickest of forests. They spurned any weapons but swords, those forged to demanding specifications, and they learned to use either hand with equal ability. Now, Saviar lashed back into a svergelse fueled as much by fiery rage as necessity. Like all Renshai, he had learned to channel his emotions through his sword arm, skewering and slashing imaginary enemies with a speed his size belied.

But the world refused to narrow wholly to self and sword arm. Saviar found himself thinking about his other brother, Subikahn, his twin, now visiting his father in the Eastlands. It seemed a cruel twist of irony that the brother Saviar loved without reservation had shared a womb but only half his parentage, while the one who provoked him to frenzies shared every droplet of blood.

As a child, Saviar had never questioned this oddity. For the first seven years of his life, the journey to the Eastern high kingdom in Stalmize to visit Subikahn’s father had seemed like a normal and expected vacation. The entire family had gone, Kevral taking over her sons’ weapons training en route and while they stayed at the castle.

Saviar remembered it as a paradise. Though sparsely furnished compared to Castle Béarn, and lacking the murals and carvings, it felt huge and strangely homey. Subikahn’s father, King Tae Kahn, was a small, dark, wiry man with the dexterity and speed of a Renshai who enjoyed romping on the floor with the boys. He seemed more like a friend than a father and indulged them with sweets and toys. He had a constant companion, a silver tabby cat who put up with the children plucking at her ears and yanking her tail without clawed retaliation. When his family’s responsibilities to the knights and the Renshai forced Subikahn to make the trips alone, with only his torke, Saviar found himself missing the Eastern king and castle nearly as much as he did his twin brother.

Now, Saviar launched into a wild sequence of thrust, slash, and parry, his mood evened by exertion as well as his memories of happier days. Later, he had learned Tae had a dark and dangerous past, upon which his parents refused to elaborate. Only then, Saviar began to wonder about the numerous scars the king carried on his body, including lethal-looking gashes on his forehead, across his chest, and directly over his heart. “Scars are a warrior’s badges of honor,” the Renshai often stated, yet Tae never considered himself a competent or deliberate fighter. He dodged questions about old wounds with self-deprecating humor and tried to hide them beneath his clothing.

Saviar retreated, mindful of the practice field debris. He needed a moment to get his bearings, to measure an opponent he already knew too well. “Leave me alone, you annoying little—” Forced to defend another lightning strike, he let the insult go, weaving both swords around Calistin’s one to protect his throat and chest.

Saviar managed a hasty riposte that saved his gut. “You’re . . .” He slashed for Calistin, swords cutting empty air, only to find the tip of his brother’s blade in his face. “. . . my only . . .” He batted the sword downward. “. . . enemy!”

Calistin’s sword blazed up faster than Saviar could block, straight for his groin. Demons! Saviar dove, rolling. Stones and rubble jabbed his back, aching through his right hip. He came up in a crouch, still clutching his swords, barely fast enough to bat aside Calistin’s next attack in time.

“You’re already dead, by rights.” Calistin let Saviar know he had pulled at least one blow. Though Renshai sparred with live steel, it was the better warrior’s job to weigh his opponent’s skill and pull life-threatening strikes. It would humiliate a torke to kill a student by accident. Every Renshai strived for complete control of every motion, and the sword was merely an extension of the arm. “I let you live.”

“No.” Calistin performed a swirling svergelse with the grace of an angel, a golden blur of lethal power. Even Saviar found himself staring wide-eyed until the blade licked free from its pattern and sped toward him once again.

Saviar sheathed his right-hand blade, blocking only with the other. He was a competent swordsman, capable, like nearly all Renshai, of taking on three warriors from any other culture. Against his little brother, however, he felt like a hopeless clod. He set himself strictly to defense, fending each blow with his sword and biding his time for an opening. When it came, he lashed through it with his bare hand, intending to surprise his brother with a clout on the ear. Instead, his fist glided through empty air, and Calistin used Saviar’s own momentum and a well-placed foot to send him sprawling onto a deadfall. Breath dashed from Saviar’s lungs, bark scraped his lips and knuckles, and the flat of Calistin’s sword crashed across his shoulder blades.

Saviar’s throat finally spasmed open, admitting air. Through it all, he had managed to keep hold of his sword, the pattern of the knurling ingrained against his palm. He did not yet trust himself to speak. He drooled out a mouthful of scarlet spittle. “Leave me alone,” he finally managed.

Saviar rose, whirling on his brother. “By Sif and Modi, go away, Calistin. Leave me alone, or I’ll . . .” He could not finish. A thousand possibilities whirled through his mind, but he had to discard all of them. Violence would never succeed against Calistin, and the only things the younger man owned that mattered to him were his swords. Saviar could do nothing to harm his little brother in any way, and that had nothing to do with honor, morality, or even love.

“But . . .” Calistin sheathed his sword and stared at his brother. The last dying rays of sunlight struck golden highlights from his hair, and he appeared tiny, almost frail. Though nearly eighteen, he still had the proportions of a young boy: skinny with an oversized head, short torso, legs, and arms. Large, blue-gray eyes studied Saviar from baby-round features. He looked more like a lost child than a Renshai warrior. “. . . I’m just trying to help you . . .”

Saviar wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smearing a line of blood across his sleeve. He sheathed his second long sword and emphasized each snarling word, “Just. Leave. Me. Alone!” He turned his back on his brother, a sign of grave disrespect, a gesture Renshai used to convey that an opponent had so little skill that even a surprise attack from behind was no threat. At the moment, Saviar would rather die than turn, even if Calistin did assail him again. He strode blindly toward the family cottage, not caring if his brother followed.

The sun crept further toward the horizon, leaving a spray of colors across the sky that Saviar ignored. For the moment, anger would not allow him to enjoy anything, no matter how magnificent. He wove through the crude dwellings to his own, then crashed through the door and into the common room and its familiar sparse furnishings. He slammed the door behind him. Only then, he verbalized his rage, “I swear from the highest mountaintop, to every god listening: I am going to kill my little brother!”

Kevral appeared in the doorway separating the two main rooms. Though in her mid-thirties, she appeared a decade younger. If any silver had entered her short-cut locks, it remained hidden amid the white-blonde strands. Despite two pregnancies, she still had a thin, almost boyish, figure. She held a cleaning rag in one callused hand and a vial of oil in the other. “Really, Saviar? So you’ve mustered an army?”

“You’re bleeding.” It was a statement of fact, devoid of concern. Kevral tossed the rag in a perfect arc. Saviar snatched it from the air and held it against his mouth. It smelled oily and tasted sweet and metallic. She had clearly used it to clean at least one of the swords strapped always to her waist, and Saviar could not help feeling honored. Renshai revered their swords, none more so than Kevral. She owned a weapon given to her by the immortal hero, Colbey. The other blade seemed just as extraordinary to Saviar, handed to her by an Einherjar warrior in Valhalla named Rache. The latter blade even had a name, Motfrabelonning, meaning “Reward of Courage,” though it had once borne the name Tisis, “Vengeance.”

Saviar blew his nose into the rag, glancing at the result to ascertain that it was not also bloody. He was the oldest, by only a few moments in Subikahn’s case, and definitely the largest of the three brothers. “Who else?”

Saviar tried to sound casual. The Renshai considered Ra-khir a mediocre swordsman, but Saviar had watched his father duel on the Bellenet Fields with many different weapons and impressive skill. It was a guilty pleasure. Most Renshai disdained the Knights as semi-competent warriors wedded to a rigid and foolish code of honor, even as the rest of the Western populace admired them. Subikahn smiled tolerantly when Saviar spoke of his father’s ability and passion, listening politely though he clearly did not share Saviar’s ardor. Since the Renshai leaders had recognized Calistin’s skill at age six, they kept him so immersed in Renshai swordwork that he had lost all interest in anything else, including his father’s talents. By decree, no one bothered Calistin. He had no responsibilities, no chores, and no distractions. He was expected to practice sword form and craft every waking moment, with or without the guidance of the best Renshai torke.

Rag still clutched to his face, Saviar ran back outside. The sun had set, leaving the Fields of Wrath awash in gray; but the sounds of clashing steel still dwarfed every other. Though anxious to reach the Knight’s tourney field in time, Saviar kept his step careful and attentive. To blunder into a mock battle might result in an ignoble death, and he also worried about Calistin finding him again. One more encounter with the arrogant, little brat might set Saviar over the edge into a madness he could not control.

But no one accosted Saviar as he dashed across the Road of Kings, lined by flawless carvings of bears and statues of the legendary, ancient King Sterrane. Moonlight lit glimmers of quartz in the stonework, making them appear to glow, and Saviar shivered in the cold evening air. Renshai never admitted fear, but Saviar and Subikahn had whispered their childhood trepidations to one another and once avoided those massive memorials. Béarnian carvers had a talent for making their creations eerily lifelike; and, in the darkness, they seemed to move.

Saviar needed only to cross a farm field to enter the town proper, but he chose a shorter route to the Bellenet Fields that took him through the forest. Leaves sloshed beneath his feet, saturated into soup by winter snows, now melted by the thaw. The first green buds graced the tips of some of the otherwise naked branches. The birds had gone to nest, but a strident hoot cut the air directly over his head, warning the animals of a human intruder.

Saviar looked up, at first seeing nothing. Then, suddenly, a massive feathered head whipped around to reveal two glaring eyes, like freshly washed dinner plates. A ghostly form rose soundlessly into the air, resembling a small boy in size and shape. An owl, Saviar realized, watching it disappear into the darkness. He had often considered owls the Renshai of the animal world: swift and graceful, silent and deadly. He quickened his pace. If the night creatures had come out of hiding, it seemed unlikely he would reach the practice grounds in time.

Saviar raced from the forest onto open ground, startling a ground dove into whirring flight. There, he found only the hulking figures of tourney fences. No man or animal stood upon the fields. Damn. He started to turn to leave, but need held him in position. He could not return to the Fields of Wrath now, not with Calistin waiting to pounce on him and his mother still lauding her youngest son’s skill. Saviar could never admit to Kevral that, sometimes, not too often, he wished he were anything but Renshai. To speak such words would wound her deeply.

Instead, Saviar headed toward the Erythanian stables where the Knights of Erythane kept their horses. Since the day he had earned the title Apprentice Knight, Ra-khir had insisted on tending to his own white charger. He trusted no groomsman to do as thorough a job on his beloved and hard-earned Silver Warrior.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saviar bit his upper lip, suddenly ashamed about raising the subject. Ra-khir was as much Calistin’s father as his own. An attack upon one’s child required a defense, regardless of the accuser. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m putting you in a difficult position.”

Saviar also grinned. “Clearly.” He loved his mother with all his heart, but he also knew how challenging she could be, especially for a man of such high and exceptional honor. As his own thoughts began turning to women, Saviar had taken to wondering how Kevral had managed to entice not just one good man, but two, to care so deeply for her. Subikahn’s father had also once proposed, and the rumor was that she had so badly broken his heart that he refused to court again. Only the Renshai trained its women, as well as men, to warcraft; and the ferocity of Renshai women confused and frightened most ganim, the word Renshai used to refer to outsiders.

The enduring relationship between his parents confounded most people, but never Saviar. Usually a relentless taskmaster of a torke, Kevral softened visibly in Ra-khir’s presence, and he never failed to make her smile. In the privacy of home, and on voyages beyond the Fields of Wrath, they held hands like adolescents in the throes of first love. The knight still called his wife the most beautiful woman in the world, with clear and undisputable sincerity, no matter how sweaty and dirt-streaked she appeared. The looks they gave one another defined love in its purest, rawest form; and it spilled out to encompass their entire family.

Saviar knew generalities would not suffice. His father would need some indication that he had thought through the matter and had a legitimate concern. “I guess it’s his decision to keep smacking me in the head—and not just with the flat of his sword. He actually uses his accomplishments to . . . to demean me.”

He kept the thought to himself. Voicing it would make him sound petty and childish. “Not at all. I don’t even mind him crowing about his achievements. It’s not modest, it’s not what an honorable man does, but he earned them.”

“I’m trying to concentrate on the maneuvers I need to know for my testing. If he would at least distract me in ways that help me perfect what I need to know, instead of constantly trying out his new inventions and interests or things to improve his own swordwork.” Saviar studied his father’s features to ascertain how Ra-khir was handling this information. As he appeared reflective and interested, Saviar continued, “Under the guise of helping me, he’s only helping himself. And undermining my confidence.”

Saviar turned his gaze to his own hands, the nails filthy and broken. Blood traced the creases of his right palm. “I’ve tried.” He sighed. “Papa, I love him because he’s my brother. But, if he weren’t, I don’t think I’d even like him.”

Ra-khir had essentially made Saviar’s point. “Subikahn and I are half brothers, actually. And, yet, we’re still more alike in personality than either of us is to Calistin. And we’re close enough in age to practically be triplets.”

“Prince Barrindar and the princesses, Calitha and Eldorin are King Griff and Xoraida’s children. Princess Ivana Shorith’na Cha-tella Tir Hya’sellirian Albar . . .” Saviar prided himself on knowing and pronouncing the full elfin name, though the populace knew her only as Princess Ivana. “. . . is the offspring of King Griff and his elfin wife. Princess Marisole, Prince Arturo, and Princess Halika are Queen Matrinka’s children. All three of them were clearly sired by Bard Darris.”

Saviar rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of the query. “Anyone with a reasonable education knows how the bardic curse gets passed. The bard’s heir is always the firstborn child of the bard. In this case, Marisole.” He shrugged. “Once I realized that, I started looking. Only Halika didn’t inherit Bard Darris’ snout—”

“—big-boned and curvaceous,” Saviar finished. “My point stands.” Suddenly realizing his father had sidetracked him, Saviar added, “Both of them. Brothers of full blood should not be as different as Calistin and me.”

Ra-khir said nothing for several moments, which surprised Saviar. The older man could easily argue that the physical resemblance between Saviar and Calistin was real enough that complete strangers sometimes recognized them as relatives. Saviar knew plenty of examples in his own life of siblings who bore few or no similarities in appearance or temperament. An intelligent boy with a dupe for a brother. A runaway-wild girl with a painfully timid sister. Saviar even knew a set of twins, one with striking dexterity, the other laboriously clumsy. Mothers seemed to love comparing their children to one another, sometimes labeling them as the pretty one, the obedient one, the nice one. Siblings often turned out remarkably different, yet Ra-khir did not resort to these familiar examples. Either Saviar’s deduction about the royal siblings utterly disarmed him, or he was hiding something else.

He was hiding something, yet Saviar knew no amount of weaseling or cajoling would bring it to the fore. Ra-khir’s honor would never allow him to do anything his word bound him against. Continuing in this vein would only upset Ra-khir at a time when Saviar wanted his father’s assistance and empathy. Instead, he found himself uttering a self-imposed secret he had never spoken aloud, “Papa, sometimes I wish, I mean, I think I wish, I wasn’t . . . Renshai.”

Saviar hurried to undo the damage. “Not unhappy, Papa, no. I mean I love the swordwork, the religion, the history. I just . . . sometimes . . . I’d just like to do . . . other things.” He added belatedly, “. . . too.” He laughed at his own suggestion, dismissing it. “Ignore me. It’s the intensive training that’s made me what I am. I just want it all, I guess. No one could become a knight and a Renshai.”

Startled silent, Saviar stared. He knew of no other Renshai who would even consider the staid, stuffy life of a knight, filled with long-winded ceremony, multiple weapons’ training, and stifling ethics. His father’s use of the present tense, however, suggested the man he spoke of currently lived. It was not some hypothetical historical figure. “Who?” he finally managed.

“You’ve clearly studied,” Ra-khir said, finally regaining the upper hand. It was also a subtle, probably unintentional insult to Calistin. The youngest son, bound to a life of relentless swordwork, would never manage more than a basic education, mostly Renshai language, history, and tradition. “This one, you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”