And Kedrin did. As the sun inched toward the horizon, Saviar learned techniques the Renshai would dismiss as foolish, adapting them to the deadly quickness of Renshai. Saviar knew it did him little good, and a lot of ill, to simply learn the ways of ganim swordcraft. With each new movement, with every suggestion, Saviar sought a way to incorporate it into the repertoire he already knew, to advance the maneuver into something as powerful as it was swift and unstoppable.
In the past, Saviar's bulk had always seemed an insurmountable hindrance. Constant swordwork kept him as lean as any Renshai, yet deliberate starvation only made him weak and slower. He could never shed the musculature of his paternal ancestors; the solid definition of his abdominal muscles never allowed his ribs to show. Now, he had found a way to use his build as an advantage, and the idea of pausing to rest after such a staggering discovery never occurred to him. He would continue to revise, to invent, until his grandfather passed out from exhaustion.
Not that Kedrin showed any sign of doing so. He reveled quietly in Saviar's every triumph. Though Kedrin had never stated so, it became clear from his actions and words that he had always wished for the opportunity to educate his grandsons. The time dedicated to Renshai training left little for other things. Though Kedrin had sneaked in lessons on beauty, relaxation, philosophy, and morality, he could never before compete when it came to weapons. Now, his day had come, and he seemed as unlikely to quit as Saviar himself, as relentless and infinite as the Renshai maneuvers.
It seemed like only moments before the door to the courtyard slammed open to reveal Ra-khir in all his knightly splendor, and a host of others behind him. For the first time Saviar could remember, he wished his father would disappear, to leave him in the world of inventiveness and joy that he currently shared with Kedrin.
Though equally engrossed, Kedrin could not have had a more different reaction. He sheathed his sword and executed a bow of great formality. Only then, Saviar recognized the group who had accompanied his father: the heirs to Bearn's throne. Shocked, he froze in position, sword still gripped in his hand.
Kedrin cleared his throat softly, pointedly.
Swiftly, Saviar jabbed his sword back into its sheath and dropped to one knee, head bowed.
Princess Marisole led the group. Only a few months younger than Saviar, she was the oldest heir, Queen Matrinka's first child. She favored her mother: her dark brown hair thick and lustrous, her figure full and curvy, her eyes a dark hazel that barely showed its green. Her large nose betrayed the bard's lineage; and, of course, the delicate lute she carried slung across her shoulder.
She ran to Saviar. "Get up, get up." She cuffed him playfully until he rose, then caught him into an embrace. She felt soft and warm against him, and he could not help noticing that she had developed breasts and hips since he had last seen her. He wrapped his arms around her, forcing his thoughts to his swordwork, to the weather, anything but her magnificent closeness. At his age, any touch from a pretty young thing excited him wildly. If his father or grandfather caught him reacting to a princess of the realm like a common tavern wench, he would suffer greatly for his body's betrayal.
"You moron," Marisole whispered, and Saviar noticed only her warm breath in his ear. "You're a friend, not a servant."
"I'm both," Saviar said as softly. "And the son of a Knight of Erythane. If I don't show proper respect, I'll get a spanking."
"Bow to me again, and I'll spank you."
Saviar could not resist pulling free and bowing broadly. "Promises, promises."
Marisole glared. Had they been alone, Saviar felt certain, she would have slapped him. And he definitely deserved it.
Prince Barrindar approached Saviar next. Sixteen, shy, and the spitting image of King Griff, he slouched toward Saviar as if embarrassed by his height. Though tall for his age, Saviar looked the younger boy squarely in the nose. The oldest child of Griff's third wife, Xoraida, and the only remaining male heir, Barrindar did not stand out the way Arturo had. Artistic, quiet, and blithely unworried about his future, he seemed almost a study in contrast to his more outgoing half brother. Arturo had chased life with an ardor Saviar shared: hoping to become a general in the charge of whichever sibling took the throne. Barrindar seemed content to let life take him where it would.
Saviar gave the prince a small bow that demonstrated respect without drawing attention, and Barrindar returned the gesture with a friendly smile and a tip of his shaggy, bearlike head. He withdrew to the far wall, and Marisole joined him.
The three youngest princesses came next, in a whispering, jostling group. Barrindar's full-blooded sister, Calitha looked Saviar up and down as if she had never seen him before. Essentially, Saviar realized, she had not. Their paths had not crossed for years, and she was a child then. Now, fourteen, she seemed to suddenly realize he was male. Her deep brown eyes sparkled, and she lowered her lids coquettishly. Then, her eleven-year-old sister, Eldorin, jabbed her with an elbow and whispered loudly, "Quit staring at him." Turning a brilliant shade of red from her chin to the roots of her hair, Calitha ran to her older siblings without voicing a greeting.
Saviar bowed anyway.
Eldorin waved, clearly not understanding her sister's reaction, nor that she had done anything wrong. Saviar gave her another bow, and she skittered behind her brother.
The third of the trio, thirteen-year-old Halika, ran up to Saviar and hugged him. She was the third and last of Matrinka's brood, and she barely resembled the rest of her family. Shorter and thinner, she sported Darris' mouse-brown curls, broad lips, and generous nose.
Saviar held her like a treasured sister, glad she did not excite him as Marisole had. He would have felt filthy and low. Instead, he whispered, "I'm so sorry about Arturo."
Tears glazed Halika's eyes, and her grip grew fierce. "Be careful, Savi. I don't want to lose another brother."
Suffused with warmth at the compliment, Saviar brushed a curl from her forehead. He knew most of the girl's affection for him had to come from Marisole's attitude and stories. As a child, he had spent much more of his time at Bearn castle playing with Marisole and Subikahn. In those days, two years had made a huge difference; he had thought of Barrindar and Arturo as babies. As he grew older, and the Renshai training commanded all of his time, his visits had grown less frequent and shorter. He barely knew the other princesses, including Princess Ivana Shorith'na Cha'tella Tir Hya'sellirian Albar, despite the fact that she was only a half year younger than him, only a few months younger than Marisole.
As Halika reluctantly withdrew and headed for her other siblings, Ivana ran toward Saviar. Her gait seemed simultaneously agile and awkward, as if she might become a dancer should she only first learn to walk. She looked almost animal in her homeliness: her small mouth and nose nearly disappearing behind remarkably chubby cheeks, her eyes canted and reddish-yellow in color, her hair thick and straight, without a hint of wave or curl. Its color was a strange blackish-blond, with highlights that looked red in places, nearly green in others. Her blocky body seemed slightly twisted and hunched. Her arms and legs were short and stout, but her fingers were contrastingly long and slender. She had tiny feet, swathed in toddler's slippers, that barely seemed capable of balancing her bulk. A bit of white froth perched at the corners of her lips.
Ivana loosed a sound that seemed more like a braying mule than human language and lunged into Saviar's arms as Halika had done. Saviar barely had time to brace himself before she slammed into him. He wrapped his arms around her with difficulty and tried to appear comfortable. Only propriety and politeness held him in place. He would have preferred to run from her in terror.
Saviar pressed his mouth to Ivana's shoulders, hiding the revulsion for which he felt desperately ashamed. Not only was Ivana a full princess of the realm, she had once symbolized a great union and the only hope for humans and elves alike. Elves could procreate only when an elder passed on, his or her soul repackaged into the fetus. Violent death meant a soul lost forever, and most of the elves had died in a great explosion. At the time, humans also suffered, from an inflicted sterility plague. When Tem'aree'ay became pregnant with Griff's child, it had seemed the perfect solution to both dilemmas.