KINSMAN’S OATH By Susan Krinard

The muscles in Ronan’s temples tightened to the point of pain. “He may succeed in his desire.”

“Do I look so old and weak to you, ina-ma?” Sihvaaro hissed a chuckle heavy with irony. “I also believe Lenko hides some plan of his own, and that may yet be turned to your advantage. His cunning is limited, and he is by no means an able leader. Eventually he will fall. Be prepared and hold your mind clear.” He gazed over Ronan’s head at the waiting Arv’Darja warrior. “I must prepare. Do not disobey this last request.”

He turned his back, and Ronan felt the complete severance of all contact between them, more irrevocable than a thousand light-years of space. Sihvaaro would not be moved.

If Ronan had been raised as a human, he might have prayed. Shaauri were stoic by human standards, not given to weeping and wailing over what they could not change. And he could not change this.

Without thought he reached for Cynara, a child seeking comfort from one trusted and loved above all others. He stopped himself before he found her mind. She alone would understand. She would willingly take the burden of his sorrow, but he would return nothing but affliction and grief.

He sank to his knees where he was, at the edge of the Da’amera-ja, ignoring Lenko, Samit, and the others behind him. The Eightfold Way brought no consolation. He watched, dry-eyed, as Sihvaaro stripped off his robes and faced the Arv’Darja warrior.

The rituals that followed were meaningless noise. Lenko spoke, and then the Aino’Arv’Darja who had brought the challenge. Sihvaaro and his opponent bowed.

Then the fight began. The Darja warrior attacked. Sihvaaro moved in a blur to counter the strike, and flung the ve’laik’in aside.

So each strike and counterstrike, attack and defense followed in blinding succession, the opponents so evenly matched in skill that it seemed the fight must continue past nightfall. No one but Ronan saw Sihvaaro begin to falter; no one knew or loved him so well. He seemed invincible, and ageless.

He was not. A small misstep, and Sihvaaro came away with deep scratches on his thigh. Another tiny miscalculation, and one graying ear was half torn from his head.

Ronan bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. He felt every blow. He wished the human gods would strike him down in Sihvaaro’s place.

They had no mercy for one such as him. Sihvaaro fell at last, tumbling onto his back, and rose too slowly. The Arv’Darja warrior did not hesitate. He struck a killing blow and leaped away.

Sihvaaro lay unmoving. The ve’laik’in uttered the cry of victory, and his fellow Darja warriors took it up.

Ronan did not wait for final word. He sprang up from his place and threw himself between Sihvaaro and the victor, cradling the old shaaurin’s head in his arms.

“Sihvaaro,” he whispered. “Sihvaaro!”

Eyes focused. The third eyelid was already drawn half closed like a veil, signaling the nearness of death.

“Ina-ma,” Sihvaaro sighed. “It is not… what I would have wished. But do not give up hope.” He chuckled. “Hope is very human. I…” He coughed, and blood stained his whiskers. “I have learned of your true past. You must go to Arhan, those who adopted your father. They will… defend you.”

“Sihvaaro.”

“Hear me.” Hear my last secret, which I kept even from you.

Sihvaaro. You speak…

I, too, know the way of mindwalking. There are others like me, in hiding. I summoned Arhan as soon as I sensed your approach to Aitu. Ancestors bid them come quickly. He visualized a series of numbers and letters, code to be used if Ronan had to reach the Arhan ship. Go with them, my son.

Ronan bent his head to Sihvaaro’s. The old shaaurin licked the comer of his mouth. “Tears are another human custom I envy.” His breath rattled. “All Paths are One. The circle will be complete.”

He sighed, and then his body loosened in Ronan’s gentle hold.

Ronan flung back his head and bellowed, the mourning cry harsh and terrible in a human throat. He sang in petition to Ancestors not his own. No shaaurin moved to stop him.

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