Out of the Gray

Palanelé was a garrison state, born in the fires of the Federation's fall. By law, the queen and her council had absolute power; but by custom, the price of failure was a coup. Kasiri of Isheirataké, convalescing in the royal hospital in Teyoru Aripehusé, after the disastrous defense of the Black Herons, had warned Marshal Arules that trouble was coming. The marshal had agreed. Queen Karasaita, and her son-in-law Prince Lairan, had ignored the warning and died. Princess Teoraia had listened, and lived.

Kasiri had gone to the capital, Teyoru Neia-palasé, after he was well enough to walk and before the coup plotters struck. He had personally killed the seihipati who had sought Princess Teoraia's life. Now she was the queen; while in mourning, she could marry again with time; she was young and radiantly beautiful... and if she was infertile, well, a machinist's son from Isheirataké could hardly expect to found a dynasty. Kasiri had told her as much, when she had asked.

So now he was studying in the imperial university at Teyoru Heridané, in the House of Man, which took in thirty students per year to study history, law, and war. The tuition was staggering, fifteen herons per year, but this was the crown's first gift to him for his role in defeating the coup.

The second gift would be command of the Sparrowhawk Company, which had been shattered in the Black Heron war. Kasiri's friend Ereitan, a knight of Palanelé, was taking the lead in replenishing and training them.

And would there be a third gift still to come? Nothing was certain about that. Not yet.

#

At Teyoru Heridané, Kasiri found himself among his mental peers, maybe his superiors, for the first time in his life. Taruhas, a count's son from the Heron Lands, was smarter than he was. Prince Taisiori of the West Enbalaku was higher ranking. Colonel Nihuras of the Imperial Guard had commanded more troops and seen more battles.

And Ridachiti, the only Chehiraini in their class, the youngest of them all, the only one paying his own way as a private citizen... well, he was in worse mental shape. Some days he saw the world in a dull, dreary gray; sometimes in the strictest black and white. But however he was thinking on a given day, he was a quick study, and he was fiercely proud and aloof. He didn't even dine with the professors.

#

The pace at Teyoru Heridané was blistering. There were five classes per year; each class was a month of intensive lectures, followed by a one-on-one oral exam with the professor. Anyone who failed one class was denied a degree. Miss more than a day or two of any class, and you were unlikely to catch up.

As winter set in, they studied the history of the Nachuru clan. Currently living in the remote Porotis, very much out of the empire's favor, they remained a case study in resilience and survival. They had been an old, established royal house when King Peirachaian unified the Enbalaku, in the twilit years before the Central Federation. They had survived the Federation, risen back to greatness, ruled the Ilarosun in the west, lost it to Aisaraki of Shotochuris, won and lost various wars over the next five hundred years... and at this point were officially private citizens again, unofficially the lords of Deitalas Rebis, and unquestionably the owners of one of three sacred fires that had been kept burning since before the Age of Certainty began.

Ridachiti was enraptured by the subject matter, and had many searching questions for the professor, but a child could see that the bitter cold of this eastern winter wasn't agreeing with him. He didn't seem to have winter garments either. One day, he was struggling with a bad head cold, but remained as proud and aloof as ever. On the next, he was much worse, and Kasiri tried and failed to loan him his peacoat. The day after that, he was gone.

Over a hot, abundant dinner that noon, Kasiri asked his classmates if someone had looked into him.

"The barbarian?" Prince Taisiori sneered. "We're better off if he doesn't learn the arts of war. I've said that from the start."

"And you will be expelled," the professor said, "if you persist in saying it. Teyoru Heridané is secular and apolitical, and enjoys full independence by imperial decree. We offer our knowledge to whoever seeks it out. We take no position on any event outside our walls."

"Not even on the welfare of your students?" Kasiri asked.

"No," the professor said.

#

It went against his better judgment, but Kasiri stayed through the afternoon's lecture. He had his own future to attend to, and Ridachiti was an adult. More or less. Hopefully. He looked and acted like he was about fourteen, but it was hard to be sure with Chehirainan.

As supper was being served, Kasiri donned his peacoat and headed for the Chehiraineh quarter.

#

His passports in the Chehiraineh quarter were his fluency in their language, his half-Tacheiyic race, and his fallen friend Ayakosi's shashka, which the Chehirainan said was a divine blade, forged for the forest god Nakashoti. With these three tokens, Kasiri probed the Chehiraineh parts of Teyoru Heridané all evening, amid flurries of snow. At long last, well after sunset, in a run-down building constructed in a hybrid style, with a Karanaiyé hall and smaller rooms upstairs, he found him.

Ridachiti lay on the wooden floor of a bare attic room, shivering in a ragged quilt and all the clothes he owned. There were no rushes on the floor, no bed, and no fireplace, just a writing table and a dormer window. The only food to be seen was hardtack and a pitcher of water.

Ridachiti turned as the door opened. He shivered and shuddered. He curled up again, turning away.

Wordlessly, leaving the door open, Kasiri knelt by him. He draped his peacoat over him, as he'd tried to do in class yesterday.

"You don't --" Ridachiti began, shivering from the cold. "You don't have to burden yourself. I'll be fine."

"You'll die," Kasiri said. He looked around the room. "I want to meet the landlord who rented you this."

"Please," Ridachiti said weakly. "I talked him into..."

Kasiri shook his head thoughtfully. He started to pick Ridachiti up. Chehirainan were naturally small and slight-framed, but Ridachiti was...

"You haven't been eating." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Ridachiti shook his head. "I'm fine."

"How much money do you have? Beyond the tuition?"

"A heron. A little less."

"You can't live for three years on one heron. Not in this of all cities. Don't you know it's not a warrior's death to freeze?"

Ridachiti was silent.

#

A few late patrons were still in the hall, talking and singing, drinking holly tea. Kasiri and Ridachiti clambered down the stairs, Ridachiti's hand on Kasiri's shoulder. The landlord saw them descend, and looked on in horrified silence.

"That look of fear just saved your life," Kasiri hissed, fixing the landlord with a cruel look.

"You'd be better off taking care of him, if you know him!" the landlord snapped. "He told me he was dining well at the university! That he had everything he needed, and he was keeping warm and bundling up."

"That Chehiraineh silver tongue..." Kasiri said with a sigh. He eased Ridachiti down, into a plush chair by a side fire. "Bring what you have for the sick. Send the bill to the crown of Palanelé."

The landlord raised an eyebrow to hear that. Soon he was back with white cider and hot tea. Servants brought out baked cheese, poached eggs with watercress, quince paste and walnuts.

"I can't afford..." Ridachiti began.

"You can't afford to die," Kasiri said. "To waste your gifts. Come lodge with me, and I'll cover the costs of your meals. That's why you never eat with us, isn't it?"

Ridachiti blushed deeply, and looked away.

"Charging a gallon a day is ridiculous," Kasiri said, with a nod of his own. "I've never paid that much when it was my own money I was spending.

"But the crown gives me such a stipend that I'm saving more than half of it, and it's not meant to be saved. Do me a favor and help me spend the money. The only payment I ask is that you speak well of Palanelé. We're in a bad state right now, and anything that can improve our good name is..."

Kasiri trailed off; Ridachiti was eating too zealously to pay him any attention. What was the matter with him?

And more importantly, who was he? A humble Chehiraini would have stolen shamelessly to keep himself alive. Chehirainan even killed people to take their food, if it came to that. "One with food, one beyond hunger" was an old slogan of theirs.

He wondered if Ridachiti had the blood of a great lineage. He certainly had a noble heart.