Lords of the Sky (25 page)

I clenched my teeth and fought the impulse to drive my fist against his face as I realized he toyed with me. And that it could mean only the confirmation of my fears. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “By your leave, warden, I’d know he’s well.”

“I believe he is,” said Ardyon.

I hated him in that moment, and he saw it in my eyes. I saw his fingers fasten tighter about the caduceus. At his side, Faron made an impatient gesture, and Clydd frowned. I think neither approved of the warden’s game, but nor did they speak to end it.

I said, “He’s in the College?” Only after thinking to add a dutiful, “warden.”

Ardyon shook his head; slowly, his sunken gaze never leaving my face. “No longer. He’s sent to Karysvar.”

A Border City: Urt had been entirely correct in all his assumptions. Or known even as we spoke that the decision was made. I thought he had likely held that knowledge from me to ease our parting. I felt my jaw drop. My fists ached from their clenching. I said in a very hollow voice, “Already. Why?”

It was not a question to which I anticipated a response. I knew the reason: I asked it of the One God, or the Three, or fate; whatever was the power that plucked the strings of my life.

Ardyon, however, elected to answer me: “Because he proved untrustworthy; because he betrayed his duty to the College. You may hold yourself accountable for his fate.”

That was a vicious sally. The tutors, even, thought it so, Faron made a disapproving sound, frowning at the warden; Clydd said warningly, “There’s naught to be done about it, Daviot.”

I barely heard them. I stared at Ardyon. Cleton had let go my arm, but now I felt his hand lock on my shirt, at the
back, ready to haul me away from attacking the cadaverous disciplinarian.

Ardyon said, “Have you no lessons this day?”

Cleton said, “Yes, warden,” and, “Daviot, we’d best be gone.”

He put his arm around my shoulders. I let him turn me away: there was nothing I could do, save throw away the future. Urt was gone.

As I retreated, Ardyon said, “Another servant will be appointed you.”

Over my shoulder I said bitterly, “He’ll not be Urt.”

I heard Ardyon say, “So much fuss over a Changed.”

I shouted, “He was my friend!”

I had never heard Ardyon laugh. It was as well Cleton held me firm.

T
he Sky Lords appeared again not long after my fruitless confrontation with Ardyon—a score of airboats that succeeded in depositing two centuries of Kho’rabi in the city. They were destroyed, airboats and warriors alike, but only at terrible cost. They were not the last, and before the summer was ended Durbrecht took on a ravaged look. The tallest towers were broken; the walls stood gapped as the jaws of old men. Cavities showed in the streets where buildings had burned; where pleasant gardens had stood there were now patches of weeds, growing amongst the fire-blackened stumps of dead trees. We knew disease that summer, and folk fled the city. Those who remained spoke of ruin, of defeat. A palpable aura of fear hung over Durbrecht.

I was crazed that summer, when I was as much a soldier as a student. I transmuted grief into physical action. I took no pleasure in it; it was, rather, a means of suppressing emotion, and I fought with a cold intensity. I earned a new reputation as a fighter. I was not proud of myself, but I was admired by my fellows. Indeed, I was appointed commur of a student band and hailed as a leader.

As autumn drew on the attacks eased, finally ceasing when the weather grew cold, the skies become heavy with rafts of gray cloud that drove rain and hail against the land. It seemed odd to me that the Sky Lords had found ways by which to overcome the Worldwinds but not, it appeared, the
seasons. Perhaps they did not travel well in rain. Nor, as winter settled over Durbrecht, in snow.

It was a hard winter. Ice crusted the shore of the Treppanek, and despite the depleted population, food was in short supply. Too many farmers had suffered, too many fields been burned, too many men called to the warbands. Even so, there was some sense of relief as day after anticipatory day passed without a Coming.

I thought much of Rwyan and Urt that winter, and with the fighting ended there was no longer any convenient receptacle into which I might channel my fears: my mood grew once more black. I endeavored to hide it from all save Cleton, who—still chafing under the encumbrance of his too-slowly mending arm—became impatient with me. I had spoken so little of Rwyan during that summer, he had come to think her forgotten, and when I appointed him confidant of my fears, he scolded me for harboring so futile a passion.

We had, as Ardyon had promised, been given a new servant. He was of equine descent, named Harl, and whilst he was attentive to all our needs, he lacked Urt’s wit or sensibility. He avoided those conversations I attempted to induce, responding in blunt monosyllables and mumbled protestations of ignorance, so that I gave up after a while and (I confess this with no small measure of guilt) came to think of him as dull and bovine. I suspect he had been admonished by the warden to avoid my proffered friendship, or feared he should suffer Urt’s fate.

It was a miserable winter, and for all it seemed likely the turning of the year must see a renewal of the Sky Lords’ attacks, I was glad of spring’s advent. I had sooner be out awandering than cooped another season in the city.

The feast day of Daeran was traditionally the eve of a Storyman’s departure. The day was spent in preparation (which took little enough time) and farewells, and in the evening those going out dined with the master at the head table.

There were but five of us that year, where usually there would have been twenty or more: the Sky Lords had taken a toll of the College no less than of the city. We were each of us kitted out with sturdy boots, a change of clothing, a good cloak of oiled wool, a pouch of herbal remedies, and a purse
containing a few durrim. In better times we might have been given horses or mules, but those beasts not eaten were earmarked for military use, so we had only our feet on which to begin our journeying.

As dusk fell and Durbrecht readied for a night of celebration (it seemed to me the citizenry had forgotten the summer’s terror; or looked to find what pleasure might be had ere it began again), we bathed and dressed in our finest clothes, then made our way to the refectory.

The whole College was assembled, standing silent as Decius beckoned us forward. He gave us each that staff that marks the Storyman and is, besides, a useful weapon, and ushered us to seats at the center of the high table. We were served wine in honor of our departure, and as we ate the master assigned us our destinations. I was to take ship west along the Treppanek to Arbryn and from thence make my way southward down the coast as far as Mhorvyn. Such a journey would take the better part of a year, save I should succeed in gaining myself a horse, and from Mhorvyn Keep I was to send word of my arrival and await further instructions. I wondered if I was sent to the west coast of Kellambek because Rwyan was domiciled to the east and Urt to the north. I kept my wondering to myself.

I did not enjoy that feast, for all the food was excellent and the wine the finest our cellars had late and drank and responded to questions and advice with glib precision, thinking all the time that soon the width of Dharbek should stand betwixt Rwyan and I. Had I not become somewhat skilled in dissimulation, I should have allowed my mask to slip and spoken out; but I did not: I continued in the part I had played the past year. I smiled and voiced soft grateful words, marveling that none (save perhaps Cleton) saw through me. No less that I felt so little excitement at this great adventure. It was, after all, the culmination of my training, of the time and energy I had given to the College of the Mnemonikos. It was the natural result of my tenure, and I went out into dramatic times. I should, I knew, have been exhilarated, but I could only pretend. I accepted because I saw no alternative. Inside, I felt resentment that fate, embodied in the earnest, smiling faces all around me, could so order my destiny, and Rwyan’s, and Urt’s.

Still, I hid my feelings skillfully as any mummer, thanked
Decius and the rest for all they had taught me (for which I
was
grateful), and behaved generally as did my fellow viators.

Toward midnight Decius announced his intention of finding his bed, which was cue the feast should end. He saluted us a final time, wished us well, and quit the dining hall. We Storymen bade one another farewell and went to our chambers. I felt neither tired nor alert but in a somber, contemplative mood. Cleton was mightily excited; I felt a curious indifference. I could not share his enthusiasm for our impending departure, but nor had I any wish to remain in Durbrecht. I could not define my mood well: I felt resigned as a rudderless boat, willing to let the irresistible pressure of the tides drive me where they would. If I could not be with Rwyan, it mattered nothing where I was, or where I went. I slumped on my bed, accepting the tankard Cleton drew me.

He said, “In the God’s name, Daviot, does our parting truly sadden you so?”

I knew he jested and that he sought to lift my spirits. I thought, too, that he looked to throw a bridge across the rift that had grown between us, so I erected a smile and said, “It shall be strange without you, my friend.”

He nodded, his own smile faltering a moment, and said, “Yes, it shall.” Then he cheered and added, “But we knew it should come, eh? And what an adventure lies ahead!”

We neither of us knew what truth he spoke, and as he raised his mug in toast, I felt a melancholy that had nothing to do with Rwyan or Urt descend upon me. I raised my own mug and drank, but as I did I thought on how I
should
miss Cleton’s company and felt sorry that we had drifted apart. I looked into his pale blue eyes and said earnestly, “You’ve been a good friend, Cleton, and you’ve my thanks.”

“For what?” He laughed, refusing to join me in depression. “By the God, I’d have been bored without you.”

That night I dreamed that I wandered afoot through an oak wood where a thin new moon silvered the gray mist that hung amidst the gnarled trees. I could hear sounds—the wash of surf, the clatter of metal, of tramping boots and shouting men—but only faint, as if from a great distance or as if the mist dampened sound. I could see dim shapes, but none came near, and when I attempted to approach, they
receded. Overhead, I could hear the beat of massive wings, but when I looked to the sky, it was as gray as the mist, only the moon visible. I knew I was lost, and that I must find the edge of the wood before I became as one with its spectral inhabitants, but there were no paths and the holt seemed endless. I heard Rwyan calling me, and then from another direction, Urt, so that I faltered, turning this way and that, unsure to whom I should go, nor certain I should find either. I was wading through deep leaf mold in answer to Rwyan’s call, stumbling over concealed roots, branches tugging at me as if to hold me, when I awoke.

The day was dull, torn between winter’s failing grip and spring’s fresh promise. Rafts of pewter cloud hung low, assaulted from the east by a promisingly bright sun. Birds sang, their melodies far easier on the ear than the sounds Cleton made at his ablutions. I waited for him to finish and then attended to my own toilet.

He was to travel overland to Dorsbry on the Treppanek’s north bank and would not leave until midmorning, whilst I must soon be gone. We clasped hands and said our last farewells, and I shouldered my pack, took up my staff, and quit the chamber that had been my home for the past five years without a backward glance.

The College yards were empty so early, save for scurrying Changed, and I spent a moment staring around, thinking that I should feel some greater emotion. I felt nothing but a vague pleasure at the notion of being again on a deck. I saw Decius watching me from his window and smiled as I remembered that I had once wondered if he had legs. He saluted me and I raised my staff in answer, then strode toward the gates.

Ardyon was there. Ensuring the Changed gatemen did their duty, I presumed. I was not at all inclined to bid the warden any fond farewell, but it was impossible to escape his notice or to ignore him. I looked him in the eye and nodded.

He sniffed and said, “Day’s greetings, Storyman.”

I answered, “Day’s greetings, warden,” with no warmth in my voice.

He sniffed again and clasped his caduceus in both hands against his narrow chest. “The God go with you,” he said.

I said, “My thanks,” still cold.

His cadaverous features remained impassive as ever, but
there was about his stance some hesitancy, and I surmised he wished to say something more, so I waited.

Finally he said, “Concerning the servant—Urt. I had no choice in that matter, save to do what I did.”

I looked at his sunken eyes and said, “Perhaps not; but that does not make it right. Think you he enjoys such treatment? To be shunted hither and yon, like some beast?”

His expression did not alter, but in his sniff I thought I discerned amazement. He said, as if the words were all the explanation needed, “He’s Changed.”