Lords of the Sky (26 page)

“Think you the Changed have no feelings?” I asked coolly.

Behind his back I saw the gatemen staring, their eyes wide and startled. I am not sure whether in amazement at what I said, or that I dared say it to Ardyon. I did not care: it was too late for him to punish me now.

I think he frowned then. At least his brows shifted a fraction upward, and he shook his head slowly. “You’re the oddest student I’ve ever known,” he said.

I shouldered past him and ducked my head to the gatemen, crying, “Day’s greetings and farewell, my friends.”

There was a pause, and then I heard them each call, “Day’s greetings and farewell, Storyman.”

I smiled at that, striding away from the College, thinking that I scored a small victory.

The
Dragon
was a single-masted galley captained by a westcoaster named Nyal, whose good nature prompted me to revise my opinion of westcoasters. He stood a head taller than I and seemed composed mostly of thick black hair, out of which eyes and teeth sparkled cheerfully. He boasted a crew of twelve bull-bred oarsmen and carried on board his sister, Lwya, her husband, Drach, and their daughter, Morwenna. The family, he explained, was fleeing Durbrecht for fear of the Sky Lords, planning to return to Arbryn, where Drach hoped to reestablish his chandlery. Drach advised me that their home had been partially destroyed in the last Coming and that he had sold his business at a loss, but that he preferred to settle his family in some location safer than Durbrecht, which he believed was singled out for destruction by the Sky Lords as it contained the Sorcerous College.

All this I learned before we reached midstream: Drach was a voluble fellow and was convinced a Storyman must have the ear of the koryphon, if not that of Gahan himself.

I expressed myself innocent of such connections and asked him if he thought Arbryn should be safe, whereupon he nodded enthusiastically, expounding his theory that the Sky Lords looked to destroy Dharbek’s centers of magic, leaving alone the lesser settlements.

“But Arbryn’s a keep,” I said, “and a commur-mage, surely.”

“Of course,” he answered me. “The aeldor Thyrsk’s the holder, and Donal the commur-mage. But the Sky Lords’ll not come so far west—Arbryn’s too small. No, the Dark Ones’ll concentrate on the Sentinels, and Durbrecht, on Kherbryn. They’ll not bother with such small fry.”

There was ephemeral truth in his supposition, and I had no great desire to blunt his optimism, but his careless—or so it seemed to me—dismissal of the Sentinels (and thus of Rwyan) irked me. I said, “But do the Sentinels fall, there’ll be no defense against the Sky Lords. They’ll come unchecked, and do they conquer Durbrecht and Kherbryn, there’ll be none to stand against them. How shall Arbryn fare then?”

I felt immediately guilty, for both Lwya and Morwenna hung upon my words as if I was some font of wisdom, and at this dour pronouncement they paled and gasped, the daughter reaching for her mother’s hand. She was a pretty thing, a few years younger than I, and had my heart not belonged to Rwyan, I believe I might have sought a closer acquaintance. As it was, I regretted my stark declaration. So I smiled heartily and said, “Better to place your trust in the sorcerers and the Lord Protector. Pray the Sentinels deny the Sky Lords passage, and that the warbands slay those Kho’rabi who set foot on our soil.”

Lwya, whose dark good looks foretold her daughter’s future, murmured a heartfelt “Amen,” to that, and Morwenna nodded eagerly, her great black eyes intent upon my face.

Drach tugged on his beard, his brow wrinkled as he considered my words. “I do not
wish
it,” he said. “The God knows, I’d see them blasted from the sky, but still I think—”

He broke off as his wife touched his arm. I suspect they held me in such awe as to fear I might denounce them as
traitors. Perhaps I flatter myself. I did, however, remember that my duty as Storyman was to instill courage in the folk I encountered, so I said, “There’s no denying Durbrecht took a beating this past year, but Trevid has his engineers building even greater war machines, and the Sorcerous College bends all its efforts to the finding of greater magicks. The Sentinels still stand and shall be strengthened the more. The Sky Lords shall not defeat us! Remember the story of Anduran.”

I spun out that tale of past glories, when the aeldor led his warband against a Kho’rabi force three times their number and held the invaders at bay until the Lord Protector, Padyr, came to his aid, with the sorcerer, Wynn, and the enemy were slaughtered to a man. It was one of the great old tales, and they had doubtless heard it a hundred times before, but (though I say it myself) I was a skillful story-spinner, and I held them rapt as Nyal pointed the
Dragon
westward.

As twilight dimmed the Treppanek, Nyal brought us in to a place named Darbryn, a village that served as an overnight stop to passing traffic, with a ferryboat and an inn. I suggested that I sleep on deck, thinking to hoard my coin, but Drach insisted I accept a room at his expense. I am not sure whether he looked to make amends for fleeing Durbrecht, or if he felt intimacy with a Storyman loaned him prestige. It mattered little to me: I accepted with alacrity.

As the women bathed and we drank ale with Nyal, he said, “I trust you don’t think me a coward, Daviot. Nor that I lack faith in the sorcerers or Lord Protector. I fought with the militia this last year, but I’ve Lwya and Morwenna to think of, and I’d not see them fall to the Sky Lords. Had you a wife, or a daughter, you’d understand.”

That cut me somewhat, but how could he know? I smiled and reassured him I doubted neither his courage nor his loyalty and wished them safe refuge in Arbryn.

Nyal grunted and said, “A man’s first loyalty’s to his kith and kin, no?”

I agreed and asked him if he was not wed, at which he shook his head and said bluntly, “I was. The cursed Sky Lords slew her.”

I voiced condolences and asked, “In Arbryn?”

He shook his head again, setting the mass of his darkly curling hair to waving, and answered me, “On the Treppanek,
east of Durbrecht. She sailed with me. We were Rorsbry-bound two summers past when an airboat passed over.” He drained his mug in one long gulp and shouted for more. “They were crippled—low overhead—and they dropped their God-cursed fire on the ship. Kytha died, and half my crew. The ship sank. Had it not been for Drach, here …”

All this he told me in a low monotone that I recognized was a chain binding his grief. His dark eyes were expressionless, but as his voice tailed off, I saw tears run down his cheeks, leaving moist trails over his tan. He coughed and rubbed at his face. “Drach loaned me the coin to purchase the
Dragon
and new oarsmen,” he finished.

I said, “I’m sorry,” and he grinned without humor and returned me, “Why? It was not your doing.”

I shrugged, not knowing what else to say. And then I had a kind of revelation. I realized at that moment what I had not seen before—that I had become lost in my own grief, which was but a single small fish in a shoal of woes. It was arrogance and selfishness to think I swum alone: all around me there were folk had suffered as much or more, and to single out myself, to allow self-pity free rein, was a weakness, an act of egoism. I doubted Rwyan would approve. I vowed to set aside my own concerns and attend more carefully those of others.

That night, in the room I shared with Drach, I slept soundly, and when I woke I felt enlivened, as I had not since Rwyan’s going. I would not forget Rwyan, but neither would I dwell any longer on her loss.

Thus my journey passed far more enjoyably than I had anticipated. I practiced my storytelling on my fellow passengers and even the crew—Nyal was a kinder master than Kerym and treated his Changed oarsmen, if not as equals, then at least better than mere beasts—and studied the riparian landscape with eyes that seemed newly opened. When I thought of Rwyan (which was still often enough), it was with a sweetly fond nostalgia that was only sometimes pierced by the barbs of my dismissed grief. I had, I suppose, accepted what Cleton had told me: that our parting was inevitable and that to grieve over that which I could not change was a pointless scourge.

And then we came to Arbryn.

Thyrsk was aeldor here, and I had it from Nyal that he had but one son, Kalydon, and that his wife was dead of a fever these past three years. I knew no more, save that Arbryn prospered—which I could see from the pastel-painted houses and well-tended gardens—thanks to its advantageous position, being well-situated to handle trade from farther down the coast and the Treppanek, both. I thought it a pleasant, sleepy place that appeared untouched by the Sky Lords. The streets were clean, and I was greeted with cheerful cries as I walked toward the high stone tower that stood like the axle hub of a wheel at Arbryn’s center, behind its own wall, and showed no sign of attack.

Four days I lingered there, wandering the town by day’s light, welcomed in the taverns and the squares where I told my stories, passing the evenings in Thyrsk’s hall. The hold’s sorcerer sent word to Durbrecht along that magical chain that connects the keeps of Dharbek, informing the College of my safe arrival, but what response, if any, came back, I know not. Storymen are governed by few orders, save to tell their tales and keep their eyes and ears open, and I was at liberty to choose my own path and my own timetable. It was a heady freedom.

A
side from the practice of our calling, there are three prime considerations about a Storyman’s life that seem seldom to occur to our listeners, who appear to believe we arrive by magic and depart by the same process.

The first is the act of traveling itself. I was commanded to go from Arbryn to Mhorvyn before the year’s end; the
how
of it was left to me. I had one pair of stout boots, and save in heavy rain when my healed leg was wont to ache, I was fit as any soldier. The length of Kellambek, however, is a considerable distance, and the more time I spent traveling, the less I should have to speak and listen. I had some few coins, but insufficient to purchase a horse or a mule. I could hope to find passage with some merchant’s caravan or at some point to obtain a mount, but in the meanwhile I had only my feet.

The second consideration is food. An empty belly makes for slow walking and a short temper. Indeed, it was not unknown for Storymen to starve in the wilder parts of Dharbek’s interior. I did not anticipate that fate, for my tales would earn me sustenance, and if they did not—well, this was a fertile landscape, and I could likely scavenge enough to see me through.

Third is warmth: the road grows cold and wet at times. Indeed, this is why we wanderers were sent out at the year’s turning, when we might expect clement weather at the start of our journeying. I knew there should be rain along my way,
but summer would come soon enough, and by winter I hoped to be ensconced in Mhorvyn Keep.

Consequently, I set out from Arbryn in fine spirits. I had ventured to hope Thyrsk might gift me with a mount, but his generosity did not stretch quite so far, and I departed afoot. I thought that did I acquit myself well enough as I progressed, I might earn such a reputation as would persuade some aeldor to present me with a horse come the spring foaling. (Optimism is a necessary part of a Storyman’s nature; without it we should tread a very hard road.) It was a thing I could hope for, and meanwhile I had no complaints. I set out along the paved road that followed the coast south to Dunnysbar.

I reached the village after nightfall, my arrival announced by a pack of dogs that came yapping at my heels. I applied my staff and my boots, being in no great good humor, and sent my attackers snarling into the shadows as I made my way toward the light of a hostlery. I was welcomed there and promised all the ale I could drink in return for a story or two, though I had to pay for my dinner and chose the free accommodation of the stables over the cost of a room.

The next two nights I slept beside the road, warmed by a fire of fallen branches, fed the first on a rabbit I snared, hungry the second. The third night I found shelter in a farm, where I was fed and offered a place by the hearth, which I shared with four great shaggy dogs. Such is a Storyman’s lot.