Lords of the Sky (55 page)

“With your life?” asked Gynael.

“With my life,” answered Rwyan.

Cyraene smiled feigned friendship and said, “I say we accept Rwyan’s proposal.”

Gwyllym asked, “Are you sure?” And when Rwyan ducked her head, “Let us vote on it.”

It was soon cast. Some there were glad enough to see themselves rid of the Kho’rabi, some of Rwyan; her friends voted honestly, in favor of what seemed to them the best proposal. It was decided she should go with Tezdal to Carsbry, claiming herself a mage returning from a sojourn on the island. She would ask of the aeldor Pyrrin that he arrange passage north for them, to Durbrecht if that were possible, if not, then to some other keep closer to the Treppanek, where she might find another ship. She would be given coin enough to facilitate the journey; they wished her the God’s speed.

There was only a single point of dissent: Demaeter would send Tezdal out in chains. Rwyan had not known she commanded such eloquence as she argued that.

How, she demanded, might such bonds be explained? They should look most odd, no? Was Tezdal a prisoner, then surely he would be delivered to the aeldor. And what manner of prisoner would come from the Sentinels, save a Sky Lord? Which announcement they were surely agreed was not to be bruited abroad for fear Tezdal be slain out of hand.

No, she told the fat sorcerer with a firmness she had not known she possessed, was this subterfuge to work, then all must appear normal. There could be no chains.

And should he regain his full memory and turn on her?

He would not, of that she was certain; too, she was not without defenses. She had the talent, no? She could ward herself well enough against a single man, surely?

“I believe you can,” said Maethyrene. “But even so—do we agree he goes unfettered—you must still explain his presence. He cannot be your servant, for we’ve no servants here. What is he then? Why does he accompany you?”

There was a murmur of agreement, of doubt. Cyraene frowned as if disappointed. Rwyan thought a moment on the argument and smiled. “I am blind,” she said, “so let him be my eyes. A man hired off a supply ship to act as guide and servant. The God willing, that explanation should satisfy most folk.”

Demaeter voiced protest but the rest nodded approvingly, and once more it had been Gynael who set the seal on it.

“I am old and I grow weary,” she had said. “I’d eat, and
find my bed. Rwyan’s the way of it, and wise for one so young. We’d send the Kho’rabi to Durbrecht, and it seems to me that save we do it as Rwyan suggests, he’ll likely be torn apart on suspicion alone. Be that the case, then we’ve wasted all our time, and I’ve not so much to waste. I say be done! These are perilous times, and they call for desperate measures. Is Rwyan confident, then let him go loosed as she suggests. I trust her.”

Gwyllym had lent his support, but the silver-haired woman had swayed the doubters, so that his vote was little more than a formality: it was finally agreed, the details settled. It was left to Rwyan to advise Tezdal.

She had not realized how nervous she had been until she quit the hall and walked out into the baking heat of the afternoon: it seemed cooler than that shadowed interior. She paused, opening hands she had not known she clenched, and saw the indentations her nails had left in her palms.
Why do I care so much?
she asked herself, and could offer no rational answer, save that she did and would not see Tezdal either slain or made a mindless servitor.
Is it wrong? The God knows, he
is
a Sky Lord, and they are our enemy.
Then:
No! He
was
a Sky Lord; now he’s just a lost and lonely man and likely trusts no one but me. Is that reason enough?

She made her way toward his room—his cell—lost in thought, careless of those she passed, even when several called to her wanting to know the council’s decision. To them she gave vague answer, barely aware of what she said, absorbed in her musings.

Everything she had told the Adepts was true. She
did
trust Tezdal; she did not believe he would harm her. There was something about him, something in his demeanor, that told her he spoke honestly when he spoke of owing his life.

But do I betray him?
she wondered as the path wound through a grove where goats and sheep ambled lazily about her. I
take him from imprisonment here, but surely to another kind of jail, in Durbrecht. What shall they do with him there, the Mnemonikos and the sorcerers of the College? Shall he be chained again, fed and watered like some animal, his mind a toy to be dissected?

She “saw” the tiny cottage, the door locked, and paused,
not yet quite ready to break her news; needing to be sure in her own mind that what she gave him was gift, not curse.

At least he’ll not be condemned to live out his life here.
She gasped, recognizing the shape of her thought: its inherent significance.
Condemned? Is that how I see this island, as a prison? I’d not spend my life here, only such time as the crystal allows, and yet … God! Have I hidden my feelings even from myself? Am I a traitor to my College, to my talent and my duty?

She felt her head spin and reached out to clutch a low-hung branch. The gnarled wood was rough beneath her hand, warm; she pressed her forehead against it a moment, her mouth dry.

Are my motives selfish? Do I seek my own freedom, Tezdal the key? Surely not—I had accepted my lot before he came. I was … resigned. At least, not unhappy. Or not very.

An ant ran busy over her hand, forerunner of a column, the insects’ passage relentless, her hand merely an obstacle to overcome. She “watched” them, thinking:

Like the Sky Lords. Amongst whose number I must not forget Tezdal was counted; if not now, then once. And like these ants, the Sky Lords are relentless, they intend to overcome my country. Then I do my duty in bringing him to Durbrecht, and at least along the way he shall enjoy a measure of freedom. Surely that must be for the best; surely.

She straightened, blowing softly to dislodge the ants still clinging to her skin, and went toward the cottage.

The lock was newly fixed—there was no need of locks here—and the key hung from a nail beside. She took it down and swung the door open. Tezdal sat on the single chair, a length of chain securing him to the bed.

As if he were some half-wild animal, not yet to be quite trusted.
She smiled at him and said, “Day’s greetings, Tezdal.”

He rose.
He always rises,
she thought, noticing it for the first time.
He is a genteel man.

He said, “Day’s greetings, Rwyan. Is my fate decided?”

Certainly his wits were sharp enough. She said, a little nervous now, “How do you know we spoke of you?”

He shrugged and said, “I’ve been left alone all day. Usually,
you come; at least, someone. When none came since I was fed, I thought …”

She motioned that he sit. He ducked his head in approximation of a bow and went to the bed, waiting until she took the chair.

“We did,” she said without further preamble. “You are to go to Durbrecht.”

“Durbrecht?” He frowned. “You’ve spoken of Durbrecht. A great city, no? Where you were taught to use your magic.”

“My College is there.” She nodded. “But also the College of the Mnemonikos—the Rememberers.”

He smiled politely and asked her, “Why?” as if they spoke not of his future, of his fate, but of some jaunt.

“It’s our belief,” she answered, “that they might restore your memory.”

“I should welcome that.” His smile became a rueful grin. “At least, I think I should. I do not feel … whole … not knowing quite who I am; or what. Is it far?”

“Yes.”
A lifetime far.
“We must first cross to the mainland, then take a ship north.”

Tezdal grinned at that and rattled his chains. “Shall I wear these still?” he asked.

Rwyan shook her head. “No. They’ll be struck off.”

He said, “Good,” and his smile was broad.

He listened attentively as she outlined the journey and the part he must play; what had been decided in conclave.

When she was done, he said, “I am not a servant, Rwyan.” His expression was troubled; he seemed affronted at the notion of such subterfuge. “I do not know how I know this, but I do.”

Rwyan said gently, “As do I, but for your own sake you must pretend.”

“Why?” he asked, a moment obstinate.

“Because you are—because you
were
Kho’rabi,” she said. “A Sky Lord; enemy to Dharbek. There are those who’d kill you for that, on the mainland.”

“You’ve spoken somewhat of this,” he murmured. “Of these Sky Lords, the Kho’rabi. But if I was, I am not now. Can I be something I do not remember? Someone of whom
I have no knowledge? I am not your enemy. Rwyan. Not yours, or your people’s.”

“I know that,” she said, “but on the mainland … Dharbek has suffered much; does now. This heat …” She gestured at the shuttered window. “That is the Sky Lords’ doing.”

“Their magic must be strong,” he said.

“It is,” she said.

“And they are your enemy?”

She nodded.

“Then they are mine. My life is yours, Rwyan; it has been since you took me off that rock.”

“Folk on the mainland will not know that,” she said. “Do they even suspect you were Kho’rabi, they would slay you. That’s why you must pretend. Only play the part of servant until you are come safe to Durbrecht.”

She “watched” him as he thought it through.
By the God, he looks like Daviot when he sits thus, pondering.

An errant thought then:
Daviot. Might it be I shall find him again, along the way? Or in Durbrecht?

“You look sad, Rwyan.”

Tezdal’s voice startled her back to full attention. She smiled and said, “I thought of someone from long ago. You remind me of him.”

He nodded gravely and asked her, “Did you love him, that his memory makes you look so sad?”

And that,
she thought,
is exactly like Daviot: to strike directly to the heart of a thing.
She ducked her head and said, “Yes, I did.”

“Then,” he said, “why are you apart?”

“We’d different talents.” She shrugged, not much wanting to pick at those old wounds. “Mine was for sorcery; his for memory. I was sent here; he’s a Rememberer.”

“Shall he be in this Durbrecht?” he asked.

“I think not,” she said. “I think he likely wanders Dharbek now, as a Storyman.”

“What’s that?” he asked. “A Storyman?”

Rwyan told him, and when she was done, he said, “Then perhaps you’ll meet him along the way.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled, denying herself the brief flare of hope his words kindled. Then caught the import of what he said: “You accept? That you must act the servant?”

“Do you wish it?”

She was not quite sure whether he asked her or made a statement. She said, “It’s needful.”

“Be it your wish then.” He stood, executing a cursory bow. “Then so be it.”

“Thank you,” she said.

T
he Feast of Daeran was past before I sighted Carsbry, my belly grumbling its anticipation of Pyrrin’s hospitality. Betwixt this keep and Cambar, the land was ravaged, famine a growing threat, disease stirring. This should have been a season of growth, of plenty; it was, instead, a time of hardship. I went often hungry: I thought I should rest awhile in Carsbry and fatten myself a little before continuing up the coast.

The hold was a pretty sight in the midmorning sun, despite the arid fields, and I paused by a stand of black pine, studying the place. It sprawled around a gentle bay, the houses spreading in twinned arcs from the centerpiece of the keep, that standing watchful over the harbor and the inland road alike. Moles extended out into the placid waters of the Fend, ensuring safe anchorage for sea-borne traffic, and I saw galleasses moored there, and galleys, warlike amongst the smaller fishing craft. It still seemed odd there was no wind. I nudged my mare and set her to the road.

No less odd than the absence of a breeze was the listless attitude of the folk I encountered. I should by now have become accustomed to that apathy, but still it struck me as strange that the arrival of a Storyman should elicit so little excitement. I thought the implacable heat drained more than physical energy; it seemed to rob the people of that
animating vitality that had always carried us defiant through hardship.

I halted at the keep’s gate, announcing myself to the soldiers lounging there. They wore no armor but only breeks and plain shirts draped with Carsbry’s plaid. For all they still wore swords, I thought them ill prepared against attack should the Sky Lords come. My name taken with no great display of interest, the pyke commanding waved me carelessly by and I heeled my mare across the sun-hot cobbles of the yard. Pyrrin’s banners hung limp from the tower, which appeared so far the condition of his holding. When I looked to the walls, I was encouraged to see a trio of the war-engines standing ready, with missiles piled beside—presumably not all here was lassitude.

I found the stables and rubbed down the mare, saw her watered and fed, the Changed ostlers warned of her temper, and made my way to the hall.