Lords of the Sky (75 page)

Tezdal nodded in response and looked again to Geran. “So shall it be,” he declared. “The lady Rwyan shall have her proof from me, and then …” He frowned, some measure of confidence departing. “But first, I’d dine and speak with my fellows. So do you return the lady Rwyan and Da-viot
the Storyman to their quarters? Unharmed, eh? And treat them with the respect they deserve.”

Neither Geran nor the other gifted liked that much. I saw Allanyn’s face pale, two spots of angry color on her cheeks, but neither she nor any of them argued, so commanding was Tezdal. I saw Rwyan’s smile grow broader, and when I caught Tezdal’s eye, he grinned. I wondered what game he played. Was it all some thing of honor that I could not properly comprehend? I knew nothing of the Sky Lords—save as ferocious enemies—but I had the feeling he sought to help us.

I could not see how, save that he gave us a brief respite from the inevitable. I told myself that must be enough for now.

There was a tapping at our door. It took me a while to wonder why our captors should now deign to announce their entry: I called that they come in.

The door opened, and Tezdal stood there.

He was alone. He wore the shirt and breeks and boots of the vault, but not the crimson robe, and on his face was an expression I could not interpret.

He said, “Daviot,” as if in greeting or inquiry, and looked past me to Rwyan and spoke her name. And then, “May I enter?”

I shrugged and beckoned him in. I wondered why he bothered with such formality: was he our friend, he must surely know himself welcome; if not, why should he concern himself with niceties?

He smiled slightly and gave me a brief formal bow. Rwyan said, “Tezdal. Enter, and welcome.”

His smile grew warmer. I frowned and stood back. He closed the door and turned to face us. Rwyan ushered him to a chair and gestured at the decanter, for all the world as if we entertained some unexpected guest whose presence was an unanticipated pleasure.

Tezdal shook his head. “I’ve learned much about myself. And about other things.”

I saw his eyes cloud as he spoke, and lines appear across his brow. He ran a hand over his hair as if its arrangement sat unfamiliar on his skull. I took a seat across the table, beside Rwyan. I studied this man I thought my friend, who
might well now be my implacable enemy. I read confusion in his stance, doubt in his eyes. I waited, certain he should unfold some new chapter of my life and Rwyan’s, not knowing what it might be, good or ill.

Rwyan said, “Do you tell us?”

Her voice was calm. I felt sweat bead my brow, for all the room was pleasantly cool.

Tezdal said, “I’ve my memory back. All of it.”

His voice was controlled. I watched a tic throb on his temple. Rwyan said, “Then tell us all of it.”

He nodded and began to speak. I listened, marveling at the magic the Changed commanded, thinking how such talent might benefit we Mnemonikos.

He was born on the seventh day of the seventh month in the Year of the Eagle, which is holy to Vachyn, God of the Skies; a birthing day of great portent. His father was Tairaz Kashijan; his mother, Nazrene, formerly of the Isadur, and so in his veins flowed the High Blood of the Ahn. On the sixteenth day he was carried, wrapped in his swaddling clothes, to the temple of the Three, where his parents, as was custom, offered him in service to the gods. They were proud when the Attul-ki pricked his flesh with the sacred knife and he did not scream. The blood, the priests said, ran true in this one, this child was truly Kho’rabi, and so he was named Tezdal, which in the language of the Ahn means both “brave” and “honor.”

At the age of seven years he underwent the rituals of consecration. He smiled and did not struggle when the priests lowered him into the earth that was Byr’s, nor did he protest when the dirt struck his face. He smiled and did not close his eyes when they sank him beneath the waves that are Dach’s. When they lashed him to the tiny airboat and sent the craft into the sky that is Vachyn’s, he laughed aloud. Then they said, “This one shall be a credit to the Kashijan. He will be a mighty warrior, and his life and his death a monument to the Ahn.” That night, as all the folk of the Kashijan and the Isadur, those of both the High and Low Blood, and all their retainers, feasted, Tezdal drank his first wine and, in a voice steady for one so young, raised his cup in toast to the Great Conquest. It pleased him to be born at such a time, when the Attul-ki promised a turning of the
winds, a strengthening of their holy magic, that should see him of an age to ride the sky across the Kheryn-veyhn to regain the Homeland.

The next day, his head still somewhat fuddled by the wine, he was taken by his father to the Jentan-dho in Asanaj and given into the care of the Tachennen who would be his teachers and his guardians until he was of an age to wear the warrior’s braid, and call himself a man, and go back into the world a true Kho’rabi. Even then, as he turned from his father and went with the Tachennen into the House of Warriors, he did not cry or look back.

For eight years Tezdal remained in the Jentan-dho. There he learned the Seven Paths of the Warrior, and the Three Ways of the Gods. He was visited by his parents on the seventh day of each seventh month, and on that day sacred to the people when the prophet Attul first set foot on the soil of Ahn-feshang. On these occasions he greeted his father and his mother with suitable deference, neither weeping nor seeking undue favor. He was, the Tachennen said, their finest pupil, a true Warrior of the Blood. Once, his mother found it necessary to stifle a cry of alarm when she saw his right arm bound and strapped useless to his side. It had been broken, Tezdal told her, in training on the Second Path; it hurt him not at all. His father said nothing to the boy but inquired of the Tachennen, who advised him the damage was done in combat with the practice swords, when Tezdal faced three opponents.

Tairaz Kashijan had nodded and asked, “And the others?”

“Had the blades been true kachen,” the Tachennen had answered, “then they should all be slain.”

Tairaz had nodded again at this and asked, “Did he conduct himself well?”

“He did not cry out,” the Tachennen had said. “He had bested one when the blow landed. He fought on and won single-handed.”

“That is good,” Tairaz had declared. “But he should not have allowed the wounding.”

By his thirteenth year, Tezdal had mastered the Seven Paths and none could defeat him, save by sheer weight of numbers, in the melees. He waited eagerly for manhood and the promised Conquest.

Such was the dream of all within the Jentan-dho. It was to that end that the warriors named themselves the Dedicated, and since the Attul-ki had given the people the Great Dream, it was the hope of all the Ahn.

Once they had dwelt in the Homeland, far to the west across the Kheryn-veyhn. Their gods were the Three and in the way of gods had seen fit to test their worshippers. The cursed Dhar had come out of the north, a locust plague across the land. Their priests and sorcerers stood united in enmity of the Ahn, who then had owned but little magic and been too few in numbers to oppose the invaders. Worshippers of the one god were the Dhar, and they had torn down the temples of the Three and burned the sacred groves, driven the people into hiding or slavery. This was the first testing, and the Ahn had held true and would not forsake the Three, and in answer to that faith the gods had sent the prophet Attul a vision.

In the accoutrements of warriors they had appeared—Byr with promise of a new land; from Vachyn, lordship of the sky; from Dach, safe passage over the sea. “Go,” they had told Attul, “go east across the Kheryn-veyhn with all the people. A new land awaits you there, where you shall grow strong again, and in time come back to conquer what is rightfully yours.”

The promise had burned hot in Attul, and the word had spread amongst the people, and in the secret places of the land the Dhar named Kellambek, the Ahn had built their boats, readying for the journey. Attul had led them and guided them in the exodus, and the gods made good their promises. Dach had granted them the crossing, safe, and Vachyn sent the wind to speed them on their way to the land Byr made for them, which they named Ahn-feshang—the New Place of the People. Attul had set his feet on the new land and given thanks to the triumvirate, and the Three had taken him up, to dwell as one with them.

The Ahn, the promise of the gods yet bright, had found a welcome in Ahn-feshang, and soon they spread throughout the islands, of which there were three—Ahn-zel, Ahn-khem, and Ahn-wa. Byr had been kind in his building: the land was lush, with wooded mountains and grassy valleys, where game was plentiful. Dach gave them rivers of clean water and
pleasant beaches and filled the sea with fish. But what gift Vachyn gave was not yet clear.

The Ahn prospered, but the testing was not yet done. Fertile as was the new land, still the islands suffered the ravages of the elements. There were typhoons, and tidal waves, and volcanoes that vented their might against the heavens. This was the second testing, and there were many then who doubted the gods and so fell forsaken. But to those whose faith endured, the Three gave such magic as the world had never known. To those whose faith was strongest they gave power over the elements—the ability to defy the storms, to calm the waves, to soothe the earth-fires. To these sorcerers the Ahn looked for salvation, naming them the Attul-ki, which means “Children of Attul,” and they took the place of the hetmen and the attars, leading the Ahn safe through this second trial.

To them the Three gave word of the final testing, which was trial and prize both, for it was that the people should return to the Homeland to drive out the Dhar and take back what was theirs.

Then did Vachyn bestow his gift. He showed the Attul-ki the way of constructing the great airboats, how the skins might be filled with the breath of the volcanoes, to ride the Worldwinds and carry the Kho’rabi knights across the Kheryn-veyhn to smite the Dhar.

This was the longest of the three trials, for the magic of the Attul-ki was yet as that of infants, albeit powerful, and not even they could master the winds but must travel only on Vachyn’s whim. They persevered, and in reward Vachyn taught them that magic that granted them mastery over the spirits of the air. Slowly, they learned to bind the elemental spirits to their craft, like horses to a chariot, and then were they able to defy the Worldwinds and go against the Dhar usurpers at will.

To this great dream the Kho’rabi were dedicated, for the Three yet chose to test their followers, and those who sailed the sky to the Homeland did not return but gave their lives in service to the triumvirate, that the Dhar never forget but dwell in fear of the Comings.

And for such faith the Three gave due reward: the Attulki grew ever more accomplished in their magicks and found ways to bind the elementals in greater numbers to their pur-pose.
In time they saw the final trial approach and warned the people to ready themselves. It should be soon, they said. Not this year or the next, but soon enough as gods count time.

For a while they sent the great airboats against the Dhar, with sorcerer-priests of such power aboard that they were able to send back word, of what magicks the enemy commanded, and the manner of their defenses. Then came a breathing space, for the Dhar found new sorceries to thwart the people and prevent the sending back of word. Then did the Attul-ki bend all their will and all their wits to the dream. They decreed there should be no more attacks for a while, but only small vessels—such as might carry no more than ten men—go out. But these were the key to the Conquest, for the Children of Attul bound to them such numbers of elementals that the boats might return to Ahn-feshang, defying the sorcery of the Dhar and the gusting of the Worldwinds both. And from these scouts came reliable word of fortresses and cities and holds, of the deployment of soldiery, and the resources of the enemy.

And more—they found allies, who vowed to aid them in the conquest of the Dhar.

Then all the people saw that the final trial was near and readied for the Great Conquest. Across all Ahn-feshang they labored to construct the armada, none sparing wealth or possessions or strength but all bound to the single promised purpose: the Conquest.

On the seventh day of the seventh month of Tezdal’s fifteenth year, Tairaz Kashijan, accompanied by the lady Nazrene and a retinue of one hundred Kho’rabi knights, attended the ceremonies in the Jentan-dho in Asanaj. They watched as their son performed the obeisances to the Three and to the Tachennen. Then Tairaz stepped forward and silently bound his son’s hair in the warrior’s braid. Tezdal rose from his knees and bowed. Tairaz presented him with the kachen of manhood and clapped his hands. The five most senior of the Kashijan warriors came forward, full armored as befitted so solemn a ritual, to strip the young man and dress him in his own armor. Tezdal thanked them eloquently and waited as his mother led forward a horse. It was such a beast as fit a Kho’rabi knight, a testament to the wealth of
the Kashijan family, a jet stallion of pure blood. Tezdal shouted, “For the Three and for the Conquest,” and severed the head with a single cut.

There was shouting after that, and an end to formality. The families Kashijan and Isadur had supplied the Jentan-dho with food and wine enough that all found their beds that night with bellies filled and heads aswim. In the morning Tezdal departed much as he had come: his head pounding, without a backward glance. He rode a stallion that matched exactly the beast he had slain.

On his return to the Kashijan estates he found the members of both families awaiting him. There followed seven days of feasting, culminating in his betrothal to his cousin, the lady Retze Isadur. She was a pretty girl, and he was pleased with his parents’ choice.

On the eighth day Retze departed with her family to the Isadur estates, and Tezdal did not see her, save on feast days and holy days, for three years. Then, in his eighteenth year, which was Retze’s sixteenth, they were wed. From the Isadur family they received an estate in the mountains of Ahn-khem, with a sizable manor house, nine farmsteads, and a retinue of fifty servants. The Kashijan gifted them with three hundred Kho’rabi, fully equipped and well-mounted. Tezdal was happy in all ways but one: the Great Conquest was promised soon and he lusted for that battle.