Lords of the Sky (77 page)

I woke filled in a manner I cannot properly describe with confidence. It was like the cessation of an illness, the abatement of fever: when you fall asleep sweat-drenched and troubled and wake cool, knowing the sickness gone. I felt I had made a decision. The burgeoning dawn seemed somehow brighter. I smiled.

Beside me, Rwyan stirred. I stroked her cheek and her
eyes opened. She “looked” at me and smiled. “You dreamed,” she said, and it was not a question, but confirmation that we shared this thing.

I said, “Yes. They shall come soon, I think.”

She nodded, understanding, and I sprang from the bed to wash and dress, that I be ready for—what? I could not say. Only that I felt—no! that I
knew
—the future must soon shift in its course.

It was anticlimax to see three gifted come in with our morning meal. I know not what I had expected—some explosion, perhaps, the roof of our chamber ripped away, and dragons come down to carry us off; Urt and Tezdal come storming in with drawn swords. To find only our usual guardians bearing bread and fruit and cheese, tea, was prosaic. Rwyan “saw” my expression and laughed (which utterly disconcerted our warders) and told me, “Trust.” Which confused the Changed the more.

We ate and waited. Rwyan was far more composed than I: I found it hard.

Harder still when Urt came to us with solemn mien and shoulders slumped and said, “Do we walk awhile in the garden? I am asked to speak with you again.”

Past him in the corridor, I saw three gifted Changed. Their faces were hard to read, but I thought I saw the flashings of triumph in their eyes. I feared then that the dream had come too late, and we were both of us condemned. But Rwyan said, “Yes, that should be pleasant,” and took my hand, the pressure of her slim fingers a reminder to trust. And so I smiled and echoed her, and we went out into the open air.

It was obviously the design of the Raethe that Urt have one last chance to convince us Rwyan should give her knowledge willingly. He led us down the winding paths into the strange woodland, our golden-banded escort hanging back a few careful steps as if they’d afford him time and space to win us over.

In a tone designed to carry, he told us we had no hope but could only submit to the will of the Raethe. That the Great Coming was a foregone conclusion, and we no choice save between cooperation and its rewards, or the unpleasant alternative.

In whispers, he spoke of the dream he’d had. He shuddered as he told it, still not at all happy with the notion of a Changed and dragons communing. It was much like mine: reassurance offered, pledges given, and he no more able than I to say exactly what it meant. But still, for all that the likelihood of rescue seemed to diminish with each step we took, I felt oddly confident, my faith firmed by those oneiric promises. I smiled and whispered back, “Did you believe, Urt?”

He sighed and lowered his head, the gesture more submissive than confirming, and said, “I did. I felt not much choice. I felt … that did I refuse, I should betray my kind.”

Rwyan laughed; confidently. My smile grew broader.

We walked, then, through a copse of tall beech trees. The ground beneath was bare, the earth hard and scattered with cobs. The trees were stately in the manner of beeches, fending sunlight through their boughs like duelists weaving traceries of light and shadow down in dancing patterns. I thought the same shadowplay worked over Urt’s face: hope and disbelief mingling.

He loosed a gusty sigh and glanced at me. “It was easier in Durbrecht, Daviot,” he said wearily. “I’d no dreams there; save freedom. Now—now I dream of dragons and a wider liberty. Can it be so?”

This copse was akin to some cathedral: I could only answer true. I said, “I’ve known those dreams, Urt, and last night I was given a promise. I cannot explain it properly, but I believe we’ve hope.”

He said, “Tezdal said as much. He was set to the Way of Honor, but then you spoke with him and we compared our dreams, and he delayed. He promised to find you here. But …” He looked up as if he’d find an answer in the sky, through the wide-spread branches that scattered all the light of hope and doubt over his face. “But save Rwyan agree to give up all the secrets of Dhar magic willingly, Allanyn shall take her and use the crystals on her this night.”

Suddenly the shadows seemed darker, like gathering storm. The breeze that rustled the beeches seemed harsher. I felt Rwyan’s hand clench hard about my fingers.

“She’s the ear of all the Raethe,” Urt said, “and neither I
nor any other could dissuade them. By sun’s set, they agreed. Can I not persuade you by then …”

He shrugged. I looked up. The sun was westered: not far off its setting. I looked at Urt and saw no doubt in his eyes. There was only despair there, such as would match and meet what I’d felt before I’d accepted the dream’s promise.

Rwyan said, “You told Tezdal?”

Urt nodded. “Everything; all of it.”

She asked, “And he believed?”

Urt said, “He did. But even so—Allanyn will bring you to the crystals at sunset.”

Rwyan said, “Have faith, Urt. Allanyn shall not have her way! Neither with us nor the world.”

He looked at her with worried eyes. “I’d believe you, Rwyan, but how can it be?” His eyes flicked sideways in mute indication of our escort. “Three gifted watch us e’en now; and your magic is powerless here. How shall you escape Allanyn?”

There was a way: my promise to her. My newfound confidence faltered then. Rwyan “saw” my expression and said, “Fear not, Daviot. It shall not come to that.”

In that moment I shared Urt’s fear. Against the rock of my belief there washed fierce waves of doubt. The shadows of the beeches hung long across the ground as the sun moved ever closer to the west, closer to its setting. It seemed to me the orb moved with unnatural speed.

Rwyan said, “Urt, does Tezdal know of Allanyn’s intent?”

He nodded, not speaking, and she asked him, “And does he know you walk with us here?”

Again he nodded. This time he said, “But what good that? What shall Tezdal do? What
can
he do?”

Rwyan smiled. “We shall see.”

We walked awhile in silence then, our escort a discreet distance behind. I wondered if they were out of earshot or if their talent enabled them to hear all we said. If that, I knew us lost. I thought that did they call us back, then I should strike that blow I dreaded. Beyond the trees I heard a stream gurgling over stones. It sounded to me like a clepsydra, measuring out the moments left us. I looked to the east and saw the sky darkening; to the west the sun stood close on the treetops. I felt Rwyan’s hand in mine, warm and dry. I
conjured my last dream, reliving it vivid in my mind, that I might renew my threatened hope.

Then I gaped as I saw Tezdal come strolling through the wood. He was dressed in his Kho’rabi finery, but now he wore the long sword he named a kachen sheathed on his waist. His expression was dark: I thought him troubled by some inner turmoil.

Rwyan loosed her hand and murmured soft, “Stand ready.”

I made some inarticulate sound in confirmation and watched as Tezdal approached our three guardians. His gait was somehow altered, so that I was minded of a stalking cat, its casual approach concealing its murderous intent. I was reminded of the Kho’rabi I had met in battle. I moved away from Rwyan, toward the three Changed.

They had halted politely as the Sky Lord came up. He offered them an arrogant bow and said, “Allanyn would see you in the crystal chamber.” He gestured in our direction. “These you may leave in my charge.”

The Changed glanced at one another, frowning. One said, “How so, my lord? Our orders are clear—to grant Urt until sunset to convince the mage. Can he not, then to bring her to Allanyn.”

Tezdal’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Do you question me?” he asked.

No: he did not ask, but demanded, challenging. In that moment he was entirely Kho’rabi. It took the Changed aback.

The speaker said, “I fail to understand, my lord.”

I saw Tezdal’s fingers drum irritably against his scabbard: a man accustomed to command, in no wise familiar with disagreement. He said, “What’s to understand?”

The Changed said, “Forgive me, my lord, but our orders were explicit. We are not to leave these three alone.”

Tezdal said, “Then I’ve no choice.”

And drew his blade.

I saw what he intended. I thought he attempted an impossible task: these three were gifted. One, perhaps, he might slay, but even as that one died, the others would bring their magic against him and destroy him. Fleeting into my mind came the thought that perhaps that was his wish—that he chose this Way of Honor.

I had fought Kho’rabi and knew their deadly skills. I had seen none so skilled as Tezdal.

His blade sliced a bloody line across the Changed’s belly. I saw a crimson cloud explode as the man doubled over, hands clamped to the dreadful cut. Tezdal spun full around, the long sword lifting to hack through the upraised wrists of a second victim. The mouth that had begun to shape a gramarye opened wider as the hands fell, and a horrible scream replaced the spell. Tezdal reversed the stroke—how could any man move so fast?—prepared to carve the third like some piece of kindling wood.

And he was flung back, hurled away by an occult wind that picked him up and threw him down as if he were no more than a feather. I saw the sword ripped from his hands. It spun high in the darkening air as he struck the ground with such awful force, I heard the gusting of the air punched from his lungs. I saw the blade turn, supported by magic as it ceased its spinning and came back toward him, hovering above his supine form preparatory to skewering him.

Had I owned the time to think then, I’d have blessed Keran and Cleton for all their lessons. I think Andyrt should have been proud of me.

I was running: I hurled myself up, as I had been taught, launching myself feet foremost into the air. My boots struck the gifted Changed square between the shoulders. He was thrown forward onto his face. His spell ended abruptly in a shrill exhalation that choked off as his mouth filled with dust and dropped beech cobs. The sword hanging above Tezdal wavered, twisting around, then fell careless across my friend’s chest.

I rolled to my feet. The martial training of Mnemonikos and Kho’rabi knights was never so different: attack, and you are committed. I turned as I rose, my hands finding the Changed’s chin even as my knees lodged against his spine. He grunted, and I felt his power gathering, a prickling on my skin. I pulled up and back, turning the jaw. I heard the horrid sound of cracking bone and felt the head come loose in my hands. I felt the life go out and my stomach churn. I wanted badly to vomit. Instead, I sprang away. I told myself I had no choice: that these slain folk would have slain me and Rwyan. All of us; but still I felt scant appetite for the killing.

I looked to the wounded sorcerer and saw her kneeling,
weeping over the bloody stumps that ended her arms. She shaped a gramarye to quench the flow of spurting blood. All her attention was focused on that. I did not know what to do.

Tezdal rose. He shook his head as if to clear it of nightmares’ memories and picked up his sword. He looked at the weeping Changed and came staggering toward her.

I said, “No!”

He paid me no attention; only raised the blade and cut off her head. It rolled away over the dry ground in a fountain of blood.

I forced my stomach not to empty itself. I heard Rwyan make a sound that was part scream and part cry of hope.

The first victim of Tezdal’s attack knelt over a glutinous mass of spilled entrails. My Sky Lord comrade beheaded him with the calm efficiency of a slaughterman. Then he drew a patch of silk from his belt and wiped his sword. His face was an expressionless mask. I swallowed bile. I looked to where Rwyan stood. Her eyes were wide with disgust and horror, but there was also something more that I could not properly define. She clutched Urt’s arm, and on his face I saw only amazement. I looked around, suddenly aware that twilight fell. Stars already freckled the eastern sky. The darkening of the clearing amongst the beeches matched the darkening of the ground. The sun hung red in the west; the soil lay red at my feet.

(Is it always so? Must we always find our truths in blood?)

Tezdal sheathed his cleaned sword and said, “Come! I’ve horses waiting past the wall.”

Urt said, “Where can we go?”

Rwyan said, “Toward hope! Do as Tezdal says!”

I said nothing. I knew we were committed now, all of us. Did we remain, we had no hope at all. Allanyn should have her revenge on all of us, unthinking and blind as her ambition. I could only trust that whatever came to us in those oneiric sendings did not offer false hope but told us truth. I felt, still, that certainty that had come to me; but also the surety that now we were horridly dead, save we escaped this place. Our lives balanced on a knife’s edge: I saw no choice save to trust in Tezdal and run. In those moments I did not think at all of the planned invasion or of what Ennas Day should bring to Dharbek, but only of our personal survival.

I said, “Urt, do you stay here, you’re dead! Come with us!”

I took his hand and Rwyan’s and ran after Tezdal.

I felt a tug, and then Urt was with us, leaving go my hand to run faster than I, going by Tezdal.

As he passed the Sky Lord he shouted, “Where past the wall?”

Tezdal yelled an answer I could not hear, and Urt loped ahead. I saw his canine ancestry then, as he ran, loose-limbed and fleet. But I heard him shout back, “After me, then. I know these trails.”

Trails?

I had seen this woodland from the window of our prison. I had walked here: gardens, surely, woven by Changed magic into disregard of season, but no more than that. No more than some expression of sorcerers’ vanity, or the vested power of Trebizar’s crystals. I should have guessed better when we trod that grove of beeches. I should have known magic better.

We did not run through some garden: we fled through a forest. It was not possible, and yet the evidence of my eyes told me it was so. We quit the clearing, and beeches were replaced with majestic oaks. We splashed across the stream I’d heard and followed Urt through the willow curtains beyond. We ran across a meadow that could not have occupied so much space, the grass long—and leaving a clear trail for trackers, I thought; did those who must surely come after us have need for such mundane signs. We ran past stands of ash and hornbeam, and it became quite impossible to judge time, my chronological sense distorted by these weird dimensions.