Lords of the Sky

Cleton eyed the wall, and in the moonlight I saw a smile curve his lips. He turned it on me, and it was like a challenge.

“We could climb that,” he said.

It was as if he made only a casual observation, but I knew him well by then. I said, “We are forbidden. Would you spend the rest of the year shoveling dung?”

He gave no answer except that smile and crossed to stand beneath the wall. After a while he said, “My father keeps his walls smooth. This is rich in handholds.”

As if experimenting, he probed a crack, found another, and was soon perched like a fly above me. “We might gain the top and watch,” he called. “No more than that.”

I knew him and he knew me: well enough that he was confident I would follow. He clambered higher; I went after him.

We gained the vertex and lay flat across the width. We were on a level with the upper windows of a repository. My fingers stung where the sharp-edged niches had inflicted small cuts, and I had torn one nail. I sucked the wound as a half-squadron galloped past below us. They were mounted archers.

“They go east,” said Cleton.

“The Sky Lords grounded to the east,” I said. “They’re going to the east gate.”

Cleton nodded absently and turned his face in that direction. Durbrecht was encircled by a protective ridge, and atop that was the city wall. I could see beacons there, and a multitude of individual torches shifting and flickering in the night.

Cleton said, “It would be interesting, eh?”

I said, “Is dung interesting?”

Cleton said, “We’ve come this far.”

I said, “Yes,” and my friend was promptly sprawled across the wall with his feet probing the outer surface for holds. I sighed as he slipped over, still smiling.

The descent was harder than the climb, but we reached the street safely and huddled a moment in the wall’s shadow. A full squadron of lancers went by without a glance in our direction.

The warband was long gone by the time we reached the gate. Above us on the wall beacons burned, and we could see soldiers moving there. A squad of halbediers approached, and Cleton asked the jennym what went on. The officer returned him the suggestion we go home, leave what fighting there might be to those trained for such duty. We hung about a while, but nothing exciting arose to capture our attention, and before long we agreed we should return.

This time I thought the College wall looked higher. The moon certainly was higher, and I thought we had been longer gone than we had anticipated. I was correct.

We climbed the wall and worked our way back down the inner side. The College was ominously quiet, light showing at only a few windows. There was none at all in our dormitory as we slunk like thieves in the night along the edges of the quadrangle. We reached the door, and I was indulging in a measure of self-congratulation (and relief) when a familiar voice spoke our names.

I was convinced then that Ardyon possessed a sixth sense in addition to keen eyesight, excellent hearing, and an ability to conceal himself. I suppose they are qualities desirable in a warden. He emerged from the shadows silent as a ghost, tapping his caduceus in a most threatening manner against one narrow shoulder. Cleton and I stood rigid, like rabbits frozen by a fox’s gaze.

Ardyon stepped close, bending forward a little with his nostrils flaring. I realized he sought the smell of liquor on our breath. When he found none, he nodded and took a pace back. “Where?” he asked.

Cleton it was who answered. “We went to the east gate,” he said. “We thought it an excellent opportunity to observe the deployment of Trevid’s warband. We hoped to learn from it.”

I was impressed by his quick wits and sheer audacity. If Ardyon shared my admiration, he gave no sign. He only said, “You knew it forbidden.”

Cleton nodded and said, “I persuaded Daviot we should go.”

“No,” I said. “There was no persuasion. I went of my own will.”

Ardyon sniffed. He had a way of sniffing that could chill the blood. “At least you’re honest,” he said. “What did you see?”

“Not much,” I said. “The warband was gone and the gate closed.”

Ardyon nodded again. Then he said, “Find me when your morning’s lesson is done,” and turned away, fading back into the shadows.

So it was I learned something of the culinary arts, for our punishment this time-in addition to stable duties-was that we help in the kitchens. Being unskilled, we were set to peeling and paring, washing and scrubbing, with barely time left to snatch a mouthful of the food we readied; and in the evenings, after, we must return to the horses and their voluminous output. I thought it unfair we had earned such a sentence in return for no more than a shut gate and a few soldiers.

However, our adventure and its outcome were not without some harvest of knowledge.

Primarily, that Ardyon was inescapable; ubiquitous, it seemed to me. But also that whilst the College would mete out punishment for such infringement of its rules, it tacitly applauded the initiative demonstrated. A Mnemonikos-elect who showed such independence was safe from expulsion. Not from punishment-most assuredly not!-but he would not lose his place in the College Indeed, there were only three expelled during my time there-one for theft, one for the rape of a younger student, and one for a knifing.

And I came to know the Changed better.

As was the way throughout Durbrecht, the menial tasks about the College were performed by them. They cooked our food, tended the horses and the gardens, cleaned the rooms and courtyards. They were a mostly silent, always subservient, presence we scarcely noticed-they were simply there, and we accepted them as we did the statuary or the birds that left their droppings on the stone for the Changed to scrub away. Working with them in the kitchens I came into greater contact with them and began to perceive them not as faceless menials but as individuals, with quirks and characteristics as personal as any Trueman’s.

Oh, there was an undoubted degree of anonymity to their features and physique did I only glance unthinking, as most Truemen did-just as dogs of a particular breed are indistinguishable one from the other to the eye of the inexperienced, or as one ox looks much like another. But to the kennelmaster and the farmer, each is different. And I saw that these biddable creatures were each different. There was a cook-Ard was his name-who sang softly as he worked; a kitchenmaid, Dala, was always smiling; Taz, who could lift and carry two full sacks of potatoes with ease, told jokes (not usually funny, but he always laughed hugely). I came to know their names, and them, and I think the power that lies in names edged my awareness keener: I began to see them as people.

Cleton would have none of it. To him, accustomed in his father’s hold to the presence of Changed, they remained faceless. It was one of the few things we disagreed on, and we chose, for the sake of our friendship, to leave it undiscussed. But just as Martus’s tales of the dragons and the Dragonmasters had sown a seed, so did this experience, and after I was thought somewhat an eccentric because I called the Changed by name and gave them greeting when I met them.

So did my first year in Durbrecht pass. Not very different from any student’s, save Cleton and I perhaps found more than our share of trouble. We learned, we listened, we observed, we memorized. Whitefish village became, consciously, my past: I could not imagine returning there, save as a Storyman. Nor did I any longer contemplate joining Bardan’s warband. Martus, the College, had opened my eyes wider than had Rekyn, and I saw ahead the full breadth of the world I might explore as a journeyman Mnemonikos. It lay before me like a lure before a hungry fish: I was avid to take it and swallow it.

Summer faded into autumn, and that season into winter; the spring came. I was seventeen when Decius summoned me and questioned me and told me I might remain, did I wish.

My answer was a heartfelt Aye!

My second year in Durbrecht began with a winnowing of we newcomers. Of the students with whom I had shared the dormitory, three were deemed unfit to continue and five elected to return home. I was not sorry to see Raede and Tyras counted amongst that number; delighted that Cleton remained. Martus was no longer our tutor, his place taken by Clydd, who lectured us on history and the art of storytelling, and Bael, whose duty it was to hone our mnemonic skills. Keran made good his promise to teach us the martial arts, and I at last learned to ride, thanks to Padryn; from Telek we learned something of herbal lore and the chirurgeon’s art. It was a busy year, the pace much quickened. I was mightily occupied, rushing from the chambers where Clydd spoke to the gymnasium where Keran waited; hurrying, sweaty, from there to Telek’s herb garden, or his surgery; on to the stables and Padryn, thence to Bael, lesson after lesson. Sometimes it seemed that even we, gifted with the talent of memory, dedicated to its practice, should not be able to store so much information.

I learned a great deal: History, of course, and the recounting of a good story, but also those more practical things that would enable us to live easier as Storymen. I learned to recognize the medicinal herbs and to prepare such decoctions as could ease pain, clear drink-fuddled heads, and such like. I learned to set broken bones and how to stitch a wound. I learned, as I have said, to ride (and employed Telek’s lessons in the learning!) and came at last to sit a horse without discomfort. From Cleton I had already acquired a basic knowledge of the martial arts, but now Keran refined that, and I became a proficient fighter, learning how to defend myself with my hands and feet alone, or with a quarterstaff, also with a sword, a knife, and a bow. It was a round that seemed sometimes endless, we students like sponges soaking up information, scurrying like busy ants from one tutor to another.

But we enjoyed greater privileges and, in fact, were granted more time to ourselves. We no longer slept in the dormitory, but had rooms of our own. Cleton and I (somewhat to our surprise, for we had thought our escapades might prompt the College to separate us) were assigned a chamber together. It was a plain room, with a curtained alcove that held a privy and a washstand, but there were two comfortable beds, a shared wardrobe, a stove, and a window that looked onto a garden. To me it was the utmost luxury. And to that prodigality of comforts was added a thing undreamed of: we had a servant.

Urt was his name, and we were advised he should tend us so long as we remained in Durbrecht. Cleton took this in his stride-he had grown with servants about him-but to me it was a thing of wonder, and I was ofttimes chided by my friend for performing those tasks he deemed properly belonged to Urt. I was not used to servants and found it difficult to leave my bed unmade, or my clothes unfolded, despite Urt’s quiet presence. No less did Cleton wonder at my interest in the Changed, for whilst he was always kind, as a man is to his horse or hound, he could not understand my desire to speak with Urt.

Indeed, Urt himself found it at first disconcerting and met my attempts at conversation with the same bland subservience I had discerned in Bors. But I persevered, and as the days went by I won his confidence and learned something of his life. He held much back but still I garnered knowledge that few Truemen bothered to investigate.

He was of canine stock, a few years older than I and unwed himself. His parents were owned by a merchant dwelling in the Border City of Rynvar, and he had been sold at the age of ten to the College, where he had been a servant since. He dwelt with the other Changed in the College and was as proud as I of the small chamber given him when he was promoted to the rank of body-servant. This, he told me, was a post much prized by his kind, for it conferred a certain status and was, besides, far easier than the drudgery of stables or kitchens. Such duties were the province of the duller species, those of equine stock or bull-bred, from which announcement I realized there was a hierarchy amongst the Changed. I had not thought on that before, but from Urt I learned the canine- and feline-bred considered themselves somewhat superior to all save those of porcine stock.

He told me much, for I was intrigued and very patient and bent myself to drawing him out. It was then no more than a somewhat vicarious interest, a fascination with a life of which I had no experience, with which I had only recently come into contact. That I was the son of simple fisherfolk, still an innocent, made it easier, and in time he spoke more freely. Save when I asked of Ur-Dharbek and the wild Changed: then he faltered and denied all knowledge, and fell silent.

“But surely you must know something,” I insisted.

I sat perched on the sill of our window, awaiting Cleton’s arrival. It was a festival day, Sastaine, at the height of summer, and we were granted freedom from our lessons. We planned to spend it wandering the city-which we were now allowed to do unsupervised. Urt was sweeping the bare boards of the floor and shook his head without meeting my eyes. I watched him, thinking it very difficult to tell him from a Trueman. He was a little shorter than I, and slender, his features somewhat angular but not unhandsome, and in his plain breeks and tunic he looked entirely human. It was only when I studied his coarse gray hair and looked into his eyes, which showed no white, that I might clearly perceive him for Changed.

He shrugged: his only reply. I sought to employ those maieutic techniques Bael was teaching us and said, “Aren’t those of your folk who so wish allowed to go there?”

Urt said, “Is their service done.”

I wondered if I heard resentment in his voice, but when I sought to see his face, it was turned away, intent on some invisible dust.

“You mean when they are too old to work?” I asked.

He nodded and said, “Or does the master grant permission.”

“Why should he do that?” I inquired. Urt shrugged again and said, “Sometimes … as a reward.”

“Is it a reward?” I asked. “To leave the civilized lands for such a wilderness?”

“Some deem it freedom,” he muttered, then busied himself, as if he regretted that admission.

“Would you go there?” I asked.

“I cannot,” he said.

“But when you’re older,” I said. “Then?”

He said nothing, setting aside his broom in favor of a cloth, which he commenced to apply industriously. Bael had taught us something of body language and its interpretation, and I read Urt’s clear: he was uncomfortable with my questions. Even so, I pressed on.

“On the galley that brought me here,” I said, “the captain told me when your folk are old, they may remain in Dharbek, dependent on the charity of their fellows; or they may cross the Slammerkin. Which would you choose?”

Urt’s answer came muffled from beneath my bed: “I’m not old yet.”

That was equivocation, and I asked, “But when you are?”

His head emerged, nose twitching, and he sneezed prodigiously. I thought it subterfuge and was about to continue my interrogation when a thought abruptly struck me and killed the question on my tongue. None spoke much of Ur-Dharbek, save in terms of the past, and whenever I had heard the wild Changed mentioned, the speaker had soon after fallen silent or changed the subject. Even my tutors, who surely must know as much as any, avoided the topic; or, when I had pressed them, claimed to know only that wild Changed dwelt there, and nothing more. It seemed some unspoken taboo existed. Urt was obviously loath to answer my queries. I felt convinced he knew more than he admitted; and feared that did I continue, I might lose the trust established between us. I opted for tactful withdrawal and said, “Forgive me. I’d not pry, save I’d learn all I may of the world.”

He looked at me then and I saw surprise on his face. I could not at first understand why-perhaps he had grown so accustomed to my interrogations he found it startling I should give up so easily. Then he smiled, and in his expression there was genuine fondness. I shrugged myself and said, “I apologize for pestering you.”

He stared straight at me. His eyes were very dark and set with pupils of a singular blue. They were difficult to read, but his smile was broad, a most human expression for all that it revealed sharp teeth.

I frowned, confused, and said, “What? What is it?”

He said, “No Trueman has ever apologized to me.”

That simple statement robbed me of words. It was such a little thing; and an enormity. It summed up the status of the Changed and the attitude of Truemen. I had apologized unthinking, in part for fear I gave offense, and also, I had to admit, for fear I should dam the flow of information I got from him. But even so-that none should deliver so simple a courtesy? All I could find to say was, “Never?”

Urt shook his head, still staring at me, still smiling. “Never,” he said. I could not then read his expressions well, but I felt that in his gaze, in those whiteless eyes; I saw gratitude, and something else I could not define. Speculation perhaps, or hope. I could not be sure, but I felt our relationship was changed in some subtle fashion. I grinned and shrugged, uncertain what to say and curiously embarrassed, and before we had chance to speak again, Cleton entered the room.

He came flinging in with his usual enthusiasm, greeting me with a smile, barely noticing Urt.

“So, are you ready? We’ve the rest of the day to ourselves. Come on!”

At that moment I had sooner remained with Urt, that we might continue our conversation, but when I glanced at the Changed, I saw that moment of intimacy was lost. He had returned to his cleaning: returned to his lowly status. Cleton ignored him, impatiently beckoning me. I said, “Urt,” and he looked up, his expression bland, and asked, “Master?” In Cleton’s presence he always used the honorific term. Only when we were alone did he show that truer side, and even then kept a part of himself hid. I smiled and said, “Nothing. We’ll speak again later.”

“Yes, master.”

He ducked his head, turning away. I checked my purse for coin as Cleton fidgeted by the door, and we left him.

That past year had been grim. The great bloodred vessels of the Sky Lords had fouled our air too often, Rumors had spread of a new, untimely Coming; the koryphon had recruited ever greater numbers to his warband; there had been talk of conscripting squadrons of Changed, even. Fifteen nights Cleton and I had climbed to the rooftops of the College to watch the terrible pyrotechnics of opposing sorceries light the sky. On several others Ardyon had confined us to our quarters under threat of a twelvemonth of punishment. Word had come of sightings and groundings throughout Dharbek. The Lord Protector Gahan had led his own war-band against twelve fylie of Kho’rabi knights whose airboats had come down close to Kherbryn. Throughout the year itinerant Storymen had brought the College tales of battle, of victories and defeats, and whilst none of the Kho’rabi had survived, still keeps and villages had suffered horribly.

Then, with winter’s advent, the Comings had ceased. It was as though the gray skies with their skirling snowfall denied the Sky Lords crossing of the Fend. We had heard from the Sentinels that no airboats were seen, and Dharbek breathed a little easier, tending her wounds. But seasons turn, and as the snow gave way to rain and the air warmed, folk began again to speak of attack. Trevid had been busy that winter, constructing great war-engines that now sat atop Durbrecht’s walls in augmentation of the mages’ sorcery. Cleton and I had-of course-inspected them, marveling at the cunning that allowed machinery to hurl great bolts skyward, like vast bows. It was said that Kherbryn, too, was defended by such engines, and that the Lord Protector promised to see every keep in the land equipped as well. But still, as the rain gave way to the blue skies of spring, it was feared the Sky Lords should return, and folk doubted even those impressive engines could stand against the magic of the Ahn. If the Sky Lords could defeat the sorcerers of the Sentinels, they said, how should mere man-made engines halt them? It was the chief topic of conversation in every tavern and aleshop, and as spring advanced it seemed that Durbrecht held its breath in horrid anticipation.

It was a palpable mood, but there was no Coming, neither against Durbrecht nor any other place, and as spring became summer, the city relaxed. The Church, which these past months had offered prayers that the God defend us, now held services of thanksgiving. This Sastaine was to be a great celebration, for Gahan and the Primate both had decreed the Sky Lords defeated. The Ahn, so the official word had it, had mustered all their forces to attempt invasion and had failed. Their threat was done, said Kherbryn and the Church, and for that give thanks to the God and the stout hearts of Dharbek.

We of the College doubted this was so. We studied history: we knew more of the Ahn than did our fellow Dhar, and we believed it unlikely the Sky Lords should forsake an ambition held so long, so avidly. We held our peace and spoke not at all of our beliefs save amongst ourselves. Better, Decius advised us, that the people have hope, that their confidence be allowed to grow. Should we find ourselves questioned, he told us, then we should speak of victories, of past glories, not of gloomy matters. I saw then, for the first time, that the task of we Mnemonikos was more than the recording and recounting of history; that it was as much our work to firm the people’s hearts, to instill in them a faith, a loyalty to Dharbek, that they be better able to withstand the depredations of the Sky Lords.

It was a perfect summer’s day: the sky was blue and cloudless, the sun benign. The streets were bright with flowers, and pennants fluttered overhead. Bells carilloned from the towers of the churches, vying for attention with the musicians who strummed and blew and beat in the plazas. Stalls with vivid awnings sold trinkets and tidbits, favors of blossoms or ribbons in Durbrecht’s colors, skewers of grilled meat, sugary confections, votive offerings.

We fell into a portentous discussion of the various merits of our favorite taverns as we proceeded on our pleasure-bent way. We had done our best to sample them all, a program much aided by the coin Cleton had from his father. The small sum my own had given me, and the stipend we got from the College, did not stretch far in this metropolis, and I was somewhat dependent on my friend’s generosity when we went adrinking, or to the house of Allya. That had embarrassed me at first, and as I saw my hoarded wealth depleted, I had made excuses that Cleton cheerfully refused to countenance. He had persuaded me, or I had allowed him to, and so we drank and whored by courtesy of Madbry’s aeldor. Our faces were by now well known in numerous of Durbrecht’s alehouses.

No less by our favorite cyprians. I had at first balked at the notion of purchasing a woman’s favors, but I had met no one to satisfy the natural longings of a healthy young man, nor any desire to take that path some of our fellow students chose, and consequently spent long months frustrated. I had thought to meet some city girl, but when we were allowed to roam free, I had discovered few willing to engage themselves with a man destined to depart ere long. We Rememberers, I found, had a reputation for unfaithfulness-it was a hazard of our calling that we must go awandering as Storymen; it rendered us poor prospects for respectable young women, who turned cold faces to our blandishments and whose parents ofttimes threatened a hotter reception. So Cleton had told me of Allya’s house, recommended him by no less an authority than his father, and we had made ourselves known there. Thais was my chosen companion; Vaera, Cleton’s. They were both our senior by several years (which rendered them all the more attractive in our estimation, and we the more sophisticated) and skilled in their chosen calling.

So it was in a mood of cheerful optimism that we made our way into the city. We were not required to return to the College until dawn, a concession to the Sastaine festival and the apparent cessation of the Kho’rabi attacks, and we were determined to make the most of such freedom.

We had decided to investigate the fair set up in the central plaza. There was dancing, we understood, and gaming stalls, acrobats, and jugglers, even a dancing bear from the highlands of Kellambek. That, we felt, should carry us through to dusk, when we would eat and afterward visit our cyprian mistresses. It was a satisfying prospect, and after quenching our thirst we strolled link-armed to the plaza.

That errant gift of our talent that enabled us to drink close to excess without suffering the consequences afflicting ordinary folk served us well that day. We were neither of us drunkards (as some Rememberers become), but we soon enough found a beer stall where we drank some more. We were happy, somewhat heady, and bent on taking our fill of pleasure: we emptied our cups and joined the dancers. We tried our luck at toss-penny and won as much we lost. At skittles we each won tokens in Durbrecht’s colors that we pinned with mock solemnity to one another’s tunics, delivering proud accolades to our undoubted skill. We ate skewers of charcoal-roasted meat of indeterminate origin and washed it down with more ale. We listened to a balladeer, accompanied by a dwarf who played the kithara rather well, sing songs of love thwarted and requited.

Finally, as dusk turned into night, we wandered away, our bellies pleasantly awash with ale and now in need of more solid sustenance.

There was an eating house not far distant that was a favorite of we students. The fare was plain, but good, and not expensive: we went there.

The streets were still crowded when we emerged. I remember the moon stood huge overhead, like a great round of butter, and stars spangled the velvet blue of the sky. Moonlight and lanterns rendered the streets bright. They were loud with laughter and music It seemed all Durbrecht was abroad this night.

As we walked toward Allya’s, I espied a woman I took at first to be a cyprian, but then, as she came within the compass of a tavern’s light, I saw she wore the blue gown of the sorcerers. I halted in my tracks, staring, for I had never seen so beautiful a being. This, I know, was a personal reaction, some individual chemistry sparking within me so that my mouth gaped open and I clutched at Cleton’s sleeve, pointing dumbstruck. I was rooted where I stood. My friend did not see her through my eyes, for he only shrugged and said, “Not bad, but Thais awaits you, and you’ll have little luck with that one.”

Indeed, it did seem she hurried. Likely she took this road for a shortcut. I said, “Cleton, I am in love.”

I jested, then. I held no hope it should go further; none that I might effect a meeting. Thais did, indeed, await me.

But … as she passed into brighter light, I saw the long spillage of her hair burn like molten metal, red and gold, and that her face was a pale oval, her mouth wide, her lips full and very red, as if the blood ran hot there. I thought of cooling that heat with my kisses. I saw that her figure was slim, yet deliciously rounded, and that her eyes were huge and as green as the sea at that moment just before the sun climbs above the horizon. I saw that she was blind and used her talent for sight. I cursed myself for a clumsy, tongue-tied oaf as I struggled for some excuse to approach her, some words that should persuade her to linger awhile, to agree to an assignation.

All I found was, again, “I am in love.”

I did not then know I spoke the truth. I gaped; I stood as Cleton laughed and clapped my shoulder and said, “Come on. There’s surer target for your love not far.”

I grunted, or moaned, and allowed him to push me a faltering step onward, he still laughing, I still staring.

Then the God, or fate, or whatever powers command our destinies, took a hand. Three mariners-westcoasters by their look, come trading down the Treppanek, and rough as all their kind-emerged from a tavern ahead of my desire’s quarry. They were in their cups.

They spied her and called for her to join them. She answered mildly that she could not, for she went about the business of her College and must not delay. They took this for no answer at all and surrounded her, blocking her path, and their comments grew bawdy. They would not let her pass. She asked they leave her be, and they refused. I took a step toward them and looked to Cleton for support. He shrugged and said that she was a mage and so quite capable of defending herself, and that we were forbidden-on pain of Ardyon’s wrath-to brawl. I thought that likely she was under some similar stricture; certainly I believed that I sensed in her a reluctance to use her magic against men. I stood a moment longer. The westcoasters were plucking at her gown now. One touched her magnificent hair.

That was enough for me: I strode toward them.

The sailors were big men and wore long knives sheathed on their belts. Their eyes were reddened and their faces flushed with ale. Their breath smelled. I suppose mine did, but theirs was offensive. I suggested-politely-that they find some more amenable woman, indicating the green lanterns strung all along the street. They laughed and cursed and told me I should find my own doxy; that this beauty was theirs.

I ignored their taunts and offered her my arm. I said, “Shall I escort you to your College?”

She turned her face toward me and smiled, but before she had opportunity to speak, a sailor set a rough hand on my shoulder and said, “Go your way, boy. Find your own whore.”

He pushed me back. That was too much: I took hold of his wrist and spun around, driving an elbow into his ribs. It was as Keran had taught me-but those lessons were in the gymnasium, and our blows were halted short of harm there. I was angry now. No: I was incensed. I felt bone break and heard the man yelp. I turned more, twisting his arm so that he fell unbalanced, the limb I clutched dislocating at the shoulder. He screamed, and I experienced a savage satisfaction. I let him go, seeing his swarthy face paled, his mouth hung open in surprise and discomfort. His companions drew their knives.

They were experienced: they crouched, the blades thrust forward, edges uppermost. One said, “You pay for that, boy.” The other, “I’ll have your heart for a purse.” They moved apart, intent on attacking me from both sides.

I heard Cleton say, “Best take your friend and go. Else we must hurt you.”

Both sailors laughed, an ugly sound. Cleton moved to my side, confronting one of them. His eyes were pale and cold, the blue of a winter moon. He was smiling.

The woman said, “For the God’s sake, stop!”

A sailor answered, “When this is done, I’ll stopper you, my lovely.”

He lunged at me as the sentence ended. I took a pace back, letting the blade slice air a finger’s width before my belly, and then a pace forward. I set a hand about his wrist and drove my other, flat-palmed, against his elbow. At the same time I kicked him hard in the knee. I felt his elbow tear as he fell. His scream was shrill; the knife dropped from his grasp. I kicked him again before he could rise, hard, just below the buckle of his wide belt. He made a choking sound and began to vomit.

I turned to see Cleton dispatch the other with a hand’s edge delivered sharp against the westcoaster’s neck. The man’s eyes bulged, his mouth springing wide. Then both eyes and mouth closed as his chin struck the cobbles. A thread of blood dribbled from between his lips.

The man I had first struck was staring at us. His right arm hung loose, his left was pressed against his broken rib. I asked, “You’d have more?” He shook his head, eyes wide.

Cleton said, “Keran would be proud of us.”

I thought he might; and that Ardyon would be only angry. I glanced about, but saw no one from the College, nor any watchmen. There were only drinkers and doormen, staring admiringly. Someone called, “Well done, lads.”

A serving woman said, “That was bravely fought.”

I looked at the woman I had sought to defend and said, “My name is Daviot. I am a student in the College of the Mnemonikos.”

She said, “My thanks for your gallantry, Daviot.”

Her voice was musical, almost husky. I stared at her. I suppose I preened; certainly I basked in what I thought must be her admiration. I asked, “And your name?”

She said, “Rwyan,” and touched her gown. “I am with the Sorcerous College, as you can see.”

I said, softly, “Rwyan.”

I had jested before, but I fell truly in love at that moment.

We looked at one another. I thought her sightless eyes fathomless as the ocean. I wanted to drown in them. I willed her to share my feelings. She said, “I had best be on my way.”

I gasped. She could not go now! Surely not. I said, “Shall I escort you?”

Rwyan shook her head and smiled. “I think I shall be safe enough now,” she said, and gestured at the green lanterns. “And you’ve doubtless business here.”

I blushed then and began to deny the obvious. Then halted, for I had no wish to lie to her. There seemed such a purity to her blind gaze, I knew she would recognize dissemblance. There seemed to me no disapproval in her words, or face, or stance; instead, a great understanding. I thought her likely wiser than me. I shrugged and grinned.

“I’ve duties to attend,” she said.

Hopefully, I asked, “You’ll not take wine with me?” Gestured at the now-impatient Cleton and added, “With us?”

I wanted her to know I should sooner spend time in her company than go on to my destination.

She said, “Again, my thanks-but, no. I must not linger.”

I said, “I’ll take you to the street’s end, at least. Lest you be molested again.”

She indicated the street with a toss of her head that set lantern light to dancing in her hair like witchfire, entrancing. It was not so far, her smile said. Aloud she said, “I think your friend grows impatient. And after so brave a show, I think I shall be safe. Fare you well.”

She moved a step away, and I aped the mariners: I touched her sleeve, not wanting her to go.

“When?” I mumbled, disconcerted.

“When what?” she asked.

“Shall I see you again?”

She smiled and said, “I do not know.”

I gathered up my disordered thoughts as best I could; forced my tongue to some semblance of coherence. “I must,” I said. “See you again, I mean. I cannot lose you now.”

“Lose me?” She laughed. No bells, no kithara, no harp could sound so wondrous. “How shall you lose me? Do you own me, then?”

“No,” I said swiftly, lest she think me no better than some amorous street brawler. “But to know you are here, in Durbrecht, and never see you again-that should be torture.”

“A true Storyman,” she murmured. “Your tongue drips silver.”

There was such humor in her voice, I could not help but smile. I shook my head and said, “Words are too poor a coin to pay you tribute, Rwyan, but all I have. May I see you again?”

She paused, her face become a moment pensive, then ducked her head. I think the Sky Lords might have landed on the city then and I not noticed. I think had a fallen foe arisen to put his knife in my back, I should not have noticed.

“My College allows me no more time than does yours you,” she said, “but when we’ve such freedom … Do you know a tavern called the Golden Apple?”

I said, “No, but I shall find it. When?”

“When next we’re allowed,” she said. “I can offer you no more.”

“It’s enough,” I said. “I shall be in the Golden Apple when next I may. I shall haunt it. They shall think me an alehound. I’ll take a room there.”

“Then perhaps I shall find you there,” she said. “But now, truly, farewell.”

Her smile lit the street bright as that Sastaine day’s sun. I bowed extravagantly and heard her laugh again. I stood watching until she had reached the end of the street and was lost to my enraptured sight. She did not look back, but I thought perhaps her sorcerous talent told her I gazed after her. I hoped it did.

“By the God,” said Cleton, “I’ve seen puppies with that same expression.”

“I’m in love,” I said. “Truly.”

“She was pretty enough, I suppose,” he said, “but gone now. And none too easy to find again. So-shall you stand here until the watchmen come to take us in disgrace back to the College? Or find shelter with a more available mistress?”

I had forgotten the sailors. When I looked, they were huddled against the wall of a tavern, drunkenly attempting to mend their injuries. A doorman followed my glance and called, “No need to fear the watchmen, lads. These sots will not lay complaint against you.”

He emphasized his assurance with a menacing swing of his cudgel and a fierce leer in the direction of the wounded men. The westcoasters took the hint and shook their heads. Cleton and I called thanks and went to Allya’s house.

I felt somewhat guilty as we entered and our cyprians flew into our arms. I thought of Rwyan, but then Thais pressed her lips to mine and promised unmentionable delights in honor of the day. I was but eighteen, and the fight had warmed my blood: I set unspoken promise aside and looked to the reality of the woman in my arms.

But all the time I lay with Thais, I saw Rwyan’s face.

I had not thought ever to see my friendship with Cleton weakened, but in the months that followed my first meeting with Rwyan it was tested. That it did not break was a mark of its depth, of the regard we felt for one another. Of the two of us, I was the milder, the more malleable-save in those matters I felt instinctively demanded greater investigation. It was Cleton, more often than not, who led me into our escapades, but I who earned the reputation of rebel. Indeed, had I not demonstrated such talent for our art-so Decius once advised me-I should have been expelled. I could not blindly accept: I found a need to question that ofttimes drove my tutors close to distraction.

I argued that we had driven the Ahn from their ancestral homeland and thus must surely accept some measure of blame for the Sky Lords. I wondered if we might not reach some accommodation with them, and thus end their attacks. These arguments I lost, for I could not say how we might discourse with them or, did it by some miracle become possible, what treaties might be made.

It became a small bone of contention betwixt Cleton and I, one that we gnawed on in our chamber, and over ale. An aeldor’s son, he was raised to his father’s code, taught from infancy that the Sky Lords were our implacable enemies, that we or they must one day stand victorious. I could not see how we might hope to defeat them, or they to conquer us, and began to perceive both Dhar and Ahn as locked in an endless cycle of bloody war. Such arguments we customarily agreed were drawn, and left them. I believe Cleton knew himself close to losing his temper at such times and held himself back for fear of friendship’s destruction. He was a good man.

Of my burgeoning fascination with the Changed, we spoke not at all. Cleton disapproved and elected to remain silent on that matter, whilst I spent longer and longer in conversation with Urt, which Cleton could simply not understand. He saw me-so he admitted in an unguarded moment-akin to a man overly fond of a pet hound, pointlessly discoursing with the beast, which had nothing of interest to offer in return save its mindless devotion. I knew him to be wrong, for Urt, albeit descended from canine stock, was no mindless creature but, I came to learn, as intelligent as most men. From him (even though he still held much back) I gleaned much knowledge of the Changed. I came to see that just as Durbrecht was underpinned with cellars and catacombs, so there existed beneath the society of we Truemen one of the Changed. There were more of them in the city than there were Truemen, but they were like ghosts-they existed side-by-side with us, but unseen, unnoticed, ignored. I hesitated to ask Urt the questions that sprang to my lips when I realized that: If you are so many, why do you serve us? Why do you not rise up and make yourselves the masters?

I thought on that, and on how many centuries had passed since first the sorcerers made animals into the semblance of men, and how those progenitors had bred, until whole lineages of Changed existed, and then I would wonder if sufficient time had not passed that the Changed were become a people in their own right. And if so, whether we Truemen still had the right to use them as we did. But I could not find an answer.

Nor could I learn much more of Ur-Dharbek than that it was there, across the Slammerkin, and that none went there save the Changed. It was grown akin, it seemed, to the Forgotten Country, Tartarus of old, and save in terms of legend, none spoke of it or were interested in it. Urt would speak of it not at all.

I applied myself to the problem and came away frustrated, and intrigued by another.

Just as the wild Changed were relegated to myth, so were the dragons and the Dragonmasters. Oh; we students heard tales of their exploits, stripped of that disapprobation that had attached since their efforts failed and sorcery became our bulwark against the great flying beasts. We were told (somewhat vaguely, for we delved here into a past so long ago, it was misty even to the Masters of the College) how they had come to truce with the dragons. How some had even mounted on the beasts and flown-like gods! I thought-borne aloft by the great wings to climb the sky. How some had fallen into such communion that they forsook the company of men and chose to live amongst the dragons.

“What if,” I asked both Clydd and Bael, “the dragons live still? And the Dragonmasters? What if they joined with us in combat against the Sky Lords? Might they not defeat the Kho’rabi?”

Bael answered me, “And were all the legends true, we might send virgins out to capture unicorns and ride them against our enemy.”

And Clydd told me, “Likely the dragons are all dead, and the Dragonmasters with them. And are they not, our past teaches us they’ve little love of men. Surely, we’ve none now might commune with the creatures, so how should we persuade them-do they live-to aid us?”

I responded, “But if the dragons are gone, what point to the Border Cities?”

He answered with a question: “Would you empty them?”

Doggedly, I said, “No. But what’s their point now? They were built to hold Dharbek safe from dragons, but if there are no more dragons, what’s their point? Save to contain the wild Changed? Are they such a danger, then?”

Clydd fixed me with a look I could not interpret. It reminded me somewhat, somehow, of Urt’s expression when I ventured onto this ground. He said, “A city is its own point, Daviot. It exists because people live there; its reason shifts with time.”

I saw that he hoped this was answer enough, and I denied him that hope: “And the wild Changed?”

Someone sighed dramatically. A voice I could not identify whispered, “Daviot rides his hobbyhorse again.”

Clydd shrugged and said, “If they are a danger, the Border Cities protect us from them. No Truemen go there, so I cannot answer you with any great authority, but I think they are not.”

It seemed to me an unsatisfactory answer. It seemed to me a gap in our knowledge, as if even the Mnemonikos chose to forget or to ignore Ur-Dharbek and the mysterious wild Changed. It seemed to me our duty to investigate. But before I had opportunity to pursue that line of thought, Clydd changed the subject and led the class into a discussion of Kherbryn’s founding, and I was left momentarily defeated.

I could raise far more questions than I was able to answer; nor could my tutors satisfy me, save to pass down that learning they had had from their instructors, which was again, as with Cleton, much to do with dogma. I determined to explore these avenues for myself. I gained a reputation as an eccentric.

And there was Rwyan.

I could not forget her. Even were I not gifted with that talent that would soon make me Mnemonikos, but solely with the memory of mortal men, I should not-could not!-have forgotten her. It was as if her presence had blazed so fierce in that moonlit street, she was branded on my mind. Gifted with my talent, I could conjure her image precise. I could define the contours of her cheek and forehead, the angle of her nose, the shape of her lips. I could see, imprinted on the screen of my closed eyes, her hair, her eyes; and did, often, as I lay upon my bed or gazed from the window of our chamber. I knew myself in love with Rwyan and could not be with her. I think that sometimes our eyes may alight on one particular person and a spark be struck that kindles an undying fire that knows not the boundaries of distance or time, but burns unquenchable. Such is, I sometimes think, the curse of Truemen, or the gift, I know not which, only that I loved Rwyan in a manner incredible and unsuspected. I wondered if it were not easier to be as the Changed, governed not by the alchemical processes of love but by those simpler biological imperatives they inherit from their animal forebears.

I visited Thais still, but less often, and in the way that a man visits the gymnasium-to stretch and test his muscles. She knew it and said nothing, even when, at the height of our passion. I would sometimes cry out Rwyan’s name. I thought of Rwyan. I wanted Rwyan. I spoke of Rwyan.

Cleton was the recipient of my longings, for both ours and the Sorcerous College frowned on such liaisons, deeming them impractical, a hazard to concentration and future duty. Had Rwyan been a cyprian or some city lass, there would have been no difficulties, for it would have been understood that such a relationship was foredoomed, save the woman follow me down my Storyman’s road. But future Mnemonikos and future sorcerer-no: both were callings that demanded a single-minded concentration. Such couplings were not expressly forbidden, but I knew that if the College learned of my intention-which was to pursue Rwyan, no matter the consequences, no matter the disapprobation-ways would be found to thwart me. Consequently, Cleton was sworn to secrecy.

It irked him, who saw it as infatuation and nothing more, a needless threat to my chosen future.

“In the God’s name,” he would cry, torn between frustration and irritation and amusement, “you’ve seen her but the once. How can you think yourself in love with her?”

And I would answer simply, “I am. I cannot explain it or help it, but I am.”

And he would tell me, “Daviot, heed me-ere long you’ll be a Storyman and she a mage. You’ll go your separate ways and likely never meet again. Forget her!”

And I would return him, “I cannot. Even be it hopeless, I cannot.”

And he would sigh, or groan, and clench his fist, mocking a blow, and mutter, “The God grant you come to your senses, for there’s no reason in you. She’s bewitched you.”

And I would tell him cheerfully, “She has.”

Even so, for all his argument, he would come with me to the Golden Apple, where we became as well known as at any of our favorite alehouses.

I saw her not at all for the remainder of that summer and came close to despairing as the season turned and the rains of autumn began. But that flame still burned, and I still clung to my hope as winter spread its cold cloak over the land.

Then, on the feast day of Machan, when the sky was a sullen gray and the wind blew knife-edged from the north, skirling the first flakes of winter’s snow, I encountered her again. Cleton and I sat by the hearth, our cloaks drying on chairbacks, tankards of mulled ale in our hands. The day was already dark, and we must soon return to the College; I had thought it another fruitless venture. Then she entered the tavern, and it was as if the sun descended to walk the earth. She was with several of the Sorcerous College, both male and female, but I saw only her. She wore a cloak of dark brown wool, with a hood she threw back as she came in. Her hair was bound up. Her neck was pale and long and slender. I thought of how it should feel, did I press my lips to that intoxicating flesh. I rose to my feet and called her name. Her companions-none of them were blind-looked toward me. She turned her face and I saw her smile, and though she said my name but softly, it sounded to me a clarion. I quit my place and went to her, taking her hands. I said, “It has been so long.”

She blushed and nodded. I wondered why she looked surprised; embarrassed, even. Had she thought I would not wait? At her side a fair-haired woman smiled and said, “So this is the Mnemonikos, eh?”

Rwyan said, “Daviot, this is Chiara.”

I mumbled some acknowledgment, but my eyes were firm upon her face. No boat was ever anchored surer. I said, “Shall you sit with me?”

She nodded again and called some apology to her companions. I was at first disappointed that she asked Chiara to accompany us, but then remembered Cleton and bade the woman a warmer welcome. We went to the hearth, and I called for mulled ale.

I had rehearsed this often enough: I had so many pretty speeches prepared, so many reasons we should be alone, so many stratagems. All fled me as I gazed at her face, and had she not introduced her friend to Cleton, I think I should have sat unspeaking, content to stare, to drink in her beauty. As it was-as is the way of these matters-our conversation was largely of the commonplace. How did our studies go? How hers? What news of the Sentinels? Did her college believe the Sky Lords were defeated? Too soon she was reminded she must return, and we were parted, with no better a promise of another assignation than before.

I saw her only once more that winter and in much the same circumstances, though I did then succeed, thanks to the aid of Cleton and Chiara, in steering her a little distance away, to the poor privacy of a corner, where I told her I loved her.

She frowned then and asked, “How can that be? You scarce know me, even.”

“But still,” I said, “I do,” and took her hand in both of mine.

I was terribly afraid she would loose my grip; afraid she would laugh or name me foolish. But she did none of that, only faced me with her lovely sightless eyes and pursed her lips as if she struggled with some doubt, or sought words she could not find.

I saw hope in her expression and gathered up my courage and whispered, “I love you, Rwyari. From that first moment I saw you, I have loved you. Shall you tell me you feel nothing for me?”

There are things I have done since that day I suppose men would name brave, but I think that was the bravest thing I have ever done. I felt in those moments I awaited her reply that all my life, all my future, hung suspended from the unspoken thread of her answer. It seemed to me there was no sound within the tavern save the drumbeat pounding of my heart, the tidal wash of my blood as I waited. It seemed a very long time, but I suppose it was only a little while before she lowered her face, gravely, and said softly, “No, I cannot tell you that.”

“You love me!” I fought the urge to shout as I said it. “You love me!”

She said, “Daviot, I cannot, either, tell you that.”

As a bird soaring aloft, free and triumphant, is felled by the hunter’s arrow, so my heart went down in ruin.

She could not see my face, save through the gift of her magic, but she heard my groan, felt the stiffening of my fingers where they rested about her hand. She said, “I do not tell you it is not so … or cannot be. But … Daviot, I’ve met you but these three times. You know nothing of me, nor I of you. And our Colleges … what should they say?”

Fierce, desperate, I answered her, “I care not what they say. I know only that I love you.”

She asked me, “How can you be so sure?”

“I am,” I said. “How, I know not; but I am.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled, and my spirits halted their descending arc. “And perhaps I am, too. But I’ll not tell you so certainly. Not till I know you better.”

So sensible: I did not know whether I loved her the more for it, or cursed her prudence. I knew I’d not relinquish my hope easily. I said, endeavoring a calm I felt not at all, “And how shall that be?”

I felt her fingers stroke my hand then. She answered me, “Not easily, but do we put our minds to it …”

“And all my heart,” I told her.

It was no easy matter, and had I not won Urt’s confidence it should have proven impossible. He it was, hearing me bemoan the difficulties of my thwarted affair to Cleton, who sought me out when I was alone to suggest a means of correspondence at the least, and trysts did the fates smile on us, thanks to that society of his kindred.

As with we of the Mnemonikos, so did the Sorcerous College employ Changed servants. Urt made it his business to seek them out, to learn their names and win their friendship. Rwyan and Chiara were tended by a Changed woman of canine stock whose name was Lyr. Urt made her acquaintance (she was not, he told me, unattractive) and persuaded her to join him as a go-between. Thus were Rwyan and I able to pass messages between us, to better organize those days we were permitted the freedom of the city, that we might meet more frequently-and, with the connivance of our chambermates, more privately.

I was joyous then, for all it dug that rift with Cleton deeper. He aided us because he was my friend and his loyalty was unquestioning, but I quite lost my taste for Thais and during my fourth year in Durbrecht refused to join Cleton on his visits to Allya’s house. I was determined to remain faithful to my love, which Cleton could not at all comprehend. Also, at every opportunity I was in Rwyan’s company, leaving Cleton either alone or with Chiara. I knew we drifted apart, but could not help it: I was in love.

The coin faced about, I was more in Urt’s company, for he was often my guide, bringing me to some clandestine trysting place where Rwyan waited with Lyr. The two Changed would go about whatever business they pursued, leaving Rwyan and I some few precious hours together.

It was our secret, a little portion of time stolen from duty and expectancies, and the sweeter for that. Perhaps, in our youth and innocence, we perceived ourselves as characters in some drama, tragic lovers. I do not know, for then we were too concerned with discovery to speak of the future, top busy with the exploration of one another to think beyond the present. We made the most of what we stole, and in the spring of that year, in a rooming house on the edge of a quarter, given over to the Changed and the poor, we became, truly, lovers. I will not speak of that, for it was a wondrous private thing (as doubtless it is for all who find their desires met and answered), and it told us in ways beyond words that for us there could be no others.

I was happy then as I had never been; but there hung above us that ignored shadow: I was Mnemonikos, she a mage. Soon-just as Cleton had warned-we should be sent out to pursue our callings. I should soon be a Storyman, itinerant, and she delivered to occult duties. We spoke not at all of that, but it lent our lovemaking an urgency that was edged with the poignant knowledge of impending parting.

And with the new year’s advent our meetings were made the harder for the renewal of the Sky Lords’ attacks.

They had not been defeated, as so many chose to believe. Rather, it seemed that twelvemonth respite had been for them a gathering of strength, for they came in terrible numbers, as if the calendar of the years were speeded forward and the Coming begun.

Skyboats were sighted early in the spring, few in numbers at first and destroyed before they reached our shores, but then in greater quantity, progressing deeper inland. We saw them again close to Durbrecht, and though none breached our defenses, the city fell once more into a mood of presentiment. Then, early in the summer, word came from the Sentinels of an armada. The Fend lay dark beneath the shadow of the massed airboats. They were too many even the augmented strength of our magical guardians might hope to defeat them. Durbrecht girded for the onslaught. The koryphon had not allowed his vigilance to slacken, and our walls were soon manned by his soldiers and the levies of the militia. The sorcerers readied. I wondered if Rwyan stood amongst them, within her College or on the city walls, but only briefly, for we of the Mnemonikos College were called to the fight.

I was in class with Telek when the message came, and I saw the herbalist pale as the news was whispered. He nodded and turned to us. “The Sky Lords come in strength,” he said, “and we must fight. Go to your chambers and find your sturdiest gear. Have you weapons, fetch them. You’ll assemble in the quadrangle.”

We hurried to obey. I found myself both excited and afraid as Cleton and I swiftly tugged on sound boots and leather tunics, which were, I thought, poor defense against Kho’rabi steel.

“By the God,” Cleton declared, “but they must come in force are we summoned.”

He seemed not at all afraid, only enthusiastic. I nodded, thinking that my mouth was gone very dry, and therefore wondering why I felt such a desire to spit. I hoped I should not disgrace myself. Urt was there, fussing about us, and I caught his eye. He smiled, which I took for encouragement, and I said, “Do you take care, Urt.”

“I’ve no fear,” he said calmly, at which Cleton chuckled sourly and said, “With the Kho’rabi wizards overhead, I think you should.”

I said, “Likely you’ll be safe enough here. The cellars are sound.”

I think I spoke less to reassure Urt than for want of calming my own pounding heart. He seemed very little disturbed, and had I not been so engaged with my own trepidation, I think I should have wondered at his tranquillity. He said, “Ward yourself well, Daviot,” which prompted a sharp, shocked look from Cleton, for it was the first time he had heard my Changed friend address me by my given name. Urt added, “And you, Master Cleton.”

I essayed an unconfident smile and said, “We shall, fear not.”

Then I went out with Cleton into the crowded corridor, jostling my fellow students as we ran to answer our call to arms.

Of all the folk in Durbrecht not of the warband, we were the best trained in combat. Even the militias, for all they were equipped with armor and the uniforms of war, were largely untrained citizens or aging soldiers, reinforced with officers from Trevid’s squadrons. There was neither sufficient time nor gear to armor us, but we were given what weapons were available-bows, swords, axes, even knives from the kitchens. Keran was our commander, his motley troops divided into squads, each ordered by one of the younger tutors. We numbered no more than a century and one half, but we were avid for our duty. I forgot all my musings, all my talk of parleys and cycles of war, as Keran gathered us in the quadrangle. I was a child of my times. The blood of my Dhar ancestors ran in my veins (and should, I hoped, remain there), and it was that called me now. The Sky Lords came! They threatened my homeland! Against that weight of time’s and blood’s memory, my philosophical musings faded.

Keran sprang to the plinth of a statue that he might look down on us. He wore black leather that shone dull in the sun, as if it had seen much service. It reminded me of Andyrt’s gear. He wore a long sword and his face was grave as he addressed us.

“The Sky Lords approach,” he cried, shouting over the tumult that rose from the streets outside. “They come in numbers greater than any since the last Coming, and Durbrecht’s need of us. We are called to fight for our city and all Dharbek. How shall we answer?”

“We fight!” we roared.

Swords were flourished, bows waved aloft; sunlight glinted off axeheads and spears. We were patriotic, vigorous in our courage, our outrage hot. Keran told us off into companies, and I found myself under Martus’s command. He carried a long-hafted axe and from somewhere had found a dented helmet. His pleasant face was grim as we formed a ragged column and made for the gates.

Keran led us at a trot to the south wall. The streets were emptying as the inhabitants sought the refuge of their homes or took up weapons and straggled after officers of the militia. The bazaars, all the emporiums, were closed, save for those of the herbalists, the apothecaries, and the chirurgeons. I thought they would likely have work enough before too long.

We reached the wall and found ourselves deployed along a length between two of the bolt-throwing engines. It was early in the afternoon and the stone was warm from the sun’s caress. The sky was blue, streaked with high cloud blown out like the manes of running horses. It was a day when larks and swallows should have darted about the ramparts and the fields beyond, but there were none. I looked to the east, where farmland stretched away from the city, and saw folk hurrying for the safety of Durbrecht. To my right, the wide expanse of the Treppanek glittered silvery blue, empty of vessels. I licked my lips and spat; fingered my borrowed sword. I thought of those days-ages past, it seemed now-when I had voiced childhood’s bravery to Andyrt and thought there could be no better life than to be a soldier. He had told me that was largely waiting, and that the waiting was the hardest part. He had been right. I felt a great desire to relieve myself; and a greater fear of embarrassment. I looked to Cleton, who grinned as if he had not a care in the world. Past him, I saw Pyrdon. His freckled face was pale and his eyes were narrowed as he stared at the empty sky. Then it was empty no longer.

It was as though a storm swept toward us from the east. The horizon was dark, as if a great bank of nimbus advanced. I heard Pyrdon muttering and turned my eyes briefly sideways, seeing him make the God’s sign as he prayed. He was not alone. I heard Keran shout, “Courage! Stand firm!” I thought Cleton’s tan a shade lighter. I forgot my need to urinate.

The darkness came on, and through it I saw the spark and flash of magic as the keeps along the Treppanek flung sorcery at the airboats that were the fundament of the shadow.

Someone cried, “So many! How can we defeat them?”

Martus answered, loud so that all his troop should hear it, “With courage. We’ve magic of our own, and stout hearts.”

Darkness and light approached in unison. I saw airboats fall flaming from the solidity of the armada, great balls of awful fire that drifted almost leisurely to the land, or the water. Along the wall, from by a war-engine, a jennym shouted, “They’re not so many. See? They use the darkness like night-come thieves!”

Surely they used the darkness, or it was manifestation of Kho’rabi wizardry, for it came as always before them, and where it fell there was a numbing cold, a horrid sensation of dread that crept into our souls and slowed our blood. I could see now that the jennym spoke true-what had first seemed to be a fleet that filled all the sky was, in fact, only a wave of airboats, perhaps twenty of them. But twenty, their magic said, was ample. How should we stand against so many? Twenty was too many. The sky-borne craft would land their fylie of Kho’rabi knights and those warriors would slaughter us. I stared, a rabbit transfixed by a stoat’s rabid gaze.

Once again I discerned those half-seen elemental things that sported about the airboats, thought I heard their weird, wild singing. I realized abruptly the skycraft were almost on us. There was a ghastly familiarity to the scene as the shifting sigils that decorated the bloodred cylinders grew clear, the black baskets that hung beneath began to show the pale blurs of faces. I stared, paralyzed, convinced of our defeat.

Then hope sprang bright and burning from where a group of sorcerers stood. It flew, magic’s unleashed arrow, into the sky-a searing blast of light that struck the foremost airboat as spark to tinder. The darkness was exiled, replaced with honest fire. The airboat did not burn and drift to earth, but exploded, incandescent, thunder roiling above the ramparts, echoed by a great surging cheer as ragged, flaming fragments of vessel and men dropped all helter-skelter down onto the fields.

To right and left I heard a deep twanging sound and saw vast bolts of wood tipped with sharp metal hurtle upward. The war-engines had loosed their shafts! I cheered as those missiles struck, tearing through baskets that broke apart to spill Kho’rabi like dark-armored raindrops. I saw a bolt pierce the supporting cylinder, which emitted a shrieking whistle, expelling fetid gas, its structure collapsing. It deflated like a drained wineskin, crumpling, losing height. A second missile and then a third drove in, and the airboat, like a broken-winged bird, began a rapid descent.

I waved my sword, defying the Sky Lords, challenging them to set foot in my city, my spirits risen anew. I cheered as the airboat fell-then staggered as it struck the wall directly below my position.

The stone shuddered beneath me, the impact greater than any structure so flimsy as that emptying sack should impart. There was a gout of sulphurous flame in which it seemed weirdling creatures were borne aloft, their ethereal features contorted in rage, their mouths loosing a horrid howling. I could not be sure. I was flung against the ramparts and felt heat sear my face. Cleton snatched me back. His fair hair was dark with soot, dirt streaked his face, and he was smiling ferociously. He stooped to retrieve my sword, which I had not known I dropped, and set my hand about the hilt. I found no comfort there; I was afraid. I thought it should perhaps be easier to face a Kho’rabi in honest fight than suffer this onslaught of untouchable magic. I realized we stood in shadow that was no longer that nimbus produced by the Ahn wizards but the physical penumbra of a sky occluded by their vessels.

Whatever occult wind transported them from their distant land to ours had ceased: they hung as if at anchor above us. Arrows, javelins, balls of spiked metal rained down. Then worse-shining glass globes fell, and where they struck, they splashed liquid fire that ran and flamed and could not be doused. A commur of the warband came running down our line, bellowing over the tumult that all save those wearing armor should quit the wall for the surer refuge of the avenue below. Martus shouted for us to go, and we darted for the stairs.

I felt a plucking at my sleeve and saw a black-fletched arrow driven through the leather. I snapped it off and flung it from me as if it were a serpent. Cleton was at my back as we reached the stair, and I saw Pyrdon ahead. He waited for the crowded steps to clear, and as he did, I glanced up. Whether I saw the globe that fell, or somehow sensed it, I cannot say, only that I shouted and flung myself back against Cleton, knocking him into the men behind so that we all fell down and thus were saved.

The globe struck Pyrdon’s left shoulder, and he became on the instant a column of flame. I am not sure he screamed, even, so swift was it. I scrabbled back, horrified, as his clothing and then the skin beneath blackened and was devoured. The spear he held was a brand that dropped to the street below, soon followed by Pyrdon himself, a human torch. Where he had stood, flames licked as if in search of some fresh victim. I clambered to my feet, staring aghast at that unholy fire. Then Martus’s hand was on my shoulder, and he urged me forward. I held my breath and lunged through the flames, plunging down to the street. I saw Pyrdon there, or what was left of him, and promptly emptied my stomach.

Keran appeared, rallying us, advising us that we were to be a flying squad, to go where commanded. I thought that we should not be enough, that all the city’s warband, all the levies of militia, should not be enough. Yet there were now only some dozen of the Sky Lords’ craft left above us, the rest downed by magic and war-engines, and of those remaining some burned and fell even as I stared.

And yet, as I crouched in the poor safety of the ravaged wall, I felt neither comfort nor confidence. I knew fear; oh, yes, in full measure. I knew, also, anger-that this city I now thought of as my own should be so threatened, that friends and fellow-soldiers should die, that the Sky Lords should dare this affront. For all my fear I knew that did a target for my rage present itself, I should attack.

Meanwhile, however, I saw the sky dark with the foul shapes of the Sky Lords’ boats, the flash and blast of magicks. I saw a war-engine consumed and topple, blazing, into the street. I saw airboats fall in flames over Durbrecht. I wondered if the city should survive.

Then orders came, and half our number was sent racing through the streets. I saw the object of our pursuit some time before we reached it: a stricken airboat descended toward the center of the city. It was pierced with bolts, tongues of flame darting about its flanks, brighter and cleaner than the bloody red of its canopy. The carrier basket beneath had been struck-I could make out the holes-but still it held its lethal cargo and would deliver those Kho’rabi knights into the very streets of Durbrecht.

It was lost to sight after a while, but the reeking smoke it trailed served for a marker and we ran toward that. A company of foot soldiers joined us, led by a commur to whom Keran deferred, and a troop of militia. I hoped there would be more. Then we emerged on a plaza filled with the wreckage of the burning airboat. Some thirty Kho’rabi had survived the landing and now stood ready to fight. At the head of our column, Keran raised his sword, halting us. The commur roared orders-that we should avoid close combat if possible, use bows and spears, that if we faced the Kho’rabi knights it should be only in numbers, that we should better employ cunning than courage. Then he waved us to attack.

I had never seen a Kho’rabi knight before. They were the stuff of nightmares, of a mother’s threat. Now they stood before me, dread given flesh. They were armored all in black so that they seemed like great beetles, carapaced and armed with sharp steel. There seemed not a soft part on them, nothing vulnerable, but all-chests and legs and arms and heads-encompassed in that glossy armor. They had no faces, for they had locked chin- and cheek-pieces in place, so that only savage eyes glared out at us. And somehow worse, they shouted no battle cries but faced us in silence, which gave them an air of dreadful implacability, as if they were not human but automatons, killing machines.

I feared my courage would fail me then and threw myself forward before I should turn and flee. Cleton was at my side, Martus a pace ahead. I heard Cleton shout, “For Madbry! For Dharbek!” I do not know if I shouted. It is quite likely I whimpered.

Confusion reigned as we students, the foot soldiers, and the militiamen joined in battle with the invaders. Those students given bows loosed a volley, and I saw the black armor was not impenetrable. Several of the Kho’rabi fell. Better, they screamed, which rendered them more human in my eyes-and therefore capable of defeat. I saw one stagger, three arrows jutting from his chest, two from his swordarm. A spearman thrust at his midriff, and Martus delivered him a blow that cracked his helmet and split the skull beneath. I vaulted the body and found myself suddenly confronted with a warrior whose eyes blazed furiously from within the shadow of his helm. I ducked, flinging myself clear as his long blade swung like a scythe intent on cropping my head. Martus brought his axe hard against the Kho’rabi’s side; Cleton parried the returning stroke; a soldier hammered at the jet helm. I saw that the black armor was not all of one piece, but segmented over the thighs and groin, joined to the cuirass with rings of black metal. I thrust my blade in there, trusting to Cleton and Martus to hold off the warrior’s riposte as I drove all my weight forward.

It is a strange and ugly sensation to feel your steel pierce flesh. A memory of gutted fish flashed brief across my mind. I turned my blade as Keran had taught me and saw the angry eyes flicker wide, the light within them going out, so that even though the orbs still reflected sunlight and flame, they grew abruptly dull as the life fled. I dragged my sword back as Martus sent his axe thudding against the dead man’s helmet. I did not know how I felt in that instant when I first slew a man, only that I wanted very badly to live.

I turned, finding chaos all about me. The archers had ceased firing for fear of hitting friends. Close by four students armed with spears drove a silent Kho’rabi slowly back toward the wreckage of the airboat. I saw men fall; heard shouts; the screaming of wounded men. The air stank of sweat and blood and sulphur; there was the sharp reek of urine. I swung my blade double-handed against a black-armored back. Martus hacked the legs. Cleton thrust his sword under the sweeping wings of the helmet, into the neck. He shouted, “Madbry!” as he did it, and his eyes were very cold, his lips spread wide in a terrible smile.

I saw a figure come at Martus from the side and screamed, “Martus! Beware!”

He turned, axe rising, using the haft to block the descending blade. From behind the Kho’rabi a spear thrust out, the blow too weak to pierce his armor, but enough that he staggered, momentarily unbalanced. Martus lifted his axe, and as he did, another beetlelike warrior sliced a sword across his belly. I saw his face go pale. The axe fell from his hands. He moaned, clutching at his wound as if pained by a belly ache. The first Kho’rabi stabbed him in the ribs. I aimed a blow at the warrior’s helm; Cleton cut at his legs. Leon-for it was his spear-stepped close and rammed the lance between the Kho’rabi’s shoulders.

The fighting surged about us, and for a while I only ducked and parried, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Cleton. Leon disappeared. I caught a glimpse of Martus. He lay on his side, his beard all bloodied, wounds gaping.

There was a parting then, embattled men drifting from us, and I saw Keran dancing backward, desperately parrying the onslaught of two Kho’rabi. Cleton and I sprang to his aid. I hammered my blade against black pauldrons. The Kho’rabi seemed unaware of my attack: I sprang at his back, left hand clawing at his helm as I sought to slice my sword across his throat. Keran stabbed him in the groin, and he made a strange, high-pitched yelping sound. I cut his windpipe and found myself tumbled down with him. I felt boots trample me and thought a blade must surely find me ere I gained my feet, or that I should be stamped to death in the press. Then a hand grasped my arm and I was hauled upright. I was surprised to find myself looking into Ardyon’s eyes. One was reddened, blood oozing from a cut on the brow. He said. “Can you not fight longer, find safety,” and I shook my head, unable to speak, but not yet willing to flee.

He nodded, and we turned in search of fresh foemen.

There were fewer now, as the sheer weight of our numbers overcame the Kho’rabi. They fought savagely and with a terrible skill, but there were not enough and in time there were none at all.

When it was done I found I was wounded. My arms and chest were cut, and a deep gash painted my breeks red. It was hard to stand on that leg. Cleton was cut about the ribs, and his left arm was broken. We tended one another’s hurts as best we could and limped together to hear our commander’s orders.

Night had fallen, albeit the darkness was colored with flame from the burning buildings. Folk came out to fight the fires, and the city was still loud with the clamor of battle. Keran surveyed us grimly and told the worst hurt to make their way back to the College. I rested my weight on Cleton and he on me, and we both swore we were fit. I said, “Martus is slain,” and Keran ducked his head and commanded we return with the wounded.

We obeyed, joining the sorry column that made its way slowly through a city ravaged by this unprecedented attack. None spoke, but many turned their faces skyward, and all flinched as magic flashed and thundered, or blazing buildings collapsed. I could see no more of the Sky Lords’ craft overhead and thought the worst of the fighting likely over. I felt horribly weary.

It was past midnight before we reached the College and gave ourselves up to Telek’s ministrations. We were not the worst hurt-five students died that night-and we waited for him to sew my thigh and set Cleton’s arm. He was aided by the Changed servants, and I saw Urt tending wounds and applying bandages with a silent efficiency. I thought then of Rwyan, and a terrible fear gripped me-that I knew not whether she lived or died. As soon I might, I beckoned Urt over.

He studied the stained bandage wrapping my thigh. “I am glad you live,” he said.

I smiled my thanks, far more concerned then with Rwyan’s welfare than my own. “Do you find the opportunity,” I asked, albeit without overmuch hope, “I’d know how Rwyan fared.”

“I do not think I can slip away,” he replied.

I grimaced, as much in disappointment as in pain, though my wound throbbed horribly and I felt, as the rush of battle’s excitement left me, very weak. “No,” I said, “I suppose not. But when you can … if you can … I’d be mightily grateful.”

Urt nodded and smiled briefly. “When I can,” he promised.

I said, “My thanks,” and he clasped my shoulder, squeezing a moment, which was a most unusual thing, for the Changed did not usually touch Truemen so familiar. I noticed for the first time that his nails were blunt and very dark. There was dried blood on his hand.

He left me then, and I did not see him again for some time. My weakness grew, and I found myself becoming sleepy, resting against Cleton. Telek attended me around dawn, stitching the gash and declaring me weak from blood loss. He had Changed servants carry me to our chamber, Cleton supervising them, his arm splinted and bound tight against his chest. His temper was not improved by such disability, and he spent a while cursing before declaring his intention of returning to the infirmary to offer what aid he might. I told him I should be safe enough alone. Indeed, I began to find his impatience annoying, for it distracted me when what I wanted most-besides hearing that Rwyan was unharmed-was to sleep.

When he had gone I closed my eyes. Images of Rwyan swam across the screen of my mind. I saw her blasted by the Sky Lords’ wizardry, riven by a Kho’rabi blade, consumed by flames. I sweated, feverish, turning on my bed, so that I cried out as my wound was twisted. In time I slept.

I woke to find Urt squatted at my side. He held a bowl from which savory steam rose. I ignored it. I said, “Rwyan?” My mouth was dry, and it seemed my lips were gummed.

Urt shook his head and said, “Not yet. I’ve no word.”

I cursed and began to rise. The room wavered, and from a long way away I heard Urt say, “Lie still, Daviot. Master Telek says you’ve lost much blood. You’re not to use that leg, but rest.”

I remember that I tried to answer, to argue, but it seemed that waves of light and distant sound washed over me, and I was turned around, like a piece of flotsam caught in the eddies of the tide. I found it very difficult to focus my eyes. I thought of netted fish drawn struggling from their ocean home; and then of gutted fish.

I lay three days in fever (so Urt and Cleton later advised me), bathed and fed by my friends, and through those days the Sky Lords came again and again, delivering such damage to Durbrecht as none had thought to see, none thought possible.

When the fever broke I was newborn weak, and had it not been for Telek’s potions and the care of my friends, I think I should have died. As it was, I recovered enough that I lay abed frustrated and frightened, hearing the sounds of battle in the sky and the streets, unable to do more than grind my teeth and clutch at the sheets. The fighting continued for two more days and then silence fell. There was still no word of Rwyan.

Five more days passed before Telek deemed me fit to rise and I was able to hobble, leaning heavily on a crutch, about the College. It had not gone unscathed: walls and towers had been blasted by the Sky Lords’ wizardry, statues lay toppled, windows bared teeth of jagged glass, gardens were seared. The city, I was told (I was as yet too weak to venture beyond our ravaged walls), had fared worse. Fires had raged, sunk boats clogged the harbor, hundreds were dead.

I mourned them, but I longed more for news of Rwyan.

Urt brought it me on the twelfth day. He had been much occupied-as were all the able-bodied, both Changed and Truemen-but nonetheless had contrived to contact Lyr through that mysterious network of his kind. He found me alone in our chamber late that afternoon. I was staring from the window, impatient now as Cleton had been, watching the rubble cleared, the masons begin the work of repair. It had been a sunny day, the sky clear of both clouds and airboats. I turned as he entered, not needing to speak, for my question was writ clear on my face.

He closed the door and said, “I’ve spoken with Lyr,”

His tone, his expression, induced an awful foreboding. I felt suddenly chilled. It seemed a pit opened, black, before me, or inside me. I felt hollow. I took a deep breath and voiced words I did not want to utter: “She’s dead?”

“No.” Urt shook his head. “Not dead.”

Desolation was replaced with a new fear. “Hurt, then?” I asked. “She was wounded. Badly?”

He came deeper into the room, standing before me. His body told me he bore bad news. I tried to read his eyes, but they were only compassionate. He shook his head again, a brief movement of negation, and said, “She’s unhurt. She was not wounded.”

Hope flared. “What then?” I asked.

He said, “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” I shook my head helplessly. “How mean you, gone? Gone where?”

He stepped a pace forward, and I thought he was about to touch me again, as if the word he brought were such as should require he comfort me again. Instead, he raised both hands and let them fall to his sides. He said, “To the Sentinels.”

“What?”

I started from my seat. I know not what I thought in that moment-to hobble my way to the harbor, perhaps. To find and halt her boat. I cried out as pain lanced my wound, and fell back, staring at his face, gesturing that he continue.

He said, “As soon as the fighting ended, it was decided the Sentinels must be strengthened. Kherbryn itself was attacked, and the Lord Protector sent word the Sorcerous College must send as many near-adepts as might be spared. Your Rwyan was one.” He closed the gap between us now and did touch me, pushing me gently back as I sought to rise again. “Her boat sailed two days ago. I have only just gotten word from Lyr.”

I said, “Two days ago.”

My voice was harsh. The pit I had sensed earlier gaped wide, beckoning me. Urt crossed the room to where Cleton and I kept a keg of ale. He filled a mug and gave it me. I drank automatically. The ale tasted sour; or my mouth was filled with despair’s ash.

Urt looked a moment out the window, and then at me again. “She left a message with Lyr,” he said.

Dully, I asked, “What is it?”

He paused an instant, as if summoning up a memory, then said, “‘Tell Daviot that I love him. Tell him that I shall always love him, but I cannot refuse my duty. I must go where I am bid, as must he in time. Tell him I pray he recovers. Tell him I shall never forget.’”

He fell silent, and I asked, “Was that all?”

He said, “Yes, that was all.”

I nodded. My eyes were open but I saw nothing, for they filled with tears. That I had known this must eventually happen, that we should be someday parted by our callings, meant nothing. It was no comfort: the day had come too soon-would always have come too soon-and I knew only grief.

I cursed my calling then, for as I sat there my memory conjured her face in precise detail, and I knew it should always be there, reminder of my loss. I drained the mug and held it blindly out to Urt to refill. And I cursed my calling anew, for it denied me even the temporary oblivion of drunkenness. Even did I wish it, I could not forget her. She would always be with me. I heard Urt say, “I am sorry, Daviot,” but I gave no reply. I could not.

I had never felt so alone as I did then.

Despite the immense fatigue that gripped her, Rwyan remained on deck, her face turned resolutely back toward Durbreeht. It was an effort to focus those senses that replaced her sight, harder for the draining of her occult energies during the fighting and after, but somewhere within the ravaged walls Daviot lay wounded and she could not allow herself to succumb to the temptation to sleep. She could not, she knew, “see” him, nor would he be aware of her observation, but it seemed to her a kind of farewell. It seemed to her she left a piece of her heart there.

The city stood battle-scarred in the early-morning light, like a warrior resting on his bloodied sword, hurt but undefeated. Gaps showed in the ramparts, and in the harbor scorched hulks lay half-sunk, masts thrust from the Treppanek like skeletal fingers clutching at the sky. In the fields beyond the walls great columns of black smoke rose from the pyres of the Sky Lords’ dead. Durbrecht’s slain would find resting places in the mausoleums-for the Kho’rabi there were only the bonfires, like obscene celebrations of hard-won victory. Few enough celebrated, she thought. Rather, there was a licking of wounds, a fearful anticipation of the next attack, the horrid certainty that it would come. And would Daviot be still there, she wondered; and would he survive again? She felt her eyes grow moist, slow tears roll down her cheeks, trailing in their wake a resentment of the duty that tore her from the man she loved.

She thought, It is not fair. And then upbraided herself for that weakness, that traitorous thought, and sternly told herself, I am a sorcerer, he a Mnemonikos, and we both of us knew this must come to pass. We both of us have a duty we cannot forgo.

But still the pain lingered, and she wiped a hand across her tears, watching until the steady sweep of the oars had carried the galleass far enough along the Treppanek that Durbrecht was lost, its position marked only by the black funerary columns.

She felt a hand upon her shoulder then and turned to find Chiara at her side. The blond woman said gently, “It cannot be helped; and you knew it should happen.”

“You sound like Cleton,” Rwyan said. “Daviot told me he held the same opinion.”

“How else could it be?” Chiara shrugged. “Best that you forget him.”

“I know.” Rwyan dried the last of her tears and endeavored to smile. “But I cannot.”

“In time you will.” Chiara stroked her friend’s hair. “Perhaps on the Sentinels you’ll meet another. One of our kind.”

“No!” Rwyan shook her head.

Chiara sighed. “Are you so certain?” she asked. “Shall you give your heart to a man you’ll likely never see again?”

Rwyan said, “Yes,” and felt Chiara’s hand drop from her hair, heard the small intake of frustrated breath.

“At least rest,” Chiara suggested. “The God knows you must be weary enough.”

Rwyan nodded and turned from her observation, going with her friend to the cabin assigned them.

It was already crowded, littered with bodies and baggage, the bunks taken by those sisters gone earlier to rest, all weary as Rwyan. There was little enough space left even on the floor, but they found a place and stretched out. Chiara was soon aslumber, but for all Rwyan’s weariness, sleep was hard to find. The cabin was warm with the press of bodies, redolent of skin and breath and the unfamiliar odors of a ship. The small square window was open, but what ventilation it allowed was poor, the breeze coming from the east, heated by advancing summer. The brothers of the Sorcerous College slept on deck and should until the galleass reached its destination, and she wished she might join them. That, however, was deemed immodest, and so the females must fit themselves as best they might into the ship’s scanty private accommodations. If she could not sleep, she decided, she would meditate.

Even that was difficult, for all that had passed this year ran pell-mell through her mind, defying the disciplines of meditation like a runaway horse careless of bit and bridle, one event piling upon another, and all the time Daviot’s face imposing itself between.

At least Urt had been able to bring word, and she able to send back a message via Lyr, so she knew Daviot lived and that his wound was not unduly serious. He would limp awhile, Urt had said, but in other ways was entire. That, Rwyan told herself, was a comfort, though she would have loved him had he been crippled or scarred, and found herself conjuring the image of his face. She was pleased that had not been marked, for it was a pleasant visage. Not handsome like his friend Cleton, but neither homely. It was, she supposed, a face typical of Kellambek: wide of brow and mouth, the jaw square, the nose straight, the eyes a blue that was almost gray. She thought then of the way those eyes studied her-as if they marveled, intent on some wondrous discovery-and of the feel of his thick black hair between her fingers; and that prompted memories of other things-of flesh smooth over hard muscle, of embraces-and she groaned with the sense of loss.

Beside her, Chiara turned drowsily, mumbling an inquiry, and Rwyan murmured an apology and willed herself to silence, seeking to banish that intrusive image. She willed herself to think instead of her duty. That had greater call on her loyalties than mere personal desire: it was the belief of the Sorcerous College that the Sky Lords planned a full-scale invasion.

Rwyan stirred on her hard bed, not much pleased with her contemplation. Her talent was not yet so well defined, nor yet so well tutored, that she could direct her magicks against the invaders-that would be taught her on the islands-but she possessed, like all her companions on this voyage, the innate ability. The power lay within her, and when the airboats had crowded the sky over Durbrecht, and when the Kho’rabi had roamed the streets, the adepts had drawn on that power, taking it like draining blood from her veins. That she had given freely-it was her duty and her desire-could not erase the image of vampiric leaching. She thought it must have been like that in the earliest days. Daviot had told her tales, as they lay together, of folk taken for witches, for wizards, for vampires, blamed and burned for wasting deaths. They had likely been, he had said, sorcerers whose power was unrecognized, who had drawn from others with the talent, unthinking. Did the Sky Lords come again, as she felt sure they must, before she was fully versed in the usage of her talent, then the adepts of the Sentinels would require that leaching of her again. And when she became adept, then likely she must play the vampire.

It was not a thought Rwyan welcomed. For all it was necessary, she found it distasteful. She wished there were some other way to overcome the Ahn wizards. Which brought her mind back to Daviot, for he had spoken of another way.

He had smiled as he told her-she thought how white and strong his teeth were-but behind his laughter she had heard a wondering, an echo of a scarce-shaped dream. Suppose, he had said, that the great dragons still live. Suppose there are still Dragonmasters, hidden in the Forgotten Country. Suppose they could be persuaded to fly against the Sky Lords. We could defeat them then, surely. Think on it, Rwyan! The dragons battling with the Sky Lords! Surely, did the dragons patrol the skies there should be peace.

He had laughed then and shaken his head, dismissing an impossible dream. She thought how boyish he had looked as embarrassment overtook his enthusiasm, and how she had agreed and put her arms about him and drawn him close again in that little room above the inn. She could recall it so precisely….

In the God’s name! Rwyan ground her teeth, her eyes screwed tight closed against the threat of tears. Do I remember so well, what is it like for Daviot? To remember as he is able must be a curse.

She pushed the shared hurt away as best she could, ordering her mind to contemplation of more practical matters. To end the endless cycle of the Comings was a noble dream, but the dragons were not-could not be-the answer. They were dead, the Dragonmasters with them. And even did they survive, it must be in the wastes of the Forgotten Country, in Tartarus, which none could reach save they cross Ur-Dharbek, and that none did. That was the domain of the wild Changed-no Trueman ventured there.

Fleetingly, she wished she had been sent to the Border Cities. When Daviot was sent out as Storyman, he might go there. Might even be assigned a residency in some aeldor’s keep. And did the God, or whatever powers wove the strands of both their destinies, look on them with favor, then she would be mage of that keep, and they be together again.

But the God was not so kind. She was bound for the Sentinels, and Storymen did not go there. Those islands were the domain of the sorcerers alone, and whilst she must remain there, likely Daviot should be sent awandering Draggonek’s west coast, or Kellambek’s, so that all the Fend and the mass of Dharbek stand between them. Or-an awful thought!-the Sky Lords would come again over Durbrecht and he fall to their wizardry, or a Kho’rabi blade.

Rwyan pressed her face against her pillow that her cry not disturb her companions. There were some amongst them, she knew, had taken lovers not of their own calling and left them without tears. She wondered, briefly, if they were the more fortunate, and told herself, No, they cannot be. If they can part so easily, they cannot have loved as I do.

An errant, hurtful thought then: Shall Daviot forget me?

And the answer: No. How can he?

And then: But shall he find another love? Shall he meet someone to take my place?

And the answer: It may be so, but it shall not affect what I feel. I love him, and I shall always love him.

It was little enough comfort, near as much pain, but Rwyan clutched it to her as sheer exhaustion finally lulled her troubled mind and granted her the respite of sleep.

And the galleass, propelled by its Changed oarsmen, moved steadily along the Treppanek, past the wreckage of fallen airboats and the ravaged keeps that marked their passage. Eastward, toward the gulfs meeting with the Fend, toward the Sentinels: Rwyan’s future.

She woke in a cabin stifled by summer’s heat. The air was thick, and her head, for all she was rested and felt no further need of sleep, ached. She sat up, finding only a few sisters remaining, Chiara gone. Her mouth tasted gritty, her blind eyes sore from weeping. She sighed and clambered to her feet, going out into the fresher air of the deck.

Dusk approached, and she realized she had slept away the day. She found the water barrel and scooped out a pannikin, slaking her thirst and freshening her face. Along the deck a brazier glowed red, the smell of charcoal and grilling meat reminding her of hunger. Chiara stood by the port rail, and Rwyan went to join her friend, hoping she would not suffer another lecture on the pointlessness of love.

Thankfully, Chiara was more occupied with the novelty of sailing and only smiled and gestured at the expanse of water, at the deck of the galleass, saying, “Is this not marvelous?”

Rwyan turned slowly around, taking proper notice of their surroundings for the first time. “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, it is.”

She had traveled over water only once before, Chiara never. The blond sorcerer came from Kherbryn itself, where her family was prominent amongst the city’s merchants, which sometimes gave her airs, and she had come overland to Durbrecht. Rwyan had spent her childhood in Hambry, which lay inland of Kellambek’s west coast, a village devoted to sheep and farming. When her talent was recognized by the village mantis (who perceived that despite her obvious blindness, she could “see” as well as any sighted child) she had been dispatched to Murren Keep, to an interview with the commur-mage of that hold, whose examination confirmed the suspicions of the mantis. When she came of age, she had gone back to Murren, and thence by cart to Nevysvar on the Treppanek. She had crossed the gulf on a ferryboat, finding the experience mildly terrifying, and been glad to set foot once more on solid ground. Now it occurred to her that she was not at all afraid-the galleass seemed safe.

She turned her sight from the ship to the water. It sparkled blue and silver, gold where the rays of the descending sun struck the wavelets radiating from the bow. The evening was still, the light translucent, clear enough she could make out the dark shadow of the north bank. Overhead a flight of geese passed raucous to their roosting grounds; over the shimmering water an osprey hung, dived, and emerged with a fish. It was an idyllic scene. The galleass creaked in a companionable way, the dip of the oars was rhythmic, the sway of the deck was gentle. To the east, the moon hung pale in a sky still blue, unsullied by the obscene intrusion of the Sky Lords’ vessels.

She said, “I was frightened the first time I was on a boat.”

“This is a ship,” Chiara replied authoritatively. “A ship is large enough to carry a boat.”

Rwyan nodded, allowing her friend that superior knowledge as loss once more impinged: boats and ships and water were things with which Daviot was familiar. She struggled to control herself, to fight down the fresh flood of memories. Her fingers threatened to gouge splinters from the rail.

If Chiara was aware of her discomfort, she gave no sign, continuing in cheerful spate. “I spoke with the captain while you slept. By the God, I thought you’d never wake! His name’s Lyakan. He’s from the west coast of Draggonek, and he owns this ship and a crew of thirty bull-bred oarsmen. He’s employed by the College to supply the Sentinels.”

Perhaps she spoke to cheer Rwyan, to occupy her. Rwyan neither knew nor cared but let the softly accented voice wash over her, content to leave Chiara to her dissertation as she fought her internal battle. It would never be as Chiara suggested, that time should blunt her love, but she hoped the passage of the days would allow her to control that awful sense of loss, to accommodate it within her daily round.

She had never thought to feel like this, had not known it was possible; until now the worst hurt she had known had been parting from her family, from parents and siblings, the friends of childhood in Hambry. But that had been assuaged by the great adventure before her. To be chosen as candidate to the Sorcerous College, to go to Durbrecht, that had been so exciting a prospect, she had felt guilty she was so glad to depart.

She had been a virgin then, when she left Hambry, and a virgin when she met Daviot-In the God’s name, it was impossible not to think of him!-in that street of pleasure houses. She smiled at the memory of his expression, that first time they had met. No man had ever looked at her in that way, nor so assiduously sought her out.

She had not truly thought to meet him again. After all, it was but a casual encounter, and her mention of the Golden Apple had been less promise than desire to be about her business unhindered by some casual suitor. She had been much surprised to find him there; more that his presence afforded her such pleasure. But even then she had thought he would resign himself and it prove only a casual flirtation. She had known it was more, on his side at least, when she learned he frequented the tavern, and then recognized her own feelings, at first unwilling-surely unwilled-as she found herself drawn back. His love, he had told her, was immediate: he had known from the first moment. Hers came more slowly, kindled by his own, enhanced by the sense of intrigue that accompanied their meetings. And then it had blazed, and she was no longer a virgin and could no more forget him than she could forsake her talent. Or the duty that drove them apart.

“You’re thinking of him again.”

Chiara’s voice, admonishing, interrupted Rwyan’s thoughts and she nodded defiantly.

“You’ll forget him,” Chiara said, echo of so many other conversations.

And Rwyan answered, “No. Perhaps I shall learn to live without him, but I shall never forget him.”

There was such certainty in her tone, and such pain, that Chiara forgot her disapproval and was only friend, She took Rwyan’s hand gently in her own and said no more. Instead, they stood in silence as the twilight deepened and the surface of the Treppanek was no longer painted with the sun’s red gold but became as blue velvet, a softly whispering cushion to the moon’s silvered reflection.

Then a bell summoned them to their dinner, and they went, still hand-in-hand, along the deck to where their fellow sorcerers clustered eagerly about a brazier on which meat grilled.

It was easier in company. Conversation made demands on her attention that enabled her to concentrate on what was said and how she would respond, and none there, save Chiara, knew of Daviot. So she spoke of the Sentinels and the recent attack, and of the expectations of the College, and for a while felt not at all sad. And Lyakan passed the tiller to a Changed and joined them, broaching a keg of good ale, which he cheerfully declared must be consumed before they reached the islands, which announcement was met with enthusiastic agreement.

Rwyan drank somewhat more than was her wont, and joined in the singing that ensued, and that night slept quite soundly, for all her last thoughts were of Daviot.

There were no more attacks as the galleass sailed east, nor as she ventured onto the Fend. The weather remained mild, Lyakan setting his three lateen sails as the tower of Rorsbry Keep hove in view, Fynvar a distant thimble shape to the north. He tacked eastward, supplying remedies to those who found the ocean’s chop distressing. Rwyan was pleased she suffered no discomfort; a little guilty that Chiara’s violent illness did not trouble her more.

A day, a night, and the morning of another day they sailed, and then the closest of the seven Sentinels were in sight.

Rwyan found herself a place at the prow, her senses focused on the islands. She held her place as they came closer, until only one was visible, the rest lost to the dip and bob of the galleass. Lyakan ordered the sails furled, and the oarsmen bent once again to their sweeps, propelling the ship onward. The wind blew colder out here, and soon she heard the murmur of surf, the beat of the rollers that swept across all the width of the ocean, perhaps from the distant lands of the Sky Lords even, to break on these isolate stones. She wondered if the anchorage would be dangerous.

Then danger was forgotten as her talent revealed the island in all its rugged splendor.

She had been told of the Sentinels, but to be told was not the same as seeing, and the descriptions had been delivered by sorcerers. It would take a Storyman to do this place justice. It was a vast slab of rock, as if a single, inconceivably massive boulder had been dropped into the Fend. Waves broke against the feet of sheer cliffs, smooth and high: un-scalable. White spume crashed against blue-black stone, a foaming line of demarcation broken only where an impossibly narrow gap showed in the rock. It was not, Rwyan “saw,” an inlet but a cave’s mouth, barely high enough the galleass’s masts might enter unharmed. She held her breath as Lyakan put his tiller over and the vessel raced, driven by sweeps and tide, for the opening. The glittering tower was lost, the cliffs loomed above, surfs roar drowned the apprehensive murmurs of her companions. Then Lyakan bellowed and the oars were brought inboard, and the galleass slid between the sea-gates guarding the dark ingress.

Rwyan felt the magic that drew the craft in, defying the tug of the sea, the Fend’s currents as nothing to that power. At her side, Chiara cried out, clutching her arm as darkness fell like sudden night, only a glimmer of day behind, and even that lost as the sea-gates closed. For Rwyan darkness held little meaning, and so she “saw” the proximity of the cliffs to either side, the roof frighteningly low above. She might have reached out to touch the stone, so close was it. Then daylight returned, blinding natural sight after the Stygian depths of the entrance, and the galleass floated gently to a harbor cut by magic’s might from the heart of the rock.

From seaward, the island had appeared entirely forbidding; now it appeared entirely paradisal.

The inlet was circular, a beach of pale yellow sand interrupted only by the blue granite pile of a quay and the hulls of fishing boats sweeping in a great calm arc around the saltwater lake. There were buildings constructed of wood and stone, pale blue, white, or rose petal pink, along the water line. More scattered randomly amongst stands of cedar and pine and myrtle, where little streamlets spilled down from terraces decked with olive groves, orchards, and meadows. Goats roamed, seemingly at will, more agile than the sheep and cattle grazing the luxuriant greensward. There were formal gardens, opulent as any in Durbrecht, and others of more natural shape, displaying a vivid array of wild flowers. Paths wandered the terraces, and long flights of white stone steps. The entire center of the island had been shaped by sorcery to cup this jewel as if in a careful fist.

And on the topmost tier, so high the observers on the galleass must tilt back their heads, necks craned, to gaze upward to where it stood bright against the sky, was the white tower, like a sword raised in defiance of the Sky Lords. A single straight stairway ran to its foot, a door of blue wood there, no other openings. It seemed a very simple structure to emanate so great a sensation of sorcerous power, and Rwyan studied it in awe. Within lay the greatest secrets of her kind.

She staggered as the galleass drifted to a halt, her attention diverted from the tower to the rush of activity initiated by their docking. Two of Lyakan’s Changed sprang to the wharf, securing the ship as two more ran out the gangplank. All came from their rowing benches to assist the newcome sorcerers to disembark. There were none amongst the crowd gathered on the pier: all there were Truemen.

Chiara was aflutter with undisguised excitement as they traversed the plank to meet the welcome of the residents. Rwyan, for all she was enchanted with the beauty of her new surroundings, was less stimulated. Before long, she knew, Lyakan would take his galleass back across the Fend and the sea-gates would close behind him. It felt to her that they would close, too, on Daviot; that he must be shut off from her by all the weight of ocean and distance and duty. She turned her attention a moment back, to the ship and the Fend beyond, and then she sighed, and took a breath, and shaped her lips in a smile as she walked toward her future.

In the weeks that followed Rwyan’s departure, I grew surly. I thought more of my loss than of learning and gave short answers to those who inquired after my abrupt change of mood. My mind was occupied with memories of Rwyan. I indulged in the pointless exercise of self-pity. It was foolishness: what was, was. I knew that; it made my grief no easier. I sank into sullen despair, that exacerbated by my healing leg. I progressed from crutch to staff and then was able to limp without support, chafing at confinement within the College. None but Urt and Cleton knew the reason for my black mood, but it was impossible it should go unnoticed-questions were asked my friends. I am confident neither Cleton nor Urt (who were both interrogated) gave much away, but the College authorities were subtle and very adept in drawing out answers. Such is, after all, a part of the Mnemonikos’s talent, and it may be employed to more ends than the investigation of a story. Whatever was said or not, the conclusions drawn were correct: that I had become engaged in an affair with a member of the Sorcerous College recently departed for the Sentinels. I was brought before a tribunal, that judgment of some kind might be delivered.

Decius presided, and it was to his sunlit chambers I was summoned. He sat as usual behind his desk, but to right and left, on high-backed chairs, sat four of the College dignitaries. Keran was one, beside him, Ardyon; on the master’s right were Bael and Lewynn, who taught geography. I could read none of their faces; I was not invited to sit.

Without preamble, Decius asked me, “Is it true you dallied with a student of sorcery?”

I saw no profit in equivocation and answered him, “Yes.”

“For how long?” he demanded.

I said, “A year.”

His brows rose at that, his round face become owlish in its surprise. “Yet none suspected,” he murmured. “You must have had help.”

I was not sure if he asked a question or made a statement and so offered him no response: I was prepared to accept whatever punishment this College court deemed fit, but I would not betray my friends.

“He’s great ingenuity,” Bael said. I was uncertain whether that was praise or condemnation.

Decius nodded, so that the sun coming through the window at his back flickered bright on his pate. I was somewhat blinded by the light, so I could not see his eyes clearly. He said, “Hmm,” and was silent awhile.

Ardyon leaned toward the master and murmured something I could not make out, save, I think, for the names Cleton and Urt. Decius nodded again in response and made a small gesture, as if quieting a restive hound. I waited. I felt my healing leg begin to throb dully.

Then Decius asked me, “How did you think it should end, this affair?”

I said, “It has not. I love her.” Ardyon’s explosive nasal inhalation told me I spoke too fiercely, and it came to me I might well face expulsion. In a milder tone I added, “I had not thought beyond that-that I love her.”

“Yet you know such”-Decius appeared for some reason to find the subject delicate-“friendships are not encouraged.”

“Nor,” I ventured, “forbidden.”

Close on the heels of my realization that I might soon be thrown out of the College came another. Were I expelled, I could return home to Whitefish village, and that was not overly far from the Sentinels: I could obtain a boat (it was a measure of my mood that I did not consider how I should acquire it) and sail to the islands; find Rwyan there. Of course, that would mean throwing away these last few years, turning my back on all I had learned, and there remained some small rational part of my mind that warned me I should not find entry to the Sentinels easy, and that Rwyan might not be allowed, or might not wish, to leave. Balanced against my desire for her, it was a negligible weight.

“Not forbidden,” Decius said, “but neither encouraged. That for both sides’ sake. Did it not occur to you that she has a duty, as do you, and that your … love … should conflict with that loyalty?”

I wondered why he found that simple word, love, so hard to say. It did not occur to me then, in my youth and my loss, that his love was entirely for the College and all it stood for; that he found it difficult, indeed near impossible, to comprehend that a man might find a greater passion.

I said, “I suppose so. Yes; but I hoped …”

Decius gestured that I continue. I squinted into the light, shrugged, and said honestly, “I did not think too far ahead, master. I hoped we might both remain in Durbrecht … or find ourselves assigned residents to the same keep … or …” I shook my head and shrugged again.

He said, “Your Rwyan is gone to the Sentinels, where none but sorcerers are permitted residence. Even did you somehow find your way there, you would not be allowed to remain. Ergo, your affair could not have succeeded.”

It seemed, almost, he read my mind; I was taken aback that he knew so much. I should not have been, of course: there was little enough went unnoticed by the College, and this matter had been investigated. I ducked my head and muttered a reluctant negative.

Then he startled me again by asking, “Would you throw away these years? Do you wish to leave us?”

We had a saying in Whitefish village concerning the fish caught betwixt net and hook. I understood it fully in that instant. I knew that if I said yes, I might walk away, free to go seeking Rwyan. And if I did? I had no way of knowing to which of the Sentinels she had gone. Even did I somehow succeed in landing on the right island, I must still find my love. I did not doubt but that Decius spoke the truth when he warned me I should not be allowed to remain. And would Rwyan forsake her duty, quit her calling to come away with me?

I hesitated, my head spinning. I fidgeted, indecisive, easing my weight from throbbing leg to good and back again. The sun was warm on my face, hiding the expressions of the men who watched me, awaiting my answer. I thought then of that message Rwyan had left me. My talent, my trained memory, brought it back precise: Tell Daviot that I love him. Tell him that I shall always love him, but I cannot refuse my duty. I must go where I am bid, as must he in time. Tell him I pray he recovers. Tell him I shall never forget.

Rwyan had accepted her duty. Could I do less and remain the man she loved?

To Decius I said, “No. I’d not leave.”

As I spoke, I was unsure whether I chose the net or the hook. I knew I felt a dreadful pain.

I heard the master say, “Then we must consider your future. Do you return to your lessons, and we shall inform you.”

I nodded wearily. I had not thought to find my fate still undecided. I turned and limped from the room.

I had been engaged with Telek in the herbarium, and I returned there. The herbalist-chirurgeon greeted me with a sympathetic smile and waved me back to my classification of the dried plants. Cleton contrived to place himself at my side and inquired in a whisper how I had fared.

I told him my fate was as yet unfixed, and he scowled, and tapped the plaster still encasing his arm, and said, “In the God’s name, what more do they want? Rwyan’s gone and you choose to remain. What’s to decide?”

“Whether I’m fit to stay, I suppose,” I whispered back. “Or not.”

My friend cursed roundly and very soundly and said, “Do we visit the Horseman tonight? A few tankards of Lyam’s ale might wash that cloud from your face.”

I had not known my expression was so black. Nor did I feel much appetite for ale, or even company. Neither did I much wish to be alone: solitude would afford too much space for doubt. But I was still banned the city. I said, “I cannot. I am commanded to remain here.” At that moment, the College seemed to me a prison.

Cleton grinned and said, “Even with your leg, the walls should not be hard to climb.”

I was tempted. I was also very confused, torn between the desire to be alone and that for his stout company. I almost agreed, but then I thought of the cost-surely expulsion, was such disobedience discovered.

I shook my head, saying, “No, I think not.”

“By the God,” he returned, “you’ve been long enough confined. A visit to the Horseman would surely ease your miseries. Better, a visit to Allya’s. Thais asks after you, you know.”

I had not thought of Thais, nor wished to now, and what appeared to me his casual dismissal of Rwyan roused me to anger. I glowered and said primly, “I’ve no wish to visit Thais. Nor would I risk my future here. Do you not think I’ve lost enough already?”

Poor Cleton’s smile melted in the heat of my response, and he raised a placatory hand. “Forgive me,” he asked. “I was not thinking.”

I grunted a reply. I knew he sought only to cheer me and so felt guilty at my anger-which served to fuel it more. We spent the remainder of the afternoon in prickly silence, both working with a fervor that surely must have impressed our tutor.

“I told them nothing,” I said, “save what they knew. Of you and Lyr I said nothing at all.”

Urt set the chimney of a lamp in place and pinched out the taper before turning to face me. His coarse gray hair was reddened by the flame; his whiteless eyes were placid. His smile was not: it was very confident.

“I did not think you would,” he said.

Cleton was rummaging through our wardrobe, seeking a suitable shirt for his planned excursion. Over his shoulder he said, “But they likely guess. By the God! Ardyon asked me enough questions.”

“The warden spoke at length with me.” Urt nodded gravely. “But you know that. And that I said no more than I must, I hope.”

“Of course.” I set a hand on his shoulder, which was sinewy and muscular, and smiled. “I could find no better friend,” I said.

Urt seemed embarrassed, his eyes flickering to Cleton. I saw my Trueman comrade frown at such open expression of friendship with one of the Changed, and removed my hand. Thinking to mend our differences, I amended my statement: “I could hope for no better friends than the both of you.”

Cleton was visibly taken somewhat aback to find himself ranked alongside a Changed servant in my estimation, but he took it gracefully and hid his frown behind his chosen shirt.

Urt’s expression grew solemn then, and he fixed me with his dark stare. “Still, Master Cleton is right,” he said. “Save I think they know, rather than guess.”

Cleton struggled with his shirt. We take our bodies for granted, never thinking how the loss of a limb’s use hampers us until we must perforce do without. Urt went to help him, and as Cleton’s head emerged from the collar he frowned anew, but for a different cause now. “Then surely,” he said, “they’d have had me before that tribunal.”

“Perhaps not.” Urt shook his head, and in his eyes I thought I found some emotion I could not define. “You are son of the aeldor pf Madbry, Master Cleton, and that carries some weight. More, you’re a good student.”

Cleton laughed carelessly. The sound struck me like a cold wave: it failed entirely to register what I heard in Urt’s voice, saw in his eyes.

Still chuckling, he stood as Urt tied the laces of his shirt. “Daviot’s a better student than I,” he declared. “And my birth means nothing here.”

“Think you not?” asked Urt.

His husky voice was carefully modulated, but still I thought he spoke with unaccustomed openness in Cleton’s presence. I thought he seemed almost reckless, as if he felt some dice were cast, determining a future I failed to comprehend. I waited, suddenly nervous.

“Son of an aeldor, son of a fisherman.” Cleton extended his arms that Urt might fasten his cuffs; flourished the linen. “Son of a koryphon, even. All are the same in this College, all equal.”

Something flashed an instant in Urt’s eyes, gone almost before I saw it. “Some are more equal,” he said in a soft voice, “some less.”

“Nonsense,” Cleton said.

I said, “Do you explain, my friend?”

Cleton opened his mouth to elaborate, then recognized I spoke to Urt and fell silent, his frown returned. Whether because I looked to the Changed for answer or because I again openly named him friend, I neither knew nor cared.

Urt paused an instant. I thought him unwilling to speak for Cleton’s presence and smiled encouragement, motioning him to continue. He hesitated still, and I said, “Shall we conspirators hold secrets from one another? Go on, friend.”

He smiled briefly. A flash of sharp white teeth. “Some command a greater influence than others,” he said, “no matter the society. Do you not learn that from your studies of politics?”

I saw Cleton’s frown dissolve into an expression of curiosity. He settled on his bed and allowed Urt to tug on his boots. They shone bright with fresh polish-the Changed’s work. I waited, foreboding mounting.

Urt said, “How is this College financed?”

Cleton answered him, “The Lord Protector and the koryphon fund us, of course. And merchants, nobles, donate.”

“And the Lord Protector and the koryphon are funded by taxes, no?” Urt said. “And the koryphon has his power from the Lord Protector, and both rest on the support of the aeldors, who tax those within their holdings, no?”

“How else should it be?” asked Cleton. He selected a tunic and let Urt drape the garment over his shoulders. “That’s the natural order of things.”

Very softly, so that I alone heard him, Urt said, “Perhaps.” Then louder: “But what if the aeldors held those taxes for themselves? What if the Lord Protector and the koryphon received no tithe?”

“That,” said Cleton, coldly now, “would be sedition. And rightly punished as such.”

“It would surely be punished,” Urt agreed, which was not a full agreement. “But-a supposition only, of course-what should happen did the aeldors withdraw their support?”

“Chaos!” Cleton snapped. “By the God, the Sky Lords would overwhelm us did all not work together. Dharbek would collapse.”

“I speak only of this College,” said Urt, carefully. “That the goodwill of an aeldor is worth more than a fisherman’s.”

Or, the Changed’s. He did not have to say it. I recognized his gist; I felt surprise that he commanded such a grasp of the webwork of politics and privilege that underpinned decisions. I said, “You think I might be punished whilst Cleton goes free.”

“I think the good opinion of Master Cleton’s father likely carries a greater weight than does yours,” he said. And coughed a small laugh that might have been apologetic, “Whilst mine carries none at all.”

“You’re Changed,” Cleton said.

He was smiling as he took up his purse, weighing the coin therein, happily oblivious of Urt’s discomfort or my reservations. “Well,” he said, “if I cannot persuade you to join me, I shall be on my way. Do I give Thais your regards?”

I said, “No,” and he shrugged, and waved, and strode from the chamber.

The door closed behind him and Urt said, “Do you require anything?”

And I answered, “Yes. I’d talk with you, if you will.”

His expression was entirely bland as he said, “I am at your command. I am your servant.”

“You are my friend,” I said. “Or at least, I hope you are.”

“Yes, I am.” His expression shifted-I grew moment by moment more adept in its translation-and I saw apology in his eyes. “Forgive me, Daviot. Sometimes …”

His lean shoulders rose and fell. I ventured to finish for him: “Sometimes the attitude of Truemen is offensive. I apologize for Cleton.”

That elicited a brief smile. “How should you apologize for another?” he murmured.

I shrugged in turn and said, “On behalf of my kind.”

“Your kind is rare,” he said. “Cleton’s the more common.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say: it was the truth. I compromised with, “He means no ill.”

“No.” Urt looked a moment out the window, then returned his gaze to me. “Few do.”

There was something hidden behind his response; something sad in his voice and in his eyes. I rose from the bed and crossed to the ale keg. I filled two mugs, passing him one and motioning for him to sit.

“You’re a strange fellow, Daviot,” he murmured. “Why do you show me such kindness?”

It had not occurred to me that I did: I treated him as felt natural to me. I frowned and said, “How else should I deal with you?”

He said, “As do other Truemen.”

“You’re my friend,” I said.

He laughed at that, and raised his mug in toast, and said, “Yes. Perhaps someday I shall have the chance to prove it you.”

“You have already,” I told him, and what had begun as an answering smile froze on my lips. “You proved it in carrying my messages to Rwyan.” I sought to conceal my sudden misery behind my tankard.

Urt said, “I’m sorry for what happened.” And paused a moment before adding, “But I meant in a greater way than as courier.”

“No service could be greater,” I said.

“Perhaps.”

He smiled, but I thought the expression was now designed to allay further inquiry. I asked, “How, perhaps?”

He shook his head and sipped his ale. “Does the opportunity come, you shall know,” he said.

“Do you explain now?” I asked.

His lips closed, pursing. His eyes grew dark: unfathomable, and he shook his head. “No, I cannot. And I presume on our friendship to ask that you inquire no further.”

I was intrigued. I forgot my misery as I sensed some mystery here. There was such hint in what he said of things unknown, unsuspected, of areas of knowledge beyond my ken, I was mightily tempted to press him. There was also, on his face and in his voice, a warning-that he would not speak, and that did I demand explanation, our friendship should be threatened. It was valuable to me, that friendship, and so I respected his wishes. I nodded and made some gesture of acceptance. “Do you so wish,” I said.

He smiled with unfeigned pleasure and said, “Thank you, Daviot.”

And I, in my youth, heard such warmth in those three simple words, I was embarrassed. I think I blushed. I know I said, “I’d not pry, my friend,” and sought to turn our conversation onto safer ground. “What do you think will happen to me? To us? Shall I be allowed to stay?”

Urt paused again, then said, “I suspect you will. Likely there’ll be some small punishment-you’ll be confined longer to the College grounds; something of that sort. But it’s common knowledge you’re considered too good a Mnemonikos that you’ll be let go.” “You’re very confident,” I said.

He grinned and answered, “We Changed hear much. There’s some advantage in our situation, for Truemen seem to think we’ve not ears, or memories, but we’ve both; and servants talk.”

“And you?” I asked.

He did not immediately answer but rose and took my mug for refilling with his own, which in itself was a compliment-a measure of his confidence in my sympathy. I awaited his reply. It seemed all the foreboding I had felt, the shiftings of his face, his recklessness, coalesced in his answer, and as he gave it, I felt a fresh weight added to my burden of unhappiness.

“It is rumored I shall be sent away.” He raised a hand to silence my instinctive protest. “To argue it would be pointless; I ask that you accept. Do you argue, you can only make your own situation worse.”

I felt new pain. Not so fierce as at Rwyan’s departure, but still hurtful. I asked, “Where?”

Urt shrugged. “Likely the Border Cities,” he said.

I raised my hand, half minded to dash my mug to the floor. There was such certainty in his voice, I could not doubt but that he had this information from the servants of the tutors, the warden, the master; from that network of anonymous Changed that moved unnoticed through human society. Was I the only Trueman to see their faces, to perceive them as beings in their own right, to credit them with emotions, with sentience? Resentment grew, allied with frustration and new-seeded anger.

Urt said mildly, “Do you shatter that mug I must clean the floor again.”

I snarled and lowered my hand. I said, “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” He smiled, and the curving of his lips was cynical. “I am Changed, Daviot.”

“I’ll tell them I coerced you,” I declared. “I’ll say I gave you no choice but to carry my messages.”

“And they would say I should have gone to Ardyon,” he returned me. “That my duty to the College precedes any personal loyalty.”

I could not argue: it was the truth.

“And it should only do you harm,” he went on. “Better that you stay silent. Apologize, and accept whatever punishment is meted out; finish your studies.”

He gave me advice, and it was sound. Vague through my anger came the thought that most men would find it strange a Changed should assume to advise a Trueman. I asked him, “Why?”

“Why should you remain?” he asked in turn. “Or why do I counsel that you do?” “Both,” I said.

“The one because it should be a great waste of your talent. You’ve the makings of a fine Rememberer, and you’ve worked hard for that. To quit the College now would be to throw away the years you’ve spent in Durbrecht. What would you do else? I doubt you could return to that village of yours and become a fisherman. Would you join some war-band, be a soldier?” He paused, as if to let his words sink in. Outside, the day darkened, allowing the lanterns’ light greater play on his hair and face. He was very solemn: I thought of prophets. “The other? In part for the same reasons, in part because I am your friend, and I do not enjoy waste.”

“Whilst you are banished to the Border Cities!” I cried.

“It’s not quite banishment,” he said. “That we must part saddens me. But that should have come to pass in any event, no?”

Again he spoke only the truth, which made it no easier to swallow. It was less the fact of parting than its manner that troubled me. It was somehow comforting to think of Urt continuing at the College, perhaps impressing some student come after me with his humanity; perhaps to open another’s eyes. I said, “It is not fair to punish you for my sins.”

He said, “I shared them. I knew-perhaps better than you-the risks we took. I knew judgment would be delivered, were we discovered.”

“Yet still you aided me,” I said.

“You are my friend,” he said. “What else should I do?”

I looked him square in the eye then and said, “Have I ever the opportunity to repay you, Urt, you’ve but to name it.”

He nodded, once, and said, “I know that, Daviot.”

“Perhaps they’ll allow you stay,” I said. “At least until I go out a Storyman.”

I knew, or sensed, that I clutched at straws. Urt confirmed it with a shake of his head.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” I said, still clutching.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “I hope we may.”

It had grown dark now, and the clatter of hammers, the drone of saws, had ceased. Occasionally there came a shout from the yards outside; mostly the night was silent.

“Save you’ve need of anything, I’d best go.”

Urt rose. I shook my head. I wanted to say more, but there were no words, only a sadness in me that was colored with the fire of anger. Was this what it was to be a Mnemonikos? To see one’s loves, one’s friends, all left behind? I had known it should be a lonely path to take, but that awareness had been intellectual, unreal. Now it was emotional, personal. It hurt. I watched him take his tankard to the closet and rinse the mug. He set it down beside the keg and came to stand before me.

“The tribunal will deliver its verdict soon,” he said. “I’d ask you heed my advice when they call you.”

“Yes.” I knew not what else to say. I rose and took his hand as I would any Trueman’s. “The God go with you, Urt.”

His grasp was powerful as he said, “I do not think the God cares much about we Changed, Daviot. But still, my thanks.”

He loosed his grip and went out the door.

Cleton returned at some point, but I was unaware of his presence until the impatient tapping on our door woke me. I raised my head from the pillow, noticing from the quality of the light that it was only a little while after sunrise. Then I realized the tapping lacked the softer sound of flesh and knuckle but was rather the sharp rattle of wood on wood. Such as a caduceus would make. I sprang naked from my bed, motioning Cleton back as he stirred, and went to the door.

Ardyon stood there, his cadaverous face impassive. I felt my stomach lurch. I had believed myself resigned: I had been wrong.

I said, “Day’s greetings, warden.”

He nodded, sniffed, and said without preamble, “Dress. You’re summoned to the master.”

I said, “Yes,” and stood back, thinking he would enter; perhaps to watch over me for fear I should escape from the window. Instead, he shook his head and waved his caduceus to indicate I hurry, closing the door on me as I retreated.

Cleton was sitting up, his blue eyes worried. “The verdict?” he asked.

I said, “Ardyon awaits me,” and affected a smile I hoped was brave, “with his trusty caduceus.”

I went into the alcove to splash my face. I satisfied a suddenly urgent need to urinate. I wondered if the sound I heard was the tap of the warden’s staff against his thigh, or the thudding of my heart. I dragged on clothes. I could not understand why I was so nervous. I had believed Urt when he told me I should not be expelled. I had not thought I cared so much.

Cleton said, “The God grant it goes well.”

I nodded, shoving shirt-tails into my breeks. I ran fingers through my hair, took a deep breath, and crossed back to the door.

Ardyon seemed not at all impatient. I studied his face, seeking some clue to my impending fate, but he gave me nothing, only ducked his head as if in approval of my haste, and set off down the corridor. I limped after him. I dared not speak. Even had I, I do not believe he would have answered. He was a man who took his duties very seriously; he did not consider explanations to be amongst them.

We went down the stairs into the yard. I caught the smell of breakfast wafting from the refectory. My stomach rumbled, either from hunger or trepidation. The sky was aquamarine, the sun not yet visible above our walls. A breeze stirred, warm. I licked my lips and followed the warden into the building that held the master’s quarters.

We halted at the familiar door and Ardyon applied his caduceus. A voice came muffled through the wood, and he swung the portal open, motioning me inside. I stepped past him and started as I heard the door close behind me, leaving me alone with Decius.

I had expected to find those others who had sat in judgment present, but Decius was alone behind his desk. For an errant moment I wondered if he spent the nights there, if he ever left. Perhaps he was crippled and lived all his life behind that desk. I said, “Day’s greetings, master.” I was surprised my voice did not quaver.

Decius answered formally and beckoned me closer. His chambers lay to the west side of the College and thus were sunlit only in the afternoons. I had always been summoned before him later in the day: now I could see his round face clearly, unmasked by opposing light. It was concerned, as if he were a father confronted with a naughty child, bound to deliver some reprimand, but not much taken with the notion. He cleared his throat and frowned. I waited.

“We have debated your case at length, Daviot,” he said, “and it is decided you shall not be expelled.”

He studied me. I thought he waited for some response, and so I said, “Thank you, master.”

He smiled very briefly and said, “There are some consider you a risk, a bad influence. They’d see you ejected.”

I thought, Ardyon, and wondered who else.

Decius said, “Others believe you one of the most promising students we’ve had. But even so …”

He ran a hand across the smooth skin of his pate, which I had never seen him do before. I could not be sure what the gesture meant.

He cleared his throat again and said, “For my own part, I believe you might one day be a tutor. Master, even.”

I was amazed. I gasped and stuttered, “Thank you.”

He waved dismissal of my gratitude. “But you’ve that in you as to arouse doubts. This latest matter”-he shook his head-“you knew it was frowned on, but still you continued. You suborned others to your cause…. That you should not have done.”

“No,” I said, thinking perhaps I might win Urt a reprieve did I humble myself; thinking of his advice. “I should not have. I apologize for that, master. For all I did.”

Decius nodded and caught me out in my false humility: “Do you then repudiate your mage?”

I swallowed, recognizing the trap. Dismiss Rwyan? I could not do that. Would not! I said, “I cannot, master. I love her still.”

I saw his face cloud at that, and my sense of self-preservation prompted me to add: “Even though I shall likely never see her again.”

It seemed to mollify him. At least he nodded and murmured, “Likely not. A Storyman fares better alone. Do you serve out that time, and then, should you become a tutor … He smiled. I thought it the smile of a man who suggests some course he does not truly believe in, or properly understand. “Then you might take a wife. Or find a mistress. This Thais, for example. Is she not satisfactory?”

Once more he succeeded in taking me aback. Thais? How had he discovered her existence? Cleton had not told me he made any mention of the cyprian. I wondered if there was anything the master did not know. I wondered if he was a sorcerer, besides head of our College. I gulped and said, “Yes. I suppose so. She’s …” I faltered. “She was … satisfactory.”

“Then I’d suggest you take what pleasure you need there,” Decius said. “And from henceforth leave alone those others.”

I had no intention whatsoever of following that advice: I nodded.

He nodded in return and said, “So, to your future. You shall remain amongst us, but-on probation. Do you err again, it must be the last time. You understand?”

I said, “Yes, master.”

“And do you accept?” he asked.

Again I said, “Yes, master.”

“Then understand the strictures that apply,” he said. “You will not depart the grounds without specific permission. Nor shall you attempt to contact this Rwyan in any way.”

I said, “Yes, master,” thinking I began to sound like some timid Changed.

“When you are allowed to leave the College grounds,” he went on, “it shall be only in company with two others. One may be Cleton.”

His expression seemed to me to invite thanks for that favor, so I repeated my iteration: “Thank you, master.”

He paused again, musing, as if he mulled his next words. I continued to wait. I wondered why I was allowed Cleton’s company, he having been integral to my affair. Perhaps Decius believed his influence would draw me back to the safer pursuits of the street of green lanterns; perhaps the master thought to keep his bad eggs in the single basket. I was not about to question the decision.

Then he said, “By this year’s end, you’ll have all the learning we can give you for now. Next spring, you go out a Storyman.”

“Master?” He had the ability to surprise me still. I wondered if it was amusement I deciphered in his eyes.

“A Storyman, Daviot. Did you not expect that?”

Now it was my turn to pause. Of course I had expected it: it was the next step. Why else was I here? But to be told this news in such circumstances left me befuddled. I had thought it more likely I should be kept close to the College, until such time as I was deemed sound. I saw that Decius expected a verbal response, and said honestly, “I was not sure, master. I thought perhaps …”

I shrugged, lost for words. Decius said, “We’ve lost too many in these last attacks. There’s a need for good Storymen; more, I think, in the days to come.”

I was not sure what he meant by that. I had heard no rumors to suggest the Sky Lords came again. Was he privy to secret knowledge? Certainly, he seemed so far omniscient.

When I said nothing more, he continued: “So you shall be sent out at winter’s end. Cleton, too. You may tell him that.”

I chanted another of my “Yes, master’s,” aware that he had so far made no mention of Urt. My future was secure, and Cleton’s; but what of my Changed comrade? For an instant I debated the wisdom of inquiry, knowing even as I did that it was the safer course to play the penitent, to humbly accept, and say no more than yes and no and thank you. Urt himself had counseled me to that course, and likely inquiry after his fate would serve only to harm us both: I remained dutifully silent.

Decius sat awhile, as if pondering whether to say more. I stood, doing my best not to fidget as my healing leg began to itch horribly.

Finally, the master raised a hand, waving me toward the door, saying, “Enough. You’ve lessons still. Go.”

I said, “Yes, master; thank you,” and turned away.

I was tempted to run but settled for a more dignified, if somewhat brisk, walk to my chamber. I was surprised (startlement seemed the order of this day) to find Cleton there.

“I waited,” he said, unnecessarily. “What happened?” “We stay,” I told him, and then explained all Decius had told me.

“The God be praised!” He clapped my shoulder. “Next spring, eh? I’m not sorry I missed my breakfast. Not for such good news.”

“Did you not have Urt bring food?” I asked.

His answer was casual: “I’ve not seen Urt this morning.” It struck me like a blow.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

Cleton took a step back as I faced him. He shrugged and said, “I’ve no idea.”

I did. I mouthed a string of curses that might have blistered even Garat’s ears and shouldered past my friend in search of my other. Cleton hurried to catch me, his expression puzzled.

“What’s amiss?” he asked, to which I answered simply, “Urt.”

To give him his due, he recognized my concern and took a share, falling into step at my side as I flung myself down corridors and stairs into the yard. I was grateful that he asked no further questions: I was in no mood to give kindly answers.

Together we pushed our way through students going to their lessons. Our own would soon commence, but I cared not at all. I thought Ardyon the most likely to answer my fear, and the refectory the most likely place to find the warden-I took Cleton there.

Ardyon was moving toward the door as I entered. He was in conversation with Clydd and a tutor of politics, Faron. I set myself in their path, ignoring raised brows and the warden’s ominous sniff.

I said, “Urt! Where is he?”

Ardyon’s deep-sunk eyes met my gaze with massive indifference. He said, “Remember you are yet on probation. You will address your superiors in suitable manner.” His voice was flat; and heavy with threat.

I felt Cleton’s good hand on my arm. It held me back from striking the warden, which I think Ardyon knew, for he brought his caduceus to rest on his shoulder. The staff was solid enough to do me harm: I did not care.

However, I controlled my anger and forced my voice to semblance of civility. “I have not seen Urt this morning, warden,” I said. “I’d be grateful to know his whereabouts.”

The skin was stretched so taut across the bones of Ardyon’s face, it was bland as a mask. He sniffed now. I thought the sound suggested relish. He chose to address my statement: “You were with the master, no? How then should you have seen your servant?”

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.

The 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.”

“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.

In Darsvyn Keep I found a welcome equal to that I got in Arbryn, and I lingered there five days. Ventran was a taciturn man, but his wife, Gwenndynne, more than made up for her husband’s solemnity, and their children-of whom there were five, and all young-took after her: I spent a large part of each evening in that keep with a child on either knee, another hung about my neck, and the rest at my feet. Ventran was of the College’s opinion-that the Sky Lords planned invasion. The keep’s sorcerer, a fair-haired young man from east Draggonek whose name was Tyris, agreed, and the four of us sat long into the night, discussing the Lord Protector’s preparations and what the year should bring.

There was an alarming development of the Sky Lords’ magic.

I first had the news from Kaern, aeldor of Dursbar, some eight weeks after leaving Arbryn. Spring was already turning into summer in these milder western climes, and I had been three days in Dursbar without news of Durbrecht or the east since my departure. I had dared hope the attacks of the previous year should not be repeated, that the gloomy prognostications of the College and of Kherbryn had been unfounded, that the Sky Lords had given up. I was wrong: only the tactics had changed.

It was early one fine evening, the sun still bright on the slate rooftops of Dursbar, when I was invited to attend Kaern in his private chambers and found the aeldor with Trethyn, who was the commur-mage here. Kaern was a young man, come only recently to his station following the death of his father in a hunting accident. Trethyn was twice his age. Both were typical westcoasters: dark of hair and swarthy of complexion, their faces tending to a stern demeanor. On this bright evening they were both grim, and as Kaern motioned me to a chair and pushed a cup toward me, I felt the chill fingers of presentiment dance down my spine.

“There’s news come from Durbrecht,” Kaern said as I filled my cup with the golden wine for which his hold was famous.

In itself this was not surprising: the Sorcerous College acted as a gathering house for information, receiving and digesting reports from the keep sorcerers and disseminating that information throughout Dharbek. It was as if an unseen web spread over the land, every touch upon its fabric notified to Durbrecht, from whence news was sent along the magical strands to all the far-flung holds. From the sober faces of my two companions, however, and from the heavy tone of Kaern’s voice, I realized this news was grave. I swallowed wine and waited.

“The Sky Lords are returned,” the aeldor said.

I nodded, thinking that in this young man the taciturnity that appeared a natural characteristic of the westcoasters was somewhat magnified.

He appeared disinclined to elaborate, and so I asked, “They attack again? In numbers?”

Kaern shook his head and looked to Trethyn, gesturing that the sorcerer should answer.

The commur-mage said, “No. This is different.”

They shared a glance, as if, having summoned me, they now debated the wisdom of imparting their news. Or perhaps Kaern deferred to his commur-mage. I thought to encourage them. I asked, “How, different?”

Trethyn stroked his gray-streaked beard and said, “They do not attack. At least, they have come only twice against Durbrecht; twice, too, against Kherbryn.”

I frowned, curbing impatience even as I cursed their reticence. Had they been other than aeldor and commur-mage, I should have sought to draw them out with my Storyman’s guile. With such as these, however, it was not meet: I held my tongue and waited.

Kaern said, “Neither city was much harmed.”

Trethyn said, “The Sentinels destroyed half of each fleet and crippled more.”

Kaern said, “Those that remained were all destroyed.”

I smiled at that, nodding enthusiastically. I assumed they thought to reassure me. I wished they would get to the heart of the matter.

“But,” said Trethyn, “the Sky Lords play a different game these days.”

He reached for the decanter, filling his cup. Kaern sat silent, staring darkly at the sunlit rectangle of the window.

I was chafed. I prompted him: “A different game?”

He ducked his head once and said, “Yes. They’ve a new tactic, it seems.”

He fell silent again. I looked from him to Kaern, willing them to loose their tight westcoaster tongues. It seemed a long time before he continued. I was tempted to shake the words from him.

At last he said, “They employ smaller vessels. Skyboats a fraction the size of their usual craft.”

I could contain my impatience no longer. I said, “Surely then they’re a lesser threat. Save they bring the Kho’rabi knights in numbers, how can they hope to conquer us?”

It was Kaern who answered. I think my tone or my expression roused him from his silence, but still he spoke obliquely. He said, “Was it not the belief of both your College and Trethyn’s that the attacks of these past years were in the nature of scouting missions?”

There was a new-and somewhat unexpected-authority in his voice: I nodded and answered him, “Yes. We suspected they sought to test our defenses. We thought they must probe, readying for the Great Coming.”

The aeldor snorted bitter laughter. He looked no longer out the window but directly into my eyes as he said, “I’ve some training in the art of warfare, and I’d not send centuries of men out scouting. That’s a task for a few, light-mounted to travel fast, unnoticed.”

I began to see it. I said, “Small airboats …”

Kaern nodded agreement. “Small and swift; enough they are able, often as not, to slip unharmed past the Sentinels.”

“And return word of what they find?” I gasped. “We’d suspected they’d found such magic as to send word back.”

Now it was my turn to fall silent as Trethyn said, “Worse. They’d found those magicks, yes. But none too reliable over such distances; also, we’d found the way to block their messages, to disrupt them.”

“Then how,” I asked carefully, aware that my voice came hollow with dread, “is this worse?”

The sorcerer ran nails that I noticed for the first time were chewed down and grimed with dirt through his beard before he answered. Then: “They’ve found the means to entirely control the elementals. Thus to overcome the Worldwinds.”

I gaped, horrified. Into my mind came a precise memory of those half-seen creatures I had observed sporting about the Sky Lords’ vessels. I had thought then that they propelled the airboats, that their fundamental power was bound to the Aim’s cause. I had never suspected, never anticipated, they might overcome the Worldwinds. None had. Forgetting all protocol, ignoring all courtesy, I motioned for the sorcerer to continue.

If he noticed my imperious gesture, he paid it no heed. He said, “These smaller boats are able to come and return at will.”

This was alarming news. “And the Sentinels?” I cried. “The Sorcerous College? Can they not halt these boats? Not destroy them?”

“Some few,” he replied. “Not enough. The road our magic took is different-we Dhar have never attempted to control the elemental spirits.”

An old memory, tucked away in one of those compartments dead Mairtus had spoken of, sprang into my mind. I said, “We once mastered the dragons.”

“Once, yes,” said Trethyn. “But the dragons were creatures of flesh and blood, and thus the Dragonmasters were able to attune their minds to the creatures’. The spirits of the air are different-we’ve no control of them.”

“Why speak of dragons?” Kaern asked. “The dragons are dead, and the Dragonmasters with them. This danger belongs to this day, and to our tomorrows.”

Trethyn grunted his agreement. I shrugged: they were right. What use to think of dragons now, here? I said, “Does Durbrecht anticipate invasion then?”

The sorcerer turned his face to the aeldor. Kaern said formally, as if by rote, “The Lord Protector Gahan bids us stand ready. We cannot know how strong this new magic waxes, but do they learn to harness the spirits in numbers …” He paused, his eyes closing a moment, as if what he told me sat heavy on his tongue and he had rather not say it. “It is thought the Sky Lords shall attack this year or next.”

Trethyn said, “The Sorcerous College believes it will be next year at the earliest.”

I said, “But if they are able to ignore the Worldwinds … If they can evade the magic of the Sentinels-”

He silenced me with a raised hand. “As yet-so we believe-this newfound power over the elementals is not strong enough they can harness the spirits in sufficient numbers to their larger vessels. At least, not in such numbers as to make invasion feasible.”

“Yet,” said Kaern. His voice was as bleak as his face.

I said, “Then we’ve a year to ready for war. Shall you sorcerers not find a means to defeat even the elementals?”

Trethyn shook his head. Amidst the gray and black of his beard, I saw stained teeth bared in a sour grin. He said, “Within a year? No. It’s our belief the Sky Lords have spent decades-perhaps centuries-finding the gramaryes of binding. Have you any idea what such magic entails?”

I shook my head. I felt dulled; helpless. I thought abruptly of Rwyan. I heard Trethyn saying, “… inconceivable power. We’d need revise all our thinking, all we’ve learned.”

I nodded. It seemed the skin was drawn taut over the bones of my face. My mouth was dry: I filled my empty cup and drank deep.

In the wine I found a straw of hope and snatched it. I said, “It would not be the first Coming. We’ve defeated the Sky Lords before. Shall this be so different?”

Trethyn took the straw from me and broke it. “Mightily different,” he said. “Before, they traveled on the whim of the Worldwinds. Oh, they harnessed the spirits of the air to aid them, but not even with that assistance could they entirely defy the winds. Did your College not teach you that?”

There was such asperity in his voice as to offend, had I not recognized it was fear that honed the edge. I nodded and said, “Yes, I was taught that.”

And I was: the Comings followed the cycles of the Worldwinds, and that gusting was capricious. Not all the Sky Lords’ dread craft reached our shores-many soared too high, to drift on across the western ocean into oblivion, more were brought down by the Sentinels. Sufficient grounded as to be a blight, to render the Sky Lords a terror, and the Kho’rabi warriors were creatures out of nightmare-but never enough of them to accomplish their dream of conquest. And we Dhar had, each time, that cycle of recuperation, of preparation: when the Worldwinds turned again, we were always ready. Now, did the Ahn wizards obtain such power over the elementals as to come and go at will, they could deliver the Kho’rabi at any time, and their airboats return to their far-off land to bring more against us. More and more and more, until-I endeavored to deny the thought, but could not-until they conquered us. I shuddered and said softly, “I see it.”

“It is not a pleasant vision,” said Trethyn, no louder.

“This is not,” Kaern said, “a thing to voice abroad. The God willing, we’ll not see these new airboats so far west. Until the time comes, the common folk are not to know.”

“Shall you not prepare?” I asked: the aeldor was not alone in owning some knowledge of strategy. “How shall you hide it, must you raise levies?”

He grunted acceptance of my judgment and said, “We aeldors enlarge our warbands and commission ships. Yes-we prepare. But until we are sure, I’d not see panic spread.”

To this Trethyn added, “There are already refugees come west to escape the attacks of yesteryear. Should such news become common parlance, likely the cities and the east would be deserted.”

“And your resources be strained,” I said. Then: “You expect the fighting to be in the east.”

“And the cities,” said Kaern. “Do the Sky Lords fight a sensible war, they’ll seek to overcome three centers first-the Sentinels, Durbrecht, and Kherbryn. Take those, and Dharbek fights in disarray.”

Rwyan! The cold fingers I had felt on entering this room became claws, scoring my soul. I could only duck my head, horrified. I was helpless. I could do nothing, save hope; or pray to a God I was no longer sure existed.

“This goes no farther,” said the aeldor, formal again. “It is deemed necessary to inform you Storymen, but none others.”

“No,” I said. “My word on it.”

The sun was close to the sea now, and the window was a rectangle of brilliance. I could hear the squalling of gulls and the noises of folk in the yard below. The smells of cooking drifted, mingled with the scent of the ocean. It was a pleasant evening, tranquil. I felt as I had when a child, watching storm clouds build over the Fend, knowing that soon the wind should howl and lightning dance. Then, I could anticipate the shelter of our cottage, the storm shut out. Now, I thought there should be no shelter from the storm.

“So, a brave face,” said Kaern, rising. “Tell cheerful tales, Storyman. And hold your lips sealed on this matter.”

“Yes,” I said. And for the first time added, “My lord aeldor.”

I did as I was commanded, trudging from hold to village to town with the most glorious of my tales. I spoke of Fyrach and the Great Dragon, of the battle of Tenbry Keep, of Petur’s duel with the Kho’rabi. In hamlets where fishing boats clustered the shoreline I told of Jeryd and the Whale, and Dramydd’s Voyage. In farms and lonely foresters’ huts I spoke of Beryl and the Magic Tree, of Shadram and the Great Bull of Corvyn, of Marais the Cattle King, and the hermit Denus. When-as was inevitable-I was asked for news of Durbrecht, I told of the city’s splendors and of its valiant stand against the Sky Lords. I spoke of my own battles, and those of others I had heard, all slanted so that we appeared invincible, the Sky Lords an enemy soon defeated by might of magic and the wisdom of the Lord Protector.

I was hailed a master of my calling; I felt I was a deceiver.

And though I did my best to quell my burgeoning fear, I thought too often of Rwyan, and how she should fare did the Sky Lords come against the Sentinels as Kaern and Trethyn predicted. Too often I found myself watching the sky as I walked.

Early in that summer, I wandered a little way inland, following a road that wound gently up through low hills whose slopes were all thick with cork oak, the crests with pine. The sun was not quite at zenith, and I had halted atop one hill, electing to wait out the midday heat beneath the cooling canopy of trees. I had fared well at my last stop and been gifted with a fresh loaf, a thick wedge of good yellow cheese, and a skin of pale wine; now I intended to eat, drink a little wine, and indulge in the west coast custom of dozing awhile.

As I ate, I surveyed the gentle panorama spread before me. Brynisvar, I calculated, lay beyond the third ridgeline. At the foot of the slope facing me stood a farmhouse. Perhaps I would halt there and tell a tale before moving on. Likely the farmer and his folk would be too busy. I sipped wine and gazed idly at the sky. It was a blue not seen in the east or over Durbrecht, a lapis lazuli blue of incredible clarity. To the northeast I saw a shape that neither soared nor hovered but came straight on. At first it was but a speck, and I assumed it some bird intent on whatever business propels avians to hurry. As it drew closer, I saw that it was no bird. I stoppered my wineskin and sprang to my feet.

Soon I could see clearly the cylinder of blood red, the occult sigils of the Sky Lords’ magic painted on the flanks. They pulsed and throbbed. Beneath hung a black basket. Around the craft, the air shimmered, roiling like steam from a kettle. Within that disturbance I saw elementals darting, whirling too swift for precise definition. The skyboat came closer still, and I saw that it was small, that the basket could hold no more than ten men. It was at the same time familiar and strange. It bore the configuration of an airboat, but that cloud of miasmic dread, dark, that was the customary signature of the Sky Lords was absent. I felt no chill, save that of shock, nor that mind-numbing horror that usually accompanied such craft. I pressed close against the trunk of the sheltering pine. And felt my breath catch in my throat as the vessel halted.

Trethyn had told me; Kaern had told me. Still I could scarcely credit the evidence of my own eyes: the tiny airboat halted and hovered. The wind was from the west but held no dominion over this craft. It hung steady as any falcon over the farmhouse in the valley.

The aftertaste of wine turned sour in my mouth: I spat. I reached cautiously for my canteen, afraid I should be seen. I drank and hung the canteen with my pack, on my back, ready to flee. I had my staff and my knife-I should stand no chance against Kho’rabi were I spotted.

The airboat turned slowly around, sinking toward the ground. It landed, light as any feather, the red cylinder still airborne, only the black basket touching the sward before the farmhouse. It had been seen by the folk there. Of course it had been seen! I had been too preoccupied, too amazed, to think of them until now, when they came from their home to face this unprecedented apparition.

There were four men, armed with nothing more than farm implements. Two clutched pitchforks, one a scythe, the last a mattock. Three dogs clamored about their feet. From the rear of the building I saw three women emerge, their skirts gathered up as they scurried for the oak thicket behind the house.

From the basket came nine black-armored Kho’rabi. A tenth Sky Lord remained behind. He, I supposed, must be the wizard, retaining control of the spirits that even now danced and darted about the shape of the airboat.

I suffered a terrible dilemma then. These farmers stood no chance against such warriors. Less even than I, who had fought Kho’rabi. Should I go to their aid? Should I align myself with them in hopeless defense? Or should I watch, hidden? Safe. A coward?

I calculated the distance between my safe position and the farm and knew that I could not reach it in time. Knew, also, that my presence should make no difference to the outcome. That was inevitable: I watched, and wondered the while if I was craven.

The dogs attacked first. They were large-such hounds as can protect flocks from wolves or bring down a man-and they were brave. The Kho’rabi dispatched them with a casual efficiency. I watched as swords swung and the dogs died. Watched as the Kho’rabi advanced on the men, who were no less courageous. They flailed their poor weapons and fell to Ahn steel without a blow struck. I saw the greensward painted red.

Then the wizard gestured, and I suppose he shouted, for the Kho’rabi ran past the bodies of their victims, around the farmhouse, to the timber beyond. I do not know whether he guessed the women hid there or knew it by his magic; nor did I see the women slain. I remained hidden, waiting, as the black figures disappeared amongst the oaks and in a while came back, their blades sheathed. I hoped the women had escaped; I did not think they had.

I watched as the Kho’rabi entered the building, emerged with sacks and slabs of meat that they stowed on board their vessel. Some brought containers to the farm’s well; those they filled and put on board. Then they regained the basket, and the airboat rose vertically, turned its nose a little north of east, and moved away.

I wiped sweat from my brow and unlocked my fingers from my staff. They ached from the strength of my grip. I stared after the receding shape and saw that it moved toward Brynisvar. It came to me there was no keep there, no sorcerer or warband to confront the Sky Lords. I did not know whether they intended to attack, but I felt compelled to act. I had stood a hidden witness to massacre, and I could not go on so neutral: I quit the cover of my pine and began to run.

For a moment I considered searching for the women, but dismissed the thought. Were they slain, I could do nothing for them; did they survive, they would go back to the farm. I had small appetite to face them, whichever was their fate. Perhaps I might acquit myself better in Brynisvar. Perhaps I might bring warning, or at least lend my own martial skills to the defense. It was no aeldor’s hold, but there were enough able-bodied men there that the Kho’rabi-did they intend attack-should find it a harder task than the wanton slaughter of innocent farmers: I ran.

I had never run so hard. The God knew, Keran had worked us mercilessly in Durbrecht, but now my feet flew. Sweat ran hot and then chilled; I felt my lungs burn, my muscles protest. I became an automaton as I sped across the valley, climbed the farther slope. I saw the airboat high above, ahead. The Sky Lords seemed in no great hurry. Sometimes, even, their vessel hovered, or soared off to left or right. I thought perhaps they mapped the land. Perhaps they assessed its defenses, its population. Perhaps they would disappear altogether, and I come heart-strained and useless into Brynisvar, my haste all wasted. I did not care: it was as though I must atone for my helplessness, scourge myself with the effort of this headlong pace. I flung myself over the crest of one hill and ran toward the next.