Lords of the Sky

Then, where the hills flattened to form a small plateau, I saw Brynisvar. I calculated the distance as I raced toward its walls.

I could see the airboat off to the north, not very high, moving away down the intervening valley. I thought I might have run uselessly, but still I did not stop, and as I went down the slope I saw the bloodred cylinder begin to describe a wide curve, eastward. I no longer wondered whether they planned an attack. I wanted only to reach the plateau, to warn the inhabitants. I did not think any there had seen the craft.

I crossed a wooden bridge, onto the road beyond. The trail began to climb, and for a while Brynisvar was lost to sight; the airboat, too. I hurled myself up the slope. I felt I could run until my heart burst.

Then walls of clay-chinked wood stood before me, barely higher than my head, gates standing open, through them a wide thoroughfare flanked by rustic houses that devolved on a broad central square. I began to shout as I entered the place.

“The Sky Lords! Ware the Sky Lords!”

My voice came out a whispery croak, but still folk turned to watch my progress. No doubt they wondered what brought a stranger in such haste; perhaps they thought me mad. I collected a retinue of barking dogs and laughing children that ran with me to the square. I halted there and with that cessation of movement regained feeling. It seemed a furnace roared within my chest. My vision blurred as blood pounded inside my skull. I struggled to draw air into lungs I thought collapsed. My old forgotten wound throbbed. I knew I had never run so hard or so swift. Through tears I saw a timber cella, a polished bell in its little tower atop the structure. My legs were unsteady as I stumbled to the temple, worse as I mounted the rough ladder to the bell. My hands shook as I rang the alarm and from my vantage point turned my eyes to the sky, seeking the airboat. It was south of Brynisvar now. I pointed.

Below me, a lean young man in the robe of a mantis shouted, demanding to know what I did. I waved him be silent, but he paid me no heed. A crowd was gathering, summoned by the bell. I let go the striker and retreated down the ladder.

The mantis seized my arm and said, “Who are you? Are you insane? Why do you ring the bell?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but found my mouth so dry I managed only a croak. I pointed to the south. Mantis and crowd looked to where I pointed, and on the priest’s face I saw blank incomprehension, the suspicion he held the arm of a madman. He let me go and took a pace back. I groaned as I saw that the rooftops of Brynisvar hid the airboat. From the crowd several brawny men came to flank the mantis, protective. I heard one say, “He’s crazed,” another: “That’s a Storyman’s staff, no?”

I nodded and retrieved my staff, barely evading the teeth of a snapping dog. I gestured they be patient and raised my canteen to my lips. I almost laughed as I realized I had dropped my wineskin. The water was tepid, and a good deal dribbled down my chin, doubtless adding to the impression of insanity. Still, it loosed my tongue.

I said, “The Sky Lords are here,” and pointed once more to the south.

There was a murmur of apprehension at that, and for a moment I faced only backs as all turned to study the sky. The airboat was still hidden, and when the crowd swung around again, I perceived I was judged crazy. I said, “I am Daviot, late of Durbrecht. I am a Storyman, and a little while ago I saw Kho’rabi land and slaughter a farmer’s people.”

The mantis was quick-witted, for which I blessed him. He said to one of the men standing beside him, “Find Krystin. Bring her here.”

I poured water over my face and head. I said, “Krystin?”

The mantis said, “Commur-mage of Tryrsbry Keep.”

I came close then to conviction that the God does exist and sometimes favors us. I said, “There’s a warband here?”

The mantis said, “A squadron only.”

He was not yet, I saw, convinced of my sanity. I nodded and rested on my staff. The square was abuzz, more folk arriving momentarily.

Then a man I recognized as a jennym pushed a way through the crowd. He was short and very muscular, dressed in new leather, a long sword sheathed across his back. He carried a kettle helm, and he was frowning. On his heels came a slender woman in the black and silver gear of her calling; her hair was blond, bound in a loose tail. She faced me as the jennym, having cleared her path, stood aside.

“I am Krystin, commur-mage of Tryrsbry Keep,” she said, and stabbed a thumb at the short man. “This is Barus.”

The mantis said, “He warns of the Sky Lords.”

Krystin glanced at him, and he fell silent. Her eyes were the same blue as the sky, and her features were those of a classical statue. She gestured for me to speak.

I told her who I was and what I’d seen, and she motioned for Barus to mount the cella’s tower. He went up the ladder with an agility that belied his shape and from the top peered around. The square fell silent, waiting. I watched his swarthy face turn around the circuit of the compass, and as it faced the west, I saw it blacken. He came down the ladder faster than he had climbed, nodded once to Krystin, and pushed back through the onlookers without a word.

Krystin fixed me with her blue gaze. “Can you ride?” she asked.

I nodded, and she said, “Then come.”

The mantis said, “What is it? Krystin, do you explain?”

She answered him: “There’s not the time, Anacletus.”

She was already moving away, me with her. The mantis reached for her arm, then hesitated and drew back his hand. He said, “There’s danger? His tale’s true?”

“Do Storymen lie?” she returned enigmatically. Then added, “I think there’s no danger to Brynisvar. Nor reason to spread panic, eh?”

The mantis recognized the warning and ducked his head. Krystin said softer, “This is a thing of no great account, Anacletus. But still-perhaps best you mount a watch till you’ve word from me.”

We were past the edge of the crowd now, striding toward a stable where soldiers stood mounted, Barus at their head. I asked the commur-mage, “What of the farm? Perhaps the women survived.”

She glanced at me and shook her head. “Think you it’s likely?” she asked.

I said, “No,” and she nodded.

“Here.” Barus thrust the reins of a tall gray mare at me. “She’s something of a temper, but she can run.”

I took the reins and swung astride.

The mare was equipped with a cavalry saddle, set with a lance bucket and fixing loop: I stowed my staff there. She snorted and began to fret, curvetting so that she bumped her haunches against the animals to either side. I hauled the reins tight, forcing her plunging head down, and stroked her neck, murmuring softly the while. She gentled, and Barus granted me a grudgingly approving nod.

Krystin raised a hand, pointing to the gate through which I had entered Brynisvar, and lifted her black gelding to a trot. As we went down the avenue, I brought my mare alongside and asked, “Where do we go? What if they attack this place?”

She answered me, “Ten, you said? Nine Kho’rabi and a wizard?” And when I confirmed it: “There’s near two hundred men in Brynisvar, and most of them archers. I think not even the Sky Lords would take those odds.”

“Then where do we ride?” I asked.

We were at the gates now, and just past them she reined in a moment, not answering me as she studied the sky. I saw the airboat again. It quartered the blue like a hawk, hovering to the west, then moving slowly southward. Krystin’s eyes were closed and her lips moved, though she made no sound. I recognized the practice of magic and held my tongue until she was done.

“After them,” she said, and turned her horse’s head to the south, driving heels against the black flanks.

We rode along Brynisvar’s wall to the edge of the plateau at a canter. A trail led down there, running into the woods. In moments the sky was hidden beneath a canopy of branches, but Krystin was like a questing hound, not slowing our pace even as she closed her eyes and raised her face up. I knew she had established some kind of linkage to the Sky Lords through her sortilege. Rwyan had spoken somewhat of the ability-it was as though the magic that propelled the airboat gave off a scent, occult, that was discernible on that mysterious plane to those gifted with the occult talent. Certainly, Krystin had no hesitation in pursuing the vessel.

I had no desire to disturb her concentration and so stayed silent, but neither did I feel much enthusiasm for a chase that must surely run random through these western woods. I thought we should do better to find high ground and track the Sky Lords’ progress to some destination. I let my mare fall back to flank Barus and put this notion to him.

He gave me a somewhat contemptuous look and shook his head. “This is not our first chase,” he said. “Do we stay close enough, we can take them when they land.”

I craned my head back, seeking to find the sky through the webwork of boughs. The afternoon was not much advanced, and as best I could tell from the filtered light, we likely had a long ride ahead of us. Still, it was easier work than running.

“It was fortunate you were in Brynisvar,” I said.

Barus nodded. “Recruiting for Tryrsbry’s warband. Seeking potential sorcerers.” He chuckled. “Or Storymen. We found you instead.”

I could not tell if he intended insult, nor cared much. It seemed he had taken a dislike to me, and his opprobrious manner prompted a mutual disregard, but I elected to hide my feelings: the making of enemies serves a Storyman ill. So I only grunted and continued in silence, letting my gray mare move a little way apart. Barus paid me no further attention, and I concentrated on Krystin, who yet ran ahead like a hunting dog leading her pack.

As we rode deeper into the hinterland, the terrain grew rougher, the hills steeper and higher, the valleys smaller. The timber thickened, so that we rode more often than not beneath a roofing of branches, the sky obscured. But Krystin never faltered, and as the afternoon gave way to evening and we climbed a hogback spread thick with tall pines, she found our quarry.

The commur-mage raised a hand as we approached the crest. I slowed my gray even as Barus motioned for me to halt. Farther up the slope, Krystin dismounted, leading her black down to where we waited. I sprang from the saddle, clamping a hand over the mare’s nostrils as I saw her about to whicker. The jennym beckoned two soldiers over, whispering orders, and the men began to collect horses, leading them away to flatter ground. I gave them the gray’s reins.

Barus said, “Stay with the horses, Storyman. This is warrior’s work.”

I shook my head and saw his face blacken. He was about to speak when Krystin grasped his arm. “This is neither the time nor the place to argue,” she said.

“Nor to carry excess baggage,” Barus replied.

The commur-mage ignored him, turning to me. “Can you fight?” she asked.

“I’m Durbrecht-trained,” I told her, thinking that answer enough. I heard Barus snort softly and added, “I’ve fought Kho’rabi ere now.”

Krystin nodded and said, “All well, we’ll not fight them. Only kill them.”

Barus said, “I’ll not play nursemaid.”

I said, “I’ll not need such care.”

His dark eyes narrowed under the rim of his helm, and I thought him about to protest, but Krystin silenced him with a look and said, “So be it. On my order, jennym. Daviot comes with us.”

Barus ground his teeth. I wondered why he objected so to my presence, then dismissed the thought as Krystin waved the troop close.

There were, with me, twenty-one-odds none too favorable against ten Kho’rabi, and one of them a wizard. I waited to see what stratagem the commur-mage had planned.

She said, “The Sky Lords are landed over this ridge. Barus, do you come with me to spy the lie of the land. You others wait here, and in the God’s name keep those horses quiet.”

I glanced back: the horses were set on a picket line amongst the trees. I prayed my gray should not vent her temper. Then I heard the faint sounds of climbing and turned to see Krystin and Barus moving stealthily toward the crest. Before any could halt me, I followed them.

Barus favored me with an angry glare, Krystin with a look I could not interpret. I paid heed to neither. I was a Storyman: it was my duty to observe. The commur-mage motioned me to caution and I nodded, moving on hands and knees to the ridgeline, easing forward on my belly.

The pines thinned there, and the downslope was bare of cover. At the foot there was grass and a pool of clear blue water where rocks dammed a little stream. It was an idyllic setting. A breeze blew down the valley, setting the timber on the far slope to sighing. The sun was yet high enough the water glittered, gurgling merrily along its way. I noticed that no birds sang even as I stared at the red cylinder of the airboat that floated stationary to the north. I saw four of the Kho’rabi gathering wood, five bringing their spoils from the black carrier basket. The tenth-the wizard, I assumed-stood beneath the boat, his head tilted back, his arms spread wide. The disruption of the air surrounding the vessel was more noticeable as the shadows lengthened, an aura that shimmered and shifted like sunlit mist. Within it I saw the elementals more clearly. They were ethereal creatures, little more substantial than the aura itself, half the size of a man, all changing shades of blue and silver, with hints of darkness where eyes and mouths would be. I wondered what part they might take in the coming battle; and if Krystin’s magic should be strong enough to overcome them and the Kho’rabi wizard both.

Then I felt a tug on my arm and turned to find Barus calling me back: warily, I retreated.

We joined the others. I saw the Tryrsbry men had bows strung now. Krystin beckoned them close and whispered a report.

“We wait until sunset,” she said. “Let them settle to their dinner and think themselves safe. They build a fire, which shall light them for us. Loose your shafts on my order.”

“Horses?” Barus asked, and the commur-mage shook her blond head: “No, that slope’s too strewn with rubble, and we’d need bring the animals up beforehand. Arrows and a charge on foot is the way.”

The jennym nodded his agreement. I said, “What of the wizard?”

Krystin said, “He’s mine.”

I said, “And the elementals? What of them?”

She frowned and returned me, “What of them?”

I heard Barus snigger softly, as if I once more exhibited ignorance. I once more ignored him, frowning in my turn as I asked Krystin, “Shall they not fight for the Sky Lords?”

She smiled, but in a friendly manner, and said, “No. The Kho’rabi wizards bind the spirits to their cause, but they’ll offer us no hurt. Do they approach you, ignore them-they’re harmless.”

I said, “I’d thought …”

And fell silent as Barus murmured, “This Storyman knows little, eh?”

Krystin said, “Barus,” in a tone of reprimand and brought her face close to mine. We were both somewhat sweaty after our half day of hard riding, but hers was sweet and pleasantly musky. The breath that touched my face was sweeter still as she said, “The elementals owe no allegiance save what’s imposed on them by the Sky Lords’ magic. They are bound to their task by sorcery, not desire, and once the Kho’rabi wizard dies, they’ll run free. Think of them as a team of horses hitched to the airboat.”

I nodded, digesting this information. It occurred to me that a team of stampeding horses could be dangerous, but Krystin seemed confident, and so I said nothing. She smiled; I returned it, thinking that she was very beautiful. Not as my Rwyan, but in the manner of ancient statues, as if she were Danae come down from her mountains to once more hunt the earth.

Barus, who had followed our exchange and appeared to like it not at all, said in a carefully modulated voice, “He’s no weapon save that dagger.”

I grinned at him, motioned him to wait, and crept down to the horses.

The gray mare eyed me irritably as I approached, and I murmured gently, seeking to reassure her; willing her the while to remain silent. She tossed her head and stamped a hoof, but the carpet of pine needles dulled the sound, and she-the God bless her-only huffed air. I stroked her neck, thinking that there were considerable advantages to a mount trained for cavalry work, and took my staff from the saddle. It was a length of hickory thick around as my wrist, and slightly taller than I. Each end was capped with metal, and the entire length was banded with metal rings into which were etched the symbols of my calling. Trained as I was in the use of a quarterstaff, it was a weapon to be reckoned with. I brought it back to where my companions waited and flourished it at Barus.

He eyed it dubiously and shrugged. Krystin, however, nodded and said, “It will do, needs must. But go wary.”

I smiled at her and said, “Lady, this shall not be my first skirmish with Kho’rabi.” Then I feared she should think I boasted (which I did) and added, “And all well, your bowmen shall slay them before it comes to close quarters.”

“All well,” she murmured, and looked to the sky. “So, now we wait.”

“You did well to bring word.”

I looked up to find Krystin close. She rested on her elbows, her hair spilling back from her sculpted features. Her tunic did little to conceal the shape beneath. I shrugged and said, “It was fortunate you were in Brynisvar.”

She turned her head, brushing back an errant wave of pale gold, her eyes firm on mine. “Perhaps it was destiny,” she said.

I found her gaze and her tone both disconcerting. “Perhaps,” I said.

She smiled, looking past me to where Barus lay, and lowered her voice so that I must draw closer to hear: “Pay no heed to Barus. He’s a jealous man, even without the right.”

I felt further confused. I shrugged again and said, “Certainly, he seems not to like me much.”

“There are few he does like,” she said, “and none who are not of the West Coast.”

“You’re not,” I said. “Of the West Coast.”

“No.” She shook her head so that it seemed for a moment she was encompassed in curtains of light. “I was born in Tannisvar. The College sent me here to serve Yrdan.”

“Aeldor of Tryrsbry?” I asked.

She said, “Yes.”

I asked her, “How long have you been Tryrsbry’s commur-mage?”

She said, “A year. Arlyss, who was commur-mage before me, was slain by the Sky Lords.”

“Not long, then,” I said, thinking that we were of an age, and that she had established her authority well in so short a time. “Yet Barus accepts you readily enough-for one not West Coast born.”

She chuckled softly and said, “My sex and my calling give me certain advantages, Daviot.”

I said, “Yes,” and saw white teeth flash as her lips parted.

Across the valley the sun touched rimrock. Below, darkness gathered. I heard the wind sigh through the pines. It was almost time. I looked to Krystin and found her studying my face, her lips still curved in a smile entirely enigmatic.

She said, “When this is done, shall you come back to Tryrsbry?”

I nodded, and she said, “Good.” Then she stretched, prompting me to think of cats, and said, “So. Do we go about our business?”

I took up my staff. I saw a soldier pass Krystin a bow, a quiver filled with arrows fletched in black and silver and red. To my left, Barus had a shaft already nocked, a tight savage smile on his mouth. We began to climb. Behind us the sun fell rapidly, as if, having touched the topmost peaks, it was drawn down to wherever it went at night. In balance, the shadow that had filled the valley bottom began to climb the slope. Stars showed, and a quarter-filled moon. Bats fluttered overhead. Apart from the sound of the wind, these hills were very quiet.

We reached the crest, and there was noise. A fire crackled, spitting sparks at the darkened sky, outlining the Kho’rabi, who talked as they lounged about the blaze. It was strange to hear them speak; stranger still the vague familiarity of their tongue, as if I could almost understand. I counted the full complement: they had set no watch. Nor did they wear their black armor, which stood in neat piles away from the fire. The airboat was a red shadow along the valley, the sigils on its flanks glowing faintly. I could no longer discern the elementals. I saw the Tryrsbry warriors spread along the hogback. I was to Krystin’s right, Barus to her left. The jennym wet a thumb, held it to the wind. Krystin took two shafts from her quiver, cupping each head in right and left hands. She whispered something I could not hear and blew softly into each fist. Then she stabbed one arrow lightly into the ground and nocked the other. She looked to Barus and nodded, then both rose to a kneeling position, bowstrings coming back to touch their cheeks as they sighted down the shafts. I saw a Sky Lord spring to his feet, head cocked as he peered toward our position. I thought: The wizard; he senses magic. “Now!”

Krystin loosed her arrow as she shouted, the second readied before the echo came back off the far valley wall. The Kho’rabi who had climbed to his feet took three steps back as the shaft struck his chest. It was driven deep, but still he raised his hands, pointing at our position. He did his best to speak-to voice a cantrip, I guessed-but Krystin’s arrow had pierced a lung and blood filled his mouth, slurring his words. I saw a glow, like witchfire, dance about his outthrust hands, and then the slim column of the second arrow sprout beside the first. His spell died stillborn. The blood that came from his mouth was black in the firelight. The witchfire radiance shone bright an instant and then was gone. He fell down, his arms spread wide, and for a while his legs kicked, propelling him back as if he sought to flee. Then he was still.

The dusk was full of shouting now and that particular whistling an arrow makes as it travels its deadly path. The Tryrsbry bowmen were expert: their shafts flew straight and true. The Kho’rabi fell around their fire, most barely to their feet, two as they drew blades. I heard Barus roar and joined unthinking in the rush down the slope. I saw Krystin drive her short-sword deep between the wizard’s ribs, slash his throat. I saw a Sky Lord before me. He was on his knees and wore two arrows in his chest, and blood came in long streamers from his parted lips. His breath was a choking exhalation. I thought he looked no monster, stripped of his dread armor, but only a hurting man, not much different in appearance from we Dhar. I thought of what I had seen that noonday, at the farm: I stove in his ribs and windpipe. I looked about, seeking another, and saw a warrior from whose belly and left shoulder shafts protruded swing his blade awkwardly at Barus. The jennym parried the cut and returned a sideways swing-the stroke Keran dubbed the Headsman. The Sky Lord’s skull was parted from his neck. I sprang away as liquid gouted. All around the Tryrsbry men dispatched those Kho’rabi not slain by the arrows; slit the throats of those already dead.

Suddenly, from where the airboat hung, there came a loud rustling, a wailing akin to a building wind. It grew in volume, rapidly, until it was a howling fit to pierce the ears. I saw the sigils on the vessel’s sides pulsate, brightening so that they stood out clear in the darkness. Several of the Tryrsbry men pressed hands protective to their heads. I stared, my own ears ringing, threatening to burst. It seemed there was something of triumph in the howling, as if myriad thin voices rose in gleeful chorus. It reached a crescendo, and I felt myself buffeted as by a wind. For an instant I saw leering faces flutter around me. I felt spectral hands tug at my hair, touch my face. It was like the caress of falling snow. I looked into the blank dark eyes of the elementals. I saw them whirl about the fire, stirring the blaze to a conflagration. I saw them hover above the dead Kho’rabi wizard, long fingers plucking at his wounds, dabbling in his spilled blood. Then they gathered about Krystin, a whirlwind of flickering, barely visible shapes that stroked her cheeks and hair. Some few clutched at her hands; I swear one kissed her on the lips. Then they were gone, rushing into the night sky, lost to sight.

I stood rooted to the spot. I thought on what a tale I should have to tell. I looked toward the airboat, thinking it a great prize. Perhaps with that for a trophy, our sorcerers would learn the secrets of the Sky Lords; perhaps learn the manner of the craft’s construction, plumb the secrets of its propulsion. We might find the means to build our own and meet the Sky Lords in aerial combat.

The airboat exploded.

It sounds dramatic in the telling-the airboat exploded!-but in reality it was not. It was not like the airboats I had seen destroyed over Durbrecht or the Fend. There was no fireball, no blast of sound and fury. Instead, it seemed to sigh, not much louder than the wind amongst the pines, or a tired horse. It tugged on the cords connecting it to the basket, drifting a little way south as the wind took it, no longer held by the power of the trapped elementals. Then the sigils blazed, tongues of flame-real, not occult-licked at the sides, and there was a soft report. The airboat collapsed inward, like an emptied wineskin. For a moment the night was bright with its burning, malodorous with sulphur stench. I watched aghast as it fell onto the basket and all was consumed.

Krystin interpreted my expression. “It is ever thus,” she said. “The Kho’rabi wizards set magicks on the craft, that we not capture one.”

I said, “I had hoped we might. We could learn much.”

She answered me, “As did I, the first time. But it seems the boats are bound by sorcery to their captains-the wizard’s death both frees the elementals and ensures the destruction of the boat.”

“Then …” I said, and broke off as she turned to Barus.

“Do you see these burned.” She gestured at the bodies, which the jennym set to heaving onto the two fires. To me she said, “Should we not try to take a wizard alive? Was that to be your question, Daviot?”

I nodded.

Krystin chuckled, not unkindly, and shook her head. “No Kho’rabi is ever taken alive,” she said. “Neither warrior nor wizard. We’ve tried it and lost good men in the attempt; without success. That we can slay them must be enough-at least these shall not carry word of our defenses to their masters.”

I said, “No,” and put a hand over my nostrils as the corpses began to burn.

We rode some way from the scene of our ambush before we halted. I suspected Krystin was as anxious as I to put distance between us and the funeral pyres. Surely she rode in silence, seeming lost in her own thoughts. Perhaps she used her talent to communicate our victory. I was not sure, nor did she vouchsafe me an explanation or I see fit to question her. I hoped to do that later, for my head was abuzz with all I’d seen this day. For now, however, I curbed my tongue. And then, when we reined in, we were busy awhile with the picketing of the horses, the construction of a fire, and the preparation of food. I did my share, tending the gray mare, evading the teeth she snapped at me even as I hoped I might be gifted the beast. Temper or no, she was a sound runner and would be a boon in my wandering. I rubbed her down and watered her, left her cropping grass as I went to the fire.

The Tryrsbry men were sharing boasts of their prowess, passing a wineskin back and forth as they spoke of past battles. Barus was with them, giving me a dour look as I came close. Krystin sat a little way off, and I went toward her, then hesitated, thinking perhaps she preferred solitude. She looked up and touched the grass at her side. I smiled and settled there. The moon was high by now, filling the clearing she had chosen with a wan light. It transformed her hair to silver, her features even more statuesque.

“You fought well,” she said.

“A wounded man?” I shook my head. “There’s little valor in such killing.”

She shrugged, nodded, said, “He was a Kho’rabi. To slay a Kho’rabi is to fight well. One less enemy.”

I made no reply.

She said, “They’d destroy us, Daviot. They’d have this land and see we Dhar slain to the last child.”

I said, “Yes. I know that, but even so …”

She was percipient; she said, “What other choice do they leave us? With the Sky Lords, it’s kill or be killed, nothing else.”

I sighed and said, “I know; and I’ve done my share. But even so … sometimes I grow weary of it. Sometimes I wish it were otherwise.”

“But it’s not,” she said.

I thought her about to say more, but then Barus stood before us, a callused finger pointed at my chest. “Do you ply your trade, Storyman,” he said, “and entertain us with a tale.”

His breath was perfumed with the wine that thickened his tongue, and it was less request than demand. From the corner of my eye I saw Krystin stiffen, her features contoured with irritation. I had no great liking for his manner, but neither any wish to provoke an argument with refusal: I nodded curtly and climbed to my feet.

The others of the troop were of more genial manner than the surly jennym and welcomed me with enthusiasm as I settled by their fire. Krystin joined us, and I paused a moment, selecting the tale. I decided they should hear of Ramach and the battle of Cambar Wood: it fit my odd mood well that I should tell of a victorious aeldor leaving the hurst a monument to the fallen. My audience was dutifully silent as I spoke, and I ended with my own experience there.

When I was done, Barus snorted and said, “Foolishness! The God-cursed Sky Lords deserve no monuments. The flames are enough for them.”

I said, “The aeldor Ramach deemed them brave; worthy foes.”

“Then Ramach was a fool.” He reached for the wineskin, tilting it to his mouth. “The Sky Lords are a blight on our land, and I’d not honor them.”

Krystin said, “Barus,” her tone a warning. He turned away, refusing to meet her eyes, and she looked to me with a smile. “Do you give us another, Daviot?”

I said, “As you wish,” and told them of Fyrach and the Great Dragon.

I am not sure why I chose that particular story. Perhaps I felt it occupied ground sufficiently neutral that Barus should be mollified. Perhaps I looked to investigate their feelings in regard to the dragons. Whichever, the one worked, and the other told me no more than I knew already. All listened attentively, and all save Barus voiced approval when I was done. One even said, “What allies the dragons would make now, eh?”

That elicited laughter, in which I joined, though I then said, “Could we but find them again and persuade them to our cause.”

Krystin said, “Yes. Were they not dead.”

I said, “Can we be sure they are? Might some not live still?”

The commur-mage shrugged, offering no response.

I said, “Of course, to find them would mean crossing the country of the wild Changed.”

She gave me a look then that was oddly familiar. I recognized it in a memory: Rekyn had worn that same expression once. So, too, had Rwyan, when I had spoken of my fantasies, though then I had been more concerned with other matters, and not so much interested in plumbing her knowledge as the secrets of her body.

“Storyman’s fancies,” Barus grunted. “Dragons? The dragons are gone, and no Trueman dirties his feet in the soil of Ur-Dharbek.”

“The wild Changed live there,” I said, “and surely dirt is dirt, wherever it lies.”

The jennym spat and found a second wineskin. When he had swallowed-deep-he said, “Changed dirt is not for Truemen. Who’d consort with such beasts? The Changed are animals, no more. The God knows, they were created for dragon fodder, and they’re good for nothing else.”

It was too much: into my mind’s eye came an image of Urt, who was certainly no animal, whose company I much preferred to this uncouth fellow. I said, “In Durbrecht I named a Changed my friend.”

It was a challenge and recognized as such. Silence fell, and for a moment it seemed even Barus was lost for words. He tossed the wineskin aside and stared at me. His expression suggested he looked on an abomination. When he spoke, his voice was cold for all its wine-rough slurring.

“Are you then a Trueman? Or did your mother lie with beasts?”

In the timber an owl sounded. The crackling of the fire was suddenly very loud. It seemed the wind held back its breath. I heard a horse nicker softly. My staff lay at my feet; Barus’s long blade was sheathed and rested across his thighs.

Krystin said, “Barus! You go too far.”

He smiled, not looking at her but straight at me. I thought he seemed more bestial than any Changed. I met his stare and said, “No, my father was a Trueman. Aditus, he is called.” I was pleased my voice remained so calm. I paused deliberately and asked him, “Did you know your father’s name?”

It was a crude sally, but subtlety was wasted on such as he. Someone chuckled nervously. Barus’s face flushed dark, his lips thinned in a snarl of unalloyed rage. I saw his right hand close about his sword’s hilt. I saw the blade slide out a little way. I tensed.

“Enough! I tell you both-enough!”

Krystin had not moved or touched her own sword. She had no need-there was such authority in her voice we both froze. I felt immediately embarrassed that I had allowed my irritation a hold, that I had sunk to the jennym’s level. Barus rammed his sword home in the scabbard. His eyes were narrowed, as if he fixed my face in his memory, and there was the promise of murder there.

“Barus, I’ll not Warn you a second time. You insult a guest of Tryrsbry Keep, and do you continue you’ll answer to Yrdan. After me.” It seemed her eyes shone as she glared at him. I thought of the two, it should likely be her punishment was the worse. Then she turned that blue gaze on me. “And you, Daviot-is this fitting for a Storyman? To trade insults like some common tavern brawler?”

I shook my head and said, “No. My apologies, lady.”

“I’m no lady,” she returned me, echoing Rekyn, “and what apology you offer is best directed at Barus, not me.”

I caught my refusal before it was voiced and said, “My apologies, jennym.”

Barus said nothing. Krystin said, “Barus …”

He scowled, less like a warrior in that moment than a willful child caught in some mischief.

“Barus …”

He said, “My apologies, Storyman,” and promptly rose to his feet, kicking the wineskin aside as he strode into the shadows.

Krystin rose and went after him. I wondered what transpired between them. I could not believe they were lovers, nor could I hear what was said. I felt a hand nudge me and turned to find the wineskin proffered. I murmured thanks and swallowed long. The soldier who had passed it me said, “Barus makes a bad enemy, Storyman. Best watch your back do you linger in the keep.”

I nodded and asked him, “Why does he take such objection to me?”

The soldier glanced away, ascertaining Barus was gone out of earshot before he said, “He’d bed our commur-mage, would she but have him.” He chuckled and winked lewdly. “But she’ll not, and that puts him in foul temper. The worse that he sees the way Krystin favors you.”

Late the next day we arrived in Tryrsbry. It was a sizable place, a good many leagues inland, the town spreading across the mouth of a fertile valley, the keep perched above, a little way up the north wall. A river descended the slope there, its course shifted to moat the hold, and we clattered across a wooden bridge into the yard. It was not so grand a keep as Thyrsk’s tower in Arbryn but more akin to Cambar, plain for all I could see this was a wealthy bailiwick.

We left our mounts to be stabled, Krystin taking me with her to meet Yrdan. Barus prowled like some foul-tempered black dog alongside. Since that night we had not spoken, and whilst he had offered no further insult, he did not conceal his dislike. I was minded of the friendly soldier’s advice-to watch my back.

The aeldor’s welcome went some way to compensate for his jennym’s animosity. We found him in private chambers, engaged in a game of catch-dice with his wife and two daughters, who-fortunately for them-favored their mother. Yrdan was an ugly man. He wore the typical dark locks and swarthy skin of a westcoaster, but his nose was huge and hooked, and his jaw excessively broad, displaying twin rows of overlarge and entirely separate teeth as he smiled. He was short and his legs were bowed, so that he must tilt back his head to find my eyes. In stark contrast to his looks, his temperament was sunny, and he greeted us with a cheerful roar, embracing Krystin as if she were kin, shaking my hand, and shouting for a daughter to pour us ale before he took report of our encounter with the Sky Lords.

Krystin’s account was succinct, and when she was done, Yrdan said to me, “I bid you welcome, Daviot Storyman. You’ve bed and board in Tryrsbry as long as you choose. Now, do you tell the tale?”

I agreed readily and told him all I had witnessed. After, he nodded and said, “That was well done,” then laughed as he slapped his malformed thighs. “I’d not have managed such a race. And nor shall you again. Do you take that horse as my thanks-gift?”

I said, “You are kind, my lord.”

He returned me, “Yrdan, Daviot.” Then he winked: “And, am I honest with you, there’s few with much liking for that mare, and she with none for anyone.”

“She has something of temper,” I agreed solemnly.

Yrdan bellowed laughter and beckoned his wife and daughters forward. “I am remiss,” he said. “I forget my courtly manners in this rough place. So …”

His wife was named Raene, and she stood a head taller than her husband. She possessed that sultry handsomeness common to the women of the West Coast, and her beauty was emphasized by his homeliness. I noticed, however, that when her eyes fell on him (which was frequently), they were filled with an absolute adoration. The daughters-Danae and Kyra-were as lovely as their mother, of marriageable age (I soon learned they were courted by the sons of several neighbors), and of dispositions akin to their father’s. It was a cheerful audience, marred only by Barus’s darkly looming presence.

Soon enough, though, the jennym left to attend his soldierly duties, and Yrdan suggested Krystin show me to my quarters. The commur-mage led me to a chamber on an upper level, a simple room but furnished comfortably and with a splendid view along the valley. She left me there, promising to send servants with hot water, and her company to the dining hall. I saw that her chambers were across the corridor.

Not long after, four Changed brought in a tub. I thanked them, seeking in their faces and their replies some indication as to the keep’s attitude to their kind. Yrdan and his family had treated me well, but I was a Trueman, and I thought perhaps their benevolence did not extend to those beast-bred, that perhaps Barus expressed the common feeling.

The servants, however, seemed quite at ease, answering me with smiles, and I decided that the jennym was likely extreme in his views. Indeed, this was confirmed when I repaired to the dining hall. The Changed I saw there appeared happy, exchanging pleasantries with the men of the warband and their womenfolk; all save Barus and a handful of others, whom they treated with a wary deference. Yrdan accorded them much the same casual courtesy as he dealt the few Trueman servitors, and-Barus and his cohorts apart-I thought the Changed well served in this friendly keep.

It was a fine meal, and I enjoyed it and the company in equal measure. I was honored with a seat at the high table, between Danae and Kyra, whose questions occupied me throughout. They were a flirtatious pair, and I was grateful for the lessons taught me in Durbrecht, that I was able to meet their sallies without discomfort or offense: I had no wish to upset so genial a host as Yrdan. Even so, I was somewhat relieved when the aeldor rescued me from their attentions with the request I entertain the hall with a story or two.

I chose the tale of Mallach the Swordsmith, and that of Aedyl Whitehair, and both were received so well, a third was called for. I spoke of Corun and the Witch of Elandur, and the hour was late before I was done.

Yrdan called a halt then, thanking me for my tales and repeating his offer of hospitality for so long as I cared to remain in Tryrsbry. I told him I would linger there awhile, for now that I had a sound horse to carry me south, I might journey more leisurely. He chuckled at that, and winked, and tapped his massive nose, declaring me caught by his cunning gift. Even on such short acquaintance, I liked this aeldor greatly.

The candles that lit the corridors were guttered low as Krystin and I returned to the floor we shared. The commur-mage had shed her black and silver leathers for a gown of dark blue, and her hair was bound up in a net of silver set with little beads of jet. Her neck was long and slender, and she now appeared entirely feminine, without hint of the martial air her travel gear afforded. We came to my door and halted.

I said, “Goodnight, Krystin.”

She gave no answer, only looked at me. In the dim light her eyes were dark, unfathomable. She put a hand to her head, removing the net, and shook her hair loose. I stood silent, watching the play of light over her blond tresses. She took my hand and drew me toward her chambers; and I did not resist.

There was an outer room lit by a single lantern, across which she led me to a sleeping chamber. That was dark, save for the faint moonlight entering through the open window. It fell on a wide bed. She closed the door behind us and faced me.

I said, “Krystin …”

I am unsure how I might have finished that sentence because Krystin placed her hands around my neck and kissed me, and she needed no sorcery save her presence after that. It had been so long since last I lay with any woman.

She told me, after, that I spoke Rwyan’s name. I apologized, and she said it did not matter, though I think it did, and in those later nights I was more careful and said only “Krystin.”

“Shall this not make problems for you?” I asked.

She lay within the compass of my arms, her cheek against my chest, her hair a soft golden fan that shifted gently as she spoke.

“I’ve no lover in this keep.” Her breath was warm against my skin. “Before, in Durbrecht-but here, no.” “Barus would have you,” I said.

She snorted laughter and rose on her elbows to rest her weight on me, all down the length of my body. I felt myself begin to stir again as she spoke.

“We cannot always have what we want, eh?” Her smile was mischievous and seductive. “And poor Barus shall never have me. You, though …” Her hand moved, sliding between us. She laughed again, softer. “You, though, Daviot …”

Later, as the first pale hint of dawn lit the sky, she said, “Likely Barus shall not dare offend you further. Surely not within the precincts of the keep. But still, perhaps best you stay close by me.”

I nodded gravely and said, “I shall, Krystin. I shall endeavor to remain as close as possible.”

“How close?” she asked. “Do you show me?”

I did, and then we fell asleep, our limbs entwined.

It was full light when we woke, and later ere we rose to dress and break our fast. I was very hungry.

We went smiling to the dining hall and begged some bread and tea from the Changed servants, who were by now preparing for the midday meal. Those of the household we encountered smiled as they saw us, and when the warband found us deep in conversation they chuckled and muttered amongst themselves. I could guess the direction of their comments. Barus saw us and scowled blacker than ever, but he said nothing to me or Krystin, only found himself a chair and shouted for ale. Nor did Yrdan or Raene do more than smile benignly on us, though Danae and Kyra both giggled together and gave us long, appraising looks, as if they shared some secret with us.

That afternoon Krystin showed me the town. It was, as I had surmised, a prosperous place. There were taverns and squares where, in the days that followed, I pursued my calling, crowds gathering to hear my tales. It seemed my reputation grew, and that was a boon, for it enabled me to speak with more of the common folk, to assess their mood, as the College had ordered. I found them mostly careless of the Sky Lords’ threat, for there had been no raids in this vicinity and they trusted in Yrdan and his commur-mage to protect them. They had heard of the craft that approached Brynisvar; that it had been destroyed with all its crew served to reinforce their confidence. I thought them complacent. I thought this West Coast had been fortunately sheltered.

I voiced my thoughts to Yrdan and for a while saw his mien grow serious. There was, he agreed, a feeling on this side of Dharbek that the Sky Lords were no great danger. “But fear not, Daviot,” he said. “Does it come to fighting, the West Coast shall take its part. Meanwhile”-he smiled and tapped that massive nose, leaning closer as if to impart a secret-“Kherbryn promises us engineers, that we may build those war-engines that defend the cities of the east. Gahan sends them to us even now, I hear.”

I was relieved to hear such news and thought once again that perhaps I took too much on myself, assumed a weight of responsibility beyond my station. Surely it was vanity to think that I alone was aware of the terrible danger the Sky Lords represented. These aeldors were not fools, nor blind; neither were the sorcerers. To think I was the only one who saw the danger was to insult them: I vowed to curb my ego.

So the days passed, happily. If aught marred them, it was my curiosity, for I retained my desire to question Krystin on the matter of the wild Changed.

She was not, of course, always with me. Three times she rode out after sightings of the airboats, and she had duties to which she must attend, and some of those private. But when we were apart, she contrived to leave me in company of friends or find some task for Barus that ensured we should not meet. As much as she was able, she stayed with me, and there grew between us a friendship perhaps more lasting than our transitory passion. It was on that that I relied for satisfaction of my curiosity.

We had ridden out one morning, along the valley into the wilder country beyond. We took with us food and a skin of wine, and when the hot summer sun approached its zenith, we halted where a brook traversed a little tree-girt meadow. I remember the sky was a cloudless blue, and the lazy buzz of insects. Our horses grazed some little distance off, apart-my mare had, it seemed, no more fondness for her own kind than for mine. Krystin and I stretched languidly on the sward, sharing the wineskin. I felt wonderfully comfortable.

I said, “Krystin, do you tell me of the wild Changed?”

For an instant I saw her beautiful face assume the cold stillness of a statue. I was uncertain what I saw in her eyes, for she sat up, denying me clear sight, but I thought it anger, or doubt, or even disappointment.

She said, “What of them, Daviot?”

Her voice was entirely normal. It sounded uninterested, even bored, as if she felt there were far better topics to discuss on such a day, in such a place. I suspected the tone assumed.

I said, “I don’t know. Only that whenever I’ve asked a sorcerer about them, I see a particular expression, as if I trespass on forbidden ground. And none give plain answers.”

“Perhaps there are none to give,” she said; then laughed. “Perhaps we sorcerers guard our secrets.”

I sensed prevarication and said, “Is it forbidden you speak of them, tell me, and I’ll hold my silence.”

Her laugh was entirely genuine then. “And shall you curb that Storyman’s curiosity, my love? Is such a thing possible?”

I shrugged, knowing the answer; not wanting to voice it.

She said, “Did your Rwyan not tell you?”

(Such was our relationship that we had told one another of our lost lovers and sometimes spoke their names without fear of giving hurt.)

“Not much,” I said. “No more than anyone does.”

“And how much is that?” she asked.

I said, “That they dwell in Ur-Dharbek, put there by the first sorcerers as”-Barus’s term seemed most apt-“dragon fodder. That those Changed liberated by their owners may cross the Slammerkin if they wish, but none may come back. I’ve the feeling the Border Cities are no longer defense against the dragons but are there to hold out the wild Changed. And if the dragons are dead, then surely Ur-Dharbek must now be a veritable kingdom of the Changed.”

Krystin laughed again. Perhaps too lightly? I was not sure. She said, “Perhaps it is. What matter? Do the freed ones choose to cross the Slammerkin, why would they come back?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“And what you don’t know troubles you, eh?” She turned onto her belly, chin cupped in her hands as she regarded me, hair that captured sunlight falling across her face. “By the God, Daviot, you’re a Storyman.”

I nodded and smiled. “To learn is my duty,” I declared.

“And shall you next seek the secrets of my calling?” she asked.

I said, “I’ve not that talent.” I smiled as I said it, but I was nonetheless aware she gave me no answers.

She hesitated a moment, plucking a frond of grass that she placed between her teeth, nibbling. Then she said, “We say little of the wild Changed because we know little of them. Ur-Dharbek is closed to us-no Trueman goes there, and we sorcerers are no exception.”

“But,” I said, and paused, feeling myself on uncertain ground, “why not?”

Krystin answered me with, “Why should we? Is Dharbek too small for you? Would you conquer this kingdom of the Changed?”

I said, “No. But still I wonder. Urt would not speak of the place, either.”

“Perhaps Urt knew no more than I,” she said. “Which is little enough more than you.”

“Are you not curious?” I asked.

She said bluntly, “No. I’ve enough here in Tryrsbry to occupy me. I’ve the Sky Lords, for one thing.”

I said, “Yes, of course. But even so …”

She tossed her grass blade away and rolled onto her back, reaching for my hand. “Even so, my Storyman. I’ve not your thirst for knowledge. I am but a humble commur-mage, with a keep to protect; I’m happy with my lot. Though I could be made happier….”

She drew my hand-closer. She had removed her tunic and wore only breeks and a shirt of fine silk. Thin silk that clung like a second skin, and no undergarments. I felt the warmth of her flesh and the quickening beat of her heart. I put my curiosity aside. I did not, then, consider that perhaps she evaded my questions. I did not, then, care.

That came later, and even then I was not sure. Perhaps it was only coincidence. Perhaps Krystin had no hand in it; or no more hand than her duty demanded.

What happened was that three days later, I was ordered to quit Tryrsbry.

I had known I must, but the days had melted one into the next, and I had lingered longer than I should, even with a horse to carry me on. I had set the decision aside, aware that the sorcerers in the keeps I had already visited would send word back to Durbrecht; aware that Krystin would have reported my arrival and should report my departure when it came. Perhaps it was only that. But I could not help but wonder that the order came so soon after that abortive conversation. The timing was such as fitted the sending of an occult message and the returning of an answer.

Krystin told me as we prepared for the evening meal. She had been about her sorcerous business that afternoon, and I had passed the day in the town. This was our first time alone since morning.

She took my hands and looked into my eyes. “Word came from Durbrecht,” she said abruptly. “You are commanded to go on.”

She looked sad. I believe she was, for all we had both known from the start this must come. I felt a coldness in my belly-as before, with Rwyan, I thought that knowing a thing and accepting it were very different. I swallowed and ducked my head. She put her arms about my neck and kissed me lengthily.

When we drew apart she said, “Tomorrow. Daviot, I am sorry.”

I nodded and stroked her cheek. I said, “Yes.” I did not know what else to say. I felt that an interval had ended, an idyll stolen from out of time.

She smiled. I thought of tragic statues. For a while we stood in silence, holding one another. Then Krystin said, “I shall not forget you, Storyman.”

I said, “Nor I you, my commur-mage.”

“You’d not, eh?” She chuckled. I did not feel much like laughing, but I forced myself. She said, “So, do we go down with brave faces?”

I said, “Yes.”

Yrdan was already informed and promised me such provisions as should see me comfortably through to the next keep, which was Cymbry. I thanked him for his largesse, and when the meal was done, I believe I excelled myself in my storytelling, for all I felt no great enthusiasm. All the time I could see Barus smirking. I was determined he should not see my melancholy.

Krystin and I slept little that night. We said our farewells with few words and came the morning went out to the stables, attended by Yrdan and his family. The aeldor clasped my hand, and Raene embraced me; both daughters planted moist kisses on my cheek. I held Krystin a last time, then mounted the gray mare, who snorted and set to prancing. I raised a hand in farewell and heeled my irritable horse to a canter. I did not look back.

Tryrsbry lay a league or more behind me when I heard the hoofbeats. I was making for the coast road, thinking the sight of the sea should cheer my megrims. The trail was broad, winding up the flank of a shallow valley where cork oaks grew, and I could see the rider coming fast after me. I reined in, thinking some messenger was sent from Yrdan’s keep; I was curious as to why. The morning was bright and I squinted, seeking to recognize the horseman. It was not Krystin-that blond head I should have known instantly-and I waited at the road’s center. I saw an unfamiliar bay stallion, a man in the leathers of the warband in the saddle. As he came closer, I recognized Barus. Almost, I took my staff from its bucket; then thought better of it. The jennym would surely offer me no harm, and I’d no wish to be the first to make a hostile move.

He snatched his mount to a brutal halt, wheeling the animal in a circle that lifted dust in a swirling cloud. I saw that he wore no armor and that his long sword was hung across his back. He studied me in silence, his face begrimed. His horse blew hard. There was a lather of yellowish sweat on its chest and neck.

I said, “Day’s greetings, jennym.”

He said, “Thought you to depart without an accounting between us, Storyman?”

I frowned, for all I could guess the reason, and said, “An accounting? An accounting for what?”

He said, “For insults given. For … Krystin.”

I realized I had been wrong in thinking he would not offer me harm. I watched his face, awaiting those telltale signs that warn of attack. I thought that he could free his blade and swing before I might bring my staff from its fixings. I set my knees firm against the mare’s ribs, and she, trained for battle, blew her own whistling challenge, her ears flattening. Barus’s mount answered with a snort. Its eyes rolled. I thought he had ridden the poor beast very hard, and so it might well respond slower. Still, I’d no great desire to fight him.

I said, “Barus, for insults given, I’ve apologized. As for Krystin-Krystin’s her own woman; the choice was hers to make.”

His nostrils flared, much like those of his horse. I saw his eyes narrow. He was bareheaded, his black thatch bound with a sweaty cloth. I thought that if I could land one sound blow against his skull, the impending combat should be ended. And then that a single cut from his sword should end it just as well. A quarterstaff is a most effective weapon (which is, of course, the reason the College gave us wanderers the poles), but it is a weapon best employed on foot. I thought that if he pressed the affair, I must endeavor to persuade him down from his horse, or seek to knock him down before he cut me.

He said, “Your cursed Storyman’s tongue beguiled her. Had you not come to Tryrsbry …”

I said, “I’m gone from Tryrsbry now. Do you pursue your suit.” I shrugged.

He shook his head, not taking his eyes from my face. “Too late,” he said. “What’s done is done.”

I said, “In the God’s name, Barus, this is pointless! What shall you achieve by fighting me?”

He corrected me: “By slaying you, Storyman.”

I ignored his interruption. I continued: “Yrdan will have your head. Think you my death shall bring Krystin to your bed? I tell you no.”

“How shall they know?” he asked, and smiled. I thought of snarling dogs, of rapacious wolves. He jabbed a dirty thumb in the direction of the timber. “Do I leave your body up there, amongst the trees … the Sky Lords, perhaps; or bandits. Whichever, time shall pass ere you’re found.”

“And my horse?” I asked him. “What of her? Shall she not return to her familiar stable, and so bring warning?”

That gave him pause, as I had hoped. He was, after all, one of Yrdan’s warband, and a horse was a thing prized and honored: he would hesitate to kill my mare.

I had underestimated his cunning and his hatred. He spat and said, “Your horse I’ll tether. It shall take her some time to break free.”

The mare whickered then, as if she understood the import of our conversation. She tossed her head, and I felt her tremble under me. I thought her anxious to give battle. Then I thought that Barus had first encountered me afoot: likely he allowed me but poor equestrian skills. I thanked Cleton for his lessons then; and Keran for all his. He it was had first told me an angry man may be weakened by his rage, that fury is a flame best burned cold.

I said, deliberately, “You’d stoop to murder then, like some common footpad. Does Yrdan know his jennym owns so little honor?”

He barked laughter. “The Headsman, bastard! As I slew that Kho’rabi, so shall I cut you to size.”

I said, “The Sky Lord was wounded, coward. He wore two arrows. Think you I shall be so easy?”

He gave me back, “Yes!” and brought his right hand up to the hilt of his long sword.

I gave my mare a length of rein. I drove my heels hard against her flanks, and she-sweet creature!-screamed and hurled herself forward, against the bay stallion.

Her chest struck the stallion as he reared in defense. He was blown by the gallop: he was slow. He screamed in turn, flung off balance. Barus was thrown atilt in the saddle, and his blade flailed empty air. I had my staff out from the bucket, and though I could not deliver a firm blow, I rammed the tip against the jennym’s chest. Barus made a sound midway between a shriek of rage and a cry of pain. I thrust again. He was thrown to the ground.

I sprang down, leaving my mare to her own fight, and ran around the snorting horses. Barus was clambering to his feet. His dark face was ugly, no longer like a dog’s but akin now to that of a wild boar brought to bay-all blind fury and the need to inflict harm. He was also fast as a boar, and near as strong. He saw my staff swing at his skull and succeeded in both gaining his feet and moving clear of the blow. My hopes of ending the battle swiftly evaporated. I held the staff in both hands, across my chest, advancing.

Barus roared and swung a double-handed cut; I raised my staff and beat it off. Seasoned hickory is almost as strong as iron, and this pole was bound and tipped with metal: I felt the impact, and so did the jennym. We each paced a step back, feinting, assessing one another.

I said, “A question, Barus-one you failed to answer. Did your mother know your father’s name?”

He gave me no reply save a blow. I said, “It’s common knowledge in the keep, Barus, that you’ll never have Krystin. They laugh at you.”

That sally (crude as the first, I admit; but I was fighting for my life) served its purpose: he screamed and delivered a flurry of blows. I countered, defensive at first, but then with knocks to ribs and forearms. He was a skilled swordsman, and powerful, and I knew that he needed land only one serious cut to take the victory; but I was no laggard with the quarterstaff. Also, he fought enraged, which state-as Keran often enough advised us-consumes energy fast, whilst I fought coldly. It was as when I had gone out against the Sky Lords in Durbrecht: I perceived Barus as an obstacle, a thing insensate, a receptacle for my own cold anger.

We drew apart. He was panting. I saw spittle slick on his chin. I said, “Krystin told me she’d as soon bed you as-”

The sentence went unfinished. With a howl of naked hatred, Barus launched a terrible attack. The long sword seemed weightless in his hands. It pounded against my guard, the staff vibrating, sparks flying as edged steel struck the metal banding. I retreated, aware that at my back two horses snorted. I thought they no longer fought, but I had no wish to find myself driven between them or against the hooves of either. I thought my mare as likely to kick me as my opponent. I deflected a blow and riposted, catching the jennym’s elbow. I saw his face pale at that and gave him two more steps, then cracked his elbow again.

He cursed, and his next cut was weaker. I risked a swift sidelong glance and saw the horses on the grass beside the road. They, it seemed, had settled their differences and now grazed between wary looks at us two. I backed a little way across the trail. Barus, his teeth bared, came at me. I parried and succeeded in tapping his elbow a third time. Could I but get past his guard to deliver a strong enough blow, I could shatter the bone. I thought that I had best not kill him, lest it be my head Yrdan took. Even so, I was tempted: I felt, now, that I had the victory in sight.

I retreated almost to the meadow, feigning weariness. I let the quarterstaff fall a little under the onslaught, as if the pole grew heavy in my hands. I aped the jennym’s panting. Barus glowered, his eyes now quite mad. He grunted a hoarse battle cry and lifted his blade high. I watched it rise and cringed. I saw triumph anticipated in his eyes. I sprang forward, my staff crisscrossing before me, fast. It landed twice, hard against his ribs, and then I swung the pole up, taking his descending cut and forcing his blade away to the side. For an instant we looked directly into one another’s eyes. His were wide and shocked. I reversed my stroke, dropping the staff to hook his knees. I knocked his legs from under him, and before his back touched the dirt of the trail I swung the staff against his skull.

I might have killed him with that blow, but I held back. I’d no wish to make an enemy of Yrdan, to find myself posted outlaw. Even so, I saw his eyes and mouth spring wide, then close. The sword fell at his side, and I stamped a boot down, trapping the blade. Barus groaned and stirred: he was remarkably strong. I tapped him, almost gently, on the point of his chin, and he lay still.

For a while I stood poised to strike again, thinking he perhaps feigned unconsciousness. When he made no further move, I kicked the sword away and stooped beside him. A colorful bruise was spreading down his right temple and cheek. I checked the pulses in his neck and wrists and listened a moment to his stertorous breath, assuring myself he lived. Then I rose and went to his horse.

The bay stallion showed me the whites of its eyes, pawing ground as I approached. I set my staff down and murmured to the beast, calming it enough that it allowed me to take its halter and lead it to where its master lay. I took Barus’s sword and used it as a tethering peg. Then I rummaged swiftly over the saddle, finding cords there sufficient to my purpose. I returned to Barus and hauled him up. He was heavy, and he moaned softly as I got him on his feet and lifted his arms across the saddle. The stallion stamped and nickered as I pushed the insensible jennym across its back. I lashed him in place and secured his sword. Then I looped the horse’s reins around the saddlehorn and slapped the beast’s rump. The stallion snorted a protest and cantered back the way it had come, back toward Tryrsbry. Barus flopped like a sack.

I watched until I was confident the animal would take him home and then went to my gray mare.

She looked up from her grazing and snapped yellow teeth at my hand as I took the reins. I forgave her: she had proven her usefulness this day. She showed no sign of wounds, and so I collected my staff and once more climbed astride, turning her up the slope.

As I rode away, I set to wondering how Barus would feel when he woke. I hoped he should regain consciousness before he reached the keep: his embarrassment would have been a thing to savor. I wondered what explanation he would offer. I realized that my melancholy had entirely disappeared. I began to laugh aloud.

When I reached Cymbry, I was met by the commur-magus of that keep. He was a thin, bald man, Cuentin by name, and he greeted me with a smile. He was dressed extravagantly for his calling and his sex, and I discerned a subtle rouging of his cheeks, a touch of kohl about his eyes. Rings glittered on his fingers.

“You’ll be Daviot the Storyman, I’d guess,” he said. “I’ve a message for you.”

I climbed down from the saddle, snatching the gray mare’s bridle as Cuentin made to stroke her neck and she made to bite his hand.

“She’s of somewhat sour temper,” I warned him. “A message, you say?”

He nodded, moving a few cautious steps clear of the horse. His eyes were so dark as to be almost devoid of white, but they sparkled with amusement as they studied my face. He said, “From Tryrsbry,” as if he savored his news and would draw its imparting out as long as possible. “From the commur-mage Krystin.”

I waited with ill-assumed patience. What message would Krystin send? I had not thought to see her or hear from her again. Like all those others from my past, all those who had shaped and formed my life, I had believed her left behind, living only in my memory. I had chosen to look ahead-I was not sure I wanted a message from Krystin.

Cuentin said, “It appears that the very day you quit Tryrsbry the jennym of Yrdan’s warband was set upon by brigands. Seven or eight, he claims-he was fortunate to survive.”

I held my face straight. I said, “Seven or eight, eh? He was indeed fortunate.”

Cuentin said, “Yes,” and I could see he struggled not to laugh. “A very strange attack, it was.”

I began to like this commur-magus. I chose to play his game and assumed an expression of curiosity. “How so, strange?” I asked him.

He said, “Well, as the jennym-Barus is his name, but you’d know that, I suppose-has it, he was out riding alone, when these seven or eight brigands sprang from ambush. He gave a fine account of himself, slaying at least three and wounding more, but then he was clubbed down and lost his senses. He remembers nothing after that.”

“Nothing?” I inquired.

“Nothing.” Cuentin paused, laughter hidden behind the clearing of his throat. Then he said, “It appears these brigands then secured him on his horse and set the beast free. It returned-by Krystin’s account-to Tryrsbry Keep with the valiant Barus slung across the saddle … How did she put it? Yes-like a sack of potatoes. Now, is that not strange? I wonder why these ferocious bandits let him live? And why they failed to take his horse? Think you there’s a story there, Daviot?”

Solemnly, I answered him, “It would seem so, Cuentin.” “But you’re southward bound,” he said, “so perhaps you’ll never learn it.”

“No,” I said. “Likely not.”

He nodded. “Krystin also said to bid you the God’s speed.”

I said, “For which, my thanks-to her and you.”

He smiled wide, his eyes moving from my face to the staff set beside my saddle. “That’s a sturdy pole,” he remarked casually. “I imagine it must serve you well.”

“It does,” I said. “At need.”

He said, “Yes,” and began to laugh aloud.

I could not help but join him, and he took my arm in a companionable way as we traversed the yard. As we came closer to the stables, he stifled his laughter and said more seriously, “I’ve encountered Barus a time or two, and he’s a surly fellow. Still, it does not do to spread rumors about a jennym, so perhaps we’d best keep this tale betwixt we two, eh?”

“Barus,” I said, “is not a fellow I care to think of much.”

“No,” Cuentin agreed. “You’ll find our Tevach more genial.” He smiled mischievously. “Perhaps because he’s no desire for me.”

“Nor I,” I said, not wishing there to be any misunderstanding between us.

Cuentin took no offense at this, but raised his hands in mock objection. “Fear not,” he said. “I understand from Krystin that your tastes lie elsewhere. Albeit they tend toward we sorcerers, eh?”

I smiled and nodded, waving back the Changed stableman who came to tend my mare. I warned him of her temperament, and he left me to unsaddle her, contenting himself with the preparation of a stall.

I was glad of the interruption, for Cuentin’s news disturbed me somewhat. Just as I had once before grown aware of societies overlapping one another-of Changed living amongst Truemen, simultaneously seen and invisible-so now I perceived that the sorcerers were a further layer in these complex, secretive strata. I had known my arrival and departure should be reported from keep to keep, but only that. It now seemed the sorcerers exchanged more detailed messages, gossip even. Perhaps it was only Krystin’s fondness for me that had prompted her to tell Barus’s tale to Cuentin, but it came unnervingly fast on the order to quit Tryrsbry, which had come soon after my questioning her about the wild Changed. I wondered if my progress was monitored. Perhaps I traveled under the cloud of my affair with Rwyan, my friendship with Urt. Perhaps the interest in the Changed I had shown in Durbrecht, my disobedience of the unwritten rules, yet branded me a rebel. It was an odd sensation to consider that I might be “watched” in this fashion; it was irksome to think that I could do nothing about it-was my burgeoning suspicion correct, I could hardly question Cuentin or any of his kind. To do so would only reinforce whatever doubts existed about my probity. If such doubts existed and my sudden unease was not solely a product of egotism.

I set to currying the mare, barely aware of her irritable snapping, instinctively avoiding the sudden lurches with which she sought to trap me against the bars of the stall. I finished tending my ungrateful horse and turned to the patient Cuentin.

“So,” he said, “do I bring you to Gunnar.”

I shouldered my saddlebags, took up my staff, and went with him into the tower of the keep.

By the time we found the aeldor, I had learned that he was wed to Dagma, had three sons-Donal, Connar, and Gustan-and a single daughter, Maere; that Dagma was pregnant, all three sons betrothed, and that Maere possessed a temper of erratic nature. Cuentin was a font of information.

I found the aeldor and his wife a solemn, even dour couple, and their sons not much different. By contrast, Maere, who was little more than a child, was a lively girl. All were dark, and all save Maere seemed to me of that West Coast character I had, overall, come to expect. Still, they made me welcome enough, and I remained in Cymbry some days.

While I was there, I was a dutiful Storyman. I asked no untoward questions, pried not at all, but only told my tales and thanked them for their praise. What questions I did ask were entirely within the aegis of my calling. I decided that if I were indeed monitored, it was not by the aeldors but by their sorcerers.

And if that were the case, Cuentin was a most subtle observer. I spent much time in his company and found him amusing and informative. From him I learned that the Sky Lords’ little airboats were seen with increasing frequency all over Dharbek, seeming not to concentrate on any particular area but randomly across the land, whilst the larger vessels had been seen not at all this year. With the aid of Gunnar’s jennym (who did indeed prove a most likable fellow), Cuentin had slain three groups of Kho’rabi. He spoke openly of the elementals harnessed to the Sky Lords’ purpose, and it came to me that not everyone saw the ethereal creatures so clearly as did I. It was Cuentin’s opinion that the blood gift that made him a sorcerer and me a Mnemonikos also granted us the ability to perceive the aerial spirits more readily. I wondered if that same blood rendered us more aware of the subtle currents flowing through our world, of the existence of societies within societies. That thought I kept to myself.

I rode once with him and Tevach after word came of a sighting, and I saw the Kho’rabi slain with the same efficiency as Krystin’s band had demonstrated. I once more witnessed the liberation of the elementals, and it was as strange and disquieting an experience as before. I asked Cuentin his opinion of such magic and got back no more answers than before.

“It lies beyond my ken,” he told me. “Their sorcery takes a weirdling path. And the God knows, do they bring it to full strength”-his lips curved in sour approximation of a smile-“then we shall see the Great Coming, and Dharbek fight for her life.”

To hear this voiced by one usually so sanguine was somehow more alarming than those predictions issued by folk of more saturnine disposition. I said, “And what of you sorcerers?”

I realized we had begun to speak in terms of conclusion, not supposition. It was an ugly realization.

Cuentin shrugged wearily. “Shall we be enough?” he asked. “The God knows, the sorcerous talent is hardly commonplace. The College is already depleted to strengthen the Sentinels; all Dharbek’s scoured for initiates-with not much success. Do the Sky Lords come in force …”

He shrugged again, letting the sentence tail away like the filthy smoke rising from the pyre. I chose then to take a chance: the moment, and the direction of our conversation, were opportune. I asked him, “What of the Border Cities? Might sorcerers not come from those?”

He answered me without, I felt, forethought. “And leave the Slammerkin undefended? Unwise, my friend.” Then he broke off, his dark eyes suddenly enigmatic. I could not tell if I had caught him off guard. “There are fewer of us to man the Border Cities now, scarce enough to ward all Dharbek. And as we know naught of the land beyond … What if the Sky Lords grounded across the Slammerkin? What if they established themselves in Ur-Dharbek? We might then face landward invasion from the north, besides the aerial attack. No, better hold the Border Cities manned against that danger than risk the Kho’rabi coming over the Slammerkin.”

It was a sound argument, the logic irrefutable. Perhaps-even likely-it was sincere, but for an instant I had thought to see something in his eyes, on his face, that hinted at secrets, at knowledge held back. I was tempted to say something of the wild Changed; I thought better of it.

If Cuentin guessed I had sought to probe, he gave no sign, and Tevach approached us then to announce his grisly work completed. We mounted our horses and rode away, my curiosity still unsatisfied.

It continued thus as I progressed southward. I was given ready welcome wherever I halted, and with my sturdy (if still ill-tempered) mare to carry me, I was able to meander between the populous coastal plain and the wilder hinterland much at will. The common folk were not much informed of events in the wider world, nor much interested. They went about their lives as usual, the little airboats considered a nuisance rather than a threat. They had become a thing accommodated into the daily round, much as were the cycles of the Sky Lords’ Comings-a matter for the Lord Protector and his lieutenants, the aeldors and the sorcerers. And as for those authorities-well, their attitude was not, I thought, very different. Engineers sent from Kherbryn appeared in the keeps, supervising the construction of the war-engines, and the aeldors appeared to feel such weapons should combine with the powers of their sorcerers to defeat any attack. I encountered no other sorcerers so open as Cuentin, nor so voluble, and if they-like him-thought the war-engines insufficient to their purpose, they kept that belief from me. As Sastaine came and went, I found no more answers, only more questions.

And one in particular that set my conscience an agonizing dilemma.

I had passed several days in Thornbar, some way inland from the coast. It was a town built around a hill, the entire foot ringed with a high palisade, the houses climbing higgledy-piggledy up the slope to break against the stone wall of the keep. That sat atop the apex of the hill like some vast monument. From my chamber I could look out over the town to the distant valley sides. It was, I thought, an eagle’s view.

I left with my saddlebags stocked well by the aeldor Morfus and the gray mare plumper for the abundance of good oats she had been eating of late. We were both somewhat overfed, and I thought to pare us down a little with more arduous rural wandering. I struck out to the east. There were villages and hamlets in the back country that were seldom visited, isolated places virtually forgotten, even by we Storymen.

The valley holding Thornbar was wide and steep-walled, and I had lingered over my departure. Consequently dusk caught us climbing the east slope. This was densely wooded, the trail a narrow path of hard-packed dirt flanked by ancient oaks. The night was moonless, and I’d no wish to find myself knocked from the saddle by an unseen branch, that being an occasional device of my faithless steed. I decided that the first decent resting place should be our halt for the night.

Toward the crest I found a suitable spot. The trees thinned here, allowing grass to grow, and I heard water sounds nearby. I dismounted and led the mare off the trail. There was an open space where a spring bubbled up from a rocky fountain, babbling away into the darkness across a tiny mountain meadow. I let the mare drink and set a hobble on her forelegs. I rubbed her down (I yet hoped such attentions might sweeten her temper) and doled her out some oats. She gobbled them, protesting when I would give her no more, and then grumpily set to cropping grass. I spread my blanket and moved into the trees in search of dry wood for my fire. I had an armful of branches when I saw the light.

It came from the south, where the valley wall was broken by a shallow cleft. It was not much distance off, and I saw that it should be hidden from Thornbar by the folding terrain. I wondered what it presaged. Perhaps some other travelers; if so, a sizable group, for it was a big fire. I felt no great need or desire for company, but curiosity prompted me to set down my burden and make my way through the trees to discover who lit the blaze. It occurred to me that brigands were not unknown in these parts, and therefore I approached cautiously. I thought that if it were bandits, I would regain my horse and return to Thornbar with word. If it proved no more than some merchant’s caravan, I would, from sense of duty, make myself known and regale them with a tale or two.

It was neither, but still it was as well I came thieflike.

I could see the fire clearly through the oaks, growing ever larger as I drew nearer. Sparks climbed the sky in fiery echo of the stars. I saw the ground break up before me, forming a rocky bowl, at the bottom of which the blaze was built. Light reflected off the stone, and I counted four figures, which was not many for so large a conflagration. I could see no horses. I halted on the edge of the timber, hugging the shadows. I cursed myself for leaving my staff. I dropped onto my belly and crawled to the rim of the bowl. Boulders and trees hid me as I peered down. I stifled a gasp of surprise as I realized the figures below were not Truemen, neither honest merchants nor ill-purposed outlaws, but Changed. I frowned, wondering what they did, building such a blaze here, and from where they had come. I could think only that they were indentured to Thornbar, to the keep or the town, and had slipped away. For what purpose, I had not the least idea. Perhaps some secret ceremony known only to their kind? I knew from Urt that the Changed met away from the eyes of men, that there were rituals they performed in private-marriages and the like-but not of any that would bring four Changed into the hills by night to build a fire.

Then something turned my gaze skyward. Perhaps it was some sixth sense; perhaps some shifting of the air, a pressure so subtle as to be felt only by instinct. I know only that I looked up and saw an airboat descending. Almost, I rose and fled. Certainly I felt sweat burst hot on my brow, and then immediately cool so that I shivered. I tensed, a hand clamping about a gnarled root. I swallowed, willing my body to blend with the ground, with the shadows. The Kho’rabi wizards were able to sense the presence of magic, that I knew. Could they also sense me? I think that had the airboat not been so close, I should have taken to my heels. But it was, and I knew that if I fled now, the Sky Lords must surely see me and pursue me; and slay me. For a moment I was a child again, returned to the beach of Whitefish village: I longed to void my bowels. Those, too, I willed to silence and stillness.

The skyboat came from the east, silent as a hunting owl. The fire’s glow lit its underside. I thought of burning blood. I could see very clearly the elementals that sported about the craft. They seemed better defined in the fire’s light. I counted faces in the black basket hung beneath: ten, as before, lit ruddy. I watched the boat come down to hover awhile. It was on a level then with my position, and I thought-I knew!-the Kho’rabi looked directly at me. I held my breath. I sought to make myself one with the rock, a shadow amongst shadows. I closed my eyes an instant, and when they opened, I saw the vessel sink, close by the fire. The basket touched ground, and the occupants sprang clear. The Kho’rabi wizard raised his hands, chanting in that odd, almost-understandable language. Then he joined the others, who faced the four Changed.

They spoke together.

It was a while before that sank in. I huddled, watching them, listening. The fire-a guiding beacon, I realized-lit them clear, and the stone bowl magnified their speech. I heard the Kho’rabi speak and the Changed respond, but long moments passed before that fact registered on my bewildered senses. I could not decipher what they said, and it seemed they had some difficulty, as if one side or the other spoke a learned tongue. But converse they did, which was another oddity in this night of amazements.

They seemed not quite friendly, somewhat wary of one another, but nonetheless it was obvious an alliance existed here. I watched as the Changed prepared food and all sat down to eat; and after, the Changed brought out sacks that were stowed on board the airboat. I had no sense of time’s passing, nor was I any longer aware of my fear. It remained with me, but it was dulled, pressed down into unimportance under the tremendous weight of my curiosity. What I witnessed was unprecedented. I prayed to the God I doubted that I might live to tell the tale.

I heard a wolf howl far away across the hills, the call answered by another that was closer. I heard an owl. Indeed, for some time the bird perched close by, studying me as if uncertain whether I was a living man or carrion. After a while it launched itself, swooping across the bowl. The Kho’rabi were on their feet at that, for all the bird’s passage was almost soundless. Those black-armored warriors, however, came upright on the instant, and I saw that three held nocked bows of dark, lacquered wood. I felt my heart thunder then, watching their eyes scan the slopes. I thought that if they chose to investigate, I would run. Perhaps in the darkness amongst the trees they would miss me. A pessimistic voice whispered in my ear, telling me I was a fool, that the time to flee was long gone, and were I spotted only death awaited. I farced myself to breathe evenly and did not move. The Kho’rabi wizard said something, answered by one of the Changed, and the bowmen eased their strings and settled back by the fire. The shadows filled, thickening, as the night grew older. I felt my muscles stiffen. The ground felt cold.

Then the Sky Lords returned to their vessel. The Changed saluted. The wizard spoke, and the elementals floating about the airboat stirred. It was like watching a mist lit by firelight. There was a sighing, mournful music, and the airboat rose, straight up into the night. I scarce dared turn my head to watch, and when I did, my neck protested the movement. I saw the airboat hover, turn toward the south, and then it was gone, lost against the sky, a shadow prowling the night. I returned my gaze to the Changed. They stood awhile, watching, then kicked the fire dead and clambered limber over the rocks. For a fearful moment I thought they came my way, but they cleared the bowl east of my position and ran away through the trees.

I waited until I was certain I was alone. Then I rose, groaning as my rigid muscles unlocked. I stretched, working feeling back into my body, and walked slowly to the clearing where the gray mare waited. She lifted her head as I approached and whickered softly. I blessed her for her patience and her silence, but when I moved to stroke her muzzle, she rolled her eyes and bared her yellow teeth. I contented myself with murmured thanks of which she took no notice.

I unstoppered my wineskin and swallowed a long draught. My stomach rumbled, and I found cheese and bread and settled on my blanket. I set my staff close to hand. It was foolish of me, but I no longer cared to light a fire. My mind was racing, and I peered constantly about, wondering if the night hid watching eyes. I decided the mare should give me warning if ambush threatened and did my best to order my thoughts.

My first impulse was to saddle the gray and ride headlong for Thornbar Keep, to bring word to Morfus of Changed treachery. Then I thought that perhaps the Changed I had seen had not come from Thornbar. I thought that it should not matter much, the outcome would be much the same. Did I go to the aeldor with my tale, what course could he take but to announce betrayal, to inform the Lord Protector and his fellow aeldors that Changed and Sky Lords came together? And for what purpose other than betrayal of Dharbek? That would be his duty, and I did not think Morfus was a man to shirk his duty, nor entertain such doubts as I. Even did he seek to hold it secret, such news-such a fear-would surely not stay hidden long, but would become public knowledge.

And what then? A pogrom? A purging of the Changed? Or their banishment across the Slammerkin to Ur-Dharbek, those-perhaps innocent-who survived? My troubled mind conjured an image of Truemen and Changed locked in bloody strife. I was not sure who would win.

And where, I wondered as the night grew chill and my soul yet colder, should that leave we Truemen? We depended too much on the services of the Changed that our world might continue smooth without them. We relied on their labor: our society would collapse without them. It was an alarming thought.

But so was the notion that all across the land the Changed played the part of spies for the Sky Lords; that the Kho’rabi had eyes and ears throughout Dharbek. That did they mount their Great Coming, the Changed might rise to stab we Truemen in the back.

Fear counterbalanced fear; confusion stood paramount. The bread I chewed threatened to clog my throat: I spat it out and rinsed my mouth with wine. I did not know what to do. My duty as a Trueman was clear-to warn Morfus, to urge he send word to Kherbryn and to Durbrecht. I thought that did I do my duty, I condemned Urt and all his kind to massacre.

Then I wondered if he knew. And with that wondering came a fresh consideration-What if those Changed I had seen were some outlaw group? What if they acted alone? Were that the case, I should be responsible for the suffering of thousands of innocent Changed. I felt a horror of such bloodshed. I felt torn.

I looked to the sky and saw it brightening with dawn’s approach. It was empty of enlightenment. I wished I had not seen that cursed fire; that I had quit Thornbar earlier, or later, or gone another way. I cursed myself and fate, but what was, was, and all my wishing could not change it. I threw back my head and bellowed a curse.

The rising sun found me squatted on my blanket, oblivious to the dew or the chorus of the birds. Curious rabbits studied me and were ignored. I was no wiser, nor any more decided.

I wished Rwyan or Urt were here, that I might ask them what I should do. I wished there were someone with whom I might share this dreadful burden. Its weight ground me down.

I was still sitting as the sun climbed to its noonday zenith. My mare had given up her demands for oats and set sullenly to cropping the grass. I was, I think, more than a little mad then.

I had no answers, only the prospect of terrible slaughter did I do my duty, the prospect of dreadful bloodshed did I not. I could not convince myself of the rectitude of either course. I felt that down the one path lay betrayal of my people, down the other betrayal of the Changed.

I reached a compromise. Perhaps it was born of cowardice. I know not, only that it seemed to me the sole path I might take and still hold true to my own conscience: I decided I would hold my tongue.

I decided (or perhaps I merely sought to justify my indecision) that the Sky Lords did not yet command such power over the elementals that they could launch their Great Coming. Therefore Dharbek was at least a little while safe. Meanwhile, I would endeavor to discover if the Changed-all of them-did indeed conspire against we Truemen, or if only some faction allied with the Kho’rabi. Should I find such a plot existed, then I would make known all I had seen, all I might by then have learned. I should face awful punishment, but until such time as I could know, I would hold silent.

I prayed I did the right thing.

I rode south with my secret. It was a burden I had rather not carried, but it dwelt with me, an incubus I could not shed save at risk of birthing its mate. In the keeps I told my tales and conversed with commurs-magus and -mage, aeldors and jennyms, soldiers and common folk, as Daviot the Storyman, thinking all the time that I was now Daviot the Betrayer by their lights. Often I was tempted to blurt it out. Often I smiled and spoke and pretended all was well as I felt guilt beat a cold tocsin in my heart. Often I wondered if the sorcerers saw through me, or into me, and only played some arcane game with me, allowing me to mire myself ever deeper in treachery. Nights I lay often awake, the gladiators of doubt and guilt battling in my head. But I said nothing; it was as if a lock lay upon my tongue, keyed by irresolution.

It was a place too small to own a name: no more than seven rough cottages set within a cleared space in the woods, animal pens nearby, and vegetable patches. I saw that there were seven houses as I approached, and I wondered if that was an omen of some kind. Are three and seven not luck’s numbers? I was met by a pack of barking dogs, sizable hounds of assorted colors and a uniformity of large teeth. One-the leader of the pack, I supposed-dared snap at my mare’s fetlocks. Her ears were already flattened, her nostrils flared. She liked dogs no better than any other living thing, and she sent this particular hound howling into retreat, the rest deciding caution was the better part of valor. I was nearly unseated by her display, and by the time I had her calmed, we had an audience.

They were mostly women, the only males a handful of children who stared wide-eyed at my ferocious steed. One stepped forward, two small faces peering from behind the protection of her skirts.

“You own a fiercesome horse, stranger,” she said. She seemed not at all afraid, only sensibly wary. “Do you tether her secure, I’ll bid you welcome. We’ve ale, and food enough to spare.”

I said, “Thank you,” and climbed down.

I led the mare to a pen where hogs snuffled and lashed her reins to the fence.

The woman said, “Tyr, do you fetch a bucket of fresh water and see her turned out. But be careful of the beast.”

A boy darted from behind her skirts. He was a sturdy lad, his head a thatch of fine brown hair. I said, “Perhaps best I tend the mare. She’s a temper, as you’ve seen.”

“No matter,” the woman said. “Tyr’s a way with animals, and he’ll not let her harm him.”

She seemed so confident I saw no reason to argue. I looked at her and smiled. I said, “I am Daviot, a Storyman.”

“Well, the day’s greetings, Daviot Storyman,” she returned. “I am Pele.”

She was tall as I, and slender, her features delicate. Strands of silky, honey-colored hair escaped from beneath a headscarf. I saw that her eyes were green and somewhat slanted and realized with a shock that she was Changed, a cat-bred female. I hid my surprise behind a courtly bow, at which she chuckled and said, “We’ve little ceremony here, my friend.”

She showed none of the deference the Changed customarily granted Truemen. I let my eyes move past her to the others. I saw that of the seven women, three were Changed. Yet it was Pele who spoke for all, and she who named the Trueman females. It was as if, in the absence of their menfolk, all there regarded her as leader.

Pele brought me to her cottage and poured me a mug of very good ale. It was the midpart of the afternoon and I had eaten, but from courtesy and a desire to avoid affront I accepted the platter of cold pork and a wedge of bread she offered me. As I ate, she busied herself with domestic tasks, talking the while. Her daughter, who was named Alyn, assisted her when the child was not studying me with huge eyes that made me think of kittens. The cottage was small but built sound. It would hold off the cold of winter; now the single window and the door stood open.

“So what brings you here?” asked Pele. “We see few strangers in these wild parts, and never a Storyman before.”

“I was at Thornbar Keep,” I said. “I thought to wander the hinterland awhile.”

She nodded, as if this were not at all strange. She said, “Sometimes the Truemen go in to Thornbar.”

“To sell your produce?” I asked.

She said, “Yes, and to buy such tools and stuff as we cannot make or grow.”

“It’s a lonely place,” I said.

She laughed at that, reaching up to brush an errant strand of golden hair from her eyes. She was kneading bread, and she left a white smear of flour on her forehead. She said, “There’s company enough. But still-a Storyman shall liven the evening, do you elect to stay.”

“Do you offer such hospitality,” I said, “I’ll gladly accept.”

“’Tis yours for the asking.” She gestured at our surroundings. “You’ve the choice of a room shared with Tyr and Alyn, or the hearthside.”

“The hearth is good enough for me,” I said.

“Then be welcome. Save …” She paused a moment. I thought her, albeit on only short acquaintance, unusually hesitant. “Not all approve of us. Perhaps you’d best reserve your decision until Maerk returns.”

I asked, “Your husband?”

She answered, “My man. We’re not wed in the Church’s eyes.”

I laughed then and said, “That matters nothing to me. I’ve not the niceties of some mantis.”

“It’s not that,” she returned me, and looked me straight in the eye. “Maerk’s a Trueman.”

I could not conceal my surprise, and she saw it. Her fine features darkened a fraction; not, I thought, with embarrassment, but with defiance. I swallowed a mouthful of ale. Alyn studied me solemnly.

I said, “Is that why not all approve of you?”

Pele nodded. “And why we seldom visit Thornbar. There’s some would see us punished. It’s why we live here; in part, at least.”

I shall not tell you I was not taken aback. That would be a lie. It was not unknown for Truemen and Changed to consort casually. Indeed, there had been establishments in Durbrecht that boasted the exoticism of Changed cyprians, and I had heard tales of women who enjoyed the services of Changed lovers. But it was not a thing done openly. It was a thing denounced by the Church, furtive, and marriage was unknown. The slurs Barus had cast my way were indicative of the common feeling: a couple such as Pele and Maerk must inevitably find themselves outcast. I could not help but glance at Alyn.

Pele saw the direction of my gaze and shook her head. “I was wed before,” she said softly, “and widowed. My babies are both Changed; Maerk bought us after.”

My brows must have risen at that. Certainly the thought entered my mind that Maerk had purchased himself a cyprian of a kind. I think it did not show, but Pele was quick as any feline, and as good at gauging mood. She reached beneath her blouse and drew out a disk, held around her slim neck by a leather thong. Silently, she held it toward me: it was such a disk as freed Changed were given, stamped with the marks of authority. I had seen such disks in the hands of beggars.

Pele said, “He was a carpenter then. He saved and borrowed until he was able to buy me. Then he set me free. His family cast him out for that.”

Her voice challenged me to object. I said, “He must be a good man.”

She said, “He is. And more-he loves me; and I him. Can you understand that, Daviot Storyman? Do you know what love is?”

I said, “I know what it is. In Durbrecht …”

I shrugged, and could not help the sigh I vented. I had believed my memories of Rwyan under tighter rein, but this story brought them back. I thought that we might have found some refuge such as this hamlet, some lonely place far from our duties. Then I thought of the secret I carried and knew that once duty is accepted, it cannot be escaped. I said, “She was a sorcerer. They sent her to the Sentinels, and me here.”

Pele nodded as if she understood. I suppose she did. She said, “Perhaps you’ll find her again.”

I said, “I think not.”

She drew me another mug and stood before me then. “We are not the only ones,” she said. “Of the families in this place there are two Changed and three Trueman. Two are of mixed blood-Maerk and I, Durs and Ylle. Durs is of canine stock.”

Perhaps she anticipated outrage, or criticism, but I felt none. I was, as I have said, surprised, but I had witnessed stranger things of late, and to express disapproval of such arrangements would have been a betrayal of my belief that there was, in truth, no longer very much difference between my kind and hers. Still, she seemed to expect a response. I am not sure why I said what I did; the words sprang unpremeditated from my mouth: “I had a friend in Durbrecht of canine stock. His name was Urt.”

She said, “A friend?”

Her tone was casual, neutral. Perhaps purposefully so. She looked at me with her head cocked slightly to one side. That I was Trueman and she Changed meant nothing, and everything. I do not believe she judged me, but I felt a tremendous need to explain: I told her of my friendship with Urt.

When I was done, she nodded and returned to her bread. After a while she said, “He was a good friend.”

I said, “Yes. Perhaps the best I’ve known-he risked much for me.”

“And was rewarded with exile.”

She glanced up as she said that, watching me with enigmatic eyes. I did feel judged then, as if I stood in place of all my Trueman kind. I answered her, “That was not my choice. I argued it.”

Again she nodded. Then she smiled and said, “I think Urt found a good friend in you, Daviot.”

I returned her smile, but mine was cynical. “It seems my friendship brings poor reward,” I said.

“The same might well enough be said of Maerk and I.” Pele shrugged. It was a lazy, feline movement. “This world deems us different and would not see Trueman and Changed together. Save as master and servant.” “Or dragon bait,” I said.

“That was long and long ago.” She chuckled. “So long ago, none but you Storymen remember those old ways.”

“And yet,” I said, “Ur-Dharbek still stands a barrier between this country and the land of the dragons.”

“Old habits die hard,” she said. “And Ur-Dharbek is not much different now to the Forgotten Country, I think.”

I said, “Save the wild Changed dwell there in freedom.”

I looked to cast a hook in the waters of her knowledge. This was no sorcerer, but a woman of the Changed who appeared to me entirely open and honest. I thought perhaps to land a catch of information.

Instead, I got a laugh, a shrug, and, “So it is said. But I’ve no idea.”

“Should you and Maerk,” I asked, “and all these others, not be received better there?”

She said again, “I’ve no idea,” and then: “Why should it be different? If Ur-Dharbek is indeed a kingdom of we Changed, then should attitudes not likely be the same? Save in reverse? I’d not see Maerk reviled by my kind.”

I digested this. It had not properly occurred to me that the Changed would indulge the same prejudices as Truemen. I had thought, albeit vaguely, that if Ur-Dharbek harbored a Changed society, if it was now a country in its own right, then it should be a free society, a country without such partiality. In this, Pele was wiser than I. Why should Ur-Dharbek be different? Indeed, the wild Changed must have greater reason to detest the Truemen who had made them to be prey for the dragons and now used them as servants. As slaves, in fact, for the Changed of Dharbek had few enough rights. That should surely be a weight of suffering’s memory. I found no ready answer.

“No,” Pele said as I sat silent, “I think we do better here. We are left alone, and we’ve a good enough life. Besides, Ur-Dharbek is a very long way off.”

I said, “That’s true,” with such unconscious solemnity that we both laughed.

Then Tyr came in. He carried my saddlebags and my staff, which he set at my feet. He faced me with that dignity only children can command. “I’ve seen your horse settled,” he told me. “She’s very ill-tempered. When I took off her saddle, she tried to bite me.”

“I apologize for my disagreeable horse,” I said, “and thank you for tending her. Perhaps I’d best look to her needs from now on, though.”

He thought about this a moment, then nodded solemnly and said, “If you wish. Besides, if you’re to ride her, you’d best learn to handle her.”

I said, “Yes, I had,” trying very hard not to offend him by laughing at his earnestness.

Pele rescued us both with the suggestion that he go select a chicken for our dinner, and he ran out with Alyn hard on his heels.

“You’ve fine children,” I said.

“Yes. It’s a pity I can have no more.” She looked a moment pensive, then shrugged and said, “But the seed of Changed and Trueman mixes no better than that of cat and dog.”

I could think of nothing to say to that and so held my tongue, watching as she set her bread in the oven and began to prepare vegetables. It was a scene of such domesticity as I had not encountered in some time. I had been mostly in the keeps and towns of late, and there such things were done out of sight by Changed servants, whose offices I accepted unthinking. Sitting here, I contemplated again what life with Rwyan might have been like, had we not been born with our respective talents. I began to feel nostalgia for a life I had never known, nor likely ever should. Melancholy threatened-I pushed it back: there were far greater events afoot.

I watched Pele’s deft movements, thinking how graceful she was. I thought she could not know of Changed dealing with the Sky Lords, for if she did, surely she would not make me so welcome. Unless … an ugly notion imposed itself … she sought only to lure me into a false sense of security. And then? Would Maerk appear, and others, and look to slay me? I shook my head: what I had seen and what I had failed to do surely seduced me into mistrust where only honest welcome was offered. These people could not know my secret. Nor were they likely to consort with the Sky Lords-Changed and Truemen living together in harmony, wed in all eyes save those of the Church? No, surely they would not. Rather, this was an idyll of a kind, an indication of how things could be, were inbred prejudice denied.

I grew the more convinced of this when Maerk appeared. He was a blunt-featured man, swarthy and hairy as any other westcoaster but with a ready smile that lit his face as he came in.

He cried, “Day’s greetings, Storyman,” as he crossed the room to plant a resounding kiss on Pele’s flour-smudged cheek, holding her close a moment before drawing himself a mug of ale and pulling up a chair. I saw that his forearms were corded with such muscle as a carpenter or a forester develops, and his shoulders were wide. When he took my hand, his grip was powerful.

“I found Tyr and Alyn amidst the wreckage of a chicken,” he explained, “and they told me we’d a visitor. Pele’s made you welcome, I trust?”

“Most welcome.” I flourished my mug. “My thanks to you both.”

Maerk made a dismissive gesture. “The God knows, we see few enough strangers here that we’d turn a man away,” he said. “And a Storyman, to boot? No, never. But you’ll earn your bread, I warn you.”

I said, “Gladly.” I felt my random suspicions dissipate.

“No doubt you’ve tidings aplenty,” said Maerk, but when I began to speak, he hushed me, telling me to save word of the greater world for later, when all might gather to hear it. “We manage well enough without,” he said, “that I can wait awhile; and you not delay your storytelling with twice-told news.”

I agreed. He said to Pele, “We took a deer. We’ll dress the meat tomorrow.”

She nodded, smiling at him, and in both their eyes I saw a devotion warm as any hearthfire. She went outside then, to check her children’s labors, and Maerk grew serious awhile.

“You understand our situation here?” he asked me. “Pele’s explained things?”

“She has,” I said.

“And you’ve no”-he paused, shrugging his broad shoulders so that I feared his tunic might burst-“objections?” “None,” I assured him.

He said, “Good. Then we speak of it no further.”

Nor did we. Instead, he brought me to their well, where we washed, and then sat down to drink more ale as Pele set the chicken to roasting. She was an excellent cook: I ate well that day.

When we had finished, it was twilight, and with replenished mugs we quit the cottage for the square outside. Maerk shouted that the evening’s entertainment began, and from the other buildings folk brought out chairs and blankets, setting them in a circle, at the center of which I stood. I spoke first of events in the world beyond, which produced some grunts of surprise and some of alarm. I thought these lonely folk had very little commerce with the rest of Dharbek, that they knew so little of the Sky Lords’ activities. I mentioned the little airboats and several shouted that they had seen the craft, but none in a way that suggested more than curiosity. I watched their faces and the way their bodies moved, and I decided there was not one here had any truck with the Kho’rabi. These people wanted only to be left alone. I could not help wondering how they should act did it come to war. Did the Great Coming we Mnemonikos and the sorcerers feared descend on Dharbek, what would these folk do? I hoped, did that Coming materialize, they would be left in peace. I thought it a vain hope, for should that invasion commence, I did not think there would be any corner of Kellambek or Draggonek left untouched.

Such fears I hid. I told them stories as the moon climbed above us and the surrounding forest filled with night sounds. I used all my skill, for I wanted badly to repay their hospitality, and I had sooner entertained them than any aeldor in his tower.

And as I recounted my tales of greatness and glory, I thought that were I to fulfill the duty laid on me by Durbrecht, I must at the year’s end send word to the College of this village and its folk. It was a thing I had not encountered before-Changed and Truemen living in such equality-and I did not think the College knew of such a thing. I was by no means sure I would. They appeared to me so happy, so contented with the life they had made for themselves, I felt loath to make public their existence. I thought that they should likely find that censure that had driven them into isolation returned, did I speak of them. Some disapproving aeldor would visit them, or a zealous mantis. I thought them better left alone. I already had one great secret: I thought this should be another, smaller confidence.

I spoke to the best of my ability and should cheerfully have continued (aided by the mugs Maerk passed me) all night, had the children not begun to yawn. As it was, I reached the conclusion of Daryk’s tale, and Pele announced it time to halt. Alyn was asleep in her arms, and Tyr, for all he fought to hold his eyes open and protested the curtailment, lay curled kittenish and sleepy at her feet. I promised more on the morrow and bade my newfound friends goodnight, going with my hosts to their cottage.

I slept the night by their hearth, and the next morning aided Maerk in dressing the deer (of which he promised me a portion when I left). I passed a pleasant day in his company and spent a second night storytelling. I was invited to remain as long as I wished, and I was greatly tempted to linger. But I steeled myself and refused: there were matters I must investigate that, for the sake of my conscience, I could not ignore. I thanked them and, my saddlebags bulky with good venison, prepared to leave.

I chose to continue inland. Maerk had pointed me to a trail he assured me would eventually lead to a village named Dryn, some five days’ distant on horseback. He and Pele and all their kindly neighbors walked with me to the trail’s beginning. They wished me good journey, but it was Pele’s parting words impressed me most.

She set a hand upon my knee and tilted back her head to look me in the eyes. “I hope you find your Rwyan again,” she said. “Your friend Urt, too. Perhaps then you’ll find what you seek.”

I started at that, prompting the mare to toss her head and stamp. Even as I gentled the restive horse, I wondered what Pele meant, what she saw in me, or guessed; what she knew. Pele stepped back, but her green feline eyes remained intent on my face, and I felt she looked deep inside me, into the places I held closed and hidden. I frowned and asked her, “What do I seek, then?”

“Peace?” She shrugged, the single word more question than statement. “I know not, Daviot; only that there is something.”

I swallowed, confused. Did this cat-bred woman possess the talent for magic, that she could discern my innermost doubts? I met her clear gaze and said, “How do you know that, Pele?”

She smiled, and waved a careless hand, and said, “Sometimes it is in your eyes, sometimes in your voice. I’d not pry, but I see it there. And I hope you find whatever it is.”

There was such kindness in her voice, I felt my eyes moisten. I nodded and smiled, and then I rode away.

I felt I had learned something there that would aid me when the time came that I must decide what to tell and what to hold back. Those folk were, though they knew it not, pivotal to the world’s future. I think had they known it, Pele would have nodded sagely and Maerk would have laughed; and both told me they sought only to live their lives in peace, not shift the course of Dharbek. Still, I felt gifted as I left them. I thought they had showed me an unsuspected road, confirmed my own feelings about Changed and Truemen, and for that I was truly grateful.

I still, however, did not know which course I should eventually take. But now I felt somehow better equipped to make that decision when the time came.

I continued inland as the year aged and autumn came aknocking on summer’s door, on to Dryn, on to the wild places where the land rose up to join the foothills of the massif. Often as not I slept rough; the villages were few and scattered here, towns a rarity, keeps scarcer still. I was greeted with enthusiasm-these places had not seen a Story-man in years. And everywhere I went, I watched and listened and asked questions, but I learned no more than I already knew. There were fewer Changed in these isolated places than were found on the more populous coastal plain, and those I encountered seemed content enough. I could not believe they took any part in conspiracy-if conspiracy, indeed, existed. Had I not been Durbrecht-trained, I think I should have begun to doubt my memory, to think that meeting I had witnessed a figment of my imagination, a dream. But I knew it was not so. I could recall it clear, every detail, and it remained a worm gnawing at the heart of my conscience. Still, I saw no further sign of collusion betwixt Changed and Sky Lords, saw no more clandestine rendezvous. Indeed, I saw not much more sign of the Sky Lords themselves. A boat sometimes, not often and never close, so that I began to wonder if the Kho’rabi gave up their voyaging or confined it to the coast. I thought I should learn no more in the wild hinterland, but only where folk gathered in the larger towns. The gray mare and I were both leaner now, at the peak of our strength, and I decided it was time to return westward.

It was a pretty ride, through a landscape painted with autumn’s colors, the air crisp by day, chill by night, but as I came on the coast I realized I had dawdled longer inland than I had intended. Fog met me as I approached Trevyn, rolling in off the western sea to blanket the land, cold and damp. I drew my cloak tight and came on the hold like some ghost rider, my mare, whose coat matched the brume, all but invisible. It was the midpart of the day, close on noon, but if the sun shone, it was lost above the fog, and I located the gates only by the braziers that burned there.

Inside the walls it was not much better-a twilight lit by the diffuse glow of windows and the lanterns carried by passersby. I knew Trevyn to be a sizable place, but I could barely make out the houses to either side in the gloom, and despite the directions I got, I lost myself five times before I found the keep.

It sat beside the sea. I could hear waves lapping against the western wall. I thought there would be no boats out today. I announced myself to the gate-guards and was brought by a Changed ostler to the stables. My mare was in foul mood, and I saw to her myself before proceeding to the tower, warning the ostler against her temper. I felt cheerful, anticipating a bath (I had slept by the trail the past three days) and perhaps a mug of mulled ale, a good hot meal. Instead, I found myself brought immediately before the aeldor Chrystof and his commur-magus, Nevyn. Neither appeared overjoyed to see me.

Chrystof was a gaunt man of advanced years; a widower, I understood, and childless, with a left arm withered by an old wound got from the Sky Lords. Nevyn was younger, perhaps a decade older than I, plump, his hair dark as the aeldor’s was silver. They sat in high-backed chairs either side of a roaring fire, a jug set close enough to the flames that the spiced wine I could smell should be kept warm. A rug covered Chrystof’s legs. He appeared feeble, gone into his dotage.

I said, “Day’s greetings, my lord aeldor; commur-magus.”

Chrystof nodded and returned the salutation in a hoarse voice. I noticed that his eyes were yellowed with age and the proximity of death. Nevyn only studied me with a cold speculative gaze. I was not invited to sit, although a third chair stood close by, nor was I offered wine. I ran a hand over my fog-wet hair, feeling suddenly chilled despite the warmth of the fire.

Without preamble, Nevyn demanded, “Where have you been, Storyman? We thought to see you long since.”

I hesitated, surprised it was the sorcerer who spoke, and by the imperious question. A Storyman had no set itinerary but was free to wander at will. Word was, of course, passed from keep to keep, of our arrivals and departures, but we were not bound to follow any fixed route or timetable. Nor was it usual to question our comings and goings: I sensed something amiss here. I thought again that perhaps my progress was watched more closely than my fellows’. I said, “Did you expect me ere now, I apologize. I rode inland a way.”

“A long way inland,” said Nevyn, and sniffed disapprovingly. For an instant I saw Ardyon’s cadaverous features imposed over his. “Half the summer inland.”

I shrugged, not liking his tone or the way he studied me. I said, “The aeldor Yrdan of Tryrsbry was kind enough to gift me with a horse. I thought to use that advantage to wander the isolated settlements. Most had not seen a Storyman in too long.”

I had thought that mention of an aeldor’s kindness should remind them of courtesy: it did not. Chrystof grunted and motioned with his cup, which Nevyn promptly filled. He still made no move to offer me wine. He sipped his own and said, “You left Thornbar Keep weeks ago. Where have you been since then?”

“Riding,” I said. I began to grow impatient with his manner, but I hid my irritation, wondering at the reason for this unusual interrogation. “There were none of your kind where I went.”

My answer was deliberately ambiguous. Nevyn grunted, drawing a hand over the purple stain the wine had left on his upper lip. For a while he stared at me. Then: “Word has come from Durbrecht-you are to make no more such forays.”

“What?” I frowned, entirely unable to conceal my surprise. Such a command was unprecedented. “Am I to forsake my calling then?”

The sorcerer ignored my outburst. “You are to pursue your calling as you are bid,” he said. “Your duty is to proceed south down the coast, to Mhorvyn.”

I stared at him. I was struck by his pomposity; struck more by the nature of this command. He took my silence and my expression for doubt and turned to Chrystof for confirmation. The aeldor had been looking into the flames throughout this exchange, but now he swung his gaunt head in my direction. He nodded and said, “It is so, Storyman.”

I could not doubt it; I could wonder why: I asked.

Nevyn answered me obliquely. “You’re to be in Mhorvyn by Bannas Eve,” he said. “And go there by the coast road. Without deviation.”

I asked again, “Why?”

The plump commur-magus shrugged. “Perhaps your College would have report of our preparations.” He sipped more wine. “Perhaps Durbrecht feels your talent is better employed where folk live, not wandering lonely through the hills.”

“Folk live there,” I said. I forbore to add, “Folk kinder than you.” “Do they not have need of Storymen?”

Nevyn stooped to fetch the jug from the hearth; filled his cup. I grew wearied of this insulting behavior.

He asked me, “Do you question the orders of your College?”

This took me aback. “Yes” would have been the honest answer, but I was not, I admitted to myself, any longer entirely honest. Were I, I should have long since spoken of what I had seen. Consequently, I said, “No, I do not question the command; I wonder at its reason.”

I thought perhaps he would answer me with word that I was no longer trusted. That Durbrecht would have me in clear sight; at least, where sorcerers might monitor my progress and my doings. I could not, of course, voice this thought: to do so would mean revealing secrets I was not yet ready to impart. I awaited his response.

That came with a smug and careless smile. “Perhaps Durbrecht sees a wider picture.” he said, and added an insult as calculated as any Barus had given me. “Remember we gird against the Sky Lords. Storyman. Do they come, shall it be against some foresters’ hamlet or against the keeps? Which do you think?”

I thought that I had sooner dealt with him as I had dealt with Barus. I held my staff, and I thought that it should have been most satisfying to deliver him a sound crack. I gripped the pole tighter. Nevyn saw and drew himself a little upright in his chair. I thought perhaps he readied his magic to throw against me: I forced myself to calm and said, “Doubtless both our Colleges see the wider picture-I had thought to allow the plain folk of this land a glimpse. After all, these great holds-the towns-are warded by such as you, and news is easier to find. But in the lonely places-should they not know, too?”

I was rather pleased with my diplomacy. It went unnoticed by Nevyn. He waved a dismissive hand and said, “Do the Sky Lords attack, it shall be against the keeps, not the hamlets. Surely, then, better to ply your calling where folk gather, not waste it on the empty woods.”

It was an effective counter. Nevyn was pompous, insulting, but he was no fool. I saw we reached impasse in our verbal duel and allowed his point with a silent nod. He smiled and told me, “In any event, you are commanded-the coast road to Mhorvyn, without diversions.”

“I’d not,” I said carefully, “argue the wisdom of my College. So be it, then.”

“I’m glad,” he returned me, “that we reach agreement.”

I nodded again. I wondered fleetingly if he saw through me; if his talent allowed him to perceive what I hid. I decided not-I thought that were it so, he should have ordered me seized and imprisoned. I thought that this was such a man as would order a pogrom did he learn what I had seen. I stood in stolid silence.

Chrystof stirred himself then, as if he noticed for the first time that I stood dripping on his carpet. “You’re wet,” he said.

“The fog,” I replied.

He turned slowly to the window, the lines creasing his face etched deeper as he frowned. “Ah, yes. It’s foggy. Nevyn, do you see him given a room?”

The sorcerer nodded and reached to a plaited cord hanging by the hearth. He tugged it. I suppose that somewhere a bell rang. I thought that Nevyn was the power in this keep. Chrystof said, “A room, and a hot tub. Tonight you’ll entertain us, eh, Storyman?”

“As is my calling,” I agreed.

There came a soft tapping on the door then, and when Nevyn bade the caller enter, a Changed servant came in. He was of canine stock, blunt featured, with a pug nose and loose jowls. He bowed, his eyes downcast as he murmured, “Masters?”

Nevyn issued curt instructions, and the Changed nodded deferentially, not raising his eyes as he stood back to let me pass. I gathered up my saddlebags and my staff and quit the chamber. In the corridor outside, the Changed asked if he might carry my bags. I thanked him and told him no, at which he seemed disconcerted.

“I’m well used to fending for myself,” I told him, “and not much to having folk fetch and carry for me.”

At that he gave me a swift sidelong glance, and I saw his eyes for the first time. They were mournful as a hound’s, and in them I thought I discerned both surprise and curiosity. He said, “As you will, master.”

“I’m Daviot, a Storyman,” I said. “How are you called?”

“Thom, master,” he returned me.

His voice was soft and had in it the same quality of submission as his eyes. I wondered how his kind fared in this keep. I said, “Well met, Thom. Shall you listen to me tonight?”

He looked at me again, and this time I was sure I saw surprise. “Listen to you, master?” He seemed not to understand.

“Yes,” I said. “When I tell my tales in the hall.”

“I’m a body-servant, master.”

He touched the tunic he wore, which was of some coarse green cloth, edged with red. I had sometimes seen servants decked in such manner, but not often; it seemed to me an affectation. I assumed Chrystof-or perhaps Nevyn-elected to dress the servants thus. I asked him: “Do all the Changed of Trevyn wear such uniforms?”

He said, “Yes, master.”

“To mark your duties?” I asked, and he gave me back another “Yes, master.”

I smiled, seeking to put him at his ease; and failed. He was, I thought, taciturn as Bors, though whether that was a natural trait or an imposition of this keep, I could not tell. I was, however, aware that my questions made him uneasy, and so I curbed them, contenting myself with following him to the chamber assigned me.

That was small and devoid of decoration. A single window showed the fog gray outside, filling the room with wan and miserable light. There was a narrow bed and a chest, a washstand and a lantern suspended from the ceiling, nothing more. It was chill and slightly damp: I wondered if this was the usual hospitality of Trevyn Keep, or some insulting punishment dreamed up by Nevyn. I thought I should not remain here long.

“Do you wait awhile, master, and I’ll fetch a brazier,” Thom said. “Or shall I bring you to the baths?”

I was quite rank and so opted for the latter. I was surprised when I climbed into the tub to see Thom strip off his tunic. “What are you doing?” I asked him.

He said, “Master?” as if quite taken aback by my question.

I said, “Why are you undressing?” “To bathe you, master.”

This I had never encountered. Even in the most sybaritic of keeps, men bathed themselves. I waved him back, succeeding in splashing hot water over the floor. “That,” I declared, “is not my custom.”

“Master?” He seemed utterly confused.

I said, “Thom, I’ve not been bathed since I was a child. I’m grown now and quite capable of tending myself.”

He pursed his lips, his hands fidgeting awkwardly with his tunic. His chest was broad and very hairy. It seemed to me both amusing and obscene that so muscular a fellow should bathe another, but he was clearly accustomed to such service and seemed not to know how he should react to my refusal. I had no wish to upset him nor to lead him into trouble, but neither was I prepared to let him bathe me.

I tried to ease his quandary. I said, “Thom, do you find a brazier to warm my room, and see a change of clothes set out, that shall be ample service. This”-I gestured with the soap I held-“I’d sooner manage by myself.”

He said, “Yes, master; as you command. I’ll return immediately I’m done.”

I said, “I’m a Rememberer, Thom-I can find my own way back.”

Even so, for a moment or two he stood with tunic in hand, staring at me. It was the first time he had looked me directly in the eyes. I smiled and nodded, and watched as he dressed, then quit the chamber. I sat a moment, frowning as I pondered the oddities of this strange keep. Then I succumbed to the luxury of hot water and sank into the tub until only my face remained above the surface.

My room was warmer when I returned. Thom had set a brazier below the window and lit the lantern. Clean clothes were laid neatly on the bed, and the Changed sat on the chest, industriously polishing the metal trappings of my staff. It had not shone so since first I got it, and when I tugged off my boots-Thom insisting on helping me-he set to imparting the same luster to the worn leather. He had brought in a small table, on it a pewter jug that gave off an enticing odor of spiced wine and a single cup. He filled it, and I drank as he polished.

“Do you find another cup and join me?” I asked.

“Master?”

He looked up from his work, meeting my gaze for the second time. I gestured with the cup. “Take wine with me.”

“Master!” This time it was not a question but a startled refusal. His mournful eyes were shocked.

My own widened. I asked him, “Is it forbidden, then? May I not invite you to join me?”

He said, “I’m Changed, master.”

I said, “I know that, Thom,” and he nodded as if a point were made, and returned to his polishing. Then halted again as I said, “But still I ask you.”

He licked his lips, eyes flickering a moment from side to side, as if he thought we might be observed or overheard. He reminded me more than ever of a dog-such as has the misfortune to find an unkind master and spend its life in anticipation of beatings. Very softly, he said, “Truemen and Changed do not drink together in Trevyn Keep, master.”

He was clearly so nervous now that I did not repeat my invitation. Instead, I told him, “It is not so in Durbrecht, Thom,” which was not entirely true, but his ministrations reminded me of Urt, and I sought to establish some rapport between us.

He made a small gesture and said, “We are not in Durbrecht, master, but in Trevyn Keep.”

“Alone in this room,” I said. “Who should know?”

I saw his lips shape the name Nevyn, but he made no sound, only bent more industriously to his task. I thought the sorcerer a malign influence, that he instilled such fear in the Changed, but I sought to hide the anger I felt. I waited awhile, then asked him, “Is there so little commerce betwixt Truemen and Changed here?”

“We are servants, master,” he replied. “It is not our place to drink with Truemen.”

So meek was his tone, so redolent of submission, I found my ire stoked. I thought of the rude welcome I had received, and the orders so casually issued, the insult Nevyn had delivered me. I set my cup aside and bent closer to the kneeling Changed.

“Your place?” I demanded, mild as I was able. “This keep should fall were it not supported by your kind. Who’d polish their boots, eh? Who’d cook their food, or tend their horses? I say you’re good enough to drink with me, and does Nevyn gainsay me, he’s a fool. I’ve known Changed I’d far sooner share a cup with than many a Trueman. Have you no feelings, man?”

Almost, I said pride. In my sudden anger I was not aware I named Thom a man. I was, however, aware that my vehemence frightened him, for he lurched back, sprawling on the floor, from where he stared at me, much as a Trueman might stare at a rabid beast. I made a placatory gesture and beckoned him closer. He ignored it, easing away from me, as if afraid I should impart some contagion.

I sighed and said more gently, “Thom, in Durbrecht I named a Changed my friend; and he, me. I was proud he did. I think there is little difference between us, save what’s imposed by such as Nevyn, and I see no reason why you should not take a cup of wine with me, save you choose not.”

His eyes were very wide and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in atavistic memory of his ancestry. As suddenly as my anger had arisen, so did the realization that if he reported this outburst to Nevyn, I must be surely marked a dissident, again branded a rebel. Was I watched now, his report would damn me. I feared I had gone too far, revealed my feelings too openly. I shook my head and fell silent.

I saw Thom’s lips close slowly over his yellow teeth, then move. I thought it some expression of fear or outrage, but then a sound emerged, faint: a name.

He whispered, “Urt.”

I was amazed. I said, “You know Urt?”

Thom shook his head. I thought to press him; thought better of it. I waited as he gathered himself, no longer crouching defensively but squatting as he had done before. Absently, he reached out to find the boot he had dropped. No less absently, he began to polish again. I suspected he took refuge in familiar action. I waited: there was a mystery here I thought should be lost did I pursue it too eagerly.

Finally, his eyes intent on the boot, he murmured, “Urt’s Friend. We speak of you, master.”

“Urt called me Daviot,” I said. And for Thom’s sake added, “When we were alone.”

The Changed nodded, and I saw his lips shape my name. Gently, I asked him, “How have you heard of me, Thom?”

He hesitated, glancing up, then down again. I thought he debated the wisdom of confiding in me. I curbed my impatience. It seemed a long time before he said, “We … speak, Master … Daviot.”

“How?” I asked.

I wondered if I stumbled on a thing unknown to other Truemen. That the Changed of Durbrecht communicated with one another, that I had long known. But that this servant of a keep on Kellambek’s west coast should know of Urt, know of me-that was a startling revelation. I did not believe the College of the Mnemonikos was aware of this. If so, it was a well-kept secret. Were the sorcerers? Were they aware, then perhaps my feeling of being watched was explained. I had inquired openly of the wild Changed, of Ur-Dharbek, and my sympathies were known in Durbrecht. Perhaps that was the reason I was commanded to proceed directly from keep to keep, that the sorcerers might observe me, eavesdroppers to my possible sedition.

Thom shrugged and polished, and when he spoke again, it was with lowered eyes and a voice so soft I must bend close to hear him. “Oarsmen come down the coast, Master … Daviot…. There are servants in the taverns, porters…. Merchants employ us. They speak … we hear … sometimes.”

He shrugged again and fell silent. I saw that he was very frightened. I prompted him gently: “I’ll not betray you, Thom. What you tell me shall be our secret-you’ve my word on that.”

He looked at me again. It was the look a whipped dog gives when offered some kindness: gratitude and fear mingled. He said, “Word came of Urt and you.” Then he smiled, a wary, tentative expression. “Urt’s Friend, you are named.”

I returned his smile. I felt proud of that appellation. “We were friends,” I said. And then, “What word of Urt?”

“None … Daviot.” I thought he savored the saying of my name; nervously, like indulgence in forbidden fruit. “Not since he was sent to the Slammerkin.”

A hope faded at that, though its flame was not entirely dimmed. I recognized it was wildest optimism to think I’d find news of Urt so far south, but what I had found opened wide vistas of possibility. It seemed that that hidden society I had perceived in Durbrecht must extend throughout Dharbek. Stretched thin by distance, yes, but nonetheless there-a network of the Changed, unseen, passing word of their kind wherever Changed met Changed, their presence, their unquestioning servitude, so familiar to most Truemen it was taken for granted. I was disappointed that Thom could tell me no more of Urt; I was wildly excited by what I learned.

“Daviot?” I heard him ask. “You’ll say nothing of this?” “You’ve my word,” I promised. “Should it earn you punishment?”

“Likely.” He ducked his head. “The commur-magus has little liking for us.”

“And Nevyn’s the power here?” I asked.

“Yes,” he told me. “Lord Chrystof’s no blood-heir; the commur-mage is named his successor.”

I grunted. It explained Nevyn’s presumption. I thought he should make an unkind master. “He shall have nothing from me,” I said.

Thom said, “Thank you.”

He set my boots aside-they gleamed bright as my staff-and rose to his feet. For an instant I debated the wisdom of questioning him about the Changed I had seen aiding the Sky Lords. I decided against such risk: did he know aught of that, it was unlikely he would reveal it to me, for all I was named a friend. Did he not, then I should put my freedom in jeopardy, perhaps my life. I saw then what subterfuge and deceit bring-inevitable mistrust. It crossed my mind (a fleeting, guilty thought) that Thom might be some spy of Nevyn’s, sent to lure me into confession. I held my secret to myself. Still, he had revealed things I had not known: I took a small chance, hoping to enlarge my gains.

“Might word be gotten to Urt?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” Thom allowed. “It would be difficult.”

“Were it possible,” I said, “I’d have him know I wander Kellambek. I’d have him know he’s still my friend; that I hope we shall meet again, someday.”

Thom nodded thoughtfully. “Can I pass word,” he said, “I shall…. There might be a boat.”

“He was sent to Karysvar,” I said, “on the Slammerkin.”

Thom said, “Yes.”

I was not sure whether he confirmed my words or his own prior knowledge. I went on: “He might have gone into Ur-Dharbek, to the wild Changed.”

Thom said, “Perhaps,” and his face became masked. “Then he’ll not get word.”

I had gone too far. The features of the Changed are rooted deep enough in their animal ancestors that they are difficult to read; at the same time, they are sufficiently removed from their forebears that their bodies no longer display the clear reactions of beasts. Even so, I had conversed with them enough I saw Thom was perturbed. His reaction was not dissimilar to that of the sorcerers I had questioned on the same subject. I recognized that he would say no more than they, and that did I press him I should lose his confidence altogether. So I shrugged and said, “No, I suppose not. Still, I hope he shall get my message.”

“Yes.”

Thom seemed torn now between the formal “master” and the use of my given name. I was pleased he chose the latter but knew I had made him uncomfortable when he inquired what further service I might require or if he should bring me to the dining hall.

I was hungry: he guided me to the hall.

Neither the aeldor nor the commur-magus was present, which troubled me not at all, and I was given a cheerful welcome by the warband. The warriors were led by a jennym whose name was Darus, and from him I learned that Nevyn had been some dozen years in the keep and was not popular. I commented on the servants’ tunics-those tending us in the hall wore gray bordered with silver-and Darus advised me that was Nevyn’s doing. He spoke somewhat of the Sky Lords, but save for sightings of a few of the little airboats (Trevyn Keep had encountered no landings), I garnered no more information than I already had. War-engines were constructed, but it was Darus’s belief the west coast was safe. I thought him dangerously wrong but said nothing, suspecting that did I voice my opinion that in a year or two the Sky Lords would likely mount their Great Coming, I should earn Nevyn’s further displeasure and my sojourn in Trevyn Keep be even less pleasant. Instead, the fog yet lingering, I passed the afternoon telling stories to a hall of bored soldiers. I noticed, as I spoke, that the Changed disappeared.

That evening I saw Chrystof escorted into the hall by two burly Changed in the uniforms of body-servants. He seemed not quite aware of his surroundings, as if he were more accustomed to his private chambers, and he sat at the high table with only Nevyn for company. I was not invited to join them, but Nevyn called in a commanding tone that I should demonstrate my talent once the tables were cleared and the servants gone. The warband seemed not to find this unusual but drew their own ale without comment. I was pleased to see that a handful of Changed, Thom amongst them, gave furtive ear from shadowy doorways. I thought this an unhappy keep, and (a small and, I admit, spiteful revenge) that I should mention it on my return to Durbrecht.

That night I found my brazier renewed and a covered jug of wine placed on the table. Thom had set a warming pan in my bed, and my riding gear had been laundered. I thanked him for such services, but when I sought to draw him again into conversation he grew reticent. I feared I had startled him too much with speaking of the wild Changed and made no more effort to press him.

That night I dreamed once more of the wood beyond Cambar Keep. It was the first time the dream had come in weeks, and as I groped my way amongst the mist-shrouded oaks, I thought I saw the faint shapes of tiny airboats through the gray canopy overhead. I heard again that strange beating sound, as of massive wings, but whatever made it did not disturb the brume, and I could only wander, struggling to discern from which direction came the voices, Rwyan’s and Urt’s, that called to me even as I hid from the spectral shapes of the warriors fighting there.

I woke to dim, gray light, thinking for a moment that I dreamed still. Then Thom knocked, and I realized the fog remained outside, a shroud spread miserable over the hold. It seemed fitting.

I greeted the Changed and refused his ministrations, electing to dress myself as he found small tasks to occupy his hands. I broke my fast and went to visit my mare. She appeared content enough to rest in her stall, and I asked that Thom be my guide into the town. He must get permission for that, which Nevyn granted with some reluctance. I was reassured by the sorcerer’s disinclination-it suggested Thom was not his spy-and had Thom bring me to a tavern, the plazas being emptied of traffic by the weather.

I bought the Changed a tankard, but he would not sit with me, going instead to an area where others of his kind gathered. At least they heard me. I passed the day there, gleaning what news I could (which was little enough) and had no more need to buy my own ale, for as word passed around that the Sword entertained a Storyman, the inn filled up and the landlord refused my coin.

I was three days in Trevyn Keep before the fog lifted and I was able to use Nevyn’s own admonitions to continue on my way. I spoke as much as I was able with Thom, but he was more guarded for all I avoided any mention of Ur-Dharbek or the wild Changed. He spoke freely enough of his own life and the lives of his fellow servants, but not at all of those matters that most intrigued me. Still, I felt I had collected a further piece to the puzzle I saw was my homeland. I hoped to gather more along the way to Mhorvyn. I hoped one day I should find more answers than questions.

I’ve few fond memories of that place, and I was not at all sorry to leave it; only for the Changed who must toil under Nevyn’s command. I was happy to see the fog clear and had my mare saddled immediately I had taken my morning meal. I bade farewell to Thom and to Darus and his warband. The aeldor Chrystof, I was informed, had taken to his bed, and the only good-bye I got from Nevyn was a curt reminder that I should not deviate from the coast road.

That, I followed southward, the sea never far away, so that I halted in fishing villages as often as in the keeps. I obeyed the orders sent from Durbrecht, never remaining longer than a few days in any one place. Nowhere did I encounter another like Trevyn Keep; everywhere I saw with clearer eyes that the Changed, even when treated kindly, went unseen, faceless servitors to we Truemen.

I rode through the autumn into winter, which was milder on this west coast than those I had known in Whitefish village or Durbrecht, and a day before the dawning of Bannas Eve I came to Mhorvyn. It was the climax of my year’s wandering; it was also, I found, a crossroads.

Mhorvyn was the largest hold I had seen since departing Durbrecht, and unlike any other. It sat upon a rocky island that hung like a teardrop from the southernmost tip of Dharbek, connected to the land by a causeway that at high tide was hidden beneath the waves of the southern ocean. Landward, the bailiwick was given over to farms and orchards, and a village of fisherfolk spread along the shore facing the hold. The day I came there was squally, a biting wind driving rafts of gray cloud in off the sea, a wintry sun snatching brief glances through the scud. I halted on the shore, studying the road that ran, it seemed, across the waves. The tide was on the ebb, and water spilled from the stone, leaving behind pools and pungent strings of seaweed. My mare argued my decision to proceed, and it was a while before I could urge her out onto the causeway. It was a strange sensation to ride that path, the sea stretching out sullen and wind-tossed to either side, salt spray lashing us. It seemed almost that my mare trod the waves, like some seahorse out of legend. She liked it not at all, and I must admit I was not sorry to reach the sturdy barbican that granted ingress to the island. Walls of blue-black stone extended from the little tower around the whole of Mhorvyn; within, the buildings of the town seemed to tumble down at random over the flanks of a low hill surmounted by the great tower of the keep. I was brought there by a cheerful soldier, who led me at a brisk pace through a maze of narrow streets decorated in readiness for Bannas Eve. From him I learned that word had been sent ahead to expect me, and that all Mhorvyn looked forward to enjoying my tales as part of the festival celebrations.

I got no less a cheerful welcome in the keep itself. Yanydd was the aeldor here, a sturdy man in his middle years, handsome and thick-bearded, and he filled me a tankard himself as he introduced me to his family and the folk of the keep. His wife was a woman of startling beauty whose name was Dorae; she seemed too young to have borne three sons. They were named Rhys, Maric, and Ador, the eldest about my own age, his brothers younger by a year apiece. The commur-mage was older, her hair gray and her face, for all it was not unhandsome, lined and weatherbeaten. Her name was Laena.

It was close on dusk, and the hall was redolent of roasting meat and ale. Cypress boughs and sprigs of mistletoe hung about the walls, and on every door was pinned a dried oak leaf and a token of the God. The keep had a festive air that combined with the pleasant manner of Yanydd and his kin to put me at my ease. I saw that the Changed of this place wore no symbols of their station as in Trevyn and appeared comfortable with their lot. I thought this should be a better hold than many in which to pass the midwinter festival.

Courteously, Yanydd invited me to bathe and find my chamber before submitting myself to the inevitable barrage of questions and the dispensation of my duty as a Storyman. I accepted gladly, and a Changed servant was directed to escort me to my quarters.

They were, I found, luxurious. The bed was wide, the stone floor covered with a gaily patterned carpet, and coals glowed in a small hearth, on which a jug of mulled ale steamed. There was a garderobe, and a tall window afforded a view over the rooftops of the town to the sea beyond. I tossed my staff and saddlebags on the bed and flung open the window, inhaling the salt-scented air as I studied the busy streets below.

The Changed-he was feline-bred and named, I had learned, Lan-waited patiently. I contemplated interrogation but decided it was the wiser course to approach gently, cautiously, lest I scare him as I had done Thom. So I closed the window and gave him a smile.

“Shall you celebrate this Bannas Eve, Lan?” I asked.

Unlike Thom, he met my gaze and answered my smile with his own. “Yes, master,” he said. “Lord Yanydd has all his people celebrate.”

I said, “My name is Daviot, Lan.”

He answered me, “Yes, I know that,” and hesitated a moment before adding, “Daviot.”

That both pleased and surprised me, but I had no wish to frighten him off and so said, “I’d not earn you trouble, Lan. Is it your custom to call me ‘master,’ then so be it; but I’d be happy with ‘Daviot.’”

He nodded, his expression sage, and after a moment said, “Perhaps in private, Daviot. But in the halls, better I title you ‘Master Daviot.’”

I deemed him quicker of wit than Thom and far less cowed, which reinforced my impression that this was a friendly keep. I said, “As you wish.”

He smiled again at that and said, “Yes,” gravely, as if he took the suggestion under consideration and reached his own conclusions.

It came to me that he did; and with that realization another thought: that he accepted what must surely be odd behavior in a Trueman with unusual alacrity. I asked him, “Have you heard of me, Lan?”

“All Mhorvyn knows a Storyman was due this Bannas Eve,” he said, which was prevarication.

“That’s not what I meant.” I said it gently, smiling lest he think it a reprimand. “And I suspect you know that.”

“How should I?” he asked.

His rounded face was bland, his tone subtle, so that the question sounded entirely innocent; or cautious. I saw that he was no simpleton but quick of wit and careful. Also, I sensed in him an air of confidence. I chose to show somewhat of what I knew. I said, “I thought perhaps word had come. In Trevyn Keep I learned you name me Urt’s Friend.”

He said, “Yes,” and his smile grew wider. It was as though a mask dropped from his face. “Word came; and so you are known to us.”

I nodded, holding my smile in place even as I marveled at what I heard-word came ahead of me, as if the Changed communicated near as efficiently as the sorcerers. I felt a pang of guilt (small and soon enough consumed beneath my wonder) that I succeeded so well in combining deceit with honesty, revealing my own knowledge that I might pick more from his responses. Casually, I asked him how.

“There was a boat,” he said. “The crew had word of you.”

Of course: the craft that plied the coasts of Dharbek were manned by Changed, the caravans of the merchants were manned by Changed, and all moved from hold to hold, from town to town. They were the messengers. In the halls and holds Changed servants heard their masters speak and passed on word of what they heard to others-in the taverns, the markets, the docks: the places those who traveled visited. It was an effective network. I wondered if Lan knew of his kind dealing with the Sky Lords; and I knew that if I broached that topic, he would admit no more.

I asked him, “Do any other Truemen know of this?”

“I do not think so.” He shook his head. “To most we’ve no faces, nor eyes or ears. You are unusual, Daviot. You see us.”

I shrugged. It seemed to me no great thing to recognize the Changed as beings with feelings, identities, to perceive them as individuals, and yet I knew I was odd in this. I was more surprised that Lan should so readily confide in me. Also, I admit to feeling flattered.

I said, “Nor shall they know of it from me.”

And was again surprised when he gave me back a calm, “Why not?”

I had no ready answer, save that I sought to protect the innocent.

“Because,” I said, and halted. It was near impossible to express in words my confused emotions. “Because … Urt was my friend, and he was punished for my transgression.”

“Your mage,” Lan said, and nodded as if that were justification enough.

Now I gaped. He knew of Rwyan? Was all my life open to the Changed? This cat-bred servant appeared to know more about me than my own kind. I closed my mouth and asked him needlessly, “You know of that?”

“From the Changed of Durbrecht,” he replied. “When Urt was sent north, word spread of why-and of you.”

I swallowed, staring at him, not knowing what to say.

He looked me in the eyes then, directly, and in his I saw an absolute candor. “These matters are best kept secret,” he said. “For your sake as much as mine. Lord Yanydd-Laena-are kind enough, but I think if they knew … they would feel it their duty to alert Kherbryn, Durbrecht. I think that if the Lord Protector or the sorcerers knew, there would be … measures … taken.”

All I could think of to say was “Yes.”

“And did they,” Lan went on, “then you would be punished with us. I suspect Truemen would deem you a turncoat.”

I nodded, dumbstruck. Marvel piled on marvel here. This was no ordinary servitor, neither any ordinary Changed. There was suddenly an authority to him, a sophistication I had seen only once before-in Urt. I thought that if anyone could satisfy my curiosity about Ur-Dharbek and the wild Changed, it must be Lan. I wondered if I dared ask him.

I said, “Who are you, Lan? What are you?”

“A servant.” He shrugged lazily. “A Changed man descended from cats. A nobody.”

I said, “I do not think so.”

“Here”-he waved a hand, indicating the chamber and the keep together-“I am only that. What else should I be?” I said, “I don’t know.”

He said, “Also, I am a friend. Perhaps someday that shall count for something.”

I said, “This day. You place great trust in me.”

“And you in me,” he said. “Is it misplaced?”

I shook my head and said slowly, “No. Though I’ve myriad questions I’d ask you.”

“Perhaps I shall answer them,” he returned. “But now, do I see to your bath ere folk wonder at your absence?”

I saw the mask descend upon his face again, his expression become one of patient servility. I thought this was the only face most Truemen saw. I wondered if behind it, hidden deep in his eyes, I saw amusement. Abruptly, I wondered if Lan played with me; if perhaps he gave me back my own game, leading me into revelation, even as I thought to draw him out. I gave him a quizzical look, but he offered me nothing more, and I nodded. When the door closed on him, I stood for long moments, staring at the wood.

I had no further opportunity to speak with Lan that day, for when he returned with a tub he was accompanied by two sturdy Changed of taurine stock and played the part of courteous, efficient servant, seeing to the filling of the tub and leaving me alone with a minimum of dutiful words. I bathed and, dressed in my finest clothes (which were not very fine at all), made my way to the hall.

Yanydd called me to the high table, seating me between himself and Laena, and as the meal was served I was occupied, as the aeldor had promised, with a barrage of questions.

We spoke of the Sky Lords and the likelihood of the Great Coming, of the war-engines and the mood of the common folk, and of what I had seen during my year of travel. Of that topic I gave a censored version, wondering the while if Laena somehow sensed my dissembling. Her eyes never left my face as I spoke, but her voice was soft when she voiced an opinion or a question, and I thought she did not see through me.

In return I got back what news they had. The little airboats (Yanydd and Laena believed them scouts for impending invasion) had been seen less frequently of late, as if the onset of winter curbed their intrusions; or, the aeldor declared in somber tone, they had gleaned all the information they required. He had filled his storehouses against the possibility of siege and made preparation as best he could to find shelter for the fishermen and farmers of his holding.

“The Sky Lords have the advantage there,” he murmured, “the God curse them. We cannot be all the time on alert, unsure what we face or when it shall come. The folk of this west coast are not so used to the attacks as the rest of Dharbek, and I’d not see panic spread with constant reminders to go wary. So my people forget-the God knows, they’ve lives to live and work to do without one eye all the time on the sky.”

“The Sentinels shall send warning,” Laena promised.

Yanydd said, “Yes. But do the Sky Lords refine these new-found powers, how much warning?”

At that, the commur-mage could only sigh and shrug and tell him, “As much they may.”

“Which may not be enough” was his glum response. “Do they now own full command of the elementals, perhaps they’ve the strength to overcome the Sentinels and be on us apace. And do they bring that strength against Kherbryn and Durbrecht, what then? Chaos, with every keep in the land fighting alone!”

“To overcome the Sentinels, even with their new powers, that shall be hard,” Laena returned. “No less to take Kherbryn or Durbrecht.”

“I pray it be so,” said Yanydd, and barked a laugh I thought was not much humorous. “I pray all our fears prove unfounded and they do not come at all.”

“We’ve faced them before and given them to the Pale Friend,” said Rhys fiercely. “We’ll do the same, do they dare invasion.”

His father nodded, smiling at the young man’s bravado. “I think that are our fears proven true, it shall be a Coming such as we’ve not known before,” he said, and turned to me. “Daviot, you’ve faced Kho’rabi-how think you?”

“I know them for terrible warriors,” I said, and found myself again the center of attention as Rhys and his brothers pressed me for a detailed account.

They gazed rapt as I spoke, drinking in my every word. Rhys, as I have told you, was about my age, Maric and Ador not much younger, but as I spoke, I felt older. I thought I had seen and done things of which these young men were entirely innocent, and that those experiences had taught me that the glory of battle is in the dreaming of it, not the doing. I wondered if I was the only man in Dharbek who thought at all of peace.

I was grateful to Dorae for her intervention. Had she not spoken up, I should likely have found myself commandeered by her sons. She it was reminded us that Bannas Eve approached, and with it the seasonal celebrations-a time for joy, not tales of bloody battle. She suggested I be allowed to regale the hall with more fitting stories.

Thus I was provided a table for a platform, in the center of the hall, with all the warband and all the keep’s folk, both Truemen and Changed, gathered around as I told the tale of Gwynnyd and the Ghost.

I think I told it well. Certainly, when I was done there was a moment’s hush, and I saw several glance around nervously, toward the shadows, before they applauded me. I bowed and drank ale to wet my tongue, then launched into the story of the aeldor Kyrd and the Wise Woman of Tyrvan.

By the time that tale was spun the hour was late, and Yanydd reminded the hall we must rise early on the morrow, for the Bannas Eve services. There was a shout of disagreement from Rhys and his brothers, but Dorae bade them be silent, and they concurred, albeit with obvious reluctance, and I was allowed to climb down from my dais.

As we prepared to leave the hall, Laena took my arm. “We must speak,” she said. “Tomorrow or the next day.”

I said, “Yes, as you wish,” hoping she did not notice the alarm her words roused in me.

Likely she sought no more than a fuller accounting of my travels, that she might send back to Durbrecht word of all I had seen, of my thoughts concerning the mood of the land. But I could not help but wonder if something more lay beneath that simple statement.

I had, however, no chance to investigate, for servants came with torches to bring us to our rooms. Lan was my escort, and I followed him in troubled silence. I must hope Laena suspected nothing; and pray I did the right thing in holding secret all I knew of the Changed and that mysterious transaction I had witnessed.

I was startled from my musings by Lan’s voice.

“Is aught amiss, Daviot?”

I saw that we had come to my door. It stood open, Lan waiting with his torch. I forced a smile and beckoned him in. “What troubles you?” he asked.

His voice was entirely solicitous, and for an instant I was tempted to tell him all. I thought that had he been Urt, I should; that Urt would have counsel for me, perhaps answers. But I was not yet ready to trust Lan quite so far. I saw that the wine jug still stood upon the hearth, and that there were two cups. I filled them both and passed him one.

“Laena would speak with me,” I said, and knew my tone was nervous.

Lan waved a casual hand. “Laena does not judge you,” he said. “I think she seeks only that report all Storymen must make. There’s no magic in that, save in her sending word to Durbrecht.”

“Do the sorcerers watch me?” I asked. I realized I accepted without question that he should have such knowledge. “I’ve wondered about that.”

He paused an instant before replying. “They pay you special attention, Daviot. That should not surprise you-that you befriended Urt so openly; your affair with Rwyan; the due you give we Changed; things you said in Durbrecht-such behavior is unusual enough you are noticed by the rulers of this land.”

My face must have expressed alarm at that, for Lan chuckled and added, “I think you’ve not too much to fear. Save you give them greater cause for concern, I think you shall be safe.”

He appeared entirely at ease; I was not. I heard the shutters rattle over my window, buffeted by a wind that seemed, for all the chamber was warm, to pierce my bones. Almost, I blurted out that I concealed secrets greater than those entrusted me by this strange Changed. But I did not-I did not yet quite trust Lan that far. Instead, I asked him, “Have you any word of Urt or Rwyan?”

“Of Rwyan, none,” he said. “There are no Changed on the Sentinels, and so I can tell you only that she was brought safely to the islands. Of Urt? Urt went to Karysvar, where he is, as best I know, a servant to a merchant named Connys. News from so far north is hard to get.”

“You seem,” I said, “to get news aplenty.”

Lan nodded, again as if this were entirely normal. “This hold is famed for its orchards and its tobacco,” he explained. “Craft from both coasts come to Mhorvyn, and traders by land. All bring news, but seldom from farther north than the Treppanek.”

It was more than I had hoped for. Rwyan was resident on the second Sentinel, about which I could do nothing, but if Urt was still in Karysvar … Perhaps someday I might go there and find this merchant. I smiled at the thought.

“You’d find them again?” Lan asked.

“Could I.” I ducked my head and sighed. “But I doubt I shall. At least, not Rwyan. I think she must be forever lost to me. But perhaps someday I might meet Urt again. I should like that.”

“If he’s still there.”

Lan’s voice was soft, the sentence less statement than unguarded thought. I looked up, catching his eye-and saw the mask descend even as I said, “Where should he go?”

The feline Changed shrugged, not replying.

I said, “Across the Slammerkin, Lan? To join the wild Changed?”

Again, he shrugged. “Some do.”

There was hesitation in his voice. I thought he regretted that slip. I suspected he knew more than he revealed. I thought he had revealed so much, what he hid must surely be of great import. I thought we both, for all we exposed ourselves, held back secrets still. I knew mine: I wondered what Lan’s were. I said, “I know nothing of the wild Changed; nothing of Ur-Dharbek. It seems none do, save perhaps the sorcerers. And they’re closemouthed on that subject.”

“Nor I,” he said. “Save Truemen gave Ur-Dharbek to the Changed that the dragons leave them be. Our lot, it seems.”

I said, “I’d go there. I’d know what’s there.”

The mask remained a veil over his true feelings, but I thought I discerned amazement as he looked at me. “Think you a Trueman should find a welcome there?” he asked. “Be there any to welcome him.”

“Have the dragons eaten them, then?” I returned.

He laughed aloud at that. “Dragons, Daviot? Surely the dragons are all dead; the stuff of your stories now, and no more.”

“Be that so,” I said, “then perhaps the wild Changed prosper.”

“Perhaps.” He seemed to me to hold his expression bland. “I’d not know.”

I had taken too many steps along this path to turn back: I pressed on. “Are the dragons gone, what reason for the Border Cities?” I asked, deliberately making my tone one of idle curiosity.

“What reason for any city?” Lan echoed an answer I had got before. “They trade along the Slammerkin just as they do along the Treppanek. They exist for that and no more reason, likely.”

I saw he would give me no more. It was the same bland claim of ignorance I got each time I broached this subject. Perhaps he really knew nothing; I suspected he hid knowledge. I was about to speak again when he flung back his arms, yawning noisily, as if weariness suddenly took him.

“Forgive me.” He became once more the humble servant. “I think perhaps I should find my bed, and you yours. The services of Bannas Eve start early, and I’d get some sleep ere I commence my duties.”

I nodded, aware our conversation was ended. Save I commanded him-which would surely undo his confidence in me; and was not, anyway, in my nature-I should have no more from Lan this night.

“Yes.” I smiled as he rose, collecting my cup and the jug from the hearth. “But I hope we shall speak again.”

“I think we shall,” he said. “Goodnight, Daviot.”

I said, “Goodnight, Lan. And my thanks.”

“For what?” He paused at the door. His face was composed in an unreadable expression.

“For all you’ve told me,” I said. “For … trust.”

“Trust is like a sword, Daviot; it cuts both ways.”

Before I had opportunity to comment, he was gone, the door closed quietly behind him.

We Truemen went afoot into the town the next day, leaving the Changed behind to prepare for the feasting as Yanydd led us in procession around the walls of Mhorvyn. The sleet had blown away inland, but the wind still blew harsh, sending waves in crashing progression against the rocky shoreline. A few brave gulls fought the gusting, but they were the only interruption of an otherwise featureless and sullen sky. I hugged my cloak close, the wind ofttimes so strong, I must lean against it. Laena clutched my arm as if she feared it might blow her away, her lined face creased deeper as she studied the heavens.

In the lee of a building, where the blast could no longer steal the words unheard, she said, “Bannas Eve is not often so unkind. Last year the sun shone.”

There was a note of trepidation in her voice that prompted me to wonder. “Where I was born,” I said, “the weather is much like this on Bannas Eve.”

We passed beyond shelter then, and she fell silent, gripping my arm again, her face hidden in the hood of her cloak. I looked at the sky. It seemed not at all out of the ordinary to me: in Whitefish village we’d name such weather squally and expect it, until Matran at the least. I wondered why it disturbed the commur-mage so. I did not know her well, and she gave an impression of taciturnity, but I sensed she was concerned. It might have been the cold or the wind, but her shoulders were braced rigid under her cloak, and the eyes she turned upon the sky were narrowed as if she sought something there.

“I doubt even the Sky Lords can master such a wind,” I said.

It was a flippant comment. I did not believe she looked for sign of aerial attack, but her unease communicated and I looked to diffuse it with a joke. Her answer took me aback.

“Think you not?” she said.

I said, “Surely not! In winter? Besides, a wind like this must surely deny them grounding.”

We came to another open space then, and she did not reply until we stood again protected. We had completed our circuit and now walked the winding streets, returning slowly in the direction of the keep. From either side folk waved cedar twigs or clusters of dried oak leaves, their shouts loud, so that I must put my face close to Laena’s to hear her answer. Even then she kept her voice low.

“Not a grounding,” she said. “Not a Coming, even. But I tell you, Daviot Storyman, that this weather is unseasonal.”

I shrugged. I was yet heir to my father’s weather lore, and I knew that what was customary was never graved in stone. I said, “Do you tell me this is the Sky Lords’ doing?”

She gave me a wan smile then, one that spoke of doubt, of self and opinion. “They bind the elemental spirits to their command, no?”

She awaited a response, and so I ducked my head and gave her, “Yes. But as yet only to their little airboats, surely. The sorcerers I’ve encountered this past year seem largely of the belief they can do no more for a while. A twelvemonth, perhaps; perhaps longer, before they can bind those creatures to their great ships.”

“And likely all those sorcerers are right,” said Laena. “I do not speak of airboats, but of this weather.”

Her voice was low and held not much expression, as if she spoke of a thing she had sooner not contemplated and was loath to say openly. That somehow lent her words a greater impact. I grunted, surprised (I seemed to spend much of my time in Mhorvyn surprised by one thing or another), and said, “You believe they control the weather now?”

She had pushed back the hood of her cloak, and so I saw the pursing of her lips, the doubt that shone clear in her eyes. “Not believe,” she said. “Wonder, perhaps. I tell you-for years Mhorvyn has seen the sun shine on Bannas Eve. But now …” She shook her head and tilted it to indicate the sky.

I said, “Weather is no fixed thing, Laena. What’s been for years can change.”

She said, “Yes. But still I wonder…. Do they gain true control over the elementals, might they not bend the weather itself to their will?”

That was a thought I had not entertained; nor much cared to now. It was a terrifying prospect. It was somehow even worse than the belief that the Sky Lords commanded the elementals like carthorses. I heard my own voice grow dull with horror as I asked her, “Can that be? Is such a thing possible?”

“I know not,” she said. “I know nothing of such magic, but I know they control the aerial spirits in ways I cannot comprehend. If they can do that-if they can harness the elementals to their vessels-might they not also harness the elements themselves?”

I thought of the churning sea surrounding this island hold, of such storms as could isolate the rock. I thought of the craft that plied the coasts, the Treppanek and the Slammerkin, all harbor-locked or sunk by raging waves and howling winds. I thought of warships tossing useless at anchor, of fishing craft idle on the beaches. I thought of harvests lost and orchards wasted. I looked to the sky and hoped that Laena’s fears be all misplaced.

“Perhaps,” she continued, and took my arm even though we walked sheltered. Her fingers pressed hard. “Only perhaps, Daviot. Perhaps such fears are groundless; perhaps I become a scaremonger in my dotage. I’ve put the thought to my College, and it’s debated there. None other knows it, save Yanydd. I trust you shall hold silent, too. Were such a thought voiced abroad …”

“I’ll hold it close,” I said. Another secret to my hoard: they built apace. “None shall have this from me. But why do you tell me?”

At that she smiled more genuinely. “Are you not a Storyman?” she asked. “Are you Mnemonikos not the recipients of all our lore, of all our history? And be I right, then this is indeed historic. One at least of your talent should know.”

I ducked my head, in confirmation and gratitude, both. I felt suddenly more confident. Did Laena so entrust me with her secret thoughts, then surely she could not suspect me of harboring my own.

We approached the keep now, and across the open space before its walls the wind howled with renewed ferocity. I saw the aeldor’s banners whipped, snapping and crackling by the gusting, and thought of omens. What little smoke rose from the banked fires was lost against the dreary sky, nor were either stars or moon visible.

It was a relief to stand behind closed doors, even though the hall was chill and dim, without lanterns or blazing hearthfire. Changed servants came to take our cloaks; others stood expectant about the room, tapers and tinder boxes ready in their hands. Yanydd went to a clepsydra and tapped the glass, urging the last drops to fall. I think we all were pleased when he announced it sunset. The hall was filled then with the rasp of flint on steel, and myriad small flames moved like fireflies as the Changed set to lighting the lanterns, to building up the fire. The warband cheered as warmth and light drove off the chill, and then again as kegs of ale were broached.

Laena brought me to where the aeldor and his wife stood, conversing with the jennym of the warband. Callum was a man in his middle years, his hair and beard already gray, his face scarred and stern, save when he smiled, which was often. Now, it was entirely serious, and as I approached he nodded to Yanydd and marched briskly away.

“He goes to check the causeway,” Yanydd explained.

Dorae said, “This weather….” and shook her head.

Yanydd and Laena exchanged a swift glance, and I saw the aeldor’s eyes flicker in my direction, the subtle nod the commur-mage returned. He said, “Unusual, certainly. But likely it will blow itself out by dawn.”

“I pray it does,” his wife returned. “A storm on Bannas Eve bodes ill for the new year.”

She had no notion of Laena’s suspicion, I saw. Yanydd caught my eye and smiled gravely, as if we were conspirators together. I smiled back and said, “On the east coast, the winter is all storms,” and our conversation turned to idle matters as servants came with trays of tidbits.

Soon after, the doors opened to admit Callum, windswept and damp, and mouthing curses concerning wind and wave and causeway.

A mug of ale cheered him, however, and before long he was inquiring after the impending feast. I thought that should be a while coming, but when Yanydd sent to the kitchens, he got back word that all was ready. It seemed the Changed had toiled through the day: those religious observances applying to we Truemen did not affect them, save to make their tasks the harder for want of light. Even so, Yanydd was kinder than most to his menials, for once the meal was served, they were dismissed to their own feasting, and we Truemen left to fend for ourselves.

The mantis gave a blessing, and we set to. I ate abundantly and drank my fill. My breeks were tight when I pushed back my chair and rose in answer to the shouted demands for a tale.

For Rhys and his brothers, I told of Damyd’s Battle. A kithara was brought out for that, and a tambour, which made a fine accompaniment. Then, as all around men and women called for their own favorites, I told them of Cambar’s oak wood, wondering how they might respond. I was gratified to hear them murmur solemn agreement that the wood was a fit monument to brave men. Still, I followed that with more traditional stories-of great battles and courageous warriors, of wise aeldors and Lords Protector. I felt welcomed here in Mhorvyn, but I knew that ere long I must speak with Laena, and she send report to Durbrecht; and that after I should be commanded on, to wander more or return. My first year as a Storyman was ended this night. I had no idea what the next should bring.

Bannas Eve became Lantaine: a new year was born. In Yanydd’s hall we hailed Lantaine’s dawning as outside the keep’s stout walls the wind beat fiercer. The aeldor’s prophecy proved wrong: the storm did not blow itself out by dawn, but rather grew more intense. Shutters vibrated under the onslaught; tongues of winded flame flung sparks into the hall; word came the island was cut off, the causeway drowned, no boats likely to put out in such a tempest. When I ventured out, I saw the sky black with sullen cloud and lightning dancing over the roiling sea. I had witnessed storms as bad, or worse, as a child, but this-perhaps because of Laena’s glum augury-seemed to me different. I thought it should not soon end.

Nor did it. It blew for seven days, and I began to think the commur-mage correct in her belief, though I could scarce comprehend how the Sky Lords might bend the weather itself to their will. It lent a somber undercurrent to the seasonal festivities that, by common consent, we elected to ignore. We worked the harder at revelry, for all it was no easy thing to smile and dismiss the ravaging of wind and wave as Lantaine duties were dispensed. Yanydd must, of course, go out amongst the people of his holding, and I had my Storyman’s duty, which brought me out to the taverns and alehouses with my tales. On orders of the aeldor, Callum gave me an escort of four stout soldiers, who made themselves a barrier betwixt the wind and me as we struggled against the ferocious gusting. That alone was often strong enough to blow a man off his feet, but also there were roof tiles hurled like missiles down the streets, and shutters torn loose and flung like straws. I saw several folk injured; the keep’s herbalist-chirurgeon was much in demand. In the harbor three boats were sunk, and for all that Lantaine the causeway lay under angry water.

I spoke of it to Lan. He knew already of Laena’s belief (which knowledge no longer surprised me: I had soon enough come to accept that there was little the Changed did not know) but claimed ignorance of the storm’s source.

“Be it the Sky Lords’ doing,” he said one evening as I prepared for the night’s feasting, “then their magic must be wondrous powerful.”

“And wondrous disruptive,” I said. “Is all Dharbek assaulted like this, there can be no commerce.”

“No” was all he gave me back.

“But neither can they attack,” I said, and added a cautious, “surely. Such a gale must deny them grounding, no?”

“I’d think it so,” he said. “Save they’ve such magicks as can deny the storm.”

He seemed quite sanguine, as if neither storm nor source bothered him overmuch, and I could not decide if that was simple indifference or something else. I had no way to press him, however, save by open accusation, and that I avoided. Our relationship was built on mutual confidences but was not yet quite friendship. I felt he dealt with me honestly for the most part, and when I sensed reticence, I could not decide whether it stemmed from genuine ignorance or a refusal to tell me all he knew. I had sought to learn more of Ur-Dharbek and the wild Changed but with no better success than before: he continued to claim a lack of knowledge with a fixity I could only think of as dogged. Rather than jeopardize our rapport, I elected to leave that matter be. I had, anyway, other preoccupations.

Chief amongst them was my report to Laena, and that meeting I approached with some trepidation.

The gray-haired mage showed me only friendship throughout my sojourn in Mhorvyn, but still I hoarded such secrets as prompted me to anticipate that meeting with no great enthusiasm. As it was, Lan was again proven right, and the fears I created for myself were the worst I must face. It was the second day of Lantaine that she suggested we withdraw to her chambers, that I might tell her of my year. I agreed without demur (I had little option, and I felt I had sooner confront the affair than allow the maggot of fear to gnaw further) and so found myself ensconced in a comfortable room, settled in a deep-cushioned chair before a blazing fire. Laena took a seat opposite and offered me mulled wine. I thought perhaps it might contain some electuary to loosen my tongue and so, pleading a sufficiency already drunk and more to come, refused. Laena showed neither surprise nor disappointment and filled herself a cup. As she drank, I began to suspect myself of paranoia. Neither did she seek to employ her talent in any quarrying of my mind, but only asked that I tell her of my wanderings.

I spoke freely enough, holding back what I knew of the Changed and that mysterious encounter I had witnessed; in all other specifics I was honest. Laena heard me out, interrupting from time to time to ask that I repeat some observation or clarify some point. Occasionally she raised a hand to silence me and sat awhile with closed eyes, her lips moving without sound.

I asked her what she did, and she told me, “I’ve not your talent, Daviot, else I’d be Mnemonikos and not mage. I must employ my magic to commit all this to memory.”

“Your magic will hold it all?” I asked.

“Long enough,” she answered. “Not as you do, but until what you tell me is passed to Durbrecht. That I’ll do once we’re finished, and then it will fade and I’ll recall no more than my own natural memory retains.” She chuckled then and added: “That shall not be very much, nor for very long,” which set me more at ease.

So I gave my report, and Laena dismissed me.

“It will take a while for this to reach Durbrecht,” she advised me, “and then some days ere word comes back. I’ll tell you as soon I may what orders your College has.”

“I hope,” I said, gesturing at the closed shutters, “that I’ll be allowed to stay here until then.”

Laena nodded, smiling a trifle wanly as she cocked an ear to the wind’s howling. “I think there’ll be no choice in that,” she said. “Until this weather breaks at least.”

I nodded and left her to her magic. She gave no sign that she suspected me of dissimulation, and whilst I could not entirely dismiss unease, I was somewhat relieved. I felt I was granted a reprieve, at least until Durbrecht returned word.

That took longer than was usual. I had anticipated a response within six or seven days, but none came in that time and I began once more to fret. Was my case such as occasioned lengthy deliberation? Or did this freakish weather somehow disrupt the channels of occult communication? I did not know, nor had I any wish to question Laena, for fear she wonder at my impatience. I had no one in whom I could entirely and honestly confide. Lan was the nearest to that ideal, but even to him I could not tell all, and when I ventured to express some small measure of my concern, he only bade me wait, seeming no more disturbed by this than by the weather.

And then the storm died, the wind’s place taken by snow. The louring black that had spanned the heavens took on a livid hue, and a white curtain fell over Mhorvyn. This, I was told by Lan and Yanydd and Laena-indeed, by all I asked-was unprecedented. Snow was rare enough here; snow in such quantity was unknown. I had seen enough in Durbrecht, but very little in Whitefish village. There, what fell was soon translated into rain or sleet, the salty seaside air melting the flakes even as they descended. It should have been thus here, but the precipitation came so thick and strong, it blanketed the island between dawn and dusk and after built steadily up. It was a marvel to many-who had never seen snow-and to the children sheer delight. They rampaged through the streets, tossing snowballs, rolling in the stuff, constructing forts and follies even as gangs of Changed were set to clearing the roads and walks and roofs. It was, in truth, a pretty scene, the keep and all the rooftops decked pristine, but at the same time unnerving.

I went about the town as usual, wrapped in my cloak, my boots padded against the chill, listening as much as I spoke. None connected either storm or snowfall with the Sky Lords, but all wondered at such weather. Some talked of omens, some zealots of the God’s wrath; fishermen complained of lost catches, merchants of undelivered goods, farmers of blighted crops. Most looked to me for answers, as if I were a soothsayer. I told them I did not know, and I hid my burgeoning suspicion that this was indeed the Sky Lords’ doing.

Then word came. It was not good.

Yanydd summoned me to his private quarters, where I found Laena already settled by the fire. The aeldor stood by the window, staring morosely over the white snowscape of his holding. He turned as I entered, and I saw from his face and the commur-mage’s that this should be no idle conversation. He waved me to a chair, inviting me to fill a cup. I did so and sat waiting, nervous again.

“Durbrecht’s returned word,” Yanydd said. “Laena, do you tell him?”

The sorceress nodded and set down her cup, folding her hands as if the chill pervaded her bones even in this warm room.

“First,” she said, “you are to leave us as soon you may.”

I glanced toward the window. Through the glass I saw only whiteness. I wondered how I should travel in such conditions.

“Not yet.” Laena interpreted my look correctly. “Your College and mine agree you must wait until this snow ceases and the roads are passable.”

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“Exceedingly.” Her tone was grave; I shared her chill. “Dharbek lies snowbound. The storm wrecked shipping the lengths of the Slammerkin and the Treppanek, both; also down the coasts. Roads are blocked, and whole keeps, towns, are cut off. There has never been such a winter.”

I said, “I know,” and she gestured apology, murmuring, “Forgive me, Daviot. Of course you’d know.”

I asked her, “Magic? Is it the Sky Lords’ doing?”

Her face was answer enough, the words redundant. “Durbrecht fears it so,” she said, “and Kherbryn agrees. We cannot understand how, but there seems no other explanation.”

I raised my cup; drained it. Yanydd cursed, and silently I joined him. Almost, I told them all I knew. I thought that if the Sky Lords now commanded the elements themselves, if the Kho’rabi wizards sent tempests and blizzards against us, they must surely soon mount the Great Coming. I thought that every scrap of information should likely be of use; and then that all my reasons for holding back pertained still. It was the Changed dug Mhorvyn clear; it was the Changed risked the causeway to fetch wood for our fires. Did ships venture out, it would be Changed crewed them; it would be Changed toiled to open the roads. To tell of those few I had seen in alliance with the Kho’rabi was surely to betray the many, to bring down suffering on the innocent. Urt should suffer, and Lan; poor cowed Thom, and Pele and her children. Betrayal was balanced by betrayal-of the Changed, or perhaps of my own Trueman kind. I was caught between, trapped by my own instinctive decision to hold my tongue. I felt wretched: I hid my expression, reaching for the wine jug.

“We cannot believe they’ll attack yet.” I set the jug aside, composing myself as Laena spoke again. “Not in such weather.”

She shrugged, looking to Yanydd. The aeldor said, “This must hamper them no less than us. It makes no sense to invade a land of blocked roads. How should they fight, how travel?”

“They’ve their skyboats,” I said. “Shall they need roads?”

“They must!” Yanydd’s fist set his cup to bouncing. “Shall they send skyboats against every keep? Can they have so vast a fleet? Even do they concentrate their attacks on the great holds-seize Kherbryn and Durbrecht, even-still there should be sufficient lesser holdings to fight them. No, it’s my belief they must look to establish bridgeheads, do they plan real conquest. And what use a snowbound bridgehead?”

He fell silent, righting his spilled cup. I suspected his fierce words were a defiance based on hope, rather than genuine belief.

Laena said, “Yanydd believes they seek to grind us down. To disrupt the land and then send an armada against us.”

“And you?” I asked, meaning both her and the Sorcerous College.

“That likely Yanydd’s correct,” she replied. “That they shall send such weather against us as will blight our crops and wreck our ships-leave all Dharbek in chaos. Then that they shall end their sending and mount the Great Coming.”

I thought a moment on all I had learned in Durbrecht of military strategy, of past campaigns. None had been fought in winter, not the great battles. The transportation of armies was too difficult in winter. We Dhar fought our battles under the sun. Did the Ahn? Was winter truly an encumbrance to the Sky Lords? Yanydd’s prognostication made sense. The storm that had raged, the snow that followed, did not. None of this made sense, save that terrible powers were brought against us. I said, “Then we’ve time yet, be you right.”

“Yes.” Laena nodded. “But how much, we cannot know. Do they command the very elements, then this snow may cease as swift as it began.”

“Durbrecht’s no better notion?” I asked.

“We suspect …” She paused, seeming a moment lost. Then: “We suspect that their magic cannot entirely dominate the seasons. That they must bend nature to their will, shaping it, rather than controlling it utterly. Therefore, it seems unlikely they shall attack before spring.”

I glanced again at the window, wondering how long that season should be in coming.

“We looked to fight them,” Yanydd said, “sooner or later. It comes sooner.”

I thought that Laena whispered, “Too soon,” but her head was bowed, and I could not be sure. I said, “So I am to leave as soon I may. Where do I go?”

The commur-mage looked up, meeting my eyes. “East, around the coast,” she said. “Then north, to Durbrecht.”

I had not dared hope I might see my home again so soon; I had not at all thought to see it in such circumstances. I said, “And my commission? Do I say aught of all this?”

“Yes.” Laena ducked her head. “The Lord Protector deems it timely the people know what they face, that they be full ready. Durbrecht commands you tell brave stories, that you embolden the people. And learn all you may of their mood. Do you find any place unready, you are to report from the next sound keep. You are to hold nothing back.”

You are to hold nothing back. Almost, I laughed at the irony of it; almost, I wept. I only nodded and said gravely, “Yes, so I shall.”

As dusk fell that night-which was then merely a darkening of the white, a transposition of faint day’s light by silvery night’s-I told Lan I must soon depart, and why.

He nodded as he stoked my fire. “I think that shall be a hard journey,” he said. “But you’ll see your home again, at least.”

“It shall be no great homecoming,” I returned. “Not with such grim news.”

He added a log to the blaze and turned to face me. “At least you’ve the chance, Daviot.”

I was immediately chastened: Lan, as a Changed, would never have that privilege. Gently, I asked him, “Where are you from, Lan?”