Lords of the Sky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” he asked, a moment obstinate.

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

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

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

“Their magic must be strong,” he said.

“It is,” she said.

“And they are your enemy?”

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

“You look sad, Rwyan.”

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

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

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

“Then,” he said, “why are you apart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you wish it?”

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

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

“Thank you,” she said.

The Feast of Daeran was past before I sighted Carsbry, my belly grumbling its anticipation of Pyrrin’s hospitality. Betwixt this keep and Cambar, the land was ravaged, famine a growing threat, disease stirring. This should have been a season of growth, of plenty; it was, instead, a time of hardship. I went often hungry: I thought I should rest awhile in Carsbry and fatten myself a little before continuing up the coast.

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

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

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

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

Pyrrin sat dicing with his warband. He was a man at the midpoint of his life, no longer youthful, but not yet given up to age. I judged him some ten years or more my senior and likely overfond of his food and ale. Fat began to overlay his muscle, and his pale brown hair was thinning. I thought his features spoke of indulgence, though his manner was amiable enough. He greeted me kindly, calling that ale be served me, and introduced me around.

His wife-the lady Allenore-greeted me from where she sat sewing with her women. She was as like her husband they might have been sister and brother, save her hair was thick, albeit weighted with sweat. The commur-magus was an elderly fellow, Varius by name. He was portly and disfigured by a dreadful burn that marred the left side of his otherwise cheerful face. He told me later that Kho’rabi magic had left its mark, and from others I learned that despite his years and girth, he was a formidable fighter. The jennym was a lean, hard-looking fellow named Robyrt. He alone amongst the commanders wore leathers and seemed ready to fight.

We drank and traded news. I had little enough: what change I had observed along my road was for the worse. They seemed not much concerned by Taerl’s succession or Jareth’s regency, or were loath to air their views in my presence. They told me there had been, some weeks ago, an expedition of the Sky Lords come against the Sentinels. Not, they hastened to advise me, the great airboats, but a horde of the little craft. All save a handful had been destroyed, and those few Kho’rabi who had reached the shore were all slain. Of greater and more recent interest was the arrival of a sorcerer in Carsbry, bound for Durbrecht with a servant in tow. She awaited, they said, the departure of a trading galley which should leave on the morrow.

I was immediately intrigued. “A servant?” I asked. “I thought there were no Changed on the Sentinels.”

“Nor are there,” said Varius, “and nor’s he.”

“A strange fellow,” Robyrt offered. “Did he not accompany a sorcerer, I’d think him likely a Kho’rabi. He’s a look about him.”

“They came here only yesterday,” said Pyrrin, “and have hardly emerged from their chambers. Had Varius not received word from the Sentinels, I’d wonder but if she doesn’t look to hide him.”

She? I felt my heart start beneath my ribs. It was like a blow, and for a while I was without breath, heart and head aswirl. It could not be … surely not … it could not be: that should be too much to dare hope. Worse, if it were and she was Durbrecht-bound. To find her only to lose her again? That should be more than I could bear.

I heard Pyrrin say, “Daviot? What ails you, man? By the God, but you’re gone white. Are you ill?”

I shook my head, not yet able to speak. My throat was clogged with hope; and fear, also, that I might regain and again lose so much. All their eyes were on me. The aeldor pushed a mug to my hand, asking the while if I’d have him summon the keep’s herbalist. On his face I saw the fear I brought disease into his hall. I was not sure what I saw on Varius’s, but I recalled Rekyn’s warning that I was observed by her kind. So: did this plump, scarred magus suspect the reason for my discomfort?

In that instant I did not care. I forced down ale and asked, “She?”

It must have seemed to them a strange question. My whole demeanor must have seemed strange. I did not care.

It was Pyrrin who answered, “Aye, she. Rwyan, her name.”

Rwyan!

I knew not what I did then. Reason was gone, sense: my body reacted of its own. I sprang to my feet, sending my chair clattering over, my head turning, eyes ranging the hall in search of her.

Rwyan!

Robyrt came upright with me, his sword drawn and raised to cut me down. I ignored him: all my eyes knew was that she was not there. I took a step away from the table, turned. They must have believed me crazed. Across the hall, Allenore had dropped her embroidery, hands pressed frozen to her mouth. Her women clustered about her, as if her presence should protect them from this madman. Robyrt stood defensive before Pyrrin, who was himself on his feet, a dagger in his hand. The warband came with naked blades. I saw, as if from outside my body, that some held spears readied to cast. I could not see Rwyan. There was a silence broken by Varius’s calm voice.

“Aye, Rwyan. A blind mage with hair like burnished copper. Bound on tomorrow’s tide for Durbrecht. Now do you sit down and gather up your senses? Or must we bind you?”

I groaned, or wailed-I know not to this day which; but I righted my fallen chair and sat.

Varius filled my mug and bade me drink. I obeyed. I was suddenly gripped with a terrible fear that the sorcerer, or the aeldor, or the jennym, would order me bound, have me locked away until Rwyan was departed. I sat and drank as swords were sheathed and spears lowered. I was the focus of attention. I noticed that Robyrt had taken Pyrrin’s seat, putting the length of the table between the aeldor and me, and that his blade rested ready across his thighs. I gestured apology and mumbled, “Forgive me, my lord Pyrrin; lady Allenore. I …” I shook my head. “She’s here? In the keep now?”

Pyrrin nodded. From his expression it was obvious he had not the least idea what went on. All he saw was a Story-man seemingly made mad by mention of a woman’s name. Robyrt was all undisguised suspicion, as if I were a slavering red-eyed hound. From behind me I heard a voice murmur, “Berserker.” I took deep breaths, forcing myself if not to calm, then at least to its semblance, enough to reassure them I was not an immediate danger. Oh, by the God! She might walk in at any moment. I did not know what I might do then. I burned with impatience; with a maelstrom of emotions, hope and fear all mixed. It was all I could do to hold my seat.

All eyes were on me: an explanation was called for. Hoarse-voiced, I said, “We were lovers once, in Durbrecht. I’ve not seen her since; I’d not thought to see her again.”

Pyrrin favored me with a look somewhere between amazement and pity. “By the God!” he said softly. “And she’s come here now; and you. What odds on that, eh?”

Varius said, “Perhaps better had you come here tomorrow, or the day after. But …” He shrugged, that side of his face still mobile twisting in approximation of a sympathetic smile.

I said, “But I did not. She’s in her quarters now?” My voice sounded strangled.

The sorcerer nodded. “She and her man, aye.”

A hideous doubt assailed me. Her man; her servant? There were no servants on the Sentinels, I knew that much. So who was this fellow? Had Rwyan a lover? Jealousy flared. Irrational, unjustified, but no less fierce for that. I had found comfort in Krystin’s arms, had I not? How then could I burn so hot at thought of Rwyan with another? What right had I? None, fairly-which made no difference at all. What’s fair to do with love?

I swallowed down the lump that seemed to clog my throat, drank ale, and asked in as calm a tone as I could manage, “I thought the sorcerers of the Sentinels had no truck with servants?”

“Nor do they, usually.” I could tell from Varius’s expression that he saw the direction of my thinking. “But neither are many blind. This fellow’s servant and guide both; hired to ease her passage. No more than that.”

I think I sighed then. I know I felt relieved; and as quickly suspicious again. Perhaps Varius looked only to soothe me, to avoid public disturbance. Certainly, my behavior so far provided him with concern enough. I said, “I see.” And then, “But-”

I bit back the words. Rwyan was blind, aye. Of course she was; of course I knew that. Knew it as surely as I knew she had no need of men to play the watchdog. With the gift of her talent she could “see” as well as any sighted woman. Jealousy flared anew: a servant, a guide? I saw that Varius waited on me, no less Pyrrin. Robyrt sat alert, his blade still drawn. My mind raced. Did Rwyan stoop to sophistry that she might bring a lover with her?

My hosts still waited on me. I said, “But I had never thought to find her again.”

It sounded weak to me, but they appeared satisfied; at least none made comment. I raised my mug and set it down empty. Were this a story or a balladeer’s song, Rwyan should enter the hall now, fall into my arms and go with me into some sunlit future. But it was not: there still lay a wall between us, our callings. There was still this mysterious servant. I summoned that empty dignity men rely on in such situations: had Rwyan come here with a lover, she should not see me disadvantaged. I should be strong; I should dismiss him. And her, needs be.

I said, “Does she take her meals in the hall?” And when Pyrrin told me aye, “Then likely I’ll see her betimes. Meanwhile”-I gestured at my dusty shirt-“if I might bathe?”

The aeldor nodded enthusiastically. I suspect he was pleased enough to be rid of me awhile. I thought, aware of the undisguised curiosity emanating from Allenore and her ladies, that the hall should soon enough be abuzz with gossip. What a tale I made-the Storyman and the sorcerer, love thwarted not once but twice: a tale to moisten eyes. I rose, dignified, taking up my saddlebags and staff as Pyrrin called a Changed servant and charged the fellow with escorting me to a chamber, seeing a bath drawn.

I bowed and followed the Changed-cat-bred, I dimly noticed-from the hall. As we departed, I thought I heard conversation erupt. I had no doubt it concerned me. I revised my notions of lingering here: I should quit Carsbry as soon I might.

But meanwhile I should meet Rwyan again. I was no longer sure I welcomed that.

Ryl was the Changed’s name. That much I noted, but little else. All thoughts of exploring his unseen world fled me as I was brought to my chamber. I thought entirely of Rwyan.

Here in Carsbry.

With an unneeded servant.

Taking ship tomorrow.

In Durbrecht, Telek had taught how sometimes ill-conceived humors may so affect the heart that that organ falters in its task. Its pumping becomes irregular, blood thins along its course, or spurts; breath comes short. At worst, the heart ceases its work altogether. As I lay in my tub, I thought I suffered so. I feared my heart should burst. I felt it pound against my ribs, as if demanding exit. I could not remain still for long but must scrub at the grime, soap my hair, and leap from the tub. Only to pace the floor in a fury of indecision. Should I return to the hall? Should I wait? Ryl had taken my boots to polish, my spare shirt and breeks to clean. All at my request; with the request he hurry, return them to me as soon as he was done-I’d not meet Rwyan clad vagabond. I believe the unfortunate fellow was somewhat frightened of my manner. I went to the window, aware I sucked breath as does a drowning man. I pressed against the sill, forcing my labored breathing even.

Below was the yard, bright in the sun, ordinary. A farrier’s hammer clattered; horses nickered; a few folk moved slowly about their ordinary tasks. From the kitchens came the odor of cooking food to remind me the midday meal should not be long. I wondered if Rwyan should eat in the hall, as Pyrrin had said, or remain in her chamber. I wondered, if she did, if I should go to her. I wondered what I should say, did this mysterious servant prove my worst fears true. I wondered if she knew yet I was here in Carsbry.

I started as Ryl’s knocking announced the return of my clothes. I gave him effusive thanks and waved him away, tugging on cleaned shirt and breeks, my gleaming boots. I tidied hair overlong in need of cutting. I picked up my staff and set it down. I turned Lan’s bracelet around my wrist. I wanted to go; and I wanted to stay. I wanted to see Rwyan; and I was afraid. I could not decide if it were better we meet in the crowded hall or alone. I thought of finding her chamber-Ryl or some other servant would surely know where she was quartered-and then of what I might find there. Indecision became an agony. Hope and fear lay balanced. Finally, I could wait no longer-whatever lay in store, I’d face it and know it, for worse or better. I took a deep breath and flung through the door, into the corridor beyond.

I had thought perhaps she might be quartered on this same level and we meet by chance, privately, but the corridor was empty. I walked to the stairs. Sweat that had little to do with the heat beaded my brow; my fresh shirt felt limp on my back. I straightened my spine and went down the winding stairway to the hall.

Pyrrin sat with Allenore and Varius at the high table. There were two empty chairs and a sudden silence as I appeared. All up and down the room eyes turned toward me. The aeldor beckoned, and I went to join him. The crossing of that hall seemed to take a long time. I sat as, slowly, conversation started up again. Faces still looked my way, when they were not turned, anticipatory, toward the door through which Rwyan must come. In gratitude, I must say that Pyrrin and his wife and Varius did their best to set me at my ease; also, that they faced an impossible task. I accepted the wine offered me and drank faster than was my wont. I smiled and made small talk, all the while waiting. It was an effort of will to keep my eyes from the door. I swear that waiting was worse than any battle I have fought. I had sooner face Kho’rabi knights than endure that again.

I was turned in Allenore’s direction, responding to some question, when I heard the silence fall. I saw Allenore’s pale brows rise, a hand clench in nervous fist. I felt a chill, as if iced water were spilled down my back, and at the same time hot. I broke off in midsentence, careless of my manners as I turned.

Rwyan stood beneath the arch of the door. She wore a loose gown of cream linen, gathered at the waist by a narrow belt of braided leather. Her hair, lighter than I remembered it, was piled up, so that her neck appeared a fragile column, tanned the color of wild honey. Her face was that same perfect oval that lived, vivid, in my memory, the planes and lines of jaw and cheeks and nose ideal. Her lips were full and red. I remembered their taste with agonizing clarity. Her eyes were that lovely ocean green. I saw them spring wide as her talent gave her sight of me and then, before any others there could see it, return to normal. Save she affected a blankness I knew was false.

I held my breath, unaware I did, as I directed my attention to the man at her side.

He was tall, about my own height, and I suppose he looked somewhat like me. At least, his skin was dark and his hair black, his eyes a blue that might be gray. His face was impassive, but I saw that his gaze flickered swiftly over the entire hall, as if, from habit, he checked the diners, the shadowed corners. I thought that a fighter’s look. He wore plain shirt and breeks of unbleached linen, the blouse sleeveless, exposing muscular arms. Rwyan’s right hand rested on his forearm, and I hated him for that touch, for that familiarity. I saw her murmur something to him, and he reply, casting a hooded glance in my direction. Or perhaps it was in the direction of the high table only, and my assumption born of jealousy. As they came forward, I saw that he walked loose-limbed: a warrior’s stride. This was not, I thought, any servant.

My mouth was dry as they approached. I knew Rwyan could “see” me; knew with absolute certainty she was aware of my presence. I could not understand this pretense. I wet my mouth with wine. My heart was a battle drum under my ribs. I rose from my seat, about to speak, to say her name, but Pyrrin preempted me.

“Rwyan,” he said, not much at his ease, “we’ve another guest. The Storyman, Daviot. You … know … him, I believe.”

I saw her hand tighten on her servant’s arm. Her head cocked. To anyone who did not know she could “see,” it would have seemed she merely turned her face as the blind do. That the movement set her eyes directly on mine should have seemed pure accident. I stared at her, utterly confused.

She said, “Daviot?” and in her voice there was something I could not define. Was it pleasure or surprise? Alarm? I could not tell, only gape, my heart aching, and say, “Rwyan.”

Solicitous, Pyrrin eased back a chair. I stared as the dark-haired servant guided her to it, saw her seated, and took station behind. My confusion increased apace-she treated the man as if he were a servant, and I could scarce believe my gentle Rwyan would deal so with a lover. Not save she’d changed dramatically during her sojourn on the Sentinels.

She said, “Daviot, it’s been a long time. You’re hale?”

Her voice was soft as I recalled, melodic; the cool disinterest I heard was strident. More-she could “see” I was in good health. What game was this? Almost I asked it aloud, but then I thought that if she maintained this pretense of disability, there must be a reason. Also (I am now ashamed to admit) that if she played some game with me, I would play her back, move for move. I would stand on my pompous dignity. I’d not play the heart-broke lover but be the sophisticated man.

I said, “I’m well, my thanks. And you?”

She said, “Save I must rely on a guide in unfamiliar places, aye-I’m well.”

For all I was mightily confused, both by her behavior and my own troubled feelings, I recognized that for a warning. She’d no need of guides and so must have some reason for leaning on this silent fellow’s arm. I’d know it there and then, and had our companions not bent themselves to setting us both at our ease, I’d have taken her aside to have the reason. But I could not; I must sit and converse as if there were no longer aught between us save old memories. I hated it.

A myriad questions bubbled in my head; accusations rose unspoken, and words of love. Whatever doubts I’d known or what intentions, I could not deny I loved her still. I gazed at her and knew that with utmost certainty. Was this fellow her paramour, still I loved her. I’d slay him if I must, to win her back. I loved her still; still doubt lingered. I was like a man dying of thirst and come upon a spring, wondering if the water be pure or poisoned. I studied her face and longed to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her. Images of our time in Durbrecht spun through my mind, salt on the wounds of my doubt. I cursed those protocols, the warning her deception gave me, that bound me to polite conversation. I ate without noticing what I put in my mouth. I watched hers and remembered the taste of her lips, whilst she, all that anguished time, maintained a horrid calm.

She returned to Durbrecht, she advised me, summoned back by her College, a man hired to be her guide and servant. And I? Where had I been? Where did I go now?

After, when better sense returned, I realized she directed our conversation with a subtlety worthy of my own calling, prompting me to talk whilst she sat, head tilted in attitude of attention, “watching” me. To this day I cannot say whether Varius was all the time aware she could “see,” or deceived by her pretense. Certainly the rest were, and I did not then consider the scarred sorcerer, only my love.

Or rather, my love and the man standing dutifully behind her chair. He had said nothing, and Rwyan had not offered his name. His presence bewildered me. There was that about him suggested he was a warrior-his stance, the way his gaze shifted to encompass the hall whilst seeming not to shift at all, the marks on his forearms that only a blade could have left-and yet he deferred to Rwyan obediently as any Changed. He was a conundrum. No less this camouflage of blindness Rwyan wore, or her attitude toward me.

When the meal ended, I did not know if I was relieved or further tormented. Rwyan made some excuse to return to her chambers, and I must watch her take her servant’s arm again and walk from the hall without a backward glance. I’d go after her, but I could not: Varius was there, a sorcerer, well able to send word to Durbrecht of my behavior, to speak with Pyrrin and have me confined till Rwyan was gone. Perhaps later-when the keep slept. Then, perhaps, I might find her and have answers of her. Meanwhile, I’d not give myself away, not to Varius or to her. Did she scorn me, I’d not concede her the satisfaction of my unhappiness. Instead, I heeded the aeldor’s request for a tale: my duty; I cursed that duty then.

I did not give of my best, but still I was applauded, and by the time I was done, the long afternoon had progressed. I was allowed to escape and for a while contemplated finding Rwyan’s chamber. I decided not and went instead to the stables. Had I thought to find solace of my horse, I was disappointed. She greeted me with a nicker and a snapping of her teeth, as if the comfort of a stable restored her ill temper. I snarled at her and made my way back to the yard.

Robyrt was there, drilling a squad of sweat-drenched soldiers. I watched and then asked if I might join their exercise.

The jennym gave me an expressionless look and nodded. He found me kit and a wooden practice sword, presenting himself as my opponent.

As I laced the padded leathers, he said, “You’ve my sympathy, Storyman. You love her still, eh?”

“Is it so obvious?” I asked.

Solemnly, he said, “To any man with eyes in his head.” But to her? I mouthed a foul curse and took up my sword. Robyrt said, “Practice only, Daviot.”

I had not thought my face was so naked. I nodded and went on guard.

As what passed for twilight in these unnatural times spread faint shadows over the yard, Robyrt called a halt. I was awash with sweat and had not few bruises, though not so many as the jennym, who complimented me on my sword-work. He reminded me of Andyrt. He got me salve of the keep’s herbalist, and I returned to my chamber, presenting poor Ryl with dusty boots and a shirt in dire need of laundering. He took them meekly and had a bath brought in. I soaked my aches away, at least those imparted by Robyrt’s stave, and rubbed my bruises with the unguent. The thought of facing Rwyan at another civilized table was painful. I felt my hope recede.

Quite what I hoped for that crazed day I do not know. I was still a Storyman, bound by my duty to wander up the coast to the Treppanek and thence to Durbrecht. She was to take ship on the morrow. To Durbrecht, aye; but what chance of finding her again there? She would be in her College, I in mine until I was sent out again. Or the Sky Lords might come. And even did they not, still our old infraction should be remembered, and we watched, kept apart. And I could not know if she loved me still or spurned me now. It was hopeless, and I no longer had the wild innocence of youth to bolster my optimism. At best-did she not turn me away-I might hope to snatch one night with her. The which should likely render a second parting the more painful.

I ground my teeth in helpless frustration, possessed of something akin to panic I could not decide whether to go early or late to the hall. I knew that I must spend the evening telling tales. I wondered if Rwyan would remain to listen. I thought it should be anguish to be so bound by duty and protocol, not knowing where I stood, she there, untouchable, proximity the worst distance.

Ryl brought back my boots and the promise of a fresh-washed shirt come morning. I thanked him and reached a decision.

“Ryl,” I asked, “where is the sorcerer Rwyan quartered?”

“Across the way,” he told me. “Three doors along the corridor.”

“And her servant?”

If he suspected my motives, he gave no sign. Only said, “In the smaller room beside. The fourth door.”

Separate rooms meant nothing, but it was a straw to clutch. I smiled and nodded and said, “My thanks. I’ve no further need of you.”

I waited only so long as it took him to fetch two bull-bred Changed to remove my tub, and then enough they’d have quit the corridor. I smoothed my damp hair and went out.

Three doors along.

I paced the flags with a heart I thought must announce my approach with its hectic beat. I thanked the God I was not sure existed that the corridor remained empty. I halted, dry-mouthed, at Rwyan’s door. I raised a fisted hand, and hesitated.

What if she lay there with her servant? What if she turned me away? What if she laughed at me?

I drew a breath as if about to plunge into the depths of the Fend and struck the door.

Her voice came back, asking who it was. I said, “Daviot.”

And the door was hurled open and she stood before me, “looking” directly into my eyes with such an expression of pain and fear, I could only put my arms around her and hold her close.

Into her hair I said, “Rwyan. Rwyan, I love you.” Against my chest she said, “I love you, Daviot. I was afraid …”

She raised her face, and I saw she smiled and that her eyes held tears. I kissed her. I felt her lips respond, her arms tighten about me. All doubt vanished. I heeled the door closed.

When we drew a little way apart-not separate, not past the compass of our arms, but enough we might catch breath-I saw the room was empty. I said, “I feared …” just as she said, “I was afraid …”

We laughed and kissed again, and all the years between that moment and our parting were gone. I had my Rwyan back, and in that instant I decided I would not lose her again. Not duty nor all the width of Dharbek should be allowed to come between us. I’d not let my College or hers gainsay us. I’d quit my calling to have her, and deny Durbrecht, even Kherbryn itself, to keep her.

I said, “I love you, Rwyan. I’ve always loved you.”

She touched my face, her fingers gentle, exploring the contours of my cheeks, my jaw and mouth and forehead. It was as if, with touch, she would confirm what her occult vision told her: that I was here and real. She said, “I feared I’d forget you. I tried sometimes; but I could not. I dreamed of you. Oh, Daviot, to find you here and not come to you, to act as I did-that was so hard.”

I still did not understand, but that seemed now not to matter at all, only that I held her and she loved me. I said, “You took my heart; you own it still. I was afraid … when I saw you with …”

She said, “Tezdal,” and her lovely face grew troubled.

Through my joy I felt a brief pang of recent fear. I said, “Who is he? Why do you pretend you cannot see? You’ve no need of a guide. I thought, perhaps, he was”-the word sat bitter on my tongue; I forced it out-“your lover.”

“No.” She shook her head, that glorious hair brushing my cheek. I drank its scent. “He’s not my lover. But …”

The sentence tailed away, a shadow fallen on her face. I stroked her cheek, traced the outline of her lips. Beyond her, I could see the bed: immediate temptation. But in her voice I heard I knew not what: I bade my desire begone. It refused, but quieted enough I might hear her out.

She said, “Daviot, this is a tale for only your ears. I must have your promise.”

“You’ve my heart,” I said, “and all the promises I can give you.”

She smiled at that, but not without some measure of gravity, of discomfort. I felt again a stab of doubt; not that she loved me but that somehow this Tezdal-a strange name, surely-might come between us. I said, “Do you bid me silent, my lady, then my silence is yours. My word on it.”

She nodded and said, “There’s much to tell.”

Then, from the corridor outside came voices, the tread of passing feet. Rwyan said, “Oh, by the God, they go to the hall.”

I said, “Let them.”

She shook her head, frowning now. “We cannot, Daviot. I dare not … none must suspect …”

I said, “Rwyan, I’ll not let you go again.”

I bent my head to kiss her, but she set a hand against my lips. She was troubled and I hesitated. I held her still, and she me, and I sensed she was in no way eager to break that hold. I wondered why she frowned.

She said, “Daviot, do you trust me?”

I ducked my head in earnest confirmation.

“Then do you trust me a little longer. Only go to the hall; let no one see you leave this chamber. Act as before-as if we are now strangers-”

I interrupted her: “Rwyan, they say you sail tomorrow, and I’ll not lose you again.”

I saw pain on her face then. She said, “Only in the hall, my love. Be the Storyman there, and I some woman from your past, dismissed now.”

I said, “Never dismissed!”

Again she silenced me with a touch. “After, when the keep sleeps, come to me and I’ll explain. My word on that.”

Reluctantly, I nodded and said, “Do you so bid me. But shall you stay to hear me?”

She smiled then, and no sun ever shone brighter. She said, “I’ll stay. But impatiently; I pray they’ll not delay you there.”

It was all I could do not to kiss her, fold her in my arms, and carry her to the bed, but there was an urgency in her voice, a plea in her blind eyes: I quelled the impulse as the sounds outside grew louder. I said, “I fear my throat grows sore in this heat. I fear I’ll not be able to speak too long.”

She laughed then, softly, and raised her face to mine, brushing me with her lips. Then pushed me away, saying, “Good. Now go, I beg you.”

I loosed my hold on her. I stroked her cheek and turned to the door, listening. I heard voices receding and opened the door a crack. The footsteps faded, and I swung the portal wide. As I went out I said, “I’ll not lose you again, Rwyan.”

She nodded, but in her eyes I saw doubt. I ignored it: I had none any longer. I closed the door. The man-Tezdal, she had named him-stood watching me. Our eyes met, and he nodded, as if in greeting or approval, but neither of us spoke. I walked away.

That noonday meal had been hard, but this was worse. To have held my Rwyan again, to know again she loved me, and now to pretend … it was no easy task. I wondered if Varius or Robyrt saw it in my eyes, in the glances I could not help sending her way as we sat at table and conversed as civilized folk do: politely, formally, impersonally. And all the time agog for the evening to end, to go to her. If they did suspect, they said nothing, nor gave any hint. She was superb, playing the blind woman, cool in the presence of a forgotten lover.

I ate with better appetite and drank little, and when the tables were cleared, I rose at Pyrrin’s request to take a place at the hall’s center. I was pleased to see the aeldor’s Changed servitors were allowed to remain; better pleased that Rwyan did. I gave of my best that night, and if my earlier performance had been lackluster, I compensated for it now. I gave them Aerlyn’s Wedding and Daeran’s Revenge, then roughened my voice (which elicited a small, secret smile from Rwyan) as I commenced the tale of Marwenne’s Ride. When that was told, I downed a mug of ale, as if to soothe a speech-sored throat. There were shouts that I go on, but I pled my fear I should lose my voice altogether and so not be able to speak on the morrow. I was eloquent, and the hour grew late. Pyrrin accepted my excuse, announcing his own intention of finding his bed: the hall began to clear.

I watched Rwyan depart on Tezdal’s arm, consumed no longer with jealousy but with impatience now, and more than a little curiosity. As soon as seemed decent, I said my own goodnights and found my room.

Ryl had laid out my laundered clothes and lit the lantern. A jug of wine and a single glass stood on the table. I left them lie, easing my door a crack ajar. A few servants yet moved along the corridor, and I resisted the temptation to ignore them-Rwyan had entrusted me with secrecy, and I would not betray her. I crossed to the window, my fingers tapping an impatient tattoo on the sill. The night hung hot and heavy, and I thought the sky seemed not so dark as it should be, as if the Sky Lord’s magic held back the sun from its rightful setting. I wondered what secrets Rwyan would reveal; mostly I thought of lying with her again.

Then, driven by an impulse I did not stop to define, I folded my gear and filled my saddlebags, setting them with my staff. I knew not what the future held for me, only that I could not bear to let Rwyan go again. I returned to the door and, finding the corridor silent, went to her room.

Her door opened on my knock, and she came into my arms. For a while we said only words of love, and when we spoke of other things we were naked on a rumpled bed. I licked, sweet salty sweat from the gentle mound of her belly as she sighed and tangled fingers in my hair. A single lantern burned across the room, its wick trimmed low so that light fell golden on her skin. Her blind eyes were huge; I thought she had never looked so lovely.

She said, “Daviot, we must talk.”

I raised my lips, not willingly, from her flesh and nodded.

She eased higher, resting back against the pillows. Her hair fell like golden flame over her smooth shoulders. I heard such gravity in her voice, I made no move to kiss her or hold her but only took her hands in mine. For now that seemed enough.

She studied my face a moment, as if gauging my reaction. Then she said, “Tezdal is a Sky Lord.”

“What?”

I’d have been off the bed and running to alert the keep had Rwyan not flung her arms around my neck to hold me back. Even so, I dragged her halfway upright, my feet upon the floor, my hands moving to disentangle her arms.

“Daviot, no!” she cried. Then softer, “Listen! I beg you, listen. He’s no danger-he’s no memory.”

“What?” I said again.

That seemed to me so dreadful a loss, I sat back. I was bemused. Why did Rwyan protect a Sky Lord? She took my hands again, kneeling before me. Lust stirred, even through my amazement. She shook her head, spilling her glorious hair back, and “looked” me in the eye.

“He’s no memory,” she repeated. “Save that his name is Tezdal, he remembers nothing of his past.”

I said, “But he’s a Sky Lord? You know this?”

“We do,” she said, and told me of his finding on the rock and his sojourn on the island, the design the sorcerers had drawn.

When she was done, I was silent awhile. It seemed to me so enormous a thing, I must take precious time to digest it. I said, “Did Pyrrin know this, he’d slay the Kho’rabi.”

“Hence my deception,” she said. “Save I can deliver him safe to Durbrecht, he’d as well have died when we destroyed his airboat.”

I nodded. I thought perhaps that had been the better course; then that had events not run to this pattern, I’d not have met Rwyan again. I supposed that in a way I should be grateful to my enemy. I said, “He’s no memory at all? You’re confident he does not deceive you?”

“We dug and dug,” she said. “We used our magic on him. Save we were convinced, think you we’d take such risk?”

“I suppose not.” I shook my head slowly. Then: “Robyrt wonders at his looks. He said”-I paused, conjuring the jennym’s words-” ‘Did he not accompany a sorcerer, I’d think him likely a Kho’rabi. He’s a look about him.’ By the God, Rwyan, does Robyrt wonder, what of Varius?”

She licked her lips. They gleamed moist in the lantern’s light, and I wanted badly to taste them. She said, “I think perhaps Varius suspects but chooses to remain silent. Likely he feels that if the Sentinels elect to employ such subterfuge, there must be a reason and he best advised to hold his own counsel.”

“Pyrrin would not,” I said, remembering details heard along my road. “He lost sons to the Sky Lords.”

“That’s why I must deceive them,” she said, “all of them. The God willing, we’ll not be questioned on the boat.”

I said automatically, “The ship. You plan to take one of those craft in the harbor?”

She ducked her head, hair falling in a burnished curtain over shoulders and breasts. She shook it back, and when I saw her face again, it was solemn; mournful, even.

She said, “The Sprite. We sail tomorrow, on the morning tide.”

I said, “Rwyan, you face terrible danger. Should the master learn, I doubt he’d scruple to cast the Sky Lord overboard. Or to bring you to the nearest aeldor, charged with treason.”

She said, “Still, it’s the safest course. We agreed on that.”

I said, “Still, he’s a Sky Lord; our enemy. Can you be safe with him?”

She said, “Aye. He considers me a savior-that he owes me his life. He’s sworn to defend me.”

I did not much like that. I frowned and said, “I’d see you better guarded.”

She smiled and squeezed my hands. “I’m a sorcerer, Daviot,” she said. “I’m not without defenses.”

My frown grew deeper. She let go my hands, placing hers upon my cheeks, her eyes surveying my face as if she’d embed my image in her memory. She said, “Can your College and mine only unlock his memory, think you what advantages we might gain. I must bring him to Durbrecht.”

Her face became grave again, and in her voice I heard regret. I said, “You’re fond of him.”

No doubt my voice expressed my resentment. Certainly, Rwyan leaned toward me, kissing me softly, before she said, “Fond of him, aye. But I love you, Daviot. There can be no other for me. For Tezdal I feel … pity, I suppose. I think that when I’ve done my duty, he shall be a prisoner again. Likely they’ll seek to drain his mind, and when that’s done …”

She shrugged; I nodded. I think I loved her more in that moment than I ever had before. Suddenly it seemed to me a wonderful thing that she could feel such compassion for an enemy; and awful that she was bound by her duty to do a thing that must cause her pain. But this was my Rwyan, and there was steel beneath her soft flesh. I put my arms around her, drawing her close against my chest.

“Duty’s a harsh master,” I said, “but the Sky Lord could have no sweeter warder.”

I felt her lips move against my skin, her voice muffled. “Aye, harsh,” she murmured. “That it brings me back to you, only to lose you again.”

“You’ll not,” I said into her hair.

She tilted back her head to find my eyes. In hers I saw tears. I brushed them away as she said, “How can I not? I must sail tomorrow; you must go your own way.”

I said, “Not without you.”

She said, “Oh, Daviot, don’t torment me. This second parting shall hurt enough.”

There was such anguish in her voice, such pain writ on her face, that I could only pull her to me, my lips on her neck, her cheeks, as I said defiantly, “I’ll not let duty come between us again.”

“How can it not?” she moaned. “Please, Daviot, say no more of this-it hurts too much. Only hold me; love me.”

I did, but even as we lay together through that sleepless night, I knew my decision was made. I cared nothing for the consequences. Let fate treat me as it would, I’d not lose her again.

Came the first light of dawn, and I rose. It was no easy thing to quit Rwyan’s bed; easier, albeit not without some feeling of guilt, to deceive her. That was needful, I told myself: a small lie now, that there be none in our future. I gathered up my scattered clothes and tugged them on. Rwyan lay languid amidst the disarrayed sheets, and I bent to kiss her.

“A little while longer,” she pleaded, her arms about my neck. “Only a little while.”

The scent of her body was musky in my nostrils, and it was very hard to say her nay, but I did.

“The keep begins to stir,” I said. “I’d not leave you ever, but if none must suspect, better I go now.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Shall you break your fast in the hall?” she asked.

I sighed and shook my head and told her honestly, “To see you there and continue this pretense should be too hard. I’ll busy myself elsewhere and not see you go. But Rwyan … know that I love you. That I always have and always shall.”

She said, “I do,” and there were tears in her eyes.

We kissed, and I must disentangle myself. As I went to the door, she said, “This is a hard duty, Daviot. I wish to the God it were otherwise.”

Almost then I told her, but I bit back the words, knowing she’d forbid me, even to alerting Varius or Pyrrin of my intention. Her sense of duty was ever stronger than mine. Instead, I said, “Perhaps we’ll meet again ere long,” and before she could do more than smile sadly, I was out the door.

The corridor was thankfully empty, and I crossed swiftly to my own chamber. My staff and saddlebags lay where I’d left them, and when I looked from my window, I saw the yard was yet empty, pearly with thin gray mist in the dawn-light. I took my gear and tossed it out, noting where it fell. Then I filled a glass with wine, for courage, and drank it down. For fear my room be checked and suspicion aroused, I rumpled my bed as if I’d slept there. Then I went out again.

Few stirred as yet, and those all Changed servants who paid me scant attention as I made my way from the keep. I trusted they’d say nothing, and were they questioned later, they could say only that they had seen me go by. Did any ask, I hoped they’d assume I went abroad early, to wander the town. I did not believe any would guess what I intended.

I found my gear and slunk like some latecome thief across the yard: there was one farewell I’d not forgo.

Horses nickered drowsily as I entered the stable. My gray mare met me with an irritable stare, as if she feared I’d saddle her and take her from this comfort. I stroked her muzzle, which she accepted but a moment before endeavoring to bite my hand. I wished her well. I thought she’d find a good home here, likely a softer life than the Storyman’s road. I was somewhat surprised to realize how much I should miss her; but my choice lay between her company and Rwyan’s, and that was no choice at all. I left her with her nose buried in the manger.

I traversed the yard again, this time toward the gates. I went boldly-the walls were high for climbing, and that furtive exit was more likely to attract attention than if I behaved as if all were well. Still I felt that eyes locked on me as I approached, and it was not easy to saunter casually, all the time waiting for a voice-Robyrt’s or Varius’s or Pyrrin’s-to hail me and demand to know where I went, with staff and bags, at such an early hour.

I was grateful for the negligent attitude of Pyrrin’s gatemen: they were half asleep still and barely glanced my way as I ambled by, nodding to them. One gave me the day’s greetings, and I answered in kind. Likely they found nothing odd in a Storyman going out so early, but even so, I waited on the summons that should bring me back as I found the avenue leading down to the harbor.

Low warehouses stood silent here, their frontages facing toward the sea. I paused where two afforded me a shadowy hiding place, scanning the nearest mole. There was no breeze, and the air no longer carried the odors of seaweed and tar and fish-the still-familiar scents of my childhood-but rather a metallic hint of the heat to come. It was already warm, even though the eastern horizon as yet showed only a glimmer of sunlight. It was a reddish gold: it reminded me of Rwyan’s hair. I studied the ships riding at anchor. The Sprite, she’d said; I looked for it.

I could not find the vessel: I left the cover of the warehouses and set to pacing the harbor, south to north.

It was very quiet. There were no Truemen about save me; Changed crewmen slept on open decks, quite unaware of my inspection. Rwyan had said her ship sailed on the morning tide. The tides even were changed in this unnatural summer, defeating my childhood memories of their swell and ebb, but from the look of the water I guessed the turning should not come before midmorning. There were no fishing boats along the beach-I assumed them out, taken on the night’s ebb. I thought the harbor should not wake until the sun was full risen. I continued my stealthy inspection.

I could not read; there was no need. But neither could any save a handful of Dhar. The nobles, a few sorcerers-such folk as sometimes wished to record messages privately. What could not be said in honest speech was illustrated, like a tavern sign or a ship’s name, and that was how I recognized the Sprite.

She was a galleass, her three sails furled, her sweeps stowed inboard. She was painted a brilliant scarlet, and on her plump bow was an ethereal figure, a silvery-haired woman clad in wispy blue robes that became waves about her waist, one arm raised to point ahead. I had no doubt this was Rwyan’s ship. I halted.

She rode high in the water-if she was to take on cargo, that should be loaded later (how much later? how soon?)-and I could not see her deck. I looked to her oarports and saw twelve openings. So: twenty-four oarsmen whose benches must lie directly beneath the topdeck, more crew to handle her sails; likely all sleeping on board. There was no gangplank run out, but from bow and stern extended heavy cables, lashed firm to the wharfside bollards. Below them were portholes that must open into cabins fore and aft. The latter, I decided, was most likely the master’s, and he might well sleep there now; the forrard quarters would be for such passengers as should soon come aboard. If the master remained with his vessel, I could not chance waking him: I walked silently to the bow.

I stood at another watershed in my life, and I shall not deny I was afraid. I could turn back now; go back to Pyrrin’s keep with neither questions nor accusations leveled. I was ordered by my College to travel up this coast by land, and I had no idea what punishment should be mine did I betray that duty. I could neither ask for nor purchase passage-that would be denied me. If Rwyan knew what I intended, I thought she would deny me. If I did my duty-remained in Carsbry-I must let Rwyan go; I should likely never see her again. That thought I could not bear. Of the outcome, I thought not at all.

It was too late for second thoughts: I buckled my saddlebags across my back, fixed my staff beneath them, and took hold of the mooring line. I swung clear of the mole, teeth gritting as my hands almost slipped from the cable. My weight carried me down, the Sprite shifting in the water. For a moment I feared I should be crushed between galleass and wharfside, that the movement alert the sleeping crew to what I did. Momentarily I anticipated faces, shouts; defeat. Then the ship righted, water slapping about my heels. Her boards groaned softly. I swung my legs up, hooking dripping boots over the rope, and began to inch my way along.

It was no easy journey, encumbered by staff and bags, the line greasy and wet, the Sprite all the time swaying as if undecided between allowing me my goal and squashing me like some unwelcome bug. Had I not been propelled by the greater fear of forever losing Rwyan, I believe I might well have let go, dropped into the water of the harbor and swam hangdog ashore. But that fear gave me strength: I clung limpetlike or, more correctly I suppose, like a determined rat, intent on reaching the riches on board.

From my inverted point of view, I saw the forrard port come closer. I almost fell as I nudged its glassed shutter wide. I hung, swaying precariously, listening for shout of alarm. None came, nor face to the opening; the galleass remained silent, save for that multitude of sounds a ship makes at anchor. The thudding of my heart seemed to me louder. I took a breath and got one hand on the lower edge of the port. This would be the hardest part, the point at which I was most likely to fail. I clenched my teeth and let go the rope.

I got my free hand on the porthole’s sill as my body crashed against the bow. My face hit the planks, and I felt pain erupt in my nose and jaw. My head spun; I was winded. I thought my fingers must snap, so fierce did I grip my hold. Blood ran from my nostrils. I thought I must be found. I held my breath, ears straining then as much as the muscles in my aching arms. There was silence still: I found some purchase with my toes and desperately hauled myself up. I got one elbow on the sill-the second-and then I was inside, stifling a cry as my injured face struck wood again.

I rolled onto my back: bloodstains would doubtless occasion questions. I inspected my teeth and found none broken; nor was my nose, for all it hurt ferociously. I lay panting, my head tilted back until the trickling from my nostrils ceased. I inspected my surroundings. The cabin was small, the outer wall curved, following the shape of the prow; the inner was straight, dividing this berth from its matching fellow. There was a narrow bunk with storage space below, a bench seat that was also a cupboard, a table hinged to fasten against the wall, nothing more; nor anywhere to hide. I picked up my staff and went to the door.

I pressed an ear to the wood and heard nothing. I could not dare hope the crew would sleep much longer, only pray none came below before I found some better refuge. I eased the door ajar and set an eye to the crack. I looked out on the rowing gallery. The oarsmen’s benches were set to either side, roofed by the topdeck, which was open down the center. The masts were bedded here, and between them were hatches affording access to the holds and bilges. Aft was a single door that must, I surmised, open into the stern cabin. To either side, ladders rose to the upper deck. I glanced that way and saw the sky was brighter. I heard movement above, as of bodies rising, the sound of stentorian yawns and the beginnings of conversation. I had no more time to waste: I scurried to the nearest hatch.

A short ladder carried me into darkness. The air was redolent of past cargoes, thick and unpleasantly warm. I could see nothing, only grope my way forrard until I reached the stemson. I crouched there, hidden as best I could manage behind one upward-curving rib, slipping off my bags and thinking of the tinderbox within. To strike a spark was too great a risk, and I resisted that temptation. I hoped there should be no cargo taken on from Carsbry.

Time ran slow in that stygian gloom, its passage marked only by the muffled sounds from overhead. I thought the crew must break their fast, but I could smell only the musty odors of my hiding place. I lost track of time; I dozed, and woke as footsteps echoed directly above me. Wood creaked, and I supposed the oarsmen found their benches. I heard shouts, faint through the intervening planks, then felt the ship roll as she cast off. A whistle shrilled, there were muffled thuds, the craft vibrated, trembling slightly. I felt her heave-the bow coming around-and then the familiar undulation of vessel through water. I thought of finding my way above and decided to wait, at least until we were too far from Carsbry for the master to willingly turn back.

More time went slowly by. I curbed my growing impatience. I sweated profusely, the air heady. I grew hungry; thirsty, too. When I deemed us well out onto the Fend, I climbed the ladder and shoved back the hatch.

I had not often seen overmuch expression on the bovine faces of the bull-bred Changed, but those of the oarsmen showed stark surprise as I appeared. One bellowed; several lost their stroke. From the stern came a shout, part inquiry, part anger. I climbed out, blinded by the light as I came into the sun, so that I could only stand, hand raised to shade my dazzled eyes. I heard the same voice shout, this time in bewilderment.

Then a voice I knew, closer, said, “Daviot?” as if she could not believe the evidence of her senses. Then, firmer, “Daviot! What in the God’s name are you thinking of?”

I said, “You.”

I felt at some disadvantage. The sun now stood directly overhead, and I had lurked in darkness long enough it took some while for my eyes to adjust. Rwyan’s voice had sounded as much angry as surprised.

I heard the other voice shout from the stern, “You know this fellow, mage?”

And Rwyan answer, “Aye. He’s a Storyman; Daviot by name.”

“What does he on my ship?” I assumed this was the master. “By the God, are Storymen become stowaways now? Or is he some pirate?”

“He’s a Storyman,” Rwyan called, “but what he does here, I can only guess.”

My sight returned slowly, and I saw the oarsmen had resumed their task, bending over their sweeps, ignoring me as if divorced from this drama. I saw other Changed faces peering down, and then Rwyan’s, Tezdal at her side. The Sky Lord seemed somewhat amused; Rwyan not at all. I grinned and said, “I’ll not lose you again.”

Her expression then was one of naked disbelief: she seemed not quite able to accept I was there. I went up the forrard ladder to where she stood. Four burly Changed moved toward me, marlinespikes in their hands. Rwyan gestured them back, calling to the captain, “He’s no danger, Master Tyron,” and to me, softer, “only a fool.”

“A fool in love,” I said. “I could not bear to let you go.”

Her expression changed. It was as though sun and shadow chased one another across her face. I saw disbelief become pleasure, that turn to anger, then exasperation as she shook her head and beckoned me to follow her. We went to the bow. Master Tyron came after us.

He was a squat, barrel-chested man, tanned dark as ancient leather, his head bald save for a fringe of white hair. He wore a short, wide-bladed sword such as sailors favor, and his right hand curled around the hilt as he studied me. His eyes were a piercing blue; they fixed me as if I were some loathsome creature come slithering out of the depths to soil his ship.

“I’d have an explanation,” he declared. His voice was gruff, hoarse from shouting orders or from outrage. “I’m commissioned to deliver you, lady, and your man here. Not some stowaway Storyman who slinks on board. When?”

This last was barked at me. I said, “This morning, captain. At dawn.”

He grunted, muttering something about a careless watch and punishments to come, and said to me, “How?”

I told him, and he grunted again. Then: “Why?”

I hesitated. I’d no wish to needlessly deliver trouble on Rwyan. I said, “I’d go to Durbrecht, captain. With this lady. She knew nothing of this.”

Tyron said, “I’m minded to put you overboard. Carsbry’s not too far a swim.”

I could not help but glance shoreward at that: there was a suggestion of firm purpose in his tone. I saw the coast shimmering faint in the distance; I doubted I could swim so far.

Rwyan said, “No!” and when I turned toward her, I saw genuine alarm on her lovely face.

Tyron snorted. “You say you know him? Is he crazed?” She said, “No.”

Tyron’s gaze swung from me to her. I watched his fingers clench on his sword. “You had nothing to do with his trespass?” he demanded.

Rwyan and I said, “No,” together. I added, “On my word as a Storyman, captain.”

Tyron considered this awhile. Finally he said, “Then I place him in your charge, mage. You decide what’s to be done with him; but I’ll have payment from his College or yours for his passage.”

Without further ado, granting me a last smoldering stare, he spun and stumped his way aft, shouting irritably at the crew as he went.

Rwyan faced me, and I was abruptly embarrassed. I said, “I could not bear to let you go.”

She said, “You keep repeating that, Daviot,” and sighed. “Shall you tell them that in Durbrecht? Think you it shall be explanation enough?”

I looked at her. She wore a blouse of unbleached linen and a skirt of the same material, dyed blue and divided for ease of traveling. There was no wind to ruffle her hair, and it floated loose about her troubled face. I reached to touch her cheek, but she drew back. That hurt.

I said, “Are you not glad to see me?”

She said, “No!” Then, “Yes.” Then, “In the God’s name, Daviot, are you crazed?”

I shook my head; I shrugged and fiddled with my staff. I could think of no proper answer. I had not thought much at all beyond this moment, and it was not progressing as I had anticipated. I was abruptly reminded of childhood transgressions and my mother’s stern face.

Rwyan said, “This is madness. What do you hope to achieve?”

“I thought …” My voice faltered. I shrugged again and said, “I’d not thought too much. Save of losing you again.”

“Think you I don’t feel that hurt?” She seemed torn between anger and fondness. “But we’ve both a duty, and it forces us apart.”

I said obstinately, “I’d not have it so. I’d be with you always.”

She closed her eyes a moment, as if wearied by my insistence, then met my gaze. “That cannot be, my love.” Her voice was no longer angry, but gentle as if she chided some recalcitrant child. “We both know that. I’d have it otherwise no less than you; but I cannot. Nor does your presence help.”

I had hoped for warmer welcome. “At least I’m with you,” I said. “Save you elect to have Tyron put in and deliver me ashore.”

She said, “Aye,” in a contemplative tone that chilled my blood. “What else should I do?” “Let me come with you,” I said.

“To Durbrecht?” She shook her head and sighed. “And what then?”

I said, “That’s in the future, Rwyan. We can be together ere we reach Durbrecht.”

“I think you are gone mad,” she said. “You speak of a future measured in days, weeks at best. And then? How should your College and mine greet our arrival together? Think you either should look kindly on this escapade?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but she gestured me silent and I obeyed. There was a fierceness in her blind eyes that warned me I had better hold my tongue.

She said, “Do we put in at the next harbor, you might … no! By now they’ll know you gone from Carsbry and guess the reason why. Varius will send word on-to every keep along the coast, and do you land it shall likely be into confinement; certainly disgrace. And do you come with me to Durbrecht-the same.”

She paused, thinking, and I said, “Then the choice lies between some little time together and none at all. Let me

stay.”

She said, “Perhaps does Tyron put you ashore at the next keep, it shall not be so bad,” and my heart sunk.

I said, “I’d take the chance, to be with you. Even for a little while.”

As if I had not spoken, she continued: “Aye. That way your disobedience shall be the lesser; equally the punishment.”

Horrified, I asked, “Shall you truly do this to me?”

She “looked” me in the eye and nodded. “For your own sake, Daviot.” Her voice was earnest, as if she’d have me understand that what she proposed brought her pain, too; but still she’d do it. “What else is there? Do I let you remain on board, then surely when we come to Durbrecht, your College must reject you. Likely you’d be cast out.”

I said, “Then so be it.”

I spoke unthinking, careless of aught save my thwarted need for her. I felt embarrassed, aye; but also the glimmerings of anger, that she remain so practical whilst I was wild with love.

She gasped, her eyes wide as she “stared” at me. “Do you know what you say?” she asked.

I nodded. “This duty you place so high tore us apart before,” I said. “I’d no say then, for you were gone and naught I could do about it; save dream of you. I’d not thought to find you again; but I did, and if the God exists, he surely meant that to be. If not, then he’s a trickster. I know only that I found you, and I’d not again lose you. I care nothing for the consequences! Does my College reject me for that, then let it.”

For long moments she studied me in silence, wonder on her lovely face. Then she said, “You’d reject your calling? You’d be no longer Mnemonikos? For love of me?”

“For love of you,” I said.

Tears welled in her eyes, but when I moved again to touch her, still she held me back with a gesture. “This is no easy burden you lay on me, Daviot,” she murmured.

I said, “I cannot help that, Rwyan. I love you, and for you I’d forsake my College. Anything!”

Softly, she whispered, “So much. Oh, Daviot …”

I thought her persuaded; that I should be allowed to travel with her at least as far as Durbrecht. But then she shook her head and said, “No. I cannot agree to that. I cannot let you destroy yourself.”

“You don’t,” I said earnestly, “save you turn me away. This duty that holds us apart-that’s what destroys me.”

She took my hands then, her face so sad, I must fight the urge to hold her close. I thought she would not then welcome that. She said, “Daviot, Daviot, what are we if we renege our duty? Our talents are gifts-”

I interrupted, fierce: “Or curses, that they deny us what we want.”

“Are we children, then?” she asked me. “To stamp and fret when we may not have exactly what we wish?”

“Not children,” I replied. “Children don’t fall in love.”

She closed her eyes again, head bowed a moment. “You do not make this easy,” she murmured.

“I cannot,” I said. “You name my talent a gift? My talent blazons your face on my memory. I close my eyes, and I see you. I remember every moment we had together, all we said; like a blade turned in my heart. I’d thought to live with that, but when I saw you again, I knew I could not. I knew I could not let you go.”

“What choice have we?” Her hands squeezed tight; there was pain in her voice and on her face. “Oh, Daviot, perhaps it were better had we never met.”

“No!” I said loud.

“What else can we do?” she asked me. “I must bring Tezdal to Durbrecht-my duty-”

“Then do your duty,” I said. “But when it’s done, why should we not be together?”

“Storyman and sorcerer?” She shook her head vigorously, hair tossing in red-gold waves. “Durbrecht would not allow it.”

“Durbrecht be damned then!” I cried. “Must I choose betwixt my College and you, Rwyan, it’s you I choose.”

She “looked” at me with something akin to awe in her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost fearful. “Do you know what should be done, were you to say that in Durbrecht?”

I shook my head.

Rwyan hesitated a moment. Then said, “What I tell you now is forbidden knowledge. None save we sorcerers and the masters of your College know it. I break trust in telling you.”

She paused. I said, “Tell me, if you will.” I felt afraid.

She said slowly, “When I was sent away, then you might have quit your calling without reproof. But now-oh, Daviot, you chose that staff, chose the Storyman’s road, and now you’ve been abroad too long. Do you choose now to turn your back-in the Sorcerous College there is a crystal; it empowers magic. You’d be taken there, and the crystal used to destroy your memory. All you’ve learned, all you’ve seen and done, would be taken from you.”

The sweat that cloaked me was suddenly cold. I shivered; my mouth felt dry, but still I wanted to spit. I felt a chill lump curdle in my belly. I said, each word thick, “My choice is made, Rwyan. I’d have you.”

She made a small strange noise. Tears flowed ignored down her cheeks. I longed to kiss them away, but she held my hands still, very tight now. She said, “Can you truly love me so much?”

I said, “Yes.”

She said, “We fear the Great Coming. There’s a need of Storymen.”

I said, “I’m not the only one. There are others.” She said, “And sorcerers? Think you there are sufficient of my kind?”

Before I could reply, she tossed her head, indicating the cloudless sky, the placid sea, the absence of wind, the heat, and said, “The Sky Lords command great magic, Daviot, and we’ve not the answer to it. How much of this can Dharbek take? How long before the Great Coming? Daviot, I am needed. My talent is needed, to defend our land.”

I said, hearing my own voice come hollow with dread, “What do you say, Rwyan?”

She wept openly now, tears glittering in silver tracks down her face. Her voice was clogged with grief. “That I cannot give up my calling, my love. Not even for you.”

In that awful moment when I saw all my mad hopes dashed, my pain became anger, entirely selfish. I snatched my hands from her grasp, took a single backward step, staring at her with disbelieving eyes.

“Do I mean so little to you?” I asked, low-voiced.

“You mean everything to me,” she said.

“How so?” I raised my hands, clenched in frustration.

I had forgotten Tezdal until I felt my wrists gripped from behind, a foot land hard against an ankle, tangling my legs so that I fell. I had not forgotten my training. I went limp, bringing him down with me, and twisted as I fell. One hand broke loose. I drove an elbow against his ribs and turned, about to drive my knuckles into his face, at that point between the eyes where the bone can be broken and smashed back into the brain. I was consumed with grief, and it made me mad.

I heard Rwyan scream, “No!” and was gripped by a terrible force.

I had never felt magic before. It was as if ice filled my veins, freezing my arm before my blow could land. It was as if every meal I’d eaten turned sour in my belly. It was as if all my muscles cramped together in knots of sudden pain. I groaned, my eyes awash with tears. I am not sure if her magic put them there or only my grief. I was dimly aware of the Sky Lord contorted in the same painful posture.

Then it ended. It was simply gone, as swift as she’d delivered it. I pushed to hands and knees, head hanging as my body remembered. Then I climbed to my feet.

Rwyan said, “Tezdal! Daviot intended me no harm. Do you leave him be.”

Tezdal rose and ducked his head in acceptance. “As you wish, Rwyan.” And to me, “Forgive me, Daviot. I thought you meant to strike her.”

I shook my head. He offered me that curious, curt bow and moved away to the farther bulwark. I turned to Rwyan.

Softly, she said, “You take leave of your senses.”

I shrugged.

She said, “I love you, Daviot.” I said, “But not enough.”

She made that little whimpering sound again, and through my anger and my grief, my selfish pride, I felt remorse. I loved her, no matter she’d surrender me.

“What should you do?” she asked. “Were you no longer Mnemonikos?”

“Go home,” I said surly. “Be a fisherman again; or join a warband.”

“That should be sad loss.” She moved toward me and took my hands again. I did not withdraw: I felt an awful lassitude, as if waning hope drained out my energy. I stood dumb as she spoke, her voice gentle and earnest. “I cannot forswear my duty; not when Dharbek stands in such need. Nor should you, but rather go on.”

“I wish,” I said, forlorn, “that we fought no war with the Sky Lords. That we had no duty, but you and I be free to go our own way.”

“And I,” she said. “But it’s not so; and so we have no choice.”

I swallowed. Her face swum misty before me, and I realized that I wept. I knew these tears were not the product of magic, save that love’s a kind of magic. I nodded, accepting defeat.

Rwyan let go my hands and cupped my face. Her lips touched mine, careless of the crew, careless of Tyron, who doubtless watched us from the stern. Her kiss tasted salty. She pulled away and said, “I’ll advise our captain he’s to put in at the next hold.”

I nodded and watched her walk away. I rubbed at my eyes; I felt exhausted. I slumped against the bulwark, sliding to the deck. Across the forecastle, Tezdal studied me.

“You love her very much.”

I grunted agreement, and he said, “You should not be parted.”

I chuckled sourly. “I’ve little choice, it seems.”

He said, “Duty is important, but I do not understand why you cannot be together.”

“Nor I,” I answered him, “save it’s so here.”

He appeared entirely sympathetic. It did not seem at all strange to me that I should engage in such a conversation with a Sky Lord.

He said, “You fight well.”

“I was taught in Durbrecht,” I said.

“Where I go.”

His dark face showed no sign of trepidation, only curiosity. I wondered if he knew what likely lay in store. I felt sorry for him then. I said, “Aye.”

He said, “It is hard, having no memory. It seems to me a man is diminished by that. He cannot properly know who he is.”

I realized he sought to comfort me: I smiled and said, “No. But in Durbrecht I think they shall restore yours.”

He nodded solemnly. “I hope so. Even do I remember we are supposed to be enemies.”

“Supposed?” I said. “Dhar and Ahn have fought down the ages. You Sky Lords are our enemy; just as we are yours.”

“I am not your enemy, Daviot,” he returned me. “Rwyan-your people-saved my life. I cannot be the enemy of someone who saved my life. How could that be? It would not be … right.”

I thought on that awhile, then said, “No.”

He smiled and turned toward the stern, watching Rwyan as she spoke with the shipmaster. I leaned my head against the bulwark, staring at the blank sky. The sun was gone a little past its zenith, and the heat was ferocious. My shirt was limp with sweat, soiled from my sojourn in the hold. I tugged it off, using it to towel my face and chest. As I reached for my saddlebags, a crewman came diffidently toward me. He was massive, one of the bull-bred, and seemed built better for a charge than so hesitant an approach.

“Would you have me wash that, master?”

A huge hand gestured at my shirt.

I said, “My thanks, but there’s no great need.”

He came a pace closer. His head was slightly lowered, as if he lacked the nerve to look me in the eye. “It’s no trouble, master,” he said. His voice was a deep, bass rumble. “It’s soiled, and I’ve others need tending.”

I thought perhaps he looked to curry favor. I smiled my gratitude. “Very well, then. Here.”

I held out the shirt-in my left hand, on whose wrist I wore Lan’s bracelet. The Changed took it, and as he did our eyes met. He held my gaze an instant, then turned away. I wondered if I had truly seen interest flicker in those bland bovine orbs.

He halted, stepping aside and bowing as Rwyan came back, and I forgot him, looking at her face. She had wiped away her tears, but her eyes were red. She held herself very straight, which I thought was from effort of will alone. Wearily, I climbed to my feet, pulling on a clean shirt.

She said, “Tyron advises me we can dock in Ynisvar on the morrow.”

I nodded, unspeaking. I had nothing left to say; nothing I had not already repeated, to no avail.

She said, “Soon after dawn, he says.” I ducked my head again.

Rwyan sighed noisily. “This is not as I’d have it,” she murmured. “Do you believe that?”

I said, “Yes,” and turned, resting my arms on the gunwale, staring out across the Fend. It was too hard at that moment to see her.

She came to join me, close, and that, too, was hard. She said, “Do you also believe I love you?”

Again I said, “Yes,” and in my hurt could not resist adding, “but not so much as your duty.”

It was a shabby rejoinder that I instantly regretted. I should have told her so then, but I was sunk deep in my self-pity and could not. I heard her stifle a gasp, as if my words stung, and then she said, “Daviot, you are unkind. Could it be otherwise, think you I’d not go gladly with you? As your wife or your woman, always by your side?”

“But,” I said, not turning my head, “it’s not otherwise. Is it?”

She said softly, “No.”

I said, “Then there’s no more to say. Save farewell.”

I heard her shift then and knew she studied me. I refused to meet her eyes. I held mine firm on the unyielding sea, knowing that did I see her face, I’d weep and beg her to rethink, plead with her. A moment more, and she turned away. I heard her footsteps go soft across the deck, and I was left alone. My heart felt empty as the cloudless sky.

She spent the remainder of that day in her cabin, and I did not move until the sky darkened and the smell of grilling fish tempted my nostrils. I had forgotten hunger, but now my belly rumbled prodigiously, reminding me that no matter how we suffer, life goes on. I had no appetite, however, and made no effort to join the group around the cookstove. What matter if I starved now?

I heard steps approach, and the savory odor of charcoal grilled fish was stronger. I turned to find Tezdal standing with a plate and a mug of ale. He smiled warily and set down his burden.

“Even so,” he said, “you must eat.”

I snorted and looked past him down the deck. Rwyan sat with Tyron, half the Changed crewmen a little way separate. The rest still manned the sweeps, driving the Sprite remorselessly onward, toward our landfall in Ynisvar.

The Sky Lord followed the direction of my gaze. “She loves you, Daviot. This gives her pain.”

“But she’s her duty,” I said.

“She’s strong,” he told me, “she’s honor. You should admire her for that.”

Sourly, I said, “I do. But also I love her.”

He nodded. “Perhaps when I regain my memory, I shall find I love someone.”

I said, “I hope not.”

He frowned then and asked me, “Because I’ll know, but not have her?”

I said, “Yes. It’s hard to love someone you cannot have.”

He studied me thoughtfully. Then he said, “But surely better than never to love at all.”

I must think about that. My memories of Rwyan brought me pain, but would I be without them? I answered him, “Perhaps you’re right.”

He smiled gravely. Then: “Did you go to her cabin tonight, I do not think she’d turn you away.”

Perhaps not. But surely that would be to rub salt into open wounds. I’d wounds enough: I shook my head. “Perhaps she’d not, but I think I could not bear that. I’d sooner be gone now than suffer more.”

“It’s your choice,” he said, and offered me that odd half bow. I watched him return along the deck, finding a place at Rwyan’s side. I had not thought to envy a Sky Lord. I glanced at the plate he’d left; then I sank down and began to eat.

The sky grew slowly black, and Tyron ordered his running lights set. A Changed came by me with a taper and gathered up my plate. Then another came with a replenished mug. I took the tankard and thanked him. He said, “My pleasure, master,” and I automatically said, “I am called Daviot.”

His smile was ponderous as the beast from which he originated, but he said, “My pleasure, Daviot.”

I sipped the second mug, vaguely surprised that I felt no wish to drown my sorrows. I saw Rwyan come down the deck, her face turned toward me. I hid behind my upraised mug, and when I set it down, she was gone. Then Tezdal went into the cabin beside hers, and I thought on what he’d said. It was still too painful to contemplate joining her. I thought it would be akin to opening a wound. I stretched on the forecastle, my back against the starboard bulwark, and stared at the stars.

A bulky shape blocked my view, an outstretched hand offering my laundered shirt. I said, “My thanks. How are you named?”

“Ayl,” came the rumbling answer, “Daviot.”

I nodded. I was too weary, too lost in my apathy, to question him further. He stood a moment longer, his face in shadow so that I could not discern what expression lay there, then he said, “Sleep well, Daviot,” and left me to my thoughts.

I dreamed that night as the Sprite clove through the Fend, northward; odd, fitful dreams, all fragmented like my hopes.

I was in the oak wood again, blinded by the sunlight that poured down through the leafy branches, so that I caught only momentary glimpses of the figures flitting between the mossy boles. But when I moved toward them, they were gone, and from my back I heard Urt shout my name. I turned in that direction and saw my Changed friend standing with Ayl and Lan, all pointing past me, alarm on their faces.

I turned again and saw Rwyan, tears running bright in the sunlight down her face. I said, “Rwyan, I love you,” and opened my arms, but Tezdal stepped between us and said, “She’s honor, Storyman; she’s strong.”

I said, “Yes. Would I had her strength.” And then a hand of Kho’rabi charged the clearing, and I took up my staff to defend Rwyan.

Tezdal stood beside me, armored in the Dhar fashion, a long-sword in his hands. We attacked together, but for each Sky Lord we slew, another came out of the surrounding trees, like black ants boiling from a disturbed nest.

We were forced back, to where Rwyan stood, and she said, “I must use my magic.”

I said, “It’s not enough,” and she returned me, “Still, I must try. It’s all we have.”

I shouted, “No, there’s more,” not knowing what I meant until I heard the thunder of great wings and saw the clearing darkened by the body that fell from the sky.

It was the dragon, and it descended on the Kho’rabi with a dreadful fury. I pressed back, an arm protective about Rwyan, and then I was aloft, soaring over jagged peaks and rocky valleys, my face battered by wind. The sky was dark with thunderheads, and lightning danced across the land. I looked around and saw Rwyan mounted astride a dragon, diminutive on that massive back, dwarfed by the vast wings that beat a rhythm loud as the thunder itself. Urt, I saw, rode another; and beyond him, Tezdal. It seemed not at all strange that we rode dragons.

I heard Rwyan call to me, “Where do we go?”

I shouted, “I don’t know.”

She cried, “But Daviot, you’re the Dragonmaster.”

I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant, but the sky filled with a shrieking sound …

Which came from Tyron’s whistle, shrilling announcement of dawn, rousing those Changed allowed to sleep from their rest.

I sat up, rubbing at sleep-fogged eyes. The sky was gray, the sun a pale hint along the eastern horizon, the air, out here upon the Fend, cooler than on land at this hour. I clambered to my feet, working kinks from my muscles, oneiric images still vivid in my mind. A solitary gull winged across our path, taking my gaze with it-it made for land, for the shore that held Ynisvar and likely my final parting from Rwyan.

I heard Tyron’s whistle sound again, and then his voice raised in outrage. He shouted at the tillerman, ordering a change of course: the Sprite held steady on her line. I blinked, staring down the deck, unease stirring. Then I gaped as I saw Tyron draw his wide sword and swing the blade at the steersman’s head. The Changed ducked the blow with an agility I had not known the bull-bred possessed, and the captain’s sword carved splinters from the tiller. I took up my staff, my eyes still intent on the poop, and saw Tyron seized, his arms pinned beneath the massive biceps of a crewman. His sword fell to the deck. He struggled, shouting furiously as he was carried to the port side. His shouting faded as he was flung overboard; I could not hear the splash.

I shouted, “Rwyan! Mutiny!” and sprang to meet the Changed who advanced toward me, Ayl at their head.

He bellowed, “Easy, Daviot! No harm shall come you, do you put down your staff.”

I swung the pole at his head. He raised a hand and caught it easily as if I were a child flailing a willow switch: I had not fully realized what strength lay in these bull-bred bodies. He pulled on the staff, and I was flung sideways, crashing against the bulwark there, winded. I saw my staff go spinning away across the water. I saw Tezdal appear, then Rwyan, my view interrupted by the Changed who fell upon me. I crouched, propelling myself up and forward, punching at faces and chests that seemed impervious to my blows. Hands strong as manacles gripped me, and I was held immobile. I could do nothing as my knife-Thorus’s parting gift that I’d had so long-was taken and sent after my staff into the Fend.

I saw Rwyan shout, hands raised to weave patterns in the air that I knew should produce magic. Two Changed roared and dropped as if poleaxed. Another sprang down to the lower deck. Ayl shouted, “No harm! As you fear her wrath, no harm!”

The oarsmen left their benches now, converging on Rwyan and Tezdal. I saw the Sky Lord leap forward, defending her. He had done better to rely on her magic: a fist struck his head, and he went down. Rwyan felled the attacker, and the rest hesitated, spreading out before her. They no longer seemed bovine but more akin to those wild bulls that roam the slopes of the Geffyn. Then I saw Ayl reach into his belt and fetch out a length of chain that glittered in the sun. He clutched the thing in one fisted hand and ran forrard along the deck. I saw that he moved behind Rwyan and opened my mouth to shout a warning. A hand that covered half my face clamped down, stifling the cry, so that I could only watch, helpless, as Ayl leaped down.

Rwyan turned too late. The Changed was already at her back, his fingers oddly delicate as he snapped the necklace in place. Rwyan screamed, and there was such horror in her shout, it wrenched my soul. I struggled uselessly. At last the suffocating hand let go.

I shouted, “Do you harm her, I’ll kill you!”

Ayl called back. “No harm, Daviot. We’d have you all alive.”

I cried, “Rwyan! Rwyan!”

She moaned, unsteady on her feet, swaying as if stunned. She said, “Daviot? Daviot, I’m blind.”

The Sprite was Ayl’s command now. Brisk orders sent the rowers back to their sweeps, the galleass continuing northward. More had the unconscious Tezdal carried to where I stood, no longer struggling but entirely preoccupied with Rwyan. Ayl himself brought her to the upper deck and gently set her down before me. He nodded to my captors, and they let me go. I’d no fight left in me, only fear for Rwyan: I put my arms around her, holding her close, protective. She clutched me tight; she shook, and I was uncertain whether from terror or anger.

Ayl said, “There’s no harm done her, only her magic checked.”

I stared at him a moment, then at the necklace. It was a linkage of plain silver loops, small and very bright, fastened with a tiny lock. At its midpoint, glowing against Rwyan’s throat, was a crystal that pulsed myriad rainbow hues in the morning sun.

I said, “What is it?”

“Magic,” Ayl answered me. “Magic to fight magic. You’ll not remove it, and only hurt her trying.”

I glared at him. “What do you intend?”

He said, “No harm; only a journey.”

I cursed. Garat should have been proud of those curses.

Ayl heard me out, impassive, then said, “Daviot, it was your ill luck brought you to this. And good fortune gave you that talisman.” He indicated the hair woven about my wrist. I said, “Lan’s gift?”

“Aye.” He ducked his massive head. “That charm marks you as a friend. Were that not on your wrist, you’d be swimming ashore now.”

I said, “But instead I’m your prisoner.”

He said, “Yes; or guest, do you prefer. It need not be a hard confinement, and where we go, you’ll garner such stories as shall make you the envy of your kind.”

“Where do we go?” I asked, and he chuckled, tapping finger to nose. I said, “Rwyan’s blind.”

“Only whilst she wears that trinket,” he replied. “It may be removed in time.”

I’d have questioned him further, but he waved me silent, ordering that we be taken to Tyron’s cabin, and I could only obey. I moved slowly, holding Rwyan tight all the time. She clung to me as might a drowning man cling to a spar or a raft. Her steps were faltering, and all the time she wept silently.

The Changed were oddly courteous as they herded us to our prison. Tezdal was laid on the captain’s bed, and I guided Rwyan to its foot, settling her there as the cabin door closed and I heard a key turned in the lock. I went immediately to the ports. “They showed me the Fend, its surface scarred by our wake. Then bodies blocked my view, and there came the ring of hammers on nails as bars were pounded into place. I turned away, going back to Rwyan.

She sat with her head thrown back, hands busy at the necklace. Her face was wet with tears, and pale. I sat beside her, and she started, head moving from side to side as if she hoped the movement should grant her sight.

I said, “It’s me.”

I had never before thought of her as truly blind. Now she seemed so helpless, I almost wept for her. I put my arms around her; she rested her head on my shoulder.

Hoarsely, she said, “This cursed necklace must hold a crystal.”

I repeated what Ayl had said, and she sighed agreement. When next she spoke, it was so soft, I must bend my head to hear: “Then I must wear it until they take it off.”

She found the thought abhorrent. She did not voice it aloud, but I knew it from her tone, from the tension in her body. I said, “Let me try.”

She told me it should be no use, but still I made the attempt. I poked and pried until she cried out, telling me I choked her: the links were forged too strong, and the lock defied all my attempts at picking. I examined the cabin for tools-anything that might snap the cursed thing, or force the lock-but there was nothing. I supposed our captors had removed all possible weapons. Without tools, it could not be broken; even with a blade or lever it should have been dangerous. I gave up and took her in my arms again, holding her and stroking her hair as I murmured helpless reassurances. It was the most I could do: it was not enough. I told myself that at least we were together. I was grateful for that: I had never seen Rwyan so frightened, and-am I honest-I was myself not a little afraid.

In time her trembling ceased, a measure of calm returned, or resignation, and she wiped at her eyes. I told her I must leave her awhile to examine Tezdal, and she nodded wearily. I stroked her cheek and went to the Sky Lord.

A bruise flowered over one side of his face, but as best I could tell, he was not otherwise damaged. I made him comfortable, all the while explaining what I did to Rwyan, who sat straight-backed, staring blindly ahead, her hands locked as if in prayer. I suspected she struggled to keep them from the necklace; surely, her knuckles shone white.

I turned my attention to the cabin. I had some inkling now of where we likely went, and I thought we should be confined here for some time. It was, at least, a reasonably comfortable prison. It occupied the width of the stern, and Tyron’s bunk was wide enough for two. For all they were now stoutly barred, the ports let in light and air. There was a curtained alcove that held a Watergate; a bench along one wall, and a table cut with holes to secure cups and a flask of wine. I filled one and brought it to Rwyan: her hands shook as she drank, droplets falling unnoticed on her linen shirt.

I raised another to Tezdal’s lips, and he opened his eyes. The cup was knocked aside as he came upright, hands raised ready to attack. I seized his wrists; Rwyan cried out.

I said, “Tezdal, all’s well,” and he sank back, recognition dawning. He groaned, warily touching his swollen face.

I retrieved the fallen cup and filled it again. Then I must once more explain. He stared at Rwyan as I spoke, then said, “Lady, do they harm you, I shall slay them; or die attempting it.”

I was not sure I welcomed his chivalry, but Rwyan gave a wan smile in the direction of his voice. “They are many, Tezdal, and I think that for now we can only accept we are prisoners.”

He nodded, frowning, and immediately set to exploring the cabin. I found my place by Rwyan’s side and put an arm around her. She took my free hand in both of hers.

I said, “It seems you’ll not be rid of me after all.”

I sought to cheer her, but she ignored the sally, head turning as she followed Tezdal’s prowling. He had no better luck than I in loosening the bars; nor, indeed, do I know what we hoped to do, had we removed them. Dive into the Fend and bring poor blind Rwyan somehow to the shore? We’d likely have drowned. I suppose we did those things men feel are expected of them in such circumstances; done less in real hope of escape than in the need to occupy ourselves, to maintain our waning denial of defeat.

Finally he must admit himself beaten and settle on the bench, his dark face flushed with anger.

He asked Rwyan, “Shall that thing harm you?”

Sunlight filtered through the bars, and the rays sparked brilliance from the little stone on her throat. Save for its malign power, it was a pretty bauble. I stared at it, hating it and the Changed who had put it there. She said, “It robs me of my talent. I cannot see or work magic.” Her voice faltered, and her hands clenched tighter on mine. “But save I wear it overlong, it shall do no lasting harm.”

Fear curdled anew in my belly. I asked, “How long?”

She said, “Is it like those we use, then some years.”

That was a small measure of relief. I said, “I think we’ll reach our destination ere then.”

“Our destination?” Her head cocked, her face turned awkwardly toward me. She seemed utterly vulnerable. I stared at her sightless eyes and fought back tears; I regretted those harsh words spoken earlier. “What’s our destination?”

I said, “Ur-Dharbek, save I miss my guess.”

“Ur-Dharbek?” She moved her head as if seeking some glimpse of me. “How can you know that?”

I said, “I don’t know it, not for sure; but …”

My words came in a flood, as if a dam were breached-all those secrets, the suspicions I’d held to myself, I now revealed. A part of me was afraid such honesty should earn Rwyan’s displeasure, that she might judge me and find me lacking; another part knew only relief that I should have no more secrets from her.

I told her all I’d learned during the months of my wandering, everything I’d seen. I held back nothing, and as I spoke, it was as though the sundry disparate pieces of the puzzle I’d sensed fell clearer into place. I told of seeing Changed and Sky Lords in congress; that the Changed communicated; of the bracelet Lan had given me, and what he’d said. I spoke of what Rekyn had told me, of the Border Cities and the Dhar’s lost ability to create more Changed.

“I think,” I said, “that Rekyn spoke the truth better than she knew-that the wild Changed do more than just survive in Ur-Dharbek. I suspect they’ve a society there, and that they’ve found crystals; the use of magic. I think we’re taken there, though why I cannot say.”

Rwyan said, “By the God,” in a hushed voice, her own fears forgotten in light of the picture I painted. Then: “Daviot, why did you not speak of this before?”

“I’d not much to say,” I returned her. “That I suspected?”

“You saw Changed and Sky Lords come together!”

Her voice accused me. I said, “Aye, the once, in a lonely place. Had I spoken out then, what should the outcome have been? A pogrom? Good honest folk like Pele and Maerke made suffer? Innocent Changed punished for crimes not theirs?”

I think that had we not found ourselves in such circumstances, Rwyan would likely have reported all this to Ynisvar’s mage, certainly to her College. Such was her sense of duty. But then, had matters proceeded normally, I’d have been put ashore at Ynisvar and she known none of it. As it was, I found it a palliation to unburden myself, even though she stiffened and pulled away from me, her forehead creased in a frown.

I’d believed her lost twice now: I’d not lose her again. I said, “Rwyan, do you believe me a traitor?”

She made no reply, as if she pondered the question. I went on, “Had I spoken of all this, think you the keeps should not have sent the warbands out against the Changed? Guilty and innocent alike? Think you there’d not have been terrible bloodshed?”

I waited until she nodded silent agreement. “And think you we Dhar treat the Changed fairly?” I asked her. “In Durbrecht, I named Urt my friend, and he gave no offense save to aid you and I to meet. He did no more than Cleton, yet he was banished to Karysvar-sold off, as if he’d no say in his own fate; no more say than any Changed. We made them, Rwyan-as if we Dhar were gods, to build life and govern it. We made them prey for the dragons, to save ourselves; and then to be our servants, too many treated as if they were still beasts.

“But they’re not! They’ve feelings like any Trueman. I’ve had kindness of them, and I’ve seen fear in them. I’ve played with their children. In the name of this God you call on, they have children and marry and love, just like Truemen. Yet we see them as beasts still, to be bought and sold, their lives decided for them, as if they’d not minds of their own, could not think. I know they do. I know them for folk neither worse nor better than we Truemen.

“So-knowing that-should I have consigned them to pogrom, to annihilation? I saw only a handful deal with the Sky Lords-perhaps some renegade group, gone into the hills. I know not; only that I’d not see such as Pele and her little ones, or Urt, brought down for a thing not their doing. I tell you, Rwyan, our hands are not clean in this.”

There was a long silence. Tezdal sat across the cabin, his bruised face grave as he studied us. I felt the galleass shift course slightly, moving farther out to sea. Ayl looked to avoid shipping, I supposed. At that moment I did not care. I thought nothing at all of the future, only of Rwyan’s response.

The moments stretched out. I feared she condemned me, that that sense of duty she held so firm must stand a barrier between us, my confession the death knell of our love.

But this was my Rwyan, who was ever a woman unique. She took my hand, and my heart leaped. She said, “Daviot. Oh, Daviot, how long you’ve lived with this.”

I said, “There was no one I dared tell. Save you.”

She said, “You give me much to think on. I’d not seen the picture so large till now.”

“You don’t condemn me?” I asked. “You don’t name me traitor?”

“Most would.” She smiled. Faint, I thought. “I think likely all would. But then, I think any other Storyman would have straightway reported what he’d seen; and none save you perceive it so.”

“I could not do otherwise.” I shrugged, seeking those words that might explain a decision I had not properly comprehended then and did not entirely now. “I feared to see the innocent suffer.”

“You’d ever a fine conscience,” she murmured, and her smile grew warm. “I cannot condemn you for that. Traitor? No, for you did only what you believed was right. And shall I condemn the man I love?”

I sighed and touched her cheek, knowing I had not lost her. Rather, I had found her again, more truly than before, for there was no longer anything hidden between us, only honesty and trust. I felt a great wash of relief.

She leaned against me and said, “Now, do you tell me why we’re kidnapped? Why we are taken to Ur-Dharbek?”

I said, “I think the Changed perhaps inhabit Ur-Dharbek just as we Truemen occupy Draggonek and Kellambek; perhaps they’ve cities. It would seem they’ve the means of communicating with their kin in Dharbek, and they must possess some knowledge of magic.”

I hesitated then, for what I now suspected must surely frighten Rwyan, and she had already suffered enough. But she urged I go on.

I said, “Perhaps they’d learn to use it better; or learn how you employ your talent. Perhaps they took me for what I know of Dharbek, And Tezdal …” I glanced at the Sky Lord. His presence opened vistas of speculation for which I cared little. “Perhaps they league with the Kho’rabi….”

I was surprised to hear Tezdal laugh. I turned toward him, motioning that he explain.

“Save they can give back my memory,” he said, “what use shall I be? Can your sorcerers not return it, shall these others? And I owe my life to Rwyan. I’ll not betray that debt.”

His eyes challenged me to refute him. I could not: I ducked my head in agreement. I think it was in that instant I came truly to accept him. He was no longer a Sky Lord but only a comrade, caught in shared adversity. I believed him and trusted him, and that was a strange realization. But then, it was a strange day.

We sat awhile in silence, digesting all we’d said. Then Tezdal asked, “Shall the Sentinels not bring their magic against this boat?”

“Why?” Rwyan stirred in my embrace. “Save they’ve cause for suspicion, this shall appear only another ship traveling up the coast.”

“But when we do not arrive in this Durbrecht of yours?” he asked.

“Then the Sorcerous College will wonder,” she replied. “But it shall be too late then, no?”

“Perhaps not.” I was by no means certain I welcomed the direction of my thoughts, for they led to a parting of our ways. “Your College expects us?”

Rwyan nodded. “Word was sent secretly.”

I said, “The coast of Draggonek’s a longer reach than the Treppanek. So do we fail to arrive, shall the sorcerers not alert the keeps? We might be halted ere we reach Ur-Dharbek.”

“Perhaps.” Her voice was thoughtful; I heard uncertainty. “But the precise time of our arrival was never known, so they might assume the ship sunk, do the Sky Lords attack. Or Ayl has some plan.”

She touched the silver links as she spoke, nervously, and I kissed her hair. Quiet against my chest she whispered, “Daviot, whatever becomes us, know that I love you.”

I smiled at that, elation for a moment the hottest of my emotions. There seemed not much more to say, and we fell again into silence.

The days passed, the one blending furnace-hot into the next. We were fed well enough, and at night allowed brief freedom to walk the deck. We spent our time in talk and such fitful sleep as prisoners find, needed less for its restoration than as refuge from boredom. I told my tales, first those I thought should not offend Tezdal, then all of them. He showed no affront when I spoke of the battles between his people and mine, but rather a keen interest, as if he hoped to find in the stories some clue to his past, some reminder of who he was. I sought to help him down that road. I employed all those techniques taught me in Durbrecht, employed every artifice at my disposal; but none worked. His past remained a mystery.

He showed me those exercises his body remembered, telling me how he’d used them on the rock, and we performed the routines together.

Rwyan told of his finding, and of her life before and after. We confessed to the lovers we’d taken and consigned them to our separate pasts. We talked of magic, openly; of that possessed by the Dhar sorcerers and of that strange command of the elementals and the weather that the Sky Lords owned. I learned much of Dharbek’s sorcerers, and she of what it is to be a Storyman.

At night, in whispers, Rwyan and I spoke of our dreams and were surprised at the similarities we discovered. It was as though our minds had somehow remained all the time linked, despite the leagues and years that had lain between us.

I spoke to Tezdal of our history, of the age-old enmity between our peoples. And we agreed that we were not enemies, nor ever should be. We clasped hands in friendship and vowed we should never fight one another.

He knew nothing of the Changed, and I told him of their place in Dharbek’s history and of my own feelings concerning their status. We all of us talked at length of that, debating pro and con, and both Tezdal and Rwyan came to see the Changed and their status through my eyes.

“But still,” Tezdal said one sweltering afternoon as we lounged within the cabin, “they put that necklace on Rwyan. I cannot forgive them for that.”

“Nor I,” I said fierce, her hand in mine.

She startled me then. She said, “Can you not, after all you’ve said of them? You speak of your sympathy for them persuasively enough; I come to agree. You tell me there’s now scant difference betwixt Truemen and Changed, and that we are wrong to treat them as we do. Perhaps they see no other choice, save this-that they must take a sorcerer, to win some measure of freedom. To win-by your lights, Daviot-such respect as we should accord them by right. I’d not have come willing on this journey, and had I my talent unfettered, I’d use it against them. Ayl knows that, so what choice has he but to bind me? I think he must believe that what he does, he does for all his kind: his duty. Is that the ease, then I can forgive them.”

I sat surprised, mulling her words. I think it is ofttimes easier to see the wider picture, to deal in abstract notions, than in those matters personal to us. I thought then that if she could forgive, so must I. I felt humbled by her kindness.

I said, “Do you forgive it, Rwyan, then I must.”

She gave me back, “I’d not have either of you seek revenge on my behalf. I’d have us all survive this adventure.”

I stared at her, marveling. It seemed to me this woman I loved all the time revealed fresh depths. I said, softly, “As you wish.”

She smiled and turned her sightless eyes toward Tezdal. He scowled but then sighed and said, “I like it not. I’d have an accounting of them for these insults. But … would you have it so, Rwyan, then I obey.”

That was a solemn moment. I felt I learned much from Rwyan, that I came to understandings I’d not have found alone.

But still we were prisoners, and whilst we’d given up much hope of escape, we could not help but wonder what our fate should be.

The Sprite must have been well provisoned, for our rations were adequate and we continued northward without delay. I began to wonder if the Changed intended to row all the way to Ur-Dharbek without halting. But then one night I woke, at first uncertain what brought me from sleep. I felt a change I could not define and lay awhile with open eyes and straining ears, Rwyan’s breath soft against my chest. Something was different, and it troubled me. I eased my arm from under Rwyan’s slight weight and sat up. She stirred, reaching for me.

I said, “Something’s happening. Do you wait here.”

She murmured agreement, and I climbed from the bunk. Tezdal woke at the sound and came with me to the portholes.

The bars occluded full sight of the sky, but by dint of much crouching and craning of my head I was able to make a guess we had changed course. It seemed to me we no longer went north but had turned in a westerly direction.

I went back to Rwyan, Tezdal with me. I said, “I think we make for land.”

She said, “But we cannot be close to Ur-Dharbek yet.”

I said, “No, we must be still along Dharbek’s coast.”

“Then why?” she asked. “Surely they’ll not put us ashore in Dharbek.”

I thought a moment, then said, “Perhaps they take on fresh provisions.”

We could not tell, only wait.

In time our momentum eased, and the galleass hove to. The ports told me nothing, save that the night was starry and we had turned west. We heard activity-the pad of feet and muffled voices, faint cries as if from ship to shore. Tezdal and I pressed our ears to the door but learned nothing from that solid barrier. I thought I heard the noise a gentle sea makes, washing against rocks. Then we felt the ship sway slightly and heard such sounds as suggested hatches were lifted. I decided I was correct in my assumption.

There was a splashing then, as of dipped oars, and the Sprite shifted again. I felt the bow come around and hurried to the ports.

Rwyan called, “What goes on, Daviot?”

Her voice was nervous, and I said, “I think Ayl made landfall, to take on stores. Now we turn for the open sea again.”

I was right: sternward I saw the dark mass of a rocky coastline, pines etched stark by a westering moon, a soft swell breaking luminous on a tiny cove. For an instant I glimpsed a fire-a signal beacon-that was dimmed even as I watched. I pressed my face to the narrow opening, seeing the coast recede. The Sprite headed east of north, seeking the wider reaches of the Fend again. Soon there was nothing to see except the moonlit stretch of the ocean: I returned to Rwyan’s side.

We did not sleep again that night but sat talking of its events as the prow came around once more, once more on a northerly tack.

We agreed that Ayl had brought the vessel in to restock, and that was suggestive of even greater organization amongst the Changed than I had suspected. It suggested we were expected; and was that so, then perhaps our kidnap-at least Rwyan’s, and perhaps Tezdal’s-had been planned from the beginning.

“How could they know?” Rwyan asked. “My arrival in Carsbry was not announced.”

“Perhaps Ayl simply acted on the opportunity,” I offered. “He saw the chance to take a sorcerer and seized it.”

“But how arrange this resupplying?” she said.

“Would word not have been sent?” I asked. “If not of you, then that the Sprite quit Carsbry?”

“That, yes,” she told me.

“And in the keeps, folk talk,” I said. “They speak of the comings and goings of Truemen, of vessels, in hearing of the Changed, never thinking the Changed have ears. The Changed are faceless to most Truemen; they speak in the presence of the Changed as they would before horses or dogs. It’s as I told you-Truemen do not see the Changed.”

Rwyan held my hand as we spoke, and I felt her grip tighten at that. She gasped softly, her eyes, for all they saw nothing now, wide as full realization sank in.

“Then nothing’s secret,” she said, her voice a whisper. “As if the walls of every keep had ears.”

“Yes,” I said, “and all through Dharbek, the Changed listen and pass word between themselves.”

Tezdal said, “Even so, how could they know this ship would go to that particular cove?”

I said, “I think likely they didn’t. I think it was likely just one cove of many where Changed wait.”

“By the God!” Rwyan’s voice was shocked. “Be that the case, then there’s a great conspiracy afoot.”

I said, “Aye, and I think we go to the heart of it.”

I believed I was right; I was also afraid that I was right. It seemed that all the pieces of the puzzle I had observed grew daily clearer, fitting one into the next. I believed it was the Changed’s intention to bring a sorcerer to Ur-Dharbek, perhaps to save a Sky Lord-an ally. I suspected I was brought along only because-as Ayl had suggested-I wore Lan’s bracelet, which marked me as a friend. I thought I should be safe; I suspected Tezdal should be safe. I did not know how they might treat Rwyan, and that frightened me. Should they seek to employ her magic against the Truemen of Dharbek, I’d no doubt she would refuse. … I could only guess what might be the outcome of such refusal. Was Ur-Dharbek filled with Changed, Tezdal and I should be poor champions.

I debated putting these thoughts into words. I suppose it was a kind of cowardice that I did not: instead, I told myself I should only frighten Rwyan, and she be better comforted by my silence. But then, the enormity of the conspiracy only just burgeoning, I was myself alarmed enough, and more than a little confused. So I held my tongue, and put an arm around her, and told her we could do nothing save wait.

One morning when it seemed we had sailed forever and should likely go on and on until we came to the ends of the world, there was a most marvelous thing occurred.

We sat in the cabin, accustomed by now to its stuffy confines, to air that moved only when our actions stirred it, to sweat-damp clothing, and to that lethargy excessive heat and inaction produce. Rwyan shifted on the bench, turning her head from side to side. I saw she frowned and thought her troubled, but when I asked what disturbed her, she only raised a hand and said, “Do you not feel it?”

Without waiting for an answer, she rose and groped her way to the nearest port. I followed her, Tezdal close on my heels. I saw Rwyan smile. And then I recognized what gave her such pleasure.

There was a breeze.

I felt it on my face, a caress I had resigned to memory alone. It was like a lover’s touch; like Rwyan’s fingers gentle on my skin. I moved my head; I opened my mouth to taste it on my tongue. I scarce dared believe it was there. I wondered if we fell into madness.

Then Tezdal said, “A wind,” in a voice filled with wonder.

I swallowed, almost afraid to believe. I felt the sweat that beaded my brow chill, and bellowed laughter, taking Rwyan by the shoulders and dancing her around, drawing her close as I shouted, “Aye! By the God, you’re right! There’s a breeze!”

We clung together, laughing, pressing our faces to the ports that we might savor this simple, wondrous, impossible thing.

It grew stronger. We heard orders called, and then a sound I knew well and had not thought to hear again-the marvelous sound of dropped canvas, of bellying sails. We staggered as the Sprite heeled over, the floor tilting under us so that we, so long accustomed to even boards, to the absence of any real movement, were pitched across the cabin, fetching up in a tangle on the bunk.

I saw Tezdal frown, worried, and cried, “Ayl tacks, only that. He’d catch the wind.”

I hugged Rwyan, and for a while we only laughed and bathed in that glorious breeze.

But then her face grew serious, and she pulled away. I said, “What’s wrong?”

And she gave me back, “Do you not see what this means? What it must mean?”

I said, “That the Sky Lords’ magic is gone.”

“That, yes,” she said. “But how long have we been at sea? Where are we now?”

I thought a moment. Realization dawned: I said, “Ur-Dharbek.”

Rwyan said, “Aye. The magic’s not gone; we’ve only passed beyond its aegis. We reach our destination-we’ve come to the Changed’s country.”

It was the midpart of the morning that I heard the familiar sounds that herald land-the snap of furling sails, the slap of waves on stone, the mewing of gulls. Then the boards shifted under my feet, and I heard voices, greetings shouted, those creaks and groans a harboring vessel makes. The motion of the galleass ceased, replaced by a gentle rocking, as of craft at anchor. I set my face to the starboard port and saw gray stone. I waited with bated breath, a hand on Rwyan’s shoulder, Tezdal wary on her farther side.

The cabin door opened, and Ayl beckoned us out.

It was strange to stand again under a summer sky unsullied by magic. Gulls wheeled screaming overhead, and a salt-scented breeze blew off the sea. The sun stood bright in the eastern quadrant, and to the north I saw billows of white cumulus moving on the wind. It had been too long since I’d seen cloud.

I described it all to Rwyan as I helped her up the ladder to the topdeck. How the Sprite stood within the shelter of a curving bay, headlands like protective horns extending north and south, fishing boats drawn up on a beach of gray-silver sand all strewn with seaweed, nets hung out to dry just as they’d be in any fishing village of Dharbek. I told her of the plank we must cross to the mole of rough stone, flagged along its upper level, and of the village I saw and the Changed who watched us.

It was a village so similar to Whitefish, I hesitated, staring, so that Ayl must urge me on. He did it courteously enough, but I think he was amused by my amazement, and I talked all the while we passed through the onlookers toward the buildings.

They were cottages of stuccoed stone, white and bright blue and pink, with vegetable gardens and chicken coops, outhouses and storage sheds, frames for the nets. They flanked a road that went away inland from the harbor, broadening to a village square where the cottages stood thickest. I saw a mill, its sails creaking around, and what I took to be an alehouse, racks of fish curing in the sun. All that was missing was a cella. The folk who fell into step behind us might have been ordinary villagers, too, for here there were only we three Truemen to mark any difference between our kind and theirs. They stood tall and short, not many plump, male and female and children, dressed like any honest, hardworking folk, all curious. Only the children came near, brave as children are, darting close to stare up at our faces, a few touching us. I thought they had likely never seen Truemen.

We came to the square, and Ayl directed us to the building I had thought an alehouse-which, indeed, it was-and sat us at a table, for all the world as if we were guests, not prisoners. A gray-haired Changed came, not in the least hesitant, with mugs of ale and a plate of crisp dried fish. He smiled when I caught his eye, but not in any triumphant way. It seemed to me he did not gloat at the sight of Truemen taken captive but smiled only as would any innkeeper at his patrons. The ale was cool and brewed well.

I waited for Ayl to speak, thinking this little village unlikely to be our final destination, and after several hearty swigs of his beer, he said, “No doubt you guess we’re come to Ur-Dharbek. Do you think of escape, know that the Slammerkin lies leagues distant, and the magic of the Border Cities shall deny you return no less than we.”

I said, “Then you cannot go back?”

He laughed, as if I made a splendid joke, and shook his shaggy head. “I’d not,” he said. “I’ve fulfilled my commission, and now I’ll live amongst my own kind; free.”

“And us?” I asked him. “Where do we go?”

“To Trebizar,” he answered me. “To the Raethe-the Council.”

I frowned inquiry.

He said, “Trebizar is our capital, where the Raethe sits.” I did not properly comprehend this talk of a council: I told him so.

He said, “We’ve no Lord Protector in Ur-Dharbek, neither koryphons, nor aeldors, nor churchmen. We live free here, and the Raethe is our government.”

I coughed ale, I was so surprised. I asked him, “Do you not fight, then? Are there not rivals for power?”

“Our fight,” he gave me back, with such solemnity I thought at first he jested, “is for freedom alone. The freedom of all Changed to live as they will, not as servitors but freemen, equal to any.”

I nodded slowly, realizing he was entirely earnest. He said, “I’d thought you saw this, Daviot. Urt claims it so, and Lan.”

I turned the bracelet around my wrist. Surprised anew, I said, “Urt? You’ve word of Urt?”

“Urt’s in Trebizar,” he said, as if this were not at all surprising. Then chuckled as I gaped. “He crossed the Slammerkin and now dwells in Trebizar. He’s a seat in the Raethe.”

That Urt should find prominence did not surprise me. That he was hale, and I should before too long meet him, delighted me. But there were other considerations I could not overlook: I gestured at Rwyan and said, “Shall you take off that cursed necklace now?”

Ayl’s smile faded, his expression become grave. He turned his gaze on Rwyan and asked her, “Were it removed, what should you do?”

She said, “My best to return to home. I’ve a duty there with the Great Coming imminent.”

I deemed that needlessly honest, but Ayl appeared pleased with her candor. He ducked his head and said, “Lady, I admire your integrity. But we’ve all a duty, no? And mine is to deliver you safe to Trebizar.”

I asked him bluntly, “Why?”

He said, “The Raethe shall explain.”

“And take off the necklace?” I asked.

“Likely,” he replied. “I think it may be safely removed there.”

“Why there?” I demanded. “But not here?”

At that he smiled, and tapped his nose, and would give me no more explanation. I thought of all I’d heard, all I’d wondered and surmised, of crystals and magic.

“And what of Tezdal?” Rwyan asked.

He said, “You shall all be safe. No harm shall come you, do you but accede to the Council.”

“Accede?” Rwyan frowned and found my hand. “What does that mean?”

“The Raethe shall explain,” Ayl told her. “You’ll learn their wishes soon enough.”

And with that we must be satisfied, though I liked not the sound of it. Nor Rwyan, whose fingers clenched tight on mine as the bull-bred Changed pushed back his chair and bade us remain.

We could not have easily done otherwise, for his fellow crewmen were there and watched us as he quit the alehouse. They offered no overt hostility, but still I had the feeling we’d be soon enough constrained did we disobey. I felt confident we stood in no immediate danger: I believed Ayl in that, but still there remained the reason for our kidnap. Also, I was greatly intrigued by all Ayl had said. Clearly, Ur-Dharbek was not the barbaric wasteland we Dhar imagined but a country civilized and organized. I could not deny I was curious to observe this place at first hand.

Which opportunity came soon enough.

Ayl reappeared, summoning us out, and when we stepped again into the square, I saw a wagon drawn up. It was a sizable vehicle with four deep-chested bay horses hitched to the pole, the bed surmounted by a wattle cage. This, I assumed, was to be our transport to Trebizar.

I was correct: Ayl motioned us on board.

I said, “You speak of freedom, Ayl, but treat us as prisoners.”

He gave me back, “Did Truemen not treat we Changed as they do, you’d not be dealt with so. But …”

He shrugged huge shoulders. I could not fairly dispute his argument, nor contest his strength. Rwyan touched my arm, and I handed her on board. I climbed after her, and Tezdal sprang up behind. Ayl swung the gate closed, fastened with a length of chain and a sturdy-looking lock. Rough benches had been fixed along the sides, and cushions and blankets scattered the floor. It was not uncomfortable. I tested the bars and found them solid. At least we had a view.

Ayl took the forward seat, another bull-bred at his side, and the wagon lumbered out of the square.

Out of the village the road climbed a shallow cliff where black pines grew and birds sang, emphasizing the normality of the weather. Beyond the rim spread fields, sheep and cattle grazing there, hogs grunting over pastures walled with stone. It was a landscape not much different to that of my home. Somewhat harsher, I thought, the hursts I saw comprised mostly of firs and spruce, with not much oak or beech, but the grass green enough, which was a pleasant sight of itself after Dharbek’s arid summer.

I thought to ask Ayl about that, and he told me, “The Sky Lords’ quarrel is with Dharbek, not this land. We give them no offense, and they do not send their magic against us.”

“Do you ally with them?” I asked. “The Raethe shall explain,” he answered, as if by rote. I said, “On the west coast I saw Changed meet Sky Lords.”

He only shrugged and called the horses to a faster pace. I thought he left more unsaid than spoken, and that I should get no more answers from him. I settled on the bench beside Rwyan, took her hand, and described to her the countryside we traversed.

The road we took was hard-packed dirt for most of its length, but as the sun went down and twilight fell over the land, the wagon’s wheels began to drum on stone. I saw that we now moved along a paved track, and soon stone walls flanked our path. Ahead were lights; and then out of the dusk came a village.

There was no wall, nor any keep, only a sprawl of houses and barns clustering about the road as if the inhabitants felt no need of defense. It seemed to me a very open place. Ayl brought the wagon to a halt in a wide plaza, where the smell of smoke and cooking food hung homely in the air, and unlocked our cage.

A Changed whose ancestors had been, I suspected, canine, stood framed in a lighted doorway, studying us with obvious but not impolite interest. He gave Ayl cheerful greeting, and the bull-bred answered him in kind. As I stepped up onto the porch and saw his face full lit, I saw that he was old, his features seamed and kindly.

He ducked his head as if I were some traveler come welcome to his establishment and said, “Greetings. I am Thyr.”

I nodded and told him my name, and he smiled and said, “Ah, yes. Urt’s friend the Storyman.”

My eyes widened at that, that I was known even here, and Thyr chuckled and said, “Your fame travels far, Daviot. Welcome to Bezimar.”

Ayl gave him Rwyan’s and Tezdal’s names, and he stepped aside, inviting us to enter. My curiosity mounted apace.

It seemed we entered an hostlery. The room was large, an empty hearth against the far wall, a counter on which stood mugs and bottles to one side, chairs and tables across the floor. There were folk drinking, who looked up as we came in, their conversation ceasing. Thyr led us to a door, ushering us into a chamber dominated by a single long dining table. Tall windows stood on one wall. I noticed they were glassed, affording a view of the yard behind, where I saw the wagon brought. Thyr tapped a keg and filled mugs. I stared around, finding no difference between this place and any inn of Dharbek.

Ayl noticed my inspection and smiled. “What did you expect?” he asked. “That we should live in caves? Or lair in the fields?”

I said, “I did not know what to expect.”

He chuckled then and said, “We’re not so different, Daviot.”

I went to a window, tapped the glass. I said, “You’ve manufactories?”

He nodded. “Glazieries and metal shops and breweries. We are not uncivilized.”

I said, “No. Save you take prisoners.”

“And Truemen do not?” he returned. “Was I not Tyron’s prisoner? Had I wished, could I have quit his service? I could not-no more than might a bull owned by a farmer! Are we Changed not imprisoned in Dharbek?”

Such argument I’d used myself: I could not dispute him, and so I smiled and ducked my head in acknowledgment. Surprise piled on surprise in this place, not least that Ayl spoke so eloquently. I had always found the bull-bred Changed as prosaic as their bovine forebears, but this fellow was articulate and more than a little skilled in debate. I deemed it wiser to make no remark on that, lest I offend him. So far, he proved a most courteous jailer, and I’d not change that. I returned to the table and found a place by Rwyan.

She had listened in silence to our exchange, but now she ventured to question Ayl. She fingered the crystal at her throat and asked, “You’ve the talent for magic now?”

I saw Ayl hesitate at that and sensed there were some matters he’d sooner not discuss; or was forbidden to discuss. He said, “Not I, lady.”

This was obvious prevarication. Rwyan smiled. “Not all Truemen have it, only a few. Is it so here?”

I thought the Changed embarrassed then, as if he regretted his role. He said, “Doubtless all shall be explained in Trebizar.”

Rwyan said, “But you’ve crystals. Some of you must have learned their use, else I’d not wear this.”

Ayl said, “No,” and then, “I’ll see does Thyr have our dinner ready.”

He rose and went to the door. His companion (a dark, silent fellow whose name was Glyn) remained with us, and so we did not speak of what he’d said-or rather, left unsaid-until later, when we were alone.

Before that opportunity came, we dined well. Thyr set a fine table, and we ate our fill, the food washed down with dark beer. Then Ayl declared that we should find our beds, as we must depart early. Thyr carried a lantern before us up gently creaking stairs, and we were shown rooms. Tezdal was directed into one, and the door locked on him, Thyr turned to Rwyan and me. Once again he succeeded in surprising me.

“Shall you share a chamber?” he asked. “Or take separate quarters?”

Before I could overcome my amazement, Rwyan said, “We’ll share.”

Thyr smiled and said, “Then here,” indicating a door across the way from Tezdal’s room.

Save we were not allowed a lantern and the windows were locked shut, it was a chamber no different to many I’d known in Dharbek. I described it to Rwyan as the door was closed, and I heard a key turn in the lock.

“They treat us well,” she said.

I said, “Yes,” crossing to the window.

She said, “We treated Tezdal well enough, but still we planned to use him.”

I looked out over the sleeping town. A dog barked twice and was after silent. The moon stood high, close on its full, shining on shingled roofs and smokeless stone chimneys. It was all so ordinary, so normal, I could scarce believe we were in Ur-Dharbek, behind a locked door. I put my arms around Rwyan. I said, “Tezdal is-was-a. Sky Lord-our enemy.”

Her smile was equivocal. “Think you the Changed do not see Truemen as enemies?” she asked me.

I said, “Perhaps. But we are treated so kindly, it’s hard to think they mean us harm.”

“Perhaps not harm,” she said, “but use. That, I think.”

I said, “I’ll not let them harm you.”

Rwyan held me at arm’s length then, her face turned up as if she could see me clear. She said, “I’m not a fool, Daviot. No matter how kind they treat us, still we’re in ther power, and neither you nor I can do aught about it.”

I was chastened. “I’m sorry. Are you afraid?”

She laughed then, soft, and said, “Of course I am. I’d be a fool otherwise. But I’ll not let my fear overcome my sense.”

Oh, my lovely, brave Rwyan! I could only hold her then and ask that God I doubted that she be kept safe, unharmed, her talent returned. And holding her, desire stirred, pent long weeks in shipboard chastity. I raised her face and kissed her.

The morning found us entwined in limbs and rumpled sheets. I was grateful that Ayl knocked upon the door without entering, as might some less discreet jailer, and bade us prepare to leave.

Tezdal, Rwyan, and I broke our fast and were once more locked in the wattle cage. Thyr nodded grave farewell as the wagon lumbered away. I held Rwyan’s hand. I could not help but feel happy, for all our future remained a mystery.

It was early yet, the sun barely a handbreadth over the horizon, and the air held a slight chill. The moon still lingered in the west, but the sky was soon blued and scudded with white cloud. Birds sang loud, and for a while two dogs paced the wagon. Few folk were abroad, and they paused only briefly in their tasks to watch us go by. I thought that a prison cage traversing the roads of Dharbek should have attracted far greater attention.

We left the little town behind, and soon the paved road became again a track, running through farmland. Through the wattles I could see ahead the looming shadow of highlands. The road appeared to lead that way, and from the position of the sun I calculated that we traveled in a northwesterly direction. I supposed Trebizar must lie in the heart of Ur-Dharbek, likely in those hills.

That afternoon we rode through orchards, the trees heavy with apples and pears, and Glyn sprang down to pick handfuls of the fruit which he shared with us. I saw few buildings, but those were neat and well ordered, with wells and windmills and guardian hounds that came out baying warning of our approach. That night we slept in a farm, the three of us together in one small room beneath the thatched roof. There was one window, tiny and shuttered because it held no glass.

Tezdal examined the roof and said, “We might dig through that easily.”

I said, “Remember, Rwyan’s blind.”

She said, “It should be useless anyway. Even could we reach the Slammerkin, we’d face the magic of the Border Cities.”

I thought of what Rekyn had told me then, and of Ayl’s words, and repeated them back: “‘The magic of the Border Cities shall deny you return no less than we.’ Is that truly so?”

Rwyan nodded. The room was dim, and I could barely make out the movement of her head, but her voice came clear enough. “Those cities guard the Slammerkin shore. Their magic is shaped to ward the north, to hold back any Changed who might seek to return; or dragons, do they still exist.”

I said, “But we’re neither Changed nor dragons.”

She said, “No matter. The magic of those cities is not so particular. Anything coming south over the Slammerkin should be destroyed.”

Tezdal said, “Even you? You’re a sorcerer.”

Her laugh was soft in the gloom, and self-mocking. “Not now,” she said. “Not whilst I wear this necklace. I’d be consumed with you.”

Tezdal cursed and punched the roof, releasing a downfall of dust and straw.

Rwyan said, “We can do nothing, save go on.”

“And hope,” I said, finding her in the dark.

She leaned against me, her head on my shoulder. “Aye,” she murmured. “And hope.”

We went on, past farms and hamlets, sometimes towns. None were walled; I saw no keeps nor any sign of warbands. We slept under a roof when such comfort was available, under the stars when it was not. The nights held a chill now, and Ayl obtained us all blankets, and as we progressed farther inland, he allowed us more often out of our cage. Those nights we slept beside the road, we sat around a fire, and that was oddly merry, as if we were all companions on some journey of discovery.

I ventured to ask Ayl if he was not afraid we might flee, for there were no constraints set on us, and even those nights we slept in beds, the doors were no longer locked.

He chuckled and asked me in turn, “Where should you flee, Daviot?”

I shrugged and gestured vaguely to the south. I was not serious, and he knew it: this was become a kind of game between us, a slow gleaning of information. He said, “That’s a long way, and even did you succeed in stealing a boat, your sorcerers deal unkindly with vessels coming south out of this land.”

“You brought the Sprite north,” I said.

“Aye, north,” he returned me, “and far out to sea. The attention of the Border Cities is not much directed that way.”

“They only pen you here?” I asked.

He nodded gravely. “It’s deemed senseless to hold a Changed who’d flee to this land,” he said. “We who choose to cross the Slammerkin are thought dangerous-Dharbek well rid of us.”

I said, “You seem not very dangerous to me, Ayl.”

He laughed at that. “But I’m a terrible freebooter. I stole the Sprite, no? And took three Truemen prisoner.”

Those events I had pushed to the back of my mind marched forward, and I perceived an ambiguity in his good humor. I thought to test the mettle of our relationship then: I said, “Aye, that you did. And put the captain overboard.”

Firelight played on his massy face as he nodded soberly. “I did,” he said. “But Tyron was also thrown a float; and that was a greater kindness than he’d show me. Did fortune favor him, he made the shore.”

I said, “That should be a long swim, even with a float.”

He asked, “Think you he deserved better?”

I made a noncommittal gesture. Rwyan said, “Did he drown, shall his death not weight your conscience?”

Ayl turned toward her, and on his face I saw an expression I could not interpret. Still looking at her, he said to me, “Do you describe what I show you, Daviot.”

I frowned and ducked my head. He unlaced his shirt and rose, tugging off the garment and turning his back. I gasped: his skin was dark and across the swarthy surface, from the width of his huge shoulders to the narrowing of his waist, there was a pattern of pale scars, ridged welts that could have only one source.

In a voice frightening for its calm, he said, “I was tiller-man then. A storm was rising, and I argued Tyron’s command that we sail. He ordered me whipped. Two of my fellows were lost in that storm. So-no, lady, my conscience shall not be troubled.”

I heard Rwyan suck in a sharp breath, her face creased in expression of pity.

Softly, Tezdal said, “Did any mark me thus, I’d kill him.”

Ayl drew on his shirt and sat again. “I think I dealt him kind,” he said.

I nodded.

And then a thought struck me: that Ayl knew much of this land he could not, was all he told me true, have visited. Did the Border Cities make so effective a barrier, there could be no commerce between Ur-Dharbek and Dharbek, for all traffic must go in but the single direction and none come back. How then could he know of Trebizar, of this Council-of this road, even?

I asked him that straight out and saw a mask fall over his face. He said, “Perhaps the Raethe shall explain,” and went to where the horses grazed.

I recognized dismissal and pressed no more. Perhaps in mysterious Trebizar I should find the answer.

The next day we entered a forest where the air hung misty blue, scented sweet with sap, and birds chorused our passing. The trail was wide and rutted with wagon tracks as if much used. Ayl told me it was the main highway to Trebizar, and around noon we came on a caravan halted for the midday meal. A merchant led the party, but there seemed scant difference between him and the nine drovers tending the wide-horned oxen. I thought that were we in Dharbek, they should all have been Changed and he a True-man.

They bade Ayl and Glyn welcome and offered to share their food. I was surprised that we were released from the cage and given platters of a vegetable stew, with hunks of hard bread and even a mug apiece of ale. They watched us surreptitiously, as if we were marvelous creatures they could not quite bring themselves to approach. I was not entirely comfortable under such scrutiny, but still I did not feel much like a prisoner. From their conversation I gathered they were outward bound from Trebizar, carrying manufactured goods to the settlements along the way, intending to return with salted fish and other such goods as should be found on the coast. In Dharbek a caravan like this would have gone armed, but these Changed carried only such knives as they’d need daily, and goads to prod the oxen. Not even the merchant wore a sword.

I ventured to inquire after such lack of weaponry; and found my question met with shocked stares.

“What need?” asked the merchant, whose name was Ylin. “Who’d harm us?”

I said, “Outlaws; robbers,” and he gazed at me as if I were crazed.

Ayl said, “Dharbek’s a different land, Ylin.”

“Indeed it must be.” Ylin shook his head as if the notion of footpads or bandits were hard of digestion. “That an honest merchant cannot travel the roads safe without weapons? Now that’s a thing, eh?”

His drovers nodded agreement, and I realized their eyes were on us now as if we were barbarians. That was a very odd feeling. I suppose I began to feel something of what the Changed underwent in my homeland.

When we parted, Ylin called after us, “Beware those robbers, Ayl,” as if it were a great joke.

We traversed the forest all that day and as twilight came down made camp beside a spring that welled up from a rocky mound. Unasked, unthinking, Tezdal and I set to gathering wood for our fire while Ayl and Glyn tended the horses. We built a blaze and water was set to boiling. An owl hooted soft amongst the timber, and far off a wolf howled, answered from a distance.

I passed Rwyan a mug of tea that she cupped between her hands for warmth. I thought that summer ended; that I caught autumn’s advent on the breeze. I draped my blanket about her shoulders, and she murmured thanks that warmed me better than the tea.

Ayl said, “Those clothes are thin. I’ll get us stouter gear when next we find a town.”

I said, “Ylin was surprised when I spoke of outlaws. Are there truly none here?”

The Changed shook his head absently. It seemed to me he took that absence for granted.

“We do not live like Truemen,” he said. “Just as we’ve no aeldors or the like, so we’ve no outlaws.”

“No criminals at all?” I asked.

He made a movement of his shoulders, not quite a shrug, and said, “Sometimes folk argue … sometimes there’s a fight … but such matters are settled amongst neighbors. There are no malefactors as you describe.”

Bluntly, I asked him, “How so? You’ve no aeldors, you say, nor any authority save this Raethe, it seems. What’s to stop some malcontent from becoming a thief, a bandit?”

He thought awhile before answering. Then he said, “We are Changed, Daviot. We do not think or act like Truemen.”

“Yet,” I said, “there seems no longer very much difference between your kind and mine.”

“In some ways there’s not.” He hesitated, frowning as if he pondered an unfamiliar thought; one alien and consequently difficult of definition or expression. “I suppose our birthing renders us somewhat different. You Truemen made us to be prey for the dragons, and then to be your slaves. That gives us common cause, I think; so we’ve not such rivalries as you know. We’d sooner help one another than steal. Think on it-there have been Changed in Ur-Dharbek since Truemen quit the land, and they must survive the dragons. Did they not work together, they’d have died. And now? Now those newcome are fugitives, fleeing slavery-another common cause. Did we prey on one another, then I think none should survive.”

This seemed to me idyllic. Indeed, it seemed to me almost incredible. Yet I’d seen Ylin’s unfeigned surprise and the startled expressions of his drovers: I could scarce doubt the truth of it.

And I’d another matter to pursue. I said, “You speak of dragons. Are there dragons still?”

Ayl’s great hands spread to shape a gesture of ignorance. “I’d not know,” he said. “I’m newcome here. In Trebizar they’ll likely know.”

It seemed to me this Trebizar must prove a cornucopia of answers: I looked forward to reaching the place. Then I thought of what it might well mean for Rwyan and somewhat revised my thought.

The forest saw us through another day of travel and then ended on heathland. Its edge was boundaried by the town Ayl had promised, and that was the largest place I had seen here. Again I was struck by the absence of walls; and by the size of the buildings, which rose three and four stories, all higgledy-piggledy, as if levels were added at random whim. The streets were mostly dirt, only those immediately adjacent to the center paved, but clean, and busy with such traffic as is common to any crossroads town.

In the morning we broke our fast with fruit and cheese and bread, and then Ayl left us in Glyn’s care as he went out to obtain us warmer clothing.

He returned with gear that fit us well enough-shirts of heavy cotton and jerkins of stout leather, breeks of the same material, boots for Rwyan, cloaks for her and Tezdal. I wondered what climate lay ahead: for all the Sky Lords’ magic was not brought against this land, still it was hard now to imagine anything other than endless summer.

But as we trundled out across the heath, I felt a wind blow cool from the north, and when I looked that way, I saw great banks of darkened cloud patrol the horizon. I thought there was even rain falling over the distant line of hills.

We rode toward those uplands, through stands of gorse and bright yellow broom. Birches and pines grew in scattered stands, and the day was loud with birdsong. I saw raptors ride the sky and thought again of dragons. Indeed, when we slept that night within a hurst of lonely pine trees, I dreamed again but not as before. It seemed my reveries took on a different tenor.

I stood not in the oak wood but on some craggy highland. A wind blew strong out of a storm-dark sky, and far away I saw lightning whip the land. I looked about, but I was alone … and then not alone, though I could not make out what stood so close. I saw only vast yellow eyes, solemn and stately, observing me in silence. They seemed to me ancient, those eyes, and I thought they must hold all time’s secrets locked within their orbit.

I said, “What do you want of me?” but got no answer. I felt that they judged me.

Then … to say I heard is wrong, for there was no voice save inside my mind, as if these observers spoke directly to the channels of my nerves, to the innate substance of my being. Nor were there words, but rather only feeling, an emotion. … So then into my mind came a summons, a calling. It was as if they bade me join them, come to them.

Then silence and darkness.

I woke filled with a terrible yearning, as if I should be somewhere I was not, and could not go swift enough to satisfy the oneiric demand still lingering, a resonance in the conduits of my blood. I shivered and felt Rwyan wake within the compass of my arms. She made a small, almost tearful sound and clutched me. I stroked her hair, murmuring, thinking she’d suffered a nightmare.

Against my chest she said, “I dreamed,” and repeated back exactly what I’d dreamed, identical in every specific.

I frowned and told her I’d had the same, and then, suspicious, I looked around our camp.

The fire was burned down to embers, but the night was bright with moon and starlight. Ayl and Glyn slept on. I saw Tezdal sitting up, and on his swarthy face such an expression as gave me answer to my question even before I voiced it. Still, I whispered my inquiry, and he nodded, wide-eyed, peering about as if he anticipated the momentary appearance of those great eyes.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

Rwyan said, “It was like a call. As if something would draw us to it.”

“Or to them,” I said.

“What them?” asked Tezdal.

I said, “The dragons.” I could think of nothing else.

“Can they live still?” Rwyan asked.

I said, “I don’t know.”

“And do they,” she said, “how could they know of us?” I said again, “I don’t know. But is it not very strange that we all three had the same dream?”

She said, “Yes.”

I thought her frightened and held her tighter, stroking her hair. I found as much comfort there as she: this new aspect of the dream disturbed me in ways I could not properly define.

When dawn came, I ventured to ask Ayl and Glyn if they had been troubled with dreams, but they only shook their heads and told me no, and I left it. I was not sure why, only that I felt this was a thing private to we three and best not revealed to the Changed.

Most nights afterward the dream came back, though not on those we found shelter in farm or village. It was as though it were a thing of the wild places, and surely in it there was a wildness, a sense of absolute freedom. I felt less and less troubled, though I perceived in that silent observation an element of danger, as if I stood under judgment. I felt in equal measure that did I fail, I should suffer, and that I should not fail. But I could not say how I might fail or know why I was judged; nor what might be the outcome, whichever way the scales tipped.

All this I discussed with Rwyan and Tezdal, whenever we found occasion, and they shared my feelings.

Then, when the rising land we crossed became the foot-hills of the mountains, the dreams came less and less frequently. I felt an odd sense of loss, for the yearning I’d known from the first remained still and shaped a vacuum in my soul, as if some great prize almost within my grasp were snatched away.

I have said before that Ur-Dharbek was a land of surprises: its capital did not disappoint.

We crested the mountains through a pass loomed all around with great peaks, the sky no longer the pristine blue of the lowlands but a steely color, as much gray as blue. Dull cloud streamed overhead, and there was a constant wind, often fierce so that it sang amongst the stones. For a full day, from dawn to dusk, we traversed the pass, and then pure wonder was revealed.

We had made our camp within the shadows of the gorge, finding its egress a little after sunrise. The road descended here, down into a verdant bowl cupped within the encircling peaks like a jewel held in stony hands. Great stands of deodar spread dark green before us, the colors softening on the lower slopes to the shades and hues of autumnal woodland, high green pastures. Far off toward the notional center of the bowl (that cirque defied eye’s sure measurement), I thought I detected a hint of blue, as if a lake lay faint in the distance.

The road ran true through the woods, and as we descended I noticed first that the wind dropped away, and then that the temperature rose. Not to summer’s heat but to the clean freshness of autumn, so that we shed our cloaks, and later our jerkins, to ride shirt-sleeved. Above us, the sky was no longer gray but again blue, as if the ringing hills denied inclemency entry. All this I described to Rwyan.

She said, “Yet we climbed for what? Five days? It should not be so warm, save …”

She paused, head turning as if she’d test the air. Tezdal said, “This place reminds me of your island.”

And Rwyan nodded and said, “Aye. There’s likely magic abroad here,”

I looked about with different eyes. I thought that if magic did indeed shape this place, then did the Changed command it, they were powerful sorcerers. And yet I’d seen no evidence of magic elsewhere, no mages in the settlements, no hint of talent amongst the folk we’d encountered. Perhaps it was some natural gift, and none of Changed making; perhaps these hills were rich with crystals. Perhaps what sorcerers the Changed had all dwelled here. Questions buzzed like troublesome flies, and I could find no answers; only ever-increasing curiosity.

Down we went, the road falling gently for two days, the woodland thinning as we came to level ground. We passed meadows where placid cows and black-faced sheep grazed; fields of corn; orchards; solitary farms and tiny hamlets where we were given shelter and hearty country food. We crossed rivers bridged with wood and stone, and the trees scattered into the hursts of gentle, lowland climes-hickory and walnut, oak and birch and ash. It was a bucolic landscape; and entirely unnatural. I was certain that we drew near to Trebizar, and companion to my wonderment there grew a sense of unease. We approached Ayl’s goal, and there should be taken decisions that must surely affect all our lives. I began to brood on what fate awaited us.

Then I saw the city, distant at first but growing ever more distinct as Ayl lifted the horses to a swifter pace.

It was lacustrine, built along the shores of the lake that lay like a blue jewel at the center of this amazing cirque. It was not large, either in spread or height. Set beside Durbrecht, it should have been dwarfed; indeed, it seemed no greater than many of the holds I’d known in Kellambek. No structure stood taller than two stories, and only a few were built of stone at their lower levels, the upper all timbered, with balconies and colonnaded walks. I had not expected walls, and there were none; neither any towers nor other fortifications. Piers thrust out into the lake, and I saw boats moored there, more out on the water, white sails bellied in the breeze.

Ayl turned, speaking over his shoulder: “We come to Trebizar.”

I set an arm about Rwyan, speaking low of what lay before us.

And then I gasped, my fingers digging hard against her flesh, as I saw what lay beyond the city.

I could scarce credit the evidence my eyes gave me. I closed them, thinking it should be gone when next I looked. It was not: they hung low on the shore past Trebizar, still as basking sharks. I stared, the configuration of those bloodred cylinders familiar, the sigils painted down their sides pulsing faintly in the sun, more on the black baskets beneath. I saw the mooring lines, and the disturbance of the air where elementals shifted in their occult traces like restive horses. My mouth was abruptly dry. I licked my lips; swallowed against the lump that seemed to clog my throat.

“What is it?” Rwyan asked.

Hoarse, I said, “Skyboats.”

“What?” Amazement and fear to match my own echoed in her voice. “How can that be?”

I said, “I know not. Only that they are there-skyboats.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tezdal staring at the craft. He seemed only curious: there was no sign of recognition on his face.

Then the buildings blocked our view, the skyboats lost. It was as though I hallucinated. I knew I had not. I stared around, thinking to see Kho’rabi come storming at us. I saw only a wide avenue flanked by low buildings, pavements of smooth flagstones either side of the road. Folk moved there-Changed going about their business as if this were an ordinary town, the day normal; as if there were no Sky Lords’ craft moored beside that perfect lake. I saw all this with a strange tremendous clarity, as if pure shock heightened senses already trained to record all I saw. The buildings were, decorated, doors and balconies and shutters all cut with simple patterns, sunbursts and crescent moons, scatterings of stars. Pillars were carved, twined round with vines in bas-relief, clusters of acorns, and ears of wheat. The folk we passed were dressed not much differently to us, the males in breeks and shirts and jerkins, the females in plain gowns or masculine attire softened with scarves and ribbons, little displays of white lace. None wore weapons other than plain belt knives; a few carried staffs, as if they were herdsmen come in to trade. There were children, babes and older, playing in the streets or watching us go by. We passed horsemen and some carts. I realized I felt none of that awful unnerving dread that came with the presence of the Sky Lords.

What dread I felt was created by sight of the airboats alone. By what their presence here likely meant.

I started as the wagon halted.

We stood in a large square, the avenue continuing north, others entering from east and west. I could see the lake shining blue between the buildings to the east. I could not see the skyboats.

Our guardians sprang down. Glyn looked to the horses; Ayl came to the rear of the wagon. Our cage was not locked, and when he beckoned us out, I let Tezdal go first, handing Rwyan down to him before I followed.

“Come.”

Ayl indicated that we enter the closest building. It was of stone about its base, wood above. Wide double doors hung open beneath a veranda, glassed windows to either side. I could see no space that was not covered with decorative carving, and from the veranda’s roof hung numerous baskets filled with plants that trailed creepers, all covered with little flowers of blue and red and white. I smelled ale and food cooking, and as we went through the doors I saw this was an inn. I stared: I had expected a prison. Sight of the Kho’rabi vessels had dislodged all notions of companionship, of discovery and adventure. Curiosity was replaced with unease. I took Rwyan’s elbow to guide her across the floor.

It was not yet noon, and there were not many patrons at the tables. Those present favored us with curious glances but said nothing to us or to our warders. (Warders? I was no longer sure what was our relationship with Ayl and Glyn.)

We found a table to the side, a little way apart, and Ayl went to where the landlord stood scrubbing tankards. I watched as they spoke, but I could not hear what was said. I examined the room, which was like any taproom, save perhaps cleaner than many in Dharbek. Rwyan held my hand in a tight grip.

Ayl joined us and said, “The Raethe sits now, likely until dusk or past. So do we eat?”

“And then?” I asked him.

“Then I think perhaps best you remain here until your presence is required,” he said.

I said, “Those were skyboats I saw, no?”

He said calmly, “They were.”

I said, “What truck do you have with the Sky Lords?”

He said, “Doubtless the Raethe shall explain. If it sees fit.”

I ground my teeth in helpless anger. Clearly I’d have no answers of Ayl. Either he lacked the knowledge, or he chose to hold it from me. I grunted and said, “So be it.”

He ducked his head again and then leaned closer, his voice dropping to a bass rumble that none save we might hear. “Do you heed my advice, Daviot,” he said, “you’ll curb your impatience. Only wait, and you’ll have your answers. And that necklace Rwyan wears be sooner removed.”

I frowned, unsure whether he issued honest advice or a non-too-subtle threat. Certainly, I believed he prevaricated where the Sky Lords were concerned. I’d have spoken up, but Rwyan squeezed my hand in warning, and I bit back my retort and nodded my acceptance.

Ayl lounged back, as if he’d not a problem in all the world. He appeared entirely at ease, unsurprised and comfortable as any regular visitor to this inn, any inhabitant of Trebizar-like a man come home. I supposed he was; and then that, had he not lied to us from the start, he could not be. Had he told the truth, then he could be no more familiar with this place than we Truemen. Nor any better acquainted with the road or the towns-I perceived fresh mystery here.

I studied his face as brimming mugs were set before us and thought of another oddity. No payment was asked, neither here nor in any place we had halted. The landlord only set down the tankards, nodded casual greeting, glanced at Rwyan, Tezdal, and me as if he were not at all surprised to find three Truemen seated in his taproom, and walked away.

I said, “It seems we were expected.”

Ayl lowered his tankard only long enough to nod.

“Nor’s payment asked,” I said.

Ayl said, “No.”

I said, “Is that the way here? Is there no currency?”

“We’ve coinage,” he said. “But those on the Raethe’s business travel free.”

“How are you recognized?” I asked. “You wear no badge of office that I can see.”

He chuckled then, gesturing with his mug. “Think you it’s a common sight,” he said, “three Truemen on our roads?”

That, I must admit, was likely rare; I asked him, “How did you know the road, Ayl?”

He shook his shaggy head, and I saw the mask again drop over his features. “Daviot,” he said kindly enough, but nonetheless firmly, “doubtless you’re agog with curiosity, but it’s not my place to answer your questions. Do you follow that advice I gave and bide your time. Ask of the Raethe, not me.”

His eyes met mine, and I saw that he would speak no more of such matters. I shrugged and drank ale, our conversation becoming a desultory affair, designed more to fill the awkward silence than satisfy the questions that teemed in my head.

We sat thus as our tankards were refilled and food served us. I was uncomfortable, and that somewhat leached my appetite. Rwyan, too, was nervous, but Tezdal seemed not at all discomfited. I supposed that for him all had been strange since his awakening on the rock, and consequently this no odder than any other situation. I wondered how he should react did we encounter Kho’rabi. Should that engage his memory; might some Sky Lord present here recognize him? For all I’d done my best, I’d had no success in restoring him his lost past. I wondered should I feel so kindly toward him did he return to what he’d been. Or for that matter, he to me.

I pondered all this as our table was cleared and Ayl interrupted my silent musing.

“For now,” he said, “you must remain here. But I understand the rooms are comfortable, and there’s a bathhouse.”

“I’d see this fabulous city,” I said.

At which the Changed smiled apologetically and told me no, repeating that until the Council granted us audience, we must confine ourselves to the inn.

Rwyan said, “A hot tub should be a luxury.”

She squeezed my hand as she spoke, which I took to be a warning or a request, and so I acceded. I thought my agreement afforded Ayl some measure of relief, as if he’d avoid open argument. That surprised me, for I now saw us more truly as captives, and I wondered why he should concern himself with my wants or displeasures.

He sent Glyn to arrange it and called the landlord to show us to our chambers. Once again, Rwyan and I were given shared quarters, Tezdal in the adjoining room. Unusually after so much latitude, our doors were locked. My unease waxed, and I inspected the chamber as Rwyan took her bath.

It was as Ayl had promised. A wide bed spread with fresh linen stood against one wall between two windows. I checked them both and found them secured beyond my undoing. They gave a view of rooftops, a section of street, the lake blue beyond the farther houses. I could not see the skyboats. There was a wardrobe and a washstand; a screened partition hid a commode. There were two comfortable wooden chairs set either side of a small table, on which stood a decanter of pale wine and two glasses, a flask of water. The floor was spread with colorful rugs and a lantern hung from the ceiling. It felt suddenly like a cell: I paced impatiently.

Rwyan came back perfumed with sandalwood, and I led her around the room, that she might familiarize herself with its furniture. Then Glyn escorted me to the bathhouse. I was aware the Changed stood sentry outside as I scrubbed myself. This sudden concern with our security disturbed me, and I bathed swiftly, going back damp to the room.

The door was locked behind me, and I crossed to where Rwyan sat on the wide bed.

“I cannot understand this concern,” I said. “Why lock doors now? Why deny us the freedom we’ve had so far? In the God’s name, we’re in the heart of Ur-Dharbek-we could scarce hope to escape from here.”

She touched me and, finding me still somewhat moist, began to towel my hair.

“I think there must be things here they’d not yet have us know,” she said. “How many skyboats did you see?”

I took my head from under her busy toweling. “Perhaps a score. Hardly enough for invasion. At least, not yet.”

“You believe it so?” She dropped the towel. I picked it up; flung it aside.

“What else?” I said. “I’ve seen Changed and Sky Lords together; their airboats here. Do they not agree it, then I think they must talk of it. Alliance, at the least … discussion of terms, of strategy…. The Sky Lords defy the Sentinels now, so the Border Cities should likely prove no greater obstacle.”

“Aye,” she said soft. “Doubtless they should strike down no few skyboats, do they mount the Great Coming. But not enough, do they come in numbers. The God knows, they’ve always found ways past us, and now … now do they attack across the Fend and across the Slammerkin; do the Changed of Dharbek rise to support them …”

She’d no need of elaboration. The land already bled under the wounding of that unnatural summer. Jareth was regent, deemed weak, his elevation a source of discontent amongst the aeldors. Was the Great Coming launched, did the Changed rise-I shivered at the thought. Better than any save this woman who sat with me, I knew how subtle were the secret ways of the folk we Truemen had made, how surely they communicated, that their eyes and ears were everywhere, hidden by their very station. It was as if the sorcerers had created some hydra, a monster invisible until it struck.

“Dharbek’s lost,” I said.

Rwyan ducked her head. “And the Changed have magic now,” she whispered, fingering the necklace glinting at her throat. “They can do this. They’ve made this valley, and as you describe it, only great magic could create such a place. I think the hills must hold an abundance of crystals. Changed have dwelt here long enough, they absorb the magic. They develop the talent!”

“But surely long exposure destroys,” I said. “You told me that. It brings madness.”

“Is war not madness?” she returned. “But yes, I told you that. And so it is-for Truemen. Perhaps the Changed are different; perhaps the crystals do not destroy them.”

“Then why take you?” I wondered, though I’d already a horrid suspicion. “Can they do all this, what need of you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, and shuddered, so that I put my arms about her and held her close as her voice dropped low.

“Save …”

“Save what?” I prompted, thinking I’d not welcome the answer.

Nor did I: Rwyan said, “Save they’d plumb my mind. Learn Dharbek’s secrets-our usage of those crystals that ward the Fend, the Slammerkin-learn the limits of our magic.”

She trembled in my arms. I felt her tears against my chest. I raised my head, staring blindly at the ceiling. Beams stood dark against white plaster. They reminded me of gallows trees: I lowered my face to Rwyan’s hair.

She pulled back a little way. I looked into her blind eyes, the green shining tearful now. She said, “Daviot, I cannot betray Dharbek.”

I studied her face. I saw a strength I dreaded, a determination I feared. I read the direction of her thought. I’d run from that compass save it should have been a betrayal of this woman I loved, of the strength that made her what she was. I owed her better than that, and so I said, “What can you do, does worse come to worst?”

And she smiled-so brave, my Rwyan!-and told me, “Perhaps it shall not come to that. But does it-what choice have I, save to defy them?”

Almost, I said that she should speak put, answer whatever questions were asked, give whatever information was demanded; only survive, because without her my life should have no meaning. But that was selfishness and insulting to her courage. And I think she’d have scorned me had I said it aloud. So instead, I said, “The God will it not come to that.”

A small laugh then; and: “The God, Daviot? I’d thought you doubted his existence.”

“I do,” I said. “But be I wrong, then I ask he spare you. You deserve better.”

“I doubt,” she said, “that ‘deserve’ comes into this. It seems to me more happenstance-that I helped bring down Tezdal’s skyboat; that I was there when we found him. That he came to trust me, and I was chosen to escort him to Durbrecht. Even that the Sprite was the ship chosen. All happenstance, no?”

I wondered if she sought to strengthen her resolve with words or set aside contemplation of that resolution. If so, I’d help her: I said. “Happenstance? Or is there a pattern, and I’ve a part in it? Had we not met, should you have been sent so soon to the Sentinels? Had I not come to Carsbry when I did, I’d not have found you. Had Lan not given me this token-which he’d not have done save I knew Urt, who helped you and I to meet-then Ayl should surely have cast me overboard, and we’d not be together here. Aye, surely there’s a pattern too subtle for mere happenstance. It seems more like our fates are linked.”

I looked to comfort her (and am I honest, myself), but as I spoke, I saw a kind of truth in what I said. There was a pattern of some kind; at least an interweaving of our lives that surely ran more certain than random accident might dictate. It was as if we were fated to come together, and whether that was the God’s will or nebulous destiny, it seemed to me to become more real even as I spoke. I warmed to the subject.

“And the dreams,” I said. “That on the Sentinels you dreamed of me; not randomly, but as if you shared my dreams. And here-those judging eyes. Surely that cannot be happenstance.”

Her head tilted as if she saw me, and on her lovely face a frown set twinned creases between her eyes. Her lips pursed, luscious, so that I must struggle not to kiss them. Not yet; not whilst she seemed to find solace in my words.

“Perhaps it’s so,” she murmured. Then frowned deeper: “But Tezdal shared that latter dream.”

“And had Tezdal not been on that skyboat,” I said, “you’d not have found him on the rock, not come to Carsbry. I’d not have found you there, nor stowed away.”

“Then he’s a part of this pattern,” she said.

I’d seen it more in terms of we two, but I nodded and said, “I suppose he must be.”

“And Urt?” she asked. “That you knew him in Durbrecht, and had you not, he’d not have been sent to Karysvar, nor come here. Surely there’s another part?”

I nodded, though Rwyan could not see that, and murmured, “Yes, surely.”

I was frowning now. I had begun this wordplay intending nothing more than to comfort Rwyan. Now I began to wonder if we did not unravel threads of subconscious knowledge, somehow untangling strands of awareness to form a clearer picture … of what? That I could not say; not yet. But I felt we explored something here that I must pursue. That might-whatever ruled our destinies willing-afford us escape from our predicament.

“What is it?” Rwyan’s hands touched my face. “What silences you?”

“Urt is here,” I said. “Ayl told us that, no?”

“And a voice in their government,” she said.

“Then sooner or later we’ll speak.” I took her hands and kissed the palms. “And I can ask him if he’s shared our dreams.”

“Daviot!” She gripped both my hands, firm. “Do you say all this is truly so? Can it be?”

This straw seemed to me stronger. I said, “I’ll not tell you for certain, aye. But is it not strange, this interweaving of all our lives?”

She said, “Yes,” and once more pursed her lips in thought.

I could no longer resist: I kissed them. Her arms wound about my neck, and we lay upon the bed. Against my mouth Rwyan said, “What if we’re summoned by this Raethe?”

I answered her, “They sit late, Ayl said. And do they not, then they must wait.”

She laughed, and helped me find the lacings of her shirt.

We were in that room three days before the summons came. Ayl brought us out, with Glyn and five thickset bull-bred Changed in attendance. We were marched across the square and down a street that ended on the lake’s shore. It was early in the day, and I saw the skyboats clear as we were directed out along a pier. They were huge, floating like vast airborne slugs, their crimson flanks a bloody contrast to the pure blue of the water. I thought the baskets must hold a plenitude of Kho’rabi. Amongst them, like minnows swimming with whales, were the little scout vessels. It seemed to me the half-seen elementals sporting about the craft grew more agitated under my observance. I thought I heard their keening, but that might have been only the wind off the lake. Then Ayl tapped my shoulder, indicating I should board a skiff.

He took the tiller, and Glyn lowered the sail. There was room for only two more of our escort: we left the others on the pier. Rwyan took my hand. Her palm was damp, and when I looked at her face, I saw her jaw set firm, her lips a resolute line. Tezdal reached out and took her other hand. I could not resent that intimacy.

She smiled thinly and said, “Perhaps this necklace shall be removed now.”

I said, “Yes, all well.”

She said, “Where do we go?”

“Across the lake,” I answered.

The wind, which seemed not to affect the town much, was brisk out here, and we sped over the blue water. Waver lets lapped against the hull, and did I not look back to where the skyboats hung or wonder what lay ahead, I might have enjoyed the journey. Instead, I looked to the far shore, where a solitary building grew steadily larger.

It stood close to the shore, shining in the sun, for it was made all of white stone such as I’d not seen before in this unknown country. It was no more than a single level, and circular, with a portico running around its walls. I had the impression of a temple, surely of a place of power, though its architecture was plain. A pathway of the same pale stone stretched from the portico to a pier, where Ayl brought the skiff in.

We were handed ashore. Ayl beckoned us to follow, the rest falling into step behind. I saw that vivid flowers grew in profusion about the building, and insects filled the still air with their buzzing; but there were no birds. We climbed seven steps up to the portico and faced a door of wood shaved and bleached to match the stone. A brass gong hung there, and a mallet. Ayl took the hammer and struck a single ringing note that echoed sonorous down the colonnades. The door swung open on silent hinges. A woman-cat-bred, I thought-appeared. She seemed no different to any Changed female save that she wore a circlet of gold about her brow. Ayl ducked his head, and she nodded in reply, motioning us forward. As the door closed behind us, I realized Ayl and the others still stood outside.

“Do you follow me.”

It was not a question nor quite a command, but the woman turned and walked away as if she entertained no doubt but that we should obey. I thought she was not very old, perhaps younger than Rwyan, but possessed of such imperious confidence that she seemed ageless.

We crossed a broad vestibule that was, as best I judged, all seamless white marble to an inner door. The woman pushed it open and stood aside. We went through into a circular chamber lit bright by the windows that marched along the walls. My eyes narrowed against the glare, for it seemed that sunlight was reflected off every surface there. I was reminded of Decius’s chamber, unable to properly define the figures that occupied the tiered benches I faced. I suppose that was the intention: to set us at an immediate disadvantage.

Rwyan felt my hesitation and asked, “What is it?”

I told her, and as I did, my vision adjusted enough that I could better make out the room.

We stood on a kind of balcony, a semicircular balustrade opening on a short flight of steps that descended to an oval faced by the benches. The floor was yellow, not quite gold, and blinding; all else was white, save the clothing of our interviewers. That was a mixture of mundane homespun, simple leather, and brighter robes and gowns in a variety of colors. I thought perhaps fifty Changed sat studying us.

“Do you step down.”

The voice came from the midst of the watchers. As we obeyed, I looked for Urt, but the sun was in my eyes, and I could not find him.

The same voice said, “I am Geran, spokesman for the Raethe of Trebizar. You are hale? Your quarters are comfortable?”

I said, “Yes. Why are we here?”

Someone laughed at that and said, “You told us he was direct, Urt.”

He was present then: I felt more hopeful. I said, “Shall you remove Rwyan’s necklace now?”

“Shall that be done?”

I recognized Geran’s voice. There was a murmur of assent, and a Changed with an equine look about his long face stepped down from the benches. He was in his middle years, his hair a dull brown. He wore a robe that trailed the floor, dark green chased with silver patterning. Like the female who had delivered us here, he wore a golden circlet about his brow. I noticed that his hands were spatulate as he raised them to Rwyan’s neck.

He sprang the lock and slipped the silver links from her throat. She sighed as if a weight were lifted from her and turned her head from side to side. I saw her talent fill her eyes and smiled.

She said, “I can see again.” Her voice was joyful.

The horse-faced man pocketed the necklace and trod a pace backward. “We’d not inflict needless hurt,” he said.

From the benches someone said, “That’s the province of Truemen.”

“Not all.”

I recognized that voice! I squinted into the light, seeking Urt.

I found him on the seventh tier. He seemed unchanged. Perhaps smaller, or I had grown since Durbrecht, but not at all aged. He gave me a small smile, but on his face I read concern. He ducked his head a fraction, acknowledging me, and made a gesture difficult of interpretation. I thought perhaps he warned me to tread wary.

The spokesman said, “We’d not keep you blind, mage. But know this-your talent is limited here, bound by our magic. It is a small thing, but do you attempt to use it against any Changed or any guest, then what follows shall make your blindness seem a pleasure.”

Rwyan nodded. She stared directly at the seated figures. (Once more gifted with occult vision, she could see them better than I.) She said, “Why am I here?”

A new voice said, “Because we’d have you here.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“You presume!” The speaker was clearly angered. “Ours to ask, yours but to answer.”

“And do I choose not?”

I saw a figure rise, limned in sunlight, indistinct. I thought it was a female. One arm flung out, and I heard Urt cry, “No!”

I sprang before Rwyan. Tezdal was at my side, both our bodies interposed between Rwyan and the standing figure. I thought we should be struck down. I was certain this Changed-perhaps all those present-commanded magic.

Urt said, “Do we condemn Truemen and ourselves use their ways? Shall we rise bellicose against every little argument?”

“What other language do Truemen understand?”

“Some, kindness. Some seek to redress wrong. Not all are evil.”

“Not this one? This mage? One of those who made us and make us their servants?”

Rwyan said, “There are no servants on the Sentinels.”

“But enough in Dharbek,” came the response. “I tell you again-finally!-that you’ll answer, not ask.”

“You command like a Trueman born, Allanyn.”

Urt’s words were dry. I’d heard that tone before, used on Cleton, sometimes on Ardyon. Almost, I smiled. The one called Allanyn, however, found it not at all amusing. Her angry shriek was entirely female, and feline. I saw her arm drop as she rounded on my old friend. And friend still, I dared hope.

She said, “You insult me, Urt. Newcome to the Raethe, do you assume to slight me?”

The spokesman said, “Newcome or old, Allanyn, all have equal place here.”

“I’ll not be called a Trueman!” Allanyn snarled.

Mildly, Urt said, “I’d never name you that.”

Was it an apology, it sounded mightily like an insult. Allanyn appeared confused, unsure whether to take affront or allow appeasement. She remained on her feet, staring past her fellows at Urt as if she contemplated turning the full force of her rage on him.

Geran said, “Allanyn, do you sit? Better that we reach agreement before we resort to threat.”

I liked the sound of that not at all.

Rwyan pushed between Tezdal and me then. She seemed undeterred by Allanyn’s rage or any threat of reprisal. I clutched her arm and said urgently, “No! Rwyan, hold your tongue.”

Allanyn said, “Your lover gives sound advice, mage.”

I thought to deflect her anger. I said, “I’d know why we’re here no less than Rwyan.”

Allanyn said, “These Truemen are presumptuous.”

I shrugged and said, “We were kidnapped, brought prisoner here. Is it so odd we’d know the why of it?”

One of them chuckled and said, “That seems reasonable enough.”

Allanyn spat, for all the world like her forebears thwarted in some savage design.

Urt said, “Reason is usually the sounder course. From my own experience in Dharbek, I tell you that kindness brings a surer result than the lash.”

There was murmur of voices then. Some I thought in agreement, others opposed. I thought there were factions here, and that Urt sought to defend us. I hoped he should prevail.

The debate died away. Geran stood, his back to we three as he studied his fellows. One by one, they either nodded or shook their heads. I could not see clearly enough I might make out which faction won. The spokesman told me.

“You, Daviot, are here by accident, though I suspect we shall find a use for your Storyman’s talent. The mage because we’d glean knowledge of her magic-”

Rwyan interrupted him, defiant. “I’ll give you nothing!” she cried. “I’ll not betray Dharbek!”

As if she’d not spoken, the Changed continued, “The Sky Lord Tezdal, we’d return to his own.”

Rwyan said, “There is alliance!”

Geran ducked his head. “We treat with the Sky Lords, aye. Should we rather allow our brethren to continue under the Trueman’s yoke? Must we go to war to free them, then war it shall be.”

“And how many die?” Rwyan asked. “Changed and Truemen both. And Sky Lords.”

“Reason?” Allanyn’s voice rang contemptuous. “There’s no reasoning with this one.”

I said, “Tezdal’s no memory.”

“That we can right,” the spokesman said, and turned to Tezdal. “Would you have back your memory, Lord Tezdal?”

Tezdal frowned. He glanced at Rwyan and at me; I saw hope flash in his eyes, and suspicion. He said, “I’d know who I am, aye. But you should know this-Rwyan saved my life, and I have sworn to defend her. I’ll not see her harmed; neither Daviot, who is my friend. Who looks to harm them shall answer to me. Be I Sky Lord or no, that vow I’ll honor.”

I knew in the instant of his speaking that even were his memory restored and he become again a Kho’rabi, he would honor that promise.

The spokesman nodded gravely, as if he, too, acknowledged Tezdal’s integrity. But then he said, “Do we first give you back your past and you be whole again; then do you decide where lie your loyalties.”

Softly, I heard Tezdal murmur, “That I already know.”

Rwyan said, “Are you truly able? Those techniques of the Mnemonikos known to Daviot have failed. Shall you succeed where he could not?”

“And doubtless you and your fellow sorcerers attempted it.” Geran’s voice held an echo of laughter. “However, where Truemen failed, I believe we may succeed.”

“You must,” said Rwyan, “command powerful magicks.”

I saw that she sought to learn something of their powers. No less the spokesman, for he smiled and said, “Lady, we do.”

“And do you refuse us, you’ll soon enough witness them firsthand,” said Allanyn.

Rwyan turned her eyes to where the cat-bred woman sat. “I tell you again,” she said, “that I’ll not betray Dharbek. What I know of our magic, I’ll not give you.”

Allanyn snorted spiteful laughter. “This wastes our time. The mage cannot be reasoned with. I say we end this dalliance, and use the crystals on her without delay. Let her defy them!”

I cried out, “No!” And soft in Rwyan’s ear as fresh debate erupted, “Would you goad them needlessly? This one would have your life.”

Before she could answer, Urt spoke. “Reason may yet prevail.” His voice rose over babble. I had not known he was capable of so commanding a tone. “Do you but hear me out?”

“Do you plead for your Trueman friends, no.”

That was Allanyn, her rejection echoed by others of her sympathy. More called that Urt be heard, and finally the spokesman quelled their argument, motioning that Urt speak.

He said, “I think us agreed on one thing-that the Lord Tezdal be restored his memory. Is that not so, Rwyan?”

Rwyan said, “That was ever my intent.”

“Daviot?”

I nodded and said, “Aye.”

“And such restoration was attempted by the sorcerers of Dharbek, who failed?”

I could only nod. Rwyan said, “Obviously,” her tone a deliberate provocation.

Urt ignored it. He said, “Then can we succeed where you could not, the strength of our magic must be proven, no?”

I sensed a trap; I wondered where he took us, down what road. Did he look to protect us from Allanyn’s wrath or to betray us? I thought I could no longer entirely rely on his friendship: like Rwyan, he must surely define his loyalties here. I hesitated to answer.

Rwyan did not. She said carelessly, “Can you give Tezdal back his memory, then in that I must acknowledge your magic the stronger.”

Urt nodded gravely. Allanyn spat and said, “In that and more, mage. I say again-this wastes our time. I say we prevaricate no longer but put her to the test.”

As a murmur of agreement arose, Geran stood, arms raised until he had again silence. “Let Urt have his say.”

Allanyn’s cohorts fell quiet, reluctantly. Urt said, “Allanyn speaks true-that magic we command surpasses yours now. Does the Raethe choose it, then your mind can be drained of all its knowledge. Willing or unwilling, you’ve not the strength to resist.”

His tone was urgent, but I could not decide whether he warned Rwyan in friendship or in threat. I wondered how well I could know him now, after so long. Well enough to recognize a warning? Did he ask our cooperation that Rwyan might survive intact? Or did he only threaten, and I hope in vain that we’d found an ally?

I heard Rwyan say, “You shall slay me ere I betray Dharbek.”

I cursed the sunlight that denied me clear sight of Urt’s face. I could see him only as an outline, standing amidst his fellows, and must judge his intent from his voice alone. And that, I realized, was surely modulated as much for his companions as for Rwyan or me. Did he seek to aid us, he could not risk revealing his purpose.

He said, “Lady, there should be no need. Are you given to the crystals, you’ll tell us all, without let or hindrance. You’ll have no choice; and after, your mind should be a void.”

The chamber was warm, but I felt cold. I dared not speak.

Rwyan said, “My case is stated. Do you put yours?”