by Angus Wells
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, ladde
rs 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.