Lords of the Sky

by Angus Wells

  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 trickste
r. 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 exhaus
ted. 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.