by Angus Wells
I saw that clear as we landed, because Deburah showed it me and I felt her grief.
I sat her back—this was so precipitous a place, I had no hope of climbing down there, and I knew she’d not descend. At least, not until it was her time; and that I’d no sooner think on than Rwyan’s demise. This was the last resting place of all the world’s dragons, and none felt happy to be here before their time. So I sat astride my saddle and heard all the dragons bell their mourning at the falling sun and, when they were done, asked Deburah what had happened.
She told me: We came north to hunt. Bellek was on Kathanria, but he sent us off alone after we came here. He told us he’d spend a while with Aiylra, in remembrance. We hunted. Then we felt him die and came here, and he was gone.
I told her: He wanted it so. He chose his way.
And then, because I felt her fear, that I’d never thought to feel from any dragon: He left us behind. We’ll not forsake you.
Her pleasure overcame remorse at Bellek’s chosen death. I looked down at the broken pieces of that strange man and surmised he’d flung himself off the heights to join his lost Aiylra in the bones below.
I think he’s happy now, I told my Deburah.
And she asked me: And you’ll not leave?
Aloud, I said, “No!” And heard my exclamation echoed by Rwyan.
I felt the happiness of the dragons then, and it filled me, replacing what sadness I felt for Bellek. Which, am I honest, was not much: I thought he’d lived out his span and picked his end, and that I should deny no man.
That second year became a third, and the world’s ways shifted. The Changed of Dharbek were proclaimed free citizens. Those Attul-ki not slain by the dragons reversed their magic, so that Dharbek blossomed. Under escort of our dragons, skyboats crossed the Fend for the first time in peace, to deliver Ahn back to the shores of Kellambek. Those Changed who would cross the Slammerkin went over free, knowing they might return if they would. The Khe’anjiwha ceded lands in Ahn-feshang to those few (very few!) brave Dhar or Changed who’d find a new country.
Of course there were disputes, but when the sorcerers sent word, we came with our dragons, and none would argue with them.
We saw the Changed freed and Ahn find homes in Kellambek. Taerl presided over a Council similar to that governing Ur-Dharbek. In Ahn-feshang the Khe’anjiwha and the Attul-ki now held less power and spoke with the Dhar about the future, as if that were now a thing shared between equals. Our world seemed set fair on the course we’d given it.
And we Dragonmasters hungered for our castle and the high, wild mountains of Tartarus. Our dragons were bored; sated with battles and eager to go home.
I shared that feeling. I could no longer deny it: Dharbek was no longer my home, but only those tall mountains where the dragons lived, and I (was I cursed by Bellek? Were we all?) felt at ease.
I spoke of it with Rwyan, and she agreed; and so we went back.
Tezdal and Urt came with us. They felt the call no less than we, and like us felt separated from the worlds of men now. Urt had been offered a seat in the Raethe; begged to take it when he refused, and still refused.
“It would not feel right,” he told me one bright and windy autumn day as we walked the ramparts and watched the wind chase clouds across the sky. “I am a Dragonmaster now, and did I sit in Council and argue and folk agree with me, how should I know them honest and not merely afraid of Kathanria?”
I nodded. I’d the same feeling and had given Taerl similar answer when he asked much the same of me.
“Nor,” Urt went on, “are my people even now entirely at ease with dragons.”
“Blood’s memory dies hard,” I said.
“And so they are neither at ease with me,” he murmured. Then laughed, “Nor I with them. I am different, Daviot.”
I said, “We all of us are. This is our home now, I think.”
“Yes.” He crossed to a crenellation, leaning out to stare down the vertiginous mountainside into the valley. The Changed village was a cluster of minuscule buildings, like tiny pebbles dropped beside the slender thread of the river. It had grown now, as more of Urt’s people ventured north—those whose blood did not hold such innate fear of the dragons. Absently, he said, “We should hunt soon and lay them up meat for the winter. Also, their ale is near ready for drinking.”
I moved to join him, setting a hand companionable on his shoulder as I leaned past him. “And Lysra should have that blanket finished, eh?” I murmured.
For all they are long distanced from their animal progenitors, still the Changed own some of their ancestors’ characteristics. They do not blush, for instance; but did they, I think Urt should have then. Lysra was the daughter of Prym and Valla, who supplied our ale. South of our mountains she’d have been married, for she was a comely woman. But there were not so many men here, and she had so far rejected those suitors who contested her hand. For Urt, however, she found only smiles and on learning of our return had set to weaving such a blanket as decorates a marriage bed. It was a hint he could hardly ignore. Also, it was obvious to all of us save Urt that she loved him.
He said. “She is very beautiful, no?”
I said, “Yes, she is lovely.”
He said, “Do you think I should …”
I waited, but he was suddenly embarrassed, so that I could only laugh and slap his shoulder and tell him, “I think you should. She waits for you, and it should be good company for Rwyan to have another woman about this place.”
He nodded solemnly, his eyes fixed firm on the village. “I shall,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall go down there and ask her.”
“She’ll tell you yes,” I said. “And when you’ve set the date, I’ll go south to beg some good Kellambek wine off Taerl, that we may celebrate in suitable manner. Doubtless he’ll want to attend the feasting. Or even volunteer you his palace for the ceremony. Likely he’ll invite the Khe’anjiwha, and all the—”
“Enough!” Urt stepped back, his face so paled I began to chuckle. “It shall be no more than the village and we Dragonmasters. No pomp, Daviot, I beg you.”
I forced my face to gravity. “The Lord Protector will likely be most disappointed. Insulted, even.”
Urt frowned. “Well, perhaps Taerl might attend.”
“And the Raethe,” I said. “It should not be diplomatic to leave them out.”
Urt’s frown grew deeper. “Think you so?” he asked.
I nodded, stifling laughter. “Nor—does he wish it—the Khe’anjiwha. Or, of course, the Church. And the Mnemonics. And the—”
Urt’s fist caught me lightly on the ear, and I could no longer stifle my mirth. I said, “It shall be no more, nor any less, than you wish, my friend.”
“Simple, then,” he said, his relief expressed in a broad smile. “I’ve enough of pomp and ceremony to last me all my days.”
I said, “May they be long and happy. Now—do we go break this momentous news to Rwyan and Tezdal? And begin our celebrating?”
“Modestly,” he said. “I’ve not your Storyman’s capacity for drink, and I’d not go to Lysra in my cups.”
“Modestly then,” I agreed. “But go to her I think you should. Else I’ve a feeling that when that blanket’s done, she’ll climb the mountain to deliver it.”
Laughing together, we went inside.
But Tezdal … he’d lost more than any of us. What had we lost that was not outweighed by what we gained? I’d my two loves and the dream I’d so long ago shared with Rwyan come true. She’d Anryäle and me and the satisfaction of a world at peace. Urt had Lysra, and Kathanria. But Tezdal—he’d only Peliane and cold, old wounds that poisoned from within. His wife was dead, and his parents, and for those deaths he held himself accountable. In the eyes of his people he was still gijan—outcast. None of us could properly understand that, or the dreadful burden it laid on his soul.
I tried. I swear I did my best, but it was a thing beyond my comprehension. I remember the day we spoke of it.
It was a wild windswept day, when stormclouds built above the eastern peaks and threatened snow, the sky sullen as a poisoned wound overhead. There was cloud in the valley below thick enough that the village was hidden and the dragons had retreated to their caverns. Deburah’s egg was not far off hatching. Urt was wed. (Taerl did attend, but—somewhat to the alarm of the new-formed conclave of advisers—alone. Indeed, had he not taken Urt’s hands and begged to be a guest, he’d not have come. But the Lord Protector snatched at every chance he could grasp to ride adragonback, and his entreaties were so fervent, Urt could only smile and laugh and agree. And thanks to Taerl we’d barrels of fine wine and sweetmeats, and the new-wed couple such marriage gifts as should make an aeldor blush for envy.) Ayl and Lan and a few others had been granted (reluctantly on Urt’s part, but Lysra was delighted) permission to attend and overcame their terror to ride the skies. We had celebrated the wedding, and Lysra moved into the Dragoncastle. We had returned Taerl to his duties and settled back to our own. They were not so many now.
Throughout the celebrations Tezdal had smiled and laughed and drunk his fill or more. I had sensed a desperation behind his revelry: he was by nature a sober man and lately had been taciturn, even solitary. So when all was quiet again and I noticed him donning a fur-lined cloak, I took my own and followed him. Much as I’d once followed Bellek.
He climbed to the highest reaches of the Dragoncastle, where the ramparts stood tall and the view ran out all around as if it should never end. The wind battered my face as I joined him, and I wished I’d thought to don gloves. He stood looking to the east. He doubtless heard my approach—I think that brave Kho’rabi did not miss such things—but he did not turn until I touched his shoulder. Then, I could not be sure whether it was the wind or grief that watered his eyes.
I said, “Shall you tell me?”
I saw his lips curve in a smile, but it held no humor.
“Tell you what?” he asked.
I must bend closer to catch the words, lest the wind carry them away. I said, “What ails you, friend.”
“What ails me?” His smile was rictal. “Life ails me, Daviot. I’d give it up.”
I set my hand firmer on his shoulder, for fear he might fling himself away into the emptiness beneath us. I said, “Is it so hard?”
He turned his face away a moment. When he looked at me again, his eyes burned. “I am gijan. You cannot know what that means.”
I shook my head. I moved to embrace him, but he waved me off, and I could only stand and hear him out. We must both shout over the wailing of the wind.
He said, “I have no name.”
I said, “You are Tezdal Kashijan. You are a Dragonmaster; and my true friend.”
He said, “I am a Dragonmaster, yes. You call me Tezdal, but I no longer own that name. I am gijan. I have no right to friendship.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he put his hand there, silencing me. “Only listen, eh?”
I nodded, and he unclamped his fingers.
He said, “You will not understand this: you cannot. You are Dhar, and though we are friends, we are still different. Different as we Dragonmasters are become to—” He waved a desperate hand, encompassing all the land below us, all the world around. “I was born and raised Kho’rabi. I took vows—you know this. And that I betrayed those vows.”
I said, ignoring his plea for silence, “In service of another. In service of this peace we’ve won.”
I wondered then how any man could smile so; or how a voice be so bereft of life.
“Yes. Is it not strange? As if the Three use me for their dice. But heed me. Daviot. I was born Kho’rabi—Dedicated—and all my life lived to that end.”
I think I sensed then where this conversation led, and again I ignored his imperative to say, “And have you not achieved that end? The Ahn come back to Kellambek now; and that was your doing, as much as mine or Rwyan’s.”
Perhaps I should not have spoken her name. Certainly I saw pain flood his face at the mention.
He said, “Retze slew herself for my disgrace; and then my parents. Now I am gijan—the clan Kashijan exists no longer because of me.” He saw my incomprehension and barked his awful laugh again. “No,” he said, and I heard the terrible weariness in his voice. “You do not understand. How should you? Only we Ahn understand that. Listen! I offer you a choice—Rwyan or Deburah. One you must forgo. Which?”
I said, “I’d not make that choice. I do not think I could.” He said, “I did.”
I saw the direction he took and gave him back, “But you’d lost your memory. You were dying; Rwyan saved you.”
He said, “And then I got back my memory and knew who I was and what I had been.”
I said, “I saw Sky Lords speak with Changed and said nothing of it. I learned the Changed communicated. I think I guessed they planned rebellion, but I said nothing. Are you steeped deeper in guilt than I?”
He said, “Are your parents alive? Is Rwyan dead?”
I had no answer for that.
He said, “It is different for me, Daviot. I knew what I was when I came to that grove in Trebizar and slew Allanyn’s people. I knew I betrayed my own people when I brought you horses and set you free. When I came with you.”
I said—No! I shrieked—“Because you’d given your word to Rwyan! Because you are an honorable man.”
“Yes.” He ducked his head. “And now my honor shows me only one way to efface my shame.”
I said, “You’ve no shame, Tezdal.”
He said, “Were I Dhar or Changed, likely I’d agree. But I am not! I was Kho’rabi, and now I am gijan. All those I loved are dead because of what I did. The clan Kashijan is disbanded for what I did.”
I said, helplessly now, “You forged peace. You gave your people back their homeland.”
I watched his lips stretch over his teeth. Inside his cloak he shrugged. “Perhaps for that the Three will forgive me. But I cannot.”
I said, “What of the future? What of us?”
He said, “I think the future’s settled now. And you?” He turned away, resting his hands on the battlements, his head lowered. “Urt’s his Lysra now; and you, Rwyan. Are you not happy?”
I said, “Yes. Save you—Tezdal!” I hunted, desperate, for such words as might dissuade him from the course I knew he took. “Might you not find another wife?”
He shook his head. He said, “In all my life I’ve loved only two women. One was Retze; the other is … not mine to have.”
I should have known it!
But I had not, and so I said, lowly, “Rwyan?”
His laughter disputed the wind’s howling. “Could you not see it?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“She does,” he said. “She knows it and loves you. And she’ll not leave you.”
I had no words for this. Only a numbing dread of what might follow. I had been as blind as any man in love; and as much stupid.
“So.” Tezdal turned from his contemplation of the ramparts’ stone to face me. “Shall we fight for her? Shall you slay me, or I slay you? Might that secure me her love?”
I said, “Tezdal, I’d not fight you.”
He said, “Nor I you. Nor should it win me more than her hate. So …”
I said, “What of Peliane?”
He said, “Dragons live after their masters. How else are we here? Bellek’s gone, no? She’ll mourn me a while, but she’s you and Rwyan and Urt now. And likely there shall be other Dragonmasters found ere long, now that we’ve forged our Great Peace. Do I betray her, Daviot? If so, then it’s only one more betrayal to my account. And I cannot live longer with this pain! I tell you true—I cannot.”
He shed his cloak then, and I saw what he wore beneath: the blades of a Kho’rabi knight. The kachen and the dagger, and I knew with a ghastly surety what he intended and what he’d ask of me. I staggered back, shaking my head.
He said, “I’d take the Way of Honor, Daviot. Even though I am gijan and so undeserving. Did you k
now the Khe’anjiwha favored me? Gijan—we few!—are usually crucified. Upside down, Daviot. Had you not needed me to interpret, I’d long ago have hung head down on a tree, with all who passed spitting on my face. Or worse. Listen to me!” This because I backed away, and shook my head, and pushed out my hands to reject the duty he gave me. “Listen to me! I shall die. Like Bellek, do you not prove your friendship. But I should sooner do this with what honor’s left me. As if I were still Kho’rabi. Perhaps that shall placate the Three, and they grant my soul peace.”
“No!”
I did not recognize my own voice. It sounded like the wind’s wailing. It sounded like the mourning of the dragons. I did not know it came out from between my lips. Inside my head I felt the dragons stir; and Rwyan and Urt.
I staggered back until cold stone denied me further retreat. But Tezdal advanced still, and still his hands held out the burden of friendship’s duty.
He said, “As you love me, friend.”
His eyes allowed no other choice: I took the blade and asked him, “What must I do?”
He said, “This should be done with Attul-ki attending. Or at least Kho’rabi knights. But … you wait until I’ve opened the Way, and then use the sword on my neck.”
I said, “Is there truly no other way?”
And he shook his head. “No. Neither would I ask this of any other. Only of my truest friend.”
He clasped my hand, and there was such longing in his eyes, I could only nod through my tears and slide the sword from its sheath as he knelt and loosed the fastenings of his tunic and shirt and slipped the garments off, so that his torso was bared to the wind and the cold. And his neck to the sword I held. It shone in the failing light. It rested heavy in my hands: heavy as the weight on my soul.
I said, “I am not sure I can do this, Tezdal.”
He said, “As you love me, you can.”
And then, before I might argue further or throw down the sword and run away, he drew his dagger and sank the blade deep into his belly. He made no sound as he cut, but I saw the agony on his face as his lips contorted in denial of the pain. And in his eyes a terrible relief as he found his Way of Honor.