Lords of the Sky (31 page)

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

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

I said, “You are kind, my lord.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I said, “Goodnight, Krystin.”

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

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

I said, “Krystin …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She said, “What of them, Daviot?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how much is that?” she asked.

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

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

“I don’t know,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you not curious?” I asked.

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

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