Lords of the Sky (47 page)

The sheet was tangled at my feet, and sweat drenched me. My head ached and my limbs were heavy as I rose, stumbling to the pitcher. The water was tepid, but I drank and doused my head, and then stood, my chest heaving, against the sill, staring out. It was not yet full dawn, but the sky already possessed a leaden intensity, and the air was hot as noon on a midsummer day. The keep’s thick stone was warm as an oven’s. The yard below was silent, but I could still hear the sound of the dragon’s wings. The chamber seemed suddenly too small. I turned from the window and washed, then pulled on shirt and breeks, my boots, and went out.

Changed servants moved sleepily about the hall. I thought they seemed less troubled by the heat than Truemen, though their movements were leisurely. I asked a cat-bred woman if I might have tea, making sure she caught sight of my bracelet. She showed no more sign of recognition than Tal, but she brought me tea and fruit and bread, for which I thanked her.

I broke my fast and sat awhile as the warband appeared. Of Rekyn or Sarun, there was no sign, but Andolyne came in holding Bardaen’s hand. The dowager gave me the day’s greetings and took a place with a weary sigh, favoring me with a wan smile.

“Oh, but this heat, Daviot,” she murmured. “I can hardly bear it, but poor Gwennet …”

“She’s close?” I asked, and Andolyne nodded, answering me, “Garat stays by her. He says any day now.” She shook her head. “Sad times, no? That a babe be born with Gahan dead and the Great Coming likely.”

“Sad times indeed,” I agreed. “But all well …”

Bardaen set to tugging at my sleeve then, demanding a story, and I took him on my knee, giving him the tale of Dryff and the Boar of Draggonek. By the time that was told,
the hall had filled and Rekyn found me. I looked at her with brows raised in question, and she nodded, ruffling Bardaen’s hair. By unspoken consent, we said nothing of Gahan or what had passed in Sarun’s chamber, but talked instead of calmer days. She’d have a full accounting of all my time in Durbrecht and after, and I found myself recalling memories tucked away in the drawers of that mnemonic chest that dead Martus had described. I went into no great detail about my friendship with Urt or my too-brief time with Rwyan, and I said nothing at all of Lan’s bracelet or that sighting of Kho’rabi and Changed together. It saddened me that I should be less than honest with so old a friend, but I thought Rekyn’s first duty was to Dharbek and to Cambar, and that did I reveal my secrets, she would likely see no choice but to report them to her College. I felt trapped in my own dissemblance.

If Rekyn sensed my concealments, she gave no sign but suggested we walk into the town. She would, she promised, bring me to the cottage that Delia shared with Kaene. I agreed, though first I’d see my horse was well—this heat was no kinder to animals than to men, and we had a long journey ahead of us, was I to make my way north up the coast and then along the Treppanek to Durbrecht.

We went to the stables, where a Changed ostler with a bandage about his forearm advised me my mare was indeed as foul-tempered as I had warned. I looked her over (it seemed by now she tolerated me somewhat or had decided to call a truce) and found her fit enough. Rekyn eyed her and said softly, “’Twas Andyrt first put you on a horse, no?”

I said, “It was; and by the God, I ached after.”

She chuckled at that, as I’d hoped she should, and shook her head, murmuring, “Old grief. Best left behind.”

I nodded, saying no more. Mnemonikos are not alone in harboring memories. Ours are just clearer, held with a precision, a clarity, that is ofttimes heartbreaking.

We walked leisurely from the keep into a town drained and dulled by the oppressive heat. Awnings that would not in a normal year have been unfurled until months later shaded the buildings, and the few folk we saw moved lethargic. Most held to the shade. We went down to where the fisherfolk beached their craft, and Rekyn pointed out a cottage.

“Do you go greet your sister,” she suggested, “and I’ll await you in the Flying Fish.”

I nodded, studying the cottage. It was twin to my parents’, with a little yard before, a vegetable patch behind. The vegetable patch was arid, what few shoots showed, withered and limp. The smell of rotting seaweed hung familiar in the air. I thought it should be good to see Delia again: she had always been my favorite. Eager, I went to the door, which stood open beneath a canopy fashioned from an old sail, and called her name.

My sister came out, an inquiring frown on her pretty face. She wore a scarf about her hair, and her hands were floured. I knew her immediately, for all she was a woman now, full grown and become beautiful.

She stared at me a moment, recognition dawning slowly. I said, “Do you not know your brother, Delia?” and her face lit up, and I was almost felled as she flung herself into my arms.

“Daviot! Is it truly you, Daviot? I scarce knew you. You’re a Storyman? Shall you stay?”

She led me inside as she spoke, the words a tumble, question piling on question—all those things a sister demands of a brother not seen in many years. I answered her as she saw me seated at a rough table, a cup set in my hands and thin yellow beer poured me. She was well, yes; and happy: Kaene was a good husband. He was out fishing now—the God grant him success—in a boat half-owned, hopefully soon theirs, save this weather leached the Fend of fish. They had no children as yet—a blessing, given such troublous times—but later … And I? Had I been to Whitefish village? I’d heard of Tonium’s death? Mam and Da, they were well? She and Kaene sailed south as time and work allowed…. Where had I been, where did I go? Did I stay in the keep? I’d heard, then, of Bardan’s death?

We tossed news back and forth, and I could hardly drink my beer for holding of her hands. It was good to see her again.

In time, I told her I must go, that Rekyn awaited me and I’d duties now. She offered me bed and board, which I declined, explaining it was expected I should stay in the keep. I thought the feeding of an extra mouth should cost her and Kaene dear. I promised to come back, had I the opportunity,
and assured her that I looked forward to meeting Kaene. I might well speak in one of the taverns, I told her, and she bade me let her know which that she might hear me. Her pride in my accomplishments embarrassed me. We embraced, and I walked away.

I found Rekyn in the Flying Fish, a tankard of ale before her. She called for another as I took a chair. When it was brought, I asked, “Does Cambar suffer much?”

“No worse than any other hold.” Rekyn leaned back, stretching out her long legs. She wore her leathers still and her sword, as if she thought she might be momentarily called to battle. “Sarun’s set stores aside, but does this heat continue, he’ll likely need open his warehouses to feed the hold-folk.”

Her voice was grim, and I studied her face before I spoke again. “Does your College not seek answers?” I asked her.

“Seek, aye,” she returned me with a cynical chuckle. “But find? As yet, no. The Kho’rabi wizards command such magicks as we’ve never guessed at—they surpass us in the occult talent. And Jareth commands our armies now.” She raised her mug in mockery of a toast. “By the God, Daviot! Gahan could not have died at a worse time. Dharbek suffers now; by Sastaine, we’ll know famine. There’s disease in the cities, and that must worsen as this heat continues. Did you know there’s been rioting in Durbrecht?”

I shook my head, horrified.

“In Durbrecht and in Kherbryn, too,” she went on. “This last sevenday, word came that a merchant’s caravan was ambushed crossing the massif. In Lynnisvar a grain boat was attacked by starving folk, and the aeldor must bring his war-band to drive them off. Does it continue so, we’ll see chaos before the Sky Lords come.”

“Surely Jareth must take some action,” I said, though I was unsure what might be done.

Rekyn shrugged and drained her tankard. I called for more ale. When we were alone again, Rekyn said, “The Changed grow troublesome, too. We’ve not seen it here as yet, but there are Changed have fled their masters to go wild into the mountains, or to cross the Slammerkin. Not too many as yet, but should enough take flight … the God knows, we’d see chaos then.”

The results of that action. I had already pondered. I
thought—fleetingly—that did Truemen treat the Changed better, they should be more likely to stand by us. I did not think that was a view to put to Rekyn now, and so I said, “They go to Ur-Dharbek? Can that be a kinder land?”

“Who’d know?” she gave me back, and laughed again, with a bitterness I’d not before seen in her. “Jareth, perhaps? He’s, after all, from the greatest of the Border Cities.”

Old memories flung themselves to the forefront of my mind; old questions came, too tempting to ignore. “Is there truly so little known of Ur-Dharbek?” I asked.

I watched Rekyn’s face as I voiced the question and as she answered. I was not certain what I saw there: alarm, perhaps, or concern, though for what I could not guess.

She said obliquely, “You’ve an interest in that place, eh?”

I spread dismissive hands. “I’ve an interest in all this land: I’m a Storyman.”

“But your College told you nothing?”

I suspected she dissembled. Not for the first time, I wondered why. I answered, “Nothing more than all know.”

“But you’d know more than all?” Her eyes locked on my face. “Why, Daviot? Is there so little in this land that you must delve the mysteries of Ur-Dharbek?”

“Are there mysteries?” I returned.

She chuckled then, her head shaking slightly as if in disbelief of my persistence. I thought the laugh better humored. “This interest in the Changed has brought you trouble ere now, no?” Her eyes did not leave my face. I was once more minded of the dragon’s gaze, but now I frowned surprise that she should know this. She saw it and said, “Oh, Daviot, take off that startled look, and I’ll tell you what you’d likely learn in time, save I suspect you already guess somewhat of it.”

There seemed real amusement in her eyes now. We both supped before she spoke again.

“Are you not told to bring back word of what you see along your Storyman’s road? Of the keeps’ moods, their readiness for war?” Her fine, dark brows rose, and I nodded mute agreement. “And no less are we sorcerers commanded to report on you. Had you not thought as much?”

I said, “I’d wondered—aye, I’d suspected it was so.”

“Then a word of warning,” she said gently, “from a
friend. Have a care what questions you ask. Perhaps show less of this feeling for the Changed. Your friendship with your servant served you ill, no?”

I was abruptly aware of the bracelet on my wrist. Almost, I took my hand from the table to hide the bangle, then knew it for foolishness. Did Rekyn know it for what it was, then it was too late to hide it. Did she not, then best make nothing of it. I said defensively, “He was my friend. Is that wrong?”

“In some folk’s eyes, it is,” she said. “I’d not say it so, but there are others…. Jareth, for example, is known to scorn the Changed.”

I said, “Without them, we’d know chaos. You said that much yourself.”

“So I did.” She nodded. “And so it is; or would be, did worse come to worst.”

Her voice trailed off, and for a moment she stared into her ale. Her face was clouded, and she toyed absently with a strand of dark hair. I had not thought to see Rekyn so irresolute. I waited, sensing she reached a decision of some kind. I was agog but curbed my impatience, for I felt she was about to speak of things, if not forbidden, then seldom said. I was minded of conversations with Lan: I thought perhaps another piece of the puzzle should come my way. Rekyn raised her head to look me in the eye again, and I saw her choice was made.

“Likely I should not tell you this,” she said quietly, “but I’ve a feeling about you. I cannot explain it, save”—she smiled and sighed a laugh—“save were I a seer, I’d tell you destiny sits on your shoulder. So—you’ve wandered abroad enough to see how much we depend on the Changed?”

I said, “Without them, Dharbek should be helpless, I think.”

“We’ve come to depend on them perhaps too much.” Her handsome face was grave now, and her eyes flickered about the room, as if to ensure she was not overheard. “And likely there are those amongst them know it. I think those who flee across the Slammerkin must.”

She paused. I saw this was no easy thing for her to say and asked, “But shall you sorcerers not employ your magicks to create more? Enough to replace those who flee?”

I was surprised when she shook her head; amazed at her words. She said, “No, Daviot. We cannot.”

My jaw gaped, and I could not suppress the gasp that escaped. Rekyn frowned, green eyes flashing a warning. I closed my mouth and set my hands about my tankard as if to anchor myself, leaning toward her across the table.

“We cannot,” she went on in a voice only I might hear. “There’s none can say exactly why, though some claim it’s to do with our migration south. We found that talent when we dwelt in Ur-Dharbek, they say; when the dragons hunted us and we must create prey for them. Since we crossed the Slammerkin, we’ve had no need for the talent. Instead, our magic was bent to conquering Draggonek and Kellambek, and then to defeating the Sky Lords.”

She fell silent as the serving woman came asking if our mugs needed replenishment. We drained them and sat unspeaking as the red-haired woman fetched us fresh. Then Rekyn continued: “All the efforts of my College were given to the creation of the Sentinels, to mastering those gramaryes that enable us to meet the Kho’rabi wizards in battle. We saw the Changed already made bred young—there seemed little need to create more through magic when nature gave us sufficient. Now, it appears we’ve forgotten the way of it.”

“How can you forget?” I asked.

Her lips curved in a smile empty of humor. “We’re not Mnemonikos, Daviot,” she said. “Perhaps did we not guard our secrets so close, but had entrusted those gramaryes to your kind…. But no matter; we did not, and there it is.”

“But,” I asked, bewildered, “how can you forget a talent? Surely once developed—”

“Perhaps
forget
is the wrong word,” she said. “Perhaps it’s that we took our talent down a different road; perhaps it was some thing intrinsic to Ur-Dharbek, or our need then. Whatever, we’ve lost it now.”