Lords of the Sky (5 page)

My father said, “In the God’s name, are the Sentinels asleep?”

And Thorus replied, “I think perhaps the Sky Lords own new magicks,” which set a chill on my spine, for I heard a great doubt in his voice and found myself reminded of the priest’s talk of ancient sin.

Then my father said, “Best we bring this net in and turn for home, I think.”

We had our catch aboard and the boat turned about before the Sky Lords had advanced more than three fingers’ width across the blue. There was no wind to speak of, and so Battus and Thorus manned the oars, my father the tiller, leaving me free to watch. Or act as valiant lookout, I chose to think.

So it was I saw for the first time what the magic of the Sentinels could do.

I saw the darkening sky grow brighter above the closest island. It was akin to the jack-o’-lantern fires that would sometimes dance over the marshier fields above the village, pale and pink as a wound at first, then stronger, like a kindling flame. Then it became a column of searing red that sprang skyward to envelop the airboat, wrapping about the cylinder. For a moment that seemed to me a very long time, it bathed the vessel, then came an eruption of light and I saw the airboat broken like a spine-snapped beast, falling down in a great ball of flame, mundane now, trailers of smoke dragging behind it. There was a sound, as of distant thunder, and the Sky Lords’ craft went down to meet the sea. In a little while there was only a single plume of smoke that drifted leisurely shoreward, merging with the sky.

Thorus said, “I believe they are awake,” and my father chuckled, nodding, and we turned again for home.

The third airboat I saw was an anticlimax after that.

It was sighted late in the year before I left for Durbrecht, when the season hung undecided between autumn and winter, the winds contrary and the Fend choppy. It was clear from the first that the airboat must pass south of Kellambek’s farthest shores, and I wondered to where. Later I
questioned the mantis, but he professed ignorance, pointing out to me that argument still continued as to whether the world be flat or round, and if the one, then the Sky Lords must pass over the edge; if the other, then they should likely perish for want of food and water. Either fate suited him.

I was then fifteen, my manhood now in sight, the past three years flown as years do, unnoticed save in their remembrance. I had come to realize the mantis had little more to teach me, that his knowledge was boundaried by his calling, limited by that dogma I yet accepted whilst sensing larger truths beyond its narrow borders. I had learned—courtesy of sore ears and more than one flogging—either to hold back my less orthodox questions or to put them circumspect. The matter of the Sky Lords’ fate I left to destiny.

I had also discovered another interest. For some time now I had grown increasingly aware that I was not alone in my approach to adulthood. It was obvious, from the blemished skin and fluctuating voices of myself and my friends, that we grew. It was equally obvious, from other, far more appealing signs, that those girls with whom we had roughly played as children matched us.

I was intrigued by this new aspect life revealed, and there were (this in all modesty) not a few daughters who flirted with me, for all I passed the next year sporting a ferocious crop of pimples and was seldom sure whether my voice should come out squeaking or gruff.

But as the spring approached the days lengthened, and in direct proportion the time left before I should depart shortened.

When the time came, it was very hard. Nor is it a time on which I care to dwell overlong, and so I tell it brief.

The ceremonies celebrating the coming of age of both Tellurin and Coram preceded mine, and both were followed within days by their betrothals.

My own ceremony approached, midway through that spring. I waited on word from Rekyn. I grew somewhat surly when none came, wondering if the commur-mage had forgotten her promise. The day dawned bright, and I rose early, before my parents even, walking out alone through the village to the Cambar road, where I climbed a tree to peer nervously northward. Tonium found me there, sent by my
mother to bring me back for the ritual preparations, and took great delight in my discomfort until I reminded him that did Rekyn fail
to
come and I remain in the village, his own hopes of advancement must be dashed. That was small satisfaction as I trudged homeward to bathe and dress in the breeks and tunic my mother had lovingly stitched for this propitious day.

Dressed, I went at my father’s side to the cella, where the mantis waited, clad in his ceremonial robe, no longer my plump tutor, but the representative of the God. As was customary on such days, no boats put out, but all the villagers stood watching outside the cella. Alone, I followed the mantis inside. There he spoke to me of manhood, of its responsibilities and duties, of the God and our debt to him. I gave the ritual responses and drank the sacred wine, ate the bread and the salt, he drew back my hair and tied it in manhood’s tail; and all the while my ears were pricked for the sound of hoofbeats, the jangle of harness.

Then, the ceremony completed, the mantis led me out and cried, “Welcome, Daviot, who is now a man.” I followed into the cool spring sunlight, blinking a moment as all shouted in answer, “Welcome, Daviot, who is now a man.”

I felt not at all like smiling, for I feared Rekyn had forgotten me, forgotten her promise. I saw my father, an arm about my mother’s shoulders, his face proud, hers a struggling admixture of pride and grief. Delia was beaming, waving enthusiastically, and even Tonium managed a grin. Battus and Lyrta stood beside them, and grave-faced Thorus; Tellurin and Corum with their betrothed; all White-fish village. Then I saw her, Andyrt at her side, both smiling, and I shouted for joy and in that instant entirely forgot my fear.

My parents approached to embrace me. I saw tears on my mother’s cheeks. I hugged them, hugged Delia, and looked to Rekyn. Commur-mage and jennym both came close, and Rekyn said, “Did you think I had forgotten?”

I blushed and toed the dirt a moment with my new-polished boots, then shrugged and answered, “I was afraid you had.”

She smiled. The sun struck blue-black sparks from her hair as she shook her head. I studied her face and asked her bluntly, “When do we depart?”

Andyrt laughed at that and said, “Are you in such a hurry, Daviot? May we not sample the feast before we go?”

I looked at him—there was a little more gray in his hair now, and a recent scar on his chin—and past his shoulder saw my parents. Almost, I said that I had sooner go on the instant: it would have been easier. Instead I smiled and shook my head in turn and answered him, “Of course, and welcome.”

The crowd was a boon then, surrounding me as I walked from the cella to the village square, where Thorym’s tables were augmented by an array of planks and trestles, all set with food and barrels of ale and wine. I thought that, despite the contributions all made to such festivities, this must have cost my father dear. I went to the head of the appointed table—places set there for my family and the mantis, two more for our honored guests—and faced the crowd, and cried, “I bid you welcome and ask you join me.”

That was as much formality as Whitefish village countenanced: the tables were rapidly occupied, the feasting soon begun. I was intent on Rekyn and Andyrt, on the myriad questions that filled my mind.

“You’re in a mighty hurry,” the commur-mage remarked when I again asked when we should depart. I could only shrug, embarrassed, as Rekyn’s finely arched brows rose in mute inquiry.

Then she added gravely, “Do you change your mind, Daviot?”

“No!” I shook my head vigorously, embarrassed afresh as my answer sent crumbs of new-baked bread spilling across the table. “No! I’d go with you to Durbrecht still.”

Rekyn ducked her head once and smiled. “We take you only so far as Cambar Keep,” she said, “to present you to the aeldor. From Cambar you go on alone to Durbrecht.”

That took me a little aback: I had not thought to make so great a journey alone, but in company of my sponsors, Rekyn must have read my expression, for she added gently, “We’ll see you safe aboard a vessel, and you’ll carry an introduction from the aeldor. You’ll be met in Durbrecht.” Then, after a moment’s pause, “We’ve duties of our own in Cambar.”

“The more with these new Comings,” Andyrt muttered, “the God condemn the Kho’rabi.”

“What does it mean?” my father asked.

“I cannot say,” Rekyn told him honestly. “Only that the Sky Lords come unseasonal. Seven of their craft have passed north of Cambar this year alone; more up the coast. Two grounded last year in Draggonek. The Kho’rabi were slain, but the fighting was fierce.”

My father nodded, digesting this. My mother gasped, her eyes finding my face, fearful, as if to the sadness she knew at loss of her son was added the fear he might fall to a Sky Lord’s blade. Rekyn said, “None close to Durbrecht, Donia. Nor likely to come there—the Sorcerous College lies there, remember.”

My mother nodded and essayed a wan smile, her eyes finding mine, troubled.

I had not thought overmuch of my parents’ feelings in the matter of my advancement, being far more enwrapped in my own. Now, in that single instant, I recognized the pain I gave them. Oh, they were proud that I should be so singled out, and pleased for me, but still they saw a son lost to them. We had not spoken of it much—that was not our way—but we knew that at least one year must pass before we might meet again, and—should I remain in Durbrecht—we could not know how many more. Perhaps this would be our last time together.

But I was young, and now a man, and set that burden aside. I drank ale to which I was not accustomed and asked again, “When do we depart?” wishing it might be on the instant, without sad farewells, and at the same time that it might be never.

I believe Rekyn understood, for she chuckled and said, “Certainly you
are
in a mighty hurry,” making a jest of it. “But in your honor we came by sea, and the return shall not take long.”

I nodded and emptied my mug, and after a while pipes and a gittern were brought out and the dancing began. I drank more ale as Tellurin and Corum, all my friends, came to shake my hand and bid me farewell.

Then, as melancholy threatened (much aided by the ale), Rekyn suggested we depart. My mother presented me with a change of clothing bundled in an oilskin and the admonishment I look after myself, and she held me so close I feared my ribs should break. My father shook my hand, man to
man, then himself embraced me and gave me a purse that jingled with the few coins he could afford. Delia flung her arms about my neck and wet my face with kisses and tears in equal measure. Tonium, unusually subdued, clutched my hand. The mantis called the God’s blessing on me. Battus and Lyrta said their good-byes, and taciturn Thorus presented me with a knife held in a leather sheath he had decorated himself. I thanked him and gravely set the scabbard on my belt. I was close to tears myself and grateful for Andyrt’s touch on my shoulder, his calm reminder that the day aged and we had best catch the tide lest we need row our way to Cambar.

We went down to the beach, where a little single-masted cutter waited. I slung my bundle on board and turned to survey Whitefish village.

It seemed now the day had passed in the blinking of an eye, that the last four years had flown by. The feasting had lasted well into the afternoon, and the sun now stood above the headland. The pines there were stark and black, limned in sunlight. The roof of the cella shone white, its bell gleaming. The village looked very small; the world beyond seemed infinitely large. I clambered into the boat after Rekyn. Andyrt took the tiller; I went to the mast, raising the sail to catch the offshore breeze. I stood there as Andyrt took us out, all the time looking back to where everyone and everything I knew, all that was familiar to me, lay, growing steadily smaller as I went away.

W
e came to the mouth of the river Cambar as dusk gave way to night. It was not a long journey; but then it was the farthest I had ever been from home, and it felt to me a very long way indeed. The half-filled moon stood pale at our backs, flinging shards of silver light over the quickening swell that marked the river’s mouth, where fresh water met the salt sea between two headlands topped with windblown pines. Andyrt swung the tiller over, and I sprang unthinking to the sail. It did not occur to me that Rekyn must have taken this duty before, and she said nothing, leaving me to my task. I believe it was a kindness on her part, that I might begin these steps along the new path of my life with some sense of usefulness, not merely as a passenger. I caught the sail before it luffed, and we rode the last of the wind a little way upriver. Then it was oarwork, and that, too, Rekyn left to me, so that I faced Andyrt’s shadowed form as we proceeded up the Cambar. In consequence I did not see the keep until we docked.

There was no beach here, but a stone-walled anchorage, fishing craft bobbing on the tide, moored neat along the harbor. Nimbly (my racing blood and the wind had dispelled the effects of the ale) I sprang to the stone, tying the painter to a metal ring. Then I stood, staring inland.