Lords of the Sky (58 page)

I interrupted her: “Rwyan, they say you sail tomorrow, and I’ll not lose you again.”

I saw pain on her face then. She said, “Only in the hall, my love. Be the Storyman there, and I some woman from your past, dismissed now.”

I said, “Never dismissed!”

Again she silenced me with a touch. “After, when the keep sleeps, come to me and I’ll explain.
My
word on that.”

Reluctantly, I nodded and said, “Do you so bid me. But shall you stay to hear me?”

She smiled then, and no sun ever shone brighter. She said, “I’ll stay. But impatiently; I pray they’ll not delay you there.”

It was all I could do not to kiss her, fold her in my arms, and carry her to the bed, but there was an urgency in her voice, a plea in her blind eyes: I quelled the impulse as the sounds outside grew louder. I said, “I fear my throat grows sore in this heat. I fear I’ll not be able to speak too long.”

She laughed then, softly, and raised her face to mine, brushing me with her lips. Then pushed me away, saying, “Good. Now go, I beg you.”

I loosed my hold on her. I stroked her cheek and turned to the door, listening. I heard voices receding and opened the door a crack. The footsteps faded, and I swung the portal wide. As I went out I said, “I’ll not lose you again, Rwyan.”

She nodded, but in her eyes I saw doubt. I ignored it: I had none any longer. I closed the door. The man—Tezdal, she had named him—stood watching me. Our eyes met, and he nodded, as if in greeting or approval, but neither of us spoke. I walked away.

That noonday meal had been hard, but this was worse.
To have held my Rwyan again, to know again she loved me, and now to pretend … it was no easy task. I wondered if Varius or Robyrt saw it in my eyes, in the glances I could not help sending her way as we sat at table and conversed as civilized folk do: politely, formally, impersonally. And all the time agog for the evening to end, to go to her. If they did suspect, they said nothing, nor gave any hint. She was superb, playing the blind woman, cool in the presence of a forgotten lover.

I ate with better appetite and drank little, and when the tables were cleared, I rose at Pyrrin’s request to take a place at the hall’s center. I was pleased to see the aeldor’s Changed servitors were allowed to remain; better pleased that Rwyan did. I gave of my best that night, and if my earlier performance had been lackluster, I compensated for it now. I gave them Aerlyn’s Wedding and Daeran’s Revenge, then roughened my voice (which elicited a small, secret smile from Rwyan) as I commenced the tale of Marwenne’s Ride. When that was told, I downed a mug of ale, as if to soothe a speech-sored throat. There were shouts that I go on, but I pled my fear I should lose my voice altogether and so not be able to speak on the morrow. I was eloquent, and the hour grew late. Pyrrin accepted my excuse, announcing his own intention of finding his bed: the hall began to clear.

I watched Rwyan depart on Tezdal’s arm, consumed no longer with jealousy but with impatience now, and more than a little curiosity. As soon as seemed decent, I said my own goodnights and found my room.

Ryl had laid out my laundered clothes and lit the lantern. A jug of wine and a single glass stood on the table. I left them lie, easing my door a crack ajar. A few servants yet moved along the corridor, and I resisted the temptation to ignore them—Rwyan had entrusted me with secrecy, and I would not betray her. I crossed to the window, my fingers tapping an impatient tattoo on the sill. The night hung hot and heavy, and I thought the sky seemed not so dark as it should be, as if the Sky Lord’s magic held back the sun from its rightful setting. I wondered what secrets Rwyan would reveal; mostly I thought of lying with her again.

Then, driven by an impulse I did not stop to define, I folded my gear and filled my saddlebags, setting them with
my staff. I knew not what the future held for me, only that I could not bear to let Rwyan go again. I returned to the door and, finding the corridor silent, went to her room.

Her door opened on my knock, and she came into my arms. For a while we said only words of love, and when we spoke of other things we were naked on a rumpled bed. I licked, sweet salty sweat from the gentle mound of her belly as she sighed and tangled fingers in my hair. A single lantern burned across the room, its wick trimmed low so that light fell golden on her skin. Her blind eyes were huge; I thought she had never looked so lovely.

She said, “Daviot, we must talk.”

I raised my lips, not willingly, from her flesh and nodded.

She eased higher, resting back against the pillows. Her hair fell like golden flame over her smooth shoulders. I heard such gravity in her voice, I made no move to kiss her or hold her but only took her hands in mine. For now that seemed enough.

She studied my face a moment, as if gauging my reaction. Then she said, “Tezdal is a Sky Lord.”

“What?”

I’d have been off the bed and running to alert the keep had Rwyan not flung her arms around my neck to hold me back. Even so, I dragged her halfway upright, my feet upon the floor, my hands moving to disentangle her arms.

“Daviot, no!” she cried. Then softer, “Listen! I beg you, listen. He’s no danger—he’s no memory.”

“What?” I said again.

That seemed to me so dreadful a loss, I sat back. I was bemused. Why did Rwyan protect a Sky Lord? She took my hands again, kneeling before me. Lust stirred, even through my amazement. She shook her head, spilling her glorious hair back, and “looked” me in the eye.

“He’s no memory,” she repeated. “Save that his name is Tezdal, he remembers nothing of his past.”

I said, “But he’s a Sky Lord? You know this?”

“We do,” she said, and told me of his finding on the rock and his sojourn on the island, the design the sorcerers had drawn.

When she was done, I was silent awhile. It seemed to me so enormous a thing, I must take precious time to digest it. I said, “Did Pyrrin know this, he’d slay the Kho’rabi.”

“Hence my deception,” she said. “Save I can deliver him safe to Durbrecht, he’d as well have died when we destroyed his airboat.”

I nodded. I thought perhaps that had been the better course; then that had events not run to this pattern, I’d not have met Rwyan again. I supposed that in a way I should be grateful to my enemy. I said, “He’s no memory at all? You’re confident he does not deceive you?”

“We dug and dug,” she said. “We used our magic on him. Save we were convinced, think you we’d take such risk?”

“I suppose not.” I shook my head slowly. Then: “Robyrt wonders at his looks. He said”—I paused, conjuring the jennym’s words—” ‘Did he not accompany a sorcerer, I’d think him likely a Kho’rabi. He’s a look about him.’ By the God, Rwyan, does Robyrt wonder, what of Varius?”

She licked her lips. They gleamed moist in the lantern’s light, and I wanted badly to taste them. She said, “I think perhaps Varius suspects but chooses to remain silent. Likely he feels that if the Sentinels elect to employ such subterfuge, there must be a reason and he best advised to hold his own counsel.”

“Pyrrin would not,” I said, remembering details heard along my road. “He lost sons to the Sky Lords.”

“That’s why I must deceive them,” she said, “all of them. The God willing, we’ll not be questioned on the boat.”

I said automatically, “The ship. You plan to take one of those craft in the harbor?”

She ducked her head, hair falling in a burnished curtain over shoulders and breasts. She shook it back, and when I saw her face again, it was solemn; mournful, even.

She said, “The
Sprite.
We sail tomorrow, on the morning tide.”

I said, “Rwyan, you face terrible danger. Should the master learn, I doubt he’d scruple to cast the Sky Lord overboard. Or to bring you to the nearest aeldor, charged with treason.”

She said, “Still, it’s the safest course. We agreed on that.”

I said, “Still, he’s a Sky Lord; our enemy. Can you be safe with him?”

She said, “Aye. He considers me a savior—that he owes me his life. He’s sworn to defend me.”

I did not much like that. I frowned and said, “I’d see you better guarded.”

She smiled and squeezed my hands. “I’m a sorcerer, Daviot,” she said. “I’m not without defenses.”

My frown grew deeper. She let go my hands, placing hers upon my cheeks, her eyes surveying my face as if she’d embed my image in her memory. She said, “Can your College and mine only unlock his memory, think you what advantages we might gain. I
must
bring him to Durbrecht.”

Her face became grave again, and in her voice I heard regret. I said, “You’re fond of him.”

No doubt my voice expressed my resentment. Certainly, Rwyan leaned toward me, kissing me softly, before she said, “Fond of him, aye. But I love you, Daviot. There can be no other for me. For Tezdal I feel … pity, I suppose. I think that when I’ve done my duty, he shall be a prisoner again. Likely they’ll seek to drain his mind, and when that’s done …”

She shrugged; I nodded. I think I loved her more in that moment than I ever had before. Suddenly it seemed to me a wonderful thing that she could feel such compassion for an enemy; and awful that she was bound by her duty to do a thing that must cause her pain. But this was my Rwyan, and there was steel beneath her soft flesh. I put my arms around her, drawing her close against my chest.

“Duty’s a harsh master,” I said, “but the Sky Lord could have no sweeter warder.”

I felt her lips move against my skin, her voice muffled. “Aye, harsh,” she murmured. “That it brings me back to you, only to lose you again.”

“You’ll not,” I said into her hair.

She tilted back her head to find my eyes. In hers I saw tears. I brushed them away as she said, “How can I not? I must sail tomorrow; you must go your own way.”

I said, “Not without you.”

She said, “Oh, Daviot, don’t torment me. This second parting shall hurt enough.”

There was such anguish in her voice, such pain writ on her face, that I could only pull her to me, my lips on her neck, her cheeks, as I said defiantly, “I’ll not let duty come between us again.”

“How can it not?” she moaned. “Please, Daviot, say no more of this—it hurts too much. Only hold me; love me.”

I did, but even as we lay together through that sleepless night, I knew my decision was made. I cared nothing for the consequences. Let fate treat me as it would, I’d not lose her again.

C
ame the first light of dawn, and I rose. It was no easy thing to quit Rwyan’s bed; easier, albeit not without some feeling of guilt, to deceive her. That was needful, I told myself: a small lie now, that there be none in our future. I gathered up my scattered clothes and tugged them on. Rwyan lay languid amidst the disarrayed sheets, and I bent to kiss her.

“A little while longer,” she pleaded, her arms about my neck. “Only a little while.”

The scent of her body was musky in my nostrils, and it was very hard to say her nay, but I did.

“The keep begins to stir,” I said. “I’d not leave you ever, but if none must suspect, better I go now.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Shall you break your fast in the hall?” she asked.

I sighed and shook my head and told her honestly, “To see you there and continue this pretense should be too hard. I’ll busy myself elsewhere and not see you go. But Rwyan … know that I love you. That I always have and always shall.”

She said, “I do,” and there were tears in her eyes.

We kissed, and I must disentangle myself. As I went to the door, she said, “This is a hard duty, Daviot. I wish to the God it were otherwise.”

Almost then I told her, but I bit back the words, knowing
she’d forbid me, even to alerting Varius or Pyrrin of my intention. Her sense of duty was ever stronger than mine. Instead, I said, “Perhaps we’ll meet again ere long,” and before she could do more than smile sadly, I was out the door.

The corridor was thankfully empty, and I crossed swiftly to my own chamber. My staff and saddlebags lay where I’d left them, and when I looked from my window, I saw the yard was yet empty, pearly with thin gray mist in the dawn-light. I took my gear and tossed it out, noting where it fell. Then I filled a glass with wine, for courage, and drank it down. For fear my room be checked and suspicion aroused, I rumpled my bed as if I’d slept there. Then I went out again.

Few stirred as yet, and those all Changed servants who paid me scant attention as I made my way from the keep. I trusted they’d say nothing, and were they questioned later, they could say only that they had seen me go by. Did any ask, I hoped they’d assume I went abroad early, to wander the town. I did not believe any would guess what I intended.

I found my gear and slunk like some latecome thief across the yard: there was one farewell I’d not forgo.

Horses nickered drowsily as I entered the stable. My gray mare met me with an irritable stare, as if she feared I’d saddle her and take her from this comfort. I stroked her muzzle, which she accepted but a moment before endeavoring to bite my hand. I wished her well. I thought she’d find a good home here, likely a softer life than the Storyman’s road. I was somewhat surprised to realize how much I should miss her; but my choice lay between her company and Rwyan’s, and that was no choice at all. I left her with her nose buried in the manger.