Authors: Angus Wells
She thought,
It is not fair.
And then upbraided herself for that weakness, that traitorous thought, and sternly told herself, I
am a sorcerer, he a Mnemonikos, and we both of us knew this must come to pass. We both of us have a duty we cannot forgo.
But still the pain lingered, and she wiped a hand across her tears, watching until the steady sweep of the oars had carried the galleass far enough along the Treppanek that Durbrecht was lost, its position marked only by the black funerary columns.
She felt a hand upon her shoulder then and turned to find Chiara at her side. The blond woman said gently, “It cannot be helped; and you knew it should happen.”
“You sound like Cleton,” Rwyan said. “Daviot told me he held the same opinion.”
“How else could it be?” Chiara shrugged. “Best that you forget him.”
“I know.” Rwyan dried the last of her tears and endeavored to smile. “But I cannot.”
“In time you will.” Chiara stroked her friend’s hair. “Perhaps on the Sentinels you’ll meet another. One of our kind.”
“No!” Rwyan shook her head.
Chiara sighed. “Are you so certain?” she asked. “Shall you give your heart to a man you’ll likely never see again?”
Rwyan said, “Yes,” and felt Chiara’s hand drop from her hair, heard the small intake of frustrated breath.
“At least rest,” Chiara suggested. “The God knows you must be weary enough.”
Rwyan nodded and turned from her observation, going with her friend to the cabin assigned them.
It was already crowded, littered with bodies and baggage, the bunks taken by those sisters gone earlier to rest, all weary as Rwyan. There was little enough space left even on the floor, but they found a place and stretched out. Chiara was soon aslumber, but for all Rwyan’s weariness, sleep was hard to find. The cabin was warm with the press of bodies, redolent of skin and breath and the unfamiliar odors of a ship. The small square window was open, but what ventilation it allowed was poor, the breeze coming from the east, heated by advancing summer. The brothers of the Sorcerous
College slept on deck and should until the galleass reached its destination, and she wished she might join them. That, however, was deemed immodest, and so the females must fit themselves as best they might into the ship’s scanty private accommodations. If she could not sleep, she decided, she would meditate.
Even that was difficult, for all that had passed this year ran pell-mell through her mind, defying the disciplines of meditation like a runaway horse careless of bit and bridle, one event piling upon another, and all the time Daviot’s face imposing itself between.
At least Urt had been able to bring word, and she able to send back a message via Lyr, so she knew Daviot lived and that his wound was not unduly serious. He would limp awhile, Urt had said, but in other ways was entire. That, Rwyan told herself, was a comfort, though she would have loved him had he been crippled or scarred, and found herself conjuring the image of his face. She was pleased that had not been marked, for it was a pleasant visage. Not handsome like his friend Cleton, but neither homely. It was, she supposed, a face typical of Kellambek: wide of brow and mouth, the jaw square, the nose straight, the eyes a blue that was almost gray. She thought then of the way those eyes studied her—as if they marveled, intent on some wondrous discovery—and of the feel of his thick black hair between her fingers; and that prompted memories of other things—of flesh smooth over hard muscle, of embraces—and she groaned with the sense of loss.
Beside her, Chiara turned drowsily, mumbling an inquiry, and Rwyan murmured an apology and willed herself to silence, seeking to banish that intrusive image. She willed herself to think instead of her duty. That had greater call on her loyalties than mere personal desire: it was the belief of the Sorcerous College that the Sky Lords planned a full-scale invasion.
Rwyan stirred on her hard bed, not much pleased with her contemplation. Her talent was not yet so well defined, nor yet so well tutored, that she could direct her magicks against the invaders—that would be taught her on the islands—but she possessed, like all her companions on this voyage, the innate ability. The power lay within her, and when the airboats had crowded the sky over Durbrecht, and
when the Kho’rabi had roamed the streets, the adepts had drawn on that power, taking it like draining blood from her veins. That she had given freely—it was her duty and her desire—could not erase the image of vampiric leaching. She thought it must have been like that in the earliest days. Daviot had told her tales, as they lay together, of folk taken for witches, for wizards, for vampires, blamed and burned for wasting deaths. They had likely been, he had said, sorcerers whose power was unrecognized, who had drawn from others with the talent, unthinking. Did the Sky Lords come again, as she felt sure they must, before she was fully versed in the usage of her talent, then the adepts of the Sentinels would require that leaching of her again. And when she became adept, then likely she must play the vampire.
It was not a thought Rwyan welcomed. For all it was necessary, she found it distasteful. She wished there were some other way to overcome the Ahn wizards. Which brought her mind back to Daviot, for he had spoken of another way.
He had smiled as he told her—she thought how white and strong his teeth were—but behind his laughter she had heard a wondering, an echo of a scarce-shaped dream. Suppose, he had said, that the great dragons still live. Suppose there are still Dragonmasters, hidden in the Forgotten Country. Suppose they could be persuaded to fly against the Sky Lords. We could defeat them then, surely. Think on it, Rwyan! The dragons battling with the Sky Lords! Surely, did the dragons patrol the skies there should be peace.
He had laughed then and shaken his head, dismissing an impossible dream. She thought how boyish he had looked as embarrassment overtook his enthusiasm, and how she had agreed and put her arms about him and drawn him close again in that little room above the inn. She could recall it so precisely….
In the God’s name!
Rwyan ground her teeth, her eyes screwed tight closed against the threat of tears.
Do I remember so well, what is it like for Daviot? To remember as he is able must be a curse.
She pushed the shared hurt away as best she could, ordering her mind to contemplation of more practical matters. To end the endless cycle of the Comings was a noble dream, but the dragons were not—could not be—the answer. They
were dead, the Dragonmasters with them. And even did they survive, it must be in the wastes of the Forgotten Country, in Tartarus, which none could reach save they cross Ur-Dharbek, and that none did. That was the domain of the wild Changed—no Trueman ventured there.
Fleetingly, she wished she had been sent to the Border Cities. When Daviot was sent out as Storyman, he might go there. Might even be assigned a residency in some aeldor’s keep. And did the God, or whatever powers wove the strands of both their destinies, look on them with favor, then she would be mage of that keep, and they be together again.
But the God was not so kind. She was bound for the Sentinels, and Storymen did not go there. Those islands were the domain of the sorcerers alone, and whilst she must remain there, likely Daviot should be sent awandering Draggonek’s west coast, or Kellambek’s, so that all the Fend and the mass of Dharbek stand between them. Or—an awful thought!—the Sky Lords would come again over Durbrecht and he fall to their wizardry, or a Kho’rabi blade.
Rwyan pressed her face against her pillow that her cry not disturb her companions. There were some amongst them, she knew, had taken lovers not of their own calling and left them without tears. She wondered, briefly, if they were the more fortunate, and told herself,
No, they cannot be. If they can part so easily, they cannot have loved as I do.
An errant, hurtful thought then:
Shall Daviot forget me?
And the answer:
No. How can he?
And then:
But shall he find another love? Shall he meet someone to take my place?
And the answer:
It may be so, but it shall not affect what I feel. I love him, and I shall always love him.
It was little enough comfort, near as much pain, but Rwyan clutched it to her as sheer exhaustion finally lulled her troubled mind and granted her the respite of sleep.
And the galleass, propelled by its Changed oarsmen, moved steadily along the Treppanek, past the wreckage of fallen airboats and the ravaged keeps that marked their passage. Eastward, toward the gulfs meeting with the Fend, toward the Sentinels: Rwyan’s future.
She woke in a cabin stifled by summer’s heat. The air was thick, and her head, for all she was rested and felt no further
need of sleep, ached. She sat up, finding only a few sisters remaining, Chiara gone. Her mouth tasted gritty, her blind eyes sore from weeping. She sighed and clambered to her feet, going out into the fresher air of the deck.
Dusk approached, and she realized she had slept away the day. She found the water barrel and scooped out a pannikin, slaking her thirst and freshening her face. Along the deck a brazier glowed red, the smell of charcoal and grilling meat reminding her of hunger. Chiara stood by the port rail, and Rwyan went to join her friend, hoping she would not suffer another lecture on the pointlessness of love.
Thankfully, Chiara was more occupied with the novelty of sailing and only smiled and gestured at the expanse of water, at the deck of the galleass, saying, “Is this not marvelous?”
Rwyan turned slowly around, taking proper notice of their surroundings for the first time. “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, it is.”
She had traveled over water only once before, Chiara never. The blond sorcerer came from Kherbryn itself, where her family was prominent amongst the city’s merchants, which sometimes gave her airs, and she had come overland to Durbrecht. Rwyan had spent her childhood in Hambry, which lay inland of Kellambek’s west coast, a village devoted to sheep and farming. When her talent was recognized by the village mantis (who perceived that despite her obvious blindness, she could “see” as well as any sighted child) she had been dispatched to Murren Keep, to an interview with the commur-mage of that hold, whose examination confirmed the suspicions of the mantis. When she came of age, she had gone back to Murren, and thence by cart to Nevysvar on the Treppanek. She had crossed the gulf on a ferryboat, finding the experience mildly terrifying, and been glad to set foot once more on solid ground. Now it occurred to her that she was not at all afraid—the galleass seemed safe.
She turned her sight from the ship to the water. It sparkled blue and silver, gold where the rays of the descending sun struck the wavelets radiating from the bow. The evening was still, the light translucent, clear enough she could make out the dark shadow of the north bank. Overhead a flight of geese passed raucous to their roosting grounds; over the shimmering water an osprey hung, dived, and emerged with
a fish. It was an idyllic scene. The galleass creaked in a companionable way, the dip of the oars was rhythmic, the sway of the deck was gentle. To the east, the moon hung pale in a sky still blue, unsullied by the obscene intrusion of the Sky Lords’ vessels.
She said, “I was frightened the first time I was on a boat.”
“This is a ship,” Chiara replied authoritatively. “A ship is large enough to carry a boat.”
Rwyan nodded, allowing her friend that superior knowledge as loss once more impinged: boats and ships and water were things with which Daviot was familiar. She struggled to control herself, to fight down the fresh flood of memories. Her fingers threatened to gouge splinters from the rail.
If Chiara was aware of her discomfort, she gave no sign, continuing in cheerful spate. “I spoke with the captain while you slept. By the God, I thought you’d never wake! His name’s Lyakan. He’s from the west coast of Draggonek, and he owns this ship and a crew of thirty bull-bred oarsmen. He’s employed by the College to supply the Sentinels.”
Perhaps she spoke to cheer Rwyan, to occupy her. Rwyan neither knew nor cared but let the softly accented voice wash over her, content to leave Chiara to her dissertation as she fought her internal battle. It would never be as Chiara suggested, that time should blunt her love, but she hoped the passage of the days would allow her to control that awful sense of loss, to accommodate it within her daily round.
She had never thought to feel like this, had not known it was possible; until now the worst hurt she had known had been parting from her family, from parents and siblings, the friends of childhood in Hambry. But that had been assuaged by the great adventure before her. To be chosen as candidate to the Sorcerous College, to go to Durbrecht, that had been so exciting a prospect, she had felt guilty she was so glad to depart.
She had been a virgin then, when she left Hambry, and a virgin when she met Daviot—
In the God’s name, it was impossible not to think of him!
—in that street of pleasure houses. She smiled at the memory of his expression, that first time they had met. No man had ever looked at her in that way, nor so assiduously sought her out.
She had not truly thought to meet him again. After all, it was but a casual encounter, and her mention of the Golden Apple had been less promise than desire to be about her business unhindered by some casual suitor. She had been much surprised to find him there; more that his presence afforded her such pleasure. But even then she had thought he would resign himself and it prove only a casual flirtation. She had known it was more, on his side at least, when she learned he frequented the tavern, and then recognized her own feelings, at first unwilling—surely unwilled—as she found herself drawn back. His love, he had told her, was immediate: he had known from the first moment. Hers came more slowly, kindled by his own, enhanced by the sense of intrigue that accompanied their meetings. And then it had blazed, and she was no longer a virgin and could no more forget him than she could forsake her talent. Or the duty that drove them apart.
“You’re thinking of him again.”