Authors: Angus Wells
I said obstinately, “I’d not have it so. I’d be with you always.”
She closed her eyes a moment, as if wearied by my insistence, then met my gaze. “That cannot be, my love.” Her voice was no longer angry, but gentle as if she chided some recalcitrant child. “We both know that. I’d have it otherwise no less than you; but I cannot. Nor does your presence help.”
I had hoped for warmer welcome. “At least I’m with you,” I said. “Save you elect to have Tyron put in and deliver me ashore.”
She said, “Aye,” in a contemplative tone that chilled my blood. “What else should I do?” “Let me come with you,” I said.
“To Durbrecht?” She shook her head and sighed. “And what then?”
I said, “That’s in the future, Rwyan. We can be together ere we reach Durbrecht.”
“I think you
are
gone mad,” she said. “You speak of a future measured in days, weeks at best. And then? How should your College and mine greet our arrival together? Think you either should look kindly on this escapade?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she gestured me silent and I obeyed. There was a fierceness in her blind eyes that warned me I had better hold my tongue.
She said, “Do we put in at the next harbor, you might … no! By now they’ll know you gone from Carsbry and guess the reason why. Varius will send word on—to every keep along the coast, and do you land it shall likely be into confinement; certainly disgrace. And do you come with me to Durbrecht—the same.”
She paused, thinking, and I said, “Then the choice lies between some little time together and none at all. Let me
stay.”
She said, “Perhaps does Tyron put you ashore at the next keep, it shall not be so bad,” and my heart sunk.
I said, “I’d take the chance, to be with you. Even for a little while.”
As if I had not spoken, she continued: “Aye. That way your disobedience shall be the lesser; equally the punishment.”
Horrified, I asked, “Shall you truly do this to me?”
She “looked” me in the eye and nodded. “For your own sake, Daviot.” Her voice was earnest, as if she’d have me understand that what she proposed brought her pain, too; but still she’d do it. “What else is there? Do I let you remain on board, then surely when we come to Durbrecht, your College must reject you. Likely you’d be cast out.”
I said, “Then so be it.”
I spoke unthinking, careless of aught save my thwarted need for her. I felt embarrassed, aye; but also the glimmerings of anger, that she remain so practical whilst I was wild with love.
She gasped, her eyes wide as she “stared” at me. “Do you know what you say?” she asked.
I nodded. “This duty you place so high tore us apart before,” I said. “I’d no say then, for you were gone and naught I could do about it; save dream of you. I’d not thought to find you again; but I did, and if the God exists, he surely meant that to be. If not, then he’s a trickster. I know only that I found you, and I’d not again lose you. I care nothing for the consequences! Does my College reject me for that, then let it.”
For long moments she studied me in silence, wonder on her lovely face. Then she said, “You’d reject your calling? You’d be no longer Mnemonikos? For love of me?”
“For love of you,” I said.
Tears welled in her eyes, but when I moved again to touch her, still she held me back with a gesture. “This is no easy burden you lay on me, Daviot,” she murmured.
I said, “I cannot help that, Rwyan. I love you, and for you I’d forsake my College. Anything!”
Softly, she whispered, “So much. Oh, Daviot …”
I thought her persuaded; that I should be allowed to travel with her at least as far as Durbrecht. But then she shook her head and said, “No. I cannot agree to that. I cannot let you destroy yourself.”
“You don’t,” I said earnestly, “save you turn me away. This duty that holds us apart—that’s what destroys me.”
She took my hands then, her face so sad, I must fight the urge to hold her close. I thought she would not then welcome that. She said, “Daviot, Daviot, what are we if we renege our duty? Our talents are gifts—”
I interrupted, fierce: “Or curses, that they deny us what we want.”
“Are we children, then?” she asked me. “To stamp and fret when we may not have exactly what we wish?”
“Not children,” I replied. “Children don’t fall in love.”
She closed her eyes again, head bowed a moment. “You do not make this easy,” she murmured.
“I cannot,” I said. “You name my talent a gift? My talent blazons your face on my memory. I close my eyes, and I see you. I remember every moment we had together, all we said; like a blade turned in my heart. I’d thought to live with that, but when I saw you again, I knew I could not. I knew I could not let you go.”
“What choice have we?” Her hands squeezed tight; there was pain in her voice and on her face. “Oh, Daviot, perhaps it were better had we never met.”
“No!” I said loud.
“What else can we do?” she asked me. “I must bring Tezdal to Durbrecht—my duty—”
“Then do your duty,” I said. “But when it’s done, why should we not be together?”
“Storyman and sorcerer?” She shook her head vigorously, hair tossing in red-gold waves. “Durbrecht would not allow it.”
“Durbrecht be damned then!” I cried. “Must I choose betwixt my College and you, Rwyan, it’s you I choose.”
She “looked” at me with something akin to awe in her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost fearful. “Do you know what should be done, were you to say that in Durbrecht?”
I shook my head.
Rwyan hesitated a moment. Then said, “What I tell you
now is forbidden knowledge. None save we sorcerers and the masters of your College know it. I break trust in telling you.”
She paused. I said, “Tell me, if you will.” I felt afraid.
She said slowly, “When I was sent away, then you might have quit your calling without reproof. But now—oh, Daviot, you chose that staff, chose the Storyman’s road, and now you’ve been abroad too long. Do you choose now to turn your back—in the Sorcerous College there is a crystal; it empowers magic. You’d be taken there, and the crystal used to destroy your memory. All you’ve learned, all you’ve seen and done, would be taken from you.”
The sweat that cloaked me was suddenly cold. I shivered; my mouth felt dry, but still I wanted to spit. I felt a chill lump curdle in my belly. I said, each word thick, “My choice is made, Rwyan. I’d have you.”
She made a small strange noise. Tears flowed ignored down her cheeks. I longed to kiss them away, but she held my hands still, very tight now. She said, “Can you truly love me so much?”
I said, “Yes.”
She said, “We fear the Great Coming. There’s a need of Storymen.”
I said, “I’m not the only one. There are others.” She said, “And sorcerers? Think you there are sufficient of my kind?”
Before I could reply, she tossed her head, indicating the cloudless sky, the placid sea, the absence of wind, the heat, and said, “The Sky Lords command great magic, Daviot, and we’ve not the answer to it. How much of this can Dharbek take? How long before the Great Coming? Daviot, I am
needed.
My talent is needed, to defend our land.”
I said, hearing my own voice come hollow with dread, “What do you say, Rwyan?”
She wept openly now, tears glittering in silver tracks down her face. Her voice was clogged with grief. “That I cannot give up my calling, my love. Not even for you.”
In that awful moment when I saw all my mad hopes dashed, my pain became anger, entirely selfish. I snatched my hands from her grasp, took a single backward step, staring at her with disbelieving eyes.
“Do I mean so little to you?” I asked, low-voiced.
“You mean everything to me,” she said.
“How so?” I raised my hands, clenched in frustration.
I had forgotten Tezdal until I felt my wrists gripped from behind, a foot land hard against an ankle, tangling my legs so that I fell. I had not forgotten my training. I went limp, bringing him down with me, and twisted as I fell. One hand broke loose. I drove an elbow against his ribs and turned, about to drive my knuckles into his face, at that point between the eyes where the bone can be broken and smashed back into the brain. I was consumed with grief, and it made me mad.
I heard Rwyan scream, “No!” and was gripped by a terrible force.
I had never felt magic before. It was as if ice filled my veins, freezing my arm before my blow could land. It was as if every meal I’d eaten turned sour in my belly. It was as if all my muscles cramped together in knots of sudden pain. I groaned, my eyes awash with tears. I am not sure if her magic put them there or only my grief. I was dimly aware of the Sky Lord contorted in the same painful posture.
Then it ended. It was simply gone, as swift as she’d delivered it. I pushed to hands and knees, head hanging as my body remembered. Then I climbed to my feet.
Rwyan said, “Tezdal! Daviot intended me no harm. Do you leave him be.”
Tezdal rose and ducked his head in acceptance. “As you wish, Rwyan.” And to me, “Forgive me, Daviot. I thought you meant to strike her.”
I shook my head. He offered me that curious, curt bow and moved away to the farther bulwark. I turned to Rwyan.
Softly, she said, “You take leave of your senses.”
I shrugged.
She said, “I love you, Daviot.” I said, “But not enough.”
She made that little whimpering sound again, and through my anger and my grief, my selfish pride, I felt remorse. I loved her, no matter she’d surrender me.
“What should you do?” she asked. “Were you no longer Mnemonikos?”
“Go home,” I said surly. “Be a fisherman again; or join a warband.”
“That should be sad loss.” She moved toward me and took my hands again. I did not withdraw: I felt an awful
lassitude, as if waning hope drained out my energy. I stood dumb as she spoke, her voice gentle and earnest. “I cannot forswear my duty; not when Dharbek stands in such need. Nor should you, but rather go on.”
“I wish,” I said, forlorn, “that we fought no war with the Sky Lords. That we had no duty, but you and I be free to go our own way.”
“And I,” she said. “But it’s not so; and so we have no choice.”
I swallowed. Her face swum misty before me, and I realized that I wept. I knew these tears were not the product of magic, save that love’s a kind of magic. I nodded, accepting defeat.
Rwyan let go my hands and cupped my face. Her lips touched mine, careless of the crew, careless of Tyron, who doubtless watched us from the stern. Her kiss tasted salty. She pulled away and said, “I’ll advise our captain he’s to put in at the next hold.”
I nodded and watched her walk away. I rubbed at my eyes; I felt exhausted. I slumped against the bulwark, sliding to the deck. Across the forecastle, Tezdal studied me.
“You love her very much.”
I grunted agreement, and he said, “You should not be parted.”
I chuckled sourly. “I’ve little choice, it seems.”
He said, “Duty is important, but I do not understand why you cannot be together.”
“Nor I,” I answered him, “save it’s so here.”
He appeared entirely sympathetic. It did not seem at all strange to me that I should engage in such a conversation with a Sky Lord.
He said, “You fight well.”
“I was taught in Durbrecht,” I said.
“Where I go.”
His dark face showed no sign of trepidation, only curiosity. I wondered if he knew what likely lay in store. I felt sorry for him then. I said, “Aye.”
He said, “It is hard, having no memory. It seems to me a man is diminished by that. He cannot properly know who he is.”
I realized he sought to comfort me: I smiled and said, “No. But in Durbrecht I think they shall restore yours.”
He nodded solemnly. “I hope so. Even do I remember we are supposed to be enemies.”
“Supposed?” I said. “Dhar and Ahn have fought down the ages. You Sky Lords
are
our enemy; just as we are yours.”
“I am not your enemy, Daviot,” he returned me. “Rwyan—your people—saved my life. I cannot be the enemy of someone who saved my life. How could that be? It would not be … right.”
I thought on that awhile, then said, “No.”
He smiled and turned toward the stern, watching Rwyan as she spoke with the shipmaster. I leaned my head against the bulwark, staring at the blank sky. The sun was gone a little past its zenith, and the heat was ferocious. My shirt was limp with sweat, soiled from my sojourn in the hold. I tugged it off, using it to towel my face and chest. As I reached for my saddlebags, a crewman came diffidently toward me. He was massive, one of the bull-bred, and seemed built better for a charge than so hesitant an approach.
“Would you have me wash that, master?”
A huge hand gestured at my shirt.
I said, “My thanks, but there’s no great need.”
He came a pace closer. His head was slightly lowered, as if he lacked the nerve to look me in the eye. “It’s no trouble, master,” he said. His voice was a deep, bass rumble. “It’s soiled, and I’ve others need tending.”
I thought perhaps he looked to curry favor. I smiled my gratitude. “Very well, then. Here.”
I held out the shirt—in my left hand, on whose wrist I wore Lan’s bracelet. The Changed took it, and as he did our eyes met. He held my gaze an instant, then turned away. I wondered if I had truly seen interest flicker in those bland bovine orbs.
He halted, stepping aside and bowing as Rwyan came back, and I forgot him, looking at her face. She had wiped away her tears, but her eyes were red. She held herself very straight, which I thought was from effort of will alone. Wearily, I climbed to my feet, pulling on a clean shirt.
She said, “Tyron advises me we can dock in Ynisvar on the morrow.”
I nodded, unspeaking. I had nothing left to say; nothing I had not already repeated, to no avail.
She said, “Soon after dawn, he says.” I ducked my head again.
Rwyan sighed noisily. “This is not as I’d have it,” she murmured. “Do you believe that?”
I said, “Yes,” and turned, resting my arms on the gunwale, staring out across the Fend. It was too hard at that moment to see her.
She came to join me, close, and that, too, was hard. She said, “Do you also believe I love you?”