Authors: Angus Wells
Hoarsely, she said, “This cursed necklace must hold a crystal.”
I repeated what Ayl had said, and she sighed agreement. When next she spoke, it was so soft, I must bend my head to hear: “Then I must wear it until they take it off.”
She found the thought abhorrent. She did not voice it
aloud, but I knew it from her tone, from the tension in her body. I said, “Let me try.”
She told me it should be no use, but still I made the attempt. I poked and pried until she cried out, telling me I choked her: the links were forged too strong, and the lock defied all my attempts at picking. I examined the cabin for tools—anything that might snap the cursed thing, or force the lock—but there was nothing. I supposed our captors had removed all possible weapons. Without tools, it could not be broken; even with a blade or lever it should have been dangerous. I gave up and took her in my arms again, holding her and stroking her hair as I murmured helpless reassurances. It was the most I could do: it was not enough. I told myself that at least we were together. I was grateful for that: I had never seen Rwyan so frightened, and—am I honest—I was myself not a little afraid.
In time her trembling ceased, a measure of calm returned, or resignation, and she wiped at her eyes. I told her I must leave her awhile to examine Tezdal, and she nodded wearily. I stroked her cheek and went to the Sky Lord.
A bruise flowered over one side of his face, but as best I could tell, he was not otherwise damaged. I made him comfortable, all the while explaining what I did to Rwyan, who sat straight-backed, staring blindly ahead, her hands locked as if in prayer. I suspected she struggled to keep them from the necklace; surely, her knuckles shone white.
I turned my attention to the cabin. I had some inkling now of where we likely went, and I thought we should be confined here for some time. It was, at least, a reasonably comfortable prison. It occupied the width of the stern, and Tyron’s bunk was wide enough for two. For all they were now stoutly barred, the ports let in light and air. There was a curtained alcove that held a Watergate; a bench along one wall, and a table cut with holes to secure cups and a flask of wine. I filled one and brought it to Rwyan: her hands shook as she drank, droplets falling unnoticed on her linen shirt.
I raised another to Tezdal’s lips, and he opened his eyes. The cup was knocked aside as he came upright, hands raised ready to attack. I seized his wrists; Rwyan cried out.
I said, “Tezdal, all’s well,” and he sank back, recognition dawning. He groaned, warily touching his swollen face.
I retrieved the fallen cup and filled it again. Then I must
once more explain. He stared at Rwyan as I spoke, then said, “Lady, do they harm you, I shall slay them; or die attempting it.”
I was not sure I welcomed his chivalry, but Rwyan gave a wan smile in the direction of his voice. “They are many, Tezdal, and I think that for now we can only accept we are prisoners.”
He nodded, frowning, and immediately set to exploring the cabin. I found my place by Rwyan’s side and put an arm around her. She took my free hand in both of hers.
I said, “It seems you’ll not be rid of me after all.”
I sought to cheer her, but she ignored the sally, head turning as she followed Tezdal’s prowling. He had no better luck than I in loosening the bars; nor, indeed, do I know what we hoped to do, had we removed them. Dive into the Fend and bring poor blind Rwyan somehow to the shore? We’d likely have drowned. I suppose we did those things men feel are expected of them in such circumstances; done less in real hope of escape than in the need to occupy ourselves, to maintain our waning denial of defeat.
Finally he must admit himself beaten and settle on the bench, his dark face flushed with anger.
He asked Rwyan, “Shall that thing harm you?”
Sunlight filtered through the bars, and the rays sparked brilliance from the little stone on her throat. Save for its malign power, it was a pretty bauble. I stared at it, hating it and the Changed who had put it there. She said, “It robs me of my talent. I cannot see or work magic.” Her voice faltered, and her hands clenched tighter on mine. “But save I wear it overlong, it shall do no lasting harm.”
Fear curdled anew in my belly. I asked, “How long?”
She said, “Is it like those we use, then some years.”
That was a small measure of relief. I said, “I think we’ll reach our destination ere then.”
“Our destination?” Her head cocked, her face turned awkwardly toward me. She seemed utterly vulnerable. I stared at her sightless eyes and fought back tears; I regretted those harsh words spoken earlier. “What’s our destination?”
I said, “Ur-Dharbek, save I miss my guess.”
“Ur-Dharbek?” She moved her head as if seeking some glimpse of me. “How can you know that?”
I said, “I don’t
know
it, not for sure; but …”
My words came in a flood, as if a dam were breached—all those secrets, the suspicions I’d held to myself, I now revealed. A part of me was afraid such honesty should earn Rwyan’s displeasure, that she might judge me and find me lacking; another part knew only relief that I should have no more secrets from her.
I told her all I’d learned during the months of my wandering, everything I’d seen. I held back nothing, and as I spoke, it was as though the sundry disparate pieces of the puzzle I’d sensed fell clearer into place. I told of seeing Changed and Sky Lords in congress; that the Changed communicated; of the bracelet Lan had given me, and what he’d said. I spoke of what Rekyn had told me, of the Border Cities and the Dhar’s lost ability to create more Changed.
“I think,” I said, “that Rekyn spoke the truth better than she knew—that the wild Changed do more than just survive in Ur-Dharbek. I suspect they’ve a society there, and that they’ve found crystals; the use of magic. I think we’re taken there, though why I cannot say.”
Rwyan said, “By the God,” in a hushed voice, her own fears forgotten in light of the picture I painted. Then: “Daviot, why did you not speak of this before?”
“I’d not much to say,” I returned her. “That I suspected?”
“You saw Changed and Sky Lords come together!”
Her voice accused me. I said, “Aye, the once, in a lonely place. Had I spoken out then, what should the outcome have been? A pogrom? Good honest folk like Pele and Maerke made suffer? Innocent Changed punished for crimes not theirs?”
I think that had we not found ourselves in such circumstances, Rwyan would likely have reported all this to Ynisvar’s mage, certainly to her College. Such was her sense of duty. But then, had matters proceeded normally, I’d have been put ashore at Ynisvar and she known none of it. As it was, I found it a palliation to unburden myself, even though she stiffened and pulled away from me, her forehead creased in a frown.
I’d believed her lost twice now: I’d not lose her again. I said, “Rwyan, do you believe me a traitor?”
She made no reply, as if she pondered the question. I went on, “Had I spoken of all this, think you the keeps
should not have sent the warbands out against the Changed? Guilty and innocent alike? Think you there’d not have been terrible bloodshed?”
I waited until she nodded silent agreement. “And think you we Dhar treat the Changed fairly?” I asked her. “In Durbrecht, I named Urt my friend, and he gave no offense save to aid you and I to meet. He did no more than Cleton, yet he was banished to Karysvar—sold off, as if he’d no say in his own fate; no more say than any Changed. We
made
them, Rwyan—as if we Dhar were gods, to build life and govern it. We made them prey for the dragons, to save ourselves; and then to be our servants, too many treated as if they were still beasts.
“But they’re not! They’ve feelings like any Trueman. I’ve had kindness of them, and I’ve seen fear in them. I’ve played with their children. In the name of this God you call on, they have children and marry and love, just like Truemen. Yet we see them as beasts still, to be bought and sold, their lives decided for them, as if they’d not minds of their own, could not think. I know they do. I know them for folk neither worse nor better than we Truemen.
“So—knowing that—should I have consigned them to pogrom, to annihilation? I saw only a handful deal with the Sky Lords—perhaps some renegade group, gone into the hills. I know not; only that I’d not see such as Pele and her little ones, or Urt, brought down for a thing not their doing. I tell you, Rwyan, our hands are not clean in this.”
There was a long silence. Tezdal sat across the cabin, his bruised face grave as he studied us. I felt the galleass shift course slightly, moving farther out to sea. Ayl looked to avoid shipping, I supposed. At that moment I did not care. I thought nothing at all of the future, only of Rwyan’s response.
The moments stretched out. I feared she condemned me, that that sense of duty she held so firm must stand a barrier between us, my confession the death knell of our love.
But this was my Rwyan, who was ever a woman unique. She took my hand, and my heart leaped. She said, “Daviot. Oh, Daviot, how long you’ve lived with this.”
I said, “There was no one I dared tell. Save you.”
She said, “You give me much to think on. I’d not seen the picture so large till now.”
“You don’t condemn me?” I asked. “You don’t name me traitor?”
“Most would.” She smiled. Faint, I thought. “I think likely all would. But then, I think any other Storyman would have straightway reported what he’d seen; and none save you perceive it so.”
“I could not do otherwise.” I shrugged, seeking those words that might explain a decision I had not properly comprehended then and did not entirely now. “I feared to see the innocent suffer.”
“You’d ever a fine conscience,” she murmured, and her smile grew warm. “I cannot condemn you for that. Traitor? No, for you did only what you believed was right. And shall I condemn the man I love?”
I sighed and touched her cheek, knowing I had not lost her. Rather, I had found her again, more truly than before, for there was no longer anything hidden between us, only honesty and trust. I felt a great wash of relief.
She leaned against me and said, “Now, do you tell me why we’re kidnapped? Why we are taken to Ur-Dharbek?”
I said, “I think the Changed perhaps inhabit Ur-Dharbek just as we Truemen occupy Draggonek and Kellambek; perhaps they’ve cities. It would seem they’ve the means of communicating with their kin in Dharbek, and they must possess some knowledge of magic.”
I hesitated then, for what I now suspected must surely frighten Rwyan, and she had already suffered enough. But she urged I go on.
I said, “Perhaps they’d learn to use it better; or learn how you employ your talent. Perhaps they took me for what I know of Dharbek, And Tezdal …” I glanced at the Sky Lord. His presence opened vistas of speculation for which I cared little. “Perhaps they league with the Kho’rabi….”
I was surprised to hear Tezdal laugh. I turned toward him, motioning that he explain.
“Save they can give back my memory,” he said, “what use shall I be? Can your sorcerers not return it, shall these others? And I owe my life to Rwyan. I’ll not betray that debt.”
His eyes challenged me to refute him. I could not: I ducked my head in agreement. I think it was in that instant I came truly to accept him. He was no longer a Sky Lord but
only a comrade, caught in shared adversity. I believed him and trusted him, and that was a strange realization. But then, it was a strange day.
We sat awhile in silence, digesting all we’d said. Then Tezdal asked, “Shall the Sentinels not bring their magic against this boat?”
“Why?” Rwyan stirred in my embrace. “Save they’ve cause for suspicion, this shall appear only another ship traveling up the coast.”
“But when we do not arrive in this Durbrecht of yours?” he asked.
“Then the Sorcerous College will wonder,” she replied. “But it shall be too late then, no?”
“Perhaps not.” I was by no means certain I welcomed the direction of my thoughts, for they led to a parting of our ways. “Your College expects us?”
Rwyan nodded. “Word was sent secretly.”
I said, “The coast of Draggonek’s a longer reach than the Treppanek. So do we fail to arrive, shall the sorcerers not alert the keeps? We might be halted ere we reach Ur-Dharbek.”
“Perhaps.” Her voice was thoughtful; I heard uncertainty. “But the precise time of our arrival was never known, so they might assume the ship sunk, do the Sky Lords attack. Or Ayl has some plan.”
She touched the silver links as she spoke, nervously, and I kissed her hair. Quiet against my chest she whispered, “Daviot, whatever becomes us, know that I love you.”
I smiled at that, elation for a moment the hottest of my emotions. There seemed not much more to say, and we fell again into silence.
The days passed, the one blending furnace-hot into the next. We were fed well enough, and at night allowed brief freedom to walk the deck. We spent our time in talk and such fitful sleep as prisoners find, needed less for its restoration than as refuge from boredom. I told my tales, first those I thought should not offend Tezdal, then all of them. He showed no affront when I spoke of the battles between his people and mine, but rather a keen interest, as if he hoped to find in the stories some clue to his past, some reminder of who he was. I sought to help him down that road. I employed
all those techniques taught me in Durbrecht, employed every artifice at my disposal; but none worked. His past remained a mystery.
He showed me those exercises his body remembered, telling me how he’d used them on the rock, and we performed the routines together.
Rwyan told of his finding, and of her life before and after. We confessed to the lovers we’d taken and consigned them to our separate pasts. We talked of magic, openly; of that possessed by the Dhar sorcerers and of that strange command of the elementals and the weather that the Sky Lords owned. I learned much of Dharbek’s sorcerers, and she of what it is to be a Storyman.
At night, in whispers, Rwyan and I spoke of our dreams and were surprised at the similarities we discovered. It was as though our minds had somehow remained all the time linked, despite the leagues and years that had lain between us.