Authors: Angus Wells
Rwyan said, “A hot tub should be a luxury.”
She squeezed my hand as she spoke, which I took to be a
warning or a request, and so I acceded. I thought my agreement afforded Ayl some measure of relief, as if he’d avoid open argument. That surprised me, for I now saw us more truly as captives, and I wondered why he should concern himself with my wants or displeasures.
He sent Glyn to arrange it and called the landlord to show us to our chambers. Once again, Rwyan and I were given shared quarters, Tezdal in the adjoining room. Unusually after so much latitude, our doors were locked. My unease waxed, and I inspected the chamber as Rwyan took her bath.
It was as Ayl had promised. A wide bed spread with fresh linen stood against one wall between two windows. I checked them both and found them secured beyond my undoing. They gave a view of rooftops, a section of street, the lake blue beyond the farther houses. I could not see the skyboats. There was a wardrobe and a washstand; a screened partition hid a commode. There were two comfortable wooden chairs set either side of a small table, on which stood a decanter of pale wine and two glasses, a flask of water. The floor was spread with colorful rugs and a lantern hung from the ceiling. It felt suddenly like a cell: I paced impatiently.
Rwyan came back perfumed with sandalwood, and I led her around the room, that she might familiarize herself with its furniture. Then Glyn escorted me to the bathhouse. I was aware the Changed stood sentry outside as I scrubbed myself. This sudden concern with our security disturbed me, and I bathed swiftly, going back damp to the room.
The door was locked behind me, and I crossed to where Rwyan sat on the wide bed.
“I cannot understand this concern,” I said. “Why lock doors now? Why deny us the freedom we’ve had so far? In the God’s name, we’re in the heart of Ur-Dharbek—we could scarce hope to escape from here.”
She touched me and, finding me still somewhat moist, began to towel my hair.
“I think there must be things here they’d not yet have us know,” she said. “How many skyboats did you see?”
I took my head from under her busy toweling. “Perhaps a score. Hardly enough for invasion. At least, not yet.”
“You believe it so?” She dropped the towel. I picked it up; flung it aside.
“What else?” I said. “I’ve seen Changed and Sky Lords together; their airboats here. Do they not agree it, then I think they must talk of it. Alliance, at the least … discussion of terms, of strategy…. The Sky Lords defy the Sentinels now, so the Border Cities should likely prove no greater obstacle.”
“Aye,” she said soft. “Doubtless they should strike down no few skyboats, do they mount the Great Coming. But not enough, do they come in numbers. The God knows, they’ve always found ways past us, and now … now do they attack across the Fend
and
across the Slammerkin; do the Changed of Dharbek rise to support them …”
She’d no need of elaboration. The land already bled under the wounding of that unnatural summer. Jareth was regent, deemed weak, his elevation a source of discontent amongst the aeldors. Was the Great Coming launched, did the Changed rise—I shivered at the thought. Better than any save this woman who sat with me, I knew how subtle were the secret ways of the folk we Truemen had made, how surely they communicated, that their eyes and ears were everywhere, hidden by their very station. It was as if the sorcerers had created some hydra, a monster invisible until it struck.
“Dharbek’s lost,” I said.
Rwyan ducked her head. “And the Changed have magic now,” she whispered, fingering the necklace glinting at her throat. “They can do this. They’ve made this valley, and as you describe it, only great magic could create such a place. I think the hills must hold an abundance of crystals. Changed have dwelt here long enough, they absorb the magic. They develop the talent!”
“But surely long exposure destroys,” I said. “You told me that. It brings madness.”
“Is war not madness?” she returned. “But yes, I told you that. And so it is—for Truemen. Perhaps the Changed are different; perhaps the crystals do not destroy them.”
“Then why take you?” I wondered, though I’d already a horrid suspicion. “Can they do all this, what need of you?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, and shuddered, so that I put my
arms about her and held her close as her voice dropped low.
“Save …”
“Save what?” I prompted, thinking I’d not welcome the answer.
Nor did I: Rwyan said, “Save they’d plumb my mind. Learn Dharbek’s secrets—our usage of those crystals that ward the Fend, the Slammerkin—learn the limits of our magic.”
She trembled in my arms. I felt her tears against my chest. I raised my head, staring blindly at the ceiling. Beams stood dark against white plaster. They reminded me of gallows trees: I lowered my face to Rwyan’s hair.
She pulled back a little way. I looked into her blind eyes, the green shining tearful now. She said, “Daviot, I cannot betray Dharbek.”
I studied her face. I saw a strength I dreaded, a determination I feared. I read the direction of her thought. I’d run from that compass save it should have been a betrayal of this woman I loved, of the strength that made her what she was. I owed her better than that, and so I said, “What can you do, does worse come to worst?”
And she smiled—so brave, my Rwyan!—and told me, “Perhaps it shall not come to that. But does it—what choice have I, save to defy them?”
Almost, I said that she should speak put, answer whatever questions were asked, give whatever information was demanded; only survive, because without her my life should have no meaning. But that was selfishness and insulting to her courage. And I think she’d have scorned me had I said it aloud. So instead, I said, “The God will it not come to that.”
A small laugh then; and: “The God, Daviot? I’d thought you doubted his existence.”
“I do,” I said. “But be I wrong, then I ask he spare you. You deserve better.”
“I doubt,” she said, “that ‘deserve’ comes into this. It seems to me more happenstance—that I helped bring down Tezdal’s skyboat; that I was there when we found him. That he came to trust me, and I was chosen to escort him to Durbrecht. Even that the
Sprite
was the ship chosen. All happenstance, no?”
I wondered if she sought to strengthen her resolve with words or set aside contemplation of that resolution. If so, I’d
help her: I said. “Happenstance? Or is there a pattern, and I’ve a part in it? Had we not met, should you have been sent so soon to the Sentinels? Had I not come to Carsbry when I did, I’d not have found you. Had Lan not given me this token—which he’d not have done save I knew Urt, who helped you and I to meet—then Ayl should surely have cast me overboard, and we’d not be together here. Aye, surely there’s a pattern too subtle for mere happenstance. It seems more like our fates are linked.”
I looked to comfort her (and am I honest, myself), but as I spoke, I saw a kind of truth in what I said. There
was
a pattern of some kind; at least an interweaving of our lives that surely ran more certain than random accident might dictate. It was as if we were fated to come together, and whether that was the God’s will or nebulous destiny, it seemed to me to become more real even as I spoke. I warmed to the subject.
“And the dreams,” I said. “That on the Sentinels you dreamed of me; not randomly, but as if you shared my dreams. And here—those judging eyes. Surely that cannot be happenstance.”
Her head tilted as if she saw me, and on her lovely face a frown set twinned creases between her eyes. Her lips pursed, luscious, so that I must struggle not to kiss them. Not yet; not whilst she seemed to find solace in my words.
“Perhaps it’s so,” she murmured. Then frowned deeper: “But Tezdal shared that latter dream.”
“And had Tezdal not been on that skyboat,” I said, “you’d not have found him on the rock, not come to Carsbry. I’d not have found you there, nor stowed away.”
“Then he’s a part of this pattern,” she said.
I’d seen it more in terms of we two, but I nodded and said, “I suppose he must be.”
“And Urt?” she asked. “That you knew him in Durbrecht, and had you not, he’d not have been sent to Karysvar, nor come here. Surely there’s another part?”
I nodded, though Rwyan could not see that, and murmured, “Yes, surely.”
I was frowning now. I had begun this wordplay intending nothing more than to comfort Rwyan. Now I began to wonder if we did not unravel threads of subconscious knowledge, somehow untangling strands of awareness to form a clearer
picture … of what? That I could not say; not yet. But I felt we explored something here that I must pursue. That might—whatever ruled our destinies willing—afford us escape from our predicament.
“What is it?” Rwyan’s hands touched my face. “What silences you?”
“Urt
is
here,” I said. “Ayl told us that, no?”
“And a voice in their government,” she said.
“Then sooner or later we’ll speak.” I took her hands and kissed the palms. “And I can ask him if he’s shared our dreams.”
“Daviot!” She gripped both my hands, firm. “Do you say all this is truly so? Can it be?”
This straw seemed to me stronger. I said, “I’ll not tell you for certain, aye. But is it not strange, this interweaving of all our lives?”
She said, “Yes,” and once more pursed her lips in thought.
I could no longer resist: I kissed them. Her arms wound about my neck, and we lay upon the bed. Against my mouth Rwyan said, “What if we’re summoned by this Raethe?”
I answered her, “They sit late, Ayl said. And do they not, then they must wait.”
She laughed, and helped me find the lacings of her shirt.
We were in that room three days before the summons came. Ayl brought us out, with Glyn and five thickset bull-bred Changed in attendance. We were marched across the square and down a street that ended on the lake’s shore. It was early in the day, and I saw the skyboats clear as we were directed out along a pier. They were huge, floating like vast airborne slugs, their crimson flanks a bloody contrast to the pure blue of the water. I thought the baskets must hold a plenitude of Kho’rabi. Amongst them, like minnows swimming with whales, were the little scout vessels. It seemed to me the half-seen elementals sporting about the craft grew more agitated under my observance. I thought I heard their keening, but that might have been only the wind off the lake. Then Ayl tapped my shoulder, indicating I should board a skiff.
He took the tiller, and Glyn lowered the sail. There was room for only two more of our escort: we left the others on
the pier. Rwyan took my hand. Her palm was damp, and when I looked at her face, I saw her jaw set firm, her lips a resolute line. Tezdal reached out and took her other hand. I could not resent that intimacy.
She smiled thinly and said, “Perhaps this necklace shall be removed now.”
I said, “Yes, all well.”
She said, “Where do we go?”
“Across the lake,” I answered.
The wind, which seemed not to affect the town much, was brisk out here, and we sped over the blue water. Waver lets lapped against the hull, and did I not look back to where the skyboats hung or wonder what lay ahead, I might have enjoyed the journey. Instead, I looked to the far shore, where a solitary building grew steadily larger.
It stood close to the shore, shining in the sun, for it was made all of white stone such as I’d not seen before in this unknown country. It was no more than a single level, and circular, with a portico running around its walls. I had the impression of a temple, surely of a place of power, though its architecture was plain. A pathway of the same pale stone stretched from the portico to a pier, where Ayl brought the skiff in.
We were handed ashore. Ayl beckoned us to follow, the rest falling into step behind. I saw that vivid flowers grew in profusion about the building, and insects filled the still air with their buzzing; but there were no birds. We climbed seven steps up to the portico and faced a door of wood shaved and bleached to match the stone. A brass gong hung there, and a mallet. Ayl took the hammer and struck a single ringing note that echoed sonorous down the colonnades. The door swung open on silent hinges. A woman—cat-bred, I thought—appeared. She seemed no different to any Changed female save that she wore a circlet of gold about her brow. Ayl ducked his head, and she nodded in reply, motioning us forward. As the door closed behind us, I realized Ayl and the others still stood outside.
“Do you follow me.”
It was not a question nor quite a command, but the woman turned and walked away as if she entertained no doubt but that we should obey. I thought she was not very
old, perhaps younger than Rwyan, but possessed of such imperious confidence that she seemed ageless.
We crossed a broad vestibule that was, as best I judged, all seamless white marble to an inner door. The woman pushed it open and stood aside. We went through into a circular chamber lit bright by the windows that marched along the walls. My eyes narrowed against the glare, for it seemed that sunlight was reflected off every surface there. I was reminded of Decius’s chamber, unable to properly define the figures that occupied the tiered benches I faced. I suppose that was the intention: to set us at an immediate disadvantage.
Rwyan felt my hesitation and asked, “What is it?”
I told her, and as I did, my vision adjusted enough that I could better make out the room.
We stood on a kind of balcony, a semicircular balustrade opening on a short flight of steps that descended to an oval faced by the benches. The floor was yellow, not quite gold, and blinding; all else was white, save the clothing of our interviewers. That was a mixture of mundane homespun, simple leather, and brighter robes and gowns in a variety of colors. I thought perhaps fifty Changed sat studying us.
“Do you step down.”
The voice came from the midst of the watchers. As we obeyed, I looked for Urt, but the sun was in my eyes, and I could not find him.
The same voice said, “I am Geran, spokesman for the Raethe of Trebizar. You are hale? Your quarters are comfortable?”
I said, “Yes. Why are we here?”