by Angus Wells
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 sparkl
ed 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.”
Chiara’s voice, admonishing, interrupted Rwyan’s thoughts and she nodded defiantly.
“You’ll forget him,” Chiara said, echo of so many other conversations.
And Rwyan answered, “No. Perhaps I shall learn to live without him, but I shall never forget him.”
There was such certainty in her tone, and such pain, that Chiara forgot her disapproval and was only friend, She took Rwyan’s hand gently in her own and said no more. Instead, they stood in silence as the twilight deepened and the surface of the Treppanek was no longer painted with the sun’s red gold but became as blue velvet, a softly whispering cushion to the moon’s silvered reflection.
Then a bell summoned them to their dinner, and they went, still hand-in-hand, along the deck to where their fellow sorcerers clustered eagerly about a brazier on which meat grilled.
It was easier in company. Conversation made demands on her attention that enabled her to concentrate on what was said and how she would respond, and none there, save Chiara, knew of Daviot. So she spoke of the Sentinels and the recent attack, and of the expectations of the College, and for a while felt not at all sad. And Lyakan passed the tiller to a Changed and joined them, broaching a keg of good ale, which he cheerfully declared must be consumed before they reached the islands, which announcement was met with enthusiastic agreement.
Rwyan drank somewhat more than was her wont, and joined in the singing that ensued, and that night slept quite soundly, for all her last thoughts were of Daviot.
There were no more attacks as the galleass sailed east, nor as she ventured onto the Fend. The weather remained mild, Lyakan setting his three lateen sails as the tower of Rorsbry Keep hove in view, Fynvar a distant thimble shape to the north. He tacked eastward, supplying remedies to those who found the ocean’s chop distressing. Rwyan was pleased she suffered no discomfort; a little guilty that Chiara’s violent illness did not trouble her more.
A day, a night, and the morning of another day they sailed, and then the closest of the seven Sentinels were in sight.
Rwyan found herself a place at the prow, her senses focused on the islands. She held her place as they came closer, until only one was visible, the rest lost to the dip and bob of the galleass. Lyakan ordered the sails furled, and the oarsmen bent once again to their sweeps, propelling the ship onward. The wind blew colder out here, and soon she heard the murmur of surf, the beat of the rollers that swept across all the width of the ocean, perhaps from the distant lands of the Sky Lords even, to break on these isolate stones. She wondered if the anchorage would be dangerous.
Then danger was forgotten as her talent revealed the island in all its rugged splendor.
She had been told of the Sentinels, but to be told was not the same as seeing, and the descriptions had been delivered by sorcerers. It would take a Storyman to do this place justice. It was a vast slab of rock, as if a single, inconceivably massive boulder had been dropped into the Fend. Waves broke against the feet of sheer cliffs, smooth and high: un-scalable. White spume crashed against blue-black stone, a foaming line of demarcation broken only where an impossibly narrow gap showed in the rock. It was not, Rwyan “saw,” an inlet but a cave’s mouth, barely high enough the galleass’s masts might enter unharmed. She held her breath as Lyakan put his tiller over and the vessel raced, driven by sweeps and tide, for the opening. The glittering tower was lost, the cliffs loomed above, surfs roar drowned the apprehensive murmurs of her companions. Then Lyakan bellowed and the oars were brought inboard, and the galleass slid between the sea-gates guarding the dark ingress.
Rwyan felt the magic that drew the craft in, defying the tug of the sea, the Fend’s currents as nothing to that power. At her side, Chiara cried out, clutching her arm as darkness fell like sudden night, only a glimmer of day behind, and even that lost as the sea-gates closed. For Rwyan darkness held little meaning, and so she “saw” the proximity of the cliffs to either side, the roof frighteningly low above. She might have reached out to touch the stone, so close was it. Then daylight returned, blinding natural sight after the Stygian depths of the entrance, and the galleass floated gently to a harbor cut by magic’s might from the heart of the rock.
From seaward, the island had appeared entirely forbidding; now it appeared entirely paradisal.
The inlet was circular, a beach of pale yellow sand interrupted only by the blue granite pile of a quay and the hulls of fishing boats sweeping in a great calm arc around the saltwater lake. There were buildings constructed of wood and stone, pale blue, white, or rose petal pink, along the water line. More scattered randomly amongst stands of cedar and pine and myrtle, where little streamlets spilled do
wn from terraces decked with olive groves, orchards, and meadows. Goats roamed, seemingly at will, more agile than the sheep and cattle grazing the luxuriant greensward. There were formal gardens, opulent as any in Durbrecht, and others of more natural shape, displaying a vivid array of wild flowers. Paths wandered the terraces, and long flights of white stone steps. The entire center of the island had been shaped by sorcery to cup this jewel as if in a careful fist.
And on the topmost tier, so high the observers on the galleass must tilt back their heads, necks craned, to gaze upward to where it stood bright against the sky, was the white tower, like a sword raised in defiance of the Sky Lords. A single straight stairway ran to its foot, a door of blue wood there, no other openings. It seemed a very simple structure to emanate so great a sensation of sorcerous power, and Rwyan studied it in awe. Within lay the greatest secrets of her kind.
She staggered as the galleass drifted to a halt, her attention diverted from the tower to the rush of activity initiated by their docking. Two of Lyakan’s Changed sprang to the wharf, securing the ship as two more ran out the gangplank. All came from their rowing benches to assist the newcome sorcerers to disembark. There were none amongst the crowd gathered on the pier: all there were Truemen.
Chiara was aflutter with undisguised excitement as they traversed the plank to meet the welcome of the residents. Rwyan, for all she was enchanted with the beauty of her new surroundings, was less stimulated. Before long, she knew, Lyakan would take his galleass back across the Fend and the sea-gates would close behind him. It felt to her that they would close, too, on Daviot; that he must be shut off from her by all the weight of ocean and distance and duty. She turned her attention a moment back, to the ship and the Fend beyond, and then she sighed, and took a breath, and shaped her lips in a smile as she walked toward her future.
