by Angus Wells
In the weeks that followed Rwyan’s departure, I grew surly. I thought more of my loss than of learning and gave short answers to those who inquired after my abrupt change of mood. My mind was occupied with memories of Rwyan. I indulged in the pointless exercise of self-pity. It was foolishness: what was, was. I knew that; it made my grief no easier. I sank into sullen despair, that exacerbated by my healing leg. I progressed from crutch to staff and then was able to limp without support, chafing at confinement within the College. None but Urt and Cleton knew the reason for my black mood, but it was impossible it should go unnoticed—questions were asked my friends. I am confident neither Cleton nor Urt (who were both interrogated) gave much away, but the College authorities were subtle and very adept in drawing out answers. Such is, after all, a part of the Mnemonikos’s talent, and it may be employed to more ends than the investigation of a story. Whatever was said or not, the conclusions drawn were correct: that I had become engaged in an affair with a member of the Sorcerous College recently departed for the Sentinels. I was brought before a tribunal, that judgment of some kind might be delivered.
Decius presided, and it was to his sunlit chambers I was summoned. He sat as usual behind his desk, but to right and left, on high-backed chairs, sat four of the College dignitaries. Keran was one, beside him, Ardyon; on the master’s right were Bael and Lewynn, who taught geography. I could read none of their faces; I was not invited to sit.
Without preamble, Decius asked me, “Is it true you dallied with a student of sorcery?”
I saw no profit in equivocation and answered him, “Yes.”
“For how long?” he demanded.
I said, “A year.”
His brows rose at that, his round face become owlish in its surprise. “Yet none suspected,” he murmured. “You must have had help.”
I was not sure if he asked a question or made a statement and so offered him no response: I was prepared to accept whatever punishment this College court deemed fit, but I would not betray my friends.
“He’s great ingenuity,” Bael said. I was uncertain whether that was praise or condemnation.
Decius nodded, so that the sun coming through the window at his back flickered bright on his pate. I was somewhat blinded by the light, so I could not see his eyes clearly. He said, “Hmm,” and was silent awhile.
Ardyon leaned toward the master and murmured something I could not make out, save, I think, for the names Cleton and Urt. Decius nodded again in response and made a small gesture, as if quieting a restive hound. I waited. I felt my healing leg begin to throb dully.
Then Decius asked me, “How did you think it should end, this affair?”
I said, “It has not. I love her.” Ardyon’s explosive nasal inhalation told me I spoke too fiercely, and it came to me I might well face expulsion. In a milder tone I added, “I had not thought beyond that—that I love her.”
“Yet you know such”—Decius appeared for some reason to find the subject delicate—“friendships are not encouraged.”
“Nor,” I ventured, “forbidden.”
Close on the heels of my realization that I might soon be thrown out of the College came another. Were I expelled, I could return home to Whitefish village, and that was not overly far from the Sentinels: I could obtain a boat (it was a measure of my mood that I did not consider how I should acquire it) and sail to the islands; find Rwyan there. Of course, that would mean throwing away these last few years, turning my back on all I had learned, and there remained some small rational part of my mind that warned me I should not find entry to the Sentinels easy, and that Rwyan might not be allowed, or might not wish, to leave. Balanced against my desire for her, it was a negligible weight.
“Not forbidden,” Decius said, “but neither encouraged. That for both sides’ sake. Did it not occur to you that she has a duty, as do you, and that your … love … should conflict with that loyalty?”
I wondered why he found that simple word, love, so hard to say. It did not occur to me then, in my youth and my loss, that his love was entirely for the College and all it stood for; that he found it difficult, indeed near impossible, to comprehend that a man might find a greater passion.
I said, “I suppose so. Yes; but I hoped …”
Decius gestured that I continue. I squinted into the light, shrugged, and said honestly, “I did not think too far ahead, master. I hoped we might both remain in Durbrecht … or find ourselves assigned residents to the same keep … or …” I shook my head and shrugged again.
He said, “Your Rwyan is gone to the Sentinels, where none but sorcerers are permitted residence. Even did you somehow find your way there, you would not be allowed to remain. Ergo, your affair could not have succeeded.”
It seemed, almost, he read my mind; I was taken aback that he knew so much. I should not have been, of course: there was little enough went unnoticed by the College, and this matter had been investigated. I ducked my head and muttered a reluctant negative.
Then he startled me again by asking, “Would you throw away these years? Do you wish to leave us?”
We had a saying in Whitefish village concerning the fish caught betwixt net and hook. I understood it fully in that instant. I knew that if I said yes, I might walk away, free to go seeking Rwyan. And if I did? I had no way of knowing to which of the Sentinels she had gone. Even did I somehow succeed in landing on the right island, I must still find my love. I did not doubt but that Decius spoke the truth when he warned me I should not be allowed to remain. And would Rwyan forsake her duty, quit her calling to come away with me?
I hesitated, my head spinning. I fidgeted, indecisive, easing my weight from throbbing leg to good and back again. The sun was warm on my face, hiding the expressions of the men who watched me, awaiting my answer. I thought then of that message Rwyan had left me. My talent, my trained memory, brought it back precise: Tell Daviot that I love him. Tell him that I shall always love him, but I cannot refuse my duty. I must go where I am bid, as must he in time. Tell him I pray he recovers. Tell him I shall never forget.
Rwyan had accepted her duty. Could I do less and remain the man she loved?
To Decius I said, “No. I’d not leave.”
As I spoke, I was unsure whether I chose the net or the hook. I knew I felt a dreadful pain.
I heard the master say, “Then we must consider your future. Do you return to your lessons, and we shall inform you.”
I nodded wearily. I had not thought to find my fate still undecided. I turned and limped from the room.
I had been engaged with Telek in the herbarium, and I returned there. The herbalist-chirurgeon greeted me with a sympathetic smile and waved me back to my classification of the dried plants. Cleton contrived to place himself at my side and inquired in a whisper how I had fared.
I told him my fate was as yet unfixed, and he scowled, and tapped the plaster still encasing his arm, and said, “In the God’s name, what more do they want? Rwyan’s gone and you choose to remain. What’s to decide?”
“Whether I’m fit to stay, I suppose,” I whispered back. “Or not.”
My friend cursed roundly and very soundly and said, “Do we visit the Horseman tonight? A few tankards of Lyam’s ale might wash that cloud from your face.”
I had not known my expression was so black. Nor did I feel much appetite for ale, or even company. Neither did I much wish to be alone: solitude would afford too much space for doubt. But I was still banned the city. I said, “I cannot. I am commanded to remain here.” At that moment, the College seemed to me a prison.
Cleton grinned and said, “Even with your leg, the walls should not be hard to climb.”
I was tempted. I was also very confused, torn between the desire to be alone and that for his stout company. I almost agreed, but then I thought of the cost—surely expulsion, was such disobedience discovered.
I shook my head, saying, “No, I think not.”
“By the God,” he returned, “you’ve been long enough confined.
A visit to the Horseman would surely ease your miseries. Better, a visit to Allya’s. Thais asks after you, you know.”
I had not thought of Thais, nor wished to now, and what appeared to me his casual dismissal of Rwyan roused me to anger. I glowered and said primly, “I’ve no wish to visit Thais. Nor would I risk my future here. Do you not think I’ve lost enough already?”
Poor Cleton’s smile melted in the heat of my response, and he raised a placatory hand. “Forgive me,” he asked. “I was not thinking.”
I grunted a reply. I knew he sought only to cheer me and so felt guilty at my anger—which served to fuel it more. We spent the remainder of the afternoon in prickly silence, both working with a fervor that surely must have impressed our tutor.
“I told them nothing,” I said, “save what they knew. Of you and Lyr I said nothing at all.”
Urt set the chimney of a lamp in place and pinched out the taper before turning to face me. His coarse gray hair was reddened by the flame; his whiteless eyes were placid. His smile was not: it was very confident.
“I did not think you would,” he said.
Cleton was rummaging through our wardrobe, seeking a suitable shirt for his planned excursion. Over his shoulder he said, “But they likely guess. By the God! Ardyon asked me enough questions.”
“The warden spoke at length with me.” Urt nodded gravely. “But you know that. And that I said no more than I must, I hope.”
“Of course.” I set a hand on his shoulder, which was sinewy and muscular, and smiled. “I could find no better friend,” I said.
Urt seemed embarrassed, his eyes flickering to Cleton. I saw my Trueman comrade frown at such open expression of friendship with one of the Changed, and removed my hand. Thinking to mend our differences, I amended my statement: “I could hope for no better friends than the both of you.”
Cleton was visibly taken somewhat aback to find himself ranked alongside a Changed servant in my estimation, but he took it gracefully and hid his frown behind his chosen shirt.
Urt’s expression grew solemn then, and he fixed me with his dark stare. “Still, Master Cleton is right,” he said. “Save I think they know, rather than guess.”
Cleton struggled with his shirt. We take our bodies for granted, never thinking how the loss of a limb’s use hampers us until we must perforce do without. Urt went to help him, and as Cleton’s head emerged from the collar he frowned anew, but for a different cause now. “Then surely,” he said, “they’d have had me before that tribunal.”
“Perhaps not.” Urt shook his head, and in his eyes I thought I found some emotion I could not define. “You are son of the aeldor pf Madbry, Master Cleton, and that carries some weight. More, you’re a good student.”
Cleton laughed carelessly. The sound struck me like a cold wave: it failed entirely to register what I heard in Urt’s voice, saw in his eyes.
Still chuckling, he stood as Urt tied the laces of his shirt. “Daviot’s a better student than I,” he declared. “And my birth means nothing here.”
“Think you not?” asked Urt.
His husky voice was carefully modulated, but still I thought he spoke with unaccustomed openness in Cleton’s presence. I thought he seemed almost reckless, as if he felt some dice were cast, determining a future I failed to comprehend. I waited, suddenly nervous.
“Son of an aeldor, son of a fisherman.” Cleton extended his arms that Urt might fasten his cuffs; flourished the linen. “Son of a koryphon, even. All are the same in this College, all equal.”
Something flashed an instant in Urt’s eyes, gone almost before I saw it. “Some are more equal,” he said in a soft voice, “some less.”
“Nonsense,” Cleton said.
I said, “Do you explain, my friend?”
Cleton opened his mouth to elaborate, then recognized I spoke to Urt and fell silent, his frown returned. Whether because I looked to the Changed for answer or because I again openly named him friend, I neither knew nor cared.
Urt paused an instant. I thought him unwilling to speak for Cleton’s presence and smiled encouragement, motioning him to continue. He hesitated still, and I said, “Shall we conspirators hold secrets from one another? Go on, friend.”
He smiled briefly. A flash of sharp white teeth. “Some command a greater influence than others,” he said, “no matter the society. Do you not learn that from your studies of politics?”
I saw Cleton’s frown dissolve into an expression of curiosity. He settled on his bed and allowed Urt to tug on his boots. They shone bright with fresh polish—the Changed’s work. I waited, foreboding mounting.
Urt said, “How is this College financed?”
Cleton answered him, “The Lord Protector and the koryphon fund us, of course. And merchants, nobles, donate.”
“And the Lord Protector and the koryphon are funded by taxes, no?” Urt said. “And the koryphon has his power from the Lord Protector, and both rest on the support of the aeldors, who tax those within their holdings, no?”
“How else should it be?” asked Cleton. He selected a tunic and let Urt drape the garment over his shoulders. “That’s the natural order of things.”
Very softly, so that I alone heard him, Urt said, “Perhaps.” Then louder: “But what if the aeldors held those taxes for themselves? What if the Lord Protector and the koryphon received no tithe?”
“That,” said Cleton, coldly now, “would be sedition. And rightly punished as such.”
“It would surely be punished,” Urt agreed, which was not a full agreement. “But—a supposition only, of course—what should happen did the aeldors withdraw their support?”
“Chaos!” Cleton snapped. “By the God, the Sky Lords would overwhelm us did all not work together. Dharbek would collapse.”
“I speak only of this College,” said Urt, carefully. “That the goodwill of an aeldor is worth more than a fisherman’s.”
Or, the Changed’s. He did not have to say it. I recognized his gist; I felt surprise that he commanded such a grasp of the webwork of politics and privilege that underpinned decisions. I said, “You think I might be punished whilst Cleton goes free.”
“I think the good opinion of Master Cleton’s father likely carries a greater weight than does yours,” he said. And coughed a small laugh that might have been apologetic, “Whilst mine carries none at all.”
“You’re Changed,” Cleton said.
He was smiling as he took up his purse, weighing the coin therein, happily oblivious of Urt’s discomfort or my reservations. “Well,” he said, “if I cannot persuade you to join me, I shall be on my way. Do I give Thais your regards?”
I said, “No,” and he shrugged, and waved, and strode from the chamber.
The door closed behind him and Urt said, “Do you require anything?”
And I answered, “Yes. I’d talk with you, if you will.”
His expression was entirely bland as he said, “I am at your command. I am your servant.”
“You are my friend,” I said. “Or at least, I hope you are.”
“Yes, I am.” His expression shifted—I grew moment by moment more adept in its translation—and I saw apology in his eyes. “Forgive me, Daviot. Sometimes …”
His lean shoulders rose and fell. I ventured to finish for him: “Sometimes the attitude of Truemen is offensive. I apologize for Cleton.”
That elicited a brief smile. “How should you apologize for another?” he murmured.
I shrugged in turn and said, “On behalf of my kind.”
“Your kind is rare,” he said. “Cleton’s the more common.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say: it was the truth. I compromised with, “He means no ill.”
“No.” Urt looked a moment out the window, then returned his gaze to me. “Few do.”
There was something hidden behind his response; something sad in his voice and in his eyes. I rose from the bed and crossed to the ale keg. I filled two mugs, passing him one and motioning for him to sit.
“You’re a strange fellow, Daviot,” he murmured. “Why do you show me such kindness?”
It had not occurred to me that I did: I treated him as felt natural to me. I frowned and said, “How else should I deal with you?”
He said, “As do other Truemen.”
“You’re my friend,” I said.
He laughed at that, and raised his mug in toast, and said, “Yes. Perhaps someday I shall have the chance to prove it you.”
“You have already,” I told him, and what had begun as an answering smile froze on my lips. “You proved it in carrying my messages to Rwyan.” I sought to conceal my sudden misery behind my tankard.
Urt said, “I’m sorry for what happened.” And paused a moment before adding, “But I meant in a greater way than as courier.”
“No service could be greater,” I said.
“Perhaps.”
He smiled, but I thought the expression was now designed to allay further inquiry. I asked, “How, perhaps?”
He shook his head and sipped his ale. “Does the opportunity come, you shall know,” he said.
“Do you explain now?” I asked.
His lips closed, pursing. His eyes grew dark: unfathomable, and he shook his head. “No, I cannot. And I presume on our friendship to ask that you inquire no further.”
I was intrigued. I forgot my misery as I sensed some mystery here. There was such hint in what he said of things unknown, unsuspected, of areas of knowledge beyond my ken, I was mightily tempted to press him. There was also, on his face and in his voice, a warning—that he would not speak, and that did I demand explanation, our friendship should be threatened. It was valuable to me, that friendship, and so I respected his wishes. I nodded and made some gesture of acceptance. “Do you so wish,” I said.
He smiled with unfeigned pleasure and said, “Thank you, Daviot.”
And I, in my youth, heard such warmth in those three simple words, I was embarrassed. I think I blushed. I know I said, “I’d not pry, my friend,” and sought to turn our conversation onto safer ground. “What do you think will happen to me? To us? Shall I be allowed to stay?”
