by Angus Wells
It was not a question to which I anticipated a response. I knew the reason: I asked it of the One God, or the Three, or fate; whatever was the power that plucked the strings of my life.
Ardyon, however, elected to answer me: “Because he proved untrustworthy; because he betrayed his duty to the College. You may hold yourself accountable for his fate.”
That was a vicious sally. The tutors, even, thought it so, Faron made a disapproving sound, frowning at the warden; Clydd said warningly, “There’s naught to be done about it, Daviot.”
I barely heard them. I stared at Ardyon. Cleton had let go my arm, but now I felt his hand lock on my shirt, at the back, ready to haul me away from attacking the cadaverous disciplinarian.
Ardyon said, “Have you no lessons this day?”
Cleton said, “Yes, warden,” and, “Daviot, we’d best be gone.”
He put his arm around my shoulders. I let him turn me away: there was nothing I could do, save throw away the future. Urt was gone.
As I retreated, Ardyon said, “Another servant will be appointed you.”
Over my shoulder I said bitterly, “He’ll not be Urt.”
I heard Ardyon say, “So much fuss over a Changed.”
I shouted, “He was my friend!”
I had never heard Ardyon laugh. It was as well Cleton held me firm.
The Sky Lords appeared again not long after my fruitless confrontation with Ardyon—a score of airboats that succeeded in depositing two centuries of Kho’rabi in the city. They were destroyed, airboats and warriors alike, but only at terrible cost. They were not the last, and before the summer was ended Durbrecht took on a ravaged look. The tallest towers were broken; the walls stood gapped as the jaws of old men. Cavities showed in the streets where buildings had burned; where pleasant gardens had stood there were now patches of weeds, growing amongst the fire-blackened stumps of dead trees. We knew disease that summer, and folk fled the city. Those who remained spoke of ruin, of defeat. A palpable aura of fear hung over Durbrecht.
I was crazed that summer, when I was as much a soldier as a student. I transmuted grief into physical action. I took no pleasure in it; it was, rather, a means of suppressing emotion, and I fought with a cold intensity. I earned a new reputation as a fighter. I was not proud of myself, but I was admired by my fellows. Indeed, I was appointed commur of a student band and hailed as a leader.
As autumn drew on the attacks eased, finally ceasing when the weather grew cold, the skies become heavy with rafts of gray cloud that drove rain and hail against the land. It seemed odd to me that the Sky Lords had found ways by which to overcome the Worldwinds but not, it appeared, the seasons. Perhaps they did not travel well in rain. Nor, as winter settled over Durbrecht, in snow.
It was a hard winter. Ice crusted the shore of the Treppanek, and despite the depleted population, food was in short supply. Too many farmers had suffered, too many fields been burned, too many men called to the warbands. Even so, there was some sense of relief as day after anticipatory day passed without a Coming.
I thought much of Rwyan and Urt that winter, and with the fighting ended there was no longer any convenient receptacle into which I might channel my fears: my mood grew once more black. I endeavored to hide it from all save Cleton, who—still chafing under the encumbrance of his too-slowly mending arm—became impatient with me. I had spoken so little of Rwyan during that summer, he had come to think her forgotten, and when I appointed him confidant of my fears, he scolded me for harboring so futile a passion.
We had, as Ardyon had promised, been given a new servant. He was of equine descent, named Harl, and whilst he was attentive to all our needs, he lacked Urt’s wit or sensibility. He avoided those conversations I attempted to induce, responding in blunt monosyllables and mumbled protestations of ignorance, so that I gave up after a while and (I confess this with no small measure of guilt) came to think of him as dull and bovine. I suspect he had been admonished by the warden to avoid my proffered friendship, or feared he should suffer Urt’s fate.
It was a miserable winter, and for all it seemed likely the turning of the year must see a renewal of the Sky Lords’ attacks, I was glad of spring’s advent. I had sooner be out awandering than cooped another season in the city.
The feast day of Daeran was traditionally the eve of a Storyman’s departure. The day was spent in preparation (which took little enough time) and farewells, and in the evening those going out dined with the master at the head table.
There were but five of us that year, where usually there would have been twenty or more: the Sky Lords had taken a toll of the College no less than of the city. We were each of us kitted out with sturdy boots, a change of clothing, a good cloak of oiled wool, a pouch of herbal remedies, and a purse containing a few durrim. In better times we might have been given horses or mules, but those beasts not eaten were earmarked for military use, so we had only our feet on which to begin our journeying.
As dusk fell and Durbrecht readied for a night of celebration (it seemed to me the citizenry had forgotten the summer’s terror; or looked to find what pleasure might be had ere it began again), we bathed and dressed in our finest clothes, then made our way to the refectory.
The whole College was assembled, standing silent as Decius beckoned us forward. He gave us each that staff that marks the Storyman and is, besides, a useful weapon, and ushered us to seats at the center of the high table. We were served wine in honor of our departure, and as we ate the master assigned us our destinations. I was to take ship west along the Treppanek to Arbryn and from thence make my way southward down the coast as far as Mhorvyn. Such a journey would take the better part of a year, save I should succeed in gaining myself a horse, and from Mhorvyn Keep I was to send word of my arrival and await further instructions. I wondered if I was sent to the west coast of Kellambek because Rwyan was domiciled to the east and Urt to the north. I kept my wondering to myself.
I did not enjoy that feast, for all the food was excellent and the wine the finest our cellars had late and drank and responded to questions and advice with glib precision, thinking all the time that soon the width of Dharbek should stand betwixt Rwyan and I. Had I not become somewhat skilled in dissimulation, I should have allowed my mask to slip and spoken out; but I did not: I continued in the part I had played the past year. I smiled and voiced soft grateful words, marveling that none (save perhaps Cleton) saw through me. No less that I felt so little excitement at this great adventure. It was, after all, the culmination of my training, of the time and energy I had given to the College of the Mnemonikos. It was the natural result of my tenure, and I went out into dramatic times. I should, I knew, have been exhilarated, but I could only pretend. I accepted because I saw no alternative. Inside, I felt resentment that fate, embodied in the earnest, smiling faces all around me, could so order my destiny, and Rwyan’s, and Urt’s.
Still, I hid my feelings skillfully as any mummer, thanked Decius and the rest for all they had taught me (for which I was grateful), and behaved generally as did my fellow viators.
Toward midnight Decius announced his intention of finding his bed, which was cue the feast should end. He saluted us a final time, wished us well, and quit the dining hall. We Storymen bade one another farewell and went to our chambers. I felt neither tired nor alert but in a somber, contemplative mood. Cleton was mightily excited; I felt a curious indifference. I could not share his enthusiasm for our impending departure, but nor had I any wish to remain in Durbrecht. I could not define my mood well: I felt resigned as a rudderless boat, willing to let the irresistible pressure of the tides drive me where they would. If I could not be with Rwyan, it mattered nothing where I was, or where I went. I slumped on my bed, accepting the tankard Cleton drew me.
He said, “In the God’s name, Daviot, does our parting truly sadden you so?”
I knew he jested and that he sought to lift my spirits. I thought, too, that he looked to throw a bridge across the rift that had grown between us, so I erected
a smile and said, “It shall be strange without you, my friend.”
He nodded, his own smile faltering a moment, and said, “Yes, it shall.” Then he cheered and added, “But we knew it should come, eh? And what an adventure lies ahead!”
We neither of us knew what truth he spoke, and as he raised his mug in toast, I felt a melancholy that had nothing to do with Rwyan or Urt descend upon me. I raised my own mug and drank, but as I did I thought on how I should miss Cleton’s company and felt sorry that we had drifted apart. I looked into his pale blue eyes and said earnestly, “You’ve been a good friend, Cleton, and you’ve my thanks.”
“For what?” He laughed, refusing to join me in depression. “By the God, I’d have been bored without you.”
That night I dreamed that I wandered afoot through an oak wood where a thin new moon silvered the gray mist that hung amidst the gnarled trees. I could hear sounds—the wash of surf, the clatter of metal, of tramping boots and shouting men—but only faint, as if from a great distance or as if the mist dampened sound. I could see dim shapes, but none came near, and when I attempted to approach, they receded. Overhead, I could hear the beat of massive wings, but when I looked to the sky, it was as gray as the mist, only the moon visible. I knew I was lost, and that I must find the edge of the wood before I became as one with its spectral inhabitants, but there were no paths and the holt seemed endless. I heard Rwyan calling me, and then from another direction, Urt, so that I faltered, turning this way and that, unsure to whom I should go, nor certain I should find either. I was wading through deep leaf mold in answer to Rwyan’s call, stumbling over concealed roots, branches tugging at me as if to hold me, when I awoke.
The day was dull, torn between winter’s failing grip and spring’s fresh promise. Rafts of pewter cloud hung low, assaulted from the east by a promisingly bright sun. Birds sang, their melodies far easier on the ear than the sounds Cleton made at his ablutions. I waited for him to finish and then attended to my own toilet.
He was to travel overland to Dorsbry on the Treppanek’s north bank and would not leave until midmorning, whilst I must soon be gone. We clasped hands and said our last farewells, and I shouldered my pack, took up my staff, and quit the chamber that had been my home for the past five years without a backward glance.
The College yards were empty so early, save for scurrying Changed, and I spent a moment staring around, thinking that I should feel some greater emotion. I felt nothing but a vague pleasure at the notion of being again on a deck. I saw Decius watching me from his window and smiled as I remembered that I had once wondered if he had legs. He saluted me and I raised my staff in answer, then strode toward the gates.
Ardyon was there. Ensuring the Changed gatemen did their duty, I presumed. I was not at all inclined to bid the warden any fond farewell, but it was impossible to escape his notice or to ignore him. I looked him in the eye and nodded.
He sniffed and said, “Day’s greetings, Storyman.”
I answered, “Day’s greetings, warden,” with no warmth in my voice.
He sniffed again and clasped his caduceus in both hands against his narrow chest. “The God go with you,” he said.
I said, “My thanks,” still cold.
His cadaverous features remained impassive as ever, but there was about his stance some hesitancy, and I surmised he wished to say something more, so I waited.
Finally he said, “Concerning the servant—Urt. I had no choice in that matter, save to do what I did.”
I looked at his sunken eyes and said, “Perhaps not; but that does not make it right. Think you he enjoys such treatment? To be shunted hither and yon, like some beast?”
His expression did not alter, but in his sniff I thought I discerned amazement. He said, as if the words were all the explanation needed, “He’s Changed.”
“Think you the Changed have no feelings?” I asked coolly.
Behind his back I saw the gatemen staring, their eyes wide and startled. I am not sure whether in amazement at what I said, or that I dared say it to Ardyon. I did not care: it was too late for him to punish me now.
I think he frowned then. At least his brows shifted a fraction upward, and he shook his head slowly. “You’re the oddest student I’ve ever known,” he said.
I shouldered past him and ducked my head to the gatemen, crying, “Day’s greetings and farewell, my friends.”
There was a pause, and then I heard them each call, “Day’s greetings and farewell, Storyman.”
I smiled at that, striding away from the College, thinking that I scored a small victory.
The Dragon was a single-masted galley captained by a westcoaster named Nyal, whose good nature prompted me to revise my opinion of westcoasters. He stood a head taller than I and seemed composed mostly of thick black hair, out of which eyes and teeth sparkled cheerfully. He boasted a crew of twelve bull-bred oarsmen and carried on board his sister, Lwya, her husband, Drach, and their daughter, Morwenna. The family, he explained, was fleeing Durbrecht for fear of the Sky Lords, planning to return to Arbryn, where Drach hoped to reestablish his chandlery. Drach advised me that their home had been partially destroyed in the last Coming and that he had sold his business at a loss, but that he preferred to settle his family in some location safer than Durbrecht, which he believed was singled out for destruction by the Sky Lords as it contained the Sorcerous College.
All this I learned before we reached midstream: Drach was a voluble fellow and was convinced a Storyman must have the ear of the koryphon, if not that of Gahan himself.
I expressed myself innocent of such connections and asked him if he thought Arbryn should be safe, whereupon he nodded enthusiastically, expounding his theory that the Sky Lords looked to destroy Dharbek’s centers of magic, leaving alone the lesser settlements.
“But Arbryn’s a keep,” I said, “and a commur-mage, surely.”
“Of course,” he answered me. “The aeldor Thyrsk’s the holder, and Donal the commur-mage. But the Sky Lords’ll not come so far west—Arbryn’s too small. No, the Dark Ones’ll concentrate on the Sentinels, and Durbrecht, on Kherbryn. They’ll not bother with such small fry.”
There was ephemeral truth in his supposition, and I had no great desire to blunt his optimism, but his careless—or so it seemed to me—dismissal of the Sentinels (and thus of Rwyan) irked me. I said, “But do the Sentinels fall, there’ll be no defense against the Sky Lords. They’ll come unchecked, and do they conquer Durbrecht and Kherbryn, there’ll be none to stand against them. How shall Arbryn fare then?”
I felt immediately guilty, for both Lwya and Morwenna hung upon my words as if I was some font of wisdom, and at this dour pronouncement they paled and gasped, the daughter reaching for her mother’s hand. She was a pretty thing, a few years younger than I, and had my heart not belonged to Rwyan, I believe I might have sought a closer acquaintance. As it was, I regretted my stark declaration. So I smiled heartily and said, “Better to place your trust in the sorcerers and the Lord Protector. Pray the Sentinels deny the Sky Lords passage, and that the warbands slay those Kho’rabi who set foot on our soil.”
Lwya, whose dark good looks foretold her daughter’s future, murmured a heartfelt “Amen,” to that, and Morwenna nodded eagerly, her great black eyes intent upon my face.
Drach tugged on his beard, his brow wrinkled as he considered my words. “I do not wish it,” he said. “The God knows, I’d see them blasted from the sky, but still I think—”
He broke off as his wife touched his arm. I suspect they held me in such awe as to fear I might denounce them as traitors. Perhaps I flatter myself. I did, however, remember that my duty as Storyman was to instill courage in the folk I encountered, so I said, “There’s no denying Durbrecht took a beating this past year, but Trevid has his engineers building even greater war machines, and the Sorcerous College bends all its efforts to the finding of greater magicks. The Sentinels still stand and shall be strengthened the more. The Sky Lords shall not defeat us! Remember the s
tory of Anduran.”
I spun out that tale of past glories, when the aeldor led his warband against a Kho’rabi force three times their number and held the invaders at bay until the Lord Protector, Padyr, came to his aid, with the sorcerer, Wynn, and the enemy were slaughtered to a man. It was one of the great old tales, and they had doubtless heard it a hundred times before, but (though I say it myself) I was a skillful story-spinner, and I held them rapt as Nyal pointed the Dragon westward.
As twilight dimmed the Treppanek, Nyal brought us in to a place named Darbryn, a village that served as an overnight stop to passing traffic, with a ferryboat and an inn. I suggested that I sleep on deck, thinking to hoard my coin, but Drach insisted I accept a room at his expense. I am not sure whether he looked to make amends for fleeing Durbrecht, or if he felt intimacy with a Storyman loaned him prestige. It mattered little to me: I accepted with alacrity.
As the women bathed and we drank ale with Nyal, he said, “I trust you don’t think me a coward, Daviot. Nor that I lack faith in the sorcerers or Lord Protector. I fought with the militia this last year, but I’ve Lwya and Morwenna to think of, and I’d not see them fall to the Sky Lords. Had you a wife, or a daughter, you’d understand.”
That cut me somewhat, but how could he know? I smiled and reassured him I doubted neither his courage nor his loyalty and wished them safe refuge in Arbryn.
Nyal grunted and said, “A man’s first loyalty’s to his kith and kin, no?”
I agreed and asked him if he was not wed, at which he shook his head and said bluntly, “I was. The cursed Sky Lords slew her.”
I voiced condolences and asked, “In Arbryn?”
He shook his head again, setting the mass of his darkly curling hair to waving, and answered me, “On the Treppanek, east of Durbrecht. She sailed with me. We were Rorsbry-bound two summers past when an airboat passed over.” He drained his mug in one long gulp and shouted for more. “They were crippled—low overhead—and they dropped their God-cursed fire on the ship. Kytha died, and half my crew. The ship sank. Had it not been for Drach, here …”
