by Angus Wells
I said, “Krystin, do you tell me of the wild Changed?”
For an instant I saw her beautiful face assume the cold stillness of a statue. I was uncertain what I saw in her eyes, for she sat up, denying me clear sight, but I thought it anger, or doubt, or even disappointment.
She said, “What of them, Daviot?”
Her voice was entirely normal. It sounded uninterested, even bored, as if she felt there were far better topics to discuss on such a day, in such a place. I suspected the tone assumed.
I said, “I don’t know. Only that whenever I’ve asked a sorcerer about them, I see a particular expression, as if I trespass on forbidden ground. And none give plain answers.”
“Perhaps there are none to give,” she said; then laughed. “Perhaps we sorcerers guard our secrets.”
I sensed prevarication and said, “Is it forbidden you speak of them, tell me, and I’ll hold my silence.”
Her laugh was entirely genuine then. “And shall you curb that Storyman’s curiosity, my love? Is such a thing possible?”
I shrugged, knowing the answer; not wanting to voice it.
She said, “Did your Rwyan not tell you?”
(Such was our relationship that we had told one another of our lost lovers and sometimes spoke their names without fear of giving hurt.)
“Not much,” I said. “No more than anyone does.”
“And how much is that?” she asked.
I said, “That they dwell in Ur-Dharbek, put there by the first sorcerers as”—Barus’s term seemed most apt—“dragon fodder. That those Changed liberated by their owners may cross the Slammerkin if they wish, but none may come back. I’ve the feeling the Border Cities are no longer defense against the dragons but are there to hold out the wild Changed. And if the dragons are dead, then surely Ur-Dharbek must now be a veritable kingdom of the Changed.”
Krystin laughed again. Perhaps too lightly? I was not sure. She said, “Perhaps it is. What matter? Do the freed ones choose to cross the Slammerkin, why would they come back?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“And what you don’t know troubles you, eh?” She turned onto her belly, chin cupped in her hands as she regarded me, hair that captured sunlight falling across her face. “By the God, Daviot, you’re a Storyman.”
I nodded and smiled. “To learn is my duty,” I declared.
“And shall you next seek the secrets of my calling?” she asked.
I said, “I’ve not that talent.” I smiled as I said it, but I was nonetheless aware she gave me no answers.
She hesitated a moment, plucking a frond of grass that she placed between her teeth, nibbling. Then she said, “We say little of the wild Changed because we know little of them. Ur-Dharbek is closed to us—no Trueman goes there, and we sorcerers are no exception.”
“But,” I said, and paused, feeling myself on uncertain ground, “why not?”
Krystin answered me with, “Why should we? Is Dharbek too small for you? Would you conquer this kingdom of the Changed?”
I said, “No. But still I wonder. Urt would not speak of the place, either.”
“Perhaps Urt knew no more than I,” she said. “Which is little enough more than you.”
“Are you not curious?” I asked.
She said bluntly, “No. I’ve enough here in Tryrsbry to occupy me. I’ve the Sky Lords, for one thing.”
I said, “Yes, of course. But even so …”
She tossed her grass blade away and rolled onto her back, reaching for my hand. “Even so, my Storyman. I’ve not your thirst for knowledge. I am but a humble commur-mage, with a keep to protect; I’m happy with my lot. Though I could be made happier….”
She drew my hand-closer. She had removed her tunic and wore only breeks and a shirt of fine silk. Thin silk that clung like a second skin, and no undergarments. I felt the warmth of her flesh and the quickening beat of her heart. I put my curiosity aside. I did not, then, consider that perhaps she evaded my questions. I did not, then, care.
That came later, and even then I was not sure. Perhaps it was only coincidence. Perhaps Krystin had no hand in it; or no more hand than her duty demanded.
What happened was that three days later, I was ordered to quit Tryrsbry.
I had known I must, but the days had melted one into the next, and I had lingered longer than I should, even with a horse to carry me on. I had set the decision aside, aware that the sorcerers in the keeps I had already visited would send word back to Durbrecht; aware that Krystin would have reported my arrival and should report my departure when it came. Perhaps it was only that. But I could not help but wonder that the order came so soon after that abortive conversation. The timing was such as fitted the sending of an occult message and the returning of an answer.
Krystin told me as we prepared for the evening meal. She had been about her sorcerous business that afternoon, and I had passed the day in the town. This was our first time alone since morning.
She took my hands and looked into my eyes. “Word came from Durbrecht,” she said abruptly. “You are commanded to go on.”
She looked sad. I believe she was, for all we had both known from the start this must come. I felt a coldness in my belly—as before, with Rwyan, I thought that knowing a thing and accepting it were very different. I swallowed and ducked my head. She put her arms about my neck and kissed me lengthily.
When we drew apart she said, “Tomorrow. Daviot, I am sorry.”
I nodded and stroked her cheek. I said, “Yes.” I did not know what else to say. I felt that an interval had ended, an idyll stolen from out of time.
She smiled. I thought of tragic statues. For a while we stood in silence, holding one another. Then Krystin said, “I shall not forget you, Storyman.”
I said, “Nor I you, my commur-mage.”
“You’d not, eh?” She chuckled. I did not feel much like laughing, but I forced myself. She said, “So, do we go down with brave faces?”
I said, “Yes.”
Yrdan was already informed and promised me such provisions as should see me comfortably through to the next keep, which was Cymbry. I thanked him for his largesse, and when the meal was done, I believe I excelled myself in my storytelling, for all I felt no great enthusiasm. All the time I could see Barus smirking. I was determined he should not see my melancholy.
Krystin and I slept little that night. We said our farewells with few words and came the morning went out to the stables, attended by Yrdan and his family. The aeldor clasped my hand, and Raene embraced me; both daughters planted moist kisses on my cheek. I held Krystin a last time, then mounted the gray mare, who snorted and set to prancing. I raised a hand in farewell and heeled my irritable horse to a canter. I did not look back.
Tryrsbry lay a league or more behind me when I heard the hoofbeats. I was making for the coast road, thinking the sight of the sea should cheer my megrims. The trail was broad, winding up the flank of a shallow valley where cork oaks grew, and I could see the rider coming fast after me. I reined in, thinking some messenger was sent from Yrdan’s keep; I was curious as to why. The morning was bright and I squinted, seeking to recognize the horseman. It was not Krystin—that blond head I should have known instantly—and I waited at the road’s center. I saw an unfamiliar bay stallion, a man in the leathers of the warband in the saddle. As he came closer, I recognized Barus. Almost, I took my staff from its bucket; then thought better of it. The jennym would surely offer me no harm, and I’d no wish to be the first to make a hostile move.
He snatched his mount to a brutal halt, wheeling the animal in a circle that lifted dust in a swirling cloud. I saw that he wore no armor and that his long sword was hung across his back. He studied me in silence, his face begrimed. His horse blew hard. There was a lather of yellowish sweat on its chest and neck.
I said, “Day’s greetings, jennym.”
He said, “Thought you to depart without an accounting between us, Storyman?”
I frowned, for all I cou
ld guess the reason, and said, “An accounting? An accounting for what?”
He said, “For insults given. For … Krystin.”
I realized I had been wrong in thinking he would not offer me harm. I watched his face, awaiting those telltale signs that warn of attack. I thought that he could free his blade and swing before I might bring my staff from its fixings. I set my knees firm against the mare’s ribs, and she, trained for battle, blew her own whistling challenge, her ears flattening. Barus’s mount answered with a snort. Its eyes rolled. I thought he had ridden the poor beast very hard, and so it might well respond slower. Still, I’d no great desire to fight him.
I said, “Barus, for insults given, I’ve apologized. As for Krystin—Krystin’s her own woman; the choice was hers to make.”
His nostrils flared, much like those of his horse. I saw his eyes narrow. He was bareheaded, his black thatch bound with a sweaty cloth. I thought that if I could land one sound blow against his skull, the impending combat should be ended. And then that a single cut from his sword should end it just as well. A quarterstaff is a most effective weapon (which is, of course, the reason the College gave us wanderers the poles), but it is a weapon best employed on foot. I thought that if he pressed the affair, I must endeavor to persuade him down from his horse, or seek to knock him down before he cut me.
He said, “Your cursed Storyman’s tongue beguiled her. Had you not come to Tryrsbry …”
I said, “I’m gone from Tryrsbry now. Do you pursue your suit.” I shrugged.
He shook his head, not taking his eyes from my face. “Too late,” he said. “What’s done is done.”
I said, “In the God’s name, Barus, this is pointless! What shall you achieve by fighting me?”
He corrected me: “By slaying you, Storyman.”
I ignored his interruption. I continued: “Yrdan will have your head. Think you my death shall bring Krystin to your bed? I tell you no.”
“How shall they know?” he asked, and smiled. I thought of snarling dogs, of rapacious wolves. He jabbed a dirty thumb in the direction of the timber. “Do I leave your body up there, amongst the trees … the Sky Lords, perhaps; or bandits. Whichever, time shall pass ere you’re found.”
“And my horse?” I asked him. “What of her? Shall she not return to her familiar stable, and so bring warning?”
That gave him pause, as I had hoped. He was, after all, one of Yrdan’s warband, and a horse was a thing prized and honored: he would hesitate to kill my mare.
I had underestimated his cunning and his hatred. He spat and said, “Your horse I’ll tether. It shall take her some time to break free.”
The mare whickered then, as if she understood the import of our conversation. She tossed her head, and I felt her tremble under me. I thought her anxious to give battle. Then I thought that Barus had first encountered me afoot: likely he allowed me but poor equestrian skills. I thanked Cleton for his lessons then; and Keran for all his. He it was had first told me an angry man may be weakened by his rage, that fury is a flame best burned cold.
I said, deliberately, “You’d stoop to murder then, like some common footpad. Does Yrdan know his jennym owns so little honor?”
He barked laughter. “The Headsman, bastard! As I slew that Kho’rabi, so shall I cut you to size.”
I said, “The Sky Lord was wounded, coward. He wore two arrows. Think you I shall be so easy?”
He gave me back, “Yes!” and brought his right hand up to the hilt of his long sword.
I gave my mare a length of rein. I drove my heels hard against her flanks, and she—sweet creature!—screamed and hurled herself forward, against the bay stallion.
Her chest struck the stallion as he reared in defense. He was blown by the gallop: he was slow. He screamed in turn, flung off balance. Barus was thrown atilt in the saddle, and his blade flailed empty air. I had my staff out from the bucket, and though I could not deliver a firm blow, I rammed the tip against the jennym’s chest. Barus made a sound midway between a shriek of rage and a cry of pain. I thrust again. He was thrown to the ground.
I sprang down, leaving my mare to her own fight, and ran around the snorting horses. Barus was clambering to his feet. His dark face was ugly, no longer like a dog’s but akin now to that of a wild boar brought to bay—all blind fury and the need to inflict harm. He was also fast as a boar, and near as strong. He saw my staff swing at his skull and succeeded in both gaining his feet and moving clear of the blow. My hopes of ending the battle swiftly evaporated. I held the staff in both hands, across my chest, advancing.
Barus roared and swung a double-handed cut; I raised my staff and beat it off. Seasoned hickory is almost as strong as iron, and this pole was bound and tipped with metal: I felt the impact, and so did the jennym. We each paced a step back, feinting, assessing one another.
I said, “A question, Barus—one you failed to answer. Did your mother know your father’s name?”
He gave me no reply save a blow. I said, “It’s common knowledge in the keep, Barus, that you’ll never have Krystin. They laugh at you.”
That sally (crude as the first, I admit; but I was fighting for my life) served its purpose: he screamed and delivered a flurry of blows. I countered, defensive at first, but then with knocks to ribs and forearms. He was a skilled swordsman, and powerful, and I knew that he needed land only one serious cut to take the victory; but I was no laggard with the quarterstaff. Also, he fought enraged, which state—as Keran often enough advised us—consumes energy fast, whilst I fought coldly. It was as when I had gone out against the Sky Lords in Durbrecht: I perceived Barus as an obstacle, a thing insensate, a receptacle for my own cold anger.
We drew apart. He was panting. I saw spittle slick on his chin. I said, “Krystin told me she’d as soon bed you as—”
The sentence went unfinished. With a howl of naked hatred, Barus launched a terrible attack. The long sword seemed weightless in his hands. It pounded against my guard, the staff vibrating, sparks flying as edged steel struck the metal banding. I retreated, aware that at my back two horses snorted. I thought they no longer fought, but I had no wish to find myself driven between them or against the hooves of either. I thought my mare as likely to kick me as my opponent. I deflected a blow and riposted, catching the jennym’s elbow. I saw his face pale at that and gave him two more steps, then cracked his elbow again.
He cursed, and his next cut was weaker. I risked a swift sidelong glance and saw the horses on the grass beside the road. They, it seemed, had settled their differences and now grazed between wary looks at us two. I backed a little way across the trail. Barus, his teeth bared, came at me. I parried and succeeded in tapping his elbow a third time. Could I but get past his guard to deliver a strong enough blow, I could shatter the bone. I thought that I had best not kill him, lest it be my head Yrdan took. Even so, I was tempted: I felt, now, that I had the victory in sight.
I retreated almost to the meadow, feigning weariness. I let the quarterstaff fall a little under the onslaught, as if the pole grew heavy in my hands. I aped the jennym’s panting. Barus glowered, his eyes now quite mad. He grunted a hoarse battle cry and lifted his blade high. I watched it rise and cringed. I saw triumph anticipated in his eyes. I sprang forward, my staff crisscrossing before me, fast. It landed twice, hard against his ribs, and then I swung the pole up, taking his descending cut and forcing his blade away to the side. For an instant we looked directly into one another’s eyes. His were wide and shocked. I reversed my stroke, dropping the staff to hook his knees. I knocked his legs from under him, and before his back touched the dirt of the trail I swung the staff against his skull.
I might have killed him with that blow, but I held back. I’d no wish to make an enemy of Yrdan, to find myself posted outlaw. Even so, I saw his eyes and mouth spring wide, then close. The sword fell at his side, and I stamped a boot down, trapping the blade. Barus groaned and stirred: he was remarkably strong. I tapped him, almost gently, on the point of his chin, and h
e lay still.
For a while I stood poised to strike again, thinking he perhaps feigned unconsciousness. When he made no further move, I kicked the sword away and stooped beside him. A colorful bruise was spreading down his right temple and cheek. I checked the pulses in his neck and wrists and listened a moment to his stertorous breath, assuring myself he lived. Then I rose and went to his horse.
The bay stallion showed me the whites of its eyes, pawing ground as I approached. I set my staff down and murmured to the beast, calming it enough that it allowed me to take its halter and lead it to where its master lay. I took Barus’s sword and used it as a tethering peg. Then I rummaged swiftly over the saddle, finding cords there sufficient to my purpose. I returned to Barus and hauled him up. He was heavy, and he moaned softly as I got him on his feet and lifted his arms across the saddle. The stallion stamped and nickered as I pushed the insensible jennym across its back. I lashed him in place and secured his sword. Then I looped the horse’s reins around the saddlehorn and slapped the beast’s rump. The stallion snorted a protest and cantered back the way it had come, back toward Tryrsbry. Barus flopped like a sack.
I watched until I was confident the animal would take him home and then went to my gray mare.
She looked up from her grazing and snapped yellow teeth at my hand as I took the reins. I forgave her: she had proven her usefulness this day. She showed no sign of wounds, and so I collected my staff and once more climbed astride, turning her up the slope.
As I rode away, I set to wondering how Barus would feel when he woke. I hoped he should regain consciousness before he reached the keep: his embarrassment would have been a thing to savor. I wondered what explanation he would offer. I realized that my melancholy had entirely disappeared. I began to laugh aloud.
When I reached Cymbry, I was met by the commur-magus of that keep. He was a thin, bald man, Cuentin by name, and he greeted me with a smile. He was dressed extravagantly for his calling and his sex, and I discerned a subtle rouging of his cheeks, a touch of kohl about his eyes. Rings glittered on his fingers.
