by Angus Wells
Then the Sky Lords returned to their vessel. The Changed saluted. The wizard spoke, and the elementals floating about the airboat stirred. It was like watching a mist lit by firelight. There was a sighing, mournful music, and the airboat rose, straight up into the night. I scarce dared turn my head to watch, and when I did, my neck protested the movement. I saw the airboat hover, turn toward the south, and then it was gone, lost against the sky, a shadow prowling the night. I returned my gaze to the Changed. They stood awhile, watching, then kicked the fire dead and clambered limber over the rocks. For a fearful moment I thought they came my way, but they cleared the bowl east of my position and ran away through the trees.
I waited until I was certain I was alone. Then I rose, groaning as my rigid muscles unlocked. I stretched, working feeling back into my body, and walked slowly to the clearing where the gray mare waited. She lifted her head as I approached and whickered softly. I blessed her for her patience and her silence, but when I moved to stroke her muzzle, she rolled her eyes and bared her yellow teeth. I contented myself with murmured thanks of which she took no notice.
I unstoppered my wineskin and swallowed a long draught. My stomach rumbled, and I found cheese and bread and settled on my blanket. I set my staff close to hand. It was foolish of me, but I no longer cared to light a fire. My mind was racing, and I peered constantly about, wondering if the night hid watching eyes. I decided the mare should give me warning if ambush threatened and did my best to order my thoughts.
My first impulse was to saddle the gray and ride headlong for Thornbar Keep, to bring word to Morfus of Changed treachery. Then I thought that perhaps the Changed I had seen had not come from Thornbar. I thought that it should not matter much, the outcome would be much the same. Did I go to the aeldor with my tale, what course could he take but to announce betrayal, to inform the Lord Protector and his fellow aeldors that Changed and Sky Lords came together? And for what purpose other than betrayal of Dharbek? That would be his duty, and I did not think Morfus was a man to shirk his duty, nor entertain such doubts as I. Even did he seek to hold it secret, such news—such a fear—would surely not stay hidden long, but would become public knowledge.
And what then? A pogrom? A purging of the Changed? Or their banishment across the Slammerkin to Ur-Dharbek, those—perhaps innocent—who survived? My troubled mind conjured an image of Truemen and Changed locked in bloody strife. I was not sure who would win.
And where, I wondered as the night grew chill and my soul yet colder, should that leave we Truemen? We depended too much on the services of the Changed that our world might continue smooth without them. We relied on their labor: our society would collapse without them. It was an alarming thought.
But so was the notion that all across the land the Changed played the part of spies for the Sky Lords; that the Kho’rabi had eyes and ears throughout Dharbek. That did they mount their Great Coming, the Changed might rise to stab we Truemen in the back.
Fear counterbalanced fear; confusion stood paramount. The bread I chewed threatened to clog my throat: I spat it out and rinsed my mouth with wine. I did not know what to do. My duty as a Trueman was clear—to warn Morfus, to urge he send word to Kherbryn and to Durbrecht. I thought that did I do my duty, I condemned Urt and all his kind to massacre.
Then I wondered if he knew. And with that wondering came a fresh consideration—What if those Changed I had seen were some outlaw group? What if they acted alone? Were that the case, I should be responsible for the suffering of thousands of innocent Changed. I felt a horror of such bloodshed. I felt torn.
I looked to the sky and saw it brightening with dawn’s approach. It was empty of enlightenment. I wished I had not seen that cursed fire; that I had quit Thornbar earlier, or later, or gone another way. I cursed myself and fate, but what was, was, and all my wishing could not change it. I threw back my head and bellowed a curse.
The rising sun found me squatted on my blanket, oblivious to the dew or the chorus of the birds. Curious rabbits studied me and were ignored. I was no wiser, nor any more decided.
I wished Rwyan or Urt were here, that I might ask them what I should do. I wished there were someone with whom I might share this dreadful burden. Its weight ground me down.
I was still sitting as the sun climbed to its noonday zenith. My mare had given up her demands for oats and set sullenly to cropping the grass. I was, I think, more than a little mad then.
I had no answers, only the prospect of terrible slaughter did I do my duty, the prospect of dreadful bloodshed did I not. I could not convince myself of the rectitude of either course. I felt that down the one path lay betrayal of my people, down the other betrayal of the Changed.
I reached a compromise. Perhaps it was born of cowardice. I know not, only that it seemed to me the sole path I might take and still hold true to my own conscience: I decided I would hold my tongue.
I decided (or perhaps I merely sought to justify my indecision) that the Sky Lords did not yet command such power over the elementals that they could launch their Great Coming. Therefore Dharbek was at least a little while safe. Meanwhile, I would endeavor to discover if the Changed—all of them—did indeed conspire against we Truemen, or if only some faction allied with the Kho’rabi. Should I find such a plot existed, then I would make known all I had seen, all I might by then have learned. I should face awful punishment, but until such time as I could know, I would hold silent.
I prayed I did the right thing.
I rode south with my secret. It was a burden I had rather not carried, but it dwelt with me, an incubus I could not shed save at risk of birthing its mate. In the keeps I told my tales and conversed with commurs-magus and -mage, aeldors and jennyms, soldiers and common folk, as Daviot the Storyman, thinking all the time that I was now Daviot the Betrayer by their lights. Often I was tempted to blurt it out. Often I smiled and spoke and pretended all was well as I felt guilt beat a cold tocsin in my heart. Often I wondered if the sorcerers saw through me, or into me, and only played some arcane game with me, allowing me to mire myself ever deeper in treachery. Nights I lay often awake, the gladiators of doubt and guilt battling in my head. But I said nothing; it was as if a lock lay upon my tongue, keyed by irresolution.
It was a place too small to own a name: no more than seven rough cottages set within a cleared space in the woods, animal pens nearby, and vegetable patches. I saw that there were seven houses as I approached, and I wondered if that was an omen of some kind. Are three and seven not luck’s numbers? I was met by a pack of barking dogs, sizable hounds of assorted colors and a uniformity of large teeth. One—the leader of the pack, I supposed—dared snap at my mare’s fetlocks. Her ears were already flattened, her nostrils flared. She liked dogs no better than any other living thing, and she sent this particular hound howling into retreat, the rest deciding caution was the better part of valor. I was nearly unseated by her display, and by the time I had her calmed, we had an audience.
They were mostly women, the only males a handful of children who stared wide-eyed at my ferocious steed. One stepped forward, two small faces peering from behind the protection of her skirts.
“You own a fiercesome horse, stranger,” she said. She seemed not at all afraid, only sensibly wary. “Do you tether her secure, I’ll bid you welcome. We’ve ale, and food enough to spare.”
I said, “Thank you,” and climbed down.
I led the mare to a pen where hogs snuffled and lashed her reins to the fence.
The woman said, “Tyr, do you fetch a bucket of fresh water and see her turned out. But be careful of the beast.”
A boy darted from behind her skirts. He was a sturdy lad, his head a thatch of fine brown hair. I said, “Perhaps best I tend the mare. She’s a temper, as you’ve seen.”
“No matter,” the woman said. “Tyr’s a way with animals, and he’ll not let her harm him.”
She seemed so confident I saw no reason to argue. I looked at her and smiled. I said, “I am Daviot, a Storyman.”
“Well, the day’s greetings, Daviot Storyman,” she returned. “I am Pele.”
She was tall as I, and slender, her features delicate. Strands of silky, honey-colored hair escaped from beneath a headscarf. I saw that her eyes were green and somewhat slanted and realized with a shock that she was Changed, a cat-bred female. I hid my surprise behind a courtly bow, at which she chuckled and said, “We’ve little ceremony here, my friend.”
She showed none of the deference the Changed customarily granted Truemen. I let my eyes move past her to the others. I saw that of the seven women, three were Changed. Yet it was Pele who spoke for all, and she who named the Trueman females. It was as if, in the absence of their menfolk, all there regarded her as leader.
Pele brought me to her cottage and poured me a mug of very good ale. It was the midpart of the afternoon and I had eaten, but from courtesy and a desire to avoid affront I accepted the platter of cold pork and a wedge of bread she offered me. As I ate, she busied herself with domestic tasks, talking the while. Her daughter, who was named Alyn, assisted her when the child was not studying me with huge eyes that made me think of kittens. The cottage was small but built sound. It would hold off the cold of winter; now the single window and the door stood open.
“So what brings you here?” asked Pele. “We see few strangers in these wild parts, and never a Storyman before.”
“I was at Thornbar Keep,” I said. “I thought to wander the hinterland awhile.”
She nodded, as if this were not at all strange. She said, “Sometimes the Truemen go in to Thornbar.”
“To sell your produce?” I asked.
She said, “Yes, and to buy such tools and stuff as we cannot make or grow.”
“It’s a lonely place,” I said.
She laughed at that, reaching up to brush an errant strand of golden hair from her eyes. She was kneading bread, and she left a white smear of flour on her forehead. She said, “There’s company enough. But still—a Storyman shall liven the evening, do you elect to stay.”
“Do you offer such hospitality,” I said, “I’ll gladly accept.”
“’Tis yours for the asking.” She gestured at our surroundings. “You’ve the choice of a room shared with Tyr and Alyn, or the hearthside.”
“The hearth is good enough for me,” I said.
“Then be welcome. Save …” She paused a moment. I thought her, albeit on only short acquaintance, unusually hesitant. “Not all approve of us. Perhaps you’d best reserve your decision until Maerk returns.”
I asked, “Your husband?”
She answered, “My man. We’re not wed in the Church’s eyes.”
I laughed then and said, “That matters nothing to me. I’ve not the niceties of some mantis.”
“It’s not that,” she returned me, and looked me straight in the eye. “Maerk’s a Trueman.”
I could not conceal my surprise, and she saw it. Her fine features darkened a fraction; not, I thought, with embarrassment, but with defiance. I swallowed a mouthful of ale. Alyn studied me solemnly.
I said, “Is that why not all approve of you?”
Pele nodded. “And why we seldom visit Thornbar. There’s some would see us punished. It’s why we live here; in part, at least.”
I shall not tell you I was not taken aback. That would be a lie. It was not unknown for Truemen and Changed to consort casually. Indeed, there had been establishments in Durbrecht that boasted the exoticism of Changed cyprians, and I had heard tales of women who enjoyed the services of Changed lovers. But it was not a thing done openly. It was a thing denounced by the Church, furtive, and marriage was unknown. The slurs Barus had cast my way were indicative of the common feeling: a couple such as Pele and Maerk must inevitably find themselves outcast. I could not help but glance at Alyn.
Pele saw the direction of my gaze and shook her head. “I was wed before,” she said softly, “and widowed. My babies are both Changed; Maerk bought us after.”
My brows must have risen at that. Certainly the thought entered my mind that Maerk had purchased himself a cyprian of a kind. I think it did not show, but Pele was quick as any feline, and as good at gauging mood. She reached beneath her blouse and drew out a disk, held around her slim neck by a leather thong. Silently, she held it toward me: it was such a disk as freed Changed were given, stamped with the marks of authority. I had seen such disks in the hands of beggars.
Pele said, “He was a carpenter then. He saved and borrowed until he was able to buy me. Then he set me free. His family cast him out for that.”
Her voice challenged me to object. I said, “He must be a good man.”
She said, “He is. And more—he loves me; and I him. Can you understand that, Daviot Storyman? Do you know what love is?”
I said, “I know what it is. In Durbrecht …”
I shrugged, and could not help the sigh I vented. I had believed my memories of Rwyan under tighter rein, but this story brought them back. I thought that we might have found some refuge such as this hamlet, some lonely place far from our duties. Then I thought of the secret I carried and knew that once duty is accepted, it cannot be escaped. I said, “She was a sorcerer. They sent her to the Sentinels, and me here.”
Pele nodded as if she understood. I suppose she did. She said, “Perhaps you’ll find her again.”
I said, “I think not.”
She drew me another mug and stood before me then. “We are not the only ones,” she said. “Of the families in this place there are two Changed and three Trueman. Two are of mixed blood—Maerk and I, Durs and Ylle. Durs is of canine stock.”
Perhaps she anticipated outrage, or criticism, but I felt none. I was, as I have said, surprised, but I had witnessed stranger things of late, and to express disapproval of such arrangements would have been a betrayal of my belief that there was, in truth, no longer very much difference between my kind and hers. Still, she seemed to expect a response. I am not sure why I said what I did; the words sprang unpremeditated from my mouth: “I had a friend in Durbrecht of canine stock. His name was Urt.”
She said, “A friend?”
Her tone was casual, neutral. Perhaps purposefully so. She looked at me with her head cocked slightly to one side. That I was Trueman and she Changed meant nothing, and everything. I do not believe she judged me, but I felt a tremendous need to explain: I told her of my friendship with Urt.
When I was done, she nodded and returned to her bread. After a while she said, “He was a good friend.”
I said, “Yes. Perhaps the best I’ve known—he risked much for me.”
“And was rewarded with exile.”
She glanced up as she said that, watching me with enigmatic eyes. I did feel judged then, as if I stood in place of all my Trueman kind. I answered her, “That was not my choice. I argued it.”
Again she nodded. Then she smiled and said, “I think Urt found a good friend in you, Daviot.”
I returned her smile, but mine was cynical. “It seems my friendship brings poor reward,” I said.
“The same might well enough be said of Maerk and I.” Pele shrugged. It was a lazy, feline movement. “This world deems us different and would not see Trueman and Changed together. Save as master and servant.” “Or dragon bait,” I said.
“That was long and long ago.” She chuckled. “So long ago, none but you Storymen remember those old ways.”
“And yet,” I said, “Ur-Dharbek still stands a barrier between this country and the land of the dragons.”
“Old habits die hard,” she said. “And Ur-Dharbek is not much different now to the Forgotten Country, I think.”
I said, “Save the wild Changed dwell there in freedom.”
I looked to cast a hook in the waters of her knowledge. This was no sorcerer, but a woman of the Changed who appeared to me entirely open and honest. I thought perhaps to land a catch of information.
Instead, I got a laugh, a shrug, and, “So it is said. But I’ve no idea.”
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��Should you and Maerk,” I asked, “and all these others, not be received better there?”
She said again, “I’ve no idea,” and then: “Why should it be different? If Ur-Dharbek is indeed a kingdom of we Changed, then should attitudes not likely be the same? Save in reverse? I’d not see Maerk reviled by my kind.”
I digested this. It had not properly occurred to me that the Changed would indulge the same prejudices as Truemen. I had thought, albeit vaguely, that if Ur-Dharbek harbored a Changed society, if it was now a country in its own right, then it should be a free society, a country without such partiality. In this, Pele was wiser than I. Why should Ur-Dharbek be different? Indeed, the wild Changed must have greater reason to detest the Truemen who had made them to be prey for the dragons and now used them as servants. As slaves, in fact, for the Changed of Dharbek had few enough rights. That should surely be a weight of suffering’s memory. I found no ready answer.
“No,” Pele said as I sat silent, “I think we do better here. We are left alone, and we’ve a good enough life. Besides, Ur-Dharbek is a very long way off.”
I said, “That’s true,” with such unconscious solemnity that we both laughed.
Then Tyr came in. He carried my saddlebags and my staff, which he set at my feet. He faced me with that dignity only children can command. “I’ve seen your horse settled,” he told me. “She’s very ill-tempered. When I took off her saddle, she tried to bite me.”
“I apologize for my disagreeable horse,” I said, “and thank you for tending her. Perhaps I’d best look to her needs from now on, though.”
