by Angus Wells
He thought about this a moment, then nodded solemnly and said, “If you wish. Besides, if you’re to ride her, you’d best learn to handle her.”
I said, “Yes, I had,” trying very hard not to offend him by laughing at his earnestness.
Pele rescued us both with the suggestion that he go select a chicken for our dinner, and he ran out with Alyn hard on his heels.
“You’ve fine children,” I said.
“Yes. It’s a pity I can have no more.” She looked a moment pensive, then shrugged and said, “But the seed of Changed and Trueman mixes no better than that of cat and dog.”
I could think of nothing to say to that and so held my tongue, watching as she set her bread in the oven and began to prepare vegetables. It was a scene of such domesticity as I had not encountered in some time. I had been mostly in the keeps and towns of late, and there such things were done out of sight by Changed servants, whose offices I accepted unthinking. Sitting here, I contemplated again what life with Rwyan might have been like, had we not been born with our respective talents. I began to feel nostalgia for a life I had never known, nor likely ever should. Melancholy threatened—I pushed it back: there were far greater events afoot.
I watched Pele’s deft movements, thinking how graceful she was. I thought she could not know of Changed dealing with the Sky Lords, for if she did, surely she would not make me so welcome. Unless … an ugly notion imposed itself … she sought only to lure me into a false sense of security. And then? Would Maerk appear, and others, and look to slay me? I shook my head: what I had seen and what I had failed to do surely seduced me into mistrust where only honest welcome was offered. These people could not know my secret. Nor were they likely to consort with the Sky Lords—Changed and Truemen living together in harmony, wed in all eyes save those of the Church? No, surely they would not. Rather, this was an idyll of a kind, an indication of how things could be, were inbred prejudice denied.
I grew the more convinced of this when Maerk appeared. He was a blunt-featured man, swarthy and hairy as any other westcoaster but with a ready smile that lit his face as he came in.
He cried, “Day’s greetings, Storyman,” as he crossed the room to plant a resounding kiss on Pele’s flour-smudged cheek, holding her close a moment before drawing himself a mug of ale and pulling up a chair. I saw that his forearms were corded with such muscle as a carpenter or a forester develops, and his shoulders were wide. When he took my hand, his grip was powerful.
“I found Tyr and Alyn amidst the wreckage of a chicken,” he explained, “and they told me we’d a visitor. Pele’s made you welcome, I trust?”
“Most welcome.” I flourished my mug. “My thanks to you both.”
Maerk made a dismissive gesture. “The God knows, we see few enough strangers here that we’d turn a man away,” he said. “And a Storyman, to boot? No, never. But you’ll earn your bread, I warn you.”
I said, “Gladly.” I felt my random suspicions dissipate.
“No doubt you’ve tidings aplenty,” said Maerk, but when I began to speak, he hushed me, telling me to save word of the greater world for later, when all might gather to hear it. “We manage well enough without,” he said, “that I can wait awhile; and you not delay your storytelling with twice-told news.”
I agreed. He said to Pele, “We took a deer. We’ll dress the meat tomorrow.”
She nodded, smiling at him, and in both their eyes I saw a devotion warm as any hearthfire. She went outside then, to check her children’s labors, and Maerk grew serious awhile.
“You understand our situation here?” he asked me. “Pele’s explained things?”
“She has,” I said.
“And you’ve no”—he paused, shrugging his broad shoulders so that I feared his tunic might burst—“objections?” “None,” I assured him.
He said, “Good. Then we speak of it no further.”
Nor did we. Instead, he brought me to their well, where we washed, and then sat down to drink more ale as Pele set the chicken to roasting. She was an excellent cook: I ate well that day.
When we had finished, it was twilight, and with replenished mugs we quit the cottage for the square outside. Maerk shouted that the evening’s entertainment began, and from the other buildings folk brought out chairs and blankets, setting them in a circle, at the center of which I stood. I spoke first of events in the world beyond, which produced some grunts of surprise and some of alarm. I thought these lonely folk had very little commerce with the rest of Dharbek, that they knew so little of the Sky Lords’ activities. I mentioned the little airboats and several shouted that they had seen the craft, but none in a way that suggested more than curiosity. I watched their faces and the way their bodies moved, and I decided there was not one here had any truck with the Kho’rabi. These people wanted only to be left alone. I could not help wondering how they should act did it come to war. Did the Great Coming we Mnemonikos and the sorcerers feared descend on Dharbek, what would these folk do? I hoped, did that Coming materialize, they would be left in peace. I thought it a vain hope, for should that invasion commence, I did not think there would be any corner of Kellambek or Draggonek left untouched.
Such fears I hid. I told them stories as the moon climbed above us and the surrounding forest filled with night sounds. I used all my skill, for I wanted badly to repay their hospitality, and I had sooner entertained them than any aeldor in his tower.
And as I recounted my tales of greatness and glory, I thought that were I to fulfill the duty laid on me by Durbrecht, I must at the year’s end send word to the College of this village and its folk. It was a thing I had not encountered before—Changed and Truemen living in such equality—and I did not think the College knew of such a thing. I was by no means sure I would. They appeared to me so happy, so contented with the life they had made for themselves, I felt loath to make public their existence. I thought that they should likely find that censure that had driven them into isolation returned, did I speak of them. Some disapproving aeldor would visit them, or a zealous mantis. I thought them better left alone. I already had one great secret: I thought this should be another, smaller confidence.
I spoke to the best of my ability and should cheerfully have continued (aided by the mugs Maerk passed me) all night, had the children not begun to yawn. As it was, I reached the conclusion of Daryk’s tale, and Pele announced it time to halt. Alyn was asleep in her arms, and Tyr, for all he fought to hold his eyes open and protested the curtailment, lay curled kittenish and sleepy at her feet. I promised more on the morrow and bade my newfound friends goodnight, going with my hosts to their cottage.
I slept the night by their hearth, and the next morning aided Maerk in dressing the deer (of which he promised me a portion when I left). I passed a pleasant day in his company and spent a second night storytelling. I was invited to remain as long as I wished, and I was greatly tempted to linger. But I steeled myself and refused: there were matters I must investigate that, for the sake of my conscience, I could not ignore. I thanked them and, my saddlebags bulky with good venison, prepared to leave.
I chose to continue inland. Maerk had pointed me to a trail he assured me would eventually lead to a village named Dryn, some five days’ distant on horseback. He and Pele and all their kindly neighbors walked with me to the trail’s beginning. They wished me good journey, but it was Pele’s parting words impressed me most.
She set a hand upon my knee and tilted back her head to look me in the eyes. “I hope you find your Rwyan again,” she said. “Your friend Urt, too. Perhaps then you’ll find what you seek.”
I started at that, prompting the mare to toss her head and stamp. Even as I gentled the restive horse, I wondered what Pele meant, what she saw in me, or guessed; what she knew. Pele stepped back, but her green feline eyes remained intent on my face, and I felt she looked deep inside me, into the places I held closed and hidden. I frowned and asked her, “What do I seek, then?”
“Peace?” She shrugged, the singl
e word more question than statement. “I know not, Daviot; only that there is something.”
I swallowed, confused. Did this cat-bred woman possess the talent for magic, that she could discern my innermost doubts? I met her clear gaze and said, “How do you know that, Pele?”
She smiled, and waved a careless hand, and said, “Sometimes it is in your eyes, sometimes in your voice. I’d not pry, but I see it there. And I hope you find whatever it is.”
There was such kindness in her voice, I felt my eyes moisten. I nodded and smiled, and then I rode away.
I felt I had learned something there that would aid me when the time came that I must decide what to tell and what to hold back. Those folk were, though they knew it not, pivotal to the world’s future. I think had they known it, Pele would have nodded sagely and Maerk would have laughed; and both told me they sought only to live their lives in peace, not shift the course of Dharbek. Still, I felt gifted as I left them. I thought they had showed me an unsuspected road, confirmed my own feelings about Changed and Truemen, and for that I was truly grateful.
I still, however, did not know which course I should eventually take. But now I felt somehow better equipped to make that decision when the time came.
I continued inland as the year aged and autumn came aknocking on summer’s door, on to Dryn, on to the wild places where the land rose up to join the foothills of the massif. Often as not I slept rough; the villages were few and scattered here, towns a rarity, keeps scarcer still. I was greeted with enthusiasm—these places had not seen a Story-man in years. And everywhere I went, I watched and listened and asked questions, but I learned no more than I already knew. There were fewer Changed in these isolated places than were found on the more populous coastal plain, and those I encountered seemed content enough. I could not believe they took any part in conspiracy—if conspiracy, indeed, existed. Had I not been Durbrecht-trained, I think I should have begun to doubt my memory, to think that meeting I had witnessed a figment of my imagination, a dream. But I knew it was not so. I could recall it clear, every detail, and it remained a worm gnawing at the heart of my conscience. Still, I saw no further sign of collusion betwixt Changed and Sky Lords, saw no more clandestine rendezvous. Indeed, I saw not much more sign of the Sky Lords themselves. A boat sometimes, not often and never close, so that I began to wonder if the Kho’rabi gave up their voyaging or confined it to the coast. I thought I should learn no more in the wild hinterland, but only where folk gathered in the larger towns. The gray mare and I were both leaner now, at the peak of our strength, and I decided it was time to return westward.
It was a pretty ride, through a landscape painted with autumn’s colors, the air crisp by day, chill by night, but as I came on the coast I realized I had dawdled longer inland than I had intended. Fog met me as I approached Trevyn, rolling in off the western sea to blanket the land, cold and damp. I drew my cloak tight and came on the hold like some ghost rider, my mare, whose coat matched the brume, all but invisible. It was the midpart of the day, close on noon, but if the sun shone, it was lost above the fog, and I located the gates only by the braziers that burned there.
Inside the walls it was not much better—a twilight lit by the diffuse glow of windows and the lanterns carried by passersby. I knew Trevyn to be a sizable place, but I could barely make out the houses to either side in the gloom, and despite the directions I got, I lost myself five times before I found the keep.
It sat beside the sea. I could hear waves lapping against the western wall. I thought there would be no boats out today. I announced myself to the gate-guards and was brought by a Changed ostler to the stables. My mare was in foul mood, and I saw to her myself before proceeding to the tower, warning the ostler against her temper. I felt cheerful, anticipating a bath (I had slept by the trail the past three days) and perhaps a mug of mulled ale, a good hot meal. Instead, I found myself brought immediately before the aeldor Chrystof and his commur-magus, Nevyn. Neither appeared overjoyed to see me.
Chrystof was a gaunt man of advanced years; a widower, I understood, and childless, with a left arm withered by an old wound got from the Sky Lords. Nevyn was younger, perhaps a decade older than I, plump, his hair dark as the aeldor’s was silver. They sat in high-backed chairs either side of a roaring fire, a jug set close enough to the flames that the spiced wine I could smell should be kept warm. A rug covered Chrystof’s legs. He appeared feeble, gone into his dotage.
I said, “Day’s greetings, my lord aeldor; commur-magus.”
Chrystof nodded and returned the salutation in a hoarse voice. I noticed that his eyes were yellowed with age and the proximity of death. Nevyn only studied me with a cold speculative gaze. I was not invited to sit, although a third chair stood close by, nor was I offered wine. I ran a hand over my fog-wet hair, feeling suddenly chilled despite the warmth of the fire.
Without preamble, Nevyn demanded, “Where have you been, Storyman? We thought to see you long since.”
I hesitated, surprised it was the sorcerer who spoke, and by the imperious question. A Storyman had no set itinerary but was free to wander at will. Word was, of course, passed from keep to keep, of our arrivals and departures, but we were not bound to follow any fixed route or timetable. Nor was it usual to question our comings and goings: I sensed something amiss here. I thought again that perhaps my progress was watched more closely than my fellows’. I said, “Did you expect me ere now, I apologize. I rode inland a way.”
“A long way inland,” said Nevyn, and sniffed disapprovingly. For an instant I saw Ardyon’s cadaverous features imposed over his. “Half the summer inland.”
I shrugged, not liking his tone or the way he studied me. I said, “The aeldor Yrdan of Tryrsbry was kind enough to gift me with a horse. I thought to use that advantage to wander the isolated settlements. Most had not seen a Storyman in too long.”
I had thought that mention of an aeldor’s kindness should remind them of courtesy: it did not. Chrystof grunted and motioned with his cup, which Nevyn promptly filled. He still made no move to offer me wine. He sipped his own and said, “You left Thornbar Keep weeks ago. Where have you been since then?”
“Riding,” I said. I began to grow impatient with his manner, but I hid my irritation, wondering at the reason for this unusual interrogation. “There were none of your kind where I went.”
My answer was deliberately ambiguous. Nevyn grunted, drawing a hand over the purple stain the wine had left on his upper lip. For a while he stared at me. Then: “Word has come from Durbrecht—you are to make no more such forays.”
“What?” I frowned, entirely unable to conceal my surprise. Such a command was unprecedented. “Am I to forsake my calling then?”
The sorcerer ignored my outburst. “You are to pursue your calling as you are bid,” he said. “Your duty is to proceed south down the coast, to Mhorvyn.”
I stared at him. I was struck by his pomposity; struck more by the nature of this command. He took my silence and my expression for doubt and turned to Chrystof for confirmation. The aeldor had been looking into the flames throughout this exchange, but now he swung his gaunt head in my direction. He nodded and said, “It is so, Storyman.”
I could not doubt it; I could wonder why: I asked.
Nevyn answered me obliquely. “You’re to be in Mhorvyn by Bannas Eve,” he said. “And go there by the coast road. Without deviation.”
I asked again, “Why?”
The plump commur-magus shrugged. “Perhaps your College would have report of our preparations.” He sipped more wine. “Perhaps Durbrecht feels your talent is better employed where folk live, not wandering lonely through the hills.”
“Folk live there,” I said. I forbore to add, “Folk kinder than you.” “Do they not have need of Storymen?”
Nevyn stooped to fetch the jug from the hearth; filled his cup. I grew wearied of this insulting behavior.
He asked me, “Do you question the orders of your College?”
This took me aback. �
��Yes” would have been the honest answer, but I was not, I admitted to myself, any longer entirely honest. Were I, I should have long since spoken of what I had seen. Consequently, I said, “No, I do not question the command; I wonder at its reason.”
I thought perhaps he would answer me with word that I was no longer trusted. That Durbrecht would have me in clear sight; at least, where sorcerers might monitor my progress and my doings. I could not, of course, voice this thought: to do so would mean revealing secrets I was not yet ready to impart. I awaited his response.
That came with a smug and careless smile. “Perhaps Durbrecht sees a wider picture.” he said, and added an insult as calculated as any Barus had given me. “Remember we gird against the Sky Lords. Storyman. Do they come, shall it be against some foresters’ hamlet or against the keeps? Which do you think?”
I thought that I had sooner dealt with him as I had dealt with Barus. I held my staff, and I thought that it should have been most satisfying to deliver him a sound crack. I gripped the pole tighter. Nevyn saw and drew himself a little upright in his chair. I thought perhaps he readied his magic to throw against me: I forced myself to calm and said, “Doubtless both our Colleges see the wider picture—I had thought to allow the plain folk of this land a glimpse. After all, these great holds—the towns—are warded by such as you, and news is easier to find. But in the lonely places—should they not know, too?”
I was rather pleased with my diplomacy. It went unnoticed by Nevyn. He waved a dismissive hand and said, “Do the Sky Lords attack, it shall be against the keeps, not the hamlets. Surely, then, better to ply your calling where folk gather, not waste it on the empty woods.”
It was an effective counter. Nevyn was pompous, insulting, but he was no fool. I saw we reached impasse in our verbal duel and allowed his point with a silent nod. He smiled and told me, “In any event, you are commanded—the coast road to Mhorvyn, without diversions.”
