by Angus Wells
I woke to dim, gray light, thinking for a moment that I dreamed still. Then Thom knocked, and I realized the fog remained outside, a shroud spread miserable over the hold. It seemed fitting.
I greeted the Changed and refused his ministrations, electing to dress myself as he found small tasks to occupy his hands. I broke my fast and went to visit my mare. She appeared content enough to rest in her stall, and I asked that Thom be my guide into the town. He must get permission for that, which Nevyn granted with some reluctance. I was reassured by the sorcerer’s disinclination—it suggested Thom was not his spy—and had Thom bring me to a tavern, the plazas being emptied of traffic by the weather.
I bought the Changed a tankard, but he would not sit with me, going instead to an area where others of his kind gathered. At least they heard me. I passed the day there, gleaning what news I could (which was little enough) and had no more need to buy my own ale, for as word passed around that the Sword entertained a Storyman, the inn filled up and the landlord refused my coin.
I was three days in Trevyn Keep before the fog lifted and I was able to use Nevyn’s own admonitions to continue on my way. I spoke as much as I was able with Thom, but he was more guarded for all I avoided any mention of Ur-Dharbek or the wild Changed. He spoke freely enough of his own life and the lives of his fellow servants, but not at all of those matters that most intrigued me. Still, I felt I had collected a further piece to the puzzle I saw was my homeland. I hoped to gather more along the way to Mhorvyn. I hoped one day I should find more answers than questions.
I’ve few fond memories of that place, and I was not at all sorry to leave it; only for the Changed who must toil under Nevyn’s command. I was happy to see the fog clear and had my mare saddled immediately I had taken my morning meal. I bade farewell to Thom and to Darus and his warband. The aeldor Chrystof, I was informed, had taken to his bed, and the only good-bye I got from Nevyn was a curt reminder that I should not deviate from the coast road.
That, I followed southward, the sea never far away, so that I halted in fishing villages as often as in the keeps. I obeyed the orders sent from Durbrecht, never remaining longer than a few days in any one place. Nowhere did I encounter another like Trevyn Keep; everywhere I saw with clearer eyes that the Changed, even when treated kindly, went unseen, faceless servitors to we Truemen.
I rode through the autumn into winter, which was milder on this west coast than those I had known in Whitefish village or Durbrecht, and a day before the dawning of Bannas Eve I came to Mhorvyn. It was the climax of my year’s wandering; it was also, I found, a crossroads.
Mhorvyn was the largest hold I had seen since departing Durbrecht, and unlike any other. It sat upon a rocky island that hung like a teardrop from the southernmost tip of Dharbek, connected to the land by a causeway that at high tide was hidden beneath the waves of the southern ocean. Landward, the bailiwick was given over to farms and orchards, and a village of fisherfolk spread along the shore facing the hold. The day I came there was squally, a biting wind driving rafts of gray cloud in off the sea, a wintry sun snatching brief glances through the scud. I halted on the shore, studying the road that ran, it seemed, across the waves. The tide was on the ebb, and water spilled from the stone, leaving behind pools and pungent strings of seaweed. My mare argued my decision to proceed, and it was a while before I could urge her out onto the causeway. It was a strange sensation to ride that path, the sea stretching out sullen and wind-tossed to either side, salt spray lashing us. It seemed almost that my mare trod the waves, like some seahorse out of legend. She liked it not at all, and I must admit I was not sorry to reach the sturdy barbican that granted ingress to the island. Walls of blue-black stone extended from the little tower around the whole of Mhorvyn; within, the buildings of the town seemed to tumble down at random over the flanks of a low hill surmounted by the great tower of the keep. I was brought there by a cheerful soldier, who led me at a brisk pace through a maze of narrow streets decorated in readiness for Bannas Eve. From him I learned that word had been sent ahead to expect me, and that all Mhorvyn looked forward to enjoying my tales as part of the festival celebrations.
I got no less a cheerful welcome in the keep itself. Yanydd was the aeldor here, a sturdy man in his middle years, handsome and thick-bearded, and he filled me a tankard himself as he introduced me to his family and the folk of the keep. His wife was a woman of startling beauty whose name was Dorae; she seemed too young to have borne three sons. They were named Rhys, Maric, and Ador, the eldest about my own age, his brothers younger by a year apiece. The commur-mage was older, her hair gray and her face, for all it was not unhandsome, lined and weatherbeaten. Her name was Laena.
It was close on dusk, and the hall was redolent of roasting meat and ale. Cypress boughs and sprigs of mistletoe hung about the walls, and on every door was pinned a dried oak leaf and a token of the God. The keep had a festive air that combined with the pleasant manner of Yanydd and his kin to put me at my ease. I saw that the Changed of this place wore no symbols of their station as in Trevyn and appeared comfortable with their lot. I thought this should be a better hold than many in which to pass the midwinter festival.
Courteously, Yanydd invited me to bathe and find my chamber before submitting myself to the inevitable barrage of questions and the dispensation of my duty as a Storyman. I accepted gladly, and a Changed servant was directed to escort me to my quarters.
They were, I found, luxurious. The bed was wide, the stone floor covered with a gaily patterned carpet, and coals glowed in a small hearth, on which a jug of mulled ale steamed. There was a garderobe, and a tall window afforded a view over the rooftops of the town to the sea beyond. I tossed my staff and saddlebags on the bed and flung open the window, inhaling the salt-scented air as I studied the busy streets below.
The Changed—he was feline-bred and named, I had learned, Lan—waited patiently. I contemplated interrogation but decided it was the wiser course to approach gently, cautiously, lest I scare him as I had done Thom. So I closed the window and gave him a smile.
“Shall you celebrate this Bannas Eve, Lan?” I asked.
Unlike Thom, he met my gaze and answered my smile with his own. “Yes, master,” he said. “Lord Yanydd has all his people celebrate.”
I said, “My name is Daviot, Lan.”
He answered me, “Yes, I know that,” and hesitated a moment before adding, “Daviot.”
That both pleased and surprised me, but I had no wish to frighten him off and so said, “I’d not earn you trouble, Lan. Is it your custom to call me ‘master,’ then so be it; but I’d be happy with ‘Daviot.’”
He nodded, his expression sage, and after a moment said, “Perhaps in private, Daviot. But in the halls, better I title you ‘Master Daviot.’”
I deemed him quicker of wit than Thom and far less cowed, which reinforced my impression that this was a friendly keep. I said, “As you wish.”
He smiled again at that and said, “Yes,” gravely, as if he took the suggestion under consideration and reached his own conclusions.
It came to me that he did; and with that realization another thought: that he accepted what must surely be odd behavior in a Trueman with unusual alacrity. I asked him, “Have you heard of me, Lan?”
“All Mhorvyn knows a Storyman was due this Bannas Eve,” he said, which was prevarication.
“That’s not what I meant.” I said it gently, smiling lest he think it a reprimand. “And I suspect you know that.”
“How should I?” he asked.
His rounded face was bland, his tone subtle, so that the question sounded entirely innocent; or cautious. I saw that he was no simpleton but quick of wit and careful. Also, I sensed in him an air of confidence. I chose to show somewhat of what I knew. I said, “I thought perhaps word had come. In Trevyn Keep I learned you name me Urt’s Friend.”
He said, “Yes,” and his smile grew wider. It was as though a mask dropped from his face. “Word came; and so you are known to us.”
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br /> I nodded, holding my smile in place even as I marveled at what I heard—word came ahead of me, as if the Changed communicated near as efficiently as the sorcerers. I felt a pang of guilt (small and soon enough consumed beneath my wonder) that I succeeded so well in combining deceit with honesty, revealing my own knowledge that I might pick more from his responses. Casually, I asked him how.
“There was a boat,” he said. “The crew had word of you.”
Of course: the craft that plied the coasts of Dharbek were manned by Changed, the caravans of the merchants were manned by Changed, and all moved from hold to hold, from town to town. They were the messengers. In the halls and holds Changed servants heard their masters speak and passed on word of what they heard to others—in the taverns, the markets, the docks: the places those who traveled visited. It was an effective network. I wondered if Lan knew of his kind dealing with the Sky Lords; and I knew that if I broached that topic, he would admit no more.
I asked him, “Do any other Truemen know of this?”
“I do not think so.” He shook his head. “To most we’ve no faces, nor eyes or ears. You are unusual, Daviot. You see us.”
I shrugged. It seemed to me no great thing to recognize the Changed as beings with feelings, identities, to perceive them as individuals, and yet I knew I was odd in this. I was more surprised that Lan should so readily confide in me. Also, I admit to feeling flattered.
I said, “Nor shall they know of it from me.”
And was again surprised when he gave me back a calm, “Why not?”
I had no ready answer, save that I sought to protect the innocent.
“Because,” I said, and halted. It was near impossible to express in words my confused emotions. “Because … Urt was my friend, and he was punished for my transgression.”
“Your mage,” Lan said, and nodded as if that were justification enough.
Now I gaped. He knew of Rwyan? Was all my life open to the Changed? This cat-bred servant appeared to know more about me than my own kind. I closed my mouth and asked him needlessly, “You know of that?”
“From the Changed of Durbrecht,” he replied. “When Urt was sent north, word spread of why—and of you.”
I swallowed, staring at him, not knowing what to say.
He looked me in the eyes then, directly, and in his I saw an absolute candor. “These matters are best kept secret,” he said. “For your sake as much as mine. Lord Yanydd—Laena—are kind enough, but I think if they knew … they would feel it their duty to alert Kherbryn, Durbrecht. I think that if the Lord Protector or the sorcerers knew, there would be … measures … taken.”
All I could think of to say was “Yes.”
“And did they,” Lan went on, “then you would be punished with us. I suspect Truemen would deem you a turncoat.”
I nodded, dumbstruck. Marvel piled on marvel here. This was no ordinary servitor, neither any ordinary Changed. There was suddenly an authority to him, a sophistication I had seen only once before—in Urt. I thought that if anyone could satisfy my curiosity about Ur-Dharbek and the wild Changed, it must be Lan. I wondered if I dared ask him.
I said, “Who are you, Lan? What are you?”
“A servant.” He shrugged lazily. “A Changed man descended from cats. A nobody.”
I said, “I do not think so.”
“Here”—he waved a hand, indicating the chamber and the keep together—“I am only that. What else should I be?” I said, “I don’t know.”
He said, “Also, I am a friend. Perhaps someday that shall count for something.”
I said, “This day. You place great trust in me.”
“And you in me,” he said. “Is it misplaced?”
I shook my head and said slowly, “No. Though I’ve myriad questions I’d ask you.”
“Perhaps I shall answer them,” he returned. “But now, do I see to your bath ere folk wonder at your absence?”
I saw the mask descend upon his face again, his expression become one of patient servility. I thought this was the only face most Truemen saw. I wondered if behind it, hidden deep in his eyes, I saw amusement. Abruptly, I wondered if Lan played with me; if perhaps he gave me back my own game, leading me into revelation, even as I thought to draw him out. I gave him a quizzical look, but he offered me nothing more, and I nodded. When the door closed on him, I stood for long moments, staring at the wood.
I had no further opportunity to speak with Lan that day, for when he returned with a tub he was accompanied by two sturdy Changed of taurine stock and played the part of courteous, efficient servant, seeing to the filling of the tub and leaving me alone with a minimum of dutiful words. I bathed and, dressed in my finest clothes (which were not very fine at all), made my way to the hall.
Yanydd called me to the high table, seating me between himself and Laena, and as the meal was served I was occupied, as the aeldor had promised, with a barrage of questions.
We spoke of the Sky Lords and the likelihood of the Great Coming, of the war-engines and the mood of the common folk, and of what I had seen during my year of travel. Of that topic I gave a censored version, wondering the while if Laena somehow sensed my dissembling. Her eyes never left my face as I spoke, but her voice was soft when she voiced an opinion or a question, and I thought she did not see through me.
In return I got back what news they had. The little airboats (Yanydd and Laena believed them scouts for impending invasion) had been seen less frequently of late, as if the onset of winter curbed their intrusions; or, the aeldor declared in somber tone, they had gleaned all the information they required. He had filled his storehouses against the possibility of siege and made preparation as best he could to find shelter for the fishermen and farmers of his holding.
“The Sky Lords have the advantage there,” he murmured, “the God curse them. We cannot be all the time on alert, unsure what we face or when it shall come. The folk of this west coast are not so used to the attacks as the rest of Dharbek, and I’d not see panic spread with constant reminders to go wary. So my people forget—the God knows, they’ve lives to live and work to do without one eye all the time on the sky.”
“The Sentinels shall send warning,” Laena promised.
Yanydd said, “Yes. But do the Sky Lords refine these new-found powers, how much warning?”
At that, the commur-mage could only sigh and shrug and tell him, “As much they may.”
“Which may not be enough” was his glum response. “Do they now own full command of the elementals, perhaps they’ve the strength to overcome the Sentinels and be on us apace. And do they bring that strength against Kherbryn and Durbrecht, what then? Chaos, with every keep in the land fighting alone!”
“To overcome the Sentinels, even with their new powers, that shall be hard,” Laena returned. “No less to take Kherbryn or Durbrecht.”
“I pray it be so,” said Yanydd, and barked a laugh I thought was not much humorous. “I pray all our fears prove unfounded and they do not come at all.”
“We’ve faced them before and given them to the Pale Friend,” said Rhys fiercely. “We’ll do the same, do they dare invasion.”
His father nodded, smiling at the young man’s bravado. “I think that are our fears proven true, it shall be a Coming such as we’ve not known before,” he said, and turned to me. “Daviot, you’ve faced Kho’rabi—how think you?”
“I know them for terrible warriors,” I said, and found myself again the center of attention as Rhys and his brothers pressed me for a detailed account.
They gazed rapt as I spoke, drinking in my every word. Rhys, as I have told you, was about my age, Maric and Ador not much younger, but as I spoke, I felt older. I thought I had seen and done things of which these young men were entirely innocent, and that those experiences had taught me that the glory of battle is in the dreaming of it, not the doing. I wondered if I was the only man in Dharbek who thought at all of peace.
I was grateful to Dorae for her intervention. Had she not spok
en up, I should likely have found myself commandeered by her sons. She it was reminded us that Bannas Eve approached, and with it the seasonal celebrations—a time for joy, not tales of bloody battle. She suggested I be allowed to regale the hall with more fitting stories.
Thus I was provided a table for a platform, in the center of the hall, with all the warband and all the keep’s folk, both Truemen and Changed, gathered around as I told the tale of Gwynnyd and the Ghost.
I think I told it well. Certainly, when I was done there was a moment’s hush, and I saw several glance around nervously, toward the shadows, before they applauded me. I bowed and drank ale to wet my tongue, then launched into the story of the aeldor Kyrd and the Wise Woman of Tyrvan.
By the time that tale was spun the hour was late, and Yanydd reminded the hall we must rise early on the morrow, for the Bannas Eve services. There was a shout of disagreement from Rhys and his brothers, but Dorae bade them be silent, and they concurred, albeit with obvious reluctance, and I was allowed to climb down from my dais.
As we prepared to leave the hall, Laena took my arm. “We must speak,” she said. “Tomorrow or the next day.”
I said, “Yes, as you wish,” hoping she did not notice the alarm her words roused in me.
Likely she sought no more than a fuller accounting of my travels, that she might send back to Durbrecht word of all I had seen, of my thoughts concerning the mood of the land. But I could not help but wonder if something more lay beneath that simple statement.
I had, however, no chance to investigate, for servants came with torches to bring us to our rooms. Lan was my escort, and I followed him in troubled silence. I must hope Laena suspected nothing; and pray I did the right thing in holding secret all I knew of the Changed and that mysterious transaction I had witnessed.
I was startled from my musings by Lan’s voice.
