by Angus Wells
“Is aught amiss, Daviot?”
I saw that we had come to my door. It stood open, Lan waiting with his torch. I forced a smile and beckoned him in. “What troubles you?” he asked.
His voice was entirely solicitous, and for an instant I was tempted to tell him all. I thought that had he been Urt, I should; that Urt would have counsel for me, perhaps answers. But I was not yet ready to trust Lan quite so far. I saw that the wine jug still stood upon the hearth, and that there were two cups. I filled them both and passed him one.
“Laena would speak with me,” I said, and knew my tone was nervous.
Lan waved a casual hand. “Laena does not judge you,” he said. “I think she seeks only that report all Storymen must make. There’s no magic in that, save in her sending word to Durbrecht.”
“Do the sorcerers watch me?” I asked. I realized I accepted without question that he should have such knowledge. “I’ve wondered about that.”
He paused an instant before replying. “They pay you special attention, Daviot. That should not surprise you—that you befriended Urt so openly; your affair with Rwyan; the due you give we Changed; things you said in Durbrecht—such behavior is unusual enough you are noticed by the rulers of this land.”
My face must have expressed alarm at that, for Lan chuckled and added, “I think you’ve not too much to fear. Save you give them greater cause for concern, I think you shall be safe.”
He appeared entirely at ease; I was not. I heard the shutters rattle over my window, buffeted by a wind that seemed, for all the chamber was warm, to pierce my bones. Almost, I blurted out that I concealed secrets greater than those entrusted me by this strange Changed. But I did not—I did not yet quite trust Lan that far. Instead, I asked him, “Have you any word of Urt or Rwyan?”
“Of Rwyan, none,” he said. “There are no Changed on the Sentinels, and so I can tell you only that she was brought safely to the islands. Of Urt? Urt went to Karysvar, where he is, as best I know, a servant to a merchant named Connys. News from so far north is hard to get.”
“You seem,” I said, “to get news aplenty.”
Lan nodded, again as if this were entirely normal. “This hold is famed for its orchards and its tobacco,” he explained. “Craft from both coasts come to Mhorvyn, and traders by land. All bring news, but seldom from farther north than the Treppanek.”
It was more than I had hoped for. Rwyan was resident on the second Sentinel, about which I could do nothing, but if Urt was still in Karysvar … Perhaps someday I might go there and find this merchant. I smiled at the thought.
“You’d find them again?” Lan asked.
“Could I.” I ducked my head and sighed. “But I doubt I shall. At least, not Rwyan. I think she must be forever lost to me. But perhaps someday I might meet Urt again. I should like that.”
“If he’s still there.”
Lan’s voice was soft, the sentence less statement than unguarded thought. I looked up, catching his eye—and saw the mask descend even as I said, “Where should he go?”
The feline Changed shrugged, not replying.
I said, “Across the Slammerkin, Lan? To join the wild Changed?”
Again, he shrugged. “Some do.”
There was hesitation in his voice. I thought he regretted that slip. I suspected he knew more than he revealed. I thought he had revealed so much, what he hid must surely be of great import. I thought we both, for all we exposed ourselves, held back secrets still. I knew mine: I wondered what Lan’s were. I said, “I know nothing of the wild Changed; nothing of Ur-Dharbek. It seems none do, save perhaps the sorcerers. And they’re closemouthed on that subject.”
“Nor I,” he said. “Save Truemen gave Ur-Dharbek to the Changed that the dragons leave them be. Our lot, it seems.”
I said, “I’d go there. I’d know what’s there.”
The mask remained a veil over his true feelings, but I thought I discerned amazement as he looked at me. “Think you a Trueman should find a welcome there?” he asked. “Be there any to welcome him.”
“Have the dragons eaten them, then?” I returned.
He laughed aloud at that. “Dragons, Daviot? Surely the dragons are all dead; the stuff of your stories now, and no more.”
“Be that so,” I said, “then perhaps the wild Changed prosper.”
“Perhaps.” He seemed to me to hold his expression bland. “I’d not know.”
I had taken too many steps along this path to turn back: I pressed on. “Are the dragons gone, what reason for the Border Cities?” I asked, deliberately making my tone one of idle curiosity.
“What reason for any city?” Lan echoed an answer I had got before. “They trade along the Slammerkin just as they do along the Treppanek. They exist for that and no more reason, likely.”
I saw he would give me no more. It was the same bland claim of ignorance I got each time I broached this subject. Perhaps he really knew nothing; I suspected he hid knowledge. I was about to speak again when he flung back his arms, yawning noisily, as if weariness suddenly took him.
“Forgive me.” He became once more the humble servant. “I think perhaps I should find my bed, and you yours. The services of Bannas Eve start early, and I’d get some sleep ere I commence my duties.”
I nodded, aware our conversation was ended. Save I commanded him—which would surely undo his confidence in me; and was not, anyway, in my nature—I should have no more from Lan this night.
“Yes.” I smiled as he rose, collecting my cup and the jug from the hearth. “But I hope we shall speak again.”
“I think we shall,” he said. “Goodnight, Daviot.”
I said, “Goodnight, Lan. And my thanks.”
“For what?” He paused at the door. His face was composed in an unreadable expression.
“For all you’ve told me,” I said. “For … trust.”
“Trust is like a sword, Daviot; it cuts both ways.”
Before I had opportunity to comment, he was gone, the door closed quietly behind him.
We Truemen went afoot into the town the next day, leaving the Changed behind to prepare for the feasting as Yanydd led us in procession around the walls of Mhorvyn. The sleet had blown away inland, but the wind still blew harsh, sending waves in crashing progression against the rocky shoreline. A few brave gulls fought the gusting, but they were the only interruption of an otherwise featureless and sullen sky. I hugged my cloak close, the wind ofttimes so strong, I must lean against it. Laena clutched my arm as if she feared it might blow her away, her lined face creased deeper as she studied the heavens.
In the lee of a building, where the blast could no longer steal the words unheard, she said, “Bannas Eve is not often so unkind. Last year the sun shone.”
There was a note of trepidation in her voice that prompted me to wonder. “Where I was born,” I said, “the weather is much like this on Bannas Eve.”
We passed beyond shelter then, and she fell silent, gripping my arm again, her face hidden in the hood of her cloak. I looked at the sky. It seemed not at all out of the ordinary to me: in Whitefish village we’d name such weather squally and expect it, until Matran at the least. I wondered why it disturbed the commur-mage so. I did not know her well, and she gave an impression of taciturnity, but I sensed she was concerned. It might have been the cold or the wind, but her shoulders were braced rigid under her cloak, and the eyes she turned upon the sky were narrowed as if she sought something there.
“I doubt even the Sky Lords can master such a wind,” I said.
It was a flippant comment. I did not believe she looked for sign of aerial attack, but her unease communicated and I looked to diffuse it with a joke. Her answer took me aback.
“Think you not?” she said.
I said, “Surely not! In winter? Besides, a wind like this must surely deny them grounding.”
We came to another open space then, and she did not reply until we stood again protected. We had completed our circuit and now walked the
winding streets, returning slowly in the direction of the keep. From either side folk waved cedar twigs or clusters of dried oak leaves, their shouts loud, so that I must put my face close to Laena’s to hear her answer. Even then she kept her voice low.
“Not a grounding,” she said. “Not a Coming, even. But I tell you, Daviot Storyman, that this weather is unseasonal.”
I shrugged. I was yet heir to my father’s weather lore, and I knew that what was customary was never graved in stone. I said, “Do you tell me this is the Sky Lords’ doing?”
She gave me a wan smile then, one that spoke of doubt, of self and opinion. “They bind the elemental spirits to their command, no?”
She awaited a response, and so I ducked my head and gave her, “Yes. But as yet only to their little airboats, surely. The sorcerers I’ve encountered this past year seem largely of the belief they can do no more for a while. A twelvemonth, perhaps; perhaps longer, before they can bind those creatures to their great ships.”
“And likely all those sorcerers are right,” said Laena. “I do not speak of airboats, but of this weather.”
Her voice was low and held not much expression, as if she spoke of a thing she had sooner not contemplated and was loath to say openly. That somehow lent her words a greater impact. I grunted, surprised (I seemed to spend much of my time in Mhorvyn surprised by one thing or another), and said, “You believe they control the weather now?”
She had pushed back the hood of her cloak, and so I saw the pursing of her lips, the doubt that shone clear in her eyes. “Not believe,” she said. “Wonder, perhaps. I tell you—for years Mhorvyn has seen the sun shine on Bannas Eve. But now …” She shook her head and tilted it to indicate the sky.
I said, “Weather is no fixed thing, Laena. What’s been for years can change.”
She said, “Yes. But still I wonder…. Do they gain true control over the elementals, might they not bend the weather itself to their will?”
That was a thought I had not entertained; nor much cared to now. It was a terrifying prospect. It was somehow even worse than the belief that the Sky Lords commanded the elementals like carthorses. I heard my own voice grow dull with horror as I asked her, “Can that be? Is such a thing possible?”
“I know not,” she said. “I know nothing of such magic, but I know they control the aerial spirits in ways I cannot comprehend. If they can do that—if they can harness the elementals to their vessels—might they not also harness the elements themselves?”
I thought of the churning sea surrounding this island hold, of such storms as could isolate the rock. I thought of the craft that plied the coasts, the Treppanek and the Slammerkin, all harbor-locked or sunk by raging waves and howling winds. I thought of warships tossing useless at anchor, of fishing craft idle on the beaches. I thought of harvests lost and orchards wasted. I looked to the sky and hoped that Laena’s fears be all misplaced.
“Perhaps,” she continued, and took my arm even though we walked sheltered. Her fingers pressed hard. “Only perhaps, Daviot. Perhaps such fears are groundless; perhaps I become a scaremonger in my dotage. I’ve put the thought to my College, and it’s debated there. None other knows it, save Yanydd. I trust you shall hold silent, too. Were such a thought voiced abroad …”
“I’ll hold it close,” I said. Another secret to my hoard: they built apace. “None shall have this from me. But why do you tell me?”
At that she smiled more genuinely. “Are you not a Storyman?” she asked. “Are you Mnemonikos not the recipients of all our lore, of all our history? And be I right, then this is indeed historic. One at least of your talent should know.”
I ducked my head, in confirmation and gratitude, both. I felt suddenly more confident. Did Laena so entrust me with her secret thoughts, then surely she could not suspect me of harboring my own.
We approached the keep now, and across the open space before its walls the wind howled with renewed ferocity. I saw the aeldor’s banners whipped, snapping and crackling by the gusting, and thought of omens. What little smoke rose from the banked fires was lost against the dreary sky, nor were either stars or moon visible.
It was a relief to stand behind closed doors, even though the hall was chill and dim, without lanterns or blazing hearthfire. Changed servants came to take our cloaks; others stood expectant about the room, tapers and tinder boxes ready in their hands. Yanydd went to a clepsydra and tapped the glass, urging the last drops to fall. I think we all were pleased when he announced it sunset. The hall was filled then with the rasp of flint on steel, and myriad small flames moved like fireflies as the Changed set to lighting the lanterns, to building up the fire. The warband cheered as warmth and light drove off the chill, and then again as kegs of ale were broached.
Laena brought me to where the aeldor and his wife stood, conversing with the jennym of the warband. Callum was a man in his middle years, his hair and beard already gray, his face scarred and stern, save when he smiled, which was often. Now, it was entirely serious, and as I approached he nodded to Yanydd and marched briskly away.
“He goes to check the causeway,” Yanydd explained.
Dorae said, “This weather….” and shook her head.
Yanydd and Laena exchanged a swift glance, and I saw the aeldor’s eyes flicker in my direction, the subtle nod the commur-mage returned. He said, “Unusual, certainly. But likely it will blow itself out by dawn.”
“I pray it does,” his wife returned. “A storm on Bannas Eve bodes ill for the new year.”
She had no notion of Laena’s suspicion, I saw. Yanydd caught my eye and smiled gravely, as if we were conspirators together. I smiled back and said, “On the east coast, the winter is all storms,” and our conversation turned to idle matters as servants came with trays of tidbits.
Soon after, the doors opened to admit Callum, windswept and damp, and mouthing curses concerning wind and wave and causeway.
A mug of ale cheered him, however, and before long he was inquiring after the impending feast. I thought that should be a while coming, but when Yanydd sent to the kitchens, he got back word that all was ready. It seemed the Changed had toiled through the day: those religious observances applying to we Truemen did not affect them, save to make their tasks the harder for want of light. Even so, Yanydd was kinder than most to his menials, for once the meal was served, they were dismissed to their own feasting, and we Truemen left to fend for ourselves.
The mantis gave a blessing, and we set to. I ate abundantly and drank my fill. My breeks were tight when I pushed back my chair and rose in answer to the shouted demands for a tale.
For Rhys and his brothers, I told of Damyd’s Battle. A kithara was brought out for that, and a tambour, which made a fine accompaniment. Then, as all around men and women called for their own favorites, I told them of Cambar’s oak wood, wondering how they might respond. I was gratified to hear them murmur solemn agreement that the wood was a fit monument to brave men. Still, I followed that with more traditional stories—of great battles and courageous warriors, of wise aeldors and Lords Protector. I felt welcomed here in Mhorvyn, but I knew that ere long I must speak with Laena, and she send report to Durbrecht; and that after I should be commanded on, to wander more or return. My first year as a Storyman was ended this night. I had no idea what the next should bring.
Bannas Eve became Lantaine: a new year was born. In Yanydd’s hall we hailed Lantaine’s dawning as outside the keep’s stout walls the wind beat fiercer. The aeldor’s prophecy proved wrong: the storm did not blow itself out by dawn, but rather grew more intense. Shutters vibrated under the onslaught; tongues of winded flame flung sparks into the hall; word came the island was cut off, the causeway drowned, no boats likely to put out in such a tempest. When I ventured out, I saw the sky black with sullen cloud and lightning dancing over the roiling sea. I had witnessed storms as bad, or worse, as a child, but this—perhaps because of Laena’s glum augury—seemed to me different. I thought it should not soon end.
Nor did
it. It blew for seven days, and I began to think the commur-mage correct in her belief, though I could scarce comprehend how the Sky Lords might bend the weather itself to their will. It lent a somber undercurrent to the seasonal festivities that, by common consent, we elected to ignore. We worked the harder at revelry, for all it was no easy thing to smile and dismiss the ravaging of wind and wave as Lantaine duties were dispensed. Yanydd must, of course, go out amongst the people of his holding, and I had my Storyman’s duty, which brought me out to the taverns and alehouses with my tales. On orders of the aeldor, Callum gave me an escort of four stout soldiers, who made themselves a barrier betwixt the wind and me as we struggled against the ferocious gusting. That alone was often strong enough to blow a man off his feet, but also there were roof tiles hurled like missiles down the streets, and shutters torn loose and flung like straws. I saw several folk injured; the keep’s herbalist-chirurgeon was much in demand. In the harbor three boats were sunk, and for all that Lantaine the causeway lay under angry water.
I spoke of it to Lan. He knew already of Laena’s belief (which knowledge no longer surprised me: I had soon enough come to accept that there was little the Changed did not know) but claimed ignorance of the storm’s source.
“Be it the Sky Lords’ doing,” he said one evening as I prepared for the night’s feasting, “then their magic must be wondrous powerful.”
“And wondrous disruptive,” I said. “Is all Dharbek assaulted like this, there can be no commerce.”
“No” was all he gave me back.
“But neither can they attack,” I said, and added a cautious, “surely. Such a gale must deny them grounding, no?”
“I’d think it so,” he said. “Save they’ve such magicks as can deny the storm.”
He seemed quite sanguine, as if neither storm nor source bothered him overmuch, and I could not decide if that was simple indifference or something else. I had no way to press him, however, save by open accusation, and that I avoided. Our relationship was built on mutual confidences but was not yet quite friendship. I felt he dealt with me honestly for the most part, and when I sensed reticence, I could not decide whether it stemmed from genuine ignorance or a refusal to tell me all he knew. I had sought to learn more of Ur-Dharbek and the wild Changed but with no better success than before: he continued to claim a lack of knowledge with a fixity I could only think of as dogged. Rather than jeopardize our rapport, I elected to leave that matter be. I had, anyway, other preoccupations.
