by Angus Wells
With them, to those standing always in close proximity, there was a growth of power. It was, Rwyan thought, as if the crystals were hearthfires on a winter night, their blaze warming those closest to them, useless to any standing beyond the aegis of the heat. Thus were only the most talented of the College sent to the islands, only the most gifted of those allowed entry to the guarded chambers that held the strange stones; Chiara was somewhat piqued that she could not yet attend. Rwyan wondered if the crystals and her dreams were somehow linked.
It was an idle musing. She could no more understand the workings of the stones than those long versed in their use: they granted power, not knowledge. Neither was their employment without hazard—to remain in close proximity for too long resulted in madness or in a draining of the occult talent, as if the flow of power became reversed, leaving the victim a mindless shell. No sorcerer remained indefinitely on the Sentinels, and the crystals were shielded behind walls of lead and stone, exposed only at need. Were she not dismissed earlier, she knew she must depart the island in ten or fifteen years—a lifetime!—to live in Durbrecht or find place in some keep as commur-mage. Meanwhile, however, she sensed her powers expanding, growing, as if accelerated by the unseen pulsing of the crystals. She knew there was a dreadful insensate energy in the stone behind her and that it might be shaped and directed, by those with the talent, to blast the Sky Lords’ vessels from the heavens.
She thought it sad (though she was careful to hold the notion to herself alone) that such occult power be used bellicose. She wondered what might be achieved, did the Sky Lords not force her kind to bend the crystals to warfare. She supposed she was not, for all she owned recognized ability, a good mage: Chiara would never have entertained such thoughts.
But then Chiara had never sat with Daviot, building an imaginary world of maybe and perhaps and fanciful supposition, where dragons still flew and peace was forced on Kho’rabi and Dhar alike.
And I think of Daviot again! I must not; I cannot, for it hurts too much.
She rose, shaking out a gown damp with sweat, and “looked” a last time across the smooth surface of the Fend. It was as though the sea steamed; the coastline of Kellambek was a shadowy blur on the horizon, a faint, dark line drawn through the shimmering heat.
Had Daviot ever sailed such a sea? Might he, even now, stand somewhere on that vague shore, staring toward the Sentinels, remembering?
She brushed an errant strand of hair now more golden than red from her face and turned away, resolute. There were duties to attend, lessons; come dusk, she must take a turn on watch in the tower. The vigilance of the Sentinels was never-ending: to allow thoughts of Daviot to intrude when she must be alert against the danger of the Sky Lords was to be derelict of her duty. She found the path and began the long descent.
She had reached the foot of the path when the summons came: The Sky Lords come! To your posts, now!
She registered confirmation and her presence, and began to run toward the tower, all thoughts of bath and fresher clothes forgotten.
She was but one of the many racing to Dharbek’s defense, the island become abruptly a place of organized confusion. No more than a handful of Adepts would join their talents directly to the crystals’ power, but for that score there would be another, living conduits between the wielders and the human fodder lending their ability to those who sent the magicks against the intruders. She had liked the experience not at all, when she had been amongst the suppliers of occult strength. It was needful and she had submitted without demur, but she could never quite overcome the feeling it was a thing vampiric, as if the used—ho matter the purpose or the need—gave up some part of their souls. She enjoyed it little more when she took the part of conduit, for there seemed to her something of the pander about that, and always, after, she must find a tub and scrub herself. She was glad (albeit a gladness tinged with guilt) that now she would stand amongst the senders, distanced from the others.
All these talented, she thought, with such power in them, and all of it bent to destruction. We can wash the sky with fire, but not one of us can truly find an answer to the Sky Lords’ magic. Must it be so, always?
The thought was traitorous, and she pushed it away, composing her mind in readiness for what was to come. She was at the tower’s door. Alrys and Demaeter stood there, ushering her inside, pointing unnecessarily to the arched opening on her left, where sorcerers already mounted the winding stairway to the column’s topmost level. The stairway rose, spiraling up the tower’s interior, lit now by globes of heatless white floating overhead, the walls unbroken by door or window until there came a second arched entry. Here the twenty channelers gathered, settling into high-backed chairs placed in a circle in a bare chamber. Rwyan clambered on until she reached the topmost level, where the tower stood open to the sky. There were no chairs here, nor decoration of any kind, only the chest-high walls that granted a wide view over the Fend, and the pedestal supporting the crystal, that no more than waist-high, carved of black basalt, the stone in a hollow at the center, the shields removed.
It was so small a thing to hold such power. She might have held it in both her hands, and it looked no more than a knob of agate, lumpy, and banded with layers of pale color, all shifting and shining under the sun. So small, so insignificant to those without the talent; to the sorcerers, so powerful, its strength a palpable force. Rwyan felt the familiar tingling run through her body, as if all her nerves throbbed. It was a seductive sensation: there were some had fallen so deeply under that crystalline spell, they gave up their minds, even their lives to it. She shuddered, fighting off the temptation to touch the stone, to feel its power and let it drink of hers. That would come soon enough; instead, she directed her attention to the sky.
There was no disruption of the blue. Neither gulls nor kittiwakes, indeed no birds at all, ventured close to the roofless chamber, and she could not “see” the promised skyboats. She turned her face toward Gwyllym, whose mental broadcast had sounded this alarm. He had the watch, with Jhone and Maethyrene, and she could even now feel the faint vibration deep inside her skull that told her he communed with those below. His eyes were closed in concentration, and so she “looked” to the others. Jhone stood with her head raised, cocked slightly to one side, as if she listened to the silence. Maethyrene was turning, frowning as she counted the Adepts emerging from the arched doorway. Rwyan caught her eye and raised her brows in silent question.
The hunchbacked woman nodded, jabbing a thumb skyward. “No doubt of it, they come.” Her voice was deep and musical. It seemed almost she sang the words. “Either a full-blown skyboat or a flock of those God-cursed little ones.”
Jhone said, “They come swift. The little boats, I think.”
Gwyllym said, “All below stand ready. Do we prepare?”
They grouped about the pedestal. Rwyan waited nervously for Maethyrene’s command.
“Let us be ready.”
She said it mildly, but none were slow to obey. Rwyan stared at the crystal, opening her mind to its magic, feeling it enter her, shocking as sudden immersion in freezing water, startling as an unexpected blow. For an instant nausea gripped her and she gagged, her sight gone. Then calm, the linkage with the minds below, not conscious, but as if she drank of naked power, was become insuperable. It was a heady sensation and always at first disconcerting. She was herself individual and at the same time a part of a greater whole, a unit in the gestalt formed with her fellows, joined in purpose and power. As her vision cleared, she “saw” the crystal pulsing, faint streamers of multihued light flickering like umbilical cords between the stone and those around it. She had not known she staggered until she became aware of Gwyllym’s thick arm about her shoulders. She smiled her thanks and turned as he did, eastward, to where the enemy came.
They were the little boats, a score or more, bloodred cylinders hung within the disruption of the air caused by the elementals that drew them onward. Beneath were suspended the black baskets, like dories, containing t
he Sky Lords. She felt the weirdling magic of the aerial spirits, wild, angered by such enslavement, and beyond that the cold confidence of the Kho’rabi wizards, the implacable meshing of their sorcery, defensive and eager to strike.
Now!
Maethyrene’s command was swifter than speech; obeyed no slower. As one, all twenty sorcerers summoned the power and sent it against the Kho’rabi vessels. Light pierced the sky, brighter than the sun, redly glittering lances of brilliance striking at the sanguine vessels, the sable baskets.
Five exploded. Rwyan felt the dying, the painful stab as human life ceased, assuaged by the rejoicing of the elementals as the spirits were freed, the sense of triumph that came from her companions. Terydd gloated: he enjoyed this too much. From Jhone and Gwyllym she felt a sorrow akin to her own, but steeled with the certainty that this battle must be fought. She gathered herself, pushing regret aside. The crystal pulsed—the Dhar sent out their minds in waves of pure destructive energy.
Light flashed, magic dueling with magic. That of the Sentinel was visible, that of the Kho’rabi wizards unseen, but still it was akin to the blades of master swordsmen, an occult struggle, parry and riposte, attack and counter. More skyboats burst in balls of searing fire. Rwyan heard the howling of the elementals; felt the grim determination of the Sky Lords, their anger.
Again and again the terrible beams struck out. The skyboats were reduced to twelve now; now seven. Five shot by safe, all the power of the guiding wizards bent on staving off the magic of the Dhar, on driving the elementals like madly lashed horses to the shore beyond the Fend. Of the remaining two, one erupted directly overhead. Rwyan felt the heat of its destruction; felt stuff touch her and struggled against horror as she knew blood and pieces of flesh rained on her. As though from far away, she heard Waende scream and saw the brown-haired woman scrubbing at a face all bloodied, ignoring the sparks that smoldered on her gown. Beyond the tower’s retaining wall she saw the second skyboat falling, flame and smoke streamered behind. The Kho’rabi wizard was slain and the spirits he controlled fled—she could feel the absence: the vessel was no more than a burning boat, rudderless, impotent now.
It drifted toward the mainland, southward a little, the canopy of the supporting balloon blazing, the basket beneath afire. The dark shapes of men leaped from amongst the flames, falling down and down to the waiting sea. Rwyan felt Jhone’s prompting and gathered herself, preparatory to striking again. Abruptly there was no need: flame ate the canopy, and the gas inside exploded. For a moment a ball of fire hung in the sky, a small second sun. The basket, trailing oily smoke, fell away. It seemed to fall forever, and then the sky was clear.
Gone. The God be praised, they’re gone.
Maethyrene’s sending was more relief than triumph.
There are no more. Yet.
Jhone slapped absently at a curl of scorching hair.
Aye, it’s done.
Gwyllym sent word to those below.
Rwyan felt the linkages break, threads of occult energy tugging at her mind as if reluctant to quit their hold, and stepped an instinctive pace back as she broke her own communion with the crystal. The stone ceased its fervent pulsing, and she felt again that sense of loss, as if something precious were snatched from her. She dismissed it, fighting the desire to remain awhile longer one with the stone, blind a moment before she summoned her weaker magic to restore her “sight.” Across the width of the tower’s top she “saw” Waende weeping, Terydd holding her, using a sleeve to wipe blood from his lover’s face. She looked down and “saw” her own gown stained. She felt weary, drained, and more than a little queasy; she was uncertain whether because she had slain men or because of the crystal.
“Enough.” Gwyllym sounded not much better, but he squared his great shoulders and forced a tired smile. “Jhone, Maethyrene, do we remain until fresh watchers come? You others may go; rest. You did well. Those designated for tonight’s watch will be replaced.”
Rwyan needed no more prompting.
In her chamber, she shed her gown and filled a tub. The green linen was speckled with droplets of red and the pinhole marks of burning. In better times it might have been abandoned, but since the supply ships came so infrequently now, she decided it must be washed and repaired. But later; now she wanted only to languish in the bath, then scrub herself clean.
Scrub my flesh clean, she thought. Inside, I shall still feel soiled.
She could not understand why: she had done her duty, left no choice by the Sky Lords. She was unsure exactly what she felt … guilty? Certainly, such encounters as this day’s left her with the feeling she was rendered somehow unclean. Yet the enmity of the Ahn was implacable—the God knew, she had felt that, like a foul dark wave coming from the skyboats—and there were few others of her kind felt any compunction at slaying the ancient enemy. Not all exulted in the fight, as did Terydd and some of his ilk; some, like Maethyrene, radiated a solemn resignation, but none felt any real regret. So why did she? Almost, she could wish she were less gifted, her talent weaker, so that she had not been chosen for the Sentinels but ordered to some keep. There seemed to her something close to obscenity in the battles the Sentinels fought, as if evil were brought out to oppose evil. Likely it should be a simpler life in a keep.
Would it, though? she wondered as she sank herself in the tub. The keep sorcerers fight when the Sky Lords ground their boats, so what difference? Either way men die.
She began to wash hair matted with blood, coated with ash, watching the water change color. Perhaps, she mused, it’s to do with the crystal Or to do with me, solely. Perhaps I’m not the stuff from which true patriots are fashioned. Perhaps I’ve not the stomach for war and should be no better as a commur-mage. Perhaps I listened too close to Daviot, when he spoke of our driving the Ahn from their homeland. When he spoke of—no! I’ll not think of him.
Angry with herself, she rose to find the pump and sluice her body. It was always, she realized, after she had linked with the crystal that she thought the most of Daviot, dreamed the more. It was as though the stone opened some portal to grant memory better ingress. She dried herself (thinking it was near pointless in such heat) and tugged on a clean gown. She was hungry, and there would be company in the refectory to alleviate her megrims.
When she found it, the long room was already crowded: such magic as had been used today edged the appetite. Rwyan “saw” Gwyllym—like her, fresh bathed—deep in conversation with Cyraene and Gynael, Chiara listening even as her eyes wandered. The blond woman saw Rwyan and waved, indicating a place beside her. Rwyan smiled, somewhat tentatively, and nodded, making her way across the room. She hoped that with more senior sorcerers present, Chiara would not babble as usual about the day’s events, not evince such bloodthirsty fervor. She wondered if she grew testy: in Durbrecht she had not thought of Chiara’s chatter as babbling. Likely, she decided as she joined them, it was because Chiara found such pleasure in those things Rwyan herself found distasteful. She supposed they both had changed since coming here. She held her smile in place, aware that otherwise she might have scowled, as Chiara greeted her eagerly, already speaking of the fight.
“Better than a score, so Gwyllym says; and all but five destroyed. I wish to the God I’d been with you.”
Rwyan waved that one of that day’s servitors bring her ale and food. “Do you?” she asked. “It was not very pleasant. I’ve been washing off Kho’rabi blood.”
“Dark blood that can no longer threaten Dharbek,” said Chiara fiercely. “Like battle honors.”
Rwyan fought irritation. “Poor Waende was drenched,” she said, looking around. “Is she here? Is she well?”
Gynael said, “She’s abed. Not hungry, she says, and somewhat disturbed. Marthyn gave her a sleeping draught.”
“Best she not take a watch for a while,” said Gwyllym. “But you, Rwyan, are you well?”
“Save for a burned gown.” She smiled. She’d not say here she felt unclean. “Save for that, aye.”
�
�Good.” He nodded kindly. “Me, I’ve an appetite after that squabble.”
“How,” asked Chiara, “can you name it a squabble?”
“Easily.” Gwyllym chuckled, catching Rwyan’s eye and winking. “Now, shall we speak of gentler matters?”
Chiara was about to protest, but Cyraene patted her hand and bade her quiet. Rwyan could not decide whether she wanted to laugh or shake her friend as Chiara pouted, but at least she obeyed her lover, and the conversation moved away from the fight.
Not far: it was difficult to avoid discussion of the Sky Lords, of their newfound magic, and the likely imminence of the Great Coming.
None there doubted its approach; the sole question was when, and on that opinions differed. Rwyan favored no one opinion over another. Sometimes, secretly, she entertained the wish that somehow there be a peace forged; but that was surely no more than idle indulgence: the Dhar would not give back the land taken from the Ahn, any more than the Sky Lords would relinquish their claim. Not willingly; not without it be forced on them both. And how should that be accomplished?
Unless, came the errant thought, Daviot’s dreams be true, and we find the dragons and make them our allies.
“Rwyan?” Gwyllym’s voice intruded on her musing. “Where do you go, Rwyan?”
Before she could shape a reply, Chiara said, “Dreaming again! Of whom, Rwyan?”
