by Angus Wells
His face darkened then. “A rock,” he said. “A bare forsaken rock in a sea I did not know. I spoke with Death there. A boat came—you were on it, and you took me off. You and a tall man called Gwyllym. You brought me here and nursed me back to health. Then I remembered who I am.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
He said, “I am Tezdal,” and frowned again. “But more than that …” The chains rattled as he shook them. “I know you chain me, but I do not know why. I do not know where I came from, or why you fear me.”
“I don’t fear you,” she said.
“Then loose me.”
She shook her head. “I cannot. That must be decided by others.”
“Am I dangerous?” he asked, his face puzzled now. “Am I a madman? A criminal?”
“No, neither of those.” Now she frowned. “You’re a Sky Lord; a Kho’rabi.”
Lines creased his forehead. “I don’t understand. What are those names?”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve heard them said, I think. But …” His head turned in slow negation. “They mean nothing to me.”
Rwyan’s lips pursed. There seemed no guile in him: she believed him. She said, “I must summon others. Do you wait, Tezdal, and perhaps they’ll agree you may be loosed.”
“I should like that,” he said, so solemnly she must smile.
She nodded and closed her eyes, sending out a call. He wakes. He speaks our language now, but I think he remembers no more.
We come. Wait.
She opened her eyes. It was easier to focus her talent for sight with them open, and long ingrained habit. She smiled reassuringly and said, “Not long. They come now.”
“You’re a sorcerer.” His voice was hushed, as if the fact had not sunk in before. “Are all here sorcerers?”
“We are,” she said. “We defend Dharbek.”
“Dharbek?” His face expressed incomprehension.
“You’ve much to learn,” she told him. “Be patient. We must all of us be patient.”
His smile grew cynical then, and he shook his chains. “I’ve little choice, eh?”
Rwyan said, “No. Not yet, at least.”
It was again full council and, save Tezdal was not this time present, as heated as before.
Gwyllym spoke: “In the God’s name, we argue around and around like a dog chasing its own tail—getting nowhere. He hides nothing. He’s nothing to hide! How much proof do you need?”
Demaeter said, “More. Enough we can be sure that sending him to Durbrecht shall not be sending a viper to the land’s heart.”
“I think he’s hardly a viper,” Gynael said, her hoarse voice become a rasping croak from the lengthy debate. “He seems to me more like a man lost, adrift from both his homeland and his own past.”
“Save he be a Kho’rabi wizard,” said Cyraene. “And conceals his power.”
“There’s no magic in him.” Marthyn’s voice was edged with irritation. “On that I’d stake my life.”
“Perhaps you do,” said Alrys.
“May the God grant me patience.” Marthyn shook his head, adding in what was not quite a whisper, “I need it, dealing with fools.”
“I’d not deem it foolish to be wary.” Alrys chose to ignore the slur. “Do we err, then better it be on the side of caution.”
“Do we take your cautious path,” Marthyn returned, “then he’ll live out his life on this island.”
“Save he be executed,” Cyraene said.
“No.” Demaeter shook his head. “On that at least we’re agreed—to execute him now should be akin to murder.”
“Unless he is a wizard,” Cyraene muttered.
“In which case,” said Gynael wearily, “he’s a wizard so accomplished as to defeat all our investigations. In which case, he’s likely more dangerous here than on the mainland. In which case, it must surely be safer to send him to Durbrecht.”
Maethyrene lent her support: “We can learn nothing more here.”
“No; on that, at least, we seem in accord.” Gwyllym rose to address the assembly. His sheer bulk commanded attention: Rwyan hoped it should command agreement. “Does he remain here, it shall be as a man without a past. What shall he be, then? A servant? We’ve never had servants; we’ve no Changed to fetch and carry for us. Shall we make a menial of him?”
Cyraene muttered, “It should be fitting,” and Alrys chuckled, nodding agreement.
Rwyan said, “Was it not that first made the Ahn our enemy? Shall we repeat that mistake?”
Faces turned in shock toward her, outrage writ there. That she questioned was, their eyes said, grossest assumption. She was grateful for Gwyllym’s calm smile.
“There’s truth in that,” he said, voice raised over angry muttering, “but I’d not now debate our past. Save I say we should not forgo our ancient customs. I’d not see him made a servant any more than I’d have Changed on the Sentinels. Can we agree on that?”
There was a murmur of acceptance, a ducking of heads; reluctantly from Cyraene, Alrys.
Gwyllym waited until he had silence again. Then: “So, here he’s useless to us—as has been said, another mouth to feed. We cannot restore his memory, and without that he’s nothing. In Durbrecht, however …”He paused, gray eyes moving slowly from face to face. “In Durbrecht is the College of the Mnemonikos, whose talent is remembering; who understand memory better than we and possess such techniques as might restore his. I say we send him there.”
“And our own College,” Gynael said, forestalling Demaeter’s protest, “which can surely deal with one forgetful Kho’rabi; wizard, or no.”
“And on the way?” the plump sorcerer demanded. “What of that?”
There was a pause. Into it, Rwyan dared speak again. “I’ve spent more time with him than any of you, and I tell you he’s no threat. He deems us saviors, himself indebted.”
“Perhaps,” said Cyraene, her voice smooth, venom in the words, “you’ve grown too close. Did you not once disgrace yourself with a Rememberer?”
Rwyan felt a chill at that reminder; instantly replaced with anger’s heat. “I loved a man, aye,” she said. It was an effort to hold her voice calm: she had sooner slapped the woman. “And when I was bade come here, I left him. I know my duty.”
“And have you found another man?” Cyraene asked with malevolent mildness. “One no more suitable?”
“I’ve not,” Rwyan answered curtly; and could not resist adding, “neither do I cull the newcome for lovers.”
The older woman’s face paled with affront, but as her mouth opened to vent reply, Gwyllym said, “Enough! Shall we squabble like spiteful children, or speak as adults?”
Rwyan said, “I’m sorry.” Cyraene shrugged, arranging her gown.
Demaeter said, “I ask again—what of the journey to Durbrecht? How can we know him secure along the way?”
“Deliver him from keep to keep,” suggested Jhone. “Let the commur-mages take him, with a squadron from each warband.”
“Slow,” said Alrys.
“And,” said Gynael, “unlikely to be much welcomed by the aeldors. Are our fears realized and the Great Coming begun, the keeps shall need their sorcerers and their soldiers.”
Gwyllym ducked his head. “That’s true,” he said. “A boat should be simpler and swifter. But first—are we agreed that he goes to Durbrecht?”
Again a pause, a murmuring as individual discussions were voiced; finally a nodding, a rumble of consent.
“So be it.” Gwyllym turned slowly, eliciting agreement from each of them. “He goes to Durbrecht. Now let us debate the how of it.”
Maethyrene said, “A supply ship?”
“When shall the next come?” Alrys demanded. “Most are commandeered to supply the holdings.”
“We might request one of Durbrecht,” Jhone suggested.
“And be refused,” said Demaeter. “Or wait the God knows how long.”
“Send to Carsbry then,” Jhone offered. “Let Pyrri
n divert a boat or send one of his own galleys.”
“Has he one to send,” said Gwyllym thoughtfully. “And there’s another thing—I’d see Tezdal delivered whole, alive. Think you a galley out of Carsbry, with warriors on board, should treat a captive Sky Lord kindly? Remember, both Pyrrin’s sons were slain.”
“They’d more likely slay him,” said Cyraene. Rwyan thought she concealed her pleasure at the notion.
“We could protect him,” Maethyrene said. “Send our own escort.”
Cyraene’s protest was genuine: “We’ve a duty here! We dare not weaken our defenses.”
“Then it would seem we reach impasse.” Demaeter folded chubby hands across his belly. “For I’ll not agree to sending him anywhere save he’s warded by magic.”
Gwyllym frowned, nodding acceptance. Rwyan said, “Perhaps there is another way.”
Again, their faces turned toward her, some still hostile, others curious. Gwyllym motioned that she explain, and she said, “I think that the warbands would likely slay him, perhaps even some keep sorcerers. I’d suggest he go clandestine—that we advise only Durbrecht of his coming and none others. We might send one of our own boats to Carsbry and find some ship going north from there.”
“Not without he’s warded,” said Demaeter obstinately. “And as Cyraene points out, we cannot spare guards for such a journey.”
“We might,” Cyraene said, her eyes sparkling as they fixed on Rwyan, “send one. Perhaps one powerful enough to hold the Kho’rabi in check, but not so great as to weaken the island’s magic.”
Demaeter nodded, Alrys voiced agreement; others joined them.
Rwyan saw a trap set and sprung: she was not sure she minded. She said, “I’d go, be it your wish.”
Jhone said warningly, “It would be no easy journey, child.”
“Yet we’re agreed it must be done,” said Cyraene.
Rwyan found Gwyllym studying her speculatively. She said, “I swear Tezdal is no threat. I trust him.”
“With your life?” asked Gynael.
“With my life,” answered Rwyan.
Cyraene smiled feigned friendship and said, “I say we accept Rwyan’s proposal.”
Gwyllym asked, “Are you sure?” And when Rwyan ducked her head, “Let us vote on it.”
It was soon cast. Some there were glad enough to see themselves rid of the Kho’rabi, some of Rwyan; her friends voted honestly, in favor of what seemed to them the best proposal. It was decided she should go with Tezdal to Carsbry, claiming herself a mage returning from a sojourn on the island. She would ask of the aeldor Pyrrin that he arrange passage north for them, to Durbrecht if that were possible, if not, then to some other keep closer to the Treppanek, where she might find another ship. She would be given coin enough to facilitate the journey; they wished her the God’s speed.
There was only a single point of dissent: Demaeter would send Tezdal out in chains. Rwyan had not known she commanded such eloquence as she argued that.
How, she demanded, might such bonds be explained? They should look most odd, no? Was Tezdal a prisoner, then surely he would be delivered to the aeldor. And what manner of prisoner would come from the Sentinels, save a Sky Lord? Which announcement they were surely agreed was not to be bruited abroad for fear Tezdal be slain out of hand.
No, she told the fat sorcerer with a firmness she had not known she possessed, was this subterfuge to work, then all must appear normal. There could be no chains.
And should he regain his full memory and turn on her?
He would not, of that she was certain; too, she was not without defenses. She had the talent, no? She could ward herself well enough against a single man, surely?
“I believe you can,” said Maethyrene. “But even so—do we agree he goes unfettered—you must still explain his presence. He cannot be your servant, for we’ve no servants here. What is he then? Why does he accompany you?”
There was a murmur of agreement, of doubt. Cyraene frowned as if disappointed. Rwyan thought a moment on the argument and smiled. “I am blind,” she said, “so let him be my eyes. A man hired off a supply ship to act as guide and servant. The God willing, that explanation should satisfy most folk.”
Demaeter voiced protest but the rest nodded approvingly, and once more it had been Gynael who set the seal on it.
“I am old and I grow weary,” she had said. “I’d eat, and find my bed. Rwyan’s the way of it, and wise for one so young. We’d send the Kho’rabi to Durbrecht, and it seems to me that save we do it as Rwyan suggests, he’ll likely be torn apart on suspicion alone. Be that the case, then we’ve wasted all our time, and I’ve not so much to waste. I say be done! These are perilous times, and they call for desperate measures. Is Rwyan confident, then let him go loosed as she suggests. I trust her.”
Gwyllym had lent his support, but the silver-haired woman had swayed the doubters, so that his vote was little more than a formality: it was finally agreed, the details settled. It was left to Rwyan to advise Tezdal.
She had not realized how nervous she had been until she quit the hall and walked out into the baking heat of the afternoon: it seemed cooler than that shadowed interior. She paused, opening hands she had not known she clenched, and saw the indentations her nails had left in her palms. Why do I care so much? she asked herself, and could offer no rational answer, save that she did and would not see Tezdal either slain or made a mindless servitor. Is it wrong? The God knows, he is a Sky Lord, and they are our enemy. Then: No! He was a Sky Lord; now he’s just a lost and lonely man and likely trusts no one but me. Is that reason enough?
She made her way toward his room—his cell—lost in thought, careless of those she passed, even when several called to her wanting to know the council’s decision. To them she gave vague answer, barely aware of what she said, absorbed in her musings.
Everything she had told the Adepts was true. She did trust Tezdal; she did not believe he would harm her. There was something about him, something in his demeanor, that told her he spoke honestly when he spoke of owing his life.
But do I betray him? she wondered as the path wound through a grove where goats and sheep ambled lazily about her. I take him from imprisonment here, but surely to another kind of jail, in Durbrecht. What shall they do with him there, the Mnemonikos and the sorcerers of the College? Shall he be chained again, fed and watered like some animal, his mind a toy to be dissected?
She “saw” the tiny cottage, the door locked, and paused, not yet quite ready to break her news; needing to be sure in her own mind that what she gave him was gift, not curse.
At least he’ll not be condemned to live out his life here. She gasped, recognizing the shape of her thought: its inherent significance. Condemned? Is that how I see this island, as a prison? I’d not spend my life here, only such time as the crystal allows, and yet … God! Have I hidden my feelings even from myself? Am I a traitor to my College, to my talent and my duty?
She felt her head spin and reached out to clutch a low-hung branch. The gnarled wood was rough beneath her hand, warm; she pressed her forehead against it a moment, her mouth dry.
Are my motives selfish? Do I seek my own freedom, Tezdal the key? Surely not—I had accepted my lot before he came. I was … resigned. At least, not unhappy. Or not very.
An ant ran busy over her hand, forerunner of a column, the insects’ passage relentless, her hand merely an obstacle to overcome. She “watched” them, thinking:
Like the Sky Lords. Amongst whose number I must not forget Tezdal was counted; if not now, then once. And like these ants, the Sky Lords are relentless, they intend to overcome my country. Then I do my duty in bringing him to Durbrecht, and at least along the way he shall enjoy a measure of freedom. Surely that must be for the best; surely.
She straightened, blowing softly to dislodge the ants still clinging to her skin, and went toward the cottage.
The lock was newly fixed—there was no need of locks here—and the key hung from a nail beside. She took it d
own and swung the door open. Tezdal sat on the single chair, a length of chain securing him to the bed.
As if he were some half-wild animal, not yet to be quite trusted. She smiled at him and said, “Day’s greetings, Tezdal.”
He rose. He always rises, she thought, noticing it for the first time. He is a genteel man.
He said, “Day’s greetings, Rwyan. Is my fate decided?”
Certainly his wits were sharp enough. She said, a little nervous now, “How do you know we spoke of you?”
He shrugged and said, “I’ve been left alone all day. Usually, you come; at least, someone. When none came since I was fed, I thought …”
She motioned that he sit. He ducked his head in approximation of a bow and went to the bed, waiting until she took the chair.
“We did,” she said without further preamble. “You are to go to Durbrecht.”
“Durbrecht?” He frowned. “You’ve spoken of Durbrecht. A great city, no? Where you were taught to use your magic.”
“My College is there.” She nodded. “But also the College of the Mnemonikos—the Rememberers.”
He smiled politely and asked her, “Why?” as if they spoke not of his future, of his fate, but of some jaunt.
“It’s our belief,” she answered, “that they might restore your memory.”
“I should welcome that.” His smile became a rueful grin. “At least, I think I should. I do not feel … whole … not knowing quite who I am; or what. Is it far?”
“Yes.” A lifetime far. “We must first cross to the mainland, then take a ship north.”
Tezdal grinned at that and rattled his chains. “Shall I wear these still?” he asked.
Rwyan shook her head. “No. They’ll be struck off.”
He said, “Good,” and his smile was broad.
He listened attentively as she outlined the journey and the part he must play; what had been decided in conclave.
When she was done, he said, “I am not a servant, Rwyan.” His expression was troubled; he seemed affronted at the notion of such subterfuge. “I do not know how I know this, but I do.”
