Lords of the Sky

by Angus Wells

  “Would you have me wash that, master?”

  A huge hand gestured at my shirt.

  I said, “My thanks, but there’s no great need.”

  He came a pace closer. His head was slightly lowered, as if he lacked the nerve to look me in the eye. “It’s no trouble, master,” he said. His voice was a deep, bass rumble. “It’s soiled, and I’ve others need tending.”

  I thought perhaps he looked to curry favor. I smiled my gratitude. “Very well, then. Here.”

  I held out the shirt—in my left hand, on whose wrist I wore Lan’s bracelet. The Changed took it, and as he did our eyes met. He held my gaze an instant, then turned away. I wondered if I had truly seen interest flicker in those bland bovine orbs.

  He halted, stepping aside and bowing as Rwyan came back, and I forgot him, looking at her face. She had wiped away her tears, but her eyes were red. She held herself very straight, which I thought was from effort of will alone. Wearily, I climbed to my feet, pulling on a clean shirt.

  She said, “Tyron advises me we can dock in Ynisvar on the morrow.”

  I nodded, unspeaking. I had nothing left to say; nothing I had not already repeated, to no avail.

  She said, “Soon after dawn, he says.” I ducked my head again.

  Rwyan sighed noisily. “This is not as I’d have it,” she murmured. “Do you believe that?”

  I said, “Yes,” and turned, resting my arms on the gunwale, staring out across the Fend. It was too hard at that moment to see her.

  She came to join me, close, and that, too, was hard. She said, “Do you also believe I love you?”

  Again I said, “Yes,” and in my hurt could not resist adding, “but not so much as your duty.”

  It was a shabby rejoinder that I instantly regretted. I should have told her so then, but I was sunk deep in my self-pity and could not. I heard her stifle a gasp, as if my words stung, and then she said, “Daviot, you are unkind. Could it be otherwise, think you I’d not go gladly with you? As your wife or your woman, always by your side?”

  “But,” I said, not turning my head, “it’s not otherwise. Is it?”

  She said softly, “No.”

  I said, “Then there’s no more to say. Save farewell.”

  I heard her shift then and knew she studied me. I refused to meet her eyes. I held mine firm on the unyielding sea, knowing that did I see her face, I’d weep and beg her to rethink, plead with her. A moment more, and she turned away. I heard her footsteps go soft across the deck, and I was left alone. My heart felt empty as the cloudless sky.

  She spent the remainder of that day in her cabin, and I did not move until the sky darkened and the smell of grilling fish tempted my nostrils. I had forgotten hunger, but now my belly rumbled prodigiously, reminding me that no matter how we suffer, life goes on. I had no appetite, however, and made no effort to join the group around the cookstove. What matter if I starved now?

  I heard steps approach, and the savory odor of charcoal grilled fish was stronger. I turned to find Tezdal standing with a plate and a mug of ale. He smiled warily and set down his burden.

  “Even so,” he said, “you must eat.”

  I snorted and looked past him down the deck. Rwyan sat with Tyron, half the Changed crewmen a little way separate. The rest still manned the sweeps, driving the Sprite remorselessly onward, toward our landfall in Ynisvar.

  The Sky Lord followed the direction of my gaze. “She loves you, Daviot. This gives her pain.”

  “But she’s her duty,” I said.

  “She’s strong,” he told me, “she’s honor. You should admire her for that.”

  Sourly, I said, “I do. But also I love her.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps when I regain my memory, I shall find I love someone.”

  I said, “I hope not.”

  He frowned then and asked me, “Because I’ll know, but not have her?”

  I said, “Yes. It’s hard to love someone you cannot have.”

  He studied me thoughtfully. Then he said, “But surely better than never to love at all.”

  I must think about that. My memories of Rwyan brought me pain, but would I be without them? I answered him, “Perhaps you’re right.”

  He smiled gravely. Then: “Did you go to her cabin tonight, I do not think she’d turn you away.”

  Perhaps not. But surely that would be to rub salt into open wounds. I’d wounds enough: I shook my head. “Perhaps she’d not, but I think I could not bear that. I’d sooner be gone now than suffer more.”

  “It’s your choice,” he said, and offered me that odd half bow. I watched him return along the deck, finding a place at Rwyan’s side. I had not thought to envy a Sky Lord. I glanced at the plate he’d left; then I sank down and began to eat.

  The sky grew slowly black, and Tyron ordered his running lights set. A Changed came by me with a taper and gathered up my plate. Then another came with a replenished mug. I took the tankard and thanked him. He said, “My pleasure, master,” and I automatically said, “I am called Daviot.”

  His smile was ponderous as the beast from which he originated, but he said, “My pleasure, Daviot.”

  I sipped the second mug, vaguely surprised that I felt no wish to drown my sorrows. I saw Rwyan come down the deck, her face turned toward me. I hid behind my upraised mug, and when I set it down, she was gone. Then Tezdal went into the cabin beside hers, and I thought on what he’d said. It was still too painful to contemplate joining her. I thought it would be akin to opening a wound. I stretched on the forecastle, my back against the starboard bulwark, and stared at the stars.

  A bulky shape blocked my view, an outstretched hand offering my laundered shirt. I said, “My thanks. How are you named?”

  “Ayl,” came the rumbling answer, “Daviot.”

  I nodded. I was too weary, too lost in my apathy, to question him further. He stood a moment longer, his face in shadow so that I could not discern what expression lay there, then he said, “Sleep well, Daviot,” and left me to my thoughts.

  I dreamed that night as the Sprite clove through the Fend, northward; odd, fitful dreams, all fragmented like my hopes.

  I was in the oak wood again, blinded by the sunlight that poured down through the leafy branches, so that I caught only momentary glimpses of the figures flitting between the mossy boles. But when I moved toward them, they were gone, and from my back I heard Urt shout my name. I turned in that direction and saw my Changed friend standing with Ayl and Lan, all pointing past me, alarm on their faces.

  I turned again and saw Rwyan, tears running bright in the sunlight down her face. I said, “Rwyan, I love you,” and opened my arms, but Tezdal stepped between us and said, “She’s honor, Storyman; she’s strong.”

  I said, “Yes. Would I had her strength.” And then a hand of Kho’rabi charged the clearing, and I took up my staff to defend Rwyan.

  Tezdal stood beside me, armored in the Dhar fashion, a long-sword in his hands. We attacked together, but for each Sky Lord we slew, another came out of the surrounding trees, like black ants boiling from a disturbed nest.

  We were forced back, to where Rwyan stood, and she said, “I must use my magic.”

  I said, “It’s not enough,” and she returned me, “Still, I must try. It’s all we have.”

  I shouted, “No, there’s more,” not knowing what I meant until I heard the thunder of great wings and saw the clearing darkened by the body that fell from the sky.

  It was the dragon, and it descended on the Kho’rabi with a dreadful fury. I pressed back, an arm protective about Rwyan, and then I was aloft, soaring over jagged peaks and rocky valleys, my face battered by wind. The sky was dark with thunderheads, and lightning danced across the land. I looked around and saw Rwyan mounted astride a dragon, diminutive on that massive back, dwarfed by the vast wings that beat a rhythm loud as the thunder itself. Urt, I saw, rode another; and beyond him, Tezdal. It seemed not at all strange that we rode dragons.

  I heard Rwyan call to me, “Whe
re do we go?”

  I shouted, “I don’t know.”

  She cried, “But Daviot, you’re the Dragonmaster.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant, but the sky filled with a shrieking sound …

  Which came from Tyron’s whistle, shrilling announcement of dawn, rousing those Changed allowed to sleep from their rest.

  I sat up, rubbing at sleep-fogged eyes. The sky was gray, the sun a pale hint along the eastern horizon, the air, out here upon the Fend, cooler than on land at this hour. I clambered to my feet, working kinks from my muscles, oneiric images still vivid in my mind. A solitary gull winged across our path, taking my gaze with it—it made for land, for the shore that held Ynisvar and likely my final parting from Rwyan.

  I heard Tyron’s whistle sound again, and then his voice raised in outrage. He shouted at the tillerman, ordering a change of course: the Sprite held steady on her line. I blinked, staring down the deck, unease stirring. Then I gaped as I saw Tyron draw his wide sword and swing the blade at the steersman’s head. The Changed ducked the blow with an agility I had not known the bull-bred possessed, and the captain’s sword carved splinters from the tiller. I took up my staff, my eyes still intent on the poop, and saw Tyron seized, his arms pinned beneath the massive biceps of a crewman. His sword fell to the deck. He struggled, shouting furiously as he was carried to the port side. His shouting faded as he was flung overboard; I could not hear the splash.

  I shouted, “Rwyan! Mutiny!” and sprang to meet the Changed who advanced toward me, Ayl at their head.

  He bellowed, “Easy, Daviot! No harm shall come you, do you put down your staff.”

  I swung the pole at his head. He raised a hand and caught it easily as if I were a child flailing a willow switch: I had not fully realized what strength lay in these bull-bred bodies. He pulled on the staff, and I was flung sideways, crashing against the bulwark there, winded. I saw my staff go spinning away across the water. I saw Tezdal appear, then Rwyan, my view interrupted by the Changed who fell upon me. I crouched, propelling myself up and forward, punching at faces and chests that seemed impervious to my blows. Hands strong as manacles gripped me, and I was held immobile. I could do nothing as my knife—Thorus’s parting gift that I’d had so long—was taken and sent after my staff into the Fend.

  I saw Rwyan shout, hands raised to weave patterns in the air that I knew should produce magic. Two Changed roared and dropped as if poleaxed. Another sprang down to the lower deck. Ayl shouted, “No harm! As you fear her wrath, no harm!”

  The oarsmen left their benches now, converging on Rwyan and Tezdal. I saw the Sky Lord leap forward, defending her. He had done better to rely on her magic: a fist struck his head, and he went down. Rwyan felled the attacker, and the rest hesitated, spreading out before her. They no longer seemed bovine but more akin to those wild bulls that roam the slopes of the Geffyn. Then I saw Ayl reach into his belt and fetch out a length of chain that glittered in the sun. He clutched the thing in one fisted hand and ran forrard along the deck. I saw that he moved behind Rwyan and opened my mouth to shout a warning. A hand that covered half my face clamped down, stifling the cry, so that I could only watch, helpless, as Ayl leaped down.

  Rwyan turned too late. The Changed was already at her back, his fingers oddly delicate as he snapped the necklace in place. Rwyan screamed, and there was such horror in her shout, it wrenched my soul. I struggled uselessly. At last the suffocating hand let go.

  I shouted, “Do you harm her, I’ll kill you!”

  Ayl called back. “No harm, Daviot. We’d have you all alive.”

  I cried, “Rwyan! Rwyan!”

  She moaned, unsteady on her feet, swaying as if stunned. She said, “Daviot? Daviot, I’m blind.”

  The Sprite was Ayl’s command now. Brisk orders sent the rowers back to their sweeps, the galleass continuing northward. More had the unconscious Tezdal carried to where I stood, no longer struggling but entirely preoccupied with Rwyan. Ayl himself brought her to the upper deck and gently set her down before me. He nodded to my captors, and they let me go. I’d no fight left in me, only fear for Rwyan: I put my arms around her, holding her close, protective. She clutched me tight; she shook, and I was uncertain whether from terror or anger.

  Ayl said, “There’s no harm done her, only her magic checked.”

  I stared at him a moment, then at the necklace. It was a linkage of plain silver loops, small and very bright, fastened with a tiny lock. At its midpoint, glowing against Rwyan’s throat, was a crystal that pulsed myriad rainbow hues in the morning sun.

  I said, “What is it?”

  “Magic,” Ayl answered me. “Magic to fight magic. You’ll not remove it, and only hurt her trying.”

  I glared at him. “What do you intend?”

  He said, “No harm; only a journey.”

  I cursed. Garat should have been proud of those curses.

  Ayl heard me out, impassive, then said, “Daviot, it was your ill luck brought you to this. And good fortune gave you that talisman.” He indicated the hair woven about my wrist. I said, “Lan’s gift?”

  “Aye.” He ducked his massive head. “That charm marks you as a friend. Were that not on your wrist, you’d be swimming ashore now.”

  I said, “But instead I’m your prisoner.”

  He said, “Yes; or guest, do you prefer. It need not be a hard confinement, and where we go, you’ll garner such stories as shall make you the envy of your kind.”

  “Where do we go?” I asked, and he chuckled, tapping finger to nose. I said, “Rwyan’s blind.”

  “Only whilst she wears that trinket,” he replied. “It may be removed in time.”

  I’d have questioned him further, but he waved me silent, ordering that we be taken to Tyron’s cabin, and I could only obey. I moved slowly, holding Rwyan tight all the time. She clung to me as might a drowning man cling to a spar or a raft. Her steps were faltering, and all the time she wept silently.

  The Changed were oddly courteous as they herded us to our prison. Tezdal was laid on the captain’s bed, and I guided Rwyan to its foot, settling her there as the cabin door closed and I heard a key turned in the lock. I went immediately to the ports. “They showed me the Fend, its surface scarred by our wake. Then bodies blocked my view, and there came the ring of hammers on nails as bars were pounded into place. I turned away, going back to Rwyan.

  She sat with her head thrown back, hands busy at the necklace. Her face was wet with tears, and pale. I sat beside her, and she started, head moving from side to side as if she hoped the movement should grant her sight.

  I said, “It’s me.”

  I had never before thought of her as truly blind. Now she seemed so helpless, I almost wept for her. I put my arms around her; she rested her head on my shoulder.

  Hoarsely, she said, “This cursed necklace must hold a crystal.”

  I repeated what Ayl had said, and she sighed agreement. When next she spoke, it was so soft, I must bend my head to hear: “Then I must wear it until they take it off.”

  She found the thought abhorrent. She did not voice it aloud, but I knew it from her tone, from the tension in her body. I said, “Let me try.”

  She told me it should be no use, but still I made the attempt. I poked and pried until she cried out, telling me I choked her: the links were forged too strong, and the lock defied all my attempts at picking. I examined the cabin for tools—anything that might snap the cursed thing, or force the lock—but there was nothing. I supposed our captors had removed all possible weapons. Without tools, it could not be broken; even with a blade or lever it should have been dangerous. I gave up and took her in my arms again, holding her and stroking her hair as I murmured helpless reassurances. It was the most I could do: it was not enough. I told myself that at least we were together. I was grateful for that: I had never seen Rwyan so frightened, and—am I honest—I was myself not a little afraid.

  In time her trembling ceased, a measure of calm returned, or resignation, a
nd she wiped at her eyes. I told her I must leave her awhile to examine Tezdal, and she nodded wearily. I stroked her cheek and went to the Sky Lord.

  A bruise flowered over one side of his face, but as best I could tell, he was not otherwise damaged. I made him comfortable, all the while explaining what I did to Rwyan, who sat straight-backed, staring blindly ahead, her hands locked as if in prayer. I suspected she struggled to keep them from the necklace; surely, her knuckles shone white.

  I turned my attention to the cabin. I had some inkling now of where we likely went, and I thought we should be confined here for some time. It was, at least, a reasonably comfortable prison. It occupied the width of the stern, and Tyron’s bunk was wide enough for two. For all they were now stoutly barred, the ports let in light and air. There was a curtained alcove that held a Watergate; a bench along one wall, and a table cut with holes to secure cups and a flask of wine. I filled one and brought it to Rwyan: her hands shook as she drank, droplets falling unnoticed on her linen shirt.

  I raised another to Tezdal’s lips, and he opened his eyes. The cup was knocked aside as he came upright, hands raised ready to attack. I seized his wrists; Rwyan cried out.

  I said, “Tezdal, all’s well,” and he sank back, recognition dawning. He groaned, warily touching his swollen face.

  I retrieved the fallen cup and filled it again. Then I must once more explain. He stared at Rwyan as I spoke, then said, “Lady, do they harm you, I shall slay them; or die attempting it.”

  I was not sure I welcomed his chivalry, but Rwyan gave a wan smile in the direction of his voice. “They are many, Tezdal, and I think that for now we can only accept we are prisoners.”

  He nodded, frowning, and immediately set to exploring the cabin. I found my place by Rwyan’s side and put an arm around her. She took my free hand in both of hers.

  I said, “It seems you’ll not be rid of me after all.”

  I sought to cheer her, but she ignored the sally, head turning as she followed Tezdal’s prowling. He had no better luck than I in loosening the bars; nor, indeed, do I know what we hoped to do, had we removed them. Dive into the Fend and bring poor blind Rwyan somehow to the shore? We’d likely have drowned. I suppose we did those things men feel are expected of them in such circumstances; done less in real hope of escape than in the need to occupy ourselves, to maintain our waning denial of defeat.