Lords of the Sky

by Angus Wells

  I looked to comfort her (and am I honest, myself), but as I spoke, I saw a kind of truth in what I said. There was a pattern of some kind; at least an interweaving of our lives that surely ran more certain than random accident might dictate. It was as if we were fated to come together, and whether that was the God’s will or nebulous destiny, it seemed to me to become more real even as I spoke. I warmed to the subject.

  “And the dreams,” I said. “That on the Sentinels you dreamed of me; not randomly, but as if you shared my dreams. And here—those judging eyes. Surely that cannot be happenstance.”

  Her head tilted as if she saw me, and on her lovely face a frown set twinned creases between her eyes. Her lips pursed, luscious, so that I must struggle not to kiss them. Not yet; not whilst she seemed to find solace in my words.

  “Perhaps it’s so,” she murmured. Then frowned deeper: “But Tezdal shared that latter dream.”

  “And had Tezdal not been on that skyboat,” I said, “you’d not have found him on the rock, not come to Carsbry. I’d not have found you there, nor stowed away.”

  “Then he’s a part of this pattern,” she said.

  I’d seen it more in terms of we two, but I nodded and said, “I suppose he must be.”

  “And Urt?” she asked. “That you knew him in Durbrecht, and had you not, he’d not have been sent to Karysvar, nor come here. Surely there’s another part?”

  I nodded, though Rwyan could not see that, and murmured, “Yes, surely.”

  I was frowning now. I had begun this wordplay intending nothing more than to comfort Rwyan. Now I began to wonder if we did not unravel threads of subconscious knowledge, somehow untangling strands of awareness to form a clearer picture … of what? That I could not say; not yet. But I felt we explored something here that I must pursue. That might—whatever ruled our destinies willing—afford us escape from our predicament.

  “What is it?” Rwyan’s hands touched my face. “What silences you?”

  “Urt is here,” I said. “Ayl told us that, no?”

  “And a voice in their government,” she said.

  “Then sooner or later we’ll speak.” I took her hands and kissed the palms. “And I can ask him if he’s shared our dreams.”

  “Daviot!” She gripped both my hands, firm. “Do you say all this is truly so? Can it be?”

  This straw seemed to me stronger. I said, “I’ll not tell you for certain, aye. But is it not strange, this interweaving of all our lives?”

  She said, “Yes,” and once more pursed her lips in thought.

  I could no longer resist: I kissed them. Her arms wound about my neck, and we lay upon the bed. Against my mouth Rwyan said, “What if we’re summoned by this Raethe?”

  I answered her, “They sit late, Ayl said. And do they not, then they must wait.”

  She laughed, and helped me find the lacings of her shirt.

  We were in that room three days before the summons came. Ayl brought us out, with Glyn and five thickset bull-bred Changed in attendance. We were marched across the square and down a street that ended on the lake’s shore. It was early in the day, and I saw the skyboats clear as we were directed out along a pier. They were huge, floating like vast airborne slugs, their crimson flanks a bloody contrast to the pure blue of the water. I thought the baskets must hold a plenitude of Kho’rabi. Amongst them, like minnows swimming with whales, were the little scout vessels. It seemed to me the half-seen elementals sporting about the craft grew more agitated under my observance. I thought I heard their keening, but that might have been only the wind off the lake. Then Ayl tapped my shoulder, indicating I should board a skiff.

  He took the tiller, and Glyn lowered the sail. There was room for only two more of our escort: we left the others on the pier. Rwyan took my hand. Her palm was damp, and when I looked at her face, I saw her jaw set firm, her lips a resolute line. Tezdal reached out and took her other hand. I could not resent that intimacy.

  She smiled thinly and said, “Perhaps this necklace shall be removed now.”

  I said, “Yes, all well.”

  She said, “Where do we go?”

  “Across the lake,” I answered.

  The wind, which seemed not to affect the town much, was brisk out here, and we sped over the blue water. Waver lets lapped against the hull, and did I not look back to where the skyboats hung or wonder what lay ahead, I might have enjoyed the journey. Instead, I looked to the far shore, where a solitary building grew steadily larger.

  It stood close to the shore, shining in the sun, for it was made all of white stone such as I’d not seen before in this unknown country. It was no more than a single level, and circular, with a portico running around its walls. I had the impression of a temple, surely of a place of power, though its architecture was plain. A pathway of the same pale stone stretched from the portico to a pier, where Ayl brought the skiff in.

  We were handed ashore. Ayl beckoned us to follow, the rest falling into step behind. I saw that vivid flowers grew in profusion about the building, and insects filled the still air with their buzzing; but there were no birds. We climbed seven steps up to the portico and faced a door of wood shaved and bleached to match the stone. A brass gong hung there, and a mallet. Ayl took the hammer and struck a single ringing note that echoed sonorous down the colonnades. The door swung open on silent hinges. A woman—cat-bred, I thought—appeared. She seemed no different to any Changed female save that she wore a circlet of gold about her brow. Ayl ducked his head, and she nodded in reply, motioning us forward. As the door closed behind us, I realized Ayl and the others still stood outside.

  “Do you follow me.”

  It was not a question nor quite a command, but the woman turned and walked away as if she entertained no doubt but that we should obey. I thought she was not very old, perhaps younger than Rwyan, but possessed of such imperious confidence that she seemed ageless.

  We crossed a broad vestibule that was, as best I judged, all seamless white marble to an inner door. The woman pushed it open and stood aside. We went through into a circular chamber lit bright by the windows that marched along the walls. My eyes narrowed against the glare, for it seemed that sunlight was reflected off every surface there. I was reminded of Decius’s chamber, unable to properly define the figures that occupied the tiered benches I faced. I suppose that was the intention: to set us at an immediate disadvantage.

  Rwyan felt my hesitation and asked, “What is it?”

  I told her, and as I did, my vision adjusted enough that I could better make out the room.

  We stood on a kind of balcony, a semicircular balustrade opening on a short flight of steps that descended to an oval faced by the benches. The floor was yellow, not quite gold, and blinding; all else was white, save the clothing of our interviewers. That was a mixture of mundane homespun, simple leather, and brighter robes and gowns in a variety of colors. I thought perhaps fifty Changed sat studying us.

  “Do you step down.”

  The voice came from the midst of the watchers. As we obeyed, I looked for Urt, but the sun was in my eyes, and I could not find him.

  The same voice said, “I am Geran, spokesman for the Raethe of Trebizar. You are hale? Your quarters are comfortable?”

  I said, “Yes. Why are we here?”

  Someone laughed at that and said, “You told us he was direct, Urt.”

  He was present then: I felt more hopeful. I said, “Shall you remove Rwyan’s necklace now?”

  “Shall that be done?”

  I recognized Geran’s voice. There was a murmur of assent, and a Changed with an equine look about his long face stepped down from the benches. He was in his middle years, his hair a dull brown. He wore a robe that trailed the floor, dark green chased with silver patterning. Like the female who had delivered us here, he wore a golden circlet about his brow. I noticed that his hands were spatulate as he raised them to Rwyan’s neck.

  He sprang the lock and slipped the silver links from her throat. She sighed as if
a weight were lifted from her and turned her head from side to side. I saw her talent fill her eyes and smiled.

  She said, “I can see again.” Her voice was joyful.

  The horse-faced man pocketed the necklace and trod a pace backward. “We’d not inflict needless hurt,” he said.

  From the benches someone said, “That’s the province of Truemen.”

  “Not all.”

  I recognized that voice! I squinted into the light, seeking Urt.

  I found him on the seventh tier. He seemed unchanged. Perhaps smaller, or I had grown since Durbrecht, but not at all aged. He gave me a small smile, but on his face I read concern. He ducked his head a fraction, acknowledging me, and made a gesture difficult of interpretation. I thought perhaps he warned me to tread wary.

  The spokesman said, “We’d not keep you blind, mage. But know this—your talent is limited here, bound by our magic. It is a small thing, but do you attempt to use it against any Changed or any guest, then what follows shall make your blindness seem a pleasure.”

  Rwyan nodded. She stared directly at the seated figures. (Once more gifted with occult vision, she could see them better than I.) She said, “Why am I here?”

  A new voice said, “Because we’d have you here.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “You presume!” The speaker was clearly angered. “Ours to ask, yours but to answer.”

  “And do I choose not?”

  I saw a figure rise, limned in sunlight, indistinct. I thought it was a female. One arm flung out, and I heard Urt cry, “No!”

  I sprang before Rwyan. Tezdal was at my side, both our bodies interposed between Rwyan and the standing figure. I thought we should be struck down. I was certain this Changed—perhaps all those present—commanded magic.

  Urt said, “Do we condemn Truemen and ourselves use their ways? Shall we rise bellicose against every little argument?”

  “What other language do Truemen understand?”

  “Some, kindness. Some seek to redress wrong. Not all are evil.”

  “Not this one? This mage? One of those who made us and make us their servants?”

  Rwyan said, “There are no servants on the Sentinels.”

  “But enough in Dharbek,” came the response. “I tell you again—finally!—that you’ll answer, not ask.”

  “You command like a Trueman born, Allanyn.”

  Urt’s words were dry. I’d heard that tone before, used on Cleton, sometimes on Ardyon. Almost, I smiled. The one called Allanyn, however, found it not at all amusing. Her angry shriek was entirely female, and feline. I saw her arm drop as she rounded on my old friend. And friend still, I dared hope.

  She said, “You insult me, Urt. Newcome to the Raethe, do you assume to slight me?”

  The spokesman said, “Newcome or old, Allanyn, all have equal place here.”

  “I’ll not be called a Trueman!” Allanyn snarled.

  Mildly, Urt said, “I’d never name you that.”

  Was it an apology, it sounded mightily like an insult. Allanyn appeared confused, unsure whether to take affront or allow appeasement. She remained on her feet, staring past her fellows at Urt as if she contemplated turning the full force of her rage on him.

  Geran said, “Allanyn, do you sit? Better that we reach agreement before we resort to threat.”

  I liked the sound of that not at all.

  Rwyan pushed between Tezdal and me then. She seemed undeterred by Allanyn’s rage or any threat of reprisal. I clutched her arm and said urgently, “No! Rwyan, hold your tongue.”

  Allanyn said, “Your lover gives sound advice, mage.”

  I thought to deflect her anger. I said, “I’d know why we’re here no less than Rwyan.”

  Allanyn said, “These Truemen are presumptuous.”

  I shrugged and said, “We were kidnapped, brought prisoner here. Is it so odd we’d know the why of it?”

  One of them chuckled and said, “That seems reasonable enough.”

  Allanyn spat, for all the world like her forebears thwarted in some savage design.

  Urt said, “Reason is usually the sounder course. From my own experience in Dharbek, I tell you that kindness brings a surer result than the lash.”

  There was murmur of voices then. Some I thought in agreement, others opposed. I thought there were factions here, and that Urt sought to defend us. I hoped he should prevail.

  The debate died away. Geran stood, his back to we three as he studied his fellows. One by one, they either nodded or shook their heads. I could not see clearly enough I might make out which faction won. The spokesman told me.

  “You, Daviot, are here by accident, though I suspect we shall find a use for your Storyman’s talent. The mage because we’d glean knowledge of her magic—”

  Rwyan interrupted him, defiant. “I’ll give you nothing!” she cried. “I’ll not betray Dharbek!”

  As if she’d not spoken, the Changed continued, “The Sky Lord Tezdal, we’d return to his own.”

  Rwyan said, “There is alliance!”

  Geran ducked his head. “We treat with the Sky Lords, aye. Should we rather allow our brethren to continue under the Trueman’s yoke? Must we go to war to free them, then war it shall be.”

  “And how many die?” Rwyan asked. “Changed and Truemen both. And Sky Lords.”

  “Reason?” Allanyn’s voice rang contemptuous. “There’s no reasoning with this one.”

  I said, “Tezdal’s no memory.”

  “That we can right,” the spokesman said, and turned to Tezdal. “Would you have back your memory, Lord Tezdal?”

  Tezdal frowned. He glanced at Rwyan and at me; I saw hope flash in his eyes, and suspicion. He said, “I’d know who I am, aye. But you should know this—Rwyan saved my life, and I have sworn to defend her. I’ll not see her harmed; neither Daviot, who is my friend. Who looks to harm them shall answer to me. Be I Sky Lord or no, that vow I’ll honor.”

  I knew in the instant of his speaking that even were his memory restored and he become again a Kho’rabi, he would honor that promise.

  The spokesman nodded gravely, as if he, too, acknowledged Tezdal’s integrity. But then he said, “Do we first give you back your past and you be whole again; then do you decide where lie your loyalties.”

  Softly, I heard Tezdal murmur, “That I already know.”

  Rwyan said, “Are you truly able? Those techniques of the Mnemonikos known to Daviot have failed. Shall you succeed where he could not?”

  “And doubtless you and your fellow sorcerers attempted it.” Geran’s voice held an echo of laughter. “However, where Truemen failed, I believe we may succeed.”

  “You must,” said Rwyan, “command powerful magicks.”

  I saw that she sought to learn something of their powers. No less the spokesman, for he smiled and said, “Lady, we do.”

  “And do you refuse us, you’ll soon enough witness them firsthand,” said Allanyn.

  Rwyan turned her eyes to where the cat-bred woman sat. “I tell you again,” she said, “that I’ll not betray Dharbek. What I know of our magic, I’ll not give you.”

  Allanyn snorted spiteful laughter. “This wastes our time. The mage cannot be reasoned with. I say we end this dalliance, and use the crystals on her without delay. Let her defy them!”

  I cried out, “No!” And soft in Rwyan’s ear as fresh debate erupted, “Would you goad them needlessly? This one would have your life.”

  Before she could answer, Urt spoke. “Reason may yet prevail.” His voice rose over babble. I had not known he was capable of so commanding a tone. “Do you but hear me out?”

  “Do you plead for your Trueman friends, no.”

  That was Allanyn, her rejection echoed by others of her sympathy. More called that Urt be heard, and finally the spokesman quelled their argument, motioning that Urt speak.

  He said, “I think us agreed on one thing—that the Lord Tezdal be restored his memory. Is that not so, Rwyan?”

  Rwyan s
aid, “That was ever my intent.”

  “Daviot?”

  I nodded and said, “Aye.”

  “And such restoration was attempted by the sorcerers of Dharbek, who failed?”

  I could only nod. Rwyan said, “Obviously,” her tone a deliberate provocation.

  Urt ignored it. He said, “Then can we succeed where you could not, the strength of our magic must be proven, no?”

  I sensed a trap; I wondered where he took us, down what road. Did he look to protect us from Allanyn’s wrath or to betray us? I thought I could no longer entirely rely on his friendship: like Rwyan, he must surely define his loyalties here. I hesitated to answer.

  Rwyan did not. She said carelessly, “Can you give Tezdal back his memory, then in that I must acknowledge your magic the stronger.”

  Urt nodded gravely. Allanyn spat and said, “In that and more, mage. I say again—this wastes our time. I say we prevaricate no longer but put her to the test.”

  As a murmur of agreement arose, Geran stood, arms raised until he had again silence. “Let Urt have his say.”

  Allanyn’s cohorts fell quiet, reluctantly. Urt said, “Allanyn speaks true—that magic we command surpasses yours now. Does the Raethe choose it, then your mind can be drained of all its knowledge. Willing or unwilling, you’ve not the strength to resist.”

  His tone was urgent, but I could not decide whether he warned Rwyan in friendship or in threat. I wondered how well I could know him now, after so long. Well enough to recognize a warning? Did he ask our cooperation that Rwyan might survive intact? Or did he only threaten, and I hope in vain that we’d found an ally?

  I heard Rwyan say, “You shall slay me ere I betray Dharbek.”

  I cursed the sunlight that denied me clear sight of Urt’s face. I could see him only as an outline, standing amidst his fellows, and must judge his intent from his voice alone. And that, I realized, was surely modulated as much for his companions as for Rwyan or me. Did he seek to aid us, he could not risk revealing his purpose.