by Angus Wells
The Sky Lords grouped close around him, murmuring in their own language. They brought him to the bier, and he climbed onto the platform, stretching out with arms folded across his chest. They stood a moment there, intoning what I thought must be a prayer, then went to join the Changed sorcerers.
All found a place about the columns, all reaching out so that their fingers rested lightly on the crystals. The stones shone brighter with that contact. I felt Rwyan’s grip tighten and glanced sidelong at her face. Her expression frightened me, for it was one of longing and loathing combined. She shuddered, her lips drawn taut, as if she fought some private impulse. Her eyes shone, intent on the pulsing jewels. I loosed her hand and put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She was heated, as if a fever gripped her. I remembered all she’d told me of the crystals and thought they called her. I moved behind her, both my arms around her waist: I thought I might need hold her back. She moaned softly and clutched my wrists, pressing against me. In other circumstances I’d have found that contact erotic; here I felt only awe, and more than a little fear.
No word was spoken, but I sensed communion. Pale light, almost lost under the radiance of the walls, began to shroud each figure. It came from the crystals, flickering tentative at first over hands, climbing arms, flowing swifter, liquid over bodies until all were encompassed in that faint nimbus. Some strained rigid, others stood limp. Some heads flung back as if in ecstasy, others drooped, slack-jawed. I saw Allanyn’s eyes close, her wide mouth stretched in a smile. A thin trickle of saliva ran down her pointed chin. The light coming from the walls dimmed as the nimbus gained strength. I thought the crystals drew power from the sorcerers in equal measure to their call on the stones, A radiance that was all colors and none bathed the figures and flowed inward, over Tezdal. I saw him shudder, his body tensing. His eyes sprang wide, then closed. He made a sound that was part sigh and part cry, loud in the chamber’s silence. He relaxed, and the glow grew stronger still, until it hid him from my sight, shimmering like pale flame.
How long we stood watching this ceremony, I’ve no idea. Time had no meaning in this vault. It was as though the crystals imposed their own chronology, dismissing those measurements that we breathing, blooded creatures set to mark their own pace. I know only that the glow dimmed, then was gone, swift as snuffed candle’s flame, and it was as if I woke.
I felt Rwyan let go her hold on my wrists and lean against me with a sigh, as if she were exhausted. I exhaled a gusty breath, staring at the bier.
Tezdal lay still, only the slow rise and fall of his chest to announce he lived. Around him hung faint light. I was reminded of that shimmering that surrounded the Sky Lords’ vessels. I saw that from each crystal there extended a pale tendril of radiance. I looked to the sorcerers.
They came slowly from their task, the Kho’rabi wizards swifter than the Changed. Allanyn was the slowest. She seemed reluctant to leave go the stones she touched. When she did, it was with a shudder, her eyes glazed, focusing only gradually. She licked her lips and wiped a sleeve across the spittle decking her chin. When she saw me watching, her lips pursed a moment. I thought she’d speak, but all she did was smile and turn away. Still there was something triumphant in her look.
Geran came toward us. His long equine face was grave, his eyes somewhat dulled. I thought him wearied.
He said, “So it’s done. Or nearly.”
Rwyan straightened in my arms. “I see only Tezdal, sleeping,” she said.
The spokesman smiled. “Lady, you know great magic was practiced this day.”
She gave him back, “Magic, surely. Great magic? Of that I see no evidence.”
The horse-faced Changed shrugged. “What we’ve done here shall be clear enough in time. Lord Tezdal shall sleep awhile, but when he wakes, he’ll have back his memory.”
“And know himself a Sky Lord.” Allanyn approached us from the side, all her spiteful composure regained. “Know you for his enemies.”
Rwyan faced her with a calm visage. “Shall he have all his memories?” she asked. “All those since we found him?”
Her voice was mild, inquiring. It confused Allanyn, who frowned and made an impatient gesture.
Geran answered, “All, lady. Both those he lost and those he gained in your company.”
Rwyan nodded solemnly. “Then he’ll remember his sworn vow,” she said. “He’ll remember Daviot and I are his friends.”
Allanyn liked that not at all.
We were taken from the vault to another chamber. Not that sparse cell we’d occupied before, but a more spacious’ room, clearly intended for overnight occupation. It was furnished as would be the chamber of a good tavern: comfortably, with all necessary requisites; but of that same blank white stone, and without decoration. There was a window—again of sealed glass—and through it I saw night had fallen. There was a table set with food and wine. We found our appetites were returned.
Rwyan filled a goblet and drank thirstily before she spoke. I was somewhat dazed by what I’d witnessed, and now that we were alone again, I felt trepidation return.
I said, “Tezdal shall have back his memory?”
Rwyan nodded, her face thoughtful. It seemed she took that restoration for a sure conclusion. She said, “They’ve far greater power than I suspected.”
“They convince you?” I asked.
And then I must drink wine to assuage the dread her answer should give. My hand trembled as I raised the cup.
She said, “They do.”
I set the goblet down. The wine soured in my belly. I steeled myself, meeting her calm gaze. I must ask a question now for which I’d no taste.
I suppose my expression was clear enough, for Rwyan gave me a wan smile and shook her head and said, “Not yet, my love. We’ve time yet.”
I sighed and filled my cup again. A few drops fell to the table. They shone in the sourceless light.
Rwyan said, “I’d see Tezdal wake and know the fuller measure of their abilities. And I think they’ll not force me ere then.”
I nodded. “How long shall that be?”
She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Such magic is unknown in Dharbek.”
Had I been sure of the God’s existence, I’d have sung his praises then, for that small gift of time. No less, I’d have prayed that man I deemed my friend sleep on: I’d have betrayed him for Rwyan’s sake.
I said, “Think you he’ll truly honor his vow, are all his memories restored?”
“I believe he’ll try,” she answered. “But does he wake a Sky Lord reborn, he must surely find his loyalties divided.”
“And you,” I asked, “will not reconsider?”
The look she gave me was answer enough, words redundant. I felt ashamed: her resolve was so much stronger than my own.
She smiled at me then. “Have faith, Daviot. Until that moment comes, we’ve hope. I’ll not believe we’ve come so far only to die here.”
I forced a smile in answer. I saw no reason why Trebizar should not be that place the Pale Friend came for us. Our fate seemed to me only delayed, no more. I thought that did the magic of the Changed work its miracle on Tezdal or not, still that demand should be made of Rwyan; and she refuse. And then I must be bound by my promise, else I betray her and betray our love; and that I would not do. So I foresaw only that we had a little time; that too soon must come the moment I should strike her, and then—doubtless—be myself slain. That mattered nothing: without Rwyan, nothing mattered.
I heard her say, “Put off that glum face, my love. We’ve time yet, and hope.”
I stretched out my lips in facsimile of a smile and did my best to assume a cheerful manner that would match hers. “Yes,” I said, “and they feed us well.”
“And give us a most pleasant chamber, no?”
Her eyes moved sideways, in the direction of the bed.
I felt an urgency then: we had, I thought, so little time left us. I rose and went around the table. Rwyan rose to meet me, and we embraced, our kisses ar
dent. Of a sudden we were on the bed and not much slower naked. I was entirely unaware of the occult light dimming, for the moon’s glow took its place, silvery on her skin.
When the sun was risen a hand’s span above the walls, our door was opened and Urt stood there.
He said, “Day’s greetings, Daviot; Rwyan.”
She answered him in kind, calmly, as if his appearance afforded her no surprise. I hesitated, no longer sure whether I looked on a friend or an enemy. He wore a shirt of homespun linen that was not quite white, and plain brown breeks, soft boots: nothing much different to what I’d known him to wear about the College. There was nothing to mark his elevation; in Durbrecht he’d have passed as a servant Changed, unremarkable. I studied his face—clear now—and saw lines etched there that had not been present in Dharbek, In his eyes I saw—I was not sure—a graving, perhaps, of age. He seemed somehow older in more than mere years, weighted by knowledge and experience. I wondered what that had been, and what it was.
I said, “Day’s greetings, Urt,” cautiously.
He smiled—regretfully, I thought. “Doubtless you grow bored of confinement. Would you walk awhile in the garden?”
I asked, “Tezdal wakes?”
“Not yet.” He shook his head. “Perhaps the gifted must work their magic again. But meanwhile …” He gestured at the corridor beyond the open door.
Rwyan said, “It should be pleasant. Eh, Daviot?”
I shrugged and nodded; and we followed him out.
He was alone, which surprised me, and as we paced the corridor, I asked, “Are you not afraid, Urt? To be alone with us?”
He gave a little chuckle and met my stare. “Would you harm me then, Daviot?”
I said, “I’d slay any man who harms Rwyan.” And thought of Allanyn, and so added, “Or any woman,”
He said softly, “I offer you no harm.”
He spoke eompanionably enough, but I sensed a hesitancy. I sought to read his face, the language of his body, but without success. I wondered if he hid his feelings. My own were utterly confused. Was he still my friend? Or was he now committed to the strategies of the Changed? Did I walk with an ally or an enemy? I could not know, only follow.
We came to a door of plain wood, latched, and Urt thrust it open, waving us through.
Now we stood beneath the portico, the garden spread before us. The air was pleasantly fresh, neither possessed of summer’s heat nor cooled by autumn’s advancement, but poised on that enlivening axis between the two. I thought it should have been turned more decisive between the seasons, and then that this valley was, indeed, a place governed by magic. The sky was blue, decorated here and there with drifting billows of pristine cumulus. The absence of birds was strange. Urt beckoned us as he set out along a path that wound amongst hornbeams and hazels. In moments, the Council building was lost to sight. It was as if we strolled some wildwood.
In a while Urt halted by a pond surrounded by drooping willows and green alders, fed by a little stream. Without preamble he said, “I am commanded to speak with you; to convince you.”
Rwyan said, “You waste your breath, Urt.”
He said, “Lady, I know that; but still I’d speak with you. Shall you hear me out?”
His tone was urgent, and in his eyes I saw such a look as brought back memories of Durbrecht. I motioned that he continue; Rwyan ducked her head in agreement.
He said, “It cannot be long before Lord Tezdal wakes and you are forced to a decision.”
Rwyan said, “That’s already made.”
“Only hear me,” he asked. “Do you refuse the demands of the Raethe, you know the outcome.”
Rwyan said, “That was made plain enough.”
Urt hesitated a moment, staring at the pond. I saw the pebbled bottom, trout drifting there, stationary in the current as their pale eyes scanned the surface, awaiting insects. I envied them their simple lives. Urt faced us again, and in his eyes I saw only sincerity and concern. I wondered if he dissembled.
He said, “I told them as much, but I discharge my duty—I was ordered to speak with you of this, and that I’ve done. I can return with clear conscience.”
I said, “Then have we aught else to say?”
I put it curt and got back a look of rueful reproach. “Daviot, you’ve reason enough to doubt me, but I am your friend yet. I’d find some way around this that shall leave you both unharmed.”
I asked him bluntly, “Why?”
And he gave me back, “For Durbrecht. Because I’ve no liking for Allanyn’s ways; no lust for war.”
I began to speak—to scorn him, to accuse him of treachery—but Rwyan touched my arm and bade me hold silent. I obeyed.
He smiled his thanks. “Had Allanyn her way, you, Rwyan, should be already emptied by the crystals; and you, Daviot, slain.”
Rwyan said, “But you delayed that course.”
I asked again, “Why?”
“Aye.” Urt nodded briefly to Rwyan. To me he said, “For sake of our friendship; because I loathe her methods.”
I frowned and would have spoken, but Urt raised a hand to silence me. “We’ve not much time and much to say.” He smiled a crooked grin. “Nor am I altogether trusted—Allanyn may well send watchers ere long. So do you hear me out and after judge whether we be still friends, or no?”
Rwyan touched my hand, urging I agree: I nodded.
“There are two factions within the Raethe,” Urt continued, “of which Allanyn’s is the greater. Born here she was, and she’s filled with the power the crystals give. No Changed sorcerer was ever stronger than Allanyn, and too many fear her. I suspect she’s crazed, but still she’s the ear of the many who would take her path.”
“Which is?” asked Rwyan.
Urt said simply, “War. Allanyn and her followers would ally with the Sky Lords to destroy you Dhar Truemen, or make of you what you made of us—servants.”
“And the Sky Lords?” I asked. “Are they not Truemen? Shall they be only your allies and nothing more?”
He answered me, “The Sky Lords would take back Kellambek for their own, no more. They’ve dreamed of that for centuries—a holy quest to regain their homeland—and the agreement made is that they shall have Kellambek, we Changed the rest.”
“And you?” I asked him.
“I’d see my fellow Changed shed their bonds,” he said. “I’d see them equal to you Truemen. Was that not once your thought, Daviot?”
I looked into his dark eyes and could only nod. “But not through bloodshed,” I said. “Not by war.”
He said, “Perhaps there’s no other way. I think there are not many Truemen think as you do.”
I said slowly, “No. But even so … war? Do the Sky Lords mount the Great Coming, the Changed rise—Dharbek should run red, and Changed and Truemen bleed and die alike.”
Soberly, he said, “Yes. And so I’d find some other way—if there is another way. I and a few like me, who’ve little love for Allanyn’s path. Does Allanyn prevail, I think the world shall not be better; only turned on its head. Where Changed now are, there’d be Truemen. And no doubt they’d plot to overturn it all again. I think that way should be only bloodshed, unending.”
I said, “War should be a great undertaking, Urt. Could the Changed hope to win?”
“Allanyn believes we should,” he said, “and she’s command of our army. Does she have her way, the Sky Lords will attack across both the Fend and the Slammerkin. Do they overcome the Border Cities, then we Changed shall march south whilst our kin in Dharbek rise. The slaughter would be terrible, I think.”
I asked, “How should your kin know when to rise?”
He smiled. “You know we communicate?” And when I nodded: “There’s more to it than you suspect, Daviot; and you’re likely the only Trueman to have understood so much. I’ve not the time to explain it all now, but …”
He paused, hesitant again, looking a moment at the pool where the trout rose hungry. Then: “Do you trust me?”
It was a blunt question, demanding a blunt answer. I said, “I don’t know, Urt.”
Hurt showed in his eyes, but then he shrugged. “Why should you? Perhaps, though, I might convince you. I think I cannot now, with words, but perhaps with another way.”
I frowned, waiting. I scarce dared allow the little spark of hope his words kindled.
He said, “Tonight I’ll come to you with all the proof I can give; I can do no more.”
This puzzled me. “And am I convinced?” I asked. “What then?”
He laughed: a short, sad bark. “I know not. I can see no way to thwart Allanyn, to avoid war. Perhaps when you’ve all the knowledge I can give you … perhaps you’ll see some way.”
Rwyan said, “You speak for peace, Urt?”
He thought awhile, then ducked his head and said, “I’d free my kind, but not at cost of their lives. Neither do I believe all Truemen are evil. This world of ours must change, but I cannot believe Allanyn’s is the way. Even though I see no other.”
Rwyan surprised me then, for she asked what seemed to me a very strange question in these circumstances. She said, “Urt, do you dream?”
He looked no less startled than I. His eyes narrowed, framing a question of his own even as he nodded.
Rwyan said, “Of what?”
He paused before he answered, as if the recollection were not altogether pleasant. I thought he braced himself before he said, “Of dragons, sometimes; of riding the skies with those creatures. You and Daviot with me. I feel, sometimes, they call me. I see their eyes, as if they sat in judgment.”
Rwyan laughed and clapped her hands. “The pattern! By the God, it’s the same dream.”
Urt stared at her as if he thought her mad. Some lesser version of that doubt crossed my mind, too—I’d looked only to comfort her with those musings, not taken them so serious myself. But now … now I began to wonder. Slowly, I said, “We share that dream. I’ve known it, and Rwyan; Tezdal, too.”
“But there are no dragons left,” he said. It sounded somehow like a catechism. “I remember in Durbrecht, Daviot, that you spoke of them.”
