by Angus Wells
She said, “Those folk we encountered along the road here—were they bellicose?”
I shook my head again and wished I’d not.
Rwyan said, “I saw much of a peaceful land. The fiercest hatred resides in the gifted, I think.”
I said, “The gifted hold the power, it seemed to me.”
She nodded slowly and gave me back, “True, but I suspect Allanyn and her faction lead these folk into war; and hide much from them. Did you not recognize the undercurrents?”
I began to shake my head and thought better of it. Instead I only said no.
She said, “Forgive me: I assume talent in you,” and vented a short bitter laugh.
I thought at first she laughed at me, but then she sighed and pushed back her hair and made a small conciliatory gesture. I saw a great sadness in her eyes, and had the crystal not still stood between us, I’d have reached out to take her hand. I felt too weary to rise and go around the table. Instead, I mustered a smile and asked that she explain.
She closed her eyes a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. “I think I understand why these crystals are close-guarded. Were they used often, they’d show all their secrets, even to those without the talent. As it is—in the God’s name, Allanyn and her followers deserve to die!”
I had never heard such anger in her voice, nor seen it on her face. She had an enviable capacity for forgiveness, but now I saw and heard only implacable rage. She seemed to me like one of those messengers the priests claim the God sometimes sends, avenging. I frowned and asked, “What is it?”
She gestured at the crystal. “These stones record memories,” she said. “Memories, and more. By the God, aye! They record so much more; but that hidden, to be found only by those with the talent.”
She shook her head and filled her cup. I watched her drink, thinking I’d not seen her so disturbed. I waited agog.
She swallowed wine and said, “Are they used frequently, they absorb the emotions of the user. Desires, lusts, dreams—all are recorded. But deep, like the lees in a wine cup, lost to most under the weight of that other knowledge they hold.
“Listen—those messengers the Sky Lords have carried south, they give the Changed of Dharbek a dream, give them a share of the hate. They promise riches, a domain of the Changed, but say nothing of the bloodshed that dream must entail. Or what shall follow.”
Her eyes were fierce on mine, as if she’d impress comprehension with her gaze alone. I shrugged, not yet understanding.
She said, “The message those crystals bear is shaped by the gifted, by Allanyn and her kind. And she hides too much.”
I said, “Urt told us the stones are a close-guarded secret.”
She nodded. “And save a sorcerer plumbs their depths, they tell only so much as Allanyn would reveal.”
I asked, “What does she hide?”
Rwyan said, “Allanyn seeks not to free her kind but to rule them. Already this Raethe is less than that honest government Ayl spoke of, but rather controlled by Allanyn and those gifted who choose her path. Or are seduced by these crystals.”
“How can that be?” I said. “Surely the crystals are only tools of you sorcerers?”
“No.” She shook her head, the movement both weary and angry. “I believe the crystals have a life of their own. Perhaps they think; perhaps they’ve absorbed so much fear, so much resentment, down all those long ages the Changed suffered that they give it back.” She laughed again; I did not like the sound. “I curse Allanyn, but perhaps I should curse the crystals. Perhaps, unwitting, she’s only their creature.”
She paused, drawing deep breaths. It was as though the enormity of what she’d learned required an effort to tell. I Med her cup and mine, and waited. I felt a great dread.
“Allanyn seeks war,” she said. “She’d see all Truemen ground down; slain or enslaved. But then, that victory won, she’d make herself ruler of all the Changed. She’d see only the gifted in the Raethe—save it should be no longer the Raethe but her court. She’d be mistress of all Dharbek, and to gain that end she’d sacrifice her people.”
In my mouth wine became bitter. I swallowed, and it seemed to burn my throat. I saw no hope at all in this, only rank despair. I could envisage no means to thwart Allanyn or escape her clutches. I thought that did she learn we’d communed with the crystal, we were surely dead. And Urt, for he must be discovered. I wondered suddenly if he knew these secrets or only suspected. I said, “We must warn Urt. Is he convinced of Allanyn’s treachery, perhaps he may rally others.”
“Aye,” Rwyan gave me back, “and still there’s Tezdal. And the pattern.”
The pattern! Almost I wished I’d not spun out that fancy, for it now seemed to me no more than that—a Storyman’s fable, one of those tales we spin for the entertainment of children. Like Jarrold’s Magic Pig or Ealyn’s Wondrous Boat. I thought perhaps Rwyan clung to belief as prop to waning hope, the need to believe greater than the reality. The pattern! I could weave a pattern at will, from my imagination. Now I looked at reality, and all I could see were threads unraveling, the strands of our lives dwindling like yarn set in flame.
I rose on legs that shuddered and protested the movement, and went to the washstand, splashing cool water over my burning face.
Rwyan sat still, seeming lost in thought. When I returned to the table she said, “Could I but show those not yet gone over to Allanyn’s cause what she intends.”
I said, “You’ll not have that chance. They’d not trust a Dhar mage.”
She said, “No,” sadly, and sighed. “Oh, Daviot, our world’s gone far astray, no?”
I ducked my head, wincing at the pain. “Better had we never made the Changed. Better had we never enslaved the Ahn.”
Rwyan said, “But we did, and now we pay the price. Save we can find some answer. But by the God, I’ll not concede Allanyn the victory, nor see this war begun, can I do aught to halt it.”
“Nor I,” I declared, though I could scarce see what we two prisoners might do. “When Urt comes, we’ll tell him.”
She said, “And Tezdal. I’d have him know, too.”
“Yes.” I nodded agreement, ignoring pain. “But I think he’ll not dissuade his fellow Sky Lords from their course. Even is he persuaded himself.”
We fell silent then, wrapped in depressing musing. I looked to the window and saw the moon was gone past its zenith. Stars speckled the sky, and dawn was hours distant. I wondered when Urt would come. Then if he would: I thought that did Allanyn suspect him—of treachery, she’d name it—it should be an exquisite torture to allow this glimpse of her intent. To show us and then “discover” the crystal; thus to condemn us and Urt together. I yawned. I felt mightily weary, and my head still ached. Across the table Rwyan’s face looked drawn, shadows beneath her eyes like dark half moons. She stared moodily at the crystal. I looked at the thing, wondering if I truly felt a sense of triumph emanating from its pale blue depths, or if that was merely a fancy of my troubled mind.
My eyes felt weighted with despair, and I closed them. That eased the pain in my skull a little, and I set my elbows on the table, resting my face on my hands. A gray fog seemed to cloud my vision, and for an instant I thought I dreamed again of that oak grove beyond Cambar, but I saw only the gray void. I did not know I slept.
Nor, till I woke, that I dreamed. I’d not dreamed since first we came within the aegis of Trebizar’s magic.
What I dreamed was this:
I sat slumped at the table. Rwyan remained seated across its width, the crystal still between us like some barrier to hope, but the glow coming from the walls dimmed, the radiance slowly fading to black. It was the black of deepest starless night, or the depths of the sea. I drifted there: it was strangely comforting, and I thought perhaps I’d remain forever, give up my body and all its cares, and only wander this lightless, soundless place, rid of destructive hope, of responsibility—become a creature of limbo.
But then I heard Rwyan say, “You cannot, Daviot. Remember t
he pattern.”
My body raised its head and said, “Why not? I can do nothing. You can do nothing. Nor Urt or Tezdal. We are all of us helpless. The world turns as it will. Come with me.”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll not give up hope. I’d thought you’d not. I’d thought better of you.”
I shrugged, embarrassed. I felt then as must a fish caught on a line: I’d find those black deeps again, but I was called back, drawn up toward the light by love of Rwyan.
I looked into her eyes, and they were no longer hers but the vast orbs of my oneiric dragon. And the walls were gone, and the garden, and I was ringed by those eyes, all of them fixed on me. They seemed to accuse me of cowardice; they seemed to judge me. I felt ashamed then of my weakness and straightened in my chair, meeting that implacable gaze.
I said, “What do you ask of me? What must I do?”
There was no verbal answer, but rather an emotion—I’d known this before, but it was stronger now, become an imperative—that summoned me. It was a call that rang in my blood, in the very fibers of my being. It was akin to that sensation I’d felt from the crystal, and different, warmer somehow. So strong it was that I rose, standing and turning slowly around, finding only those eyes calling me.
I felt I stood at a threshold, and that did I not step across, I must lose … I was not sure what I should lose. Rwyan? Hope? Pride? Integrity? All those, I felt, and more: myself. And at the same time I felt that did I take that step, it must deliver something vast and dreadful. I felt I should be cursed whichever course I chose. I was afraid then, as I’d never been before. I knew I was summoned, and that it was no longer a vague dreamy feeling, but a call so strong I ached to answer it. I felt that did I fail, I must stand condemned and lost forever. That I should find neither that peace the darkness offered nor any other, but only anguish.
I said, “Where shall I go? How shall I come to you?”
And the voice that was not a voice told me I should know, that I already took the first steps. And at that I felt a great gladness, and also a great fear, for it seemed I embarked on a terrible journey.
But I told the eyes, “Yes. As you will,” and at that they seemed no longer to judge me so much but to praise me and wish me well along my journey.
And then I saw Rwyan stood beside me, and she took my hand and smiled. And Urt was there, and Tezdal, and we four stood together, encircled by the great yellow eyes. It was as if we stood close to the sun, or several suns, which warmed us with their approval, and bade us hurry and be welcome.
I saw the table again and the crystal, which now pulsed fierce, as if angered. Then from out of the light cast by the eyes reached a hand, a man’s, and took the stone, drawing back amongst the yellow orbs that were all the boundary of this dream world. I stared, trying to see past the light, to know whose hand this was, but I could not. Instead, I heard the rustle of vast wings unfolding and felt the wind of their beating. It was a stormy force, but though I knew it should, it did not beat me down but only washed around me as the crystal was carried up, aloft and away into darkness.
Colors then, such as form against shuttered lids, the myriad sparklings of blood in flesh. I opened my eyes and raised my head. I sat slumped across the table, Rwyan in like position, sleeping yet. I looked around and saw we sat still within our quarters, the night outside not yet lit by dawn’s early light. The room was shadowed, but even as I blinked and rubbed my eyes, the walls and ceiling began again to glow, and soon the chamber was lit bright as day.
Rwyan woke then and stared at me with a puzzled, questioning expression, I’d no need to ask, but still I did: “You dreamed?”
She nodded, not speaking until she’d filled a cup with water and drunk. Then she said, “Yes. I dreamed.” She shook her head, frowning. “It was strange … of eyes that … summoned … me. A promise.”
My own mouth was very dry: I got myself water. I wondered if this was part of the pattern. I thought that had Urt and Tezdal experienced the same dream, then it must surely find its roots in some reality beyond my comprehension. I said, “I felt I was asked to make a choice.”
She said, “And did you?”
I ducked my head and answered her, “Yes. They called me and I agreed to go; though I know not where.”
“Nor I,” she said, and glanced at the crystal, dormant between us. “Perhaps that’s unlocked some power. Perhaps in using it, we opened a door. Or sent a message.”
I sighed and blew out a mournful chuckle. “Then dragons shall come down from the sky to carry us off from this place.” I gestured at the walls, the sealed door and window. “But first they’ll need overcome the magic of the Changed.”
Rwyan said, “Perhaps they will.”
“And we best hope they’ll not devour us,” I said. “Was that not their habit?”
She said, “I felt no threat in my dream, save that I betray myself.”
“Which you’d not do,” I said. “Oh, Rwyan, could it be so, I’d welcome dragons. But I cannot dare hope they shall be our saviors.”
She smiled wearily and was about to speak, but then the door flung open and Urt came rushing in.
His gray hair was awry, and on his face was an expression that mingled fear and wonder in equal measure. He stared at us, his eyes wide. I thought perhaps his “treachery” was discovered and that Allanyn should appear on his heels. I had not known I rose until I heard my chair clatter on the marbled floor.
He turned his startled face to Rwyan and said, “Those dreams you spoke of? Just now—there were eyes…. They asked me to go with them…. You were there, and Tezdal.”
He snatched up the wine flask and a cup, filled the goblet, and drained it. Rwyan cast a triumphant glance my way and went to where he stood. I saw that he shook.
Rwyan set a hand on his shoulder. “We, too, Urt. Daviot and I had the same dream.”
He sighed. “What does it mean?” His eyes demanded answers of us.
Rwyan said, “I cannot say for certain. But that there’s hope, I think.”
He asked, “Of what? They were dragons, no?”
He shuddered. It came to me then that he had cause to fear the dragons. As the Kho’rabi were the nightmares of my childhood, so must the dragons have been the monsters of his. Did the Changed possess the memories of their ancestors as the beasts from which they were shaped owned memories, then dragons must surely be creatures of naked terror. Their threat must be implanted in his blood, passed down generation to generation. I went to stand beside him, setting a hand firm on his other shoulder. I could smell his discomfort, and through his shirt I felt the trembling that racked his frame.
I said, “They offered us no harm, Urt. Did you feel threat in them?”
He shook his head and licked his lips. I saw his nostrils flare, as if he’d test the air for scent of danger. He said slowly, “No. But they were dragons still.”
Rwyan said, “But not dangerous. Not to us. I think these dragons are our friends.”
Urt said, “Dragons friend to Changed? Can that be?”
I said, “Perhaps. Surely what we dreamed was friendly.”
Urt swallowed and ducked his head. “That’s true,” he said. “But I understand this not at all.”
Softly, I said, “Nor I.”
Rwyan said, “I believe we are told something. That we must stand together, surely. But more—though what, I cannot say; not yet.”
Urt said, “The Lord Tezdal was there.”
Rwyan said, “Yes. We four are called in some way.”
“We four?” Urt’s shuddering gradually subsided. “How so?”
Rwyan said, “I’ve as many questions as you, and no more answers. But perhaps—” She paused, her brow creased as she pondered. “Think on it—you, Urt, are Changed. Tezdal is a Sky Lord. Daviot’s a Trueman and a Rememberer. I am a mage. Do we not stand as symbols for the folk who must suffer does this war begin?”
I said, “What of the gifted Changed? What of the Kho’rabi wizards?”
; “As I say, I’ve more questions than answers.” Rwyan shrugged. “But perhaps the gifted Changed and the Kho’rabi wizards are too far gone in hatred to hear this call.”
Call to what? I thought, but I said nothing.
Rwyan said, “Or perhaps we hear it only because we four are ready. Perhaps because we’d sooner see peace than war. Perhaps because we join together in common purpose, and what we are—Truemen or Changed, Sky Lord or Dhar—does not matter to us. I know not. But I do not believe these dragons intend you harm, Urt. Not you, or any of us.”
Urt was calmer now, though I could see he was still not much at ease with the notion of dragons, even were they only the creatures of dream. I squeezed his shoulder and said, “Is Rwyan right, then we’ve naught to fear. Is she wrong—why then, we only suffer odd dreams. And there’s a more immediate danger.”
I gestured at the crystal. Outside, the sky assumed that utter blankness that precedes the first light of dawn. I thought we’d not much time, and was Urt still unnerved, it were better we told him quickly what we’d learned, what Rwyan had learned, that he have time to compose himself before he must replace the stone. I thought he’d likely need composure for that, lest Allanyn discover our complicity.
Rwyan nodded. We found seats, and she began to speak.
She’d not a Storyman’s skill with words and I’d have told it more succinct, but she spoke with such fervor, I saw Urt was convinced. I watched as his face—seldom so readable—expressed first amazement tinged with disbelief, then burgeoning conviction, and finally outrage to match what I’d seen on Rwyan’s. When she was done, he snarled. I saw the animal in him then.
He said, “She stands condemned! Traitor, she! And all her kind. Little wonder the gifted guard these stones so close.”
He seemed so angry I took his arm. “Urt, do you speak of this carelessly, I think we shall all be slain.”
He nodded. That animal rage was suddenly replaced with grief. He said, “I’d doubted her ways, but I’d not suspected this. None of us suspected this. She’d lay us all on the altar of her ambition.”
