by Angus Wells
“None of you?” I asked hopefully. “How many of you are there? Enough to oppose her, expose her?”
“No.” He shook his head. “We are but a few, a handful. The Raethe is mostly gifted now. I found a place because I know of Durbrecht and Karysvar; there are a few more like me, without the talent. But Allanyn and her followers are the stronger.”
“Might you convince the gifted?” I asked.
He laughed at that, though it was more a bark. “It should be hard to convince even my friends,” he said. “What should I tell them? That the gifted are insane? That the crystals seduce them? That Allanyn leads us to war only that she might rule us? They’d ask me how I come by this information, no? And how should I prove it? Shall I tell them I have it from a mage of the Dhar and a Storyman? Allanyn should have my head, did the rest not slay me first.”
I voiced acknowledgment with a curse. “Impasse then. Is all we’ve learned useless?”
“I might slay her,” Urt said. “Perhaps I might succeed.”
“That should be hard,” said Rwyan. “And you undoubtedly die. Surely after, likely before.”
He said, “I’d save my people,” doggedly.
Rwyan said, “And I’d save mine, but I think that attempting Allanyn’s assassination should lead only to your death. I think you’d serve your people better alive.”
He said, “To what end? To watch us go to war, that Allanyn rule us?”
“Remember the dreams,” she said. And when both Urt and I looked at her askance: “Perhaps there’s some answer there. Is it not strange that we should learn of Allanyn’s designs and straightway dream again?”
Urt grunted; I shrugged. We neither of us had any ready answer.
Rwyan said, “We’ve time yet, too—until Tezdal wakes, at least. I’d know if he shared this; and perhaps we’ll dream again and get some better answer.”
I could think of no other option, and so I only nodded, keeping silent.
Urt said, “Perhaps,” with little real conviction in his voice.
“Then best you get this stone returned,” Rwyan said, “ere it’s missed. And when you can, come back.”
Urt nodded and gingerly took up the crystal. He dropped it in the pouch as might a man set down some horrid insect. He looked weary, bereft of hope. “As soon I may,” he promised, and raised a hand in farewell.
The door closed behind him, and I turned to Rwyan. “This looks not at all well.”
She said, “No. But I’ll not yet relinquish hope.”
I smiled at her bravery and touched her cheek. She rubbed against me, feline, and yawned hugely.
I said, “Do we get what sleep we can?”
She said, “Aye,” and we stretched, fully clad, on the bed.
It seemed my eyes had barely closed before we were roused. I groaned, my vision foggy, and sat up. I saw Allanyn and two others of the gifted standing close. Allanyn’s face wore a triumphant sneer. Her eyes were bright with unpleasant anticipation.
She said, “Come. The Lord Tezdal wakes.”
The vault felt pregnant with anticipation. I saw it on the faces of the Sky Lords, in the narrowing of their dark eyes and the set of their shoulders; no less in the gifted Changed. In Allanyn it was most apparent; but where the interest of the rest seemed entirely for Tezdal, hers was as much directed at us. I thought she gloated, savoring what was to come. I put an arm about Rwyan, and she leaned close and whispered, “You’ll not forget your promise, Daviot.”
She intended no insult to my Storyman’s memory: it was not a question. I answered her, “What of the pattern?”
She said, “Only does the time come.” I said, “Yes,” and sighed.
Then all my attention was on the supine form of the Kho’rabi I named a friend.
He lay still on the cloth-draped bier. The crystals surrounding him sat adumbral on their pedestals, as if their light were gone into the restoration of his memory and now they slumbered. Somehow, I had no doubt but that it was restored him. It seemed, for all they no longer pulsed or flickered, that the stones radiated a sense of satisfaction. I watched, breath bated, as the Sky Lords took positions about the dais. Three stood at the head, two at the foot, the others to either side. All raised their arms, extended palms downward over the silent form, and spoke together.
I could not understand their language, but I saw that Tezdal responded. I saw his chest rise steeper than before. I heard the gusty exhalation of his breath. He made a sound, sigh and groan together, as if aroused from deepest slumber. His eyes opened, blank a moment, then lit by intelligence. He rose on his elbows, peering about, eyes narrowed, his brow creased. Then he said something in his own tongue.
The Sky Lords clustered close. A Changed came forward, bringing a goblet that one of the Ahn brought to Tezdal’s lips. He drank deep and wiped his mouth, then swung his legs from the bier and stood upright. For an instant he swayed, eyes closed as he shook his head, but then he straightened, shaking off the hands that would assist him. He looked slowly around, finding my eyes and Rwyan’s. He ducked his head slightly, acknowledging our presence, but his expression was unreadable. I felt Rwyan tense within the compass of my arm.
Then Allanyn blocked my view. She insinuated herself between the Sky Lords—which I saw affronted them—to face Tezdal. In the language of the Dhar she said, “Lord Tezdal, are you again whole? Have you all your memory again?”
Tezdal answered her in the same language: “I do.”
His voice was cold, as if he found her impertinent, which Allanyn minded not at all. She gave him her back as she spun to face us.
“So it is done! You see our power now; and now you’ve a choice to make.”
Her smile was feral: I thought she hoped for Rwyan’s refusal. I tensed, my heart sinking as I shaped my hand to strike the blow I dreaded.
Rwyan said, “Perhaps. But ere I make that choice, I’d speak with Tezdal.”
Allanyn’s lovely face became a mask of rage. “What?” she cried. “You’d dictate terms? I tell you—choose now, or it shall be done for you.”
I moved a small distance from Rwyan’s side, enough I’d have sufficient room to strike. A sour weight sat deep in my belly. For an instant my vision clouded red. For an instant I thought to spring at Allanyn, to let my blow shatter her hateful face. But I’d made that promise. To renege on that would be to betray Rwyan—and likely leave her to suffer the angry devices of the Changed alone. I should be dead; nor had I any great confidence I could slay Allanyn. I ground my teeth and curbed the impulse. I stood ready to slay my love, and as I did I cursed every turn of the fate that had brought us to this moment.
Rwyan said. “Not yet,” and I was uncertain whether she directed her words at me or at the raging Allanyn.
Then she said, “Is your magic truly so powerful as you claim, then Tezdal has back all his memories. Both those that make him a Sky Lord and those that make him my friend.”
I watched as Allanyn’s lips drew back from her sharp white teeth in an entirely feline snarl. Her hands rose, beginning to weave a pattern in the air. Had she not been so consumed with rage, she’d have got the spell out clear and blasted Rwyan on the spot.
But she spluttered, and before she could complete the cantrip, Tezdal had her by the wrists, forcing her arms down, turning her to face him. I could not see her expression, but I saw her shoulders strain beneath her gown and heard her howl of fury. Sky Lords and Changed spoke together then, urgently, their voices raised in a babble of protest and anger. I saw the crystals begin to pulse and felt that tingling on my skin that warned of burgeoning occult power. From the corner of my eye I saw Rwyan’s slight smile, as if she scored a victory. I thought at best she bought us a little time.
Then Tezdal’s voice came clear and cold through the hubbub.
“The lady Rwyan speaks true! She’s debt-claim on me, and I am sworn to defend her.”
He let go Allanyn’s wrists, and the Changed woman sprang back. The Sky Lords drew closer to Tezdal, as if th
ey’d defend him against her magic. Their faces were a mixture of confusion and outrage. I thought that did Allanyn or any other gifted look to employ magic, I should witness a horrendous duel. I supposed it might end the alliance; I wondered if Rwyan planned this.
Then Geran pushed to the fore, hands raised in placatory gesture. “My friends,” he said, “do we fall to fighting amongst ourselves? Shall we squabble over this Dhar sorceress? Calm yourselves, I say, lest all our dreams be wasted.”
Another Changed took Allanyn’s arm: she shook him off even as he murmured urgently. But more drew near, setting themselves between her and the Sky Lords, succeeding in forcing her reluctantly back.
Geran said, “So, do we becalm ourselves? All of us!”
This last was directed at Allanyn, who allowed herself to be placated. I saw her force a smile and heard her say, “Forgive me, my lords. I grow impatient with the rank presumption of this mage. I’d see our venture commence as soon it may, and her pointless defiance angers me.”
The Sky Lords murmured in their own tongue. I sensed they found her display unseemly. I thought these were likely folk much given to protocol. Dismissing my earlier curse, I prayed they were much given to honor.
One, gray in his oiled beard, said, “Your apology is accepted, lady. But this matter of Lord Tezdal’s vow is a troubling thing.”
Allanyn said, “Surely such a vow is worthless. Lord Tezdal was not himself when that oath was sworn.”
She had better held silent. I saw that in the stiffening of the Sky Lords’ backs, the frowns that twisted their features. The speaker said, “A vow is a vow.” His voice was cold. “Save he’s his honor, a man is nothing. The gods shall not forgive an oath-breaker.”
Allanyn would have spoken again. I hoped she would, for her words seemed to drive a wedge between these allies, but Geran forestalled her. He said, “Aye, there’s much truth in that. And a conundrum, also.”
He was a diplomat, that one, and cunning: all fell silent, waiting on him.
He said, “I’d not besmirch Lord Tezdal’s honor—nor would any here! But when one vow stands in opposition to another? What then?” He paused: he had their attention. “Lord Tezdal is Kho’rabi—Dedicated—and so sworn to the Great Conquest. That vow was made knowingly, when he possessed all his senses and was entirely himself. This other, surely, was made when he was—forgive me, my lord—less than entire. His memory was gone, taken from him by Truemen’s sorcery. No fault of his, that; but were he not victim of that magic, would he have sworn that vow? I think not, and so I’d ask he set aside that latter—lesser!—vow, in honor of the greater.”
This was sophistry worthy of Durbrecht! Almost I could admire Geran’s slippery tongue. He spoke so earnestly, sincerity dripping, his expression one of concern, suggesting he might share the dilemma he outlined. I glanced at Rwyan, dreading she’d bid me strike, and saw her smiling still, seeming possessed of a confidence I could not share. I looked to Tezdal and saw him perturbed, his eyes narrowed as if he considered Geran’s words. The other Sky Lords waited on him. I felt my future and Rwyan’s waited on him.
Finally he nodded and said, “There’s much to consider in that. But still—as Zenodar says, a vow is a vow.”
“Even were you not yourself?” asked Geran. “My lord, surely there was a theft here—Dhar magic stole your memory.”
“In battle,” Tezdal said, and smiled directly at Rwyan. “There was no theft intended—only death.”
“Aye, they’d have taken your life!” said Geran. “They’d have slain you, save their magic was not so great.”
“And well might have slain me, after,” Tezdal replied, “when they found me on that rock, or when they took me to the island. But they did not, and from Rwyan I had only kindness.”
“Surely in service of their own ends,” Geran said, “and for no other reason. Surely they let you live only that they might plunder your mind of its knowledge.”
“True.” Tezdal ducked his head, solemnly; then raised his face to Geran, “Just as you’d plunder this lady’s.”
“Surely there’s a difference.” Geran smiled, stroking his long jaw. “We offer this mage a choice. What we ask of her, she may give us freely. Only does she refuse would we resort to those other measures.”
Tezdal smiled back. His gaze flickered in Allanyn’s direction. I thought I saw disbelief on his face, as if he doubted the feline Changed should offer such option. He said, “What choice is that? Has Rwyan not sworn a vow to defend her land? You ask her to renege, to forfeit her honor. I know her, and I tell you that for her that’s no choice at all.”
From behind Geran came Allanyn’s outraged shriek: “She’s a Trueman mage! What honor there?”
The look Tezdal sent her way was utterly cold; warm as his eyes swung back to Rwyan. “Much,” he said. “I know this lady, and I tell you she’s the honor of a Kho’rabi.”
There was startlement at that; gasps from several of the Sky Lords, a puzzled frown from Zenodar. Geran—seeking to retrieve his argument, I thought—said, “But an enemy, still. Of your people and mine.”
Tezdal said, “Perhaps. But do I fight, I’d have my battles with such honorable people.”
I heard Allanyn mutter, “Honor!” as if the word were an abomination. Tezdal ignored her; Geran, too. He said, “Yet we must have her knowledge, lest the Border Cities and the Sentinels destroy the fleets.”
Tezdal nodded. “Yes. But still I made a vow. That remains.”
“When you were helpless,” Geran said. I thought he sounded not quite so confident now. “When you’d no memory of those other vows. When you were not, properly, Kho’rabi.”
“Which means?” asked Tezdal.
“That you are once more whole,” said Geran. “That you are again yourself—the Lord Tezdal Kashijan of Ahn-feshang—and owe allegiance only to the Cause; to the Attulki, to the Conquest. Our magic it was gave you back your life, gave you back your memories! Shall you forget that?”
Tezdal said, “No,” in a voice so coldly imperious, the horse-faced Changed flinched. “Nor shall I forget my honor.”
“Then where do we stand?” asked Geran. His oily confidence was gone now: I could not—for all I felt not at all happy—help but smile.
“The Lady Rwyan would have full proof,” said Tezdal, and turned again to Rwyan. “Is that not so?”
Rwyan said simply, “It is. I’d hear from you alone that this sortilege has done its work.”
“Then you shall,” he said.
Rwyan only smiled and nodded. I relaxed a fraction: I felt she’d earned us a little more time. I felt we lived our lives in increments now, snatching moments from the ravening jaws of hungry fate.
Tezdal nodded in response and looked again to Geran. “So shall it be,” he declared. “The lady Rwyan shall have her proof from me, and then …” He frowned, some measure of confidence departing. “But first, I’d dine and speak with my fellows. So do you return the lady Rwyan and Da-viot the Storyman to their quarters? Unharmed, eh? And treat them with the respect they deserve.”
Neither Geran nor the other gifted liked that much. I saw Allanyn’s face pale, two spots of angry color on her cheeks, but neither she nor any of them argued, so commanding was Tezdal. I saw Rwyan’s smile grow broader, and when I caught Tezdal’s eye, he grinned. I wondered what game he played. Was it all some thing of honor that I could not properly comprehend? I knew nothing of the Sky Lords—save as ferocious enemies—but I had the feeling he sought to help us.
I could not see how, save that he gave us a brief respite from the inevitable. I told myself that must be enough for now.
There was a tapping at our door. It took me a while to wonder why our captors should now deign to announce their entry: I called that they come in.
The door opened, and Tezdal stood there.
He was alone. He wore the shirt and breeks and boots of the vault, but not the crimson robe, and on his face was an expression I could not interpret.
He sai
d, “Daviot,” as if in greeting or inquiry, and looked past me to Rwyan and spoke her name. And then, “May I enter?”
I shrugged and beckoned him in. I wondered why he bothered with such formality: was he our friend, he must surely know himself welcome; if not, why should he concern himself with niceties?
He smiled slightly and gave me a brief formal bow. Rwyan said, “Tezdal. Enter, and welcome.”
His smile grew warmer. I frowned and stood back. He closed the door and turned to face us. Rwyan ushered him to a chair and gestured at the decanter, for all the world as if we entertained some unexpected guest whose presence was an unanticipated pleasure.
Tezdal shook his head. “I’ve learned much about myself. And about other things.”
I saw his eyes cloud as he spoke, and lines appear across his brow. He ran a hand over his hair as if its arrangement sat unfamiliar on his skull. I took a seat across the table, beside Rwyan. I studied this man I thought my friend, who might well now be my implacable enemy. I read confusion in his stance, doubt in his eyes. I waited, certain he should unfold some new chapter of my life and Rwyan’s, not knowing what it might be, good or ill.
Rwyan said, “Do you tell us?”
Her voice was calm. I felt sweat bead my brow, for all the room was pleasantly cool.
Tezdal said, “I’ve my memory back. All of it.”
His voice was controlled. I watched a tic throb on his temple. Rwyan said, “Then tell us all of it.”
He nodded and began to speak. I listened, marveling at the magic the Changed commanded, thinking how such talent might benefit we Mnemonikos.
He was born on the seventh day of the seventh month in the Year of the Eagle, which is holy to Vachyn, God of the Skies; a birthing day of great portent. His father was Tairaz Kashijan; his mother, Nazrene, formerly of the Isadur, and so in his veins flowed the High Blood of the Ahn. On the sixteenth day he was carried, wrapped in his swaddling clothes, to the temple of the Three, where his parents, as was custom, offered him in service to the gods. They were proud when the Attul-ki pricked his flesh with the sacred knife and he did not scream. The blood, the priests said, ran true in this one, this child was truly Kho’rabi, and so he was named Tezdal, which in the language of the Ahn means both “brave” and “honor.”
