I went running with them, still clutching my hook, for they all still held their weapons, and I was suddenly possessed of a dreadful fear that the ship had gone past the village to land in the fields—the wood—beyond, and disgorge the Kho'rabi knights to massacre my mother and my siblings, and all the others hiding in the caves. But Thorus hauled me back and shouted at my father that the wind was wrong and whatever magic the sorcerers of Ahn-feshang commanded, it was not enough to ground the boat to disembark the fylie.
Even so, I was not satisfied, nor my father, until we topped the path and saw the ship drifting on, over the wood, disappearing into the haze of the afternoon sun, like blood drying on a wound.
Robus, mounted on his old, slow horse, had reached the aeldor's Holding during the night. The watchmen had brought him before the lord, who had immediately ordered three squadrons to patrol the coast road, one to ride instanter for Whitefish village.
They arrived a few hours after sun's rise; dirty, tired, and irritable. To me, then, they looked splendid. There were twenty of them, their warrior's plaits decorated with little, bright feathers, and shells: tokens of their calling. They wore shirts of leather and mail, draped across with Cambar's plaid, cinched in with wide belts from which hung sheathed swords and long-hafted axes, and every one carried a lance from which the colors of Kellambek fluttered in the morning breeze, round shields hung from their saddles. There was a commur-magus with them, clad all in black sewn with the silver markings of her station, a short-sword on her hip. Her hair was swept back in a tail, but bound with a silver fillet, and decorated with two long eagle's feathers,- and, unlike her men, she seemed untired. She raised a hand as the squadron reached the village square, halting the horsemen, waiting as the mantis approached and made obeisance, gesturing him up with a splendid, languid hand.
I, and all the children—and most of our parents, no less impressed—gathered about to watch.
The soldiers climbed down from their horses. The magus, too, dismounted, conferring with the mantis, and then followed our plump and friendly priest to the cella, * calling back over her shoulder that the men with her might find breakfast where they could, and ale, if they so desired, for it seemed the danger was gone.
I felt a measure of disappointment at that: I had become, after all, a warrior, and was reluctant to find my new-won status so quickly lost. I compensated by taking the bridle of a horse and leading the animal to where Robus kept his fodder. I had never seen so large an animal before, save when the great winter whales washed up, and I was more than a little frightened by the way it tossed its head and stamped its feet and snorted. The man who rode it chuckled and spoke to it, and told me to hold it firm; and then he set a hand on my shoulder, as Thorus had done, and I straightened my back and reminded myself I was a man, and brought it to Robus's little bam, where it became docile as his old nag when I fed it oats and hay and filled the water trough.
The soldier grinned at that, and checked the beast for himself, taking off the high-cantled cavalry saddle, rest-
ing his shield and lance against the wall of the pen. I touched the metalled face of the shield with reverent fingers, and studied his sword and axe. Then smiled as he turned to me and asked where he might find food, and ale, and I told him, "Thorym's tavern," and asked, "Shall you fight the Kho'rabi?"
He said, "I think they're likely gone, praise the God," and I wondered why a soldier would be thankful his enemy was not there. I did not understand then.
I brought him to the tavern and fetched him a pot of ale as his fellows gathered. His name was Andyrt, and as luck would have it, he was jennym to the commur- magus, a life-sworn member of the warband, and, I realized, fond of children. At least, he let me crouch by his side and even passed me his helm to hold, bidding the rest be silent when they looked at me askance and some wondered what a child did there, among men.
I bristled at that, and told them I had stood upon the sand with hook in hand, ready to fight, as the Sky Lords passed over. Some laughed then, and some called me liar, but Andyrt bade them silent, and said that he believed me, and that his belief was theirs, else they chose to challenge him. None did, and I saw that they feared him somewhat, or respected him. To me, he was exotic,- glamorous and admirable.
I ventured to pluck at his sleeve and ask him what it took to be a warrior and find a place in the warband.
"Well," he said and chuckled, "first you must be strong enough to wield a blade, and skilled enough in its wielding. Save you prefer to slog out your life as a pyke, you must ride a horse. You must be ready to spend long hours bored, and more drinking. To hold your drink. And you must be ready to kill men; and to be, yourself, killed."
"I am," I said, thinking of the beach, and the airboat; and Andyrt said, "It is not so easy, to put a blade into a man. Harder still to take his in you."
"I'd kill Kho'rabi," I told him firmly. "I'd give my life to defend Kellambek."
He touched my cheek then, gently, as sometimes my father did, and said, "That's an easy thing to say, boy. The doing of it is far harder. Better you pray our God grants strength to the Sentinels, and there's no Coming in your life-time."
"You fight them," I said. "You're a warrior."
He nodded at that. I remember a shadow passing across his face, like the cold penumbra of the Sky Lords' boat. He said, "I'm life-sworn, boy; I know no other way."
I opened my mouth to question him further, to argue, but just then the commur-magus entered the tavern, our mantis on her heels, like a plump and fussing hen, and a silence fell.
Andyrt began to rise, sinking back on the sorcerer's gesture. The black-clad woman approached our table and two of the warband sprang to their feet, relinquishing their places. I found myself crouched between Andyrt and the commur-magus, who asked mildly, "Who's this?"
Andyrt said, grinning, "A young warrior, by all accounts. He stood firm when the skyboat came."
The mantis said, "His name is Daviot, eldest son of Aditus and Donia. I understand he did, indeed, run back to join his father on the beach."
The commur-magus raised blue-black brows at that, and her fine lips curved in a smile. I stood upright, shoulders squared, and looked her in the eye. Had I not, after all, proved myself? Was I not, after all, intent on becoming a warrior?
"So," she said, her voice soft and not at all mocking, "Whitefish village breeds its share of men."
That was fine as Thorus's praise; as good as my father's hand on my shoulder. I nodded, modestly. The commur- magus continued to study me, not even turning when she was passed a mug of ale and a fresh plate of fried fish and bread. She waved regal thanks; her eyes did not leave my face, as if she saw there things I did not know about myself.
"You stood upon the beach?" she said, her voice gentle; speculative as her gaze. "Were you not afraid?"
I began to shake my head, but there was a power in her eyes that compelled truth, that brought back memory. I set Andyrt's helm carefully down on the cleanest patch of dirt between the chairs and nodded.
"Tell me," she said.
I looked awhile at her face. It was dark as Andyrt's, which is to say lighter than any in the village, but unmarked by scars. I thought her beautiful; nor was she very old. Her eyes were green, and as I looked into them, they seemed to obscure the men around her, to send the confines of the tavern into shadow, to absorb the morning light.
I told her everything.
When I was done she nodded and said, "You saw the cats and dogs—the gulls, even—were gone?"
"Then," I told her, and frowned as an unrecognized memory came back. "But this morning the dogs were awake again, and the cats were on the beach. And the gulls," I pointed sea-ward, at the shapes wheeling and squalling against the new-formed blue, "they're back."
"Think you they fled the Coming?" she asked.
"They were not there then," I said. "The sky was empty, save for the boat. I think they must have."
"Why?" she asked me; and I said, "I suppose they were frightened. Or
they felt the power of the Sky Lords. But they were gone, then."
She sipped a mouthful of ale; chewed a mouthful of fish and bread, still staring at me. I watched her face, wondering what she made of me: what she wanted of me. I felt I was tested and judged. I tried to find Andyrt's eyes, but could not: it was as though the mage's compelling gaze sunk fish hooks in my mind, in my attention, locking me to her as soundly as the lures of the sur£- trollers locked the autumnal grylle to their barbed baits.
She turned then to the mantis and my attention was unlocked, as if I were a fish loosed from the net. I looked to Andyrt, who smiled reassuringly and shrugged, motioning for me to be silent and wait. I did: nervous and impatient. The commur-magus said to the mantis, "He's talents,, think you?"
The mantis favored me with a look I thought sad, and ducked his head. "He's a memory," he agreed—though then I was unaware of what, exactly, he meant—and added, "Of all my pupils he's the best-schooled in the li-‘ turgics: he can repeat them back, word for word."
"As he did this Coming," said the commur-magus, and turned to me again, though now without that draining gaze.
"You brought Andyrt's horse to stable, no? Tell me about his horse and his kit."
"It was brown/' I said, confused. "A light brown, with golden hair in its mane and tail. Its hooves were black, but the right foreleg was patched with white, and the hoof there was shaded pale. The saddle was dark with sweat, and the bucket where the lance rests was stitched with black. The stirrups were leather, with dull metal inside. There were two bags behind the saddle, brown, with golden buckles. When he took it off, the horse's hide was pale and sweaty. It was glad to be rid of the weight. It was a gelding, and it snorted when he took off the bridle, and flicked its tail as it began to eat the oats I brought it."
The commur-magus clapped a hand across my eyes then, the other behind my head, so that I could not move, startling me, and said, "What weapons does Andyrt carry?"
"A lance," I told her, for all I was suddenly terrified. "That he left in Robus's stable. Twice a man's height, of black wood, with a long, soft-curved blade. Not like a fishing hook. Also, a sword, an axe and a small knife."
The hands went away from my face and I saw the commur-magus smiling, Andyrt grinning approvingly. The mantis looked less pleased. The others seated around the table seemed wonderstruck: I wondered why, for it seemed entirely natural to me to recall such simple things in their entirety.
"He's the knack, I think," the commur-magus said.
And the mantis nodded and said, "I'd wondered. I'd thought of sending word to Cambar."
"You should have," said the commur-magus.
Andyrt looked at me with something I can now, older, recognize as awe in his eyes. Then, only a decade of my life gone by, I preened myself, aware that I was, somehow, special; that I had passed a test of some kind.
"Are his parents agreeable, he should go to Dur- brecht," the commur-magus said. "This one is a natural."
A natural what, I did not know,- nor what or where Durbrecht was. I frowned and said, "I'd be a soldier."
"There are other callings," said the commur-magus, and smiled a small apology to Andyrt. "Some higher than the warband."
"Like yours?" I asked, emboldened by her friendly manner. "Do I'have magic in me, then?"
She chuckled at that, though not in an unkind way, and shook her head. "Not mine," she advised me. "And I am only a lowly commur-magus, who rides on my lord's word. No, Daviot, you've not my kind of magic in you,- you've the magic of your memory."
I frowned anew at that: what magic was there in memory? I remembered things—was that unusual?—I always had. Everyone in Whitefish village knew that. Folk came to me, asking dates, confirmation of things said, and I told them: it was entirely natural to me, and not at all magical.
"He's but twelve years old," I heard the mantis say; and saw the commur-magus nod, and heard her answer, "Then on his manhood. I'd speak with his parents now, however."
The mantis rose, like a plump soldier attending an order, and went bustling from the tavern. I shifted awhile from foot to foot, more than a little disconcerted, and finally asked, "What's Durbrecht?"
"A place," the commur-magus said, "a city and a college, the two the same. Do you know what a storyman is?"
"Yes," I told her, and could not resist demonstrating my powers of recall, boasting. "One came to the village a year ago. He was old—his hair was white and he wore a beard—he rode a mule. He told stories of Gahan's coronation, and of the Comings. His name was ..." I paused an instant, the old man's face vivid in the eye of my mind; I smelled again the garlic that edged his breath, and the faint odor of sweat that soured his grubby white shirt. ". . . Callum."
The commur-magus ducked her head solemnly, her face grave now, and said, "Callum learned to use his art in Durbrecht. He memorized the old tales there, under the Mnemonikos."
"Nuh . . . moni . . . kos?" I struggled to fit my tongue around the unfamiliar word.
"The Mnemonikos," the commur-magus nodded. "The
Rememberers; those who keep all our history in their heads. Without them, our past should be forgotten; without them, we should have no history/'
"Is that important?" I wondered, sensing that my soldierly ambitions were somehow, subtly, defeated.
"If we cannot remember the past," the commur-magus said, "then we must forever repeat our mistakes. If we forget what we were, and what we have done, then we go blind into our future, like untaught children."
I thought awhile on that, scarcely aware that she spoke to me as to a man, struggling as hard with the concept as I had struggled to pronounce the word, the name: Mnemonikos. At last I nodded with all the gravity of my single decade and said, "Yes, I think I see it. If my grandfather's father had not told him about the tides and the seasons of the fish, then he could not have told my father, and then he should have needed to learn all that for himself."
"And if he did not remember, then he could not pass on that knowledge to you," said the commur-magus.
"No," I allowed, "but I want to be a soldier."
"But," said the commur-magus, gently, "you see the importance of remembering."
I agreed; a trifle reluctantly, for I felt that she steered our conversation toward a harbor that should render me swordless, bereft of my recently-found ambition. I looked to Andyrt for support, but his scarred face was bland and he hid it behind his cup.
"The Mnemonikos hold all our history in their heads," the commur-magus said softly. "All the tales of the Comings; all the tales of the land. They know of the Kho'rabi; of the Sky Lords and the Dragonmasters: all of it. Without them, we should have no past. The swords they bear never rust or break or blunt . . ."
"They bear swords?" I interrupted eagerly, finding these mysterious Rememberers suddenly more interesting. "They're warriors, then?"
I blushed (and pouted, I think) as the commur-magus smiled and chuckled and shook her head. She said: "Not swords as you mean, Daviot. I mean the blade that finds it scabbard here," she tapped her forehead, "in the mind. And that—my word on it!—is the sharpest blade of all.
Think you this/' she tapped the shortsword on her hip now, "is a greater weapon than what I wear here?" She tapped her head again. "No! The blade is for carving flesh, when needs must. The knowledge here," again she touched her skull, "is what can defeat the magic of the Sky Lords."
"i'll face a Kho'rabi knight," Andyrt said, "and trade him blow for blow. I'd not assume to trust steel against their mages, though—that's a fight for your kind, Rekyn: magic against magic."
It was the first time I had heard the commur-magus referred to by name. I watched her nod and smile, and heard her say, "Aye—to each his own talent. Do you understand, Daviot? You've the strength of memory," Rekyn said. "All I've heard from you this day tells me that—and that's a terrible strength, my friend. It's the strength of things past, recalled; it's the strength of time, of history. It's the strength of knowing, of knowledge. It's the strength th
at binds the land, the people. Listen to me! In four years you become a man, and when you do, I'd ask that you go to Durbrecht and hone that blade you carry in your head."
So intense was her voice, her expression—though she used no magic on me then—that I heard proud clarions, a summons to battle,- and, still, confusion.
"Is Durbrecht far?" I asked.
"Leagues distant," she answered. "You should have to quit this village, your parents."
"How should I live?" I asked—I was a fisherman's child: I had acquired a measure of practicality.
And she laughed and said, "Be you accepted by the college, all will be paid for you. You'd have board and lodging, and a stipend for pleasure while you learn."
A stipend for pleasure—that had a distinct appeal.
"But how," I wondered, "should I earn all that?"
"By learning," she said, solemnly and urgently. "By learning to use that memory of yours, and by learning our history."
"Not work?" I asked, not quite understanding: to be fed and bedded without labor? How could that be for a boy from Whitefish village?
"Only at learning," she replied.
I pondered awhile, more than a little confused. I looked to where Andyrt's helm lay, observing the dented steel, the sweaty stains on the leather straps, the sheen of oil that overlay the beginnings of rust. I looked at the jennym's sword hilt, leather-wrapped and indented with the familiar pressure of his fingers. I looked at his face and found no answer there. I said, "Is Durbrecht very big?" I asked; and she answered, "Bigger than Cambar."
"Have you been there?" I demanded.
"I was trained there," she said. "I was sent by my village mantis when I came of age. There is a sorcerous college there, too, besides that of the Mnemonikos. I learnt to use my talent there, and then was sent to Cambar."
I scuffed my feet awhile in the dirt of Thorym's tavern, aware that I contemplated my future. Then I looked her in the eye again and asked, "If I do not like it? May I come back?"
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 46
