Lords of the Sky

An errant, hurtful thought then: Shall Daviot forget me?

And the answer: No. How can he?

And then: But shall he find another love? Shall he meet someone to take my place?

And the answer: It may be so, but it shall not affect what I feel. I love him, and I shall always love him.

It was little enough comfort, near as much pain, but Rwyan clutched it to her as sheer exhaustion finally lulled her troubled mind and granted her the respite of sleep.

And the galleass, propelled by its Changed oarsmen, moved steadily along the Treppanek, past the wreckage of fallen airboats and the ravaged keeps that marked their passage. Eastward, toward the gulfs meeting with the Fend, toward the Sentinels: Rwyan’s future.

She woke in a cabin stifled by summer’s heat. The air was thick, and her head, for all she was rested and felt no further need of sleep, ached. She sat up, finding only a few sisters remaining, Chiara gone. Her mouth tasted gritty, her blind eyes sore from weeping. She sighed and clambered to her feet, going out into the fresher air of the deck.

Dusk approached, and she realized she had slept away the day. She found the water barrel and scooped out a pannikin, slaking her thirst and freshening her face. Along the deck a brazier glowed red, the smell of charcoal and grilling meat reminding her of hunger. Chiara stood by the port rail, and Rwyan went to join her friend, hoping she would not suffer another lecture on the pointlessness of love.

Thankfully, Chiara was more occupied with the novelty of sailing and only smiled and gestured at the expanse of water, at the deck of the galleass, saying, “Is this not marvelous?”

Rwyan turned slowly around, taking proper notice of their surroundings for the first time. “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, it is.”

She had traveled over water only once before, Chiara never. The blond sorcerer came from Kherbryn itself, where her family was prominent amongst the city’s merchants, which sometimes gave her airs, and she had come overland to Durbrecht. Rwyan had spent her childhood in Hambry, which lay inland of Kellambek’s west coast, a village devoted to sheep and farming. When her talent was recognized by the village mantis (who perceived that despite her obvious blindness, she could “see” as well as any sighted child) she had been dispatched to Murren Keep, to an interview with the commur-mage of that hold, whose examination confirmed the suspicions of the mantis. When she came of age, she had gone back to Murren, and thence by cart to Nevysvar on the Treppanek. She had crossed the gulf on a ferryboat, finding the experience mildly terrifying, and been glad to set foot once more on solid ground. Now it occurred to her that she was not at all afraid-the galleass seemed safe.

She turned her sight from the ship to the water. It sparkled blue and silver, gold where the rays of the descending sun struck the wavelets radiating from the bow. The evening was still, the light translucent, clear enough she could make out the dark shadow of the north bank. Overhead a flight of geese passed raucous to their roosting grounds; over the shimmering water an osprey hung, dived, and emerged with a fish. It was an idyllic scene. The galleass creaked in a companionable way, the dip of the oars was rhythmic, the sway of the deck was gentle. To the east, the moon hung pale in a sky still blue, unsullied by the obscene intrusion of the Sky Lords’ vessels.

She said, “I was frightened the first time I was on a boat.”

“This is a ship,” Chiara replied authoritatively. “A ship is large enough to carry a boat.”

Rwyan nodded, allowing her friend that superior knowledge as loss once more impinged: boats and ships and water were things with which Daviot was familiar. She struggled to control herself, to fight down the fresh flood of memories. Her fingers threatened to gouge splinters from the rail.

If Chiara was aware of her discomfort, she gave no sign, continuing in cheerful spate. “I spoke with the captain while you slept. By the God, I thought you’d never wake! His name’s Lyakan. He’s from the west coast of Draggonek, and he owns this ship and a crew of thirty bull-bred oarsmen. He’s employed by the College to supply the Sentinels.”

Perhaps she spoke to cheer Rwyan, to occupy her. Rwyan neither knew nor cared but let the softly accented voice wash over her, content to leave Chiara to her dissertation as she fought her internal battle. It would never be as Chiara suggested, that time should blunt her love, but she hoped the passage of the days would allow her to control that awful sense of loss, to accommodate it within her daily round.

She had never thought to feel like this, had not known it was possible; until now the worst hurt she had known had been parting from her family, from parents and siblings, the friends of childhood in Hambry. But that had been assuaged by the great adventure before her. To be chosen as candidate to the Sorcerous College, to go to Durbrecht, that had been so exciting a prospect, she had felt guilty she was so glad to depart.

She had been a virgin then, when she left Hambry, and a virgin when she met Daviot-In the God’s name, it was impossible not to think of him!-in that street of pleasure houses. She smiled at the memory of his expression, that first time they had met. No man had ever looked at her in that way, nor so assiduously sought her out.

She had not truly thought to meet him again. After all, it was but a casual encounter, and her mention of the Golden Apple had been less promise than desire to be about her business unhindered by some casual suitor. She had been much surprised to find him there; more that his presence afforded her such pleasure. But even then she had thought he would resign himself and it prove only a casual flirtation. She had known it was more, on his side at least, when she learned he frequented the tavern, and then recognized her own feelings, at first unwilling- surely unwilled-as she found herself drawn back. His love, he had told her, was immediate: he had known from the first moment. Hers came more slowly, kindled by his own, enhanced by the sense of intrigue that accompanied their meetings. And then it had blazed, and she was no longer a virgin and could no more forget him than she could forsake her talent. Or the duty that drove them apart.

“You’re thinking of him again.”

Chiara’s voice, admonishing, interrupted Rwyan’s thoughts and she nodded defiantly.

“You’ll forget him,” Chiara said, echo of so many other conversations.

And Rwyan answered, “No. Perhaps I shall learn to live without him, but I shall never forget him.”

There was such certainty in her tone, and such pain, that Chiara forgot her disapproval and was only friend, She took Rwyan’s hand gently in her own and said no more. Instead, they stood in silence as the twilight deepened and the surface of the Treppanek was no longer painted with the sun’s red gold but became as blue velvet, a softly whispering cushion to the moon’s silvered reflection.

Then a bell summoned them to their dinner, and they went, still hand-in-hand, along the deck to where their fellow sorcerers clustered eagerly about a brazier on which meat grilled.

It was easier in company. Conversation made demands on her attention that enabled her to concentrate on what was said and how she would respond, and none there, save Chiara, knew of Daviot. So she spoke of the Sentinels and the recent attack, and of the expectations of the College, and for a while felt not at all sad. And Lyakan passed the tiller to a Changed and joined them, broaching a keg of good ale, which he cheerfully declared must be consumed before they reached the islands, which announcement was met with enthusiastic agreement.

Rwyan drank somewhat more than was her wont, and joined in the singing that ensued, and that night slept quite soundly, for all her last thoughts were of Daviot.

There were no more attacks as the galleass sailed east, nor as she ventured onto the Fend. The weather remained mild, Lyakan setting his three lateen sails as the tower of Rorsbry Keep hove in view, Fynvar a distant thimble shape to the north. He tacked eastward, supplying remedies to those who found the ocean’s chop distressing. Rwyan was pleased she suffered no discomfort; a little guilty that Chiara’s violent illness did not trouble her more.

A day, a night, and the morning of another day they sailed, and then the closest of the seven Sentinels were in sight.

Rwyan found herself a place at the prow, her senses focused on the islands. She held her place as they came closer, until only one was visible, the rest lost to the dip and bob of the galleass. Lyakan ordered the sails furled, and the oarsmen bent once again to their sweeps, propelling the ship onward. The wind blew colder out here, and soon she heard the murmur of surf, the beat of the rollers that swept across all the width of the ocean, perhaps from the distant lands of the Sky Lords even, to break on these isolate stones. She wondered if the