behind us and faced me.
I said, “Krystin …”
I am unsure how I might have finished that sentence because Krystin placed her hands around my neck and kissed me, and she needed no sorcery save her presence after that. It had been so long since last I lay with any woman.
She told me, after, that I spoke Rwyan’s name. I apologized, and she said it did not matter, though I think it did, and in those later nights I was more careful and said only “Krystin.”
“Shall this not make problems for you?” I asked.
She lay within the compass of my arms, her cheek against my chest, her hair a soft golden fan that shifted gently as she spoke.
“I’ve no lover in this keep.” Her breath was warm against my skin. “Before, in Durbrecht-but here, no.” “Barus would have you,” I said.
She snorted laughter and rose on her elbows to rest her weight on me, all down the length of my body. I felt myself begin to stir again as she spoke.
“We cannot always have what we want, eh?” Her smile was mischievous and seductive. “And poor Barus shall never have me. You, though …” Her hand moved, sliding between us. She laughed again, softer. “You, though, Daviot …”
Later, as the first pale hint of dawn lit the sky, she said, “Likely Barus shall not dare offend you further. Surely not within the precincts of the keep. But still, perhaps best you stay close by me.”
I nodded gravely and said, “I shall, Krystin. I shall endeavor to remain as close as possible.”
“How close?” she asked. “Do you show me?”
I did, and then we fell asleep, our limbs entwined.
It was full light when we woke, and later ere we rose to dress and break our fast. I was very hungry.
We went smiling to the dining hall and begged some bread and tea from the Changed servants, who were by now preparing for the midday meal. Those of the household we encountered smiled as they saw us, and when the warband found us deep in conversation they chuckled and muttered amongst themselves. I could guess the direction of their comments. Barus saw us and scowled blacker than ever, but he said nothing to me or Krystin, only found himself a chair and shouted for ale. Nor did Yrdan or Raene do more than smile benignly on us, though Danae and Kyra both giggled together and gave us long, appraising looks, as if they shared some secret with us.
That afternoon Krystin showed me the town. It was, as I had surmised, a prosperous place. There were taverns and squares where, in the days that followed, I pursued my calling, crowds gathering to hear my tales. It seemed my reputation grew, and that was a boon, for it enabled me to speak with more of the common folk, to assess their mood, as the College had ordered. I found them mostly careless of the Sky Lords’ threat, for there had been no raids in this vicinity and they trusted in Yrdan and his commur-mage to protect them. They had heard of the craft that approached Brynisvar; that it had been destroyed with all its crew served to reinforce their confidence. I thought them complacent. I thought this West Coast had been fortunately sheltered.
I voiced my thoughts to Yrdan and for a while saw his mien grow serious. There was, he agreed, a feeling on this side of Dharbek that the Sky Lords were no great danger. “But fear not, Daviot,” he said. “Does it come to fighting, the West Coast shall take its part. Meanwhile”-he smiled and tapped that massive nose, leaning closer as if to impart a secret-“Kherbryn promises us engineers, that we may build those war-engines that defend the cities of the east. Gahan sends them to us even now, I hear.”
I was relieved to hear such news and thought once again that perhaps I took too much on myself, assumed a weight of responsibility beyond my station. Surely it was vanity to think that I alone was aware of the terrible danger the Sky Lords represented. These aeldors were not fools, nor blind; neither were the sorcerers. To think I was the only one who saw the danger was to insult them: I vowed to curb my ego.
So the days passed, happily. If aught marred them, it was my curiosity, for I retained my desire to question Krystin on the matter of the wild Changed.
She was not, of course, always with me. Three times she rode out after sightings of the airboats, and she had duties to which she must attend, and some of those private. But when we were apart, she contrived to leave me in company of friends or find some task for Barus that ensured we should not meet. As much as she was able, she stayed with me, and there grew between us a friendship perhaps more lasting than our transitory passion. It was on that that I relied for satisfaction of my curiosity.
We had ridden out one morning, along the valley into the wilder country beyond. We took with us food and a skin of wine, and when the hot summer sun approached its zenith, we halted where a brook traversed a little tree-girt meadow. I remember the sky was a cloudless blue, and the lazy buzz of insects. Our horses grazed some little distance off, apart-my mare had, it seemed, no more fondness for her own kind than for mine. Krystin and I stretched languidly on the sward, sharing the wineskin. I felt wonderfully comfortable.
I said, “Krystin, do you tell me of the wild Changed?”
For an instant I saw her beautiful face assume the cold stillness of a statue. I was uncertain what I saw in her eyes, for she sat up, denying me clear sight, but I thought it anger, or doubt, or even disappointment.
She said, “What of them, Daviot?”
Her voice was entirely normal. It sounded uninterested, even bored, as if she felt there were far better topics to discuss on such a day, in such a place. I suspected the tone assumed.
I said, “I don’t know. Only that whenever I’ve asked a sorcerer about them, I see a particular expression, as if I trespass on forbidden ground. And none give plain answers.”
“Perhaps there are none to give,” she said; then laughed. “Perhaps we sorcerers guard our secrets.”
I sensed prevarication and said, “Is it forbidden you speak of them, tell me, and I’ll hold my silence.”
Her laugh was entirely genuine then. “And shall you curb that Storyman’s curiosity, my love? Is such a thing possible?”
I shrugged, knowing the answer; not wanting to voice it.
She said, “Did your Rwyan not tell you?”
(Such was our relationship that we had told one another of our lost lovers and sometimes spoke their names without fear of giving hurt.)
“Not much,” I said. “No more than anyone does.”
“And how much is that?” she asked.
I said, “That they dwell in Ur-Dharbek, put there by the first sorcerers as”-Barus’s term seemed most apt-“dragon fodder. That those Changed liberated by their owners may cross the Slammerkin if they wish, but none may come back. I’ve the feeling the Border Cities are no longer defense against the dragons but are there to hold out the wild Changed. And if the dragons
Krystin laughed again. Perhaps too lightly? I was not sure. She said, “Perhaps it is. What matter? Do the freed ones choose to cross the Slammerkin, why would they come back?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“And what you don’t know troubles you, eh?” She turned onto her belly, chin cupped in her hands as she regarded me, hair that captured sunlight falling across her face. “By the God, Daviot, you’re a Storyman.”
I nodded and smiled. “To learn is my duty,” I declared.
“And shall you next seek the secrets of my calling?” she asked.
I said, “I’ve not that talent.” I smiled as I said it, but I was nonetheless aware she gave me no answers.
She hesitated a moment, plucking a frond of grass that she placed between her teeth, nibbling. Then she said, “We say little of the wild Changed because we know little of them. Ur-Dharbek is closed to us-no Trueman goes there, and we sorcerers are no exception.”
“But,” I said, and paused, feeling myself on uncertain ground, “why not?”
Krystin answered me with, “Why should we? Is Dharbek too small for you? Would you conquer this kingdom of the Changed?”
I said, “No. But still I wonder. Urt would not speak of the place, either.”
“Perhaps Urt knew no more than I,” she said. “Which is little enough more than you.”
“Are you not curious?” I asked.
