and Sky Lords came together? And for what purpose other than betrayal of Dharbek? That would be his duty, and I did not think Morfus was a man to shirk his duty, nor entertain such doubts as I. Even did he seek to hold it secret, such news-such a fear-would surely not stay hidden long, but would become public knowledge.
And what then? A pogrom? A purging of the Changed? Or their banishment across the Slammerkin to Ur- Dharbek, those-perhaps innocent-who survived? My troubled mind conjured an image of Truemen and Changed locked in bloody strife. I was not sure who would win.
And where, I wondered as the night grew chill and my soul yet colder, should that leave we Truemen? We depended too much on the services of the Changed that our world might continue smooth without them. We relied on their labor: our society would collapse without them. It was an alarming thought.
But so was the notion that all across the land the Changed played the part of spies for the Sky Lords; that the Kho’rabi had eyes and ears throughout Dharbek. That did they mount their Great Coming, the Changed might rise to stab we Truemen in the back.
Fear counterbalanced fear; confusion stood paramount. The bread I chewed threatened to clog my throat: I spat it out and rinsed my mouth with wine. I did not know what to do. My duty as a Trueman was clear-to warn Morfus, to urge he send word to Kherbryn and to Durbrecht. I thought that did I do my duty, I condemned Urt and all his kind to massacre.
Then I wondered if he knew. And with that wondering came a fresh consideration-What if those Changed I had seen were some outlaw group? What if they acted alone? Were that the case, I should be responsible for the suffering of thousands of innocent Changed. I felt a horror of such bloodshed. I felt torn.
I looked to the sky and saw it brightening with dawn’s approach. It was empty of enlightenment. I wished I had not seen that cursed fire; that I had quit Thornbar earlier, or later, or gone another way. I cursed myself and fate, but what was, was, and all my wishing could not change it. I threw back my head and bellowed a curse.
The rising sun found me squatted on my blanket, oblivious to the dew or the chorus of the birds. Curious rabbits studied me and were ignored. I was no wiser, nor any more decided.
I wished Rwyan or Urt were here, that I might ask them what I should do. I wished there were someone with whom I might share this dreadful burden. Its weight ground me down.
I was still sitting as the sun climbed to its noonday zenith. My mare had given up her demands for oats and set sullenly to cropping the grass. I was, I think, more than a little mad then.
I had no answers, only the prospect of terrible slaughter did I do my duty, the prospect of dreadful bloodshed did I not. I could not convince myself of the rectitude of either course. I felt that down the one path lay betrayal of my people, down the other betrayal of the Changed.
I reached a compromise. Perhaps it was born of cowardice. I know not, only that it seemed to me the sole path I might take and still hold true to my own conscience: I decided I would hold my tongue.
I decided (or perhaps I merely sought to justify my indecision) that the Sky Lords did not yet command such power over the elementals that they could launch their Great Coming. Therefore Dharbek was at least a little while safe. Meanwhile, I would endeavor to discover if the Changed-all of them-did indeed conspire against we Truemen, or if only some faction allied with the Kho’rabi. Should I find such a plot existed, then I would make known all I had seen, all I might by then have learned. I should face awful punishment, but until such time as I could
I prayed I did the right thing.
I rode south with my secret. It was a burden I had rather not carried, but it dwelt with me, an incubus I could not shed save at risk of birthing its mate. In the keeps I told my tales and conversed with commurs-magus and -mage, aeldors and jennyms, soldiers and common folk, as Daviot the Storyman, thinking all the time that I was now Daviot the Betrayer by their lights. Often I was tempted to blurt it out. Often I smiled and spoke and pretended all was well as I felt guilt beat a cold tocsin in my heart. Often I wondered if the sorcerers saw through me, or into me, and only played some arcane game with me, allowing me to mire myself ever deeper in treachery. Nights I lay often awake, the gladiators of doubt and guilt battling in my head. But I said nothing; it was as if a lock lay upon my tongue, keyed by irresolution.
It was a place too small to own a name: no more than seven rough cottages set within a cleared space in the woods, animal pens nearby, and vegetable patches. I saw that there were seven houses as I approached, and I wondered if that was an omen of some kind. Are three and seven not luck’s numbers? I was met by a pack of barking dogs, sizable hounds of assorted colors and a uniformity of large teeth. One-the leader of the pack, I supposed-dared snap at my mare’s fetlocks. Her ears were already flattened, her nostrils flared. She liked dogs no better than any other living thing, and she sent this particular hound howling into retreat, the rest deciding caution was the better part of valor. I was nearly unseated by her display, and by the time I had her calmed, we had an audience.
They were mostly women, the only males a handful of children who stared wide-eyed at my ferocious steed. One stepped forward, two small faces peering from behind the protection of her skirts.
“You own a fiercesome horse, stranger,” she said. She seemed not at all afraid, only sensibly wary. “Do you tether her secure, I’ll bid you welcome. We’ve ale, and food enough to spare.”
I said, “Thank you,” and climbed down.
I led the mare to a pen where hogs snuffled and lashed her reins to the fence.
The woman said, “Tyr, do you fetch a bucket of fresh water and see her turned out. But be careful of the beast.”
A boy darted from behind her skirts. He was a sturdy lad, his head a thatch of fine brown hair. I said, “Perhaps best I tend the mare. She’s a temper, as you’ve seen.”
“No matter,” the woman said. “Tyr’s a way with animals, and he’ll not let her harm him.”
She seemed so confident I saw no reason to argue. I looked at her and smiled. I said, “I am Daviot, a Storyman.”
“Well, the day’s greetings, Daviot Storyman,” she returned. “I am Pele.”
She was tall as I, and slender, her features delicate. Strands of silky, honey-colored hair escaped from beneath a headscarf. I saw that her eyes were green and somewhat slanted and realized with a shock that she was Changed, a cat-bred female. I hid my surprise behind a courtly bow, at which she chuckled and said, “We’ve little ceremony here, my friend.”
She showed none of the deference the Changed customarily granted Truemen. I let my eyes move past her to the others. I saw that of the seven women, three were Changed. Yet it was Pele who spoke for all, and she who named the Trueman females. It was as if, in the absence of their menfolk, all there regarded her as leader.
Pele brought me to her cottage and poured me a mug of very good ale. It was the midpart of the afternoon and I had eaten, but from courtesy and a desire to avoid affront I accepted the platter of cold pork and a wedge of bread she offered me. As I ate, she busied herself with domestic tasks, talking the while. Her daughter, who was named Alyn, assisted her when the child was not studying me with huge eyes that made me think of kittens. The cottage was small but built sound. It would hold off the cold of winter; now the single window and the door stood open.
“So what brings you here?” asked Pele. “We see few strangers in these wild parts, and never a Storyman before.”
“I was at Thornbar Keep,” I said. “I thought to wander the hinterland awhile.”
She nodded, as if this were not at all strange. She said, “Sometimes the Truemen go in to Thornbar.”
“To sell your produce?” I asked.
She said, “Yes, and to buy such tools and stuff as we cannot make or grow.”
“It’s a lonely place,” I said.
She laughed at that, reaching up to brush an errant strand of golden hair from her eyes. She was kneading bread, and she left a white smear of flour on her forehead. She said, “There’s company enough. But still-a Storyman shall liven the evening, do you elect to stay.”
“Do you offer such hospitality,” I said, “I’ll gladly accept.”
“’Tis yours for the asking.” She gestured at our surroundings. “You’ve the choice of a room shared with Tyr and Alyn, or the hearthside.”
