could no longer properly think of it as home) and dismounted. A woman with gray streaking her hair rose from a chair set in the shade of a sailcloth canopy, wiping hands slimed with fish scales on her grubby apron. Her hands were rough and red and her face darker than I recalled. I felt my heart lurch. I said, “Mam,” and she smiled and cried out, “Daviot,” and ran to embrace me. I hugged her. Her head reached no farther than my chest. She seemed frail. When she leaned back to study my face, there were tears in her eyes, and she gazed at me as if she could not believe I was truly there.
I said, “You’re well?” and she nodded, and held me tighter, and began to cry against my shirt. Almost, I wept for the joy of seeing her again. I felt embarrassed, but after a while she stilled her weeping and let me go, wiping at her eyes.
All in a rush she said, “Oh, Daviot, you’ve come home. You’ve grown so. Shall you stay?”
“Only for a little while,” I said. I felt abruptly awkward, not wishing to dampen her joy with news I’d soon be gone. “I’m ordered north, to Cambar first, but then on.”
She stared at me, smiling as only a mother ever does. “You’re taller,” she said. “And so grand, with your fine horse. Is that a Storyman’s staff? Are you truly a Rememberer now?”
“Yes,” I told her, and she beamed.
“Your father will be so proud.” She touched my cheek. “I’m proud. Our Daviot-a Storyman!”
I shrugged, embarrassed, and asked, “Where is Da?”
“At the beach,” she said. “Daviot, he’ll be so pleased to see you.”
I said, “And Delia and Tonium-where are they?”
My mother blinked then, and sniffed, and I saw pain in her eyes. “Tonium was drowned,” she said, at which I felt a stab of grief for all we’d not much liked one another. “Delia wed a lad from Cambar-Kaene-and lives there now.”
I said, “I didn’t know about Tonium. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, dismissing grief. Fisherfolk learn that early. “How should you?” she asked. “You away in Durbrecht. We heard the city was attacked, and I feared for you. Oh, Daviot, it’s so good to see you. Are you truly well? You look thin. Do you eat enough?”
Those questions mothers ask came in a flood that I could scarcely dam with my answers. I felt twelve years old, but finally she took my hands and declared that we must find my father, lest I spend all my time repeating myself. I asked that I first might stable my mare, and so she walked with me to Robus’s barn, where I rubbed down the gray horse and saw her watered. I warned Robus of her temper, and he studied her and me with wary eyes, as if I came back some lord, unsure how he should address me. I thought him plumper than ever, and aged. I promised him a story later; I promised all the village a story, but after I had greeted my father and my other kin. As my mother and I walked to the beach, he was trotting amongst the cottages, shouting the news that Daviot was come home a Storyman.
My father sat with Battus and Thorus, working on their boat. Save that gray streaked their hair and their faces wore more lines, the years might not have passed. Then they rose, and I saw that for all that time and hardship had left their marks, still these three were hale. My father took my hand. He must tilt back his head to meet my eyes. Then he smiled and said, “Daviot,” and took me in his arms, which told me he was still strong, for I felt my chest crushed, my breath expelled by his fierce embrace. I felt a great surge of love for this aged man, so that my throat clogged and for a while I could not speak, only hold him and whisper, “Da,” as if I were a child again.
Thorus and Battus each shook my hand, and Thorus pointed to the knife I wore. He said, “You’ve the blade still.”
“I’d not lose a good knife,” I told him, and he nodded, taciturn as ever.
Work ceased: we went to Thorym’s aleshop. He, a tad gaunter but otherwise not much changed, greeted me as a long-lost friend. He filled us mugs in welcome as all the village folk gathered.
It was strange to see their faces again, sprung sudden on me without the softening acceptance of slow- passing time. Tellurin and Coram both came, grown men now, with shy-eyed wives at their sides, children staring nervously from the shelter of their mothers’ skirts.
A mantis arrived, not my old tutor (he had died two years agone, of a summer fever) but a thin young man, intense of face, whose name was Dysian.
We drank; I was plied with questions. I asked how they had fared through the winter, and how they did now in this tropic summer.
The answer was no more, neither better nor worse, than I had expected. I had heard much the same along my way and should hear it all up the coast. The winter had been harsh-the Fend too storm-tossed for safe fishing, the catches too poor; some had drowned; some had died of the cold. The sudden thaw, the sudden summer made things no better-without a wind, the fishing remained hard; it seemed the ocean grew too warm, there were few fish. There had been no winter planting, nor in the brief spring; now there was no point-seedlings died in this heat. Water was in short supply, the brooks arid, the springs become drying puddles.
The afternoon aged. A mild spring evening should have followed, but it seemed the sun’s passage was hindered, the hard gold-silver disk lingering like a glaring eye in the unbroken blue above. I opened my purse to hand Thorym hoarded durrim, that the ale keep coming. None seemed disposed to leave, and after a while, by some unspoken agreement, a meager feast took shape. I felt both proud and guilty that I be deemed worthy of the honor and determined that they should have the very best of me when I told my tales.
So we ate and drank as the sun moved slowly westward, sultry twilight finally cloaking the village in shadow. The heat did not abate, as if the gibbous moon that climbed above the Fend took the sun’s place to scorch the land. I thought then of how this used to be so peaceful a time. The sea’s slow wash had been a lullaby then, the breeze a balm; men would gather to sup ale, and mothers would set children abed. Innocent days: gone now. I looked about, aware of tension, aware that folk drank less to slake thirst than in search of comfort. There was a somewhat fevered air to their celebrating, as if my presence afforded an excuse to indulge, perhaps to forget for a little while what cares should face them with the morrow’s dawning. I found a sadness growing in me, for them and all Dharbek. When I rose to speak, I think I made good my promise to myself: no aeldor in his keep ever had better storytelling of me.
By the time I was done, full night had advanced. Mothers gathered reluctant children and folk began to drift away. In time only those who had been closest, and Dysian, remained. The women left us, all save my mother, who sat beside me, sometimes touching my sleeve as if to reassure herself I was truly there.
Coram said, “So you’ve fought the Sky Lords, eh?”
I nodded, not much wishing to speak of that, for my mother’s sake and my own. Dysian muttered, “May the God curse them. May he destroy them all. He’ll not allow the cursed Dark Ones to overrun his chosen country.”
I considered his faith blind. It seemed to me the God, if he existed, paid Dharbek little heed. Still, I’d no wish to make the Church my enemy, and so I said mildly, “I’d not venture to interpret the God’s will, but it’s the opinion of Durbrecht and the Lord Protector that likely the Sky Lords plan their Great Coming this year, or next. … No one is sure. The God willing, the sorcerers will find ways to strengthen the Sentinels and halt them-”
I broke off as Dysian snorted and my mother gasped. My father said, “What should we do?”
It was strange to hear my father ask advice of me: things change. I said, “Do they come, I doubt they’ll attack the villages.”
I spoke with far more confidence than I felt, but I’d no desire to see fresh tears in my mother’s eyes or rob my father of hope. I held back my doubts and kept my secrets close.
My mother yawned then, and I realized it was only my presence kept her. The moon was overhead by now, and were I not come home, she’d have been long abed. No less the others, who seemed now to linger only in hope of comfort I could not give them, save with soft words that skirted around what I believed was the truth. I emptied my mug and declared myself weary.
“How long shall you stay?” my father asked.
I hesitated. I was both tempted to linger and eager to be gone. It was far easier to assume a brave face amongst strangers, to tell folk I’d not met before and should soon enough leave that all should be well, but amongst these old friends, my parents, it was hard. Almost, I told him I must depart with the dawn, but I thought that should be unkind, that it were almost better I had not halted here at all. So I smiled and said, “Tomorrow, Da. But then I’d best go on. They’ll have sent word from Tarvyn, and Cambar must expect me.”
