Five exploded. Rwyan felt the dying, the painful stab as human life ceased, assuaged by the rejoicing of the elementals as the spirits were freed, the sense of triumph that came from her companions. Terydd gloated: he enjoyed this too much. From Jhone and Gwyllym she felt a sorrow akin to her own, but steeled with the certainty that this battle must be fought. She gathered herself, pushing regret aside. The crystal pulsed-the Dhar sent out their minds in waves of pure destructive energy.
Light flashed, magic dueling with magic. That of the Sentinel was visible, that of the Kho’rabi wizards unseen, but still it was akin to the blades of master swordsmen, an occult struggle, parry and riposte, attack and counter. More skyboats burst in balls of searing fire. Rwyan heard the howling of the elementals; felt the grim determination of the Sky Lords, their anger.
Again and again the terrible beams struck out. The skyboats were reduced to twelve now; now seven. Five shot by safe, all the power of the guiding wizards bent on staving off the magic of the Dhar, on driving the elementals like madly lashed horses to the shore beyond the Fend. Of the remaining two, one erupted directly overhead. Rwyan felt the heat of its destruction; felt stuff touch her and struggled against horror as she knew blood and pieces of flesh rained on her. As though from far away, she heard Waende scream and saw the brown-haired woman scrubbing at a face all bloodied, ignoring the sparks that smoldered on her gown. Beyond the tower’s retaining wall she saw the second skyboat falling, flame and smoke streamered behind. The Kho’rabi wizard was slain and the spirits he controlled fled-she could feel the absence: the vessel was no more than a burning boat, rudderless, impotent now.
It drifted toward the mainland, southward a little, the canopy of the supporting balloon blazing, the basket beneath afire. The dark shapes of men leaped from amongst the flames, falling down and down to the waiting sea. Rwyan felt Jhone’s prompting and gathered herself, preparatory to striking again. Abruptly there was no need: flame ate the canopy, and the gas inside exploded. For a moment a ball of fire hung in the sky, a small second sun. The basket, trailing oily smoke, fell away. It seemed to fall forever, and then the sky was clear.
Maethyrene’s sending was more relief than triumph.
Jhone slapped absently at a curl of scorching hair.
Gwyllym sent word to those below.
Rwyan felt the linkages break, threads of occult energy tugging at her mind as if reluctant to quit their hold, and stepped an instinctive pace back as she broke her own communion with the crystal. The stone ceased its fervent pulsing, and she felt again that sense of loss, as if something precious were snatched from her. She dismissed it, fighting the desire to remain awhile longer one with the stone, blind a moment before she summoned her weaker magic to restore her “sight.” Across the width of the tower’s top she “saw” Waende weeping, Terydd holding her, using a sleeve to wipe blood from his lover’s face. She looked down and “saw” her own gown stained. She felt weary, drained, and more than a little queasy; she was uncertain whether because she had slain men or because of the crystal.
“Enough.” Gwyllym sounded not much better, but he squared his great shoulders and forced a tired smile. “Jhone, Maethyrene, do we remain until fresh watchers come? You others may go; rest. You did well. Those designated for tonight’s watch will be replaced.”
Rwyan needed no more prompting.
In her chamber, she shed her gown and filled a tub. The green linen was speckled with droplets of red and the pinhole marks of burning. In better times it might have been abandoned, but since the supply ships came so infrequently now, she decided it must be washed and repaired. But later; now she wanted only to languish in the bath, then scrub herself clean.
She could not understand why: she had done her duty, left no choice by the Sky Lords. She was unsure exactly what she felt … guilty? Certainly, such encounters as this day’s left her with the feeling she was rendered somehow unclean. Yet the enmity of the Ahn was implacable-the God knew, she had felt that, like a foul dark wave coming from the skyboats-and there were few others of her kind felt any compunction at slaying the ancient enemy. Not all exulted in the fight, as did Terydd and some of his ilk; some, like Maethyrene, radiated a solemn resignation, but none felt any real regret. So why did she? Almost, she could wish she were less gifted, her talent weaker, so that she had not been chosen for the Sentinels but ordered to some keep. There seemed to her something close to obscenity in the battles the Sentinels fought, as if evil were brought out to oppose evil. Likely it should be a simpler life in a keep.
She began to wash hair matted with blood, coated with ash, watching the water change color.
Angry with herself, she rose to find the pump and sluice her body. It was always, she realized, after she had linked with the crystal that she thought the most of Daviot, dreamed the more. It was as though the stone opened some portal to grant memory better ingress. She dried herself (thinking it was near pointless in such heat) and tugged on a clean gown. She was hungry, and there would be company in the refectory to alleviate her megrims.
When she found it, the long room was already crowded: such magic as had been used today edged the appetite. Rwyan “saw” Gwyllym-like her, fresh bathed-deep in conversation with Cyraene and Gynael, Chiara listening even as her eyes wandered. The blond woman saw Rwyan and waved, indicating a place beside her. Rwyan smiled, somewhat tentatively, and nodded, making her way across the room. She hoped that with more senior sorcerers present, Chiara would not babble as usual about the day’s events, not evince such bloodthirsty fervor. She wondered if she grew testy: in Durbrecht she had not thought of Chiara’s chatter as babbling. Likely, she decided as she joined them, it was because Chiara found such pleasure in those things Rwyan herself found distasteful. She supposed they both had changed since coming here. She held her smile in place, aware that otherwise she might have scowled, as Chiara greeted her eagerly, already speaking of the fight.
“Better than a score, so Gwyllym says; and all but five destroyed. I wish to the God I’d been with you.”
Rwyan waved that one of that day’s servitors bring her ale and food. “Do you?” she asked. “It was not very pleasant. I’ve been washing off Kho’rabi blood.”
“Dark blood that can no longer threaten Dharbek,” said Chiara fiercely. “Like battle honors.”
Rwyan fought irritation. “Poor Waende was drenched,” she said, looking around. “Is she here? Is she well?”
Gynael said, “She’s abed. Not hungry, she says, and somewhat disturbed. Marthyn gave her a sleeping draught.”
“Best she not take a watch for a while,” said Gwyllym. “But you, Rwyan, are you well?”
“Save for a burned gown.” She smiled. She’d not say here she felt unclean. “Save for that, aye.”
“Good.” He nodded kindly. “Me, I’ve an appetite after that squabble.”
“How,” asked Chiara, “can you name it a squabble?”
“Easily.” Gwyllym chuckled, catching Rwyan’s eye and winking. “Now, shall we speak of gentler matters?”
Chiara was about to protest, but Cyraene patted her hand and bade her quiet. Rwyan could not decide whether she wanted to laugh or shake her friend as Chiara pouted, but at least she obeyed her lover, and the conversation moved away from the fight.
Not far: it was difficult to avoid discussion of the Sky Lords, of their newfound magic, and the likely imminence of the Great Coming.
None there doubted its approach; the sole question was when, and on that opinions differed. Rwyan favored no one opinion over another. Sometimes, secretly, she entertained the wish that somehow there be a peace
