Lords of the Sky

but he forced his eyes open and his body upright. He could barely stand, and the sun was fire on his skin, and for a while he could see nothing save the molten light of the water and the sky.

Then shapes formed, six, standing in a semicircle before him, between him and the boat, that held to the rock by a seventh figure who clutched the painter and eyed him warily. No less the others: six men in loose shirts and breeks of linen, short-swords in their hands, their expressions guarded. The woman wore a shift of the same plain linen, hair the color of polished copper shining in the sun drawn back from the oval of her face in a loose tail. She was lovely, he realized, and at the same time that she was blind: her eyes were large and green and fixed intently on him, but she studied him with something that was more than sight.

He thought, Magic, she wields magic, and did not know how he knew it.

He looked from their faces to the blades, and into his mind unbidden came the thought that he could not defeat them all, not so weak, not unarmed. He straightened, realizing he had dropped to a crouch, his hands extended, the fingers held rigid, ready to strike.

Almost, he laughed at himself, barely able to stand like a man, but preparing to fight. What am I? he wondered, and said as best he could past swollen tongue, from dry throat, “I am …” and fell silent, shaking his head. But not so much he should lose sight of them. “Who are you? Do you come to save me or to slay me?”

They frowned at that and exchanged sidelong glances, one to the other, and a tall broad-shouldered man in whose big hand the short-sword seemed no more than a knife said something he could not comprehend.

He decided they were not intending to kill him: was that their intent, they should surely have struck by now. He said, “Water,” and when the tall man’s face furrowed afresh, he gestured at his mouth, aping the act of drinking. The tall man spoke again, but still the words remained incomprehensible.

He waited, thinking that he could not stand much longer, that whatever innate discipline had set him on his feet must soon give sway to weakness and he fall down. He did not know why that thought was so distasteful; he wondered why he could not understand these people, or they him. He said, “Water, for the love of …”

He could not think whose love should merit that gift, but he heard the woman speak and saw the tall man nod, then turn to another, smaller, and murmur something that sent the slighter figure stepping backward to the boat.

A canteen was passed him, cautiously, as if the donor feared he might strike out.

He mumbled, “My thanks,” and brought the flask to his lips.

As he raised it, the tall man spoke warningly and touched swordpoint to flesh. The others moved a little way apart, muttering low. Again, he could not say how he knew they voiced cantrips, but it seemed the air crackled with the power they summoned. Do they slay me now, he thought, at least I shall die with my thirst slaked. He essayed a smile, ignoring the touch of steel against his throat as he began to drink.

At first there was no taste, only an easing of a pain become so familiar, he had not known he felt it. He let the blessed moisture trickle over his tongue, into his throat, and moaned at the pleasure. He began to swallow, the water tepid, but to him like some mountain spring, cool and achingly desirable.

When the tall man took the canteen from him, he snarled, trying to retain it, to gulp down more. He was too weak to resist, but from the corners of his eyes he saw the others tense. He thought, Like warriors. Like warriors who fight with magic. He raised his hands, licking off the droplets spilled there, and saw the woman draw closer.

She touched the canteen, and then pointed at his mouth and at his belly, clutching her own midriff in parody of sickness. He guessed she told him that to drink too much should harm him, and he nodded. She smiled and touched her breast, uttering a single word. At first he did not understand, and she repeated it, indicating herself again. He wondered what she meant, but then she touched the tall man and said a word, and he surmised she spoke their names.

Their names were unfamiliar, as if his tongue were not shaped to utter them, but he did his best, encouraged by the woman, and finally managed: “Rwyan,” and “Gwyllym.”

The woman nodded confirmation, smiling, which he found reassuring, and stabbed a finger at his chest. He said, “I do not remember,” and shrugged. She pointed again, pantomiming her failure to understand: he shrugged again and shook his head helplessly.

She turned away then and spoke with the one whose name sounded like Gwyllym, which seemed as odd a name as hers, though why that should be, he could not say, and the tall man nodded and called to the others. They drew closer, surrounding him, and one went to the boat, returning with shackles. Proximate, he felt their magic on his skin, like the sting of salt, and the prick of their swords, and offered no protest as they fettered him, his wrists and ankles cuffed, connected by a chain. He wondered why they were so afraid of him.

They walked him to the boat then, and though he did his best to tread out the length of the rock, his knees buckled and he would have fallen had the tall man not given him the support of a brawny arm. He felt ashamed when he could not climb unaided on board but must be lifted, babe-like, and set down in the prow, huddling there, the man and the woman watchful to either side as the others settled to tiller and sweeps.

He watched the rock recede as the oarsmen backed the boat, thinking that Death might appear to admit defeat, to acknowledge his victory, but there was nothing, only a length of bleached white stone that seemed to float on the blue expanse of sea, and he turned away. He did not know if he was rescued or brought to some other fate, but they had given him water and so, he assumed, intended him to live at least a while longer. Did they mean to slay him, he hoped he might die fittingly.

He struggled to focus his eyes on their course, to see where they went, but he was consumed with a tremendous lassitude, as if rescue drained him of the last reserves of his energy; as if, his fate now placed in the hands of others, he might for a little while let go his hold. The motion of the boat was gentle, a pleasant rocking that lulled him, for all he could not understand why he was chained or why he provoked such fear in his rescuers. I live, he thought. For now that must be enough, though I’d dearly know my name. Lethargy crept over him, and he closed his eyes, letting the weariness take him.

When next he woke, shadows told him dusk had fallen. He saw that he was in a room plastered white, beams of dark wood spanning the ceiling, a glassed lantern suspended from the centermost, a single window, shuttered against the heat, set in one wall. Two men, brawny and with swords belted to their waists, settled on chairs. There was little furniture besides the bed: a small table, the two chairs, pegs on which clothing might be hung. There seemed no more to learn for now, and he lay back; his fetters were not uncomfortable, and the bed was very soft. He felt stronger, enough that he might test his bonds. They remained in place, affixed to head and foot of the bed, but soft cloth now warded his wrists and ankles against chafing, and his body was slick with some unguent that soothed and cooled his sunburned skin. He slowly turned his head and saw a man, a stranger, and the woman called Rwyan, seated across the room. He opened his mouth, feeling more ointment on his lips, and said, “Please, water.”

They turned to him at that and spoke, and the man quit the room with a nervous backward glance. The woman rose, filling a pannikin that she brought to the bed. He was not so much recovered as he had thought, and she slid an arm about his shoulders to raise him that he might drink. He would have gulped, but she allowed him only a sip, and then another, doling the water slowly into his parched mouth, speaking all the while in a soft, calm voice. When the pannikin was emptied, he smiled his gratitude, and she lowered him gently back.

As she returned the cup, the door opened to reveal an angular, round-shouldered man carrying a bulky satchel, moonlight glinting on a hairless pate. The prisoner watched as the bald man spoke with the woman, then snapped his fingers, the action producing a flame that he touched to the lantern. As light filled the room, the prisoner saw that the woman now wore a loose gown of green and that her hair was unbound. He thought again how lovely she was, but then his view was blocked by the bald man, who touched his chest and said, “Marthyn,” which seemed to be his name.

He said no more but set down his satchel and began to rummage through the contents. When he produced a phial and measured out some drops of a pale yellow liquid, the prisoner hesitated only an instant before swallowing the decoction: for reasons he could not define, he felt safer in Rwyan’s presence, and when she saw him hesitate, she smiled and nodded encouragement.

The liquid was tasteless; it filled him with a pleasant languor, so that he drifted midway between sleep and waking as the man called Marthyn examined his body and applied a fresh coating of the unguent. He was only dimly aware of the men who entered, on Marthyn’s call, to remove his fetters and turn him gently over. He was