Lords of the Sky

they called for his death, as if his remembering of his name condemned him, branding him guilty of crimes of which he had no knowledge. Others seemed less sanguine, but he could not much better interpret their voices or their faces, only hope they spoke up on his behalf.

Surely, he thought as the morning aged and the colloquy went on, they would not take me off the rock and nurse me back to health only to execute me because I claim a name. I am not their enemy; I am not a danger to them. Having saved me, why then slay me?

The shifting of the light filtering through the shutters told him noon had passed before a decision was reached. What it was, he could not tell, only that he was loosed from the chair and marched from the hall. He tried to find Rwyan in the crowd, hoping to glean some information from her face, some indication of his fate, but she was lost to sight, armed men pressing him close on all sides, as if they feared he might somehow escape, and he was brought to the great white tower.

He had never ventured close to that keep before: the aura of power he had felt the first time he saw it had persuaded him to avoid the place. He did not understand why, only that he felt easier keeping his distance, as if the tower plucked forgotten memories, were in some way he did not comprehend threatening. Now he was escorted to the doors, through to a flight of stairs that wound windowless upward, and uneasiness grew.

He fought the sensation, refusing to give way to fear. Perhaps they intended to fling him from the parapet; if so, he would die as a man should. He steeled himself as a door was opened and he stood beneath the sky. The aura was stronger here, and his eyes were drawn irrevocably to the crystal resting on a pedestal of black stone at the center of the floor. It seemed possessed of occult life, pulsing as the unroofed area filled. Somehow he knew these people communicated with the stone, though how or for what purpose, he had no idea, save that it must be to do with him.

Then his arms were gripped, and he was urged closer to the crystal. He felt a great reluctance, but would not let it show, and so walked straight-backed forward, as if he were not at all afraid. Seven gathered in a circle about the pedestal. Amongst them he recognized Rwyan and Gwyllym, Maethyrene; the others were strange to him. His belly lurched as they began their ritual: he told himself that was only hunger and knew he lied. He watched, compelled, as the stone shone brighter, lines of glittering light flashing out to touch the seven, bathing them in scintillating nimbus. Then he cried out and fought his captors as the light embraced him, and he felt touched by nameless power, as if unfleshed fingers probed his mind. Darkness fell.

Rwyan sat sipping tea and thinking as she studied the sleeping man.

Tezdal An odd name, a Kho’rabi name: there was power in names.

By the God, but his remembering of his own had demonstrated that. It had thrown the island into uproar, as if that small retrieval had rendered him abruptly no longer a curiosity but a threat. And yet surely he was the same man who had come gently enough to seek out her company, come seeking knowledge to fill the vacuum of his amnesia. He had worked hard to express his gratitude; had, as best she could understand him, told her he offered no harm, was indebted to his saviors. She had believed him then-should she not now? Should the remembering of his name so change the situation some now called for his execution? They had known what he was from the start, when the fishing boat had sighted him, alone and naked on that forsaken rock. He could scarcely have been aught else but one of the Sky Lords fallen from a burning airboat. They had agreed he should be rescued and brought back to the island, that they might learn what they could from the first Kho’rabi ever taken alive. They had never thought to find a man without recollection of his past, all his awareness limited to his brief existence on the stone.

And that had been the irony of it, that his memory was gone, and he had no more idea who or what he was than some storm-beached fish. Had he possessed his memory then, he would have been questioned, the occult power of the crystal bent to plumbing whatever secrets he held. Amnesiac, his mind was locked secure, was innocent as a babe’s, denying them entry. They had not known quite what to do and so had delayed decision.

Some, even then, had spoken for his death, and that had seemed to Rwyan, for all she knew he was the enemy, akin to seeking the death of a child. It seemed to her that his loss of memory obliterated his past, as if he were truly newborn. So she had spoken against so extreme a measure, suggesting that his innocence was no enmity but a chance to learn, perhaps eventually to communicate with the Sky Lords. Gwyllym had supported her, Maethyrene, Jhone, and Marthyn, enough others the vote had come down in Tezdal’s favor: he should be granted his life, so long as he represented no threat.

Now he had won back his name, and the cry went up again, born of ancient hate, of inbred fear, that with that first step taken, he should become again a Sky Lord and therefore should die.

“And what use that?” Gwyllym had demanded. “We’d as well have left him on that rock and saved ourselves the effort of a hard day’s rowing. We wanted him alive, that we might question him; we got him alive. Were we wrong, then?”

“Aye,” some had said in answer. “Wrong to save him, wrong to nurse him, wrong to let him live now.”

“Are our worst fears realized, and the Great Coming imminent,” Gynael had said, “then that should be a waste. Alive, what might we not learn from him?”

“What use is a man without his memory?” had come the countering argument, from Demaeter.

“What danger from a man without his memory?” Rwyan had asked. “To slay him now would be murder, no more.”

“To slay a Kho’rabi is not murder!” Demaeter had shouted, outraged. “It cannot be.”

“He’s an extra mouth to feed when food grows short,” Cyraene had said. “He cannot speak our language- what can we learn from him?”

“What we hoped to learn before,” Gwyllym had declared, and asked that Marthyn speak.

“His name,” the herbalist had said, “is the key. Without that, there could be no unlocking of his mind. Now that he’s remembered it, however … it’s my belief we may use the crystal’s power to gift him our tongue.”

As cries of protest had risen, Gwyllym had shouted, “That was ever our intention! In the God’s name, did you dissenters think to learn his? Do we give him our language, then perhaps we can unpick the strands of his memory and all our efforts not be wasted.”

Some had argued then that it was a dangerous course, that Tezdal might be a Kho’rabi wizard and that to bring him to the crystal serve only to augment his power. Also, that he might in some manner harm the stone; or that, empowered by magic, he find some means to harm the Sentinels themselves.

And Gynael had climbed stiffly to her feet and managed somehow, for all her eyes were rheumy, to imbue her gaze with scorn. “Are we so weak, then?” she had demanded. “Shall we not set a warding on him? Even be he a wizard and not a mere warrior, think you he’s so powerful he shall overcome all of us? I say we’ve an opportunity here none have before known. I say we betray ourselves do we not seize it.”

It had been those hoarse-spoken words, Rwyan thought, that had swayed the conclave. There had been some further debate, but opposition had faltered, and finally it had been agreed Tezdal be brought to the crystal and they endeavor to put the Dhar language in his head. Rwyan had felt sorry for the uncomprehending man as he was hauled away to the white tower.

That had been seven days ago, and for all that time Tezdal had slept, not waking even when Marthyn dripped broth laced with restorative herbs between his lips. He had drunk and slept on. He soiled the bed and did not wake when he was lifted off, the sheets replaced. His chest rose and fell, breath came soft from his mouth, but his eyes did not open. Rwyan wondered if the gramarye had sent his mind into limbo, if perhaps the crystal had absorbed him in some way, leaving behind an empty husk.

She had much time to wonder, for it was agreed that of all on the island, she was the one most sympathetic to the sleeping man. She was the one most likely to win his trust. Hers was the company he had sought out, and therefore hers was the face most likely to reassure him when-if-he woke. Marthyn had confided in her his doubts: Tezdal might not wake, but sleep his life away. He might wake mad; he might regain consciousness aware he was a Sky Lord taken by the Dhar. He might awake still empty of his memory. Whichever, it was better Rwyan’s be the face he saw first; and better he remain securely chained.

It was a duty not entirely to her taste, for it held the flavor of trust betrayed. But she could not refuse, for she was yet a mage, with duty to her land acknowledged, and though it was no easy task to spend her days and nights cooped in the little room “watching” him sleep, she accepted. There was, too, that she pitied him. She could