Lords of the Sky

not now perceive him as an enemy: he was only a man, alone in an unfamiliar world; perhaps, even as he slept, aware that around him were folk would slay him, had they their way. She could not help but feel sorry for him. And somehow, he reminded her of Daviot. There was something-she could not precisely define it-about his look, the angle of his jaw, the shape of his skull, his glossy dark hair, that summoned those memories she had easier lived without. Almost, she had mused, as if blood were shared; as if the fisherman’s son from Kellambek and the Kho’rabi knight had some ancient ancestral linkage.

She sighed and rose, stretching muscles cramped from too long without movement, turning her occult sight on the window. Dusk was fallen. She heard the milch cows lowing, goats bleating; from the olive groves a nightingale sang. She lit the lantern, not wanting Tezdal to wake-if he should wake, ever-to darkness. He had suffered, she thought, frights enough.

She went to the door, smiling at herself as she eased it open, as if she had sooner not disturb him than wake him with the sound. She stepped outside, arching her back and tilting her head, wishing for a breeze that was not there. She turned her face skyward, finding the gibbous moon hung low in the east. At least there had been no more skyboats come since that raid that had delivered Tezdal.

Which likely means, she thought, that Gynael was right, and that was a final probing of our defenses. In which case, how long before the Great Coming? Have the Sky Lords learned all they need now? Do their manufactories build the armada? Their wizards harness the elementals?

The waiting, she decided, was the hardest part.

And do they come soon, what shall happen to Tezdal?

She heard a sound then, unfamiliar and therefore distinct, through the murmur of voices, the calling of the goats and the nightbirds. It was the sound of metal chinking, as if chains were tested. She spun around, mouth opening to smile and cry out at the same time as she “saw” her charge.

He shifted on the bed, stirring as might a man waking from a very deep sleep, turning slowly, first on one side, then the other, arms and legs extending so that his chains were strained in their fastenings. Rwyan went to him, drawing up a stool, leaning over him.

His eyes opened.

For a moment they were sleep-fogged, unfocused, then intelligence sparked, and recognition. “I’m thirsty.”

She smiled and said, “Yes, Tezdal,” and fetched a cup, holding it to his lips.

He drank and said, “My thanks,” then raised an arm as far as the chain allowed and said, “You bind me still. Why? Am I so dangerous?”

She said, “Some fear you are, or might be. Do you remember my name?”

He said, “Rwyan,” and smiled. “You were always the kindest.”

Then amazement widened his eyes, and his jaw dropped open. “I understand you.” He said it slowly, as if testing the words, as if they fit unfamiliar on his tongue. “I speak your language.”

She said, “Yes. How much do you remember?”

He frowned then, and thought awhile, and finally said, “I woke with my name. Tezdal. That seemed to frighten some of you, and I was taken to a hall, where people spoke. I thought they discussed what to do with me. Then I was brought to that tower and to a jewel that shone. A magic stone, that gave off light and … touched me. After that …”

He shrugged, rattling the chains. Rwyan said, “It was decided to gift you with our tongue. We channeled the crystal’s power to teach you, that we might converse.” He nodded, staring at her face, wonder on his. Rwyan continued, “That was seven days ago. You’ve slept since. I feared …” She laughed and shook her head. “Needlessly, it seems. What else do you remember?”

His face darkened then. “A rock,” he said. “A bare forsaken rock in a sea I did not know. I spoke with Death there. A boat came-you were on it, and you took me off. You and a tall man called Gwyllym. You brought me here and nursed me back to health. Then I remembered who I am.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

He said, “I am Tezdal,” and frowned again. “But more than that …” The chains rattled as he shook them. “I know you chain me, but I do not know why. I do not know where I came from, or why you fear me.”

“I don’t fear you,” she said.

“Then loose me.”

She shook her head. “I cannot. That must be decided by others.”

“Am I dangerous?” he asked, his face puzzled now. “Am I a madman? A criminal?”

“No, neither of those.” Now she frowned. “You’re a Sky Lord; a Kho’rabi.”

Lines creased his forehead. “I don’t understand. What are those names?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve heard them said, I think. But …” His head turned in slow negation. “They mean nothing to me.”

Rwyan’s lips pursed. There seemed no guile in him: she believed him. She said, “I must summon others. Do you wait, Tezdal, and perhaps they’ll agree you may be loosed.”

“I should like that,” he said, so solemnly she must smile.

She nodded and closed her eyes, sending out a call. He wakes. He speaks our language now, but I think he remembers no more.

We come. Wait.

She opened her eyes. It was easier to focus her talent for sight with them open, and long ingrained habit. She smiled reassuringly and said, “Not long. They come now.”

“You’re a sorcerer.” His voice was hushed, as if the fact had not sunk in before. “Are all here sorcerers?”

“We are,” she said. “We defend Dharbek.”

“Dharbek?” His face expressed incomprehension.

“You’ve much to learn,” she told him. “Be patient. We must all of us be patient.”

His smile grew cynical then, and he shook his chains. “I’ve little choice, eh?”

Rwyan said, “No. Not yet, at least.”

It was again full council and, save Tezdal was not this time present, as heated as before.

Gwyllym spoke: “In the God’s name, we argue around and around like a dog chasing its own tail-getting nowhere. He hides nothing. He’s nothing to hide! How much proof do you need?”

Demaeter said, “More. Enough we can be sure that sending him to Durbrecht shall not be sending a viper to the land’s heart.”

“I think he’s hardly a viper,” Gynael said, her hoarse voice become a rasping croak from the lengthy debate. “He seems to me more like a man lost, adrift from both his homeland and his own past.”

“Save he be a Kho’rabi wizard,” said Cyraene. “And conceals his power.”

“There’s no magic in him.” Marthyn’s voice was edged with irritation. “On that I’d stake my life.”

“Perhaps you do,” said Alrys.

“May the God grant me patience.” Marthyn shook his head, adding in what was not quite a whisper, “I need it, dealing with fools.”

“I’d not deem it foolish to be wary.” Alrys chose to ignore the slur. “Do we err, then better it be on the side of caution.”

“Do we take your cautious path,” Marthyn returned, “then he’ll live out his life on this island.”

“Save he be executed,” Cyraene said.

“No.” Demaeter shook his head. “On that at least we’re agreed-to execute him now should be akin to murder.”

“Unless he is a wizard,” Cyraene muttered.

“In which case,” said Gynael wearily, “he’s a wizard so accomplished as to defeat all our investigations. In which case, he’s likely more dangerous here than on the mainland. In which case, it must surely be safer to send him to Durbrecht.”

Maethyrene lent her support: “We can learn nothing more here.”

“No; on that, at least, we seem in accord.” Gwyllym rose to address the assembly. His sheer bulk commanded attention: Rwyan hoped it should command agreement. “Does he remain here, it shall be as a man