Lords of the Sky

Demaeter voiced protest but the rest nodded approvingly, and once more it had been Gynael who set the seal on it.

“I am old and I grow weary,” she had said. “I’d eat, and find my bed. Rwyan’s the way of it, and wise for one so young. We’d send the Kho’rabi to Durbrecht, and it seems to me that save we do it as Rwyan suggests, he’ll likely be torn apart on suspicion alone. Be that the case, then we’ve wasted all our time, and I’ve not so much to waste. I say be done! These are perilous times, and they call for desperate measures. Is Rwyan confident, then let him go loosed as she suggests. I trust her.”

Gwyllym had lent his support, but the silver-haired woman had swayed the doubters, so that his vote was little more than a formality: it was finally agreed, the details settled. It was left to Rwyan to advise Tezdal.

She had not realized how nervous she had been until she quit the hall and walked out into the baking heat of the afternoon: it seemed cooler than that shadowed interior. She paused, opening hands she had not known she clenched, and saw the indentations her nails had left in her palms. Why do I care so much? she asked herself, and could offer no rational answer, save that she did and would not see Tezdal either slain or made a mindless servitor. Is it wrong? The God knows, he is a Sky Lord, and they are our enemy. Then: No! He was a Sky Lord; now he’s just a lost and lonely man and likely trusts no one but me. Is that reason enough?

She made her way toward his room-his cell-lost in thought, careless of those she passed, even when several called to her wanting to know the council’s decision. To them she gave vague answer, barely aware of what she said, absorbed in her musings.

Everything she had told the Adepts was true. She did trust Tezdal; she did not believe he would harm her. There was something about him, something in his demeanor, that told her he spoke honestly when he spoke of owing his life.

But do I betray him? she wondered as the path wound through a grove where goats and sheep ambled lazily about her. I take him from imprisonment here, but surely to another kind of jail, in Durbrecht. What shall they do with him there, the Mnemonikos and the sorcerers of the College? Shall he be chained again, fed and watered like some animal, his mind a toy to be dissected?

She “saw” the tiny cottage, the door locked, and paused, not yet quite ready to break her news; needing to be sure in her own mind that what she gave him was gift, not curse.

At least he’ll not be condemned to live out his life here. She gasped, recognizing the shape of her thought: its inherent significance. Condemned? Is that how I see this island, as a prison? I’d not spend my life here, only such time as the crystal allows, and yet … God! Have I hidden my feelings even from myself? Am I a traitor to my College, to my talent and my duty?

She felt her head spin and reached out to clutch a low-hung branch. The gnarled wood was rough beneath her hand, warm; she pressed her forehead against it a moment, her mouth dry.

Are my motives selfish? Do I seek my own freedom, Tezdal the key? Surely not-I had accepted my lot before he came. I was … resigned. At least, not unhappy. Or not very.

An ant ran busy over her hand, forerunner of a column, the insects’ passage relentless, her hand merely an obstacle to overcome. She “watched” them, thinking:

Like the Sky Lords. Amongst whose number I must not forget Tezdal was counted; if not now, then once. And like these ants, the Sky Lords are relentless, they intend to overcome my country. Then I do my duty in bringing him to Durbrecht, and at least along the way he shall enjoy a measure of freedom. Surely that must be for the best; surely.

She straightened, blowing softly to dislodge the ants still clinging to her skin, and went toward the cottage.

The lock was newly fixed-there was no need of locks here-and the key hung from a nail beside. She took it down and swung the door open. Tezdal sat on the single chair, a length of chain securing him to the bed.

As if he were some half-wild animal, not yet to be quite trusted. She smiled at him and said, “Day’s greetings, Tezdal.”

He rose. He always rises, she thought, noticing it for the first time. He is a genteel man.

He said, “Day’s greetings, Rwyan. Is my fate decided?”

Certainly his wits were sharp enough. She said, a little nervous now, “How do you know we spoke of you?”

He shrugged and said, “I’ve been left alone all day. Usually, you come; at least, someone. When none came since I was fed, I thought …”

She motioned that he sit. He ducked his head in approximation of a bow and went to the bed, waiting until she took the chair.

“We did,” she said without further preamble. “You are to go to Durbrecht.”

“Durbrecht?” He frowned. “You’ve spoken of Durbrecht. A great city, no? Where you were taught to use your magic.”

“My College is there.” She nodded. “But also the College of the Mnemonikos-the Rememberers.”

He smiled politely and asked her, “Why?” as if they spoke not of his future, of his fate, but of some jaunt.

“It’s our belief,” she answered, “that they might restore your memory.”

“I should welcome that.” His smile became a rueful grin. “At least, I think I should. I do not feel … whole … not knowing quite who I am; or what. Is it far?”

“Yes.” A lifetime far. “We must first cross to the mainland, then take a ship north.”

Tezdal grinned at that and rattled his chains. “Shall I wear these still?” he asked.

Rwyan shook her head. “No. They’ll be struck off.”

He said, “Good,” and his smile was broad.

He listened attentively as she outlined the journey and the part he must play; what had been decided in conclave.

When she was done, he said, “I am not a servant, Rwyan.” His expression was troubled; he seemed affronted at the notion of such subterfuge. “I do not know how I know this, but I do.”

Rwyan said gently, “As do I, but for your own sake you must pretend.”

“Why?” he asked, a moment obstinate.

“Because you are-because you were Kho’rabi,” she said. “A Sky Lord; enemy to Dharbek. There are those who’d kill you for that, on the mainland.”

“You’ve spoken somewhat of this,” he murmured. “Of these Sky Lords, the Kho’rabi. But if I was, I am not now. Can I be something I do not remember? Someone of whom I have no knowledge? I am not your enemy. Rwyan. Not yours, or your people’s.”

“I know that,” she said, “but on the mainland … Dharbek has suffered much; does now. This heat …” She gestured at the shuttered window. “That is the Sky Lords’ doing.”

“Their magic must be strong,” he said.

“It is,” she said.

“And they are your enemy?”

She nodded.

“Then they are mine. My life is yours, Rwyan; it has been since you took me off that rock.”

“Folk on the mainland will not know that,” she said. “Do they even suspect you were Kho’rabi, they would slay you. That’s why you must pretend. Only play the part of servant until you are come safe to Durbrecht.”

She “watched” him as he thought it through. By the God, he looks like Daviot when he sits thus, pondering.

An errant thought then: Daviot. Might it be I shall find him again, along the way? Or in Durbrecht?

“You look sad, Rwyan.”

Tezdal’s voice startled her back to full attention. She smiled and said, “I thought of someone from long ago. You remind me of him.”