Lords of the Sky

He was tall, about my own height, and I suppose he looked somewhat like me. At least, his skin was dark and his hair black, his eyes a blue that might be gray. His face was impassive, but I saw that his gaze flickered swiftly over the entire hall, as if, from habit, he checked the diners, the shadowed corners. I thought that a fighter’s look. He wore plain shirt and breeks of unbleached linen, the blouse sleeveless, exposing muscular arms. Rwyan’s right hand rested on his forearm, and I hated him for that touch, for that familiarity. I saw her murmur something to him, and he reply, casting a hooded glance in my direction. Or perhaps it was in the direction of the high table only, and my assumption born of jealousy. As they came forward, I saw that he walked loose-limbed: a warrior’s stride. This was not, I thought, any servant.

My mouth was dry as they approached. I knew Rwyan could “see” me; knew with absolute certainty she was aware of my presence. I could not understand this pretense. I wet my mouth with wine. My heart was a battle drum under my ribs. I rose from my seat, about to speak, to say her name, but Pyrrin preempted me.

“Rwyan,” he said, not much at his ease, “we’ve another guest. The Storyman, Daviot. You … know … him, I believe.”

I saw her hand tighten on her servant’s arm. Her head cocked. To anyone who did not know she could “see,” it would have seemed she merely turned her face as the blind do. That the movement set her eyes directly on mine should have seemed pure accident. I stared at her, utterly confused.

She said, “Daviot?” and in her voice there was something I could not define. Was it pleasure or surprise? Alarm? I could not tell, only gape, my heart aching, and say, “Rwyan.”

Solicitous, Pyrrin eased back a chair. I stared as the dark-haired servant guided her to it, saw her seated, and took station behind. My confusion increased apace-she treated the man as if he were a servant, and I could scarce believe my gentle Rwyan would deal so with a lover. Not save she’d changed dramatically during her sojourn on the Sentinels.

She said, “Daviot, it’s been a long time. You’re hale?”

Her voice was soft as I recalled, melodic; the cool disinterest I heard was strident. More-she could “see” I was in good health. What game was this? Almost I asked it aloud, but then I thought that if she maintained this pretense of disability, there must be a reason. Also (I am now ashamed to admit) that if she played some game with me, I would play her back, move for move. I would stand on my pompous dignity. I’d not play the heart-broke lover but be the sophisticated man.

I said, “I’m well, my thanks. And you?”

She said, “Save I must rely on a guide in unfamiliar places, aye-I’m well.”

For all I was mightily confused, both by her behavior and my own troubled feelings, I recognized that for a warning. She’d no need of guides and so must have some reason for leaning on this silent fellow’s arm. I’d know it there and then, and had our companions not bent themselves to setting us both at our ease, I’d have taken her aside to have the reason. But I could not; I must sit and converse as if there were no longer aught between us save old memories. I hated it.

A myriad questions bubbled in my head; accusations rose unspoken, and words of love. Whatever doubts I’d known or what intentions, I could not deny I loved her still. I gazed at her and knew that with utmost certainty. Was this fellow her paramour, still I loved her. I’d slay him if I must, to win her back. I loved her still; still doubt lingered. I was like a man dying of thirst and come upon a spring, wondering if the water be pure or poisoned. I studied her face and longed to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her. Images of our time in Durbrecht spun through my mind, salt on the wounds of my doubt. I cursed those protocols, the warning her deception gave me, that bound me to polite conversation. I ate without noticing what I put in my mouth. I watched hers and remembered the taste of her lips, whilst she, all that anguished time, maintained a horrid calm.

She returned to Durbrecht, she advised me, summoned back by her College, a man hired to be her guide and servant. And I? Where had I been? Where did I go now?

After, when better sense returned, I realized she directed our conversation with a subtlety worthy of my own calling, prompting me to talk whilst she sat, head tilted in attitude of attention, “watching” me. To this day I cannot say whether Varius was all the time aware she could “see,” or deceived by her pretense. Certainly the rest were, and I did not then consider the scarred sorcerer, only my love.

Or rather, my love and the man standing dutifully behind her chair. He had said nothing, and Rwyan had not offered his name. His presence bewildered me. There was that about him suggested he was a warrior-his stance, the way his gaze shifted to encompass the hall whilst seeming not to shift at all, the marks on his forearms that only a blade could have left-and yet he deferred to Rwyan obediently as any Changed. He was a conundrum. No less this camouflage of blindness Rwyan wore, or her attitude toward me.

When the meal ended, I did not know if I was relieved or further tormented. Rwyan made some excuse to return to her chambers, and I must watch her take her servant’s arm again and walk from the hall without a backward glance. I’d go after her, but I could not: Varius was there, a sorcerer, well able to send word to Durbrecht of my behavior, to speak with Pyrrin and have me confined till Rwyan was gone. Perhaps later-when the keep slept. Then, perhaps, I might find her and have answers of her. Meanwhile, I’d not give myself away, not to Varius or to her. Did she scorn me, I’d not concede her the satisfaction of my unhappiness. Instead, I heeded the aeldor’s request for a tale: my duty; I cursed that duty then.

I did not give of my best, but still I was applauded, and by the time I was done, the long afternoon had progressed. I was allowed to escape and for a while contemplated finding Rwyan’s chamber. I decided not and went instead to the stables. Had I thought to find solace of my horse, I was disappointed. She greeted me with a nicker and a snapping of her teeth, as if the comfort of a stable restored her ill temper. I snarled at her and made my way back to the yard.

Robyrt was there, drilling a squad of sweat-drenched soldiers. I watched and then asked if I might join their exercise.

The jennym gave me an expressionless look and nodded. He found me kit and a wooden practice sword, presenting himself as my opponent.

As I laced the padded leathers, he said, “You’ve my sympathy, Storyman. You love her still, eh?”

“Is it so obvious?” I asked.

Solemnly, he said, “To any man with eyes in his head.” But to her? I mouthed a foul curse and took up my sword. Robyrt said, “Practice only, Daviot.”

I had not thought my face was so naked. I nodded and went on guard.

As what passed for twilight in these unnatural times spread faint shadows over the yard, Robyrt called a halt. I was awash with sweat and had not few bruises, though not so many as the jennym, who complimented me on my sword-work. He reminded me of Andyrt. He got me salve of the keep’s herbalist, and I returned to my chamber, presenting poor Ryl with dusty boots and a shirt in dire need of laundering. He took them meekly and had a bath brought in. I soaked my aches away, at least those imparted by Robyrt’s stave, and rubbed my bruises with the unguent. The thought of facing Rwyan at another civilized table was painful. I felt my hope recede.

Quite what I hoped for that crazed day I do not know. I was still a Storyman, bound by my duty to wander up the coast to the Treppanek and thence to Durbrecht. She was to take ship on the morrow. To Durbrecht, aye; but what chance of finding her again there? She would be in her College, I in mine until I was sent out again. Or the Sky Lords might come. And even did they not, still our old infraction should be remembered, and we watched, kept apart. And I could not know if she loved me still or spurned me now. It was hopeless, and I no longer had the wild innocence of youth to bolster my optimism. At best-did she not turn me away-I might hope to snatch one night with her. The which should likely render a second parting the more painful.

I ground my teeth in helpless frustration, possessed of something akin to panic I could not decide whether to go early or late to the hall. I knew that I must spend the evening telling tales. I wondered if Rwyan would remain to listen. I thought it should be anguish to be so bound by duty and protocol, not knowing where I stood, she there, untouchable, proximity the worst distance.

Ryl brought back my boots and the promise of a fresh-washed shirt come morning. I thanked him and reached a decision.

“Ryl,” I asked, “where is the sorcerer Rwyan quartered?”

“Across the way,” he told me. “Three doors along the corridor.”

“And her servant?”

If he suspected my motives, he gave no sign. Only said, “In the smaller room beside. The fourth door.”

Separate rooms meant nothing, but it was a straw to clutch. I smiled and nodded and said, “My thanks. I’ve