Lords of the Sky

him, “Perhaps you’re right.”

He smiled gravely. Then: “Did you go to her cabin tonight, I do not think she’d turn you away.”

Perhaps not. But surely that would be to rub salt into open wounds. I’d wounds enough: I shook my head. “Perhaps she’d not, but I think I could not bear that. I’d sooner be gone now than suffer more.”

“It’s your choice,” he said, and offered me that odd half bow. I watched him return along the deck, finding a place at Rwyan’s side. I had not thought to envy a Sky Lord. I glanced at the plate he’d left; then I sank down and began to eat.

The sky grew slowly black, and Tyron ordered his running lights set. A Changed came by me with a taper and gathered up my plate. Then another came with a replenished mug. I took the tankard and thanked him. He said, “My pleasure, master,” and I automatically said, “I am called Daviot.”

His smile was ponderous as the beast from which he originated, but he said, “My pleasure, Daviot.”

I sipped the second mug, vaguely surprised that I felt no wish to drown my sorrows. I saw Rwyan come down the deck, her face turned toward me. I hid behind my upraised mug, and when I set it down, she was gone. Then Tezdal went into the cabin beside hers, and I thought on what he’d said. It was still too painful to contemplate joining her. I thought it would be akin to opening a wound. I stretched on the forecastle, my back against the starboard bulwark, and stared at the stars.

A bulky shape blocked my view, an outstretched hand offering my laundered shirt. I said, “My thanks. How are you named?”

“Ayl,” came the rumbling answer, “Daviot.”

I nodded. I was too weary, too lost in my apathy, to question him further. He stood a moment longer, his face in shadow so that I could not discern what expression lay there, then he said, “Sleep well, Daviot,” and left me to my thoughts.

I dreamed that night as the Sprite clove through the Fend, northward; odd, fitful dreams, all fragmented like my hopes.

I was in the oak wood again, blinded by the sunlight that poured down through the leafy branches, so that I caught only momentary glimpses of the figures flitting between the mossy boles. But when I moved toward them, they were gone, and from my back I heard Urt shout my name. I turned in that direction and saw my Changed friend standing with Ayl and Lan, all pointing past me, alarm on their faces.

I turned again and saw Rwyan, tears running bright in the sunlight down her face. I said, “Rwyan, I love you,” and opened my arms, but Tezdal stepped between us and said, “She’s honor, Storyman; she’s strong.”

I said, “Yes. Would I had her strength.” And then a hand of Kho’rabi charged the clearing, and I took up my staff to defend Rwyan.

Tezdal stood beside me, armored in the Dhar fashion, a long-sword in his hands. We attacked together, but for each Sky Lord we slew, another came out of the surrounding trees, like black ants boiling from a disturbed nest.

We were forced back, to where Rwyan stood, and she said, “I must use my magic.”

I said, “It’s not enough,” and she returned me, “Still, I must try. It’s all we have.”

I shouted, “No, there’s more,” not knowing what I meant until I heard the thunder of great wings and saw the clearing darkened by the body that fell from the sky.

It was the dragon, and it descended on the Kho’rabi with a dreadful fury. I pressed back, an arm protective about Rwyan, and then I was aloft, soaring over jagged peaks and rocky valleys, my face battered by wind. The sky was dark with thunderheads, and lightning danced across the land. I looked around and saw Rwyan mounted astride a dragon, diminutive on that massive back, dwarfed by the vast wings that beat a rhythm loud as the thunder itself. Urt, I saw, rode another; and beyond him, Tezdal. It seemed not at all strange that we rode dragons.

I heard Rwyan call to me, “Where do we go?”

I shouted, “I don’t know.”

She cried, “But Daviot, you’re the Dragonmaster.”

I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant, but the sky filled with a shrieking sound …

Which came from Tyron’s whistle, shrilling announcement of dawn, rousing those Changed allowed to sleep from their rest.

I sat up, rubbing at sleep-fogged eyes. The sky was gray, the sun a pale hint along the eastern horizon, the air, out here upon the Fend, cooler than on land at this hour. I clambered to my feet, working kinks from my muscles, oneiric images still vivid in my mind. A solitary gull winged across our path, taking my gaze with it-it made for land, for the shore that held Ynisvar and likely my final parting from Rwyan.

I heard Tyron’s whistle sound again, and then his voice raised in outrage. He shouted at the tillerman, ordering a change of course: the Sprite held steady on her line. I blinked, staring down the deck, unease stirring. Then I gaped as I saw Tyron draw his wide sword and swing the blade at the steersman’s head. The Changed ducked the blow with an agility I had not known the bull-bred possessed, and the captain’s sword carved splinters from the tiller. I took up my staff, my eyes still intent on the poop, and saw Tyron seized, his arms pinned beneath the massive biceps of a crewman. His sword fell to the deck. He struggled, shouting furiously as he was carried to the port side. His shouting faded as he was flung overboard; I could not hear the splash.

I shouted, “Rwyan! Mutiny!” and sprang to meet the Changed who advanced toward me, Ayl at their head.

He bellowed, “Easy, Daviot! No harm shall come you, do you put down your staff.”

I swung the pole at his head. He raised a hand and caught it easily as if I were a child flailing a willow switch: I had not fully realized what strength lay in these bull-bred bodies. He pulled on the staff, and I was flung sideways, crashing against the bulwark there, winded. I saw my staff go spinning away across the water. I saw Tezdal appear, then Rwyan, my view interrupted by the Changed who fell upon me. I crouched, propelling myself up and forward, punching at faces and chests that seemed impervious to my blows. Hands strong as manacles gripped me, and I was held immobile. I could do nothing as my knife-Thorus’s parting gift that I’d had so long-was taken and sent after my staff into the Fend.

I saw Rwyan shout, hands raised to weave patterns in the air that I knew should produce magic. Two Changed roared and dropped as if poleaxed. Another sprang down to the lower deck. Ayl shouted, “No harm! As you fear her wrath, no harm!”

The oarsmen left their benches now, converging on Rwyan and Tezdal. I saw the Sky Lord leap forward, defending her. He had done better to rely on her magic: a fist struck his head, and he went down. Rwyan felled the attacker, and the rest hesitated, spreading out before her. They no longer seemed bovine but more akin to those wild bulls that roam the slopes of the Geffyn. Then I saw Ayl reach into his belt and fetch out a length of chain that glittered in the sun. He clutched the thing in one fisted hand and ran forrard along the deck. I saw that he moved behind Rwyan and opened my mouth to shout a warning. A hand that covered half my face clamped down, stifling the cry, so that I could only watch, helpless, as Ayl leaped down.

Rwyan turned too late. The Changed was already at her back, his fingers oddly delicate as he snapped the necklace in place. Rwyan screamed, and there was such horror in her shout, it wrenched my soul. I struggled uselessly. At last the suffocating hand let go.

I shouted, “Do you harm her, I’ll kill you!”

Ayl called back. “No harm, Daviot. We’d have you all alive.”

I cried, “Rwyan! Rwyan!”

She moaned, unsteady on her feet, swaying as if stunned. She said, “Daviot? Daviot, I’m blind.”

The Sprite was Ayl’s command now. Brisk orders sent the rowers back to their sweeps, the galleass continuing northward. More had the unconscious Tezdal carried to where I stood, no longer struggling but entirely preoccupied with Rwyan. Ayl himself brought her to the upper deck and gently set her down before me. He nodded to my captors, and they let me go. I’d no fight left in me, only fear for Rwyan: I put my arms around her, holding her close, protective. She clutched me tight; she shook, and I was uncertain whether from terror or anger.