She hesitated a moment, plucking a frond of grass that she placed between her teeth, nibbling. Then she said, “We say little of the wild Changed because we know little of them. Ur-Dharbek is closed to us-no Trueman goes there, and we sorcerers are no exception.”
“But,” I said, and paused, feeling myself on uncertain ground, “why not?”
Krystin answered me with, “Why should we? Is Dharbek too small for you? Would you conquer this kingdom of the Changed?”
I said, “No. But still I wonder. Urt would not speak of the place, either.”
“Perhaps Urt knew no more than I,” she said. “Which is little enough more than you.”
“Are you not curious?” I asked.
She said bluntly, “No. I’ve enough here in Tryrsbry to occupy me. I’ve the Sky Lords, for one thing.”
I said, “Yes, of course. But even so …”
She tossed her grass blade away and rolled onto her back, reaching for my hand. “Even so, my Storyman. I’ve not your thirst for knowledge. I am but a humble commur-mage, with a keep to protect; I’m happy with my lot. Though I could be made happier….”
She drew my hand-closer. She had removed her tunic and wore only breeks and a shirt of fine silk. Thin silk that clung like a second skin, and no undergarments. I felt the warmth of her flesh and the quickening beat of her heart. I put my curiosity aside. I did not, then, consider that perhaps she evaded my questions. I did not, then, care.
That came later, and even then I was not sure. Perhaps it was only coincidence. Perhaps Krystin had no hand in it; or no more hand than her duty demanded.
What happened was that three days later, I was ordered to quit Tryrsbry.
I had known I must, but the days had melted one into the next, and I had lingered longer than I should, even with a horse to carry me on. I had set the decision aside, aware that the sorcerers in the keeps I had already visited would send word back to Durbrecht; aware that Krystin would have reported my arrival and should report my departure when it came. Perhaps it was only that. But I could not help but wonder that the order came so soon after that abortive conversation. The timing was such as fitted the sending of an occult message and the returning of an answer.
Krystin told me as we prepared for the evening meal. She had been about her sorcerous business that afternoon, and I had passed the day in the town. This was our first time alone since morning.
She took my hands and looked into my eyes. “Word came from Durbrecht,” she said abruptly. “You are commanded to go on.”
She looked sad. I believe she was, for all we had both known from the start this must come. I felt a coldness in my belly-as before, with Rwyan, I thought that knowing a thing and accepting it were very different. I swallowed and ducked my head. She put her arms about my neck and kissed me lengthily.
When we drew apart she said, “Tomorrow. Daviot, I am sorry.”
I nodded and stroked her cheek. I said, “Yes.” I did not know what else to say. I felt that an interval had ended, an idyll stolen from out of time.
She smiled. I thought of tragic statues. For a while we stood in silence, holding one another. Then Krystin said, “I shall not forget you, Storyman.”
I said, “Nor I you, my commur-mage.”
“You’d not, eh?” She chuckled. I did not feel much like laughing, but I forced myself. She said, “So, do we go down with brave faces?”
I said, “Yes.”
Yrdan was already informed and promised me such provisions as should see me comfortably through to the next keep, which was Cymbry. I thanked him for his largesse, and when the meal was done, I believe I excelled myself in my storytelling, for all I felt no great enthusiasm. All the time I could see Barus smirking. I was determined he should not see my melancholy.
Krystin and I slept little that night. We said our farewells with few words and came the morning went out to the stables, attended by Yrdan and his family. The aeldor clasped my hand, and Raene embraced me; both daughters planted moist kisses on my cheek. I held Krystin a last time, then mounted the gray mare, who snorted and set to prancing. I raised a hand in farewell and heeled my irritable horse to a canter. I did not look back.
Tryrsbry lay a league or more behind me when I heard the hoofbeats. I was making for the coast road, thinking the sight of the sea should cheer my megrims. The trail was broad, winding up the flank of a shallow valley where cork oaks grew, and I could see the rider coming fast after me. I reined in, thinking some messenger was sent from Yrdan’s keep; I was curious as to why. The morning was bright and I squinted, seeking to recognize the horseman. It was not Krystin-that blond head I should have known instantly-and I waited at the road’s center. I saw an unfamiliar bay stallion, a man in the leathers of the warband in the saddle. As he came closer, I recognized Barus. Almost, I took my staff from its bucket; then thought better of it. The jennym would surely offer me no harm, and I’d no wish to be the first to make a hostile move.
He snatched his mount to a brutal halt, wheeling the animal in a circle that lifted dust in a swirling cloud. I saw that he wore no armor and that his long sword was hung across his back. He studied me in silence, his face begrimed. His horse blew hard. There was a lather of yellowish sweat on its chest and neck.
I said, “Day’s greetings, jennym.”
He said, “Thought you to depart without an accounting between us, Storyman?”
I frowned, for all I could guess the reason, and said, “An accounting? An accounting for what?”
He said, “For insults given. For … Krystin.”
I realized I had been wrong in thinking he would not offer me harm. I watched his face, awaiting those telltale signs that warn of attack. I thought that he could free his blade and swing before I might bring my staff from its fixings. I set my knees firm against the mare’s ribs, and she, trained for battle, blew her own whistling challenge, her ears flattening. Barus’s mount answered with a snort. Its eyes rolled. I thought he had ridden the poor beast very hard, and so it might well respond slower. Still, I’d no great desire to fight him.
I said, “Barus, for insults given, I’ve apologized. As for Krystin-Krystin’s her own woman; the choice was hers to make.”
His nostrils flared, much like those of his horse. I saw his eyes narrow. He was bareheaded, his black thatch bound with a sweaty cloth. I thought that if I could land one sound blow against his skull, the impending combat should be ended. And then that a single cut from his sword should end it just as well. A quarterstaff is a most effective weapon (which is, of course, the reason the College gave us wanderers the poles), but it is a weapon best employed on foot. I thought that if he pressed the affair, I must endeavor to persuade him down from his horse, or seek to knock him down before he cut me.
He said, “Your cursed Storyman’s tongue beguiled her. Had you not come to Tryrsbry …”
I said, “I’m gone from Tryrsbry now. Do you pursue your suit.” I shrugged.
He shook his head, not taking his eyes from my face. “Too late,” he said. “What’s done is done.”
I said, “In the God’s name, Barus, this is pointless! What shall you achieve by fighting me?”
He corrected me: “By slaying you, Storyman.”
I ignored his interruption. I continued: “Yrdan will have your head. Think you my death shall bring Krystin to your bed? I tell you no.”
“How shall they know?” he asked, and smiled. I thought of snarling dogs, of rapacious wolves. He jabbed a dirty thumb in the direction of the timber. “Do I leave your body up there, amongst the trees … the Sky Lords, perhaps; or bandits. Whichever, time shall pass ere you’re found.”
“And my horse?” I asked him. “What of her? Shall she not return to her familiar stable, and so bring warning?”
That gave him pause, as I had hoped. He was, after all, one of Yrdan’s warband, and a horse was a thing prized and honored: he would hesitate to kill my mare.
I had underestimated his cunning and his hatred. He spat and said, “Your horse I’ll tether. It shall take her some time to break free.”
The mare whickered then, as if she understood the import of our conversation. She tossed her head, and I felt her tremble under me. I thought her anxious to give battle. Then I thought that Barus had first encountered me afoot: likely he allowed me but poor equestrian skills. I thanked Cleton for his lessons then; and Keran for all his. He it was had first told me an angry man may be weakened by his rage, that fury is a flame best burned cold.
I said, deliberately, “You’d stoop to murder then, like some common footpad. Does Yrdan know his jennym owns so little honor?”
He barked laughter. “The Headsman, bastard! As I slew that Kho’rabi, so shall I cut you to size.”
I said, “The Sky Lord was wounded, coward. He wore two arrows. Think you I shall be so easy?”
He gave me back, “Yes!” and brought his right hand up to the hilt of his long sword.
I gave my mare a length of rein. I drove my heels hard against her flanks, and she-sweet creature!-screamed and hurled herself forward, against the bay stallion.