I woke to the smell of baking. My mother knelt by the hearth, smiling as I emerged, indicating the biscuits she made. They had always been a favorite delicacy, and I voiced my thanks even as I wondered if she could afford such largesse. I thought it should hurt her more did I protest and so said nothing, but went out to the well. As I drew up the bucket, I saw the rope was lengthened: I used only a little water.
We ate-the biscuits and thin porridge-and spoke of the years betwixt my departure and now. I said little of Rwyan, and save for expressing sympathy, they were tactful enough not to press me. I promised I should visit Delia. Then we all three walked to the beach, where Thorus and Battus waited. It was not long past dawn, but already the sand was hot, the air turgid. There were no clouds nor any breeze, and the sun seemed to blister the sky. The Fend rolled lazy, as if this awful heat robbed even the sea of vitality. We launched the boat, and I usurped Thorus at the oars-it was pointless to raise the sail. I brought us out to the fishing grounds and sat panting. My body had forgotten what hard work this was.
From the tiller my father fixed me with a look I remembered well. It was the way he had studied me when I was caught in some unadmitted prank. It was a look that said he knew what I held back, but had sooner I confess of my own volition. I felt immediately guilty.
He stared at me awhile longer and then said, “So, do you tell us? There are no women or children to frighten out here, and we’d know the worst if it’s to come.”
I had thought I hid my true feelings. From any others I likely had, but these had known me from my birthing, and my father saw deep into me, past my defenses. I wished then I had not come home. I sighed and began to speak.
I told them all I had seen, and all I believed (save for that one sighting of Kho’rabi and Changed together), and when I was done, there was silence, broken only by the mewing of optimistic gulls.
I was thankful that we spoke no more on such matters. By unspoken consent we turned our conversation to the mundane-or what in such times passed for mundane-talk of catches and the problems this heat afforded honest fishermen. We went a long way out, farther than ever I had been as a boy, far enough the southernmost of the Sentinels was just visible, low against the horizon. I wondered if Rwyan might be on that island. Perhaps she turned her blind eyes to the sea and found a boat there and thought of the fisherman’s son she had loved. I pushed those thoughts away and took a hand as we set the net. There was still too much pain in those memories.
Our catch was poor, and after some hours we turned for land. It was the midpart of the afternoon then, and I sat helping my father with his floats as my mother prepared our evening meal.
We ate alone, but when the meal was done went back to Thorym’s aleshop, where folk already gathered in expectance of my stories. The night was no cooler than before, and it seemed to me that even the bats darting amongst the cottages flew slower. It was the bats, seeming tiny reminders of my oneiric dragon, that prompted me to recount one of the oldest of all the tales.
It was the story of the Last Dragon, and seldom told. Indeed, it was argued in Durbrecht that it had no place in our canon, for its veracity was disputed. One school of thought maintained that it was our duty to tell only such stories as were anchored firm in historic evidence, and as this had no such authority, it was best forgotten. Another, however, held that all the folk tales had a place, being part of our past gone into legend. I thought there was no harm in such old tales, and much to be lost did we forget them. Besides, I liked the story for itself.
When I was done telling it, there was a murmur of appreciation and some few chuckles.
“In the God’s name,” my father declared, “what allies the dragons should make, eh? Think on it-did the Dragon-masters live still, they might bring the beasts out against the Sky Lords. That should give them something to think about, no?”
There was laughter at his words, but I felt an odd chill run down my spine. He echoed things I’d said in Durbrecht; things I’d wondered on since. I felt-I could not define it-a kind of presentiment, as if, unwitting, he spoke with an augur’s tongue. I shaped a smile and laughed with the rest.
Thorym said, “That they would, were they not all dead and gone.”
Dysian said, his tone censorious, “The dragons preyed on men; the God gave us magic to use against them. Better put your faith in him than creatures of legend.”
I saw my father cast a dark look the mantis’s way, and my mother touch his sleeve as if in warning. I thought this intense young priest was not much liked in the village, but none spoke up against him.
I said easily, “Should it not be a fine thing, though, Dysian, if the God saw fit to give us back Dragonmasters and dragons for allies?”
He said, “What use such dreams? Both are long gone, and we must trust in the God, not fables.”
I shrugged, and motioned for Thorym to fill his mug (at which, I noticed, he did not protest), and said, still casual, “But did the God see fit … our sorcerers might ride the sky to bring their God-given magic against the Kho’rabi wizards and their boats.”
“Pah!” was all his answer, and he sank his long face in his mug. I grinned across his head at my father.
However, we spoke no more of dragons. I told another tale-that of Naeris and the White Horse-which was acceptable to Dysian and held the others rapt until its ending, and by then the hour was again late and folk began to disperse. I’d no wish to face more questions and so murmured to my mother that I’d find my bed, as I must depart on the morrow. I suspect she’d have sat all night awake to spend more time with me, but I saw her eyes grew heavy. Nor would I see my father spend more of his hard-earned durrim. My own hoard dwindled, and I had determined to leave some small coin in gratitude and as succor against the harsher times foreseen, so I said my goodnights and rose, offering my mother my arm.
That night I dreamed I walked in Cambar Wood again, and again the dragon hovered, and again I felt the creature judged me. I woke sweaty and confused and lay a long time awake listening to the small night-sounds of the cottage, the faint call of the sea. I pondered long on that and all the other dreams, wondering if they were some random invention of my imagination, conjurations of the bits and pieces of knowledge I accrued, or sendings from some power I could not define.
I fell asleep again sometime before dawn and did not wake until my parents’ movements roused me. I rose quickly, knowing that a parting no easier than before awaited me, and anxious to have it done. I bathed and dressed, thinking to put on my mended shirt, and then packed my saddlebags. Behind the curtain veiling my bed I quietly counted what coin I had left. I held back a few durrim for myself and concealed the rest beneath a pillow. My parents would find it after I was gone, when it should be too late they insist I take it back. Bags and staff in hand, I went out to break my fast.
We ate-grilled fish this morning-and I kissed my mother, embraced my father. They both put on brave faces as they escorted me to the barn and watched me saddle the gray mare. My mother cried a warning as the horse snapped her displeasure, and I assured her this was a daily ritual to which I was long accustomed arid she need not worry. (Useless advice to any mother!) I gave Robus a durrim for the stabling and mounted. I had thought to escape without fuss, but as I walked out I found Thorus and Battus, Tellurin and Corum, waiting to see me off: there was an exchange of good wishes, a clasping of hands. I feared my mother would weep. I leaned down to kiss her once more, raised a hand to my father, and turned away. My mare aided me then, for she rolled her eyes as the village folk pressed close around and set to bucking. I fought her still, but none came near after that and I was able to ride out with no prolonged farewells. They trailed after me to the cliff path, as if I were some lord with his retinue, and I waved once, and heeled the mare, and urged her swift up the slope.
The white banners of mourning hung listless over Cambar’s tower, and all the keep folk wore the ribbons on their sleeves. I was saddened when the gatemen told me Bardan was dead, slain the past year in battle with the Sky Lords, for I held fond memories of that bluff and kindly warrior. Sarun was aeldor now, and once I’d seen my mare stabled, I went to pay my respects.
I found the heir seated in the hall, alone save for a handful of warriors and a few servants. He was not much changed physically, but as he studied me with those hawkish eyes, I discerned a greater authority in him, an air of somewhat weary responsibility. At first he did not know me: I bowed, formally announcing myself, and he gave such a start as set the great gray hounds lounging at his feet to barking. He shouted them silent and looked me up and down, a slow smile stretching his narrow lips.
“In the God’s name,” he said at last, “Rekyn gave word of your coming, but I’d not recognize you. You’ve grown, Daviot. You went from here a stripling lad; you come back a man, grown. A full-fledged Storyman, at that.”
I smiled and shrugged. He called that ale be served me, waving me to a seat across from him. Before I accepted, I said, “Sympathy for your loss, Lord Sarun; honor to your father. He lives in my memory, may the Pale Friend grant him peace.”
Sarun nodded, his smile an instant bleak. “He died well,” he said. “For all his years, his sword was blooded when he fell.”
“The Dowager Lady Andolyne?” I asked. “She’s hale?”
“Hale, aye,” he answered. “Hale, but grieving yet. There’s much happened here since you last saw this keep. You’ve had word?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I was five years in Durbrecht, studying. This last, I’ve traveled the west coast. I’ve had no word at all.”
He grunted, toying with his cup, and offered no immediate elaboration. I saw now he had changed more than I at first suspected. It was not physical but a hardening of his eye, a harshening of his voice, as if the years had set a steeliness in him, honing him. He seemed tense, ready to spring. He made me think of a sheathed sword.
“The Lady Gwennet is well?” I asked when he did not speak.
“Aye, she’s with child,” he told me. “Our second. My mother’s with her now, and Garat.”
“May the God favor mother and child, both,” I said formally.
“Life goes on.” He drank. “Some die, some are born. I think there shall be more die ere long.”
“You believe the Sky Lords will attack this year?” I asked.
“It seems likely.” He shrugged and favored me with a sour grin. “But do they or not, still we’ll know death here-from famine or fevers, does this cursed heat not abate.”
He confirmed what I already feared or knew. I inquired after his brother.
“Thadwyn’s wed,” was his reply, “and gone to Ryrsbry Keep now I’ve an heir.”
“And Rekyn?” I asked. “Andyrt?”
“Rekyn’s yet commur-mage,” he said. “She’s out hunting one of the Sky Lords’ God-cursed boats.”
“They’re seen again?” I watched him toy with the ribbon wound about his sleeve. “I’ve not encountered any since the year turned.”
“Aye.” He barked an angry laugh. “They’re seen again and have been since this unnatural summer began. They come and go like God-cursed hornets, and for every one we destroy, there seem two more. Rekyn’s her work cut out.”
He made no mention of Andyrt, and I supposed the jennym rode with the commur-mage. I said as much, and Sarun shook his head.
“Andyrt was slain,” he said. “Two years agone, now. The great skyboats came thick that year.”
I stared, momentarily lost for words. Foolish as it was, I had never thought Andyrt might die. In the eye of my memory I saw the jennym clear, as he had looked that day he came to Whitefish village and let a simple fisherman’s son carry his helm. Andyrt it was had first helped me astride a horse, had promised a place in Cambar’s warband, did I not become Mnemonikos. Andyrt had shown me the oak grove. I counted him a friend; I felt an emptiness open inside me. It was as if another piece of my past were stolen, gone like Rwyan, like Urt or Cleton. Save they, as best I could know, lived still while Andyrt was irrevocably gone.
I heard Sarun say, “I’m sorry, Daviot. You were close, no?”