“He was,” said the aeldor. “May the Pale Friend grant him peace.”
I’d no wish to dwell on loss, and so I asked, “One child already, you said?”
“A boy. His name is Bardaen, after my father.” Sarun’s stern face softened. “He’s scarce four years yet, but he bears himself well. You shall meet him later.”
“I should like that,” I said. “It’s good to be here again, Lord Sarun.”
“Plain Sarun will do,” he told me. “I’ve poor patience with ceremony.”
Like your father, I thought: I smiled.
“So,” he declared, “would you bathe and rest? You come from Tarvyn, I understand, and that’s lengthy road.”
“I stopped along the way,” I told him, “at Whitefish village last. But, yes-I’d scrub the dust away.”
I was, in fact, not very dirty, thanks to my mother’s ministrations, but the thought of a tub, of hot water, was pleasant.
“So be it.” Sarun beckoned a servant and gave the Changed instructions that I be shown to a chamber and a bath provided. “Tonight you can tell all you’ve witnessed along your way. Rekyn should be returned by then, and we’d both hear what mood pertains in the villages.”
“You shall,” I promised, and followed the servant from the hall.
It felt near as strange to be in Cambar as it had to return to Whitefish village. In many ways a Storyman’s life is timeless. Save we be given permanent duty in some keep, we travel. Save we be summoned to the College as Mnemonikos-tutor or some other senior office, we travel. We put down no roots, name only Durbrecht our true home (and that not often seen), and so have none of those unnoticed calendars that mark the passing of time for other folk. We see no children grow, build no homes, our possessions are only such as we can carry. We exist in a curious limbo, and to come back in so short a span to two places so important to me was somewhat unsettling.
The more so when I was brought to the chamber I’d occupied on my first sojourn here.
I set my staff against the wall and crossed to the window. The shutters were closed in a vain attempt to fend off the heat, and I threw them open, leaning on the wide sill. The land lay hazy before me, shimmering under the sun, but in the distance I could just make, out the oak wood. It was a gray-green shadow, vague as the grove of my dreams. I thought I did not much wish to go there again. I turned away, smiling at the patiently waiting servant. My sleeves were rolled and Lan’s bracelet in clear view, but the Changed seemed not to recognize the ornament. I crossed my arms, deliberately turning the knotted hair, but still the blunt face showed no expression save patience. I thought perhaps he saw only a bangle, meaningless, and that thought introduced another: did the bracelet mean nothing to him, then not all the Changed could be privy to the mysterious society Lan had shown me.
I smiled at him and said, “I am Daviot. Your name?”
“Tal,” he said. “Shall I arrange your bath, Master Daviot?”
I nodded.
He left the room and I stood awhile, absently turning the bracelet, pondering Lan’s words. There are Changed who will know its meaning and give you help, should you need it. It may prove useful, Daviot. Ward it well, and do Truemen ask what it is, say no more than a trinket. There had seemed to me then, and did still now, a promise given with the gift. It had seemed to me a passport of some kind into that society Lan had revealed, and I had assumed it should be recognized by all the Changed. Now it appeared otherwise. I began to wonder if the culture of the Changed was no less intricately layered than that of Truemen. Perhaps Lan represented some faction, some group from which Tal was isolated. I thought Urt must be a member-Lan had known of him, and our friendship had clearly counted in my favor. I studied the bracelet, frowning, more intrigued than ever.
Then Tal came back, two hulking bull-bred Changed bearing a tub and water, and I set aside my musings in favor of the idler luxury of the bath.
As I lay there I heard a clattering from the yard below, as of armored riders, and distantly I thought I heard Rekyn’s name called. I leaped from the tub, careless of the puddles I left behind as I crossed to the window and peered down. I saw a double squadron of horsemen dismounting, Cambar’s plaid bright through the dust that cloaked them. Rekyn was there, dust on her face and raven hair, paling her black leathern gear. I saw bodies lifted down, and several wounded. I turned away, seeking a towel, and when I returned to the window, Rekyn was gone. I was eager to see her at closer quarters: I dried myself hurriedly and dressed no less hastily, then quit the chamber for the hall.
It was empty, save for servants, and when I inquired after the whereabouts of the commur-mage and Sarun, I was told they spoke in the aeldor’s private quarters. I deemed it unseemly I should disturb them there and so waited in the hall. Before long, warriors began to drift in, those who had gone with Rekyn travel-stained and weary, those who had remained about the keep no less agog for word. A Kho’rabi vessel had been sighted, and Rekyn had led two squadrons in pursuit. In the ensuing fight five men had died and nine more been wounded. It was a victory, but comrades were slain; in the aftermath, the heat of battle cooled now, they seemed poised between elation and mourning. I saw women led weeping from the hall, and others joyous in their relief that their menfolk survived. I drew a mug of ale and found myself an obscure corner, where I should not intrude.
Then I was summoned to Sarun’s chambers, and the news I got was dramatic as the summer lightning that struck out of the sun-scorched sky.
The aeldor sat pale-faced behind his father’s desk, a dagger turning restlessly in his hands, as if he would find some target for the blade. Rekyn sprawled in a chair, still dusty. She seemed shocked, her green eyes dark with doubt. On both their faces I saw expressions of disbelief. I felt uneasy: this chamber held an atmosphere that set my skin to prickling.
Rekyn said, “Day’s greetings, Daviot,” and laughed bitterly. It sounded as though dust clogged her throat. “If that be right on such a day.”
I had anticipated a warmer welcome and felt a moment hurt. “Day’s greetings, Rekyn,” I returned cautiously. “It’s good to see you again. Sarun told me of Andyrt, and I-”
She shook her head, stilling my tongue. “Old grief,” she said. Her voice was curt, but I saw the flash of pain in her eyes. It dawned on me that she and Andyrt had been lovers.
Sarun gestured at a chair, and I sat, nervous. Their bodies no less than their faces told me some matter of tremendous import awaited announcement.
There was silence awhile, as if they both digested unpalatable news. I watched them, alert. I had seen such expressions before, on the faces of bereaved folk who cannot entirely grasp that a beloved is dead and would yet reject the irrevocable. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Then Sarun let go a gusty sigh and indicated Rekyn should speak.
The commur-mage turned toward me. She was older but little different, save for faint lines upon her brow, the arcs that curved from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. She swallowed a long measure of ale and closed her eyes a moment.
Then, without preamble, she said, “The Lord Protector Gahan is dead.”
“What?” I started forward in my chair: I understood her preoccupation now. Gahan was not old. He had fewer years than my father. “How? Have the Sky Lords attacked Kherbryn?”
“No.” Rekyn shook her head. “He took a sickness, a little while agone. None thought it serious. Only just now, when I sent word of the Kho’rabi, did I hear of his death.”
She broke off, as if she could scarce believe what she told me. I had never thought to see her so disconcerted. I looked to Sarun and on his face saw alarm. I said, “There’s no doubt?” I knew there could not be; I wanted there to be.
“None.” Rekyn’s voice was bereft of its usual confidence. “Four days ago, he died. The palace herbalists-the chirurgeons-none could name the illness or the cure. They were helpless. They could only watch as he died.”
“How could … ?” My voice tailed off. Suddenly the heat in the room seemed more than I could bear. I loosed my shirt and, all protocol forgotten, reached for a mug, drew myself ale. Sarun offered no objection; he seemed not to notice.
“How could the Lord Protector take ill?” Rekyn shrugged, her brief smile sour. “Like any man, Daviot. Like any mortal man. There are some suggest he was poisoned.”
My mouth dropped open at that. It was unthinkable! The Lord Protector was guardian of Dharbek, temporal head of the Church, commander of all our soldiers: the keystone of our world.
“Who’d poison him?” I asked, aghast.
“Were that known, they’d be dead now,” Rekyn answered. “It’s a suspicion only.”
“No Dhar.” Sarun spoke, his voice grim. “I’d stake my life no Dhar would commit such a crime. Surely it was the Sky Lords.”
“Perhaps.” Rekyn saw me frown as I wondered how even the Sky Lords with all their occult powers might gain access to the Lord Protector, and she addressed herself to me. “They’ve a new tactic now-the God be praised we’ve not seen it here yet. They tow rafts behind their skyboats, loaded with the rotting carcasses of dead animals. They cut the rafts loose to fall on the cities, scattering the fouled meat. In this heat …”
She shrugged expressively. I felt my mouth go dry. In this heat there was already disease abroad. Not bad here along the coast, but in crowded cities, where likely refugees fled to swell the busy streets, it must be a dreadful weapon. It seemed to me an abomination. I said, “Was that the cause?”
“None know,” she replied. “Only that Gahan took sick and died. I doubt the Lord Protector could have been fouled thus. I know for certain only that he is dead.”
“Taerl is Lord Protector now. Or shall be, after the ceremonies.” Sarun barked a bitter laugh. “Sad ceremonies those shall be, eh? Gahan’s funeral followed by Taerl’s dedication.”
“Taerl’s no more than a lad.” I spoke softly: I thought that must be a dreadful responsibility, to assume the mantle of Lord Protector so young.
“He’s sixteen years.” Rekyn echoed my own thoughts. “In the God’s name, what a burden to set on him. Even with Jareth appointed Regent.”
“Jareth?” Sarun sent the dagger clattering across the desk as he rose to fill his mug. “Jareth’s likely to prove the heavier burden.”
I knew what prompted his distaste. Jareth was koryphon of Mardbrecht, the greatest of the Border Cities. That alone vested him with much power. That he was wed to Gahan’s younger sister gave him more-a claim, after Taerl (who was not yet wed), to the office of Lord Protector. Did Taerl die childless, Jareth could claim the High Throne of Kherbryn by marriage right. He was not a popular man, Jareth. It was said he made the land along the Slammerkin his kingdom, and that his tithes were enforced with a strictness bordering on the extortionate. It was said he built himself a palace to rival Gahan’s, and that he lusted after the office of Lord Protector. He had his sycophants, but I wondered how many would take his cause in battle, for he was also said to be a leader who commanded from behind.
Even as I nodded, Sarun muttered, “There are enough must object to his regency. Did he claim Kherbryn for his own …”