I shook my head even as a thought burst inside. I stared at Rekyn and said low-voiced, “Do you say we Dhar some how gained the talent whilst we sojourned in Ur-Dharbek? Because we lingered there?”
It was rhetoric: I sought to pin down my sudden thought, but still she confirmed me, “Some say it so, aye.”
“Then if they be correct,” I murmured, “shall the wild Changed not develop sorcerous abilities?”
It was as though a shutter lifted to expose a bright-lit room, or a torch were ignited to spill brilliance where before there had been only shadow, and I was dazzled. I felt pieces of the puzzle join; there was no complete picture yet, but I saw its outline grow clearer.
Rekyn faced me square across the table, and I was again minded of the dragon’s gaze. “Likely,” she said. “It’s suspected, at least.”
I said, “By the God!” For all the heat, I felt a chill course down my spine.
“Now do you understand why your interest in the wild Changed has found such disapproval?” she asked me, and when I nodded, dumbstruck: “I should not have told you this. Such knowledge is forbidden, and I break a vow in the doing. Do you voice it, then likely you and I both shall find ourselves on the scaffold.”
I nodded. I was too intrigued then to feel any fear. That would come later, but in that moment I felt only awe; and a tremendous curiosity. I asked her, “How many know this?”
“We sorcerers,” she said, “the master of your College, the Lord Protector, the koryphons; none others. It’s a secret close-guarded.”
I licked my lips, staring at her. Close-guarded? Aye, for what should be the outcome did the folk of Dharbek-Truemen and Changed both-learn of this? Even were it no more than suspicion, it must turn our world on its head. I thought the Changed should surely abandon the land to flee north, to gain that power that was now the sole property of their masters. I thought Truemen should fight to halt them. I thought there should surely be such chaos delivered us all as must hand Dharbek like some festival gift to the Sky Lords. I stared at Rekyn and felt fear stir behind my wonderment.
“Did you speak aught of this,” she said carefully, “then likely Sarun-or any aeldor-would have your tongue torn out before execution. And mine with it.”
I said, “Aye,” aware my voice came hushed and hoarse. “Save not likely, but surely. But Rekyn, why do you tell me?”
She shrugged then, a smile haunting her mouth as puzzlement misted her eyes. “I cannot say,” she told me. “Not beyond that I’ve a feeling about you. I can explain it no better, save perhaps the telling shall serve to bind your questioning tongue.”
“Bind it?” I snorted bitter laughter. “Rekyn, you float a lure before my curiosity and tell me do I chase it, I must die.”
“Were you not already chasing it, in your own way?” she gave me back. “You go from keep to keep asking your questions-What does this sorcerer know of the wild Changed? What that of Ur-Dharbek? You show open friendship of the Changed; you deal with them as equals, never hiding your beliefs. Oh, Daviot, leave off that face! I’ve told you we’ve a duty to observe, just as you do. In the God’s name, my friend, you hold the history of the Dhar in your head; you’ve knowledge few others possess. With all of that and clear evidence you perceive the Changed as little different to Truemen, think you you’ve not raised hackles? There are some have urged you be called back to Durbrecht-found some position within your College, where your curiosity might be tight-reined, you all the time watched. Save you’ve won yourself a reputation as the finest Storyman in decades, you’d be there now; and warded close as any prisoner.”
I was, I must admit, flattered that I had earned such a reputation. I was also shocked that the College of the Mnemonikos should curb investigation: I had thought we Rememberers were above such things, that it was our bounden duty to seek knowledge, no matter where it lead. I was, too, alarmed: I’d no wish to lose my freedom or my life.
“Shall I be?” I asked somewhat nervously.
“No.” Rekyn shook her head, smiling warmly. I was grateful for that reassurance. “So long as you watch your tongue, you’re safe. And now you know the reason for the doubts you’ve raised, perhaps you’ll step a little wary.”
“I shall,” I vowed. I made that promise to myself as much as her. It was not, I thought, the same as promising I’d do nothing.
“Then we shall speak no more of this,” she declared. “I’ve a fondness for you-I’d not see you end on the scaffold.”
I smiled my gratitude and asked, “One last question?” And when she sighed and gestured, I continued: “What purpose the Border Cities?”
“Much like the Sentinels,” she replied. “Save they ward the Slammerkin shore.”
“Against invasion?” I frowned. “Can the wild Changed have become so powerful?”
Rekyn confirmed it. “Against that fear,” she said. “Against the possibility the wild Changed find magic and look to use it against us.”
I emptied my mug in silence. A thousand thoughts buzzed in my head, each one birthing myriad others. I thought I should like to be alone awhile to digest all this, but Rekyn set her tankard down and suggested we return to the keep. I nodded dumbly and followed her out.
Rwyan had learned much since first she came to the Sentinels, but never the magic of unlearning. Sometimes she wished she might possess such knowledge, to obliterate that memory of Daviot that lay always in the hinder part of her mind like a wound that would not heal. It was a foolish notion, impossible to achieve, and she berated herself for entertaining such useless fancies. She had a duty here; the God knew, if the worst fears of the sorcerers were realized, she had a desperate duty ahead. But still she could not forget him.
She had tried. She had taken a lover briefly and when his attentions grew boring to her, another, but he had lasted no longer, and after that she had spurned all advances. Now none looked to bed her but accepted her as celibate, which was, they murmured when they thought she should not hear, a pity. That amused her, for she agreed; but could find no way to change her feelings. Sometimes she allowed herself to wonder if Daviot felt the same way, or if he now followed his Storyman’s road with a woman or found comfort in the keeps. But did he, she told herself, still he’d not forget her-his talent would not allow that.
She sighed, dabbing at her face with a sleeve. There should have been a breeze so high atop the cliffs, but there was none. The pines stood silent under a sky that seemed a canopy of hammered blue, so bright as to shine silvery. Had she turned her head, she knew the vast column of the tower looming above the island would have blinded even her occult sight. The sun was a merciless eye, searing all it surveyed. The Fend spread like puddled mercury, calm as a millpond. No sails broke that expanse; even the gulls that rode the warm air seemed lethargic, their mewing dulled, as if they lacked the vitality to protest such heat. Rwyan wondered how long the Sky Lords would maintain this magic, and if the sorcerers of Dharbek should ever find a countering sortilege. She wondered how Daviot fared in such weather.
Too often, she dreamed of him, and those dreams were strange. She had mentioned them to Chiara-who dismissed them as no more than foolish fancy-and to the adepts, who were more sympathetic, if little more helpful. None could offer either interpretation or remedy, and the draughts the island’s herbalist had prescribed had served only to lock her longer in that oneiric world she walked with Daviot.
With Daviot and others she did not recognize.
She sighed again, closing her eyes against the blinding sky, and allowed her mind to wander.
At first she had dreamed of their shared past, of times together and the things they had done, embarrassed when she woke by the flush that suffused her cheeks, the pleasant languor that pervaded her limbs. But then, gradually, the tenor of the dreams had changed, past memories fading into a strangely shifting pattern.
Sometimes she would see Daviot striding purposefully down a lonely road, she hurrying behind. An airboat would drift unnoticed above him, and she would call out, but he seemed not to hear or to ignore her, and then she would run after him, laboring up a slope he climbed with ease, to disappear over the crest. She would reach the ridgetop and find the road ahead empty, the surrounding fields sere, the woodland bleak. She would stare about, calling his name, but there was never an answering shout, and night would fall as she stood alone.
Sometimes she would find herself in a crowd, in a town square or the hall of a keep or the common room of an inn, always at the rear as Daviot intoned some tale she could not properly hear. She would endeavor to push through the throng, to announce herself, but always, before she could reach him, his tale would end and she find herself suddenly alone again, passersby ignoring her as if she were invisible.
Those dreams she could explain to herself. They seemed obvious as the earlier, happier, conflations of memory. But now … for some time now she had found the dreams menacing and mysterious and could not at all understand them.
She would glimpse Daviot in a clearing in a misty wood, all gnarled and ancient oaks, the grass littered with the empty armor of Dhar warriors and Kho’rabi, as if once, long ago, a battle had been fought amongst the trees. She would hear him call her name, and sometimes others she did not know. She would see him turning warily around, as if he saw what was invisible to her, and she would go toward him, aware that danger threatened. She would see a Changed she guessed was Urt moving slowly through the mist from the far trees and know they must meet, come together to save Daviot from … she did not know what, save that overhead there came a sound like thunder, as if gigantic wings beat against the sky. She would look up then, but see nothing, only darkness and fog torn by the reiving of Kho’rabi wizardry, and hear Daviot call her name, forlorn. She could never come close to him, no matter how hard she tried, and even as she heard him shout, the mist would thicken, swirling, until she stood alone and there was no sound at all.
From those dreams she would wake trembling, held a moment in panic’s fist, instinctively gathering her power to send against … nothing; only the dawn light pervading her chamber. And then she would attempt to set the dreams aside, to tell herself they were no more than the fevered imaginings of a foolish lovesick woman who had better forget what she could not have and bend her mind to what was real.
But as with the man himself, she could not quite dismiss the images. They lingered, a mental redolence she could never fully shake off. Nor did learning or labor, or nostrums or advice, serve to rid her of either the dreams or the memories, for all she threw herself into her duties with an energy designed to exorcise the ghosts.
That, at least, was one benefit: she did not languish, and if she pined, then her pining prompted her to work the harder. Hard enough she progressed, the older adepts Advised her, swifter than most Talented. Within the first year she had been raised, no longer a humble student, little more than a source of occult power for those more skilled than she, but tutored in the usage of that power, in its summoning and direction. By the end of her second year, she was declared adept; now she joined the others in the white tower, working with the crystals to focus that terrible energy on the intruding skyboats.
That had been unexpected knowledge, that the crystals both augmented and focused the natural abilities of the sorcerers. That was a thing no more than hinted at in Durbrecht, known for sure only to the senior Adepts and those consigned (Rwyan was almost tempted to think, condemned) to the Sentinels. Even the Lord Protector was vouchsafed only deliberately vague knowledge of some sorcerous device, and the Mnemonikos knew nothing at all. Rwyan and all those like her were sworn to secrecy.
They were called crystals, but they were far more than that: as different to the baubles cut and polished by the lapidaries as were those ornaments to pebbles. They had first come, she had learned, from Tartarus, the Forgotten Country. The earliest Dhar sorcerers had found (none could any longer say how) that the stones strengthened their natural power; through the stones they had learned to commune with the dragons and become Dragonmasters. The stones came south with the people, hoarded by the sorcerers, as they went into Ur-Dharbek, and then on, across the Slammerkin and the Treppanek. And all the time, the sorcerers had drawn strength from the stones, as if they lived symbiotic, the glittering chunks of quartzlike material invested with a crystalline vitality that none could properly understand or explain, only use.
With them, to those standing always in close proximity, there was a growth of power. It was, Rwyan thought, as if the crystals were hearthfires on a winter night, their blaze warming those closest to them, useless to any standing beyond the aegis of the heat. Thus were only the most talented of the College sent to the islands, only the most gifted of those allowed entry to the guarded chambers that held the strange stones; Chiara was somewhat piqued that she could not yet attend. Rwyan wondered if the crystals and her dreams were somehow linked.
It was an idle musing. She could no more understand the workings of the stones than those long versed in their use: they granted power, not knowledge. Neither was their employment without hazard-to remain in close proximity for too long resulted in madness or in a draining of the occult talent, as if the flow of power became reversed, leaving the victim a mindless shell. No sorcerer remained indefinitely on the Sentinels, and the crystals were shielded behind walls of lead and stone, exposed only at need. Were she not dismissed earlier, she knew she must depart the island in ten or fifteen years-a lifetime!-to live in Durbrecht or find place in some keep as commur-mage. Meanwhile, however, she sensed her powers expanding, growing, as if accelerated by the unseen pulsing of the crystals. She knew there was a dreadful insensate energy in the stone behind her and that it might be shaped and directed, by those with the talent, to blast the Sky Lords’ vessels from the heavens.
She thought it sad (though she was careful to hold the notion to herself alone) that such occult power be used bellicose. She wondered what might be achieved, did the Sky Lords not force her kind to bend the crystals to warfare. She supposed she was not, for all she owned recognized ability, a good mage: Chiara would never have entertained such thoughts.
But then Chiara had never sat with Daviot, building an imaginary world of maybe and perhaps and fanciful supposition, where dragons still flew and peace was forced on Kho’rabi and Dhar alike.
And I think of Daviot again! I must not; I cannot, for it hurts too much.
She rose, shaking out a gown damp with sweat, and “looked” a last time across the smooth surface of the Fend. It was as though the sea steamed; the coastline of Kellambek was a shadowy blur on the horizon, a faint, dark line drawn through the shimmering heat.
Had Daviot ever sailed such a sea? Might he, even now, stand somewhere on that vague shore, staring toward the Sentinels, remembering?
She brushed an errant strand of hair now more golden than red from her face and turned away, resolute. There were duties to attend, lessons; come dusk, she must take a turn on watch in the tower. The vigilance of the Sentinels was never-ending: to allow thoughts of Daviot to intrude when she must be alert against the danger of the Sky Lords was to be derelict of her duty. She found the path and began the long descent.