She nodded and closed her eyes, sending out a call. He wakes. He speaks our language now, but I think he remembers no more.
We come. Wait.
She opened her eyes. It was easier to focus her talent for sight with them open, and long ingrained habit. She smiled reassuringly and said, “Not long. They come now.”
“You’re a sorcerer.” His voice was hushed, as if the fact had not sunk in before. “Are all here sorcerers?”
“We are,” she said. “We defend Dharbek.”
“Dharbek?” His face expressed incomprehension.
“You’ve much to learn,” she told him. “Be patient. We must all of us be patient.”
His smile grew cynical then, and he shook his chains. “I’ve little choice, eh?”
Rwyan said, “No. Not yet, at least.”
It was again full council and, save Tezdal was not this time present, as heated as before.
Gwyllym spoke: “In the God’s name, we argue around and around like a dog chasing its own tail-getting nowhere. He hides nothing. He’s nothing to hide! How much proof do you need?”
Demaeter said, “More. Enough we can be sure that sending him to Durbrecht shall not be sending a viper to the land’s heart.”
“I think he’s hardly a viper,” Gynael said, her hoarse voice become a rasping croak from the lengthy debate. “He seems to me more like a man lost, adrift from both his homeland and his own past.”
“Save he be a Kho’rabi wizard,” said Cyraene. “And conceals his power.”
“There’s no magic in him.” Marthyn’s voice was edged with irritation. “On that I’d stake my life.”
“Perhaps you do,” said Alrys.
“May the God grant me patience.” Marthyn shook his head, adding in what was not quite a whisper, “I need it, dealing with fools.”
“I’d not deem it foolish to be wary.” Alrys chose to ignore the slur. “Do we err, then better it be on the side of caution.”
“Do we take your cautious path,” Marthyn returned, “then he’ll live out his life on this island.”
“Save he be executed,” Cyraene said.
“No.” Demaeter shook his head. “On that at least we’re agreed-to execute him now should be akin to murder.”
“Unless he is a wizard,” Cyraene muttered.
“In which case,” said Gynael wearily, “he’s a wizard so accomplished as to defeat all our investigations. In which case, he’s likely more dangerous here than on the mainland. In which case, it must surely be safer to send him to Durbrecht.”
Maethyrene lent her support: “We can learn nothing more here.”
“No; on that, at least, we seem in accord.” Gwyllym rose to address the assembly. His sheer bulk commanded attention: Rwyan hoped it should command agreement. “Does he remain here, it shall be as a man without a past. What shall he be, then? A servant? We’ve never had servants; we’ve no Changed to fetch and carry for us. Shall we make a menial of him?”
Cyraene muttered, “It should be fitting,” and Alrys chuckled, nodding agreement.
Rwyan said, “Was it not that first made the Ahn our enemy? Shall we repeat that mistake?”
Faces turned in shock toward her, outrage writ there. That she questioned was, their eyes said, grossest assumption. She was grateful for Gwyllym’s calm smile.
“There’s truth in that,” he said, voice raised over angry muttering, “but I’d not now debate our past. Save I say we should not forgo our ancient customs. I’d not see him made a servant any more than I’d have Changed on the Sentinels. Can we agree on that?”
There was a murmur of acceptance, a ducking of heads; reluctantly from Cyraene, Alrys.
Gwyllym waited until he had silence again. Then: “So, here he’s useless to us-as has been said, another mouth to feed. We cannot restore his memory, and without that he’s nothing. In Durbrecht, however …”He paused, gray eyes moving slowly from face to face. “In Durbrecht is the College of the Mnemonikos, whose talent is remembering; who understand memory better than we and possess such techniques as might restore his. I say we send him there.”
“And our own College,” Gynael said, forestalling Demaeter’s protest, “which can surely deal with one forgetful Kho’rabi; wizard, or no.”
“And on the way?” the plump sorcerer demanded. “What of that?”
There was a pause. Into it, Rwyan dared speak again. “I’ve spent more time with him than any of you, and I tell you he’s no threat. He deems us saviors, himself indebted.”
“Perhaps,” said Cyraene, her voice smooth, venom in the words, “you’ve grown too close. Did you not once disgrace yourself with a Rememberer?”
Rwyan felt a chill at that reminder; instantly replaced with anger’s heat. “I loved a man, aye,” she said. It was an effort to hold her voice calm: she had sooner slapped the woman. “And when I was bade come here, I left him. I know my duty.”
“And have you found another man?” Cyraene asked with malevolent mildness. “One no more suitable?”
“I’ve not,” Rwyan answered curtly; and could not resist adding, “neither do I cull the newcome for lovers.”
The older woman’s face paled with affront, but as her mouth opened to vent reply, Gwyllym said, “Enough! Shall we squabble like spiteful children, or speak as adults?”
Rwyan said, “I’m sorry.” Cyraene shrugged, arranging her gown.
Demaeter said, “I ask again-what of the journey to Durbrecht? How can we know him secure along the way?”
“Deliver him from keep to keep,” suggested Jhone. “Let the commur-mages take him, with a squadron from each warband.”
“Slow,” said Alrys.
“And,” said Gynael, “unlikely to be much welcomed by the aeldors. Are our fears realized and the Great Coming begun, the keeps shall need their sorcerers and their soldiers.”
Gwyllym ducked his head. “That’s true,” he said. “A boat should be simpler and swifter. But first-are we agreed that he goes to Durbrecht?”
Again a pause, a murmuring as individual discussions were voiced; finally a nodding, a rumble of consent.
“So be it.” Gwyllym turned slowly, eliciting agreement from each of them. “He goes to Durbrecht. Now let us debate the how of it.”
Maethyrene said, “A supply ship?”
“When shall the next come?” Alrys demanded. “Most are commandeered to supply the holdings.”