“And be refused,” said Demaeter. “Or wait the God knows how long.”
“Send to Carsbry then,” Jhone offered. “Let Pyrrin divert a boat or send one of his own galleys.”
“Has he one to send,” said Gwyllym thoughtfully. “And there’s another thing-I’d see Tezdal delivered whole, alive. Think you a galley out of Carsbry, with warriors on board, should treat a captive Sky Lord kindly? Remember, both Pyrrin’s sons were slain.”
“They’d more likely slay him,” said Cyraene. Rwyan thought she concealed her pleasure at the notion.
“We could protect him,” Maethyrene said. “Send our own escort.”
Cyraene’s protest was genuine: “We’ve a duty here! We dare not weaken our defenses.”
“Then it would seem we reach impasse.” Demaeter folded chubby hands across his belly. “For I’ll not agree to sending him anywhere save he’s warded by magic.”
Gwyllym frowned, nodding acceptance. Rwyan said, “Perhaps there is another way.”
Again, their faces turned toward her, some still hostile, others curious. Gwyllym motioned that she explain, and she said, “I think that the warbands would likely slay him, perhaps even some keep sorcerers. I’d suggest he go clandestine-that we advise only Durbrecht of his coming and none others. We might send one of our own boats to Carsbry and find some ship going north from there.”
“Not without he’s warded,” said Demaeter obstinately. “And as Cyraene points out, we cannot spare guards for such a journey.”
“We might,” Cyraene said, her eyes sparkling as they fixed on Rwyan, “send one. Perhaps one powerful enough to hold the Kho’rabi in check, but not so great as to weaken the island’s magic.”
Demaeter nodded, Alrys voiced agreement; others joined them.
Rwyan saw a trap set and sprung: she was not sure she minded. She said, “I’d go, be it your wish.”
Jhone said warningly, “It would be no easy journey, child.”
“Yet we’re agreed it must be done,” said Cyraene.
Rwyan found Gwyllym studying her speculatively. She said, “I swear Tezdal is no threat. I trust him.”
“With your life?” asked Gynael.
“With my life,” answered Rwyan.
Cyraene smiled feigned friendship and said, “I say we accept Rwyan’s proposal.”
Gwyllym asked, “Are you sure?” And when Rwyan ducked her head, “Let us vote on it.”
It was soon cast. Some there were glad enough to see themselves rid of the Kho’rabi, some of Rwyan; her friends voted honestly, in favor of what seemed to them the best proposal. It was decided she should go with Tezdal to Carsbry, claiming herself a mage returning from a sojourn on the island. She would ask of the aeldor Pyrrin that he arrange passage north for them, to Durbrecht if that were possible, if not, then to some other keep closer to the Treppanek, where she might find another ship. She would be given coin enough to facilitate the journey; they wished her the God’s speed.
There was only a single point of dissent: Demaeter would send Tezdal out in chains. Rwyan had not known she commanded such eloquence as she argued that.
How, she demanded, might such bonds be explained? They should look most odd, no? Was Tezdal a prisoner, then surely he would be delivered to the aeldor. And what manner of prisoner would come from the Sentinels, save a Sky Lord? Which announcement they were surely agreed was not to be bruited abroad for fear Tezdal be slain out of hand.
No, she told the fat sorcerer with a firmness she had not known she possessed, was this subterfuge to work, then all must appear normal. There could be no chains.
And should he regain his full memory and turn on her?
He would not, of that she was certain; too, she was not without defenses. She had the talent, no? She could ward herself well enough against a single man, surely?
“I believe you can,” said Maethyrene. “But even so-do we agree he goes unfettered-you must still explain his presence. He cannot be your servant, for we’ve no servants here. What is he then? Why does he accompany you?”
There was a murmur of agreement, of doubt. Cyraene frowned as if disappointed. Rwyan thought a moment on the argument and smiled. “I am blind,” she said, “so let him be my eyes. A man hired off a supply ship to act as guide and servant. The God willing, that explanation should satisfy most folk.”
Demaeter voiced protest but the rest nodded approvingly, and once more it had been Gynael who set the seal on it.
“I am old and I grow weary,” she had said. “I’d eat, and find my bed. Rwyan’s the way of it, and wise for one so young. We’d send the Kho’rabi to Durbrecht, and it seems to me that save we do it as Rwyan suggests, he’ll likely be torn apart on suspicion alone. Be that the case, then we’ve wasted all our time, and I’ve not so much to waste. I say be done! These are perilous times, and they call for desperate measures. Is Rwyan confident, then let him go loosed as she suggests. I trust her.”
Gwyllym had lent his support, but the silver-haired woman had swayed the doubters, so that his vote was little more than a formality: it was finally agreed, the details settled. It was left to Rwyan to advise Tezdal.
She had not realized how nervous she had been until she quit the hall and walked out into the baking heat of the afternoon: it seemed cooler than that shadowed interior. She paused, opening hands she had not known she clenched, and saw the indentations her nails had left in her palms. Why do I care so much? she asked herself, and could offer no rational answer, save that she did and would not see Tezdal either slain or made a mindless servitor. Is it wrong? The God knows, he is a Sky Lord, and they are our enemy. Then: No! He was a Sky Lord; now he’s just a lost and lonely man and likely trusts no one but me. Is that reason enough?
She made her way toward his room-his cell-lost in thought, careless of those she passed, even when several called to her wanting to know the council’s decision. To them she gave vague answer, barely aware of what she said, absorbed in her musings.
Everything she had told the Adepts was true. She did trust Tezdal; she did not believe he would harm her. There was something about him, something in his demeanor, that told her he spoke honestly when he spoke of owing his life.
But do I betray him? she wondered as the path wound through a grove where goats and sheep ambled lazily about her. I take him from imprisonment here, but surely to another kind of jail, in Durbrecht. What shall they do with him there, the Mnemonikos and the sorcerers of the College? Shall he be chained again, fed and watered like some animal, his mind a toy to be dissected?
She “saw” the tiny cottage, the door locked, and paused, not yet quite ready to break her news; needing to be sure in her own mind that what she gave him was gift, not curse.
At least he’ll not be condemned to live out his life here. She gasped, recognizing the shape of her thought: its inherent significance. Condemned? Is that how I see this island, as a prison? I’d not spend my life here, only such time as the crystal allows, and yet … God! Have I hidden my feelings even from myself? Am I a traitor to my College, to my talent and my duty?
She felt her head spin and reached out to clutch a low-hung branch. The gnarled wood was rough beneath her hand, warm; she pressed her forehead against it a moment, her mouth dry.
Are my motives selfish? Do I seek my own freedom, Tezdal the key? Surely not-I had accepted my lot before he came. I was … resigned. At least, not unhappy. Or not very.
An ant ran busy over her hand, forerunner of a column, the insects’ passage relentless, her hand merely an obstacle to overcome. She “watched” them, thinking:
Like the Sky Lords. Amongst whose number I must not forget Tezdal was counted; if not now, then once. And like these ants, the Sky Lords are relentless, they intend to overcome my country. Then I do my duty in bringing him to Durbrecht, and at least along the way he shall enjoy a measure of freedom. Surely that must be for the best; surely.
She straightened, blowing softly to dislodge the ants still clinging to her skin, and went toward the cottage.
The lock was newly fixed-there was no need of locks here-and the key hung from a nail beside. She took it down and swung the door open. Tezdal sat on the single chair, a length of chain securing him to the bed.
As if he were some half-wild animal, not yet to be quite trusted. She smiled at him and said, “Day’s greetings, Tezdal.”
He rose. He always rises, she thought, noticing it for the first time. He is a genteel man.
He said, “Day’s greetings, Rwyan. Is my fate decided?”
Certainly his wits were sharp enough. She said, a little nervous now, “How do you know we spoke of you?”
He shrugged and said, “I’ve been left alone all day. Usually, you come; at least, someone. When none came since I was fed, I thought …”
She motioned that he sit. He ducked his head in approximation of a bow and went to the bed, waiting until she took the chair.