“Durbrecht?” He frowned. “You’ve spoken of Durbrecht. A great city, no? Where you were taught to use your magic.”
“My College is there.” She nodded. “But also the College of the Mnemonikos-the Rememberers.”
He smiled politely and asked her, “Why?” as if they spoke not of his future, of his fate, but of some jaunt.
“It’s our belief,” she answered, “that they might restore your memory.”
“I should welcome that.” His smile became a rueful grin. “At least, I think I should. I do not feel … whole … not knowing quite who I am; or what. Is it far?”
“Yes.” A lifetime far. “We must first cross to the mainland, then take a ship north.”
Tezdal grinned at that and rattled his chains. “Shall I wear these still?” he asked.
Rwyan shook her head. “No. They’ll be struck off.”
He said, “Good,” and his smile was broad.
He listened attentively as she outlined the journey and the part he must play; what had been decided in conclave.
When she was done, he said, “I am not a servant, Rwyan.” His expression was troubled; he seemed affronted at the notion of such subterfuge. “I do not know how I know this, but I do.”
Rwyan said gently, “As do I, but for your own sake you must pretend.”
“Why?” he asked, a moment obstinate.
“Because you are-because you were Kho’rabi,” she said. “A Sky Lord; enemy to Dharbek. There are those who’d kill you for that, on the mainland.”
“You’ve spoken somewhat of this,” he murmured. “Of these Sky Lords, the Kho’rabi. But if I was, I am not now. Can I be something I do not remember? Someone of whom I have no knowledge? I am not your enemy. Rwyan. Not yours, or your people’s.”
“I know that,” she said, “but on the mainland … Dharbek has suffered much; does now. This heat …” She gestured at the shuttered window. “That is the Sky Lords’ doing.”
“Their magic must be strong,” he said.
“It is,” she said.
“And they are your enemy?”
She nodded.
“Then they are mine. My life is yours, Rwyan; it has been since you took me off that rock.”
“Folk on the mainland will not know that,” she said. “Do they even suspect you were Kho’rabi, they would slay you. That’s why you must pretend. Only play the part of servant until you are come safe to Durbrecht.”
She “watched” him as he thought it through. By the God, he looks like Daviot when he sits thus, pondering.
An errant thought then: Daviot. Might it be I shall find him again, along the way? Or in Durbrecht?
“You look sad, Rwyan.”
Tezdal’s voice startled her back to full attention. She smiled and said, “I thought of someone from long ago. You remind me of him.”
He nodded gravely and asked her, “Did you love him, that his memory makes you look so sad?”
And that, she thought, is exactly like Daviot: to strike directly to the heart of a thing. She ducked her head and said, “Yes, I did.”
“Then,” he said, “why are you apart?”
“We’d different talents.” She shrugged, not much wanting to pick at those old wounds. “Mine was for sorcery; his for memory. I was sent here; he’s a Rememberer.”
“Shall he be in this Durbrecht?” he asked.
“I think not,” she said. “I think he likely wanders Dharbek now, as a Storyman.”
“What’s that?” he asked. “A Storyman?”
Rwyan told him, and when she was done, he said, “Then perhaps you’ll meet him along the way.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled, denying herself the brief flare of hope his words kindled. Then caught the import of what he said: “You accept? That you must act the servant?”
“Do you wish it?”
She was not quite sure whether he asked her or made a statement. She said, “It’s needful.”
“Be it your wish then.” He stood, executing a cursory bow. “Then so be it.”
“Thank you,” she said.
The Feast of Daeran was past before I sighted Carsbry, my belly grumbling its anticipation of Pyrrin’s hospitality. Betwixt this keep and Cambar, the land was ravaged, famine a growing threat, disease stirring. This should have been a season of growth, of plenty; it was, instead, a time of hardship. I went often hungry: I thought I should rest awhile in Carsbry and fatten myself a little before continuing up the coast.
The hold was a pretty sight in the midmorning sun, despite the arid fields, and I paused by a stand of black pine, studying the place. It sprawled around a gentle bay, the houses spreading in twinned arcs from the centerpiece of the keep, that standing watchful over the harbor and the inland road alike. Moles extended out into the placid waters of the Fend, ensuring safe anchorage for sea-borne traffic, and I saw galleasses moored there, and galleys, warlike amongst the smaller fishing craft. It still seemed odd there was no wind. I nudged my mare and set her to the road.
No less odd than the absence of a breeze was the listless attitude of the folk I encountered. I should by now have become accustomed to that apathy, but still it struck me as strange that the arrival of a Storyman should elicit so little excitement. I thought the implacable heat drained more than physical energy; it seemed to rob the people of that animating vitality that had always carried us defiant through hardship.
I halted at the keep’s gate, announcing myself to the soldiers lounging there. They wore no armor but only breeks and plain shirts draped with Carsbry’s plaid. For all they still wore swords, I thought them ill prepared against attack should the Sky Lords come. My name taken with no great display of interest, the pyke commanding waved me carelessly by and I heeled my mare across the sun-hot cobbles of the yard. Pyrrin’s banners hung limp from the tower, which appeared so far the condition of his holding. When I looked to the walls, I was encouraged to see a trio of the war-engines standing ready, with missiles piled beside-presumably not all here was lassitude.
I found the stables and rubbed down the mare, saw her watered and fed, the Changed ostlers warned of her temper, and made my way to the hall.
Pyrrin sat dicing with his warband. He was a man at the midpoint of his life, no longer youthful, but not yet given up to age. I judged him some ten years or more my senior and likely overfond of his food and ale. Fat began to overlay his muscle, and his pale brown hair was thinning. I thought his features spoke of indulgence, though his manner was amiable enough. He greeted me kindly, calling that ale be served me, and introduced me around.
His wife-the lady Allenore-greeted me from where she sat sewing with her women. She was as like her husband they might have been sister and brother, save her hair was thick, albeit weighted with sweat. The commur-magus was an elderly fellow, Varius by name. He was portly and disfigured by a dreadful burn that marred the left side of his otherwise cheerful face. He told me later that Kho’rabi magic had left its mark, and from others I learned that despite his years and girth, he was a formidable fighter. The jennym was a lean, hard-looking fellow named Robyrt. He alone amongst the commanders wore leathers and seemed ready to fight.
We drank and traded news. I had little enough: what change I had observed along my road was for the worse. They seemed not much concerned by Taerl’s succession or Jareth’s regency, or were loath to air their views in my presence. They told me there had been, some weeks ago, an expedition of the Sky Lords come against the Sentinels. Not, they hastened to advise me, the great airboats, but a horde of the little craft. All save a handful had been destroyed, and those few Kho’rabi who had reached the shore were all slain. Of greater and more recent interest was the arrival of a sorcerer in Carsbry, bound for Durbrecht with a servant in tow. She awaited, they said, the departure of a trading galley which should leave on the morrow.
I was immediately intrigued. “A servant?” I asked. “I thought there were no Changed on the Sentinels.”
“Nor are there,” said Varius, “and nor’s he.”