I recognized Geran’s voice. There was a murmur of assent, and a Changed with an equine look about his long face stepped down from the benches. He was in his middle years, his hair a dull brown. He wore a robe that trailed the floor, dark green chased with silver patterning. Like the female who had delivered us here, he wore a golden circlet about his brow. I noticed that his hands were spatulate as he raised them to Rwyan’s neck.
He sprang the lock and slipped the silver links from her throat. She sighed as if a weight were lifted from her and turned her head from side to side. I saw her talent fill her eyes and smiled.
She said, “I can see again.” Her voice was joyful.
The horse-faced man pocketed the necklace and trod a pace backward. “We’d not inflict needless hurt,” he said.
From the benches someone said, “That’s the province of Truemen.”
“Not all.”
I recognized that voice! I squinted into the light, seeking Urt.
I found him on the seventh tier. He seemed unchanged. Perhaps smaller, or I had grown since Durbrecht, but not at all aged. He gave me a small smile, but on his face I read concern. He ducked his head a fraction, acknowledging me, and made a gesture difficult of interpretation. I thought perhaps he warned me to tread wary.
The spokesman said, “We’d not keep you blind, mage. But know this-your talent is limited here, bound by our magic. It is a small thing, but do you attempt to use it against any Changed or any guest, then what follows shall make your blindness seem a pleasure.”
Rwyan nodded. She stared directly at the seated figures. (Once more gifted with occult vision, she could see them better than I.) She said, “Why am I here?”
A new voice said, “Because we’d have you here.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“You presume!” The speaker was clearly angered. “Ours to ask, yours but to answer.”
“And do I choose not?”
I saw a figure rise, limned in sunlight, indistinct. I thought it was a female. One arm flung out, and I heard Urt cry, “No!”
I sprang before Rwyan. Tezdal was at my side, both our bodies interposed between Rwyan and the standing figure. I thought we should be struck down. I was certain this Changed-perhaps all those present-commanded magic.
Urt said, “Do we condemn Truemen and ourselves use their ways? Shall we rise bellicose against every little argument?”
“What other language do Truemen understand?”
“Some, kindness. Some seek to redress wrong. Not all are evil.”
“Not this one? This mage? One of those who made us and make us their servants?”
Rwyan said, “There are no servants on the Sentinels.”
“But enough in Dharbek,” came the response. “I tell you again-finally!-that you’ll answer, not ask.”
“You command like a Trueman born, Allanyn.”
Urt’s words were dry. I’d heard that tone before, used on Cleton, sometimes on Ardyon. Almost, I smiled. The one called Allanyn, however, found it not at all amusing. Her angry shriek was entirely female, and feline. I saw her arm drop as she rounded on my old friend. And friend still, I dared hope.
She said, “You insult me, Urt. Newcome to the Raethe, do you assume to slight me?”
The spokesman said, “Newcome or old, Allanyn, all have equal place here.”
“I’ll not be called a Trueman!” Allanyn snarled.
Mildly, Urt said, “I’d never name you that.”
Was it an apology, it sounded mightily like an insult. Allanyn appeared confused, unsure whether to take affront or allow appeasement. She remained on her feet, staring past her fellows at Urt as if she contemplated turning the full force of her rage on him.
Geran said, “Allanyn, do you sit? Better that we reach agreement before we resort to threat.”
I liked the sound of that not at all.
Rwyan pushed between Tezdal and me then. She seemed undeterred by Allanyn’s rage or any threat of reprisal. I clutched her arm and said urgently, “No! Rwyan, hold your tongue.”
Allanyn said, “Your lover gives sound advice, mage.”
I thought to deflect her anger. I said, “I’d know why we’re here no less than Rwyan.”
Allanyn said, “These Truemen are presumptuous.”
I shrugged and said, “We were kidnapped, brought prisoner here. Is it so odd we’d know the why of it?”
One of them chuckled and said, “That seems reasonable enough.”
Allanyn spat, for all the world like her forebears thwarted in some savage design.
Urt said, “Reason is usually the sounder course. From my own experience in Dharbek, I tell you that kindness brings a surer result than the lash.”
There was murmur of voices then. Some I thought in agreement, others opposed. I thought there were factions here, and that Urt sought to defend us. I hoped he should prevail.
The debate died away. Geran stood, his back to we three as he studied his fellows. One by one, they either nodded or shook their heads. I could not see clearly enough I might make out which faction won. The spokesman told me.
“You, Daviot, are here by accident, though I suspect we shall find a use for your Storyman’s talent. The mage because we’d glean knowledge of her magic-”
Rwyan interrupted him, defiant. “I’ll give you nothing!” she cried. “I’ll not betray Dharbek!”
As if she’d not spoken, the Changed continued, “The Sky Lord Tezdal, we’d return to his own.”
Rwyan said, “There is alliance!”
Geran ducked his head. “We treat with the Sky Lords, aye. Should we rather allow our brethren to continue under the Trueman’s yoke? Must we go to war to free them, then war it shall be.”
“And how many die?” Rwyan asked. “Changed and Truemen both. And Sky Lords.”
“Reason?” Allanyn’s voice rang contemptuous. “There’s no reasoning with this one.”
I said, “Tezdal’s no memory.”