Lords of the Sky

Some little hope there. Urt said, “We are not those meek Changed you know in Dharbek. We’ve power here, and I’d show it you. Do you witness our strength, and then decide.”

Rwyan said, “My decision was taken long ago, when I took those vows my College requires.”

I must admire her courage. At the same time I was possessed of a great desire to shake her violently, to clap a hand over her mouth and agree on her behalf. She appeared bent on destroying herself. The thought of my lovely Rwyan reduced to a mindless husk (I had absolutely no doubt Urt spoke true in that) set a cold and sour knot in my gut.

I heard Allanyn mutter, “Time wastes.”

Urt said, “Do you watch us restore the Lord Tezdal his memory and know our power. After, you may agree to what we ask and remain whole; or-”

“I’ll take her for a servant,” Allanyn said, the sally met with laughter from her supporters.

I could hold silent no longer. I turned to Rwyan and said, “Rwyan, for the God’s sake-for my sake!-agree to this at least.”

She faced me with an unfathomable expression. “Would you ask me to betray myself?” she demanded.

I was caught, my choice betwixt net and hook. I’d have her live, whole. But did I seek to persuade her to forswear her duty, I knew I should lose her. I groaned and shook my head. “Not that,” I said. “But the time’s not yet come for that. I say only that you agree to what Urt suggests-observe their power, and after decide.”

She held my troubled gaze awhile, then calmly she turned to the assembly: “So be it. Do you show me what you can do.”

Surely it took them aback, for none spoke awhile, not even fierce Allanyn. And then Geran said, “Very well. Let us prepare.”

They came down from their tiered benches then, all of them, gathering about us, and Geran said, “This shall take some little while. Do you go with these,” and we were surrounded by Changed wearing the golden circlets on their brows.

Tezdal made to leave with us, but the spokesman touched his arm and said, “Lord Tezdal, do you wait here. Your companions shall not be harmed.”

Tezdal shook his head, protesting. He pulled loose of Geran’s hand and moved toward us. The spokesman gestured, and Changed stepped close as if by accident but nonetheless blocking Tezdal’s way. I thought the Sky Lord would fight them, but Rwyan called out, “Tezdal, do you obey. There’s no harm shall come us yet,” and he frowned, hesitating. Rwyan called again, and he nodded. He seemed bewildered but made no further move to join us.

The movement of the throng hid him, and Geran nodded approvingly. “That was sensibly done, lady. You show wisdom.” He touched the band around his temples and said, “This signifies the talent. All those who wear these circlets command the gift of magic.”

He spoke mildly, but I recognized the warning. I was thankful Rwyan acknowledged it: she said, “I’ll not attempt to use my own power.”

Geran smiled as if he admired her audacity. “Then do you go, and when all is ready, you’ll be sent for.”

A tall, thin-faced Changed touched my elbow, indicating that I follow him. There were seven of the gifted attended us, and as they herded us away, I caught a glimpse of Urt through the crowd. He met my stare with a bland expression that told me nothing. I saw that he did not wear a circlet.

Folk made way for us as we were led from the audience chamber, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and hostility. On some faces I thought I saw pity. On one I saw unhidden hatred, and for all I’d not seen her clearly until now, I knew this was Allanyn. And that she was an implacable enemy.

She was tall and slender, and had it not been for the malign fire burning in her ocher eyes, I’d have thought her beautiful. Her hair was russet, falling loose about a narrow face dominated by those huge, fierce eyes. Her lips were narrow and mobile, curving in a smile as she studied me. She was undoubtedly feline: she had that sinuous grace, that predatory languor. The yellow gown she wore hid it no better than her smile hid her animosity. I’d not have been surprised had she extended claws. She wore a golden band about her brow.

Lightly, as if she were not at all afraid, Rwyan said, “That one bears us little love, I think.”

“Best ward your tongue, lady.” The thin-faced Changed spoke soft, and not without a hint of sympathy. “Allanyn’s one of our strongest, and she bears no love at all for Truemen.”

Rwyan nodded as if this were a tidbit of knowledge not unsuspected and gave the fellow a cheery smile. “My thanks for the warning,” she murmured. “But does Allanyn govern here or all the Raethe?”

“All have a voice,” said the Changed, his tone low enough that only we might hear, “but Allanyn’s is very loud.”

“Indeed,” said Rwyan, and laughed.

I was uncertain whether she was genuine in her apparent lack of concern, or only put on a brave face. For my own part, I’ll admit I was mightily nervous. I felt little doubt but that Tezdal’s memory should be restored him, nor any more that such demonstration of power should fail to persuade Rwyan. I knew with an awful certainty that she would refuse to give up her secrets willingly but rather fight the Changed to the end. I found her hand and forced a smile I knew was hollow.

We were marched along a windowless corridor that should have been dark but was not. Instead it glowed with a pale radiance that seemed to emanate from the surrounding stone itself. I had not seen its like, but Rwyan smiled as if such a marvel were familiar. Her expression suggested some private confirmation, but when I frowned a question, she only shook her head, indicating I remain silent.

I obeyed: it seemed she was in command now. I marveled that she could be so calm when all I felt was mounting trepidation.

We came to a door that appeared cut from a single slab of stone, and a Changed pushed it open, gesturing that we enter. The door closed behind us, and I looked about.

We stood in a square chamber that was neither quite a cell nor such a room as should be offered guests. Walls and floor and ceiling were all of the same white stone, unadorned. Light came from a single window, falling bright over two chairs of black wood that were the only furnishings. No latch or handle marred the pristine surface of the door, and when I tried to shift it, it remained resolutely sealed.

Rwyan said, “That shall do no good, Daviot. We can only wait.”

I grunted, crossing to the window. The rectangular opening was glassed, without hinges or shutters. I wondered how air might enter, and if we were left here to suffocate. Anger stirred, tainted with panic, and I struck the glass. That only hurt my fist.

Rwyan set a hand on my shoulder and said, “You’ll not break it, my love. We’re prisoners here until they choose to release us.”

I asked, “Your magic?”

And she shook her head. “I’m helpless here. Do you not sense it?”

It was my turn to shake my head. She gestured at the walls. “Magic surrounds us; I feel it on my skin, like a storm building. This place is mortared with crystals that leach my power.”

“But you can see,” I said.

“That little they allow,” she told me, “and no more. They’ve far greater command than I suspected.”

“Then why,” I asked, “are they not destroyed, made mad?”

She shrugged and said, “We’ve spoken of this before, no? These wild Changed are-different…. And mad? Do you believe Allanyn is sane?”

I thought of the rank hate I’d seen in those ocher eyes and shook my head again. Rwyan’s hand descended to fall around my waist. She rested her head on my shoulder. She said, “Do you heed your own advice and be patient. I’d know the fuller measure of their power and of their intentions, before … I decide what I must do. I cannot give them what they ask, not willing.”

Something in her tone chilled me, deep in the marrow of my bones. I thought she must fear that terrible decision, that for her was no decision at all. I turned to face her, my hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length that I might see her clear. I said, “Do you refuse, they’ll take it, and-” I sighed and drew her close, my face buried in her hair.

She said, calm against my chest, “And leave me mindless. I’d not have that.”

I said, “Nor I!”

She moved within my arms, leaning back a little that she might “look” directly at my face. “And surrounded by this power, my own is as nothing. I’ll not be able to match them-neither defy them nor fight them.”

I said, “Then you can only submit.”

“No!” Her hands moved upward to cup my cheeks, to hold steady my head that I look into her eyes. I saw her resolve and felt fear. She said, “But you …”

I said, “Me? What power have I?”

She said, “That given you by your College.”

I choked out a sour laugh. “The power of a Storyman? Shall I recite them a tale to change their minds, then?”

“Not that.” Her eyes held mine transfixed. “But one of those other skills taught you in Durbrecht.”

I did not want to hear what I feared she’d ask: I could not refuse. “Rwyan, don’t ask this of me.”

She said, “I must; and you must agree.”

I groaned. I thought I should choke on the constriction that filled my throat. Or empty my belly over this cursed white magic floor.

As if from far away yet very clear, I heard Rwyan say, “They’ll not watch you so close. You wear that talisman that marks you as their friend. And you’ve the skill.”

I shook my head and mumbled, “No.”

She said, “You’d rather see my mind drained? Left empty, like some discarded bowl of bone?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head and said through gritted teeth, “No.”

She said, “Then does worse come to worst, you must kill me

I opened my eyes and stood a moment blind, stunned and silent. There was a ghastly logic in what she asked, and damnation did I either refuse or agree. I said, “I cannot.”

She said fierce, “You must! Do they use their crystals on me, I shall betray Dharbek, betray what I am. I’ll not go willing to that; neither would I be mindless. Sooner dead!”

I blinked, my cheeks wet. It seemed the room spun. I felt Rwyan’s hands upon my cheeks, and it seemed they burned me. I loved her. I could only admire her courage. And hate her determination. I said again, “I cannot. Rwyan, don’t ask this of me.”

She said, “I must. I’ve no one else.”

That, I could not argue. I had anyway no arguments left; neither hope. I saw only despair ahead. Silently I cursed Ayl for his kidnap. The sorcerers who’d sent Rwyan out with Tezdal, myself; even Rwyan, that she should ask this dreadful duty of me.

Rwyan said, “One blow, Daviot my love. Only that.”

I groaned, shaking my head.

She said, “Do you love me, you cannot refuse.”

I said, “No.” I did not know whether I confirmed her words or denied them.

She said, “It were better I die than live mindless. Better I die than betray Dharbek.”

I said, “It were better you live whole.”

She nodded gravely. How could she be so calm? She said, “Aye, and if I can, I shall. But if that’s not to be, I ask this boon of you.”

I said, “I’d give my life willing for yours, Rwyan. But this? I doubt I could strike that blow.”

Urgent, she said, “You must, be it needed. You will, do you love me.”

It was hard to meet the implacable gaze of those great green eyes. They bored into me, alight with determination. Under my hands her bones seemed suddenly fragile. I saw the slender column of her neck and knew that I might snap it with a blow; might drive a fist against her face to send fragmented shards of bone into her skull. Keran had taught me well. I felt my breath come short, in gasps that seared my throat. It was as though a hand clamped hard about my heart. Blood pounded in my head, drumming loud in my ears. I thought my tears must flow sanguine. I burned and was chill, together. Had I not loved her so well, I’d have hated her for the imposition of this awful burden. Had I not loved her so strong, I’d have refused her.

I said hoarse and hollow, the words torn slowly out, “Do you truly ask it, then so be it.”

She said, “I do truly ask it.”

I said, “But not yet. Not now.”

She said, “No. Not whilst hope exists. But does the time come.”

I said, “Then I’ll do it.”

She drew my head down, and kissed me gently, and whispered, “My brave, strong Daviot. My love.”

Brave? I was a coward then. I asked the God I’d cursed and doubted that this burden be taken from me. That he work one of those miracles the Church promises, to take us both from this place, safe and together. Almost, I asked that I might die first. But not quite, for that should have been betrayal, and Rwyan taught me momentarily to be strong. Had she the strength to ask this of me, should I be so weak as to fail her? Almost. Oh, almost. But not quite. It was as if I drew strength from her; as if that pure purpose that invested her being bled into me. I held her close and kissed her fierce. Both our mouths were wet with tears.

When we at last drew apart, I said, “I cannot vouch for Urt’s loyalty, but did you not think the Raethe stood divided as to our fate?” I felt not much conviction. I thought that if factions did exist within the Council, then it was as likely Urt argued simply to thwart Allanyn as to aid us. That what we’d witnessed was some internecine struggle for power. I found it hard then to believe he was still my good true friend; but still I said, “Be that so, then perhaps he’s some plan to save us.”

Rwyan said, “To save us? Think you he’d betray his own kind?”

“Perhaps not that,” I answered. “But perhaps there’s some way he might save us without betraying the Changed.”

I wanted to believe. At the same time, I feared such hope-did I grasp it as my heart dictated, I thought I should lose that resolve Rwyan gave me. I feared I should succumb to hope and delay my blow until it was too late and thus betray my love. I dared not hope; I could not say that to Rwyan. So instead I said, “I pray it be so.”

When the sun was some time passed overhead and shadows lengthened outside, we were summoned.

Four gifted Changed escorted us through curving corridors lit by magic to a blank door. They halted there, and though none knocked or called out, the door swung open. We went through, descending a flight of wide stairs to the bowels of the hall, where an arch opened onto a large, circular chamber.

This was lit by that same occult radiance, and I stared about, wide-eyed with wonder.

Not least at sight of Tezdal.

I had seen him only in the plain garb of Dharbek or that simple gear Ayl had given us. Neither had I seen a Sky Lord undressed of all his armor. Now this man I named my friend stood before me in the clothing of his Ahn homeland.

His hair was oiled and dressed, drawn back tight from his swarthy face to fall in a long tail behind. He wore a shirt of what I took to be black silk, a crimson sash about his waist, a long dagger sheathed there in a silver scabbard. Sable breeks belled over calf-high boots of soft crimson hide, and over all this he wore a sleeveless crimson robe that descended to his ankles, all sewn with glyphs of rainbow threads that flickered and shone in the light. Lord Tezdal, the Changed had named him, and he looked the lord now, save that his face wore an expression of confusion and some embarrassment as he greeted us.

No less grand were the Sky Lords standing close.

Better than a score of them there were, and all garbed in similar magnificence. I saw that all their shirts and breeks and boots were of the same black and crimson hues, but each robe was a different color, with different symbols. They studied us with cold curiosity. Two fingered daggers, as if they’d as soon draw the blades and slay us as leave us witnesses to the ceremony. When Tezdal greeted us as friends, they favored him with disapproving glances.

I looked for Urt and found Allanyn instead. Her eyes sparkled with malice, and I thought that did the Sky Lords attack, she’d not attempt to stay them; rather aid them. She stood with others of the gifted Changed. Beside the Sky Lords, their homely garb was drab, their brightest colors those circlets they wore in evidence of their talent.

I looked about the chamber and felt an unnamable power. I felt my skin prickled, like tiny nails scraping. My mouth was dry. Overhead the vault curved, only the floor flat, all white. Toward its center stood a ring of slim white columns, natural as stalagmites, save for their uniformity. Each rose an arm’s length from its neighbor, and atop each column rested a crystal, larger mates to the stone Rwyan had worn. They pulsed as if invested with arcane life, shimmering a spectrum of pale colors. I thought of those jellyfish that drift shining in the ocean and poison whatever comes within the aegis of their filaments. At the center of that circle stood a construction like a bier, draped with a golden cloth. I had never before set foot in any place of magic, but I should have known this for such a location, even had Rwyan not clutched my hand so that I felt her tremble, or seen the crystals.

Our escort moved to join their fellows, and from the group stepped Geran.

“We’d restore Lord Tezdal his memory,” he said. “Do you witness this and know our power. As you value your lives and his, do not interfere.”

I nodded. Rwyan said, “Are these all your crystals?”

“No.” Geran made a small negative movement of his head. “This valley is rich with them.”

Rwyan nodded as if a belief were confirmed and murmured, “I thought as much.”

“So do you stand here,” Geran said. “Silent.”

He turned away, devoid of any doubt but that we should obey. I caught Tezdal’s eye. I thought him none too happy. I smiled encouragement. No matter the situation, I counted him a friend; and thought it a dreadful thing to have no memory.

The Sky Lords grouped close around him, murmuring in their own language. They brought him to the bier, and he climbed onto the platform, stretching out with arms folded across his chest. They stood a moment there, intoning what I thought must be a prayer, then went to join the Changed sorcerers.

All found a place about the columns, all reaching out so that their fingers rested lightly on the crystals. The stones shone brighter with that contact. I felt Rwyan’s grip tighten and glanced sidelong at her face. Her expression frightened me, for it was one of longing and loathing combined. She shuddered, her lips drawn taut, as if she fought some private impulse. Her eyes shone, intent on the pulsing jewels. I loosed her hand and put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She was heated, as if a fever gripped her. I remembered all she’d told me of the crystals and thought they called her. I moved behind her, both my arms around her waist: I thought I might need hold her back. She moaned softly and clutched my wrists, pressing against me. In other circumstances I’d have found that contact erotic; here I felt only awe, and more than a little fear.

No word was spoken, but I sensed communion. Pale light, almost lost under the radiance of the walls, began to shroud each figure. It came from the crystals, flickering tentative at first over hands, climbing arms, flowing swifter, liquid over bodies until all were encompassed in that faint nimbus. Some strained rigid, others stood limp. Some heads flung back as if in ecstasy, others drooped, slack-jawed. I saw Allanyn’s eyes close, her wide mouth stretched in a smile. A thin trickle of saliva ran down her pointed chin. The light coming from the walls dimmed as the nimbus gained strength. I thought the crystals drew power from the sorcerers in equal measure to their call on the stones, A radiance that was all colors and none bathed the figures and flowed inward, over Tezdal. I saw him shudder, his body tensing. His eyes sprang wide, then closed. He made a sound that was part sigh and part cry, loud in the chamber’s silence. He relaxed, and the glow grew stronger still, until it hid him from my sight, shimmering like pale flame.

How long we stood watching this ceremony, I’ve no idea. Time had no meaning in this vault. It was as though the crystals imposed their own chronology, dismissing those measurements that we breathing, blooded creatures set to mark their own pace. I know only that the glow dimmed, then was gone, swift as snuffed candle’s flame, and it was as if I woke.

I felt Rwyan let go her hold on my wrists and lean against me with a sigh, as if she were exhausted. I exhaled a gusty breath, staring at the bier.

Tezdal lay still, only the slow rise and fall of his chest to announce he lived. Around him hung faint light. I was reminded of that shimmering that surrounded the Sky Lords’ vessels. I saw that from each crystal there extended a pale tendril of radiance. I looked to the sorcerers.

They came slowly from their task, the Kho’rabi wizards swifter than the Changed. Allanyn was the slowest. She seemed reluctant to leave go the stones she touched. When she did, it was with a shudder, her eyes glazed, focusing only gradually. She licked her lips and wiped a sleeve across the spittle decking her chin. When she saw me watching, her lips pursed a moment. I thought she’d speak, but all she did was smile and turn away. Still there was something triumphant in her look.

Geran came toward us. His long equine face was grave, his eyes somewhat dulled. I thought him wearied.

He said, “So it’s done. Or nearly.”

Rwyan straightened in my arms. “I see only Tezdal, sleeping,” she said.

The spokesman smiled. “Lady, you know great magic was practiced this day.”

She gave him back, “Magic, surely. Great magic? Of that I see no evidence.”

The horse-faced Changed shrugged. “What we’ve done here shall be clear enough in time. Lord Tezdal shall sleep awhile, but when he wakes, he’ll have back his memory.”

“And know himself a Sky Lord.” Allanyn approached us from the side, all her spiteful composure regained. “Know you for his enemies.”

Rwyan faced her with a calm visage. “Shall he have all his memories?” she asked. “All those since we found him?”

Her voice was mild, inquiring. It confused Allanyn, who frowned and made an impatient gesture.

Geran answered, “All, lady. Both those he lost and those he gained in your company.”

Rwyan nodded solemnly. “Then he’ll remember his sworn vow,” she said. “He’ll remember Daviot and I are his friends.”

Allanyn liked that not at all.

We were taken from the vault to another chamber. Not that sparse cell we’d occupied before, but a more spacious’ room, clearly intended for overnight occupation. It was furnished as would be the chamber of a good tavern: comfortably, with all necessary requisites; but of that same blank white stone, and without decoration. There was a window-again of sealed glass-and through it I saw night had fallen. There was a table set with food and wine. We found our appetites were returned.

Rwyan filled a goblet and drank thirstily before she spoke. I was somewhat dazed by what I’d witnessed, and now that we were alone again, I felt trepidation return.

I said, “Tezdal shall have back his memory?”

Rwyan nodded, her face thoughtful. It seemed she took that restoration for a sure conclusion. She said, “They’ve far greater power than I suspected.”

“They convince you?” I asked.

And then I must drink wine to assuage the dread her answer should give. My hand trembled as I raised the cup.

She said, “They do.”

I set the goblet down. The wine soured in my belly. I steeled myself, meeting her calm gaze. I must ask a question now for which I’d no taste.

I suppose my expression was clear enough, for Rwyan gave me a wan smile and shook her head and said, “Not yet, my love. We’ve time yet.”

I sighed and filled my cup again. A few drops fell to the table. They shone in the sourceless light.

Rwyan said, “I’d see Tezdal wake and know the fuller measure of their abilities. And I think they’ll not force me ere then.”

I nodded. “How long shall that be?”

She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Such magic is unknown in Dharbek.”

Had I been sure of the God’s existence, I’d have sung his praises then, for that small gift of time. No less, I’d have prayed that man I deemed my friend sleep on: I’d have betrayed him for Rwyan’s sake.

I said, “Think you he’ll truly honor his vow, are all his memories restored?”

“I believe he’ll try,” she answered. “But does he wake a Sky Lord reborn, he must surely find his loyalties divided.”

“And you,” I asked, “will not reconsider?”

The look she gave me was answer enough, words redundant. I felt ashamed: her resolve was so much stronger than my own.

She smiled at me then. “Have faith, Daviot. Until that moment comes, we’ve hope. I’ll not believe we’ve come so far only to die here.”

I forced a smile in answer. I saw no reason why Trebizar should not be that place the Pale Friend came for us. Our fate seemed to me only delayed, no more. I thought that did the magic of the Changed work its miracle on Tezdal or not, still that demand should be made of Rwyan; and she refuse. And then I must be bound by my promise, else I betray her and betray our love; and that I would not do. So I foresaw only that we had a little time; that too soon must come the moment I should strike her, and then-doubtless-be myself slain. That mattered nothing: without Rwyan, nothing mattered.

I heard her say, “Put off that glum face, my love. We’ve time yet, and hope.”

I stretched out my lips in facsimile of a smile and did my best to assume a cheerful manner that would match hers. “Yes,” I said, “and they feed us well.”

“And give us a most pleasant chamber, no?”

Her eyes moved sideways, in the direction of the bed.

I felt an urgency then: we had, I thought, so little time left us. I rose and went around the table. Rwyan rose to meet me, and we embraced, our kisses ardent. Of a sudden we were on the bed and not much slower naked. I was entirely unaware of the occult light dimming, for the moon’s glow took its place, silvery on her skin.

When the sun was risen a hand’s span above the walls, our door was opened and Urt stood there.

He said, “Day’s greetings, Daviot; Rwyan.”

She answered him in kind, calmly, as if his appearance afforded her no surprise. I hesitated, no longer sure whether I looked on a friend or an enemy. He wore a shirt of homespun linen that was not quite white, and plain brown breeks, soft boots: nothing much different to what I’d known him to wear about the College. There was nothing to mark his elevation; in Durbrecht he’d have passed as a servant Changed, unremarkable. I studied his face-clear now-and saw lines etched there that had not been present in Dharbek, In his eyes I saw-I was not sure-a graving, perhaps, of age. He seemed somehow older in more than mere years, weighted by knowledge and experience. I wondered what that had been, and what it was.

I said, “Day’s greetings, Urt,” cautiously.

He smiled-regretfully, I thought. “Doubtless you grow bored of confinement. Would you walk awhile in the garden?”

I asked, “Tezdal wakes?”

“Not yet.” He shook his head. “Perhaps the gifted must work their magic again. But meanwhile …” He gestured at the corridor beyond the open door.

Rwyan said, “It should be pleasant. Eh, Daviot?”

I shrugged and nodded; and we followed him out.

He was alone, which surprised me, and as we paced the corridor, I asked, “Are you not afraid, Urt? To be alone with us?”

He gave a little chuckle and met my stare. “Would you harm me then, Daviot?”

I said, “I’d slay any man who harms Rwyan.” And thought of Allanyn, and so added, “Or any woman,”

He said softly, “I offer you no harm.”

He spoke eompanionably enough, but I sensed a hesitancy. I sought to read his face, the language of his body, but without success. I wondered if he hid his feelings. My own were utterly confused. Was he still my friend? Or was he now committed to the strategies of the Changed? Did I walk with an ally or an enemy? I could not know, only follow.

We came to a door of plain wood, latched, and Urt thrust it open, waving us through.

Now we stood beneath the portico, the garden spread before us. The air was pleasantly fresh, neither possessed of summer’s heat nor cooled by autumn’s advancement, but poised on that enlivening axis between the two. I thought it should have been turned more decisive between the seasons, and then that this valley was, indeed, a place governed by magic. The sky was blue, decorated here and there with drifting billows of pristine cumulus. The absence of birds was strange. Urt beckoned us as he set out along a path that wound amongst hornbeams and hazels. In moments, the Council building was lost to sight. It was as if we strolled some wildwood.

In a while Urt halted by a pond surrounded by drooping willows and green alders, fed by a little stream. Without preamble he said, “I am commanded to speak with you; to convince you.”

Rwyan said, “You waste your breath, Urt.”

He said, “Lady, I know that; but still I’d speak with you. Shall you hear me out?”

His tone was urgent, and in his eyes I saw such a look as brought back memories of Durbrecht. I motioned that he continue; Rwyan ducked her head in agreement.

He said, “It cannot be long before Lord Tezdal wakes and you are forced to a decision.”

Rwyan said, “That’s already made.”

“Only hear me,” he asked. “Do you refuse the demands of the Raethe, you know the outcome.”

Rwyan said, “That was made plain enough.”

Urt hesitated a moment, staring at the pond. I saw the pebbled bottom, trout drifting there, stationary in the current as their pale eyes scanned the surface, awaiting insects. I envied them their simple lives. Urt faced us again, and in his eyes I saw only sincerity and concern. I wondered if he dissembled.

He said, “I told them as much, but I discharge my duty-I was ordered to speak with you of this, and that I’ve done. I can return with clear conscience.”

I said, “Then have we aught else to say?”

I put it curt and got back a look of rueful reproach. “Daviot, you’ve reason enough to doubt me, but I am your friend yet. I’d find some way around this that shall leave you both unharmed.”

I asked him bluntly, “Why?”

And he gave me back, “For Durbrecht. Because I’ve no liking for Allanyn’s ways; no lust for war.”

I began to speak-to scorn him, to accuse him of treachery-but Rwyan touched my arm and bade me hold silent. I obeyed.

He smiled his thanks. “Had Allanyn her way, you, Rwyan, should be already emptied by the crystals; and you, Daviot, slain.”

Rwyan said, “But you delayed that course.”

I asked again, “Why?”

“Aye.” Urt nodded briefly to Rwyan. To me he said, “For sake of our friendship; because I loathe her methods.”

I frowned and would have spoken, but Urt raised a hand to silence me. “We’ve not much time and much to say.” He smiled a crooked grin. “Nor am I altogether trusted-Allanyn may well send watchers ere long. So do you hear me out and after judge whether we be still friends, or no?”

Rwyan touched my hand, urging I agree: I nodded.

“There are two factions within the Raethe,” Urt continued, “of which Allanyn’s is the greater. Born here she was, and she’s filled with the power the crystals give. No Changed sorcerer was ever stronger than Allanyn, and too many fear her. I suspect she’s crazed, but still she’s the ear of the many who would take her path.”

“Which is?” asked Rwyan.

Urt said simply, “War. Allanyn and her followers would ally with the Sky Lords to destroy you Dhar Truemen, or make of you what you made of us-servants.”

“And the Sky Lords?” I asked. “Are they not Truemen? Shall they be only your allies and nothing more?”

He answered me, “The Sky Lords would take back Kellambek for their own, no more. They’ve dreamed of that for centuries-a holy quest to regain their homeland-and the agreement made is that they shall have Kellambek, we Changed the rest.”

“And you?” I asked him.

“I’d see my fellow Changed shed their bonds,” he said. “I’d see them equal to you Truemen. Was that not once your thought, Daviot?”

I looked into his dark eyes and could only nod. “But not through bloodshed,” I said. “Not by war.”

He said, “Perhaps there’s no other way. I think there are not many Truemen think as you do.”

I said slowly, “No. But even so … war? Do the Sky Lords mount the Great Coming, the Changed rise-Dharbek should run red, and Changed and Truemen bleed and die alike.”

Soberly, he said, “Yes. And so I’d find some other way-if there is another way. I and a few like me, who’ve little love for Allanyn’s path. Does Allanyn prevail, I think the world shall not be better; only turned on its head. Where Changed now are, there’d be Truemen. And no doubt they’d plot to overturn it all again. I think that way should be only bloodshed, unending.”

I said, “War should be a great undertaking, Urt. Could the Changed hope to win?”

“Allanyn believes we should,” he said, “and she’s command of our army. Does she have her way, the Sky Lords will attack across both the Fend and the Slammerkin. Do they overcome the Border Cities, then we Changed shall march south whilst our kin in Dharbek rise. The slaughter would be terrible, I think.”

I asked, “How should your kin know when to rise?”

He smiled. “You know we communicate?” And when I nodded: “There’s more to it than you suspect, Daviot; and you’re likely the only Trueman to have understood so much. I’ve not the time to explain it all now, but …”

He paused, hesitant again, looking a moment at the pool where the trout rose hungry. Then: “Do you trust me?”

It was a blunt question, demanding a blunt answer. I said, “I don’t know, Urt.”

Hurt showed in his eyes, but then he shrugged. “Why should you? Perhaps, though, I might convince you. I think I cannot now, with words, but perhaps with another way.”

I frowned, waiting. I scarce dared allow the little spark of hope his words kindled.

He said, “Tonight I’ll come to you with all the proof I can give; I can do no more.”

This puzzled me. “And am I convinced?” I asked. “What then?”

He laughed: a short, sad bark. “I know not. I can see no way to thwart Allanyn, to avoid war. Perhaps when you’ve all the knowledge I can give you … perhaps you’ll see some way.”

Rwyan said, “You speak for peace, Urt?”

He thought awhile, then ducked his head and said, “I’d free my kind, but not at cost of their lives. Neither do I believe all Truemen are evil. This world of ours must change, but I cannot believe Allanyn’s is the way. Even though I see no other.”

Rwyan surprised me then, for she asked what seemed to me a very strange question in these circumstances. She said, “Urt, do you dream?”

He looked no less startled than I. His eyes narrowed, framing a question of his own even as he nodded.

Rwyan said, “Of what?”

He paused before he answered, as if the recollection were not altogether pleasant. I thought he braced himself before he said, “Of dragons, sometimes; of riding the skies with those creatures. You and Daviot with me. I feel, sometimes, they call me. I see their eyes, as if they sat in judgment.”

Rwyan laughed and clapped her hands. “The pattern! By the God, it’s the same dream.”

Urt stared at her as if he thought her mad. Some lesser version of that doubt crossed my mind, too-I’d looked only to comfort her with those musings, not taken them so serious myself. But now … now I began to wonder. Slowly, I said, “We share that dream. I’ve known it, and Rwyan; Tezdal, too.”

“But there are no dragons left,” he said. It sounded somehow like a catechism. “I remember in Durbrecht, Daviot, that you spoke of them.”

“And was laughed at,” I said. “But even so, those dreams return, time and time again. And even when we were parted, Rwyan shared them; then Tezdal. Now you.”

His expression was blank, empty of understanding. “Do you explain?”

I said, “I cannot.”

Rwyan said, “I believe there’s a pattern, Urt. Some weaving of destiny joins us, perhaps sends us these dreams.”

“To what end?” he asked. Warily, I thought.

And now Rwyan must frown and shrug and tell him, “That I cannot say. But I feel it a good omen.”

Urt nodded without much conviction. Then his head turned, cocked in attitude of attention. Urgently, he said, “Are you questioned, say only that I sought to persuade you; naught of anything else.”

His hearing was far more acute than mine: he caught the approaching footsteps long before Allanyn stalked into the clearing. She wore a gown of emerald green that emphasized the feline grace of her movements. Her hair was gathered up, the golden band bright on her brow. Her eyes shone spiteful.

“So,” she demanded, “are they persuaded?”

“I put our case,” said Urt. “They consider it.”

Allanyn studied him a moment. Then, lazy as a cat toying with a trapped mouse, turned to us. For long moments she only eyed us, her lips parting to expose sharp white teeth.

“They consider it?” Her tone was mocking, oily with malice. I was uncertain whether her spite was meant for us or Urt. “They’ve not so much time they should dwell overlong on a matter foregone. Before this winter’s out our Sky Lord allies shall have all their ships and all their warriors in place. By summer’s advent-by Ennas Day-we’ll be ready-our battle shall commence then, Urt. In Dharbek, our people will rise; and from across the seas and over the Slammerkin will come the skyboats. Ere then, I’ll have this mage’s knowledge, willing or not.”

Her voice rose triumphant as the sentence ended; I felt Rwyan’s hand find mine. Brave, she said, “Not willing, Allanyn.”

The feline Changed smiled at that, horridly. Her eyes returned to Urt. “Perhaps the mage should be better persuaded by other methods. Perhaps we should put her lover to torture and let his pain deliver our arguments.”

Her tone was casual: I felt a chill. I was prepared to die, but I’d not thought to be tortured. I saw Urt frown his distaste and shake his head. In a voice so calm it was an insult, he said, “Would you soil us with such methods, Allanyn?”

Her ocher eyes blazed. She stiffened. She said, “I’d have those answers we require; and soon.”

“The Raethe has agreed,” he gave her back, “that they’ve until the Lord Tezdal wakes. Do you now assume to command us all?”

I thought she might fling her magic at him for that. I could not doubt but that these two were enemies. I watched as Allanyn spun round; striding back the way she’d come. Over her shoulder she hurled a parting sally heavy with threat: “Not yet, Urt. But when that day comes, beware.”

BY ENNAS Day! By summer’s beginning: it seemed to me time ran faster now. Those days on board the Sprite, the slow trek to Trebizar-they seemed an idyll, a leisurely journey for which we now paid the price. I thought it could not be long before Tezdal woke and I must strike that blow I dreaded. And after-Allanyn’s threat vivid in my memory-I thought I should likely face not clean death but slow torture. I saw no escape. How could there be? Even was Urt still truly a friend, still there seemed to me nothing he could do. He had admitted he saw no answers; neither had he suggested any means by which we might evade Allanyn’s wrath. Indeed, likely the wrath of all the Changed did we attempt escape. Which seemed to me impossible….

My thoughts ran around and around in circles….

The Sky Lords prepared the Great Coming…. The Changed prepared for war…. The fylie of the Kho’rabi should soon descend on Dharbek from both east and north…. The wild Changed go bellicose across the Slammerkin…. The Changed of Dharbek rise like some invisible army…. The land would run red.

I’d not be there to witness that carnage; nor Rwyan. I wondered if time’s clock might have run different had I spoken of what I’d seen that night when I saw Changed and Sky Lords together. I’d still no doubt but that pogrom should have ensued, but might that not have been the lesser abomination? Could my warning have changed history’s course? Had I delivered my country all unsuspecting to destruction?

I slumped morose in a chair as twilight fell over the gardens, my head all aspin with awful doubt. Rwyan spoke to me of hope, but I could find little place for such optimism. She spoke of the pattern, but I could see only the snapping of its threads here in Trebizar. I thought death should be welcome; sooner the Pale Friend’s embrace than witness of what must surely come.

I ate a few mouthfuls of the meal they brought us, my appetite quite gone, and would not be cheered by Rwyan’s optimism. I could not be: I saw no space for hope. I drank wine that had no taste. I wanted only to hold her and for a little while push back the bloody darkness that loomed about me.

She held me. She kissed me and stroked my hair. But she would do no more: she told me we must wait, that Urt would make good his promise of revelation. I thought that revelation should be poor comfort.

Then, when the sky was all velvet blue and filled with stars, Urt came. For an instant I dared hope he had some plan-that he’d somehow spirit us away. I was unsure I’d even want that-not knowing we left behind the destruction of my homeland.

I need not have tormented myself so: he had no plan, only a crystal.

He came in furtive, motioning we be silent as he eased the door ajar and went to the table. From a pouch on his belt he extracted a glowing stone. It was larger than that obscene jewel Rwyan had worn; not so large as those in the crypt where Tezdal-so he advised us-slept still. He set it down and unthinking wiped his hands against his tunic, as if the crystal left behind some physical taint.

“Lady.” He addressed himself to Rwyan. “I think you’ll know the use of this. Do you show Daviot, and before morning I must have it back.” He shrugged, his eyes mournful. “I can do no more. Perhaps you’ll find an answer in the stone.”

I said, “Shall it free us? Shall it grant Rwyan power?”

He said, “I think not that, but perhaps understanding. I’ve not the talent for it, but the gifted use these stones-they send them south to Dharbek, to the Changed there; to spread the word.”

He hesitated an instant, as if some dire secret were revealed. I was reminded of that clandestine meeting I had witnessed, when Changed and Sky Lords came furtive together. I said, “In Kellambek I saw your people and Kho’rabi meet by night. Was this the reason?”

Urt nodded. “Likely. Those little boats the Sky Lords command defy Dhar magic to bring the stones south.”

I grunted as that mystery was resolved and gestured that he continue.

He said, “Perhaps do you commune with this, we three can find some way …” He shook his head helplessly. Then smiled without sign of humor. “You asked for proof of my friendship, Daviot? Well, is it known I give you this, I’m dead. This secret is close-guarded, and should the gifted learn what I do, my life is forfeit. Allanyn shaped this crystal herself, and she’d not hesitate to take my life.”

He spoke with absolute conviction, and as I watched his face, I felt my doubts dissolve. It seemed a weight lifted off me.

He was once again the old friend of my youth, the one who had first shown me that secret world of the Changed. The true friend who’d carried my messages to Rwyan and hers back to me. Without him, I’d not have known my love: I thought then that it was he had first set my feet on the road that brought me here. I suppose I might have hated him for that, but all I felt was love, our comradeship rekindled. I went to him, taking his hand as I’d done so long ago in Durbrecht.

His smile grew warm at that, and he answered my grip firm. There was no need of words, for which I was thankful-I had none at that moment. I felt only shame that I’d doubted him and heartfelt regret that this world we Truemen made should force enmity on us. Urt was not my enemy, nor I his: those roles were chosen for us by the past. I felt sad that our tomorrows looked to be soon ended.

He said, “I dare not delay. Allanyn already seeks to brand me traitor. ‘Trueman’s Friend,’ she names me.”

Still gripping his hand, I said, “Is that a crime, Urt?”

“To some; to Allanyn surely.” His grin brought me memories of his usual good humor. “Was it not ever the way-that Changed and Trueman live apart? Our situations reverse, eh, Daviot?”

“I think,” I said, “that had I a choice, I’d sooner face Ardyon than Allanyn.”

His grin faded at that, his expression become again grave. He said, “Aye. Ardyon seems as nothing beside her.”

As we spoke, Rwyan studied the crystal. She did not touch it; she seemed to me wary of the stone, as someone loath to handle a sword might regard the blade they know they must soon wield. Her face was troubled as she turned toward us. “Does this give us answers, Urt, shall you be with us in their deliverance?”

He met her sightless gaze unflinching and said, “I’ll not betray my people, Rwyan; but can you find a way to avoid this war and free my kind-then, aye. What aid is mine to give, you shall have.”

“Good.”

Rwyan returned to her observation of the crystal. I looked from her to Urt. There was much we had to say to one another; there was not the time to say it. He smiled grimly and said, “I cannot linger, lest I bring suspicion on you. Do you employ that thing, and I’ll come back ere dawn.”

I said, “Shall it be safe till then?”

“All well,” he answered. “Save the Lord Tezdal wakes. Does that happen, we’re lost.”

I nodded, and he clasped my hand again. “Daviot, for good or ill, I am your friend,” and then he was gone.

I turned to Rwyan. “What is it?” I asked her.

She said, “Am I right, then such magic as should delight you, Daviot. Am I right, this stone holds memories.”

I gaped, going to her side. The crystal lay on the table. It was the size of my clenched fist, a pale blue that pulsed faintly, like water struck by sunlight. Sparks of pink fluttered through it. It was a pretty thing. It seemed quite harmless, save for the strange sense of slumbering power emanating from it. Or did it slumber? I experienced a strange sensation as I came near. I thought the crystal … eager … as if it anticipated contact. I felt suddenly nervous. I felt … I can only describe it as a call, in the channels of my blood, in the roots of my brain. Perhaps it was only that I knew the stone for an occult thing; perhaps otherwise I should have thought it only some chunk of quartz, grist to the lapidaries and no more.

I asked, “Can you use it? I thought your talent denied you here.”

Rwyan licked her lips and said, “Be this so powerful as I suspect, I think it shall commune with us both. I believe it asks to be unlocked, and it shall overcome those gramaryes that limit me.”

I saw that she felt scant enthusiasm for that contact. “Do you fear a trick?”

Her smile was fleeting. She said, “Such thought had crossed my mind.”

I said, “Then leave it be.”

She said, “Do you not trust Urt, then?”

I shook my head. “I trust him. But he’s no sorcerer. Might Allanyn have let him bring this?”

She closed her eyes a moment, then forced a smile. “Let us find out,” she said. “Do you sit and take my hand and not let go.”

I took a chair beside her. Her hand was warm in mine, our fingers interlaced. I felt wary as she reached toward the stone. I saw it pulse brighter as her free hand drew near. The stone flickered more red than blue. It seemed to me hungry. Rwyan set her fingertips on the crystal, and it became all brightness, like spilling blood. Her hand was lost in the glow. I heard her murmur, the words too low I might discern them. I felt the magic engulf me, flowing out from the stone in a torrent of occult power, Rwyan the conduit.

I cannot properly describe that sensation: as it is with dreams, so ordinary words, mundane concepts, are insufficient to the task. As in dreams, I saw clearly, I was aware, and yet all was governed by an indefinable logic, defying rational analysis. Knowledge was instantaneous, a flood that washed over me and into me. There was no order, save what my mind must impose that I be able to digest it all. Understanding was imparted wordlessly, instinctive as the child’s first inhalation.

I must use inadequate words to describe what entered me.

I saw the Changed left behind in Ur-Dharbek by we Truemen, that they be living safeguard against the dragons. I felt their fear, their anger: I was Changed. I was aware of their survival, of time’s slow passing like impossibly long summer, nurturing resentment of their unfair fate as they hid from the predators. Too many died.

Images, then, of crystals, of discovery, of burgeoning awareness, the sense of wonder as the talent was discovered, the Changed found the gift of magic Never so many of them they might overcome the Border Cities I saw built, guardians of the Slammerkin, an occult wall to Dharbek’s north, but enough they could defend themselves, conceal themselves from the dragons and then drive off the sky hunters.

Time then, slowly passing, the world turning, the dragons no longer a threat save to children, become creatures of legend. A bountiful time ensuing, peaceful, the gifted coming to better understanding of the magic they used unthinking, the slowly burgeoning realization it stemmed from the crystals.

A hunt: to gather the occult stones and bring them where they should be hidden from Truemen, piled to build the magic of the Changed-to this valley of Trebizar. The first of the gifted formed the Raethe, and Trebizar became the heart of Ur-Dharbek, power spreading. … I saw the wastes mastered by Changed magic, made a pleasant land, a secret, contented land, save for … the memories these crystals held, always reminding those gifted with the talent of what had been, of Truemen’s treachery. And those memories nowhere stronger than in Trebizar, amongst the gifted of the Raethe.

I choked on bile as waves of bitter resentment, of raw hatred beat over me. I knew then that Allanyn had held this stone and was mad, consumed by crystalline dreams of revenge. I knew that all those Changed possessed of the strongest talent were crazed. I felt an awful guilt for what my kind had made of these folk.

I saw, too, that their magic took a different path to that of the Dhar sorcerers. These Changed lived closer to the earth than we, and their magic-once the dragons were gone-was not needed in defense of their land, but employed to render the wastes habitable. I saw that most were peaceable, and in that found some small hope.

And then despair as events unfolded in my mind, and I saw the first Kho’rabi skyboat, driven north by Sentinels and Border Cities, come drifting down to land, to make alliance with the wild Changed.

To those most gifted-those bent fiercest on revenge-it was a boon unimaginable.

As the paths of Changed and Truemen’s magic had diverged, so had that commanded by the Sky Lords. Their will was bent on conquering the Worldwinds, on binding the elementals to their cause, that they mount the Great Coming and take back their ancestral land. In the wild Changed they found allies both physical and magical: they joined in union.

Changed had always come north over the Slammerkin-the rebels and the discontented, the dreamers. But only north: now the Sky Lords showed how that barrier might be crossed southward.

Their great invasion craft were whales in the ocean of the sky; their little skyboats were barracuda, swift. They evaded the magic of the Dhar. They carried wild Changed south to speak with the oppressed and kindle the dream that grew amongst their northern kin. To we Truemen these agitators were faceless as their servile southern brethren-they came and went unnoticed. Thus was the flame of discontent fanned, the torch of rebellion lit; thus would the Changed of Dharbek know when the time was come.

I saw the whole design now, or the larger part of it. I saw how Ayl had his knowledge of this land. I saw those little pieces of the puzzle I’d recognized as I wandered fall into place. It was a terrifying alliance. I knew it must shatter Dharbek. I saw how blind we Dhar had been, and were still.

It began already, for the crystal told me it was Allanyn’s agent had poisoned Gahan, and that Jareth’s ascendancy delivered the land to disunion. I saw that soon the Kho’rabi would mass in Ur-Dharbek, and that from Ahn-feshang would come such an invasion fleet as must surely overwhelm the Sentinels, whilst from the north would come that other, Sky Lords and Changed together.

From the crystal came a sense of immediacy, of anticipation. A sense of terrible hunger.

I was barely aware when the flood of images, of impressions, ceased. I knew that my head ached and my mouth was dry, that my eyes felt scorched as if I’d wept. I felt a touch upon my shoulder and found a cup of wine pressed to my lips. I drank and looked into Rwyan’s eyes. Her face was pale and grave.

I said, “Can there be any doubt?”

She shook her head. “But perhaps some hope,” she said.

I frowned and drank again. I was not used to this communication with the occult. I said, “What did you see that gives you hope?”

She filled a cup and drank herself before replying. I saw that the crystal was no longer bright, but only faintly pulsing now. Beyond the window night reigned. The knowledge of centuries had flooded through my aching head, but the angle of the moon told me it was scarce midnight.

Rwyan said, “The talent brings its own curse here. Allanyn and her ilk are quite mad.”

I said, “Old news, Rwyan; poor news.”

I did not mean to speak so sharp. I felt fear and despair in equal measure: now more than ever I could see no hope.

Rwyan ignored my poor humor. She set down her cup and said, “But not all are crazed. Neither all the Changed, nor all the Raethe. Urt’s sane enough, for one.”

I said, “And is but one; and helpless against Allanyn.”

She said, “Save he finds allies.”

“Allies?” I shook my head. “Allanyn’s strong in the Raethe-Urt’s own warning, no? And what I saw suggested only bloody war.”

She said, “Those folk we encountered along the road here-were they bellicose?”

I shook my head again and wished I’d not.

Rwyan said, “I saw much of a peaceful land. The fiercest hatred resides in the gifted, I think.”

I said, “The gifted hold the power, it seemed to me.”

She nodded slowly and gave me back, “True, but I suspect Allanyn and her faction lead these folk into war; and hide much from them. Did you not recognize the undercurrents?”

I began to shake my head and thought better of it. Instead I only said no.

She said, “Forgive me: I assume talent in you,” and vented a short bitter laugh.

I thought at first she laughed at me, but then she sighed and pushed back her hair and made a small conciliatory gesture. I saw a great sadness in her eyes, and had the crystal not still stood between us, I’d have reached out to take her hand. I felt too weary to rise and go around the table. Instead, I mustered a smile and asked that she explain.

She closed her eyes a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. “I think I understand why these crystals are close-guarded. Were they used often, they’d show all their secrets, even to those without the talent. As it is-in the God’s name, Allanyn and her followers deserve to die!”

I had never heard such anger in her voice, nor seen it on her face. She had an enviable capacity for forgiveness, but now I saw and heard only implacable rage. She seemed to me like one of those messengers the priests claim the God sometimes sends, avenging. I frowned and asked, “What is it?”

She gestured at the crystal. “These stones record memories,” she said. “Memories, and more. By the God, aye! They record so much more; but that hidden, to be found only by those with the talent.”

She shook her head and filled her cup. I watched her drink, thinking I’d not seen her so disturbed. I waited agog.

She swallowed wine and said, “Are they used frequently, they absorb the emotions of the user. Desires, lusts, dreams-all are recorded. But deep, like the lees in a wine cup, lost to most under the weight of that other knowledge they hold.

“Listen-those messengers the Sky Lords have carried south, they give the Changed of Dharbek a dream, give them a share of the hate. They promise riches, a domain of the Changed, but say nothing of the bloodshed that dream must entail. Or what shall follow.”

Her eyes were fierce on mine, as if she’d impress comprehension with her gaze alone. I shrugged, not yet understanding.

She said, “The message those crystals bear is shaped by the gifted, by Allanyn and her kind. And she hides too much.”

I said, “Urt told us the stones are a close-guarded secret.”

She nodded. “And save a sorcerer plumbs their depths, they tell only so much as Allanyn would reveal.”

I asked, “What does she hide?”

Rwyan said, “Allanyn seeks not to free her kind but to rule them. Already this Raethe is less than that honest government Ayl spoke of, but rather controlled by Allanyn and those gifted who choose her path. Or are seduced by these crystals.”

“How can that be?” I said. “Surely the crystals are only tools of you sorcerers?”

“No.” She shook her head, the movement both weary and angry. “I believe the crystals have a life of their own. Perhaps they think; perhaps they’ve absorbed so much fear, so much resentment, down all those long ages the Changed suffered that they give it back.” She laughed again; I did not like the sound. “I curse Allanyn, but perhaps I should curse the crystals. Perhaps, unwitting, she’s only their creature.”

She paused, drawing deep breaths. It was as though the enormity of what she’d learned required an effort to tell. I Med her cup and mine, and waited. I felt a great dread.

“Allanyn seeks war,” she said. “She’d see all Truemen ground down; slain or enslaved. But then, that victory won, she’d make herself ruler of all the Changed. She’d see only the gifted in the Raethe-save it should be no longer the Raethe but her court. She’d be mistress of all Dharbek, and to gain that end she’d sacrifice her people.”

In my mouth wine became bitter. I swallowed, and it seemed to burn my throat. I saw no hope at all in this, only rank despair. I could envisage no means to thwart Allanyn or escape her clutches. I thought that did she learn we’d communed with the crystal, we were surely dead. And Urt, for he must be discovered. I wondered suddenly if he knew these secrets or only suspected. I said, “We must warn Urt. Is he convinced of Allanyn’s treachery, perhaps he may rally others.”

“Aye,” Rwyan gave me back, “and still there’s Tezdal. And the pattern.”

The pattern! Almost I wished I’d not spun out that fancy, for it now seemed to me no more than that-a Storyman’s fable, one of those tales we spin for the entertainment of children. Like Jarrold’s Magic Pig or Ealyn’s Wondrous Boat. I thought perhaps Rwyan clung to belief as prop to waning hope, the need to believe greater than the reality. The pattern! I could weave a pattern at will, from my imagination. Now I looked at reality, and all I could see were threads unraveling, the strands of our lives dwindling like yarn set in flame.

I rose on legs that shuddered and protested the movement, and went to the washstand, splashing cool water over my burning face.

Rwyan sat still, seeming lost in thought. When I returned to the table she said, “Could I but show those not yet gone over to Allanyn’s cause what she intends.”

I said, “You’ll not have that chance. They’d not trust a Dhar mage.”

She said, “No,” sadly, and sighed. “Oh, Daviot, our world’s gone far astray, no?”

I ducked my head, wincing at the pain. “Better had we never made the Changed. Better had we never enslaved the Ahn.”

Rwyan said, “But we did, and now we pay the price. Save we can find some answer. But by the God, I’ll not concede Allanyn the victory, nor see this war begun, can I do aught to halt it.”

“Nor I,” I declared, though I could scarce see what we two prisoners might do. “When Urt comes, we’ll tell him.”

She said, “And Tezdal. I’d have him know, too.”

“Yes.” I nodded agreement, ignoring pain. “But I think he’ll not dissuade his fellow Sky Lords from their course. Even is he persuaded himself.”

We fell silent then, wrapped in depressing musing. I looked to the window and saw the moon was gone past its zenith. Stars speckled the sky, and dawn was hours distant. I wondered when Urt would come. Then if he would: I thought that did Allanyn suspect him-of treachery, she’d name it-it should be an exquisite torture to allow this glimpse of her intent. To show us and then “discover” the crystal; thus to condemn us and Urt together. I yawned. I felt mightily weary, and my head still ached. Across the table Rwyan’s face looked drawn, shadows beneath her eyes like dark half moons. She stared moodily at the crystal. I looked at the thing, wondering if I truly felt a sense of triumph emanating from its pale blue depths, or if that was merely a fancy of my troubled mind.

My eyes felt weighted with despair, and I closed them. That eased the pain in my skull a little, and I set my elbows on the table, resting my face on my hands. A gray fog seemed to cloud my vision, and for an instant I thought I dreamed again of that oak grove beyond Cambar, but I saw only the gray void. I did not know I slept.

Nor, till I woke, that I dreamed. I’d not dreamed since first we came within the aegis of Trebizar’s magic.

What I dreamed was this:

I sat slumped at the table. Rwyan remained seated across its width, the crystal still between us like some barrier to hope, but the glow coming from the walls dimmed, the radiance slowly fading to black. It was the black of deepest starless night, or the depths of the sea. I drifted there: it was strangely comforting, and I thought perhaps I’d remain forever, give up my body and all its cares, and only wander this lightless, soundless place, rid of destructive hope, of responsibility-become a creature of limbo.

But then I heard Rwyan say, “You cannot, Daviot. Remember the pattern.”

My body raised its head and said, “Why not? I can do nothing. You can do nothing. Nor Urt or Tezdal. We are all of us helpless. The world turns as it will. Come with me.”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll not give up hope. I’d thought you’d not. I’d thought better of you.”

I shrugged, embarrassed. I felt then as must a fish caught on a line: I’d find those black deeps again, but I was called back, drawn up toward the light by love of Rwyan.

I looked into her eyes, and they were no longer hers but the vast orbs of my oneiric dragon. And the walls were gone, and the garden, and I was ringed by those eyes, all of them fixed on me. They seemed to accuse me of cowardice; they seemed to judge me. I felt ashamed then of my weakness and straightened in my chair, meeting that implacable gaze.

I said, “What do you ask of me? What must I do?”

There was no verbal answer, but rather an emotion-I’d known this before, but it was stronger now, become an imperative-that summoned me. It was a call that rang in my blood, in the very fibers of my being. It was akin to that sensation I’d felt from the crystal, and different, warmer somehow. So strong it was that I rose, standing and turning slowly around, finding only those eyes calling me.

I felt I stood at a threshold, and that did I not step across, I must lose … I was not sure what I should lose. Rwyan? Hope? Pride? Integrity? All those, I felt, and more: myself. And at the same time I felt that did I take that step, it must deliver something vast and dreadful. I felt I should be cursed whichever course I chose. I was afraid then, as I’d never been before. I knew I was summoned, and that it was no longer a vague dreamy feeling, but a call so strong I ached to answer it. I felt that did I fail, I must stand condemned and lost forever. That I should find neither that peace the darkness offered nor any other, but only anguish.

I said, “Where shall I go? How shall I come to you?”

And the voice that was not a voice told me I should know, that I already took the first steps. And at that I felt a great gladness, and also a great fear, for it seemed I embarked on a terrible journey.

But I told the eyes, “Yes. As you will,” and at that they seemed no longer to judge me so much but to praise me and wish me well along my journey.

And then I saw Rwyan stood beside me, and she took my hand and smiled. And Urt was there, and Tezdal, and we four stood together, encircled by the great yellow eyes. It was as if we stood close to the sun, or several suns, which warmed us with their approval, and bade us hurry and be welcome.

I saw the table again and the crystal, which now pulsed fierce, as if angered. Then from out of the light cast by the eyes reached a hand, a man’s, and took the stone, drawing back amongst the yellow orbs that were all the boundary of this dream world. I stared, trying to see past the light, to know whose hand this was, but I could not. Instead, I heard the rustle of vast wings unfolding and felt the wind of their beating. It was a stormy force, but though I knew it should, it did not beat me down but only washed around me as the crystal was carried up, aloft and away into darkness.

Colors then, such as form against shuttered lids, the myriad sparklings of blood in flesh. I opened my eyes and raised my head. I sat slumped across the table, Rwyan in like position, sleeping yet. I looked around and saw we sat still within our quarters, the night outside not yet lit by dawn’s early light. The room was shadowed, but even as I blinked and rubbed my eyes, the walls and ceiling began again to glow, and soon the chamber was lit bright as day.

Rwyan woke then and stared at me with a puzzled, questioning expression, I’d no need to ask, but still I did: “You dreamed?”

She nodded, not speaking until she’d filled a cup with water and drunk. Then she said, “Yes. I dreamed.” She shook her head, frowning. “It was strange … of eyes that … summoned … me. A promise.”

My own mouth was very dry: I got myself water. I wondered if this was part of the pattern. I thought that had Urt and Tezdal experienced the same dream, then it must surely find its roots in some reality beyond my comprehension. I said, “I felt I was asked to make a choice.”

She said, “And did you?”

I ducked my head and answered her, “Yes. They called me and I agreed to go; though I know not where.”

“Nor I,” she said, and glanced at the crystal, dormant between us. “Perhaps that’s unlocked some power. Perhaps in using it, we opened a door. Or sent a message.”

I sighed and blew out a mournful chuckle. “Then dragons shall come down from the sky to carry us off from this place.” I gestured at the walls, the sealed door and window. “But first they’ll need overcome the magic of the Changed.”

Rwyan said, “Perhaps they will.”

“And we best hope they’ll not devour us,” I said. “Was that not their habit?”

She said, “I felt no threat in my dream, save that I betray myself.”

“Which you’d not do,” I said. “Oh, Rwyan, could it be so, I’d welcome dragons. But I cannot dare hope they shall be our saviors.”

She smiled wearily and was about to speak, but then the door flung open and Urt came rushing in.

His gray hair was awry, and on his face was an expression that mingled fear and wonder in equal measure. He stared at us, his eyes wide. I thought perhaps his “treachery” was discovered and that Allanyn should appear on his heels. I had not known I rose until I heard my chair clatter on the marbled floor.

He turned his startled face to Rwyan and said, “Those dreams you spoke of? Just now-there were eyes…. They asked me to go with them…. You were there, and Tezdal.”

He snatched up the wine flask and a cup, filled the goblet, and drained it. Rwyan cast a triumphant glance my way and went to where he stood. I saw that he shook.

Rwyan set a hand on his shoulder. “We, too, Urt. Daviot and I had the same dream.”

He sighed. “What does it mean?” His eyes demanded answers of us.

Rwyan said, “I cannot say for certain. But that there’s hope, I think.”

He asked, “Of what? They were dragons, no?”

He shuddered. It came to me then that he had cause to fear the dragons. As the Kho’rabi were the nightmares of my childhood, so must the dragons have been the monsters of his. Did the Changed possess the memories of their ancestors as the beasts from which they were shaped owned memories, then dragons must surely be creatures of naked terror. Their threat must be implanted in his blood, passed down generation to generation. I went to stand beside him, setting a hand firm on his other shoulder. I could smell his discomfort, and through his shirt I felt the trembling that racked his frame.

I said, “They offered us no harm, Urt. Did you feel threat in them?”

He shook his head and licked his lips. I saw his nostrils flare, as if he’d test the air for scent of danger. He said slowly, “No. But they were dragons still.”

Rwyan said, “But not dangerous. Not to us. I think these dragons are our friends.”

Urt said, “Dragons friend to Changed? Can that be?”

I said, “Perhaps. Surely what we dreamed was friendly.”

Urt swallowed and ducked his head. “That’s true,” he said. “But I understand this not at all.”

Softly, I said, “Nor I.”

Rwyan said, “I believe we are told something. That we must stand together, surely. But more-though what, I cannot say; not yet.”

Urt said, “The Lord Tezdal was there.”

Rwyan said, “Yes. We four are called in some way.”

“We four?” Urt’s shuddering gradually subsided. “How so?”

Rwyan said, “I’ve as many questions as you, and no more answers. But perhaps-” She paused, her brow creased as she pondered. “Think on it-you, Urt, are Changed. Tezdal is a Sky Lord. Daviot’s a Trueman and a Rememberer. I am a mage. Do we not stand as symbols for the folk who must suffer does this war begin?”

I said, “What of the gifted Changed? What of the Kho’rabi wizards?”

“As I say, I’ve more questions than answers.” Rwyan shrugged. “But perhaps the gifted Changed and the Kho’rabi wizards are too far gone in hatred to hear this call.”

Call to what? I thought, but I said nothing.

Rwyan said, “Or perhaps we hear it only because we four are ready. Perhaps because we’d sooner see peace than war. Perhaps because we join together in common purpose, and what we are-Truemen or Changed, Sky Lord or Dhar-does not matter to us. I know not. But I do not believe these dragons intend you harm, Urt. Not you, or any of us.”

Urt was calmer now, though I could see he was still not much at ease with the notion of dragons, even were they only the creatures of dream. I squeezed his shoulder and said, “Is Rwyan right, then we’ve naught to fear. Is she wrong-why then, we only suffer odd dreams. And there’s a more immediate danger.”

I gestured at the crystal. Outside, the sky assumed that utter blankness that precedes the first light of dawn. I thought we’d not much time, and was Urt still unnerved, it were better we told him quickly what we’d learned, what Rwyan had learned, that he have time to compose himself before he must replace the stone. I thought he’d likely need composure for that, lest Allanyn discover our complicity.

Rwyan nodded. We found seats, and she began to speak.

She’d not a Storyman’s skill with words and I’d have told it more succinct, but she spoke with such fervor, I saw Urt was convinced. I watched as his face-seldom so readable-expressed first amazement tinged with disbelief, then burgeoning conviction, and finally outrage to match what I’d seen on Rwyan’s. When she was done, he snarled. I saw the animal in him then.

He said, “She stands condemned! Traitor, she! And all her kind. Little wonder the gifted guard these stones so close.”

He seemed so angry I took his arm. “Urt, do you speak of this carelessly, I think we shall all be slain.”

He nodded. That animal rage was suddenly replaced with grief. He said, “I’d doubted her ways, but I’d not suspected this. None of us suspected this. She’d lay us all on the altar of her ambition.”

“None of you?” I asked hopefully. “How many of you are there? Enough to oppose her, expose her?”

“No.” He shook his head. “We are but a few, a handful. The Raethe is mostly gifted now. I found a place because I know of Durbrecht and Karysvar; there are a few more like me, without the talent. But Allanyn and her followers are the stronger.”

“Might you convince the gifted?” I asked.

He laughed at that, though it was more a bark. “It should be hard to convince even my friends,” he said. “What should I tell them? That the gifted are insane? That the crystals seduce them? That Allanyn leads us to war only that she might rule us? They’d ask me how I come by this information, no? And how should I prove it? Shall I tell them I have it from a mage of the Dhar and a Storyman? Allanyn should have my head, did the rest not slay me first.”

I voiced acknowledgment with a curse. “Impasse then. Is all we’ve learned useless?”

“I might slay her,” Urt said. “Perhaps I might succeed.”

“That should be hard,” said Rwyan. “And you undoubtedly die. Surely after, likely before.”

He said, “I’d save my people,” doggedly.

Rwyan said, “And I’d save mine, but I think that attempting Allanyn’s assassination should lead only to your death. I think you’d serve your people better alive.”

He said, “To what end? To watch us go to war, that Allanyn rule us?”

“Remember the dreams,” she said. And when both Urt and I looked at her askance: “Perhaps there’s some answer there. Is it not strange that we should learn of Allanyn’s designs and straightway dream again?”

Urt grunted; I shrugged. We neither of us had any ready answer.

Rwyan said, “We’ve time yet, too-until Tezdal wakes, at least. I’d know if he shared this; and perhaps we’ll dream again and get some better answer.”

I could think of no other option, and so I only nodded, keeping silent.

Urt said, “Perhaps,” with little real conviction in his voice.

“Then best you get this stone returned,” Rwyan said, “ere it’s missed. And when you can, come back.”

Urt nodded and gingerly took up the crystal. He dropped it in the pouch as might a man set down some horrid insect. He looked weary, bereft of hope. “As soon I may,” he promised, and raised a hand in farewell.

The door closed behind him, and I turned to Rwyan. “This looks not at all well.”

She said, “No. But I’ll not yet relinquish hope.”

I smiled at her bravery and touched her cheek. She rubbed against me, feline, and yawned hugely.

I said, “Do we get what sleep we can?”

She said, “Aye,” and we stretched, fully clad, on the bed.

It seemed my eyes had barely closed before we were roused. I groaned, my vision foggy, and sat up. I saw Allanyn and two others of the gifted standing close. Allanyn’s face wore a triumphant sneer. Her eyes were bright with unpleasant anticipation.

She said, “Come. The Lord Tezdal wakes.”

The vault felt pregnant with anticipation. I saw it on the faces of the Sky Lords, in the narrowing of their dark eyes and the set of their shoulders; no less in the gifted Changed. In Allanyn it was most apparent; but where the interest of the rest seemed entirely for Tezdal, hers was as much directed at us. I thought she gloated, savoring what was to come. I put an arm about Rwyan, and she leaned close and whispered, “You’ll not forget your promise, Daviot.”

She intended no insult to my Storyman’s memory: it was not a question. I answered her, “What of the pattern?”

She said, “Only does the time come.” I said, “Yes,” and sighed.

Then all my attention was on the supine form of the Kho’rabi I named a friend.

He lay still on the cloth-draped bier. The crystals surrounding him sat adumbral on their pedestals, as if their light were gone into the restoration of his memory and now they slumbered. Somehow, I had no doubt but that it was restored him. It seemed, for all they no longer pulsed or flickered, that the stones radiated a sense of satisfaction. I watched, breath bated, as the Sky Lords took positions about the dais. Three stood at the head, two at the foot, the others to either side. All raised their arms, extended palms downward over the silent form, and spoke together.

I could not understand their language, but I saw that Tezdal responded. I saw his chest rise steeper than before. I heard the gusty exhalation of his breath. He made a sound, sigh and groan together, as if aroused from deepest slumber. His eyes opened, blank a moment, then lit by intelligence. He rose on his elbows, peering about, eyes narrowed, his brow creased. Then he said something in his own tongue.

The Sky Lords clustered close. A Changed came forward, bringing a goblet that one of the Ahn brought to Tezdal’s lips. He drank deep and wiped his mouth, then swung his legs from the bier and stood upright. For an instant he swayed, eyes closed as he shook his head, but then he straightened, shaking off the hands that would assist him. He looked slowly around, finding my eyes and Rwyan’s. He ducked his head slightly, acknowledging our presence, but his expression was unreadable. I felt Rwyan tense within the compass of my arm.

Then Allanyn blocked my view. She insinuated herself between the Sky Lords-which I saw affronted them-to face Tezdal. In the language of the Dhar she said, “Lord Tezdal, are you again whole? Have you all your memory again?”

Tezdal answered her in the same language: “I do.”

His voice was cold, as if he found her impertinent, which Allanyn minded not at all. She gave him her back as she spun to face us.

“So it is done! You see our power now; and now you’ve a choice to make.”

Her smile was feral: I thought she hoped for Rwyan’s refusal. I tensed, my heart sinking as I shaped my hand to strike the blow I dreaded.

Rwyan said, “Perhaps. But ere I make that choice, I’d speak with Tezdal.”

Allanyn’s lovely face became a mask of rage. “What?” she cried. “You’d dictate terms? I tell you-choose now, or it shall be done for you.”

I moved a small distance from Rwyan’s side, enough I’d have sufficient room to strike. A sour weight sat deep in my belly. For an instant my vision clouded red. For an instant I thought to spring at Allanyn, to let my blow shatter her hateful face. But I’d made that promise. To renege on that would be to betray Rwyan-and likely leave her to suffer the angry devices of the Changed alone. I should be dead; nor had I any great confidence I could slay Allanyn. I ground my teeth and curbed the impulse. I stood ready to slay my love, and as I did I cursed every turn of the fate that had brought us to this moment.

Rwyan said. “Not yet,” and I was uncertain whether she directed her words at me or at the raging Allanyn.

Then she said, “Is your magic truly so powerful as you claim, then Tezdal has back all his memories. Both those that make him a Sky Lord and those that make him my friend.”

I watched as Allanyn’s lips drew back from her sharp white teeth in an entirely feline snarl. Her hands rose, beginning to weave a pattern in the air. Had she not been so consumed with rage, she’d have got the spell out clear and blasted Rwyan on the spot.

But she spluttered, and before she could complete the cantrip, Tezdal had her by the wrists, forcing her arms down, turning her to face him. I could not see her expression, but I saw her shoulders strain beneath her gown and heard her howl of fury. Sky Lords and Changed spoke together then, urgently, their voices raised in a babble of protest and anger. I saw the crystals begin to pulse and felt that tingling on my skin that warned of burgeoning occult power. From the corner of my eye I saw Rwyan’s slight smile, as if she scored a victory. I thought at best she bought us a little time.

Then Tezdal’s voice came clear and cold through the hubbub.

“The lady Rwyan speaks true! She’s debt-claim on me, and I am sworn to defend her.”

He let go Allanyn’s wrists, and the Changed woman sprang back. The Sky Lords drew closer to Tezdal, as if they’d defend him against her magic. Their faces were a mixture of confusion and outrage. I thought that did Allanyn or any other gifted look to employ magic, I should witness a horrendous duel. I supposed it might end the alliance; I wondered if Rwyan planned this.

Then Geran pushed to the fore, hands raised in placatory gesture. “My friends,” he said, “do we fall to fighting amongst ourselves? Shall we squabble over this Dhar sorceress? Calm yourselves, I say, lest all our dreams be wasted.”

Another Changed took Allanyn’s arm: she shook him off even as he murmured urgently. But more drew near, setting themselves between her and the Sky Lords, succeeding in forcing her reluctantly back.

Geran said, “So, do we becalm ourselves? All of us!”

This last was directed at Allanyn, who allowed herself to be placated. I saw her force a smile and heard her say, “Forgive me, my lords. I grow impatient with the rank presumption of this mage. I’d see our venture commence as soon it may, and her pointless defiance angers me.”

The Sky Lords murmured in their own tongue. I sensed they found her display unseemly. I thought these were likely folk much given to protocol. Dismissing my earlier curse, I prayed they were much given to honor.

One, gray in his oiled beard, said, “Your apology is accepted, lady. But this matter of Lord Tezdal’s vow is a troubling thing.”

Allanyn said, “Surely such a vow is worthless. Lord Tezdal was not himself when that oath was sworn.”

She had better held silent. I saw that in the stiffening of the Sky Lords’ backs, the frowns that twisted their features. The speaker said, “A vow is a vow.” His voice was cold. “Save he’s his honor, a man is nothing. The gods shall not forgive an oath-breaker.”

Allanyn would have spoken again. I hoped she would, for her words seemed to drive a wedge between these allies, but Geran forestalled her. He said, “Aye, there’s much truth in that. And a conundrum, also.”

He was a diplomat, that one, and cunning: all fell silent, waiting on him.

He said, “I’d not besmirch Lord Tezdal’s honor-nor would any here! But when one vow stands in opposition to another? What then?” He paused: he had their attention. “Lord Tezdal is Kho’rabi-Dedicated-and so sworn to the Great Conquest. That vow was made knowingly, when he possessed all his senses and was entirely himself. This other, surely, was made when he was-forgive me, my lord-less than entire. His memory was gone, taken from him by Truemen’s sorcery. No fault of his, that; but were he not victim of that magic, would he have sworn that vow? I think not, and so I’d ask he set aside that latter-lesser!-vow, in honor of the greater.”

This was sophistry worthy of Durbrecht! Almost I could admire Geran’s slippery tongue. He spoke so earnestly, sincerity dripping, his expression one of concern, suggesting he might share the dilemma he outlined. I glanced at Rwyan, dreading she’d bid me strike, and saw her smiling still, seeming possessed of a confidence I could not share. I looked to Tezdal and saw him perturbed, his eyes narrowed as if he considered Geran’s words. The other Sky Lords waited on him. I felt my future and Rwyan’s waited on him.

Finally he nodded and said, “There’s much to consider in that. But still-as Zenodar says, a vow is a vow.”

“Even were you not yourself?” asked Geran. “My lord, surely there was a theft here-Dhar magic stole your memory.”

“In battle,” Tezdal said, and smiled directly at Rwyan. “There was no theft intended-only death.”

“Aye, they’d have taken your life!” said Geran. “They’d have slain you, save their magic was not so great.”

“And well might have slain me, after,” Tezdal replied, “when they found me on that rock, or when they took me to the island. But they did not, and from Rwyan I had only kindness.”

“Surely in service of their own ends,” Geran said, “and for no other reason. Surely they let you live only that they might plunder your mind of its knowledge.”

“True.” Tezdal ducked his head, solemnly; then raised his face to Geran, “Just as you’d plunder this lady’s.”

“Surely there’s a difference.” Geran smiled, stroking his long jaw. “We offer this mage a choice. What we ask of her, she may give us freely. Only does she refuse would we resort to those other measures.”

Tezdal smiled back. His gaze flickered in Allanyn’s direction. I thought I saw disbelief on his face, as if he doubted the feline Changed should offer such option. He said, “What choice is that? Has Rwyan not sworn a vow to defend her land? You ask her to renege, to forfeit her honor. I know her, and I tell you that for her that’s no choice at all.”

From behind Geran came Allanyn’s outraged shriek: “She’s a Trueman mage! What honor there?”

The look Tezdal sent her way was utterly cold; warm as his eyes swung back to Rwyan. “Much,” he said. “I know this lady, and I tell you she’s the honor of a Kho’rabi.”

There was startlement at that; gasps from several of the Sky Lords, a puzzled frown from Zenodar. Geran-seeking to retrieve his argument, I thought-said, “But an enemy, still. Of your people and mine.”

Tezdal said, “Perhaps. But do I fight, I’d have my battles with such honorable people.”

I heard Allanyn mutter, “Honor!” as if the word were an abomination. Tezdal ignored her; Geran, too. He said, “Yet we must have her knowledge, lest the Border Cities and the Sentinels destroy the fleets.”

Tezdal nodded. “Yes. But still I made a vow. That remains.”

“When you were helpless,” Geran said. I thought he sounded not quite so confident now. “When you’d no memory of those other vows. When you were not, properly, Kho’rabi.”

“Which means?” asked Tezdal.

“That you are once more whole,” said Geran. “That you are again yourself-the Lord Tezdal Kashijan of Ahn-feshang-and owe allegiance only to the Cause; to the Attulki, to the Conquest. Our magic it was gave you back your life, gave you back your memories! Shall you forget that?”

Tezdal said, “No,” in a voice so coldly imperious, the horse-faced Changed flinched. “Nor shall I forget my honor.”

“Then where do we stand?” asked Geran. His oily confidence was gone now: I could not-for all I felt not at all happy-help but smile.

“The Lady Rwyan would have full proof,” said Tezdal, and turned again to Rwyan. “Is that not so?”

Rwyan said simply, “It is. I’d hear from you alone that this sortilege has done its work.”

“Then you shall,” he said.

Rwyan only smiled and nodded. I relaxed a fraction: I felt she’d earned us a little more time. I felt we lived our lives in increments now, snatching moments from the ravening jaws of hungry fate.

Tezdal nodded in response and looked again to Geran. “So shall it be,” he declared. “The lady Rwyan shall have her proof from me, and then …” He frowned, some measure of confidence departing. “But first, I’d dine and speak with my fellows. So do you return the lady Rwyan and Da-viot the Storyman to their quarters? Unharmed, eh? And treat them with the respect they deserve.”

Neither Geran nor the other gifted liked that much. I saw Allanyn’s face pale, two spots of angry color on her cheeks, but neither she nor any of them argued, so commanding was Tezdal. I saw Rwyan’s smile grow broader, and when I caught Tezdal’s eye, he grinned. I wondered what game he played. Was it all some thing of honor that I could not properly comprehend? I knew nothing of the Sky Lords-save as ferocious enemies-but I had the feeling he sought to help us.

I could not see how, save that he gave us a brief respite from the inevitable. I told myself that must be enough for now.

There was a tapping at our door. It took me a while to wonder why our captors should now deign to announce their entry: I called that they come in.

The door opened, and Tezdal stood there.

He was alone. He wore the shirt and breeks and boots of the vault, but not the crimson robe, and on his face was an expression I could not interpret.

He said, “Daviot,” as if in greeting or inquiry, and looked past me to Rwyan and spoke her name. And then, “May I enter?”

I shrugged and beckoned him in. I wondered why he bothered with such formality: was he our friend, he must surely know himself welcome; if not, why should he concern himself with niceties?

He smiled slightly and gave me a brief formal bow. Rwyan said, “Tezdal. Enter, and welcome.”

His smile grew warmer. I frowned and stood back. He closed the door and turned to face us. Rwyan ushered him to a chair and gestured at the decanter, for all the world as if we entertained some unexpected guest whose presence was an unanticipated pleasure.

Tezdal shook his head. “I’ve learned much about myself. And about other things.”

I saw his eyes cloud as he spoke, and lines appear across his brow. He ran a hand over his hair as if its arrangement sat unfamiliar on his skull. I took a seat across the table, beside Rwyan. I studied this man I thought my friend, who might well now be my implacable enemy. I read confusion in his stance, doubt in his eyes. I waited, certain he should unfold some new chapter of my life and Rwyan’s, not knowing what it might be, good or ill.

Rwyan said, “Do you tell us?”

Her voice was calm. I felt sweat bead my brow, for all the room was pleasantly cool.

Tezdal said, “I’ve my memory back. All of it.”

His voice was controlled. I watched a tic throb on his temple. Rwyan said, “Then tell us all of it.”

He nodded and began to speak. I listened, marveling at the magic the Changed commanded, thinking how such talent might benefit we Mnemonikos.

He was born on the seventh day of the seventh month in the Year of the Eagle, which is holy to Vachyn, God of the Skies; a birthing day of great portent. His father was Tairaz Kashijan; his mother, Nazrene, formerly of the Isadur, and so in his veins flowed the High Blood of the Ahn. On the sixteenth day he was carried, wrapped in his swaddling clothes, to the temple of the Three, where his parents, as was custom, offered him in service to the gods. They were proud when the Attul-ki pricked his flesh with the sacred knife and he did not scream. The blood, the priests said, ran true in this one, this child was truly Kho’rabi, and so he was named Tezdal, which in the language of the Ahn means both “brave” and “honor.”

At the age of seven years he underwent the rituals of consecration. He smiled and did not struggle when the priests lowered him into the earth that was Byr’s, nor did he protest when the dirt struck his face. He smiled and did not close his eyes when they sank him beneath the waves that are Dach’s. When they lashed him to the tiny airboat and sent the craft into the sky that is Vachyn’s, he laughed aloud. Then they said, “This one shall be a credit to the Kashijan. He will be a mighty warrior, and his life and his death a monument to the Ahn.” That night, as all the folk of the Kashijan and the Isadur, those of both the High and Low Blood, and all their retainers, feasted, Tezdal drank his first wine and, in a voice steady for one so young, raised his cup in toast to the Great Conquest. It pleased him to be born at such a time, when the Attul-ki promised a turning of the winds, a strengthening of their holy magic, that should see him of an age to ride the sky across the Kheryn-veyhn to regain the Homeland.

The next day, his head still somewhat fuddled by the wine, he was taken by his father to the Jentan-dho in Asanaj and given into the care of the Tachennen who would be his teachers and his guardians until he was of an age to wear the warrior’s braid, and call himself a man, and go back into the world a true Kho’rabi. Even then, as he turned from his father and went with the Tachennen into the House of Warriors, he did not cry or look back.

For eight years Tezdal remained in the Jentan-dho. There he learned the Seven Paths of the Warrior, and the Three Ways of the Gods. He was visited by his parents on the seventh day of each seventh month, and on that day sacred to the people when the prophet Attul first set foot on the soil of Ahn-feshang. On these occasions he greeted his father and his mother with suitable deference, neither weeping nor seeking undue favor. He was, the Tachennen said, their finest pupil, a true Warrior of the Blood. Once, his mother found it necessary to stifle a cry of alarm when she saw his right arm bound and strapped useless to his side. It had been broken, Tezdal told her, in training on the Second Path; it hurt him not at all. His father said nothing to the boy but inquired of the Tachennen, who advised him the damage was done in combat with the practice swords, when Tezdal faced three opponents.

Tairaz Kashijan had nodded and asked, “And the others?”

“Had the blades been true kachen,” the Tachennen had answered, “then they should all be slain.”

Tairaz had nodded again at this and asked, “Did he conduct himself well?”

“He did not cry out,” the Tachennen had said. “He had bested one when the blow landed. He fought on and won single-handed.”

“That is good,” Tairaz had declared. “But he should not have allowed the wounding.”

By his thirteenth year, Tezdal had mastered the Seven Paths and none could defeat him, save by sheer weight of numbers, in the melees. He waited eagerly for manhood and the promised Conquest.

Such was the dream of all within the Jentan-dho. It was to that end that the warriors named themselves the Dedicated, and since the Attul-ki had given the people the Great Dream, it was the hope of all the Ahn.

Once they had dwelt in the Homeland, far to the west across the Kheryn-veyhn. Their gods were the Three and in the way of gods had seen fit to test their worshippers. The cursed Dhar had come out of the north, a locust plague across the land. Their priests and sorcerers stood united in enmity of the Ahn, who then had owned but little magic and been too few in numbers to oppose the invaders. Worshippers of the one god were the Dhar, and they had torn down the temples of the Three and burned the sacred groves, driven the people into hiding or slavery. This was the first testing, and the Ahn had held true and would not forsake the Three, and in answer to that faith the gods had sent the prophet Attul a vision.

In the accoutrements of warriors they had appeared-Byr with promise of a new land; from Vachyn, lordship of the sky; from Dach, safe passage over the sea. “Go,” they had told Attul, “go east across the Kheryn-veyhn with all the people. A new land awaits you there, where you shall grow strong again, and in time come back to conquer what is rightfully yours.”

The promise had burned hot in Attul, and the word had spread amongst the people, and in the secret places of the land the Dhar named Kellambek, the Ahn had built their boats, readying for the journey. Attul had led them and guided them in the exodus, and the gods made good their promises. Dach had granted them the crossing, safe, and Vachyn sent the wind to speed them on their way to the land Byr made for them, which they named Ahn-feshang-the New Place of the People. Attul had set his feet on the new land and given thanks to the triumvirate, and the Three had taken him up, to dwell as one with them.

The Ahn, the promise of the gods yet bright, had found a welcome in Ahn-feshang, and soon they spread throughout the islands, of which there were three-Ahn-zel, Ahn-khem, and Ahn-wa. Byr had been kind in his building: the land was lush, with wooded mountains and grassy valleys, where game was plentiful. Dach gave them rivers of clean water and pleasant beaches and filled the sea with fish. But what gift Vachyn gave was not yet clear.

The Ahn prospered, but the testing was not yet done. Fertile as was the new land, still the islands suffered the ravages of the elements. There were typhoons, and tidal waves, and volcanoes that vented their might against the heavens. This was the second testing, and there were many then who doubted the gods and so fell forsaken. But to those whose faith endured, the Three gave such magic as the world had never known. To those whose faith was strongest they gave power over the elements-the ability to defy the storms, to calm the waves, to soothe the earth-fires. To these sorcerers the Ahn looked for salvation, naming them the Attul-ki, which means “Children of Attul,” and they took the place of the hetmen and the attars, leading the Ahn safe through this second trial.

To them the Three gave word of the final testing, which was trial and prize both, for it was that the people should return to the Homeland to drive out the Dhar and take back what was theirs.

Then did Vachyn bestow his gift. He showed the Attul-ki the way of constructing the great airboats, how the skins might be filled with the breath of the volcanoes, to ride the Worldwinds and carry the Kho’rabi knights across the Kheryn-veyhn to smite the Dhar.

This was the longest of the three trials, for the magic of the Attul-ki was yet as that of infants, albeit powerful, and not even they could master the winds but must travel only on Vachyn’s whim. They persevered, and in reward Vachyn taught them that magic that granted them mastery over the spirits of the air. Slowly, they learned to bind the elemental spirits to their craft, like horses to a chariot, and then were they able to defy the Worldwinds and go against the Dhar usurpers at will.

To this great dream the Kho’rabi were dedicated, for the Three yet chose to test their followers, and those who sailed the sky to the Homeland did not return but gave their lives in service to the triumvirate, that the Dhar never forget but dwell in fear of the Comings.

And for such faith the Three gave due reward: the Attulki grew ever more accomplished in their magicks and found ways to bind the elementals in greater numbers to their pur-pose. In time they saw the final trial approach and warned the people to ready themselves. It should be soon, they said. Not this year or the next, but soon enough as gods count time.

For a while they sent the great airboats against the Dhar, with sorcerer-priests of such power aboard that they were able to send back word, of what magicks the enemy commanded, and the manner of their defenses. Then came a breathing space, for the Dhar found new sorceries to thwart the people and prevent the sending back of word. Then did the Attul-ki bend all their will and all their wits to the dream. They decreed there should be no more attacks for a while, but only small vessels-such as might carry no more than ten men-go out. But these were the key to the Conquest, for the Children of Attul bound to them such numbers of elementals that the boats might return to Ahn-feshang, defying the sorcery of the Dhar and the gusting of the Worldwinds both. And from these scouts came reliable word of fortresses and cities and holds, of the deployment of soldiery, and the resources of the enemy.

And more-they found allies, who vowed to aid them in the conquest of the Dhar.

Then all the people saw that the final trial was near and readied for the Great Conquest. Across all Ahn-feshang they labored to construct the armada, none sparing wealth or possessions or strength but all bound to the single promised purpose: the Conquest.

On the seventh day of the seventh month of Tezdal’s fifteenth year, Tairaz Kashijan, accompanied by the lady Nazrene and a retinue of one hundred Kho’rabi knights, attended the ceremonies in the Jentan-dho in Asanaj. They watched as their son performed the obeisances to the Three and to the Tachennen. Then Tairaz stepped forward and silently bound his son’s hair in the warrior’s braid. Tezdal rose from his knees and bowed. Tairaz presented him with the kachen of manhood and clapped his hands. The five most senior of the Kashijan warriors came forward, full armored as befitted so solemn a ritual, to strip the young man and dress him in his own armor. Tezdal thanked them eloquently and waited as his mother led forward a horse. It was such a beast as fit a Kho’rabi knight, a testament to the wealth of the Kashijan family, a jet stallion of pure blood. Tezdal shouted, “For the Three and for the Conquest,” and severed the head with a single cut.

There was shouting after that, and an end to formality. The families Kashijan and Isadur had supplied the Jentan-dho with food and wine enough that all found their beds that night with bellies filled and heads aswim. In the morning Tezdal departed much as he had come: his head pounding, without a backward glance. He rode a stallion that matched exactly the beast he had slain.

On his return to the Kashijan estates he found the members of both families awaiting him. There followed seven days of feasting, culminating in his betrothal to his cousin, the lady Retze Isadur. She was a pretty girl, and he was pleased with his parents’ choice.

On the eighth day Retze departed with her family to the Isadur estates, and Tezdal did not see her, save on feast days and holy days, for three years. Then, in his eighteenth year, which was Retze’s sixteenth, they were wed. From the Isadur family they received an estate in the mountains of Ahn-khem, with a sizable manor house, nine farmsteads, and a retinue of fifty servants. The Kashijan gifted them with three hundred Kho’rabi, fully equipped and well-mounted. Tezdal was happy in all ways but one: the Great Conquest was promised soon and he lusted for that battle.

His voice tailed off like a dying wind, and upon his face I saw an expression of naked grief. I heard Rwyan gasp and knew she “saw” that same pain. I said, “Tezdal, what is it?”

He said, “My boat was felled,” and offered Rwyan a tortured smile. “By the magicks you threw against us. I was believed slain; died with the rest. That word was sent to Retze, and she mourned a year, then …”

He swallowed, choking on the words. I saw tears lucent in his eyes, running slowly down his cheeks. Rwyan stretched a hand across the table, taking his. I rose and filled a goblet with wine, passed it to him. He smiled wan thanks and drained the cup.

Then he sighed and finished, “Retze took the Way of Honor.”

I’d no real need of explanation, but still I asked.

I think I was so startled by all I’d learned, so numbed by this incredible insight into the ways of the Ahn, I felt a need of words to set it all firm in my mind. Surely I intended him no more pain.

But it was there in his eyes and his voice as he told me, “She slew herself. Such is our way, in defeat or loss of a loved one.”

Rwyan said, “Tezdal, I’m sorry. Had I known …”

He laughed at that, a bitter sound, and asked, “Should you have done different? Not flung your magicks at us?”

Rwyan shook her head. “No. But still I grieve for your loss.”

He sighed and closed his eyes a moment. When they opened, they were bright with tears. He seemed not at all ashamed to show his grief, which I think was a measure of his strength. He said, “I believe you, Rwyan. I honor you as a worthy foe; I honor you as a friend.” A twisted smile stretched out his lips. “By the Three, but were this world of ours different!”

I said, “I’d have it otherwise, Tezdal. I share your grief.”

He ducked his head. I watched as he wiped his eyes, not knowing what else to say; not knowing how this should affect Rwyan’s fate and mine.

It was a while before he raised his head, and when he did, his expression was bleak. I liked it not at all: torment was graved there. He said, “I am sworn by the Three to fight you. To destroy you. But I cannot name you enemies.” He shook his head. “They set a heavy burden on us, our gods.”

I said, “What shall you do?”

He smiled at that and barked a laugh that held no humor, but only anguish. He said, “My avowed duty is to give you over to the Changed. To see your secrets, Rwyan, sucked out, that we may take back the Homeland. To slay you, Daviot, if I must; and then go south, to war.”

Rwyan said, “And shall you?”

He wiped a hand down over his fresh-shaved jaw and looked her in the eye. “I feel myself divided,” he said. “I am Kho’rabi; I am also your friend. I am sworn to defeat you and defend you, both. I see no choice left me save the Way of Honor.”

He touched the hilt of the long dagger sheathed at his waist and offered us a death’s-head smile.

I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him there must be another way, but Rwyan spoke while useless words still spun unshaped in my head.

“The Way of Honor?” Her voice was gentle as a blade sheathed in velvet. “Suicide? I thought you sworn to defend me. Do you take this Way of Honor, how think you I shall fare? Or Daviot? Would you give us into Allanyn’s hands?”

That was cruel, I thought. I saw Tezdal wince, his eyes starting wide, then narrowing. I thought him snared in the trap of his Kho’rabi honor; and that that was Rwyan’s intention. I understood that code of honor better now. I understood the Sky Lords better than any Dhar. I had such knowledge as would delight my College. And it was useless. Or so I thought: I failed to accord Rwyan her just due.

Tez dal said, “What choice have I? Shall I betray my people, and stand damned in the eyes of the Three? Shall I betray you, and damn myself? I am lost, Rwyan! I am no longer entirely Kho’rabi; neither am I Dhar. I see no other way.”

I was startled by Rwyan’s response.

She asked him, quietly, “Have you dreamed, Tezdal?”

He was no less surprised than I. He stared at her as if she were gone mad. She sat, calm, her beautiful blind eyes intent upon his troubled face, brows arched in question.

He said, “You know I have. Along the road to Trebizar …”

Rwyan nodded: confirmation of old, shared knowledge. “Then, aye,” she said. “But since? Whilst you lay in that vault?”

Tezdal frowned. His shoulders rose a little, and fell. He gestured with his right hand, helplessly. Then he said, “Yes. I think I did.”

“Think?” Rwyan urged him. “Remember.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “There were eyes,” he said at last. “Great yellow eyes that urged I come to them. You two were there, and the Changed named Urt. The eyes summoned us all. I thought”-he shook his head-“thought they held answers, though I cannot say to what. I felt that did I fail their call, I must be damned.”

“I had that dream,” Rwyan said. “And Daviot. Urt, too. We are summoned, I believe.”

Tezdal said, “By what? The gods?”

Rwyan shook her head. “Perhaps the gods have a hand in this. I know not, but I believe fate calls us.”

I suspect my expression matched Tezdal’s then. His was of plain confusion, laden with disbelief. He gestured that she explain.

She said, “Daviot’s the better way with words than I-let him explain,” and turned to me and said, “Daviot, do you tell him of the pattern?”

Almost, I shook my head and told her no; that this was all some phantasm born of despair. That she clutched at straws when we had better ready ourselves to die. That Tezdal’s Way of Honor was the only escape from our plight.

But I could not: she fixed me with her blind gaze, and had I not known her talent was curtailed by Trebizar’s magic, I’d have believed she englamoured me. I ducked my head and began to speak.

I told Tezdal of all my dreams, and those Rwyan had known. I told him all I knew of the dragons (little enough, that), and of Urt’s dreams. I told him of the pattern. I told him of the crystal Urt had brought us, and all we’d learned from that stone.

And as I spoke, I came to a kind of belief. It was tainted with doubt (all the time there was a skeptical voice inside my skull, whispering in my ear that this was only phantasmagoria; the last, wild imaginings of folk condemned to inevitable death), but through that doubt I saw a spark of hope. I could not forget how vivid those dreams had been, and it seemed to me my words kindled the flame. I wondered if I went mad.

When I was done, Tezdal rose and brought the decanter to the table. He filled Rwyan’s cup and mine, then his own. He drank deep and looked me in the eye.

“Do you believe this?” he asked.

I hesitated before I shrugged and said, “I cannot say you aye, only that it seems mightily strange.” I could not, then, meet Rwyan’s gaze.

He looked to her and asked the same question.

She nodded. “I do.”

Tezdal emptied the cup. “Then tell me what it means.” Rwyan said, “I cannot give clear answer. I can only tell you I believe we none of us need die; that there’s hope.”

“Of what?” he demanded. “How?”

Rwyan smiled. “Of intervention. Of some power beyond our understanding that offers us escape. From death and from war-some hope of a future without this conflict that binds us all to its bloody cause. A hope of peace. Between your people and mine; between we Dhar and the Changed. Hope of a different world; perhaps a better world.”

For a long time Tezdal stared at her. I had the feeling then that our future hung suspended on a fragile thread of belief in creatures of legend. Creatures likely long gone into the mists of time. Dead and forgotten by all save we Storymen.

Yet still there were the dreams; so vivid, so real, I felt the flame of my burgeoning hope surge fiercer. I felt, somehow, that to doubt was to betray that power that came to me in sleep, that I could not-nor should-turn my back on those great eyes that judged and offered hope.

I heard Rwyan say, “Daviot first sowed these seeds in my mind. I did not believe him then; I do now. I believe there is some pattern woven between we four. Between him and me, and you, and Urt. I believe we are summoned to change our world.”

She took my hand as she spoke, and smiled at me, and I felt horribly ashamed that I had doubted her.

Tezdal said, “By dragons?”

Rwyan went on smiling as she shrugged. “Perhaps the gods work their will through dragons. I cannot say-I’d not assume to interpret such commands. But this I tell you-that I believe we’ve hope. And do we ignore what these dreams have told us, we betray a greater cause than any held by Ahn or Dhar or Changed.”

Tezdal studied her face awhile. His own was a kaleidoscope of emotions. What mine showed, I cannot say: confusion, I suppose, or hope-for her voice was a clarion calling me to a victory in which I could hardly dare trust, but neither ignore.

Tezdal asked, “Then what shall I do?”

I saw the beginnings of belief on his face; I heard hope in his voice. I heard Rwyan say, “First, find some means to speak with Urt. Delay Allanyn. Dream again-I believe the answer shall come. Stand ready when it does.”

He studied her for long moments, intently as if he’d draw his answers from her sightless gaze. She faced him calm, her lovely face resolute. Then he ducked his head, that simple motion somehow become a formal admission, and said, “I shall. But best this promised answer come soon-I think neither Allanyn nor my brothers shall allow you too much more time.”

Rwyan stood and took his hands. “Only believe, Tezdal, and perhaps well find the way to change this world.”

He smiled, and gave us both a formal bow, and went out the door. I looked to Rwyan and asked her, “Do you truly believe all this?”

She said, “Yes,” and kissed me. And asked, “Do you not?”

I could only sigh and shrug: I’d not her faith, then. I thought I’d spun out yarns of fancy, the weavings of a young man’s imagination, and she caught in them, like a netted fish that swims hither and yon, not seeing the skeins that drift ever closer until finally they close and mesh the catch firm, until it dies.

I should have trusted her better. She was ever wiser than I.

No word had come from either Urt or Tezdal; but neither had we been summoned by the Raethe or Allanyn appeared to gloat. That last I considered a favorable sign that Tezdal had succeeded in delaying her, and therefore came to believe truly in Rwyan’s prognostications. Or perhaps he had only endeavored to save the lives of two friends. Or perhaps he had taken the Way of Honor and was given whatever funerary rites were the Kho’rabi custom, of which none thought to inform two Dhar prisoners.

I had little appetite that night, either for the food served us or for Rwyan. I held her and we made love, but my mind was ever on the morrow and what it should likely bring. I felt lost.

And when the dream came, both stranger than before and clearer, it slung me further into confusion. It was as though some message came to me, but writ in language I must struggle to comprehend.

I sat atop some craggy peak, all jagged stone that thrust stark fingers at a darkened sky. Cloud hid the land below, and a fierce wind stabbed my naked skin. I looked about, thinking to find companions-Rwyan, Urt, and Tezdal-but there were none: I was alone.

Then thunder filled the air, and all around me settled vast forms, not quite distinguishable, but misty, impressions of wide wings and fangs and claws. I cowered under the observation of eyes that studied me with an alien passion. It was as if I stood under the gaze of gods, their interests greater than a mere man’s, and born of other concerns, higher and unknowable.

I felt afraid: I knelt.

And into my mind came a question: Why do you fear us?

I answered, “Are you truly real?”

And the voice said, We are real You called us; now we call you. Shall you answer, or shall you die?

I said, “I’d not die.”

And the voice said, Then have faith. You called us. We heard you then, and now we answer you. Believe!

I said, “And do I? Shall you save us, all of us?”

And the voice said, Those who believe, aye. They are chosen, and those we shall save.

I asked, “Are you gods, then?”

And the voice belled laughter that blew me down, my hands raised to protect my ears, and said, Not gods. But your salvation, do you believe.

I said, “Give me a sign then.”

And the voice said, You are the sign, Daviot. And Rwyan; Urt and Tezdal. Call us, and we come. We are salvation.

I said, “Then come. Take us out of this place.” And the voice said, So be it. But shall you pay the price? I said, “What price?”

And the voice gave me back, Life over death.

I said, “Yes. Only save Rwyan, and whatever price you name I’ll pay.”

And the voice answered me, Stand ready.

The wings spread then, hiding the sky, and from all those glowing eyes I felt a promise, a pledge of absolute certainty, even as I was beaten down by the thunder and cowered beneath that terrible wind as my ears were dinned with shrieks of triumph, as if all the wolves in the world howled in unison.

I woke filled in a manner I cannot properly describe with confidence. It was like the cessation of an illness, the abatement of fever: when you fall asleep sweat-drenched and troubled and wake cool, knowing the sickness gone. I felt I had made a decision. The burgeoning dawn seemed somehow brighter. I smiled.

Beside me, Rwyan stirred. I stroked her cheek and her eyes opened. She “looked” at me and smiled. “You dreamed,” she said, and it was not a question, but confirmation that we shared this thing.

I said, “Yes. They shall come soon, I think.”

She nodded, understanding, and I sprang from the bed to wash and dress, that I be ready for-what? I could not say. Only that I felt-no! that I knew-the future must soon shift in its course.

It was anticlimax to see three gifted come in with our morning meal. I know not what I had expected-some explosion, perhaps, the roof of our chamber ripped away, and dragons come down to carry us off; Urt and Tezdal come storming in with drawn swords. To find only our usual guardians bearing bread and fruit and cheese, tea, was prosaic. Rwyan “saw” my expression and laughed (which utterly disconcerted our warders) and told me, “Trust.” Which confused the Changed the more.

We ate and waited. Rwyan was far more composed than I: I found it hard.

Harder still when Urt came to us with solemn mien and shoulders slumped and said, “Do we walk awhile in the garden? I am asked to speak with you again.”

Past him in the corridor, I saw three gifted Changed. Their faces were hard to read, but I thought I saw the flashings of triumph in their eyes. I feared then that the dream had come too late, and we were both of us condemned. But Rwyan said, “Yes, that should be pleasant,” and took my hand, the pressure of her slim fingers a reminder to trust. And so I smiled and echoed her, and we went out into the open air.

It was obviously the design of the Raethe that Urt have one last chance to convince us Rwyan should give her knowledge willingly. He led us down the winding paths into the strange woodland, our golden-banded escort hanging back a few careful steps as if they’d afford him time and space to win us over.

In a tone designed to carry, he told us we had no hope but could only submit to the will of the Raethe. That the Great Coming was a foregone conclusion, and we no choice save between cooperation and its rewards, or the unpleasant alternative.

In whispers, he spoke of the dream he’d had. He shuddered as he told it, still not at all happy with the notion of a Changed and dragons communing. It was much like mine: reassurance offered, pledges given, and he no more able than I to say exactly what it meant. But still, for all that the likelihood of rescue seemed to diminish with each step we took, I felt oddly confident, my faith firmed by those oneiric promises. I smiled and whispered back, “Did you believe, Urt?”

He sighed and lowered his head, the gesture more submissive than confirming, and said, “I did. I felt not much choice. I felt … that did I refuse, I should betray my kind.”

Rwyan laughed; confidently. My smile grew broader.

We walked, then, through a copse of tall beech trees. The ground beneath was bare, the earth hard and scattered with cobs. The trees were stately in the manner of beeches, fending sunlight through their boughs like duelists weaving traceries of light and shadow down in dancing patterns. I thought the same shadowplay worked over Urt’s face: hope and disbelief mingling.

He loosed a gusty sigh and glanced at me. “It was easier in Durbrecht, Daviot,” he said wearily. “I’d no dreams there; save freedom. Now-now I dream of dragons and a wider liberty. Can it be so?”

This copse was akin to some cathedral: I could only answer true. I said, “I’ve known those dreams, Urt, and last night I was given a promise. I cannot explain it properly, but I believe we’ve hope.”

He said, “Tezdal said as much. He was set to the Way of Honor, but then you spoke with him and we compared our dreams, and he delayed. He promised to find you here. But …” He looked up as if he’d find an answer in the sky, through the wide-spread branches that scattered all the light of hope and doubt over his face. “But save Rwyan agree to give up all the secrets of Dhar magic willingly, Allanyn shall take her and use the crystals on her this night.”

Suddenly the shadows seemed darker, like gathering storm. The breeze that rustled the beeches seemed harsher. I felt Rwyan’s hand clench hard about my fingers.

“She’s the ear of all the Raethe,” Urt said, “and neither I nor any other could dissuade them. By sun’s set, they agreed. Can I not persuade you by then …”

He shrugged. I looked up. The sun was westered: not far off its setting. I looked at Urt and saw no doubt in his eyes. There was only despair there, such as would match and meet what I’d felt before I’d accepted the dream’s promise.

Rwyan said, “You told Tezdal?”

Urt nodded. “Everything; all of it.”

She asked, “And he believed?”

Urt said, “He did. But even so-Allanyn will bring you to the crystals at sunset.”

Rwyan said, “Have faith, Urt. Allanyn shall not have her way! Neither with us nor the world.”

He looked at her with worried eyes. “I’d believe you, Rwyan, but how can it be?” His eyes flicked sideways in mute indication of our escort. “Three gifted watch us e’en now; and your magic is powerless here. How shall you escape Allanyn?”

There was a way: my promise to her. My newfound confidence faltered then. Rwyan “saw” my expression and said, “Fear not, Daviot. It shall not come to that.”

In that moment I shared Urt’s fear. Against the rock of my belief there washed fierce waves of doubt. The shadows of the beeches hung long across the ground as the sun moved ever closer to the west, closer to its setting. It seemed to me the orb moved with unnatural speed.

Rwyan said, “Urt, does Tezdal know of Allanyn’s intent?”

He nodded, not speaking, and she asked him, “And does he know you walk with us here?”

Again he nodded. This time he said, “But what good that? What shall Tezdal do? What can he do?”

Rwyan smiled. “We shall see.”

We walked awhile in silence then, our escort a discreet distance behind. I wondered if they were out of earshot or if their talent enabled them to hear all we said. If that, I knew us lost. I thought that did they call us back, then I should strike that blow I dreaded. Beyond the trees I heard a stream gurgling over stones. It sounded to me like a clepsydra, measuring out the moments left us. I looked to the east and saw the sky darkening; to the west the sun stood close on the treetops. I felt Rwyan’s hand in mine, warm and dry. I conjured my last dream, reliving it vivid in my mind, that I might renew my threatened hope.

Then I gaped as I saw Tezdal come strolling through the wood. He was dressed in his Kho’rabi finery, but now he wore the long sword he named a kachen sheathed on his waist. His expression was dark: I thought him troubled by some inner turmoil.

Rwyan loosed her hand and murmured soft, “Stand ready.”

I made some inarticulate sound in confirmation and watched as Tezdal approached our three guardians. His gait was somehow altered, so that I was minded of a stalking cat, its casual approach concealing its murderous intent. I was reminded of the Kho’rabi I had met in battle. I moved away from Rwyan, toward the three Changed.

They had halted politely as the Sky Lord came up. He offered them an arrogant bow and said, “Allanyn would see you in the crystal chamber.” He gestured in our direction. “These you may leave in my charge.”

The Changed glanced at one another, frowning. One said, “How so, my lord? Our orders are clear-to grant Urt until sunset to convince the mage. Can he not, then to bring her to Allanyn.”

Tezdal’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Do you question me?” he asked.

No: he did not ask, but demanded, challenging. In that moment he was entirely Kho’rabi. It took the Changed aback.

The speaker said, “I fail to understand, my lord.”

I saw Tezdal’s fingers drum irritably against his scabbard: a man accustomed to command, in no wise familiar with disagreement. He said, “What’s to understand?”

The Changed said, “Forgive me, my lord, but our orders were explicit. We are not to leave these three alone.”

Tezdal said, “Then I’ve no choice.”

And drew his blade.

I saw what he intended. I thought he attempted an impossible task: these three were gifted. One, perhaps, he might slay, but even as that one died, the others would bring their magic against him and destroy him. Fleeting into my mind came the thought that perhaps that was his wish-that he chose this Way of Honor.

I had fought Kho’rabi and knew their deadly skills. I had seen none so skilled as Tezdal.

His blade sliced a bloody line across the Changed’s belly. I saw a crimson cloud explode as the man doubled over, hands clamped to the dreadful cut. Tezdal spun full around, the long sword lifting to hack through the upraised wrists of a second victim. The mouth that had begun to shape a gramarye opened wider as the hands fell, and a horrible scream replaced the spell. Tezdal reversed the stroke-how could any man move so fast?-prepared to carve the third like some piece of kindling wood.

And he was flung back, hurled away by an occult wind that picked him up and threw him down as if he were no more than a feather. I saw the sword ripped from his hands. It spun high in the darkening air as he struck the ground with such awful force, I heard the gusting of the air punched from his lungs. I saw the blade turn, supported by magic as it ceased its spinning and came back toward him, hovering above his supine form preparatory to skewering him.

Had I owned the time to think then, I’d have blessed Keran and Cleton for all their lessons. I think Andyrt should have been proud of me.

I was running: I hurled myself up, as I had been taught, launching myself feet foremost into the air. My boots struck the gifted Changed square between the shoulders. He was thrown forward onto his face. His spell ended abruptly in a shrill exhalation that choked off as his mouth filled with dust and dropped beech cobs. The sword hanging above Tezdal wavered, twisting around, then fell careless across my friend’s chest.

I rolled to my feet. The martial training of Mnemonikos and Kho’rabi knights was never so different: attack, and you are committed. I turned as I rose, my hands finding the Changed’s chin even as my knees lodged against his spine. He grunted, and I felt his power gathering, a prickling on my skin. I pulled up and back, turning the jaw. I heard the horrid sound of cracking bone and felt the head come loose in my hands. I felt the life go out and my stomach churn. I wanted badly to vomit. Instead, I sprang away. I told myself I had no choice: that these slain folk would have slain me and Rwyan. All of us; but still I felt scant appetite for the killing.

I looked to the wounded sorcerer and saw her kneeling, weeping over the bloody stumps that ended her arms. She shaped a gramarye to quench the flow of spurting blood. All her attention was focused on that. I did not know what to do.

Tezdal rose. He shook his head as if to clear it of nightmares’ memories and picked up his sword. He looked at the weeping Changed and came staggering toward her.

I said, “No!”

He paid me no attention; only raised the blade and cut off her head. It rolled away over the dry ground in a fountain of blood.

I forced my stomach not to empty itself. I heard Rwyan make a sound that was part scream and part cry of hope.

The first victim of Tezdal’s attack knelt over a glutinous mass of spilled entrails. My Sky Lord comrade beheaded him with the calm efficiency of a slaughterman. Then he drew a patch of silk from his belt and wiped his sword. His face was an expressionless mask. I swallowed bile. I looked to where Rwyan stood. Her eyes were wide with disgust and horror, but there was also something more that I could not properly define. She clutched Urt’s arm, and on his face I saw only amazement. I looked around, suddenly aware that twilight fell. Stars already freckled the eastern sky. The darkening of the clearing amongst the beeches matched the darkening of the ground. The sun hung red in the west; the soil lay red at my feet.

(Is it always so? Must we always find our truths in blood?)

Tezdal sheathed his cleaned sword and said, “Come! I’ve horses waiting past the wall.”

Urt said, “Where can we go?”

Rwyan said, “Toward hope! Do as Tezdal says!”

I said nothing. I knew we were committed now, all of us. Did we remain, we had no hope at all. Allanyn should have her revenge on all of us, unthinking and blind as her ambition. I could only trust that whatever came to us in those oneiric sendings did not offer false hope but told us truth. I felt, still, that certainty that had come to me; but also the surety that now we were horridly dead, save we escaped this place. Our lives balanced on a knife’s edge: I saw no choice save to trust in Tezdal and run. In those moments I did not think at all of the planned invasion or of what Ennas Day should bring to Dharbek, but only of our personal survival.

I said, “Urt, do you stay here, you’re dead! Come with us!”

I took his hand and Rwyan’s and ran after Tezdal.

I felt a tug, and then Urt was with us, leaving go my hand to run faster than I, going by Tezdal.

As he passed the Sky Lord he shouted, “Where past the wall?”

Tezdal yelled an answer I could not hear, and Urt loped ahead. I saw his canine ancestry then, as he ran, loose-limbed and fleet. But I heard him shout back, “After me, then. I know these trails.”

Trails?

I had seen this woodland from the window of our prison. I had walked here: gardens, surely, woven by Changed magic into disregard of season, but no more than that. No more than some expression of sorcerers’ vanity, or the vested power of Trebizar’s crystals. I should have guessed better when we trod that grove of beeches. I should have known magic better.

We did not run through some garden: we fled through a forest. It was not possible, and yet the evidence of my eyes told me it was so. We quit the clearing, and beeches were replaced with majestic oaks. We splashed across the stream I’d heard and followed Urt through the willow curtains beyond. We ran across a meadow that could not have occupied so much space, the grass long-and leaving a clear trail for trackers, I thought; did those who must surely come after us have need for such mundane signs. We ran past stands of ash and hornbeam, and it became quite impossible to judge time, my chronological sense distorted by these weird dimensions.

Dusk fell, the sun offering a last defiance of encroaching night, layering the western sky with red and gold as if some vast furnace threw wide its gates. Urt slowed that we not lose sight of him. I felt my damaged leg begin to throb. I had not run so hard or so far in too long. I looked to Rwyan and saw her panting, her hair flung wild, her skirts gathered up to reveal long slender legs. She smiled at me and without speaking urged me on. I nodded. I thought we could not escape. Even did we reach the wall, even did we find the promised horses-where should we go? Where could we go? The valley ringed us with hilly walls. Even did we reach those mountains undetected-and I could not see how that might be-we should still find all of Ur-Dharbek our prison. Either coast was too far, the Slammerkin was a barrier, the north an unknown country.

North.

Sheer startlement made me stumble as the voice spoke inside my head. It was an emotional compass, a disincarnate magnet that summoned the fibers of my nerves.

North!

It was an imperative: a clarion of promise, urgent. It was as soundless as the voices of my dreams, but so clear, so vivid, I turned my head, thinking to find the speaker running at my side. I pitched full length onto the dirt of the narrow trail. Rwyan cried out and halted, stooping to help me rise. I spat dirt, embarrassed and confused. She said, “You heard it,” and it was not a question: I nodded.

“Then come!”

I grunted. My leg hurt badly now, twisted by the fall. I limped as I matched her pace. She took my hand, and it seemed strength flowed into me. I thought her magic was returned her, but likely it was only her determination. I wondered if I heard a bell ringing, an alarum, or if I heard only the pounding of my blood within my skull.

Then, through a line of yews, I saw the white barrier of the wall. Urt halted there; Tezdal shouted, gesturing, and they both began to search along the wall.

Tezdal had planned well: I marveled at his resourcefulness. A length of thick rope, knotted to afford firm handholds, hung down. He called, beckoning us.

Urt went first, limber to the wall’s top, where he perched, reaching back to help Rwyan up. She joined him there, looked back a moment, and disappeared. Tezdal pushed me to the cord, touching his sword as he stared back, head cocked. I heard the bell clear now. I took the rope and began to climb. I thought my leg should fail me then: it seemed that fire burned my muscles. I moaned and gritted my teeth and willed myself to climb. I felt Urt’s hand on my wrist, strong, hauling me up. He took my belt and manhandled me over, setting my hands on the rope on the farther side.

I dropped the last few feet and cried out as I struck the ground. Urt appeared beside me, then Tezdal, and they each took an arm and raised me to my feet, almost dragging me to where Rwyan stood with the reins of four restive horses in her hands.

Then they must shove me astride, for my leg could no longer support my weight. It was a relief to find the saddle.

North!

It seemed to echo in my mind like the ringing of the bell behind us. I drove heels against my horse’s flanks and brought the bay to a gallop. Rwyan rode to my left, Tezdal on my right. Urt was a neck ahead. We rode as if all the Church’s demons bayed at our heels. I thought no kinder creatures would follow us. I thought of Allanyn’s feral eyes and decided confrontation with demons might well be the lesser torment.

The land was gentle here, like a park, grassy and undulating, with small hursts visible under the light of the moon. That orb was risen full, huge and butter-yellow. It minded me of the eyes of my dreams.

North!

And with that command, a sense of urgency. It was not articulate but entirely emotional. It was a promise I could not define but only accept. I knew, somehow, that we must gain distance from the building by the lake-from the aegis of the Raethe’s strongest power-before the promise might be fulfilled. I hunched in my saddle, willing this stranger horse to run as I knew my old gray could. My hurt leg throbbed; I dismissed the pain. Far worse awaited me-awaited all of us-did we not make whatever rendezvous lay ahead.

I chanced a backward glance and saw the town across the lake lit bright. There was light from the Council building, too; and the moon’s image shimmered on the water. I saw the skyboats glimmer redly, the fires of the Kho’rabi encamped below reflecting off the sanguine flanks of the great craft. I turned away: there was no point in looking back, now less than ever. Did Changed magic not somehow find a way to reach out and strike us down, then surely the Sky Lords must soon enough launch their little boats and quarter the night sky until they found us.

North!

It was our only hope.

The lights of farmhouses shone far off around us. Dogs barked, their keen ears doubtless alert to our desperation. The land rolled and folded. We galloped through streams and crossed, slower, rivers. We ran through fields of autumnal wheat and stands of trees. Our horses threatened to falter. We drove them hard; too hard. I felt slaver blow back against my face, and under my knees I could feel the bay’s ribs heaving. His neck was wet with sweat. I knew he could not hold this pace much longer.

Urt shouted, gesturing back. I could not hear what he said, but there was no need: the sight of it was plain enough.

Low in the sky came a skyboat.

It was one of the little scout craft: a questing hound that darted this way and that, crossing our trail, returning to the scent. It followed us inexorable as doom.

I saw others, but none so close. They roamed the valley, but only this one seemed to find our path. I wondered how long before the Kho’rabi wizards felt sure of their prey and sent word to their fellows, and all those darting specks I saw should converge above us and send their magicks against us, and we be all destroyed.

Or would they only trap us? Come down and ring us with such might of magic or plain steel as must deny us all escape?

I thought that then I must deliver Rwyan my promise.

I thought of that gifted I had slain and saw my love’s head turned loose in my hands the same way. I should do it: I had given her my word, and it were better than to leave her to Allanyn’s revenge; but still I felt my belly recoil at the notion.

We rode on. Hooves drummed on hard-packed dirt. I thought the sound must echo against the sky, an aural beacon to our pursuers.

What need of that, to those who bound the aerial spirits to their cause? They could ask the elementals to sound the air, the vibrations of the ground, the flavor of the wind; all of it to their cause: to find us. I looked back and saw the little skyboat cease its questing. It ran straight now, after us; sure as a scented hound. I thought I saw the archers in the basket beneath. I felt my shoulders tense, anticipating the prick of arrows, the blast of magic.

I wondered how it should feel to die. I looked to Rwyan and saw her smile. She called out words I could not hear over the thunder of the hooves and the rush of the wind. I smiled back. I felt no hope at all and could not understand how she could; not now.

Surely we were doomed.

I saw the skyboat closing on us, arrowing after.

And then a shape descend out of the night.

It was a blackness against the stars, a swooping shadow across the face of the moon. I reined my mount to head-hung standstill and sat the heaving animal entirely oblivious of my comrades, of still-impending danger. I was Mnemonikos-and now I looked on what no other Rememberer had ever witnessed. I could not ignore it, even at cost of my life.

I looked on a dragon.

It came down so swift, I had only an impression of the angled leathery wings that spread impossibly wide as it broke its meteoric descent. A long tail lashed and plumed straight. Great limbs thrust out, much as do a cat’s when that lesser creature looks to break a fall. A massive head extended on a serpentine neck, the jaws opened to display fangs as long as Tezdal’s sword; I had no doubt they should be as sharp. I glimpsed enormous eyes, yellow and unblinking.

It made no more sound than a swooping owl. It was as deadly-and if it were the owl, then the skyboat was the mouse.

There was a gaseous explosion as the dragon struck. For an instant it was outlined clear in the fireball of the skyboat’s destruction. It fell through the wreckage, taloned hindfeet closing on the basket, large enough to encompass that float. The wings beat, lifting the massive body back up through the burning tatters of the ravaged supporting sack. I heard the screams of dying men. I saw the dragon rise, the forelimbs clutching now at the basket, the head descending to pluck at the Kho’rabi as if the awesome creature snatched tidbits from a platter. It shook its head as does a terrier worrying at a rat. Bits and pieces-basket and men all mingled-tumbled down. The dragon let fall its prey and beat its wings and hurtled toward me.

I was only dimly aware of Rwyan turning her horse to come back, to stand beside me as we both stared, awed, at this terrible spectacle.

Then our mounts screamed in naked terror and began to buck as the massive shape swooped low overhead.

I felt pain, and the night sky spun madly before my eyes. Then I felt myself lifted and saw three Rwyans kneeling close, all of them expressing a confusing mixture of concern and terror and amazement and hope. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, there was only one Rwyan, and she was asking if I were well.

I nodded and wished I’d not. I think I said yes, but my gaze was already moving past her to the battle in the sky above. I climbed to my feet, wincing as pain’s daggers stabbed my leg. She came close, easing a shoulder beneath my arm, and I held her and leaned against her as we both watched legend unfold.

Urt came trotting back afoot. He was dirtied by his own fall. His eyes were wide, and his jaw hung open in unalloyed wonder. He said nothing, only stared. He radiated fear: I reached out and set an arm around him. His support was welcome, but mostly I sought to reassure him: he shook like an autumn leaf in a savage wind, hung by the most tenuous connection to the sanity of the tree.

I said, “Urt, they come to save us. Only that! They offer us no harm.” I hoped I spoke true: what I saw in the sky was pure chaos.

He gave me back no answer but a moan. I drew him closer and felt his arm span my waist. He was very hot and trembled constantly.

Rwyan said, “Remember the dreams, Urt! Believe them! This is our salvation come.”

He made a sound like a puppy’s whimper. I thought that this must be how it had been for all those Changed we Truemen left behind in Ur-Dharbek as dragons’ prey, that we might live free. I thought him then the bravest of us all, for he did not run but stood with us and fought the terror inherent in his blood; inherent in what we’d made him.

I heard hoofbeats and saw Tezdal come back, fighting his terrified mount. I wondered at his horsemanship, that he could still control the panicked animal. He snatched it to a stop and sprang down. He was no less amazed than we. I could not tell if he was so frightened, but he let go the reins and stared skyward as the roan stallion ran wild. He drew his sword, and I believed that he would fight the dragons if they attacked us.

Rwyan said, “They come to save us, Tezdal,” and there was such confidence in her voice, he sheathed the blade.

Above us skyboats fell in blossoms of fire.

The night filled with those sparkling flowers as the balloons were burst by claws and fangs and lashing tails. My ears dinned with the howls of dying men and the savage calling of the dragons. Worst, somehow, was the shrieking of the elementals, for that sound lanced sharp into the deepest fibers of my being. It was the sound of creatures entrapped and resentful, now freed and glorying in the destruction of their jailers in a manner quite alien to the triumphant belling of the dragons. Theirs was the shouting of warriors come to honest battle. It was clean as the howling of wolves: they did not gloat, only announced their victory. The elementals made a different sound, and it grated on my nerves and set my teeth on edge. It told me it was wrong to bind such spirits to man’s cause, or any other, save their own. I saw them burst loose and I felt their gratitude, that they were freed from bondage to unwilling cause. I saw (I cannot be absolutely sure, but I tell you what I believe) numerous of them join with the dragons to slay the Kho’rabi, like prisoners turning on their captors. I believe I saw bodies rent without attention of the dragons. It was as if vague forms wound around the falling Sky Lords and slew them as they fell; as if the very air plucked them apart. I think they took their revenge.

Then, I saw only the falling skyboats and the terrible culling of the dragons. The Kho’rabi wizards flung ineffectual magic at the sourian predators; and it was useful as blunt-tipped practice arrows against battle armor.

The dragons seemed not to notice. They shrugged it off and fell and clawed and bit, oblivious of anything save the need to pluck the skyboats from the sky.

Which they did with the calm and bloody efficiency of a wolf pack cutting deer from the herd. Cold as mathematics; indifferent to aught save the task in hand.

And we four stood watching, huddled fearful and patient under that stained and fire-filled sky. Watching our pursuers slain; wondering what our fate should be.

I held Rwyan, and I felt Urt’s terror. I wondered how Tezdal could stand so calm to see his kin slain. I was not afraid. I had passed beyond fear: I felt only wonder then, and I stood awed in witness of what Truemen said could not be, but was.

And then the dragons came down to land before us.

As I had done in dreams, now we all knelt under the beat of those wings. No more oneiric but real; lifting great clouds of swirling grass and dust, heavy as thunder. Awesome as dream-or nightmare-come true, shaped out in flesh: real!

I looked into yellow eyes that took the moon’s place: there was nothing else. I saw bloodied fangs, hung with remnants of flesh. I felt hot breath on my face. I saw talons settled in the dirt before me, like roots sunk in betwixt ground and sky. I saw wings hung all leathery, spread in promise or condemnation. I could not tell or know; only marvel. I saw, beyond the massive body, a tail switch restlessly, lofting clouds of grass. I saw a paw rise: a pink tongue lap absently at crimsoned claws.

I heard a voice say, “So, you are saved. Do you come with me, then? Or shall you wait here like frightened sheep until your hunters come?”

I only stared, dumbstruck. It was Rwyan who said, “Who are you? I’d have a name ere I go with you.”

Laughter then, like any man’s; but more, as if he found amusement in her courage past my understanding.

“Your hope,” he said. “The answer to your … prayers? Surely to the calling of your dreams. Come now; or stay and die here. All of you.”

I could not quite believe that Rwyan rose so readily and went to him-toward those awful, bloodstained fangs. But she paused and reached out to take my hand, and said again, “Who are you?”

And past the dragon’s head I heard him answer, “I am Bellek. Now come with me.”

I followed Rwyan. Urt and Tezdal came behind us. I think not even the Sky Lord was unafraid then.

I halted, wary as the dragon’s head descended closer. But it was only that the rider might dismount, clambering from the long neck to one great shoulder, springing from that to the ground. He grunted, though the distance was not so great, and straightened his back with a heartfelt sigh. The dragon turned its massive head a fraction, an eye observing him with an expression I could only interpret as concern.

He said, “By all the gods, I grow too old for this.”

I stared at him. His hair was the white of snow lit by a cold moon, tied back in a tail that hung to his waist. His face was leathery as his mount’s wings, as dark and seamed with wrinkles, like deep cuts in the flesh. He was shorter than I, about Urt’s size, dressed like some wildman, some hermit come down off his mountain; which, of course, he was. He wore a shirt of patched hide, sewn crude and belted with woven hair, and breeks in no better condition, loose and patched and stained. A wolfskin jerkin was stretched taut by his broad shoulders. Hides bound in rough semblance of boots covered his feet. He smiled, exposing teeth that were startling for their pristine regularity.

“So, you are Rwyan.” His eyes-I could not be certain of the color in the moonlight, but I thought them pale blue or perhaps gray-scanned us all, as if confirming our identities. “And you, Daviot. Then this must be the one called Urt, and this the Sky Lord.”

Tezdal said, “I am Tezdal Kashijan,” offering a deep, formal bow.

Bellek chuckled. “Tezdal shall do, Sky Lord. What ceremony we follow is theirs.”

He gestured at the dragon crouched beside him like some watchful hound.

I leaned on Rwyan and Urt and marveled at all this. I asked, “How do you know our names?”

He laughed again. I wondered if I heard an edge of madness in the sound. He said, “Blood calls to blood, Daviot; and there’s truth in dreams.”

That sounded to me like oracular riddling, but Rwyan said, “I told you! It’s the pattern.”

Bellek shrugged. “What’s in a name?” he asked. “The blood’s in you and called us. Is that a pattern? Perhaps it is. But we can discuss that later-in some place your hunters shall not find us.”

He hesitated then, head cocking toward the dragon, and nodded. “Aye, sweetling, I hear them. Soon, eh? Do you call them, and we’ll be gone.”

I felt then-you know those moments when it seems a voice whispers over your shoulder? Or from the corner of your eye you catch some movement? But when you tune your ear or turn your head, there’s nothing there?-it was like that. I knew Bellek and the dragon spoke together, and almost I could hear what they said. I saw the dragon raise its head and loose an oddly soft hooting call that was answered from across the fields. Then the air grew loud with wingbeats, and more of the terrifying creatures landed about us.

They settled, monolithic and magnificent, bathed in pale moonlight like barbaric statuary. I choked on blown dust, blind a moment. I heard Urt moan softly and felt his shoulders hunch under my arm.

Bellek said, “They’ll not harm you, Urt. Those days are long gone. But you must trust them and ride them.”

His tone was kindly but tinged with impatience and a hint of contempt. It crossed my mind that it was the tone a sated predator-a wolf or an owl-might use, did predators speak to potential prey when their bellies were filled and they hunted no longer.

Urt shuddered and shook his head. It was difficult to discern that particular motion from the general shaking of his body.

I said, “Urt, you must! Trust him!”

Urt said, the words forced past chattering teeth, “I cannot! No-not dragons!”

Bellek said, “If he’ll not mount, we must leave him here.”

Tezdal said, “I do not go without Urt. Leave him, and you leave me.”

Bellek said, “There are more of your kind coming, Sky Lord; and Changed sorcerers. You die if you stay. I think it should be slowly.”

Tezdal said, “Then I shall die. I’ll not leave Urt.”

I broke from Rwyan’s grip, wincing as my weight fell on my hurting leg. I looked into Urt’s face; set hands on his vibrating shoulders. I said, “Urt, do you trust me?”

He moaned back, “Yes, but I cannot ride a dragon.”

I thought it must take all his will to stand upright and speak; I admired him. I said, “You must. Do you not, then Allanyn shall take you and punish you in ways far worse than any fear you feel now. Worse! She’ll have her way and bring the world to bloody war for only her ambition. Would you allow that?”

He said, “I’d not. But-” His eyes roved wild and white-rimmed over our encircling audience. “Dragons, Daviot? I cannot!”

I asked again, “Do you trust me, Urt?”

He nodded again and began to speak. I shifted my grip from his shoulders to his neck. I was afraid I’d do it wrong; that my hurting leg would refuse my weight, but it did not. I found the nerves there and squeezed, whispering, “Forgive me, Urt,” as he started and fought me. It was too late. I saw his eyes jump wide, then glaze. For an instant they held an outrage that filled me with guilt. Then he fell loose from my hands. I fell down with him.

Rwyan and Bellek helped me to my feet. Her eyes were clouded with doubt and approval, all mixed. His were entirely approving. He said as I rose, soft in my ear, “You’ve the makings, Daviot.”

Tezdal lifted Urt, and on his face I saw only disapproval.

I said, “Does he stay-do either of you stay-you’ll die. I’d not see that. Do as Bellek says.”

Tezdal’s face shone angry in the moon’s light. “Does he not have the right to choose his death? Is there no honor in Dharbek?”

Rwyan spoke for me: “We’ve larger concerns, Tezdal. I’d not see Urt die for fear of going with friends. I’d not see you die needlessly. Do not forget your vow!”

Her voice was forged steel, hard and unyielding. Tezdal stared at her. I thought he’d argue. Stay here to take his Way of Honor, Urt his squire; and both lost.

Rwyan said, “We’ve hope, Tezdal! Bellek offers us hope, and I hold you to that vow.”

The Sky Lord’s face was black as he nodded. “What shall I do?”

Rwyan looked to Bellek. He said, “You must all do what none save I have in too long-you must ride the dragons.”

Leaning on Rwyan’s shoulder, I stared at the beasts and wondered how.

Bellek said, “And soon. More of those little flying craft come after you; and horsemen. I cannot command so many dragons as to defeat them all-so you mount, or I leave you here.”

Rwyan said, “We mount.”

I said, “How?”

Bellek gusted that crazy chuckle again and beckoned to us.

“Set Urt on Kathanria,” he said. “I’ll show you how.”

He gestured at the beast he had ridden, which raised a sky-consuming eye as if in inquiry of mention of her name. He spoke to her, and she lowered her great head against the ground as does a cat or a dog eager to be stroked, anxious to obey that it earn the approval of its … master is the wrong word. There is a relationship between species, between dogs and their owners; between cats and their owners. It seems to me a thing born of trust and mutual dependence-that one species gains from the other in equal measure.

Then, I knew only that this formidable creature laid down her head, stretching out her neck so that I saw a saddle set forward of her shoulders. It was a kind of bucket, high at cantle and back, with straps hanging loose and bags beside. It was not dissimilar to the saddle I’d long ago set on my gray mare, but far larger; in keeping with this mount’s size.

We climbed up the splayed foreleg. The dragon stretched it like a ladder. Bellek went first, and Tezdal passed him Urt’s loose body. The silver-haired man beckoned the Sky Lord up, and he climbed as if familiar with dragons. I stood with Rwyan by the massive forelimb. Kathanria lay still, but I could feel the heave of her ribs as she breathed and smell the dry-dust odor of her skin. I saw insects crawling there, but they paid me no heed. I. thought I was likely too small to merit their attention.

Aided by Tezdal, Bellek stretched Urt’s limp form behind the saddle. From the bags, he brought cords with which he bound Urt secure. I wondered how far we should travel, how long, and dreaded that Urt should wake and panic. I feared he might step over that line betwixt sanity and madness did he open his eyes to find himself in flight, across a dragon’s back. I feared he would not forgive me.

Bellek clambered down. “He’ll be safe enough,” he promised. “Kathanria’s a gentle lady.”

I eyed the beast, which eyed me, unwinking, back, and wondered how so dreadful a creature might be described as “a gentle lady.” I think that then my mind was so occupied with thought of pursuit and escape, the full realization of what I was about to do had not sunk in.

It was driven home by Bellek’s next words: “So do I introduce you to your mounts?”

He did not await our response but waved us after him as he marched briskly toward another dragon.

Kathanria’s hide was brown, the reddish hue of a deer. This beast was darker, mottled gray and black. Her eyes were tawny. I could not understand how I knew her name (or how, again, I knew she was female) before Bellek spoke.

“This is Anryale,” he said. “Rwyan, do you take her?”

Rwyan nodded and reached out to touch the dragon’s snout, for all the world as if she stroked a beast of no more import than a horse. Anryale blew a gusty exhalation, and I knew she took pleasure from the contact. I gaped as Rwyan followed Bellek’s instructions: up the splayed forelimb to the shoulder, a foot set in the stirrup dangling there, that the leverage she needed to settle herself in the saddle. Bellek climbed after her, showing her straps and buckles that were swiftly fixed in place. Rwyan clutched the frontage of the saddle and looked down on Tezdal and me.

Bellek sprang down; winced, cursed volubly, and said, “You need do nothing. Only sit and try to contain your fear. If-this with a grin at Rwyan, who was beaming wide as any child embarking on some great adventure long dreamed of and now come true-“you are afraid.”

She said, “I’m not.”

It seemed to me her voice came from high above.

Bellek turned to Tezdal: “You shall ride Peliane, Sky Lord; and know what flight is.”

Tezdal nodded. His face was expressionless; I wondered if he truly felt no fear or only hid it well. I was suddenly torn between a desire to stay and take my chances on firm ground, and the knowledge that to do so was to hand myself to Allanyn. I told myself that Rwyan evinced no trepidation at this incredible venture, and so nor should I. It was not easy.

Peliane was black as Kho’rabi armor, save for streaks of dull yellow about her wide jaws and along her wings. Tezdal mounted her smoothly as he did a horse. I watched, favoring my hurting leg, as Bellek showed him where the straps fit, to hold him in the saddle.

Then it was my turn.

The crispness of advancing autumn chilled the night air, but I felt hot. My mouth felt very dry, and my stomach recalled its last meal. I told myself all this was foolishness; that were harm meant us, these beasts could easily have devoured us. I knew they meant us no harm. I knew they were our only hope-not only of escape, but of far more. Hope of fulfilled dreams; of what I’d dreamed so long ago in Durbrecht. Still I felt afraid.

Bellek said, “This is Deburah, Daviot. After Kathanria, she’s the sweetest, swiftest lady in the castle.”

I looked at Deburah. She met my gaze with a placid topaz eye. Her hide was blue as the moonlit ocean and sleek as a sea-washed pebble. It came to me that she was beautiful, in a terrible, awesome manner. I felt her pleasure at that thought. I was far too confused, too frightened, to wonder how either she or I could know that.

It was not easy to climb her leg-my own hurt as it had not done before-but I found the saddle and sat there as Bellek strapped me in. Belts passed over my shoulders and belly, holding me firm in the saddle; more held my legs; my feet rested in the buckets of the stirrups. The saddle was cut with handholds in the front: I locked my fingers there.

Bellek said, “Only sit firm, and leave all to Deburah. Trust her.”

I nodded and forced out a gasping “Yes.”

He laughed and slapped my thigh, which made me wince. Then he was gone, trotting back to Kathanria.

I clutched the saddle. I realized the dragon’s-no! Deburah’s-back was ridged, as if the spine sat high above the ribs, the belly. It was a comfortable seat. I was mounted just forward of the wings, which now lay flattened back against Deburah’s flanks. I realized I could look forward past the neck and head and see where we should go, what lay below us. I felt suddenly calm: it was as though she spoke to me; not in words, but in emotion. I felt my fear dissipate, like poison bleeding from an infected wound. I felt suddenly happy: I smiled.

Then stared in naked wonder as she unfurled her wings.

Those great sails had looked large enough when I watched them from the ground. Now, as I felt her lungs inflate, her ribs lift me, the vast membranous canopies seemed impossibly huge. They spread proud across the sky. They covered the moon and the stars. They were angled, sharp and jagged, but nonetheless beautiful, worked by a musculature alien to my knowledge. It came back to me again that I was witness to sights many in my College would have sold their souls to see. I clutched the saddle tighter as I felt her legs rise and bunch, and into my mind came that almost-understood voice, and I knew we were about to fly.

From all around came a belling, anticipatory. I looked across to where my comrades sat their incredible mounts. I saw Rwyan astride Anryale, her head tossed back as wild and eager as the dragon’s. I saw Tezdal, on Peliane, grim. I saw Bellek raise an arm and level a finger at the heavens.

Deburah lifted her head. Her neck drew in and then thrust forward, upward. Her hindquarters straightened, propelling her into the sky as her wings beat down, smoother than any galley’s oars; cleaner, so that jump and wingbeat carried us aloft.

Displaced air drummed thunder through the night. Dust rose in thick clouds below. We sprang toward the stars, the moon. My breath was snatched from my mouth. I felt my back rammed hard against the saddle. The binding straps dug against my belly and chest and thighs. I entirely forgot my hurt leg. How could I feel pain when I rode the sky? When I experienced such wonder?

We climbed.

Her wings were a constant windrush at my back; steady as her heart’s beat: as sure. My face chilled; my hair blew wild. I yelled in pure joy. Fear and marvel became a single thing; and trust: I rode the sky.

Up and up; fast, until I was heady with the speed of it. Deburah’s body was warm under me, so that I minded not at all the cooling of the air. It seemed her heat filled me, wrapped me comforting against the cold. I shouted out in joy and looked about, forward and back and down: dimensions shifted here. I saw the others group around. Bellek flew ahead; Rwyan flew to my right; Tezdal was on my left. I looked back and down and saw the plain of Trebizar grow smaller. I saw the Council building dwindle into insignificance. If riders chased us, I could not see them; nor they, now, hold hope of catching us. I saw the lake painted silver by the moon that seemed so close, I might reach out to touch it. I saw the city like some child’s toy laid out by a puddle. I saw the shapes of the Kho’rabi skyboats lurking red beside the water. I saw the fleet darting shapes of the little scoutships that came after us, and then the winged shapes that opposed them.

They attacked singly, as if it were a matter of pride: only one dragon falling on one skyboat. They attacked and slew and howled their triumph into the night so that the valley filled up with their belling and the rocky walls threw back the echoes.

And when they had sent all the pursuing boats down in tatters of burning red, they wheeled, a terrible night-come squadron, and swept back to rend the larger air vessels.

I saw vast fire-flowers bloom, reflecting off the lake so that silver moonlight was replaced with bloody red. The Kho’rabi encampment lit with fire as burning gases and flaming fabric fell down over the tents and the men. Some drifted free over the town, and I saw fires start there. We were too far away that I might hear the screaming, and I was glad of that. But I heard the yammering of the elementals as they were liberated.

I thought it was not such a different sound to the howling of these other dragons: a sound of bloodthirsty triumph. I wondered if the dragons and the elementals were so different; or both creatures of an older world, forgotten by Truemen and now come again. And angered by the forgetting.

Then Trebizar was lost behind, and the mountains that ringed the valley rose ahead. I felt Deburah beat her magnificent wings stronger, climbing up the sky to crest the buttress and loft, wondrous, over.

I saw mountains that would take men on horseback days to climb rise before us. The peaks were craggy, sharper and higher than the southern compass. Snow shone white there. Cloud hung there, gray and forbidding.

And Deburah beat her wings and rose above it all: the mountains became foothills, insignificant. The air grew winter-cold, and it did not matter. I was somehow cocooned, as if her body warmed me. I looked down on daunting peaks and felt only confident. The sky grew gray and wet; I could see neither moon nor stars. I felt no fear, only trust in my steed, my sky-flier-my wondrous beautiful dragon. I knew she would loft above these heights and bring me safely down: such is the communication between dragons and their riders.

And then the peaks were gone and the air was clear again, all bright with moon’s light and the twinkling of the stars that sparkled on my mount’s hide like gleaming jewels.

I looked down onto a landscape I’d seen before, in dreams. High plains drifted below, spreading out across all the country north of Trebizar. Wild, they were, and empty of habitation: no little twinkling lights from farms or villages, but only a moonlit desolation of heathered heath and grassy moorland. I saw rivers silvered by the night, and ridged hills that ran all wild and withershins. Then great stands of timber that stretched out black to east and west, and northward ran toward such mountains as I had never seen or thought could be. Those hills that ringed Trebizar, the heights of Kellambek-they were mounds compared with these. These reached up from ground to sky like a granite curtain. The forests ran out against their lower slopes as if the trees lacked the strength to climb such ramparts. They shone as blue-black as Deburah’s hide where the naked stone defied attempt to climb. Where they melded with the sky, I saw the gleaming white of permanent snow. I thought we could not cross them, that nothing could fly so high.

And into my mind there came a-I must use words such as I know, that you shall understand; so-a voice. It told me I need not fear, that this was only a little barrier to my mount, that we should ride above this petty thing to the wondrous land beyond.

It was as a dream, when words are unnecessary: understood in terms of emotion. I felt it in my soul. My disbelief evaporated. I felt no longer any doubt, nor any fear; only an absolute confidence, an utter trust. And as if in return, measure for measure, I felt Deburah’s pleasure in my belief. I felt a melding, a union I had known only once before: when I knew I loved Rwyan.

Do you who listen to my tale remember that first time you fell in love? That moment of absolute certainty, when you understood, not knowing how or why, that your life was irrevocably bound to another’s? That moment when it became impossible to imagine a future without your partner? When you knew that to separate from this being must diminish you, lessen your existence?

It was like that. In that breathy instant I knew myself bonded with Deburah. I’d have given my life for her; and knew that she would do the same-had already taken that chance, in the skies above Trebizar. I opened my mouth and shouted my joy into the wind.

That was the moment I became a Dragonmaster.

We rose, our wingbeats proud thunder in the night sky. We chased the stars. The air grew thin, and we grew heady, intoxicated with the pure joy of effort, of surmounting obstacles impossible to lesser creatures. Slow crawling men might find a way through those mountains, but only hard-through the passes, climbing up and halting, resting to climb again. We flew above them. They mattered nothing to us: the sky was ours to command. We were the Lords of the Sky. We looked the moon in its face and flaunted our wings at its cold observation. We spread our wings wide to catch the currents of air the land gave gifting off. We found the skystreams and rode them as fishermen do the slower tides of the ocean, glorious. We sailed the heavens. The mountains thrust up snow-tipped peaks to catch us; the moon loomed above. We soared over such crags as seemed to me like teeth designed to enfold the world. We saw the snow give way to bare rock, like blood bled off of dragons’ fangs. Forests clung black and green to the farther sides, and then faltered against the climb that must bring them up to those hills that ran on and on as far we could see.

I thought there could not be so many mountains in all the world. We were come to those crags I knew from Durbrecht’s teachings were called the Dragonsteeth, and that this was the Forgotten Country: Tartarus.

Home.

She spoke into my mind. I no longer wondered how.

She beat her wings and turned us eastward, then west, circling after Kathanria, who led our flight. I looked to Rwyan and to Tezdal. They sat their spiraling mounts like children set high and insecure on plowhorses. As I had long ago ridden Robus’s old gelding, as excited as I was afraid. I wondered if they clutched their saddles hard as I did.

The sun teased the eastern sky: we’d flown the night away. It hinted red across the Fend. Was it still the Fend here? Where neither Ur-Dharbek nor Dharbek held sway, but only dragons: Did they name it different? I thought then that I’d gone into the past; or the future. I was wild with exhilaration. I looked about and saw riderless dragons winging high above, as if they’d be sure of our safe homecoming-why did I think of it as that?-before they landed.

Ahead, I saw peaks high enough that dawn was not yet come to the western slopes. That way the sky was still dark, stars lingering there, the moon reluctant to set. I looked down on rocky fangs that bit the sky, and Deburah swooped down after Kathanria.

Trust.

“I do,” I replied.

We spread our wings and glided in to land. We lowered our legs as the wind swung up to hold our wings.

We beat our wings to master the updraft.

We hooked our claws on the rock and settled.

We folded our wings and plucked a moment at a particularly irritating fragment of flesh or fabric that had earlier lodged between our teeth. It had been an interesting skirmish; better than hunting: more challenge. We hoped there should be more.

I sat awhile bemused, as Deburah picked at her teeth. I felt … I could scarcely define what I felt.

Amazed: yes, that’s easy. Bewildered: that, too.

What else?

Exultant. Proud. In love. (Not, I hasten to add, as with Rwyan, but in a different way that I cannot properly describe, though a Dragonmaster would understand.)

I unbuckled the straps that held me to the saddle and clambered down the leg she extended. I set a hand against that vast blue cheek. It was dry and warm. I said, “My thanks,” and Deburah favored me with a sidelong glance of her tawny eye and went back to the picking of her teeth.

I limped across a yard that disgraced Durbrecht’s courts-that should surely have made Kherbryn’s small-to where Rwyan stood.

Her hair was blown out wild; but that was nothing to the excitement in her eyes. I could not then think of her as blind: it was as though the dragons gave her sight beyond her occult vision, to something more and greater. I took her hand.

She said, “Daviot,” and shook her head, laughing.

I said, “Yes. I understand. I felt it too.”

Tezdal joined us. He said, “Do we fetch Urt?”

Guilt then, that I could so easily overlook my good true comrade: I nodded, and we went to Kathanria, where Bellek was already loosing Urt from his fastenings.

He was not yet quite conscious. I was not certain whether from my grip on his nerves, or desire to refuse his situation. I helped him down and held him as he tottered, eyes peering slowly about, at first hooded, but then opening wide in naked wonder. I felt him shudder and held him tighter. He said, “Where are we?”

I looked to Bellek for the answer I thought I knew.

Bellek said, “In Tartarus. In the last Dragoncastle.”

I stared about, amazed, on sights so antique they were forgotten by even the greatest Mnemonikos. For all that had transpired this wild, incredible night, still I could scarce believe the evidence of my own eyes. It was as though that flight had carried me back in time, to a past long lost.

We stood atop a mountain. Not the highest-vaster summits loomed all about-but still so great, it seemed we stood atop the world itself, the valley below dwindling insignificant, like a child’s gouging from this wild landscape. As I’ve said, the yard was vast, in keeping with the size of the dragons that perched on the ledges raised up all around-and those not so large as the beasts that came down now. Their calling filled the morning. It sounded to me like the shouting of soldiers after battle, boasting of victory.

Bellek said, “Those are the bulls. They’ll not be ridden, but they fight hard for their broods.” He looked at us, his pale eyes intense, and added, “Steer clear of them until you know this place and your mounts better. The males are jealous of their status, and not always predictable.”

Rwyan laughed. “Much as with men, eh?”

I looked to where the males landed. They were twice the size of the females and colored brighter, all reds and yellows, greens and blues, and though they were fewer in number than the females, they dominated with their sheer bulk. I saw one enormous creature come striding down the ram-parts to where Deburah perched. He craned out his neck, rubbing his cheek against hers, and she ceased her preening to rub back. I felt a stab of jealousy.

And then found his enormous eyes locked on mine, lips drawing back from fangs that might have skewered me as he hissed.

Quite unthinking, I ducked my head in apology and said aloud, “Forgive me.”

The lips closed slowly over the teeth and he returned his attention to Deburah. I felt dismissed; and very small.

Rwyan laughed and took my hand, and asked me, “Have I a rival?”

I shook my head and forced a nervous chuckle. “You understand?”

She gave me back, “How could I not? By the God, I felt”-she turned her face about, encompassing our surroundings, the vast shapes that stood there-“like a god.”

Bellek smiled. “You bond. Your feet are on the road. Soon you’ll be Dragonmasters.”

In a small voice, Urt said, “I? A Dragonmaster?”

And Bellek clapped him on the shoulder with a force that belied the silver of his hair and the wrinkles on his face, and said, “Aye, my friend. You, too. The dreams don’t lie.”

I said, “Shall you tell us of these dreams? Shall you tell us how”-I gestured around-“all this? Why you saved us?”

“Of course.” Bellek’s teeth shone white in the early sun. “All of it, in time. There’s no great mystery to it.”

No great mystery? I stared at him; my jaw hung open, my eyes gaped wide. He laughed at me, and beckoned that we follow him across the yard.

Squadrons of cavalry might have exercised there, with room along the ramparts for archers and war engines. They were lit now by the rising sun, and I saw better than before that they were built on a monumental scale. It seemed to me we traversed a melding of natural stone and man-built structure, the two contiguous. I’d have remained, marveling, had Rwyan not tugged me after our rescuer host.

We passed beneath an arch clad thick in moss, into a wide corridor that dripped moisture from its roof to run along the edges and pool, in places, over the floor. I felt suddenly cold and grew aware how thin the air tasted. I shivered. I heard Rwyan’s teeth begin to chatter.

Over his shoulder, Bellek called back, “Away from the dragons, you’ll feel the cold. But there’s a fire lit, and food.”

I asked, “How’s that? How can the dragons warm us?”

The Dragonmaster only laughed. “In time, Storyman. All in time.”

We went on. What illumination there was came from slits cut deep through the rock, slanting the dawn light in narrow bands across our way, so that we walked from light to shadow and back again. Water splashed under my boots. I saw rats scurry in advance of our passage; the tunnel smelled of mold and decay and age.

We emerged into an atrium that had once been very grand. Now ivy and the roots of hardy trees wound around the colonnades. Creepers and boughs filled the space above, patterning the air as if we traversed a bower. Across the floor, stone was disrupted, divided and broken by the roots that drove down remorseless between the flags. Birds had nested here: I saw their droppings white on the floor, and the remnants of ancient nests overhead. I looked up and saw the circle where the sky should have shown clear all filled with entwining limbs, a tracery against the burgeoning blue. I looked at Rwyan, and she frowned her lack of understanding. I watched Bellek pause at a doorway and wondered if I understood better.

There had been doors hung here once. Magnificent doors, to judge by the remnants that lay scattered and rotting across the floor. From the jambs there still protruded hinges of long-blackened metal, distorted by the weight they had once supported, even as it fell down, decaying.

I suppose Bellek saw my expression, because he smiled, and shrugged, and said, “It was finer, once. A long time ago.”

Beyond that rotten doorway, steps descended. They were worn away in smooth curves that spoke of many feet, much use. What light there was-there were no windows, not even those narrow embrasures I’d seen above-came from the moss and fungi that grew in fulgent clumps down the walls and roof. The air was damp and tasted of decay; more rats scurried away, at sound of our footsteps. Which were not loud, given the coating of the floor. I saw large beetles scuttle before us; and more crawling overhead. I wondered at the decrepitude of this Dragoncastle.

The stairs ended at another arch, beyond it another court, where rotten wood and winding roots wove a foot-tricking maze across the stone. This place seemed to occupy the mountain, but I could not imagine what hands had carved it out. A corridor then, brighter for the embrasures that let in the sun; worse for what the light revealed. Then a last descent down time-worn stairs to doors.

I found myself surprised to see them: I had begun to assume that no wood existed any longer in this decaying place, save what nature wound into the stone. But these were firm and black, banded with solid hinges of dark metal. And Bellek flung them open like some proud aeldor inviting guests into his sanctum.

Which I suppose he was and we were.

I could not help but gape: after what we’d passed through, this was magnificent.

It was a hall such as I’d not seen. Not in any place I’d been, not even Durbrecht. I thought not even Gahan-now his son and the ill-met regent-in Kherbryn could boast such a hall. As the yard where the dragons landed had been great, so was this chamber; and more.

It was vaulted high, with beams of stone like the ribs of some creature even larger than the dragons. My feet tapped out small steps on the floorstones, lost in the fading echoes of the far walls, which rose up tall as those beeches in Trebizar’s gardens, as high and wide and overwhelming. The floor was marble, pure white under the thick dust. My boots left tracks there. The walls were black as darkest night, save for where the rising ribs of floor lofted white beneath their layering of cobwebs, as if all this chamber were fashioned of a single thing, mingling. It was as though we stepped into the belly of a beast entrapped in the stone of the mountain. High windows like dragons’ eyes cut through on three sides, and as the sun rose higher, so light spread brilliant through the chamber, sparkling off the dust that filled the air. I went to one of those windows and looked out (what kept the glass so clean?) and gasped at what I saw. This chamber was cut from within some bulge of stone, jutting out over the panorama below so that I felt I hung suspended in the morning. I moved back to join the others, who followed Bellek across this wondrous hall.

I saw hearths filled with dead and ancient wood; and tables of carved oak set around with high-backed chairs of intricate design. Spiders’ webs strung their backs, and dust lay thick over the surfaces of the tables. From the vaulted roof hung chandeliers that were likely gold beneath the verdigris that dulled their luster. It was not easy to tell, for webs spun them around, and fat spiders dangled, horrid in the light.

I felt Rwyan tighten her grip on my hand. I saw Tezdal frown, disgust naked on his face. Only Urt seemed undisturbed, and I thought that was likely because he felt himself safe underground, away from the dragons.

Bellek followed an old trail through the dust to the far side of the chamber.

He’d not lied about the fire: it burned in the hearth there. Smoldering down now into sparking embers, but lit up quick enough when he tossed on fresh logs from the stack beside. There was a table there, before the hearth, of some dark wood; round and set with five chairs, as if we were expected. Bellek ushered Rwyan to a somewhat dusty seat, and I helped Tezdal lower Urt to another. We took places either side. Only Rwyan seemed at ease.

I was pleased to see the table clean and that the chandelier above was empty of spiders. (I’ve no liking for spiders.) So I watched as Bellek filled five golden goblets from a decanter of matching gold and wondered if the tarnish would taint the taste.

He said, “Drink, and welcome to the Dragoncastle. I’ll find you food.”

He went out through a door beside the hearth, and I looked at my companions. They looked at me: none of us had answers to the questions our eyes asked. I sipped the wine and said, “It’s good.”

Tezdal said, “What is this place?”

Rwyan said, “A Dragoncastle, as Bellek told us.”

I said, “It’s old. I never thought to see a place so old as this.”

Urt only sat silent and still, his body rigid; as if locked to the dusty chair. I should have comforted him or tried to, but I was caught up in such wonder at all I saw that I am ashamed to say I overlooked his predicament.

Bellek came back, laden with a platter of meat that he set down before us. He smiled and went away, returning with vegetables and bread; then brought us plates and knives. “Eat,” he said. Suddenly I found myself mightily hungry.

The meat was venison, spit-roasted, so that the outer flesh was charred, the inner bloody. The vegetables were barely cooked, and the bread was coarse. I cared not at all: I set to with a will.

“You must forgive me.” I looked up and saw that Bellek addressed himself to Rwyan. “I’m not much of a cook.”

She licked a droplet of blood from her lips and asked him, “Are you alone here, then?”

For an instant his eyes grew bleak. Then he smiled and shrugged and ducked his head. “Save for the dragons, aye. And have been for a while-hence this disorder.”

I said, “What of the other Dragoncastles?”

He answered me, “Empty of Dragonmasters.”

I said, “You’re truly the last?”

He only nodded in reply; there was a terrible sadness in the simple gesture.

I looked around and saw time’s hand all about me. I felt the weight of ages in the stone. I saw it in his eyes. I asked, “How long?”

He looked at me and smiled, and once again I wondered if I saw the glint of madness there. He said, “I’m no Mnemonikos, Daviot. I lose track of the days, the years; but … a long time.”

I said, “In Dharbek they believe the dragons dead and the Dragonmasters with them.”

He said, “As you’ve seen, they are wrong,” and laughed and filled our tarnished cups.

I asked him where the wine came from, the food.

He said, “Meat’s easy-the dragons do my hunting. The rest?” He paused, grinning mischievously. “I’ve some few friends. Such as may reassure Urt.”

I frowned, chastened by that reminder. I looked to Urt, who ate disconsolately, his head lowered toward his plate. He looked up at that, and I had seldom known his expression so easily read: it was one of hope and disbelief; and fear his hope should prove unfounded.

Bellek said, “There are Changed here, Urt. They’ve no fear of the dragons; no need to fear them.”

Urt said, “Where?” His voice was strident with hope.

Bellek said, “In the valleys. They’ve farms there; they gift me a tithe of their produce.”

Urt looked at him with wondering eyes. My own, I suspect, were wide with curiosity. I said, “How?”

The Dragonmaster laughed. I believe he enjoyed himself, spinning out all these tidbits of knowledge held so long to himself; now to be shared-but slowly-like long-hoarded treasures. He was more than a little crazed. Or saw the turnings of the world from a different vantage point from ours.

He said, “When the Truemen sorcerers created the Changed and left them behind in Ur-Dharbek, there were always some few who lived north of Trebizar. They learned early what I suspect that Raethe of yours knows now-that the dragons hunt men not as food, but for sport. Think on it! You’ve ridden dragons, you’ve seen them hunt.” He gestured at the meat cooling on our platters. “Deer are nothing to them. By the Three, they take a deer easy as a terrier a rat. They take the aurochs-and few men would face such a beast! No, they hunted the men who came here because they enjoyed the sport, and because men challenged their supremacy. And for a while they hunted the Changed of Ur-Dharbek for the same reason. But the Changed-forgive me, Urt-proved poorer sport than Truemen. I think it was likely that Truemen commanded magic earlier, and there’s a … taste … to that; one the dragons enjoy.”

He paused to drain his cup; refill it. I felt a horrid dread. I glanced at Rwyan. Bellek saw my look and the direction of my thoughts and said, “No fear there, Daviot. Anryale’s bonded with her now, and so she’s safe.”

I felt relieved; but no wiser.

I suppose my emotions showed, because Bellek continued: “In many ways the dragons are not so different to most animals. They guard their hunting grounds against intruders and oppose any threat to their welfare. Truemen were a threat, when they discovered the powers of the crystals and turned them against the dragons-”

He was interrupted by Rwyan, who said, “You know of the crystals’ powers?”

He grinned again. “Am I not a Dragonmaster? My power came from the crystals. These hills are rich with them, and the dragons eat them.”

“Eat them?” I gasped.

“As do birds swallow stones to assist their digestion,” he said, “so do the dragons eat the crystals. And over the ages, that’s changed them. They’ve a kind of magic now, and it rendered the easy pickings of Ur-Dharbek … less interesting. Until now. Dragons enjoy a challenge. They’re like-what?-horses bred only to race or fight; like hunting dogs. But far more intelligent: prey that’s too easy to take offers them no challenge.”

Rwyan said, “The crystals drive Truemen mad, are we with them too long. In Trebizar, Allanyn and her followers were made mad by them, I think. What of the dragons then?”

Bellek said, “They’re different. An older race that lives a different life. They do not go mad. Rather, it seems the crystals make them fonder of those special few who share communion with them.”

He turned his seamed face slowly around, encompassing us all with his gaze; and said, “Like you.”

I said, because none of my companions spoke, “Do you explain?”

Bellek said, “I’m not sure I can. But … you’ve the Storyman’s talent, no? And Rwyan the mage’s. I, that of the Dragonmaster-”

I interrupted him: “And Urt? Tezdal? What of them?”

He shrugged and said, “I cannot say. Only that my dragons told me I was no longer alone. That there were others like me, abroad. They’ve powers I cannot explain, Daviot. They dream; and I think their dreams span the whole world. I know only that they dreamed of you and knew you were come to Trebizar, and in danger.”

I said, “That fails to explain it. I dreamed of dragons long before Trebizar.”

He gave me back, “Perhaps that’s how, or why. Perhaps it was because you believed in them. Perhaps because you gave your belief to Rwyan; and somehow, too, to Urt and Tezdal. Perhaps they found their talent in company with you-I don’t know. Only that Kathanria and Anryale and Peliane and Deburah found-do you not understand? By the Three, you’ve ridden them!-souls linked to theirs. And sought you out. And saved you!”

Rwyan said, “The pattern! Did I not tell you, Daviot?”

I nodded. There was much to digest here. I knew that I had been snatched from an untimely (in my opinion) arrival into the Pale Friend’s embrace by creatures I had dared hope were not legendary. I had dreamed of dragons-but should that flesh them? I had told Rwyan of my dreams, and Urt-but should that make them part of the dream? How should Tezdal become a part of this fleshed fantasy?

I reached for the gilded jug and found it empty. Bellek chuckled and rose, shedding dust in a cloud behind him as he took the jug and carried it away.

Tezdal said, “I understand none of this.”

Urt said, “Changed live here? Under the dragons’ wings?”

Bellek returned with the filled jug in time to hear that question and said, “As I told you: in the valleys. The brave few, who came back when they saw the direction your Raethe took.”

Urt lost a measure of his fear. He shaped a frown, and took the goblet Bellek offered him, and demanded, like me: “Do you explain?”