Lords of the Sky

When I was in my twelfth year, I saw the Sky Lords.

I was born in Kellambek, in a village named Whitefish, for its chief source of food and revenue. It lay some seven leagues south of the river Cambar, on a cove shaded by cliffs where black pines grew and the wind blew warm off the Fend through all the long hot summers. Through childhood’s eyes I see the sky forever blue, the sea like rippled silk torn by the fishing boats, the hearthfire in winter merry, the shutters secure against the cold. Through those eyes taught in Durbrecht, I know this was not so: in summer, the air stank of fish and tar and sweat; in winter, draughts blew and the sea roared angry. Both memories are mine, and I think perhaps both are true.

My parents were fisherfolk. My father was named Aditus and owned a boat crewed by himself and two others, one my uncle, Battus, wed to my father’s sister, Lyrta; the other a taciturn man named Thorus, a widower, who seemed never to smile save when he held a cup or spoke with me. My mother was named Donia and, like my father, smiled a great deal, though I think that between the netting and the gutting of the fish and the tending of we children they had little enough, in reality, in which to find such good humor. But they did, and I suppose that is the way of simple folk who accept what is unquestioningly and lack that spark (or curse?) that looks for change. I had one brother, Tonium, and one sister, Delia, both younger by a descending year apiece.

I was a fisher-child. I played on the sand, amongst the beached boats or amongst the black pines. I hoarded shells and bird’s eggs. When the brille swarmed, I waded in, knee-deep, to haul the nets. I swung a sling and pulled girls’ hair; fought with other boys and listened to the stories of old men. On the cliff above the village I had a secret camp: a fortress great as the Lord Protector’s keep, from which I and Tellurin and Coram and all the rest defended Whitefish village against the Kho’rabi. Sometimes I was a Kho’rabi knight and with my bark-peeled blade wrought slaughter on my friends, though I always liked it better when I had the part of a Dhar warrior-a commur, or a jennym, even a pyke-for then I felt, with all the intensity of childhood’s fierce emotions, that I fought for Kellambek, to hold off those invaders the Sentinels could not prevent from crossing the waters of the Fend, Those were carefree days when, in the ignorance of childhood, I knew only that the dawn be sunny and I should go to play again.

What did I know then of the Comings?

Little enough: to me, the Kho’rabi knights, the kingdom of Ahn-feshang, they were legends. When I was very young-too young to laugh at the threat-my mother used to tell me that should I disobey her, a Kho’rabi knight should come and take my head. I spent some small time cowering beneath my blanket at that, but as I grew older, sneered. Kho’rabi knights-what were they to me? Creatures of legend, of no more account than the fabled dragons of the Forgotten Country, who had gone away before even my grandfather was born.

But then I saw the Sky Lords.

It was the end of summer, when the winds off the Fend shift and blow westward. The sky was a cloudless cobalt blue, hot and hard, the sun a sullen eye that challenged observation. The sea was still, unrippled. I was on the sand, passing my father the tools he needed to sew gashes in his nets. Battus and Thorus worked with him on the skein: they had decided to forgo the evening tide and spend the dusktime in repairing.

Thorus was the first to see the skyboat, dropping his needle as he sprang to his feet, shouting. My father and my uncle were no slower upright, the net forgotten on the warm sand. I followed them, staring to where they pointed, not sure what it was they pointed at or what set such fear in their eyes. I knew only that my father, who was afraid of nothing, was indeed afraid. I felt the fear, like the waft of sour sweat, or a drunkard’s breath. Battus shouted and ran from the beach toward the mantis’s cella.

I remember that Thorus said, “They come again,” and my father answered, “It is not the time,” and then told me to run homeward, to tell my mother that the Sky Lords came, and she would know what to do.

As all the men not at sea gathered, staring skyward, I lingered a moment, wondering what held them so, what set them so rigid, like the old, time-carved statues that guarded the entrance to the cella.

Against the knife-sharp brilliance of the sky, I saw a shape. It seemed in that moment like a maggot, a bloated grub taken up by the hot late-summer wind, a speck against the eye-watering azure, that drifted steadily toward me. I felt my skin grow chill with apprehension.

Then my father, knowing me, shouted again, and I ran to our cottage and yelled at my mother that the Sky Lords came.

I think that then, for the first time, I truly knew what terror they induced.

Tonium and Delia fashioned castles from the dirt of our yard, grubby in a manner I-the older-was too adult to entertain. My mother screamed at them, bringing them tearful to her arms, she so distraught she found only brief, hurried words to calm their wailing as she gathered them up. The bell that hung above the cella began to sound, sonorous in the late-afternoon air, its clanging soon augmented by a great shouting from all the women, and the old men, and the howling of confused and frightened children who, like me, knew only that something unfamiliar occurred to induce fear and near-panic in our parents. My mother snatched Delia’s and Tonium’s hands in hers, shouted at me to follow, and drew my siblings, trotting, away from the house toward the cella. The mantis stood atop the dome. The sinews in his fat arms stood out like cords from the effort of his bell-ringing, and his plump face, usually set in a smile, was grim, his head craned around to peer at the shape approaching across the sky. All around me I heard the single word Kho’rabi, said in tones of awe and terror, but for all the panic, I was fascinated. I watched as the mantis gathered up the skirts of his robe and slid ungainly down the sloping side of the dome. Robus, who owned the only horse in Whitefish village-a venerable gelding sometimes used to haul stricken boats from the winter surf, but more usually to drag a cart up the coast to Cambar town with catches of fish to sell-waited nervously. He had belted an ancient sword to his waist. All the men, and not a few of the women, carried weapons of one kind or another: fish knives, axes, mattocks. The mantis spoke urgently with Robus, and though I could not hear what was said, I perceived it had a great effect on Robus, for he dragged himself astride the old horse and slapped the gray flanks with his rusty blade, sending the animal into a startled, lumbering trot out of the village, in the direction of the Cambar road. Then the mantis shouted that all should follow him and led the way to the cliff path, up through the pines to the fields beyond, where a track wound by drystone walls to a wood where caves ran down into the earth.

In the confusion I became separated from my mother, and as I watched the worried faces of those who passed me, I succumbed to childhood’s temptation.

I was afraid-how should I not be?-but I was also intrigued, fascinated to know the why of it. I felt a stone grind my foot, between my sole and my sandal, and I ducked clear of the throng to dislodge the annoyance. As I unlaced my sandal and shook out the pebble, I saw the last of the villagers go by, five grandfathers in rear guard, clutching old swords and flensing poles. They were so anxious, they failed to spot me where I crouched beside a wall, and in moments a cloud of dust raised by hurried feet hung betwixt me and them. I laced my sandal and, with the unthinking valiance of innocent youth, turned back toward Whitefish village.

I knew my mother would be angry when she found me gone, but I soon enough dismissed that concern and ran back to the cliff path.

I halted amongst the pines, where they edged and then fell down over the slope, looking first at the village and then at the sky. The village was empty; the beach was lined with men. The sky was still that steel-hot blue; the shape of the Sky Lords’ boat was larger.

I could discern its outline clearer now: a cylinder of red, the color of blood; the carrier beneath was a shadow, like a remora suckered to a shark’s belly, sparkling with glints of silver as the sun struck the blades of the warriors there. I wondered how it had come up so fast. I watched it awhile, my eyes watering in the sun glare, picking out the strange sigils daubed over bearer and basket, fear and fascination mingling in equal measure. I looked back and thought perhaps I should have done better to go after my mother and find the safety of the wood, where the ancient crypts ran down into the earth.

Instead, I ran down to the village, through the emptied houses, to the beach, to my father.

He did not see me at first, for his face was locked on the sky, etched over with shadows of disbelief. He stood with a flensing pole held across his chest, high, the curved blade striking brilliance from the sun. Thorus stood beside him, and in his hand was a sword, not rusted like Robus’s old blade but bright with oil, darker along the edges, where the whetstone had shaped cutting grooves. It was a blade such as soldiers carried, and for a moment I stared and lusted after such a weapon.

I suppose I must have made a sound for my father turned and saw me, Thorus with him, though their faces bore very different expressions. My father’s was angry; Thorus’s amused. I felt a fear greater than anything a Kho’rabi knight might induce at the one; pleasure at the other.

My father said, “What in the God’s name are you doing here?”

I would likely have run away then, back through the village and up the cliff path, across the fields to the wood, far more afraid of the look gouged over my father’s face than of any Kho’rabi knight. But Thorus said, “Blood runs true, friend,” to my father; and to me, “Best find yourself a blade if you stand with us, Daviot.”

My father said, “God’s name, man, he’s only a boy,” but I was swelled with pride and honor and found a discarded net hook that I picked up for want of better weapon and strode to stand between them. Thorus laughed and clapped me on the shoulder hard enough that I tottered, and said, “Blood to blood, Aditus.”

My father’s face remained dark, but then he grunted and nodded and said, “Likely they’ll pass over. So, you can stay, boy. But on my word, you run for the caves. Yes?”

I nodded, without any intention whatsoever of keeping my word: if the enlarging shape of the Sky Lords’ boat dropped fylie of the Kho’rabi knights upon us, I planned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my fellow warriors. I planned to die gloriously in defense of Whitefish village, in defense of Kellambek.

I watched the ship grow larger, my hands tight on my hook. It came up faster than any natural wind might propel it. It seemed like a great, bloody wound on the face of the sky. I saw the glimmer of the magic that drove it, trailing back from the pointed tail like the shifting translucence of witchfire’s glow. It seemed to move the faster for its proximity with our coastline, as though propulsion were augmented with attraction, speeding as it drew nearer. The sea gulls that were a constant punctuation of the sky fled before it, and I suddenly realized that the cats that prowled the shoreline were also gone; likewise the handful of dogs our village boasted. That seemed very strange to me-the absence of such familiar things-and I glanced around, my valor threatened. I saw that my father’s knuckles bulged white from his tanned hands, and that Thorus’s lips were spread back from clenched teeth in a kind of snarl. I realized then that a terrible silence had fallen, as if this unexpected Coming drove stillness before it, or the presence of the Sky Lords absorbed sound. No one moved; there was no shuffling of feet on sand; even the waves that lapped the beach went unheard. I stared in shared dread, feeling the shadow of the boat fall over me, which it should not have done, for the sun westered and that shadow should not-nor could-have reached us yet. I trembled, for all my youthful bravery, in its cold. It felt as though a hand reached out from the grave to pluck at my heart, at my courage. I shivered and saw that my father did the same, though he sought to hide it from me, looking down at me and smiling. I thought his smile was like the grin I had seen on the faces of drowned men.

Then the great shape was directly above us, and I thought that this must be how a lamb feels, when it feels the shadow of an eagle darken its vision. I craned my head back, shivering, seeing that the airboat hung high above us, and where it rode the sky, strange prancing shapes showed through the blue, as if elementals sported there.

I looked to my father and saw his face grim; at Thorus, who raised his sword above his head like a talisman. I looked up, nearly overbalancing, as the Sky Lords’ ship floated, serene and ghastly, over my home.

Some arrows fell, unflighted by the height, and fired, I think, in amusement; a fisherman named Vadim even caught one in his hand, that feat producing a shout of encouragement from all the rest.

And then the ship was gone, passed beyond the cliff and out of sight.

It was both disappointment and relief to me: I had anticipated glorious battle; I was also glad that horrible weight had passed. I enjoyed the way my father held my one shoulder, Thorus my other, and both told me I had played my part, even as men went running to the cliff to follow the ship’s passage.

I went running with them, still clutching my hook, for they all still held their weapons. I was suddenly possessed of a dreadful fear that the ship had gone past the village to land in the fields-the wood-beyond and disgorge the Kho’rabi knights to massacre my mother and my siblings and all the others hiding in the caves. But Thorus hauled me back and shouted at my father that the wind was wrong, and whatever magic the sorcerers of Ahn-feshang commanded, it was not enough to ground the boat to disembark the fylie.

Even so, I was not satisfied, nor my father, until we topped the path and saw the ship drifting on over the wood, disappearing into the haze of the afternoon sun, like blood drying on a wound.

Several of the younger fishermen ran to the wood then, to tell the mantis and his charges that the danger was gone by. They emerged, laughing and praising the God for his mercy. Then I basked in the admiring gaze of my friends, for they had all obeyed and hidden, and I alone, of all the children in the village, had remained. I swung my hook in vivid demonstration of how I should have fought, coming close to harming more than one innocent onlooker until my father took the tool from me, his face stern.

My mother’s, when she found me, was haggard and she raised a hand to strike me, but my father halted her, speaking softly, and she sighed, shaking her head, her expression one I did not then understand. Tonium and Delia stared at me in awe.

We went back to the village, and Thorym, who owned what passed for the village tavern, announced that he would broach a keg in celebration of deliverance, promising a mug to every man who had stood his ground on the beach. My mother returned to our cottage, like all the other women, to prepare the evening meal, for by now the day grew old and the sun stood close to setting, but I succeeded in avoiding her and insinuated myself amongst the men. After all, had I not stood with them?

Thorym paused when he saw me in his taproom, unsure-it was not our custom to allow children ale until they reached their fourteenth year and were deemed young men. But Thorus shouted that I was a warrior born and had sided him and so earned my sup. The rest shouted laughter at that, and my father first frowned and then smiled, torn between disapproval and pride, but then he said I might take a sip or two, for it was true that I had stood my place like a man.

I had never held a mug of ale before, and it was all I could do to stretch my hands around the cup and lift it to my mouth, but I was aware that all there watched me and I raised the mug and drank deep. And immediately choked, spitting out the sour-tasting brew and spilling half the cup over my feet, blushing furiously.

My father took it from me, glancing angrily at Thorus as he urged me to try again, and suggested that I go make peace with my mother. My reluctance must have shown, for he allowed me one more sip before finally retrieving the mug and sending me from the tavern. I went outside, but no farther, skirting around the wall to where a window allowed me to spy on the men and listen to their conversation. It told me little enough, being mostly concerned with the unlikely Coming of the airboat, which they agreed was out of time, its appearance unseasonal. I gathered, from what they said, that none had anticipated sighting the Sky Lords for years yet, when the Worldwinds were due once more to shift. Not even the mantis could offer explanation, save that the sorcerers of Ahn-feshang had developed new usage of their occult powers.

That set them all to arguing and muttering, some perplexed, some fearful; some to suggesting that this was but a single event, a foray attempted and failed, that the boat had somehow succeeded in defeating the winds and the emanations of the Sentinels; some to forecasting a strengthening of Ahn-feshang’s magic and a new Coming.

Then, though, I had more immediate concerns-to wit, my mother, who sent Tonium looking for me with word that did I fail to appear at home on the instant, I might anticipate punishment of a magnitude that should render a Kho’rabi attack the merest prickling.

I hurried back, ignoring my smug and envious brother, and found myself-the grossest ignominy, I thought, given my new-proven valor-ordered to scrub cooking pots before I was allowed to eat. She did not cuff me, which at the time I failed to realize was token of her thanks for my survival, but neither would she speak to me; nor much to my father when he returned, holding him in some measure responsible for my disobedience.

I ate and sulked my way to an early bed, only a little mollified by the open admiration of Delia who, as we lay on our pallets, insisted on a whispered retelling of all that had happened. I admit to embroidering the tale: for my little sister’s ears the Kho’rabi arrows fell in swarms about me, their boat so close above, I saw the grimacing faces of the fanatic death-warriors, felt (this not entirely untrue) the horrible strength of their magical sigils, the malign power of the sorcerer-steersmen.

In time, even my adoring sister was sated with the tale, and her snores joined those of my brother. I lay longer awake, reliving the day and vowing that when I reached my manhood I should quit Whitefish village to be a soldier in Cambar Keep and defend Kellambek against our ancient enemies.

The next dawn, I saw my first real soldiers.

Robus, mounted on his old slow horse, had reached the aeldor’s holding during the night. The watchmen had brought him before the lord, who had immediately ordered three squadrons to patrol the coast road, one to ride instanter for Whitefish village.

They arrived a few hours after sun’s rise, dirty, tired, and irritable. To me, then, they looked splendid. They wore shirts of leather and mail, draped across with. Cambar’s plaid, cinched in with wide belts from which hung sheathed swords and long-hafted axes, and every one carried a lance from which the colors of Kellambek fluttered in the morning breeze; round shields hung from their saddles. There was a commur-mage with them, clad all in black sewn with the silver markings of her station, a short-sword on her hip. Her hair was swept back in a tail, like our mantis’s, but was bound with a silver fillet, and unlike her men, she seemed untired. She raised a hand as the squadron reached the village square, halting the horsemen, waiting as the mantis approached and made obeisance, gesturing him up with a splendid languid hand.

I and all the children-and most of our parents, no less impressed-gathered about to watch.

The soldiers climbed down from their horses, and I smelled the sweat that bled from their leather tunics as they waited on the mage. She, too, dismounted, conferring with the mantis, and then followed our plump and friendly priest to the cella, calling back over her shoulder that the men with her might find breakfast where they could, and ale if they so desired, for it seemed the danger was gone.

I felt a measure of disappointment at that: I had become, after all, a warrior, and was reluctant to find my new-won status so quickly lost. I compensated by taking the bridle of a horse and leading the animal to where Robus kept his fodder. I had never seen so large an animal before, save the sharks that sometimes followed our boat, and I was-I admit-more than a little frightened by the way it tossed its head and stamped its feet and snorted. The man who rode it chuckled and spoke to it and told me to hold it firm; and then he set a hand on my shoulder, as Thorus had done, and I straightened my back and reminded myself I was a man and brought it to Robus’s little barn, where it became docile as his old nag when I fed it oats and hay and filled the water trough.

The soldier grinned at that and checked the beast for himself, taking off the high-cantled cavalry saddle, resting his shield and lance against the wall of the pen. I touched the metaled face of the shield with reverent fingers and studied his sword and axe. He turned to me and asked where he might find food and ale, and I told him, “Thorym’s tavern,” and asked, “Shall you fight the Kho’rabi?”

He said, “I think they’re likely gone, praise the God,” and I wondered why a soldier would be thankful his enemy was not there.

I brought him to the tavern and fetched him a pot of ale as his fellows gathered, and Thorym, delighted at the prospect of such profit, set fish to grilling and bread to toasting. His name was Andyrt, and as luck would have it, he was jennym to the commur-mage, a life-sworn member of the warband and, I realized, fond of children. He let me crouch by his side and even passed me his helm to hold, bidding the rest be silent when they looked at me askance and wondered what a child did there, amongst men.

I bristled at that and told them I had stood upon the sand with hook in hand, ready to fight, as the Sky Lords passed over. Some laughed then, and some called me liar, but Andyrt bade them silent and said that he believed me, and that his belief was theirs, else they chose to challenge him. None did, and I saw that they feared him somewhat, or respected him, and I studied him anew.

He was, I surmised, of around my father’s age (though any man, then, of more than twenty years was old to me) and traces of gray were spun into his brown hair. His face was paler than a fisherman’s, but still quite dark, except across his forehead, where his helm sat. A thin cut bisected his left cheek, and several of his teeth were missing, though the rest were white-the mark of a sound lord’s man’s diet-and his eyes were a light blue, webbed round with tiny wrinkles. His hands were brown and callused in a manner different from a fisherman’s, marked by reins and sword’s hilt and lance. To me, he was exotic; glamorous and admirable.

I ventured to pluck at his sleeve and ask him what it took to be a warrior and find a place in the warband.

“Well,” he said, and chuckled, “first you must be strong enough to wield a blade and skilled enough in its wielding. Save you prefer to slog out your life as a pyke, you must ride a horse.”

At that, several of his companions laughed and raised their buttocks from Thorym’s crude chairs, moaning and rubbing themselves as if in pain.

“Often for long leagues,” said Andyrt, himself chuckling. “You must be ready to spend long hours bored, and more drinking. To hold your drink. And you must be ready to kill men; and to be yourself killed.”

“I am,” I said, thinking of the beach and the skyboat; and Andyrt said, “It is not so easy to put a blade into a man. Harder still to take his in you.”

“I’d kill Kho’rabi,” I told him firmly. “I’d give my life to defend Kellambek.”

He touched my cheek then, gently, as sometimes my father did, and said, “That’s an easy thing to say, boy. The doing of it is far harder. Better you pray our God grants strength to the Sentinels, and there’s no Coming in your lifetime.”

“I’d slay them,” I answered defiantly, thinking I was patronized. “How dare they come against Kellambek?”

“Readily enough,” he told me, “for they lay claim to this land.”

“You fight them,” I said. “You’re a warrior.”

He nodded at that. A shadow passed across his face, like the cold penumbra of the Sky Lords’ boat. He said, “I’m life-sworn, boy; I know no other way.”

I opened my mouth to question him further, to argue, but just then the commur-mage entered the tavern, our mantis on her heels like a plump and fussing hen, and a silence fell.

Andyrt began to rise, sinking back on the sorcerer’s gesture. The black-clad woman approached our table, and two of the warband sprang to their feet, relinquishing their places. I found myself crouched between Andyrt and the commur-mage, who asked mildly, “Who’s this?”

Andyrt said, grinning, “A young warrior, by all accounts. He stood firm when the skyboat came.”

The mantis said, “His name is Daviot, elder son of Aditus and Donia. I understand he did, indeed, run back to join his father on the beach.”

The commur-mage raised blue-black brows at that, and her fine lips curved in a smile. I stood upright, shoulders squared, and looked her in the eye. Had I not, after all, proved myself? Was I not, after all, intent on becoming a warrior?

“So,” she said, her voice soft and not at all mocking, “Whitefish village breeds its share of men.”

That was fine as Thorus’s praise; as good as my father’s hand on my shoulder. I nodded modestly. The commur-mage continued to study me, not even turning when Thorym passed her a mug of ale and set a fresh plate of fried fish and bread before her, bowing and ducking. She waved regal thanks and Thorym withdrew; her eyes did not leave my face, as if she saw there things I did not know about myself.

“You stood upon the beach?” she said, her voice gentle, speculative as her gaze. “Were you not afraid?”

I began to shake my head, but there was a power in her eyes that compelled truth, that brought back memory. I set Andyrt’s helm carefully down on the cleanest patch of dirt between the chairs and nodded.

“Tell me,” she said.

I looked awhile at her face. It was dark as Andyrt’s, which is to say lighter than any in the village, but unmarked by scars. I thought her beautiful; nor was she very old. Her eyes were green, and as I looked into them, they seemed to obscure the men around her, to send the confines of the tavern into shadow, to absorb the morning light. It was like staring into the sun at its rising, or its setting, when only that utter brilliant absorption-green now, not gold or red-fills up all the world.

I told her everything, and when I was done, she nodded and said, “You saw that the cats and dogs-the gulls, even-were gone?”

“Then,” I told her, and frowned as an unrecognized memory came back. “But this morning the dogs were awake again, and the cats were on the beach. And the gulls”-I pointed seaward, at the shapes wheeling and squalling against the new-formed blue-“they’re back.”

“Think you they fled the Coming?” she asked.

“They were not there then,” I said. “The sky was empty, save for the boat. I think they must have.”

“Why?” she asked me, and I said, “I suppose they were frightened. Or they felt the power of the Sky Lords. But they were gone, then.”

She sipped a mouthful of ale, chewed a mouthful of fish and bread, still staring at me. I watched her face, wondering what she made of me, what she wanted of me. I felt I was tested and judged. I tried to find Andyrt’s eyes, but could not; it was as though the mage’s compelling gaze sunk fishhooks in my mind, in my attention, locking me to her as soundly as the lures of the surf-trollers locked the autumnal grylle to their barbed baits.

“Your father,” she said, surprising me. “What did he hold?”

“A flensing pole,” I answered. “Thorus held a sword. I told you that.”

She nodded, wiped her mouth, and asked, “Who caught the arrow?”

“Vadim,” I said. “But it was an easy catch: it was fired from so high.”

She turned then to the mantis, and my attention was unlocked as if I were a fish burst free of the hook. I looked to Andyrt, who smiled reassuringly and shrugged, motioning for me to be silent and wait. I did, nervous and impatient. The commur-mage said to the mantis, “He’s talents, think you?”

The mantis favored me with a look I could not interpret and ducked his head. “He’s a memory,” he agreed-though then I was unaware of what exactly he meant-and added, “Of all my pupils he’s the best-schooled in the liturgics: he can repeat them back, word for word.”

“As he did this Coming,” said the commur-mage, and turned to me again.

“You brought Andyrt’s horse to stable, no? Tell me about his horse and his kit.”

“It was brown,” I said, confused. “A light brown with golden hair in its mane and tail. Its hooves were black, but the right foreleg was patched with white, and the hoof there was shaded pale. The saddle was dark with sweat and the bucket where the lance rests was stitched with black. The stirrups were leather, with dull metal inside. There were two bags behind the saddle, brown, with golden buckles. When he took it off, the horse’s hide was pale and sweaty. It was glad to be rid of the weight. It was a gelding, and it snorted when he took off the bridle, and flicked its tail as it began to eat the oats I brought it.”

The commur-mage clapped a hand across my eyes then, the other behind my head, so that I could not move, startling me, and said, “What weapons does Andyrt carry?”

“A lance,” I told her, for all I was suddenly terrified. “That he left in Robus’s stable. Twice a man’s height, of black wood, with a long, soft-curved blade. Not like a fishing hook. Also, a sword, an axe, and a small knife.”

“Where, exactly, on his body?” asked the mage.

Her hands were still about my face, blinding me; frightening me, for all they rested gentle there. I said: “His sword is sheathed on his left side, from a wide, brown belt of metal-studded leather with a big, gold buckle that is a little tarnished. The axe is hung to his right, in a bucket of plain leather. The knife is in the small of his back.”

The hands went away from my face and I saw the commur-mage smiling, Andyrt grinning approvingly. The mantis looked nervous. The others seated around the table seemed wonderstruck; I wondered why, for it seemed entirely natural to me to recall such simple things in their entirety.

“He’s the knack, I think,” the commur-mage said. “Not my talent, but that of memory.”

And the mantis nodded. “I’d wondered. I’d thought of sending word to Cambar.”

“You should have,” said the commur-mage.

I preened, aware that I was somehow special, that I had passed a test of some kind.

“Are his parents agreeable, he should go to Durbrecht,” the commur-mage said. “This one is a natural.”

A natural what, I did not know, nor what or where Durbrecht was. I frowned and said, “I’d be a soldier.”

“There are other callings,” said the commur-mage, and smiled a small apology to Andyrt. “Some higher than the warband.”

“Like yours?” I asked, emboldened by her friendly manner. “Do I have magic in me, then?”

She chuckled at that, though not in an unkind way, and shook her head. “Not mine,” she advised me. “And I am only a lowly commur-mage, who rides on my lord’s word. No, Daviot, you’ve not my kind of magic in you; you’ve the magic of your memory.”

I frowned anew at that: what magic was there in memory? I remembered things-was that unusual? I always had. Everyone in Whitefish village knew that. Folk came to me asking dates, confirmation of things said, and I told them: it was entirely natural to me, and not at all magical.

“He’s but twelve years old,” I heard the mantis say, and saw the commur-mage nod, and heard her answer, “Then on his manhood, I’d speak with his parents now, however.”

The mantis rose, like a plump soldier attending an order, and went bustling from the tavern. I shifted awhile from foot to foot, more than a little disconcerted, and finally asked, “What’s Durbrecht?”

“A place,” the commur-mage said. “A city and a college, the two the same. Do you know what a Storyman is?”

“Yes,” I told her, and could not resist demonstrating my powers of recall, boasting. “One came to the village a year ago. He was old-his hair was white and he wore a beard-he rode a mule. He told stories of Gahan’s coronation, and of the Comings. His name was”-I paused an instant, the old man’s face vivid in the eye of my mind; I smelled again the garlic that edged his breath, and the faint odor of sweat that soured his grubby white shirt-“Edran. He stayed here only two days, with the widow Rya, then went on south.”

The commur-mage ducked her head solemnly, her face grave now, and said, “Edran learned to use his art in Durbrecht. He memorized the old tales there, under the Mnemonikos.”

“Nuh … moni … kos?” I struggled to fit my tongue around the unfamiliar word.

“The Mnemonikos.” The commur-mage nodded. “The Rememberers; those who keep all our history in their heads. Without them, our past should be forgotten; without them, we should have no history.”

“Is that important?” I wondered, sensing that my soldierly ambitions were somehow, subtly, defeated.

“If we cannot remember the past,” the commur-mage said, “then we must forever repeat our mistakes. If we forget what we were, and what we have done, then we go blind into our future.”

I thought awhile on that, scarcely aware that she spoke to me as to a man, struggling as hard with the concept as I had struggled to pronounce the word Mnemonikos. At last I nodded with all the gravity of my single decade and said, “Yes, I think I see it. If my grandfather’s father had not told him about the tides and the seasons of the fish, then he could not have told my father, and then he should have needed to learn all that for himself.”

“And if he did not remember, then he could not pass on that knowledge to you,” said the commur-mage.

“No,” I allowed, “but I want to be a soldier.”

“But,” said the commur-mage, gently, “you see the importance of remembering.”

I agreed a trifle reluctantly, for I felt that she steered our conversation toward a harbor that should render me sword-less, bereft of my recently found ambition. I looked to Andyrt for support, but his scarred face was bland and he hid it behind his cup.

“The Mnemonikos hold all our history in their heads,” the commur-mage said softly. “All the tales of the Comings; all the tales of the land. They know of the Kho’rabi; of the Sky Lords and the Dragonmasters: all of it. Without them, we should have no past. The swords they bear never rust or break or blunt-”

“They bear swords?” I interrupted eagerly, finding these mysterious Rememberers suddenly more interesting. “They’re warriors, then?”

The commur-mage smiled and chuckled and shook her head. She said, “Not swords as you mean, Daviot, though some carry arms to protect themselves, and all are versed in the martial arts. I mean the blade that finds its scabbard here”-she tapped her forehead-“in the mind. And that-my word on it!-is the sharpest blade of all. Think you this”-she tapped the short-sword on her hip now-“is a greater weapon than what I wear here?” She tapped her head again. “No! The blade is for carving flesh, when needs must. The knowledge here”-again she touched her skull-“is what can defeat the magic of the Sky Lords. How say you, Andyrt?”

The jennym appeared no less surprised than I by this abrupt question. He set down his mug, brows lifted, and wiped a moustache of foam from his mouth.

“I’ll face a Kho’rabi knight,” he said, “and trade him blow for blow. I’d not assume to trust steel against their wizards, though-that’s a fight for your kind, Rekyn: magic against magic.”

It was the first time I had heard the commur-mage referred to by name. I watched her nod and smile and heard her say, “Aye, to each his own talent. Do you understand, Daviot? When warrior faces warrior, with blade or lance or bow or axe, I’d wager my money on Andyrt. But a sorcerer of Ahn-feshang could slay Andyrt with a spell.”

“But I’ve no magic,” I protested. “But I’m strong enough, and when I attain my manhood, I want to be a warrior.”

“You’ve the strength of memory,” Rekyn said. “All I’ve heard from you this day tells me that-and that’s a terrible strength, my friend. It’s the strength of things past, recalled; it’s the strength of time, of history. It’s the strength of knowing, of knowledge. It’s the strength that binds the land, the people. Listen to me! In four years you become a man, and when you do, I’d ask that you go to Durbrecht and hone that blade you carry in your head.”

So intense was her voice, her expression-though she used no magic on me then-that I heard proud clarions, a summons to battle; and still confusion.

“Is Durbrecht far?” I asked.

“Leagues distant,” she answered. “On the north shore of the Treppanek, where Kellambek and Draggonek divide. You should have to quit this village, your parents.”

“How should I live?” I asked. I was a fisherman’s child: I had acquired a measure of practicality.

And she laughed and said, “Be you accepted by the college, all will be paid for you. You’d have board and lodging, and a stipend for pleasure while you learn.”

A stipend for pleasure-that had a distinct appeal.

There was little real coin in Whitefish village, our transactions being mostly by barter, and the only coin I had ever held was an ancient penny piece I had found on the beach, worn so smooth by time and wave that the face of the Lord Protector whose image marked it was blunted, indiscernible, which I had dutifully given to my father. The thought of a stipend, of coin of my own, to spend as I pleased, was mightily attractive. Nonetheless, I was not entirely convinced: it seemed too easy. That I should be paid to learn? In White-fish village we learned to survive. To know the tides and the seasons of the fish, to caulk a boat, to ride the storms, to bait a hook and cast a net; for that learning, the payment was food in our bellies and blankets on our beds. We expected no more.

“But how,” I wondered, “should I earn all that?”

“By learning to use that memory of yours,” she said, solemnly and urgently, “and by learning our history.”

“Not work?” I asked, not quite understanding.

“Only at learning,” she replied.

I pondered awhile, more than a little confused. I looked to where Andyrt’s helm lay, observing the dented steel, the sweaty stains on the leather straps, the sheen of oil that overlay the beginnings of rust, pitting the metal like the marks I saw on the cheeks of boys-men!-older than me. I looked at the jennym’s sword hilt, leather-wrapped and indented with the familiar pressure of his fingers. I looked at his face and found no answer there. I said, “And I’d learn the martial arts, too?”

Rekyn nodded: “You’d learn to survive.”

“Is Durbrecht very big?” I asked, and she answered, “Bigger than Cambar.”

“Have you been there?” I demanded.

“I was trained there,” she said. “I was sent by my village mantis when I came of age. There is a Sorcerous College there, too, besides that of the Mnemonikos. I learned to use my talent there, and then was sent to Cambar.”

I scuffed my feet awhile in the dirt of Thorym’s tavern, aware that I contemplated my future. Then I looked her in the eye again and asked, “If I do not like it, may I come back?”

“If you do not like it,” she said, “or they do not like you, then you come back. In the first year they test you, and then-be you unfit, or they for you-you come back to Whitefish village.”

“Or to Cambar Keep,” said Andyrt. “To be a soldier, if you still so wish.”

That seemed to me a reasonable enough compromise. What was a year? A spring, a summer, an autumn, and a winter: not much time, then. But sufficient that I might see something of the world beyond Whitefish village. It seemed an opportunity no boy could, in his right mind, refuse.

“Yes,” I said, and added after a moment’s thought, “do my parents agree.”

“We’ll ask them,” said Rekyn.

I followed her gaze and saw my mother and my father coming with the mantis toward the tavern. They both seemed disturbed, though in different ways. My mother’s face was set in a pattern I recognized from those times I, or my siblings, had been hurt more seriously than was our habit; my father’s was stern and confused at the same time. I had seen that look when he balanced the chance of a good catch against the advent of an approaching storm. I waited, all my pride dissolved.

My mother curtsied and my father bent his knee, which added to my confusion, for such formality was unlike them and told me that they regarded this woman to whom I spoke as an equal, as their superior. I felt embarrassed for them and, by extension, for myself.

But Rekyn smiled and rose, greeting them courteously as if they were some lord and lady come avisiting the keep, and motioned soldiers away to clear places, holding back a chair for my mother and thanking them both for granting her their valuable time. I shuffled my feet, studying the dirt, and only when I looked up did I see that all the soldiers save Andyrt were gone, and only Rekyn and the mantis and my parents remained. I paced a sideways step closer to my father, who set a hand on my shoulder and said, “I thought to find you at the boat. We’ve a net to mend, remember.”

I mumbled an apology, immensely grateful for Rekyn’s intervention: she said, “The blame is mine, friend Aditus. I kept him here to speak of his talent.”

“My lady?” my father said, and I saw that he held the commur-mage in some awe.

Rekyn said, “Not lady, friend. That title’s for greater than I. I am called Rekyn. I’d speak with you of your son’s talent, of his future. But first, ale?”

My parents exchanged glances, awkward and embarrassed as I; they looked to the mantis for guidance, and he beamed and ducked his head, impressing chins one upon the other. Rekyn beckoned Thorym-himself awed by such attention-over to our table and asked that mugs be brought.

“Your son has a great talent,” she said when they were served and Thorym gone, though not far enough he could not overhear such tasty gossip, “and I’d speak with you of that.”

I thought then that my mother looked frightened. My father’s face stayed stolid. I had seen it thus when he rode a boat into the teeth of the wind and the waves howled up over the gunwales: it frightened me, so that I heard little of the conversation that followed.

I know only that, at its ending, Rekyn and my parents were friends, and that it was agreed that on my attaining manhood I should be allowed to decide my own future: to go to Durbrecht, or seek a place in the Cambar warband, or remain in Whitefish village.

That agreement was sealed with more ale than either of my parents was accustomed to drink at that early hour, and neither was entirely steady on their feet as they quit the tavern. I rose from where I had squatted, idly stroking the dust from Andyrt’s helmet, to join them-this I remember clearly-and my father looked a question at my mother, who nodded, and then my father said to me, “I go to mend the net. Do you come with me, or remain here with Rekyn?”

I think that sometimes there comes a precise moment, a fragment of time, crystallized, trapped forever in the alembic of our internal eye, that tells us all when and where we chose our path through life.

Mine was then: I said, “I’ll remain.”

That was the moment, the instant, that I opted to be a Rememberer.

I was a celebrity for a few short weeks-the lad who had stood with the men on the beach when the Sky Lords came, the lad singled out by the commur-mage. But the fish still swam in the Fend, and the boats still put out, and I still had duties to attend, favored or not. Fisherfolk are above all practical, and until I quit the village for greater things I remained a fisherman’s son.

Then, for a while, my new-won prominence grew irksome. The mantis found a fresh interest in me, perceiving it to his advantage I suspect that he school me above and beyond my fellows. Consequently I found myself expected to undertake additional lessons that, given those duties I owed my parents, left me little enough time to myself. I am grateful to him now, but then, during those four years, I came close to hating him at times. What boy would not, when his friends went to gaming in the sunshine whilst he must sit indoors at his lessons, prisoner of his own elevation? I sulked, I think, but the mantis pressed on, blithely oblivious of the imaginative fates I dreamed of inflicting on him, and in time I found myself enjoying his pedagogy. History, I discovered, was fascinating, for all the mantis’s grasp of Dharbek’s past was at best tenuous, circumscribed by his religious training. Even so, what he told me through those long hours put flesh on the bones of legend so that by the time I left for Cambar Keep, I knew more of this land of ours than any other child in the village.

He spoke to me primarily of the Dhar, hardly at all of the Ahn, who were, in his narrow opinion, no more than demons, banished by the will of the God to Ahn-feshang, from whence they sought to return to spread their evil. Having then no other knowledge with which to balance this hereditary view, I accepted it: I had, after all, spent my life hearing tales of the Sky Lords’ atrocities. But the stories of the Dhar-oh, those thrilled me, and I lapped them up, binding them to me with the ropes of my memory.

Of the Dawntime he spoke, when the Wanderer Kings came down-out of the unknown north into the Forgotten Country and there encountered the dragons. He told me of the Dragonmasters and their magic that bent the ferocious flying creatures to their will. The which, he carefully explained, was the first gift of the God. The second was that magic that enabled the creation of the Changed, and when I questioned-innocently enough-the morality of such action, the mantis bade me still my heretical tongue on fear of losing that favor I had won whilst earning in its place a cuffing. I obeyed, for I knew I might push only so far and no farther, and besides there was sufficient else to occupy me without risking a beating on behalf of creatures I had never seen and knew of only as vague legends. So I held my tongue and listened to the old tales of the crossing of the Slammerkin and the conquest of Draggonek, where Emeric, first of the Lords Protector, built Kherbryn; the bridging of the Treppanek, when the people entered Kellambek and met the Ahn; the exodus of those folk to their unknown land; of great Tuwyan, who ordered the construction of Durbrecht; and Canovar, who founded the Sentinels on the seven islands that ward our eastern shores; of the gift of peace that brought all Dharbek to worship of the God.

This latter, I comprehended, was to the cost of the Ahn, who had, after all, been first come to Kellambek, but as the Dark Folk were enemies of the God and become the Sky Lords, I accepted what the mantis told me quite unthinking, save for one question.

“Why,” I asked him one winter’s evening as we sat before the fire in his little cottage beside the cella, “does the God allow the Comings? If we Dhar are his chosen people, and the Ahn are his enemies, why does he not destroy them?”

Had I been already precocious, I was worse now, and my question clearly took the good mantis aback. He delivered a sound blow to my head and then murmured a prayer that the God forgive me my ignorant heresy. Then, as I rubbed at my stinging ear and bit back tears, he thought to offer an explanation.

In the Dawntime, he told me-a trifle nervously I thought, as if this were a matter he had rather not discussed-the Dhar had worshipped false gods, the Three Deciders, and for that sin had earned the displeasure of the one true God. Even now, albeit we had come to the true faith, we must suffer for that sin, the memory of the deity being, naturally, prodigious. Until such time as this original sin should be forgiven, we must suffer the depredations of the Sky Lords in penance for our transgression.

That seemed to me harsh. I had not, before that evening, even heard of the Three Deciders-so why should I, or Whitefish village, pay for a sin not of our commitment? I wondered, albeit briefly then, being not much used to wrestling with such theological mysteries, if it had not been better had we Dhar made peace with the Ahn, so that they should never have fled to become our enemies. My ear still burned, however, and I held my tongue. That church of which our village mantis was a lowly representative was a power in the land, an authority unquestioned, versed in the God’s mysteries and invested with the temporal interpretation of his will. I elected to accept the ritual explanation.

Before I attained my manhood, I saw the Sky Lords’ boats again.

The first was too far out to sea and too far south to present any threat to the village, and after a while it passed out of sight.

The second time I was at sea. It was midsummer, a little after the Sastaine festival, the days long and gentle as the Fend’s soft swell. Dusk approached, the sea a match to the sky’s transparent blue, glinting bright where the westering sun laid bands of gold across the water. We were bringing in a filled net when Battus loosed his hold, eliciting a curse from my father that became a gasp as he followed my uncle’s gaze to where the sky was marred by a distant shape. I recognized it on the instant and saw that it must pass north of our position, save it change direction. Still, it rode very low and I felt a mixture of excitement and dread.

My father said, “In the God’s name, are the Sentinels asleep?”

And Thorus replied, “I think perhaps the Sky Lords own new magicks,” which set a chill on my spine, for I heard a great doubt in his voice and found myself reminded of the priest’s talk of ancient sin.

Then my father said, “Best we bring this net in and turn for home, I think.”

We had our catch aboard and the boat turned about before the Sky Lords had advanced more than three fingers’ width across the blue. There was no wind to speak of, and so Battus and Thorus manned the oars, my father the tiller, leaving me free to watch. Or act as valiant lookout, I chose to think.

So it was I saw for the first time what the magic of the Sentinels could do.

I saw the darkening sky grow brighter above the closest island. It was akin to the jack-o’-lantern fires that would sometimes dance over the marshier fields above the village, pale and pink as a wound at first, then stronger, like a kindling flame. Then it became a column of searing red that sprang skyward to envelop the airboat, wrapping about the cylinder. For a moment that seemed to me a very long time, it bathed the vessel, then came an eruption of light and I saw the airboat broken like a spine-snapped beast, falling down in a great ball of flame, mundane now, trailers of smoke dragging behind it. There was a sound, as of distant thunder, and the Sky Lords’ craft went down to meet the sea. In a little while there was only a single plume of smoke that drifted leisurely shoreward, merging with the sky.

Thorus said, “I believe they are awake,” and my father chuckled, nodding, and we turned again for home.

The third airboat I saw was an anticlimax after that.

It was sighted late in the year before I left for Durbrecht, when the season hung undecided between autumn and winter, the winds contrary and the Fend choppy. It was clear from the first that the airboat must pass south of Kellambek’s farthest shores, and I wondered to where. Later I questioned the mantis, but he professed ignorance, pointing out to me that argument still continued as to whether the world be flat or round, and if the one, then the Sky Lords must pass over the edge; if the other, then they should likely perish for want of food and water. Either fate suited him.

I was then fifteen, my manhood now in sight, the past three years flown as years do, unnoticed save in their remembrance. I had come to realize the mantis had little more to teach me, that his knowledge was boundaried by his calling, limited by that dogma I yet accepted whilst sensing larger truths beyond its narrow borders. I had learned-courtesy of sore ears and more than one flogging-either to hold back my less orthodox questions or to put them circumspect. The matter of the Sky Lords’ fate I left to destiny.

I had also discovered another interest. For some time now I had grown increasingly aware that I was not alone in my approach to adulthood. It was obvious, from the blemished skin and fluctuating voices of myself and my friends, that we grew. It was equally obvious, from other, far more appealing signs, that those girls with whom we had roughly played as children matched us.

I was intrigued by this new aspect life revealed, and there were (this in all modesty) not a few daughters who flirted with me, for all I passed the next year sporting a ferocious crop of pimples and was seldom sure whether my voice should come out squeaking or gruff.

But as the spring approached the days lengthened, and in direct proportion the time left before I should depart shortened.

When the time came, it was very hard. Nor is it a time on which I care to dwell overlong, and so I tell it brief.

The ceremonies celebrating the coming of age of both Tellurin and Coram preceded mine, and both were followed within days by their betrothals.

My own ceremony approached, midway through that spring. I waited on word from Rekyn. I grew somewhat surly when none came, wondering if the commur-mage had forgotten her promise. The day dawned bright, and I rose early, before my parents even, walking out alone through the village to the Cambar road, where I climbed a tree to peer nervously northward. Tonium found me there, sent by my mother to bring me back for the ritual preparations, and took great delight in my discomfort until I reminded him that did Rekyn fail to come and I remain in the village, his own hopes of advancement must be dashed. That was small satisfaction as I trudged homeward to bathe and dress in the breeks and tunic my mother had lovingly stitched for this propitious day.

Dressed, I went at my father’s side to the cella, where the mantis waited, clad in his ceremonial robe, no longer my plump tutor, but the representative of the God. As was customary on such days, no boats put out, but all the villagers stood watching outside the cella. Alone, I followed the mantis inside. There he spoke to me of manhood, of its responsibilities and duties, of the God and our debt to him. I gave the ritual responses and drank the sacred wine, ate the bread and the salt, he drew back my hair and tied it in manhood’s tail; and all the while my ears were pricked for the sound of hoofbeats, the jangle of harness.

Then, the ceremony completed, the mantis led me out and cried, “Welcome, Daviot, who is now a man.” I followed into the cool spring sunlight, blinking a moment as all shouted in answer, “Welcome, Daviot, who is now a man.”

I felt not at all like smiling, for I feared Rekyn had forgotten me, forgotten her promise. I saw my father, an arm about my mother’s shoulders, his face proud, hers a struggling admixture of pride and grief. Delia was beaming, waving enthusiastically, and even Tonium managed a grin. Battus and Lyrta stood beside them, and grave-faced Thorus; Tellurin and Corum with their betrothed; all White-fish village. Then I saw her, Andyrt at her side, both smiling, and I shouted for joy and in that instant entirely forgot my fear.

My parents approached to embrace me. I saw tears on my mother’s cheeks. I hugged them, hugged Delia, and looked to Rekyn. Commur-mage and jennym both came close, and Rekyn said, “Did you think I had forgotten?”

I blushed and toed the dirt a moment with my new-polished boots, then shrugged and answered, “I was afraid you had.”

She smiled. The sun struck blue-black sparks from her hair as she shook her head. I studied her face and asked her bluntly, “When do we depart?”

Andyrt laughed at that and said, “Are you in such a hurry, Daviot? May we not sample the feast before we go?”

I looked at him-there was a little more gray in his hair now, and a recent scar on his chin-and past his shoulder saw my parents. Almost, I said that I had sooner go on the instant: it would have been easier. Instead I smiled and shook my head in turn and answered him, “Of course, and welcome.”

The crowd was a boon then, surrounding me as I walked from the cella to the village square, where Thorym’s tables were augmented by an array of planks and trestles, all set with food and barrels of ale and wine. I thought that, despite the contributions all made to such festivities, this must have cost my father dear. I went to the head of the appointed table-places set there for my family and the mantis, two more for our honored guests-and faced the crowd, and cried, “I bid you welcome and ask you join me.”

That was as much formality as Whitefish village countenanced: the tables were rapidly occupied, the feasting soon begun. I was intent on Rekyn and Andyrt, on the myriad questions that filled my mind.

“You’re in a mighty hurry,” the commur-mage remarked when I again asked when we should depart. I could only shrug, embarrassed, as Rekyn’s finely arched brows rose in mute inquiry.

Then she added gravely, “Do you change your mind, Daviot?”

“No!” I shook my head vigorously, embarrassed afresh as my answer sent crumbs of new-baked bread spilling across the table. “No! I’d go with you to Durbrecht still.”

Rekyn ducked her head once and smiled. “We take you only so far as Cambar Keep,” she said, “to present you to the aeldor. From Cambar you go on alone to Durbrecht.”

That took me a little aback: I had not thought to make so great a journey alone, but in company of my sponsors, Rekyn must have read my expression, for she added gently, “We’ll see you safe aboard a vessel, and you’ll carry an introduction from the aeldor. You’ll be met in Durbrecht.” Then, after a moment’s pause, “We’ve duties of our own in Cambar.”

“The more with these new Comings,” Andyrt muttered, “the God condemn the Kho’rabi.”

“What does it mean?” my father asked.

“I cannot say,” Rekyn told him honestly. “Only that the Sky Lords come unseasonal. Seven of their craft have passed north of Cambar this year alone; more up the coast. Two grounded last year in Draggonek. The Kho’rabi were slain, but the fighting was fierce.”

My father nodded, digesting this. My mother gasped, her eyes finding my face, fearful, as if to the sadness she knew at loss of her son was added the fear he might fall to a Sky Lord’s blade. Rekyn said, “None close to Durbrecht, Donia. Nor likely to come there-the Sorcerous College lies there, remember.”

My mother nodded and essayed a wan smile, her eyes finding mine, troubled.

I had not thought overmuch of my parents’ feelings in the matter of my advancement, being far more enwrapped in my own. Now, in that single instant, I recognized the pain I gave them. Oh, they were proud that I should be so singled out, and pleased for me, but still they saw a son lost to them. We had not spoken of it much-that was not our way-but we knew that at least one year must pass before we might meet again, and-should I remain in Durbrecht-we could not know how many more. Perhaps this would be our last time together.

But I was young, and now a man, and set that burden aside. I drank ale to which I was not accustomed and asked again, “When do we depart?” wishing it might be on the instant, without sad farewells, and at the same time that it might be never.

I believe Rekyn understood, for she chuckled and said, “Certainly you are in a mighty hurry,” making a jest of it. “But in your honor we came by sea, and the return shall not take long.”

I nodded and emptied my mug, and after a while pipes and a gittern were brought out and the dancing began. I drank more ale as Tellurin and Corum, all my friends, came to shake my hand and bid me farewell.

Then, as melancholy threatened (much aided by the ale), Rekyn suggested we depart. My mother presented me with a change of clothing bundled in an oilskin and the admonishment I look after myself, and she held me so close I feared my ribs should break. My father shook my hand, man to man, then himself embraced me and gave me a purse that jingled with the few coins he could afford. Delia flung her arms about my neck and wet my face with kisses and tears in equal measure. Tonium, unusually subdued, clutched my hand. The mantis called the God’s blessing on me. Battus and Lyrta said their good-byes, and taciturn Thorus presented me with a knife held in a leather sheath he had decorated himself. I thanked him and gravely set the scabbard on my belt. I was close to tears myself and grateful for Andyrt’s touch on my shoulder, his calm reminder that the day aged and we had best catch the tide lest we need row our way to Cambar.

We went down to the beach, where a little single-masted cutter waited. I slung my bundle on board and turned to survey Whitefish village.

It seemed now the day had passed in the blinking of an eye, that the last four years had flown by. The feasting had lasted well into the afternoon, and the sun now stood above the headland. The pines there were stark and black, limned in sunlight. The roof of the cella shone white, its bell gleaming. The village looked very small; the world beyond seemed infinitely large. I clambered into the boat after Rekyn. Andyrt took the tiller; I went to the mast, raising the sail to catch the offshore breeze. I stood there as Andyrt took us out, all the time looking back to where everyone and everything I knew, all that was familiar to me, lay, growing steadily smaller as I went away.

We came to the mouth of the river Cambar as dusk gave way to night. It was not a long journey; but then it was the farthest I had ever been from home, and it felt to me a very long way indeed. The half-filled moon stood pale at our backs, flinging shards of silver light over the quickening swell that marked the river’s mouth, where fresh water met the salt sea between two headlands topped with windblown pines. Andyrt swung the tiller over, and I sprang unthinking to the sail. It did not occur to me that Rekyn must have taken this duty before, and she said nothing, leaving me to my task. I believe it was a kindness on her part, that I might begin these steps along the new path of my life with some sense of usefulness, not merely as a passenger. I caught the sail before it luffed, and we rode the last of the wind a little way upriver. Then it was oarwork, and that, too, Rekyn left to me, so that I faced Andyrt’s shadowed form as we proceeded up the Cambar. In consequence I did not see the keep until we docked.

There was no beach here, but a stone-walled anchorage, fishing craft bobbing on the tide, moored neat along the harbor. Nimbly (my racing blood and the wind had dispelled the effects of the ale) I sprang to the stone, tying the painter to a metal ring. Then I stood, staring inland.

The cliffs that flanked the river were low, and about the harbor there was a wide cleft, gently sloped and covered at the foot with cottages akin to those I had left behind. Higher, I saw what seemed to me very grand houses, with tiled roofs that glittered in the moonlight, some even sporting balconies about their upper stories. They were set about either side of a broad avenue that ran up to the clifftop, ending at a structure that trapped and held my eyes.

The keep, from this low angle, seemed a single vast column rising atop the ridge, a great stone cylinder set all around with bright-lit windows, a beacon blazing in the night. I stood gape-mouthed, a country bumpkin confronted with a dream. The houses along the avenue were dwarfed, dismissed into insignificance by this wondrous tower. This was the home hold of the aeldor Bardan: this was the gateway to my future.

I started as Andyrt thrust my bundle at me and clapped a cheerful hand to my shoulder. “Save you’d spend the night here, do we go on?” he chuckled. “The sea edges my appetite, and all well dinner will be served soon.”

I nodded, still staring upward, and fell into step, Rekyn on my left. She said mildly, “This is not so great a hold, Daviot. Wait until you see the towers of Durbrecht.”

I nodded again, lost for words; it seemed to me no place could possibly be grander than this. I shouldered my bundle and went with them across the cobbles of the harbor to the avenue. Now I tore my eyes from the great keep and stared instead at the marvelous houses, their windows paned with clear glass, not the yellow membrane of sheepgut, their woodwork carved and painted for no reason other than decoration. Robus and the mantis had sometimes been persuaded to speak of Cambar-as best I knew then, they were the only men in our village who ever came here-and I had wondered at their tales, but they did nothing to prepare me for this fabulous place, and I walked with eyes and mouth wide, dumbstruck.

And then the avenue ended at a wall, and I saw that the keep was not a single column but was surrounded by this dry-stone barrier, and through the open wooden gate that lesser buildings huddled about its foot.

I thought there should be guards there, but I was wrong. The only sentries were three enormous gray hounds, all shaggy hair and flashing fangs, they seemed to me, that came barking up, to be rebuffed by Andyrt with a shouted command mand that sent them trotting back to the shelter of a stable where horses nickered and stamped. I took my hand from my knife’s hilt and pretended I had not been afraid as my two companions brought me across the yard to the keep’s entrance. Rekyn motioned me forward, but I hesitated, struck suddenly by a new concern: “Do I meet the aeldor now? How should I address him?”

“‘My lord’ will do,” she told me, “and you’ve no reason to fear him. Bardan’s no ogre, and you come as welcome guest to this hold.”

I swallowed, took a deep breath, and nodded; we entered the keep. I saw how thick were the walls, marveling at the builder’s skill, then frowned as I realized we did not stand in the great hall I had expected but in a kind of cellar, a huge, circular chamber, dim and stacked all about with casks and barrels, firewood, sacks, haunches of meat hung from hooks set in the wooden roof. Rekyn touched me gently, indicating a broad stairway that rose around the curve of the wall. She moved ahead of me then, and Andyrt fell in behind, and we climbed toward another open door, light bright there, and noise.

On Rekyn’s heels I went in and gaped anew despite myself. This chamber was as large as the one below but set with deep-cut embrasures and circled by sconces in which candles burned, augmenting the blaze of the fire in the massive hearth and the lanterns that hung from the beams overhead. The floor was wood, scattered with rushes, long tables and benches occupied by more men than women, the latter sex emerging from doorways, carrying platters of meat, bread, steaming vegetables, pitchers of ale. Off to one side a minstrel-I had neither seen nor heard one before, but I knew from the kithara he plucked that was his calling-fought the roar of the diners. He stood behind a table set a little apart from the others, three men and two women seated there.

“The aeldor,” Rekyn murmured in my ear. “The Lady Andolyne is to his right; the other woman is Gwennet, wife of Sarun, who is heir. The other man is Bardan’s second son, Thadwyn.”

I nodded in thanks and acknowledgment, committing the names to my memory, eager to make as good an impression as I might, and walked with the commur-mage and Andyrt to stand before the table.

Andyrt sketched a casual bow; Rekyn ducked her head and said, “Lord Bardan, this is Daviot of Whitefish village.”

I bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor. I saw a bone there, and then another of the great gray hounds snatch it up. The room grew silent save for the soft strumming of the kithara, and then a deep voice said, “In the God’s name, Daviot of Whitefish village, will you stand up and look me in the eye, or are you bent-backed?”

I felt my cheeks grow warm. I stood, mumbling, “My lord aeldor, Lady Andolyne … No, I am not … I-”

Bardan laughed, the sound rumbling from his broad chest, and I met his gaze. I saw a rotund face, ale-flushed and dense-bearded, streaks of white in the russet, the eyes large and brown, twinkling with amusement. He was a heavy-set man, past his prime, but yet muscular. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled back, revealing forearms corded thick. He smiled at me, beckoning me forward.

“So you’re the one,” he said. “Rekyn speaks well of you-Andyrt, too-and I trust their judgment. You’d be a Mnemonikos, eh?”

“Does it serve you,” I said, and thought to add, “my lord aeldor.”

“Me,” said Bardan, “the Lord Protector, Dharbek. Aye, have you the makings of a Rememberer, then you shall serve us all.”

“And does that not work out,” said Andyrt, with what I then thought was massive presumption, “I’ll have him for the warband.”

Bardan laughed again, not at all put out, and shouted for places to be set at his table, ale to be brought us.

As we waited I took the opportunity to study his kinfolk. His wife, the Lady Andolyne, was of an age with him, which is to say old in my eyes, but like the aeldor she seemed hale, if not so beautiful as I had thought so elevated a personage should be. Her hair was not yet touched with gray, but its brown was somewhat faded, and though her eyes shone bright, they nested amongst lines. Gwennet’s hair was a soft gold, and she was pretty in a vague way. She was clearly some few years younger than her husband, and the smile she bestowed on me was friendly. Indeed, they were all friendly, even Sarun, who was a hawk to his father’s bear, lean of feature, with the same brown eyes but those more piercing-appraising me, I thought. Thadwyn was not much older than I and favored his mother. Much to my surprise, it was he who pushed a filled tankard to me when we sat.

After the ale I had already drunk, I had poor appetite for more, but I deemed it ungracious to refuse and so smiled my thanks and sipped. Bardan saw my caution and exaggerated a frown. “What’s this?” he demanded. “A would-be Mnemonikos who’s no taste for ale? In the God’s name, young Daviot, that’s a thing unknown.”

“Perhaps,” said Andolyne with a smile, “Daviot shall set a new standard, and introduce sobriety to his calling.”

“Unlikely,” said Sarun. “Have you ever met a Storyman without a taste for ale?”

“Or wine,” said Thadwyn.

“Or mead,” said Gwennet.

“Or fire-wine,” said Sarun, and studied me with hooded eyes a moment before grinning as if we were old friends. “I suspect you’ll learn in time, Daviot. The Storymen have a certain reputation, you know.”

“In your own time,” Andolyne said kindly. “And as I say-do you choose to introduce new ways …”

Then, basking in their ready friendship, I felt only put at my ease, grateful to them, and to Rekyn, Andyrt, that I, a plain fisherman’s son, should sit so welcome at their table.

And so, as my confidence grew, I ate, and drank more ale, and found my tongue. And as I talked, my mouth grew dry and I supped more, until I swayed in my chair and their faces began to blur, and I found the words become harder of finding, and harder still to speak.

Andyrt, I discovered, carried me to my bed, and Rekyn had the keep’s herbalist prepare a decoction for which I was later mightily grateful, though it tasted bitter and I fought it at the time. Thanks to that I passed the night in sound sleep, waking to the sounds of the rising hold, unaware at first of where I lay. This was the first morning of my life I had not woke in my parents’ home, and I experienced a moment of wild panic as I opened my eyes and wondered where I was. Then I remembered and sprang from my bed, only to totter, my head spinning, needles seeming to pierce my skull and eyes. I groaned and sat back, pressing hands to my throbbing temples until I succeeded in focusing my eyes, and examined my chamber.

It was all stone, but with a faded carpet on the flags underfoot. I had never set foot on a carpet before. A lantern hung from the center of the ceiling, and opposite the narrow bed there was a washstand, beneath the window an ottoman. I went to the washstand, wondering who had removed my clothes and where they were, and drank deep of the wondrously cold water, then applied a liberal quantity to my face and head-carefully, for the needles were not yet gone from my skull. I found my clothes in the ottoman and quickly dressed, belted on my dagger, and belatedly remembered to tie back my hair. I felt simultaneously hungry and nauseated by the thought of food, nor sure whether I should remain or quit the chamber. I knelt on the ottoman as I pondered, marveling that the window be paned and thus allow me clear sight of the yard below.

I was on the west side of the keep. Beyond the encircling wall I could see planted fields and grazing sheep, woodland in the distance, hazy at this early hour. Within the confines of the wall I recognized a smithy, the farrier’s hammer already clanging, a small building I thought must be a fane, and others I could not define. The yard was busy, soldiers in their plaid striding to and fro, women, children, dogs, a few cats. I was entranced and might well have spent the entire morning observing all this unfamiliar activity had Rekyn not come for me.

She knocked at my door, which was unusual enough, and it was a moment before I thought to bid her enter. In place of her black riding gear she wore breeks of dark leather and a belted tunic, a long dagger sheathed there. She smiled, holding out a beaker of horn, and said, “Day’s greetings, Daviot. I suspect you’ll welcome this. Perhaps without a fight today.”

For an instant I found no memory at all of the previous night’s closing and frowned, then blushed as she explained and I remembered. I took the draught and drank it down, wincing at the taste and my embarrassment.

Rekyn settled on the bed, her gray eyes on my face. “Now tell me of last night,” she said. “All that you remember.”

I guessed this was a test of some kind. I composed my thoughts, much aided by the herbalist’s skill, and recited all I could recall

When I was done, Rekyn nodded in satisfaction and I felt my discomfort evaporate as she said, “Excellent. The ale does not fuddle your memory.”

“Thanks to you.” I gestured with the beaker. “And this.”

“That helped.” Her face grew solemn. “Most men forget what they do when in their cups.”

I frowned and said, “But last night Sarun, the others, all spoke of the Storymen as drinkers. Does drink obliterate memory, how can they? Why do they?”

“Sarun and his kin spoke mostly in jest,” she told me, “albeit in jest there’s often truth. Aye, the Storymen do drink. Indeed, they’ve something of a reputation for their capacity, and often enough it’s the only payment offered for their tales. But also, they are not as most men. I suspect that whatever accident of blood gifts them with memory gifts them, too, with the ability to drink and still remember. I’ve not the how of it, but I believe that must be the way. Now, do we see if any breakfast’s left us?”

I found, to my surprise, that my appetite was returned: I nodded, and we quit the room.

As we ate, Rekyn told me that a trade ship was anticipated within the next few days and that it would take me north, save-an ominous reminder and grim portent of the future-the Sky Lords come again to delay the sailing.

I digested this thoughtfully, vaguely aware of the women who now began to clear away the detritus of the morning meal, and when Rekyn suggested we investigate the environs of the keep, I agreed eagerly.

It felt odd to me to venture abroad so late in the day, and I thought fleetingly that my father would be long asea, with Tonium in my place. A moment’s nostalgia then, rapidly replaced with wonder as we crossed the court to where Andyrt and others of the warband exercised. Sarun was with them, greeting me with a brief wave before returning to his sword-work. Andyrt hailed me, but no more than that, and with Rekyn I stood watching the flash of light on darting blades, listening to the clangor of steel on steel.

They wore helms and thick-padded jerkins, sewn with plates and nets of metal, but even so I thought surely men must be sore hurt at this practicing. I was right and before long saw a man miss his defensive stroke and take a blow that sent him reeling, his face gone abruptly pale. Andyrt caught the mistake and halted his own combat to roughly curse the luckless fellow for his carelessness before sending him off to a thin, bald man in a green tunic who stood behind a table spread with sundry pots and bandages and bottles.

Rekyn said, “That’s Garat, our herbalist and chirurgeon. You’ve him to thank your head’s not hurting.”

We went to watch, seeing Garat remove the soldier’s jerkin and examine his shoulder-which was dislocated-with fingers as gentle as his curses were ferocious. I had never heard a man so foul-mouthed, nor seen one so tender in his ministrations. His mouth was thin and seemed angry until he smiled and asked me how my head felt. I told him it was entirely cured and offered my thanks, at which he shrugged angular shoulders and cursed me for a fool that I drank with more excess than experience. Laughing, Rekyn declared that she had best remove me from his company ere I become as corrupted of language as he, and we wandered randomly about the yard. It was, in effect, a small village, self-contained and easily defended. Save, I thought, from aerial attack: I ventured to make the point.

“’Tis true,” Rekyn agreed. “Indeed, at the time of the last Coming the Kho’rabi wizards sent their magicks against the keep. See?” She pointed at the ramparts of the great turret, and I saw blocks there paler than their elder kin, the surrounding stones blackened as if with fire. “Two airboats there were, and both grounded inland. There was a great battle.”

I said nothing, but she must have read the enthusiasm on my face, for she smiled a little and went on: “The boats grounded to the west, and the fylie marched on Cambar. You noticed the wood there? That was the place of battle. It was a mere copse then, but so many brave men died there that Ramach, who was Lord Bardan’s father, decreed it should be left uncut, a monument.”

I promised myself I would, had I the time, go there. I asked, “Dhar and Sky Lords lie there together?”

Rekyn nodded. “Aye. For Ramach deemed the Kho’rabi valiant foes.”

“And you?” I asked. “What do you say?”

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “I am neither philosopher nor theologian, Daviot, but I agree with Ramach. This was once their land, and they surely came a very long way to meet their fate. Why not accord them that poor solace? Bardan, too, decrees the wood sacred.”

I felt my question was not entirely answered and frowned, fearing I went too far, as I said, “Are they not then evil?”

“I have never met one in the flesh,” she answered, turning toward me as we strolled, “and so cannot say for sure. The priests will tell you so, and perhaps they are right. Perhaps the Sky Lords are the God’s punishment for the sins of our fathers; perhaps they are only warriors sent into battle by their own priests. I’ll not judge them until I’ve spoken with one and learned more of their ways.”

This seemed to me sensible and I ducked my head in agreement. “Has anyone?” I asked. “Spoken with a Sky Lord?”

“No.” Rekyn shook her head, the loose black tail of her hair flying. “No Sky Lord was ever taken alive. Do they not fall in battle, they fall on their own blades. It seems they count it a great dishonor to be taken captive.”

“They kill themselves?” I asked, aghast, for this ran utterly contrary to our own teachings.

“Rather than be taken alive,” Rekyn confirmed.

I swallowed, digesting this as we completed our perambulation and went out through the gates. As we ambled leisurely down the avenue, my mind was only half on the grandeur of the houses; the other half wrestled with the notion of a folk so savage as to take their own lives. It was a thing too strange, too enormous, for my young mind to properly encompass. I wondered what manner of men were the Sky Lords, that they did this.

“So, shall we eat?”

Rekyn’s question brought me from my musing, and I saw that we had come to a building I now recognized as a tavern. I nodded dumbly: my experience of such establishments was limited to Thorym’s humble aleshop, and I did my best to assume an air of sophistication, a pace behind Rekyn as she found a table by the inner wall and settled casually on the bench there.

As we ate, Rekyn spoke to me of Cambar, of its trade and commerce and people, opening my eyes still wider to the world beyond Whitefish village, which even in the short time since I had left dwindled in my sight. It was strange that the place that only two days before had been the whole compass of my existence could so swiftly become so small a thing. It felt that betwixt sleeping and waking my narrow world was being replaced with another, larger place, and my excitement mounted as the commur-mage spoke. I listened rapt until she drained the last of her ale and suggested we find our way to the harbor.

I felt far more at home there, amongst familiar sights and sounds and smells. Even so, it was very different to Whitefish village. Many of the boats were larger, and to the north of the anchorage I saw two galleasses nodding on the tide’s ebb, their lateen sails furled, their oars stowed. Near where they rode at anchor there was a squat stone building I did not think was a warehouse, a throng of large, impressively muscled men lounging about the doors. Rekyn saw where I looked and told me, “Lord Bardan commands two warships.”

She paid the men scant attention, but they fascinated me. I had never seen shoulders so massive, nor chests so deep; I thought they must be powerful warriors. And yet there was something about them I could not quite define, a difference-something in the shape of their skulls, their broad foreheads and deep-set eyes-that set them apart from the men of Andyrt’s warband. As I watched a man in Cambar’s plaid emerged from the building and called some order that sent four of the giants down to the harbor’s edge. Two barrels stood there, huge casks I assumed they would shift on rollers or a cart, and even then only with difficulty. Instead, they took each cask, one man to either end, tilted it, and lifted it as if it weighed nothing, carrying both back to the building easily as if they bore no more than panniers of fish. I gasped, hardly able to believe men could be so strong.

Rekyn noticed the object of my amazement and said, “Each galleass is rowed by Changed. Those are bull-bred.”

Her tone was casual, as though such prodigious strength were entirely natural; as though the presence of Changed were entirely normal. To her it was; to me it was yet another thing of wonder.

“I have never seen Changed before,” I said.

“You have.” Rekyn smiled at my disbelieving frown. “Bardan keeps several bull-bred about the hold, for the heavier work. And not a few as servants. Those are cat- or dog-bred, of course. In Durbrecht you’ll see far more. Likely, do you elect to remain beyond your first year, you’ll have one for a body-servant.”

A servant? My servant? My jaw fell, and Rekyn laughed anew.

“It is felt,” she advised me, “that those training to become Mnemonikos are better employed in study than in such trivial matters as the cleaning of their quarters.”

“Did you have one?” I asked her. “When you attended the Sorcerous College?”

“A cat-bred female,” she answered, a hint of fond nostalgia in her voice. “Mell was her name.” Her tone changed, and it seemed to me a door closed behind her eyes. “When I left, she fled across the Slammerkin into Ur-Dharbek. I’d not thought Mell would go to the wild ones.”

I feared, from Rekyn’s expression, from her colder tone, that I trespassed on forbidden ground. But I was to become a Storyman, and how should I pursue that following save I asked questions? “Wild ones?” I queried.

The commur-mage nodded absently, yet a little lost in some private past. “The lands of the Truemen end at the Slammerkin,” she murmured, “and beyond lay those lands given over to the wild Changed. The Lord Protector Philedon decreed it so-that the dragons have prey to hunt and need not venture south.”

I did not properly understand her reticence-she had evinced little enough on most other subjects-but I felt it sure enough. I said, in what I hoped was an easy way, “The mantis spoke somewhat to me of the dragons. He said they are dead now, or gone away into the Forgotten Country.”

I thought for a moment Rekyn had not heard me, but then she nodded again and said, “Perhaps they are. Certainly, they prey no more on Truemen; and men do not venture into Ur-Dharbek.”

“Nor the Changed-the wild Changed-come south across the Slammerkin?” I ventured.

“No,” was all the answer I got, and I set my wealth of questions aside for some later time.

But I approached the hold with better-opened eyes, surveying the folk I saw, assessing who was Trueman and who Changed. The smith, I guessed, for he possessed the massive frame of the men (I could not think of them as beasts) I had seen at the harbor, and when I watched the serving folk, I thought I discerned aspects of the feline in several of the women, canine in more than one man. Rekyn was clearly indisposed to discuss them further, and I wondered if some taboo existed; I deemed it wise to hold my tongue. Besides, we found Andyrt in the hall and he called us over, so that we were soon embroiled in conversation with jennym and soldiers, and I found myself quaffing yet more ale.

Thus we passed what little remained of the afternoon, and in a while the candles and lanterns were lit against the burgeoning dark, and servants came out to set the tables for the evening meal. The aeldor and the Lady Andolyne appeared with Sarun and Gwennet, greeting me as friendly as before. Thadwyn, I learned, was gone north to Torbryn Keep in amorous pursuit of Lydea, daughter of the aeldor Keryn. Bardan questioned me concerning my day and I, emboldened by his easy manner, expressed my wish to see the site of his father’s battle with the Kho’rabi.

He and Andolyne exchanged a glance at that, and then he tugged his beard and said quietly, “Are the woods gone from Whitefish village, then?”

“No,” I said, “but no battle was ever fought there.”

“It’s naught but trees, Daviot,” he told me, serious now. “There’s no fine monument, nor trace of the fight. Only trees.”

I suppose my disappointment showed on my face, for he chuckled then and said, “But if you must, so be it. Andyrt, do you take the time on the morrow? I’ve matters to discuss with Rekyn anyway.”

I thought the jennym’s face clouded a moment; surely his response was delayed. From the corner of my eye I saw Bardan nod, and then Andyrt favored me with a wicked smile. “We’ll ride out there, eh?” he suggested.

I voiced enthusiastic agreement, picturing myself astride one of Cambar’s great warhorses, Thorus’s gift-dagger become a sword, myself in Cambar’s plaid.

The reality, I discovered the next day, was somewhat different.

Andyrt sat proud on the warhorse whilst I was brought a pony. A pretty enough beast: a gray-dappled mare with gentle eyes and, I was assured, a no less gentle gait. An ostler I suspected was horse-bred led her out and helped me mount. I climbed astride and felt myself raised a disconcerting distance from the ground, warily clutching the reins and then the saddle as the placid animal shifted under me.

Over his shoulder Andyrt called, “Ware the cobbles, Daviot. Do you fall, they’re somewhat hard.”

Fortunately for me, his humor did not extend to leading me into a fall. He held his own mount to a walk as we circled the Wall and turned westward across the pasture land, and as we rode he instructed me in the basics of horsemanship. I was far more concerned with the simple act of staying in the saddle, but I filed his comments in my memory, albeit I could barely comprehend how the shifting of leather against the animal’s neck, or the touch of a heel to its ribs, should steer it in one direction or another did it choose to ignore those hints. A boat I could understand; this swaying, undulating beast was a mystery. Still, I did not tumble, and felt I regained some measure of dignity. One day, I thought, I should become as confident a rider as my companion.

We went on at a slow pace, past grazing sheep, a herdsman who waved a greeting, over a little brook, more grass. The wood spread before us, all green and shadowy in the early morning sun. It was a plantation of oak, the tall trees rustling in the wind off the Fend. Andyrt reined in a little distance off, my pony halting less in obedience to my urgings than in parody of his stallion, innocently threatening to dislodge me as she lowered her head to crop.

“The wood,” Andyrt said needlessly, gesturing at the timber. “There’s little enough to it.”

“Can we enter it?” I asked.

“If you wish.”

I felt he hesitated an instant, and as he swung limber from the saddle I saw him make the sign of warding. I did not, for as I strove to climb down I felt my legs and buttocks shafted with pain and become as straws, quite inadequate to the task of supporting me. I clutched at the saddle, leaning for support against the pony, which stirred, threatening to topple me. I heard Andyrt chuckle and gritted my teeth, pushing gingerly clear of my equine prop as I forced my back straight and turned on unsteady legs toward the wood.

“The first time always hurts.” Andyrt said. “Folk think you need only climb astride a horse and sit there, but there’s more to it than that. I’ll ask Garat potion a bath for you when we return.”

“My thanks,” I said, and then: “I’ve much to learn.”

Andyrt said, “Aye,” and cheered me by adding, “but I’ll wager you make a good enough horseman in time.”

I smiled and hobbled closer to the wood.

Andyrt surprised me then, setting a hand on my shoulder to halt me as he dropped to one knee, hands crossed against his chest in attitude of prayer. Confused, I waited for him to rise with a question on my lips that I bit off as I saw his face. I was not sure what expression sat there; not fear, but an emotion not entirely divorced. Awe, perhaps; and something of disquiet. I looked to the wood and wondered why.

It seemed no more than a plain oak hurst, the massy branches verdant with spring’s new growth. The closer trees were mostly young as oaks go, though toward the center I could espy vast, majestic trunks that must have been ancient when Ramach faced the Kho’rabi. I turned to Andyrt and asked him, “Were you here then?”

“No.” He shook his head, favoring me with a brief smile. “Think you I’m so old? Bardan himself was a babe in arms when this battle was fought.”

I mumbled an apology he seemed not to hear, intent on the holt. I had never set foot in a place of worship larger than the village cella, but it came to me that his must be the attitude of a man entering some sacred precinct, a cathedral … or a sepulchre. I fell silent as we walked slowly through the edge timber, moving deeper into the wood. It dawned on me that I heard no birdsong, that no squirrels chattered from the branches, nor were there the usual sounds of the small animals amongst the roots and fallen leaves. Indeed, nothing other than the oaks grew here: there was no undergrowth, nor even moss on the gnarled trunks. It was unnaturally quiet, the only sound the faint susurration of the wind-stirred leaves, as if the oaks murmured amongst themselves; as if they discussed our presence.

I felt suddenly uncomfortable. The dull aching of my thighs and buttocks was forgotten, replaced with a prickling sensation that prompted me to turn to and fro, convinced eyes watched me from hidden places.

“You feel it.” Andyrt did not ask a question, and I nodded, whispering, “Yes.”

“It was a terrible battle.” His voice was low as if he made confession. “Two full warbands met the fylie of two airboats. Steel met steel, and more-the sorcerers of Cambar and Torbryn fought with the Kho’rabi wizards. Hundreds died here-it was five years and more before the warbands regained their full strength. Ramach declared this wood should be their monument, that it be left to grow unchecked. It does, and it remembers, I think. Nothing lives here save the oaks and the spirits of the dead.”

I looked about, at a wood no longer merely that. It seemed that for an instant I saw the fight. The sunlight slanting through the latticed overlay of branches glinted on bloody swords, armored men clashed, bolts of occult power exploded. Men roared, battle-shouts and dying screams. I realized I was very cold as the momentary vision faded. I shivered, my mouth gone too dry to speak.

“Enough?” asked Andyrt.

I nodded and we turned about, our departure swifter than our entrance.

Outside the wood, the sight of the placidly cropping horses, the fields beyond, a restoration of normality, we halted and looked back. “It was the height of summer,” Andyrt said slowly. “Two days short of the Sastaine festival, it began; it ended two days after. None come near on those nights.”

I thought of my vision and asked, “It’s haunted?”

“I’ve not come to find out.” Andyrt shrugged and grinned with some small resumption of his customary good humor. “Those who’ve been in sight-shepherds, late-traveling peddlers-say they’ve heard the sounds of battle, or even seen warriors fighting amongst the trees, but none have lingered to see more. Sometimes, from the keep you can see lights … like witchfire.”

“I thought I saw …” I shook my head and grinned shamefaced.

“Some do, if they’ve the gift.” Andyrt ran absent fingers through the stallion’s mane. The big horse tossed its head and snorted. “Perhaps that talent that shall make you a Storyman grants you the sight. Now do we return?”

We rode back at funereal pace, and I am sure my face was a red-lit beacon as I was aided down and hobbled stiff-legged across the yard. Andyrt helped me climb the stairs to my room, our progress met with amiable derision by the soldiers lounging in the hall, and summoned servants to draw a bath. Promising to find Garat for me, he left me alone. I waited standing.

A Changed servant brought in the tub, and others filled it with steaming water. The herbalist came, cursing my idiocy and Andyrt’s sadism in equal measure, spilling a selection of aromatic liquids into the bath, then leaving me with instructions to apply a salve to my tender parts and the observation that for all his efforts I should likely take my next few meals on my feet and sleep on my belly. I thanked him and sank hopefully into the water.

In a while hope became gratitude, and I blessed Garat’s skill as my aches abated. I rose and dried myself, carefully applied Garat’s salve, and made my way down to the hall.

Rekyn met me there, to advise me the merchantman on which I should travel north would dock on the morrow. I asked her how she knew, and she smiled and said, “Magic, Daviot. How else? The galley comes down the coast, and we sorcerers send word from keep to keep.”

I thought I should not sleep that night, but I did, and soundly, thanks to Garat’s potions.

I was awake early the next morning, roused from dreamless sleep by anticipation. I hurried to the hall, my appetite somehow sharpened by excitement: I had consumed a full platter of cold meat and half a loaf when Rekyn and Andyrt came in. They smiled at the sight of me and wished me the day’s greetings. I asked when I should leave, at which Andyrt chuckled and drew out a chair for Rekyn, hooking one close for himself. “Two days, and already he tires of our company,” he said.

I began to protest, and laughing, Rekyn motioned me to silence. “The boat’s not likely to arrive until late morning,” she advised me. “Bardan would see you ere then, to give you token of introduction. Can you curb your impatience?”

I nodded, mumbling further apologies lest I offend my benefactors.

Rekyn said, “Does the galley arrive as promised, she’ll catch the afternoon tide. Save the weather turns, you’ll sight Durbrecht soon after Ennas Day.”

I suspected she looked to ease my going and smiled my gratitude, asking, “What should I do when I arrive?”

“You’ll be met,” she answered. “A representative of the College will be at the harbor to meet you all.”

“There are others?” I asked.

“Two,” she said. “One from Ynisvar; one from Madbry. I’ve not their names, but the boat will collect them farther up the coast.”

I nodded sagely, for all I had no sure idea where Ynisvar or Madbry lay. Save I was aware the waters of the Treppanek divided Kellambek from Draggonek, and those of the Slammerkin that latter from Ur-Dharbek, I had little better knowledge of my homeland’s geography.

I’d have had a lesson there and then, but a Changed servant came with word Lord Bardan would see me now, and I followed him to the tower’s higher levels, to the aeldor’s private quarters. The chamber was not especially large, but very comfortable. A single window admitted light, and against one wall a fire burned in a low hearth. Bardan sat behind a desk of dark wood, in a high-backed chair matched by a second facing him. He bade me take that and I lowered myself, marveling at the softness of the cushioned seat. He set me at my ease with a cheerful inquiry as to the condition of my lower body, and I, greatly surprised he should show such interest, answered that thanks to Garat I was largely unafflicted.

“He’s a fine herbsman,” said the aeldor absently. “Now, Rekyn’s told you the galley’s on its way? You’re ready?”

I nodded and thanked him for his hospitality. He waved a dismissive hand and took a wax disk from the desk, tossed it to me. “Now, do you take this and guard it well,” he advised. “When you dock in Durbrecht, pass it to the College’s man who’ll meet you there.”

I ducked my head, securing the token beneath my shirt.

“So, enough,” Bardan said. “The God go with you, Daviot. May he make you the finest Rememberer Dharbek’s known.”

I smiled and nodded and rose, recognizing dismissal.

Rekyn and Andyrt remained where I had left them, engaged in a game of kells, and I studied the board with poorly contained impatience until word came that the galley was arrived. Andyrt chuckled as I sprang to my feet. “There’s cargo to be offloaded,” he told me, “and the master’ll not leave without you.”

“Even so,” said Rekyn, more sympathetic to my nervous impatience, “we might find our way to the harbor, no? We can acquaint Daviot with the captain and, if there’s time, take a pot of ale in farewell.”

We quit the hall, and I must curb the impulse to run as we traversed the avenue, down toward the harbor, toward my future.

I had seen galleys before, but only at a distance, watching from the shoreline or my father’s boat as they ran sleek and swift, like hunting dogs coursing the waves. This was the first time I had seen one at close quarters, and I appraised her lines with all the experience of my sixteen years. I thought she looked swift, for all the belly-spread of her hold, and kept well. Rekyn pointed to the angled prow and told me her name was the Seahorse.

I was agog to board her, but my friends held me back, and I acknowledged that this was not the time: a double row of hulking Changed were unloading cargo, slinging bales and crates and casks from hand to hand as easily as children might toss a ball. They were supervised by a man I took to be the master, and I asked his name, which Rekyn told me was Kerym. I had been content to wait and watch until the offloading was done and whatever trade goods Cambar returned stowed on board, but Andyrt declared himself thirsty and we repaired to a tavern redolent of fish and spilled beer. The occupants were instantly recognizable as sailors or longshoremen. Off to one side sat a group of Changed. We took a table by the door, and Andyrt called for ale and platters of the fish I could smell grilling. Through the open doorway I could see the galley: I ate and drank watching her.

I started halfway from my chair as the line of Changed broke up, dispersing toward the taverns, but Rekyn put a hand on my arm, urging me be still, and said, “There’s business yet to be concluded, Daviot, and likely the captain’s hungry, too. He’ll not sail without you.”

I sank back, mumbling an apology. It seemed an age before Kerym returned, although the sun was only a little way past zenith and the tide only just on its turn. I drained the last of my ale in a gulp and reached for my bag as I saw the captain cross the wharf. He fetched a whistle from his tunic and blew a single note that brought his Changed crew striding obediently toward the galley. I heard Andyrt chuckle and murmur something to Rekyn, but my attention was focused entirely on the Seahorse and her master. I quit the tavern ahead of my companions, resisting the temptation to run.

The crew filed on board and Kerym turned toward us, a hand raised in salute. He seemed small beside his massive crew, but he was of average height for a Trueman and not very old. Younger than my father, I thought, his hair a brown streaked pale by sun and sea, a close-trimmed beard bordering his jaw.

“Day’s greetings.” His voice was surprisingly deep. “This is my passenger?”

Eyes narrowed from long hours staring into the sun studied me dispassionately. I felt somehow judged and found wanting. I said, “I am. My name is Daviot.”

Kerym nodded absently and said, “Then let’s be aboard, lad. I’ll not waste the tide.”

I did not much like his air, but still he was the master: I turned to my companions. Now I felt a pang at thought of bidding them farewell.

Rekyn smiled and took my hand. “Fare you well, Daviot. The God go with you; and may your road return here someday.”

I was taken a little aback by the abruptness of her goodbye. But in her eyes I saw only kindness and realized that she would cut short a potentially sad parting. I said, “Fare you well, Rekyn; and you, Andyrt. You’ve both my eternal gratitude.”

The jennym grinned and clasped my wrist in the warrior’s manner. “May Durbrecht find favor in your eyes,” he said.

I nodded, seeking some grand words of farewell, but finding none turned about, following the captain over the gangplank onto the deck of the galley.

Kerym pointed me to the stern, where the deck was raised to a small poop dominated by the tiller. Two Changed cast off the mooring lines and sprang agile aboard as the plank was hauled in. I saw there were six oarsmen to the side, two others stationed by the mast. The oars came down, pushing the craft clear of the harbor wall. Kerym called an order and the sweeps dipped. The prow swung around, and the Seahorse moved toward the open ocean.

I looked back, raising a hand in last farewell. Rekyn and Andyrt answered, then turned away.

“You’ve sea legs,” Kerym observed as I braced myself against the tilt and sway of the deck.

“I was born in Whitefish village,” I told him.

He nodded, one arm hung over the tiller, steering the galley with the same casual expertise as Andyrt sat a horse. He did not speak again until we had cleared the anchorage and rode the ebb tide of the river. Then he shouted for the oarsmen to cease their rowing and the sail be lowered, a triangle of pale blue canvas that caught the shifted wind, carrying us out to sea.

“You’ll sleep on deck,” he told me. “There’s but one cabin, and that’s mine. The God willing, we’ll make Durbrecht ere Ennas Day dawns.”

As I have said, my knowledge of Dharbek’s geography was scanty then, but even so it seemed to me his confidence was overweening, and I said, “That seems a very swift passage. Are you so sure of favorable winds?”

“I believe the wind will hold,” he said, “but does it not …” He gestured with his chin at the patient oarsmen. “Why, then these bonny boys will man their sweeps and we’ll go on regardless.”

The massive men seated on the rowing benches hardly seemed to me “bonny boys,” but I saw his point. Still, I resented his somewhat condescending manner and so demanded, “All the way to Durbrecht?”

“If needs be,” he answered with a composure I found tremendously irritating. “You’ve not known Changed before, eh?”

“I saw them in Cambar,” I replied, defensive now.

Kerym chuckled again, and said, “Around the harbor? Hauling crates and the like?”

I began to perceive he had the habit of asking such questions as were designed to lead me into admissions of ignorance, but all I could do, in honesty, was nod and allow it was so.

“You’ve not seen them at work until you’ve seen them rowing into the teeth of a storm,” he declared. “These are hand-picked, every one. Bred from fine, strong stock, they are. Needs be, they’ll row all the way to Durbrecht, night and day without stopping.”

I had no idea whether he spoke the truth or merely boasted. Certainly, the oarsmen were huge, and hugely muscled. Even so, it seemed unlikely even these giants could row so long without halt-I looked Kerym in the eye and let my expression answer.

He had the grace to smile at that, and shrugged, and said, “Perhaps I exaggerate a trifle. Perhaps not all the way, but I’ve known them go a day and a night without surcease.”

I could hear the note of pride in his voice. It was such as a man might use when speaking of some prized animal: a fine hunting dog or a valuable horse. I realized that I thought of the Changed oarsmen as men not unlike myself-save in size and strength-whilst Kerym saw them as possessions, as carefully selected beasts whose prowess reflected credit on him. “Do they not object?” I asked.

His eyes widened at that, fixing on me as if confronted with rank insanity. For a moment he was silent. Then he shook his head, chuckling, and murmured to himself, “Whitefish village! Fishermen!” so that I flushed, less in embarrassment than in anger. I think he saw my vexation, for he moderated his tone and said, “No, they do not. They are Changed, Daviot. Changed do not object, only obey and do their duty.”

I scowled and asked, “Have they any choice in that? I mean-do they choose their duty?”

Kerym sighed wearily and answered me, “They are Changed” as if that were all the response necessary. I suppose my expression prompted his amplification, for he shook his head again in an insulting manner and explained, “They are bred to the task. In the God’s name, do you ask a horse if it wants to be ridden? An ox if it welcomes the plow harness?”

“I saw Changed drinking in the tavern,” I said, “and for that they need coin, but no one pays a horse or an ox.”

I felt it was a sophisticated argument-that I scored a point-but Kerym only shrugged and returned me, “A beast needs fodder, no? And water. Save I keep these fellows fed and allow them a tot now and again, they’ll weaken.” He repeated his exasperating chuckle. “I’d not have the finest oarsmen on either coast flag.”

“They receive no other pay?” I asked, thinking of the stipend I was promised merely for studying.

“I feed them; and well,” said Kerym grandly. “Three meals a day and a tankard of good ale with every one. When we’ve the time and they’ve no other work, I give them small coin for the taverns. What more should they want?”

I had no idea. Indeed, when I thought about it, that was as much as I received for working with my father on our boat. Save, it occurred to me, I had anticipated owning my own boat someday, and a cottage, a wife. I frowned and asked him, “Shall they always be oarsmen? May they quit your employ? What happens when they get old? Or are hurt?” The questions came in a rush, compelled as much by my desire to best the man as to learn the answers.

“So many questions.” He favored me with a smile I found patronizing. “Still, you hope to be a Rememberer, eh? Well-no, they shall not always be oarsmen, for they will get old, or damaged, and then they’ll be little use on the Seahorse. When that happens, they’ll be given other, less arduous employment-about the harbor, or in a warehouse. May they quit my employ? Of course not-I own them.”

He seemed to me smugly satisfied with the correctitude of his answer. I pressed my point: “And when they’re too old for even that? What happens to them then?”

Kerym flipped a dismissive wrist. “Do they choose, they are allowed to cross the Slammerkin,” he said. “Or they rely on the charity of their fellows, whatever they’ve managed to save.”

I thought they should not be able to save much, and that the charity of the Changed must of necessity be a precarious living. But his mention of the Slammerkin reminded me of Rekyn’s words, and I said, “They go into Ur-Dharbek to join the wild Changed?”

“Yes,” said Kerym, his tone so different I stared at him, hearing something in his voice I did not understand. I felt as I had with Rekyn-that I ventured into some area that was not … I was not sure … proper, or polite to mention. His smile was gone, his face cold: I sensed I had gone too far, though I did not understand why or how. He said, “Enough questions.”

We stood in silence awhile, and then I asked if I might go forrard, to observe our progress from the bow. Kerym responded with a nod, and I quit his company feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

I made my way along the central deck, surreptitiously observing the crew. Save for their great size and their vaguely taurine physiognomy, they seemed to me quite human. They chattered quietly amongst themselves and several smiled at me as I passed. Some, I saw, played the simpler version of kells known as catch-dice, and for some reason that more than anything else rendered them sympathetic. I decided that, did the opportunity arise, I would speak with them.

I had no chance then, however, for no sooner had I reached the foredeck than the wind shifted and Kerym blew his whistle, the piercing note bringing out the sweeps as the oarsmen bent to their duty. I thought then that Kerym’s boasting might contain some element of truth, for the galley swept forward and I tottered an instant as the deck lurched under me. I wondered if the master looked to humble me, clutching at the gunwale as white water foamed around the bow. The foremost rower called, “Take care, master,” in a gruff, kindly voice, and I smiled and waved, regaining my sea legs. I might not have sailed on a galley before, but I was a fisherman’s son and would not grant Kerym the amusement of seeing me fall.

We continued thus until the wind once more picked up and the sail bellied again. Kerym gave some order then, and the two crewmen not engaged on the sweeps set to preparing food. It was plain fare, but filling: fish and rice and hard bread, and everyone on board was passed a tankard brimming with good Cambar ale. I took my ration on the fore-deck, not much wanting to rejoin our captain at the stern. Perhaps I sulked, but also I pondered on all he had said; and what he refused to discuss.

When the meal was done, the sweeps Came out again and we rowed through the afternoon. I watched the coastline pass, seeing villages the twin to my own, once the high column of a keep I thought must be Torbryn, coves and inlets where houses clustered about the shore. There were fishing boats out, but we rode beyond the catch grounds and soon left them behind. The sun westered, the sky to the east a purple pricked through with stars, the moon a butter-yellow crescent. Soon the coast was a shadow, marked by the phosphorescent wash of breaking surf. We ate again (the same fare), and I wondered if Kerym would put in for the night and ride out the dark hours at anchor, but he showed no sign of slowing and after a while sent a crewman to where I stood to advise me I might make my bed at fore or poopdeck.

I went back astern then and found Kerym in better humor.

“I’m sworn to make Ynisvar no later than the morrow’s noon,” he told me, “so we go on through the night. I’ll find my bed now; do you sleep where you will. But stay out of the way, eh?”

I nodded and he passed the tiller to a Changed, disappearing into his little cabin. The night grew chill, and I broke out my cloak. The crew fetched an array of motley garments from beneath their benches, and I saw that three to each side stretched out asleep. Running lights were hung at prow and stern, and in their light I studied the tillerman. He was older than the rest, with hints of gray in the sleek black hair hanging straight about his weathered face. A small clay pipe was clasped between his teeth, the bowl glowing red in the darkness, smoke drifting from between his heavy lips. I thought this an excellent opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and lounged against the taffrail.

“Have you sailed with Kerym long?” I asked.

“Yes, master,” he said.

“How long?” I asked.

He shrugged, the movement like tree trunks shifting, and said, “Since I was old enough, master.”

“I’ve sailed all my life,” I told him. “I’m a fisherman’s son.”

He only nodded, unspeaking. I asked his name, and he answered, “Bors, master.”

“I’m Daviot,” I returned, to which he nodded again.

He seemed, to say the least, disinclined to converse with me, but I refused to be put off. “Where are you from?” I asked.

“Durbrecht, master,” he said.

“I go there,” I said. “To the College of the Rememberers.”

He nodded. Whether he was unimpressed or uninterested or intent on his duty, I could not tell: his features remained impassive. I am ashamed to admit I thought him distinctly bovine in his placid acceptance. I thought of a cow chewing the cud, instinctively flicking its tail at the swarming flies represented by my attempts to engage him in conversation. “I love the sea,” I declared. “Do you?”

He offered no response, as if the question were without meaning. I asked, “Do you enjoy life on the Seahorse!”

His wide eyes narrowed a fraction, as though he struggled to comprehend the inquiry, as though enjoyment were a concept beyond his understanding. Finally he shrugged, still silent.

I opted for bold measures. “What do you know of Ur-Dharbek?” I demanded. “Your people live free there, I’m told.”

That did produce a reaction, albeit fleetingly, for he hid it swift. I saw his eyes widen, then narrow again, and his teeth clenched tighter on his pipe, the tobacco glowing fierce a moment as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Nothing, master,” he said.

There was a finality in his tone that denied all opportunity for further questions on that particular subject, and for all my curiosity I could not but recognize it was closed-which of course fueled my interest the more.

“Nothing at all?” I asked, unwilling yet to give up.

“No, master,” he said. And added, “Nothing at all.”

I sighed and tried another tack: “Why do you call me master? I’m not your master.”

“You’re a Trueman,” he said.

“And all Truemen are called master?” I asked.

“Yes, master,” he said.

“Are there many of your people in Durbrecht?” I asked. He said, “Yes, master.”

I saw that I should not get far with Bors; certainly not find answers to my many questions. I wondered if that was a trait of his taurine kind, or of the Changed in general; or if he hid things. Surely he knew more of Ur-Dharbek than he admitted, and no less surely refused to speak of it. I gave up: it seemed a fruitless exercise to question him further. I said, “I think I’ll sleep now,” and he said, “Yes, master,” so I gathered up my bag and carried it to the foredeck, where I rolled myself in my cloak, the bag for a pillow, and fell asleep to the slap of water against the bow. I dreamed of sailing forever on a galley manned by silent Changed, whose only answer, whenever I spoke, was “Yes, master.”

We sighted Ynisvar before noon. It was a place larger than Cambar, which made it the largest place I had ever seen, spread in a semicircle around a gentle bay. Shallow headlands like the lowered horns of a bull ran down to a wide sand beach on which fishing boats were grounded; beyond, houses climbed the slopes, clustering about the keep that dominated the heights. Kerym brought the Seahorse in through the shallows to a jetty, and we moored.

I thought I should go ashore, but Kerym told me he would halt only long enough to take his new passenger on board, and so I waited on the foredeck as the midday meal was prepared and passed out. Kerym, it appeared, ate on shore, for it was some time before he reappeared, accompanied by a small crowd that gathered on the jetty as a young man of about my own age said his farewells. He was a little smaller than me, and reddish-haired, with a dramatically freckled face that looked torn between excitement and trepidation. His clothes, I noticed, were similar to my own, though he wore no dagger. When he came on board, I saw instantly that he was no sailor.

Kerym introduced us. The newcomer’s name was Pyrdon. I took him forrard as we cast off, watching his ruddy face turn pale as the galley backed and swung about.

“I’ve not much experience of boats,” he announced.

I nodded sagely, feeling immediately superior, and told him, “You’ll find your sea legs soon enough.”

The Fend was calm, only a gentle swell running, but as we rowed from the bay Pyrdon’s face grew so ashen, it seemed every freckle glowed red as a pox sore. He clutched the gunwale, his knuckles white, and I felt amused until he groaned, “Oh, in the God’s name, why could I not go horseback?”

I remembered my own equestrian experience then and felt abashed. I asked if he could ride, and he nodded and mumbled an affirmative as if such accomplishment were as natural as my own familiarity with the sea. Then he gasped and emptied his belly overboard. I felt immediately sorry for him and brought him a cup of water. “Perhaps Kerym has some remedy,” I said, and, left the unfortunate Pyrdon draped over the forecastle as I made my way to the stern. In any event, Kerym had no such nostrum and expressed only a supercilious amusement at Pyrdon’s plight, advising me to warn him that he had best avoid fouling the Seahorse’s deck. His attitude did nothing to improve my opinion of him, and I returned to the bow wearing an irritated scowl.

“Perhaps we’ll have time to find a herbalist in Madbry,” I suggested, to which Pyrdon answered mournfully, “Madbry’s a day or more distant.”

I was impressed that he owned such knowledge and set to questioning him about his origins, which served to distract his mind somewhat from the-to me-smooth motion of the galley.

His recitation was punctuated with groans and frequent pauses as he hung his head over the side, but I gathered that he was a season older than me, the second son of a tanner, from a town some leagues inland called Sterbek. He took his familiarity with horses as casually as I took mine with boats, and assured me that had he known what a sea voyage was like, he would have endeavored to persuade his father to gift him a horse and made his own way to Durbrecht. That his family could afford so generous a gift suggested he enjoyed a wealth unknown to my parents, and I forbore to elaborate on my humbler background. Pyrdon scarcely noticed, being far more concerned with his misery, but despite his discomfort I thought him a cheerful enough fellow, whose company I should likely enjoy when his seasickness was passed.

Sadly, it did not. Indeed, for the remainder of the voyage to Madbry he continued unwell, swearing that once we reached our destination he would never again set foot on a boat of any kind. I did what I could to ease his suffering, but that was not much, and by the time we sighted Madbry he was gaunt for lack of sustenance and bringing up a clear bile from his empty stomach.

Madbry hove in sight early on the morning of our third day at sea. It was large as Ynisvar, but lay on the jut of a headland, the buildings climbing the steep flanks of the promontory to the aeldor’s tower. The keep was outlined stark by the new-risen sun, like a finger pointing accusingly at the sky. The wind was brisk, slapping waves against the mole we rounded to find the calmer waters of the harbor, and as we approached I went to Kerym.

“Shall there be chance to find a herbalist?” I asked. “Pyrdon’s in some need of a cure.”

“I’ll not delay.” Kerym’s eyes remained fixed on the harbor wall, gauging our speed against the run of the tide. I did not like him, but I had to admit he was a skilled captain. “And Cleton comes now.”

I had not realized he knew the names of his passengers in advance. I looked toward the town and saw a veritable procession descending from the keep. I gasped and said, “He lives in the keep?”

“Thought you all Rememberers were fishermen or tanners?” he returned, and chuckled. “Cleton’s third son to the aeldor Brython.”

It had not occurred to me an aeldor’s son might become Mnemonikos, and I wondered briefly how one so elevated would find my company. But that was not my immediate concern. I said, “Still, save Pyrdon’s found a remedy, he’ll likely vomit his way to Durbrecht.”

Kerym shrugged as if this was a matter of no concern; I refused to leave it. I said, “Surely we might wait so long as it takes to find a herbman.”

Kerym shouted an order that reversed the sweeps, slowing us as he brought the tiller over, the Seahorse drifting neat to the wharf. Bors and the other older Changed leaped ashore with the mooring lines. Kerym nodded his satisfaction and answered me, “Durbrecht by Ennas Day, I swore. I’ve a sizable wager riding on it.”

That seemed to me a piss-poor reason for Pyrdon’s continued suffering, and I had to restrain myself from expressing my opinion of our captain. I mastered my anger, however, and instead said, as calmly as I was able, “He’s eaten nothing since he came aboard. He’s heaving dry now, and ere long he’ll bring up blood. He could die. How shall they take that in Durbrecht? And when word gets back to Sterbek?”

Kerym’s face darkened at that and he tugged at his short beard, his dark eyes fixing me with a furious glare. I would not be quelled but met his gaze until he looked away and muttered, “Very well. Do you go find a herbalist, then. But quick, mark you! And do I lose my wager-”

If he completed his threat I did not hear it, for I was already gone from the poop and running for the gangplank, calling over my shoulder to Pyrdon that I went to find him a cure.

I sprang to the wharf and studied the buildings that faced the harbor. I saw warehouses and taverns, but no sign to indicate a herbalist, so I began to run toward the closest alehouse, thinking to secure directions there. It stood on the corner of the avenue leading up to the keep, and as I drew close, the procession I had seen emerged from between the buildings. There were about a score of riders, led by a black-bearded man whose fine clothes told me he was the aeldor Brython. On his right, the side on which the tavern lay, rode a young man with yellow hair wearing tunic and breeks not unlike my own, but of better cut and finer material. My headlong passage brought me almost into collision with his startled horse, and he mouthed a curse as the animal skittered, ears flattened. Instantly two riders, their plaid and the swords they carried marking them for members of the war-band, urged their mounts forward, straight at me. I thought them likely to ride me down, or beat me with the flats of their blades, and veered away, seeking refuge, an arm raised in defense.

Brython called them to a halt, reining in. “He came off the galley,” he said, and fastened eyes of a startlingly pale blue on my face. “What’s about, lad, that you come in such haste?”

“Forgive me, my lord.” I shaped a sketchy bow. “I’ve a friend sick on board, and I’d find a herbman.”

“A seasick sailor?” It was the yellow-haired young man who spoke. “What manner of vessel am I committed to?”

This, I realized, must be Cleton. I said, “Not a sailor,” and wondered if I should add “my lord.” I decided not: we should, after all, be fellow students soon enough. “His name is Pyrdon,” I explained, “and he’s Durbrecht-bound, like me.”

“Ah, a kindred Mnemonikos-elect.” I saw that Cleton’s eyes were the same pale hue as his father’s, which made them seem cold and distant until he smiled. “Then best a remedy be found instanter. Mathyn, do you go swift to the keep and have Naern prepare a nostrum. Bring it to us on the boat, if you will.”

A soldier swung his horse around and galloped back the way they had come. Cleton returned his eyes to me and said, “So …”

He frowned an inquiry, and I said, “Daviot.”

“So, Daviot, do you come introduce me to our captain? I, by the way, am Cleton.”

He reached down from his saddle, and we clasped hands. I fell into step beside him as the column walked on toward the Seahorse. Kerym stood fidgeting by the gangplank, but neither Cleton nor his father appeared in any great hurry, reining in and dismounting as Kerym flourished a deep bow and bade them the day’s greetings.

Brython returned the salutation and said, “A man’s gone to bring a remedy for your sick passenger, captain, so you’re delayed awhile.”

Kerym nodded, glancing irritably at me. Cleton caught his look and said calmly, “You’d not deliver a sick man to Durbrecht, would you, captain?”

Kerym reddened somewhat and shook his head vigorously, mouthing unctuous denial. I enjoyed his discomfort, and decided that I should like Cleton, did he continue in this manner. I saw that although his clothes were grander, he carried no more baggage than I, and that himself, waving away Kerym’s offer of a crewman for porter with the pronouncement that he was now merely one more Mnemonikos-elect, no different to his companions Daviot and Pyrdon.

The statement seemed to me designed to put Kerym in his place and simultaneously elevate me. I grinned, and then caught Cleton’s eye as he winked and grinned the wider.

We waited there, Brython engaging Kerym in conversation as Cleton questioned me, much as I had interrogated Pyrdon. He was an easy fellow to talk with, putting me at my ease so that I soon felt there was no barrier between us, despite the very different circumstances of our births.

Before long Mathyn returned with the herbman’s potion and his instructions as to its use. Brython insisted, politely but with no argument brooked, that Kerym wait while Pyrdon swallow the vile-smelling concoction, and our hasty captain was forced to curb his impatience as Cleton and I tended our unfortunate companion. Cleton himself administered the draught, wondering aloud if he should not require a measure before we reached our destination. In point of fact, he was an excellent sailor, as at home on the waves as I, and I realized he pretended for Pyrdon’s sake. I liked him better by the moment.

In a while Pyrdon declared himself somewhat recovered. Certainly he regained a measure of his color and took a few mouthfuls of ale, and Cleton said his final farewells, and Kerym was at last permitted to depart.

We three young men stood together on the foredeck, watching Madbry dwindle behind us. Ahead lay Durbrecht and a future none of us anticipated, I the least of all.

The journey was the pleasanter for the company of Cleton and Pyrdon, whose recovered health revealed him to be as I had guessed: a cheerful, good-natured fellow, if a trifle timid. He was clearly in some awe of the aeldor’s son, even though Cleton took pains to assure us we were all equal, and his easy manner contained no hint of pride or superiority. Still, both Pyrdon and Kerym tended to deference, whilst I took him at face value. I suspect that was because both our captain and the tanner’s son had dealings with the aristocracy, and some sense of rank, whereas I had no experience other than of Bardan and his kin, and they had shown me only kindness. So I accepted Cleton for what he declared himself to be: only another student.

Nonetheless, I remained somewhat intrigued that he should forgo his life in Madbry’s keep for that of a humble catechumen. It seemed to me he gave up more than he would gain, and one fine evening as we watched dolphins sport about the bow, I asked him why.

“What’s the third son of an aeldor to look forward to?” he asked in reply. Then answered himself: “My oldest brother will inherit the title, and Decan stands to make a better marriage than I. Did I stay, it should be as a hanger-on, reliant on Mordan’s charity. That, or find myself wedded off to some hold-daughter too homely to win herself a first or second son. I’d sooner stand on my own feet.”

He paused, grinning, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, looking melodramatically about. “And I’m none too good a soldier, Daviot, for I’ve little taste for taking orders and a thirst for knowledge. I’d learn all I can about this land of ours. And how better do that than as a Mnemonikos?”

I considered a moment, then said, “I think we shall have to take orders in the College, Cleton.”

“Then I think,” he said, his voice and handsome face so solemn, I at first took him seriously, “that I shall likely find myself in trouble.” I laughed with him as the gravity quit his features.

Of the remainder of that voyage there’s little enough of import, save that as we closed on the eastern ingress of the Treppanek, airboats were sighted.

It was late in the afternoon of the fifth day. Kerym had the sail up to catch the breeze and the oarsmen bent to their sweeps, driving the Seahorse swift over the darkening blue of the ocean-our captain looked to win his wager. Mare’s-tails streamered white overhead, and the coastline to port stood shadowy as the sun went westward. The moon was not yet up, but the sky to the east grew gentian. I lounged on the foredeck, rolling dice with Cleton and Pyrdon. We rose as a Changed-Bors, I saw as I sprang up-vented a bellow that suggested his taurine origins. I stared to where he pointed, hearing Kerym’s voluble cursing echo Bors’s shout. The wind that drove the clouds across the heavens also drove more solid objects that I recognized instantly as the Sky Lords’ great airborne vessels.

There were three, coming swift toward us, a little to the north, on a course that would carry them above the line of the Treppanek. They hung lower in the sky than any I had seen before, so that the sigils decorating the vast tubes supporting the baskets were clear; or would have been, had they not seemed to burn and writhe like living things, as if the magic imbued in the arcane forms clawed at the air like the arms of swimmers. The sky about the cylinders was itself distorted by the sorcery of the Kho’rabi wizards, roiling and boiling, tinged with red, as if the Sky Lords trailed fire in their wake. As with that first I had seen, I thought I saw nebulous creatures, elemental beings, dancing about the bloodred craft, speeding their passage faster than any natural wind might drive them. The sun was to our west, but shadow raced ahead of the airboats to encompass our galley, bringing with it a dreadful chill, a numbing stillness to the air. I shivered, hating that malign aura. At my side I heard Pyrdon mouth a prayer that the God defend us, Cleton utter a string of oaths. I saw that in moments their path and ours must coincide. I clutched the hilt of my dagger, a useless gesture, but somehow comforting.

The airboats closed on the coast. They came so low, I saw the pale blurs of faces looking down from the black baskets. I heard Cleton say, “They make for Durbrecht,” his voice leached of its usual humor. I felt as if some occult hand reached down into my belly, squeezing tight and horribly cold. I felt afraid and knew that it was more than any natural fear-that was to be expected, faced so close with the terrible Kho’rabi knights. This was far greater; it was as if the shadow that darkened the galley, the sea itself, robbed me of hope, as if the magic of the Sky Lords pierced my soul. I felt paralyzed, my feet rooted to the deck, my hand frozen about my dagger’s hilt. All I could do was watch, gape-mouthed and trembling. Had a Kho’rabi dropped down then, I think I should have stood still and silent as he slew me. I do not think I could have moved.

In moments the three airboats were directly overhead. It was as if an icy winter’s night fell. I did move then, for my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, clattering in my mouth like madly beaten tabors. I felt my body begin to shudder helplessly. It seemed my eyes were connected by some occult thread to the airboats and I could only follow their progress, robbed of volition. They filled all the sky, and I thought I heard spirits howling, imps and malicious sprites delivered from Ahn-feshang to torment Dharbek. My head craned around; my neck ached with the pressure, but I could not shift my body. I saw nothing but the Sky Lords’ vessels. Cleton, Pyrdon, the Seahorse disappeared into some insubstantial occult shadow land. All that existed were those three vast airboats and myself. I had never before felt so utterly helpless; nor so dreadfully afraid. It seemed they hung an eternity overhead, but it could only have been moments, for as swiftly as they had come, they were moving inland, following the wide Treppanek westward toward Durbrecht.

For a while the sky behind them continued to roil, and there drifted down a faint, sulphurous smell. Then they were hidden beyond the line of the coast, and I found I could move again. I spat: it seemed a foul taste filled my mouth. I saw Pyrdon vomit. Cleton stood pale and silent, a hand running slowly over his yellow hair. We stared at one another. His face was set in lines of rigid horror; I suppose mine was the same. Then I realized something of which I had been aware throughout that horrid interlude, but on a subconscious level that only now impressed itself upon my conscious mind: The passage of the Seahorse had not slowed.

I turned to observe the oarsmen. They manned their sweeps as before, their rhythm unbroken. It was as though the ghastly magic of the Sky Lords had no effect on them. I saw Bors standing by the mast. His wide face was turned westward, to where the airboats had gone, and it seemed to me he wore a smile. I shook my head, blinking, and when I looked at him again his features were returned to their customary blandness. I decided I was wrong: that what I had taken for a smile was the residue of fear.

I turned back to Cleton and said, “They seem not at all afraid.”

He did not understand me at first and I said, “The crew-they went on rowing. The Sky Lords’ magic seemed not to affect them.”

“Perhaps it does not,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “Perhaps they’ve not the sensibility.” He forced a laugh. “I’d name them lucky.”

I licked my lips and wiped hands I suddenly felt were slick with sweat against my tunic “Still,” I said, “it seems strange to me.”

“They’re Changed,” he said. “You’re a Trueman.”

“And yet, when I saw a boat before, when I was young”-I frowned, recalling that evening on the shore when I had stood with my father watching that first airboat pass over us-“then all the animals in Whitefish village fled. Even the gulls quit the sky.”

“What do you say?” Cleton asked.

“I’m not sure.” I felt the furrowing of my brow. “Only that it seems … odd.”

“That the Changed do not feel what Truemen feel?” he asked, and chuckled. “Daviot, they’re lesser beings than you or I; not really that much more than the animals from which they come.”

“But that’s my point,” I said. “That even the animals sense the danger. These seemed … unaware … or not at all afraid.”

Cleton’s shoulders rose in a dismissive shrug. “Kerym’s trained them well,” he said. “No order was given to cease their rowing, so they continued at their duty.”

“Perhaps.”

He was an aeldor’s son-he had far more experience of the Changed than I: I allowed him the point, but I was not convinced. I did not understand why, but I felt sure there was more to it. I could not explain my conviction. Indeed, I could not truly name it conviction; rather, it was an amalgam of what I had observed, or thought I observed, and inchoate suspicion. I could put it in no better words, and for then I bowed to Cleton’s judgment. Besides, we had much else to concern us, as Pyrdon reminded us.

His face was gone again pale, and he wiped at his mouth, his breath sour with his puking as he stared to the west and said in a soft, horrified voice, “There were three. In the God’s name, there were three! And they’re headed for Durbrecht.”

“I think they’ll not damage the College.” Cleton made a joke of it for Pyrdon’s sake, I thought.

“But it’s not the time.” Pyrdon was too shocked to allow the jest. “The last Coming was but-what?-thirty years ago. It’s not the time.”

“It was a little over twenty-nine,” said Cleton, no longer laughing. “But still I think they’ll not harm Durbrecht.”

Pyrdon tore his gaze from the sky and faced us. “How can you be so sure?” he demanded.

His eyes asked Cleton for reassurance. I found his mood communicated to me and realized I hung on Cleton’s answer. He said confidently, “There’s powerful magic in Durbrecht. Remember the Sorcerous College is there, too.”

“And the Sentinels there.” Pyrdon flung an arm to the east. “And they did not halt the Sky Lords.”

“Aye, there’s that.” Cleton faltered a moment, less assured, then said, “But still, the greatest of our mages reside in the College of Durbrecht, and they’ll know by now the airboats approach. Likely the Sentinels were taken by surprise-Durbrecht shall not be.”

Pyrdon mulled this over. I could see that he wanted to accept it. No less did I, and when he nodded I felt relieved, as if his agreement took some weight from me. Then Cleton murmured. “And we’ll find out soon enough. All well, another day should see us there,” and I realized he was far less convinced by his own arguments than he pretended.

I could think of nothing to say.

I was roused from a dream in which I stood immobile on a becalmed galley as the sky above me filled with the Sky Lords’ airboats and a crew of Changed applauded the arrows that rained about me. It was a moment or two before I shook off the sensation of impotent horror and recognized Pyrdon. He said, “Come; look,” and there was such awe in his voice, I sprang immediately to my feet and followed him to the port side of the Seahorse. Cleton was already there, staring intently into the gray-white mist that hung above the water. It was not yet dawn, and the world was lit with the opalescent glow that presages the arrival of the sun. The forward running light cast a red illumination that reminded me of the Kho’rabi balloons. Pyrdon pointed and said, “There.”

I followed the direction of his outflung arm and gasped, for only a short distant off it seemed the skeleton of some vast primordial beast thrust from the channel.

Massive ribs curved upward, thick and black against the glow of the false dawn. The mist was damp and deadened smell, but even so I caught the aftermath of burning, as though a tremendous fire had been not long ago doused. Amongst the ribs I saw dark, solid objects that I did not at first recognize as the bodies of dead men.

Cleton said, “One airboat at least failed to reach Durbrecht.”

His voice was hushed by the enormity of the monolithic wreckage, and I said nothing, only nodded, staring. I wondered how many Kho’rabi knights had that boat carried, most sunk under the weight of their armor, those I could see caught amongst the burning spars of their vessel.

Pyrdon said, “The God be praised.”

I watched the wreckage go by, calculating the length of the airboat against that of the Seahorse. The Sky Lords’ craft was four times, or more, our length.

Cleton said, “I wonder how the others fared.”

“Destroyed like this, the God willing,” said Pyrdon.

I turned to observe the skeleton as it slipped away astern. It was soon lost in the mist, and then the zodiacal light faded and I fetched my cloak from the deck as the morning grew chill.

We none of us felt able to sleep after that awesome sight and stood on the foredeck wrapped in our cloaks as the sky behind us brightened. The sun rose, and before long we came in sight of Durbrecht. I felt my jaw drop.

The Treppanek curved slightly north here, a low headland sheltering a wide bay. Atop the higher ground stood a wall that ran inland to sweep westward in a vast semicircle before returning to the shore. It encompassed all the sprawling city, and at each end there stood a pharos, like an aeldor’s keep in miniature. Penned within these ramparts there stood such a multitude of buildings as dwarfed all the towns I had seen on our journey. Madbry, Ynisvar, and Cambar might all have been set down here and gone unnoticed, so large was this marvelous place. On the riverside there was a harbor, jetties extending out from the long line of the wharf, myriad craft rocking at anchor, the dockside abustle. Farther back, past the docks and warehouses, splendid structures glittered in the early morning sun. I saw wide avenues, the greenery of parks, and spread across the rising flank of the hinterland, three enormous complexes of buildings. One I felt sure must be the College of the Mnemonikos, the others that of the sorcerers and the palace of the city’s commander, the koryphon.

I started as Cleton nudged me and said, “Close your mouth, Daviot. Or would you swallow it all?”

I nodded and smiled, and went on staring. To my left I heard Pyrdon say softly, “In the God’s name, I have never seen its like.”

“Save for Kherbryn, it has no like,” said Cleton, and grinned hugely. “I believe we shall enjoy ourselves here, my friends.”

I nodded again, lost for words, watching rapt as Kerym brought the Seahorse into the wharf and the mooring lines were made fast.

Cleton needed to nudge me again before I shifted from my observation, reminded that I had best secure my gear, which did not take long, so that by the time the gangplank was run out, we all three stood waiting, eager to go ashore.

I halted on the wharf, unsure what we should do next, thinking I should say something to our captain. For all I did not like him, he had surely brought us here safe and swift, even were it less for our sake than the winning of his wager. He resolved that problem readily enough, for he came after us down the gangplank and said, “Well, you’re here and my duty done. I bid you farewell.”

He ducked his head and turned to go, halted by Cleton, who demanded, “What do we do now, captain?”

Kerym frowned with ill grace and said, “Someone from the College will be here soon enough. Wait for him.”

He delayed no longer but waved and walked away, soon lost in the bustling throng. Cleton said, “Doubtless he’s anxious to collect his winnings. Well, no matter, save I’d not stand here like some lost sheep.”

“What else should we do?” asked Pyrdon.

Cleton’s eyes roved over the anchorage, settling on a tavern. “We could find ourselves breakfast,” he suggested.

“Is that a good idea?” Pyrdon shifted nervously from foot to foot. “What if the College sends for us and we’re not here?”

“I imagine we can find our own way to the College,” Cleton said. “Likely we’re early, and not yet expected.”

Pyrdon frowned, clearly ill at ease. Cleton grinned at me and asked, “How say you, Daviot? Do we stand here like goggling bumpkins, or eat and quench our thirst?”

I was tempted, though I was quite happy to study the activity around us, and thought Pyrdon correct in his caution. I mused a moment, then said, “Perhaps it were wiser we remain, Cleton. Likely the College knows of our arrival.”

“I shall stay here,” said Pyrdon firmly.

“Then does someone come for us,” said Cleton, “you can tell them Daviot and I may be found in yon alehouse. Eh, Daviot?”

He grinned a challenge. I looked a moment at the earnest Pyrdon, then at the smiling Cleton, torn between sensible caution and the promise of adventure. Cleton’s cheerful disregard of authority was infectious. I shrugged and said, “I am hungry.”

“Then come on,” Cleton said, and waved an expansive arm, “and I shall buy you breakfast.”

I hesitated only a moment longer, then shouldered my bag and went with Cleton to the tavern.

The sign outside depicted a lusciously breasted woman clad in nothing more than her long golden hair, her lower body a sweeping fishtail. I gazed, wondering if such a creature might truly exist. There were letters inscribed across the bottom of the board that Cleton translated: “The Mermaid.”

“Can you read?” I asked.

He nodded and said, “A little,” but his attention was focused on the alehouse.

It was early yet, but the place was busy, loud with voices and the clinking of tankards, redolent of ale and tobacco and cooking food. We found a space at the long serving counter and ordered beer, then Cleton asked what fare was on offer. I let him choose and found myself soon confronted with a platter of sausages still spitting fat and warm bread. I had never tasted a sausage before, and I ate with gusto, studying the other customers.

They were an exotic bunch: as many Changed as Truemen, though the Changed occupied tables to one side of the smoky room, the central aisle apparently a tacit demarcation line. I saw sailors and longshoremen, soldiers wearing Durbrecht’s plaid, traders and merchants, women both serving and sitting with the men. I drank it all in as thirstily as I swallowed my ale, thinking all the time: I am in Durbrecht! The enormity of it widened my eyes, and I think I must then have looked a true bumpkin, goggling at the marvels of the city.

And Cleton, for all he was son of an aeldor, was little better, staring around with a huge smile, not speaking, but like me simply watching and listening.

It was impossible in the din to hear more than fragments of conversation, but what I could make out was entirely concerned with the Sky Lords’ attack. I gathered that the three airboats had perished, but some small amount of damage been done. I listened as avidly as I watched and so did not see Pyrdon come pushing through the throng until he arrived before us, his freckled face flushed, his eyes anxious.

“You’re to come immediately,” he declared. “The warden’s waiting.”

I snatched up my bag; Cleton drained the last of his mug. We followed Pyrdon out to find a tall man, his sandy hair plaited, standing tapping a short caduceus impatiently against his thigh. He was very thin, his tunic seeming over-large on his narrow shoulders, and his face was cadaverous, the eyes that fixed us deep-sunk. I was minded of small burrowing animals peering from their lairs.

“I am Ardyon,” he announced without preamble, “warden of the College. You may address me as Warden or by my name. You are … ?”

We identified ourselves, and he nodded, extending a hand. I thought for a moment he would greet us formally, but Cleton offered his token of introduction, and I dug mine from beneath my shirt. Ardyon studied the seals on each disc, then nodded his skull-like head in silent confirmation and said, “Why did you not wait as your companion did?”

His voice was cold as his stare, and I fidgeted awkwardly, lost for words. Cleton smiled cheerfully and answered, “Kerym offered us no breakfast, and we deemed it as well we acquaint ourselves with something of Durbrecht. We left Pyrdon on watch.”

“Whilst you drank ale,” said Ardyon.

“And broke our fast,” said Cleton.

Ardyon sniffed. It was impossible to read his expression, but I thought it likely disapproving. In the same toneless voice he said, “Amongst my duties is the meeting of newcomers. That is but one task to which I must attend. There are others, as you’ll learn, but foremost is the maintenance of discipline amongst the Mnemonikos-elect. This”-he flourished the caduceus-“is the badge of my office. You will obey any Trueman bearing this emblem. Do you understand?”

We nodded and assured him it was so.

“Good,” he said. “Now understand this. When you are sent for, you attend. You do not go exploring the alehouses of Durbrecht, or any other of the city’s many pleasures. You wait. You do as you are bid and no more; nor any less. Remember that, and your sojourn here shall not be too unpleasant. Now follow me.”

He spun about, spindleshanks propelling him swiftly away: we hastened to follow. Cleton and I exchanged a glance, my friend exaggerating an expression of remorse. I felt abashed, and even Pyrdon, though he had not been included in the reprimand, looked distinctly nervous. I thought it an inauspicious beginning.

But my doubts faded as we traversed the streets of the city, overwhelmed by the wonders all about me. Ardyon led us from the harbor through a maze of warehouses that filled the air with exotic perfumes, onto a wide avenue faced on both sides by emporiums offering such a wealth of produce as widened my eyes and set my nostrils to twitching like a questing hound’s. We saw arcades and bazaars, whole squares filled with canopied stalls, grand taverns and eating houses, plazas where fountains played and trees grew, protected by ornate fences. And people-more people than I had thought the whole world could hold, merchants and their customers, folk who did no more than stroll leisurely as if they had no work to call them, but only time in which to wander this cornucopia of wonders.

We hurried after the briskly striding warden down streets overhung with balconies that trailed bright flowers, past walls painted with a kaleidoscope of colors, or tiled; up stairways narrow and wide; across squares where statues stood proud. I saw loaded carts driven by Changed and carriages holding Truemen, horses ridden by men and women both. I gaped and goggled my way to a great white wall where Ardyon halted and gestured with his staff.

“This is the College of the Mnemonikos,” he announced. “Save you are dismissed early, this shall be your home for the next year at least.”

I was too excited to allow his reminder of possible failure to dampen my spirits. I stared, wondering if the wall was to keep us in or the city out. There was a gate, tall and wide, stained a pale blue, standing open. Ardyon led us through into a courtyard paved with great stone slabs, shrubs and fledgling trees growing in stone basins, benches set along the inner face of the wall occupied by men old and young. A few Changed went about menial tasks. Ardyon continued his march without breaking pace, across the courtyard to a high building with windows set like watching eyes and an arch at its center that granted entry to the cloistered quadrangle beyond. We turned off there, following our guide up a stairway to a door of black wood, where he motioned us to halt, tapping three times with his caduceus. A muffled voice bade us enter, and Ardyon swung the door open.

A small man, the light from the window at his back shining on his pate, sat behind a desk. He did not rise, but I could see he was not tall and that his face was unlined and amiable as his welcome.

“The day’s greetings,” he said pleasantly. “Welcome to Durbrecht.”

Pyrdon and I mumbled a response, Cleton replying more firmly. Ardyon named us one by one, tapping us each on the chest with his staff, and handed over our tokens. The bald man glanced at the disks and set them aside. “I am Decius,” he said, “master of the College. Your journey here was comfortable, I trust?”

Pyrdon nodded.

I said, “We saw the skyboats that attacked the city.” Cleton said, “And the wreck of one; along the Treppanek.”

Decius smiled and said, “Do you tell me what you saw?”’

He motioned for me to begin. I know not why, for I was not entirely at ease, whilst Cleton seemed quite confident, as if an interview with so elevated a personage was to him an everyday event.

I swallowed, cleared my throat, and commenced to tell him all I remembered. I was speaking of the elementals I believed I had seen sporting about the Sky Lords’ craft when he raised a hand to halt me and bade Cleton continue. Cleton took up the tale and was in his turn halted, Pyrdon finishing with an account of the wrecked airboat.

“How many bodies did you see?” asked Decius, when Pyrdon fell silent.

Pyrdon frowned and shrugged and said, “I am not sure, master.”

Decius smiled and raised inquiring brows at Cleton, who said, “I think there were thirteen.”

I found those mild eyes fastened on me then, and I closed my own an instant, conjuring the image. I said, “There were fifteen, master.”

“You’re sure?” asked Decius.

I hesitated a moment and then said, “Not absolutely. They were amid the wreckage, like bodies in the belly of a dead beast. But I think there were fifteen.”

Decius nodded, and I wondered if I had done well or badly in what I took to be a test. I was not told, for he turned his face to the warden then and said, “Do you show them to their dormitory, Ardyon? And I’d suppose they’ll want to eat. After, do you bring them to Martus.”

Ardyon offered a brief bow in response and motioned for us to follow him again. We quit the room, trailing after the warden back down the stairs, across the quadrangle to a separate building that he advised us held the dormitories of the Mnemonikos-elect.

Ours was a long, high-windowed room containing twenty beds, each with a cupboard beside that Ardyon explained was for our sole use. There were, he told us in his toneless voice, only fifteen candidates in residence, and no more were expected. He took our daggers into safekeeping, promising their return at the year’s end, waited as we chose our beds and stowed our gear, and then brought us to the dining hall, which lay on the far side of the quadrangle. He was meticulous in the dispensation of his duties, and even though neither Cleton nor I had appetite left, we were settled at a table with Pyrdon, watching as porridge, bread, and tea were brought him by a servant I recognized as Changed. As he ate, Ardyon outlined the timetable of our days.

Cleton caught my eye as we quit the dining hall, and on his face I saw the promise of disobedience to come.

He remained dutifully silent, however, as Ardyon led us through gardens to a walled enclosure, where a man of middle years sat with the fifteen candidates already in residence. We were introduced, and the warden left us. The man studied us a moment, then said, “I am Martus, your tutor for the next year. Do you tell me something of yourselves?”

We each in turn recited our brief histories, and Martus named our fellow candidates. I studied him and them. He seemed a pleasant enough man of no especial distinction. He was of average height and build, shaven clean, with an abundant head of light brown hair and eyes that seemed somewhat sleepy, though I soon learned they missed nothing. He was clad in well-worn breeks and tunic, with a sash of vivid red. The other students were a disparate lot, as might be expected, given they came from all over Dharbek. There were fishermen like me, another tanner’s son, two blacksmiths, several merchants’ offspring, three from taverns; Cleton was the only student of noble descent. Nor, Martus explained, were there female Mnemonikos, our itinerant lives being deemed unsuitable for the supposedly gentler sex.

That first day passed swift, and it seemed not long at all before a gong summoned us to the dining hall for the evening meal. The hall was filled with students of all ages and loud with the buzz of conversation. I was marveling at the richness of our fare when one of the farriers’ sons, a hulking fellow from the west coast whose name was Raede, fixed Cleton with his small eyes and said, “So you’re an aeldor’s son, eh?”

Cleton nodded, smiled amiably, and answered, “That I am. Brython of Madbry is my father.”

Raede snorted. Like one of the horses he helped his father shoe, I thought. Certainly he was built for the work, or the work had built him. I was no weakling-rowing a boat and hauling nets had put muscle on my frame-but next to Raede I was nothing. He was huge, with bulging forearms and a neck thick as a bull’s: I had seen no one bigger save Kerym’s Changed crewmen. He studied Cleton awhile, then said, “I suppose you think yourself better than us.”

A hamhock hand gestured at the others. Cleton, still smiling, said, “No. Why should I?”

Raede paused a moment, frowning, and said, “You’re an aeldor’s son.” It appeared he found that sufficient explanation and cause for resentment.

Cleton nodded again and said, “Here we are all students, equal.”

“I’m stronger,” said Raede.

“I can see that,” said Cleton.

I suppose I had, in a way, led a sheltered life. There had been no bullies in Whitefish village, and it was a while before I recognized that Raede was less concerned with Cleton’s antecedents than with establishing his own authority. I stared at his blunt features and wondered why he sought to provoke this argument, simultaneously realizing that Cleton’s mild responses served only to irritate him the more.

“I could break you,” he said.

“Perhaps,” said Cleton.

I thought there was no perhaps about it. I thought Raede could likely break us both. I thought it a pity Ardyon had confiscated our weapons. I heard Raede say, “The aeldor of Kesbry had a son; a snotty creature he was.”

“Some are,” Cleton said.

“Like you,” said Raede.

“You make swift judgments, friend Raede,” Cleton said, still mild, as if they conducted an entirely friendly conversation. “You’ve known me but a single afternoon and already you mark me one with a man I’ve never set eyes on. Think you you’re perhaps a trifle hasty?”

Raede said, “No. I think you’re a popinjay. I think you’re a pampered keep-son. And I don’t like you.”

To his right and left two students sniggered. Their names were Leon and Tyras. I thought that did this come to the fight Raede appeared intent on provoking, they would take his side. I thought that singly I could defeat either one, but together … I glanced sidelong at Pyrdon, wondering if he would aid us, and saw his eyes shifting nervously between Cleton and Raede. I thought he would not.

Cleton said equably, “That’s your right, my friend. Indeed, I must admit I’ve not much fondness for you.” Then his eyes flashed and his voice dropped, though his words came clear: “But still I’ll warn you-do you continue this, you’ll regret it.”

Raede was a moment taken aback, then he snorted laughter and said, “I’ll regret it, eh? And how shall you make me regret it, popinjay?”

Cleton’s voice was mild again, but his eyes were pale and hard. “I’ll thrash you,” he said confidently.

Raede’s eyes narrowed until they were tiny slits: I thought no longer of a bull, but of a wild boar brought to bay and ready to attack. He said, “We’ll see. After dinner.”

“As you wish,” said Cleton.

After we had eaten we left the hall and waited outside for the tutors to disperse. As is the way of such things, word had gone around the students, and a crowd was gathered in the quadrangle, eager for the promised diversion. Raede announced that the enclosure where we had taken our first lessons was a suitable place, and we made our way there, as stealthily as any group of bloodthirsty young men. It was foolish of us to think we should go unnoticed, but we believed ourselves unobserved as we filled the space, the spectators spreading along the walls, Cleton and I facing Raede and his two acolytes at the center. The night was starry, and sufficient light came from the College buildings and the streets of Durbrecht that we could see well enough. I saw that Raede was smiling hugely.

“I trust this is between we two alone,” Cleton said, intending insult, “and your friends shall not aid you.”

“I’ll not need aid,” Raede answered.

“Then do we begin?” said Cleton.

Raede grunted and took a long step forward, swinging a clublike fist at Cleton’s head. He was not yet seventeen years old, but that blow could have downed a full-grown man. Cleton, however, was not there for the fist to strike: I saw him dance clear, ducking, and then rise to grasp Raede’s wrist in both his hands. I am not sure what happened next-there was a swift shifting of feet, sudden movement, and Raede lay on his back. I laughed. Cleton stood waiting, smiling. Raede climbed to his feet and attacked again. And once more was toppled, landing this time on his face in a flowerbed. He pushed up, shaking his head, dirt smeared over his cheeks and mouth. Then he snarled and stood, staring at Cleton with furious eyes. He was not hurt, but he was humiliated, and perhaps aware for the first time that this might not be the easy victory of his anticipation. He advanced more cautiously, his head down and his hands extended from his sides. Cleton stood waiting for him, that easy smile still on his lips. Raede came on slowly, then sprang, faster than I had thought his size should allow, his great hands reaching for Cleton’s throat. Had they landed, I think he would have choked my friend, or broken his neck. Instead, they found only empty air as Cleton again ducked under his opponent’s reach, took hold of his tunic, and fell backward, crashing down with Raede into a bush. This time Raede cried out, and when he extricated himself, I saw his face was scratched, thin lines scored across his forehead and cheeks. He wiped a dirtied hand over his wounds and muttered a foul oath, then lowered his head and charged, caution forgotten.

It was a foolish move: Cleton simply stepped a pace sideways and in an eye’s blink pivoted and kicked out, knocking Raede’s legs from under him. For the fourth time the bully went down, skidding helplessly over the flagstones. When he rose, his nose was bloodied and his lips puffed, his tunic filthy. I became aware of the audience muttering, that wagers had been placed. I grinned, sure now that Cleton must win.

Raede, too, had that thought, for he swung his heavy head and made some sign to Leon and Tyras. I saw it, and then that Raede maneuvered to turn Cleton’s back to his supporters, advancing slowly again, his arms spread wide, driving Cleton across the opened space. I moved from my position, making my way along the edge of the crowd until I stood behind Leon and Tyras. I watched as Raede came onward, Cleton sensing some subterfuge, so that he risked a glance over his shoulder. He saw the two, and me behind, and nodded once as I waved, trusting me. Then he turned to face Raede again, feinting to one side and then the other, the larger man blocking his escape each time. I saw Leon and Tyras exchange a look and their shoulders tense in preparation. As Cleton was driven back, they readied to grab him. Raede smiled now, which was an ugly sight, and darted at Cleton, intending to force him back against Leon and Tyras.

They raised their arms, and I set a hand against each of their temples and slammed their heads together. I was, as I have said, no weakling, and I put all my strength into my effort. There was a dull sound, like two blocks of wood banged, and both gasped and went limp, falling bonelessly to the stones.

Cleton said, “I thought you needed no aid; I see you’ve no honor,” and I heard both anger and contempt in his voice.

Raede grunted and continued his advance. Cleton stood his ground, and I feared he would be caught in Raede’s terrible embrace. Then I winced, instinctively sympathetic, as he kicked Raede between the legs.

Raede squealed like a pig at gelding and clasped both hands to his assaulted manhood, knees and waist bending as he curled over the source of his pain. His eyes were closed and his mouth wide open. Cleton performed a kind of pirouette that spun him full around and lifted his other leg in a sweeping kick to Raede’s chest. It was again so swift, I was not quite sure what my friend had done, but I saw Raede lifted onto his toes and toppled sideways. A choking moan burst from his open mouth, and he made no effort to rise, instead twisting in a fetal ball. Even in the yard’s wan light I could see his face was horribly pale. I wondered if he was dying.

Cleton stood watching him, his expression dispassionate. There was a murmur from the onlookers, and someone called for Cleton to finish the fight. My friend said, “It is finished.”

And then a toneless voice said, “Indeed it is, and now the price shall be paid.”

I turned, startled, to find Ardyon at my back, behind him two Changed. He glanced at the two students lying unconscious at my feet and raised his brows in silent inquiry. I nodded, silent myself, my heart beating very fast. He touched me on the shoulder with his caduceus and said, “Come with me.” The staff jutted in Cleton’s direction and the warden said, “And you.”

The crowd parted, opening a path to the gate, and we followed Ardyon to our punishment.

I learned a great deal about stables in the days that followed. Ardyon decreed that we should relieve the Changed whose task it usually was to tend the horse pens, and so for three weeks Cleton and I spent our evenings shoveling dung. It was tedious, but not especially hard labor; the worst thing about it was the smell that permeated our clothes. I grew accustomed to it soon enough, but for all we found we had won a new respect amongst our fellow students, still we must suffer their teasing-the ostentatiously pinched nostrils, the elaborate offers of pomanders and scented soaps. We grinned and bore it: at least we were not expelled.

I was intrigued by the expertise with which Cleton had dispatched Raede (who lay recovering in the infirmary with Leon and Tyras for company) and was about to question him the first evening when a small man with the fair hair and pale skin of northern Draggonek came into the stable. He had very bright eyes, set close together, and wore the black sash of an instructor in the martial arts.

“I am called Keran,” he said, and preempted my inquiry. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“With the warband,” Cleton answered, leaning on his shovel.

Keran nodded and settled atop a stall watching us. “Don’t let me halt your labors,” he said, “else Ardyon shall find you more.”

We returned to the task in hand. Keran said, “Did you not think it unfair? Raede is, after all, without skill in the art.” His voice was soft, with a slight northern burr, giving no hint whether he criticized or merely questioned.

Cleton deposited a pile of steaming dung in the cart and shrugged. “I warned him against baiting me,” he said, “and he’d the advantage of his size and strength.”

Keran’s face was impassive as he returned, “But you well know that size and strength are no match for skill.”

“Raede is stupid,” said Cleton calmly. “He took offense at the accident of my birth. I sought no fight, but he forced it on me-because I am an aeldor’s son, which should have warned him I’d have the advantage of training.”

I thought Keran might have smiled then, but his tone remained dispassionate as he said, “You might have killed him.”

“I might,” Cleton agreed, “but I did not. Only taught him a lesson when he called his friends to help him.”

Keran grunted and looked to me. I read a question in his eyes and said, “I saw Raede signal them, and then they readied to grab Cleton. That was unfair.”

“So you tapped their heads,” said Keran.

“I’ve not Cleton’s skill,” I said, “so I did what I could. Should I have stood by?”

“No,” said Keran, and he did smile then. “Not whilst a comrade faced unfair odds.”

I felt both vindicated and relieved. “They’re not bad hurt?” I asked.

“They’ll wake with aching heads,” he told me. “And Raede will ache in other parts, but they’ll survive. Likely they’ve learned a lesson, too. But you two-here not a full day and already fighting?”

“They left us little choice,” said Cleton. “What else could we do?”

Keran nodded as if thinking about that, then murmured, “We’ve rules here, and one is that disputes be settled under the eyes of a tutor. I suspect it’s unlikely you’ll receive another challenge, but does it come, you’ll meet it with me watching. Do you understand?”

We nodded dutifully, and I ventured to ask, “When shall the lessons begin?”

Keran chuckled then and said, “Are you so bloodthirsty, Daviot?”

I was somewhat surprised he knew my name, and shook my head, blushing. “No,” I assured him, “but I’d learn to defend myself. Like Cleton.”

“In time you shall,” he promised. “But not for this year. The Mnemonikos-elect receive no training in the martial arts until they are formally accepted. Do you remain, then next year you’ll start to learn.”

This was not what Andyrt had led me to believe, and once I should have been disappointed, but now I only nodded, accepting.

“Patience is one of the virtues cultivated here,” said Keran. “Do you study on that.”

Again we nodded, and he sprang limber from his perch, waving a casual farewell as he sauntered away.

When he was gone out the door, Cleton said, “I’ll tutor you, if you wish. But it had best be in secret.”

So it was that I received clandestine instruction in the art of unarmed combat. It was not easy, for our sudden fame brought us a following and we must escape our admiring friends to practice, but we managed as best we could, and Cleton taught me well.

Martus was our sole official tutor for that year. He seemed to me a fount of knowledge, his memory prodigious, his ability to impart his erudition astounding. History and the basic mnemonic techniques were his subjects-what he casually named “the tricks of our trade”-and from him I learned to refine my natural talent. It was not, I came to realize, simply a matter of remembering: there was too much to remember, and to hold and recall all of it, we must learn to use those mental devices that enable us to fix things in our minds as if in storage, to be called up by means of specific images or key words. I remember well Martus’s first explanation of the technique.

He brought us to a study chamber where there stood a cabinet set with numerous drawers, a piece of simple carpentry. Martus set a hand on its polished surface and said, “This is your mind. Each drawer holds a memory.” He tapped a drawer. “Label each one, and when you need it”-he took a rosewood knob and drew out the drawer-“you may simply open it.”

Behind me I heard someone-Raede, I think-mutter, “Are we then woodenheads?” Martus only smiled, easygoing man that he was, and said, “This is the simplest explanation-one even a woodenhead can understand,” which elicited laughter and ended the muttering. He was a fine tutor: he made our lessons enjoyable, and so we learned them the better.

He taught us to observe and memorize, to listen and recall with total accuracy, devoid of embellishment. He would take us about the College and have us study rooms, or the sundry walled gardens, then ask us, singly and alone, to describe them; sometimes we would go into the city, and after recount all we had seen, retrace our routes. Thus did we learn something of Durbrecht’s geography-and its taverns, for Martus was fond of good ale and saw no reason why our lessons should not be conducted in taprooms. I excelled at this, and I drank in the history he taught us, finding soon that I need not think consciously of his analogy with the cabinet, but employed it automatically. Thus I learned of our past and came to understand better the age-old enmity of Dhar and Ahn. And, though I knew it not, the seed of an idea was planted.

In the Dawntime the people were nomads, wandering the cold northern plains far beyond the Dragonsteeth Mountains. There were no Rememberers then, and so little is known of those ancient times, save that the wanderers came south into what then was named Tartarus and now is called the Forgotten Country.

There they met the dragons.

The land was mountainous, the slopes and valleys thickly wooded, and no men lived there, only the dragons and the game on which the dragons preyed.

They were great, the dragons, vast and ferocious, terrible hunters whose wings would darken the sky, their teeth and talons like sword blades. They were the Lords of the Sky then, living in their great Dragoncastles, lofty on the highest peaks, descending into the valleys to hunt. And to them the Dhar were no more than prey: they hunted men as they did the animals of the woods and fields. The people feared them, but the people had traveled far in their wanderings and found a land rich in game, where they might linger and-were they not taken by the dragons-grow sleek on the land’s bounty. So it was they settled in Tartarus, finding ways in which they might defeat the great sky-hunters.

They built strong holds and tamed the wild beasts, raising herds of meat animals for themselves, but also for the dragons, to whom they offered sacrifice from their herds, that the winged ones not slaughter men. Thus did cunning overcome strength, and the people spread through the valleys and forests. But none ventured, ever, into the high country, which was the domain of the dragons.

And then the Dhar found the beginnings of magic.

There were some amongst them, they discovered, able to converse with the dragons. This was a thing of great wonder, for the people had thought the dragons like wolves, or the mountain cats-all fury and hunger. But they were not; they were, in their alien fashion, more akin to men than the beasts, for they spoke amongst themselves, and gathered in squadrons, and were loyal one to another. It was a very great wonder, and those men able to understand the sky-hunters’ tongue were named Dragonmasters and hailed as saviors, for they interceded betwixt the Dhar and the dragons, oftentimes persuading the great predators to take their kills from the offered herds, not the people.

Then there was a time of peace and the Dhar grew in numbers, until the Dragonmasters warned that they were become so many, the dragons felt their ancestral land was overrun and spoke of culling the invaders.

Some scoffed at this, and the chiefs told the Dragonmasters that their duty it was to dissuade the dragons and protect their fellow men, and the warnings went unheeded. And in time the dragons came against the people in a terrible slaughter, seeking to drive them from Tartarus. Then did many turn against the Dragonmasters, blaming them, but the more sensible of the chieftains saw that they could not defeat such dreadful foes and looked once more southward. And so the Dhar became wanderers again, going down from the mountains into Ur-Dharbek, and those who remained behind were never heard of again and were supposed dead, slain by the dragons.

It was a hard land, Ur-Dharbek, a place of bleak moors and poor hunting, but still the people had their herds and thought to make a life there, free of the dragons.

They were wrong. The dragons followed, for they had found a taste for the sport of it, and for human flesh. They quested southward over Ur-Dharbek, and none were safe save the Dragonmasters, whom the sky-beasts would not touch, perceiving a kind of kinship. Then the Dragonmasters were hated, for they could not-or perhaps, would not-dissuade the dragons from their killing, and many were slain in rage and others chose to go away from the people, back north to the Forgotten Country. They were lost to the Dhar, and if they still live, there is no one knows it.

That was a time of suffering for the people, for it seemed they must forever be hunted and never find a peaceful land. But then it seemed the Three Deciders, or the One God, took pity on the Dhar, for that magic that had enabled the Dragonmasters to converse with the beasts grew stronger, albeit along different roads.

There were born ever-increasing numbers of children gifted with the occult talent, such that they were able to send their magicks against the dragons and destroy them. But even so they were not enough, and for every dragon plain it seemed the fury of its kin waxed the greater, until the mages turned their powers to other means of defense. They found ways in which to transform animals into semblance of men, and they named these creations the Changed, and sent them out to be the dragons’ prey while the people, the Truemen, went on southward across the Slammerkin into the land they called Draggonek.

This was a country far richer than bleak Ur-Dharbek, and the sorcerers bent all their powers to making Changed that they sent back across the Slammerkin into Ur-Dharbek, that the dragons hunt them and not Truemen. Then the sorcerers, like the Dragonmasters before them, were hailed as saviors, and the aeldors of the Dhar joined together in the building of the Border Cities, along the south bank of the Slammerkin. Seven cities they built, each with a band of sorcerers whose task it was to create Changed and send them north and deny them return, or the dragons passage over the dividing gulf. Thus did Ur-Dharbek become the province of the Changed, where they might live free, and Truemen be safe. No Trueman goes there, but any Changed who so elects, if his or her duty be done, may cross the Slammerkin to join the wild Changed.

The Dhar prospered then and spread across all Draggonek to the gulf of the Treppanek, and across that into Kellambek, where they found a new tribulation.

There was a folk already there, who named themselves the Ahn. They were hunters and fishermen, and few in numbers, but very fierce, and they opposed the people’s coming into Kellambek. But the Dhar were strong and would not give up this new land, and in time the Ahn were defeated, made slaves or banished renegade to the lonely places, where they lived as the beasts.

The people owned all the land now and named it Dharbek. The dragons and the Dragonmasters were gone into legend and the Ahn made subject folk: the Dhar prospered. And as is the way of these matters, the petty chieftains fell to warring one with the other, vying over borders and fishing rights, hunting lands, and farm country. Those years are named the Red, and they were ended by Emeric, the first Lord Protector.

He was but an aeldor then, his keep that of Kherbryn, but he was wiser than his fellows and saw that save peace be imposed on the people, they must destroy themselves.

Kherbryn was a strong keep even then, and through all the Red years it was never taken, nor Emeric defeated in battle, this in part due to his skill in war, and also because he was aided by the sorcerer, Caradon. He gathered about him other mages and made alliance with such aeldors as shared his views, or could be persuaded to them, until he commanded an army, which he sent out in battle, himself at its head, conquering keep after keep until all Dharbek was his. Then did he name himself Lord Protector and vow that never again should Dhar go awarring with Dhar. Thus were the Red years ended and the land given peace.

And in peace as in war, Emeric was a wise leader. Of Kherbryn he made a great city, and when he died his son, Tuwyan, decreed that Durbrecht be built, no lesser but devoted to the arts of peace, establishing here the Sorcerous College and this of the Mnemonikos. And that all the people be further bound, Tuwyan embraced the worship of the One God, renouncing the Three, and built the Seminary of the Church in Durbrecht.

But while the Dhar came to worship of the God, the Ahn clung to the old ways. Their deities stood triumvirate-Vachyn of the Sky, Byr of the Earth, and Dach of the Waters. This was frowned on by the Church and the shrines of the Ahn torn down, but they were a defeated people and none paid overmuch attention to their furtive ways. Thus were they able to effect their great exodus.

Kellambek was not then much populated, and as the sorcerers created ever more Changed to perform the menial tasks, there was less need of Ahn slaves. They were, anyway, a surly and secretive folk, given to resentment and sly escape, and so were not much missed when they slipped away. They built their boats and murdered any who found them or endeavored to halt them, and they sailed from Dharbek eastward across the Fend, which then was only the eastern sea, and for long years were never seen again. Indeed, they were forgotten like the dragons.

Then, when Laocar was Lord Protector and the Dhar grown used to peace, they returned.

Great skyboats were seen, propelled by magic, a fleet that bore beneath them huge carts filled with fylie of Kho’rabi warriors. They grounded across Dharbek, and there was a dreadful slaughter, for the Kho’rabi were terrible in battle and would sooner die than admit defeat. This was the first Coming, and the dead were numbered in the thousands. Keeps were razed, villages and whole towns laid waste. That word-Kho’rabi-became a dread thing, a curse. Laocar readied for war then, but when the last Sky Lord was slain there were no more, nor another Coming in his lifetime.

For fifty years there was not another Coming. Then once more a fleet, and fighting, and after that the airboats were sometimes seen, but not often until the century turned and the Kho’rabi attacked again. And so it went, fifty years by fifty years did the Ahn send their warriors against Dharbek to take back the land, their Comings like a plague that visits death and destruction. The people learned to fear these cycles, when the Sky Lords’ great boats would fill the sky, and Theodus, who was Lord Protector after Laocar, and Canovar after him, looked to the sorcerers for explanation, for it was clearly magic that governed the Comings.

And the mages decided that it was, indeed, sorcery that drove the airboats, but also the worldwinds, that each half century turn and blow from the east, that allowed the Ahn wizards to send the Kho’rabi knights against us. They looked then for a means to defeat the attacks and told Canovar that just as the Border Cities defend the Slammerkin shore, so he must construct fortresses on those islands we now call the Sentinels to destroy the airboats ere they reach our coast.

At this point in Martus’s narration a student called Braen said, “Not always,” and our tutor sighed and nodded and said, “The wizardry of the Ahn grows stronger, I think.”

Another said, “But surely not so strong as to overcome the Sentinels,” and our history lesson became a debate, which Martus seemed not to mind. At least, he made no attempt to return us to our original course, but did his best to answer the questions that were flung at him.

“There were three skyboats come but recently,” cried a fellow named Nevvid, “but this is not the time. How could they pass the Sentinels?”

Martus shrugged and spread helpless hands. “I am no mage,” he told us. “I can only think the Ahn have found new powers.

“They’ve come unseasonal these past few years,” said Tyras. And Leon echoed him with: “Do they overcome the worldwinds now?”

I said nothing. I could see that Martus lacked the answers; I wondered if any save the Ahn themselves could explain. And I was intrigued by all our tutor had said. Whilst my fellow students fired their barrage of questions, I thought of dragons and Dragonmasters, and of a land filled with Changed. I sat silent through the babble until Martus roused me from my musings, asking if I had nothing to say.

My head was aswim with unshaped notions that I could not articulate, and so I asked, “When is the next Coming?”

“Be it as before,” Martus said, “in twenty years.”

“Shall we be ready?” I asked.

Cleton said, “The keeps are ready,” and Martus nodded and amplified: “As is the Lord Protector, so are the koryphons and the aeldors of Dharbek sworn to defend the land. For that reason they maintain the warbands, even in peaceful times, that the Sky Lords never find us unready.”

I thought on things Andyrt had told me and said, “But our soldiers are not enough.” I smiled an apology to my friend and went on, “Save the Sentinels be strengthened, how shall we defeat them?”

“The Sentinels are strengthened,” said Martus. “Even now the strongest of the young sorcerers are sent, to lend their untrained power to the adepts.”

I frowned and said, “But still-the three boats that came …”

Martus smiled somewhat grimly, nodded, and said, “They overcame the Sentinels, aye; but the strengthening goes on now, and soon, I think, shall be unpassable.”

That raw young sorcerers were taken from their College was indeed true-but that the Sentinels should soon be unpassable? I must wonder at that: we Dhar knew nothing of the Ahn, save we had once defeated them and they had fled. We knew they returned out of the east, but not from where. We knew they commanded powerful magicks and that their warriors came to slay us, but nothing of their ultimate goals. Perhaps they were bent on our destruction, dedicated to the reconquest of the land that was once theirs; perhaps purposed only to revenge.

I could only nod, accepting, and hold to myself the thought that save we could destroy the Sky Lords in the air, before they reached our shores, we must forever live in dread of the Comings. An image entered my mind then of the Sky Lords locked in combat with the dragons of legend. It was an exciting thought, but fleeting and I set it aside as Cleton spoke.

He was ever more practical than I, and son of an aeldor, his thinking shaped by familiarity with his father’s warband. Pragmatically he said to Martus, “We saw those airboats as we entered the Treppanek-all three, unharmed. They had passed the Sentinels, then, and were not brought down until they closed on Durbrecht. How was that?”

“The Sorcerous College,” said our tutor. “Save for the Border Cities and the Sentinels, Durbrecht’s the greatest concentration of mages, and some of the most powerful: their work, it was. They sent their magic against the Sky Lords and slew them ere they could ground.”

He paused, and I could see from his expression he was concerned that the more timid amongst us might find cause for fear. He set a confident smile on his mouth and added, “I think we could not be in a safer place. We’ve the Sorcerous College and the koryphon Trevid’s warband, both, to protect us.”

Cleton nodded, satisfied, and I heard a murmur of relief from the timorous.

Our lessons with Martus were like that: an account of a Lord Protector’s life was likely to become a debate, a discussion of why and how, questions asked and answered before we returned, often as not days later, to the original topic. He instilled in most of us, beyond the basics of our technique and the history he taught us, a desire to learn, a curiosity that prompted us to investigate, seeking ever more information with which to fill the drawers of our memories.

For that year we knew mostly peace. We heard of airboats burned over the Fend, and twice saw the great ships erupt in explosions of terrible fire within a league of Durbrecht. Once there was a great alarum, when an airboat grounded east of the city and Trevid sent his warband out in full force to confront the Kho’rabi. The city was loud that night, and Cleton persuaded me to an adventure.

Word had come from the Sentinels that a ship had eluded them, passed from mage to mage along the line of keeps down the Treppanek. We were told the warband rode, but even had we not received that information we should have known something was afoot, for the streets outside the College rang with the nervous cries of the populace and we could hear the thunder of urgent hooves, the clatter of armor and bridle bits. It was evening, our lessons were done, and we had eaten. Cleton and I had repaired to a secluded part of the College grounds, a storage area close by the north wall, where he continued my secret instruction in the martial arts. Since dusk, when word first came, our conversation had been of the landing and the koryphon’s response, and we were agog with curiosity.

It was late summer then, the days long and the nights light. I remember a full moon, pale yellow, hung in a cloudless sky. Our practice was interrupted by the sounds from beyond the wall, for we would halt, trying to discern what was shouted or what the latest passage of horsemen meant, and then fall to discussing what we would do, were we in Trevid’s shoes. Finally we left our exercises altogether and only listened.