Angus Wells - Lords of the Sky

And we Dragonmasters hungered for our castle and the high, wild mountains of Tartarus. Our dragons were bored; sated with battles and eager to go home.

I shared that feeling. I could no longer deny it: Dharbek was no longer my home, but only those tall mountains where the dragons lived, and I (was I cursed by Bellek? Were we all?) felt at ease.

I spoke of it with Rwyan, and she agreed; and so we went back.

Tezdal and Urt came with us. They felt the call no less than we, and like us felt separated from the worlds of men now. Urt had been offered a seat in the Raethe; begged to take it when he refused, and still refused.

“It would not feel right,” he told me one bright and windy autumn day as we walked the ramparts and watched the wind chase clouds across the sky. “I am a Dragonmaster now, and did I sit in Council and argue and folk agree with me, how should I know them honest and not merely afraid of Kathanria?”

I nodded. I’d the same feeling and had given Taerl similar answer when he asked much the same of me.

“Nor,” Urt went on, “are my people even now entirely at ease with dragons.”

“Blood’s memory dies hard,” I said.

“And so they are neither at ease with me,” he murmured. Then laughed, “Nor I with them. I am different, Daviot.”

I said, “We all of us are. This is our home now, I think.”

“Yes.” He crossed to a crenellation, leaning out to stare down the vertiginous mountainside into the valley. The Changed village was a cluster of minuscule buildings, like tiny pebbles dropped beside the slender thread of the river. It had grown now, as more of Urt’s people ventured north-those whose blood did not hold such innate fear of the dragons. Absently, he said, “We should hunt soon and lay them up meat for the winter. Also, their ale is near ready for drinking.”

I moved to join him, setting a hand companionable on his shoulder as I leaned past him. “And Lysra should have that blanket finished, eh?” I murmured.

For all they are long distanced from their animal progenitors, still the Changed own some of their ancestors’ characteristics. They do not blush, for instance; but did they, I think Urt should have then. Lysra was the daughter of Prym and Valla, who supplied our ale. South of our mountains she’d have been married, for she was a comely woman. But there were not so many men here, and she had so far rejected those suitors who contested her hand. For Urt, however, she found only smiles and on learning of our return had set to weaving such a blanket as decorates a marriage bed. It was a hint he could hardly ignore. Also, it was obvious to all of us save Urt that she loved him.

He said. “She is very beautiful, no?”

I said, “Yes, she is lovely.”

He said, “Do you think I should …”

I waited, but he was suddenly embarrassed, so that I could only laugh and slap his shoulder and tell him, “I think you should. She waits for you, and it should be good company for Rwyan to have another woman about this place.”

He nodded solemnly, his eyes fixed firm on the village. “I shall,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall go down there and ask her.”

“She’ll tell you yes,” I said. “And when you’ve set the date, I’ll go south to beg some good Kellambek wine off Taerl, that we may celebrate in suitable manner. Doubtless he’ll want to attend the feasting. Or even volunteer you his palace for the ceremony. Likely he’ll invite the Khe’anjiwha, and all the-”

“Enough!” Urt stepped back, his face so paled I began to chuckle. “It shall be no more than the village and we Dragonmasters. No pomp, Daviot, I beg you.”

I forced my face to gravity. “The Lord Protector will likely be most disappointed. Insulted, even.”

Urt frowned. “Well, perhaps Taerl might attend.”

“And the Raethe,” I said. “It should not be diplomatic to leave them out.”

Urt’s frown grew deeper. “Think you so?” he asked.

I nodded, stifling laughter. “Nor-does he wish it-the Khe’anjiwha. Or, of course, the Church. And the Mnemonics. And the-”

Urt’s fist caught me lightly on the ear, and I could no longer stifle my mirth. I said, “It shall be no more, nor any less, than you wish, my friend.”

“Simple, then,” he said, his relief expressed in a broad smile. “I’ve enough of pomp and ceremony to last me all my days.”

I said, “May they be long and happy. Now-do we go break this momentous news to Rwyan and Tezdal? And begin our celebrating?”

“Modestly,” he said. “I’ve not your Storyman’s capacity for drink, and I’d not go to Lysra in my cups.”

“Modestly then,” I agreed. “But go to her I think you should. Else I’ve a feeling that when that blanket’s done, she’ll climb the mountain to deliver it.”

Laughing together, we went inside.

But Tezdal … he’d lost more than any of us. What had we lost that was not outweighed by what we gained? I’d my two loves and the dream I’d so long ago shared with Rwyan come true. She’d Anryale and me and the satisfaction of a world at peace. Urt had Lysra, and Kathanria. But Tezdal-he’d only Peliane and cold, old wounds that poisoned from within. His wife was dead, and his parents, and for those deaths he held himself accountable. In the eyes of his people he was still gijan-outcast. None of us could properly understand that, or the dreadful burden it laid on his soul.

I tried. I swear I did my best, but it was a thing beyond my comprehension. I remember the day we spoke of it.

It was a wild windswept day, when stormclouds built above the eastern peaks and threatened snow, the sky sullen as a poisoned wound overhead. There was cloud in the valley below thick enough that the village was hidden and the dragons had retreated to their caverns. Deburah’s egg was not far off hatching. Urt was wed. (Taerl did attend, but-somewhat to the alarm of the new-formed conclave of advisers-alone. Indeed, had he not taken Urt’s hands and begged to be a guest, he’d not have come. But the Lord Protector snatched at every chance he could grasp to ride adragonback, and his entreaties were so fervent, Urt could only smile and laugh and agree. And thanks to Taerl we’d barrels of fine wine and sweetmeats, and the new-wed couple such marriage gifts as should make an aeldor blush for envy.) Ayl and Lan and a few others had been granted (reluctantly on Urt’s part, but Lysra was delighted) permission to attend and overcame their terror to ride the skies. We had celebrated the wedding, and Lysra moved into the Dragoncastle. We had returned Taerl to his duties and settled back to our own. They were not so many now.

Throughout the celebrations Tezdal had smiled and laughed and drunk his fill or more. I had sensed a desperation behind his revelry: he was by nature a sober man and lately had been taciturn, even solitary. So when all was quiet again and I noticed him donning a fur-lined cloak, I took my own and followed him. Much as I’d once followed Bellek.

He climbed to the highest reaches of the Dragoncastle, where the ramparts stood tall and the view ran out all around as if it should never end. The wind battered my face as I joined him, and I wished I’d thought to don gloves. He stood looking to the east. He doubtless heard my approach-I think that brave Kho’rabi did not miss such things-but he did not turn until I touched his shoulder. Then, I could not be sure whether it was the wind or grief that watered his eyes.

I said, “Shall you tell me?”

I saw his lips curve in a smile, but it held no humor.

“Tell you what?” he asked.

I must bend closer to catch the words, lest the wind carry them away. I said, “What ails you, friend.”

“What ails me?” His smile was rictal. “Life ails me, Daviot. I’d give it up.”