Angus Wells: Lords of the Sky

“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.