Crossing the Cliff

By Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER ONE

"All right?" asked my master.

I could not speak for a moment, nor breathe. All air had been squeezed from me, as though I had fallen over the cliff and been crushed as thin as a blade. I stayed where I was, kneeling upon the ground, my head bowed as I struggled to keep from fainting.

I could feel my master's hand upon my shoulder: calm, assured, strong. I was trembling beneath that hand as though I were a babe just born.

I would not cry – I was too old for that – so once I had caught my breath, I channelled all my fear into sarcasm. "Oh, I'm splendid," I said. "What's the next part of my training? Placing myself in front of a Xai crossbow?"

My master chuckled softly as he pulled me to his feet. "It's an unnerving journey," he agreed, "but you did quite well. You even refused to hold my hand."

"But you took my hand anyway." It was this fact that caused uncommon anger and resentment to well out of me toward my master. "You knew that I wouldn't be able to make it across otherwise."

For a moment my master said nothing. He was dressed as always in the robes of his mastery, a black robe surmounted by a bright silver robe to warn all who approached him of who he was. It had saved him from death on several occasions, though in Xai territory it was more likely to bring him death. His silver hair flowed over his shoulders, framing a face that was lined with years of experience and judgment. Though deeply tanned, the skin was unmarked but for a faint scar upon his right temple, and even that he had gained in his childhood, as he had once told me. For a man who had faced death several dozen times before I ever met him, he offered a remarkably serene appearance.

Only his violet eyes could pierce, and they did so now as he said softly, "Try to keep your voice low, Erastus. You can express your feelings without placing us in danger."

I felt shame wash over me, as it so often did. My master never scolded, never pointed out when I had forgotten a teaching long learned. He simply offered me the teaching once more, without comment.

"I'm sorry, master," I murmured, hanging my head. "I know I shouldn't be speaking to you like this."

My master's hand raised my chin, forcing me to look up at his smile. "The day you cease to tell me what you feel will be a sorry day for us both, Erastus. As for the rest of what you say . . . I'm quite sure that you could have made it across the cliff without touching me. I, on the other hand, was frightened. Holding onto you helped to ease my fear."

I knelt down in the dry grass to pick up my pack, keeping my face averted from my master. When I was very young, and had first come to be with my master, I had tried to believe him when he spoke such words. I had not succeeded, but I had tried. It had taken time for me to realize that there was no fear in my master, no weakness, nothing that I could have pointed to and said, "You are like me." No, all that was in him was courage and strength and an immense generosity that would not allow him to let his apprentice name himself for the coward he was.

Now all I said as I placed the light pack over my shoulder was, "How far do we have to go?"

"I was hoping that you could tell me."

I stared at him, then began muttering curses to myself, looking down at the ground. Finally I raised my head and said, in as steady a voice I could, "I apologize again, master. I know I should study our travelling route beforehand."

"No matter on this occasion." My master's voice was as gentle as always. "It would have helped if you had checked on the information, though. We might become separated during our journey, and I can testify from experience that wandering lost in the wasteland is not pleasant. Besides, the day will come, not long from now, when you will be the one who has to provide the mastery on such journeys." He picked up his pack in a graceful motion, slung it over his shoulder, and began to stride forward.

I hurried to catch up. We had reached the edge of the wasteland now, and before us, all the way to the horizon, lay nothing but hard-baked soil, prickly bushes, and short, stubby grass that was grey from lack of moisture. I found myself looking automatically for green upon the wasteland, but I could see no sign that a spring was nearby. My master was right: to become lost in such a place would indeed be unpleasant, if not downright deadly. And I, as so often before, had carelessly forgotten my duty to prepare myself to take over our mission, lest my master be injured and require my help.

But there was a reason for that carelessness, of course. Now, as I endeavored to keep up with my master's long, tireless stride, I looked over at him, struggling to find the courage that would allow me to say the words. But, I thought miserably, if I had the courage, the words would never need to be said.

"What is it, Erastus?" My master did not break his stride nor look my way as he spoke.

"Master . . ." I stared down at the fragile grass we were stepping upon. It was being crushed with every step we took, turning it to dust. The dust was hard to see; dusk was beginning to fall, and I hoped that my master knew of a shelter where we could huddle during the cold night. But of course he did. He always did.

I could feel the words choking within me, but I finally managed to force them out. "Master . . . you spoke before of my taking mastery one day. I don't believe I'll ever be able to do that."

He stopped then, turning toward me, his eyes slicing into me like the blade he never bore. His pack dropped to the ground. He said nothing.

Trying to keep my voice steady, I said, "I'm not like you, master. I don't have your courage; I can't remain strong when danger arises. I'll never be a Peacesteward. I—"

I stopped; he had stepped forward, and his lips closed upon my forehead. For a moment he let them rest there; then he raised his head and touched my cheek with his palm.

"Erastus," he said softly, "sometimes a master knows an apprentice better than he knows himself. Believe me when I say that you are a Peacesteward, in all but name. I would give you your robes of mastery tomorrow, if you wished."

I shook my head, blinking away the tears. "You've tried to comfort me with such words before, master, but it's no good. It took me an hour to find the courage to cross the cliff – a full hour! If we'd been in danger, my cowardice would have had us killed."

"A coward would have run," he said softly, his hand still upon my cheek. "You faced your fear and took the time you needed to gather your courage – and if we had been in danger, you would have calmed your fear in a shorter time." The side of his mouth rose in a slight smile. "And believe me, you did better than I on the first occasion I crossed the cliff. Why, if you could have seen—"

I waited for him to finish his sentence; then I realized he would not, and I tensed.

For a full minute, it seemed, we remained as we were, his left hand upon my shoulder, his right upon my face. His eyes did not move from me; I knew they did not need to. I strained to hear what he was hearing.

Finally he let out a shallow sigh and stepped back from me. He picked up the pack quickly.

"Who was it?" I asked in a low voice. "The Xai?"

"I hope so," he said.

"Hope so!" I stared at him, incredulous. The last time we had encountered the Xai, only my master's swift move to stand in front of me had kept me from being pierced by a Xai arrow. There had been a moment when I feared that the Xai warriors would shoot anyway – more than one Peacesteward had died in their territory – but these warriors had shrugged and moved on to easier targets.

"What could be worse than the Xai?" I asked.

"The Juud," my master said softly. He had taken hold of my arm, and we were moving toward the horizon again, swifter than before.

It took me a moment to understand; then I felt my stomach clench. "We're on their sacred ground?"

My master nodded; his eyes were turning slowly left to right, looking in all directions. "I'd forgotten this was one of their sacred areas. It has been many years since I was last here."

"It's my fault." I swallowed heavily. "I should have studied our route beforehand. I told you I'm not fit to be a Peacesteward."

My master laughed softly. "Erastus, if being a Peacesteward required one to be perfect, the Peace Guild would have stripped me of my robes long ago. Do your best, and hope that any mistakes you make won't be mortal ones."

I shook my head. "I just don't have the qualities a Peacesteward needs."

"Oh? That wasn't the impression I got on our last mission. Or am I mistaken in recalling who it was that negotiated the peace between two nations that were about to tear themselves and the surrounding countryside into pieces smaller than dust?"

The words warmed me so much that it was a moment before I could say, "A Peacesteward needs to do more than hold the peace; he needs to train others to hold the peace. And that I can't do. I may have been able to fool those armies into thinking I wasn't terrified we'd be caught up in a thunderstorm of war, but I'd never be able to fool an apprentice. He'd know from the start that I'm a coward—"

My master threw back his head and laughed.

I stopped, astonishment mingling with deep pain. My master had never laughed at me, not in all the years we had been together. Always he had been patient with me, watching with a grave expression as I made brainsick errors, never so much as smiling as I showed myself to be a fool. Had I simply reached an age where he thought I was old enough to accept his true opinion of me? I swallowed the sickness in my throat and resolved to take this like the beatings I had received as a child, before I met my master.

He was still laughing softly – I had never heard him raise his voice, not even when we were safe in the Peace Guild's sanctuary. He wiped tears from his eyes and turned to me, smiling. "Erastus," he said, "of all the things you need worry about in life, the last concern you need have is that you will be unable to hide your fears from your apprentice. Believe me, that will be the easiest of your tasks."

"How can you be sure of that?" The pain within me had begun to ease, but I remained tense, still anticipating a blow.

He gave me one of his half-smiles then, almost a grin. "I managed it with you, didn't I?"

We walked in silence after that, pausing only once to take out our water flasks and wet our mouths. Behind us, the pink rock that marked the approach to the cliff was fading, hidden both by distance and by the darkness that was beginning to embrace us. I scrutinized the landscape, trying to memorize a path back in case my master should ask me for the information.

Beside me, my master said, "I'm not growing any younger, Erastus, and I would very much like to see you don your robes before I die. But if you don't yet feel ready, take all the time you need to prepare yourself. I know, without a doubt, that in the end you will become a master."

I gave a snort as I put the water flask back into my pack. "You have no gift for foreknowing, you told me that yourself."

"Oh, I need no foreknowing to be certain of this. The day I first met you—"

He turned his head, and I swirled around. I too had heard the horses.

The land was flat to the horizon; where they had leapt from I could not say. Possibly from the sky; the Juud often gave the impression of living in a different world.

They were clothed all in robes: not heavy robes, like that which a Peacesteward wears, but robes of gauze, colored grey like the dust and the sky. The robes wound around their legs and their torsos and their arms and their faces. How they could see to steer their horses I had never been able to figure out. The horses were as grey as they were, with black eyes that sparked with light.

I saw all this in the dim light of the setting sun. The moon would not rise for many hours, and I could barely see the Juud as they surrounded us in a ring. I looked over at my master. He was standing erect, with his hands hanging loose at his sides, his silver robe catching the last glints of daylight. I hoped that the robe would be enough to protect us.

One of the Juud came forward from the rest – it was impossible to see which one it was. I felt my breath grow more rapid, and I tried to steady it. "What matters is not what you feel but what you do," my master had told me on the day we first met, and I had tried to live up to those words ever since. Now I resisted the impulse to swallow rapidly and kept my face expressionless as the Juud rode forward.

My master waited until the Juud's horse had paused, then bowed low. I did the same. When I looked up, I saw that the Juud was not looking at me, but at the tall man beside me.

"Clovis Pelegsson," the Juud said softly, "we would not have thought that you would break our holy laws."

I felt a prickling along my back, as though I had Xai warriors behind me – as, in a way, I did. I turned my head slowly to see whether any of the Juud bore weapons, but this was a foolish act. The Juud had no need for weapons, never had. The Xai warriors could have testified to that.

"Corena," my master said, with another bow of the head to acknowledge her. "If we have wandered onto your sacred ground, I ask your pardon. We had word that you and your husbands had need of a Peacesteward."

"The Juud have no need for Peacestewards," the Juud replied softly. "We never have. Our husbands obey us in matters where the gods have demanded; we obey them in all other matters. The dispute you refer to has been settled."

I felt my back prickle again. Below the scar, my master's temple deepened. "I am sorry," he said quietly. "Perhaps, if we had come earlier, we could have been of use. May I express my sorrow to whichever of you has been widowed?"

"I will extend your joy to her when I see her next," replied the Juud. "My own regret is that we should meet you in this way. We had always considered you our friend."

Despite myself, I made a small noise in my throat. The Juud's face, still veiled, turned toward me. My master said quickly, "The regret is mine. I had mastery upon this journey, and I failed to study the territory beforehand sufficiently. I hope that you will accept my apologies for our intrusion into your sacred place."

"Apologies make no difference," said the Juud serenely. "All must be paid for, if not in this time, then in other times. That is why we sent the offender forward to his next life, so that he might have the opportunity to make expiation for his crime. That is why you must leave this time as well."

The Xai language, which both the warriors and their wives spoke, had no differentiation between singular and plural. I could not tell whether one of us or both had just been condemned to death.

It made no matter. I stepped forward and said swiftly, "The mistake was mine! I was the one who was supposed to study our route; it is I you should punish—"

"Erastus." My master's voice was stern; his hand clamped down upon my shoulder and pulled me back. I could feel the fingers dig into my shoulder as he said to the Juud, "Corena, if you kill me, you will have trouble with the Peace Guild. You know this; you know what the consequences were for your husbands the last time a Peacesteward was killed on their territory. Punishment I am certainly willing to accept for what I did, but I ask you to think again before selecting death as the punishment."

"All must be paid." The Juud's voice sounded almost patient, as though she were lecturing a child. "Each action in life finds its payment; the old pays for the young's foolishness, the young for the old's. The offender was old; now he is young once more, and when his payment is made, he will be free of his debt. Then he will no longer be imprisoned by his folly. We have helped to shatter his chains."

Only my master's grip, tightening on my shoulder, kept me from speaking. "Corena," my master said in a voice level but tight, "the Peace Guild—"

"We do not quarrel with your Guild. You are messengers sent by the gods; you show our husbands their folly before they have let their folly grow too far. We do not interfere with the mission of the gods' messengers."

My master's hand was still tight upon me, but I could not hold back. "What do you mean?" I cried. "Are you going to kill him or not?"

The head turned toward me again. "You ask whether black is white," the Juud replied calmly.

For a moment no one spoke. The Juud horses shifted in their place; the expressions of the Juud were hidden beneath the misty grey. Then my master released me and stepped forward, his palms turned forward in the manner of a supplicant. "The wise judgment of the Juud is renowned throughout the world," he said quietly. "I place myself in your hands."

"No!" I rushed forward, avoiding my master as he reached out to grab me. Coming up to Corena, I took hold of her horse's rein and said, "Punish me, not him! I'm the one who deserves to—"

My cry ended in a sharp gasp. My master's hand had fallen upon me, and this time he had placed the grip on me that he usually reserved for warriors who needed to be taught that he was not a peaceful man through lack of strength.

"Corena," my master said softly, "will you allow me a moment alone with my apprentice?"

The Juud inclined her head formally. "You may have an hour to prepare yourself." She turned her horse, and in the next moment she and the other Juud were galloping across the dust, toward the horizon where the sun was now a thin, red line.

I looked behind us quickly, trying to judge how far we were from the cliff. My master shook his head. "That wouldn't be wise," he said softly. "The Juud power extends beyond their territory." He took my arm and turned me, gently this time. I could barely see his face, so thick was the dusk now.

"Listen, Erastus," he said. "We are Peacestewards – I in mastery and you in apprenticeship. That means our mission is to hold the peace among the peoples of the world. And one of the oldest rules of the Peace Guild is that, unless it should be necessary to prevent a worse peace-breaking, we do not violate local laws. If we do so through folly or ignorance, we accept whatever punishment is given for the lawbreaking."

I swallowed around the tight ball in my throat. "Then let me take the punishment, master. It is my folly that brought us here."

"Nonsense. I am the master, mine was the responsibility to see us through this journey safely. In any case . . ."

He fell silent. The wasteland was quite empty; I could hear only the scuttling of small burrow-beasts, the harsh rattle of the wind against the prickly leaves, and the slight jingle of harness in the distance as the Juud came to a halt. My master turned away suddenly, staring toward the east, where the sky was harsh black with tiny swordpricks of stars upon it. He said, without turning, "I don't believe I have ever spoken to you of my first master."

"Your first master!" I stared at his back. I had met my master's old master only once, a few years before his death: he had been a jolly, lighthearted man, fond of rambling conversation – skilled in peaceholding in his own way, but it had been hard for me to see how a man like that had shaped my master into what he had become.

My master nodded. "We were together for only a short time, but I might as well have donned my robes of mastery after we parted – he taught me all I needed to know of strength and courage. He was a very great man, the bravest man I ever knew, and I would not be a Peacesteward today if it weren't for him."

He was still addressing the black sky; I could see only the dim outline of his back. I asked tentatively, "How is it that you parted, then?"

"He gave his life," my master replied quietly, "while saving mine."

The wind picked up speed, causing the bushes to rustle their leaves loudly. Dust spun into my eyes. I blinked it away, saying awkwardly, "I'm sorry, master. That must have been hard for you."

"Very hard. After his sacrifice, I suffered pain and guilt for many years." He turned, and I saw through the dusk that the left side of his lips was curled up in a smile. "My wound did not heal fully until I met you and came to realize that matters would be with you and me as they had been with me and my master."

I opened my mouth to protest, but my voice was blocked by his fingers, which descended lightly onto my lips. My master's smile had disappeared, and he looked down upon me gravely. "I tell you all this, Erastus, so that you will understand. I owe a debt to my master, and a debt like that cannot go unpaid."

I looked down at my feet, too dark now to be seen, and tried to swallow the tears travelling down my throat. Finally I said with clogged voice, "You sound like a Juud."

My master chuckled lightly. "The Juud's wisdom is indeed renowned – I sometimes think they would do a better job than the Guild in holding peace. Now, listen carefully: I do not know what sort of punishment I will be given, nor how long it will be. But if I am not returned by daylight, you are to go back to the House of the Peace Guild—"

"No." I spoke firmly this time, trying to sound less like a child. "I'm not leaving you here, not while there's a chance you're still alive."

"Erastus, you are my apprentice. You will do as I tell you."

I stared at him with my brows low, my jaw tight, and my chest aching from the pain of our words. After a moment he gave another soft chuckle and pulled me forward so that he could kiss my forehead.

"Stubborn," he said. "You've always been stubborn, from the day I first met you. Ah, well." He released me and took several steps away, then several more, and he had disappeared into the dark before I realized he was gone.
 

CHAPTER TWO

It was very cold that night. Even if I had been able to break sufficient branches from the prickly bushes, I would not have dared build a fire, for fear that the Xai warriors should sight it. I rolled myself up in the cloak I had carried in my pack, and watched the flicker of torchlight halfway to the horizon, where the Juud were carrying out their punishment. I could hear nothing: no talk, no screams – but then, I knew better than to expect screams from my master. I had witnessed him speak in a low voice when his thigh was half sliced through.

I found myself wishing that we had spent the hour given us trying to reach the cliff, but I knew that my master was right: there was no escaping the judgment of the Juud.

There had been an occasion during my childhood when a foreign army made plans to invade the Xai. The invaders had plenty of support; the Xai were not popular in these parts. Alas, the invaders decided to enter the Xai territory by way of one of the two dozen of the Juud's sacred grounds that lay within the territory.

No one knew how the Juud learned of their plans, but the night before the invasion, as the army lay at rest, every officer suddenly began writhing and clutching at his head as though he were being beaten. No officer survived that night; the invasion was cancelled.

That was one of the few occasions on which the Juud power made itself known over the border. Normally, the Juud paid no attention to foreigners, even the ones who were trying their best to slaughter the Xai. At most times, the Juud appeared to be nothing more than especially silent women, submissive to their husbands' wishes. But every now and then a Xai warrior would lift his hand to his wife and would die soon after, quickly or slowly as the case merited; and every now and then some foolish travellers would try to make a shortcut across a sacred ground of the Juud, and would never be seen again. No one knew whether their deaths had been prolonged as well.

Groaning, I struggled out of the chill blanket. Most nights I received warmth from my master, who followed the Peace Guild custom of sleeping beside his apprentice when out in the elements. My master's pack was nearby. I found my way to it through the unrelenting darkness and pulled from it my master's cloak, then crawled back and wrapped both cloaks around me.

Then I buried my face in my arm, trying to hold back sobs; the second cloak smelled of my master's musky scent.

I remembered that scent from the day we first met. I remembered everything from the day we first met, the day he released me from my prison.

A few years before this night in the wasteland, when I grew old enough to begin taking the mastery on some missions, under his careful supervision, my master had asked me where we should practice our peaceholding skills. I tentatively suggested that we visit orphanages; and so, for the next year, we visited every orphanage in the world that we could locate, letting the keepers know, through our presence, that the Peace Guild had its eye on the children there and would not allow them to suffer needlessly, any more than the Guild would allow whole nations to suffer needlessly from assaults by their enemies.

I learned on that trip how lucky I had been. I had not been forced to live in chambers that were without fire in the winter, in wet basements that swam with rats and bugs, in houses where the children were chained to the walls and beaten by their keepers. Whoever had brought me to the orphanage after my parents died had shown good judgment.

But if I received no ill-treatment from my keepers, neither did I or any other child at my orphanage receive any love. The keepers treated us as a pig-farmer treats her stock, caring well for the creatures' bodies so that they will be fit enough to sell for a good price, but never bothering to speak to them or pet them or smile at them. I grew up knowing of such gestures only from the children who were newly arrived and told the rest of us what we were missing.

Unloved children are not likely to show great love toward each other. Though the keepers never beat us, the ruffians among the children did. I was quickfooted and could usually avoid their blows, but some perversity in me made me come back to defend the other children who were being hit. I never did this with my fists – it did not occur to me to hit back – but instead would block the path of the bullies, giving the other children time to escape.

The bullies' reaction to this can be imagined. Nor did I find comfort among those I had rescued: they were frightened of me, thinking I was brainsick. I soon lost what few friends I had.

In the long room where we all slept, there was a drawing of a Peacesteward. The artist had depicted two armies coming together, while between them stood a tall man, his black and silver robes swirling in the wind as he put forward his hands on both sides to halt the convergence on the battlefield. Already the soldiers nearest to him were throwing their blades to the ground, their faces filled with guilt. I used to stare at that picture every night, wondering what power a Peacesteward held that he could bring peace without being beaten himself.

Then one day, as I was emerging from one of my own peaceholding missions with my eye swelling shut from a blow, I looked up to see a Peacesteward standing before me.

He was dressed as the man in the picture had been, with a black robe surmounted by a silver one, and his hair was turning silver as well. He had the oddest eyes I had ever seen, deep violet in color, and they were like blades as they ran over my face. I stood motionless, barely able to breathe.

Then he smiled suddenly. He said, "I'll wager you want to be a Peacesteward."

My throat was too tight to speak; I nodded.

"Good," he said, "because I'm in need of an apprentice." And he knelt down and drew me into his arms, kissing my forehead as he did so.

I cried, of course. Bawled against his shoulder like a wet-bottomed baby, as he stroked my hair and murmured soothing words. And then – to my great astonishment – he took me with him anyway.

That had been the best day of my life, a shining peak in my memory. After that, I had begun to descend from the summit, picking up speed as I went. For the first couple of years I tried to convince myself that I could be what my master wanted me to be; then I began to have doubts; then I knew for certain. But not until today had I found the strength to tell him the truth – today, when my lack of mastery had betrayed him in the worst possible manner.

Better that he had left me in the orphanage, I thought as my sleeve grew soaked with my tears.

It was my training that brought me out from under the heavy weight of my self-pity. "What matters is not what you feel but what you do." What good was I doing my master, lying here crushed by my feelings? I ought never to have let him go; I ought to have thrust my body in front of his to take the assigned punishment, whatever his protests might be. If there was any time left, I must do it now.

With this thought scalding my mind, I tossed the blankets aside and, abandoning the packs, I started to run.

The moon had risen during my restless hours alone; it painted a grey path over the grey grass, which was fortunate, for the torchlight had disappeared. I knew the way, though. I had marked the spot through the location of the Unchangeable Stars, as my master had taught me, and now I used the arrow of those stars as my marker as I raced forward.

I slowed before I reached the place where I remembered the fire. It would not do to anger the Juud further by bursting in upon one of their sacred rites. I began to walk forward slowly, trying to be as silent as my master had taught me, framing the words in my mind that I would speak when I saw the Juud and my master.

If my master was still there. Oh, he must be there; he could not be gone. If I had lost him— My throat started to ache once more.

A shape was beginning to appear before me. I thought at first that it was a man, and then, as I came closer and saw how low it was, I thought it was a corpse, and my throat sucked closed like a chest wound. And then I saw it was a boy.

He was huddled in a ball upon the ground, his arms hugging his legs, and his face bowed over his knees. I could not see his face, but from the paleness of his skin under the moon, I guessed him to be a Rizzian. That was unusual in itself; Rizzians usually keep well out of Xai territory, even when that territory was formerly their own.

I was still making no sound as I walked forward, but the boy must have had a keen sense of hearing; his head jerked up, and for a moment he stared at me. He had small, delicate features, which I could see clearly, for his hair was child-length, cut short beneath his ears; the moon, having reached its peak, was sending its light down upon the boy's face. The boy's eyes glimmered in the moonlight.

I must have made a sound. In the next moment, the boy had leapt to his feet and was running as fast as he could toward the western horizon. Though short in stature, he ran like a jackrabbit. Even though I was taller than him, I doubt I could have caught him in the end, but for the fact that his trousers became caught in one of the prickly bushes. I laid hands upon him, and he screamed.

The moon chose that moment to go under a cloud. Feeling the boy slipping from my grasp, I thrust him onto the ground and landed atop him. The ruffians at my orphanage had done this to me many times, to keep me from escaping; I had never thought to adopt such a manoeuver myself.

The boy had ceased his screaming and was sobbing now. "Don't," he said with ragged breath. "Don't . . ."

It took little imagination for me to guess what he feared. "Lie still," I said in his ear, feeling him squirm beneath me, trying to extract himself. Then, clutched by inspiration, I said, "You'll endanger yourself if you run away. There are others nearby."

Immediately he lay motionless. It was clear that, given the choice between one abductor and many, he preferred the former calamity. I waited until I was sure that he would not run again, then I carefully picked myself off of him, saying, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you."

He remained motionless in the dust. Under the returned moonlight, I could see that his hands were covered with scratches from where he had torn at the prickly bush, trying to extract himself from it. He said nothing.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," I said. "I was startled to find you here." This was, perhaps, the greatest understatement I'd ever made in my life.

He said in a small voice, "My family will pay you well for my safe return."

Somehow I doubted it. His clothing was that of a peasant boy: rough, home-spun cloth, and barely enough of it to cover him decently. He looked thin and gawky, like a puppy still gaining its legs.

"How old are you?" I heard myself ask.

There was a moment's pause; I could see him assessing my face, trying to decide whether he should set his age higher or lower than the truth. From the frustration that emerged onto his expression, I could tell that he was not sure of the right answer. "Twelve," he said finally.

He looked younger, but then, he appeared to be the sort of person who would look childish in his old age. When I made no move in response to his declaration, he pulled himself awkwardly up into a sitting position. Hugging himself with his arms, he said, "If the others come, will you give me to them? Or will you keep me for yourself?"

"If you're endangered, I'll do my best to protect you."

The words came to my lips in an automatic fashion. They must have had the song of truth to them, for I saw the boy's eyes narrow as he took a closer look at me. I wondered what he was seeing: a young man of medium height, in the final years of his youth, dark-skinned in the manner of the western people, dressed in the plainly woven clothing that marked members of the Peace Guild off from rich ambassadors and others who made smiling promises to hold the peace. The boy's gaze lingered upon the rope belt around my trousers, and I realized suddenly what he was looking for.

"I don't have a weapon," I told him. "I'm on a mission of peace."

His gaze flew up to my face, and his expression lightened. "Are you a Peacesteward?" he asked.

I hesitated before saying, "Yes." It was not quite the truth, but if I told him I was only an apprentice, he would want to know who my master was. And if I told him that . . .

"Clovis," I said softly.

He grew rigid, and his arms hugged his chest tighter. "How do you know my name?" he whispered.

The wind around us was growing chill. I reached forward and pulled the boy to his feet, saying, "Who else among the Rizzians has violet eyes?"

He smiled after a moment, reassured. I looked back at the sky. The moon was beginning to dip toward the western horizon, and while I would have liked to think that this was to our advantage, I knew better. "We need to go," I said. "The Juud might return, or even the Xai."

"Who?"

It was then, I think, that I fully believed what was happening. Until that moment it had been like a dream, which one accepts upon faith, expecting wakefulness to occur presently. But there was no Rizzian alive who would have asked the question this boy had asked – not, that is, unless the Rizzian possessed no memory of what the Xai had done to his people.

"The Xai are warriors, and this place is sacred to the Xai's wives, the Juud," I explained. Then, seeing the blank expression of the boy, I sighed and said, "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that we leave. What was your path here?"

He gave a vague wave of his hand to the west, and I sighed again. Taking hold of his arm, I said, "We'll return this way, then."

I had his tale from him as we made our way back over the cold, dry wasteland, avoiding as best we could the bushes that were becoming no more than dark shapes as the moon settled toward the horizon. The boy was eager enough to talk, now that he knew I was oath-bound to steward the peace.

The wasteland had not been his destination. Silverborough had been where he wanted to go – that mighty metropolis whose famed richness impressed the imagination of the boy. Silverborough had buildings sculpted into strange shapes, and a market surpassing anything the Rizzians could offer, and yet further attractions, such as the Great Seaport, and the Weeping Gardens, and the House of the Peace Guild. The boy spoke of the last in passing, as though it were of no greater interest to him than the rest.

Having no money with which to buy passage – I had been right about his family's poverty – he had instead stolen inside a ship, only to be discovered before the ship had travelled far downriver. The captain, tired of dealing with perennial stowaways, had put the boy to shore at once, with the result that Clovis had found himself on the slender bank of greenness that bordered the wasteland.

I supposed the captain had thought that a boy of two and ten years would have sense enough to make his journey back by way of the riverbank. But Clovis, seeing the long, winding road he must walk, had decided instead to take a shortcut through the wasteland, where no one roamed but the occasional fugitive from justice.

That had been two days ago. It had rained lightly on the first day, but now, at the end of the second, he was growing parched from thirst and faint from lack of food. Hearing this, I paused and spent several minutes on my hands and knees until I found what I was looking for: ground-berries. They were small, but their juice would sustain the boy until we reached our destination.

I disliked the thought of the time we were wasting thereby. More and more as Clovis spoke, I was coming to know how few defenses the boy had against danger, and certainly I had little to offer him as his protector. If the Xai came upon us . . . I lengthened my stride, slowing again only when it became apparent that Clovis's energy could not match mine.

"The river is broad when it travels through the city," he said as we reached the pink stone near the cliff and began to hear the soft rush of water. "Is there a bridge over the river here?"

I stared down at him, though taking care not to slow my pace. "Haven't you been this way before?"

He shook his head. "I've never been outside the city before. Is it far from here to—? Oh!"

We had reached the point where the ground dropped off.

The cliff fell sheer from this point, as did the cliff that was a stone's throw opposite us. Long ago, the river had channelled a deep gully through the plateau upon which the wasteland was located, and though the river's level had dropped since then, the cliffs remained as testimony to the water's former depth.

At this point in the journey, the cliffs were joined together as one cliff by a span of rock that arched over the river roaring below. This was our bridge – but oh, what a bridge. It was filled with rock that crumbled beneath one's feet and flesh-cutting stones that could not be walked upon and walls too sheer to climbed. The only path across it – forged long ago by travellers who doubtless did not survive the journey – was a narrow pathway that led along one of the sides of the arched stone. The path jutted out from the sheer wall that was to the right of it, like a tiny shelf meant to hold delicate seashells; it did not have the width of most shelves. To the left of the path, the ground dropped away again, so that any traveller who was careless in his footsteps would plunge far below to his death.

Looking at the path, I felt my head swim, and my knees grew weak. I think I would have run in the next moment, except that it occurred to me to look over at Clovis.

He had turned as white as the foaming water I could hear below; his throat was bobbing as he swallowed over and over. "I can't go over that," he whispered.

I made no reply – I was still trying to steady my breath – and he looked up and cried, "Sir, I can't! I'd die if I tried! Please, let's find another way—"

"This is the only way," I said in a hollow voice.

The boy appeared not to notice my tone. "But I can't cross that! Please, I'd rather die in the wasteland—"

His voice was rising with every word he spoke. I looked hastily over my shoulder, then crouched down and took hold of Clovis's arms. The boy shut his mouth.

"Look," I said, "I don't blame you for being scared. I'm scared too. But if you shout like that, you'll bring the Xai down upon us."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "But truly, I can't cross the cliff. You'd better go without me."

I could have laughed at his assumption that I was any better prepared to cross than he was. "I told you, I'm scared too," I said. Then, seeing the disbelief on his face, I sighed and said, "Why don't we both sit here for a while? Maybe we'll figure out another way to get back to the city."

The boy gazed at me uncertainly; his body was tense. On impulse I leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. He relaxed then and followed me over to a stone nearby where I seated myself, pulling him onto my lap. He was far lighter than I had expected him to be.

I put my arms around him and rested my chin upon his head. I was relieved not to have to cross the cliff yet, and for more than one reason.

How could I tell the boy that his city had been destroyed by the Xai fifty years ago?
 

CHAPTER THREE

When the sun rose an hour later, I was in the same position, holding a sleeping boy and feeling my body tense in anticipation of the first Xai arrow to hit us.

My mind was not entirely upon the danger we were placing ourselves in by lingering in the wasteland. I had spent the hour trying to figure out what had happened this night, and what would happen next.

"Each action in life finds its payment; the old pays for the young's foolishness, the young for the old's," Corena had said. The meaning of her words was now apparent: the punishment exacted upon my master for our desecration of the Juud ground was the replacement of the old Clovis with the young Clovis. Somehow this replacement would bring about atonement for the crime my master had committed in his old age.

And once that payment was made, would my master be returned to this time? Or would Clovis live his life over again, growing from childhood to manhood to old age?

Under ordinary circumstances, I would not have considered this so terrible a punishment. I was sure that I was not the only boy who had played with the idea of being reborn into a new life rather than being destroyed by the dark silence of everlasting death. But that was before I had seen what sort of child Clovis had been.

"I think it unlikely that I would be a Peacesteward today if it had not been for him," my master had told me. His first master had shaped him into a Peacesteward, and now the child Clovis was thrust out of his own time, into a future where no master awaited him. Could one of the other masters in this time train him to be a Peacesteward? Or would he forever remain as he was, a foolish, cowardly person?

I stared down at the sleeping figure in my lap. I knew that it was ludicrous of me to feel resentment toward the boy, but I did: every time I looked at him, I was reminded of the master I had lost and might never regain. If the boy had been an early version of my master, my feelings might have been different, but I had received no sign yet that this child held any of the qualities of the master I loved, other than a keen sense of hearing. The boy was an invader, a parasite, a demon taking the place of a man whose loss would rock the world.

I closed my eyes, trying to wash away the anger within me. I must regard the boy as my enemy, I thought to myself. As the apprentice to a Peacesteward, my duty was to bring peace, even if that meant putting aside anger toward an enemy. I must protect the boy, however much I disliked him, because if he was lost, there would be no chance of receiving my master back.

I regretted now not staying where I had found the boy; the Juud might have returned and told me whether there was any way to bring my master back. But it was daytime now, and the Juud would be at their hearths, deferentially preparing meals for their husbands. It would be best to leave the wasteland quickly, lest the Xai come upon us. Once we had reached safety, the Peace Guild could send a message to the Juud.

So we would go to the House of the Peace Guild . . . or should we? I suddenly had a vision of this boy standing amidst the self-assured apprentices. My master had waited a full year before taking me to the Guild House, and once there I understood why. The Guild House was no place for any boy who did not have stories of danger to prove his worthiness among the other boys.

But where could I take Clovis, if not to the Guild House? His city lay in blackened ruins, its few survivors scattered in a diaspora throughout the world. Even Clovis's family—

I sat up straight suddenly, causing the boy to murmur and shift. I scarcely noticed: I was remembering what I should have remembered before. My master had family – distant relations, I supposed, for he hardly ever visited them. I had never met them, for his visits had always taken place when I was studying for the periodic trials that a Peacesteward's apprentice must undergo at the Guild House. But if the Rizzian city was as small as it appeared from its ruins, then perhaps the young Clovis would know these relations and feel at home with them. I could leave him with his family – though how I would explain his presence to his family I could not imagine – and then go to the Guild House and tell the masters what had happened.

My heart beat with eagerness. Part of me – the better part of me – knew why. I was eager to be rid of this encroacher who had taken away my master; I wanted him out of my sight so that the sharp pain in my heart would begin to ease.

These were not the sentiments of a Peacesteward. I did not allow myself to recognize that.

The boy stirred again and peered up at me with blinking eyes. For a moment his face was blank; then the left side of his lips lifted in a shy smile. "Hello," he said.

I felt a flicker of shame touch me. I covered it by saying briskly, "Hello. Did you sleep well?"

He nodded. "It was nice being warm at night again." He slipped from my lap and looked around; I saw the moment when he sighted the bridge and went rigid. The ball in his throat began to bob.

"Well," I said, "we can wait here longer if you like."

He said nothing. His throat was throbbing as though he were singing.

"Clovis." I knelt down beside him and turned him to face me. His hair was golden in the early morning light, providing a startling contrast with his deep violet eyes. The eyes were wide now as they stared at me.

"There's something I have to tell you," I said. "It's not easy for me to find a way to say this, but . . . There has been a battle."

He stared at me, uncomprehending. After a minute he said politely, "Oh?"

"A battle in your city."

He stared at me a moment more, then began to laugh.

"Clovis, stop." I shook him lightly. "I'm not jesting. Your city was attacked by the Xai."

He stopped laughing abruptly; his eyes widened again. "The Xai? The warriors we're fleeing from?"

I nodded. "They're vicious warriors, among the worst in the world. Your city was too tempting a target for them – so poor that your leaders built few defenses, believing they'd never be attacked. But the Xai will attack purely for the pleasure of destruction."

Clovis twisted in my arms, as though he could see the city, though it lay beyond our sight. "My family . . ." he said in a strangled voice.

"They may have escaped," I said. "Some of the Rizzians did."

Almost none of the Rizzians did, but I found it hard to speak the plain truth to this boy: that the events I had spoken of had taken place five decades before, and that the only remaining signs of the old Rizzian city were the dark, tumbled stones of the buildings that had once stood proud.

Besides, I wanted Clovis to believe that the events were taking place now. And indeed, the boy was already tugging at my hand, saying, "We must go back! I have to find out what happened to my family!"

I stood up slowly. This was how my master had finally succeeded in persuading me across the cliff: by reminding me of the peace mission we were on, and of the man who might die if we failed to come. I wished I had similar incentive now to cross the cliff.

I stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down. Early morning mist hovered like clouds below us, obscuring my sight of the swift river tumbling over jagged rocks; the banks of the river were rock-strewn as well, I knew. All that could be seen was the white wool of the mist, like a tender cushion awaiting our fall.

I turned my head and saw that Clovis was standing beside me, gulping down air. I pulled him back quickly from the edge and said, "We don't look down. That's how we prevent ourselves from getting dizzy. We keep our attention focussed upon the wall that we're walking next to and pretend that we're walking upon ground level."

"The path isn't very wide," Clovis said uncertainly.

"That's to our advantage," I said. "We can hold onto the thick stems of the rock-plants that spring out from the wall – that gives us a handhold. It's like a railing."

I hoped I sounded as convincing as my master had been when he told me this. The boy continued to stare at the path, his throat bobbing. "I'm scared," he whispered. "I'm so scared."

"So am I." My throat tightened, looking at the thread-narrow path we must walk. How had I crossed the cliff in the first place? I knew the answer: my master had been there to help me. And now all I had was a boy who looked as though he would faint before we had travelled a body's length.

"I'll go first," I said, rubbing my palms against my thighs in order to wipe the sweat from them. "You come next and hold my hand. If you begin to fall, I'll catch you."

The boy stared up at me, his violet eyes vast behind the hair hanging down over his brow. He was obviously uncertain whether to trust me on this statement. If we waited any longer, he would think of reasons not to cross. I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them and took the first step down onto the bridge.

The path was scarcely wide enough to accommodate both my feet; the wall to the right of me nudged at my body, threatening to throw me down upon the rocks below. A pebble, disturbed by my foot, spun off the path and plunged downward silently, unobstructed in its plummet. The foot that had sent the pebble to its death stood on the edge of the path.

I reached forward to take hold of the pliant stem of a rock-plant that sprang from the wall, its roots clinging to the underside of one of the rocks. I doubted that the plant would be enough to hold me if I began to fall, but it gave the illusion of security. Then I twisted my body to the left to look back. This gave me a momentary view of what lay below, where the mist was beginning to part to reveal the harsh shapes of the stony ground. I felt myself begin to breathe quickly, and I had to force myself to remember my master's instructions in this matter.

Clovis was standing at the entrance to the path; I put out my hand to him. For a moment it appeared that he would remain where he was, with his throat throbbing over and over. Then he reached out and let me take his hand. He was already shaking.

The only wonder was that I had not yet reached that point. "Breathe slowly," I told him, remembering my momentary lapse. "It will help to calm your body. Think about each step you're taking and nothing more. Remember: we're at ground level. This is no harder than walking across one's bedroom."

He gave a shaky laugh, and I twisted my body back, keeping my left arm behind me so that Clovis could continue to hold my hand. Time had come for me to take my own advice – or rather, the advice given to me by my master. I took my next step.

Time travels slowly when you're preparing to die. Every step we took seemed as slow as the journey of the sun rising in front of us, blinding us with its light. I had to move with greater delay than I would have liked, for Clovis was dragging his steps, reluctant to lift his feet from the path. I could hear him panting, and I thought to myself that I should warn him again about the breathing, but I was afraid that if I opened my mouth a scream would escape. My legs were beginning to tremble now.

Behind me, Clovis said, "Sir, wait; I'm not sure whether I can— Sir!"

I knew even before he screamed that he was about to fall. I let go of his hand.

There was nothing else I could have done. My right hand, as luck would have it, was in open air at the moment of the crisis; if I had continued to hold Clovis, his weight would have plunged both of us to our death. So I did what my master had done when I slipped from the path: I grabbed hold of a rock-plant and turned in time to grab Clovis by the scruff of his shirt.

The front of his body was still leaning toward the wall as he fell: that was the only thing that saved us. If he had been leaning outward, his weight would have been too great – if not for me, then for the rock-plant now straining at its roots. But my yank pulled him onto the path nearly at once, so that he lay half atop the path, with his legs hanging over. A second yank brought him to his feet. He clung to me, wrapping his arms around my waist. If he fell now, I could not escape from joining him on his fall toward the brutal ground I could see below us.

I closed my eyes. It was too soon for me to feel what had just happened; the only thing spinning in my head was the thought, "You should push him over and have done with him."

I opened my eyes and looked down at the boy. He was staring up at me, his face filled with trust.

The shame that invaded me then could not be held back. It scoured me like a white-hot blaze, burning away the lesser heat of my anger and hatred. The pain of it was beyond anything I had known until that time in my life, beyond even the pain I felt at the loss of my master. But when it was done, the purifying fire had achieved its work. Nothing lay within me but a lingering feeling of guilt.

I smiled at the boy and said, in a voice that somehow managed to keep from wavering, "You see? I told you I'd catch you if you fell. And if you fall again, I'll do the same."

He gave me a trembling smile; then he clutched my waist further and began to sob hysterically.

It took us half the morning to walk the short distance across the cliff-bridge. At one point it occurred to me that, if the Xai found us, we would make easy targets for their arrows, but I had reached the point where such an end seemed like mercy. Clovis sobbed the whole way, and I was hard pressed not to join him in this. The moment we had both reached safe ground on the other side of the cliff-bridge, I sank to my knees, faintness overcoming me.

Clovis failed to notice; he was crouched on the ground ahead of me, vomiting. After a minute, I managed to reap enough energy that I could crawl over to him. I held his head as he wrung out the last of the ground-berries; then I wiped the sweat from his brow. "You did quite well," I said. "Much better than I did when I first crossed the cliff."

He stared at me, disbelief clear in his face. "I was scared!"

"So was I." Then, as the disbelief deepened, I added, "The first time I crossed the cliff, I froze halfway across, and the master who was training me had to spend half of an hour persuading me to continue onwards."

The boy's expression of disbelief did not waver. I sighed and rubbed my hand across my face, wishing that we were near the river so that I could bathe the sweat off me. Parts of my clothing were soaked right through; it was a wonder to me that the boy had not yet noticed.

Then suddenly, with the changeability of a child, he leapt to his feet. "My family!" he said. "We must go help them!" And he bounded across the sandy ground to where the slope fell, in gentle breasts of grassland, to the plain below.

"Clovis, wait!" I said, struggling to make my shaking legs obey my command as I rose. "I haven't told you everything yet. Your city looks different now than it did when you saw it last—"

I reached the boy's side. He was staring open-mouthed at the sight below him.

The day-sky was clear of clouds, causing the scene below to shine with color. The foam-flecked river, twisting abruptly in its path to travel north, curled round to the foot of the plateau we stood upon. Travelling atop the water, like a late-autumn leaf carried by the current, was a sailing ship; I could barely make out the ant-like figures on its foredeck that were the sailors. Further upriver, where the water curved toward the east, another ship had furled its sails and was standing at dockside; a crane pulled heavy crates from its hold. Tiny figures stood nearby, supervising the unloading of the cargo. Further away, where the portside met the first row of buildings, other small figures were streaming in and out of the table-bordered taverns. All through the streets below, minuscule human figures could be seen walking about in a leisurely manner.

"Look!" Clovis turned his eager face toward me. "The city's all right! It's not lost after all!"

"Yes," I said slowly, staring down at the brilliant white buildings below me. "The city's all right. It's not what's lost."
 

CHAPTER FOUR

Although it had been many years since the Rizzians had worried about warfare, their city had the minimal requirements of a defense. A steep wall surrounded all but the dockyard, while the city itself was built upon an upswelling of land. The highest point, being the most defensible, had originally been set aside for the guildmen who were elected to represent the various interests of the Rizzian people, but these officials had soon tired of the windy hill and had moved their families to dwellings nearer the lightly guarded gates. The top of the hill was now reserved for the poorest of this poor city's inhabitants, which was why I stood upon the rooftop of one such dwelling, gazing down upon all the buildings of the gleaming city that had been destroyed thirty years before I was born.

To the south of me lay the streets leading to the city gates; to the north were the streets leading to the port. The houses were of the usual sort in this part of the world: stiff, winding reeds covered with plaster. I could see a portion of the city that had been the victim of fire recently, but the citizens here were evidently cooperative in responding to emergencies – the fire damage had not spread far.

It looked much like the city I had grown up in, except that its planner, in a fit of whimsy, had decided to provide the city with few cross-streets: most of the streets ran east to west, with the narrow alleyways the primary means for moving from one street to the next. The citizens cheerfully used these as passages, evidently unafraid that they would become the victims of lawlessness.

I wished I could share their optimism. I turned my attention to the yard below, where a battle was taking place.

The battle was over a discarded piece of plankwood that had been drilled with a hole; through the hole a rope had been wound and knotted, while the other end of the rope had been bound to the branch of a tree that stood in the yard, looking as though it were of little use except in such mundane matters.

The swing had become the focus for the convergence of two armies.

"I had it first!" cried the girl, her cheeks flushed with fury as she clutched the rope. "You can't use it till I'm finished!"

Clovis, tugging at the wood, said in a tight voice, "You only claimed it because you saw that I wanted it. You always take the swing when I want it, Cathleen."

"I do not!" the girl's voice was so loud that a bird, pecking hopefully at the grassless ground of the yard, fluttered away with a squawk, flapping over the bushes that separated the yard from the cottage next door. The girl, failing to remove the swing from Clovis's grasp, raised her hand.

I moved more from instinct than anything else. I was still standing atop the roof, looking down upon the scene; I flung myself from the roof, turned to catch the edge of the roof as it passed, then let this momentary clutch break my fall to the ground. When I turned round, rubbing my stinging hands together, I saw that the children were staring at me open-mouthed.

"How did you do that?" Clovis asked in a hushed voice.

I stared back at him a moment, then gave half a laugh. "It's easy, with practice. I'll show you after our meal. May I be of assistance here?"

As I spoke, I walked forward and firmly took possession of the swing, not giving them time to answer no. The children exchanged looks; then Cathleen said, "He stole the swing from me!"

"I didn't." Clovis's voice was lower than Cathleen's, almost tentative, but his cheeks were also red with anger. "She took it before I could reach it – she always does that."

"I do not!"

"You do too—"

I cut them off swiftly with a gesture; they subsided, like a boiling pot removed from the fire. Turning to Cathleen, I said, "Do you use the swing every hour of the day?"

She frowned, thrusting her lower lip out defiantly. "No. Clovis has plenty of chances to use it."

"Good," I said in an approving voice. "Then all that you need to do is arrange a schedule. At certain times of the day you can use the swing, and at certain times of the day your brother can."

She screwed up her face and tilted her head back to regard me with suspicion. "What if I'm inclined to use it during one of his scheduled periods? You can't tell when you're going to want to swing, you know."

She spoke as though I were an ancient man who might have forgotten this essential fact of childhood. I bit away a smile and said, "If that happens, then you bargain with your brother – you give him something he wants in exchange for being able to use the swing during his time period. Perhaps you could give him more time at the swing later in the day."

Cathleen's face continued to be twisted in doubt. Clovis said quickly, "You rise earlier than I do in the morning. You could have the swing until midday – all I ask is that you let me have the swing for an hour or two in the evening."

Cathleen pondered this, her brow furrowed. I stepped back, saying, "Why don't you think about it? If you need someone to help you shape the schedule, I'll be inside."

I withdrew hastily from the yard, before the girl could begin to think of reasons to argue with me. When I reached the doorway to the cottage and looked back, I saw that Clovis's sister had lost interest in me. She was fourteen, old enough to be of courting age, but still young enough not to wonder why a strange man had been invited to join her family for dinner.

I turned my head back toward the room before me. It was the only room in the cottage, other than the bedroom, which had been promptly given over to my use. Most of the main room was devoted to the candlemaking frame, with its wicks hanging down in preparation for being dipped in the jars of warm wax. At a nearby window, bees buzzed around a hive, the sole source of the family's income.

At the other end of the room, stooping over a simmering pot, was a middle-aged woman, her hair caught back in a carefully plaited braid. As she turned, I saw that she had one of the younger children at her breast; the other little one, twin sister to her brother, sat in the middle of the floor, dropping pebbles into an empty bowl. Her mother crouched down to wipe drool from the tiny girl's face, then straightened and caught sight of me. She smiled.

"Four is just enough to be able to keep track of," she said. "If I had any more, I'd be hard pressed."

"At least your eldest boy is a quiet one," I said, reaching over to take the babe from her arms as she reached for a bouquet of herbs. "I should think that he causes you little trouble."

I turned my eyes away as I spoke, averting my gaze as she covered her breast with her shirt. I had met few women during my life, for few could be found in the orphanage or in the Guild House or on the missions my master and I undertook amongst the leaders of the nations. It felt odd to be speaking alone to a woman, especially one who was my master's mother. It felt even odder to know that she was only ten years older than myself.

"Appearances lie," Monica said with a soft laugh. "Clovis is more trouble than the other three combined – he's always getting himself into scrapes." Her smile faded, and she went over to stand by the window as I awkwardly deposited the babe next to his twin. The children's mother said, without turning her head, "Their father was killed last year in an accident."

"Clovis told me," I said quietly. "I'm sorry."

She nodded, but kept her gaze fixed in the direction of the children, who were engaged in intense negotiations with one another. Monica said, "He was a dockyard worker. He got a bit drunk and took up a wager from some of his friends to swim twice round a ship that was landing. As he reached the end of the second lap and was preparing to climb back onto the dock, he saw that the ship's sailors were about to dock, unaware or uncaring that he was in the water. His friends cried out to him to climb up, but Peleg simply froze in the water, unable to move – and so he was crushed and drowned."

I said nothing. Beyond the chatter of the children outside, I could hear only the subdued sounds of midday; most of the Rizzians were resting from the heat, and only the appearance of a stranger had roused this household to prepare a welcoming meal. Being Rizzian, Monica had asked nothing of me, not even my name. This was just as well, as I had taken her son's name as my patronymic.

"Clovis is like his father," Monica said softly. "He gets himself into scrapes, and then he doesn't know how to extract himself. I live in fear that he'll end up like Peleg."

"All he needs is the proper training," I said truthfully. "There are trades he could take up that would discipline his mind and body."

She turned her face to look at me, and I saw that she was smiling. "Clovis says that you're a Peacesteward."

I shook my head awkwardly. "I'm only an apprentice. I haven't won my robes of mastery."

"But you will," she said firmly.

"How can you be so sure of that?"

She pointed, and I came to join her at the window. In the yard, under a sky that was beginning to cloud, Clovis sailed through the air upon the swing, propelled into flight by his sister, who has standing behind him and laughing.

I felt pleasantness wash over me, as it always did at the end of a successful mission, even though I knew that half the time the peace I had negotiated would be broken within the year. And with the pleasure came, as always, the surprise: I could never figure out how it was that I managed to bring the peace. In the past, I had attributed my powers to the presence of my master, but now . . .

"Settling a quarrel between children is one thing," I told Monica. "Settling a quarrel between two men who have armies to back their fury is quite another."

"The principle is the same, I would think," she replied. "Sometimes I think that my children are far wiser than the great leaders of the world." Then she smiled and added, "But that is all far away from here. Our guild leaders are more sensible; they never allow us to quarrel with our neighbors."

I was silent again, watching Monica turn to skim the leaves off the herbs and toss them in the great simmering pot in the man-high fireplace. At my feet, the little ones of the household had decided that I made for more entertaining play than the pebbles; they were tugging at my trousers, grinning up at me toothily.

"Will you be staying in the city for long?" Monica asked as she took up the ladle to stir the pot.

I was tempted to say, "For far too short a time to court your daughter." Instead I replied, "I'm not sure. I was separated from my master during our mission; I must stay in this city as long as there's any hope that he will return. I do need to send a message to the House of the Peace Guild, though."

"What sort of message?" Monica asked. Then, as I hesitated, she waved away her question with that apologetic gesture Rizzians make when they realize they have probed the privacy of a guest.

Outside, there was a laugh and a shout. Cathleen tumbled into the cottage. It took her only a moment to sight the bowl of bush-berries on the table; then she hurried forward and dipped her hand into the bowl. "Want some?" she asked me, her Rizzian heritage evidently too well ingrained in her to allow her to go first in the presence of a guest. I shook my head and she swallowed the handful, then wiped the juice from her face, saying, "What are you talking about?"

"Peacestewards," I said before Monica could reply. "I was wondering whether there are any here in the city."

Cathleen shrugged. Her mother, turning around and gently batting Cathleen's hand away from the bowl, said, "I doubt it. We're too peaceful a place to need the attention of the Peacestewards. You're the first person from the Peace Guild that I've ever set eyes upon."

"I've seen another Peacesteward."

The words came from the doorway. All of us turned to look at Clovis. Unlike his sister, he had ignored the pangs of hunger long enough to stop and wash his hands in the basin by the doorway. He carefully dried his hands upon the cloth there before saying, "There's a Peacesteward in the city right now. I've seen him at the Tavern By The Gate."

"Are you sure he's a Peacesteward?" his mother asked as she began to bring forward spoons and bowls.

"I think so." Clovis's voice was tentative. "He's wearing a silver robe. And once there was a fight in the tavern, and he got up and stopped it. He walked right into the middle of all those angry men." The expression of astonishment on the boy's face told clearly that he could not imagine why anyone would do such a thing.

Cathleen had been trying to speak. Now she burst in, saying, "The Tavern By The Gate is only open after darkfall."

Clovis bit his lip and looked down; his throat began to bob. His mother sighed. "Clovis," she said, "have you been leaving the cottage during the night again?"

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. "But that's when all the interesting things occur in the city."

"You were bad," Cathleen said, kneading in the message. "You deserve to be punished. Doesn't he, mother?"

"We'll discuss this later," his mother said, shooting a dark look at her daughter to remind her of the presence of a guest. I moved to take the bowls from Monica. When she refused my offer of help, I said, "I ought to clean myself before we eat."

"I've placed a fresh basin and cloths for you in your room," Monica replied. "If you need anything else, Clovis can fetch it for you."

I nodded absentmindedly; already I was making my way toward the cubicle in the corner of the cottage. I was glad that it had a door I could shut.

It was the first time I had been alone since my discovery of the boy. I sat down on the broad pallet in the corner – Clovis's family could afford nothing better – and stared at the light making its way through the trellised window where vines clung, providing the household with wine. I needed time to sort my thoughts.

"Each action in life finds its payment; the old pays for the young's foolishness, the young for the old's." Now at last the true meaning of the words was clear to me. The Juud had accepted my offer to be punished in place of my master; it was I, not Clovis, who had been sent out of time to make reparation for our crime.

But in what way must I make payment? It could not be coincidence that I had been sent back to the time of my master's childhood, nor that Clovis had been here to meet me when I arrived. The Juud must have sent me here to make some difference in the lives of Clovis and his people.

Of course, it was clear enough what difference I could make. I alone knew that the Xai would attack and destroy this city. I was not entirely sure of when they would do so – when I first met my master, he had spoken of the destruction of his city occurring "forty years ago," but this was no doubt meant as an approximate number. Of one thing I could be sure: at age fifteen, younger than any other apprentice in the history of the Peace Guild, Clovis would don his robes of mastery. Some time in the next three years – more likely in the next two years, given the time needed for Clovis's training – the city would be attacked and the Rizzian people all but destroyed.

Unless I intervened. I rested my chin on my fists, trying to think. I could not offer physical proof that I was from another time – even the dated coins I had carried during my mission had been left behind with my pack – but I could prove to the Peace Guild that I had been trained as an apprentice. Since I would not appear in the Guild's records, the masters might believe me when I told the truth – for assuredly, the Peacestewards must be the ones I turned to for help. Only they could approach the Xai and make peace before the warriors launched their deadly attack.

And after that? Would I be returned to my own time once I had made reparation and saved Clovis's people? Or would I be left in this time, masterless, unable to do anything except feed off the charity of the Peace Guild or take work as a tradeless laborer?

Masterless. That was the thought that hurt most. I had known for several years that the time would come when I must part from my master; the time would come when it became clear to my master that I did not have the skills to be a Peacesteward. But always I had imagined that my master would be somewhere in the world after that happened – that if my life reached its worst, I could turn to him for advice. Now there was no one to advise me.

Except, perhaps, the mysterious Peacesteward who sojourned in this city.

There was a scratching at the door– Rizzians are too polite to knock – and Clovis's head poked into the room cautiously. "Do you need help?" he asked.

I regarded him silently, trying to make a connection between the bashful boy before me and the master who had faced the cliff-bridge without flinching. After a moment I abandoned the effort and rose from the pallet, saying, "You could hand me the cloths as I need them."

He did so, watching me as I stripped down and began to bathe the dried sweat off of my body. After gifting me with three cloths, he said, "The other Peacesteward . . . Is he here on a mission of peace, like you?"

"I doubt it," I said, "He's probably here to collect information on the Rizzians, in case trouble should arise here in the future. That will allow the Peace Guild to respond swiftly in the event of a crisis."

Though not swiftly enough in the case of the Rizzians. Curious about my master's origins, I had once read the report filed long ago about the peaceful Rizzian city, in the era before it was destroyed. It had not occurred to me to check to see which Peacesteward had prepared the report.

Clovis dipped a fresh cloth into the basin, saying, "What will you talk to him about?"

I raised my eyebrows, and he flushed, but he did not make the Rizzian gesture erasing the question. The silence between us lengthened until Clovis asked, in a burst, "Will you talk about the Xai attack?"

I washed all down the length of my legs before saying, "I was mistaken about the attack. You can see for yourself that your city's at peace."

"But will it stay at peace?"

I looked over at him. He was holding another wet cloth in readiness for me; his body was tense. He said in a low voice, "I thought at first you invented the attack as a way to persuade me to cross the cliff. But afterwards . . . I saw your face when you sighted our city; you were truly surprised the city wasn't harmed." He pressed the cloth into my hand, though I had no need of it, and whispered, "Do you foreknow the future?"

I handed the cloth back to him. "I've finished washing myself. And you've used all the cloths for washing, so there's none left for drying."

"Oh." Disconcerted, the boy looked at the pile of wet cloths.

I smiled at him. "It helps to think about the consequences of what you're going to do, before you do it. It saves trouble having to retrace your steps afterwards."

I left Clovis pondering this with furrowed brow as I stepped over to the warm light flowing through the window. My body began to dry at once; I rested my arm upon the windowsill, contemplating the vine-grapes before me. A voice from the past whispered in my mind, "We smelled the vine-grapes burning. That's how we knew that the fire had reached our cottage."

I could not remember the rest of what my master had said to me, during those first days I had been his apprentice. I knew that the boy would survive the destruction of his city, but would Monica? Cathleen? The two little ones?

Behind me, Clovis said in a voice as hushed as before, "You do foreknow the future, don't you?"

I turned back to look at him. He appeared as filled with terror as when we stood on the edge of the cliff: his throat was bobbing, and he was clutching the wet cloth to his chest.

"Clovis . . . ." I said.

"I need to know!" he cried. "If it's true, I need to know before it happens."

I realized suddenly, looking upon him, that this was indeed the case. The boy knew his own limitations; during this period of his life, he needed time to prepare himself for crises – time to steel himself, time to keep from panicking as his father had done.

"It's true," I said softly. "I don't know all that will happen, but I know that this city is in danger from the Xai."

He let out a heavy sigh, and the cloth dropped from his hands. Bending hastily to retrieve it, he said, "We have guards . . ."

"Most of them are stationed at the port, where your leaders expect an attack to come from, since the city border is undefended by walls there. But the Xai will attack from the south, through the city gate, under cover of the dark – they'll have crashed through the gate before anyone can see what has happened."

He was breathing heavily now, and his face was white. "We must tell the city's guild leaders."

"Even if they knew, they wouldn't be able to stop the Xai. Only the Peace Guild has the skill to hold the Xai from attacking an intended prey – that's why I must contact the Peacesteward in this city."

"That's the mission of peace you're on." The boy's face lit up, and he stepped forward. "Take me with you tonight," he begged.

I was warm and dry now, and I stepped over to my clothes. "I'll have to leave after darkfall. I doubt your mother would allow you to accompany me."

Clovis came over to the pallet where I was crouching and grasped the shirt I was reaching for. He handed it to me, saying in a tight voice, "Please."

I shook my head as I rose to don the shirt. "Little will be accomplished tonight. The Peacesteward will need to return to the House of the Peace Guild to make arrangements for a peace talk with the Xai."

The boy didn't waver in his pleading look. I sighed. "Why are you so intent on coming with me?"

He stared at the ground then, the flush returning to his cheeks. After a moment he said, in a very small voice, "I'm curious."

His ears were turning red. With more courage than he had shown until this time, he titled his head up to see how I would react to his admission of weakness.

I began to laugh. It was uncontrollable laughter; before long I was sitting on the pallet, trying to hold my aching sides. The boy seemed uncertain how to take this at first, but I pulled him down into the crook of my arm, and after a moment he gave a sheepish grin and curled up against me.

So simply is a great mystery solved. In my own time, Clovis Pelegsson was the most famed Peacesteward in the Guild – indeed, some said that he was the greatest Peacesteward who had ever lived. Certainly the simple recitation of the number of people he had saved from probable death was enough to put any apprentice in awe.

Yet in many ways my master was a mystery, even to the other masters. And the greatest mystery attached to my master was this: How did he know when trouble would arise? For he always seemed to know. Whenever war was about to start, or a guild was on the point of cutting the throat of another guild, or some group of citizens had taken it upon themselves to oppress another group of citizens, my master was always there ahead of time, soothing the tension and ensuring that the crisis never reached the point where it would be unmanageable even to a Peacesteward.

Over and over again, I had been asked by my fellow apprentices – and on a few occasions by my master's fellow masters – "How does he do it? How does he know where trouble will arise?"

And here, finally, was the answer, the simple answer. My master's unique instinct for locating trouble before it arose was nothing more than a mature version of a young boy's voracious curiosity.

"All right," I said, when I had wiped way the tears of laughter. "You may come with me. If your mother agrees."

The boy's face fell at this addendum, but he scrambled to his feet and said, "I'll ask her. And I'll fetch you more cloths." He had shot out of the room, as swift as a Xai arrow, before I was able to point out to him that I no longer needed the cloths.

I remained where I was, slowly pulling my trousers toward me, but too absorbed in thought to put them on. I had not granted Clovis permission to accompany me simply to satisfy the curiosity of a twelve-year-old, of course. If nothing else, his presence would be a restraint, preventing me from telling the Peacesteward the whole story of who I was. But that hardly mattered now; in the midst of my laughter, I had realized that I had been brought to this time period for another task besides saving the Rizzian people. Indeed, I had been granted by the Juud the opportunity to accomplish a task that, in the long run, would have far greater consequences than the peace mission I had envisioned.

The Peacesteward in this city was Clovis's first master, whose strength and courage would shape the boy into the legend he was destined to be. And I would be the one to introduce Clovis to him.
 

CHAPTER FIVE

To my surprise, Monica agreed to let me bring Clovis.

"Yes, take him," she said. "The streets are hard to traverse, even for us natives, and they're ill-lit at night. Just be sure not to let him persuade you to enter any alleys – they're dangerous at night."

"I've never met a city street that wasn't dangerous at night," I said. "I'm surprised you're allowing him to accompany me."

She gave a shrug as I helped her fill the pot with cleansing water; already I had become so much a part of the family that my status as a guest had been partly eased. "He goes out by night, whether I permit it or not. If I lock the doors, he escapes by the window. At least if he is with you, I can be sure that he will be safe."

I paused with pitcher in hand, saying uneasily, "I'm not a Peacesteward. I don't have a silver-robed man's power or skill to protect your son."

"You will hold him safe," she replied, so firmly that I could not find any way to contradict her.

Courtesy required that I wait until after the late-evening meal to leave the home, and I soon saw that I had been right in any case to await the full rising of the moon, for the city's streets were indeed ill-lit. People who were well enough off carried torches; the poorer people depended upon the light of the moon to guide their way. If the light was masked by a cloud for a few minutes, people simply stopped and chatted until the torch in the sky returned. It said something about the Rizzians that they remained fearless that any thieves would attack them in the meantime.

Clovis and I did not pause during the periods of darkness; the boy would continue to lead us down the streets, curving wide of any obstructions. With my hand in his, following him as he made his way down the street, I might have been back in my own time. But whenever the clouds parted, I would see again the boy's face turned anxiously back toward me.

"You ought to lead," he had said at the start of our journey.

I shook my head. "You have the skill to lead us in the dark; I don't." I said this with certainty. It had been a long time before my master had been able to convince himself that he would not be able to pass on to me his famed gift for navigating dark landscapes – a helpful talent for any Peacesteward who might find his role abruptly changed to that of a fugitive.

The boy Clovis not only possessed this skill, but he appeared to know better than his elders how to thread his way through the twisted labyrinth of the streets. Whereas the other Rizzians stood baffled at cross-streets or made their way back with a blush from streets that had proved to be the wrong ones, Clovis turned errorlessly onto streets which appeared to end in a wall, but which proved to be the only way through to the city gate.

"There are many streets and alleys that end dead," he explained, "and many streets and alleys that don't, but seem that they do. I think the planner of our city had a sense of humor."

A deadly sense of humor, I thought grimly to myself, remembering how the confused maze would benefit only men on horseback who could easily outrace anyone trying to figure out in a panic which way to go. This was one of the reasons why all cities, after the Rizzian disaster, had been more carefully planned.

Clovis, with the instinct for trouble that had nearly killed him in the wasteland and that would place himself and his apprentice in continual danger in fifty years' time, wanted to shortcut our journey by way of the alleys. I understood why after we had been travelling for an hour: it was beginning to look increasingly unlikely that the winding pattern of the main streets would take us to the Tavern By The Gate before the tavern closed at night's peak. My mind was split whether to follow Monica's instructions or to hasten my vital mission by disobeying her. Only my awareness that I had little ability to protect Clovis kept me from braving the purse-lifters in the alleys.

"I'm not sure we'll be able to reach there in time," the boy said in the tentatively stubborn tone I was beginning to become familiar with. "Mother doesn't often go to the city gate; if she remembered how long the journey is by the regular streets, I'm sure she would have told us— Sir, what's that?"

The moon was under a cloud as he spoke. I could not see what it was that he was referring to; nor, it appeared, could the other Rizzians on the street, for they were all chatting lightly, waiting for the moon to re-emerge. Down at the cross-street where we were headed, a richer Rizzian was holding a torch, but it was like a faraway star from where we stood.

The boy was rigid beside me. His hand was so tight upon mine that the pain of his grip cut through my arm; he had not spoken again after the first words. The darkness continued, aided by the breadth of a cloud that was passing over the moon's face.

"Oh, no," I heard myself whisper. "Not yet. I'm not ready yet."

Somewhere beyond the streets we were travelling toward, there was the sound of a distant crash, and then, yet more faint, the sound of shrill screams. The boy clutched at my arm with his other hand.

"What is it?" he cried. "Oh, sir, is it the attack?"

I too could now hear the thunder of hooves as horsemen made their way into the city. By the time the light returned to the street where we stood, even the Rizzians who had never expected such an event had drawn the right conclusion about the nature of the sounds. There were cries all around me. Women were clutching at their escorts, while unaccompanied men were gathering in confused groups, shouting at each other in debates over what to do. Only a few men, evidently guards who were off duty, began racing in the direction of the city gate, but most of them were unarmed and would, I knew, spend their blood in the first minutes of the attack.

Even if I had been trained in sword skills, I could not have helped them; the job of a Peacesteward and his apprentice, always, is to remain on neutral ground during any conflict, using negotiation rather than bloodletting to protect those who are attacked. I was bound by my oath to remain unarmed, even though I knew that the time for peace talks was now past.

I managed to extract myself from Clovis's grip and knelt down beside him. "Yes, it's the Xai," I said. "We must move swiftly."

The boy neither spoke nor moved. Under the white sheet of light from the moon, he looked bloodless. When I reached up to touch his cheek, I learned that his face had indeed drained of blood's warmth.

I gave Clovis a small shake to try to break him from his paralysis. "Come!" I said, struggling to keep my voice from rising in a scream of panic. "I know you're scared – I'm scared too. What matters is not what we feel but what we do. We must leave here."

Still the boy did not move. His eyes were wide and his chest heaved; he was limp under my grip now, and I wondered whether I would have to carry his fainting body.

Not that I would know where to go if he fainted.

I believed – truly I believed at that moment – that this was the only thing keeping me from abandoning the boy. He held half the key to our escape, though I held the other half; only the combination of our weak skills would enable us to survive tonight. Yet I knew that, though Clovis was sure to emerge alive from the screaming black danger descending upon us, there was no guarantee that I would. I was a usurper from another time, and I could easily die in a short while, unremembered in any of the Peace Guild's accounts of this night.

The sounds of death were louder now. I could hear the distinctive yipping of the Xai warriors as they descended with delight upon their prey; screams and pleas gave evidence that few of their prey were escaping. Some of the people in our street had already begun to run, though in varying directions – some away from the sound of attack, others in the direction of the attack, toward the gate that they hoped would bring them safety. It was the closest way out of the city, and it appeared that, though the path to it was dangerous, it was the greatest hope for anyone who did not have the courage or folly to face down the warriors.

I took hold of Clovis's arm and pulled him into the dark shadow of the alley next to us, on the south side of the street. We bumped almost immediately into a man standing there. From the bloody knife in his hand, there could be no doubt of his profession, but he seemed in no hurry to relieve us of our purses. "Which way do we go?" he gasped.

"Toward the port," I replied without hesitation. "It's further from here than the gate, but the gate is a death trap – anyone who goes that way will die. There are boats at the port that will transport a few refugees from here."

He darted out of the alley before I could warn him to stay off the main streets, which would likewise be a death trap on this night. I heard him curse as the moon went briefly under a cloud and he crashed into objects in the street.

Clovis was staring up at me, still limp under my hand. Somewhere in the boy was the courage that would one day make his name a whispered word of hope throughout the nations, but the only man who could have found the way to unlock that courage was not here. If a Peacesteward had died in the attack, surely the Guild records would have stated this; Clovis's master must have been among those to have made it safely to the port. Only a few would make it that far, very few, and time was falling away for us. Soon all the boats would be gone.

"Clovis . . ." I said, and then I thrust him onto the ground, covering his body with mine.

Even as I did so, I knew that this would not be enough; I rolled with him in my arms, ending up with Clovis jammed between me and the wall. He had given a cry as I pushed him to the ground, but if he spoke after that I could not have heard him, for next to us were shouts and hooves and high, joyful yipping sounds.

And with them came the sound I had been awaiting above all: the thud of a crossbow as a Xai loosed his arrow.

For a moment after the hooves passed us, I remained where I was, upon the dirt ground of the alley, pressing the boy hard against the wall. Then Clovis said, in a small voice, "I can't breathe."

His voice could just be heard now over the yipping, which had receded to further down the street, though I could hear more hooves approaching from the other end of the street. I reached behind me, assuring the boy, "They didn't see us." Then I pulled from the dirt the arrow that had landed so closely to my back that its shaft had trapped me.

The boy was shaking by the time I pulled him to his feet. "I'm scared," he said, his teeth beginning to chatter on this warm night. "I'm so scared." His throat was jiggling in its familiar manner.

I didn't bother to remind him that I was frightened as well. This was hardly the first sacked city I had found myself ensnared within; one of the unfortunate side effects of my master's talent for locating trouble was that, if the trouble spread beyond mending, we were invariably caught up in it. Yet always before I had been able to depend upon the strength and wisdom of my master to find the way to safety. Now here I was, skill-less in a city where nearly all the inhabitants would die tonight, my only hope lying in a boy whose courage I did not have the talent to rouse.

And more hooves were coming.

I pressed the boy carefully against the wall this time, turning myself to look out upon the source of the danger. Thus it was that I saw the Xai horsemen thunder past, their tattoos and crossbows glittering in the moonlight. There were about a dozen of them, not counting the Rizzian woman struggling in the arms of one of the warriors.

I stepped back once they were past. Already, from the direction of the streets we had travelled upon earlier, I could hear yipping and screams. If we waited much longer, we would have no hope of reaching the port. I looked down at Clovis and saw that he was peering cautiously out from the alley, in the direction that the horsemen had gone. From the cries at that end of the street, I could guess what he was watching.

He looked up at me, his face as white as a bone. "My mother . . ." he said.

I could barely hear his voice over the shouts and the thud of arrows. I knelt down and said, "She'll be safe, provided she keeps the little ones with her. The Juud have placed a charge upon the Xai that they not harm babes or nursing mothers."

I hoped this was true; I knew that this was the night when the Xai's few rules of mercy would be broken over and over. Clovis said, his voice fainter, "But Cathleen . . ."

I did not want to think about that, nor of what would happen if Clovis were captured. I knew that he would live out this night; I did not know in what manner he would live it.

Desperation brings inspiration; I had often learned that on missions with my master. Taking hold of the boy's arms again, I said firmly, "We must go back to your family. They won't know which way to flee from danger, and they may even come searching for you."

The shock of this suggestion did its work. Clovis turned abruptly, straining toward the street, in the direction of his home.

I kept hold of his arms. "Wait," I said. "We need to stay to the alleys – the streets will be too dangerous. And when we cross the streets, it must be under cover of darkness. Can you do that?"

He stared at me blankly, evidently confused as to why he was being consulted. I tightened my grip, saying, "Clovis, I need your help! I'll protect you as best I can, but I can't find my way to your cottage and the port, and I can't perceive in the dark. This is a mission we must undertake together."

For a moment more he stared at me, and I could have screamed at him in my frustration. Every part of me now was aching from the fear coursing through me. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back, where the memory of the arrow remained.

Finally he nodded, a short jerk of the head, and both our gazes rose toward the moon. It was sailing amidst the clouds, which were dark and heavy with rain that would not fall until it was too late. Little wisps of cloud trailed like stray threads over the moon's face and a sprinkling of stars, but I had my eye on a heavy clump of darkness nearing the moon, and I was trying to calculate how long it would cover the great white bubble.

Then it touched the moon. I could feel Clovis tense under my hand, and I wondered whether his fear would chain him once the moment came, but as we slipped into darkness, he reached up and tugged at my hand, and we started underway.

We ran at a trot, Clovis being apparently unwilling to put his navigational abilities to any stronger test. All around us I could smell men and blood. Once we brushed past the tail of a horse; it whinnied, but its owner, who was speaking in harsh Xai to someone nearby, did not hear.

And then we had reached the alley, in the very moment of the moon's return. I pushed Clovis into the dark sanctuary, then turned for a single look at the moon-flooded street, down in the direction of where the woman's screams had continued throughout the nighted interval.

Then I turned away again. The Xai do everything on horseback.

I lost track of how many alleys we ran down, how many streets we crossed. Every time we paused to await the moonlight's departure, I was convinced that Clovis's fear would falter him, but each time the white-faced boy tugged at my hand and we started forth again in our flight.

Then we reached the fire.

It had just started. A group of Xai had put a cottage to torch and were standing back to examine their handiwork, grinning at each other. I saw that the door to the cottage had been broken down, but no one entered the house: once on horseback, a Xai disdains to dismount, even to pursue prey. They were waiting for the inhabitants of the household to come out to them, and I guessed that a similar party was guarding the back entrance. Their crossbows were cocked.

Clovis was shivering beside me. I pulled him close and murmured, "We can't be far from your cottage now."

"But the fire . . ." His voice shook too.

I glanced down the street at the light-licked houses and realized what the boy meant. There would be no darkness on this street for us to sidle within.

"They're sucked into their task," I told Clovis, squeezing his hand. "They won't notice us." I took a deep breath and added, "Ready yourself."

I was right about the Xai warriors at the fire failing to notice us, as it happened. It would have helped if they had been the only warriors abroad that night.

I heard the hooves thundering toward us when we were halfway across the street. I did not even need to look to know what was happening. "Run for home!" I shouted to Clovis, pushing his boney shoulder-blades, and then, as the boy sped off with fear nipping at his ankles, I turned to face the Xai.

There was nothing else I could have done. If I had followed Clovis in his wake, the Xai would have reached us both before we could take refuge in the alley. I could only hope that the Xai would settle for the biggest prey and allow the smaller beast to slip away.

One warrior, laughing, sent his arrow speeding death at Clovis, but the arrow missed by a hand's span, and the Xai let the matter go. They had surrounded me with such swiftness that I did not even catch sight of the horsemen behind me; all I could see were the ones before me. They were young, no older than myself.

"Don't leave," said the eldest, a chest-scarred youth holding a crossbow and a lethally honed arrow. "We want to see the famous Rizzian guest-welcome we've heard about. Welcome us to your city, friend."

He was struggling not to laugh as he spoke; the others around him had no inhibitions. He had spoken in the Xai tongue, not expecting to be understood. I drew myself up as well as I could and said in Xai, with a voice that just managed not to shake, "I am no Rizzian. I am a member of the House of the Peace Guild."

The laughter cut off abruptly. I saw the warriors exchange looks with each other, and then the leader gave a shout of laughter so strong that he had to fold his reins about his hands to keep from falling backwards off his horse.

"Where's your silver robe, Peacesteward?" he asked. "Say your spells that bring peace. I want to hear them before I put this arrow through your gut . . ."

He continued for a while, telling me what he planned to do, as the warriors nearest him chuckled in delight. A few of the others looked uneasy, but they said nothing, and I guessed that they would not interfere.

The crossbow began to lower. The arrow was pulled back slowly, and then released again just as slowly as hooves thundered to a halt.

These horsemen had arrived with such fleet-footedness that even the youths looked startled. The men who had arrived were older. One of them, with long braids trailing over his bare chest, glared at the leader of the youth and barked, "What's this?"

His tone said clearly that he misliked the youths' delay in dispatching their victim. The leader of the youth shrugged and began to load his crossbow once more, but one of his followers who had looked nervous before said, "He claims he's a Peacesteward."

The braided man stopped the crossbow's progress with a flick of his finger; then he stared hard at me. His tattoos, showing the victories he had won, spread all the way to his groincloth.

After a moment he nodded and said, "I'd heard there might be a Peacesteward in this city. Let him go; the Peace Guild isn't worth tangling with."

The youth's brows were drawn with anger, and he looked as though he would have spoken, but the young man to the right of him leaned over and whispered something in his ear, and the youth nodded and shouted an order to his band. They wheeled away, leaving me coughing in the upflung dust.

The older band lingered a moment longer as their leader scrutinized me, and I wondered whether he would offer to escort me to the gates. It appeared, though, that his interest was nothing more than idle curiosity. In the next moment he pulled his horse's head around, and his warriors followed him down the street, flying at the speed of an arrow.

I just managed not to crumple to my knees. Instead, I weakly walked the remaining distance to the alley, where I found a twelve-year-old boy peering out at me.

"I told you to run for home." I tried to make my tone stern, but I could barely keep my voice level.

"I was scared," said Clovis, looking up at me.

Staring at him, I realized that the boy truly believed that this had been his only motive for not fleeing to safety. As my body began to shake, I knelt down beside Clovis and drew him into my arms, kissing his forehead as I did so. "I'll protect you," I said, my voice muffled by his hair. "I swear by all that's sacred that I will. Now let's go; we must move faster than the fire, for it will spread."

The fire had already reached the next street by the time we arrived. Clovis hesitated, looking at the flames dancing high. Then he glanced at me, and I nodded. There was no point in awaiting the moon's dimming; speed was our only hope now. Reluctantly, I let Clovis's hand fall from mine and said, "We run, and we keep running as long as we can. Go!"

We were nearly at the alley when I heard the horse's hooves and realized the dark error I had made.

I heard my voice sob in my throat. This time I did not bother with words but simply thrust the boy into the darkness awaiting him. I heard him cry out as he struck the wall of the alley. And then I turned to face the band of youths.

Half a century seemed to pass before the arrow reached me.

What seemed odd to me – as I lay there on my back, hearing the rumble of horses pull back – was that, after the initial shock, I felt so little pain. One part of me, the part that had tended my master after his woundings, told me that this numbness I felt was an ill sign, but I was grateful. I did not want to attract further attention by screaming.

The pain was bad enough, despite the numbness. It reached me distantly, like a volley of arrows that were shot from far away and that landed with diminished force by the time they arrived. Yet still the arrows reined down upon me, endlessly, a thunderstorm of sharpness cutting beyond my flesh to my inner parts.

I felt something tugging at my shoulders, and I opened my eyes to see the boy.

He had blood on the side of his forehead, which made my heart jolt until I realized his own wound must have come when I thrust him into the alley wall. The blood trailing down from his brow mingled with his tears. "Sir, please get up!" he said. "They may return and kill you!"

I did not have the strength to touch him; I was not even sure I had the strength to speak. "Port . . ." I gasped finally in a whisper. "You . . . port . . ."

My words could hardly be said to have constituted communication, but Clovis went rigid and stopped tugging at me. "I can't," he whispered back. "I can't lead my family to the port. Oh, please, sir—"

He cut off with a sharp intake of breath as my hand closed hard around his. "You must," I choked out. "You must."

It was all I could speak, but it brought him to stillness. For a moment he simply stared at me, as the smoke around us thickened, and the roar of flames grew louder. The screams were becoming harder to hear now.

And then something entered into his eyes that I had never seen before, and yet was familiar. He swallowed rapidly and passed his tongue over his lips to lick off the tears and blood there. "All right," he said in a shaking voice. "I'll find our way there." But then he added, before I could close my eyes in relief, "I'm taking you with us, though. I won't leave you – I'll find someone to carry you—"

I tried to speak again, but there was a weight upon my chest, squeezing all breath out of me. I wanted to tell him that he must not be a fool; he must go to the port, for awaiting him there was his first master, and everything depended on their meeting. Not only his life, but the lives of so many others . . .

Hooves were thundering toward us again. Clovis was beginning to sob, oblivious to the approaching death. And I, weighed down by the dark pain, could feel a bitter liquid filling my mouth. A fool I might be, but not so much a fool that I could miss the signs of what would happen next.

I knew then that I had been wrong. The boy was not immune to death tonight; I had changed that, by coming back to his time. Because of me, Clovis had been on the streets when the attack came, rather than at home where he should have been. I had failed to protect him, and so he would die. I had failed to protect him, so the thousands of people whose lives my master would have saved would die also. I had failed . . .

The weight pressed further down, and above me the stars began to fade, until I could see nothing and heard only the voice of a boy, crying to me over and over.

The last of the stars died, and I entered into dark silence.
 

CHAPTER SIX

Darkness surrounded me. Silence surrounded me. I felt a touch.

The touch was of something wet and warm upon my face. I thought at first it was the blood travelling out from my mouth; then I felt the roughness of a cloth behind it. I struggled to reach beyond the darkness enfolding me.

"Stay still," said Clovis's voice.

I opened my eyes. Everything around us was motionless; all I could see beyond us was darkness, and the moon. Clovis had my head in his lap and was wiping my head with a rag. In the dim light I could see that it was dark with blood. Pain shivered through me, but it was a dull pain. I could taste no blood in my mouth. Clovis turned his eyes toward me, and I felt another shiver go through me.

"Wh— What—?"

"Shh." The stroke of his hand as he washed the blood off my face was as soothing as his voice. "The Xai came upon you while I was with the Juud. Fortunately, they didn't stay to check how effective their killing was, or they would have seen that your wound was shallow."

I said nothing. I was looking upon his face: the deep lines, the silver brows, and there on his temple, where a wound should have been, a faint scar. I reached out to touch it.

My hand fell quickly – I was still weak with the pain – but as my fingers brushed the scar I heard his breath whistle in. His gaze glided over my face, searching with intensity; then his hand folded upon mine. "So," he said softly, "it has happened."

I could not speak for a moment. We were alone in the wasteland; the Juud had departed, leaving us in the windy, empty space. Toward the horizon, the sun was reddening the sky as it prepared to enter the world.

I said, "Cathleen? And the others?"

"All saved, thanks to you. Cathleen would like to meet with you. She has been waiting impatiently for several years now, but I told her it would be best to hold off your meeting until you had met her for the first time." He slid his hand under my head, saying, "Can you sit up?"

With his strong arm around me, I struggled into a sitting position. My head was throbbing, but when I put my hand up to investigate, I found that the Xai's arrow had done nothing more than skim across my temple.

"You'll have a scar like mine, no doubt," said my master. "It will serve to impress the other apprentices – I can promise you that."

His voice was as it had always been: calm, assured, strong. To my astonishment and horror I found myself resenting that voice. It was as though someone had been taken from me, someone I had come to love . . . Trying to thrust such madness aside, I said, "When you first saw me in the orphanage, did you know?"

My master shook his head. Having ascertained that I could sit up on my own, he had turned to our packs and was putting away the water flask he had brought out. "Not at first. I could see the resemblance, of course, but you were only twelve, and I did not know the full story. I thought that my master had fathered a child before he died, and that you were my master's grandson – perhaps one who held the seeds of his gifts. Reason enough to take you as my apprentice, even if my debt to him had not been so high."

I folded my legs up against my chest and sat there hugging myself, staring down at the dry grass. I wanted to protest, as I had before, "I'm not— I don't— I can't— I'll never—" But I still held in my mind the image of Clovis clinging to me, looking up at me with trust in his face.

Finally I said, "Did you bring us here so that this could happen?"

My master shook his head without looking up as he tightened the straps of the packs. "No, this has taken me by surprise. Remember, you were older than me – I thought of you as quite old indeed. Later, when I came to realize who you were, I thought that you would be sent back after you had donned your robes of mastery." He looked over at me, smiling. "I must confess, that is why I pressed you so hard to end your apprenticeship. Though I held fear as to whether you would be returned to this time alive, I wanted you to become a master and train me, so that now, in this later time, I could thank you."

I shook my head, trying to free myself from the daze that seemed to hold me captive. "Everything I taught you, you taught me. It makes no sense. Who was trained first, you or I?"

My master continued to smile. "I suppose that the Juud would say that such a question makes no sense, like asking whether black is white. Except I'm beginning to suspect that the Juud live in a world where black is white." He stood up and hefted the pack onto his back, saying, "If you feel well enough, we should start back now. We don't want to be here when the Xai return to inspect their handiwork."

I felt my stomach enter into a pit then, and though I rose, I stood still a moment, feeling the terror wash over me. It was a long while before I could say, "Master."

"Yes, Erastus."

I took a deep breath, released it slowly, and said, "When we get back . . . I will ask you to don me with my robes."

For a moment there was no sound. Then I felt my master's hand on my cheek, and as I turned my face to look at him, he kissed me upon my forehead.

"I'm glad," he said softly. "I will miss you, but somewhere out there, another boy is waiting for you to train him. It would be selfish of me to keep you from him."

I nodded, not speaking. There was still a pain in me – not from my temple, where the aching was beginning to die away, but from a deeper anguish of loss. To hide the expression on my face, I bent down to my pack, quickly placed it on my shoulder, and began to walk forward.

I had gone perhaps a dozen paces before I realized that my master was no longer beside me. I looked back. He was standing upon the grey grass, staring past me, with an expression on his face that I could not read.

"Master?" I said uncertainly.

He did not reply at once, and when he did, his voice was low. "Scared," he said. "I am always scared. One would think that, after all these years, the terror would have lessened." And then he was silent and still, but for the bobbing in his throat.

I felt warmth surge through me then. There was no loss, never had been. The one I had left behind was still here with me; I had simply never recognized him before. Laughing, I came forward and reached up on tiptoe to kiss Clovis's brow. "What matters is not what you feel but what you do," I said. "You hold my hand and I'll hold yours – we'll cross the cliff together."

Clovis took my hand as the left side of his mouth turned up in a smile. "Thank you, master," he said as we started forward. "I was hoping you would say that."
 

This story was composed between January and June 2002 and posted in June 2002. It was reposted in October 2003 and August 2008 with minor revisions.

"Crossing the Cliff" is part of the Darkling Plain series. To receive notice of book publications and free online editions, subscribe to one of Dusk Peterson's e-mail lists or blogs.

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This text was originally published at duskpeterson.com as part of the series Darkling Plain. Copyright © 2002-3, 2008 Dusk Peterson. Some rights reserved. The text is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial No Derivatives License (creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5). You may freely print, post, e-mail, or otherwise distribute the entire text for noncommercial purposes, provided that you include this paragraph. The author's policies on derivative works and fan works are available online (duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm).