Arms-Commander

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I would find that strange, had I not seen you fight.”

  Joncaryl’s eyes flicked back and forth between the arms-commander and his father.

  “Now…there is one more thing you should see.” Saryn smiled sadly. She was coming to hate what she was about to do.

  “You wish to spar with someone else…with what you have already shown?”

  “No, that would be unfair.” Saryn pointed to the round shield beside the armory door. “Would you mind if I used the shield as a target? Even if I damage it?”

  “No,” said Barcauyn, his voice puzzled. “It’s just an old shield.”

  “Thank you.”

  Saryn turned, lifted the blade, then hurled it at the shield, smoothing the flows and imparting that sense of black strength to it.

  Thunnk!

  Barcauyn’s mouth dropped open when he saw the blade, buried to a third of its length through both the iron-plated shield and the wood behind it.

  Belconyn’s face paled, and he looked at his wounded brother, then back to Saryn.

  Up on the terrace, Zeldyan’s hand went to her mouth for just an instant.

  And Saryn had the feeling—from all of them—that they thought she had suddenly become something like a mountain snow leopard that had just dispatched a handful of armsmen. She inclined her head to Joncaryl. “I am truly sorry, Joncaryl, but I have learned that few ever believe that a woman smaller than many men could excel at arms.”

  Belconyn walked over to the shield and tried to pry the blade out. He could not budge it.

  Saryn followed him. “If you would excuse me…” She had to use order flows to smooth away the restraints. Even then, it took all of her strength to reclaim the blade. She looked at it. Blunt as it had been, it would still need a great deal of work even to return it to that state. She sheathed it and walked back across the dusty paving stones toward Barcauyn.

  She had gained the understanding of the lord and father and made an enemy of the son and heir. Yet anything that would have been to the satisfaction of the son would not have convinced the father.

  She stopped short of the holder. “I must also apologize to you, Lord Barcauyn…but I have found that I lack great persuasive powers, except through my blades. I truly wish it were otherwise. If you would excuse me…”

  “Of course.” While the lord’s voice was steady, there was a certain relief behind the words.

  Only then did Saryn glance upward at the terrace, extending her senses as well. The muted murmurs were so low that she could not make out what was said, but what she did notice was that neither of the two girls—or young women—looked all that distraught, but Lady Barcauyn’s face was filled with worry. Out of the welter of feelings, she could feel most strongly concern and a certain sense of horror. Amid those various feelings was one thread of satisfaction, and that had to be from Zeldyan, although Saryn was not absolutely certain.

  She gathered all her blades and the practice wands and walked back into the villa and up to the guest quarters on the second level. Once in the large chamber, she washed up again, then sat down before the writing table in the quarters she had been given.

  There was a knock on the door. Saryn could sense Zeldyan. “Yes?”

  “Might I come in?”

  “Please.”

  Zeldyan slipped into the chamber, closing the door behind her. She looked at Saryn. “I saw you spar in Lornth, and I was impressed…but you could have killed young Joncaryl within instants, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Saryn admitted. “I struck him gently, and he did not understand. Then he started insulting me under his breath.”

  “I thought so. When he considered it, so did Lord Barcauyn. You have left him sorely troubled.”

  “I trust I have not upset matters too greatly.”

  Zeldyan shook her head. “You have not. But I must confess that when I saw you fight, I saw death held in restraint. Each time I meet an angel, I fear more. You have already changed all of Candar, and yet there are but a handful of you. For all the power I saw in the black one, I fear you more.”

  Saryn laughed softly. “I’m just like you, Zeldyan. I’m trying to make my way in a world I didn’t create in a place I never expected to be, dealing with men who don’t like women who have any sort of power and ability.”

  “We share that,” admitted the regent. “Yet I must dissemble and smile, and play one against another, and lean upon the reputation of my sire, the position of my late lord, and the tradition of the land. You…you can strike fear into their hearts.”

  “I wish that it were merely respect. Men hate women they fear. They will often respect, if grudgingly, men whom they fear.”

  “We will do what we must.” Zeldyan paused. “I have told Lord Barcauyn that we have many to visit and will be departing on the morrow.”

  “I’m certain he was agreeable.”

  “He was. He did suggest that, if I could manage it, I should set you and your guards against Deryll.”

  “Doubtless he’d prefer mutual annihilation.” Saryn’s tone was bitter and dry.

  “He well might, but even he thinks Deryll would be the loser. I have no doubts.” Zeldyan inclined her head. “I will soothe Barcauyn, as I can.”

  Saryn merely nodded.

  She remained in her quarters for a glass, if not somewhat longer. When she finally emerged, she followed the corridor toward the western terrace, but before she reached the terrace, Joncaryl stepped out from a side hallway.

  “Do you wrestle?” asked Joncaryl, a crooked yet sly smile on an injured face, already turning black-and-blue. Pain mingled with anger behind the words.

  “After a fashion,” replied Saryn politely. “Except we call it unarmed combat, and it’s designed to kill people as quickly as possible without using weapons.”

  The smile vanished. “Are all your people like that?”

  “Not all the guards are trained in that. Just those who were trained from birth to be warriors.” That wasn’t exactly true in the Sybran sense, but it was accurate enough for Candar, and the young man wouldn’t have understood the distinctions no matter how hard Saryn tried to explain.

  Even so, she could sense Joncaryl’s puzzlement, and she continued, “Angels are trained to do what ever they do in any way necessary and possible. We were fighting an enemy across the stars. Weapons could be destroyed in an instant. We were trained to be able to kill with anything at hand…or with nothing. You don’t train armsmen that way. We do.”

  “You’re not…armsmen. You’re killers.”

  “No,” said Saryn. “We’re only killers when people try to kill us or take our land. I offered to use wooden wands against you. I struck you lightly to warn you. You paid no heed. Westwind never attacked Lornth and never attacked Gallos. Both paid no heed and attacked us.”

  “But it was a matter of honor.”

  “For us, it was a matter of survival. We had nowhere else to go. Survival trumps honor any moment of the eightday.”

  “Without honor…there is nothing.” Behind Joncaryl’s words was a sense of exasperation…and anticipation.

  Saryn sensed someone moving from behind her, and whirled, using Belconyn’s momentum to throw the younger brother into the wall. A second movement broke the dagger from his hand. While his hand was limp, Saryn was fairly certain she hadn’t broken his wrist, but he wouldn’t have much use of the hand for days.

  At that moment, Zeldyan and Barcauyn appeared, walking through the archway from the terrace. The lord’s eyes went from Belconyn, who was supporting his injured wrist with his good hand, to the dagger on the polished tile floor, then to Joncaryl, whose face bore an expression of anger mixed with shock.

  “Both of you. To your quarters. You will remain there until I determine what to do with you. Be grateful that you are still alive.”

  Saryn said nothing, but watched both young men as they hurried away. The dagger remained on the polished floor tiles.

  “What happened, Commander?” asked Zeldya
n, clearly preempting the lord.

  “Joncaryl attempted to find out what I knew of wrestling while his brother approached from behind me.” Saryn shrugged. “I tried not to injure Belconyn too much, but his head will ache from where he hit the wall. His wrist should heal. It’s not broken.”

  “You can tell that?” asked Zeldyan.

  “Yes, Lady. If I’m near someone.”

  Barcauyn’s countenance was ashen. “I must offer my deepest apologies for the unforgivable behavior of my sons.”

  Saryn paused a moment. “Lord Barcauyn, I accept your apology, and appreciate your grace in this matter. Also, because Lornth has no experience with women warriors, I understand your sons’ failure to understand my abilities at first. What I find…distressing…is not their failure to understand, but their inability or unwillingness to understand once I showed those abilities, and their subsequent anger. I attempted to show Joncaryl what I could do without hurting him. His response was to taunt and belittle me under his breath when we sparred, then to have his brother attack me from behind while he distracted me. Were I a man, they would have accepted my abilities without question, and I hope you will understand that I find that distressing as well.”

  “You must admit that it is not common to see a woman of your skills,” ventured Barcauyn.

  Saryn could sense a certain irritation, even anger, in the lord and bit back the statements she might have made and nodded politely. “It has not been common in the past, but it will be far more common in the future, and I would hate to see your sons injured or even killed because they did not recognize that women can also be fearsome warriors. I would hope, with all my heart, that Westwind will never have to fight with Lornth again. That is one reason why I am here, so that you and other lords can see the value of Westwind as an ally rather than as an enemy.” She paused and softened her voice. “I am sorry for the injuries to your sons, and for any distress I may have caused you in this matter.”

  “Commander.” Barcauyn smiled faintly. “You have my admiration. My distress is as much at myself for failing to understand truly what you represent. You must understand that you are changing the world. That change is hard on those of us who have worked so hard to preserve our heritage.”

  “I understand that, Lord Barcauyn, for I have lost my heritage and must make my way in a world as strange to me as the one you fear Westwind may be creating is strange to you.”

  “You are a woman, and you talk of making your way.” The lord shook his head. “Women in Lornth, in all of Candar, do not speak so.”

  “They have not spoken that way in the past, but they will in the future. Even if I had not come to Lornth, matters would still be changing, because women have seen what other women can do.”

  “That may well be, but times of change are not easy for anyone.”

  “No, they are not.” Saryn paused, then added, “But they are always far harder on those who stand against what must be.”

  “If you will excuse us, Commander,” said Zeldyan gently, “I need a few words with Lord Barcauyn.”

  Saryn nodded politely. After they passed, she walked out to the west terrace. It was empty…and unlikely to see anyone but her while she remained there.

  L

  Supper on sevenday was quiet and private, with only Lord Barcauyn, his consort, Lady Zeldyan, and Saryn. The atmosphere was also formal and chill. During the entire meal, Lady Barcauyn said fewer than twenty words, even in response to Zeldyan’s questions. Not a single word was directed to Saryn, who sensed a smoldering anger from the lady, clearly directed at her.

  After all the events of sevenday, Saryn was glad to be up early on eightday, and even happier once they had ridden out of the villa and through the still-quiet town of Arkyn, headed eastward. By midmorning, they were headed north on another clay road, slightly wider, but no more traveled, under a slightly hazy sky, with a warm breeze at their backs. Saryn turned in the saddle, slightly, and asked, “What did Lord Barcauyn say to you, if anything, after his sons’ actions and yesterday’s…events. He was very polite at supper. Excessively.”

  “We talked about what the other holders might do in regard to the regency and with regard to the Suthyan meddling. He is still greatly concerned about Deryll and the threat he sees in the Jeranyi. And, among other things, he apologized several times for offending my champion.” Zeldyan smiled wryly. “It appears as though that might be your role. He said that never had he seen someone so small who was so deadly.”

  “He should see the Marshal, then,” Saryn said.

  “He understands that you could have killed Joncaryl, or crippled him for life.”

  “The problem is that Joncaryl doesn’t understand that. Nor does Belconyn. I don’t think they ever will.” Saryn glanced at the road ahead, but there the only riders were those of their party, and not a wagon was in sight anywhere. “Were the girls on the terrace his daughters?”

  “They were. There is an older daughter who is consorted to the younger son of Lord Mortryd, who holds Tryenda.”

  “I was never actually introduced to his consort,” Saryn pointed out. “Was that because she would have refused such an introduction?”

  “I’m certain she would have,” replied Zeldyan. “She is…overly devoted…to her sons.”

  “So her presence at supper was by command of her consort?” His way of declaring that he is the one who is lord of the holding.

  “That can often happen in Lornth. More than once I did not speak at a meal when Sillek became overlord.”

  “Women must obey, but they don’t have to pretend to like it?”

  “I fear that is only true of those who are lord-holder born.”

  With what Zeldyan had said earlier about the relations between lord-holders, that made sense. A consort could afford to express her dislike passively because the lord might still need the support of her father or brother or cousin…or not wish to alienate them unnecessarily.

  “Joncaryl would have chopped me up if he could have,” Saryn pointed out, “and he and his brother would have knifed me in the back hall. And Lady Barcauyn is angry at me?”

  “She worries that he may have to fight for the remainder of his life, and will die young because he was bested by a woman, one far smaller than he. Even Barcauyn worried about that. His hope is that your prowess will become known widely enough that Joncaryl will profit from surviving your blades. Lady Barcauyn is less certain that such will happen.”

  For a moment, Saryn almost felt sorry for Barcauyn. The lord was caught between a chauvinistic tradition, an arrogant and spoiled son, and an excessively partisan consort and overly devoted mother. Still…“Lord Barcauyn was the one who pressed for the sparring match, and Joncaryl was totally insufferable. If I had demurred, Westwind would have no credibility, and I’d be of no support to you,” Saryn pointed out.

  “But you would not be bested by any man. You would die before allowing that. Is that not true?”

  Am I that stiff-necked? Or is it just because this frigging place treats women so badly?

  “Is it not true?” asked Zeldyan again, gently.

  “I’d like to think I’d have enough sense to recognize anyone who was superior, man or woman. The Marshal is a better warrior than I, and I’d be foolish not to acknowledge that.”

  “But you will not be demeaned by those who are lesser in ability.”

  “I’d rather not be,” Saryn admitted.

  “Rather not?” Zeldyan offered a smile that was enigmatic, but behind it, Saryn sensed more—that Zeldyan believed Saryn inflexible and unwilling to submit to any man in anything.

  Saryn just shrugged. After they had ridden another hundred yards or so, she asked, “What do you think Barcauyn will do?”

  “Angry as his consort may be, he will not move against me. Not so long as you remain in Lornth.”

  That’s just frigging fine. To keep these chauvinist idiots from undermining the regency, I have to stay in Lornth sparring against idiots with crowbars and sweating m
y way through summer and harvest…and who knows how much longer.

  “Tell me about Lord Maeldyn,” suggested Saryn, “and his holding.”

  “I have not talked with him often, and not in some time. He always seemed a man who kept his counsel to himself. I would judge him as one not to make hasty decisions.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “No…but sometimes those who do not wish to make hasty decisions make no decisions at all, or make decisions by not making them.”

  Saryn had seen enough of that in her life. “What about his heirs?”

  “I know little of them, save that he has at least one son and two daughters.”

  “And the holding?”

  “Unlike many, there is more than one town, but all three that might be called such are smaller than most holding seats. The largest is but half the size of Carpa—”

  “That’s your father’s holding?”

  “It would have been Fornal’s, but it will go to Nesslek, now.”

  Zeldyan’s words confirmed that her brother had had no children—or no sons, at least.

  “I’m sorry. What else about Quaryn?”

  “The largest town is Ryntal, and Maeldyn’s keep overlooks the town. There are large woods in the hills to the north, and swamps beyond them…”

  Saryn listened intently.

  LI

  Several glasses before they reached Ryntal on threeday, Zeldyan dispatched one of the couriers traveling with them to alert Lord Maeldyn to their arrival. To Saryn’s eyes, as they rode into the town in late afternoon, Ryntal didn’t look all that much smaller than Lornth itself. Like most of the towns she had seen in Candar, it was located on a small river, although that description of the watercourse was charitable. Most of the dwellings incorporated more of a mixture of brick and timber, suggesting that good building stone was harder to come by—or that brick and timber were more readily available. The buildings were mostly neat and well maintained, and there were small barge piers on the river.

  “Does the river flow into the one at Rulyarth?” asked Saryn.