“Help? How?”
“To support the regency.”
“How do I know you are not fomenting the very trouble you claim to be trying to prevent?”
“Because she’s telling the truth, Spalkyn,” said Zeldyan, stepping into the breakfast room. “Also, not saving you and having everyone squabble over your lands and which child will be consorted where would certainly cause more dissension than saving you did. Especially given that you have but one son and the twins.”
Saryn sensed something more behind those words, something about the son, and she also had a good idea that Maerila could have no more children.
Zeldyan took the chair across from Saryn and poured herself a mug of cider.
“It’s no secret that both Zalana and Zerlina will need matches with strong men, and that one will need to run Palteara,” added Maerila.
Saryn would have liked to point out that much of the trouble in Lornth might have been lessened, both for Zeldyan and apparently for Lord Spalkyn, if strong women were allowed to hold and rule. She said nothing.
Spalkyn cocked his head.
Saryn could hear footsteps on the steps, then youthful voices.
“Father! You’re back!” Two lithe redheaded girls rushed into the breakfast room and threw their arms around their father, one on each side.
“He is indeed,” added Maerila. “Girls, please say ‘Good morning’ to Commander Saryn. She is the reason why your father is back hale and healthy. And to the Lady Regent.”
“Good morning, Commander. Good morning, Lady Regent.” The words were nearly simultaneous, and both inclined their heads politely, first to Saryn, then to Zeldyan.
The girl closest to Saryn asked, “Do you really live on the Roof of the World?”
Saryn laughed. “Not that way. We have a holding there, like your father does here. It’s called Westwind, and I’m the arms-commander for the Marshal. Her name is Ryba, and she has a daughter about your age.”
“Where’s Paultyr?” asked Maerila.
“He’s still sleeping. You know how he is.”
“Indeed I do. Please take your chairs, girls.”
Saryn took another sip of the cider, enjoying the moment.
LVI
Neither Zeldyan nor Saryn wished to impose unduly on Lord Spalkyn, but it was still fiveday morning before Saryn felt the guards—and their mounts—were ready to ride. Part of her caution lay in her concern that they had not seen the last of raiders or other difficulties that might require arms, and she wanted the horses well rested. Although they mustered the guards and armsmen at a glass past dawn, Spalkyn, Maerila, and the twins were all on the terrace, watching to see them off. Both twins waved, enthusiastically, while the lord and lady watched quietly.
As they rode down to the main gate, Zeldyan turned in the saddle, and said to Saryn, “You’ve won over Spalkyn…and Maerila, and that’s not easy. I should take you everywhere.”
“So I can terrify the bullies and reason with those who think?” retorted Saryn with a laugh.
“Over the years, I’ve heard of worse approaches,” replied Zeldyan with a smile.
“It doesn’t seem to work with people like Keistyn and Henstrenn…or Kelthyn.”
“Even past experience with force doesn’t work with some. Did Arthanos learn anything from Gallos’s past dealings with Westwind?”
“He didn’t seem to.” Much as she knew that Zeldyan’s words were true, that truth still depressed Saryn. Why were there those who would not stop until they were destroyed? Was it just that they could not believe that they were mistaken…or mortal? Even Ryba worried about that, although, Saryn had to admit to herself, much of Ryba’s worry in recent years had been hedged by her tendency to put others in the front lines…or dispatch them to Lornth.
“Do you think there are not lord-holders like him here in Lornth?” Zeldyan’s voice was dry and cutting.
“I had hoped to find that most were not, but I have the feeling that all too many are.”
“As it is and will be all across Candar,” replied Zeldyan.
The mild air turned warmer and heavier with the sun, until, again, Saryn felt hot and damp all over, early as it was in the day. She tried not to think about what it would be like by mid afternoon and concentrated on watching the road ahead and trying to sense whether anyone was lurking nearby and out of sight.
They had ridden for a good glass before Saryn turned to Zeldyan, and asked, “What’s Lord Deolyn like?”
Zeldyan laughed. “Different and not predictable. That’s all I can say. Beyond that, you’ll have to make up your own mind.”
“What are his lands like?”
“They have more hills than here, and his tenants and crofters have more livestock and orchards, rather than field crops. Because it takes more land, his estates are somewhat more extensive. He has a master beekeeper and is known for his clover honey.”
Sweets…Saryn had almost forgotten what they tasted like, except for the molasses candies sometimes carried by traders, and she’d found those unsatisfying and somewhat sicky-bitter in their sweetness.
“Sillek said that half Deolyn’s golds came from the honey, and that he had to send a squad of armsmen to accompany any shipment to the river-barge piers.”
“Whose lands lie between Spalkyn’s and Deolyn’s? Will they be discomfited if you do not stop to visit them?”
“Whethryn and Chaspal. They’ll hardly be upset. Relieved, rather, I would think, because feeding and entertaining us is not uncostly…and neither has the extent of estates as do Spalkyn and Deolyn.”
“But Spalkyn…he could not afford a single squad—”
“He could have sold land, but it would have beggared his future.”
Land-poor. “How many lords face similar situations?”
“They do not tell a widow regent, Saryn, but I would judge one in three face some problems. Spalkyn’s was the worst, but Rherhn of Khalasn is not far behind.”
“That is why tariffs to the regency are not what they should be?”
“Part of the reason. It does no good to beggar a lord, especially a loyal one, and force him to sell lands to a rich lord who is less loyal.”
There was little that Saryn could say to that, although she thought that it might be better to sell lands to those who were not lords—like Jennyleu. Obviously, that wasn’t done, either for practical or legal reasons.
As she rode on, Saryn’s thoughts still drifted back to her encounter with the white mage. Although he might only have been a hedge mage, his fire-bolts had come uncomfortably close to turning Saryn and some of the guards into charred flesh and ashes. While she’d seen Nylan and even Ayrlyn create order shields, she’d tried that approach over the past few days, and it didn’t seem to work for her, possibly because neither order nor chaos seemed static to her, and it took far too much effort to try to erect any sort of barrier.
Abruptly, she tried to squash one of the biting yellow-and-black flies that seemed to pester her more than anyone else, but the fly buzzed off, circling around her head for yet another attack. She’d been able to change the junctures in rock. Were there similar junctures or nodes in the air? Ones that she could shift to create a barrier against things like pesky flies? Or at least create a bit of a targeted breeze to blow it away from her face and neck?
She glanced at the fast-moving cumulus clouds, puffy with shades of gray, moving slowly across the eastern sky, then tried to sense the flow or interplay of order and chaos within them, but they were beyond the range of her senses. What about the air around you?
She concentrated, just on feeling, sensing the air, all too quiet at the moment. There were eddies that were not exactly junctures or nodes but mixed the tiniest bits of order and chaos.
After several moments, she tried to smooth one of the eddies somewhere above her left shoulder. The eddy dissolved, and a slight puff of warm air ruffled her too-damp hair, hardly enough to push away a pesky fly, and too hot to be exactly cooling. Still…it w
as a beginning.
Oh well…you’ll have a few more days on the road to practice… Even with that thought, Saryn wondered if she’d ever gain a fraction of the control that she’d seen in Nylan or even in the hedge mage.
LVII
Late on eightday afternoon, Saryn and Zeldyan had just seated themselves on the north porch of Lord Deolyn’s hilltop mansion, looking at a meadow that sloped down to a small pond created by an ancient rock-and-mortar dam. Beyond the pond was another hill, covered in straight rows of apple trees whose fruit was showing signs of crimson, reminding Saryn that summer was fleeing, and that she seemed to have accomplished comparatively little.
Deolyn was unlike any other Lornian lord. His short blond hair, interspersed with silver, lay in tight ringlets close to his scalp. His bright green eyes almost seemed to bulge over a narrow nose and a small, silver, brush mustache. His face was deeply tanned and lightly wrinkled, and he was barely Saryn’s height. He wore a green tunic with yellow trim, the colors of his holding.
The three sat in a semicircle around a low table that held two carafes and three blue-tinted crystal goblets. Saryn was using her slowly increasing order-chaos flow skills to arrange the faintest breeze to waft over her and keep various tiny flying creatures from her.
“The white comes from Spidlar,” said Deolyn. “I wouldn’t have it except it was a gift. The red’s from my high vineyards. It’s dry, but holds a good taste.”
“The red, please,” replied Zeldyan.
“For me as well, thank you,” said Saryn.
Zeldyan smiled, lifting the goblet she had taken from Deolyn. “To worthy lords.”
“To worthy lords,” seconded Saryn.
“To worthiness, wherever it may be found,” responded Deolyn in a high tenor voice before sipping from the goblet, then lowering it and looking at Saryn intently. “So you’re the fearsome arms-commander!”
Behind the cheerful voice was what Saryn would have termed good-natured coolness.
“I’m the arms-commander”—Saryn smiled—“but I’d never claim to be fearsome.”
“No point in that at all. If you are, you don’t need to trumpet it, and if you’re not, you’re lying, and that’s to no one’s benefit.” Deolyn looked intently at Saryn, then glanced at Zeldyan. “I can hold my own in battle, but you’re better off having the commander on your side.”
“I know that, Lord Deolyn, but I’d be interested to know why you think that.”
“She has to hold your interests more dearly than any one lord-holder possibly could. She would not be here were this not so. She also would not be here if she were not more than a match for any commander in Lornth. The Marshal of Westwind could send no less. Westwind cannot risk any impression of weakness.”
Deolyn’s understanding impressed Saryn, but she waited to see Zeldyan’s response.
“Do you think the Marshal’s interests are those of the regency?”
“I would not say that,” replied Deolyn. “Her interests are in a peaceful Lornth that will not attack Westwind. At present, those interests are in supporting the regency, for so long as it remains in power.”
“And if it does not?”
“Then I would not wish to be a lord-holder in Lornth, even as I am.” Deolyn’s smile was warm enough, but behind it lay worry. “Those who would replace the regency would find themselves bound to attack Westwind—or be attacked by those who would. That would be so, even were the Suthyans not distributing coins and mercenaries to some who oppose Westwind and the regency.”
“To whom are those coins and mercenaries going? Do you know?”
“I do not know all their destinations, but it is no secret that in Duevek lies your greatest foe. I would guess that Keistyn of Hasel is also receiving coins, and Kelthyn of Veryna, if only to keep young Kelthyn from snapping at your legs. Other than that…” Deolyn shrugged.
“Oh?” Zeldyan raised her eyebrows, then her goblet, and sipped.
“It’s simple enough, Lady Zeldyan. Your strongest supporters are in the north, and some of those are wavering, despite your sire. Your bringing the arms-commander—and her slaughter of the Suthyan marauders—solidifies that support. That’s well and good, but what do you intend to do about Henstrenn and Keistyn…and that puppet of theirs, Kelthyn?”
“What do you suggest?” Zeldyan smiled pleasantly.
Saryn could sense the regent’s worries behind the smile.
“Crush them quickly, and one by one, before they unite against you and your sire.”
“With what do you suggest I crush them? My two companies?” asked Zeldyan. “And how will I explain to all the other lords who will flock to them for fear I will turn on them next?”
“You have at least three companies with the commander’s forces, I would judge.”
“We brought but half a company.” Saryn tried to focus a breeze on herself as she spoke.
“They are worth twice their numbers. I saw them ride in, and I saw how much deference the armsmen gave them. The Lady Regent’s squad leader conveyed to my captain that the single squad from Westwind took on and destroyed more than threescore Suthyan marauders.”
“They were not armsmen, but a motley gathering of marauders,” replied Saryn.
“Half or more were former armsmen, and you lost but one woman.” Deolyn smiled. “Henstrenn and Keistyn may delude themselves, but I will not. All of our armsmen have other tasks and duties. Yours may as well, Commander, but it is certain that they are trained first to kill. Even your weapons speak to that. Men prefer long blades because they believe such proclaim their masculinity. Your blades are far better for mounted combat. I have heard that you alone have killed many by throwing blades through your enemies.” The blond lord shrugged. “It may be that I have heard in error, but I do not believe so.” He glanced at Zeldyan. “Have I?”
Zeldyan shook her head. “She sparred with Lord Barcauyn’s son and could have killed him three times over in moments. He failed to understand, then insulted her, and me. She broke his jaw with the flat of her blade and threw him to the stone. Then she flung a blade through a shield and half through an oak door behind it. None could remove it, save her.”
Deolyn nodded, then looked to Saryn. “You could kill without weapons, could you not?”
“I am no mage, but I was trained to kill with arms, hands, elbows, knees, what ever opportunity might be offered.”
“It is there for those who would see,” pointed out Deolyn. “I may not see all, but I see enough, and I will stand behind you both.”
Saryn understood what lay beneath his words—that Deolyn’s support rested in part, if not in whole, upon Westwind’s backing of the regency…as Ryba had obviously foreseen.
LVIII
The wind blew through the doors at the north end of the room, beyond which was the verandah with a fountain whose splashing was just loud enough to drown out the sounds from elsewhere in the structure, which was, Saryn realized, neither a castle, a palace, a keep, a villa, nor a mansion, but a dwelling that incorporated some features of each. The verandah beyond the fountain, where Zeldyan sat in the shade talking to her son, might have been more suited to a villa, but the study, where Saryn had just seated herself in a captain’s chair across from the gray-haired Gethen, might better have belonged in a castle or a mansion, especially with the dark wooden bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes.
After another four hot days on the road, Saryn was grateful for the breeze cooled by the spray of the fountain and for the chilled white wine that Gethen had provided. She was also happy that she was not expected to prove as much, as least not directly, although she was still concerned as to exactly how Gethen regarded her—and Westwind.
“You’ve met a number of the lords of the north,” said Gethen. “What do you think of them?”
“They impress me far more than those of the south I’ve met.” Saryn paused and took another small swallow of the cool wine. “Rather, I’d say that I liked and appreciated them better. I fear t
hat Keistyn, Henstrenn, and Kelthyn might be more impressive in battle, except perhaps for Deolyn. Lord Barcauyn speaks more loudly than he fights, I fear, and might lack caution in some situations. Lord Maeldyn…I don’t know.”
“Maeldyn is more formidable than he appears,” said Gethen. “Between them, he and Deolyn could raise close to three companies of decently trained and mounted armsmen. They would not compare to your guards, but they would be a match for Henstrenn and Keistyn.”
“I would hope so since we did remove almost half a company of Henstrenn’s armsmen in the spring.”
“By now he will have replaced them, doubtless with the help of Suthyan golds.”
Saryn had few doubts about that possibility. “If I might ask, why did Rulyarth fall so easily back to the Suthyans?”
“After the losses we sustained against the Cyadorans, no lord would offer armsmen to help me hold the city and the lands surrounding the river. I was selfish enough not to wish to lose everything I had for lords who would offer nothing. Those who were willing to help me, such as Spalkyn and Maeldyn, had too few armsmen remaining to make a difference. Only Deolyn had more than a company, and I saw no point in both of us losing everything.”
“Especially since you had already lost a son.”
“I lost two. Relyn never returned after he was wounded on the Roof of the World.”
“He lost a hand,” Saryn said. “Nylan crafted him a false one, with which he could hold a dagger, but he vowed he would never return to Lornth. He was strong and healthy, and better than ever with a blade when he did leave Westwind for the east.”
“He was bitter, I suspect, about how Lady Ellindyja manipulated Sillek into offering lands for any who would destroy Westwind and concealing just how powerful you angels were. Like Fornal, he was proud and wanted to earn lands, not be given a pittance, which would have been all I could have bequeathed him. If he returned to Lornth, he would have had to fight lord after lord, and he would not have beggared me and Fornal to obtain arms and men. He was too honorable for that.” Gethen shrugged sadly. “I cannot say that events and you angels have treated those of The Groves easily.”
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