Arms-Commander (18 page)

“We did not destroy you, Lady. Your holders did. We did not invade Lornth. We only asked to be left in peace.”

Zeldyan's lips tightened, and Saryn wished she had not had to say what she had.

“That is so, much as it pains me to admit it. Lady Ellindyja, may the demons rend her spirit forever, set all this in motion. I feared it then, and I begged Sillek to stand against his lord-holders. But he did not, and we cannot change that. You had to do what you did to survive, and I cannot change that.” Abruptly, Zeldyan straightened. “We cannot change what will be, and nothing more we say here tonight will alter that.” She lifted her goblet. “Best we enjoy each other's company. Do tell us what you found of interest on your journey here. Are the ironwoods as desolate as ever?”

After sensing the pain and frustration within Zeldyan, Saryn offered a smile as warm as she could make it. “I would not call them desolate, but rather severe and forbidding. Majestic in their own fashion. The size of the streams and rivers is also a wonder, because in the heights, they are so small, and yet in Lornth they have grown so large…there are valleys in the lower mountains with little but boulders in them, many standing alone, and some nearly the size of the palace here…” Saryn went on to offer the best travelogue she could, trying to keep her tone light.

At some point, the serving girl removed the platters and set before each of the three a small pielike dessert consisting of thin leaves of pastry with a mixture of honey and berry jam between. Saryn did enjoy that, as well as the stories Zeldyan told of being a young girl in The Groves.

In time, some three glasses after she'd entered the small dining room, Saryn made her way back along the empty corridor to her quarters. She had to admit that, despite the earlier part of the dinner, the latter part had been pleasant and that having supper with just three people had been far more enjoyable than eating alone, or than eating amid a score or so in the hall in Tower Black.

Just how many years had it been since she'd had a small and intimate dinner?

Later, after undressing, as she lay on the wide bed in the guest chamber, all too awake, she couldn't help but believe that Lornth looked to be on the verge of collapse or rebellion, if not both. What had she done in promising to help Zeldyan? Even after dealing with Gallos, assuming Ryba's plans were successful, what could Saryn possibly do?

What should she do?

Eightday at the palace was quiet, and although Saryn ate supper again with Zeldyan, but not with Gethen, who had departed for his estates, the lady regent was most careful to keep the talk to matters other than the relations between Lornth and Westwind, the Suthyan threat, and the problems posed by the old holders. Zeldyan did not mention Saryn's pledge, either, but it hung over the commander like an unseen burnished blade, and she fretted about why she had given her pledge so easily. Ryba certainly would not have. Yet for all her worry…it had felt right, and that nagged at her even more.

She was both relieved and glad when, late on oneday, the first creaky wagon arrived, bearing barrels of saltpeter and smaller kegs of sulfur. Two more wagons arrived on twoday. Saryn wondered about returning the wagons and the swaybacked horses that pulled them, but Zeldyan insisted that both could be sent back later, whenever practicable.

Saryn didn't protest, and on threeday, she and the guards set out, at first retracing the route they had taken previously. The following day, they took a ferry across the river at the narrows to follow a road that, had they gone its full length, would have taken them to Rohrn. After another two days, they turned eastward and eventually recrossed a stone ford north of Henspa. Twilight was turning to evening as they entered the town, but Saryn was still sweating, and she kept having to blot her forehead, while her undertunic was plastered to her body.

The big innkeeper Essin stood out on the porch of the Black Bull. “I thought you might be back,” he called as he left the porch and walked toward Saryn, still mounted on her gelding. “Same terms as before?”

“That would be acceptable,” Saryn replied.

“Ma's doing poorly, but she told me she wants to talk to you. She said you'd be back. Just come in here when you're set. I'll tell the girls to heave to…be a simple supper.”

“Simple is fine.” Any decent supper they didn't have to prepare would be welcome, and Essin's charges were moderate enough that they might actually return to Westwind without using all the golds that Ryba had provided.

“I'll tell Ma.” Essin paused. “I was hoping…she's pretty sick.”

“I'll be there,” Saryn promised, “but I'm not like the other angel. I'm not a healer.” What was she, really, besides a pilot who'd discovered a talent for weapons and killing in a strange and magical world she still wasn't certain she truly understood?

“Be good for Ma to see you.”

Saryn could sense the disappointment in the big man, and his concern and love for his mother, but all she could say was, “I'll be there.” Then she rode around to the stables.

After making certain that guard details were posted for the wagons and that horses and guards were settled in, as well as after grooming her own gelding, Saryn finally made her way across the rear courtyard and back into the inn where Essin was waiting.

“Be another half glass or so before supper's ready,” he announced.

“That's fine,” Saryn replied. “Where is your mother?”

Essin gestured toward the narrow staircase, then started up. Every step creaked under his boots, and the wooden panels on each side of the staircase vibrated as well. Saryn followed several steps behind. By the time she reached the top, Essin was standing by the open door at the end of the hallway to Saryn's right. She walked toward him, grateful that the floorboards didn't shake under her boots as they had under his, and followed him into the chamber, some three yards by four.

The white-haired woman was propped up with pillows in a narrow bed. Her face was drawn, and the circles under her eyes were black. Her eyes remained as intent as Saryn recalled, but her voice was hoarse. “Told Essin you'd be back afore long.” She smothered a cough.

“Word is that the Lord of Duevek had some difficulty when you passed through his lands.” Essin looked to Saryn expectantly.

“He blocked the road and said we had no business going to the regents. His undercaptain sent half a company of cavalry against us. They ended up wounded or dead, mostly dead.”

Jennyleu laughed, a dry, cackling sound. “Coulda told the lord that. Wouldn't have done any good. None of the men who rule understand.” A racking cough punctuated her words.

Saryn studied the old woman with her senses, picking up hints of the reddish white chaos she knew was some kind of illness.

“Essin said you got wagons…”

“Trading goods from the regents,” Saryn admitted.

“You going to help them if it comes to that?”

“Lady Zeldyan seems to be the only one who doesn't want Westwind destroyed.” That wasn't quite true, Saryn realized, even as she spoke. Zeldyan might not mind the destruction of Westwind; she just didn't want Lornth to pay any more for Westwind's annihilation. “Or to go to the trouble of doing it, anyway.”

“…don't like not telling the truth, do you, Angel…?” Another series of coughs racked Jennyleu, so much so that her pale face turned red, then almost gray.

Saryn found herself stepping forward and grasping the old woman's forearms. While she was no healer, she had to try to do something. Using the darkness, much as she might have with her blades, she cut away the reddish white that she knew was wound chaos, or infection, but only that, and nothing that felt “physical.” After that, she smoothed and ordered with the blackness.

A wave of dizziness passed over her, but she straightened, released the older woman's arms, and stepped back, putting her hand on the footboard of the bed to steady herself.

Essin looked at her strangely but did not speak.

“What did you do?” asked the old woman, after a long silence.

“Something…I can't describe, but…I think it will help you get better.” Saryn studied Jennyleu with her senses again. Most of the chaos had vanished, and she had the feeling that the rest was fading.

“That's better.” Jennyleu smiled. “I'll be able to rest now.”

“You shouldn't talk anymore,” Saryn said. “Not for a while.”

“I feel better already.”

“Ma…you heard the angel. It's time to rest.”

“All right…suppose you've listened to me more 'n a few times about things like that.” Jennyleu paused, then said, “Feed her good, you hear.”

“Yes, Ma.” Essin stepped back to the door, then out into the hallway.

After a last look and a smile at Jennyleu, Saryn followed the innkeeper.

Once they were down in the front foyer of the inn, Essin turned and looked hard at Saryn. “You said you weren't a healer.”

“I'm not. I just know a few things. I helped her a little. She's a strong lady.”

“You helped her more than a little.”

“I hope so, but I can't promise anything.”

“She said she wanted to see you when you come again.”

“I don't know if that will be soon,” Saryn pointed out. “The last time was years ago.”

“You didn't stop here then.”

“I didn't know enough to stop in Henspa.” Saryn grinned in the dimness of the foyer, lit by but one oil lamp in a wall sconce. She still felt slightly light-headed.

“You will next time.” Essin gestured to the dimly lit public room. “You need to eat.”

She wasn't about to argue, not as tired as she suddenly felt. Was that because of what she'd done for Jennyleu? Ayrlyn, Istril, and Siret had always said that healing left them exhausted, but Saryn had never thought of herself as a healer. “Lead on, innkeeper.”

Late on fiveday, a full eightday after they had reached Henspa, she and the guards—and the wagons—finally pulled up outside the stables at Westwind. Along the way, they'd had to replace one wheel, brace an axle and hope it held, and use the spare mounts to help the drays up the steeper grades. They'd also seen no other travelers, traders or otherwise.

Saryn groomed the gelding, then slung her gear over her shoulder and walked through the darkness down the road past the smithy, whose forge had been banked glasses earlier, and into Tower Black. She closed the heavy wooden door behind her and took just two steps when young Dyliess sprang up from where she had been sitting on the bottom step of the stone staircase.

“Commander…”

“I assume the Marshal wants to see me, Dyliess?”

“Yes, ser. At your earliest convenience.”

“Tell her that I'll be there as soon as I drop my gear.”

“Yes, ser.” The silver-haired girl inclined her head, then turned and hurried up the steps.

Saryn followed, stopping momentarily to leave her gear in her own small cubby before resuming the climb to the top level of Tower Black. There, Ryba was waiting, seated at the small table, on which were set an amber bottle and two goblets. The single wall lamp offered more than enough light, given Saryn's nightsight.

“Brandy again?” asked Saryn.

“You look like you could use it.”

Saryn took the empty chair and watched as Ryba half filled the small goblets, not really brandy snifters. Then she took a small sip, letting the liquid warm her mouth before swallowing.

“What took you so long?” Ryba finally asked.

“Success,” replied Saryn dryly. “We've got the sulfur and saltpeter. The Lady Zeldyan agreed to help immediately, but it took a bit to persuade the other regents—and several days to gather everything…” She gave a brief summary of the journey, ending with, “…I hadn't realized how much the wagons would slow us down coming back up to the Roof of the World.”

“How much were you able to obtain?”

“Three small wagonsful,” Saryn replied. “And the loan of the wagons and the dray horses. We lost a wheel, and one of the wagons will need to be rebuilt before it goes anywhere.”

“Do you think we need to return them?”

“No one will complain, but it still would be a good idea.”

Ryba looked hard at Saryn. “Exactly what did you have to promise for all that?”

“My personal help to the lady, but only after we deal with the Gallosians.”

“Your personal help?”

“I could not commit Westwind.”

“Saryn…I would not…”

“What else did I have to offer? I'm no trader. I'm a former space pilot with skills in weapons and some ability to lead people. After this last trek, I'd never want to be a trader.”

Abruptly, the Marshal nodded. “Each of us is slave to what must be.”

“Must be…or might be?” asked Saryn.

Ryba smiled sadly. “Don't you think that I've tried to change things from what I've seen? So far my attempts to change things have led to what has occurred, and so have my attempts to avoid changing things.”

“Predestination? No free will? Do you really believe that?”

“No. But I do believe that our exercise of free will leads to what will be and that there's only one future. No matter what the talk may be about multiple universes branching off from any decision, we each only have the one future that we choose with each decision.”

Only one future, and that dictated by the exercise of free will?
At that thought, Saryn took another, larger, sip of the brandy.

After a time, she asked, “When will the Gallosians attack? Sooner than you thought?”

Ryba nodded. “There are more scouts from the east, more refugee women, and no other travelers or traders.” She paused. “You've had a long trip. The kitchen should have a late supper ready for all of you in a bit. Go and eat. We'll talk more later.”

“Until later.” Saryn rose and turned toward the open door.

Behind her, Ryba remained at the table, looking nowhere.

Saryn slowly made her way back down the steps to the main level.

There, Istril stood in the front foyer of Tower Black, as if she had been waiting for Saryn to descend from the Marshal's chambers. “Welcome back.”

“Is anything the matter?” asked Saryn.

“You've changed.”

“Changed? What do you mean?”

“You're more ordered. More black than chaos. Except that's not right…they almost flow around you in ordered patterns.”

“What does that mean?”

“You already know that the more black you are, the harder it will be for you in battle, among other things. You've tried to avoid changing, and you have been successful, more than any other. But you've finally changed, and you look…you feel…different.”

Saryn smiled wryly. “You wouldn't be telling me that if you didn't have something in mind. What's happened here that Ryba isn't likely to tell me?”

“Besides the score or so of Gallosian scouts that have vanished? Or her trips up into the ice fields? Or the forty-odd Analerian women and their daughters who appeared last eightday?”

“Forty? Is Arthanos conducting some sort of purge in Analeria?”

“According to several of the women, he discovered that women actually serve as village elders and several village chiefs are women. One of them was killed because she had the temerity to be overheard by a Gallosian officer saying that she didn't understand what all the fuss was about Westwind. The other villages nearby petitioned Karthanos to recompense the village, and Arthanos responded by burning them all to the ground.”

“Did they bring anything but the clothes on their backs?”

“You sound like Ryba.”

“I don't mean to, but…”

Istril sighed. “Ten of them had burns that had gotten infected. One died. We saved the others. Seven or eight might make good guards with training, and most of the girls look healthy. There are fifteen girls and five boys, but none of the boys are over five. Arthanos had something to do with that. He captured the youths and men and killed any who wouldn't join his army.”

“He sounds as bad as the Rationalists. Worse, actually.”

Istril just smiled sadly.

“You don't think so?”

“We have a lot of time, especially at night, to think, Commander. I've thought a lot. Most rulers believe what they do is for the best. It might be best for themselves, or it might be best for what they believe in. Or for the people. Or for what ever god there is. Not many people do anything just to do it badly.”

“You don't think there's a difference between rulers?”

“Of course there is. Some are effective, and some are not. Ryba's effective. Lord Sillek was not. Arthanos appears to be quite effective in raising an army. Ryba will be effective in destroying it. The Suthyans will be effective in profiting off everyone's misery.”

“You're saying that Lord Sillek didn't believe enough in attacking us?”

“What do you think, Commander? You've been to Lornth. I haven't.”

“His widow seemed to think he had doubts. Is that what it's all about? To be effective, you have to believe in what you're doing? To the point that it costs everyone around you?”

“I don't know. I've just thought about it a lot.”

“Maybe that's why tyrants are effective,” Saryn said. “Because their beliefs are so important that they let nothing stand in their way. But is that the way things should be?”

Istril said nothing.

“Or is it just the way matters have to be?” Saryn didn't want to think about that, not as tired as she was. “How are all the injured and wounded?”

“No one's been hurt seriously since you left, except for the refugee women. Dealdron's healing well. His leg is in a walking splint. You probably ought to talk to him tomorrow, after you talk to Siret.”

“Now what?”

“Siret can explain better than I can. It's not that kind of problem. He works hard, and he works long. He doesn't argue, and he always wants to do better.”

“Then…what?”

“It's late, Commander. Could the three of us talk tomorrow?”

“That might be better,” Saryn conceded, even as she wondered what the problem could possibly be. Still, the fact that she couldn't even guess suggested she wasn't thinking clearly and that Istril was right about waiting to talk it over until the next day.