Saryn couldn’t help but admire the young man’s determination. Once she reached the field, she slipped into the exercise formation on the side closest to the road. She’d run through three exercises when Ryba appeared and joined in, effortlessly matching Saryn, movement for movement. Saryn found it hard to believe, again, that Ryba was ten years older than she was.
Once the group warm-up was over, Ryba turned to Saryn. “I need to spar.”
“I could use a round or two,” admitted Saryn.
“How about left-handed?” asked Ryba, producing a pair of weighted wands.
That was fine with Saryn. For years, when she sparred with anyone besides Ryba, she used her left hand and worked mainly on technique and how to anticipate moves from the slightest indications. Even so, she never sparred against the Marshal with real blades, even blunted ones. The killer instinct of an ancient Sybran warrior-queen was all too strong in Ryba.
Saryn took one of the wands, then stepped back.
A number of the older guards stopped to watch. The juniors weren’t allowed that choice, and Siret broke them into instructional groups where-also with wands-they were drilled in basic skills.
Ryba took her position, then waited. So did Saryn, knowing that Ryba was willing to wait to see what her opponent would do first. After several moments, Saryn flicked the wand just a touch, and Ryba moved to the right. Saryn slipped the thrust that followed, but had to dart sideways to avoid the counter. She moved in quickly, so that Ryba had to circle away.
As always in sparring between the two, there were few even grazing blows, no matter what either attempted, because both had seen and survived so much and because each reacted so quickly. In the end, after both were sweating and breathing heavily, Ryba stepped back.
As Saryn did the same and blotted her forehead with her forearm, she saw Dealdron standing to one side, from where he had clearly been watching. Beside him Aemra had just finished telling Dealdron something.
Saryn looked directly at Dealdron, but the young man quickly looked away.
“You’ve been practicing. Left-handed, I mean,” observed Ryba. “Walk with me.” Ryba turned toward the road, heading up toward the smithy.
Saryn gestured to Llyselle, indicating she was leaving. The senior guard captain nodded. Saryn hurried to catch up to the longer-legged Marshal.
Ryba said nothing until the two were well out of earshot of the other guards. “It’s time for you to leave for Lornth. Immediately.”
“Why now?” Saryn recalled her sole other visit to Lornth, the large town that was effectively the capital of what amounted to a city-state, not even truly a nation. While its borders were not surveyed down to the nearest kay, the area controlled by Lady Zeldyan as regent ranged some seven hundred kays north to south and six hundred east to west. “Control” was a relative term because allegiance was often token in places distant from Lornth. Then, with the loss of the port of Rulyarth and the surrounding area several years before, control of lands some two hundred kays by three hundred had shifted back to Suthyan rule.
“We’re going to need more saltpeter and sulfur, and there’s nowhere else to get them. I don’t like it any better than you will,” replied the Marshal.
“We can’t forge enough firearms, even if we could keep the white wizards from exploding the powder.”
“Leave the weapons development to me. You’re the only one with enough seniority and experience who can also survive the spring and summer heat down there.”
“That may be, but what do I have to offer them in return?” Saryn asked.
“The Suthyans gave us that. They don’t want us to trade with Lornth. You point out that we’d prefer to be on good terms with our immediate neighbors and that we’re not exactly enamored of the Suthyan approach to dealing with women in power-”
“I can only mention that to Zeldyan personally. Her father won’t take that well, nor her cousin Kelthyn.”
“Especially Kelthyn. Young as he is for a regent, he holds the old attitudes.”
“He’s a tool of the older lords.”
“Tools can be used by others than those who created them,” Ryba pointed out.
That may be, but discovering how can be costly. Saryn only said, “That’s sometimes possible.”
“You’ll find a way.”
What ever the cost, but we never speak of that.
“Just remember this. Everyone is a captive of the social structures of their past. They believe that men and women have different places in society, as do foreigners. Call it ‘place-ism,’ if you will. All the locals in Candar, at least all those we’ve encountered, believe that a woman’s place is childbearing and at the hearth. Only if her husband or consort is dead or notoriously weak can she be accepted in a position of power and authority, and only as an exception for a short period of time. That’s until her male offspring is old enough to take his place as the one in control. Zeldyan’s facing a loss of power within years. She knows that will be a catastrophe because all the pressures on her son, Nesslek, will force him to repudiate her and her policies, and he’ll end up repeating the follies of his sire and grandsire.”
“Because to continue the wiser course of his mother would brand him as weak and as Zeldyan’s tool?”
“Exactly.”
“And I’m supposed to use that to get her to support us?”
“It’s one tool. If you can find others, be my guest.” Ryba stopped, gestured toward Tower Black, then toward the low but growing walls of the far larger new keep and barracks. “Westwind will endure. We just have to assure that future is as strong as possible.”
Ryba’s tone left no doubt that she intended to let nothing stand in her way to that goal, and Saryn merely nodded.
“How many guards will you need?”
“A squad should be sufficient if I can take Hryessa as well.”
“Llyselle can handle things here, and Murkassa can act as captain of second company while you’re gone. She’ll be taking over the new third company anyway, and that will give her more experience.” Ryba paused. “All of Hryessa’s first squad are proficient with the bows. You’d best take enough to arm them all.”
“When do you expect me to leave?”
“As soon as possible. You’ll be gone at least two eightdays, and that’s if the weather and the Lornians cooperate.”
That was hardly likely, given the ever-changing weather around and over the Westhorns, especially in spring and early summer.
“I’ll need several days to set things up.”
“What ever it takes. You’re not one to procrastinate.” Ryba stopped. “That’s all I had for now. Just let me know when you have everything arranged.”
“I will.”
“I know.” The Marshal nodded, then began to run uphill, as she did most mornings.
Saryn turned and headed back toward Tower Black. Once she was abreast of the practice field, she spent almost a quarter glass observing and making mental notes. Then she walked to the causeway and across it into the tower, where she made her way down to the lower level.
There she waited until Istril finished replacing a dressing on a young guard, and the woman left.
“What happened there?”
“Carelessness with the grindstone in sharpening a blade,” replied the healer. “She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.”
“Some of them only learn when they get hurt.”
“More than some, but less than if they were men.” Istril offered a crooked smile.
“Speaking of men, I saw that tripod device that Dealdron was using.”
Istril nodded. “He brought it to me, and we ran through which exercises he could do and which he shouldn’t. It can’t hurt, so long as he’s careful, and it’s bound to improve how he feels. Also, he can use it in the carpentry shop, and Vierna says that he’s been quite a help there, especially with simple pieces-the ones like bunks and straight wardrobes and bunk chests.”