“No. I wondered when you’d ask.”
Nylan heard the sadness, and the acceptance, and the inevitability in her voice, and he nodded, saying, “I know you did what had to be done, and I did what I did in full knowledge.” But it hurts, and it always will, and every time I open my eyes for the rest of my life, I’ll know what I did, and you don’t even understand why I did it.
“You’ll go down as one of the great ones, Nylan, and you’re a good man, but you still don’t accept that the world is governed by force. Cold iron is master of them all.”
“Now,” he agreed, without opening his eyes. “Now.” But we can try to change that, and that worthwhile.
“Always,” answered Ryba. “Always.”
CXXX
Zeldyan enters the tower room, flanked by Gethen and Fornal. All wear white armbands, and the faces of all three are stern. They glance toward the alcove.
Lady Ellindyja rises, setting the embroidery on the far end of the bench. “Your Grace.” Her eyes fix on the blond woman, as if Zeldyan’s father and brother were not present.
“My lady Ellindyja, and grandmother of my son, I came to wish you well in your time of grief and loss.” Zeldyan offers a head bow, one which is but the minimal formality.
“Your courtesy does you well, inasmuch as your grief must be even greater than mine own to have lost a mate and a lover and your son’s father all at once.”
“Great is my grief, as is yours. Yet I thought of you, and of how painful it must be for you to remain here, where you have lost so much.” Zeldyan takes one step beyond those of her father and brother, so that she stands that much closer to Ellindyja.
“This little is all I require.” Ellindyja’s eyes harden. “And I trust, regents of Lornth, that you will not take this from me.”
“As regents, we must look to the welfare of Lornth, and ensure that the gains made by Lord Sillek are preserved for his heir and his people.” Zeldyan’s voice is smooth, almost soft. “He sacrificed much to the cause of Lornth, and I would not see that squandered.”
“You are all so devoted to Lornth. So devoted that you ensured that the one who showed the greatest concern would not be considered as one of my son’s son’s regents.” Ellindyja turns her eyes on the gray-haired Gethen.
He does not flinch, and his gaze is steady as he answers. “That decision was his, My Lady. You know that. Know alsothat we, and the holders, agree in that decision. Those same holders also felt that the gains attained from the acquisition of Rulyarth should not be jeopardized by any effort to reclaim the wilderness on the Roof of the World.”
“Wilderness now? I can recall when the area was prime summer pasturage. And when they were screaming to reclaim it.”
“Wilderness,” affirms Gethen. “My losses there have matched yours, and the holders scream no longer.”
“Your losses are nothing as to what will happen to Lornth if those angels are not driven back to whence they came.”
“There are times, lady,” returns Zeldyan, “when the wisest course is to recognize what is. For a modest sum from us-”
“One might term it tribute.”
“-they have agreed to maintain the new borders and to ensure the peace in the Westhorns.”
“Whatever one calls it, the service is worth the price,” adds Fornal. “They have destroyed every raiding band in their territory, and they have made the mid-Westhorn road the preferred trading route from Gallos. Already the traders are talking of doubling their runs and using Rulyarth instead of Armat.”
“Those women will destroy Lornth.”
“Attempting to defeat them has nearly destroyed us already,” answers Gethen. “Karthanos has disavowed his agreements, and without the buffer of Westwind, we would be hard-pressed to hold Rulyarth.”
“Westwind? You have recognized this … bastard … tabletop … a place that has less than score two in their keep?”
“The number is more like fivescore now,” says Fornal dryly. “With a mere twoscore, they destroyed more than two thousand armsmen. Would you care to lead the next force, Lady?”
“Do not be unkind, Fornal,” says Zeldyan. “Lady Ellindyja has suffered deeply, as have we all. As have many of her old friends.” Zeldyan bows deeply, cutting off the discussion, her high-collared tunic severe against her chest andbeneath her silver-corded hair and coronet. “The world should see more of you, Lady Ellindyja.”
“I have no desire to see more of the world.”
“Alas …” Zeldyan inclines her head slightly. “For the sake of Lornth, and for the sake of your son’s son, the time has come for you to be seen in the world.”
“You would take what little that remains to me?”
“The world would take it, Lady. You may leave of your choice or face a hearing of holders, who may not be so generous.” Ser Gethen bows.
“A hearing of mongrel landowners?”
Fornal takes a half step. “I lost my brother to your devices. My sister has lost her lord, who wished not to face the witches of heaven, and you sit here and deny your schemes, the ideas you placed?”
Gethen extends a hand. “We wish you the best, Lady. My lady Erenthla bids you join her in Carpa.”
“Oh, a gilded prison, now?”
Gethen shrugs. Zeldyan’s eyes harden, as do Fornal’s. All three stand like crags of the Westhorns-looming over a field to be stripped and turned.
Ellindyja bends and picks up the embroidery. “Never let it be said that I would stand in the way of Lornth. And it has been a long time since I have talked to Erenthla.”
She nods to the three. “I will make ready.”
EPILOGUE
Nylan eased open the south door to Tower Black one-handed, carrying Dyliess in his right arm. He stepped out into the dampness. To the south, all but the base of Freyja was shrouded in the heavy clouds, but even the lower cliffs that Nylan could see were already sheathed in snow.
For a moment, the smith and mage rested his cheek against his daughter’s forehead, ignoring the questing fingers that pulled at his ears. He let his eyes fall on the small brick fort-now empty-that had held the laser, and the rows of cairns in the southeast corner of the Roof of the World, cairns from which bloodflowers had sprouted and half wilted.
Despite the fine mist that dropped from the dark clouds, mixed with the smallest of ice flakes, Nylan walked out across the causeway. There he turned and forced himself to look up to the ridge.
The paved section of the road nearly reached the ridge crest, and the darker hues of the newer stones showed the progress made since the battle. A pile of unused stones stood at the end of the paved section, waiting to be used to transform more mud and clay into an all-year road.
Nylan’s eyes slowly moved eastward across the hillside. In the damp late autumn air, after the rains, the black and white had faded into gray, and a few sprigs of fireweed had sprouted, along with some grass.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, then opened them. The expanse that had been seared by the laser remained gray, faded gray.
He supposed everything faded in time. And in time, new life filled in for the old. He disengaged Dyliess’s fingersfrom his earlobe and held them, his green eyes meeting his daughter’s green eyes.
Behind him, he heard the tower door open and close, but he continued to stand on the damp stones of the road, ignoring the small, sharp knives in his eyes, holding Dyliess and taking in the sodden gray ashes that had been flame and fire, man and mount, green and grass.
Then he turned to see who had followed him.
Ayrlyn, red hair as intense as the gray ashes were dull, crossed the causeway, carrying Weryl. She smiled. “He wanted to see where you had gone. So I brought him.”
Nylan smiled at the healer who had begun to heal him, and they turned back and looked once more at the gray hillside, framed by rock and tree, where life again had begun to sprout.