Darkness, what had they begun? Where would it end?
XXXVIII
SILLEK GESTURES TO the chair closest to the broadleaf fern that screens the pair of wooden armchairs from the remainder of the courtyard and from Zeldyan’s family and retainers.
“You are most kind, Lord Sillek,” murmurs Zeldyan as she sits, leaning forward, the husky bell-like tones of her voice just loud enough to be heard over the splashing of the fountain.
“No,” says Sillek. “I am not kind. I am fortunate. You are intelligent and beautiful, and …” He shrugs, not wishing to voice what he thinks. Despite the apparently secluded setting of the chairs and low table between them, he understands that all he says could be returned to Gethen.
“Your words are kind.”
“I try to make my actions kind,” he answers as he seats himself and turns in the chair to face her directly.
“Necessity does not always permit kindness.” The blond looks at Sillek directly for the first time. “Necessity may be kind to you.”
“You speak honestly, lady, as though I were a duty. There is someone else who has courted you?”
Zeldyan laughs. “Many have paid court, but none, I think, to me. Rather they have courted my father through me.”
“I would like to say that I am sorry.”
“You are more honest than most, and more comely.” Her hand touches the silver and black hairband briefly, and a sad smile plays across her lips. “Have you not courted others?”
“I am afraid you have the advantage on me, lady, for I have neither courted, nor been courted-until now.”
“Why might that be?” She leans forward ever so slightly.
“Because”-he shrugs-“I did not wish to be forced intoa union of necessity.” He laughs once, not trying to hide the slightly bitter undertone.
“You are too honest to be a lord, ser. For that, I fear you will pay dearly.” Zeldyan’s tone is sprightly.
“Perhaps you could help me.”
“To be dishonest?” She raises her eyebrows.
“Only if dishonesty is to learn to love honestly.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Ser Sillek.” Her eyes drop toward the polished brown stone tiles of the courtyard.
Sillek reaches out and takes her right hand in his left. “Hard it may be, Zeldyan, but honest, and I hope you will understand that is what I would give you.” Another short and bitter laugh follows, then several moments of silence. “I would not deceive you with flowery words, though you are beautiful and know that you are. But comeliness and beauty vanish quickly enough in our hard world, especially when courted for the wrong reasons.”
“You are far too honest, Sillek. Far too honest. Honesty is dangerous to a ruler.”
“It is, but to be less than honest is often more dangerous.” Sillek frowns, then pauses. “Is it so evil to try to be honest with the lady I wish to join?”
“You might ask her if that is her wish.”
The Lord of Lornth takes a deep breath. “I did not ask, not because I do not care, but because I had thought it was not your wish. I have appeared in your life from nowhere, and there must be many who have known and loved both your visage and your soul.” He laughs softly. “I had not meant to be poetic, here, but my tongue betrayed me.”
Zeldyan’s eyes moisten for an instant, but only for an instant, before she turns her head toward the broadleaf fern.
Sillek waits, the lack of words punctuated by the splashing of the fountain. His eyes flick toward the end of the courtyard where he knows Gethen and Fornal make small talk about crops and hunting while they wait, and where, in another room, the lady Erenthla also waits.
When Zeldyan faces Sillek again, her face is calm. “What would say your lady mother?”
“Nothing.” Sillek wets his lips. “Her thoughts are yet another thing. A fine match, she would think. She would say to me that the Lord of Gethen Groves has lands, and his support will strengthen Lornth and your patrimony, Sillek.”
“You court strangely, My Lord.”
“So I do. Say also that I court honestly.” He offers her a head bow. “Would you be my consort, lady?”
“Yes. And I will say more, Lord. Your honesty is welcome. May it always be so.” Zeldyan bows her head in return, then smiles ironically. “Would you wish my company when you deliver my consent to my father?”
Sillek stands. “I would not press, but I had thought we both might speak with your father, and then with your mother.”
“She would like that.”
Sillek extends his hand, and Zeldyan takes it, though she scarcely needs it to aid her from the chair. Their hands remain together as they walk past the fountain and back toward the far end of the courtyard.
XXXIX
NYLAN USED THE tongs to swing the rough bow frame into the focal point of the laser, struggling to keep the power flows smooth and still shape the metal around the composite core.
On the stones he used for cooling after the quench lay a circular cuplike device with a blunt-very blunt-hook and two bows-most of a morning’s work. He hoped the metal cup and hook would serve as an adequate artificial hand for Relyn; he was tired of the veiled references to one-armed men.
His eyes went back to the two bows. All told, the engineer had made twelve over the eight-day before, each a strugglesandwiched between limited stone-cutting and building the heating stove for the bathhouse, and welding the two laundry tubs. Ellysia, relegated to laundry as a collateral duty because her obvious and early pregnancy had limited her riding, had immediately commandeered both. According to what Nylan had overheard, though, she refused to launder anything of Gerlich’s.
Nylan permitted himself a smile at that, before he forced his concentration back to controlling the laser, and smoothing the metal around the cormclit composite core of what would be another bow.
As the tip of greenish light flowed toward the end of the bow, the energy flows from the powerhead fluctuated more and more wildly, and Nylan staggered where he stood, trying to hold the last focal point.
Pphssttt! Even before the faint sizzling faded into silence, Nylan could tell from the collapse of the flux fields around the laser focal points that the powerhead had failed. The engineer slumped. The other cutting powerhead was in little better shape. The weapons head, although scarcely used, would squander power, depleting the cells in a fraction of a morning-without accomplishing much, except destroying whatever it was focused on.
The last powerhead might last long enough to finish another handful of the composite bows.
He frowned. First, he needed to cut the shower knife plates. Then, if the second powerhead lasted that long, he could go back to the bows. At least, the black tower was finished. That is, the basics were-roof. floors, the hearth, chimneys, the stove and the furnace itself, and the water system from the tower wall to the lower-level cistern.
Everyone had needed something. Ryba had wanted weapons; everyone had needed shelter; the horses had needed stables; the tower had needed some windows … the list had seemed endless.
He disconnected the powerhead from the wand, glancing toward the uncompleted bathhouse behind him. Huldran,Cessya, and the others were raising the roof timbers on the stables.
The single clang of the triangle announced the noon meal, and Nylan took the artificial hand and the broken powerhead. He dropped off the powerhead in the tower, then found Relyn by the causeway. The mahogany-haired man sat on the stones watching Fierral and Jaseen spar, his eyes narrow.
“Greetings, Mage.”
“Greetings. I brought you something.” Nylan extended the device.
“What … might that be?”
“What I promised the other evening when I measured your arm.” The engineer extended the artificial hand and mounting cup, measured to fit over the healing stump.
“It might be better than nothing, ser.” Relyn took it in his good left hand.