“I’ve gotten that word.” He grinned, but only momentarily. “That’s going to be more of a problem.”
“I know. What do you think you should do?”
The smith shook his head. “I don’t like it. I’ve darkness near killed myself making a safe haven here, and it’s not going to be pleasant any longer. It may not even be safe for me much longer. I’m not a Gerlich, and trying a coup would only destroy Westwind, even if I could do it. And that would only make things worse for the children…for everyone but us, probably.”
“You’re right there.” Ayrlyn paused by the practice yard, well up the road from the end of the causeway. Her eyes drifted toward a last drooping snow lily that arched out of one of the few remaining patches of snow on the north side of the loose-stacked stones of the practice yard wall. “Can’t you just avoid Ryba?”
“How? Westwind isn’t that big. If I do what she says, she’ll push for me to do more and more-or make me less and less useful-like with this smith training bit. She’s good at maneuvering, and pretty soon I’ll look either as obstinate as Gerlich or as useless as Nerliat was. At least, I think so. What do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I can just be a meek healer and stay in the background. You’ve got a lot of support from Siret, Istril, even Huldran and Llyselle, though,” mused Ayrlyn.
“Right,” Nylan snorted. “Saryn sides with Ryba, and she trains most of the new guards-or Ryba does. Maybe…what? Seven of forty guards think I’m good for something. Most of the new guards dislike or distrust men, and they accept me because I’m not like the men they knew-but I’m a man. Just how long will it be before there are a hundred guards, and half don’t even know me?”
“That would take a while.”
“Like being buried in a slow avalanche or being tied down and consumed by ants over the years.” Nylan winced at his own image.
“You don’t sound happy. What do you want to do?”
“It’s not a question of wanting. It’s a question of seeing the storm on the horizon and finding cover.” He laughed, once, harshly. “Why is it so hard? I could see the need for a tower before anyone else, and I built it. I can see the need to leave, and I avoid facing it. What’s the difference?”
“Three children?”
“That…and, I told you before, deep inside…” He swallowed. “It’s not exactly…easy…to face an unknown world alone. I don’t like it. I don’t know where to go, and it feels like everything I’ve done is almost wasted.”
“Is it?”
Nylan shook his head. “Dyliess, Kyalynn, Weryl-they’ll be safe.”
Ayrlyn frowned at the last name, but did not speak.
“They’ll be safe,” Nylan repeated. “It isn’t easy to admit that. I don’t know about us, though.”
“I’m glad you said us…but…you never asked me.”
“That’s where you’ve been guiding me, dear. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“You could have asked…” A glimmer of a smile flitted around the corners of her mouth.
“All right. I am planning to descend into the hot depths of the demon’s hell to avoid jeopardizing everyone else and my children. Would you like to accompany me on this foolhardy expedition?”
“I thought you’d never get around to inviting me.”
Nylan put his right arm around Ayrlyn as they walked. “You’re cold.”
“I’m always cold up here. Why do you think I agreed?”
“Not for my charm?”
“Not just for your charm.”
A wry smile settled on Nylan’s face for a moment, then vanished as his eyes took in the upper level of Tower Black, and the window to the Marshal’s quarters.
XV
Zeldyan handed the scroll to Fornal with her free hand. The dark-haired regent slowly read through it, occasionally stopping and puzzling out an unfamiliar word. As he read, the blond woman rocked Nesslek on her knee, steering his fingers away from the goblet on the table before her.
The gray-haired Gethen looked toward the window, then rose and walked to it, sliding it wide open. The cool breeze carried the damp scent of recent spring rain into the tower room. For a moment, Gethen looked across Lornth to the orange ball of the sun that hung over the river to the west of the hold. Then he walked back to the table, where he refilled his goblet before reseating himself.
“This is one of your best,” Zeldyan offered, taking a sip of the dark red wine, before setting her goblet down more toward the center of the table, out of Nesslek’s reach.
“It is good. Even the Suthyans paid extra for it.”
Fornal squinted, as though he wanted to shut out the conversation and concentrate on the scroll. His frown became more pronounced as his eyes traveled down the scribed lines.
“Lygon of Bleyans? I hope you made him pay triple.”
“Only double,” Gethen said. “Lady Ellindyja found him useful.”
“I know.”
“The lord of Cyador…how…to suggest that the copper mines of south Cerlyn have always belonged to Cyador…to ask for tribute and immediate return…” stuttered Fornal, letting the scroll roll up with a snap. “This is an insult!”
“Yes,” agreed Zeldyan. “It is. Yet they gave up the mines, ages back.”
“That was when they found the copper in Delapra. It was closer to the surface,” said Gethen, “and closer to Cyad, much closer.”
“They use the white bronze the way we do iron.”
“They have to,” pointed out the older man. “Iron and chaos do not mix.”
“Mix or not, it remains an insult,” snapped Fornal.
“Aaaahhhh…” added Nesslek, lunging for the goblet. Zeldyan restrained him just short of the crystal.
“To our way of thinking, it is an insult,” commented Gethen, pausing to take a sip of his wine. “We must remember that Cyador is an old land. The legends say that it dates to the time of the true white demons, that they tamed the ancient forest and molded the paths of the rivers. Then, Lornth did not exist, and the copper mines may well have been part of Cyador.”
“Not in generations,” said Fornal. “I cannot claim Middlevale because Mother’s grandsire lived there.”
“No,” admitted Gethen. “I was but noting how they think.”
“It remains an insult.” Fornal turned to his sister. “What would you do about it?”
“Since we’re in no position to fight, I suggest we send back a message which notes that the scroll could have been interpreted as insulting by some, but that we trust our reading somehow did not find the courtesy for which the lord of Cyador is so justly known-”
“He’s a butcher. We know that already.” Fornal lifted his goblet and downed the half remaining in a single gulp. “Why would flattery help?”
“Fornal,” said Gethen, drawing out his words, “if you insist on treating good wine like inn swill, I will bring you a pitcher of the Crab’s finest, and save this for those who appreciate it.” The gray-haired man smiled.
“I am sorry. It is good wine, but…I cannot believe…” Fornal turned to his sister. “You were about to say?”
“If we flatter him, Fornal, while we make ready, what harm can we do?” asked Gethen.
“None, I suppose, so long as we do make ready.”
“Is it wise to fight?” asked Zeldyan.
“No,” conceded the older man. “But it is more foolish not to. If we fight, and fight well, then the lord of Cyador will only take what he needs. If we surrender the mines, he will take them and ask for more, and then we will have to fight anyway.”
Zeldyan nodded, shifting Nesslek from one knee to the other. “Most respect only force. Cold iron, if you will.”
“Can you think of anything that deserves more respect?” asked Fornal, pouring more wine. “Cold iron is the shield of honor.”
Zeldyan smoothed away a frown. “After I put Nesslek down, I will draft a response and then read it to you both.”
“You always did have the better hand, sister. For writing.” Fornal raised his goblet.
Gethen turned his head to the window and the setting sun.