Tonsar slowly moved his head from side to side. “If we keep killing them, they will not have that many armsmen. If we do not, then…”
Nylan wished Fornal could understand that simple argument. Or was Fornal merely preparing the way for their removal? Nylan took a deep breath. He wished he hadn’t. He smelled; his clothes smelled; and even finding enough water to wash either was going to be a chore.
Everything was getting to be a chore.
“It always is,” said Ayrlyn.
Nylan nodded.
LXXXVIII
The blond woman cooled herself with a narrow, bone-backed feather fan, then took a sip of greenjuice from the goblet on the table. The air in the sitting room hung so heavy that none of the candles even flickered, and the silhouetted shadows on the wall appeared painted there as the two regents sat motionless for a lingering moment.
“Your brother is most upset,” Gethen began slowly. “I have never seen such words on a message scroll.”
“The words must be terrible,” offered Zeldyan with a smile, fanning herself once more.
Gethen eased the scroll across the table to his daughter. “I would not try to repeat them.”
Zeldyan set aside the fan and began to read, while Gethen refilled his goblet, then half-drained it with a single long swallow. He blotted his forehead as she read.
“It is hot, too hot,” he finally said into the silence.
His daughter nodded and continued reading.
Gethen refilled his goblet once more.
“He sounds like Lady Ellindyja,” mused the blonde as she set down the scroll, “with all the talk of honor. And his concerns about the holders.”
“He does, but we cannot ignore them.” Gethen lifted his goblet, but lowered it down without drinking. “What the angels do disturbs me as well. They teach levies to be armsmen, and that is well. But their tactics…they will do anything to win.”
Zeldyan touched her chin, then frowned. “Is it so terrible that they have found a way to destroy more of the white demons? Or to keep them from raiding our hamlets?”
“What will happen if the angels are successful?”
“And you think that our levies will learn that also?” asked Zeldyan.
“There is that possibility.”
“And there will be revolts against bad holders?”
“Fornal was right. The angels will change Lornth. They are already doing so.” Gethen pursed his lips, then scratched his right ear. “Their actions will bring all the white demons in Cyador to our doorstep. And with what will we stop them, then?” asked the older regent.
“They would take Lornth piecemeal without the angels.” Zeldyan stood and walked to the doorway to the adjoining sleeping chamber, where she listened for a time before returning. “He’s sleeping, but I thought I heard something.” She lifted the goblet, sipped, and walked to the open window, so smoothly that the candles did not flicker as she passed. “You are right, my sire. Yet what choice have we? With the angels, Lornth will change, and much we hold dear will vanish. Without them, all will be destroyed.”
“Then let us hope the angels have a way to stop tens of thousands of white demons. For that is what it will come to.”
Zeldyan looked down on the few scattered lights that were Lornth for a time before turning. “Must it always come to that? If we defend ourselves adequately, then we face greater force and hatred, not only from without, but from our holders. If we do not, we face death or becoming vassals. Be those not the choices you pose, my sire?”
Gethen took a deep breath, deep enough that the candles wavered, but did not answer.
“Have I not stated what choices there be, my father?” asked Zeldyan more softly.
Gethen looked into the goblet, but found no answers, and lifted his eyes to meet hers. “You have seen what your lord saw, and that bodes ill. Mayhap, the angels can stop the white demons…mayhap. But I like not trusting in strangers and stranger magery. And I like not a land where holders may be questioned by peasants. For it will come to that.”
“Nor I. Nor I.” She paused. “Yet…better Lornth than no Lornth.”
The faintest breath of hot air seeped into the room, so faint that it did not move the silhouetted shadows that again appeared painted on the sitting room walls.
LXXXIX
Nylan set the hammer on the crude bench closest to the anvil, squinting as he walked out of the shade and into full morning sun to meet Tonsar. The brown-bearded armsman remained mounted and looked down at the smith.
“We are ready to leave, ser Nylan.” Tonsar gestured vaguely southward.
“Just keep an eye on the mines. If there’s any sign the Cyadorans are getting anything ready that deals with wagons, I want to know-immediately!” Nylan cleared his throat. “Avoid any fighting. Right now we’ve lost enough men. If they happen to see you-and try not to be seen-but if you are, seeing you will upset them enough.”
Tonsar frowned.
“Believe me…it will.” Besides, we’ll need every man we’ve got for the next trick.
“You follow the wagons again?” asked Tonsar after another awkward silence. “It will be eight-days or longer before more come from Cyador.”
“There’s another way to make them pay.” Nylan offered a crooked smile. “A quicker one, I suspect.”
The armsman scratched the back of his head.
“Take their copper when they try to send it home.”
“They will not like that. No, they will not. But will they risk sending wagons back to Cyad after…?” The armsman paused, and his mount whuffed and took a step sideways.
“Now, you see why I didn’t want anyone to escape? The whites don’t know that we took out their supply wagons. They might guess, but they don’t know.” But you do. And you know that most of the men you had killed were innocents. Nylan rubbed his forehead.
“I would not wish to be your enemy.” Tonsar grinned. “But I am not, and we are ready.”
“Go…” Nylan forced a smile and watched for a time as the small squad trotted southward out of Syskar, raising a low cloud of yellow-gray dust that settled quickly in the still hot air.
He walked along the sunny side of the shed barracks, trying not to choke at the smells rising from his crude distilling apparatus. Two more of the tubes had sprung leaks. He wrapped each leak with a rag and then plastered it with the moistened clay from within the broken pot set aside for the purpose.
Then he walked to the well and washed his hands-twice-and then his face, not that the effect would last.
The smith’s forehead was dripping again by the time he stepped back into the comparatively more shaded space under the chicken coop roof and blotted away the sweat.
Sias glanced up from the bellows and looked at the half-barrel serving as a quench tank. “You need more water, ser?”
“Just a bucket, Sias.” Nylan reached for the tongs to slip the metal on the anvil back on the coals. He’d never promised he wouldn’t forge black iron arrowheads for himself or Ayrlyn. Still, even looking at the metal almost turned his stomach.
He grimaced as he waited for the iron to heat to the necessary cherry red. The longer the war or conflict or whatever it was went on, the more squeamish he felt. What a great warrior and commander that made for!
How could he deny what he felt? Those in power made decisions, generally to preserve their power, and those who carried out the decisions suffered-or died. Yet he felt that the growth of Cyador was wrong, but so was Fornal’s view of the world. Both imposed order of sorts through absolute force-just different kinds of order.
Was that why he dreamed about the damned trees-and their chaos and order flows? Did they represent an answer his subconscious was trying to formulate? Or were they something real his unconscious was trying to reach?
Do you want to know? Really know?