“Tell Fuera.” Nylan chucked the reins and eased the mare toward where Ayrlyn had reined up beside the first wagon. He massaged his neck, hoping that would relieve the pressure in his skull. It didn’t.
Should he think of trees? Who had time? He snorted.
Tonsar arrived beside Ayrlyn at the same time Nylan did, reining up with a flourish. “These fellows”-the burly armsman jerked his head toward the bodies sprawled in the wagon seat-“they weren’t very good. Some of ours were better after the first eight-day you had them.”
Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances.
Had it been a ruse? Nylan wondered. “What’s in the wagons?”
“Oh, it is copper, many ingots of copper.” Tonsar smiled broadly. “Big ingots.”
The smith eased the mare over beside the wagon, then dismounted. He pulled back the dusty canvas, ignoring the few dark splotches of blood on the heavy fabric, realizing that his own shirt was equally splotched. As the dust rose around him, he tried to rub his nose one-handed, but failed to stop the sneezes. Aaaa…chew…cheww!
Finally, he rubbed his nose again and surveyed the wagon bed-filled with bronzish ingots, some already bearing a faint greenish sheen.
Ayrlyn sat on her mount, motionless, eyes glazed over.
Nylan re-covered the ingots, sneezing again and again. “Demon-damned dust.” He rubbed his nose once more, then remounted, waiting until Ayrlyn’s eyes refocused.
“You think it was a little too easy?” asked Ayrlyn, squinting as if the sunlight had suddenly brightened.
“I had that thought.” Nylan nodded. “Let’s get the Cyadoran gear rounded up and get out of here.”
“I’ve already checked on the breezes-such as they are. There aren’t any Cyadorans around. There might be a scout.” Ayrlyn closed her eyes and massaged her neck and forehead with her right hand.
“I think one got away. Two actually, but one didn’t even try to fight,” said Nylan. “That seemed strange.” He looked at Tonsar. “We can talk about that later. Let’s get some drivers up here, and get these wagons moving. The sooner we’re north of the mines and back in Syskar, the happier I’ll be.”
Ayrlyn nodded in agreement.
XCII
Lephi stood on the balcony, facing the harbor, his light silvered robes billowing in the gentle breeze rising off the blue of the water to the south, the scent of leydar and orange mixing in the salt air.
The late-afternoon sun cast the long shadow of the palace almost as far as the stone wharfs that had sparkled spotless white for all the centuries Cyad had stood, for all the generations of lords of Cyador. Each of the score of wharfs extended more than five hundred cubits out into the deep harbor waters; each was twice that from its neighbor. Beyond the wharves the harbor’s greenish blue darkened into the far deeper blue of the Great Western Ocean.
The Protector of the Steps to Paradise took in the white clouds rising over the ocean to the south, with their promise of rain, and then the wharfs again, where the seemingly endless expanse of white stone dwarfed the dozen small coasters seemingly tied at random.
“Cyad will again be as mighty as…even more mighty than before…” he murmured. “No barbarians, no forests, no love of luxury…no…”
Although the shadow of the palace covered the Great Avenue, all the way down to the wharfs, the white paving stones and curbs glistened with a whiteness that leapt out of the shadow, out of the dark green of trees and grass. Indeed, Lephi knew, without looking, that every avenue in Cyad was white, spotless and shimmering in late afternoon, in twilight, even through the nights under the glittering lamps of the avenues. And every avenue was safe, clean, pure.
His eyes dropped closer to the palace, toward the hexagonal white market square to the southwest of his balcony. He frowned at the single blue awning among the green and white canvases.
“Blue? Blue…it will go, like the barbarians.”
Lephi nodded, his eyes returning to the wharfs, and to the shipworks beyond where the superstructure of the first fireship in generations rose above the waves.
“Cyad…forever.”
The Protector of the Steps to Paradise smiled.
XCIII
The stillness of late afternoon had faded into the chirpings of twilight, and a light breeze swept out of the north, with the slightest hint of moisture. The insect chorus melded with the sounds of hoofs, clanking harnesses, and low voices.
In the dimness of early evening, Nylan rubbed his neck, then his temples, as he rode at the head of the column beside Ayrlyn. Behind them rode the three squads of armsmen, followed by five riderless mounts, two bearing bodies, a dozen lancer mounts, and the three heavy wagons, which creaked and squeaked loudly enough that each squeak sent another shiver through Nylan’s skull. Ayrlyn merely winced, although Nylan knew that her less severe reaction reflected better self-discipline, not less pain.
“We can’t keep doing this,” he finally said in a low voice.
“No.”
“Did you have any luck with the trees?”
He got the sense of a shrug, and waited.
“The trees we seem to dream about-they’re a long ways south. There’s a small grove to the northwest of Syskar-thirty kays, I’d guess-that feels somewhat like that.”
The smith could feel Tonsar’s puzzlement.
“We have to do something,” Ayrlyn said. “You can’t go out and fight another battle right now.”
“Neither can you.”
“No.”
“Do we go to the closer grove?” he asked.
“Do we have much to lose?”
Ayrlyn was probably right. Had the lancers who had defended the wagons been first-rate, both he and Ayrlyn would have been dead or wounded during their increasingly violent reactions to the deaths they caused. Another skirmish, battle, fight, would have the same result. Yet they had everything to lose. How could they just ride away on the hope that a series of dreams, a sense of order, and a grove of trees might provide an answer, some sort of answer? Especially when Nylan wasn’t even sure what the problem was.
Overhead, the emerging stars, unfamiliar as ever to the angels, shone clearly, coldly, across the hilly grasslands, grasslands bleached into a faint white even to Nylan’s night vision.
“Will going to this…grove help?” he asked after a time.
“I don’t know. You want certainty at a time like this? It’s certain we won’t make it if we don’t change something.”
That made too much sense, so much sense he didn’t bother answering, knowing that Ayrlyn understood. He massaged his temples again.
The night darkened; the stars brightened; and the wagons kept squeaking and creaking.
“That’s Syskar,” Ayrlyn said.
Nylan looked out into the darkness, catching the few glimmers of light ahead. “Tonsar…send a messenger to the camp. Let ser Fornal, Lewa, Huruc know that we’re coming in, and that we’ve got copper and some more supplies.” Nylan rubbed his temples again, wishing the aching would subside.
“Yes, ser.” The subofficer turned and called, “Kysta! Up here.”
The angels rode silently as Tonsar explained the message to Kysta and sent the red-bearded young levy off at a canter.
“You will not be gone long…on this journey?” Tonsar ventured once Kysta had left.
“It shouldn’t take long,” Ayrlyn said.
One way or the other, thought Nylan.
“The men…they feel better when you lead them,” confessed the subofficer. “No one can stand against an angel.”
“Right now, a one-armed Cyadoran could knock me off this mare,” Nylan said.
“That is why you must-?”
“Something like that,” Ayrlyn answered ambiguously.
Tonsar nodded to himself as they neared the encampment.
Torches burned on the stoop of the officers’ dwelling and from the front of the shed barracks, adding a dim light to the area.