Arms-Commander

XXXIX

By fiveday morning, three days after Saryn had returned to Westwind, matters seemed to have settled back close to the normal routine. Saryn stood on the northern side of the arms practice field, her back to the smithy uphill behind her, looking out across the guards as they gathered for the morning exercises and drills. The first thing that struck her, as it had every morning since her return, was the smaller numbers of guards on the field, almost a third fewer, as a result of deaths and casualties. The second was that Dealdron, who now wore a lighter splint on his leg, was lined up behind all the junior guards, looking directly at her.

She ignored his scrutiny and began her own exercises. Only after the exercises and after she’d sparred two rounds with Hryessa did she look again in Dealdron’s direction.

The younger man was being pressed by two of the trio simultaneously, and for a moment Saryn wondered why, since he certainly wasn’t as skilled as any of the three. But as she watched, she realized they were putting him through a defensive drill, where he was only to block all attacks. He did not block all of them, but he had definitely improved. At the same time, while his movements were precise and even smooth, there remained an awkwardness about them.

From Istril’s reminders, and her own nagging conscience, she knew she had to talk with Dealdron, and before long, but that conversation was something she had put off. She knew she could do that no longer.

“The Gallosian won’t make an armsman,” said Ryba from behind Saryn’s shoulder. “Not if he practices for years.” The Marshal wore a light splint on her leg and a dressing on her arm.

“No,” replied Saryn, “but he’s better than some of the Gallosians and Lornians, and he wouldn’t get slaughtered out of hand now. His defense is better than his attacks.”

“He’s strong enough that he gives the girls an understanding of why technique is important. They’ll need that. For such, the Gallosian is useful.”

That was about as much acceptance as Saryn was going to get from Ryba about letting Dealdron remain at Westwind. “He’s been helping both Siret and Vierna.”

“He’s trying to earn his keep, unlike some men.”

“Like Gerlich and Narliat?” While Saryn thought the veiled reference was to the two who had deserted Westwind, only to recruit locals to try to overthrow Ryba, she wanted the Marshal to make it clear that she wasn’t referring to Nylan.

“Exactly. The engineer worked hard. I’m not that petty, Saryn.”

“I’m sorry.” How am I ever to know? Sometimes you are, and sometimes you’re not.

“I have to be hard, Saryn, but I try not to be petty or small. You will see, in your time. When a woman leads, even other women, anything less than firmness is weakness. Westwind cannot afford any impression of weakness. Arthanos thought we were weak because we had not shown great power in close to ten years. Power must be exercised to be believed, especially in dealing with men.” Ryba’s voice softened. “That will be hard for you, because you try to be fair, and fairness can also be viewed as weakness, especially in this world.”

“I’ve seen that.”

“You have, but you will come to feel it as well. It can make you bitter and force you to question the worth of what you do. Do not let the questions overwhelm you.” Abruptly, the Marshal smiled, and her tone lightened as she spoke. “I sound like a Rationalist preacher. I didn’t mean to. I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, ser.” Saryn nodded as Ryba turned and began to walk, limping, uphill toward the road and the stables.

After keeping the guards exercising at arms for a bit longer, Saryn dismissed them to their duties, then headed down the road and across the causeway. When she strode into Tower Black, she nearly ran into Istril, who was carrying a basket of dried herbs, possibly brinn.

“You look like you’re headed to battle or an execution…but don’t worry,” offered the healer, “Ryba’s already left for the ice fields.”

“I know. I hadn’t planned to talk to her.”

“Well…” said Istril with a smile, “if you’re looking for Dealdron, he’s already up at the quarry. He always walks straight up there after arms practice.”

“Is he still sleeping in the carpentry shop?”

“You haven’t looked?”

“I’ve been occupied.”

“What do you have against him?” asked Istril gently. “You’re the one who saved him.”

“He looks at me as if…I don’t know.”

“As if he’s grateful? As if he’s trying to prove to you that he was worth saving?”

“Something like that,” Saryn admitted.

“Little Adiara accepts him, without reservations, and she lost her family to the Gallosians he was ostler for. Why can’t you?”

Saryn didn’t have an answer. Finally, she shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s…something there.”

“Well…he is handsome in his own way,” Istril pointed out with a mischievous smile.

“I know, but it isn’t that.”

The healer nodded. “He’ll be able to do without that splint in another few eightdays.”

“And?”

“That’s all.” Istril smiled again.

Saryn couldn’t read what lay behind the smile, not with the shields that the healer had raised, and that bothered her. “Thank you.”

When she left the tower, Saryn walked directly up the road past the smithy. She glanced to her right as she did, seeing a good half score of guards working on setting and mortaring stones on the barracks wall, under Daerona’s direction. She paused. From where had the mortar come? Dealdron? At that thought, her vision vanished.

She took several deep breaths, then walked more carefully. After perhaps ten yards, she could see again. Once she reached the quarry, she found Siret busy dressing stones, but the stonecutter and healer stopped and motioned Saryn toward her.

“How is Aemra coming with her sculpture of her mother?” asked Saryn.

“She’s polishing it. It should be finished by full summer.” Siret paused. “He’s over at the other end, setting wedges.”

“He’s helpful, I take it?”

“Good enough that I can spare Daerona to do the stone-setting and mortar on the barracks walls. Aemra helps up here with the stone dressing.”

“Where did the mortar come from?”

“Where do you think it came from?”

Saryn shook her head, ruefully. “How is the stonecutting coming? Will you have enough to finish the new barracks before winter?”

“If we don’t run into trouble. We’ve got almost enough for the rear wall now. Daerona claims she’ll have three courses set all the way around by the end of the eightday. After that, things will slow because we’ll be out of mortar.”

“He’ll have to go down to the canyon and make more. That will slow the quarrying.”

“For now. He’s working with a couple of the Analerian women who are strong enough to handle the quarrying. By midsummer, they might be some real help.” Siret nodded.

Saryn understood. She was just slowing Siret’s work. “Thank you.” She turned and walked to the west end of the quarry.

When Dealdron saw Saryn standing there, he set down the heavy sledge and walked to meet her. “Arms-commander.”

“Were you the one who made the mortar while most of the guards were gone?”

“It was not that hard.” Dealdron shrugged. “No one was using the kilns, and there is a thin layer of limestone in the lower cliffs. It is almost buried under the other rock. Many stones were cut and waiting to be placed in the barracks walls. Without mortar, the walls could not be built. The girls helped me cut the wood. It would have been better to make charcoal first, but it can be done with green wood. I showed them how.”

Saryn tried to sense what he was feeling…and discovered that trying to do so was like trying to peer through mist. Why? He wasn’t a mage, and he didn’t have unseen darkness clinging to him the way Istril and Siret, or even Ryba, did, although the Marshal’s talents did not seem to run to manipulating order or chaos. Was it just that he was what he claimed to be, a simple ordered man? And that simplicity and order made it hard for Saryn to sense his feelings? Or was there just a hint of order-darkness?

“Ser?” prompted Dealdron. “Have I offended you? Or failed in some way?”

Saryn realized that she’d just been looking at him, saying nothing, and she forced a pleasant smile. “No. You have worked very hard. Even the Marshal has said that you have made yourself very useful, and from her, that’s high praise.”

“I have tried to follow what you told me.”

“You’ve done well,” Saryn admitted. “I should have told you that sooner, but I…my thoughts have been elsewhere.”

“You were worried about Arthanos.” His words were but a statement of fact. He smiled. “I did not think he would prevail.”

“Why not?” asked Saryn, genuinely curious.

“No one in Candar, perhaps in all the world, can stand against you and the Marshal. That I have seen.”

Even through the sense-mist that was not quite an order shield, Saryn could make out the conviction and belief behind the words. “We’re not that powerful.”

“The guards said you tore down the side of a mountain and flung it at Arthanos’s men.”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” Saryn tried to explain. “There was already a crevice in the rock, and we used explosives…and other skills…to weaken it so that it fell and rolled down the mountainside and over the Gallosians.”

Dealdron frowned. “Could anyone else have loosened part of a mountain and let it fall on an army?”

Saryn forced a laugh. “I wouldn’t know, and I don’t think I’d like to find out.” After the briefest pause, she asked, “How is your leg?”

“The healers say that I will not need the brace before long.”

“You’ll still have to be careful.”

“I will take care. I haven’t done anything the healers told me not to do.”

“Good.” Again, she paused. “That’s all I wanted to talk to you about. Just keep up the good work.”

“I can do no less, Arms-Commander.” He inclined his head politely.

Saryn sensed there were words not spoken, but she did not press. Instead, she turned, but she could feel his eyes on her back as she began the walk back to the smithy, where she needed to check with Huldran on the progress in forging replacement arrowheads for all those lost in fighting the Gallosians.