Arms-Commander

LVII

Late on eightday afternoon, Saryn and Zeldyan had just seated themselves on the north porch of Lord Deolyn’s hilltop mansion, looking at a meadow that sloped down to a small pond created by an ancient rock-and-mortar dam. Beyond the pond was another hill, covered in straight rows of apple trees whose fruit was showing signs of crimson, reminding Saryn that summer was fleeing, and that she seemed to have accomplished comparatively little.

Deolyn was unlike any other Lornian lord. His short blond hair, interspersed with silver, lay in tight ringlets close to his scalp. His bright green eyes almost seemed to bulge over a narrow nose and a small, silver, brush mustache. His face was deeply tanned and lightly wrinkled, and he was barely Saryn’s height. He wore a green tunic with yellow trim, the colors of his holding.

The three sat in a semicircle around a low table that held two carafes and three blue-tinted crystal goblets. Saryn was using her slowly increasing order-chaos flow skills to arrange the faintest breeze to waft over her and keep various tiny flying creatures from her.

“The white comes from Spidlar,” said Deolyn. “I wouldn’t have it except it was a gift. The red’s from my high vineyards. It’s dry, but holds a good taste.”

“The red, please,” replied Zeldyan.

“For me as well, thank you,” said Saryn.

Zeldyan smiled, lifting the goblet she had taken from Deolyn. “To worthy lords.”

“To worthy lords,” seconded Saryn.

“To worthiness, wherever it may be found,” responded Deolyn in a high tenor voice before sipping from the goblet, then lowering it and looking at Saryn intently. “So you’re the fearsome arms-commander!”

Behind the cheerful voice was what Saryn would have termed good-natured coolness.

“I’m the arms-commander”-Saryn smiled-“but I’d never claim to be fearsome.”

“No point in that at all. If you are, you don’t need to trumpet it, and if you’re not, you’re lying, and that’s to no one’s benefit.” Deolyn looked intently at Saryn, then glanced at Zeldyan. “I can hold my own in battle, but you’re better off having the commander on your side.”

“I know that, Lord Deolyn, but I’d be interested to know why you think that.”

“She has to hold your interests more dearly than any one lord-holder possibly could. She would not be here were this not so. She also would not be here if she were not more than a match for any commander in Lornth. The Marshal of Westwind could send no less. Westwind cannot risk any impression of weakness.”

Deolyn’s understanding impressed Saryn, but she waited to see Zeldyan’s response.

“Do you think the Marshal’s interests are those of the regency?”

“I would not say that,” replied Deolyn. “Her interests are in a peaceful Lornth that will not attack Westwind. At present, those interests are in supporting the regency, for so long as it remains in power.”

“And if it does not?”

“Then I would not wish to be a lord-holder in Lornth, even as I am.” Deolyn’s smile was warm enough, but behind it lay worry. “Those who would replace the regency would find themselves bound to attack Westwind-or be attacked by those who would. That would be so, even were the Suthyans not distributing coins and mercenaries to some who oppose Westwind and the regency.”

“To whom are those coins and mercenaries going? Do you know?”

“I do not know all their destinations, but it is no secret that in Duevek lies your greatest foe. I would guess that Keistyn of Hasel is also receiving coins, and Kelthyn of Veryna, if only to keep young Kelthyn from snapping at your legs. Other than that…” Deolyn shrugged.

“Oh?” Zeldyan raised her eyebrows, then her goblet, and sipped.

“It’s simple enough, Lady Zeldyan. Your strongest supporters are in the north, and some of those are wavering, despite your sire. Your bringing the arms-commander-and her slaughter of the Suthyan marauders-solidifies that support. That’s well and good, but what do you intend to do about Henstrenn and Keistyn…and that puppet of theirs, Kelthyn?”

“What do you suggest?” Zeldyan smiled pleasantly.

Saryn could sense the regent’s worries behind the smile.

“Crush them quickly, and one by one, before they unite against you and your sire.”

“With what do you suggest I crush them? My two companies?” asked Zeldyan. “And how will I explain to all the other lords who will flock to them for fear I will turn on them next?”

“You have at least three companies with the commander’s forces, I would judge.”

“We brought but half a company.” Saryn tried to focus a breeze on herself as she spoke.

“They are worth twice their numbers. I saw them ride in, and I saw how much deference the armsmen gave them. The Lady Regent’s squad leader conveyed to my captain that the single squad from Westwind took on and destroyed more than threescore Suthyan marauders.”

“They were not armsmen, but a motley gathering of marauders,” replied Saryn.

“Half or more were former armsmen, and you lost but one woman.” Deolyn smiled. “Henstrenn and Keistyn may delude themselves, but I will not. All of our armsmen have other tasks and duties. Yours may as well, Commander, but it is certain that they are trained first to kill. Even your weapons speak to that. Men prefer long blades because they believe such proclaim their masculinity. Your blades are far better for mounted combat. I have heard that you alone have killed many by throwing blades through your enemies.” The blond lord shrugged. “It may be that I have heard in error, but I do not believe so.” He glanced at Zeldyan. “Have I?”

Zeldyan shook her head. “She sparred with Lord Barcauyn’s son and could have killed him three times over in moments. He failed to understand, then insulted her, and me. She broke his jaw with the flat of her blade and threw him to the stone. Then she flung a blade through a shield and half through an oak door behind it. None could remove it, save her.”

Deolyn nodded, then looked to Saryn. “You could kill without weapons, could you not?”

“I am no mage, but I was trained to kill with arms, hands, elbows, knees, what ever opportunity might be offered.”

“It is there for those who would see,” pointed out Deolyn. “I may not see all, but I see enough, and I will stand behind you both.”

Saryn understood what lay beneath his words-that Deolyn’s support rested in part, if not in whole, upon Westwind’s backing of the regency…as Ryba had obviously foreseen.