Arms-Commander

XCII

For the glass after she rode into the holding of the late Lord Henstrenn, Saryn did very little but observe while the armsmen and guards searched all the buildings and rounded up the few remaining rebel armsmen, most of whom were wounded. Once those tasks had been accomplished, Saryn dismounted in the receiving courtyard and walked toward the white-granite steps leading to the entry foyer of Henstrenn’s villa, an elaborate single-story structure set on a knoll within the walls.

She paused when she saw Dealdron’s wagon just a few yards west of the entrance and Dealdron standing beside it, loading something into the wagon bed. “What are you doing?”

“Lord Maeldyn and his armsmen fought their way inside. Some of the guards were helping bring out bodies and weapons.” He gestured to the cart behind the wagon. “The bodies go there, the weapons and tools here.” He paused. “They say they’re almost done.”

“You’re being very diligent.” Her voice carried a touch of amusement.

“Too many who have skill with arms forget the costs of those arms, unlike you.” He smiled at Saryn. “What is in the wagon will support three companies of yours for over a year. It could be longer.”

“What of the other lords?”

Dealdron shrugged. “I just tell them that I am following orders and that they should ask you.” He grinned for the briefest of moments. “There are also more than a few silvers you will need. No one else knows how many.”

Saryn could not say a word for a moment, not because of what he had said but because of what lay behind the words-a clear devotion to her, at the very least. Finally, she said, “Thank you.”

Dealdron just inclined his head.

As she headed up the steps, she couldn’t help but wonder why she found his devotion to her so unnerving. He was good-looking and took care with his appearance. He was bright, although his formal education was certainly lacking, but he definitely had worked at learning…and kept at it. She really didn’t care that he’d been a plasterer and an ostler…So why does his affection upset you? Because you’re actually attracted to him and yet so far above him in position? How many men have found and expressed an interest in younger women not of their “official” stature? Should it be any different for women? She swallowed as she realized the implications of the question she’d just asked herself. But why? Was it because he’d never intruded in the slightest on her, and always tried to please her, not by flattery or deceit, but by doing to the best of his skills what he thought she needed done?

She shook her head. Thoughts about Dealdron would have to wait. But they can’t wait too long, came a stray thought from somewhere.

She hurried through the villa’s front foyer and down the corridor to the right, where a pair of armsmen in Maeldyn’s tan and black were stationed outside a door. Stepping between them, she joined Maeldyn, Zeldyan, and Spalkyn in a small chamber, most likely the late lord-holder’s private study. That location afforded a view of the town and the river through the study’s wide south windows. The four sat around a square table, one Saryn suspected had been used more for gaming than for writing or meeting. She couldn’t imagine Henstrenn meeting with even three other people at the same time, not unless he planned to cheat them out of something, either by gaming or politicking.

“What should we do with the prisoners?” asked Spalkyn, whose left forearm was heavily bound.

Saryn refrained from replying immediately, instead using her senses to see if there happened to be any wound chaos in Spalkyn’s arm, despite the lightknives that stabbed through her eyes as she did. She found no chaos, but she reminded herself to check later…when she had recovered more of her strength.

“They can’t stay here,” said Zeldyan.

“Have them help rebuild The Groves,” suggested Maeldyn, “and pardon them if they do. Execute them if they refuse.”

“They shouldn’t be allowed back on the holding here, either,” said Zeldyan. “They served Henstrenn.”

“Nor in the town of Duevek,” added Saryn. “Other towns in the holding lands, but not Duevek itself.”

“That’s reasonable,” agreed Maeldyn. “Whoever succeeds Henstrenn shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“That’s another problem,” offered Spalkyn. “There are no living heirs to Duevek. No close ones, anyway.”

“What happened to his consort?” asked Saryn.

Maeldyn looked directly at her, but did not speak.

“He killed her, too?”

“He was rather possessive.”

Rather possessive? How about insanely possessive? Another case where a woman ended up paying for the faults and follies of the man…not that Henstrenn hadn’t paid as well. But so many others had paid dearly for his ambition and self-centeredness. Saryn shook her head…and winced because the throbbing in her skull intensified. Why did he go to such extremes at the end? Because he wanted power and couldn’t stand a woman having it? Or his own consort surviving him? Or was it all about him, proving he was the strongest and that his will would prevail? Those questions raised another. Are you any different in that regard? Probably not. Even so, the lord-holder system of Lornth had proved clearly that, in the absence of the Cyadoran threat, it didn’t work. Maybe it never really had, but that failure had been concealed by the infrequent Cyadoran attacks. What ever the case, matters had to change, for the sake of both Westwind and Lornth.

“So what do we do about it?” pressed Spalkyn.

Maeldyn turned to the bearded lord-holder. “We’d best not jump to a solution. We need to think about that and not act too hastily. There may be other southern holdings facing similar situations. I don’t believe Kelthyn could have had any heirs since he had no consort. What ever we propose should be best for all Lornth. Tomorrow would be best, or even the day after.”

Saryn could sense that there was more behind Maeldyn’s words, but with her headache and the lightknives that her last attempt to extend her senses had caused, she wasn’t about to try to discover what, especially since she had seen, time and time again, how honest the stern-faced lord really was.

“There’s no provision for an overlord, either,” Spalkyn said.

Maeldyn looked to Saryn. “It would seem appropriate and necessary that we gather all the remaining lord-holders of Lornth to discuss the matter. Do you have any objection to that?”

“So long as none of them brings more than a squad of armsmen,” Saryn replied. “There’s been enough bloodshed.”

“Some of them will claim they need more protection,” Spalkyn observed.

“Tell them that we will protect them from each other,” Saryn replied. “You might also point out, if they question, that we have attacked no one who did not attack first.”

“You might also suggest that they need not come,” said Zeldyan, “but that, if they do not, they will have no voice in what happens, and none will entertain their complaints. When would you suggest?”

“Two eightdays from oneday,” said Maeldyn. “It may take five days even to get the word to some…”

After discussing more mundane arrangements, such as quartering and supplies, the four left the study. They had just started down the hallway toward the entry foyer when a dull clank of metal on the stone tiles, followed by a set of lesser clinks, jolted Saryn.

“Son of a demon!” exclaimed Maeldyn, bending down to recover his belt dagger, still in its scabbard with part of the belt that had held it, along with his coin wallet, and the silvers and golds that had spilled from the wallet.

“It looks like someone cut a lot closer to you than you thought, friend.” Spalkyn laughed and began to scoop up some of the stray coins.

Zeldyan glanced back, then kept walking.

Saryn stayed with the Lady of The Groves, sensing Zeldyan had something to say, although she couldn’t help but wonder what Maeldyn was discussing with Spalkyn.

“What will you do now?” asked Zeldyan cautiously.

“That will depend on who becomes Overlord of Lornth…and how. The whole reason I was sent was to assure that the overlord remained friendly to Westwind.”

“You could claim Duevek, you know. There aren’t any heirs.” Zeldyan glanced back toward where Maeldyn was attempting to find somewhere to put his coin wallet, the dagger and scabbard in his hand, then added in a lower voice. “Maeldyn would certainly prefer you as a lady-holder than any would-be lord-holder from the south.”

“I hadn’t thought that was an acceptable possibility until a few moments ago.” A possibility, but not one acceptable to many lord-holders. “I doubt many of the lord-holders would like that.” Saryn could also see from where Zeldyan was coming.

“What ever happens, they will not like it,” Zeldyan pointed out. “The more practical the solution, the less they will wish it. Sillek wanted to be practical. He saw war with Westwind as impractical. He was forced to fight, one way or the other, either to fight Westwind or his lord-holders. Since he knew he could not win against the lord-holders, he chose to fight Westwind. He was doomed, no matter what. He did not know it then. That was why I requested your aid.”

“And now?” asked Saryn, as they walked though the archway and started down the steps.

“Lornth still needs you, as do I.”

What do I say to that? How much should I say? Saryn was silent for several moments before speaking. “What is needed is often not what those who have or seek power would prefer.” She glanced to the paved area beyond the steps, where, in the lower portico and receiving area, waited fourth squad-drawn up across from the steps, some twenty yards back-a smaller group of Lornian riders and their squad leader just to the right of the mounting blocks at the base of the stairs, and, to the left, Dealdron, who stood beside the lead horse of the team drawing the wagon, apparently checking or adjusting the harnesses.

“Lornth must accede to what it needs, not what individual lord-holders would have,” replied Zeldyan. “You, more than anyone, must know that.”

“I know that, but I’m an outsider.”

“You have risked more than any lord-holder.”

“Except you and your father,” Saryn pointed out.

“That may be, but you have power that we did not…”

Even with her aching head and the intermittent lightknives stabbing into her eyes, when Saryn stepped down onto the pavement of the courtyard and past the mounting blocks, heading for fourth squad and the waiting gelding, she sensed…something and looked up. As she did, the five Lornian armsmen, who had been holding sabres in a salute, charged forward toward Zeldyan and Saryn.

“No more bitch rulers!” yelled the squad leader.

Zeldyan looked up in total surprise.

With one hand, Saryn drew the remaining blade from her harness, and with the other she grabbed Zeldyan’s sleeve and threw her up the steps. Then her blade came up into a guard position, because she was almost between two riders.

At that moment, another figure attacked the armsman on Saryn’s right, driving a blade up into the man’s gut before the armsman’s mount ran him down.

Saryn went almost to her knees as she half parried, half blocked the heavy hand-and-a-half blade. Then she dropped her own blade and threw herself into a rolling dive past the second armsman, coming up behind the man’s mount, looking for her blade.

She didn’t need it. Fourth squad had surrounded the attackers, and in moments, cut all five out of their saddles.

Dealdron lay motionless on the stone beside the mounting block.

Saryn ran toward him.

Even before she knelt beside him, she could see that he was breathing, but that one arm was at an angle that indicated it was broken. She could also sense a mass of chaos within his chest, as if his ribs had been pressed in on his heart.

The arm could wait. She had to relieve the chest pressure…somehow.

She forced herself to concentrate, to come up with some strands, some flow of order, straightening…forcing…coercing…the ribs…muscles back…away. She could sense, despite the brilliant lightknives slashing into her eyes so intensely that she could not see, that the chaos-pressure on his chest had eased…mostly.

Slowly, she straightened, her eyes burning. Ought to be able to do more…somehow…

But there was nothing left within her to give, no control of order…nothing. She struggled to her feet.

“Commander!” Klarisa reined up beside Saryn and looked down. “Are you all right?”

“Don’t put any pressure on his chest…Don’t. His ribs are broken.”

“Are you all right?” demanded the squad leader.

“Don’t touch his chest,” Saryn said again. “I’m fine,” she began to add, when a wall of unseen black and white crashed over her, and she felt nothing.