Fall of Angels

XXXI

“NOW THAT YOU have reclaimed the grasslands, when will you reclaim the Roof of the World? And your father’s honor?” The gray-haired Lady Ellindyja shifts her notinconsiderable bulk on the upholstered bench in the alcove. Her fingers dart across the embroidery hoop, the needle shining like a miniature blade that she deftly wields.

Sillek stands behind the carved chair with the purplecushion, resting his arms on the back. “The grasslands are reclaimed only so long as Koric and Hissl remain in Clynya. The moment they leave, Ildyrom’s forces will return, in even greater numbers, no doubt. I send armsmen into the Westhorns, and I won’t only lose the grasslands, but half the land between Clynya and Rohrn.”

“If you cannot reclaim that honor, you must do something to solidify your position. You need an heir, Sillek.” His mother’s voice is flat. “You know you do.”

“I also need score five more armsmen, control of Rulyarth, and Ildyrom in his grave.”

“Not to mention regaining control of the Roof of the World.” The needle continues to dart through the white fabric, trailing crimson-red thread.

“As I have told you, most honored mother, that might be a very bad idea, right now.” Sillek straightens and purses his lips. “A very bad idea.”

“A bad idea? To reclaim your patrimony? Given all that your father has done for you, Sillek, how could you possibly even think that, let alone say it so soon after his last sacrifice for you?” The glittering needle darts through the fabric like a cavalry blade chasing a fleeing footman.

Sillek waits until the pace of the needle slows. “I took your advice, dear Mother, and we are already reaping its benefit, and it has cost us little.”

“Costs? You talk so much of costs.” The needle shimmers, then plunges into the fabric. “Costs are for merchants, or for scoundrel traders.”

“I am not being clear, I fear.”

“Clear? I fear you are all too clear. You will give up your patrimony because your enemies are too much for you.”

“I do not intend to forfeit my patrimony, Mother dear, and your assumption that I would do so speaks poorly for me, and not well for you. I would certainly never wish to relinquish that which my honored sire had gathered for my benefit or the benefit of our people.” Sillek walks toward the alcove.

“Could you explain your logic to your poor benightedmother, Sillek, Lord of the Realm? How can you retain your patrimony when you refuse to reclaim it? Are you a magician now?” The needle stitches another crimson loop in a droplet of blood that falls from a gray sword.

Sillek smiles. “From what Terek has told me, and from my other sources, so far the angels on the Roof of the World have destroyed at least three bands of brigands trying to claim my reward-that reward you suggested so wisely. And two of the lesser angels have been killed, and four or five wounded, while close to a score of brigands have been destroyed.” His smile turns into a laugh. “I couldn’t do nearly so well, and I certainly am in no position to lose another score three of trained armsmen.”

Sillek glances out the window and toward the river. “Next spring … after winter up there-then we’ll see.”

“I do hope so, Sillek, dear. 1 do hope so.” The sharp needle stitches in another loop of blood.

Sillek’s lips tighten, but he does not speak.