Fall of Angels

XXXIII

THE GRAY CLOUDS churn out of the north, and a cold rain falls across Lornth, heavier showers splattering in waves across the red tile roofs of the town. From behind the leaded-glass window, Sillek’s eyes look south toward the river, though he sees neither roofs nor river.

“Sillek, did you hear me?”

He turns toward the alcove where his mother the lady Ellindyja adjusts the white fabric over one wooden hoop, then slips the second hoop in place to hold the linen taut.Golden thread trails from the needle she holds in her right hand.

“My dear mother, I fear I was distracted.”

“Distracted? The Lord of Lornth cannot afford distractions, mental or otherwise, and certainly not distractions of the nature of the … lady … Kirandya.” Ellindyja knots the end of the thread with motions that seem too precise for the white and pudgy fingers.

“I suppose not.” Sillek’s words are harsh as he sits on the straight-backed wooden chair opposite the alcove bench. “You were saying?”

“Ser Gethen-you might recall him, Sillek. He has more than score ten in armsmen, and all the lands between the rivers north of Carpa, even a hillside vineyard. I think he has several daughters near your age as well, and the middle one is said to be quite a beauty.”

“I don’t believe you were talking about his daughters.”

“Ah … no.” The golden thread completes the edge of a coronet on the linen, and the needle pauses. “Ser Gethen had a son, Relyn or Ronwin or something. He heard of your offer of lands and a minor title for destroying those witches on the heights-”

“Your idea, as I recall,” interjects Sillek, “and a good one.”

“And the young fellow gathered his funds and some armsmen and attacked the witches. He had a score and ten men, well armed. A half dozen returned.”

“I had heard something of his exploit, but only this morning. Pray, tell me-how did this news come to you?”

“The youth’s mother-Erenthla-she and I were once close, and she sent a messenger. That’s of no matter now, Sillek. You certainly should not expect me to be totally cloistered. What is of import is that Ser Gethen is less than pleased. Erenthla-she is Lady of Gethen Groves-conveyed that. Rather clearly.” Ellindyja’s needle flickers through the fabric, creating another lobe to the coronet taking shape on the linen. “She hinted at her liege’s loss of honor and that it might be linked to your failure to upholdthat noble heritage bequeathed to you.”

“Since you are determined to pin this upon me, why should I be disturbed? The young fellow knew the risks. Any raiding has risks. And he was a hothead, from what I recall. The kind that thinks every fight brings honor.” Sillek stands, then his brows knit. “He was killed?”

“Far worse-he was captured. Being captured by women — even angels-makes it most humiliating, especially for his sire. Erenthla was clearly distraught. I should not have to point this out to you. Of course, Ser Gethen was forced to disown him, but he was Gethen’s second son of two, and second in the succession, and there are only sisters after him.”

“Ah … the matter becomes clearer. I should court one of those sisters in the guise of placating Ser Gethen …” Sillek paces back to the window and stares into the heavy rain. His lips tighten and his fingers knot around each other.

“I did not suggest that. It is not a bad idea, but I was talking of honor, of the honor your failures have cost you, and now, Ser Gethen. The honor you have steadfastly refused to acknowledge or uphold. The honor that you subjugate to concerns more suited to a petty merchant. My son should not be a merchant, but a lord.”

Sillek turns and slowly walks across the floor. He stops by the chair, and his eyes flash. “I am Lord of Lornth, and my father did not die for honor. He died looking for exotic women. Of that, I should not have to remind you, of all people. His honor, his duty, lay in preserving and protecting his people-and there he failed. He lost more than twoscore trained armsmen for nothing! I know what honor is. Honor is more than a reputation for seeking out danger mindlessly. It is more than attacking enemies blindly without regard to costs and deaths.

“You talk of honor, but the honor that you speak of so carelessly and endlessly will bring nothing but pain and needless death. There is no honor in destroying Lornth through mindless attacks on powerful enemies. There is no honor in squandering trained armsmen like poor tavern ale.” His hand jabs toward Ellindyja as she starts to speak. “No!I will hear no more protestations about empty honor, and should you ever throw that word at me again, you will be cloistered-in high and lonely honor in my tallest tower. There you can think of honor until your dying day. And may it comfort you, because no one else will. Do you understand, my dearest mother?”

Ellindyja pales. Her mouth opens.

Sillek shakes his head grimly.

Finally, she bows her head. “Yes, my son and liege.”

For a time, silence fills the chamber.

“I still value your advice,” Sillek says evenly.

Ellindyja does not look up, as the unsteady needle slowly fills in the second lobe of the coronet she stitches.

“About Ser Gethen’s daughter,” he suggests.

“Courting Ser Gethen’s daughter would not be a bad idea,” Ellindyja says quietly, her eyes still on the embroidery. “No ruler is so rich that he cannot afford to look at both a lovely lady and lovely lands, and this … incident … left Ser Gethen with but one heir.”

“Fornal is reputed to be outstanding in Arms.”

“He may be,” said Ellindyja, “but life is uncertain, as your father discovered. Although Ser Gethen is a warrior of caution and deliberation, I do know that he is less than pleased.”

Sillek turns from the window. “You think I should go to Carpa and soothe his ruffled wings?”

“It could not harm you, and, since you are so preoccupied about the possible predations of Lord Ildyrom, rather than … other considerations, you would be close enough to return to Clynya, should that remote need arise.” The pudgy fingers fly momentarily, and the golden thread continues to fill in the outline of the coronet.

“It is scarcely remote when a neighboring lord builds a fort on your lands.” Sillek’s face is stern, and chill radiates from him.

A jagged line of lightning illuminates the roofs of Lornth, and the crash of nearby thunder punctuates Sillek’s observation.

“That is true. Perhaps you could make that point with Ser Gethen in person.” The lady Ellindyja lowers her embroidery. She does not meet his eyes.

Sillek lifts his hands, and then lowers them. “We shall see.”

“Sillek dear, I understand your concerns for the greater good of Lornth. I only provide those suggestions that I feel might be helpful for Lornth … and for preserving your patrimony.”

Sillek’s lips tighten again.

Ellindyja looks away. “Ser Gethen is upset, my son and liege. I cannot disguise that.”

Sillek’s eyes fix on her, but she says nothing.

“He is upset.” He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “And it is true. You cannot change that. For your judgment in this matter, I am grateful, but … I do not appreciate even indirect references to honor and patrimony. Those are best reserved for cloistered towers.”

“Yes, Sillek. You have made your point, and you are Lord of Lornth.” Ellindyja bows her head again.

Sillek offers the faintest of head bows before turning back toward the door as another rain squall pelts across the roofs outside.

After the door closes, Ellindyja smiles sadly, and murmurs, “But you cannot escape honor.”

The embroidery needle flashes, and the third golden lobe of the coronet forms.