Fall of Angels

XXXVI

THE STOCKY MAN whose black hair is streaked with gray escorts Lord Sillek into the room at the north end of the courtyard, carefully closing the door behind him.

Two heavy wooden doors stand open to the veranda and the shaded fountain that splashes loudly just beyond them.

Sillek glances around the room, his eyes taking in the inlaid cherry desk, the two bookcases filled with manuscripts bound in hand-tooled leather, and the two cushioned captain’s chairs that are drawn up opposite a small table. The chairs face the fountain, and the north wind, further cooled by the fountain, blows into the study.

“My sanctuary, if you will,” says the gray-haired man.

“Quite well appointed, Ser Gethen,” responds Sillek, “and certainly private enough-although …” He gestures toward the open doors and the fountain.

“It is more discreet than one would suspect.” Gethen laughs. “It took some doing before the sculptor understood that I wanted a noisy fountain.”

“Oh …” Sillek smiles, almost embarrassed.

“Please, Lord Sillek, do be seated.” Gethen slips into the chair on the left with an understated athletic grace.

“Thank you.” Sillek sits almost as gracefully.

“My lady Erenthla has expressed a concern that you might have come to the Groves as a result of her hasty note to thelady Ellindyja. She wrote that missive while she was in some distress.” Gethen clears his throat.

“I must admit that the receipt of the letter, certainly not its contents, did remind me that I had been remiss in paying my respects. My arrival represents a long-overdue visit to someone who has always been of great support and good advice to the house of Lornth.” Sillek inclines his head ever so slightly.

Thrap. The knock is almost unheard over the gentle plashing of the fountain, but Gethen immediately rises, crosses the handwoven, patterned carpet, and opens the door.

“Thank you, my dear.” The master of the Groves stands aside as a young blond woman carries a tray into the study. On the elaborately carved tray are two cups, a covered pot with a spout, and a flat dish divided into two compartments. The left contains carna nuts, the right small honeyed rolls.

Sillek stands, his eyes going from the confectioneries to the bearer, whose shoulder-length blond hair is kept off her face with a silver and black headband. Her eyes are deep green, her skin the palest of golds, her nose straight and even, and just strong enough not to balance the elfin chin and high cheekbones.

“This is my middle daughter, Zeldyan. Zeldyan, this is Lord Sillek.”

Zeldyan sets the tray on the low table, then rises and of fers a deep, kneeling bow to Sillek, a bow that drops the loose neckline of her low-cut tunic enough to reveal that her body is as well proportioned as her face. “Your Grace, I am at your service.” Her voice bears the hint of husky bells.

“And I, at yours,” Sillek responds, as he tries not to swallow too hard.

“We will see you at supper, Zeldyan.” Gethen smiles indulgently.

She bows to them both, then steps back without turning, easing her way from the study and closing the door behind her. Gethen slides the bolt into place.

“A lovely young woman, and with great bearing andgrace,” Sillek observes. “You must be proud of her.” His fingers touch his beard briefly.

“My daughters are a great comfort,” Gethen answers as he reseats himself, “a great comfort. And so is my only son, Fornal. You will meet him at supper as well.”

“I never heard but good of all your offspring, ser.” Sillek has caught the slight emphasis on the word “only,” but still places his own marginal accent on the word “all.”

“Your courtesy and concern speak well of you, Lord Sillek.” Gethen leans forward and pours the hot cider into the cups. “Your father was not just Lord of Lornth, but a friend and a compatriot.” He turns the tray and gestures to the cups, letting Sillek choose.

Sillek takes the cup closest to him and lifts it, chest-high, before answering. “A compatriot of my sire is certainly someone to heed, and to pay great respect to.” Then he sips the cider and replaces the cup on the tray.

Gethen takes his cup. “The son of a lord and a friend is also a lord and a friend.” He sips and sets the cup beside Sillek’s.

Sillek glances toward the fountain, then back to Gethen. “You offered my sire your best judgment.”

“And I would offer you the same.”

“You have heard of the … difficulties I have faced recently, between certain events on the Roof of the World and Lord Ildyrom’s … adventures near Clynya?”

“I have heard that certain newcomers are said to be evil angels, and that they have great weapons and a black mage with powers not seen since the time of the descent of the demons.”

“We do not know nearly enough,” Sillek admits, “but what I do know is that these so-called angels killed nearly threescore trained armsmen and lost but three of their number. They have also destroyed several bands of brigands who thought them easy prey. Unfortunately, they have also caused others pain, others who may have judged-”

“It often is not our judgment that matters, Lord Sillek, but the perceptions of others,” interrupts Gethen. “When the perceptionof the people is that women are weak, those who fall to women are deemed even weaker and unfit to lead.” The master of the Groves shrugs, sadly. “And those who lead, especially rulers, must follow those perceptions unless they wish to fight all those who now support them.”

“That is a harsh judgment.”

“Harsh, yes, but true, and that is why I, who loved all my children, have but one son, for I cannot endanger the others by flaunting dearly held beliefs.” Gethen clears his throat.

Sillek waits without speaking.

“I understand you were successful in reclaiming the grasslands with a rather minimal loss of trained armsmen.” Gethen laughs. “Rather ingenious, I think.”

“I was fortunate,” Sillek says, “but it ties up my chief armsman and one of my strongest wizards in Clynya.”

“Hmmmm. I see your problem. If you attempt to secure the river, or Rulyarth … or send another expedition to the Roof of the World …”

Sillek nods.

“Perhaps you should take the battle to Ildyrom. It appears unlikely that the newcomers on the Roof of the World would move against anyone in the near future. Nor will the Suthyan traders.”

“I had thought that, Ser Gethen. Still, Ildyrom can muster twice the armsmen I can. The other option would be to enlist support for a campaign to take Rulyarth, enough support to wage such an effort without removing forces from Clynya.”

Gethen purses his lips, then tugs at his chin. “That might work, provided those who supported you were convinced that you would continue to work in their best interests. With the access to the Northern Ocean, and the trade revenues, Lornth could support a larger force of armsmen …”

“I had thought that, ser, but wished to consider your thoughts upon the matter.”

“Hmmm … that does bear consideration.” Gethen tugs at his chin again, then reaches for his cider and sips. “You would need to make a solid, a very solid, commitment.”

“That is something that I would be willing to do, ser, especially for the good of Lornth.”

“The good of Lornth, ha! You sound like your father. Beware, Sillek, of phrases like that. When a ruler talks of the good of his land, he means his own good.”

“The two are not opposites, ser.”

“True. And sometimes they are the same. Tell me, what do you think of Zeldyan?”

“At first blush, she is attractive and courtly. I would know her better.”

“Should you wish for the good of Lornth, Sillek, I’d bet you will know her much better.”

“That is quite undoubtedly true.” Sillek forces a smile. “For you offer good advice.”

“How good it is-you shall see, but I offer you all the experience that I have, purchased dearly through my mistakes.” The gray-haired man rises. “I believe the time for supper nears, and Fornal and Zeldyan would like to share in your company.”

“And I in theirs, and yours, and your lady’s.” Sillek stands and follows Gethen into the twilight of the courtyard.