Fall of Angels

LXXXI

ZELDYAN SITS, PROPPED on the edge of the bed, Nesslek at her breast, wearing a green silksheen dressing gown that sets off her golden hair.

“He’s mostly good,” she says, looking down and smiling.

“Except when he cries in the middle of the night.” Sillek rubs his eyes and yawns, then walks to the window of the room. The fields beyond Lornth, those he can see, have turned green, the light green of crops recently sprouted, with a hint of brown underlying the green. “Some night-just a night-couldn’t he stay with a nurse?”

“When he’s older, but he’s not even a season yet,” points out Zeldyan. “Would you want to trust the heir of Lornth out of our sight so young?” She offers an open smile.

“I may not survive another season.” Sillek laughs. “Undertaking this campaign may get me more sleep than staying in my own bed.”

“I’m glad it’s only sleep you’re wishing.”

He turns from the window and steps to the bed, bending and brushing her cheek with his lips. “It’s not all I’m wishing, but I want you well.”

Zeldyan flushes, ever so slightly. Then she frowns. “I still worry about your being so far from Lornth.”

“Whatever I do, it will be far from Lornth. I have two enemies trying to bleed us dry, and another one that my own holders won’t let me forget. Or my mother.”

“Has she done anything beyond talking to Lygon?” asks Zeldyan.

Sillek frowns faintly, then turns to the window.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”

“That’s all right.” Sillek strokes his black beard without turning. “Lord Megarth approached me. So did Lord Fysor. They were old friends of my sire.” He shrugs and turns, his eyes bleak. “What can I do?”

“I’m sorry,” Zeldyan repeats.

“So am I.”

“It all seems so stupid.” Zeldyan lifts her free left hand to stop his objection. “I know. I know. You’ve explained, and so has your mother, and so did my father when he disowned Relyn, but it’s still stupid.”

“Has anyone heard from Relyn?”

“No. Father thinks the angel women have kept him captive. Have your wizards seen him?”

“No. That doesn’t mean much, though. They can’t scree inside that black stone tower, and during the winter how could anyone tell one person from another in those heavy coats and scarves?” Sillek sits in the chair beside the bed and yawns. His hand strokes her cheek for a moment.

Nesslek gurgles, makes a soft sneezing sound, and returns to nursing.

“You just get to eat and sleep and be close to your mother,” says Sillek to his son. “And keep me awake.” He stands.

Zeldyan reaches out and touches his hand. He wraps his fingers around hers for a moment, and then their fingers part.