The Chaos Balance

CXXV

Gethen did not unroll the scroll he held as he sat in the green upholstered armchair across the ancient carpet from his daughter and coregent. “The traders-the ones who ported in Rulyarth. They bring disturbing news, daughter and regent.”

“That the white demons ready an attack? We knew that. Do they say when?”

“They bring no news of what we face from the south.” Gethen cleared his throat. “The lord of Cyador builds a fireship like one of the ancients that swept clean the Great Western Ocean. It nears completion.”

“We need not worry of that.” With a quick look at Nesslek, who banged two blocks at each other, not exactly in a coordinated fashion, Zeldyan raised her goblet of greenjuice, taking a small sip. “Not soon, in any instance.”

“Perchance not. Has there been word from Fornal?”

“Except for another plea for coins and levies…no. We sent him all that the sale of the copper raised. It was not enough, he claims. Yet he did not seize the copper, not according to Diwer. The angels did, and Fornal called them highwaymen.”

“Would we had more such highwaymen.” Gethen snorted.

“They may yet suffice.”

“You have faith in the angels, yet we have heard naught.” Gethen stood and walked to the serving table where he filled a goblet, not with the greenjuice, but with a dark wine. “The demons must be nearing, and we hear little. I must leave for Rohrn before long.”

“How soon, my sire?”

“No more than a few days.”

“So soon?”

“So late.”

“So late, yet I must have faith.” She set the goblet on the side table, leaned over, and disengaged Nesslek’s busy fingers from where he picked at the ancient green silk border of the chair’s upholstery. “What else is there? We have no coins left. No way to raise more levies beyond that poor handful you take. Our holders are openly grumbling, and the harvest has been poor.”

“Not so poor as for the mutters we hear.”

“The Lady Ellindyja?”

“Some still visit her,” admitted Gethen. “We cannot remove her.”

Zeldyan lifted Nesslek into her lap. “A poor patrimony for you, my son, and much because your grand-dame was overly concerned about that of your father.”

“That is cruel, especially to tell your son,” offered Gethen.

“It is true. Would you have me lie to him? Even as his grand-dame destroys his own patrimony out of spite and pettiness? Truth may yet be his only weapon.”

“Truth be never enough. Cold iron-that be the only weapon that a lord can depend on. Wizards and mages and trade-they come and they go. Cold iron remains. To the cold iron we do not have.” The gray-haired regent took a deep swallow.

Zeldyan hugged Nesslek until he squirmed, then set her son back on the carpet beside his wooden blocks. She looked at the goblet, but did not drink.