L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

“I am much better, Angel.” He grinned.

“I can tell that.” Saryn managed not to flush as she took the chair in the afternoon shade beside his. He’d taken to calling her Angel after he’d sensed her reaction to the salutation, although he always spoke respectfully, and the feelings behind the words were a combination of respect and affection.

“Hryessa turned your strongbox over to me the other day. I forgot to tell you that it’s safe. I counted over a hundred golds.”

“It is all for you.”

“I know.” While some men would have said so after the fact, Dealdron had told her before the fact as well, and she could also read the truth in what he said.

“What do you think of this place?”

“It is much grander than Westwind. It is not so grand as the Prefect’s palace in Fenard, but it is much more pleasant.”

“You will have some time to explore it and offer your thoughts on how to change it for our needs.”

Dealdron frowned.

“The day after tomorrow, Hryessa and I and first company will ride to Lornth to meet with the remaining lord-holders and perhaps some of the heirs of those who died.”

“I will be much better.”

Saryn shook her head. “We’ll only be taking one wagon, and your injuries are not healed enough for travel, not when such travel is not necessary.”

“But…”

“You have done enough for now.” She smiled. “Besides, I like this place-except for the name-and it’s closer to the southern lords and to the roads across the Westhorns. Also, the lords or overlords of Lornth have left a bad impression on everyone. So…if matters work out, and they agree, however reluctantly, to my becoming overlord or the like, this is where the center of government will be.”

Dealdron gave a quick quizzical frown at the Rationalist word government, a term Saryn realized she’d never heard in Lornth, before saying, “You should call it Sarron.”

“That’s rather vain, don’t you think?”

“No. Sarron means peace in the old tongue. That is similar to your angel name, but it does not sound quite the same, and it is not spelled the same.”

“But the similarity would be helpful, you think?”

“You wanted to bring peace to Lornth, did you not?”

Saryn shook her head.

“Do not let them talk you out of being overlord, Angel.” Dealdron’s voice was firm. “All you have done and all the lives that have been lost will be wasted.”

“Become overlord at the point of a blade, if necessary?”

“As it must be,” he corrected her. “I am but a plasterer and an ostler, but I have seen enough to know that a weak ruler is the worst fate for any land.”

“What about those who rule by fear?” Saryn wanted to hear what he said.

“Those who rule by fear alone are weak. The proper use of strength is to create respect, not fear. Only those who wish to do evil should be fearful of a ruler.”

Saryn wouldn’t have phrased it that way, but she certainly agreed with the ideas and the sentiment behind his words.

“And to whom should a ruler listen? Besides you?” she asked with a smile.

“Listen to all,” he said, “but make your own judgment.”

Saryn sat back in the chair, letting her eyes take in the Westhorns and the dusty road she had ridden down three times, and back only twice…and which she now doubted she would ever take again to the Roof of the World.

Her eyes drifted to Dealdron…and she smiled.

Saryn, Hryessa, and first company had set out from Duevek-the holding and town that might become Sarron-early on a fiveday so that they would arrive in Lornth well before oneday. The road was hot and dusty, and those in the fields bringing in the harvest gave the riders a wide berth. Neither Saryn nor the scouts saw any sign of any other armsmen or lords as they neared the town of Lornth a glass or so past mid afternoon on sevenday.

As they reached the point where the rutted-and-packed clay of the road was replaced with stone pavement and where the dwellings with their pale pink stucco walls began, a dark-haired woman holding an infant beside a line of laundry just stood and watched. Immediately beyond that first stucco-walled dwelling, Saryn smelled the first whiff of the open sewers, a scent somewhat mitigated, she suspected, by all the recent dry weather.

The first strange thing that struck her was that she saw more people alongside the main avenue. And ahead, toward the square, she could see people coming out onto the street, and even a few windows opening. She could feel eyes turning to her, and the sensation was so powerful that she knew it was not her imagination.

Farther on, two blocks before the square, from those who stood along the avenue and watched, she heard low voices, murmurs that she could barely make out.

“That’s her…the one with the brown hair that has flame in it…”

“…all wear twin blades…”

“…sad time coming…”

“…see her silver eyes…”

“…every lord…didn’t bow to her…they’re all dead…”

“…take an angel from the mountains…set things right…”

“…cold as the ice from where she came…”

Yet, when she rode through the small square in the center of the town, it was empty, as were the walks flanking the narrower part of the avenue between the square and the green before the palace.

Is that because those with wealth fear what will happen? And those without it hope somehow that life will be better? Saryn didn’t know, not for certain, but she suspected her guesses reflected at least some of the truth.

The patchy grass of the green before the palace walls was almost all brown, and dust had drifted against many of the clumps. Saryn’s eyes took in the weathered platform where she had held her first and only execution, then moved to the pale pink granite walls of the palace, walls that looked old and tired, now more than ever.

The pair of armsmen guarding the gates straightened as they saw the column of guards approaching, and they remained at attention.

“Commander,” offered one, bowing deeply, “the stables and barracks are ready. Only Lady Zeldyan has yet arrived.”

“Thank you,” returned Saryn.

As she entered the palace courtyard, she saw that some of the grass between the stones had returned, and there was a haze of dust over the pavement.

“It could use cleaning up again,” murmured Hryessa.

“I didn’t see Undercaptain Maerkyn before Lady Zeldyan left,” Saryn said, thinking about the nervous young officer.

“He was killed in the fighting. Some said it was from behind, by the squad leader you killed, Commander,” replied Hryessa.

“Oh…I should have known.”

“I thought you did, ser, or I would have mentioned it.”

Saryn almost wondered aloud if anyone had been appointed to take Maerkyn’s place, but who could have made such an appointment? The overcaptain and captain had died at The Groves. Zeldyan was no longer regent, and Gethen and Nesslek had both been killed. Her eyes noted that there were two wagons waiting by the front steps to the palace, and two armsmen carried a chest down the steps and placed it in the second wagon.

Once she had unsaddled and groomed the gelding, Saryn headed for the palace. She found Zeldyan in the overlord’s third-level bedchamber, packing items into a crate. So absorbed was Zeldyan that she did not even look up as Saryn slipped into the room.

“Zeldyan?”

The blond woman who had been regent straightened and turned.

Saryn could see-and sense-traces of tears.

“Commander…I have only taken what I brought here…”

“Zeldyan,” Saryn said gently, “you should take everything of a personal nature that was either yours or Sillek’s, as well as any furniture that has been in your family or his. Also, if there are any golds here, or in strongboxes, they are yours by right…and by my wish.”