L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

When she did not say anything, and the silence dragged out, punctuated only by the sound of hoofs on the road, Istril spoke again. “It’s a good thing you were the one on the mesa to loose the rocks. You had to use order and chaos in addition to the explosives, didn’t you?”

Saryn glanced around. No one else was riding that close to them. She nodded. “Some.”

“More than some. I could sense it down in the valley. So could Siret.”

“I’m not like the engineer,” Saryn protested. “It was nothing compared to what he did.”

“No, you’re not. What you did was different. But it wasn’t nothing. The entire side of the mesa exploded. It was loud enough to stop everyone for several moments.”

And then the killing resumed. Saryn’s smile was bitter. Who was she to talk about other people’s killing? “I couldn’t hear for a while.”

“I can imagine. It was worse than that, wasn’t it? You’re still pale…order-frayed, and it’s almost three days later. You lose your sight at times, don’t you?”

“I can’t complain. I survived in one piece, and thousands didn’t.”

“That’s true, but you paid in a different way. People who use a lot of order or chaos do. But you’re not quite like either the engineer or Siret or me, or even the white mages. You’re not black, and you’re not white. There’s a grayness around you, and it’s getting stronger, and your eyes, they’re sort of silvery instead of straight gray. What does it feel like?”

Grayness? “I hadn’t even noticed it,” Saryn admitted.

“I’d suggest you do.” Istril’s words were gentle. “How do you see order and chaos?”

“Order…chaos-they’re more like flows…like winds through the air or water through the ground…or even unseen electrical fields or currents…”

Istril frowned. “I don’t sense it that way. Siret doesn’t, either, and neither did Nylan or Ayrlyn. Flows?”

Saryn nodded. “The order or chaos in or around things…they just look like they’re stationary, but they’re really not. Everything is moving, all the time. That’s the way it seems, anyway. That could just be me, though.”

“How could everything be moving? There’s order and chaos: But cold iron, it has order in it, and it doesn’t move.”

Saryn shrugged. “I can’t explain it. That’s just the way it seems to me.” She wasn’t about to try to explain how to integrate magic and higher-level physics on a world that half the time she wasn’t sure even ought to exist-except that she’d seen and felt…and caused…enough death to know that it was a very real world.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to argue with what you did, ser. Or how you did it. They’re just glad you did.”

“No. The Marshal just wants results.” And she’s never much cared how she gets them.

“That’s true of most people who run things,” Istril pointed out.

Am I like that? Saryn smiled sardonically. She hadn’t cared all that much about all the deaths she’d caused with her use of order and chaos flows-just that she wiped out Arthanos’s army. But still…She shook her head. She had more than a little thinking left to do, but that could wait…for a while.

“Do you think most of the wounded will recover?” she asked.

“Most, but some won’t ever use an arm or a leg right again, and some probably won’t think very well…”

By fiveday morning, three days after Saryn had returned to Westwind, matters seemed to have settled back close to the normal routine. Saryn stood on the northern side of the arms practice field, her back to the smithy uphill behind her, looking out across the guards as they gathered for the morning exercises and drills. The first thing that struck her, as it had every morning since her return, was the smaller numbers of guards on the field, almost a third fewer, as a result of deaths and casualties. The second was that Dealdron, who now wore a lighter splint on his leg, was lined up behind all the junior guards, looking directly at her.

She ignored his scrutiny and began her own exercises. Only after the exercises and after she’d sparred two rounds with Hryessa did she look again in Dealdron’s direction.

The younger man was being pressed by two of the trio simultaneously, and for a moment Saryn wondered why, since he certainly wasn’t as skilled as any of the three. But as she watched, she realized they were putting him through a defensive drill, where he was only to block all attacks. He did not block all of them, but he had definitely improved. At the same time, while his movements were precise and even smooth, there remained an awkwardness about them.

From Istril’s reminders, and her own nagging conscience, she knew she had to talk with Dealdron, and before long, but that conversation was something she had put off. She knew she could do that no longer.

“The Gallosian won’t make an armsman,” said Ryba from behind Saryn’s shoulder. “Not if he practices for years.” The Marshal wore a light splint on her leg and a dressing on her arm.

“No,” replied Saryn, “but he’s better than some of the Gallosians and Lornians, and he wouldn’t get slaughtered out of hand now. His defense is better than his attacks.”

“He’s strong enough that he gives the girls an understanding of why technique is important. They’ll need that. For such, the Gallosian is useful.”

That was about as much acceptance as Saryn was going to get from Ryba about letting Dealdron remain at Westwind. “He’s been helping both Siret and Vierna.”

“He’s trying to earn his keep, unlike some men.”

“Like Gerlich and Narliat?” While Saryn thought the veiled reference was to the two who had deserted Westwind, only to recruit locals to try to overthrow Ryba, she wanted the Marshal to make it clear that she wasn’t referring to Nylan.

“Exactly. The engineer worked hard. I’m not that petty, Saryn.”

“I’m sorry.” How am I ever to know? Sometimes you are, and sometimes you’re not .

“I have to be hard, Saryn, but I try not to be petty or small. You will see, in your time. When a woman leads, even other women, anything less than firmness is weakness. Westwind cannot afford any impression of weakness. Arthanos thought we were weak because we had not shown great power in close to ten years. Power must be exercised to be believed, especially in dealing with men.” Ryba’s voice softened. “That will be hard for you, because you try to be fair, and fairness can also be viewed as weakness, especially in this world.”

“I’ve seen that.”

“You have, but you will come to feel it as well. It can make you bitter and force you to question the worth of what you do. Do not let the questions overwhelm you.” Abruptly, the Marshal smiled, and her tone lightened as she spoke. “I sound like a Rationalist preacher. I didn’t mean to. I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, ser.” Saryn nodded as Ryba turned and began to walk, limping, uphill toward the road and the stables.

After keeping the guards exercising at arms for a bit longer, Saryn dismissed them to their duties, then headed down the road and across the causeway. When she strode into Tower Black, she nearly ran into Istril, who was carrying a basket of dried herbs, possibly brinn.

“You look like you’re headed to battle or an execution…but don’t worry,” offered the healer, “Ryba’s already left for the ice fields.”

“I know. I hadn’t planned to talk to her.”

“Well…” said Istril with a smile, “if you’re looking for Dealdron, he’s already up at the quarry. He always walks straight up there after arms practice.”

“Is he still sleeping in the carpentry shop?”