Arms-Commander (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Saryn saw and sensed the shaft slam through the middle of the breastplate.

  Falynna half turned. “Through the plate at a hundred yards. Now, we’ll see about two hundred.” The archer walked westward, down the slight slope.

  Saryn walked with her. At a marker post, Falynna stopped and turned.

  Saryn looked back up the long grassy slope. The target figure seemed so small, yet Falynna thought she could not only hit the target, but possibly penetrate the iron breastplate.

  The archer loosed another shaft that arced uphill, then slashed downward with enough force that the entire target shivered as the arrowhead cut through the iron of the breastplate.

  “That’ll do.” Falynna’s words were matter-of-fact.

  “We won’t be in many places where we’ll have a clear line of fire for more than that.”

  “That’s true. It’s not like the grasslands,” observed Falynna. “We will need arrows with longer shafts with these bows. I couldn’t use a full draw because the shaft wasn’t long enough.”

  Strike harder than penetrating plate at two hundred yards? “How far?”

  “Farther than I can aim accurately. Close to four hundred yards.”

  “You’ve done a great job,” Saryn said. “You and Huldran. Mostly you, I believe.”

  “Huldran did help, with the core,” replied Falynna, “and with the glue. We can’t get enough fish for fish glue. Huldran found a way to combine rabbit skin, hide, and resin from the dwarf blue pines into something that doesn’t dissolve in water once it sets.”

  “We’ll need as many as you two can make,” said Saryn.

  “I figured as much, ser.”

  “Thank you.” The arms-commander turned from Falynna and began to walk back up the slope. In time, the bows would make a huge difference, but would they have that time?

  After leaving the archery range, Saryn took the path farther uphill to the quarries beyond the stables—a squarish area cut from hard reddish rock. The red stone was not quite so hard as the black granite from which Nylan had carved out the building stones for Tower Black, carefully enough that the pillared spaces he had left still served as Westwind’s stables.

  As Saryn neared the quarry, the sound of hammers, those of guards working down in the quarry and the mea sured blows of a stonecutter nearer to Saryn, grew louder. At the northeast edge of the quarry, Saryn stood in the shadows of the cliff, watching Siret as the healer, who was also a stonecutter, worked. The blackness that had surrounded Nylan when he had worked either stone or iron gathered around Siret as well, if not quite so intensely as it had around the engineer. On the other hand, Saryn had the feeling that Siret’s techniques with the hammer and chisels were more deft. But then, she’d had more time to practice than Nylan had when Saryn had last observed the engineer years ago.

  Abruptly, Siret set down the hammer and looked toward the shadows.

  Saryn stepped forward across the cut-stone lip of the quarry to where Saryn stood.

  “Do you need something, ser?” asked Siret.

  “I was just observing,” said Saryn. “You’re working the stone the way the engineer did, maybe even better.”

  “I don’t think so, ser,” replied Siret, not looking directly at the commander, but not actually looking away, either.

  “I do. I’ve seen you both.” Saryn let the silence hang between them for a moment. “You’ve never said anything about it.”

  “What is there to say?” Siret lifted the hammer, struck the chisel, and an improbably long wedge of stone split away from the block. She turned the stone on the flat ledge she was using as a work surface, then struck again. In what seemed moments, a dressed stone rested there.

  Two guards immediately hurried over from where they were stacking rough blocks and carried the dressed stone to the wagon that waited at the end of the road up from the stables.

  “Just as Nylan built Tower Black,” Saryn said, “you’ll build the rest of Westwind.”

  “I’m not looking for that. I’m looking for a safe future for Kyalynn. That means a bigger stronghold. That takes stones and healthy women.” Siret waited as the two guards returned and lugged a rough oblong of stone up and set it on the ledge.

  After the guards had walked down into the quarry to fetch more rough blocks, Saryn asked, “What do you think about Dealdron?”

  “His leg is healing. Your guards did a good job of splinting it.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. You’re one of the few who can sense… you know what I mean. Will he fit into Ryba’s plans, do you think?”

  “You can tell if people tell the truth, Commander.”

  “Feelings are harder for me.”

  Siret looked at the woman who had been a UFA command pi lot. “Weren’t they always, ser?”

  “You’re suggesting something.” Saryn offered a grin.

  “To heal or work metal or stone… you have to feel. If you let yourself feel too much, you lose your effectiveness as a commander and a warrior, like the engineer did.”

  Saryn hadn’t seen that Nylan had lost much effectiveness, not until after he’d destroyed thousands, then con ve niently collapsed. “That may be, but what about Dealdron?”

  “He’ll work out fine if you don’t ignore him.” Siret emphasized the “you” just slightly.

  “Why me?”

  “He believes in earned loyalty. You’ve earned it. So far, no one else has.”

  Saryn didn’t care for the implications of Siret’s words, but she had to accept what the healer sensed and knew. “Have you talked to him about building techniques?”

  “He knows some things we don’t. He’s also afraid that he wasn’t that good a plasterer and that we’ll find that out.”

  “Since we don’t know anything about it, that might be difficult.” Saryn’s words were dry. “But don’t mention that to him.”

  “I didn’t, but he knows enough that he’ll find out.”

  “That can’t be helped, can it?” Saryn laughed. “He’ll figure it out anyway if he hasn’t already. There’s not any plasterwork anywhere in West-wind. He’ll see that, sooner or later.”

  Siret replied with a half smile.

  “Can you teach anyone else to cut stones the way you do?”

  “None of the locals… Oh, they can handle the hammer and chisel, but they don’t sense where to strike and at the right angles. Daerona is a decent mason and a stone setter.” Siret paused. “The one who’s likely to be the best is Aemra. She likes it, and she comes up here and helps me in the afternoons.”

  “She’s barely ten.”

  “She’s better at it than anyone else.”

  “Does Ryba know?”

  “She may, but I haven’t told her. Neither has Istril. Istril’d be just as happy to have her daughter as a stonecutter. Aemra’s also artistic.” Siret walked to the end of the rock shelf, where she bent down and lifted an oblong of stone.

  Saryn swallowed. The front side bore a sculpted face—that of Istril, although the hair was barely roughed in place, as was the neck. Even so, Istril’s grace—and something else, perhaps a trace of the pain that seemed to go with healing—was embodied in the stone.

  “Aemra did that?”

  “No one else. It’s to be a present. Istril hasn’t seen it.”

  “You might have her work on a bust of Ryba as well.”

  “She wants to finish this one first before she does. She is only ten, Saryn.”

  The arms-commander nodded. Why was it that everything connected with the engineer created complications, even a daughter he’d never seen?

  XVI

  Every time a great angel leaves the Roof of the World, those who rule in lands far and wide should tremble and prepare for times of trouble, for each who leaves is unlike any other, and each shall leave her footprint and her name upon the lands she touches for ages to come.

  There will be those who bear blades that none can parry, and few who oppose them will survive, and none will prosper. There will
be those whose words are more deadly than slings and arrows, and those whose very countenance will charm beasts and yet freeze warriors…

  Yet the first and last to leave Westwind shall also be silver-haired, save that both will be men, and destruction and rebirth will be their heritage, intertwining through the ages so that none will know from whence either came, nor the reasons why their actions will so afflict the world with changes that will lead to yet other changes, ceaselessly, all along the river of time.

  Of those between, those upon the Roof of the World and those who descend to mold and form the Legend will free women to be what they should and can be. They will topple lands, and rebuild them, and they will create cities and places of art and beauty that will last through the ages, and yet the men who rule elsewhere will call them tyrants and worse.

  Especially will those who follow the path of the white demons fear and condemn the angels and what they have wrought, and those selfsame demon followers will rip chaos itself from the earth itself and slash their way through mountains to strike at the lands of peace and prosperity where women rule. And yet all that will come to naught, high as the cost will be to those who would defend the Legend.

  For in the end will the heritage of the Legend triumph, though it may not seem as such to those who behold that heritage and the fruits that it will bear over the endless years…

  Book of Ryba

  Canto I, Section IV

  [Original Text]

  XVII

  Over the next eightday, the Roof of the World warmed, as much as it ever did. The root crops continued to grow, and the hardy redberry bushes showed signs of blossoming. Predictably, Ryba showed irritation at the time it would take to create the horn composite bows, then ordered the bow-making to continue as quickly as possible with the limitations.

  Because a thundershower was drenching Westwind in midafternoon on sixday, Saryn decided to stay inside until it passed and undertake a thorough inspection of Tower Black from the level below Ryba’s quarters to the lowest level, which held the carpentry shop as well as sickbay and the armory. Everything was largely in place on the upper levels. Sickbay itself was empty, and she walked quietly to the carpentry shop, stopping well short of the entry archway when she saw Dealdron seated on an old bench, using a small plane to smooth out a headboard for one of the narrow pallet bunks that would be used by the younger guards. After a time, he set the plane down and slipped a small knife out of his belt, one so small it fit almost within his palm. He began to cut a design in the middle of the headboard. Behind him, several other guards worked on various projects, but none paid much attention to the young Gallosian.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  Saryn couldn’t see the speaker, but sensed it had to be one of the silver-haired trio because of the swirl of blackness that surrounded the girl.

  “Flowers are supposed to bring pleasant dreams,” replied Dealdron. “Carved flowers last longer than real ones, and there are few flowers in winter.”

  “What kind of flower is that?”

  “It’s a ryall. There aren’t many. They grow in rocky places where little else grows, and they do not bloom often.”

  “What color are they?” Aemra stood, stretching and holding a stave she had trimmed to fit the broken bucket on the narrow workbench before her. She slipped it into place, with just enough force that it was clear she had shaped it perfectly. Then she turned and waited for Dealdron to reply. Behind her appeared Adiara, who looked at the Gallosian, half fearfully.

  “They’re black, mostly, with thin lines of white that outline the petals. A ryall is bigger than the one I’m carving. Each flower is bigger than a guard’s hand.”

  “They don’t sound pretty.” Aemra stepped over toward Dealdron and studied the small carving. “I like the carving, though.”

  “They’re not pretty. They’re beautiful, like an icicle or a foggy morning.”

  “Icicles are freezing, and foggy mornings are cold and damp,” Aemra pointed out.

  “Here on the Roof of the World, that might be true. They still can be beautiful.”

  Saryn concentrated on feeling what was happening between the two, but so far as she could sense, there were no feelings on Dealdron’s part beyond exactly what she heard in his words and tone. Aemra was curious and possibly a bit pitying when she looked at the young man’s splinted leg, but the pity vanished as she looked at the first cuts of the design.

  “I suppose so.” Aemra didn’t sound that convinced.

  Dealdron didn’t press the issue but bent forward and continued to cut and deepen the lines of the ryall. Saryn sensed the dull throbbing in his leg, but the young man kept working, and Aemra went back to carefully mea sur ing and cutting a second stave for the other broken bucket on the workbench. After a time of watching, Saryn stepped into the carpentry shop. Several of the guards glanced up, then resolutely looked away.

  “Commander,” Aemra murmured, inclined her head, then stepped away from Saryn and closer to the bench. Adiara did not move at all, her eyes fixed on Saryn.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Saryn, looking squarely at Dealdron. “Did the healers say that you could leave sick bay?”

  “They told me not to try to climb the steps without help. Here… it is not far, and there are no steps. I can at least smooth wood. I asked Vierna. She seemed to be in charge.”

  “You carve as well, I see,” added Saryn. “Did you consider that someone might not like a flowered headboard?”

  “You have many guards, ser. I thought there might be one…” Dealdron lowered the tiny knife, then shrugged.

  “There are probably a few.” Saryn smiled. “If you want to carve designs, I’ll get you a drawing of the Westwind crest.”

  “Might I ask a favor, Commander?”

  “You can ask.” Saryn stopped, although she had been about to turn and leave the shop since she had little else to say.

  “I was never trained in arms. Your guards would have spitted me like a capon if I had had to fight. Could I take the exercises that even the older women do in the morning?”

  “You are barely walking.”

  “That is true. I could only do some of the exercises, but I could begin to learn.”

  “It’s not really necessary, is it?”

  “Commander… ser… if you would…”

  “Yes?” Saryn had to work at not snapping. She’d never liked male puppy dogs.

  “There are but three things that will happen to me. The Marshal will order me killed. You will send me away from Westwind. Or I will stay in Westwind. If I obtain a little training in arms, it will do me little good against what I have seen of you and your guards. If you send me out, I will need to fend for myself because every man in Gallos will turn against me, and those in other lands will as well because they will know me only as a stranger. Any skill in arms will help me survive. And if I am allowed to remain here, then would it not help if I could at least defend myself should any outsiders attack?”

  Saryn couldn’t help smiling, if slightly. The Gallosian did have a few points, and that suggested that he might show some promise… and he wasn’t begging, just explaining. The rigor of the exercises and the training couldn’t hurt in instilling more respect in him, either.

  “You may begin the exercises with the junior guards whenever the healers allow you to do so—only the basic exercises that you can do without hurting your leg. Once you are healed, then we will see.”

  Dealdron inclined his head. “Thank you, Commander.”

  “We’ll see,” Saryn repeated, not wanting to commit to more. After a moment, she turned and stepped back through the archway, all too conscious that Dealdron’s eyes were on her.

  As she walked back up the steps, her boots barely whispering on the stone, the way he had phrased the last alternative struck her. If I am allowed to remain here. That suggested he might want to remain. Was that because returning to Gallos might be a death sentence… or a sentence to a life of misery because he’
d been captured?

  She shook her head. Men! Why did they have to think that if a woman bested a man in anything, the man was worthless? At the same time, she was impressed by way the young man had stood up to Ryba, without bluster but without begging, and by his efforts to prove he had worth. He’d made the decision to learn more, but how much of that was because he was calculating that would make a favorable impression and how much because he had an honest desire to prove himself? She’d sensed both, but more of the latter, she thought.

  Time would tell which was more important to him. She hoped it was the desire to prove his worth and improve himself… but she wasn’t counting on it. Not after ten years on the Roof of the World, fighting off all too many men who wanted women as serfs or slaves.

  XVIII

  A glass before the eve ning meal on sixday, after the thunderstorm passed, Saryn hurried up to the stables to meet with Duessya, the head ostler of the Westwind Guard. She’d asked Duessya to question Dealdron, but between Duessya’s duties and Saryn’s, more time than Saryn would have liked passed before she had a chance to meet with Duessya again.

  The tall guard stood at the west end of the stables, peering at the runoff channel that angled southward away from the stables and joined the stone channel on the south side of the stone-paved road leading down past the smithy to Tower Black.

  “What is it?” asked Saryn. “You look worried.”

  “We’re gettin’ more water in the channel. Must have something to do with the quarry.”

  “It’s south of here.”

  “May be so, Commander, but nothing else has changed, and there’s nothing says water can’t run northward when it goes downhill.”

  “I’ll tell Siret. Some of her assistants can handle that. Daerona should be able to do it.” Saryn paused. “I wanted to ask you if you’d talked to the Gallosian about horses.”

  Duessya nodded. “On threeday. He knows about dealing with hoof rot, and he says he can make up a pasty solution that will help, but you can’t use it too much because it will crack a mount’s hoofs. Like us, he thinks the best way is to keep ’em out of the wet and mud and to clean and dry the whole hoof area every time they come back from a muddy ride. He thinks it would be better if we had more hoof picks…”