Arms-Commander

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She smiled briefly. In a way, that all made sense.

  Her eyes drifted to the smallest of the strongboxes, the one that Dealdron had used to collect the loot and other items of value from battles and the like. It held close to a hundred golds in coins, and rings and jewels most likely worth several hundred golds, if not more.

  He never took a copper himself.

  She stepped back and closed the bookcase door, making sure that the catch and hidden lock were both engaged. Then she left the study, walked halfway down the main corridor, and took a side hall out to the north terrace, knowing that Dealdron was seated there.

  As she neared, he put his good hand on the arm of his chair.

  “Don’t get up. Your ribs still aren’t healed, and if you slip, you could hurt the arm.”

  “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.

  XCVII

  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 s
teps 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.”

  “But if you become overlord…?”

  “Henstrenn left quite enough for now, and I have no doubt that you and your father ended up paying out of The Groves strongboxes what others should have paid.” Besides, all the lord-holders will pay their tariffs, and they’ll do so on time. She’d seen enough to know that they could…and she’d see that they would. Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself? “Also, there’s the small matter of getting them all to approve of a woman as overlord.”

  “All you have to do, Commander, is to ask who might be opposed to the idea.”

  “I suspect all of them except Maeldyn and possibly Spalkyn are opposed.”

  “That may be,” Zeldyan replied, “but all you have to do is ask who is opposed.”

  “You’re suggesting that no one is about to speak up.”

  “Against you? I would think not. If anyone does, it would be Chaspal. He’s not always perceptive. I don’t know if there will be any heirs who will try to claim their fathers’ holdings, but there might be some stupid enough to show up and try.” Zeldyan slipped a small box wrapped in cloth into the crate beside her. “What will you do if that happens?”

  “Assuming people look to me, I’d accept any true blood heir…and make certain that they are treated exactly like any other lord-holder.”

  “You can tell that, can’t you?”

  “I can usually tell when people tell the truth and when they don’t.”

  “Usually…or always?”

  Saryn offered what she hoped was an enigmatic smile.

  “I’ll be through here before long,” Zeldyan said.

  “The quarters here are still yours, and they will be for now, and until you return to The Groves as lady-holder.”

  “But…”

  “The guest chamber I had before is perfectly adequate. This has been yours forever.”

  “Just twelve years. At times, it seems like forever.”

  “Could we have dinner together, Zeldyan…and without you calling me ‘Commander’?” asked Saryn warmly. “Please?”

  Zeldyan’s eyes brightened. Then she swallowed…and nodded.

  Saryn stepped forward and put her arms around Zeldyan.

  XCVIII

  Saryn woke early on eightday, half-dreading what the day might bring, knowing that Maeldyn, Spalkyn, and Wethryn had arrived late the evening before, and that most of the other surviving lord-holders would doubtless show up before long. She ate by herself in her chamber, then dressed and checked with Hryessa to make sure that first company was ready for any eventuality, before returning to the palace to see Zeldyan.

  The former regent insisted that Saryn use the third-level sitting room for any private meetings. She also suggested that Saryn provide her own guards from first company. Saryn did not protest, and within the glass she was waiting there for Maeldyn, with two guards stationed outside.

  “Lord Maeldyn and Lord Lyndel of Lyntara, Commander.”

  Lord Lyndel? That has to be Deolyn’s son. “Have them come in.”

  Maeldyn stepped into the chamber along with a slightly built young man with tight-curled and short brown hair. “Commander…”

  Both men bowed, and as she stood from behind the table, Saryn saw immediately the resemblance between the son and his late father. “Lords…please join me.” She gestured to the table, waiting for them before she reseated herself.

  “I thought Lyndel should meet you before all the lord-holders assembled,” began Maeldyn.

  “I’m pleased to see you, Lord Lyndel,” Saryn said, “although I wish that your accession to being lord-holder had occurred under different circumstances.”

  “I would have wished that, also, Commander,” replied the young man in a voice far deeper than his stature and youthful appearance might have suggested, and not at all like his father’s tenor. He smiled politely. “Lord Maeldyn has suggested that it is most likely you will succeed the regents. Although I am young, I must express my concern, especially given that my father sacrificed his life to preserve the regency in the hope of retaining the traditions of Lornth.”

  Saryn could sense both worry and youthful arrogance behind the smoothly spoken words. She did not reply immediately, letting the silence grow for a time, while she gathered order and chaos flows to her. As she began to speak, she used those flows to project absolute authority over the young lord. “Lord Lyndel…I will speak frankly. I did not come to Lornth to seek power. I came here to preserve the regency and the friendly relations between Westwind and Lornth. Ever since I have been here, lord-holders—mostly from the south—have either attacked the Lady Regent or me, all demanding two things—that the regency attack Westwind and that no woman ever hold power in Lornth. Lornth attacked Westwind once, and the result was disaster for Lornth. Westwind is even more established today. I arrived here with a mere two squads of women guards, and we have not only defeated but also destroyed all those who attacked us. I would point out that not once did we attack any lord-holder who had not attacked first.” Saryn paused and smiled again, sensing that she had shaken the young lord, despite his massive arrogance.

  Sitting on the side of the table between Lyndel and Saryn, Maeldyn nodded.

  “Neither the Marshal of Westwind nor I can allow Lornth to destroy itself with internal bickering, and I am most certain that any intelligent lord-holder would prefer to hold his lands under an overlord—or lady—sympathetic to his needs than to have Lornth raided continually by the Jeranyi and racked with dissension until it became a mere province of Suthya. Or would you prefer to find yourself under Suthya?”

  “We have always dealt with Suthya.”

  “The last incursion of Suthyans I dealt with,” Saryn pointed out, “because no lord in the north beside your sire had the armsmen to do so. Now…not through my doing, but through the doing of your fellow lord-holders, you have barely a handful of the armsmen trained and raised by your father. Exactly how do you propose to stop the next Suthyan attack, not that there is likely to be one…unless I leave you to that unhappy fate?”

  Lyndel looked to Maeldyn.

  “As I pointed out on that part of the journey we shared coming here,” Maeldyn said, “even between us, Lord Spalkyn, Lord Wethryn, Lord Chaspal, and I could barely raise a company and a half of armsmen. Commander Saryn’s forces have defeated more than ten companies of armsmen. In some cases, not a single armsman of the forces opposing her survived. The Suthyans lost close to three companies, as well as three white wizards.”

  “You two seem to leave me no choice,” protested Lyndel.

  Saryn laughed softly. “That is not quite correct, Lord Lyndel. The reason why your choices are so few is because so many lord-holders who are no longer with us chose so poorly. They attacked a land that never attacked Lornth, and they continued to press for such attacks even after it was made clear to them the futility of such. Do you want to hold your lands in peace and prosperity…or do you want constant warfare with Suthya and Jerans at best, or total defeat at worst?”

  “But…under a…”

  “Woman?” finished Saryn lightly. “Why not? Have all those manly lord-holders you revere supported you and your sire so faithfully? You might recall that Lord Maeldyn and Lord Spalkyn
and I were the ones to avenge him.”

  “No,” said Maeldyn quietly. “Commander Saryn avenged him, and you might well mention that to any who press you on the issue, Lyndel.”

  While Maeldyn’s tone was even, Saryn could sense the anger behind the words, an anger directed at the young lord.

  For a moment, Lyndel was silent. Then he shook his head. “I must offer my apologies, Commander…Lord Maeldyn. Matters…are so unlike…what I had expected.”

  “They are so unlike what any of us expected last spring,” said Saryn, using the flows of order to press a sense of warmth and friendship on the young lord. “We cannot bring back what of the past has been lost forever. We can only forge a future in which we can all do our best.” She could sense that the young lord would not object to her, because, arrogant as he was, he now understood the situation, but that there remained concern…and resentment. There will be more than enough of that for some time to come. She rose from the table. “I am so glad you came, and I’m certain that you will do well in following your father’s example. He was most supportive of Lady Zeldyan and me when we last visited him.”

  Lyndel quickly stood. “I appreciate your candor, Commander.”

  “I’m very direct, Lord Lyndel. I find it results in fewer misunderstandings.” More anger, often, but fewer misunderstandings.

  Maeldyn also rose and turned to Lyndel. “I need a word with the commander, but I will be with you shortly.”

  “Of course.” Lyndel inclined his head to Saryn, then to the older lord-holder, before turning and leaving the sitting room.

  “I apologize, Commander,” Maeldyn offered after the door closed, “but after meeting Lyndel, I thought it best that he meet you before he spoke with others and before everyone met.” The stern-faced lord smiled and shook his head. “He’s more stubborn than I ever would have been, but I could see him wilt under your authority. You will need that when all the lord-holders meet.” He paused. “I noticed that you were most direct with him.”