Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(62)

For a time, silence fills the chamber.

"I still value your advice," Sillek says evenly.

Ellindyja does not look up, as the unsteady needle slowly fills in the second lobe of the coronet she stitches.

"About Ser Gethen's daughter," he suggests.

"Courting Ser Gethen's daughter would not be a bad idea," Ellindyja says quietly, her eyes still on the embroidery. "No ruler is so rich that he cannot afford to look at both a lovely lady and lovely lands, and this... incident... left Ser Gethen with but one heir."

"Fornal is reputed to be outstanding in Arms."

"He may be," said Ellindyja, "but life is uncertain, as your father discovered. Although Ser Gethen is a warrior of caution and deliberation, I do know that he is less than pleased."

Sillek turns from the window. "You think I should go to Carpa and soothe his ruffled wings?"

"It could not harm you, and, since you are so preoccupied about the possible predations of Lord Ildyrom, rather than ... other considerations, you would be close enough to return to Clynya, should that remote need arise." The pudgy fingers fly momentarily, and the golden thread continues to fill in the outline of the coronet.

"It is scarcely remote when a neighboring lord builds a fort on your lands." Sillek's face is stern, and chill radiates from him.

A jagged line of lightning illuminates the roofs of Lornth, and the crash of nearby thunder punctuates Sillek's observation.

"That is true. Perhaps you could make that point with Ser Gethen in person." The lady Ellindyja lowers her embroidery. She does not meet his eyes.

Sillek lifts his hands, and then lowers them. "We shall see."

"Sillek dear, I understand your concerns for the greater good of Lornth. I only provide those suggestions that I feel might be helpful for Lornth ... and for preserving your patrimony."

Sillek's lips tighten again.

Ellindyja looks away. "Ser Gethen is upset, my son and liege. I cannot disguise that."

Sillek's eyes fix on her, but she says nothing.

"He is upset." He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "And it is true. You cannot change that. For your judgment in this matter, I am grateful, but... I do not appreciate even indirect references to honor and patrimony. Those are best reserved for cloistered towers."

"Yes, Sillek. You have made your point, and you are Lord of Lornth." Ellindyja bows her head again.

Sillek offers the faintest of head bows before turning back toward the door as another rain squall pelts across the roofs outside.

After the door closes, Ellindyja smiles sadly, and murmurs, "But you cannot escape honor."

The embroidery needle flashes, and the third golden lobe of the coronet forms.





XXXIV



WITH THE SHUTTERS in the great hall closed, the fire in the hearth left the room-the end closest to the fire-nearly comfortable for Ryba and the marines in just the light and tattered shipsuits they wore for heavy work. Although Narliat had kept complaining about the chill, Nylan had resisted using the new furnace, especially since the grates for the ducts on each floor were not finished. Besides, it wasn't that cold, not yet, and he worried about having enough firewood for the long winter.

Nylan wore his ship jacket, unfastened and open, as did Ayrlyn and Saryn. Relyn and Narliat wore their heavy cloaks wrapped around them, and sat on the right edge of the raised hearth, their backs to the heaping coals and the logs of the fire.

Two squat candles-among the few in Westwind and procured by Ayrlyn and Narliat-flickered on the table. The candles and the fire managed to impart a wavering illumination to the great hall, although the corners were dark, as was the end of the room nearest the stairs. Nylan could see clearly without the light. That was not the case for most of the others, as they squinted to see when they turned toward the gloomier sections of the hall.

Ayrlyn had drawn one of the candles close to Relyn's stump, because he had complained that the arm was chaos-tinged.

"Chaos-tinged?" asked Saryn.

"Infected," explained the redhead, looking at the arm.

Nylan could feel as Ayrlyn extended her senses to examine the arm, much in the same way that he had manipulated the fields around the laser.

"The arm's not infected," Ayrlyn said. "You'll live."

"What sort of life will I live, healer?" asked Relyn. "The great warrior of Gethen Groves defeated by a handful of women, and what kind of life awaits me?" He inclined his head to Nylan. "And by an unknown mage." He snorted. "Who would believe that less than a score of women, a single armed man, and one mage could kill nearly thirty well-armed and -trained men?"

Nylan took another look at Relyn's stump. Crafting something like a hook or artificial hand might not be that difficult, and it might make the man more functional and less self-pitying.

Gerlich smiled briefly at the mention of "a single armed man," then glanced toward Ryba. His smile vanished.

"Ser, they killed three score of Lord Nessil's men," suggested Narliat, raising his maimed right hand. "He even had a wizard with him. And we have not seen any of the great Lord Sillek's men, or Lord Sillek himself, come to follow his sire's example. Lord Sillek did succeed his father, did he not?"

"He did, armsman. That was why I was here."