Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(68)

"You don't sound happy. Is that another vision?"

"Not exactly. But the pieces I've already seen make more sense." Ryba shifted her weight in the saddle and turned to face Nylan. "Look how many bandits there are. Trading has to be dangerous. Westwind will patrol the roads across this section of the mountains-what are they called?"

"The Westhorns."

"And we'll charge for it. I think the sheep will make it."

"But that's trading lives for coin ..." said Nylan. "More or less."

"Yes, it is. So is everything in a primitive culture. Have you a better answer? Can we grow enough up here to support even the few we have left? And if we could, could we keep it without fighting?"

"No," admitted Nylan.

"If they want to die by the sword, we'll live by having sharper and faster blades. Thanks to you, smith of the angels." Ryba did not look at Nylan as she rode past the sentry point where Berlis and Siret, and their rifles, had surveyed the trading.

Nylan could feel Siret's green eyes on him, and he nodded and smiled to the pregnant marine briefly.

"Smith of the angels?"

"For better or worse, that's your legacy, Nylan." Ryba kept riding, crossing the ridge crest and turning the roan toward the canyon that served as a corral until the stables could be completed.

"And yours? Or do I want to know?"

"Ryba, of the swift ships of Heaven. Ryba, one of the founders of Westwind and the Legend. Blessed and cursed throughout the history to come, I suspect. Don't ask more, Nylan."

"Why not?"

"Because I won't tell. Not even you. Not Dyliess, when her time comes. It hurts too much."

"You can tell me."

"No. If I tell, then you-nobody-will act the same, and we might not survive. I can't risk that, not with all the prices everyone's already paid. And will. And will keep paying." She kept riding.

Nylan looked toward the tower, and then at Ryba's dark hair and the dark hilts of her blades. Ryba of the swift ships of Heaven. Ryba, the founder of the guards of Westwind and the Legend. He swallowed, but he urged the gray to keep pace with the roan.





XXXVI



THE STOCKY MAN whose black hair is streaked with gray escorts Lord Sillek into the room at the north end of the courtyard, carefully closing the door behind him.

Two heavy wooden doors stand open to the veranda and the shaded fountain that splashes loudly just beyond them.

Sillek glances around the room, his eyes taking in the inlaid cherry desk, the two bookcases filled with manuscripts bound in hand-tooled leather, and the two cushioned captain's chairs that are drawn up opposite a small table. The chairs face the fountain, and the north wind, further cooled by the fountain, blows into the study.

"My sanctuary, if you will," says the gray-haired man.

"Quite well appointed, Ser Gethen," responds Sillek, "and certainly private enough-although ..." He gestures toward the open doors and the fountain.

"It is more discreet than one would suspect." Gethen laughs. "It took some doing before the sculptor understood that I wanted a noisy fountain."

"Oh . . ." Sillek smiles, almost embarrassed.

"Please, Lord Sillek, do be seated." Gethen slips into the chair on the left with an understated athletic grace.

"Thank you." Sillek sits almost as gracefully.

"My lady Erenthla has expressed a concern that you might have come to the Groves as a result of her hasty note to the lady Ellindyja. She wrote that missive while she was in some distress." Gethen clears his throat.

"I must admit that the receipt of the letter, certainly not its contents, did remind me that I had been remiss in paying my respects. My arrival represents a long-overdue visit to someone who has always been of great support and good advice to the house of Lornth." Sillek inclines his head ever so slightly.

Thrap. The knock is almost unheard over the gentle plashing of the fountain, but Gethen immediately rises, crosses the handwoven, patterned carpet, and opens the door.

"Thank you, my dear." The master of the Groves stands aside as a young blond woman carries a tray into the study. On the elaborately carved tray are two cups, a covered pot with a spout, and a flat dish divided into two compartments. The left contains carna nuts, the right small honeyed rolls.

Sillek stands, his eyes going from the confectioneries to the bearer, whose shoulder-length blond hair is kept off her face with a silver and black headband. Her eyes are deep green, her skin the palest of golds, her nose straight and even, and just strong enough not to balance the elfin chin and high cheekbones.

"This is my middle daughter, Zeldyan. Zeldyan, this is Lord Sillek."

Zeldyan sets the tray on the low table, then rises and offers a deep, kneeling bow to Sillek, a bow that drops the loose neckline of her low-cut tunic enough to reveal that her body is as well proportioned as her face. "Your Grace, I am at your service." Her voice bears the hint of husky bells.

"And I, at yours," Sillek responds, as he tries not to swallow too hard.

"We will see you at supper, Zeldyan." Gethen smiles indulgently.

She bows to them both, then steps back without turning, easing her way from the study and closing the door behind her. Gethen slides the bolt into place.