Saryn nodded, although she wasn’t that certain about young Nesslek’s integrity, particularly if he were flattered and promised great glory. “How did it come to that?”
“Generations back, Lornth was a province of Cyador. You knew that, did you not? Then, the Mirror Lancers withdrew to the west and south, but the Protector of the Steps to Paradise still demanded his tariffs, and they were not light, and many that were levied were not paid. Before long, one of the officers of the Mirror Lancers and his company returned. He took over the town of Lornth, then others, until all acknowledged his superiority. Then he proposed a treaty with Cyador where but a quarter portion of the tariffs went to the emperor in Cyad, and half went to him. The other quarter he returned to the holders. Any holder who complained was killed and his family thrown off their lands, and those lands were awarded to a follower of the Lord of Lornth.” Jennyleu smiled enigmatically.
“And that was how the house of Lornth was founded?”
“That has also been how it has maintained its position, by power alone. When the black and flame angel destroyed Cyador, they destroyed any fear the holders had of the great and ancient kingdom. They also weakened the house of Lornth so that the regents had not the golds nor the armsmen to put down the stronger holders who did not pay their tariffs.”
“Such as the Lord of Duevek?”
“He is one of those, but only one, Angel.”
“You know all of this because of your daughter in Lornth?”
“My niece, Haelora.”
“The one who has the inn there? I never had a chance to meet her.”
“It’s right off the square…the Square Platter. She says you can’t miss it. I couldn’t say. We never got so far as to Lornth. You know, Vernt staked her and her consort.”
“I remember. You told me, and she writes good letters.”
“Ah, yes. Letters.” For a moment, Jennyleu’s eyes twinkled. “Tell me about Westwind, Angel.”
“What would you like to know?”
“What ever you care to tell me.”
Saryn nodded. “Westwind sits in a small valley on the Roof of the World…where the Marshal and the guards live is in Tower Black…and every stone in it was cut from the rock in a single year by Nylan, the black mage you met…”
XLIV
Two glasses after sunrise on sixday, Saryn’s detachment was headed due west, ten kays out of Henspa, under a high haze that turned the morning sky a silvery greenish blue. Early in the morning as it was, the day promised to be the hottest that Saryn had yet experienced in Candar…or anywhere else, for that matter, and it wasn’t even near the height of summer. She hadn’t even bothered with her riding jacket and certainly wasn’t looking forward to the heat of the days to come, not at all.
Inside her tunic was a letter introducing Saryn to Jennyleu’s niece Haelora, which Essin had handed her just before she had mounted to leave the inn. That introduction Saryn intended to pursue. An innkeeper in Lornth had to know things that the regents would not, and even from what little Saryn had heard about the land of Lornth, it was clear she’d need every bit of information she could find or dig up.
She shifted her weight in the saddle and looked along the road before the column of guards, riding two abreast. The lands to the west of Henspa-and the river-consisted of low, rolling hills that looked to get flatter the farther they were from the river. While some of the land was pasture, and there were a few orchards and woodlots, most was cultivated. For what ever reason, the road on the west of the river did not follow the watercourse at all but headed away from it for almost fifteen kays, then turned north at the town of Ornath and continued onward for another twenty kays before rejoining the river some fifteen kays to the northwest of Duevek.
Saryn squinted to make out what was causing the dust in the road a good two kays west of the outriders. As she watched, she could see, headed toward the Westwind riders, a large high-sided and roofed wagon, the kind merchants and traders often used, its wheels churning up dust. Less than half a kay from the outriders, the driver turned his team and wagon onto a side road southward and whipped the pair of drays into something like a fast trot.
“Poor fool,” observed Hryessa from where she rode beside Saryn. “He’s only hurting his drays. If we wanted to catch him, there’d be nothing he could do.”
“Are we that fearsome? Forty-odd women, two wagons, and ten spare mounts?”
“Forty-odd armed women, ser, from a place that has slaughtered thousands of their men.”
“We may have to trade on that fear,” prophesied Saryn.
“What does the Lady Zeldyan want from us? Beyond your counsel?” An amused and knowing smile crossed the captain’s lips.
“You know as well as I. She wants us to preserve Lornth for her son to rule, though she has not said that in so many words.” In any words, in fact, but what else could she desire?
Hryessa turned her head toward Saryn. “Is that possible?”
“We’ll find out, and before too long.”
“What if it is not possible?”
“Then we will do what we can to protect Westwind.” What exactly that might be, Saryn had no idea, except that, given the holders of Lornth, it would be neither easy nor bloodless.
Saryn and her detachment passed few carts and wagons on the ride through Ornath and back to the river, making camp on sixday night at what passed for a way station near the ruins of what might once have been a town. After an early start on sevenday, two glasses’ ride brought them to a flat stretch between two hills and a kaystone proclaiming that Haselbridge lay but three kays ahead.
Saryn could sense riders nearby and was not surprised to see a group appear on the low rise perhaps half a kay ahead, just off the left shoulder of the packed-clay road where it crested the next hill. She could sense no others, but all that meant was that there were none within a kay. “Riders ahead,” she said quietly but firmly to Hryessa.
“Ready arms,” said Hryessa, turning in the saddle. “Pass it back on the quiet.”
“Ready arms…Ready arms…” the murmured command whispered back through the guards.
As the Westwind detachment neared the crest of the road, Saryn could see that the waiting riders were drawn up almost in formation. On the right side of the road was a scrubby section of pasture that sloped steeply down to the river, still running almost to the top of its banks with the late runoff from the Westhorns.
“Hail, Angels!” The call was loud, cheerful, and sardonic, and came from an angular man attired in a rich maroon waistcoat over a thin but fine linen shirt. He was mounted on a gray stallion, slightly forward of the other eight riders.
“Hail!” returned Saryn, studying the caller. He looked to be a young lord or heir, whose wavy brown hair was longer than that of most armsmen, crafters, or tradesmen, and his entire being radiated arrogance.
“Where might you be headed?”
“To Lornth.” Saryn reined up short of a position that would have brought her opposite the lord-holder or lordling. Behind her, Hryessa brought the guards to a halt. “And you?”
“We were out for a ride.” He bowed in the saddle. “Keistyn, of Hasel. Welcome to my lands.” The cheerful words still carried a sardonic and demeaning overtone.
Saryn inclined her head, if but slightly. “I have not had the honor of meeting you before, but please understand that we are only passing through with no ill intended to anyone in Lornth.”
“That is most reassuring,” replied the lead rider, “for many have feared the blades of the angels of the heights.” He paused. “I do not believe you introduced yourself, Angel.”
“Saryn, Arms-Commander of Westwind.” Saryn studied the eight armsmen behind Keistyn. All carried in shoulder harnesses the long and massive blades favored by most men-at-arms in Lornth, and all wore red tunics trimmed in black. Three looked young and fresh-faced, and two were clearly hardened veterans of some sort. The remaining three were excessively beefy, with a certain cruelty behind round faces, the kind of cruelty that seemed to come from self-indulgent and overweight males, Saryn reflected.