“Both the cutting heads for the laser are shot,” Nylan explained. “They’re totally fused.”
“What were you doing?”
“It doesn’t matter. The total cumulative flow was the issue. The heads are only made to last so long. I got five more bows done.”
“That’s almost enough. Can you modify the weapons head?” asked Ryba, almost idly, leaning forward on the roan, her fingers touching the staff of the composite bow Nylan had given her-one of his better efforts.
“Not really. It’s designed for maximum power disbursement in minimum time-that’s a weapon configuration.” The engineer unfolded the carrying handle on the right side of the firin cell frame.
“What about your … abilities?”
“I can channel the flows, shape them, but I can’t hold back that kind of power flow. With the industrial heads, they’redesigned to be choked down, except it’s not choked. They draw power at any level …” Nylan shrugged. Explaining how things felt with a new ability he couldn’t adequately describe even to himself was difficult. He unfolded the other carrying handle.
“How much power do we have left?”
“Fifty percent on one bank of cells. The emergency generator might last long enough to get that bank to full power. Then again, it could quit any time. The bearings are nearly shot.”
“That could power the weapons laser, couldn’t it?” Ryba smiled again, almost cruelly.
“For a while. The cells might hold for a year.”
Ryba straightened in the saddle. “You’ve done well, Nylan. The great smith and engineer. You built a tower, a bathhouse, stables, figured out how to heat them-and still left the weapons laser. I’ll see you at dinner.”
As she rode off, with the way she spoke, he almost wished he hadn’t accomplished so much.
XL
“SER GETHEN OF the Groves!” announces the young armsman-in-training, “accompanied by Lady Erenthla, and Zeldyan, of the Groves of Gethen.”
The single horn plays a flourish, and Sillek, concealing a wince because the horn player is off-key, hopes that Gethen is not terribly musical.
Through the opening doors of the great hall step the three, walking up the green carpet toward the dais where Sillek and his mother stand. The lady Ellindyja remains slightly back and to his right, but close enough that Sillek can read her face.
In the hall are nearly threescore landowners and others ofprominence in Lornth, there to witness the formal betrothal.
Zeldyan, eyes downcast, walks behind her father and side by side with her mother.
“She’ll do for a consort,” opines the lady Ellindyja. “Good lands, good blood, good manners, and good looks. And Ser Gethen will back you on the campaign to take Rulyarth?”
“That was a deciding factor in announcing the betrothal,” Sillek lies. “But I would have no more speech on that. The fewer who know, the better.”
“1 will keep silent, but I rather doubt that her father’s support was the deciding point,” suggests Lady Ellindyja. “she took your fancy, and you’ll tell me that her father will support you to soothe me.”
“I felt him out before I ever saw Zeldyan.”
“If he knew you cared, he would have driven a harder bargain.”
“He only has one son,” Sillek says quietly, his lips barely moving and his face impassive as Gethen and Zeldyan approach.
The lady Ellindyja shrugs. “All ventures are a gamble. Had young Relyn taken back the Roof of the World, Ser Gethen would have doubled his lands and influence. Now he must support you more. Sometimes luck is as important as skill.”
“Your advice was the deciding factor, Mother dear,” whispers Sillek just before he steps down off the dais platform to greet Gethen.
Gethen inclines his head.
Sillek offers a half bow. “Welcome to Lornth, Ser Gethen.” He turns to Erenthla. “And to you, lady.” His last bow, and his deepest, goes to Gethen’s daughter. “And to you, Zeldyan. I am honored.”
Although Zeldyan’s face displays a polite smile, a tinge of a flush colors her cheeks as she curtseys in response.
“Not so honored as we are,” responds Gethen formally, and loudly enough so that those even in the back of the hall can hear.
“You do offer me honor in entrusting your daughter intoour family and care, and I assure you that she will in turn be honored and cherished,” responds Sillek, turning his eyes from the father to the daughter.
Both Gethen and Ellindyja frown momentarily at the words “and cherished,” while the white-haired Erenthla smiles briefly.
Zeldyan momentarily raises her eyes to Sillek, and they sparkle, before she drops them so quickly that not even Ellindyja sees.
“As a pledge of my trust,” Sillek continues, “I offer you the seal ring of a counselor of Lornth.”
A dark-haired youth, an armsman-to-be, steps forward with a small green pillow on which rests the golden ring.
“It is a token of my faith.” Sillek’s eyes are clear and direct as he faces Gethen, so direct that the older man pauses momentarily.
“You do me, and my daughter, great honor, Lord Sillek.”
“Only your due, ser. And hers.”
This time, at the untraditional reference to Zeldyan, Gethen does not frown, although the lady Ellindyja swallows.
A second young armsman approaches, with another pillow on which are two matching silver rings, each with a square emerald set in the center of a miniature seal of Lornth.
Sillek takes the smaller ring. “With this ring, I ask for your hand, lady, and with it, I pledge both my hand and my honor.”
She extends her left hand, and Sillek slides the ring in place, adding quietly, “And my devotion.”
Then it is Zeldyan’s turn, and her voice is cool and firm, without bells, without brassiness, without softness. She lifts the larger ring, and Sillek extends his hand. “With this ring, I give you my hand, and accept your hand and your honor.” As she slips the ring in place, her fingers tighten around his hand briefly, and she adds, “And give you the respect you deserve.”
Gethen’s eyes widen but fractionally, and then they cross with the lady Ellindyja’s.
Sillek’s and Zeldyan’s hands remain locked for several instants, before Sillek finally says, loudly enough for all in the hall to hear, “Two hands promised in honor.”
“Two hands promised in honor!” the onlookers chorus.
Sillek steps onto the dais and draws Zeldyan up beside him. After a moment, he gestures, and Gethen and Erenthla join them. All smile except the lady Ellindyja.
XLI
THE DULL RUMBLE of thunder echoed across the Roof of the World, and a line of rain slashed at Tower Black. Water dribbled through the closed shutters of the great room, but not through the armaglass windows. The coals left from the morning fire imparted a residual warmth … and some smokiness, because Nylan had added the hearth after the walls had been started.
Nylan sipped the cup of leaf tea slowly, lingering past breakfast. With his head still aching two days after the laser had failed, he wondered if the bows had killed the powerheads earlier than necessary. He massaged his neck again and looked around the empty room. The guards had left the table and were working, either in the lower level of the tower, or in the stables, out of the cold rain that had fallen for two days straight.
The inside tower drains were working, at least, and water seemed to be filling the outfall, from what he could see out the front door. Nylan smiled, but the smile faded as he thought of the uncompleted bathhouse and unfinished outside conduits to the cistern. He should check those drains before long.
He wished he’d been able to roof and finish the bathhouse before the rain. The heating stove in the bathhouse was only half-built. With the laser gone, he’d have to mortar the plates for the water heater in place, but he couldn’t do any morebrick and stonework until the rain stopped, and the clouds outside were so dark they were almost black.