Nylan snorted. “Me? I’m the man who can barely cross the snows on skis. The one who couldn’t get a thunder-thrower to kill anyone …”
Relyn laughed … gently. “The thunder-throwers do not belong in Candar. Nor did the magical tools you first used. Yet all the weapons you created and all the buildings you built will remain. Everything you forged belongs here on the Roof of the World, and everything will last for generations. If you died today, what you have wrought would remain.”
“That was the general idea. You seem to be the first one to fully understand that.” Nylan paused, and in the silence could hear the sounds of voices and tools and cooking coming up from the lowest level of the tower. “What’s so strange about it? I helped to build a tower, but there are towers all over Candar. I forged some blades, but armsmen all over Candar carry blades. I created bows, but archers have existed for years.”
Relyn just shook his head.
“Murkassa?” Nylan turned to the thin and round-faced girl.
“Yes, Ser Mage.” Murkassa pursed her lips and waited.
“Tell the honorable Relyn that he’s full of sheep manure.”
“No, ser. You are the black one, and the marshal is the Angel, and you have brought the Legend to the world.” She looked sideways at Relyn. “The men of these lands, mayhapof all lands, are like Jilkar. They respect only the strong. You have made these women strong-”
“They were already strong.” Nylan laughed bitterly.
“Then you have kept them strong, and they will force the men of Candar to respect them-and to respect all women.”
“That is why Sillek will come to attack Westwind,” said Relyn. “After him may come Lord Karthanos of Gallos.”
“Is that why Lornth dislikes Jerans?” asked Nylan. “Strong women?”
Relyn nodded.
With the low moaning of the wind, the engineer turned toward the windows. “Some mage I am. I can’t even keep this place warm enough.”
“It is warm enough for the angels to grow and prosper. It is warm enough that all Candar will tremble at the name of Westwind. I should think that would be warm enough.” Relyn’s tone is ironic.
“You give me far too much praise, Relyn.”
“No … ser … you do not choose to see that you have changed the world. You have changed me, and you will change others, and in time few indeed will understand the world before the Legend.”
“You are different,” Murkassa added. “You see women as strong, and as you see them, so are they.”
“Women are strong. Stronger than men in many ways,” Nylan said.
“As you say, Mage.”
Nylan shook his head. Why did they take his words as a statement of faith, as if what he said became true? Outside, the howling of the storm rose, and Nylan wondered, absently, how the sheep, chickens, and horses were faring. The enemy was the winter, not the preconceptions of men in Candar.
Both Relyn and Murkassa exchanged amused smiles, as if Nylan could not see the obvious. Maybe he couldn’t.
“I’m going down to work.”
“Yes, Mage.”
They smiled again.
Change the world? Nylan tried not to frown as he left the slowly chilling great room to descend to the woodworking area and his efforts with the cradle and the rocking chair he was beginning. Changing the world by building a tower with rudimentary water and sanitation? By using a dying laser to forge a handful of blades and a few composite bows? By nearly getting killed by a snow cat or always falling into snow over his head?
He snorted again. He had a cradle to finish-and a rocking chair-and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by delusions of grandeur.
LVI
“ … don’t understand why Lord Sillek is receiving this trader with such honor …”
As she catches the murmur from halfway down the long table on the low dais, Zeldyan smiles and, under the table, squeezes Sillek’s hand.
He turns and smiles at his consort.
“The honorable Lygon of Bleyans!” announces the young armsman-in-training at the doorway to the dining hall, his voice on the edge of cracking.
Retaining the smile on his face, Sillek stands to greet Lygon. Zeldyan rises almost simultaneously. At the end of the table to Sillek’s right, the lady Ellindyja smooths her face into a mold of polite interest. At the end to the left, Ser Gethen cultivates a look of indifference.
Lygon, a round-faced man wearing a maroon velvet tunic and a silver chain, marches up between the two rows of tables in the dining hall as the murmurs die away and the leading tradespeople and landowners of Lornth watch.
A quick trumpet fanfare sounds as Lygon steps onto the dais.
Sillek gestures to the empty seat to his right. “Welcome, Lygon. Welcome to Lornth, and to our hospitality.” He steps back. “This is Zeldyan, my lady and consort. Zeldyan, this is Lygon, the most honorable trader of Suthya.”
“Whenever you rulers call me honorable, Sillek, I want to reach for my purse.” Lygon overtops Sillek by half a head, but bows low, first to the Lord of Lornth, and then to Zeldyan. “It is a pleasure to meet you, lady, and to know that Lord Sillek has you to enchant him and grace his towers.”
“It is my pleasure to meet you, ser,” Zeldyan responds, smiling brightly. “And I will do my best to offer such grace, especially since you do us such honor.”
Behind her, Gethen nods minutely.
“We don’t want your purse, Lygon, just your presence.” Sillek laughs easily and stands until the trader sits.
Around the hall, the murmurs rise again.
Lygon stares frankly at Zeldyan for a moment before his eyes return to Sillek. “Your consort, she is a true beauty.” His eyes go back to Zeldyan. “And you are, my lady. Few indeed have your grace and beauty.”
“I do my poor best for my lord,” Zeldyan answers, “for he is dear to me.”
Lygon nods, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as Sillek himself pours the red wine from the pitcher between them into two goblets almost equidistant from each man. The trader takes the goblet fractionally closer to Sillek.
Sillek lifts the one remaining, raises it, and says, “To your continued health and to good trading.”
“To health and good trading,” affirms Lygon.
Those at the head table drink with Sillek and Lygon, though Zeldyan’s lips barely pass the wine.
Lygon sets his goblet before him and studies the great hall below the dais. “Quite a gathering.”
“Only the due of a first trader of Suthya.” Sillek takes another sip from his goblet. “Even my consort’s father made a special trip from Carpa to honor you.”
“First trader, twentieth trader-what difference does itmake?” Lygon shakes his head. “We’re all traders, and we try to be fair to all.”
Lygon’s voice carries, but his eyes are on Sillek, and he does not see how Ser Gethen’s lips tighten at his words.
“Fairness-that’s important to Lornth. It always will be,” answers Sillek.
“I had hoped that Lornth would continue the warm relationship enjoyed in the past with the traders of Suthya, and I am pleased to see such hospitality again offered.” Lygon downs the remaining wine in his goblet with a single swallow, then slices the pearapple on his plate into slivers and pops a pearapple section and a chunk of Rohrn cheese into his mouth. “Always have good cheeses here.”
“I am glad you find them so, and trust you will always do so.” Sillek takes a swallow of his wine, a swallow far smaller than it appears.
“The wine’s better than what your sire served. Where’d you find it?”
Sillek inclines his head toward Zeldyan. “The uplands of Zeldyan’s father’s lands produce a good grape, and better wine.”