Arms-Commander (31 page)

Saryn joined Zeldyan for breakfast in a small room off the main hall of the villa. Zeldyan was quiet, perhaps because Saryn was preoccupied and did not eat all that much of the heavy and hearty fare, which included heavy ham strips, a cheese, egg, and noodle concoction, and hot, fresh, dark bread. Saryn appreciated the bread most. After eating, she excused herself and went to ready herself for sparring with Joncaryl, limbering up and exercising just enough so that she didn't feel mentally cloudy.

There was no question as to where the sparring would take place. The west courtyard contained a well-maintained and swept paved area in the center of which was a large circle marked by inlaid black stones. The courtyard was also where the armory was located, its ironbound and heavy oak door distinguished by the round shield affixed thereto. In the center of the black-rimmed yellow shield was a crest featuring a mailed fist crossed with a deep blue flower that Saryn did not recognize.

Saryn brought her fighting blades, a pair of blunted blades, and a set of wooden wands down to the section of the western courtyard below the terrace—what amounted to a private arena, since people could sit on the terrace and watch sparring over the low balcony wall. She laid the weapons out on one of the benches set against the villa wall—right below the west terrace, still partly shaded by the morning sun.

Above her on the terrace a group was gathering, one that included Zeldyan, an older graying woman who was likely Barcauyn's consort, and two young women. Behind her, she sensed several other figures approaching. She half turned from the bench.

“What are those?” asked Joncaryl, gesturing to the wands.

“Sparring wands,” replied Saryn, already sensing the young man's contempt.

“I can't say as I've ever seen such,” added Barcauyn from several paces behind his son.

“We use them because it reduces injuries when guards are learning.”

“That may be fine for your guards, but not for armsmen,” said Joncaryl. “Blunted blades are one thing, but I will not stoop to wooden planks.”

Saryn smiled politely, looking up slightly at the well-muscled young man. “I would not think of having you stoop to anything, Lord Joncaryl.” She stepped to one side, then toward his father. “Lord Barcauyn, we use wands because our short swords are, despite their size, rather deadly, even when blunted. I will endeavor not to cause any permanent harm to your son, but I ask your understanding that, even with a blunted blade, injury is possible.”

“It is also possible to you, Commander,” Barcauyn pointed out. “Far more possible, I would judge.”

“We will see,” replied Saryn. “I will use a pair of blunted short swords.” She stepped forward and picked up the blades, one in each hand.

Joncaryl accepted a long and wide blade from his brother Belconyn.

“You have seen the circle,” said Barcauyn. “I had it swept just a while ago so that your footing should be firm.”

“What are your limits for sparring?” Saryn asked.

“We try not to kill the other person,” said Joncaryl, “but it is up to each fighter to protect himself…or herself.”

Saryn nodded. Given the culture of Lornth, that was about what she expected, but it was better to ask and know than to risk health or life on false assumptions. Blades in hand, she walked to the center of the circle and waited for Joncaryl to follow and face her.

The heir to Cauyna raised the massive blade that looked to be far more than a hand and a half and began moving it through a series of moves, meant to be intimidating.

Saryn just watched, letting her senses take in the flow and the rhythm of Joncaryl's moves and blade, holding her own blades at the ready.

She could sense the growing anger in the tall and muscular young lordling, as if he expected her to move first. Instead, she smiled, waiting.

Joncaryl finally moved, a restricted and controlled circle of steel that was almost a defensive thrust.

Saryn slipped to the side, circling to his left, merely avoiding his blade.

Joncaryl widened his circling thrust, and Saryn kept moving, sideways, but not retreating.

From a circling probe, Joncaryl unleashed a slash, and Saryn used the right blade to deflect his heavier weapon downward, coming across with the left and letting the flat strike the back of his arm before she danced back.

Joncaryl didn't seem to notice and launched a series of attacks.

Again, Saryn used the short swords to deflect his heavier weapon, thwacking him moderately on his right thigh.

“You can't even stand against a heavy blade,” he said with a laugh.

“That's not the point,” she replied.

Another flurry of slashes followed, none of which came close to her body, despite the greater length of his blade.

After the last one, before he had fully recovered, Saryn moved closer, and on the next series, easily slid or parried his attacks.

“You're not so good,” he muttered, lowering his voice to add, “another loudmouth with little daggers.”

Saryn smiled and parried again, and again, until, within moments, she had the opening she wanted, and with the blade in her right hand, she caught the heavy weapon on the trailing edge and jammed it down toward the stone pavement, moving even more inside the arc of the big blade and bringing up the short sword in her left hand.

At the very last moment, Saryn turned the edge of the blade so that the flat slammed into the right side of Joncaryl's jaw. She could hear the
crack
of breaking bone, but, knowing the young man's rage, in his moment of pain she stepped forward and brought the flat of the other blade down across his forearms with enough force that his hand-and-a-half blade slipped from his fingers and clattered on the courtyard stones.

Then she swept his feet from under him and stood with one blunted blade at his throat, the other ready to strike were he unwise enough to try anything else.

“Do you still think my little daggers are toys, Joncaryl?” She stepped back, still watching him with one foot on his big blade.

The young man struggled to his feet. “Magery…it was magery.”

“Joncaryl!” snapped Barcauyn. “Cease! The commander could have slain you three times over. She tapped you twice when she could have struck. Her only magery is what she can do with those short blades. If you are too stupid to understand that, then you are too stupid ever to inherit a holding.”

Those words froze Joncaryl. His eyes flicked from his sire to Saryn and back to his sire.

Saryn could sense Barcauyn's twin anger—both at her and at his son—and she turned to him, if keeping an eye on the angry heir. “Lord Barcauyn…I apologize if I have caused difficulty. What you have just seen is one reason why I am here.”

Anger warred with puzzlement on the face of the older lord.

“We have been forced to kill far more good men than we ever wished,” explained Saryn, “all because none wished to believe that we could and would defend ourselves. We will continue to defend ourselves, if we must, but we would rather not slaughter those who know not what they face.” She sheathed one of the short swords.

“Might I ask how long you trained with those blades?” asked Barcauyn.

“From when I was about five.” She didn't mention that it had been for a competitive sport on Sybra, not blood.

“On the far side of the Rational Stars?”

Saryn nodded. “It was a point of honor.” That was certainly true.

“Only…women?”

“No. Both men and women. Our ship just carried more women than men, but the warrior tradition is stronger in women.”

“I would find that strange, had I not seen you fight.”

Joncaryl's eyes flicked back and forth between the arms-commander and his father.

“Now…there is one more thing you should see.” Saryn smiled sadly. She was coming to hate what she was about to do.

“You wish to spar with someone else…with what you have already shown?”

“No, that would be unfair.” Saryn pointed to the round shield beside the armory door. “Would you mind if I used the shield as a target? Even if I damage it?”

“No,” said Barcauyn, his voice puzzled. “It's just an old shield.”

“Thank you.”

Saryn turned, lifted the blade, then hurled it at the shield, smoothing the flows and imparting that sense of black strength to it.

Thunnk!

Barcauyn's mouth dropped open when he saw the blade, buried to a third of its length through both the iron-plated shield and the wood behind it.

Belconyn's face paled, and he looked at his wounded brother, then back to Saryn.

Up on the terrace, Zeldyan's hand went to her mouth for just an instant.

And Saryn had the feeling—from all of them—that they thought she had suddenly become something like a mountain snow leopard that had just dispatched a handful of armsmen. She inclined her head to Joncaryl. “I am truly sorry, Joncaryl, but I have learned that few ever believe that a woman smaller than many men could excel at arms.”

Belconyn walked over to the shield and tried to pry the blade out. He could not budge it.

Saryn followed him. “If you would excuse me…” She had to use order flows to smooth away the restraints. Even then, it took all of her strength to reclaim the blade. She looked at it. Blunt as it had been, it would still need a great deal of work even to return it to that state. She sheathed it and walked back across the dusty paving stones toward Barcauyn.

She had gained the understanding of the lord and father and made an enemy of the son and heir. Yet anything that would have been to the satisfaction of the son would not have convinced the father.

She stopped short of the holder. “I must also apologize to you, Lord Barcauyn…but I have found that I lack great persuasive powers, except through my blades. I truly wish it were otherwise. If you would excuse me…”

“Of course.” While the lord's voice was steady, there was a certain relief behind the words.

Only then did Saryn glance upward at the terrace, extending her senses as well. The muted murmurs were so low that she could not make out what was said, but what she did notice was that neither of the two girls—or young women—looked all that distraught, but Lady Barcauyn's face was filled with worry. Out of the welter of feelings, she could feel most strongly concern and a certain sense of horror. Amid those various feelings was one thread of satisfaction, and that had to be from Zeldyan, although Saryn was not absolutely certain.

She gathered all her blades and the practice wands and walked back into the villa and up to the guest quarters on the second level. Once in the large chamber, she washed up again, then sat down before the writing table in the quarters she had been given.

There was a knock on the door. Saryn could sense Zeldyan. “Yes?”

“Might I come in?”

“Please.”

Zeldyan slipped into the chamber, closing the door behind her. She looked at Saryn. “I saw you spar in Lornth, and I was impressed…but you could have killed young Joncaryl within instants, couldn't you?”

“Yes,” Saryn admitted. “I struck him gently, and he did not understand. Then he started insulting me under his breath.”

“I thought so. When he considered it, so did Lord Barcauyn. You have left him sorely troubled.”

“I trust I have not upset matters too greatly.”

Zeldyan shook her head. “You have not. But I must confess that when I saw you fight, I saw death held in restraint. Each time I meet an angel, I fear more. You have already changed all of Candar, and yet there are but a handful of you. For all the power I saw in the black one, I fear you more.”

Saryn laughed softly. “I'm just like you, Zeldyan. I'm trying to make my way in a world I didn't create in a place I never expected to be, dealing with men who don't like women who have any sort of power and ability.”

“We share that,” admitted the regent. “Yet I must dissemble and smile, and play one against another, and lean upon the reputation of my sire, the position of my late lord, and the tradition of the land. You…you can strike fear into their hearts.”

“I wish that it were merely respect. Men hate women they fear. They will often respect, if grudgingly, men whom they fear.”

“We will do what we must.” Zeldyan paused. “I have told Lord Barcauyn that we have many to visit and will be departing on the morrow.”

“I'm certain he was agreeable.”

“He was. He did suggest that, if I could manage it, I should set you and your guards against Deryll.”

“Doubtless he'd prefer mutual annihilation.” Saryn's tone was bitter and dry.

“He well might, but even he thinks Deryll would be the loser. I have no doubts.” Zeldyan inclined her head. “I will soothe Barcauyn, as I can.”

Saryn merely nodded.

She remained in her quarters for a glass, if not somewhat longer. When she finally emerged, she followed the corridor toward the western terrace, but before she reached the terrace, Joncaryl stepped out from a side hallway.

“Do you wrestle?” asked Joncaryl, a crooked yet sly smile on an injured face, already turning black-and-blue. Pain mingled with anger behind the words.

“After a fashion,” replied Saryn politely. “Except we call it unarmed combat, and it's designed to kill people as quickly as possible without using weapons.”

The smile vanished. “Are all your people like that?”

“Not all the guards are trained in that. Just those who were trained from birth to be warriors.” That wasn't exactly true in the Sybran sense, but it was accurate enough for Candar, and the young man wouldn't have understood the distinctions no matter how hard Saryn tried to explain.

Even so, she could sense Joncaryl's puzzlement, and she continued, “Angels are trained to do what ever they do in any way necessary and possible. We were fighting an enemy across the stars. Weapons could be destroyed in an instant. We were trained to be able to kill with anything at hand…or with nothing. You don't train armsmen that way. We do.”