Arms-Commander by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Page B

Arthanos, you’ll be the one who goes to Lornth,” Ryba went on. “Whatever happens, I won’t send you to your death. That much, I do know.”
    Ryba was quite capable of lying—except that Saryn would have detected it, and Ryba knew that. Still, from what Saryn had seen in the under-space battles with the demon towers, what she’d felt on the neuronet, and what she’d experienced and observed in the ten years since the angels had come to the Roof of the World, some forms of living might well be worse than death, not that she wished to experience either. But why would she mention that she would not send me to my death?
    “Would you like to question the Gallosian now?” Saryn asked quietly.
    “I’ll do it this afternoon in the common room before the eve ning meal, with at least a squad of guards present… and you, of course, and either Istril or Siret, whoever happens to be more available.”
    “Yes, ser.”
    “That will be all.”
    Saryn nodded, then turned and made her way back down the cold stone steps of Tower Black, wondering, as always, just what Ryba had foreseen and exactly why she intended to send Saryn to Lornth.

XIV
    J ust past midafternoon, Saryn sat at the end of the trestle table nearest the hearth in the main-floor great room. To her right was Llyselle, and to her left sat Murkassa.
    “…the scouts reported that half the Suthyan party took the road to Lornth and that the trader was with that group,” Llyselle said. “The others took the northern road, the one to Middlevale, which avoids most of the Lornian lands on the way to Rulyarth and Armat.”
    “The trader is traveling through Lornth… or part of it. Have you told the Marshal?”
    “No, ser. We just got word.”
    “I’ll tell her, then, after we finish. What else did they discover?”
    “Nothing else about the Suthyans. We’ll need to send a team to repair some of the bridges…”
    After Llyselle finished her report, Saryn walked up the stone steps to Ryba’s study.
    Ryba turned from where she stood at the window. “What else is it, Saryn? More about the Gallosian?”
    “No, ser. We may have another problem. Half the Suthyans, and the high trader, but not Suhartyn, took the road to Lornth.”
    The Marshal nodded, almost as if she already knew. “That’s not surprising. Trader Baorl will try to discover any weaknesses, while ostensibly trading, and will be able to give the Suthyan Council a more current report on Lornth’s strengths and weaknesses. Doubtless, he will also spread untruths about Westwind.”
    “That won’t make matters any easier for me… if you’re still planning on sending me.”
    “I am, especially after what you just encountered. We’ll talk about that later.”
    Saryn could sense that Ryba didn’t want to say more, and wouldn’t. She also knew that pressing the Marshal would only make matters worse. “Yes, ser.”
    “Don’t worry about it, Saryn.” With those words, Ryba turned back to look out the window.
    Saryn made her way down the steps, then to the smithy to see how much progress had been made on blades.
    Later, just about a glass before the eve ning meal, Huldran and Ydrall brought Dealdron up from the lower level, the same way all guards with injured legs were carried, in a basket seat suspended from a wooden yoke, each end of the yoke borne by one of the two smiths. They set him on a bench facing the cold hearth… and Ryba. Saryn stood on the right side of the wooden chair where Ryba sat, with Siret on the left.
    Dealdron’s eyes took in the trio one after the other—the arms-commander with her reddish golden brown hair, the black-haired and stern-featured Marshal, in silver-gray and black, and the silver-haired healer. The Marshal surveyed the wounded man without speaking.
    After a momentary hesitation, the Gallosian bent forward, held the position for a moment, then straightened, looking to Ryba, then to Siret, and finally to Saryn. “Sers… most honored Angel and Marshal, I would