Chaos Balance
XV
ZELDYAN HANDED THE scroll to Fornal with her free hand. The dark-haired regent slowly read through it, occasionally stopping and puzzling out an unfamiliar word. As he read, the blond woman rocked Nesslek on her knee, steering his fingers away from the goblet on the table before her.
The gray-haired Gethen looked toward the window, then rose and walked to it, sliding it wide open. The cool breeze carried the damp scent of recent spring rain into the tower room. For a moment, Gethen looked across Lornth to the orange ball of the sun that hung over the river to the west of the hold. Then he walked back to the table, where he refilled his goblet before reseating himself.
“This is one of your best,” Zeldyan offered, taking a sip of the dark red wine, before setting her goblet down more toward the center of the table, out of Nesslek's reach.
“It is good. Even the Suthyans paid extra for it.”
Fornal squinted, as though he wanted to shut out the conversation and concentrate on the scroll. His frown became more pronounced as his eyes traveled down the scribed lines.
“Lygon of Bleyans? I hope you made him pay triple.”
“Only double,” Gethen said. “Lady Ellindyja found him useful.”
“I know.”
“The lord of Cyador ... how ... to suggest that the copper mines of south Cerlyn have always belonged to Cyador... to ask for tribute and immediate return ...” stuttered Fornal, letting the scroll roll up with a snap. “This is an insult!”
“Yes,” agreed Zeldyan. “It is. Yet they gave up the mines, ages back.”
“That was when they found the copper in Delapra. It was closer to the surface,” said Gethen, “and closer to Cyad, much closer.”
“They use the white bronze the way we do iron.”
“They have to,” pointed out the older man. “Iron and chaos do not mix.”
“Mix or not, it remains an insult,” snapped Fornal. “Aaaahhhh . . .” added Nesslek, lunging for the goblet. Zeldyan restrained him just short of the crystal.
“To our way of thinking, it is an insult,” commented Gethen, pausing to take a sip of his wine. “We must remember that Cyador is an old land. The legends say that it dates to the time of the true white demons, that they tamed the ancient forest and molded the paths of the rivers. Then, Lornth did not exist, and the copper mines may well have been part of Cyador.”
“Not in generations,” said Fornal. “I cannot claim Middlevale because Mother's grandsire lived there.”
“No,” admitted Gethen. “I was but noting how they think.”
“It remains an insult.” Fornal turned to his sister. “What would you do about it?”
“Since we're in no position to fight, I suggest we send back a message which notes that the scroll could have been interpreted as insulting by some, but that we trust our reading somehow did not find the courtesy for which the lord of Cyador is so justly known-”
“He's a butcher. We know that already.” Fornal lifted his goblet and downed the half remaining in a single gulp. “Why would flattery help?”
“Fornal,” said Gethen, drawing out his words, “if you insist on treating good wine like inn swill, I will bring you a pitcher of the Crab's finest, and save this for those who appreciate it.” The gray-haired man smiled.
“I am sorry. It is good wine, but... I cannot believe . . .” Fornal turned to his sister. “You were about to say?”
“If we flatter him, Fornal, while we make ready, what harm can we do?” asked Gethen.
“None, I suppose, so long as we do make ready.”
“Is it wise to fight?” asked Zeldyan. “No,” conceded the older man. “But it is more foolish not to. If we fight, and fight well, then the lord of Cyador will only take what he needs. If we surrender the mines, he will take them and ask for more, and then we will have to fight anyway.”
Zeldyan nodded, shifting Nesslek from one knee to the other. “Most respect only force. Cold iron, if you will.”
“Can you think of anything that deserves more respect?” asked Fornal, pouring more wine. “Cold iron is the shield of honor.”
Zeldyan smoothed away a frown. “After I put Nesslek down, I will draft a response and then read it to you both.”
“You always did have the better hand, sister. For writing.” Fornal raised his goblet.
Gethen turned his head to the window and the setting sun.