Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Nylan looked down at the stony ground.

  “You look confounded, Mage.”

  “My name is Nylan.” The engineer didn’t wish to answer, but even the thought of not answering was increasing his headache.

  “Ser Nylan, surely you know where came such blades.”

  The engineer took a deep breath. “I… made them.”

  “Here? On the Roof of the World?”

  Nylan nodded.

  “Light! I must be cozened into attacking angels each worth twice any armsman, and supported by a mage the like of which our poor world has never seen.” Relyn struggled into a sitting position on the wall. “You killed three of my men, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Might I look at that blade?”

  Nylan looked down at the blade he had thrust through the tool belt. “This? It’s not finished. The hilt needs to be wrapped.” He eased the blade out, half surprised that he had not cut himself with it, though it was shorter than the crowbars carried by the locals. He showed it to Relyn, who brushed the metal with the fingers of his left hand.

  “Would that I had a blade like that,” said the younger man.

  “They are for… the guards… of Westwind.”

  “Westwind?”

  Nylan gestured to the tower. “That’s what we have named it.”

  “Westwind.” Relyn shivered: “Westwind. A cold wind.”

  “Very cold,” Nylan agreed, thinking about Ryba’s coolness after the battle. What was he supposed to have done? Sprung into the saddle and chased after them? He laughed, thinking of himself bouncing along on the black.

  “You laugh? You laugh?”

  “Not at you, Relyn. At me. I was thinking about how awkward it is for me to ride a horse.”

  “I do not understand. Do not all men ride? All mages?”

  “Yes, but we don’t always ride horses into battle.” Nylan turned at the sound of hooves, watching as Huldran and Cessya rode up.

  “You’re already organized, ser, aren’t you?” asked Huldran.

  “Pretty much,” Nylan admitted.

  “Who’s the pretty boy?” asked Cessya.

  “I think he’s the guilty one. He thinks his father will disown him for being defeated by a bunch of women.”

  “He’s not bad-looking.”

  “They think you’re not bad-looking, Relyn,” Nylan said. “Even if you are the one who plotted this. Might I ask why?”

  Relyn shrugged. “I am the younger son, and when I heard that Lord Sillek had offered lands and a title to whoever reclaimed the Roof of the World… I spent what I had. Now… I am ruined.”

  “If you had succeeded, we’d have been ruined,” pointed out Nylan as he turned to Huldran. “Who did we lose?”

  “Weblya and Sheriz. Weindre got slashed up, but Jaseen says she’ll pull through. A bunch of bruises and cuts for everyone else, except the marshal.” Huldran sighed. “It’s going to get tougher. We’re just about out of rounds. Best to use what we’ve got left for the rifles.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Nylan said, “but that would be my suggestion.”

  “That’s what the marshal told us.” Huldran turned in the saddle. “We’ve got to make another big cairn. Siret’s bringing down the cart for the bodies. Since you’re all right, ser…”

  “Go on.” Nylan waved the two off. “Do what you have to.”

  “A curious tongue you speak, Mage. Some words I understand. You are not, properly speaking, an armsman, are you?”

  “No. I’m an engineer… like a smith. I build things, like the tower, or this.”

  “Yet you slew three men, and you forge blades that…” Relyn groped in the air with his left hand. “And the women, they are mightier warriors than you?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  “Demons of light save us, save us all, for they will change the world and all that is in it.”

  Of that, Nylan had no doubts. And, from what he’d seen, it would probably be a better world-but would it be one that had a place for him? From Ryba’s actions and gestures, daughter or no daughter, he wondered.

  XXXIII

  THE GRAY CLOUDS churn out of the north, and a cold rain falls across Lornth, heavier showers splattering in waves across the red tile roofs of the town. From behind the leaded-glass window, Sillek’s eyes look south toward the river, though he sees neither roofs nor river.

  “Sillek, did you hear me?”

  He turns toward the alcove where his mother the lady Ellindyja adjusts the white fabric over one wooden hoop, then slips the second hoop in place to hold the linen taut. Golden thread trails from the needle she holds in her right hand.

  “My dear mother, I fear I was distracted.”

  “Distracted? The Lord of Lornth cannot afford distractions, mental or otherwise, and certainly not distractions of the nature of the… lady… Kirandya.” Ellindyja knots the end of the thread with motions that seem too precise for the white and pudgy fingers.

  “I suppose not.” Sillek’s words are harsh as he sits on the straight-backed wooden chair opposite the alcove bench. “You were saying?”

  “Ser Gethen-you might recall him, Sillek. He has more than score ten in armsmen, and all the lands between the rivers north of Carpa, even a hillside vineyard. I think he has several daughters near your age as well, and the middle one is said to be quite a beauty.”

  “I don’t believe you were talking about his daughters.”

  “Ah… no.” The golden thread completes the edge of a coronet on the linen, and the needle pauses. “Ser Gethen had a son, Relyn or Ronwin or something. He heard of your offer of lands and a minor title for destroying those witches on the heights-”

  “Your idea, as I recall,” interjects Sillek, “and a good one.”

  “And the young fellow gathered his funds and some armsmen and attacked the witches. He had a score and ten men, well armed. A half dozen returned.”

  “I had heard something of his exploit, but only this morning. Pray, tell me-how did this news come to you?”

  “The youth’s mother-Erenthla-she and I were once close, and she sent a messenger. That’s of no matter now, Sillek. You certainly should not expect me to be totally cloistered. What is of import is that Ser Gethen is less than pleased. Erenthla-she is Lady of Gethen Groves- conveyed that. Rather clearly.” Ellindyja’s needle flickers through the fabric, creating another lobe to the coronet taking shape on the linen. “She hinted at her liege’s loss of honor and that it might be linked to your failure to uphold that noble heritage bequeathed to you.”

  “Since you are determined to pin this upon me, why should I be disturbed? The young fellow knew the risks. Any raiding has risks. And he was a hothead, from what I recall. The kind that thinks every fight brings honor.” Sillek stands, then his brows knit. “He was killed?”

  “Far worse-he was captured. Being captured by women -even angels-makes it most humiliating, especially for his sire. Erenthla was clearly distraught. I should not have to point this out to you. Of course, Ser Gethen was forced to disown him, but he was Gethen’s second son of two, and second in the succession, and there are only sisters after him.”

  “Ah… the matter becomes clearer. I should court one of those sisters in the guise of placating Ser Gethen…” Sillek paces back to the window and stares into the heavy rain. His lips tighten and his fingers knot around each other.

  “I did not suggest that. It is not a bad idea, but I was talking of honor of the honor your failures have cost you, and now, Ser Gethen. The honor you have steadfastly refused to acknowledge or uphold. The honor that you subjugate to concerns more suited to a petty merchant. My son should not be a merchant, but a lord.”

  Sillek turns and slowly walks across the floor. He stops by the chair, and his eyes flash. “I am Lord of Lornth, and my father did not die for honor. He died looking for exotic women. Of that, I should not have to remind you, of all people. His honor, his duty, lay in preserving and protecting his people-and there
he failed. He lost more than twoscore trained armsmen for nothing! I know what honor is. Honor is more than a reputation for seeking out danger mindlessly. It is more than attacking enemies blindly without regard to costs and deaths.

  “You talk of honor, but the honor that you speak of so carelessly and endlessly will bring nothing but pain and needless death. There is no honor in destroying Lornth through mindless attacks on powerful enemies. There is no honor in squandering trained armsmen like poor tavern ale.” His hand jabs toward Ellindyja as she starts to speak. “No! I will hear no more protestations about empty honor, and should you ever throw that word at me again, you will be cloistered-in high and lonely honor in my tallest tower. There you can think of honor until your dying day. And may it comfort you, because no one else will. Do you understand, my dearest mother?”

  Ellindyja pales. Her mouth opens.

  Sillek shakes his head grimly.

  Finally, she bows her head. “Yes, my son and liege.”

  For a time, silence fills the chamber.

  “I still value your advice,” Sillek says evenly.

  Ellindyja does not look up, as the unsteady needle slowly fills in the second lobe of the coronet she stitches.

  “About Ser Gethen’s daughter,” he suggests.

  “Courting Ser Gethen’s daughter would not be a bad idea,” Ellindyja says quietly, her eyes still on the embroidery. “No ruler is so rich that he cannot afford to look at both a lovely lady and lovely lands, and this… incident… left Ser Gethen with but one heir.”

  “Fornal is reputed to be outstanding in Arms.”

  “He may be,” said Ellindyja, “but life is uncertain, as your father discovered. Although Ser Gethen is a warrior of caution and deliberation, I do know that he is less than pleased.”

  Sillek turns from the window. “You think I should go to Carpa and soothe his ruffled wings?”

  “It could not harm you, and, since you are so preoccupied about the possible predations of Lord Ildyrom, rather than… other considerations, you would be close enough to return to Clynya, should that remote need arise.” The pudgy fingers fly momentarily, and the golden thread continues to fill in the outline of the coronet.

  “It is scarcely remote when a neighboring lord builds a fort on your lands.” Sillek’s face is stern, and chill radiates from him.

  A jagged line of lightning illuminates the roofs of Lornth, and the crash of nearby thunder punctuates Sillek’s observation.

  “That is true. Perhaps you could make that point with Ser Gethen in person.” The lady Ellindyja lowers her embroidery. She does not meet his eyes.

  Sillek lifts his hands, and then lowers them. “We shall see.”

  “Sillek dear, I understand your concerns for the greater good of Lornth. I only provide those suggestions that I feel might be helpful for Lornth… and for preserving your patrimony.”

  Sillek’s lips tighten again.

  Ellindyja looks away. “Ser Gethen is upset, my son and liege. I cannot disguise that.”

  Sillek’s eyes fix on her, but she says nothing.

  “He is upset.” He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “And it is true. You cannot change that. For your judgment in this matter, I am grateful, but… I do not appreciate even indirect references to honor and patrimony. Those are best reserved for cloistered towers.”

  “Yes, Sillek. You have made your point, and you are Lord of Lornth.” Ellindyja bows her head again.

  Sillek offers the faintest of head bows before turning back toward the door as another rain squall pelts across the roofs outside.

  After the door closes, Ellindyja smiles sadly, and murmurs, “But you cannot escape honor.”

  The embroidery needle flashes, and the third golden lobe of the coronet forms.

  XXXIV

  WITH THE SHUTTERS in the great hall closed, the fire in the hearth left the room-the end closest to the fire-nearly comfortable for Ryba and the marines in just the light and tattered shipsuits they wore for heavy work. Although Narliat had kept complaining about the chill, Nylan had resisted using the new furnace, especially since the grates for the ducts on each floor were not finished. Besides, it wasn’t that cold, not yet, and he worried about having enough firewood for the long winter.

  Nylan wore his ship jacket, unfastened and open, as did Ayrlyn and Saryn. Relyn and Narliat wore their heavy cloaks wrapped around them, and sat on the right edge of the raised hearth, their backs to the heaping coals and the logs of the fire.

  Two squat candles-among the few in Westwind and procured by Ayrlyn and Narliat-flickered on the table. The candles and the fire managed to impart a wavering illumination to the great hall, although the corners were dark, as was the end of the room nearest the stairs. Nylan could see clearly without the light. That was not the case for most of the others, as they squinted to see when they turned toward the gloomier sections of the hall.

  Ayrlyn had drawn one of the candles close to Relyn’s stump, because he had complained that the arm was chaos-tinged.

  “Chaos-tinged?” asked Saryn.

  “Infected,” explained the redhead, looking at the arm.

  Nylan could feel as Ayrlyn extended her senses to examine the arm, much in the same way that he had manipulated the fields around the laser.

  “The arm’s not infected,” Ayrlyn said. “You’ll live.”

  “What sort of life will I live, healer?” asked Relyn. “The great warrior of Gethen Groves defeated by a handful of women, and what kind of life awaits me?” He inclined his head to Nylan. “And by an unknown mage.” He snorted. “Who would believe that less than a score of women, a single armed man, and one mage could kill nearly thirty well-armed and -trained men?”

  Nylan took another look at Relyn’s stump. Crafting something like a hook or artificial hand might not be that difficult, and it might make the man more functional and less self-pitying.

  Gerlich smiled briefly at the mention of “a single armed man,” then glanced toward Ryba. His smile vanished.

  “Ser, they killed three score of Lord Nessil’s men,” suggested Narliat, raising his maimed right hand. “He even had a wizard with him. And we have not seen any of the great Lord Sillek’s men, or Lord Sillek himself, come to follow his sire’s example. Lord Sillek did succeed his father, did he not?”

  “He did, armsman. That was why I was here.”

  “Would you care to explain?” asked Nylan, knowing the answer, but wanting the others, besides Ryba, to hear it from the local noble himself.

  Ryba sat in the single chair at the end of the table-a rude chair, crude like all the other crafts, but Saryn had insisted that the marshal should sit at the end, and had made the chair herself. Ryba half turned in the chair to hear Relyn’s words.

  “Lord Sillek offered a reward of the Ironwoods and a title for whoever cleansed the Roof of the World.”

  “Cleansed?” asked Ryba coldly. “Are we vermin?”

  While her accent in Old Anglorat left something to be desired, Relyn understood and swallowed. “Your pardon… but women like you are not seen elsewhere in Candar, nor across either the Eastern or the Western Ocean.”

  “There are women like us in Candar, and they will find their way to Westwind,” Ryba said. “In time, all the lands west of the Westhorns will be ruled by women who follow the Legend-the guards of Westwind… I’ve mentioned the name before.”

  “The Legend?” asked Relyn.

  Nylan glanced at Ayrlyn, who looked down.

  “Ayrlyn? Now would be a good time to introduce your latest song.”

  “As you wish, Marshal.” Ayrlyn walked to the far end of the hall where she removed the lutar case from the open shelves under the central stone stairs. She left the case and carried the instrument toward the hearth.

  “What is this Legend?” asked Narliat.

  “It is the story of the angels,” Ryba said smoothly, “and the ”fate of those who put their trust in the power of men alone.“

  Nylan winced at th
e certainty in her voice, the absolute surety of vision. Like her vision of a daughter, although that was certainly no vision. There were enough signs to Nylan, especially to his senses, but while he could not tell the sex of the child, Ryba had no doubts.

  “All Candar will come to understand the vision and the power of the Legend,” Ryba added. “Though there will be those who oppose it, even they will not deny its truth and its power.”

  Ayrlyn stood before the hearth, lutar in hand, adjusting the tuning pegs, and striking several strong chords before beginning.

  From the skies of long-tost Heaven

  to the heights of Westwind keep,

  We will hold our blades in order,

  and never let our honor sleep.

  From the skies of light-iced towers

  to the demons ‘place on earth,

  We will hold fast lightnings ‘powers,

  and never count gold’s worth.

  As the guards of Westwind keep

  our souls hold winter’s sweep;

  We will hold our blades in order,

  and never let our honor sleep…

  As Ayrlyn set down the small lutar, Ryba smiled. The hall was hushed for an instant. Then Cessya began to clap.

  “Don’t clap. It’s yours, and you need to sing it with her. Again, Ayrlyn.”

  The redheaded healer and singer bowed and strummed the lutar. Her silver voice repeated the words.

  By the last chorus of “and never let our honor sleep” all the marines who had become, by virtue of the song and Ryba’s pronouncement, the guards of Westwind Keep had joined in.

  Nylan tried not to frown. Had Ryba used the term “guard” before? Was she mixing what she thought she had said, her visions, and what she wished she had said?

  Relyn looked at Narliat, and both men frowned.

  “You frown, young Relyn. Do you doubt our ability at arms? Or mine?” asked the marshal.

  “No, sher.”

  “ ‘Ser’ will do, thank you. The term applies to honored warriors.” Ryba turned away from the two at the corner of the hearth. “A good rendition, Ayrlyn. Very good.”