Fall of Angels (27 page)

  
"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 the 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."

  
Ayrlyn bowed and walked toward the shadows that shrouded the stairs.

  
Relyn glanced toward Ryba's pale and impassive face and whispered to Narliat. "She is truly more dangerous than Lord Sillek."

  
Far more dangerous, Nylan felt, for Ryba had a vision, and that vision just might change the entire planet-or more. Sillek and the others had no idea what they faced.

  
The engineer's sense of reason wanted to deny his feelings. Logic said that a mere twenty-plus marines and an engineer could not change history, but he could feel a cold wind every time he thought of the words Ayrlyn had composed, as though they echoed down the years ahead.

XXXV

IN THE NORTH tower yard, Nylan glanced from the armaglass panels up at the sky, where gray clouds twisted in and out and back upon each other as they churned their way southward, bringing moisture from the northern ocean.

  
Behind him Huldran and Cessya ground more lavastone for the mortar needed to finish the southern wall of the bath-house and the archway in its center that would lead to the north tower door. As the powder rose into the air, the intermittent cold breeze blew some of the fine dust toward the engineer.

  
Kkkchewww!!! He rubbed his nose and looked at the two marines, working in their threadbare and tattered uniforms. Then he checked the connections on the power cables, and the power levels on the scrambled bank of firin cells he was using-twenty-four percent.

  
He lowered the goggles over his eyes.

  
Baaa . . . aaaa . . . The sound of the sheep drifted around the tower. Nylan hoped someone knew something about sheep, because he didn't. They gave wool, but how did one shear it? Or turn the fleece into thread or wool or whatever got woven into cloth? There was something about stripping the oil from the wool, too. Saryn or Gerlich probably could slaughter them and dress them, but how many did they want to kill-if any? And when?