Fall of Angels (30 page)

 
 
"I must admit that the receipt of the letter, certainly not its contents, did remind me that I had been remiss in paying my respects. My arrival represents a long-overdue visit to someone who has always been of great support and good advice to the house of Lornth." Sillek inclines his head ever so slightly.

  
Thrap. The knock is almost unheard over the gentle plashing of the fountain, but Gethen immediately rises, crosses the handwoven, patterned carpet, and opens the door.

  
"Thank you, my dear." The master of the Groves stands aside as a young blond woman carries a tray into the study. On the elaborately carved tray are two cups, a covered pot with a spout, and a flat dish divided into two compartments. The left contains carna nuts, the right small honeyed rolls.

  
Sillek stands, his eyes going from the confectioneries to the bearer, whose shoulder-length blond hair is kept off her face with a silver and black headband. Her eyes are deep green, her skin the palest of golds, her nose straight and even, and just strong enough not to balance the elfin chin and high cheekbones.

  
"This is my middle daughter, Zeldyan. Zeldyan, this is Lord Sillek."

  
Zeldyan sets the tray on the low table, then rises and offers a deep, kneeling bow to Sillek, a bow that drops the loose neckline of her low-cut tunic enough to reveal that her body is as well proportioned as her face. "Your Grace, I am at your service." Her voice bears the hint of husky bells.

  
"And I, at yours," Sillek responds, as he tries not to swallow too hard.

  
"We will see you at supper, Zeldyan." Gethen smiles indulgently.

  
She bows to them both, then steps back without turning, easing her way from the study and closing the door behind her. Gethen slides the bolt into place.

  
"A lovely young woman, and with great bearing and grace," Sillek observes. "You must be proud of her." His fingers touch his beard briefly.

  
"My daughters are a great comfort," Gethen answers as he reseats himself, "a great comfort. And so is my only son, Fornal. You will meet him at supper as well."

  
"I never heard but good of all your offspring, ser." Sillek has caught the slight emphasis on the word "only," but still places his own marginal accent on the word "all."

  
"Your courtesy and concern speak well of you, Lord Sillek." Gethen leans forward and pours the hot cider into the cups. "Your father was not just Lord of Lornth, but a friend and a compatriot." He turns the tray and gestures to the cups, letting Sillek choose.

  
Sillek takes the cup closest to him and lifts it, chest-high, before answering. "A compatriot of my sire is certainly someone to heed, and to pay great respect to." Then he sips the cider and replaces the cup on the tray.

  
Gethen takes his cup. "The son of a lord and a friend is also a lord and a friend." He sips and sets the cup beside Sillek*.

  
Sillek glances toward the fountain, then back to Gethen. "You offered my sire your best judgment."

  
"And I would offer you the same."

  
"You have heard of the ... difficulties I have faced recently, between certain events on the Roof of the World and Lord Ildyrom's ... adventures near Clynya?"

  
"I have heard that certain newcomers are said to be evil angels, and that they have great weapons and a black mage with powers not seen since the time of the descent of the demons."

  
"We do not know nearly enough," Sillek admits, "but what I do know is that these so-called angels killed nearly threescore trained armsmen and lost but three of their number. They have also destroyed several bands of brigands who thought them easy prey. Unfortunately, they have also caused others pain, others who may have judged-"

  
"It often is not our judgment that matters, Lord Sillek, but the perceptions of others," interrupts Gethen. "When the perception of the people is that women are weak, those who fall to women are deemed even weaker and unfit to lead." The master of the Groves shrugs, sadly. "And those who lead, especially rulers, must follow those perceptions unless they wish to fight all those who now support them."

  
"That is a harsh judgment."

  
"Harsh, yes, but true, and that is why I, who loved all my children, have but one son, for I cannot endanger the others by flaunting dearly held beliefs." Gethen clears his throat.

  
Sillek waits without speaking.

  
"I understand you were successful in reclaiming the grasslands with a rather minimal loss of trained armsmen." Gethen laughs. "Rather ingenious, I think."

  
"I was fortunate," Sillek says, "but it ties up my chief armsman and one of my strongest wizards in Clynya."

  
"Hmmmm. I see your problem. If you attempt to secure the river, or Rulyarth ... or send another expedition to the Roof of the World. .."

  
Sillek nods.

  
"Perhaps you should take the battle to Ildyrom. It appears unlikely that the newcomers on the Roof of the World would move against anyone in the near future. Nor will the Suthyan traders."

  
"I had thought that, Ser Gethen. Still, Ildyrom can muster twice the armsmen I can. The other option would be to enlist support for a campaign to take Rulyarth, enough support to wage such an effort without removing forces from Clynya."

  
Gethen purses his lips, then tugs at his chin. "That might work, provided those who supported you were convinced that you would continue to work in their best interests. With the access to the Northern Ocean, and the trade revenues, Lornth could support a larger force of armsmen ..."

  
"I had thought that, ser, but wished to consider your thoughts upon the matter."

  
"Hmmm . . . that does bear consideration." Gethen tugs at his chin again, then reaches for his cider and sips. "You would need to make a solid, a very solid, commitment."

  
"That is something that I would be willing to do, ser, especially for the good of Lornth."

  
"The good of Lornth, ha! You sound like your father. Beware, Sillek, of phrases like that. When a ruler talks of the good of his land, he means his own good."

  
"The two are not opposites, ser."

  
"True. And sometimes they are the same. Tell me, what do you think of Zeldyan?"

  
"At first blush, she is attractive and courtly. I would know her better."

  
"Should you wish for the good of Lornth, Sillek, I'd bet you will know her much better."

  
"That is quite undoubtedly true." Sillek forces a smile. "For you offer good advice."

  
"How good it is-you shall see, but I offer you all the experience that I have, purchased dearly through my mistakes." The gray-haired man rises. "I believe the time for supper nears, and Fornal and Zeldyan would like to share in your company."

  
"And I in theirs, and yours, and your lady's." Sillek stands and follows Gethen into the twilight of the courtyard.

XXXVII

THE WEST WIND, as usual, was chill, chill enough that most of those working on the Roof of the World had covered their arms, although only Narliat, stacking grasses on the drying rack, actually wore a jacket in the sunny afternoon of early fall.

  
In the colder shadow of the tower on the north side, as Huldran, Cessya, and Selitra worked to complete the stonework on the east and south sides of the bathhouse, Nylan tried to complete the bow he had failed three times with squinting through the goggles, coaxing power out of the cells and through the powerhead. The line of light and power flared almost green, and Nylan channeled the reduced power around the curved form he held in the crude tongs, smoothing the metal around the composite core, trying to shunt the energy evenly around the composite without burning the iron-based alloy.

  
With a last limited power bath, Nylan flicked off the laser and slipped the protobow into the quench-but only for a moment-before laying it out on the dented chunk of stone too flawed to use for building.

  
In the end, the shape differed clearly, if subtly, from the sketch that Saryn had provided so many days earlier. Still, a wide smile crossed his face. The bow had been harder, much harder, than the blades.

  
After a drink from the fired-clay mug, he picked up the second crude bow frame, already roughed out, and began inserting the composite core.

  
But just before noon, he had created three bows and dropped the energy levels to where he needed to replace two of the ten cells before continuing.

  
He also needed a rest, and something to eat.

  
After disassembling the laser and storing the wand and powerhead, the engineer walked around the tower toward the causeway and the main south gate to the tower.

  
The south tower yard, below the causeway, was getting more use, now that the tower was occupied, and the landers had been moved again and set up more for storage, either to the west of the tower or at the mouth of the canyon used for corraling the horses and for stone. A low rough-stone wall was rising around the yard, built by the simple expedient of asking the marines to carry small stones and put them along the lines Nylan had scratched out. There were enough stones around the tower, and the knee-height wall made a clear demarcation between meadow and the tower yard.

  
On the uphill side of the yard, near the causeway into the tower, Ayrlyn and Saryn were working to improve their cart, based on their ideas and what they had seen in practice in the cart obtained from Skiodra. On the downhill side, beside the remaining roof slates and building stones for the bathhouse, Gerlich and Jaseen sparred with the heavy wooden blades.

  
Nylan's eyes moved south where, on the trail-road down from the ridge, a thin, red-haired figure walked between the two marines, and Fierral followed.

  
Since Ryba wasn't around, Nylan waited until the four reached the base of the causeway. The marines stopped, and Fierral stepped forward, her eyes surveying the area before settling on Nylan.

  
The local, so thin she seemed to be little more than a child, barely reached Fierral's shoulder, although her tangled hair fell nearly to the middle of her back. Her pale blue eyes darted from the marines to Nylan. She shrank away and back toward the marines.

  
"Ser," Fierral began, "this local just showed up and bowed and bowed. Selitra and Rienadre don't understand the local Anglorat, and I don't do that much better, but I think she's asking for refuge or something. Do you know where the marshal is?"

  
"No one here will harm you," Nylan offered in his slow Anglorat, looking at the painfully thin figure.

  
The girl-woman looked down at the packed dirt leading to the causeway, and eased back until she was pressed against Rienadre's olive-blacks.

  
"She's clearly not fond of men. Better get the marshal," Nylan suggested. He turned toward the nearest of his tower workers, who had stopped on the far side of the causeway by the main tower door. "Cessya? I think Ryba's checking the space for stables up in the stone-cutting canyon. Will you get her?"

  
"Yes, ser. Wouldn't mind a break from lugging stone."

 
 
"Well... you could bring down a few of the larger fragments ..."

  
"Ser?"

  
Nylan grinned.

  
"Master Engineer... someday . . . someday . .."

  
"Promises, promises..."

  
Cessya flushed as she turned.

  
"You're a dangerous man, Engineer," said Fierral.

  
"Me?" Nylan laughed.

  
When the force leader, or armsmaster, just shook her head, Nylan's eyes crossed the south tower yard to where Ayrlyn was bent over the axle of the creaky cart. Saryn stood on the other side.

  
"Ayrlyn?"

  
The redheaded healer lifted her head. "Yes, Nylan? What great engineering expertise can you offer to stop the creakiness of the wheels?"

  
"Roller bearings, except I can't make them. Grease, otherwise, preferably from Kyseen's leavings or from animal fat."

  
"Grease?" Ayrlyn made a face. "I need engineering, and all you have to offer is grease? That was what you said yesterday."

  
"That's what they used for centuries. It's smelly and messy, but I understand it works." Nylan shrugged and grinned. "Can you give us a hand?"

  
"With what?"

  
The engineer motioned toward the local girl-woman. "We have a local problem. I need you and Narliat."

  
"That worthless loafer?" Ayrlyn took a deep breath, then wiped her greasy hands on a clump of grass. "He's pretending to stack grasses to dry. It's the easiest job he can find."

  
"I'll get him," Saryn volunteered. "You talk to the local kid, Ayrlyn. I still hate Anglorat." The former second pilot, limping yet, turned and headed for the grass-drying racks.

  
Ayrlyn wiped her hands on the grass again, then crossed the yard, where she stopped and looked at the small redhead. After a time, the girl-woman looked back.

  
"Who are you?" asked Ayrlyn.

  
"Hryessa." The name was so faint that all of the angels had to strain to catch it.