L. Modesitt - Arms-Commander

“Since we don’t know anything about it, that might be difficult.” Saryn’s words were dry. “But don’t mention that to him.”

“I didn’t, but he knows enough that he’ll find out.”

“That can’t be helped, can it?” Saryn laughed. “He’ll figure it out anyway if he hasn’t already. There’s not any plasterwork anywhere in Westwind. He’ll see that, sooner or later.”

Siret replied with a half smile.

“Can you teach anyone else to cut stones the way you do?”

“None of the locals…Oh, they can handle the hammer and chisel, but they don’t sense where to strike and at the right angles. Daerona is a decent mason and a stone setter.” Siret paused. “The one who’s likely to be the best is Aemra. She likes it, and she comes up here and helps me in the afternoons.”

“She’s barely ten.”

“She’s better at it than anyone else.”

“Does Ryba know?”

“She may, but I haven’t told her. Neither has Istril. Istril’d be just as happy to have her daughter as a stonecutter. Aemra’s also artistic.” Siret walked to the end of the rock shelf, where she bent down and lifted an oblong of stone.

Saryn swallowed. The front side bore a sculpted face-that of Istril, although the hair was barely roughed in place, as was the neck. Even so, Istril’s grace-and something else, perhaps a trace of the pain that seemed to go with healing-was embodied in the stone.

“Aemra did that?”

“No one else. It’s to be a present. Istril hasn’t seen it.”

“You might have her work on a bust of Ryba as well.”

“She wants to finish this one first before she does. She is only ten, Saryn.”

The arms-commander nodded. Why was it that everything connected with the engineer created complications, even a daughter he’d never seen?

Every time a great angel leaves the Roof of the World, those who rule in lands far and wide should tremble and prepare for times of trouble, for each who leaves is unlike any other, and each shall leave her footprint and her name upon the lands she touches for ages to come.

There will be those who bear blades that none can parry, and few who oppose them will survive, and none will prosper. There will be those whose words are more deadly than slings and arrows, and those whose very countenance will charm beasts and yet freeze warriors…

Yet the first and last to leave Westwind shall also be silver-haired, save that both will be men, and destruction and rebirth will be their heritage, intertwining through the ages so that none will know from whence either came, nor the reasons why their actions will so afflict the world with changes that will lead to yet other changes, ceaselessly, all along the river of time.

Of those between, those upon the Roof of the World and those who descend to mold and form the Legend will free women to be what they should and can be. They will topple lands, and rebuild them, and they will create cities and places of art and beauty that will last through the ages, and yet the men who rule elsewhere will call them tyrants and worse.

Especially will those who follow the path of the white demons fear and condemn the angels and what they have wrought, and those selfsame demon followers will rip chaos itself from the earth itself and slash their way through mountains to strike at the lands of peace and prosperity where women rule. And yet all that will come to naught, high as the cost will be to those who would defend the Legend.

For in the end will the heritage of the Legend triumph, though it may not seem as such to those who behold that heritage and the fruits that it will bear over the endless years…

Book of Ryba, Canto I, Section IV [Original Text]

Over the next eightday, the Roof of the World warmed, as much as it ever did. The root crops continued to grow, and the hardy redberry bushes showed signs of blossoming. Predictably, Ryba showed irritation at the time it would take to create the horn composite bows, then ordered the bow-making to continue as quickly as possible with the limitations.

Because a thundershower was drenching Westwind in mid afternoon on sixday, Saryn decided to stay inside until it passed and undertake a thorough inspection of Tower Black from the level below Ryba’s quarters to the lowest level, which held the carpentry shop as well as sickbay and the armory. Everything was largely in place on the upper levels. Sickbay itself was empty, and she walked quietly to the carpentry shop, stopping well short of the entry archway when she saw Dealdron seated on an old bench, using a small plane to smooth out a headboard for one of the narrow pallet bunks that would be used by the younger guards. After a time, he set the plane down and slipped a small knife out of his belt, one so small it fit almost within his palm. He began to cut a design in the middle of the headboard. Behind him, several other guards worked on various projects, but none paid much attention to the young Gallosian.

“Why are you doing that?”

Saryn couldn’t see the speaker, but sensed it had to be one of the silver-haired trio because of the swirl of blackness that surrounded the girl.

“Flowers are supposed to bring pleasant dreams,” replied Dealdron. “Carved flowers last longer than real ones, and there are few flowers in winter.”

“What kind of flower is that?”

“It’s a ryall. There aren’t many. They grow in rocky places where little else grows, and they do not bloom often.”

“What color are they?” Aemra stood, stretching and holding a stave she had trimmed to fit the broken bucket on the narrow workbench before her. She slipped it into place, with just enough force that it was clear she had shaped it perfectly. Then she turned and waited for Dealdron to reply. Behind her appeared Adiara, who looked at the Gallosian, half fearfully.

“They’re black, mostly, with thin lines of white that outline the petals. A ryall is bigger than the one I’m carving. Each flower is bigger than a guard’s hand.”

“They don’t sound pretty.” Aemra stepped over toward Dealdron and studied the small carving. “I like the carving, though.”

“They’re not pretty. They’re beautiful, like an icicle or a foggy morning.”

“Icicles are freezing, and foggy mornings are cold and damp,” Aemra pointed out.

“Here on the Roof of the World, that might be true. They still can be beautiful.”

Saryn concentrated on feeling what was happening between the two, but so far as she could sense, there were no feelings on Dealdron’s part beyond exactly what she heard in his words and tone. Aemra was curious and possibly a bit pitying when she looked at the young man’s splinted leg, but the pity vanished as she looked at the first cuts of the design.

“I suppose so.” Aemra didn’t sound that convinced.

Dealdron didn’t press the issue but bent forward and continued to cut and deepen the lines of the ryall. Saryn sensed the dull throbbing in his leg, but the young man kept working, and Aemra went back to carefully measuring and cutting a second stave for the other broken bucket on the workbench. After a time of watching, Saryn stepped into the carpentry shop. Several of the guards glanced up, then resolutely looked away.

“Commander,” Aemra murmured, inclined her head, then stepped away from Saryn and closer to the bench. Adiara did not move at all, her eyes fixed on Saryn.

“What are you doing here?” asked Saryn, looking squarely at Dealdron. “Did the healers say that you could leave sick bay?”

“They told me not to try to climb the steps without help. Here…it is not far, and there are no steps. I can at least smooth wood. I asked Vierna. She seemed to be in charge.”