L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

But the pain and glare were so bright when he tried to open his eyes that he nearly doubled over.

“Ooooo … I even felt that,” said Ayrlyn quietly.

“So did I,” added Istril. “I think it will be a while before you want to try to see again.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We don’t know,” admitted Ayrlyn. “You ought to be able to see, but whatever you did with that laser had a backlash, and it’s not exactly psychological-it had an effect on your entire nervous system. It should wear off, but it’s going to be eight-days or longer, maybe years before the pain leaves totally.”

Nylan didn’t want to deal with that, not then, not ever, butit didn’t seem like he had much choice. “Where am I?”

“You’re on the other side of the sixth level. Ryba was afraid that Dyliess would disturb you, and here was the best place. Also, with her shattered arm-”

“Shattered arm?”

“Flying debris,” Ayrlyn said dryly. “Everything was either blown off that part of the hill or turned to ashes.”

“What’s left?” he asked.

“Away from the hill above the tower … most everything,” Istril answered. “We had another rush of women. We’re short of trained guards, but there are more than enough bodies to keep things going. Saryn’s working on training, and Siret and Weindre are helping. Huldran’s trying to forge the pieces for the sawmill, and in time we might be able to sell timber or planking. Blynnal’s found another cook, and the food is better yet.”

“I have noticed that.” Nylan paused. “What about Fierral?”

The silence gave the answer.

“Who else?”

After a moment, Istril answered. “Denalle, Selitra, Quilyn-those are the ones you knew.”

“So …” Nylan tried to count them all in his head. “We landed with thirty. We have nine left. Great survival ratio.”

“It’s better than everyone dying in orbit,” said Ayrlyn.

“Or being a slave,” added Istril.

“What a wonderful world. What a wonderful life …” He stopped. “Don’t mind me. It’s just hard. Darkness, it’s hard.” His mouth and throat were dry, and though he swallowed, they remained dry.

Ayrlyn’s hand touched his, and he was surprised at the warmth, and the huskiness in her voice. “We know.”

“We know,” echoed Istril.

Later, as he rocked slowly in the chair, steps echoed through the white darkness that enshrouded Nylan, hard firm steps that Nylan recognized as Ryba’s.

In the darkness, he might be able to open his eyes for a few moments before the pain became too great, and, in time,he supposed, his normal vision might return. But he preferred to keep his eyes closed when he had no immediate need to see, and he had no need or any desire to look upon Ryba.

“How’s your arm?” he asked.

“Ayrlyn says it will heal straight. So does Istril. She’s giving up the blade, except as necessary in emergencies, to be a healer. She had to. Ayrlyn was down for quite a while.”

“I thought that might happen.” Eyes still closed, he massaged his temples, and then his neck, hoping that would help relieve the pain. “What else is new in the sovereign domain of Westwind?”

“I’m sending Lord Sillek’s blade back, and his ring-a bit melted around the edges-that was all we could find in that mess. With them go some fancy language. It’s an effort to make peace-in return for keeping the Westhorns, this part, anyway, clear of bandits.” Ryba cleared her throat, and Nylan could sense that she leaned against the lander couch.

“Will it work?”

“Yes,” Ryba said calmly. “Lord Karthanos has already sent an envoy disavowing the use of his troops and a small chest of golds as a payment for our efforts to maintain the Westhorns, as he put it, ‘clear of any impediments to travel and trade.’”

“Convenient to blame poor dead Lord Sillek. He probably wasn’t even a bad sort,” Nylan said. “Like a lot of us, he probably just got pushed into a situation from which there wasn’t any escape.”

“He was bad enough to kill a lot of guards, and bad enough to lose an entire army. That will do for me, thank you. And anyone who lets himself be pushed into that kind of situation probably shouldn’t be running a country.”

“We didn’t do much better. Nine out of thirty, isn’t it? And how many of those who came to us are dead?”

“It’s better than the alternative. Over time, probably only you, Saryn, and Ayrlyn could have survived in the lowlands. The rest of us were all Sybran.”

“That’s true. We didn’t have too many good alternatives,and the locals left us even less choice.” Nylan didn’t feel like arguing, not when he knew there was no purpose to be served. Not when he knew that Ryba was right. Right she might be, but again, he realized he wanted to be neither captain nor marshal. Apparently, neither he nor poor dead Lord Sillek had any business running a country-or a ship-not when men and women only respected force and always wanted more.

“And your friend Relyn disappeared right after the battle. He was considerate, though. He took a Lornian horse and not a thing from us. You warned him, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I trust we don’t live to see his new faith threaten us all,” Ryba said tiredly.

“It won’t.” Nylan could feel that it wouldn’t; despite his threats to Relyn, he’d felt that way for seasons. Relyn needed the faith of order, and others would, too.

“I hope you’re as good a prophet as an engineer.”

So did Nylan, but instead of admitting that openly, he asked the question to which he already knew the answer. “Would you mind if I just turned this side of the tower into my quarters for now?”

“No. I wondered when you’d ask.”

Nylan heard the sadness, and the acceptance, and the inevitability in her voice, and he nodded, saying, “I know you did what had to be done, and I did what I did in full knowledge.” But it hurts, and it always will, and every time I open my eyes for the rest of my life, I’ll know what I did, and you don’t even understand why I did it.

“You’ll go down as one of the great ones, Nylan, and you’re a good man, but you still don’t accept that the world is governed by force. Cold iron is master of them all.”

“Now,” he agreed, without opening his eyes. “Now.” But we can try to change that, and that worthwhile.

“Always,” answered Ryba. “Always.”

Zeldyan enters the tower room, flanked by Gethen and Fornal. All wear white armbands, and the faces of all three are stern. They glance toward the alcove.

Lady Ellindyja rises, setting the embroidery on the far end of the bench. “Your Grace.” Her eyes fix on the blond woman, as if Zeldyan’s father and brother were not present.

“My lady Ellindyja, and grandmother of my son, I came to wish you well in your time of grief and loss.” Zeldyan offers a head bow, one which is but the minimal formality.

“Your courtesy does you well, inasmuch as your grief must be even greater than mine own to have lost a mate and a lover and your son’s father all at once.”

“Great is my grief, as is yours. Yet I thought of you, and of how painful it must be for you to remain here, where you have lost so much.” Zeldyan takes one step beyond those of her father and brother, so that she stands that much closer to Ellindyja.

“This little is all I require.” Ellindyja’s eyes harden. “And I trust, regents of Lornth, that you will not take this from me.”

“As regents, we must look to the welfare of Lornth, and ensure that the gains made by Lord Sillek are preserved for his heir and his people.” Zeldyan’s voice is smooth, almost soft. “He sacrificed much to the cause of Lornth, and I would not see that squandered.”