L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“Narliat says you’re a wizard, too-a black one. Do you know what that means?” Istril glanced back toward the trail and then focused on Nylan.

“No.” Nylan took the reins and began to lead his mount through the trees toward the horse tethered behind a massive pine just past a large boulder sunk in pine needles. “A black wizard? I’ve got enough trouble just being an engineer.”

Istril ducked and rode after him. After a moment, so did Siret.

“NOW THAT YOU have reclaimed the grasslands, when will you reclaim the Roof of the World? And your father’s honor?” The gray-haired Lady Ellindyja shifts her notinconsiderable bulk on the upholstered bench in the alcove. Her fingers dart across the embroidery hoop, the needle shining like a miniature blade that she deftly wields.

Sillek stands behind the carved chair with the purplecushion, resting his arms on the back. “The grasslands are reclaimed only so long as Koric and Hissl remain in Clynya. The moment they leave, Ildyrom’s forces will return, in even greater numbers, no doubt. I send armsmen into the Westhorns, and I won’t only lose the grasslands, but half the land between Clynya and Rohrn.”

“If you cannot reclaim that honor, you must do something to solidify your position. You need an heir, Sillek.” His mother’s voice is flat. “You know you do.”

“I also need score five more armsmen, control of Rulyarth, and Ildyrom in his grave.”

“Not to mention regaining control of the Roof of the World.” The needle continues to dart through the white fabric, trailing crimson-red thread.

“As I have told you, most honored mother, that might be a very bad idea, right now.” Sillek straightens and purses his lips. “A very bad idea.”

“A bad idea? To reclaim your patrimony? Given all that your father has done for you, Sillek, how could you possibly even think that, let alone say it so soon after his last sacrifice for you?” The glittering needle darts through the fabric like a cavalry blade chasing a fleeing footman.

Sillek waits until the pace of the needle slows. “I took your advice, dear Mother, and we are already reaping its benefit, and it has cost us little.”

“Costs? You talk so much of costs.” The needle shimmers, then plunges into the fabric. “Costs are for merchants, or for scoundrel traders.”

“I am not being clear, I fear.”

“Clear? I fear you are all too clear. You will give up your patrimony because your enemies are too much for you.”

“I do not intend to forfeit my patrimony, Mother dear, and your assumption that I would do so speaks poorly for me, and not well for you. I would certainly never wish to relinquish that which my honored sire had gathered for my benefit or the benefit of our people.” Sillek walks toward the alcove.

“Could you explain your logic to your poor benightedmother, Sillek, Lord of the Realm? How can you retain your patrimony when you refuse to reclaim it? Are you a magician now?” The needle stitches another crimson loop in a droplet of blood that falls from a gray sword.

Sillek smiles. “From what Terek has told me, and from my other sources, so far the angels on the Roof of the World have destroyed at least three bands of brigands trying to claim my reward-that reward you suggested so wisely. And two of the lesser angels have been killed, and four or five wounded, while close to a score of brigands have been destroyed.” His smile turns into a laugh. “I couldn’t do nearly so well, and I certainly am in no position to lose another score three of trained armsmen.”

Sillek glances out the window and toward the river. “Next spring … after winter up there-then we’ll see.”

“I do hope so, Sillek, dear. 1 do hope so.” The sharp needle stitches in another loop of blood.

Sillek’s lips tighten, but he does not speak.

NYLAN OPENED HIS eyes slowly in the gray light that came through the open tower window. Although fall had scarcely arrived, the nights had begun to chill, enough so that the single blanket seemed thin, indeed. Blankets were not used in large numbers on spacecraft, and the few that had been brought down felt less than adequate for the winter ahead. That meant another set of items to be bought from the all-too-infrequent traders. Nylan blinked as he wondered how they could pay for all that they still needed.

Although the landers had been stripped of what would make the tower more habitable, that had provided little enough. The marines occupied the third level of the tower. Gerlich, Saryn, Ayrlyn, and Narliat occupied part of thefourth level. The fifth was used for miscellaneous storage, and Ryba and Nylan rattled around in a sixth level that had little in it except for the two lander couches lashed together and a few weapons and personal effects.

Only the shutters on the second and third levels were finished, the results of Saryn’s and Ayrlyn’s handicrafts, and there were no internal doors. Rags had been pieced together to curtain off the two jakes and provide some privacy. Nylan hoped that they could finish the bathhouse and additional jakes facilities before too long-not to mention the shutters.

As he moved slightly, Ryba’s eyelids fluttered, and she moaned. He waited, but she did not open her eyes. So Nylan slowly shifted his weight more in order to look out through the casement. A trace of white rime frosted the outer edge of the window ledge, but the whiteness seemed to vanish as the first direct rays from the sun touched the dark stone. The hint of wood smoke drifted in the window, blown down from the chimney momentarily.

Over the crude rack in the corner hung their clothes, including the ship jackets that probably would not be heavy enough for the winter ahead.

Nylan’s eyes shifted back to Ryba’s face, to the curly jet-black hair cut so short and the pale clear skin, to the thin lips and the high cheekbones. Her eyelids fluttered again, and she groaned.

“Not yet … not yet,” she murmured.

Nylan waited, almost holding his breath.

“No …”

He reached out and touched the cool bare shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Ryba shook her head and moistened her lips, but her eyes did not open for a moment. Then she shifted her weight on the lander couch and looked directly at the engineer. “No it’s not. I was dying, and I won’t finish everything that needs to be done for Westwind, or for Dyliess.”

“It was just a dream …” Nylan paused. “It was a dream, wasn’t it?”

Ryba shook her head again, and squinted as she sat up.Then she swung her feet off the couch, letting the blanket fall away from her naked figure, until it covered only her waist and upper thighs. Her back to Nylan, she faced the open window, looking out toward the northern peaks that showed a light dusting of snow from the night before. The faintest touch of yellow and brown tinged the bushes and meadow grasses.

“It wasn’t a dream. It was real. My hair was gray, and I was lying here, except I was in a big wooden bed, and there was glass in the windows, and people in gray leathers were standing around me.” Ryba shivered and then stood, padding to the clothes rack, where she pulled on her undergarments and then the brown leather trousers and an old shirt-both plunder.

“If your hair had become gray, that had to be a long time from now.” He stood and stretched.

“Nylan … I wasn’t finished, and it hurt that I didn’t finish.”

“Ryba,” Nylan offered gently, “no one who really cares about anything is ever finished with life. And you care a lot.” He forced a smile, then began to dress himself.

Ryba finished with the bone buttons of the trousers and then buttoned the shirt. “You’re probably right, but it was real