L. Modesitt - Fall of Angels

“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.

“Where are you from?”

“Lornth. The way was hard.”

Nylan nodded at the long scratches, and the scabs, on the scrawny legs below the gray dresslike garment, and the purple and green bruises on the left side of the face. A white line in front of her left ear bore witness to a previous injury.

“Why did you come?”

“Because … because … I heard that you were angelwomen, and that you had defeated Lord Nessil. Even the mages of Lord Sillek fear you.” Hryessa pursed her lips as though she feared having said too much.

“Some of that is true,” answered Nylan. “We have defeated Lord Nessil, and some of the bandits.”

The small redhead stiffened and swallowed, but her eyes finally met Nylan’s, although she shivered as she spoke. “They say that you are a black mage who devours souls and puts them into the stones of your tower.”

“Oh … frig …” The expletive whispered from Rienadre’s lips.

“I do not devour souls. All of us have built the tower,” Nylan explained.

“You are too modest,” interjected Narliat. “The mage made the tower possible, and he used a knife of fire-”

Hryessa shrank back until her back pressed against Rienadre’s legs.

Nylan wanted to smash Narliat for making things harder, but Rienadre spoke before Nylan had figured out what to say.

“Easy, easy, kid,” said the marine. “The engineer’s good people.” Rienadre patted the girl-woman’s shoulder, and the small redhead straightened, more in response to the tone than the words she could not have understood.

“He is a good mage,” explained Ayrlyn in Old Anglorat. “His works have saved many, and his tower will protect us all against the winter. It is only made of stones and timber and metal-nothing more.”

Nylan tried not to wince at being called a mage. He was an engineer, and a poor excuse for one in a low-tech culture. That was all he was. Except … as he thought that, his head throbbed. Was he more than an engineer?

“You wanted to see us?” asked Ayrlyn.

“I had … hoped, great lady …” Her eyes fell to the clay underfoot. “I had hoped to find a place.”

“It will be a cold and long winter,” Ayrlyn offered.

“I do not care … you are women.” Her eyes glistened, but the tears remained unshed, and Hryessa stiffened, gathering herself together in pride.

“You do not have to beg, or humble yourself,” Nylan said softly. “The lady Ayrlyn only wished you to know that winter on the Roof of the World will not be easy.”

“Is he really a man?” asked Hryessa, directing his words at Ayrlyn.

Nylan tried not to frown.

“Yes,” answered Ayrlyn with a smile. “He is very much a man, but he is an angel, as are we all.”

The sound of hoofbeats interrupted the process, as Ryba guided the big roan to a halt by the causeway, letting Cessya slide off first, then dismounted and handed the marine the reins. The marine led the roan to the hitching rail.

Ryba walked toward the group, halting beside Nylan and looking at the small redhead. “You are Hryessa,” she said slowly, “and you have come for refuge. You are welcome.” With that, the marshal smiled. “All such as you are welcome.”

Nylan froze for a moment. How had Ryba known the woman’s name?

Hryessa bent her head, then knelt. “Thank you, Angel of Heaven.”

Ayrlyn’s and Nylan’s eyes met, and Nylan realized that they shared the same feeling-one of awe, a sense of experiencing something that transcended either of them.

After a moment, Ayrlyn spoke. “These others-they are also angels.”

“But she is the angel,” said Hryessa in a calm voice. “I have seen.” She bowed again to Ryba.

Ryba inclined her head to Ayrlyn. “Would you take care of her? Get her washed and clean and clothed? And you andFierral need to work on sleeping arrangements and blade training.”

“We’ll take care of it.” Ayrlyn nodded. After a moment, so did Fierral.

Hryessa frowned, her eyes darting from Ryba to Ayrlyn.

“They’re going to make sure you get bathed, clothed, and fed,” Nylan explained in Old Anglorat. “Then, you will learn our ways, and they will teach you the way of the blade.”

“Teach me a blade, like an armsman?”

“Better, Hryessa, better,” said Fierral in accented Anglorat.

Again, Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances, and Nylan felt that they shared almost a sense of foreboding.

Ryba nodded and turned back toward the long hitching rail on the west side of the causeway, where her roan was tied.

“Let’s go, Hryessa,” suggested Ayrlyn, leading the young woman toward the tower.

Nylan headed for the stream to wash, wishing, again, that he had gotten around to finishing the bathhouse.

After washing, he turned back toward the tower and walked across the short causeway and into the great room. All eight narrow windows to the great room were open to admit the cool breeze. In four, the armaglass windows were pivoted and the shutters folded back. In the other four, without the armaglass, the shutters were just folded open.

In time, Nylan hoped, they would be able to afford glass for the remainder of the tower windows, but glass was a lower priority than food or weapons, especially now that Ryba had declared that the destiny of the guards of Westwind would be the double blades.

No wonder she had pressed him for the forty blades he had made so far!

He stepped toward the mostly filled tables. The grass baskets were filled with loaves of fresh-baked bread. Ayrlyn had finally brought back a yeast starter or whatever it was, and Kyseen had only exploded dough all over the kitchen a handful of times before learning how to mix flour, yeast, andwater in making loaves suited to the big, wood-burning ovens that everyone had thought were too big when Nylan and Huldran had started laying bricks and mortaring in the metal cooking surfaces and oven grate slots.

Nylan sniffed the air, trying to determine the composition of the steam rising from the two big pots-one on each table. Some sort of stew, with local roots and greens tossed in.

Jaseen turned toward Nylan as he passed the end of the second table, and he noted the scratches on the medtech’s forearms.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Frigging pine trees. The second and Kyseen discovered the cones have nuts, and you can roast them or bake them or whatever. Only problem is that if you wait for the cones to fall, the nuts are gone. Selitra and me, we’ve been climbing pines. I slipped, and some of those needles are like knives.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Frigging nuts. Bet they don’t even taste good.” She took a savage bite from the chunk of bread she held, and Nylan walked toward the hearth end of the first table.

Ryba, as usual, sat at the head of the table, and Nylan slipped onto the end of the bench to her left, the space that was always left for him.