Fall of Angels

XXXIV

WITH THE SHUTTERS in the great hall closed, the fire in the. hearth left the room-the end closest to the fire-nearly comfortable for Ryba and the marines in just the light and tattered shipsuits they wore for heavy work. AlthoughNarliat had kept complaining about the chill, Nylan had resisted using the new furnace, especially since the grates for the ducts on each floor were not finished. Besides, it wasn’t that cold, not yet, and he worried about having enough firewood for the long winter.

Nylan wore his ship jacket, unfastened and open, as did Ayrlyn and Saryn. Relyn and Narliat wore their heavy cloaks wrapped around them, and sat on the right edge of the raised hearth, their backs to the heaping coals and the logs of the fire.

Two squat candies-among the few in Westwind and procured by Ayrlyn and Narliat-flickered on the table. The candles and the fire managed to impart a wavering illumination to the great hall, although the corners were dark, as was the end of the room nearest the stairs. Nylan could see clearly without the light. That was not the case for most of the others, as they squinted to see when they turned toward the gloomier sections of the hall.

Ayrlyn had drawn one of the candles close to Relyn’s stump, because he had complained that the arm was chaos-tinged.

“Chaos-tinged?” asked Saryn.

“Infected,” explained the redhead, looking at the arm.

Nylan could feel as Ayrlyn extended her senses to examine the arm, much in the same way that he had manipulated the fields around the laser.

“The arm’s not infected,” Ayrlyn said. “You’ll live.”

“What sort of life will I live, healer?” asked Relyn. “The great warrior of Gethen Groves defeated by a handful of women, and what kind of life awaits me?” He inclined his head to Nylan. “And by an unknown mage.” He snorted. “Who would believe that less than a score of women, a single armed man, and one mage could kill nearly thirty wellarmed and — trained men?”

Nylan took another look at Relyn’s stump. Crafting something like a hook or artificial hand might not be that difficult, and it might make the man more functional and less self-pitying.

Gerlich smiled briefly at the mention of “a single armed man,” then glanced toward Ryba. His smile vanished.

“Ser, they killed three score of Lord Nessil’s men,” suggested Narliat, raising his maimed right hand. “He even had a wizard with him. And we have not seen any of the great Lord Sillek’s men, or Lord Sillek himself, come to follow his sire’s example. Lord Sillek did succeed his father, did he not?”

“He did, armsman. That was why I was here.”

“Would you care to explain?” asked Nylan, knowing the answer, but wanting the others, besides Ryba, to hear it from the local noble himself.

Ryba sat in the single chair at the end of the table-a rude chair, crude like all the other crafts, but Saryn had insisted that the marshal should sit at the end, and had made the chair herself. Ryba half turned in the chair to hear Relyn’s words.

“Lord Sillek offered a reward of the Ironwoods and a title for whoever cleansed the Roof of the World.”

“Cleansed?” asked Ryba coldly. “Are we vermin?”

While her accent in Old Anglorat left something to be desired, Relyn understood and swallowed. “Your pardon … but women like you are not seen elsewhere in Candar, nor across either the Eastern or the Western Ocean.”

“There are women like us in Candar, and they will find their way to Westwind,” Ryba said. “In time, all the lands west of the Westhorns will be ruled by women who follow the Legend-the guards of West wind … I’ve mentioned the name before.”

“The Legend?” asked Relyn.

Nylan glanced at Ayrlyn, who looked down.

“Ayrlyn? Now would be a good time to introduce your latest song.”

“As you wish, Marshal.” Ayrlyn walked to the far end of the hall where she removed the lutar case from the open shelves under the central stone stairs. She left the case and carried the instrument toward the hearth.

“What is this Legend?” asked Narliat.

“It is the story of the angels,” Ryba said smoothly, “andthe fate of those who put their trust in the power of men alone.”

Nylan winced at the certainty in her voice, the absolute surety of vision. Like her vision of a daughter, although that was certainly no vision. There were enough signs to Nylan, especially to his senses, but while he could not tell the sex of the child, Ryba had no doubts.

“All Candar will come to understand the vision and the power of the Legend,” Ryba added. “Though there will be those who oppose it, even they will not deny its truth and its power.”

Ayrlyn stood before the hearth, lutar in hand, adjusting the tuning pegs, and striking several strong chords before beginning.

From the skies of long-lost Heaven

to the heights of Westwind keep,

We will hold our blades in order,

and never let our honor sleep.

From the skies of light-iced towers

to the demons’ place on earth,

We will hold fast lightnings’ powers,

and never count gold’s worth.

As the guards of Westwind keep

our souls hold winter’s sweep;

We will hold our blades in order,

and never let our honor sleep …

As Ayrlyn set down the small lutar, Ryba smiled. The hall was hushed for an instant. Then Cessya began to clap.

“Don’t clap. It’s yours, and you need to sing it with her. Again, Ayrlyn.”

The redheaded healer and singer bowed and strummed the lutar. Her silver voice repeated the words.

By the last chorus of “and never let our honor sleep” all the marines who had become, by virtue of the song andRyba’s pronouncement, the guards of Westwind Keep had joined in.

Nylan tried not to frown. Had Ryba used the term “guard” before? Was she mixing what she thought she had said, her visions, and what she wished she had said?

Relyn looked at Narliat, and both men frowned.

“You frown, young Relyn. Do you doubt our ability at arms? Or mine?” asked the marshal.

“No, sher.”

“‘Ser’ will do, thank you. The term applies to honored warriors.” Ryba turned away from the two at the corner of the hearth. “A good rendition, Ayrlyn. Very good.”

Ayrlyn bowed and walked toward the shadows that shrouded the stairs.

Relyn glanced toward Ryba’s pale and impassive face and whispered to Narliat. “She is truly more dangerous than Lord Sillek.”

Far more dangerous, Nylan felt, for Ryba had a vision, and that vision just might change the entire planet-or more. Sillek and the others had no idea what they faced.

The engineer’s sense of reason wanted to deny his feelings. Logic said that a mere twenty-plus marines and an engineer could not change history, but he could feel a cold wind every time he thought of the words Ayrlyn had composed, as though they echoed down the years ahead.