Fall of Angels

XLII

AS HE WAITED for Ryba, Nylan stood in the darkness at the unshuttered, unglazed window and looked at Freyja, the knife edges of the needle-peak softened but slightly by the starlight and by the snow.

His stomach growled, reminding him that the spiced bearstew-that was what Kyseen had called it-had not fully agreed with his system. Would it be that way all winter, although he could scarcely call it winter, since only a few dustings of snow had fallen around the tower? Not all of the scrub bushes and deciduous trees had shed their gray leaves, although it was clear most kept about half, shriveled against the winter.

Meals were enough, so far, to keep body together, but not much more, and it wasn’t that cold yet.

Nylan leaned forward and looked to the north side of the tower and the half-roofed bathhouse. Almost instinctively, he curled his hands, and his fingertips rested on the callused spots at the base of his fingers. He had far too much to finish, far too much, and, as time passed, fewer and fewer cared, except for the few like Ryba, Ayrlyn, and Huldran, and the guards with children.

He turned toward the stairs as he heard Ryba’s steps-heavier now-approaching.

“Dyliess hasn’t been kind to my bladder,” said the marshal.

“I’m sorry about the tower design,” apologized Nylan. “I just wasn’t thinking about waste disposal.”

In a rough-sewn nightshirt of grayish beaten linen, Ryba sat down heavily on her side of the twin couches. “Narliat and Relyn think this tower is luxury, the sort of place for lords and dukes or whatever. Neither wants to leave. They’ll have to, by spring at the latest.”

“If they have to leave, why are you letting them stay?”

“I don’t want the locals to find out much about us until we’ve got things in better order. So far, the only people who have left have been those who have fled our weapons, mostly in terror, and traders who have never seen things closely. I’d like to keep it that way for a while longer. And we can learn a few things more from Narliat and Relyn.” Ryba shrugged. “Relyn might end up fathering a child or two, and he seems bright enough.”

The engineer pulled at his chin. “You’re pregnant, and soare Siret and Ellysia. Isn’t that a lot for the numbers we’ve got?”

“Three or four out of sixteen-not counting Hryessa-that’s only about a third, and most will be able to fight by late spring. Most children will be born in winter or early spring in Westwind, anyway.”

The calm certainty in Ryba’s voice chilled Nylan more than the wind at his back, but he asked, “Four?”

“I think Istril is, also,” said Ryba.

“Istril? She doesn’t strike me as the type to play around.”

“I could be wrong,” Ryba said. “I’m not always certain about these things, but she will be sooner or later.”

“But who?”

“I can’t pry-or see-into everything, Nylan. Right now, I’m just fortunate enough to be gifted, or cursed, with glimpses of what might be. That’s bad enough. More than enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you know what it’s like to see pieces of the future? Not to know, for certain, if they’re what will be or what might be? Or whether you’ll bring them into being by reacting against them?”

Nylan cleared his throat. “I said I was sorry. I hadn’t thought about things quite that way.”

Ryba looked at the stones of the wall beside Nylan. “You deal with stone and brick and metal-the certain things. I’m wrestling with what will sustain life here for generations to come. What do I do about men who are killers? Or those who will leave? Or may leave?”

“I don’t like the implication that I’ll leave.” Nylan sat down beside the dark-haired woman and touched her shoulder. “I don’t have any pat answers. I do what I can, everything that I can think of, as well as I can.”

“I know, Nylan. You work like two people. You’ve done things I don’t think are possible, and Westwind wouldn’t be without you. But a place isn’t a community without traditions, values, that sort of thing, holding it together. That’s why we need your tower, Ayrlyn’s songs-”

“And your ability to teach and create military strength?”

Ryba nodded. “It’s going to be tough.”

“It’s already hard.”

“It’s going to get harder,” she predicted, looking out at the cold shape of Freyja. “A lot harder.”

In the end, they lay skin to skin, and, after a time, Ryba was passionate, demanding, and warm. Predictably, before they had even relaxed, she had to get up.

“You just went,” he protested sleepily.

“There are some things, especially now, where I don’t control the timing.” She pulled her gown down and padded down the stone steps.

Fighting exhaustion and sleep, Nylan tried to analyze the subtle wrongness behind her words … but nothing made sense.

Before either solutions or sleep reached him, Ryba padded back up the steps and slipped into the couch. Her cool hand stroked his forehead for a moment. “You’re a good man, Nylan. No matter what happens, remember that.” She squeezed his shoulder.

He squeezed her hand in return and murmured, “Know you try your best, for everyone.”

She shuddered, and let him hold her, but she would not turn to him as she sobbed silently.