Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Siret’s green eyes closed for a moment, then opened. “I’m so tired.”

  Nylan extended his perceptions, afraid she might be hemorrhaging or something worse, but, beyond the damages his mind and senses insisted were normal-he could only find exhaustion.

  He shook his head.

  “Anything wrong?” asked Jaseen.

  “No. Except that everyone insists this is normal.”

  Ayrlyn and Jaseen laughed.

  “I need some tea,” Nylan said, “and I can’t do anything more here.” He felt guilty as he stepped away, but Siret and her baby daughter seemed all right. He tried to ignore the blood that seemed to be everywhere as Jaseen started with the antiseptic.

  Slowly, he made his way down the stairs, but a faint smile came to his face as he realized that, strange as it had been, everything had turned out the way it should. He crossed the great room, half aware that the tables were mostly empty and that Ryba had left.

  “You look like a proud father,” said Gerlich cheerfully.

  Narliat smiled nervously.

  “You know, Gerlich,” Nylan said coldly. “The woman was in pain. For the record, not that it should matter, I never slept with her. And you should know that. So shut up before I stuff you into a piece of stone.” He turned and sat down at the end of the table.

  Gerlich sat silently, as if stunned, but Nylan didn’t care. He was tired of Gerlich’s games and insinuations.

  Ryba had already left, but Kyseen or Kadran, or someone, had left the bread and some tea. The tea was lukewarm, but tasted good. Nylan ate the bread slowly, sipping the tea.

  After a time, Ayrlyn sat down across from him. “Thank you. We might have lost them both.”

  “You were doing fine. I just made it easier.” He cupped his hands around the mug, glancing at the window behind her, aware that the snow had melted and/or sublimated off the armaglass.

  “Siret was glad you were there.”

  “I’m just an engineer, stumbling along and doing what I can.” He refilled his mug, then hers. “I make a lot of mistakes.”

  Her hand touched his wrist, just for a moment, and he felt a sense of warmth. “You’re a good man, Nylan. It’s…” She broke off the words, and repeated, “You’re a good man. Don’t forget it.”

  Nylan looked toward the window, hoping spring was coming, and dreading it at the same time. He took another sip of tea, vaguely aware that Ayrlyn had slipped away, as his thoughts skittered across Siret and a silver-haired child, across a tower without enough food, across Gerlich’s uncharacteristic silence, across Ayrlyn’s warmth.

  He sipped more tea, tea that had become cold without his noticing it.

  LXVI

  AS HE HEADED back up to the tower’s top level, Nylan paused on the steps, looking into the tower’s third level with eyes and senses. There, in the darkness, a silver-haired guard held a silver-haired infant daughter to her breast and gently rocked back and forth on the rocking chair that all the guards, and even Nylan, had helped to make.

  “Hush, little Kyalynn, hush little angel…” Siret’s voice was low, but sweet, and apparently disturbed none of the guards sleeping on the couches in the alcoves spaced along the tower walls and separated by the dividers many had not only crafted, but personally decorated and carved.

  Some remained awake.

  Nylan could see where one of the other silver-haired marines-Istril-now heavy in her midsection-stared through the darkness in his direction.

  Did she have the night vision? Had it been conferred by that underjump on all who had gotten the silver hair? How many of the former marines had strange talents, like his or Ryba’s, talents they had never mentioned?

  That Nylan did not know, for he had never mentioned that ability, though Ryba had guessed-or learned through her strange fragmentary visions. His eyes slipped back to Siret, his ears picking up the gentle words.

  “Hush, little angel and don’t you sigh / Mother’s going to stay here by and by…”

  Nylan swallowed. He’d always heard the lullaby with “father” in the words, but he had the feeling that fathers weren’t playing that big a part in Ryba’s concept of what Westwind should be.

  How long he listened he wasn’t certain, only that little Kyalynn was asleep, as was Dephnay, and so were their mothers. His feet were cold by the time he slipped into the joined couches up on the sixth level.

  “Where were you?” whispered Ryba.

  “I went down to the jakes.”

  “That long?”

  “I… went… to the bathhouse… it’s more… private.” He felt embarrassed, but the heavy mutton of the night before clearly hadn’t agreed with his system. “The mutton…”

  “I see… I think.”

  “Then I stopped to listen to Siret singing to her daughter for a moment. You don’t - I didn’t - really think of her as a mother. You see them with those blades, so effective, so…” Nylan paused, searching for the words.

  “So good at killing?”

  “No. I don’t know. It just touched me, that’s all. I don’t even know why. It’s not as though I really even know her. I just helped a little.”

  A shudder passed through Ryba.

  “Are you cold?” He reached out to hold her, but found her shoulders, her body warm, despite the chill in the tower. The rounding that was Dyliess made it difficult for him to comfort her, or to stop her silent shaking.

  In the end she turned away, without speaking. Even later, after they had fallen asleep, his arm upon her shoulder, Ryba had said nothing, though her silent shakes - had they been silent sobs? - had subsided.

  LXVII

  SUNLIGHT POURED THROUGH the narrow open window of the tower. So did a flow of cold air, ruffling the hangings and rattling the thin door that closed off the marshal’s quarters.

  “We’re doing all right with the food,” Ryba said. “The snow’s beginning to melt off the rocks, and it won’t be all that long before we can send out Ayrlyn to trade for some things.”

  “It is warming up,” admitted Nylan. “I hope we can count on it continuing.” He peered out the narrow opening, squinting against the bright light, and studying the blanket of white-and the few dark rocks on the heights to the west of the tower.

  “A storm or two won’t make that much difference,” pointed out the marshal of Westwind. “We’ve still got more than anyone expected.”

  “You managed it very well,” Nylan agreed, looking out the open window-the fresh air, cold as it was, was welcome. “Very realistically.”

  “ ‘Realistic,’ that’s a good term.” Ryba shifted her bulk on the lander couch. “Most people aren’t realistic. Especially men.”

  Rather than debate that, Nylan asked, “What do you mean by ‘realistic’?”

  Ryba gestured toward the window. “The locals can’t really live up here. It’s hard enough for us. Realistically, they should just leave us alone. Over time, we’ll be able to make the roads free of bandits, facilitate trade, and stabilize things. Not to mention providing an outlet for abused women, some of them, anyway, which will make men-some of them- less abusive. If they attack us, a lot of people get killed, more of them than of us.” She sighed. “That’s a realistic, or rational, assessment. But what will happen is different. The local powers-all men-will decide that a bunch of women represent a threat to their way of life, which isn’t that great a life anyway, except for a handful of the well-off, and they’ll force attacks on us. If they win, they wouldn’t have any more than if they hadn’t attacked, not really, and when they lose, and they will, they’re going to lose a whole lot more over time.”

  “How would women handle it?” Nylan asked almost idly. “Do you want me to close the window? It’s getting colder in here.”

  “You probably should. A lot of the cold air drops onto the lower floors, even with the door closed.” Ryba shifted her weight again. “They say you can never get comfortable in the last part of pregnancy. I believe it. Now… how would women handle it? I can’t sp
eak for all women, but the smart ones would ask what the cost of an action would be and what they’d get. Why fight if you don’t have to?”

  “Maybe the smart men do, too, but they don’t have any choice,” suggested Nylan, stepping over to the window and closing it.

  “That could be,” admitted Ryba. “But you’re conceding that the smart men are surrounded by other men with power and no brains.”

  Nylan shrugged.

  “Too many men want to dominate other people, no matter what the cost. Women, I think, look at the cost.”

  “Women also manipulate more, I suspect,” Nylan answered. “Men-most of them-aren’t so good with subtleties. So they dislike the manipulative side of women.”

  “When it suits them. Manipulation isn’t all bad. If you can get something done quietly and without violence, why not?”

  “Because men have this thing about being deceived and being out of control.” Nylan laughed wryly. “They can go out of control when they find out they’ve been tricked or manipulated,” .

  “Let me get this straight. Men fight and have wars because they can’t manipulate, and then they fight and have wars whenever they feel they are manipulated?”

  Nylan frowned. “I don’t like the way you put that.”

  “If you have a better way of putting it, go ahead. Personally, I believe women, given the chance, can do a better job, and, here, I’m going to make sure they get a better chance.” Ryba eased herself onto the floor. “I’ll be glad when I can get back to serious arms practice. For now, it’s just exercise.”

  “I doubt it’s ever just exercise,” quipped Nylan, following her down to the dimness of the next level and the practice area.

  He paused on the steps, noting that among those already practicing with Saryn and a heavy-bellied Istril were Relyn and Fierral. The one-handed man gripped the fir wand in his left hand with enough confidence that Nylan could see he had been practicing for some time.

  Ryba picked up a wand. “Istril? Shall we?”

  Istril bowed.

  Nylan took a deep breath and headed down to the woodworking area and the unfinished cradle. What Ryba had said about men seemed true enough, but that apparent truth bothered him. It bothered him a lot. Were most men really that irrational? Or that blind?

  LXVIII

  HALFWAY UP TO the top of the ridge, Nylan looked back, adjusting his snow goggles. Gerlich and Narliat remained out on the sunlit flats, Gerlich shouting instructions as Narliat struggled with a shorter pair of skis. The shorter skis would probably work, Nylan reflected, now that the midday warmth had partly melted the snow and left it heavier and crustier. As he continued up the ridge, leaving Gerlich and his hapless pupil on the flats before the tower, Nylan wondered why Gerlich had suddenly taken an interest in instructing Narliat on skis.

  Was he becoming a counterfeit Ryba, trusting no men? He didn’t distrust Relyn, although he didn’t understand the man. Relyn seemed different, as though he had changed and were not sure of himself. Gerlich, on the other hand, seemed ever more foreign, contemptuous, stopping just short of provoking Ryba.

  As Nylan reached the top of the ridge, he looked back. Narliat was skiing slowly, following a track already set in the snow, and Gerlich continued to encourage the local.

  Nylan used the thongs to fasten his boots in place, then skied down the ridge in the gentle sweeping turns he had never thought he could do. He still lurched and flailed, but did not fall.

  He stopped at the bottom of the ridge, searching the trees, then finally pushed his skis west, toward the narrower strip of forest, following his senses. Were the gray leaves on the handful of deciduous trees beginning to unshrivel? They’d have to sooner or later, but Nylan hoped it would be sooner.

  As he entered the trees, now bare of snow, the engineer swept the scarf away from his mouth. The wool was too warm, and he couldn’t breathe as he slid the heavy skis through the space between the trunks, his perceptions out in front of him, trying to sense any possible game.

  He saw older hare tracks, expanded by the faint heat of the midday sun, tree-rat tracks, but nothing larger or newer.

  Moving slowly, he paused frequently, letting his senses search for signs of life he could not see. His fingers strayed to the bow at his back.

  Something stirred-slightly-beneath a snow-covered hump, but Nylan shook his head. That something was a bear not likely to emerge for a time, and there was no way the engineer was going to try to dig out something far more than twice his size.

  He slowed as his eyes caught the tracks in the snow- something like deer tracks, but larger. He turned his skis slightly downhill to follow the tracks, his senses ranging ahead.

  From his perceptions the animal seemed to be a large deer-or an elk. Nylan had never paid much attention to those sorts of distinctions, but it definitely offered the promise of a lot of meat.

  The big deer had migrated up from the lower elevations, or, thought Nylan, fled local hunters seeking game as the snow in the lower hills melted.

  Nylan must have skied nearly another kay before he saw the animal, standing in a slight opening under a large fir. The engineer stopped in the cover of a pine. If he moved farther toward the deer, the animal would see him, yet he was still more than fifty cubits away.

  Nylan remained in the shadows of the pine, as silent as he could be, downwind of the deer, finally deciding he was as close as he dared. Slowly, quietly, he withdrew an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, and released it. The next shaft was quicker, as was the third.

  The buck snorted, and then ran. Nylan slogged after him, not pressing, but moving steadily. If he had missed, he’d never catch up. If he’d wounded the beast, then he ought to be able to wear it down-if it didn’t wear him down first.

  Within a few cubits of where the buck had stood were scattered bloodstains. He also found a shaft, wedged in a pine trunk-probably the third shaft. After recovering that- carefully-he replaced it in the quiver and put one ski in front of the other, trudging through the ever-heavier snow along a trail of scattered blood droppings.

  Sweat began to ooze from his forehead, and he loosened his jacket and untied the scarf and put it inside the jacket. He didn’t want to stop to get into the pack.

  A welcome shadow fell across the forest as a single, white puffy cloud covered the sun.

  Nylan’s legs began to ache, and the buck turned uphill at a slant. Nylan’s legs ached more. He glanced ahead, and did not see the hump in the snow-a covered root or low branch.

  His left ski caught, and he twisted forward. A line of pain scored his leg, and he grunted, trying not to yell. For a moment he lay there, letting his perceptions check the leg. The bones seemed sound, but another wave of pain shot down the leg as he rolled into a ball to get up.

  Slowly, he stood, casting his senses ahead.

  The buck was not that far away, perhaps two hundred cubits, just out of sight, and Nylan slowly slid the left ski forward, then the right.

  When he reached the next low crest in the hill, he could see the big deer, almost flailing his way through the snow.

  Nylan pushed on, trying to ignore the pain in his leg.

  With the sound of the skis on the crusting snow, the deer lunged forward, then sagged into a heap.

  Nylan finally stood over the buck, but the animal was not dead. Blood ran from the side of its mouth, and one of the shafts through the shoulder had been snapped off. More blood welled out around the other shaft, the one through the chest. The deer tried to lift his head; then the neck dropped, but he still panted, and the blood still oozed out around the shaft in his chest.

  Nylan looked at the deer. Now what? He didn’t have anything for a humane quick kill. Finally, he fumbled out the belt knife.

  Even using his perceptions, trying to make the kill quick, it took him three tries to cut what he thought was the carotid artery. Three tries, and blood all over his trousers, the snow, and his gloves. Even so, the deer took forever to die, or so it seemed to Nylan, as he stood t
here in the midday glare and the red-stained snow. The sense of the animal’s pain was great enough that, had he eaten recently, he wouldn’t have been able to keep that food in his guts. Even though they needed the meat, his eyes burned.

  Nylan worked out the one good arrow shaft, cleaned it on the snow, and put it in his quiver. Then he dug out the rope and the sheet of heavy plastic. Awkward as it was working on skis, he left them on, afraid that he’d never get them back on if he took them off.

  The poor damned deer was heavy, and the plastic sheeting was smaller than the carcass, which had a tendency to skid sideways as Nylan pulled it. The snow had gotten even damper under the bright sun, and most of the way back was uphill. Nylan’s left leg stabbed with each movement of the skis.

  The rope cut into his shoulders, despite the heavy jacket, and sweat ran into his eyes. It felt like he had to stop and rest every hundred cubits, sometimes more often.

  Mid-afternoon came, and went, before he cleared the forest and reached the bottom of the ridge. There, Nylan dragged everything onto the packed snow surface of the trail, took off his skis, and tied them to the sheeting.

  With another series of slow efforts, he started uphill.

  Halfway up, two figures skied down and joined him.

  “Ser?”

  Nylan looked up blankly, then shook his head as he recognized Cessya and Huldran.

  “Frigging big animal, ser,” observed Huldran with a grin.

  “Heavy animal.” Nylan nodded tiredly. “I could use some help.” That was an understatement.

  “We can manage that.” Huldran studied the red deer. “Lot of meat here.”

  “I hope so. I hope so.”

  As the two marines unfastened their skis, Nylan just sat in the snow beside the trail.

  “You all right, ser?”

  “I’m a lot better since you arrived.” Nylan staggered up as they started to pull his kill uphill once more. The muscles in his left leg still knotted with every step, but the pain was less without the strain of pulling the makeshift sled and deer.