Fall of Angels

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You know a lot,” said Ayrlyn. “More than I do.”

  “What about me?” said Jaseen.

  “You… too…” puffed Istril.

  “Don’t push yet,” cautioned the healer. “You’re not ready.”

  “Feels that way…” grunted the silver-haired guard. “Want to push… whole body says I should.”

  “Don’t… not yet… pant… puff, but don’t push.”

  Nylan stood beside the bed that had been a lander couch, waiting, hoping he would not be needed, feeling, again, almost like an intruder, for all that he had promised Istril that he and Ayrlyn would be there.

  In the end, besides providing order support, and a touch of healing, he was not needed, and Istril cuddled her son in her arms, and dampness streaked her cheeks.

  “What are you going to call him?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “Weryl.”

  Nylan paused. “Weryl? That was my grandfather’s name, too.”

  “I know. I liked the name.” Istril’s hand stroked the boy’s cheek. “So small.” Her eyes closed momentarily. “Tired… worse than riding all day… hurts a lot more, too.”

  “You’ll heal fine,” Ayrlyn assured her.

  “Just let me finish getting you cleaned up,” muttered Jaseen, adding to Ayrlyn, “That’s about the last of that antiseptic.”

  “We’re going to have to develop some local substitutes- something.”

  Nylan stepped back away from the couch, then stopped and looked at the boy, another child with the silver fuzz on his scalp, foreshadowing silver hair like his mother’s. Istril’s eyes closed again, and her breathing smoothed, but she opened them and looked at Nylan.

  “Glad… you keep promises…”

  Although he felt awkward, Nylan stepped forward and touched her wrist. “You just rest and take care of your son.”

  “He… I will,” answered Istril, seemingly fighting both pain and exhaustion.

  “Just rest,” added Ayrlyn.

  Nylan took a last look at the two and then walked to the steps and down toward the now-empty great room. Ayrlyn followed.

  The engineer looked at the empty tables, then walked to the one window that was open. He stood there, in the cool wind that carried the smell of turned earth, spring flowers, and damp pine needles into the tower.

  “Sometimes…” For a time, he did not finish the sentence.

  “Sometimes, I feel like there’s so much I should see, like the children.”

  “Both Istril and Siret had silver-headed children,” said Ayrlyn. “That’s more than a little strange, since Gerlich is dark-haired.”

  “Does Relyn have anyone in his family with silver hair?” asked Nylan.

  “I don’t know, but I got the impression that no one has seen anyone with silver hair like the four of you anywhere on this planet.”

  “Maybe it’s dominant?” Nylan shook his head.

  “That’s asking a lot,” said Ayrlyn. “Our hair colors get changed from this switch from universe to universe. That I can buy, in a weird sort of way. But changing a recessive into a dominant gene? I don’t know about that.” She pauses. “Are you sure you don’t know more about this?”

  “I’ve only slept with one person.”

  “You’re telling the truth, and that bothers me. Because…”

  “I know,” Nylan sighed. “Kyalynn, Dyliess, and Weryl all feel the same, with our senses… don’t they?”

  Ayrlyn nodded.

  “I need to talk to Ryba.”

  “I’ll be here,” Ayrlyn said. “Remember that. I’ll be here.”

  Nylan looked at the redhead, but she just repeated her words. “I’ll be here, if you need to talk.”

  “Thank you.” He took a deep breath and headed for the steps.

  Ryba was easing Dyliess into the cradle. So Nylan waited for a time until his daughter half snorted and slipped into sleep to the gentle rocking of the cradle. Already, she seemed larger.

  “How is Istril?” asked Ryba, her tone that of professional concern, even before Nylan could speak.

  “She’s fine. So’s her son.” Nylan watched Ryba.

  A faint shadow crossed the marshal’s face. “She had a son?”

  “She named him Weryl.”

  “How touching.”

  Nylan swallowed. “Dyliess isn’t the only one, is she? How did you do it?”

  “How does it feel? i promised you a son. I didn’t realize it would be this soon.”

  “I don’t like it-but how did you manage it? You’re the only one… I mean, I’m not like Gerlich, bedding every willing marine.”

  Ryba turned toward the window, walking past the cradle, where Dyliess gave a little snort. Ryba paused and smiled briefly at the infant before speaking. “You don’t have to bed anyone but me. We do have some remnants of medical technology. And I know how to use the local net, or whatever you want to call it, also, at least enough to ensure that our child would be a daughter.” Ryba looked back at the silver-haired girl in the cradle. “I thought that Istril’s child would be a girl.”

  Nylan decided against mentioning Istril’s slow-emerging abilities. He walked to the other tower window, and looked out past the folded-back shutters. “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Ryba brushed the short dark hair out of her face. “We’re stuck here. We need to prepare for the next generation. Interbreeding with the locals runs risks we don’t even know about. With Merlin’s death, you and Gerlich are the only ones with verifiably compatible genes. You’re hung up on being with one person… which is… reassuring… for me, but not terribly effective. This way we can assure staggered pregnancies. Besides, we don’t have many men. Look what happened to Mertin. At least now we’ve saved your genes.”

  “And so many girls?”

  “I’m not about to let male brute force undo what we’ve built. There will be a few more sons, though.”

  “Stud value,” said Nylan bitterly.

  “Eventually, we’ll have to bring in locals, but not until we’ve widened the gene pool enough, and until the girls are socialized the right way.”

  “The feminine Utopia.”

  “You’ve seen this planet. Boys are more fragile than girls; so more boys are born in times of stress. Put those together, and natural selection would have all our daughters barefoot and pregnant in fifteen years. Twenty at the outside. No, thank you.”

  Nylan could see dark gray clouds massing on the northern horizon, just above the western peaks. “You could have told me, rather than let me guess.”

  “I couldn’t risk it.” Ryba looked down at the floor, then to the cradle. “It’s not you. You’re basically a gentle man… but… I know what works, and there’s too much at stake. Do I tell you, when I know that I’ll have a bright and talented daughter if I don’t? Or that… I don’t dare tell you that, either.” She shook her head helplessly. “I know just enough.”

  “You’re a captive of your visions. Life isn’t just following what you know will work. Can’t you dare to make it better?”

  “I have,” answered Ryba bleakly. “That’s why three guards are dead. I saw myself being more brutal than in dealing with Mran, and I wouldn’t do it. I wasn’t quite that bad after Frelita died, but I should have been, because more guards died being careless, because people only respect force. You don’t think I’ve tried? Or that it doesn’t bother me?”

  “It doesn’t bother you enough.”

  “It bothers me a lot! I suggest, and, unless I’ve got a hand on a blade and madness in my eyes, half of them won’t listen. You think I enjoy that?”

  “But you do it…”

  “You don’t see how much it upsets me, and you never will, and that’s just another reason why I don’t ever want many men around. And you’re one of the best. Most of them are like Gerlich or that weasel Narliat.”

  Nylan shook his head. “I’m not them.”

  “No, you’re not. What would you have me do? Don’t give me generalities, either. What action do y
ou want?”

  “Don’t turn me into a stud through artificial insemination.”

  “Fine. Will you promise me to bed three more guards- of my choice-late this summer?”

  “I’m not like Gerlich.”

  “No. But we need children if Westwind is to survive. And if Westwind doesn’t survive, most women on this planet won’t have a life worth living.”

  “You need a purpose, don’t you?” asked Nylan. “You have to have something that makes it all worthwhile.”

  “It took you this long to figure that out?” Ryba gave a harsh bark, not quite a laugh, and Dyliess murmured and turned on the coarse sheet. The marshal bent down and rocked the cradle. “I’m not satisfied with mere survival, and you aren’t either, Nylan. You just won’t admit it. You’ll nearly kill yourself to build a tower that will last for centuries, but you won’t admit it. You’ll risk ridicule for being obsessed with building, but you won’t admit you need a larger purpose, too.” The marshal paused, then added, “You still didn’t answer my question. You asked me to do something, and I said I would-if you’d give me an alternative.”

  “I don’t know.” Nylan looked down at Dyliess.

  “I always thought men liked the idea of harems.” Ryba shrugged. “Or we can keep on the way we are. It’s a little messy, but…”

  “I’m not Gerlich, and I need to think about it.” With a last look at Dyliess, Nylan turned and walked down the steps- out through the big south door and out into the shadows that were falling from the cold north across the Roof of the World. His feet carried him to the smithy site, and the rocks and the mortar. At least what he built was solid. At least he could see what happened with mortar and stone and timber.

  He needed to talk with Ayrlyn. He needed that, but not yet. Not yet.

  LXXX

  “THAT’S IT.” NYLAN tapped the last wedge into place, ensuring that the fourth fir trunk would remain in place over the stone culvert. Ryba had declared that food and planting came first. So he’d done the bridge and culvert backward, putting the heavy rock riprap in place on both uphill and downhill sides of the culvert first, doing everything he could do alone until Saryn and the others could fell and bring him the trunks he needed.

  “Last year, this was just bushes and grass,” said Huldran, setting down a heavy stone just beyond the footings that held the bridge timbers. She looked down at the stone-lined channel. “Do you think we need this big a bridge?”

  “I hope it’s big enough,” the engineer answered. He gestured toward the tower and the bathhouse behind it. “We’re changing the land, and the guard will keep expanding- according to the marshal. The more hard roads and buildings, the more runoff. This is to keep it channeled from the fields.”

  “What if there’s no rain?” grunted Cessya, mixing water into the dry ingredients of the mortar.

  “That’s next year’s project,” laughed Nylan, slightly nervously. “See that swale down there? If we dam it at the north end, then we can put a spillway, a little one, in the middle, and run a ditch from the south end down to the fields.”

  “The Rats’d have your head, Engineer, for all this land-changing,” Huldran commented.

  “They’d do the same if they were trying to survive here.”

  “They like hotter places.”

  “They can have ‘em,” snapped Cessya. “Mortar’s ready.”

  The three lugged the battered and leaking mortar tub up to the flat spot beyond the end of the timbers. Huldran and Nylan began to fill the spaces between the heavy rocks, the wedges, and the timbers.

  Once the mortar dried and held the trunks, then Nylan could complete the bridge’s roadbed, not so wide as he would have liked, but wide enough for a good-sized wagon and a wall on each side.

  As he paused before taking another trowel of mortar, he took in the short stretch of paving stones that extended from the west end of the unfinished structure toward the causeway before the tower. Westwind was looking more and more permanent.

  Nylan eased the mortar into place, while Huldran took the cart back up beyond the tower and to the base of the rocky hills to bring back more stones for both the bridge roadbed and for fill.

  In the low-walled flat beyond the causeway, blade practice had begun again. Ryba had handed the carry-pack with Dyliess in it to Selitra. Facing her was Blynnal, and the local woman cowered once she held the wooden wand.

  Saryn stood beside Blynnal, correcting her.

  Behind Saryn, Hryessa and Murkassa practiced, already, from what Nylan could tell, making good progress toward achieving Ryba’s standards for all the guards, whether originally angel marines or local refugees.

  The engineer pursed his lips as he bent for more mortar. Results-Ryba got them. He just wasn’t fond of the tactics.

  “Working hard again, I see.”

  Nylan glanced up to see Ayrlyn standing there. “What else do obsessed engineers do?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow morning…” The redhead let her words trail off.

  “All right.” This time, Nylan understood. “Can I finish up this batch of mortar?”

  She nodded.

  The engineer turned to Cessya. “I’ll finish here. Would you go find Huldran and tell her just to unload the stones and then take the cart back. I need to talk to Ayrlyn about what we need from her next trading trip.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cessya grinned. “Walking’s easier than moving stones.”

  “We’ll make up for it after the noon meal,” Nylan promised, returning her grin, then looking back down at the stone in front of him.

  “I’m still looking for an anvil?” Ayrlyn asked as Cessya started uphill, toward the tower and the rock-strewn canyon beyond the stable canyon.

  “We need spikes, and nails, almost any kind of hardware. A set of hammers, I’d guess, big ones for the forge.” Nylan troweled the mortar smooth in the joints between two stones. “And some circular saw blades for the sawmill.”

  “We don’t have one,” the redhead pointed out with a smile. “We don’t have a forge, either.”

  “We’ll have both, before the end of the year.” The smith extended the trowel for more mortar.

  “Nylan… why do you drive yourself so hard?”

  “Because… what else can I do? Ryba wants to change this world to one where women rule, and she’ll leave the ground soaked with blood, including mine, if I try to stop her. Besides, she’s right about the way women are treated, and you can’t change that without even greater force.” He paused and wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm.

  “Building things won’t change that,” Ayrlyn reflected. “You’re just allowing her to do more.”

  “What am I supposed to do? I’ve got three children, and I only knew about one of them until they were born. Am I just going to condemn them to a short and nasty life? If they have strong walls and warmth and clean water, that leaves them less at the mercy of this friggin‘ world. I don’t like it, but Ryba’s the only ship in port.”

  “What do you want?”

  The smith finished the joint, and extended the trowel to the battered tub for more mortar. “I don’t know. I know what I don’t want. I don’t want killing after killing. I don’t want to be cold and dirty and hungry. I don’t want that for Dyliess or Weryl or Kyalynn.” He shrugged, then applied the trowel again.

  “You want to be appreciated, but you don’t want to force people to appreciate you. You want to be loved, but not used.”

  “You might say that,” he admitted. “But that’s true of most people. Don’t you feel that way?”

  “Yes”-Ayrlyn smiled warmly-“but I thought we were talking about you. You feel responsible for all your children, and yet you feel used. And you won’t say anything about it. You don’t like to talk about your feelings, not directly, and you try to avoid it. Was it that way growing up?”

  “My mother always said there was no use in complaining. No one cared, and we might as well save our breath. So Karista and I didn’t. The older I got,
the truer it seemed.” He set down the trowel as he finished the last of the mixed mortar. “What about you?”

  “There you go again. Two sentences about you, and switch the subject to me.” Ayrlyn laughed. “My father was the warm one, and he joked a lot. He was quiet about it, but he also made it known, like your mother, that outside the family, no matter what people said, most didn’t care.”

  “It sounds like he cared.”

  “Your mother didn’t? I’m sure she did.”

  “Oh, she did,” Nylan admitted, “but she felt it should be obvious, and why belabor the obvious? Actions speak louder than words-that was her maxim.”

  “So you keep trying to make your actions do the speaking?” The redhead shook her head. “Most people don’t read actions very well. They need words as well, lots of them, preferably words that say how wonderful they are.”

  “You’re more cynical than I am.”

  “You’re not cynical at all, Nylan.” Ayrlyn reached down and touched his arm gently, her fingers warm and cool at the same time. “You’re a caring man who’s never allowed himself to express what he feels. You feel guilty and self-indulgent when you even think about what you feel. So you keep doing things and hope people understand.”

  “Probably.” Ayrlyn snorted and squeezed his arm.

  “What about you? After last fall, aren’t there going to be armsmen out there looking for a trader with flame-red hair?”

  “It’s getting cut shorter, and I’ll be wearing a hat. If they notice, well, it takes time to send messages in this culture, and we’ll try to stay ahead of Lord Sillek’s authorities.”

  “I’m not sure I like that.”

  “What else can I do? We need the goods, and now is better than later.”

  The engineer nodded reluctantly, then stood as the bell rang for the midday meal.

  “Time to eat? You headed my way?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “Is there any other way?” Nylan swallowed. “Don’t answer that.”

  “I won’t, but I’ll remember that you asked it.” She smiled gently, and Nylan smiled back.

  LXXXI

  ZELDYAN SITS, PROPPED on the edge of the bed, Nesslek at her breast, wearing a green silksheen dressing gown that sets off her golden hair.