Fall of Angels

CXXIX

Nylan woke, but could not move. His face burned, and his eyes stabbed so much he could neither open them, nor see. He listened, and even the words fell on him like hammers, most rebounding, their meaning lost in the force of their impact.

“ … not a mark on him …”

“ … more than that in him … who else … strong enough to hold a thousand deaths …”

“ … it’s all in his mind … guards died …”

Ryba’s words-“guards died”-stabbed through his ears, and he would have lifted his hands to close them, but could move neither hands nor head, and again he sank, not into darkness, but into a sea of white chaos that burned his body and soul, into a river of fire that flared from the sky he could not see and singed his body like an ox upon a slowly turning spit.

An ox, he thought, a dumb ox … and then, for a time, he thought no more.

Cool cloths bathed his face when he awoke again, if indeed it were the second time, for that was what he remembered.

Blinding light flared through his eyes, tightly squeezed shut as they were.

“Are you awake, Nylan?” asked a husky voice-Ayrlyn’s voice.

He started to nod, but white needles stabbed through his brain, and instead he rasped, “Yes,” afraid to move his head. Even thinking hurt, each thought like a thin knife.

“You need to drink, or you’ll die. I’m going to put a cup to your mouth. Don’t worry if you get wet.”

Nylan eased his mouth open, and swallowed, then opened and swallowed, ignoring the unseen white knives that slashed his face but left no marks, just pain. Some little of the blinding agony eased as he drank, as the water ran across his cheeks and chin, as Ayrlyn softly blotted away the dampness, a dampness welcome for its cooling.

“In a bit, you’ll need more.”

“All … right … now.”

He drank more, and the dryness in his throat subsided, and he slept, still flayed with red-tinged white whips that left no marks, but scarred his sleep and soul.

Over the next uncounted days, he drank and slept and drank and slept, and finally ate, until one morning, he could finally leave the single lander couch with Istril’s and Ayrlyn’s help and sit in the rocking chair that had been moved beside the couch for him.

But the pain and glare were so bright when he tried to open his eyes that he nearly doubled over.

“Ooooo … I even felt that,” said Ayrlyn quietly.

“So did I,” added Istril. “I think it will be a while before you want to try to see again.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We don’t know,” admitted Ayrlyn. “You ought to be able to see, but whatever you did with that laser had a backlash, and it’s not exactly psychological-it had an effect on your entire nervous system. It should wear off, but it’s going to be eight-days or longer, maybe years before the pain leaves totally.”

Nylan didn’t want to deal with that, not then, not ever, butit didn’t seem like he had much choice. “Where am I?”

“You’re on the other side of the sixth level. Ryba was afraid that Dyliess would disturb you, and here was the best place. Also, with her shattered arm-”

“Shattered arm?”

“Flying debris,” Ayrlyn said dryly. “Everything was either blown off that part of the hill or turned to ashes.”

“What’s left?” he asked.

“Away from the hill above the tower … most everything,” Istril answered. “We had another rush of women. We’re short of trained guards, but there are more than enough bodies to keep things going. Saryn’s working on training, and Siret and Weindre are helping. Huldran’s trying to forge the pieces for the sawmill, and in time we might be able to sell timber or planking. Blynnal’s found another cook, and the food is better yet.”

“I have noticed that.” Nylan paused. “What about Fierral?”

The silence gave the answer.

“Who else?”

After a moment, Istril answered. “Denalle, Selitra, Quilyn-those are the ones you knew.”

“So …” Nylan tried to count them all in his head. “We landed with thirty. We have nine left. Great survival ratio.”

“It’s better than everyone dying in orbit,” said Ayrlyn.

“Or being a slave,” added Istril.

“What a wonderful world. What a wonderful life …” He stopped. “Don’t mind me. It’s just hard. Darkness, it’s hard.” His mouth and throat were dry, and though he swallowed, they remained dry.

Ayrlyn’s hand touched his, and he was surprised at the warmth, and the huskiness in her voice. “We know.”

“We know,” echoed Istril.

Later, as he rocked slowly in the chair, steps echoed through the white darkness that enshrouded Nylan, hard firm steps that Nylan recognized as Ryba’s.

In the darkness, he might be able to open his eyes for a few moments before the pain became too great, and, in time,he supposed, his normal vision might return. But he preferred to keep his eyes closed when he had no immediate need to see, and he had no need or any desire to look upon Ryba.

“How’s your arm?” he asked.

“Ayrlyn says it will heal straight. So does Istril. She’s giving up the blade, except as necessary in emergencies, to be a healer. She had to. Ayrlyn was down for quite a while.”

“I thought that might happen.” Eyes still closed, he massaged his temples, and then his neck, hoping that would help relieve the pain. “What else is new in the sovereign domain of Westwind?”

“I’m sending Lord Sillek’s blade back, and his ring-a bit melted around the edges-that was all we could find in that mess. With them go some fancy language. It’s an effort to make peace-in return for keeping the Westhorns, this part, anyway, clear of bandits.” Ryba cleared her throat, and Nylan could sense that she leaned against the lander couch.

“Will it work?”

“Yes,” Ryba said calmly. “Lord Karthanos has already sent an envoy disavowing the use of his troops and a small chest of golds as a payment for our efforts to maintain the Westhorns, as he put it, ‘clear of any impediments to travel and trade.’”

“Convenient to blame poor dead Lord Sillek. He probably wasn’t even a bad sort,” Nylan said. “Like a lot of us, he probably just got pushed into a situation from which there wasn’t any escape.”

“He was bad enough to kill a lot of guards, and bad enough to lose an entire army. That will do for me, thank you. And anyone who lets himself be pushed into that kind of situation probably shouldn’t be running a country.”

“We didn’t do much better. Nine out of thirty, isn’t it? And how many of those who came to us are dead?”

“It’s better than the alternative. Over time, probably only you, Saryn, and Ayrlyn could have survived in the lowlands. The rest of us were all Sybran.”

“That’s true. We didn’t have too many good alternatives,and the locals left us even less choice.” Nylan didn’t feel like arguing, not when he knew there was no purpose to be served. Not when he knew that Ryba was right. Right she might be, but again, he realized he wanted to be neither captain nor marshal. Apparently, neither he nor poor dead Lord Sillek had any business running a country-or a ship-not when men and women only respected force and always wanted more.

“And your friend Relyn disappeared right after the battle. He was considerate, though. He took a Lornian horse and not a thing from us. You warned him, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I trust we don’t live to see his new faith threaten us all,” Ryba said tiredly.

“It won’t.” Nylan could feel that it wouldn’t; despite his threats to Relyn, he’d felt that way for seasons. Relyn needed the faith of order, and others would, too.

“I hope you’re as good a prophet as an engineer.”

So did Nylan, but instead of admitting that openly, he asked the question to which he already knew the answer. “Would you mind if I just turned this side of the tower into my quarters for now?”

“No. I wondered when you’d ask.”

Nylan heard the sadness, and the acceptance, and the inevitability in her voice, and he nodded, saying, “I know you did what had to be done, and I did what I did in full knowledge.” But it hurts, and it always will, and every time I open my eyes for the rest of my life, I’ll know what I did, and you don’t even understand why I did it.

“You’ll go down as one of the great ones, Nylan, and you’re a good man, but you still don’t accept that the world is governed by force. Cold iron is master of them all.”

“Now,” he agreed, without opening his eyes. “Now.” But we can try to change that, and that worthwhile.

“Always,” answered Ryba. “Always.”