Fall of Angels

XXXVII

THE WEST WIND, as usual, was chill, chill enough that most of those working on the Roof of the World had covered their arms, although only Narliat, stacking grasses on the drying rack, actually wore a jacket in the sunny afternoon of early fall.

In the colder shadow of the tower on the north side, as Huldran, Cessya, and Selitra worked to complete the stonework on the east and south sides of the bathhouse, Nylan tried to complete the bow he had failed three times with squinting through the goggles, coaxing power out of thecells and through the powerhead. The line of light and power flared almost green, and Nylan channeled the reduced power around the curved form he held in the crude tongs, smoothing the metal around the composite core, trying to shunt the energy evenly around the composite without burning the iron-based alloy.

With a last limited power bath, Nylan flicked off the laser and slipped the protobow into the quench-but only for a moment-before laying it out on the dented chunk of stone too flawed to use for building.

In the end, the shape differed clearly, if subtly, from the sketch that Saryn had provided so many days earlier. Still, a wide smile crossed his face. The bow had been harder, much harder, than the blades.

After a drink from the fired-clay mug, he picked up the second crude bow frame, already roughed out, and began inserting the composite core.

But just before noon, he had created three bows and dropped the energy levels to where he needed to replace two of the ten cells before continuing.

He also needed a rest, and something to eat.

After disassembling the laser and storing the wand and powerhead, the engineer walked around the tower toward the causeway and the main south gate to the tower.

The south tower yard, below the causeway, was getting more use, now that the tower was occupied, and the landers had been moved again and set up more for storage, either to the west of the tower or at the mouth of the canyon used for corraling the horses and for stone. A low rough-stone wall was rising around the yard, built by the simple expedient of asking the marines to carry small stones and put them along the lines Nylan had scratched out. There were enough stones around the tower, and the knee-height wall made a clear demarcation between meadow and the tower yard.

On the uphill side of the yard, near the causeway into the tower, Ayrlyn and Saryn were working to improve their cart, based on their ideas and what they had seen in practice in the cart obtained from Skiodra. On the downhill side, besidethe remaining roof slates and building stones for the bathhouse, Gerlich and Jaseen sparred with the heavy wooden blades.

Nylan’s eyes moved south where, on the trail-road down from the ridge, a thin, red-haired figure walked between the two marines, and Fierral followed.

Since Ryba wasn’t around, Nylan waited until the four reached the base of the causeway. The marines stopped, and Fierral stepped forward, her eyes surveying the area before settling on Nylan.

The local, so thin she seemed to be little more than a child, barely reached Fierral’s shoulder, although her tangled hair fell nearly to the middle of her back. Her pale blue eyes darted from the marines to Nylan. She shrank away and back toward the marines.

“Ser,” Fierral began, “this local just showed up and bowed and bowed. Selitra and Rienadre don’t understand the local Anglorat, and I don’t do that much better, but I think she’s asking for refuge or something. Do you know where the marshal is?”

“No one here will harm you,” Nylan offered in his slow Anglorat, looking at the painfully thin figure.

The girl-woman looked down at the packed dirt leading to the causeway, and eased back until she was pressed against Rienadre’s olive-blacks.

“She’s clearly not fond of men. Better get the marshal,” Nylan suggested. He turned toward the nearest of his tower workers, who had stopped on the far side of the causeway by the main tower door. “Cessya? I think Ryba’s checking the space for stables up in the stone-cutting canyon. Will you get her?”

“Yes, ser. Wouldn’t mind a break from lugging stone.”

“Well … you could bring down a few of the larger fragments …”

“Ser?”

Nylan grinned.

“Master Engineer … someday … someday …”

“Promises, promises …”

Cessya flushed as she turned.

“You’re a dangerous man, Engineer,” said Fierral.

“Me?” Nylan laughed.

When the force leader, or armsmaster, just shook her head, Nylan’s eyes crossed the south tower yard to where Ayrlyn was bent over the axle of the creaky cart. Saryn stood on the other side.

“Ayrlyn?”

The redheaded healer lifted her head. “Yes, Nylan? What great engineering expertise can you offer to stop the creakiness of the wheels?”

“Roller bearings, except I can’t make them. Grease, otherwise, preferably from Kyseen’s leavings or from animal fat.”

“Grease?” Ayrlyn made a face. “I need engineering, and all you have to offer is grease? That was what you said yesterday.”

“That’s what they used for centuries. It’s smelly and messy, but I understand it works.” Nylan shrugged and grinned. “Can you give us a hand?”

“With what?”

The engineer motioned toward the local girl-woman. “We have a local problem. I need you and Narliat.”

“That worthless loafer?” Ayrlyn took a deep breath, then wiped her greasy hands on a clump of grass. “He’s pretending to stack grasses to dry. It’s the easiest job he can find.”

“I’ll get him,” Saryn volunteered. “You talk to the local kid, Ayrlyn. I still hate Anglorat.” The former second pilot, limping yet, turned and headed for the grass-drying racks.

Ayrlyn wiped her hands on the grass again, then crossed the yard, where she stopped and looked at the small redhead. After a time, the girl-woman looked back.

“Who are you?” asked Ayrlyn.

“Hryessa.” The name was so faint that all of the angels had to strain to catch it.

“Where are you from?”

“Lornth. The way was hard.”

Nylan nodded at the long scratches, and the scabs, on the scrawny legs below the gray dresslike garment, and the purple and green bruises on the left side of the face. A white line in front of her left ear bore witness to a previous injury.

“Why did you come?”

“Because … because … I heard that you were angelwomen, and that you had defeated Lord Nessil. Even the mages of Lord Sillek fear you.” Hryessa pursed her lips as though she feared having said too much.

“Some of that is true,” answered Nylan. “We have defeated Lord Nessil, and some of the bandits.”

The small redhead stiffened and swallowed, but her eyes finally met Nylan’s, although she shivered as she spoke. “They say that you are a black mage who devours souls and puts them into the stones of your tower.”

“Oh … frig …” The expletive whispered from Rienadre’s lips.

“I do not devour souls. All of us have built the tower,” Nylan explained.

“You are too modest,” interjected Narliat. “The mage made the tower possible, and he used a knife of fire-”

Hryessa shrank back until her back pressed against Rienadre’s legs.

Nylan wanted to smash Narliat for making things harder, but Rienadre spoke before Nylan had figured out what to say.

“Easy, easy, kid,” said the marine. “The engineer’s good people.” Rienadre patted the girl-woman’s shoulder, and the small redhead straightened, more in response to the tone than the words she could not have understood.

“He is a good mage,” explained Ayrlyn in Old Anglorat. “His works have saved many, and his tower will protect us all against the winter. It is only made of stones and timber and metal-nothing more.”

Nylan tried not to wince at being called a mage. He was an engineer, and a poor excuse for one in a low-tech culture. That was all he was. Except … as he thought that, his head throbbed. Was he more than an engineer?

“You wanted to see us?” asked Ayrlyn.

“I had … hoped, great lady …” Her eyes fell to the clay underfoot. “I had hoped to find a place.”

“It will be a cold and long winter,” Ayrlyn offered.

“I do not care … you are women.” Her eyes glistened, but the tears remained unshed, and Hryessa stiffened, gathering herself together in pride.

“You do not have to beg, or humble yourself,” Nylan said softly. “The lady Ayrlyn only wished you to know that winter on the Roof of the World will not be easy.”

“Is he really a man?” asked Hryessa, directing his words at Ayrlyn.

Nylan tried not to frown.

“Yes,” answered Ayrlyn with a smile. “He is very much a man, but he is an angel, as are we all.”

The sound of hoofbeats interrupted the process, as Ryba guided the big roan to a halt by the causeway, letting Cessya slide off first, then dismounted and handed the marine the reins. The marine led the roan to the hitching rail.

Ryba walked toward the group, halting beside Nylan and looking at the small redhead. “You are Hryessa,” she said slowly, “and you have come for refuge. You are welcome.” With that, the marshal smiled. “All such as you are welcome.”

Nylan froze for a moment. How had Ryba known the woman’s name?

Hryessa bent her head, then knelt. “Thank you, Angel of Heaven.”

Ayrlyn’s and Nylan’s eyes met, and Nylan realized that they shared the same feeling-one of awe, a sense of experiencing something that transcended either of them.

After a moment, Ayrlyn spoke. “These others-they are also angels.”

“But she is the angel,” said Hryessa in a calm voice. “I have seen.” She bowed again to Ryba.

Ryba inclined her head to Ayrlyn. “Would you take care of her? Get her washed and clean and clothed? And you andFierral need to work on sleeping arrangements and blade training.”

“We’ll take care of it.” Ayrlyn nodded. After a moment, so did Fierral.

Hryessa frowned, her eyes darting from Ryba to Ayrlyn.

“They’re going to make sure you get bathed, clothed, and fed,” Nylan explained in Old Anglorat. “Then, you will learn our ways, and they will teach you the way of the blade.”

“Teach me a blade, like an armsman?”

“Better, Hryessa, better,” said Fierral in accented Anglorat.

Again, Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances, and Nylan felt that they shared almost a sense of foreboding.

Ryba nodded and turned back toward the long hitching rail on the west side of the causeway, where her roan was tied.

“Let’s go, Hryessa,” suggested Ayrlyn, leading the young woman toward the tower.

Nylan headed for the stream to wash, wishing, again, that he had gotten around to finishing the bathhouse.

After washing, he turned back toward the tower and walked across the short causeway and into the great room. All eight narrow windows to the great room were open to admit the cool breeze. In four, the armaglass windows were pivoted and the shutters folded back. In the other four, without the armaglass, the shutters were just folded open.

In time, Nylan hoped, they would be able to afford glass for the remainder of the tower windows, but glass was a lower priority than food or weapons, especially now that Ryba had declared that the destiny of the guards of Westwind would be the double blades.

No wonder she had pressed him for the forty blades he had made so far!

He stepped toward the mostly filled tables. The grass baskets were filled with loaves of fresh-baked bread. Ayrlyn had finally brought back a yeast starter or whatever it was, and Kyseen had only exploded dough all over the kitchen a handful of times before learning how to mix flour, yeast, andwater in making loaves suited to the big, wood-burning ovens that everyone had thought were too big when Nylan and Huldran had started laying bricks and mortaring in the metal cooking surfaces and oven grate slots.

Nylan sniffed the air, trying to determine the composition of the steam rising from the two big pots-one on each table. Some sort of stew, with local roots and greens tossed in.

Jaseen turned toward Nylan as he passed the end of the second table, and he noted the scratches on the medtech’s forearms.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Frigging pine trees. The second and Kyseen discovered the cones have nuts, and you can roast them or bake them or whatever. Only problem is that if you wait for the cones to fall, the nuts are gone. Selitra and me, we’ve been climbing pines. I slipped, and some of those needles are like knives.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Frigging nuts. Bet they don’t even taste good.” She took a savage bite from the chunk of bread she held, and Nylan walked toward the hearth end of the first table.

Ryba, as usual, sat at the head of the table, and Nylan slipped onto the end of the bench to her left, the space that was always left for him.

As he sat, he noticed Ayrlyn leading Hryessa toward the second table. The local woman now wore leather trousers, boots, and a shirt somewhat large for her thin frame. Her face had been washed, and her hair had been cut short, marine-style.

As Hryessa looked down the table, her eyes widened, and she swallowed. Ayrlyn said something, easing Hryessa onto the bench and breaking off a large chunk of bread for her.

“There’s our first recruit,” noted Ryba.

“She’s not that big,” said Gerlich from the other side of the table.

“Given time, she’ll be as good or better than any exceptIstril or a few others.” Ryba’s words were matter-of-fact. “We’ll see more before long.”

Beside Saryn, Relyn frowned, struggling with a spoon in his left hand. “You will teach her the blade?”

“Of course. Why not?”

Relyn opened his mouth, then looked at Nylan. “Mage? What do you see when women have blades?”

“More men and women will get killed-at first.” Nylan stood and spooned stew onto his trencher. “After that, most of those who die will be arrogant men.”

“You sound displeased at that,” Saryn offered.

“I’m displeased any time force is the only answer, and these days I’m displeased a lot,” said the engineer as he reseated himself, forcing his tone to be wry.

The silver-haired Siret smiled shyly and passed Nylan a basket of bread.

“Thank you.” Nylan handed the basket back after breaking off a chunk of the heavy bread.

“You’re welcome, ser.”

“Would you pass me some, dear Siret?” asked Berlis.

“I certainly would, dear Berlis. About the time you bed a demon-except you already have. So enjoy it.” The deep green eyes flashed.

“Talk about bedding …”

“If you want to bed a blade,” suggested Siret, “just say another word.”

“Guards!” snapped Ryba.

Both women closed their mouths.

“Thank you.” Ryba turned to Nylan. “You were working on something different this morning.”

“Yes. I finally got the bow thing worked out, I think.” Nylan turned to Gerlich. “You might want to try it later this afternoon.”

“Try what?” Gerlich lifted his eyebrows.

“A metal-composite bow.”

“I’ll try it, but I finally made one out of a local fir-type tree that works pretty well.”

Nylan took a spoonful of stew. The meat and sauce tastedmore of salt and some spice than meat, but he was hungry and shoveled in several mouthfuls, followed with a bite of bread. The bread was better-tasting than the stew.

Perhaps because of the outburst between Berlis and Siret, the midday meal was relatively quiet, although Gerlich had a long and low conversation with Narliat.

After eating, Nylan went back to the north yard and the next group of metal-composite bows.

First, he laid out three more strips of composite, and trimmed them, before rough-shaping the braces into the bow outlines. After that, he turned off the power and rested for a moment, letting the chill breeze off the western heights cool him and dry his sweat-soaked hair.

Behind him, the clink of trowels and mortar and stone continued as the outside walls of the bathhouse rose. The walls separating jakes, showers, and laundry could be installed after the roofing.

His break done, Nylan adjusted the goggles over his eyes once more and eased power through the laser. He could sense the raggedness of the powerhead, and he sweated even more heavily as he strained not only to meld the metal around the composite core, but to keep the energy flow from the powerhead constant.

As he turned the curved shape in the tongs, his breath became more and more uneven, but he managed to smooth the last curves before shutting down the power and pushing the goggles back.

The quick quench was followed by his slumping onto a stone to rest.

Four bows. How many more could he coax from the laser? Should he stop and use the life of the powerhead to do the delicate stonework? He took a deep breath. He still had the other powerhead.

With a quick rest and a mugful of cold water, he went back to work on the next bow. The powerhead wavered more; Nylan strained more; and he took even more time gasping and recuperating. Five bows rested on the stones.

The third bow of the afternoon creased his arms withlines of fire long before he finished, and left a knifelike pounding inside his skull. As he started on the final smoothing and melding, coaxing power out of the cells and through the powerhead, the line of light and power stuttered more and more in green bursts. Sweat poured from his forehead and around his goggles and even inside them.

His eyes burning, Nylan completed the last smoothing and flicked off the power to the wand, then set it aside and stepped toward the quench tub. He slipped on the clay, but caught himself as he dipped the bow into the quench for its momentary bath before laying it on the stone.

He sat on the stone for a long time, sipping water, eyes closed.

“Are you all right, ser?” Cessya finally asked.

“I will be.” I hope, he added mentally considering I’ve created six bows that might not even work, nearly destroyed the laser in the process, and feel like the local mounts have tromped me into the stone.

“Are you sure?”

The engineer opened his eyes and nodded.

“What are these?” asked Cessya.

“A new kind of bow-if they work.”

“Do you need some help?”

“Well … if you could take the firin bank back to storage,” Nylan admitted.

“Selitra! Give me a hand here. We need to store the energy cells,” called Cessya.

Nylan slowly disassembled the power cables and the wand and powerhead while they carried the cells back into the tower. Then he followed with the laser components and stored them on the shelves above the power cells.

When he returned, the three were back at their stonework. Nylan extracted the woven bowstring from his pocket and tried to string the first bow. It took him three tries, probably because his arms were still aching.

Then he had to go back into the tower and find some arrows. Instead, he found Gerlich off the main hall.

“Are you ready to test the bow?” asked the engineer. “We’ll need arrows and a target.”

“Sure. Why not? I’ve got an area where I’ve been practicing at the south end of the meadow, near those scattered firs. We’ll see what your toy will do, compared to the wooden one I worked out.” Gerlich grinned, but the grin made Nylan uneasy.

The two walked back to the north tower yard, Gerlich with his own bow and quiver. The western wind felt good as it ruffled through Nylan’s hair, and the engineer realized he was still hot. He handed the composite bow to Gerlich.

“Hmmm … a little heavy, and probably too short.”

Nylan looked at the curves. “Too short?”

“Well, Relyn says that a proper bow should be chin high, about three and a half cubits local.”

Nylan shrugged. His bows were not quite chest high, but, easier, he suspected, to carry on horseback.

“Let’s see about the draw.” Gerlich took the bow and mock-nocked an arrow. “Stiffer than it looks, but probably not strong enough for the average armsman.” He grinned again. “Then, there’s accuracy. Let’s go and see.”

Nylan followed the long-legged former weapons officer across the meadow to the half-dozen scattered firs. Circular targets on ropes dangled from the limbs.

“Those just twist and flap unless you hit them square and hard,” said Gerlich. “Good training.”

The engineer watched as Gerlich took a long arrow from the quiver, nocked it, and released the shaft.

The shaft clunked against one of the targets, spinning it, but the shaft did not hold and angled to the ground. Gerlich released two more shafts. The same thing happened twice more.

He handed the bow back to Nylan. “What you’ve got is accurate; it’s easy to carry; and it’s probably all right for hunting. I’d like something with more power, and I think most of the locals would also. It’s good, but not in the class of your blades.”

Gerlich lifted and strung the big bow, then sent a shaftwhistling toward the target. Thunk! The target swung in the light breeze, but the shaft held in place. “See the difference?”

Nylan nodded politely. One difference he had noted was that Gerlich had not drawn the composite bow to its full capability.

“I’ll stick to my own bow and my toothpick, if you don’t mind. Smaller weapons are fine for marines.” Gerlich paused. “Is that all, Engineer?”

“That’s all.”

“I need to see about some game to fill the pots.” Gerlich walked toward the trees, reclaiming the arrows and checking them, and resetting the targets. Then he raised an arm and walked briskly toward the canyon corral.

Nylan followed more slowly, wondering about both the bow and Gerlich. Why had Gerlich not drawn the bow fully? Was he worried that the metal might splinter? Nylan would never have given him a bow that he thought would fail.

“Is that your new bow?” Istril rode up to Nylan as he neared the causeway. “Could I try it?”

Nylan shrugged and handed it to her. “Gerlich wasn’t impressed. He said it wasn’t strong enough.”

Istril laughed. “Brute strength isn’t everything.” She tried the draw. “It seems as heavy as his.” She looked at Nylan. “We’ve got a target range up near the corral canyon. Do you want to see how it works?”

Nylan glanced to the west, where the sun hung just above the peaks. He wasn’t going to get much more done before supper anyway. “All right.”

“Climb up behind me,” invited the marine. “Benja can carry double for a short ways, and it’s faster.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Nylan clambered up awkwardly behind the slim marine.

“You’re going to have to put an arm around me, ser, or you’ll get bounced off after four steps.”

Nylan flushed, but complied, and Istril flicked the reins. Nylan still bounced, but Istril seemed welded to her saddle,able even to open and close the crude gate without dismounting. When they reached the corral area, Nylan slid down gratefully into the shadows. “Thank you. I think I do better in the saddle than behind it.”

“Most people do, ser.” Istril slid down and unsaddled Benja. “You won’t mind if I rub her down?”

“Of course not.” As she worked on her mount, Nylan walked up the canyon to where he had cut the stone. The brickwork for the stables was almost finished, and rough fir timbers were stacked beside the walls. He ducked through what would be the door and studied the interior.

The rafters wouldn’t be that far above his head, but the horses would have shelter at least. He walked outside.

Braaa w w w k … a w w w kkkk … awwkk.

From the smaller and more crudely bricked space where Nylan had tried to quarry more stones, before finding the rock fractured, came the sound-and the definite odor-of chickens.

Nylan turned and headed downhill.

Istril had just patted Benja on the flank, and the mare whuffed, then walked to the water trough.

“The targets are up there, on that side.” Istril strode briskly uphill, and Nylan followed, marveling that the slender guard had so much energy so late in the day.

She paused. “There they are.”

Three man-shaped figures-sculpted from what seemed to be twisted fir limbs-stood before a backdrop of gray that flowed from the canyon wall.

“The gray stuff behind them is sand and dirt. No sense in blunting arrowheads.” Istril nocked a shaft with a fluid motion and released it.

Whunk! The shaft vibrated in the target, right where an armsman’s heart would have been.

“Nice!” she exclaimed.

“Gerlich said it wasn’t strong enough.”

“Friggin’ idiot. Beggin’ your pardon, ser, but he is.” Istril nocked and released a second shaft, which appeared beside the first. “Sweet weapon, ser, and there’s plenty of pull here.I’ll show you. Might cost me a shaft, but we might as well find out.”

The marine walked toward the target on the far right. When she reached it, she bent down and pulled a battered breastplate from behind the target, fastening it in place. Then she walked back to Nylan.

“We’ll see how it does against the local armor.”

“Can you spare a shaft?”

“I’d rather lose a shaft than my neck.” Istril laughed, a warm sound. “It’s better to find out now instead of in a fight.” She set her feet, nocked a third shaft, and let it fly.

A dull clunk followed the impact, but the shaft slammed through the metal and held. At the sound, Benja barely looked up from where she chewed off a few clumps of mostly brown grass.

“I don’t know what the big idiot’s talking about.” Istril shook her head. “This is smaller than his monster. It’s easier to carry. It aims better, and it goes through armor. What else do you need?”

“The reputation for carrying the biggest bow and blade?” suggested Nylan.

Istril laughed again. Then her face cleared. “This is a killer weapon, ser. Any of the marines-I guess we’re guards, now-any of us would carry this over anything else I’ve seen or used. Do you have any more?”

“Five others, but I don’t have strings for them.”

“Five? That’s a good start.”

“I don’t know how long the laser will last,” Nylan explained, “and I didn’t want to make any more unless they were good.”

“Good? With this and your blades, the locals won’t stand a chance.”

“Please don’t humor me, Istril,” Nylan asked.

“I’m not humoring you, ser. I wouldn’t do that. We’re talking our necks and lives.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know.” Istril extended the bow.

“You can keep it. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of how to use it.”

The faint sound of the triangle gong announced the evening meal.

“Thank you, ser. We’d better be headed down.”

They walked in silence down to the tower, ducking through the fence poles and following the path to the causeway.

“Bread smells good,” said Istril as Nylan swung open the heavy front door to the tower.

“Kyseen does that well.”

“I think Kadran’s been helping since her shoulder was torn up.”

“That might explain it.” Nylan gave a half laugh.

Istril set the bow by the stairs, and they walked to the tables.

“Testing the engineer’s bow?” asked Gerlich politely.

Ryba’s eyes flicked to Nylan. “You forged a bow?”

“Finally,” the engineer admitted. “It’s been difficult.”

“I hope you didn’t spend too much power on it,” Gerlich added from his seat in the middle of the first table. Selitra sat beside him.

“You have to spend power to create anything,” pointed out Nylan. “We need good longer-range weapons.”

“Your blades are more effective,” countered Gerlich.

“I don’t think so,” said Istril firmly. “I tested the bow, and it’s perfect for a mounted guard.”

“For a guard, perhaps, but I can put more power into the great bow,” answered Gerlich.

“I’m sure you can,” responded Istril politely. “But the engineer’s bow works much better for a mounted guard, and I’m more than glad to use it. So will the others, I’m sure, since it’s much easier to carry on horseback, and far more accurate than that monster you carry.”

“It doesn’t have the pull.” Gerlich’s voice carried an edge.

Ryba’s eyes flicked between the silver-haired guard and the dark-haired man.

“It has enough power to go through a breastplate at combatrange and that should be enough for anyone,” snapped Istril.

“I thought we were talking true long-range weapons …”

“Enough,” said Ryba quietly. “The engineer’s weapons will be sung of long after we are all gone from Westwind. So will your great bow, Gerlich. There’s room for both in history. It’s been a long day, and we don’t need an argument at dinner. In fact, we don’t need arguments at all. We need to work together to get through the coming winter.”

Nylan slipped into his seat quietly, glancing at the scattering of ashes in the cold hearth. “No fire?”

“It’s not that cold yet, and it takes work to saw and split logs, even the dry deadwood,” said Ayrlyn from across the table. Beside her, on the side closest to Ryba, sat Hryessa. Relyn sat on the other side.

“You’re wearing a jacket.”

“I’m not a Sybran,” conceded the redheaded healer. “You’re half Sybran, at least.”

Nylan grinned and shook his head. “The wrong half, probably.”

Dinner consisted of long strips of meat, clearly beaten into tenderness, and spiced with the hot dried peppers that Kyseen had found somewhere, then covered with an even hotter red-brown sauce. With it were lumpy noodles, some almost as thick as small dumplings, and some form of sliced root.

Nylan forced himself to take several circular root slices, but he ladled the sauce over everything except the bread. The bread seemed to get better.

The only beverage was water. They had a choice of bitter tea in the morning and water at night. The engineer wondered how long it would be before they might have something else.

Hryessa looked blankly at the barely smoothed wood of the tabletop while conversation continued. As Nylan started to eat, the local woman helped herself to another hefty portion of meat and dumpling noodles. She ate slowly, as thoughshe were full, but could not believe that she would eat the next day.

Nylan refrained from shaking his head and took a second bite. By the time he had swallowed the mouthful of meat and dumplings, the sweat had beaded up on his forehead.

He drained his mug and refilled it, then blotted his forehead.

“The bread works better than the water,” said Ryba dryly.

Across the end of the table, Ayrlyn nodded.

He took a mouthful and chewed. They were right. The burning faded, and he took another mouthful. After more bread and some water, he asked, “Is this the latest way for Kyseen to stop complaints about the food? How can you complain if it’s too hot to taste?”

“I think it’s good,” offered Gerlich.

“He never had any taste to begin with,” suggested Ayrlyn in a whisper.

“He still doesn’t,” muttered Nylan, adding more loudly, “You always liked things hot and direct.”

A wave of laughter rolled down the table. Hryessa ignored the humor; Relyn frowned slightly, still struggling to eat with his left hand; and Nylan reminded himself that he had wanted to craft something for Relyn’s stump.

“Better than cold and indirect,” countered Gerlich.

Only a few chuckles greeted his remark, then small talk resumed around the two tables, especially at the end away from the hearth where Huldran and Cessya sat.

Nylan overheard a few of the phrases.

“ … bathing when there’s ice on the walls …”

“ … better than stinking …”

“ … cares? No one but the engineer, and you know how dangerous that’d be …”

Nylan glanced toward the corner of the first table where Narliat sat beside Denalle, who was attempting to practice her Anglorat on the armsman. Narliat’s face was bland, although Nylan sensed the man was fighting boredom.

Nylan concentrated on finishing his meal, although he requiredtwo more large chunks of bread to get him through the last of the spiced meat.

“No sweets?” asked Istril, her voice rising above the murmurs around the tables.

“What kind of sweets?” replied Gerlich.

“Not your kind, Weapons. You’re as direct as that crowbar you carry. That’s hard on a woman.” Istril stood and walked toward the steps to reclaim the composite bow.

Relyn, sitting beside Ayrlyn, watched the slender marine. He pursed his lips, opened his mouth, then closed it. “How …? No maΔn would accept that in Lornth.”

“This isn’t Lornth, Relyn,” said Ayrlyn. “This is Westwind, and the women make the rules. Gerlich crossed the marshal once; she took him apart. She used her bare hands and feet to kill a marine who crossed her.”

The young noble glanced at Nylan. “What about you, Mage?”

“Gerlich is better at the martial valors than I am, I suspect.”

“You’re better with a blade,” said Ryba, “for all of his words about his great sword.”

Gerlich’s eyes hardened, but he turned and smiled to Selitra, then rose and bowed to Ryba. “It has been a long day, Ryba, and we will be hunting early tomorrow.”

Ryba returned the gesture with one even more curt. “May you sleep well.”

Gerlich smiled, and Nylan tried not to frown. He liked the man less and less as the seasons passed.

“You are a strange one, Mage,” said Relyn slowly. “You are better with a blade than most, yet you dislike using it. You can wield the fire of order, and yet you defer to others.”

“Too much killing leaves me unable to function very well.”

“But you are good at it.”

“Unfortunately,” Nylan said. “Unfortunately.”

Later, in the darkness, Nylan and Ryba walked up from the great hall, slowly, the four sets of steps that led to their space on the sixth level.

“Some nights, I get so tired,” said Nylan. “It’s easier to chop wood and do heavy labor than to use the laser these days. It’s beginning to fail.”

“Can you do any more of the bows?”

“I did six. I might be able to do some more, but I haven’t cut all the stone troughs for the bathhouse and showers. I did get the heater sections done.”

“A heater?” asked Ryba.

“It’s not really a water heater, but I figured that I could put a storage tank with one side on the back of the chimney for the heating stove, because not many people will bathe in ice water in a room without heat. It probably won’t get the water really hot, but it might make it bearable, and the back stone wall is strong enough to hold a small tank.”

“You’re amazing.”

He shrugged in the gloom of the third-level landing, almost embarrassed. “I just try to make things work.”

“You won’t always be able to, Nylan.”

“Probably not, but I have to try.”

“I know.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, briefly, then started up the steps again.

When they reached the top level, Nylan paused. Framed in the right-hand window, the unglazed one, was Freyja, the ice-needle peak faintly luminescent under the clear stars and the black-purple sky. Nylan studied the ice, marveling at the knife-sharpness of the mountain.

Ryba kicked off her boots and eased out of the shipsuit. Nylan turned and swallowed. Lately, Ryba had been distant, oh-so-distant. He just looked.

“You don’t just have to look,” she said in a low voice. “Today is all that is certain.”

He took a step forward, and so did Ryba, and her fingers were deft on the closures of his tattered shipsuit.

“You need leathers,” she whispered before her lips touched his. “Leathers fit for the greatest engineer.”

“I’m not-”

“Hush … we need what is certain.”

Nylan agreed with that as his arms went around her satinskinnedform, still slender, with only the slightest rounding in her waist, the slightest hint of greater fullness in her breasts.

Later, much later, as they lay on the joined couches that they still shared, Nylan held her hand and looked at Freyja, wondering if the peak had a fiery center like Ryba.

“I’ll be back,” Ryba whispered as she sat up and pulled her shipsuit over her naked form. She padded down the stairs barefoot, after picking up an object Nylan-could hot make out, night vision or not, from beneath the couch.

As the cold breeze sifted through the open windows-both the single window with the armaglass and the one with shutters alone were open-the engineer pulled the thin blanket up to his chest, and waited … and waited.

His eyes had closed when he heard bare feet, and he turned and asked sleepily, “What took so long?”

“I ran into Istril, and she wanted something,” Ryba said. “I’m never off-duty anymore, it seems. I was able to help her, but it took a bit longer than I’d thought. She thinks a lot of you.”

“She’s a good person,” Nylan said, stifling a yawn and reaching out to touch Ryba’s silken skin, skin so smooth that no one would have believed that it belonged to an avenging angel, to the angel.

“Yes. All of the marines are good. That’s one reason why I do what I do.” Ryba let Nylan move to her, but the engineer felt the reserve there, the holding back that seemed so often present, even at the most intimate times.

And he held back a sigh, only agreeing with her words. “They all are good, and I do the best I can.”

“I know.” Those two words were softer, much softer, and sadder. “I know.” But she said nothing more as they lay there in the cool night that foreshadowed a far, far colder winter-as they lay there and Ryba shuddered once, twice, and was silent.

Hryessa’s words ran through Nylan’s mind, again and again. “But she is the angel.”

Darkness, what had they begun? Where would it end?