Fall of Angels

LXXV

FROM THE CAUSEWAY, Ayrlyn and Nylan looked at the fields and the stretches of mud that had been crude roads the previous fall and snow-covered trails through the winter. The fields and meadows were white and brown, still primarily white, although long green shoots poked through the white in places.

“Snow lilies.” Ayrlyn pointed to a green stem rising from the snow.

“Some things will grow in the strangest conditions,” mused Nylan. “They grow through the snow, and we can’t even walk up the hill without sinking knee-deep in mud.We’re not moving much anywhere for a while.”

“The stables are even more of a mess because all that packed snow turned into ice and then melted all at once. Fierral’s in a terrible mood. Then, I’m surprised she’s not that way more often.”

“Why?” asked the engineer.

“How would you like to be the chief armsmaster under Ryba? Fierral knows that nothing she does will ever match Ryba. That means she’ll always be the chief flunky.”

“Hadn’t thought about that, but it makes sense.”

“Of course it does.” Ayrlyn snorted.

“We won’t be seeing any bandits or invaders for a while, I’d bet.”

“No traders, either,” pointed out Ayrlyn.

“You could ride out, and it would be dry when you returned.”

“If it didn’t rain, but I couldn’t bring much back without the cart, and how would I get it out of here?”

“Hadn’t thought about mud.” Nylan turned his eyes downhill and to the east. Below the lower outfalls, the cold rushing water, both from the runoff diverted from around the bathhouse and tower and from the drainage system, had cut an even deeper gouge through the low point of the muddy swathe that had been a road, a depression that was fast becoming a small gorge.

“I knew I should have built a culvert there,” muttered Nylan.

“Exactly when did you have time?” asked Ayrlyn.

“The road to the ridge needs to be paved.” Nylan ignored her question, since the only free time he’d had, had been after the snow had fallen. “It’s almost impossible to leave the tower anyway.” He glanced toward the fir trunks stacked beyond the causeway, noting that the trunks on the bottom of the pile were more than half sunk into the mud. “I suppose we can cut and split the rest of that wood.”

“You always have to have something to do, don’t you?”

“There’s always more to do than time to do it,” he pointed out.

She nodded slowly. “Do you think that when you die someone will build a huge stone memorial that says, ‘he accomplished the impossible’? Or ‘he did more than any three other people’?”

“No one will build me any memorials, Ryba’s prophecies notwithstanding.” Nylan paused, and then his voice turned sardonic. “Don’t you know that’s why I built the tower? It’s the only memorial I’ll ever have, and I’m the only one who knows it-except you.”

“You’re impossible, Engineer.” Ayrlyn turned to him, and her eyes were dark behind the brown. “She sees the future, but you take the weight of that future.”

“I suppose so.” Nylan shrugged. “But who else will? The guards, even Ryba, laugh at my building, my obsession-I’m sure that’s what it’s called. The predictably obsessed engineer.” His words turned bitter. “If this were a novel or a trideo thriller, the editors would cut out all the parts about building. That’s boring. You know, heroes are supposed to slay the enemy, but no one has to worry about shelter or heat or coins or stables or whether the roads need to be paved or whether you need bridges or culverts to keep them from being impassible. Bathhouses are supposed to build themselves, didn’t you know? Ryba orders sanitation, and it just happens. No matter that the snow is deep enough to sink a horse without a sign. No matter that most guards would rather stink than use cold water. No matter that poor sanitation kills more people in low-tech cultures than battles. But building is boring. So is making better weapons, I suppose. Using them is respected and glorious and fires the imagination. Frig … every mythological smith has been the butt of jokes, and I’m beginning to understand why.”

“You’re angry, aren’t you?”

“Me? The calm, contained engineer? Angry?” Nylan swallowed. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me, Nylan. And I do understand. Do you think that going out trading is any different? We need all these goods to survive, but trading isn’t glamorous like winning battles. Do you know what it’s like to have every manstare at your hair and run his eyes over you as if you wore nothing? To know you can’t lift a blade because women are less than commodities, and almost anything goes? And if you do use your blade, you won’t be able to trade for what you need?” Her voice softened and took on an ironic tone. “Besides, no one wants to trade with someone who kills some idiot and then has to empty her guts on her own boots.” The redhead laughed. “They don’t do trideo dramas about people who trade for flour and chickens, either.”

“No. They focus on the great heroes,” Nylan said. “Like Ryba.”

“Part of that’s not easy, either,” Ayrlyn pointed out. “She does see things, you know.”

“I know.”

“It must be terrible.”

“I suppose so.” Nylan didn’t want to say more, feeling as though he’d poured out more than he’d ever intended, and Ayrlyn wasn’t even the one with whom he slept.

“I mean it. If she has a vision, or whatever it is, can she trust it? Does she dare to oppose it? What should she do to make it occur, if it’s an outcome she wants? What are the options and trade-offs?”

“You still talk like a comm officer, sometimes.”

“I probably always will.” A brief laugh followed. “Don’t you see, though? What she has is a terrible curse. It’s much easier to be a healer, or a black mage. We do the best we can, and, if we make mistakes, we aren’t faced with the idea that we knew in advance and still failed.”

“She doesn’t see everything.”

“That’s worse. How can she tell what might be a wish, or what leads to what she sees?” Ayrlyn shivered.

Nylan moistened his lips, and his eyes flicked toward the top of the tower. The wind rose, and a fluffy white cloud covered the sun, and Nylan shivered also, but not because of the darkness or the chill that swept across Tower Black and the causeway where they stood.