Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(114)

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 speak 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?"