Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(63)

"Would you care to explain?" asked Nylan, knowing the answer, but wanting the others, besides Ryba, to hear it from the local noble himself.

Ryba sat in the single chair at the end of the table-a rude chair, crude like all the other crafts, but Saryn had insisted that the marshal should sit at the end, and had made the chair herself. Ryba half turned in the chair to hear Relyn's words.

"Lord Sillek offered a reward of the Ironwoods and a title for whoever cleansed the Roof of the World."

"Cleansed?" asked Ryba coldly. "Are we vermin?"

While her accent in Old Anglorat left something to be desired, Relyn understood and swallowed. "Your pardon . . . but women like you are not seen elsewhere in Candar, nor across either the Eastern or the Western Ocean."

"There are women like us in Candar, and they will find their way to Westwind," Ryba said. "In time, all the lands west of the Westhorns will be ruled by women who follow the Legend-the guards of Westwind... I've mentioned the name before."

"The Legend?" asked Relyn.

Nylan glanced at Ayrlyn, who looked down.

"Ayrlyn? Now would be a good time to introduce your latest song."

"As you wish, Marshal." Ayrlyn walked to the far end of the hall where she removed the lutar case from the open shelves under the central stone stairs. She left the case and carried the instrument toward the hearth.

"What is this Legend?" asked Narliat.

"It is the story of the angels," Ryba said smoothly, "and the "fate of those who put their trust in the power of men alone."

Nylan winced at the certainty in her voice, the absolute surety of vision. Like her vision of a daughter, although that was certainly no vision. There were enough signs to Nylan, especially to his senses, but while he could not tell the sex of the child, Ryba had no doubts.

"All Candar will come to understand the vision and the power of the Legend," Ryba added. "Though there will be those who oppose it, even they will not deny its truth and its power."

Ayrlyn stood before the hearth, lutar in hand, adjusting the tuning pegs, and striking several strong chords before beginning.



From the skies of long-tost Heaven

to the heights of Westwind keep,

We will hold our blades in order,

and never let our honor sleep.



From the skies of light-iced towers

to the demons 'place on earth,

We will hold fast lightnings 'powers,

and never count gold's worth.



As the guards of Westwind keep

our souls hold winter s sweep;

We will hold our blades in order,

and never let our honor sleep...



As Ayrlyn set down the small lutar, Ryba smiled. The hall was hushed for an instant. Then Cessya began to clap.

"Don't clap. It's yours, and you need to sing it with her. Again, Ayrlyn."

The redheaded healer and singer bowed and strummed the lutar. Her silver voice repeated the words.

By the last chorus of "and never let our honor sleep" all the marines who had become, by virtue of the song and Ryba's pronouncement, the guards of Westwind Keep had joined in.

Nylan tried not to frown. Had Ryba used the term "guard" before? Was she mixing what she thought she had said, her visions, and what she wished she had said?

Relyn looked at Narliat, and both men frowned.

"You frown, young Relyn. Do you doubt our ability at arms? Or mine?" asked the marshal.

"No, sher."

" 'Ser' will do, thank you. The term applies to honored warriors." Ryba turned away from the two at the corner of the hearth. "A good rendition, Ayrlyn. Very good."

Ayrlyn bowed and walked toward the shadows that shrouded the stairs.

Relyn glanced toward Ryba's pale and impassive face and whispered to Narliat. "She is truly more dangerous than Lord Sillek."

Far more dangerous, Nylan felt, for Ryba had a vision, and that vision just might change the entire planet-or more. Sillek and the others had no idea what they faced.

The engineer's sense of reason wanted to deny his feelings. Logic said that a mere twenty-plus marines and an engineer could not change history, but he could feel a cold wind every time he thought of the words Ayrlyn had composed, as though they echoed down the years ahead.





XXXV



IN THE NORTH tower yard, Nylan glanced from the armaglass panels up at the sky, where gray clouds twisted in and out and back upon each other as they churned their way southward, bringing moisture from the northern ocean.

Behind him Huldran and Cessya ground more lavastone for the mortar needed to finish the southern wall of the bath-house and the archway in its center that would lead to the north tower door. As the powder rose into the air, the intermittent cold breeze blew some of the fine dust toward the engineer.

Kkkchewww!!! He rubbed his nose and looked at the two marines, working in their threadbare and tattered uniforms. Then he checked the connections on the power cables, and the power levels on the scrambled bank of firin cells he was using-twenty-four percent.

He lowered the goggles over his eyes.

Baaa . . . aaaa . . . The sound of the sheep drifted around the tower. Nylan hoped someone knew something about sheep, because he didn't. They gave wool, but how did one shear it? Or turn the fleece into thread or wool or whatever got woven into cloth? There was something about stripping the oil from the wool, too. Saryn or Gerlich probably could slaughter them and dress them, but how many did they want to kill-if any? And when?