Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(91)

For never will guards lose the heights of the sky,

And never can Westwind this Legend deny...

And never can Westwind this Legend deny.



The words echoed softly in the great room, and the wind that hurled the snow against the shutters and windows supplied a backdrop of off-rhythm percussion.

The four armaglass windows in the great hall provided the only exterior light, and that illumination was diminished by the storm and the snow that had gathered in the outside window ledges and half covered each with snow. Snow sifted through the windows that had but shutters and built into miniature drifts on the stone ledges, drifts occasionally swirled by the gusts that forced their way around the edges of the shutters and sent thin tendrils of freezing air across the room.

Nylan waited until Ayrlyn stopped and looked up before he spoke. "That's a haunting melody."

"It should carry the words well enough." Ayrlyn's voice was cool, measured. "That's what she wants."

"Ryba?" Nylan eased himself onto the bench on the other side of the table from the redhead.

"Who else wants songs? Most people work on firewood, food"-she laughed softly-"or bathhouses and towers. I still have to do other things. Skis are what Saryn and I have been doing, but the song comes first, or, at least, not last." Ayrlyn paused. "You haven't made your skis or even tried skiing. That's going to make it hard on you. Even Siret's been out, and in her condition, balancing isn't easy."

"Do I have to?"

"Of course not. You can stay inside all winter or walk the two trails we can keep packed. Anyway ... I wish I could have spent more time learning the skiing, but Ryba wanted the songs."

The engineer frowned. "She's trying to build a culture, in a hurry."

"I don't object to that. Songs have always been part of any culture, and we need some sort of verbal reminder..." Ayrlyn paused. "I just don't know that I like what I'm doing. The words are as much hers as mine, and ... I just don't know."

"The guards seem to like them."

"Do you?"

The directness of the question stopped Nylan, and he pulled at his chin, then licked his lips. Finally, he answered. "They're too harsh." Then he shrugged. "But people only respond to strength, or force, whether that force is in song or a blade."

"Whether they're angels or demons."

Nylan nodded.

"So the great marshal will use every tool offeree necessary."

"I don't see that we've had much choice. Mran, Gerlich, Relyn, bandits ... all of them wanted to force things their way."

"That's a sad comment on so-called intelligent beings." Ayrlyn glanced toward the stairwell. "So... I'll sing this one tonight, after the evening meal. It should please the marshal."

"You're angry."

"It doesn't matter, does it? She's right. This world needs changing. Even I see that. What if I'm just a tool in the process?"

"We're all tools."

"You like that?" asked the redhead.

"No. But you have to survive before you can get beyond being a tool. I just haven't figured out how to get that far."

Ayrlyn shook her head. "I'll see you later, fellow tool. Now that this task is done, it's back to the mundane business of crafting and carving skis." Ayrlyn stood. "You too should join us."

"In what?"

"Making skis and learning to use them."

"Me? I've never skied."

"If you don't want to be walled behind these stones all winter, you'd better learn, and you can't learn if you don't have skis." Ayrlyn picked up the lutar. "It might make it less necessary for you to be a tool."

"That's a great choice. Be imprisoned for half the year or learn to do the unnatural in the middle of powdered ice so cold that walking over it will freeze your breath into ice crystals."

"It's a choice." Ayrlyn lifted her eyebrows, before heading toward the stairwell.

It was a choice. Not the best of choices, but a choice, like all the other choices that seemed to face Nylan.

As Ayrlyn carried her lutar down the stairs to the lower level, another set of steps sounded, coming from the bathhouse. Nylan waited, watched, until Relyn stepped into the great room.

"I hoped I would find you, mage."

Nylan gestured to the table. "Sit down." He sat without waiting for Relyn to do so.

Relyn eased onto the bench, actually using the blunt, half-hooked end of the metal hand to balance, although Nylan caught the wince as the other put too much pressure on the still-tender stump.

"That replacement will take getting used to, I'm afraid," Nylan said. "And it will probably be cold outside unless you cover it. The metal will pick up the chill. I didn't think about that when I crafted it."

Relyn waited for a moment, saying nothing. As the wind rattled the shutters, and more snow sifted onto the inner casement ledges of the windows, he finally spoke. "The hunter ... he says that you are not really a mage. Is that true?" Relyn struggled with the Sybran/Heaven Temple tongue.

"Gerlich?" Nylan shrugged. "That depends on what you mean by a mage. Can I throw firebolts the way your wizards can? No. Can I tear apart things? No. If that's what you mean by a mage, I'm not, and I never said I was."