Fall of Angels (35 page)

  
"If he knew you cared, he would have driven a harder bargain."

  
"He only has one son," Sillek says quietly, his lips barely moving and his face impassive as Gethen and Zeldyan approach.

  
The lady Ellindyja shrugs. "All ventures are a gamble. Had young Relyn taken back the Roof of the World, Ser Gethen would have doubled his lands and influence. Now he must support you more. Sometimes luck is as important as skill."

  
"Your advice was the deciding factor, Mother dear," whispers Sillek just before he steps down off the dais platform to greet Gethen.

  
Gethen inclines his head.

  
Sillek offers a half bow. "Welcome to Lornth, Ser Gethen." He turns to Erenthla. "And to you, lady." His last bow, and his deepest, goes to Gethen's daughter. "And to you, Zeldyan. I am honored."

  
Although Zeldyan's face displays a polite smile, a tinge of a flush colors her cheeks as she curtseys in response.

  
"Not so honored as we are," responds Gethen formally, and loudly enough so that those even in the back of the hall can hear.

  
"You do offer me honor in entrusting your daughter into our family and care, and I assure you that she will in turn be honored and cherished," responds Sillek, turning his eyes from the father to the daughter.

  
Both Gethen and Ellindyja frown momentarily at the words "and cherished," while the white-haired Erenthla smiles briefly.

  
Zeldyan momentarily raises her eyes to Sillek, and they sparkle, before she drops them so quickly that not even Ellindyja sees.

  
"As a pledge of my trust," Sillek continues, "I offer you the seal ring of a counselor of Lornth."

  
A dark-haired youth, an armsman - to - be, steps forward with a small green pillow on which rests the golden ring.

  
"It is a token of my faith." Sillek's eyes are clear and direct as he faces Gethen, so direct that the older man pauses momentarily.

  
"You do me, and my daughter, great honor, Lord Sillek."

  
"Only your due, ser. And hers."

  
This time, at the untraditional reference to Zeldyan, Gethen does not frown, although the lady Ellindyja swallows.

  
A second young armsman approaches, with another pillow on which are two matching silver rings, each with a square emerald set in the center of a miniature seal of Lornth.

  
Sillek takes the smaller ring. "With this ring, I ask for your hand, lady, and with it, I pledge both my hand and my honor."

  
She extends her left hand, and Sillek slides the ring in place, adding quietly, "And my devotion."

  
Then it is Zeldyan's turn, and her voice is cool and firm, without bells, without brassiness, without softness. She lifts the larger ring, and Sillek extends his hand. "With this ring, I give you my hand, and accept your hand and your honor." As she slips the ring in place, her fingers tighten around his hand briefly, and she adds, "And give you the respect you deserve."

  
Gethen's eyes widen but fractionally, and then they cross with the lady Ellindyja's.

  
I Sillek's and Zeldyan's hands remain locked for several instants, before Sillek finally says, loudly enough for all in the hall to hear, "Two hands promised in honor."

 
 
"Two hands promised in honor!" the onlookers chorus.

  
Sillek steps onto the dais and draws Zeldyan up beside him. After a moment, he gestures, and Gethen and Erenthla join them. All smile except the lady Ellindyja.

XLI

THE DULL RUMBLE of thunder echoed across the Roof of the World, and a line of rain slashed at Tower Black. Water dribbled through the closed shutters of the great room, but not through the armaglass windows. The coals left from the morning fire imparted a residual warmth . . . and some smokiness, because Nylan had added the hearth after the walls had been started.

  
Nylan sipped the cup of leaf tea slowly, lingering past breakfast. With his head still aching two days after the laser had failed, he wondered if the bows had killed the power-heads earlier than necessary. He massaged his neck again and looked around the empty room. The guards had left the table and were working, either in the lower level of the tower, or in the stables, out of the cold rain that had fallen for two days straight.

  
The inside tower drains were working, at least, and water seemed to be filling the outfall, from what he could see out the front door. Nylan smiled, but the smile faded as he thought of the uncompleted bathhouse and unfinished outside conduits to the cistern. He should check those drains before long.

  
He wished he'd been able to roof and finish the bathhouse before the rain. The heating stove in the bathhouse was only half-built. With the laser gone, he'd have to mortar the plates for the water heater in place, but he couldn't do any more brick and stonework until the rain stopped, and the clouds outside were so dark they were almost black.

  
Nylan took another sip of the hot tea that tasted almost undrinkable, but seemed to help relax rigid muscles and relieve the worst of the headache, and massaged the back of his neck with his left hand once again.

  
The main tower door opened and then closed. A single figure stomped wet boots, then headed toward the tables.

  
"You look like manure." Ayrlyn slid onto the bench across the table from the engineer. Her short red hair was wet and plastered to her skull, and rivulets of water ran down her cheeks.

  
"Manure feels better. You look wet."

  
"The joys of trying to locate logs and timber before the weather turns really nasty. We need more deadwood for the furnace and kitchen stove. It cuts easier." Ayrlyn wiped the water off her face, but another rivulet coursed down her left cheek right afterward. "There's a lot of internal work this place needs. That means green wood, and it's a mess to cut."

  
Nylan's eyes rose to the blank stone walls, the unfinished shelves, and the lack of interior walls. "You could say that."

  
Ayrlyn studied Nylan. "You look like a worn-out engineer."

  
"You look like a soaked and worn-out artisan and singer." Nylan paused. "I never did tell you how effective that Westwind guard song was."

  
"It's a terrible song," protested Ayrlyn.

  
"That's why it's effective. Every anthem ever written is terrible, either melodically or because it's lyrically tear-jerking."

  
"You've made a study?"

  
"No . . . but the Sybran anthem . . . you know, 'the winters of time... the banners of ice...' Or how about the Svennish hymn to the mother? Or 'The Swift Ships of Heaven'? Have you really listened to the words?"

  
"Enough." Ayrlyn laughed. "Enough."

  
"All right... but what about the Akalyrr 'Song to the Father'?"

  
"Enough! I said enough."

  
Nylan sipped his tea, trying not to grimace.

  
"That good?"

  
"It helps. That's all I can say about it." He set the mug down again. "Have you learned anything new from our friend Relyn?"

  
Ayrlyn glanced toward the end of the great room. "He's learning how to use that hand, but he still feels crippled- and angry. He's confused, too, because he owes allegiance to this Lord Sillek, yet he feels he was tricked. He also doesn't think much of Narliat... or of Gerlich, for that matter."

  
"He has good taste," Nylan said. "Has he told you anything new that we didn't know about this planet?"

  
"It's hard to say." Ayrlyn frowned. "He pretty much agrees with Narliat's story about the landing of the demons, and so does Hryessa. She's taken to Saryn, by the way. She sees Ryba as a goddess, and she can't relate to a goddess. Saryn's merely a mighty warrior. Hryessa also tells the demon story a little differently-the demons are the patrons of men and of the wizards, and white is the color of destruction here."

  
"Why wouldn't it be?" asked Nylan. "The demons of light are white."

 
 
"In a lot of cultures, especially low-tech ones, white means purity. It was in ancient Svenn, and in Etalyarr. Here, darkness is pure, and there's not much emphasis on cleanliness. All wizards are men, obviously."

  
"Wonderful." Nylan glanced toward the door and the stairs, but the great room remained empty save for them.

  
"Black wizards are rare. That's why Hryessa will look at you."

  
"Because I'm rare?"

  
"Because they all think you're a black wizard." Ayrlyn smiled.

  
"How would they know? I don't even know why what I do works."

  
"For Relyn, Hryessa, and Narliat, it's simple. White wizards throw firebolts without using tools or weapons. White wizards destroy people and things. Black wizards build things, like towers, tools, and weapons. Or heal. You build. So you're a black wizard." Ayrlyn shrugged. "You also have silver hair, and none of the white wizards do. They aren't sure about black wizards, since there aren't many."

  
"If I have to be one or the other, I guess it's better to be black." Nylan took another sip of the tea, trying not to make a face, then set the earthenware mug-a recent addition from Rienadre and the brick kiln-down and massaged his neck. "Your healing makes you a black wizard, too."

  
"I don't know that I'm any wizard ..."

  
"You're a healer."

  
"A minor black wizard, then. Very minor."

  
Ayrlyn offered a quick smile, then continued. "Relyn seems to think that this Lord Sillek has his hands full. His western neighbor, a charming fellow named Ildyrom, has been trying to take over some grasslands. Young Sillek also is being choked by his northern neighbor. Relyn doesn't understand the government there, but it sounds like a form of council run by big traders. They hold the river near the Northern Ocean and all the ports."

  
"So he's got trouble on all sides?"

  
"According to Relyn. Narliat says it's not that bad, and all Hryessa knows is that food has gotten scarcer. Oh, Relyn also says that no one likes fighting the westerners-Jeranyi, I think they're called-because the women fight alongside the men."

  
"Rather chauvinistic culture."

  
"I'd say that's the rule, mostly. It's a warm planet."

  
"What does warmth have to do with male chauvinism?"

  
"It doesn't necessarily, except that women handle extreme cold better than men. Look at Heaven, where women have more than half the government. Some anthropologists theorize that cold tolerance is the whole basis of the Sybran culture." Ayrlyn spread her hands.

  
"Do these Jeranyi come from a cold culture? I didn't recall any mountains there."

  
"No. Maybe there's some other reason."

  
"Anything else?"

  
"He's given me a lot about local customs, trade, that sort of thing, but it's background. Helpful, but background. The other thing is that this Lord Sillek doesn't have an heir, or any surviving siblings. That bothered Relyn."

  
"Probably civil war if Sillek dies," mused Nylan. "Two out of three says this Sillek's definitely got his hands full." He looked down at the rapidly cooling tea and wondered if he could force himself to drink any more.

  
"That's my reading, but we're only going on what we've seen, and that isn't much, plus the in-depth reports of three locals, and the offhand remarks of traders." Ayrlyn blotted a thin line of water from her neck below her right ear. "Rain looks like it's never going to stop."

  
"It's probably snowing on the mountaintops." Nylan looked toward the windows, then swung his feet over the bench. "Time to check the drains."

  
"Drains?"

  
"The little details, like keeping the tower from being washed away. The things that get forgotten in the sagas of heroes and heroic deeds."

  
"Still bitter about that?"

  
"A little." He snorted. "But it's time to go get wet."

  
"I'm going to dry off some before I go back out there."

  
"I haven't been out, and I should have been." The engineer stood and carried the mug down to the north door of the tower, where he washed it in the one bucket, rinsed it in the other, and racked it in the peeled-limb framework leaned against the stone wall. The second slot in the upper left was his.

  
Then he closed his jacket and eased open the north door, which not only squeaked, but scraped against the floor stones. A blast of rain slewed across him, but he hurried out and closed the door behind him.

  
The water resistance of his ship jacket wouldn't last long, but he wanted to check the drains in the uncompleted bathhouse. The last thing he wanted was the rain undercutting the walls or their foundation.

  
A roll of thunder followed another line of what seemed solid water that hit Nylan just as he ducked through the half-covered archway and into the unroofed bathhouse.

  
"Oh . . . frig!"

  
The water was already ankle-deep. Nylan plodded forward toward the first drain where he could sense some drainage. He pushed back his sleeves and thrust his hands into the water, ignoring the chill, feeling around, and finally finding a chunk of brick. He pulled that out of the mud, only to have something sharp scrape the back of his left hand. He heaved the fragment over the wall and bent down again, fishing through the muddy water and coming up with a long shard of slate. He threw that outside the walls and looked at his hand.