“Wise? I would think not,” says Ellindyja as the needlecompletes another loop of green comprising the leaf. “For my son has less of his heritage than his father.”
“I am confident that situation will change, my lady, and that the greatness of Lornth will increase.”
“With enemies on three sides, Lady Zeldyan?”
“While I would certainly defer to those who understand arms and other weapons far better than I do, I have great faith in my lord Sillek.” Zeldyan pauses. “And great faith that you will offer counsel to him.”
“I have always attempted to be of service to the Lords of Lornth, to his father, and to Sillek.” Ellindyja completes the small leaf, knots the thread, and rethreads the needle with crimson.
The faint whine of the late fall wind rattles the closed tower window, but neither woman looks to it.
“And you have,” responds Zeldyan. “You surely have.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Ellindyja knots the crimson thread and makes the first stitch in the small segment of the linen that will be a drop of blood. “I understand that your father has remained here in Lornth for a time.”
“He plans to leave for Carpa tomorrow, now that he has seen me safely joined to Sillek.”
“And your mother?”
“She will arrive to see you presently. I prevailed upon her to allow me a few moments with you to convey my respects.”
“You know, my dear, Sillek may have been even wiser than I had thought. Together we might be of great assistance to him.” The crimson stitches bring the hint of arterial blood to the linen.
“My lord Sillek respects you greatly, Lady Ellindyja, and I would prefer not to intrude upon that bond or that trust. I would be most happy for any and all advice that you might have.”
“As I said, Lady Zeldyan, Sillek chose wisely.” Ellindyja’s voice is dry, but she holds the needle still for a moment. “I would trust that you might pay some heed to the possibility of ensuring the succession of Lornth.”
Zeldyan bows slightly. “I would like nothing better, my lady.”
A muffled thrap sounds on the door.
“That would be your mother, I presume?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“If you would be so kind as to bid her enter?” Ellindyja’s needle flashes again as Zeldyan steps toward the door.
“But, of course. She has looked forward to seeing you for some seasons.” Zeldyan smiles and opens the door.
“Cakes and sweets should be arriving shortly,” announces Ellindyja, “for the three of us. I had hoped we might converse.” She stands and sets aside the embroidery hoop. “Erenthla!”
The heavier white-haired woman bends forward and brushes Zeldyan’s cheek with her lips before stepping fully into the room and responding. “Ellindyja, I am so pleased to see you.”
Zeldyan closes the door and, with a faint smile, stands, waiting.
II. THE WINTER
XLVII
AS HE WALKED back from the bathhouse, and the jakes he was getting gladder and gladder about having completed, Nylan pulled down the ship jacket that had a tendency to ride up over the lined leather trousers. The lining consisted of the synthetic material left from his tattered work shipsuit, inexpertly stitched in place. The combination was warmer than the shipsuit, and certainly less drafty.
In the archway between the bathhouse and the tower, just before the closed north door, ice was already forming on the walls, from the collected and frozen condensation of the breath of those who passed through, and from the moisture coming from the completed showers.
“Too far from the furnace or the water-heating stove.” The engineer opened the north door and then closed it behind him, his fingers tingling from the chill metal latch-not quite cold enough to freeze skin to it.
He could sense the residual warmth from the furnace ducts as he walked into the great room, although he could tell from the lack of air motion that no logs had been added to the firebox recently.
He stopped at the staircase when he saw Ayrlyn bent over her lutar. For a time, he listened to the soft words which she half-sang, half-hummed.
On the Roof of the World, all covered with white,
I took up my blade there, and I brought back the night.
With a blade in each hand, there, and the stars at my boots,
With the Legend in song, then, I set down my roots.
The demons have claimed you, forever in light,
But the darkness of order will put them to flight,
Will break them in twain, soon, and return you your pride,
For the Legend is kept by the blade at your side.
The blade at your side, now, must always be bright,
and the Legend we hold to is that of the right.
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 of force 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?”