lowest-level room in the tower- in the corner of the woodworking area, sitting on a stool and practicing chords on her lutar. She was not singing, and her eyes were puffy.
“I kept looking for you,” he said, shifting Dyliess.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Ouuuu,” mimicked Dyliess.
“There's nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, there is.”
“What?” Ayrlyn's voice was flat.
“What about last night? Why? And why wouldn't you come to breakfast?”
“Because...” Ayrlyn took a deep breath. “I don't like sharing you, but I can't do what Ryba did. First, there's no technology left, and, second, I wouldn't trick you. It's not easy.” The healer took a deep shuddering breath. “Her daughter will be all Istril really ever has, you know? How could I deny her that? You've saved her life twice, and she worships you, and it ... it has to be more personal . . .” Tears oozed from the corners of the healer's deep brown eyes.
“What about Weryl?” Nylan shook his head. “I'm missing something. A lot of somethings.” He reached out and took her hand with his left hand, the free one. “That can wait. I've been thinking ...”
“About time...” Ayrlyn swallowed once, twice, then spoke again. “How long can Istril count on Weryl staying in Westwind with Ryba's distrust of men? Until he's fifteen or twenty and slips off?” Ayrlyn coughed, trying to clear her throat. “He is your son. Do you really think he'll buy all of Ryba's propaganda? Especially with all the legends about you?”
“You talk as if I won't be there.”
“You won't. You and Ryba barely tolerate each other. Everyone sees it, but no one says anything. Ryba still needs more blades, and you feel responsible for Dyliess, and Weryl, and Kyalynn. How long can you hang in there for the children before . . .” The flame-haired healer shook her head. “Nylan ... you're sweet, but you're dense about some things.”
“I know. I know.” Nylan glanced toward the end of the room where Murkassa entered, along with two other new guards-one called Jiess, Nylan thought. “Let's take a walk.”
“Now?”
“Now,” the smith insisted. “Or as soon as I can hand Dyliess over to Antyl for a little bit.”
“Just a moment.” Ayrlyn eased the lutar into the case and then set the case up on one of the empty shelves that had held planks and timber earlier in the winter. “I'll meet you at the end of the causeway. Don't be long, or I'll freeze solid.”
“It's spring.”
“I'll freeze half-solid.”
“I'll hurry.”
Nylan trudged back up to the nursery and looked around, finally seeing Antyl in the corner nearest the north door that led to the bathhouse and laundry.
“Be wondering how long afore you'd be here,” said the mahogany-haired woman, extending her arms to Dyliess. “Jakon misses the silver-heads. He be telling when they're not here. So's Dephnay. It's like they reassure the others. Like you do, ser.”
Part of their heritage? An earlier manifestation of sensitivity to the order fields-the black “magic” of Candar?
“Me?” asked Nylan involuntarily.
“You and the flame-healer. And the other silvertops. People settle down round you. Except the Marshal, but she's the Angel, and that's different. Don't know as to what some of us had done, weren't for Westwind. Now, don't ye be minding me. Your little ones be fine.”
Nylan smiled and headed for the main door to the tower- the south door, pausing as Llyselle passed, carrying in an armload of stove wood for Blynnal.
“How's the hand?” he asked.
“Almost healed.” The silver-haired guard shook her head. “So stupid. I just took my eyes off the saw an instant. You survive battles, and almost lose a hand to a saw, a frigging handsaw.”
“It happens.”
“It's still stupid, but I was
“I kept looking for you,” he said, shifting Dyliess.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Ouuuu,” mimicked Dyliess.
“There's nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, there is.”
“What?” Ayrlyn's voice was flat.
“What about last night? Why? And why wouldn't you come to breakfast?”
“Because...” Ayrlyn took a deep breath. “I don't like sharing you, but I can't do what Ryba did. First, there's no technology left, and, second, I wouldn't trick you. It's not easy.” The healer took a deep shuddering breath. “Her daughter will be all Istril really ever has, you know? How could I deny her that? You've saved her life twice, and she worships you, and it ... it has to be more personal . . .” Tears oozed from the corners of the healer's deep brown eyes.
“What about Weryl?” Nylan shook his head. “I'm missing something. A lot of somethings.” He reached out and took her hand with his left hand, the free one. “That can wait. I've been thinking ...”
“About time...” Ayrlyn swallowed once, twice, then spoke again. “How long can Istril count on Weryl staying in Westwind with Ryba's distrust of men? Until he's fifteen or twenty and slips off?” Ayrlyn coughed, trying to clear her throat. “He is your son. Do you really think he'll buy all of Ryba's propaganda? Especially with all the legends about you?”
“You talk as if I won't be there.”
“You won't. You and Ryba barely tolerate each other. Everyone sees it, but no one says anything. Ryba still needs more blades, and you feel responsible for Dyliess, and Weryl, and Kyalynn. How long can you hang in there for the children before . . .” The flame-haired healer shook her head. “Nylan ... you're sweet, but you're dense about some things.”
“I know. I know.” Nylan glanced toward the end of the room where Murkassa entered, along with two other new guards-one called Jiess, Nylan thought. “Let's take a walk.”
“Now?”
“Now,” the smith insisted. “Or as soon as I can hand Dyliess over to Antyl for a little bit.”
“Just a moment.” Ayrlyn eased the lutar into the case and then set the case up on one of the empty shelves that had held planks and timber earlier in the winter. “I'll meet you at the end of the causeway. Don't be long, or I'll freeze solid.”
“It's spring.”
“I'll freeze half-solid.”
“I'll hurry.”
Nylan trudged back up to the nursery and looked around, finally seeing Antyl in the corner nearest the north door that led to the bathhouse and laundry.
“Be wondering how long afore you'd be here,” said the mahogany-haired woman, extending her arms to Dyliess. “Jakon misses the silver-heads. He be telling when they're not here. So's Dephnay. It's like they reassure the others. Like you do, ser.”
Part of their heritage? An earlier manifestation of sensitivity to the order fields-the black “magic” of Candar?
“Me?” asked Nylan involuntarily.
“You and the flame-healer. And the other silvertops. People settle down round you. Except the Marshal, but she's the Angel, and that's different. Don't know as to what some of us had done, weren't for Westwind. Now, don't ye be minding me. Your little ones be fine.”
Nylan smiled and headed for the main door to the tower- the south door, pausing as Llyselle passed, carrying in an armload of stove wood for Blynnal.
“How's the hand?” he asked.
“Almost healed.” The silver-haired guard shook her head. “So stupid. I just took my eyes off the saw an instant. You survive battles, and almost lose a hand to a saw, a frigging handsaw.”
“It happens.”
“It's still stupid, but I was
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