Skyfall by Catherine Asaro Page B

says the wind god came down before time began and exhaled his great breath on the mountain to make Windward.”
    “A good legend.” Roca could almost feel the weight of the millennia in the magnificent walls. She didn’t doubt the castle had endured for thousands of years. From what she had seen, these people had nothing close to the technology needed to carve a structure like this out of a mountain, isolate it on an island of stone, and have it survive for ages. The ancient Ruby colonists must have built Windward.
    Light glowed within its windows, a welcome sight as night fell, its arrival hastened by the heavy overcast. When Roca turned her face up to admire the castle towers, snow fell on her cheek.
    “Ah, no.” She brushed the flakes off her face. In accepting Eldri’s invitation, she had underestimated the problems of traveling in a primitive culture without the safeguards she took for granted. “Tell me this not snow season.”
    “Season?” Eldri asked.
    “Winter.”
    “What is winter?”
    “Cold time of year.”
    “Year?” He sounded bewildered.
    Roca pulled back the hair blowing across her face. “Does snow come more at some time than other time?”
    “It comes when it comes.” He slowed his lyrine as a boy crossed the courtyard to them. “We never know what the weather will be. Snow, ice, rain, sun.” After handing the reins to the boy, he slid off the lyrine.
    Roca jumped down beside him, then staggered as pain shot through her already sore legs. Her landing also jarred because she felt too heavy; although her node was analyzing the gravity and helping her adapt, it could only do so much.
    The “boy” who had come for the lyrine turned out to be a girl. She smiled shyly and led the animal away, toward a structure Roca guessed was a stable, mainly because other people were taking animals there. All the riders were accounted for—except one. Eldri stood watching the stablehands, his face shadowed as if he were searching for the animal—and rider—that were missing.
    Roca laid her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes.” He obviously wasn’t, but he tried to smile.
    Garlin came toward them, his long-legged stride eating up distance. He was about six feet tall, two inches taller than Roca, and he towered over the other men in the courtyard. Roca was the same height as Eldri, but she too stood taller than most of the men. The Lyshrioli people seemed shorter than Skolians, perhaps due to their diet or the heavy gravity.
    Garlin spoke in their language, ignoring Roca. Eldri gave him a look that reminded Roca of how she felt when her bodyguards hovered about. It didn’t surprise her that Garlin bothered him. The older man’s tension snapped against her mental shields; Garlin regretted that Eldri chaffed under his watchful eye, but he disliked Roca too much to back off. Perhaps he feared she would replace him in influence with the Bard. She had seen that dance of intrigue played out again and again among the noble Houses, as the aristocracy jockeyed for power. She didn’t trust Garlin. She wished it weren’t so important she return to the port in two days; she felt drawn to Eldri’s life and wanted to learn more.
    Turning to Roca, Eldri held out his hand, palm up, hinging it as if to cup the air for her. “I am sorry your introduction to my home comes with such grief.” Sadness had replaced his earlier cheer. “But I welcome you.”
    Roca took his hand. “Thank you.” It felt odd to hold such thick fingers and only four of them.
    Garlin spoke in their language, his voice low and taut, and Eldri shook his head. When Garlin persisted, Eldri scowled. Tightening his hold on Roca’s hand, he took his leave of Garlin and led Roca away. As they walked to the great double doors of the castle, she felt Garlin’s gaze like a laser burning into her back.
    Many people joined them inside the castle. Their faces lit up when they saw Eldri. An older woman in a homespun tunic and leggings