“Yes, Mightiness.” The white mage’s voice was even.
V
Nylan stepped from the smithy, even before Blynnal rang the chimes for the midday meal, squinting as the snow-reflected glare cascaded around him.
“Frigging bright,” mumbled Huldran as she stumbled out into the light after the smith.
“Sun and snow.” The smith nodded and began to walk downhill. Despite the comparative warmth and the disappearance of the snow and ice cover from the south side of the rocky cairns and some sections around the canyon mouths, he hadn’t seen any signs of snow lilies. Did that mean they’d have more spring snows? Or had the guards done something in their cultivation to kill off the lilies?
Nylan didn’t know. There was so much that they had yet to learn about this world. The similarities to Heaven-type worlds helped, but there were certainly differences, like the semideciduous trees that looked H-norm, but had green leaves that turned gray and curled up around the branchlets that held them. Only about half the leaves fell every year.
And the reference to Cyador had surprised Nylan. Ryba had intimated that the place was almost a throwback to the white demons of Rationalism, but again, in almost two years no traders or locals had mentioned Cyador. He’d never even heard the name before, and that kind of surprise bothered him. Had Ryba gotten another vision? He had begun to wish long before that her visions were not so devastatingly accurate.
“Did you ever hear the name Cyador?” he asked Huldran.
“Before the Marshal mentioned it the other day? No. Maybe the healer had, but no one else had, either, except for Ydrall, but she came from coins.”
“What did Ydrall know?”
“Not much more than Daryn, except that they don’t let traders in and that they keep their women locked up. They have trading stations at the borders-or they used to. Lornth had problems with Cyador years ago, and there hasn’t been much trading since. Ydrall didn’t know what kind of problems, though.”
A culture even harder on women than Lornth and those of the lands bordering Westwind? He shook his head, then rubbed his chin. He really needed a shave. He didn’t care for the local bearded look at all, but shaving with a blade, a real dagger-edge blade, had taken some learning, and not a few cuts along the way. Of course, some of the local recruits had wondered if he was actually a man, since he didn’t have a beard-as if hair made the man. He snorted.
As they reached the outer end of the causeway to the tower, Blynnal appeared and used the wooden mallet to hammer out a rough melody on the chimes that had replaced the old triangle. She wore a burlaplike apron over her gray trousers and tunic, and a jacket thrown over everything. The brunette smiled shyly at Nylan. “I do not have the touch of the healer, not with the songs, but I try.”
“You have the touch with the food,” the smith-engineer responded. “And we’re all very thankful for that.”
“It is good to have so many people who like what I cook. Dyemeni-he never liked anything.” Her eyes went to Nylan. “Would that all men were like you.” Then she smiled again. “Today, we have the noodles with the hot sauce, and the flat bread.”
“Good.” Nylan inadvertently licked his lips. When Blynnal said food was hot-it was spiced hot and then some.
“The tea is cold-for you.” Blynnal laughed, then struck the chimes again.
Huldran grinned and glanced at the smith.
“You’ll need that tea, too,” Nylan predicted.
“Probably, but it’s a lot better than the slop poor Kadran fixed.”
As Nylan walked into the entryway, Siret stood by the nursery with Kyalynn, waiting. Smiling at the tall silver-haired guard and mother of his other daughter, the smith wondered if the two silver-haired guards had an informal arrangement as to which child he would see before the noon meal. Still, he had to admit he looked forward to seeing the children, more than a little.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Sleepy. She was restless last night. Teeth, I think. Ayrlyn touched her, but there is no chaos, just a trace of white around her teeth. I felt it, but I wasn’t sure.”
Nylan cradled Kyalynn in his left arm, and she looked up with a yawn, the dark green eyes mirrors of her mother’s, her hands slowly reaching toward Nylan’s face. “Waaaa…dah!”
“Somehow, I don’t think she’s asking for water,” Nylan observed. “I’ll probably wake her up, and she’ll be cranky all night.”
“That won’t be any change from last night.”
“So you were a grumpy girl, and you kept your mother up all night, all the time. That wasn’t a nice thing to do…”
“Waaaa-daa-da…ooo…”
“No, it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.”
Kyalynn yawned again, as Nylan rocked her, then once more, and shut her eyes. Shortly, a snort and a soft snore followed.
“You can always get her to sleep,” said Siret.
“That’s true,” the smith said. “When I talk, I can put anyone to sleep, especially if I talk about building something.” But the building was done, mostly, and now he was a weapons smith, forging more destruction. Did it always take force and more force?
He walked slowly toward the nursery and the corner bed that was Kyalynn’s. There he eased her down, and patted her back gently for a moment, murmuring softly, until he was certain she would sleep.
Nylan glanced at the bed beside Kyalynn’s, and patted a sleeping Dyliess on the back for a moment. Half the time in the nursery he still felt amazed.
Antyl smiled from the inside corner where she nursed her own son Jakon, rocking slightly in the plain wooden rocker that all the guards had helped craft early in the long winter.
Istril was burping Weryl, but she studiously avoided looking at Siret or Nylan, confirming the smith’s suspicions about the oh-so-casual prearrangements.
Nylan and Siret eased out of the nursery and toward the great room.
“She still looks like you,” the engineer said quietly.
“She takes things in like you do. She sees them, and she doesn’t make a fuss, but she knows-I swore she could feel you healers when you worked on Llyselle’s hand. Her eyes got wide, and she just watched.”
“Could be,” mused Nylan, stopping at the end of the lowest table. The aromas of mint and spice and bread filled the room. “We both have the talent. You’ll have to be careful when she gets older.”
“She might be too sensitive? I’ve thought of that.” Siret nodded, then gestured. “I can see the Marshal’s waiting for you.” Her voice cooled.
Nylan smiled wryly, then wiped the smile away before turning and continuing toward the hearth and head table.
“How are the blades coming?” asked Ryba.
“I’m starting another. The one we finished yesterday is ready to sharpen.” Nylan stepped around Ryba’s chair and slid into his place on the bench next to Huldran.
“Another one?” groaned Saryn from across the table.
“Another one.” Nylan offered a bright smile. “And Huldran will have another finished late today or tomorrow.”
“Two?” Saryn shrugged, then wiped her steaming forehead. “You two keep this up, and we’ll have enough of those killer blades for a complete U.F.F. legion.”
“Isn’t that the idea?” asked the engineer, ladling out Blynnal’s noodles.
“I haven’t figured out any other way to stop the locals. Have you?” asked Ryba mildly.
Nylan shrugged. That was the problem with Ryba. While her answers to questions were usually right, they all too often involved the maximum application of force necessary before someone else did the same. And the few times when the angels hadn’t been able to apply such force had been near-disastrous. Had he avoided leadership because he didn’t like the preemptive use of force? Or because he knew it was necessary on the violent world where the angels had landed? Or both?