Her hand squeezed his. "Me too, Rudi. Oh, God, how I wish we could!"
"But I can't. My fate… is. All I can control is how I meet it-whether I can make it mean something."
"Your father's did," she said.
Rudi nodded. "But my father didn't believe in fate; he laughed at it and at the gods. He didn't know the story he was in-and I'm thinking that made it easier for him. I must walk the road with my eyes open, and renew my consent to it every moment."
Something splashed on his hand. He turned his head; she was holding his hand between both of hers, tears falling silently. With an effort he freed himself and cupped his palm against her cheek; she turned and kissed the palm.
"Och, darlin', all men are born fey," he said. "It's your part in this I regret even more. For I know now that a long life would be sweet with you, and if you and I are together, it will be to your sorrow."
Mathilda took a long breath. "I don't believe in fate," she said. "We make our own. Well, there's the will of God, but that's not the same thing."
Rudi sighed. I have to tell her, he thought. But I don't have to work to convince her. Honor's not that demanding a mistress.
"Right now the only path you've got to walk is the one marked recover y. Or health! " she said, and he could feel her pushing foreknowledge away.
"Now, that's true, and there's no doubting it." He closed his eyes.
Strange folk, Christians, he thought. Aloud: "Would you mind singing that song for me again?"
She nodded, and began; there was a quaver in her voice at first, but it strengthened into the soft melody:
"Oh, Ladies, bring your flowers fair
Fresh as the morning dew
In virgin white, and through the night
I will make sweet love to you
The petals soon grow soft and fall
Upon which we may rest;
With gentle sigh I'll softly lie
My head upon your breast."
Very quietly, he began to sing along with it, more a suggestion than real sound:
"… And dreams like many wondrous flowers
Will blossom from our sleep
With steady arm, from any harm
My lover I will keep!
Through soft spring days and summer's haze
I will be with you till when
As fall draws near, I disappear till spring has come again!"
He closed his eyes and smiled. "Ah, that was a breath of home. Now tell me of your problems and worries, my heart's friend."
She laughed softly, that gurgling chuckle he'd always liked. Not even the fact that it was her mother's laugh could hide the warmth in it.
" My worst problem is boredom," she said. "I've been sparring-"
This time his sigh was pure sea-green envy. To move again!
"And reading in the library here, and talking with the monks, and sitting with Mary a little-she's recovering fast, now."
"How are the others taking it?"
"Pretty well. Odard…"
Rudi chuckled; as he did, he felt sleep coming over him, fading the world-the low shsshs of snow against the window, the muted howl of the wind, the low friendly rippling sound from the closed stove.
"Odard's not a bad sort," he murmured drowsily. "He's just a bit of an asshole at times."
His eyelids fluttered downward. He felt Matti bend to kiss him lightly on the forehead, but her last words faded away.
"Actually, the problem is that he's a lot less of an asshole these days."
Mary rose from the refectory table and wobbled a little. Ingolf stepped in, not reaching for her but putting his steadying presence close enough for her to grab if she had to. The corridor outside was a lot darker and colder than the dining hall; it was a relief to get to the room the two young women shared, which had its own stove. He helped her into bed and pulled up the blankets while Ritva opened the iron door, tossed in a couple of chunks of wood from the basket and then closed it and adjusted the flue. It was an air-tight model based on a pre-Change type, and it could keep the little room at something they all considered good enough-though he'd noticed back home that older people thought that range of temperatures a bit cool for comfort.
There was a heating element on top for boiling water, too. Ritva put the kettle on, and added herbs when it began to jet steam; the willow-bark tea eased the ache and itch of her sister's healing wound.
Time to do my bit, Ingolf thought, and took the lute from a corner and tuned it. And hell, I'm bored.
Winter was the stay-indoors season at home too, but there was always enough to keep the dismals at bay: making things, fixing things, looking after the stock, practicing with arms, some hunting now and then, and the Sheriffs and Farmers visited back and forth, having the leisure and the means for it. Sometimes they'd get sleds and go for a long trip down the frozen river…
And there's making music and telling stories, he thought with a wry smile, and went on aloud: "Like a song?"
Mary smiled and relaxed. "Something from your home," she said.
He started in on one: "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," and then "Northwest Passage." Then he passed the lute to Ritva; she was only passable at playing, but had a fine singing voice, and she did one of the Dunedain songs. He didn't get more than one word in three, but he had to admit that the language was pretty as all hell.
"Tell me more about Readstown," Mary said, when the tune-from something called the Narn i Chin Hurin -was finished.
"Readstown?" Ingolf said, surprised. "Well, it's in the valley of the Kickapoo. The Injuns named it that before white men came there, and it means goes here, then there. That's one twisty river! Just about the right size for a canoe, most of it, but it gets bigger as it goes south and joins the Wisconsin. Sometimes the cliffs close in, and you're between these walls of red sandstone covered with moss, and other places they open out, and the fields go rolling away to the woods and hills and the forests-"
He could see it as he spoke; the flame of autumn on the ridges, the silk of the cornfields yellow with October; the smoke rising from the chimneys of strong stolid yeomen, the smell of the dark, damp turned earth behind the oxen in spring… the ache surprised him, and he was glad to fall silent.
Ritva was reading from the Histories-the Creation of the World, which was more interesting than the Bible version-when Odard came in.
They all looked up at him; a drift of cold air came in with him, and he was wearing his outdoor gear-quilted wool pants and a sheepskin jacket with the fleece turned in, and a hood with a flap that hid most of the face. Snow dripped off him as he triumphantly set the basket he carried on the table at the foot of the bed. It was wrapped in a thick blanket and tied with string; he couldn't get the knots undone and stood blowing on his fingers near the stove while Ingolf picked them free.
"Well, well, well!" the Richlander said, as a savory smell followed the unwrapping; there were a couple of heated bricks in there too, to keep things warm.
His mouth watered. He liked meat too, when he could get it. The Kickapoo was good livestock country, the forests there were thick with game, and he'd been raised a Sheriff's son, after all, in a family who were lords of broad acres and many herds.
"BBQ pork sandwiches," the Portlander nobleman said. " And some fried chicken. And…"
He pulled out four beer bottles, pre-Change glass with modern wood-and-wax plugs.
"Not everybody's a Buddhist around here," he said triumphantly. " And not all the Buddhists are as pure about it as the monks and nuns. There were plenty of them at Ford's Cowboy Khyentse Bar and Grill down in the town."
"You must have been hungry, to go outside in that," Ritva said.
The window vibrated in its frame to illustrate her point, and there were trickles of cold air despite all the thick log walls could do. Odard peeled himself out of his integuments with an effort and then stacked them outside the door-the room was big enough for two beds, but not much more.