Part III - THE SPRING OF WESTWIND
LXXII
IN THE COLD starlight, the short man struggles through the knee-deep snow, snow that is heavy and damp, that clings to everything but his leathers. The snow glistens with a whiteness that provides enough light for him to continue. His boots crunch through the icy crust covering the road that will not be used by others for at least another handful of eight-days.
The soft sound of wings mixes with the light breeze that sifts through the limbs of the pines and firs, and a dark shadow crosses the sky, then dives into a distant clearing.
The traveler shivers, but his feet keep moving, mechanically, as if he is afraid to stop.
Occasionally, he glances back over his shoulder, as though he flees from someone, but his tracks remain the only ones on the slow-melting snow. On his back he carries a pack, nearly empty.
As he lifts one foot and then the other, his mittened fingers touch the outline of the cylindrical object in the pouch that swings around his neck under jacket, tunic, and shirt. He tries not to shiver as he thinks of the object, instead continuing to concentrate on reaching the warmer lands beyond the Westhorns, the lower lands where the heights do not freeze a man into solid ice.
He puts one foot in front of the other.
LXXIII
NYLAN GLANCED FROM the bed to the half-open tower window. Outside, the sun shone across the snowfields, and rivulets formed pathways on the snow, draining off the grainy white surface and into the now-slushy roads and pathways. In a few scattered places, the brown of earth, the dark gray of rock, or the bleached tan of dead grass peered through the disappearing snow cover. Despite the carpet of fir branches, much of the road from the tower up to the stables was more quagmire than path.
The east side of the tower was half ringed with meltwater that froze at night and cleared by day, so much that from the eastern approach to the causeway, the tower resembled the moated castle that Nylan had rejected building.
His eyes flicked from the window back to Ryba, whose own eyes were glazed with concentration and the effort of measured breathing. On the other side of the lander couch stood Ayrlyn, her fingers resting lightly on Ryba's enlarged abdomen. Beside her was Jaseen.
"I'm hot," panted the marshal.
The joined couches had been moved toward the window because the ice and snow melting off the slate stone roof had revealed more than a few leaks that dripped down into the top level of the tower.
Nylan used the clean but tattered cloth to blot the dampness off Ryba's face, then put his hand on her forehead.
"That feels good."
"Good," affirmed Nylan.
"Just a gentle push ... gentle . . ."
"Hurts ... tight. .." the marshal responded. "Dyliess?"
"She's doing fine, Ryba," said Ayrlyn.
"I'm ... not..." Ryba shivered. "Cold now."
After he drew the blankets around her shoulders, Nylan blotted Ryba's damp forehead again. "Easy," he said. "You're doing fine, too."
"Easy ... for you ... to say."
"I know." Nylan kept his tone light, although, with his perceptions, he could sense that Ryba's labor was going well, if any labor, and the effort and pain involved, could be said to be going well.
"Push ... a little harder."
"Am pushing ..."
"Stop..."
". . . tell me to push, then not push . . . make up your mind.. ."
Nylan held back an inadvertent grin at Ryba's asperity.
"We're trying to do this with as little stress on you and Dyliess as possible."
".. . little stress?"
Jaseen nodded, but said nothing.
Nylan patted away the sweat on Ryba's forehead, then squeezed her arm gently.
"Push!" demanded Ayrlyn.
The marshal pushed, turning red.
"You have to breathe, too," reminded Ayrlyn after the push.
"Hot..." gasped Ryba.
Nylan eased the blankets away from her shoulders.
"All right... get ready .. ," said Ayrlyn.
Through it all, Nylan stood by, occasionally touching Ryba, infusing a sense of order, though that order was not essential. In the end, a small head crowned, and Jaseen eased the small bloody figure into the light, and onto the Roof of the World.
"In a bit, you'll need to push again," said Ayrlyn.
"I... know ... let me see her," panted Ryba.
When the cord was tied and cut, Ayrlyn eased the small figure onto Ryba's chest. Dyliess seemed to look around, then turned toward her mother's breast, her mouth opening and fastening in place.
"You little piglet," murmured Ryba.
"Like her mother," affirmed Nylan. "She's concentrating on what's important."
His senses extended over his daughter, taking in the hair that would be silver and the narrower face that was also from his Svennish heritage. In some ways, almost, she felt like Kyalynn, Siret's silver-haired daughter.
Nylan swallowed, then looked away toward the window, back out to the spring, and the melting snow, back out to the few green shoots that hurried through the patches of white.
Not now, he thought, not now, and he forced a smile, which turned into a real one as he watched Dyliess, even though his chest was tight, and a sense of chaos swirled through his thoughts.
"They're both fine," Ayrlyn affirmed.
Jaseen nodded.
Ryba's eyes closed, a half-smile on her face.
LXXIV
"DON'T WE KNOW where we're heading? Or when?" Hissl walks to the barracks door. By looking out and down the street, he can see the haze of light green-the grasslands that stretch all the way from Clynya to the South Branch of the River Jeryna.
Koric shrugs. "Lord Sillek is not telling anyone. We know we will be moving against either Lord Ildyrom or against those angels on the Roof of the World. One way or the other ... we have to be ready."
"He hasn't said?" asks the white wizard.
"No. Rimmur said he almost took off his head for asking." Koric laughs. "I can't say as I blame Lord Sillek. If people knew where or when, they'd be ready, and our armsmen would be killed. As it is, everyone's waiting for him to make a mistake, any mistake. Everyone talks. You know how hard it is to keep things quiet. Ildyrom probably has spies in every tavern in Clynya, and a few other places as well, if you know as to what I mean."
"Yes, I know." Hissl smiles faintly.
"You seen any sign of the Jeranyi, yet, in your glass?" Koric asks.
"Not anywhere close to the grasslands, but the grass is short, and the way's still muddy."
"Could they come up the river? Don't you wizards have trouble with running water?" Koric fingers the hilt of the big blade on the bench before him.
' "I can see what's on the water, not what's in it or under it. But they wouldn't swim all the way upstream from Berlitos." Hissl forces a chuckle.
"No, Wizard, I guess they wouldn't. But you be looking for them. I wouldn't want any surprises. Neither would Lord Sillek."
"I'll be looking," Hissl replies. "I'll certainly be looking"