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gathered in the outside window ledges and half covered each with snow. Snow
sifted through the windows that had but shutters and built into miniature
drifts on the stone ledges, drifts occasionally swirled by the gusts that
forced their way around the edges of the shutters and sent thin tendrils of
freezing air across the room.
Nylan waited until Ayrlyn stopped and looked up before he spoke.  That s a
haunting melody.
 It should carry the words well enough. Ayrlyn s voice was cool, measured.
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 That s what she wants.
 Ryba? Nylan eased himself onto the bench on the other side of the table
from the redhead.
 Who else wants songs? Most people work on firewood, food -she laughed
softly- or bathhouses and towers. I still have to do other things. Skis are
what Saryn and I have been doing, but the song comes first, or, at least, not
last. Ayrlyn paused.  You haven t made your skis or even tried skiing. That s
going to make it hard on you. Even Siret s been out, and in her condition,
balancing isn t easy.
 Do I have to?
 Of course not. You can stay inside all winter or walk the two trails we
can keep packed. Anyway& I wish I could have spent more time learning the
skiing, but Ryba wanted the songs.
The engineer frowned.  She s trying to build a culture, in a hurry.
 I don t object to that. Songs have always been part of any culture, and we
need some sort of verbal reminder&  Ayrlyn paused.  I just don t know that I
like what I m doing. The words are as much hers as mine, and& I just don t
know.
 The guards seem to like them.
 Do you?
The directness of the question stopped Nylan, and he pulled at his chin,
then licked his lips. Finally, he answered.  They re too harsh. Then he
shrugged.  But people only respond to strength, or force, whether that force
is in song or a blade.
 Whether they re angels or demons.
Nylan nodded.
 So the great marshal will use every tool offeree necessary.
 I don t see that we ve had much choice. Mran, Gerlich, Relyn, bandits& all
of them wanted to force things their way.
 That s a sad comment on so-called intelligent beings. Ayrlyn glanced
toward the stairwell.  So& I ll sing this one tonight, after the evening meal.
It should please the marshal.
 You re angry.
 It doesn t matter, does it? She s right. This world needs changing. Even I
see that. What if I m just a tool in the process?
 We re all tools.
 You like that? asked the redhead.
 No. But you have to survive before you can get beyond being a tool. I just
haven t figured out how to get that far.
Ayrlyn shook her head.  I ll see you later, fellow tool. Now that this task
is done, it s back to the mundane business of crafting and carving skis.
Ayrlyn stood.  You too should join us.
 In what?
 Making skis and learning to use them.
 Me? I ve never skied.
 If you don t want to be walled behind these stones all winter, you d
better learn, and you can t learn if you don t have skis. Ayrlyn picked up
the lutar.  It might make it less necessary for you to be a tool.
 That s a great choice. Be imprisoned for half the year or learn to do the
unnatural in the middle of powdered ice so cold that walking over it will
freeze your breath into ice crystals.
 It s a choice. Ayrlyn lifted her eyebrows, before heading toward the
stairwell.
It was a choice. Not the best of choices, but a choice, like all the other
choices that seemed to face Nylan.
As Ayrlyn carried her lutar down the stairs to the lower level, another set
of steps sounded, coming from the bathhouse. Nylan waited, watched, until
Relyn stepped into the great room.
 I hoped I would find you, mage.
Nylan gestured to the table.  Sit down. He sat without waiting for Relyn
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to do so.
Relyn eased onto the bench, actually using the blunt, half-hooked end of
the metal hand to balance, although Nylan caught the wince as the other put
too much pressure on the still-tender stump.
 That replacement will take getting used to, I m afraid, Nylan said.  And
it will probably be cold outside unless you cover it. The metal will pick up
the chill. I didn t think about that when I crafted it.
Relyn waited for a moment, saying nothing. As the wind rattled the
shutters, and more snow sifted onto the inner casement ledges of the windows,
he finally spoke.  The hunter& he says that you are not really a mage. Is that [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]