"04 - The Chaos Balance.palmdoc.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

"Bah . . . you sound just like Triendar. Do they cast spells over you when you are young so that you all sound alike?"
"Chaos and order do not change because we exist, Sire." Themphi shifted his weight again.
"Wizard, your powers must serve Cyad, not the other way around. See that they do, or your nephew's children or his children's children will bow under the yoke of the easterners. Lands either become more powerful or less powerful and then perish. I intend to make sure Cyador becomes more powerful. You may go."
"Yes, Sire."


XI

EVEN BEFORE NYLAN sat at the table and balanced Dyliess on his right knee, his eyes kept ranging to the end of the great room toward the central pedestal and the staircase. He could feel the slight movement of warm air from the furnace ducts set in the central stone pedestal that held the stairs and around which the tower was built. Interspersed with the warmth were gusts of cold dry air from the opening of the main tower door as guards headed up to handle livestock details or wood-carrying.
Breakfast was the usual-some bread, some cheese, and for the stout-hearted, some thin porridge. Eating one-handed, Nylan suffered through the yellow-green bitter root-and-leaf tea, taking quick sips and keeping the mug out of reach of Dyliess's curious fingers. The bread was dark and cold, but hearty and chewy.
"Gaaaa ... da ... oooo . .." His daughter's hands grasped for his bread.
"Grabby, isn't she, ser?" said Hryessa from farther down the table.
"They all are at this age, from what I can tell," Nylan answered. "They want to grab the world and explore."
"Don't we all?" mumbled Huldran, finishing a wedge of cheese and some bread.
Nylan reached out and redirected Dyliess's wandering hand, in time to keep her from grasping the spout of the teapot. "Exploration gets dangerous."
"True enough even when you get older." Saryn frowned, then added after a moment of silence, "Ryba said you were working on more blades."
"We've been working on blades on and off all winter. Don't you have enough yet?"
"For now. She insists we'll have over fourscore guards by fall, maybe more, that we'll have to convert half the fifth level into a barracks room or something." Saryn turned her head as if Ryba were to appear, and the short, dark brown hair seemed almost black in the great room lit by only the four armaglass windows. "Or start adding to the tower," Nylan said. "You said it would hold over a hundred."
"It will," the smith answered, his eyes still seeking Ayrlyn, He hadn't seen Istril, either. "How many years will it take to build the addition if each stone has to be chipped out of the canyon with a sledge and chisel?" Somehow, Nylan wasn't thrilled about adding to Westwind, but he wasn't about to voice that lack of enthusiasm.
"Oh..."
"Exactly." Nylan fed Dyliess a morsel of bread, although she'd already eaten. Dyliess promptly gummed it and deposited starchy brown drool on Nylan's hand.
"I was wondering," ventured the dark-haired former ship's pilot. "Is there any way you could forge more bows? I mean, you started on the first blades with the laser, but you managed to forge the others."
"There's cormclit left," Nylan acknowledged, "but it's a directional heatshield composite. I had the demon's own time cutting it with a laser. It just fragments into strands when I've tried to cut it with a chisel, and bench shears just jam or chew it into shreds. Then there are the alloys. I can't even soften the lightweight, high-temp ones, and those were what I used for those bows." He shook his head. "I've tried, but. . ."
He frowned. Had that flash of flame-red been Ayrlyn headed down to the kitchen?
"I thought I'd ask. We've only got sixteen of those killer bows." Saryn coughed. All too many guards coughed through the winter, probably from too much mouth breathing outside in the chill of the Roof of the World. "We only lost one in the battle."
"You threatened to dismember any guard who lost one, even if she were dying," said Huldran. "I remember that."
"I was right," Saryn said. "They're twice as good as anything the locals have, and they're not replaceable."
"There's still too much up here that's not replaceable," Nylan offered. "We need a better low-tech base."
"Like your sawmill?" Saryn grinned. "What comes after that?"
"I thought about a flour mill, but we're too high to grow grain-"
"He never stops thinking, does he?" The number two of the Westwind guards finished her tea with a gulp.
There was too much to think about, reflected Nylan, from Ryba's coldness to children to Ayrlyn, not to mention smithing. He'd still only rough-formed the prosthetic foot for Daryn-something for a man would certainly be low on Ryba's priority list, he suspected, far below weapons.
"Got to run," added Saryn. "We're going to see what it's like down below near that grove of hardwoods off the lower meadow below the brickworks. You remember those ironwood trees? They're lousy for woodworking, but the healer says they'll make good charcoal. You did say you needed charcoal."
"I did. We can't do much at the smithy without it."
"Daaaa..." injected Dyliess, lurching toward Nylan's mug again.
By the time he had intercepted her grasping fingers and had his tea under control, Saryn was headed out of the great hall.
"She's a handful," said Huldran.
"Saryn? She's not bad."
"I meant your daughter." Huldran laughed. "Already, she has a mind of her own."
Like her mother, Nylan thought, but he only said, "She does." Then he finished the last of his own tea and a last morsel of cheese before standing and lurching off the bench and toward the stairs to the tower's lower level.
Still carrying Dyliess, Nylan made his way down the stone stairs into the warmth below. Turning away from the heat of the kitchen, where Blynnal and her crew labored, Nylan found Ayrlyn in the corner of the lowest-level room in the tower- in the corner of the woodworking area, sitting on a stool and practicing chords on her lutar. She was not singing, and her eyes were puffy.
"I kept looking for you," he said, shifting Dyliess.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I wanted to talk to you."
"Ouuuu," mimicked Dyliess.
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes, there is."
"What?" Ayrlyn's voice was flat.
"What about last night? Why? And why wouldn't you come to breakfast?"
"Because..." Ayrlyn took a deep breath. "I don't like sharing you, but I can't do what Ryba did. First, there's no technology left, and, second, I wouldn't trick you. It's not easy." The healer took a deep shuddering breath. "Her daughter will be all Istril really ever has, you know? How could I deny her that? You've saved her life twice, and she worships you, and it ... it has to be more personal . . ." Tears oozed from the corners of the healer's deep brown eyes.