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

"Da to you, too," returned Nylan, taking his son, and still half wondering at the circumstances
that had resulted in three of the four infants in Westwind being his-when he'd only slept with
Ryba at that time.
"We'll have five more lambs," the silver-haired Istril announced quietly.
"Practicing your healing, again?"
Weryl tugged at Nylan's index finger, his grip firm. Nylan smiled at his son.
"The more healers the better. You and Ayrlyn can't do it all, and what happens if you're hurt,
like in the big battle with the Lornians and the Gallosians?" asked Istril.
"I was glad you'd practiced."
"So was the Marshal. Her arm was a mess."
"You wouldn't know it now."
"She used to get tired faster when she practiced blades, but she's almost over that now," noted
Istril.
"Slow, she's faster than anyone else."
"Except you and Saryn. You're as fast as she is, but you don't like to go for the kill. Saryn's
even more of a killer than the Marshal." Istril held out her arms for Weryl. "You need to eat.
He's eaten."
"What about you?" asked Nylan as he handed his son back to Istril, disengaging Weryl's fingers
from his own index finger.
"Antyl will watch him while I eat." Istril smiled warmly and carried their silver-haired son
back to the nursery.
Nylan turned, then stopped to avoid running into one of the cooks.
"Greetings, ser." Blynnal bowed her head, about all she . dared bow, as pregnant as she was and
carrying the large baskets of fresh-baked bread up from the kitchen on the lower level of the
tower.
Nylan had no doubts about the father. Blynnal had worshiped Relyn before the one-armed man had
slipped out of Westwind one step ahead of a vengeful Ryba. And Relyn had worried a lot about the
cook-pretty, but timid, and one of the few women in Westwind with no desire to lift a blade
against the majority of men in Candar.
After following Blynnal past the lower tables, Nylan slipped around her and into the space at
the end of the bench at the first table, the position that had always been his. The hearth to his
right was dark-but between the warmth that drifted up from the kitchen on the level below and the
residual heat from the wood-fired furnace, the high-ceilinged room was warm enough.
Saryn sat across from Nylan, while Huldran eased onto the bench on Nylan's left. Ayrlyn, her
flame-red hair seemingly glinting with its own light, slipped onto the bench across from the smith-
engineer.
Even before Nylan poured the steaming tea in his mug, Ryba sat down at the end of the table in
the only chair in the great hall.
"How is the forging coming?" she asked politely.
"We're working on two more blades," he answered. "From what I figure, that will bring us to
nearly a hundred of them- about a score more than two per guard. We've had to go back to starting
the forge with wood, and we'll be out of charcoal in another eight-day."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd just work on blades until the charcoal goes."
"More visions?" he asked quietly.
"Such as they are." Ryba broke off a chunk of bread.
Nylan took a chunk of the dark bread after her and passed the basket to Huldran, then looked
across the table, noting the pallor in Ayrlyn's face. "Dephnay again?" he asked.
"She's getting better, but Tryssa got burned with hot grease. Cold water helped-except for her
eyelids."