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

on what he had learned from Nylan, the smith ate quietly, occasionally glancing at Ayrlyn, pleased
to see some of the pallor leaving her face as the healer ate.
"Eating helps, doesn't it?" he said, knowing it was an inane comment, but wanting to reach out.
"Somewhat. With some rest, I'll feel better," answered Ayrlyn.
"If someone needs something that way," he offered, "send them to me. Or Istril. She's
practicing her skills."
"I told her to. I'm glad she is."
"We will need more healers," Ryba said coolly, and the certainty of her words chilled Nylan.
What else was she seeing?
Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances, then continued to eat 'without speaking.
After the midday meal, Nylan walked up the five flights of the stone steps to the top level,
turning right into his quarters, across from Ryba's. He looked around the bare room-one window,
glazed in wavery local glass; a lander couch that made a hard bed, but better than anything of
local manufacture; a crude table and stool; and a rocking chair for when he sang Dyliess to sleep.
"Nylan?"
He turned.
The dark-haired Marshal of Westwind stood in the door, carrying a squirming silver-haired
child, more than an infant, but not quite a toddler. "Could you take her? I'd like to practice. Or
you could practice first-"
"Go ahead. I'll practice after you." The smith-engineer extended his hands for his daughter,
and she extended hers.
"Gaaaa. .."
"Gaaa to you, too." Nylan lifted Dyliess to his shoulder and hugged her.
"I'll be down below," Ryba repeated. "Then ... I don't know."
"Fine." Nylan eased himself into the crude rocking chair he'd crafted just so that he could
have one in his own quarters to rock Dyliess.
As he rocked, her fingers grasped the edge of the carvings on the back of the chair, and then
his silver hair-and his ear.


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"Easy there, young lady. Your father's ears are tender." He lowered her and sat her in his lap,
beginning to sing to her.
"On top of old Freyja, all covered in ice . . ."
His voice was getting hoarse when there was a rap on the door.
"Yes?"
"Ser ..." A thin-faced woman with mahogany hair stood at his door. "The Marshal sent me up-"
"You're going to take care of Dyliess while I practice, Antyl?"
"If you'd wish it, ser."
"That's fine." Trust Ryba to send someone else to Nylan for Dyliess. Despite the close quarters
of the tower, Ryba avoided Nylan as much as possible, asking as little as possible, as though he
were the unreasonable one. He'd been tricked into being a stud, manipulated into incinerating
thousands, and deceived in who knew how many little ways, but he was unreasonable-even though he'd
essentially built and armed Westwind. And Ryba wondered why he didn't want anything to do with
her? If it weren't for Dyliess and the other children . . .
But they were his and linked to Westwind, and there was no changing that, none at all.
He stood up from the rocking chair and eased Dyliess to his shoulder for a moment, patting her
back. Then he half-lowered her and kissed her cheek before easing her into Antyl's arms.