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Clynya. Now what will we do-add to the armsmen there?" The blonde lifted a small handful of nuts from the dish on the table. "I suppose we must. Fornal has fortified Rulyarth, and the people there would not submit to Suthya now. Our tribute to Westwind keeps the east safe. If Cyador brings trouble, we will need forces in the south anyway."
    "You just said you would avoid battle. What do you seek from the dark ones?" Gethen laughed.
    "Do you disagree that battles are costly?" Zeldyan turned toward the window as the roll of thunder rumbled across Lornth, heralding more spring rain.
    "Hardly. But what has this to do with the dark angels?" Gethen frowned.
    "Perhaps nothing. I do think we should talk with any who leave, if any do, and set out word that they are to be treated kindly and escorted to Lornth."
    "That will not set well with some," pointed out Gethen. "Send those who wish to fight to Clynya."
    "Including the Lady Ellindyja?"
    "I wish I could send her to Westwind or feed her to Ildyrom's dogs."
    "That would not be good for the dogs," said Gethen, "even if they do belong to Ildyrom."
     
     
    IX
     
    NYLAN LAY ON his couch in the darkness, listening to the wind as it rattled the shutters.
    He'd scarcely seen Ayrlyn in the past two days, not since she'd sung the night before last. Was she avoiding him? Why?
    The shutters rattled again.
    What did he want? To live alone, to stay alone at the top of the tower he had built? To forge enough peerless blades to last generations-until Ryba needed his talents for some other form of mass destruction?
    What did he want from his life, this life that had changed so much in the blink of a ship's powernet that had fluxed and crashed? Then, had he known what he had wanted before, or just let the service dictate things? Building the tower had been the first big thing he had wanted . . . and it was done, and building another wouldn't be the same, even if it were needed.
    He shook his head.
    The shutters rattled yet once more, and the smith turned on his couch until his eyes rested on the closed window and shutters. He and Ayrlyn had started to get close before winter closed in around them, but the confinement of the tower hadn't helped. Or had that been an excuse?
    He and Ayrlyn had agreed not to sleep together regularly because . . . because why? Because he was treading on thin ice with Ryba? Because he didn't want to just drift into another relationship? Because he recognized that Ayrlyn needed a total commitment, and he didn't want to be forced?
    With a deep breath, he turned back over, away from the rattling of the window and the low whistle of the wind.
    Plick! A drop of water splattered on the planked floor, probably from the slowly melting ice making its way through the slates of the tower roof, in places where two winters had frozen and crumbled the mortar they had used instead of the roofing tar they did not have.
    Plick!
    The smith took another long breath, then-paused at what sounded like a whisper outside his door-or bare feet on the cold stones of the tower steps. But Ryba's door had not opened. He would have heard if it had, and he had had nothing to do with Ryba since before the great battle of the previous autumn.
    Plick!
    His own door opened, and Nylan glanced through the darkness, not that it hampered his view. The strange underjump that had translated the Winterlance to whatever world they had found-like all worlds, the natives merely called it "the world" or "the earth"-the underjump that had turned his hair living silver had also given him night vision that was nearly as good as his day vision.
    Plick!
    The figure that slipped into his room did not have Ayrlyn's flame-red hair, but silver hair.
    "Istril?" he whispered, half sitting up.
    Her finger touched his lips and her lips whispered in his ear. "Just tonight. I talked with the healer, and we agreed." There was a pause. "Unlike some, Nylan, I wouldn't deceive you."
    "But-"
    "I want a daughter, and I want you to be her