Istril glanced back toward the trail and then focused on Nylan.

"No." Nylan took the reins and began to lead his mount through the trees toward the horse tethered behind a massive pine just past a large boulder sunk in pine needles. "A black wizard? I've got enough trouble just being an engineer."

Istril ducked and rode after him. After a moment, so did Siret.

XXXI.

"NOW THAT YOU have reclaimed the grasslands, when will you reclaim the Roof of the World? And your father's honor?" The gray-haired Lady Ellindyja shifts her not-inconsiderable bulk on the upholstered bench in the alcove. Her fingers dart across the embroidery hoop, the needle shining like a miniature blade that she deftly wields. Sillek stands behind the carved chair with the purple cushion, resting his arms on the back. "The grasslands are reclaimed only so long as Koric and Hissl remain in Clynya. The moment they leave, Ildyrom's forces will return, in even greater numbers, no doubt. I send armsmen into the Westhorns, and I won't only lose the grasslands, but half the land between Clynya and Rohrn."

"If you cannot reclaim that honor, you must do something to solidify your position. You need an heir, Sillek." His mother's voice is flat. "You know you do."

"I also need score five more armsmen, control of Rulyarth, and Ildyrom in his grave."

"Not to mention regaining control of the Roof of the World." The needle continues to dart through the white fabric, trailing crimson-red thread.

"As I have told you, most honored mother, that might be a very bad idea, right now." Sillek straightens and purses his lips. "A very bad idea."

"A bad idea? To reclaim your patrimony? Given all that your father has done for you, Sillek, how could you possibly even think that, let alone say it so soon after his last sacrifice for you?" The glittering needle darts through the fabric like a cavalry blade chasing a fleeing footman.

Sillek waits until the pace of the needle slows. "I took your advice, dear Mother, and we are already reaping its benefit, and it has cost us little."

"Costs? You talk so much of costs." The needle shimmers, then plunges into the fabric. "Costs are for merchants, or for scoundrel traders."

"I am not being clear, I fear."

"Clear? I fear you are all too clear. You will give up your patrimony because your enemies are too much for you."

"I do not intend to forfeit my patrimony, Mother dear, and your assumption that I would do so speaks poorly for me, and not well for you. I would certainly never wish to relinquish that which my honored sire had gathered for my benefit or the benefit of our people." Sillek walks toward the alcove.

"Could you explain your logic to your poor benighted mother, Sillek, Lord of the Realm? How can you retain your patrimony when you refuse to reclaim it? Are you a magician now?" The needle stitches another crimson loop in a droplet of blood that falls from a gray sword.

Sillek smiles. "From what Terek has told me, and from my other sources, so far the angels on the Roof of the World have destroyed at least three bands of brigands trying to claim my reward-that reward you suggested so wisely. And two of the lesser angels have been killed, and four or five wounded, while close to a score of brigands have been destroyed." His smile turns into a laugh. "I couldn't do nearly so well, and I certainly am in no position to lose another score three of trained armsmen."

Sillek glances out the window and toward the river. "Next spring . . . after winter up there-then we'll see."

"I do hope so, Sillek, dear. I do hope so." The sharp needle stitches in another loop of blood.

Sillek's lips tighten, but he does not speak.

XXXII.

NYLAN OPENED HIS eyes slowly in the gray light that came through the open tower window. Although fall had scarcely arrived, the nights had begun to chill, enough so that the single blanket seemed thin, indeed. Blankets were not used in large numbers on spacecraft, and the few that had been brought down felt less than adequate for the winter ahead. That meant another set of items to be bought from the all-too-infrequent traders. Nylan blinked as he wondered how they could pay for all that they still needed.

Although the landers had been stripped of what would make the tower more habitable, that had provided little enough. The marines occupied the third level of the tower. Gerlich, Saryn, Ayrlyn, and Narliat occupied part of the fourth level.

The fifth was used for miscellaneous storage, and Ryba and Nylan rattled around in a sixth level that had little in it except for the two lander couches lashed together and a few weapons and personal effects.

Only the shutters on the second and third levels were finished, the results of Saryn's and Ayrlyn's handicrafts, and there were no internal doors. Rags had been pieced together to curtain off the two jakes and provide some privacy. Nylan hoped that they could finish the bathhouse and additional jakes facilities before too long-not to mention the shutters.

As he moved slightly, Ryba's eyelids fluttered, and she moaned. He waited, but she did not open her eyes. So Nylan slowly shifted his weight more in order to look out through the casement. A trace of white rime frosted the outer edge of the window ledge, but the whiteness seemed to vanish as the first direct rays from the sun touched the dark stone. The hint of wood smoke drifted in the window, blown down from the chimney momentarily.

Over the crude rack in the corner hung their clothes, including the ship jackets that probably would not be heavy enough for the winter ahead.

Nylan's eyes shifted back to Ryba's face, to the curly jet-black hair cut so short and the pale clear skin, to the thin lips and the high cheekbones. Her eyelids fluttered again, and she groaned.

"Not yet... not yet," she murmured.

Nylan waited, almost holding his breath.

"No..."

He reached out and touched the cool bare shoulder. "It's all right. It's all right."

Ryba shook her head and moistened her lips, but her eyes did not open for a moment. Then she shitted her weight on the lander couch and looked directly at the engineer. "No it's not. I was dying, and I won't finish everything that needs to be done for Westwind, or for Dyliess."

"It was just a dream ..." Nylan paused. "It was a dream, wasn't it?"

Ryba shook her head again, and squinted as she sat up. Then she swung her feet off the couch, letting the blanket fall away from her naked figure, until it covered only her waist and upper thighs. Her back to Nylan, she faced the open window, looking out toward the northern peaks that showed a light dusting of snow from the night before. The faintest touch of yellow and brown tinged the bushes and meadow grasses.

"It wasn't a dream. It was real. My hair was gray, and I was lying here, except I was in a big wooden bed, and there was glass in the windows, and people in gray leathers were standing around me." Ryba shivered and then stood, padding to the clothes rack, where she pulled on her undergarments and then the brown leather trousers and an old shirt-both plunder.

"If your hair had become gray, that had to be a long time from now." He stood and stretched.

"Nylan ... I wasn't finished, and it hurt that I didn't finish."

"Ryba," Nylan offered gently, "no one who really cares about anything is ever finished with life. And you care a lot." He forced a smile, then began to dress himself.

Ryba finished with the bone buttons of the trousers and then buttoned the shirt.

"You're probably right, but it was real ... too real."

"Another one of your senses of what will happen?"

She nodded. "They come at odd times, but some have already happened."

"Oh?" He hadn't heard that part.

"Little things, or not so little. I saw your tower almost from the beginning-and I know what the bathhouse will look like." She sat back on the joined lander couches that served as their bed and pulled on her boots.

"Who is Dyliess?"

"Our daughter. I'm pregnant, and she'll be born in the spring, just before the passes melt."

Nylan's mouth dropped open. "You ... never .. ."

"She'll be a good daughter, and don't you forget that, Engineer." Ryba smiled. "I wanted the timing right. You can't do that much in the winter here, and next summer . .. we'll have a lot of problems when people realize we're here to stay.

They think the winter will finish us, but it won't."

"Promise?" he asked.

"I can promise that, at least so long as you keep building." She stood in the open doorway at the top of the steps. "I want things to be right for Dyliess, and they will be."

"A daughter ... you're sure?"

"You wanted a son?"

"I never thought-one way or another." He shook his head, still at a loss, still amazed.

"You'll have a son. I'll promise that, too." Her voice turned soft, almost sad.

"You don't. . ."

"I know what to promise, Nylan. I do." Her eyes met his, and they were deep and chill, filled with pain. "There's no time to be melancholy, Engineer."

The forced cheer in her voice contradicted her calm and pale face. As they looked at each other, Nylan could hear the hum of voices from below, and the smell of something cooking, although he wasn't sure he was in any hurry to find out what Kyseen had improvised for breakfast.

"We do our best, Nylan, in spite of what may be."

"May be or will be? Can these visions of yours be changed?" Nylan sat down on the couch-bed and reached for his shipboots, his eyes still on her.

Ryba shrugged. "Maybe I only see what can't be changed. Maybe it can be. I don't know, because this is something new."

"All of this is something new." Nylan pulled on his ship-boots, getting so worn that he could feel stones through them.

"You need new boots. You ought to check the spares. We've only got about twenty pair left over."

"I suppose you're right." Nylan stood. "I have to be. I'm the marshal. You have to, also. You're the mage. Now that we've settled that, let's see if breakfast is remotely palatable." She started down the steps, the hard heels of her boots echoing off the harder stone, and Nylan followed, trying not to shake his head. A daughter, for darkness' sake, and Ryba had named her, and seen her in a vision of her own death. At that, he did shake his head. The Roof of the World was strange, and getting stranger even as he learned more.

They walked toward the pair of tables stretched out from the hearth. In a room that could have handled a dozen or more tables that size with space to spare, the two almost looked lost. The benches had finally been finished, and for the moment everyone could sit at the same time.

Ryba marched toward the head of the table, but Nylan lagged, still looking around the great room, amazed that they had completed so much in barely a half year. Of course, the tower was really not much more than a shell, but still... He smiled for a moment.

Breakfast in the great hall had gotten regularized-a warm drink, usually a bitter grass and root tea; cold fried bread; some small slices of cheese; any meat left over from supper-if there had been meat served-and something hot, although it could be as odd as batter-dipped and fried greens or kisbah, a wild root that Narliat had insisted was edible. Edible kisbah might be, reflected Nylan, but something that tasted like onions dipped in hydraulic oil had little more to recommend it than basic nutrients. It made the heavy fried bread seem like the best of pastries by comparison. So far the few eggs dropped by the scrawny chickens had gone into the bread or something else fixed by Kyseen.

"Good morning, Nylan," said Ayrlyn.

"How did you sleep last night?" the engineer asked the redhead, who huddled inside a sweater and a thermal jacket and sat on the sunny south casement ledge that overlooked the meadow and fields.

"Not well. It's getting cold. When will the furnace be finished?"

"Not until after the shutters," he answered.

"The shutters won't help that much."

"Unless we cut a lot more wood and finish the shutters, the furnace won't be much use," Nylan pointed out.

"Don't we have any armaglass at all?" Ayrlyn shivered inside the jacket.

"There's enough for six windows." He put his lips together and thought. "Maybe eight. Most of them ought to go in here. These are south windows."

"That's why I'm sitting here trying to warm up. I'm not a Sybran nomad,"

Ayrlyn pointed out, turning slightly on the stone so that the sun hit her back full on. "Saryn and I could make simple frames that would go on pivots if you could mortar the pivot bolts or whatever in place. Can you cut the armaglass?"

"If the laser lasts." Nylan laughed, then frowned as his stomach growled.

"You need to eat."

"I can hardly wait." The engineer glanced toward the table where Ryba was serving herself.

"It's not bad this morning-some fried meat that has some taste, but not too much, if you know what I mean, and there's a decent hot brew. Narliat showed Selitra a bush that actually makes something close to tea. Bitter, but it does wake you up."

"All right. Bring me a window design, and we'll see what we can do." He started toward the table.

"We need salt, demon-damn!" Gerlich's voice rose from the end of the table nearest the completed but empty hearth. "Without salt, drying meat's a tricky thing, and I don't want to smoke everything."

"I'll have Ayrlyn put it high on the trading list." Ryba's voice, quieter than Gerlich's, still carried the length of the room.

Gerlich strode by, wearing worn and tattered brown leathers rudely altered to fit his large frame and carrying a bow and quiver. "Good day, Nylan."

"Good day. How's the bow going?"

Gerlich stopped and shrugged. "It doesn't shoot far enough, or with enough power, but it's good for some of the smaller animals-the furry rodents." He grinned. "I'm tanning those pelts-Narliat told me some of the roots and an acorn they use-and by winter I might have enough for a warm coat." The grin faded.

"There's not much meat on the fattest ones, and I don't know how good the hunting will be when the snow gets deep."

"I don't, either." Nylan paused. "Let me think about it."

"Do that, Engineer." Gerlich raised the bow, almost in a mocking salute, and began to walk toward the main door. "I'm going to try my luck at fashioning a larger bow."

"Good luck, Great Hunter." Nylan made his way to the table and sat down across from Ryba.

"It's not bad," she said. "The meat, I mean."

"What is it?"

"I didn't ask."

"One of those rodents, baked and then fried," said Kyseen, replacing the battered wooden platter with another; half-filled with strips of fried meat. "The stove makes all the difference, and the bread even tastes like bread now. The eggs help, but those chickens don't lay them fast, and I'm letting 'em hatch a few, 'cause we'll need another cock, a rooster"-the cook flushed-"before long."

"If we had windows and that furnace," suggested Siret, with a shiver, "that would help, too."

Nylan glanced at her, and she looked away.

"You'll warm up a lot before long," added Berlis.

The silver-haired Siret flushed.