"Your chickens, they will taste like the pine trees."

"I'd rather have live pine-tasting chickens than dead tasty ones halfway through the winter. We don't have near enough food for the livestock, and that will help,"

answered Ayrlyn. "If the traders come back, they're supposed to have some more dried corn. If they come back . .."

"We can't have people sitting around all winter," added ' Saryn. "They'd be at each others' throats."

"They can't sit around anyway," said Ryba. "We'll need some additional food, something from hunting, and probably more firewood."

"A lot more firewood," predicted Nylan. "We probably ought to require dragging as much up here as we burn."

"How?"

"If we keep doing it, we should be able to keep a path clear to the forest at the base of the ridge. Ayrlyn-you said we could drag trunks with the horses, and cut them outside the causeway."

"The guards can only stay out so long, and we don't have enough cold-weather clothing for everyone," pointed out Saryn.

"We have wool and thread and needles," said Ayrlyn.

Nylan cleared his throat. "We could dry some of the wood near the furnace, and we need a lot of furnishings-tables, even dressers."

"We don't have that many nails," said Ryba.

"They used to put things together with pegs. We can do that," Ayrlyn pointed out. "It takes more time, but we're going to have a lot of time."

"You can make glue," added Relyn. "The crafters dry and grind hooves, I think, and some parts of the hides and boil them."

"Arms practice. For everyone. I don't want a tower full of crafters come spring,"

added Ryba. "They'll have to be better than any of the locals when the battles resume."

"I think archery is out," said Nylan.

"Because of the weather? No. There will be enough clear days . . ."

"The clear days are cold enough to a freeze a man's lungs," said Relyn.

"Woolen scarves would help," Ayrlyn said, "but you'd have to hold down heavy exertion and mouth breathing."

"We'll take it as it comes." Ryba broke off a chunk of bread. "There's a lot we can do to get ready for next spring and summer."

"How are we going to get around in this stuff?" asked Huldran, with a gesture toward the window. "We don't have skis or sleds or sled dogs."

"Slowly," says Hryessa. "In the lower Westhorns, the snow gets deeper than a horse's head."

"Snowshoes," Ryba said, "and old-fashioned wooden skis with leather thongs, just like Gerlich and Saryn have been making."

Nylan frowned. Would he have to learn to ski? He didn't look forward to that at all, not at all.

"Have you ever skied?" Ayrlyn asked him.

"No. I never saw the joy of slogging through powdered ice for fun."

"I can learn it, and I'm not even Sybran," insisted Ayrlyn. "I'm mostly Svennish.

You're at least half Sybran, aren't you?"

"About half and half. It gets complicated. But my grandfather Weryl was a Svenn. He came to Heaven as a boy. Does that make me more Sybran than if he'd come as an adult?" Nylan laughed. "He didn't ski, either."

"Was he a blond, too, ser?" asked Istril. "Like you used to be?"

"I think so. He died when I was little."

"Just because he didn't ski doesn't mean you can't," pointed out Ayrlyn.

"Especially since you'll have to if you want to go anywhere in the wintertime,"

added Ryba.

"You make it sound so attractive. I'll have to." Nylan frowned. "Either freeze or be stranded in the tower."

"It's not that bad," said Saryn.

As Nylan thought about a response, he saw Istril hurry from the table, toward the north door, and disappear. Her bread was untouched.

"You'll like it," added Ryba.

Ayrlyn gave a quick grin.

Nylan took a sip of tea, warm tea, and wondered just how badly he would freeze learning to get around on wooden slats.

XLVI.

IN HER GREEN tunic and trousers, her hair bound back in a green and black enameled hairband, Zeldyan steps into the tower room. After closing the door, she bows deeply to the lady Ellindyja. "Honor and greetings to you, lady."

"You are now the Lady of Lornth, and I am honored," answers Ellindyja. She does not rise from the cushioned bench in the alcove, but lowers the embroidery hoop to her lap. "Your grace in coming to visit so soon shows great respect for your lord, and I am pleased to see that."

"I respect Sillek, more than most would ever know. You are my consort's mother, and, out of my deep respect for him, always to be honored and respected," says Zeldyan, inclining her head to Ellindyja again.

"I am so pleased to be included in your respects, dear, especially since your mother has always been one of my dearest friends." Ellindyja knots the yellow- green thread with deft motions, and takes up the needle.

"She would count you among her dearest and most trusted friends," answers Zeldyan, stepping toward the alcove where Sillek's mother begins an embroidered leaf on the white linen. "And a wise woman."

"Wise? I would think not," says Ellindyja as the needle completes another loop of green comprising the leaf. "For my son has less of his heritage than his father."

"I am confident that situation will change, my lady, and that the greatness of Lornth will increase."

"With enemies on three sides, Lady Zeldyan?"

"While I would certainly defer to those who understand arms and other weapons far better than I do, I have great faith in my lord Sillek." Zeldyan pauses.

"And great faith that you will offer counsel to him."

"I have always attempted to be of service to the Lords of Lornth, to his father, and to Sillek." Ellindyja completes the small leaf, knots the thread, and rethreads the needle with crimson.

The faint whine of the late fall wind rattles the closed tower window, but neither woman looks to it.

"And you have," responds Zeldyan. "You surely have."

"Thank you, my dear." Ellindyja knots the crimson thread and makes the first stitch in the small segment of the linen that will be a drop of blood. "I understand that your father has remained here in Lornth for a time."

"He plans to leave for Carpa tomorrow, now that he has seen me safely joined to Sillek."

"And your mother?"

"She will arrive to see you presently. I prevailed upon her to allow me a few moments with you to convey my respects."

"You know, my dear, Sillek may have been even wiser than I had thought.

Together we might be of great assistance to him." The crimson stitches bring the hint of arterial blood to the linen.

"My lord Sillek respects you greatly, Lady Ellindyja, and I would prefer not to intrude upon that bond or that trust. I would be most happy for any and all advice that you might have."

"As I said, Lady Zeldyan, Sillek chose wisely." Ellindyja's voice is dry, but she holds the needle still for a moment. "I would trust that you might pay some heed to the possibility of ensuring the succession of Lornth."

Zeldyan bows slightly. "I would like nothing better, my lady."

A muffled thrap sounds on the door.

"That would be your mother, I presume?"

"Yes, my lady."

"If you would be so kind as to bid her enter?" Ellindyja's needle flashes again as Zeldyan steps toward the door.

"But, of course. She has looked forward to seeing you for some seasons."

Zeldyan smiles and opens the door.

"Cakes and sweets should be arriving shortly," announces Ellindyja, "for the three of us. I had hoped we might converse." She stands and sets aside the embroidery hoop. "Erenthla!"

The heavier white-haired woman bends forward and brushes Zeldyan's cheek with her lips before stepping fully into the room and responding. "Ellindyja, I am so pleased to see you."

Zeldyan closes the door and, with a faint smile, stands, waiting.

Part II - THE WINTER

XLVII.

As HE WALKED back from the bathhouse, and the jakes he was getting gladder and gladder about having completed, Nylan pulled down the ship jacket that had a tendency to ride up over the lined leather trousers. The lining consisted of the synthetic material left from his tattered work shipsuit, inexpertly stitched in place. The combination was warmer than the shipsuit, and certainly less drafty.

In the archway between the bathhouse and the tower, just before the closed north door, ice was already forming on the walls, from the collected and frozen condensation of the breath of those who passed through, and from the moisture coming from the completed showers.

"Too far from the furnace or the water-heating stove." The engineer opened the north door and then closed it behind him, his fingers tingling from the chill metal latch-not quite cold enough to freeze skin to it.

He could sense the residual warmth from the furnace ducts as he walked into the great room, although he could tell from the lack of air motion that no logs had been added to the firebox recently.

He stopped at the staircase when he saw Ayrlyn bent over her lutar. For a time, he listened to the soft words which she half-sang, half-hummed.

On the Roof of the World, all covered with white, I took up my blade there, and I brought back the night.

With a blade in each hand, there, and the stars at my boots, With the Legend in song, then, I set down my roots.

The demons have claimed you, forever in light, But the darkness of order will put them to flight.

Will break them in twain, soon, and return you your pride.

For the Legend is kept by the blade at your side.

The blade at your side, now, must always be bright, and the Legend we hold to is that of the right.

For never will guards lose the heights of the sky, And never can Westwind this Legend deny...

And never can Westwind this Legend deny.

The words echoed softly in the great room, and the wind that hurled the snow against the shutters and windows supplied a backdrop of off-rhythm percussion.

The four armaglass windows in the great hall provided the only exterior light, and that illumination was diminished by the storm and the snow that had gathered in the outside window ledges and half covered each with snow. Snow sifted through the windows that had but shutters and built into miniature drifts on the stone ledges, drifts occasionally swirled by the gusts that forced their way around the edges of the shutters and sent thin tendrils of freezing air across the room.

Nylan waited until Ayrlyn stopped and looked up before he spoke. "That's a haunting melody."

"It should carry the words well enough." Ayrlyn's voice was cool, measured.

"That's what she wants."

"Ryba?" Nylan eased himself onto the bench on the other side of the table from the redhead.

"Who else wants songs? Most people work on firewood, food"-she laughed softly-"or bathhouses and towers. I still have to do other things. Skis are what Saryn and I have been doing, but the song comes first, or, at least, not last."

Ayrlyn paused. "You haven't made your skis or even tried skiing. That's going to make it hard on you. Even Siret's been out, and in her condition, balancing isn't easy."

"Do I have to?"