"Of course not. You can stay inside all winter or walk the two trails we can keep packed. Anyway ... I wish I could have spent more time learning the skiing, but Ryba wanted the songs."

The engineer frowned. "She's trying to build a culture, in a hurry."

"I don't object to that. Songs have always been part of any culture, and we need some sort of verbal reminder..." Ayrlyn paused. "I just don't know that I like what I'm doing. The words are as much hers as mine, and ... I just don't know."

"The guards seem to like them."

"Do you?"

The directness of the question stopped Nylan, and he pulled at his chin, then licked his lips. Finally, he answered. "They're too harsh." Then he shrugged. "But people only respond to strength, or force, whether that force is in song or a blade."

"Whether they're angels or demons."

Nylan nodded.

"So the great marshal will use every tool offeree necessary."

"I don't see that we've had much choice. Mran, Gerlich, Relyn, bandits ... all of them wanted to force things their way."

"That's a sad comment on so-called intelligent beings." Ayrlyn glanced toward the stairwell. "So... I'll sing this one tonight, after the evening meal. It should please the marshal."

"You're angry."

"It doesn't matter, does it? She's right. This world needs changing. Even I see that. What if I'm just a tool in the process?"

"We're all tools."

"You like that?" asked the redhead.

"No. But you have to survive before you can get beyond being a tool. I just haven't figured out how to get that far."

Ayrlyn shook her head. "I'll see you later, fellow tool. Now that this task is done, it's back to the mundane business of crafting and carving skis." Ayrlyn stood.

"You too should join us."

"In what?"

"Making skis and learning to use them."

"Me? I've never skied."

"If you don't want to be walled behind these stones all winter, you'd better learn, and you can't learn if you don't have skis." Ayrlyn picked up the lutar. "It might make it less necessary for you to be a tool."

"That's a great choice. Be imprisoned for half the year or learn to do the unnatural in the middle of powdered ice so cold that walking over it will freeze your breath into ice crystals."

"It's a choice." Ayrlyn lifted her eyebrows, before heading toward the stairwell.

It was a choice. Not the best of choices, but a choice, like all the other choices that seemed to face Nylan.

As Ayrlyn carried her lutar down the stairs to the lower level, another set of steps sounded, coming from the bathhouse. Nylan waited, watched, until Relyn stepped into the great room.

"I hoped I would find you, mage."

Nylan gestured to the table. "Sit down." He sat without waiting for Relyn to do so.

Relyn eased onto the bench, actually using the blunt, half-hooked end of the metal hand to balance, although Nylan caught the wince as the other put too much pressure on the still-tender stump.

"That replacement will take getting used to, I'm afraid," Nylan said. "And it will probably be cold outside unless you cover it. The metal will pick up the chill. I didn't think about that when I crafted it."

Relyn waited for a moment, saying nothing. As the wind rattled the shutters, and more snow sifted onto the inner casement ledges of the windows, he finally spoke. "The hunter ... he says that you are not really a mage. Is that true?" Relyn struggled with the Sybran/Heaven Temple tongue.

"Gerlich?" Nylan shrugged. "That depends on what you mean by a mage. Can I throw firebolts the way your wizards can? No. Can I tear apart things? No. If that's what you mean by a mage, I'm not, and I never said I was."

Relyn pursed his lips. "You made those devil blades that cut through armor, did you not?" Half his words were Old Anglorat. "And you used the flame of the angels?"

"I did, but that's a form of machine, not magic."

"The singer, she says that you used magery to twist the flame in a way that no one else could."

"I suppose that's true," Nylan admitted. "And I can use that ability to chisel stone a little more easily."

"I saw you carve that hard black stone like it might be wood. No stoneworker I have seen could do that."

"Does a name matter?"

"Names are important," insisted Relyn.

"Are they?" asked Nylan. "Substance lies in what is, not what people say."

Relyn frowned. "Words cause people to act. If someone calls you evil angels, then that gives others a reason to destroy you."

"That's true," Nylan admitted, "but only when you talk about inspiring people to act. Their actions cause destruction, not the words directly. All the words in the world will not make me into a white wizard. All the words in the world will not bring back your hand."

"I do not know about that..." Relyn muses. "Do not the white wizards whisper incantations to bring about their actions? Did I not hear you talk to yourself when you guided the green flames of order?"

"Did you not talk to yourself when you practiced with the blade?" countered Nylan. "The actions matter, not the words which surround them . . . although words can certainly inspire actions." He cleared his throat, then paused as a violent gust of wind rattled the windows and shutters and shivered the great south door on its heavy iron hinges. "That's often the problem with rulers. They move people with their words, and because they do, they believe that they can use words to change the physical world. They can change people's minds and feelings, but unless those people use shovels and some form of power, the words will not move the mountains." As he finished, the engineer looked down at the table. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk so much."

"You are a mage, a different mage, but a mage, and how will I learn about what you do if I do not listen? I can see your actions"-Relyn lifted the artificial metal hand-"but not your thoughts."

"I'm not sure that my thoughts are terribly important." Nylan laughed. "The marshal's perhaps, but not mine."

"She thinks great and terrible thoughts, I fear."

Nylan thought the same of Ryba's thoughts, but he only answered, "She does think great thoughts, and she will change this world."

"So will you, Mage."

"Me? Only so far as .. ." Nylan stopped. "I do not think so."

Relyn laughed. "More so than you think." He stood. "But I must think more.

Thinking is harder than the blade."

Nylan frowned. "There's no reason why you couldn't re-learn the blade with your other hand. Saryn could certainly teach you."

Relyn paused. "A left-handed blade?"

"No worse than a black mage," countered Nylan.

Relyn laughed harshly, then turned.

As the former noble walked toward the stairwell and up the steps, Nylan glanced back at the now-empty tables and the cold hearth. After a moment, he crossed the great room and headed down to the tower's lowest level.

In the kitchen, the heat radiated from the stove where the long loaves of bread baked. Nylan took a deep breath, enjoying the aroma. Kyseen and Kadran worked at the blocky worktable, its surface already marked with the imprints of knives, slicing potatoes into circles and dropping them into the largest caldron. Both wore rough shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Kyseen set down her knife and, taking a pad made of rags, opened the stove grate, easing in two chunks of wood, one after the other.

"We'll need to saw some more small stove wood," Kyseen told Kadran, checking the coals in the stove, with the door open.

More heat welled out into the lower level, enough that Nylan, even by the foot of the stairs, could feel himself getting warm and dampness on his forehead. He unfastened the light ship jacket.

"It's your turn," Kadran said back to Kyseen.

"All right."

Cloaks wrapped around them, Narliat, Hryessa, and Murkassa stood in the alcove between the side of the stove and the central stairwell.

"Narliat, and you two-you could do some woodcutting," suggested Nylan. "It might even warm you up."

"Friggin' right," whispered Kyseen to Kadran, who nodded.

"Kyseen will show you what to do," Nylan suggested, before heading toward the other side of the lower level and the rudimentary carpentry which awaited him.

Carpentry? He really didn't have that much of a feel for wood, but he had no real tools for working metal. By the next winter, he really should think about building another structure, a small smithy where he could learn, one way or another, more traditional metalworking. Even with his ordering ability, he suspected it would be a long summer and hard work, but there were too many tools and items that Westwind needed-and too few coins to purchase them. On the other hand, with the lander shells, there was metal, even if it did take his strange ability to work it.

Ayrlyn gave him a crooked smile as he stepped toward the planks.

"Where do I start?" he asked, repressing a shudder at the thought of trying to cross deep powdery snow on a pair of carved boards.

XLVIII.

WITH A NOD to the guard in the corridor, the Lord of Lornth closes the tower door and crosses the room to the alcove where the lady Ellindyja sits.

"Good day, my lady mother."

"Good day, Sillek. You are kind to continue to visit me."

"Since I have a consort? You will always remain my mother, and a woman from whom I have learned much." As the wind whistles, he turns and eases back toward the window. "The wind is stronger than usual, this time of year."

"It may be a cold winter. It's not been this cold in several years." Ellindyja's eyes drop to the embroidery hoop. "I hope it will not be too chill for your consort."

"Zeldyan? Carpa is almost as close to the Westhorns as Lornth, and farther north. I'm sure she's used to winter. Her father did teach her to hunt and basic blade skills."

"She is rather accomplished." Ellindyja pauses, but Sillek's eyes drift back to the window. She clears her throat. "Sillek, your Zeldyan has been such a dear... so solicitous and so faithful in paying her respects to me."

Sillek turns from the fitful flakes of snow that dance outside the tower window and crosses the room, dropping into the chair across from his mother. "She knows that you are very wise. She's told me so."

"She loves you, Sillek. That is very dangerous." Ellindyja lifts the embroidery needle like a scepter and points it toward her son.

"Dangerous?"

"She cares so deeply that she may counsel you against what is best for Lornth out of her fears for you." Ellindyja deftly secures the end of the thread, then begins the first stitch of the sword blade that will be golden.

"I am sure that there are many who will seek to counsel me otherwise," Sillek responds. "It might be refreshing to have someone actually interested in my health. Not necessarily good for Lornth, but refreshing."

"What would be good for Lornth will be good for you, Sillek."

"I would hope so." The Lord of Lornth stands. "I would hope so." His eyes turn back to the window. "Perhaps a long, cold winter will rid us of the evil angels on the Roof of the World."

"Do you believe that?" The embroidery needle flickers through the linen, trailing gold.

"Evil isn't usually dislodged by weather. Still... one can hope, and, since spring comes late to the heights, that will give us time to increase our resources before dealing with that problem."

"I am pleased to see you have not put that loss from your mind."

"Neither from my mind, nor from my plans, Mother dear. But I have no desire to leave my back unshielded while venturing into the Westhorns." Sillek studies the dancing flakes beyond the window. "Yes ... a long, cold winter might be helpful for many reasons." He walks toward the door.

"I am pleased that you are doing well, that you have chosen not to be cloistered, and that Zeldyan pleases you." He smiles as he holds the door ajar. "And I am also pleased that I took your advice and journeyed to Carpa." With a last smile, he half salutes Lady Ellindyja and closes the door.

The north wind rattles the tower window, and the snowflakes dance.

XLIX.

CARRYING THE SKIS and the fir poles with the leather straps at one end out through the south door to the tower, Nylan followed Ayrlyn and Saryn up the beaten path toward the stables for several hundred cubits. Where the ground dropped away from the path on the south side, there was a ramp packed through the waist-deep snow, rising gently from the path for perhaps fifty cubits before the ramp merged with the snow. Beyond that point, the snow, swirled in drifts, generally dropped away toward the east.

The cairns down in the south corner of the snow-covered meadow were white hummocks with drifts extending almost to the drop-off that overlooked the forest far below. A light wind blew across the snowfieid, lifting and swirling the top powdered snow under a bright sun that gave no warmth and a clear green-blue heaven that seemed to suck the heat out of the engineer, despite the two jackets and heavy woolen scarf he wore.

Nylan set the skis on the flat part of the packed snow ramp, following Ayrlyn's example, and looked along the ramp that sloped gently upward through the walls of snow. A half-dozen dual ski tracks fanned out from the end of the ramp onto the snowfield.

"Who's been out already?" Despite the scarf around his nose and mouth, Nylan's breath formed white clouds in the air, and he could feel the ice forming on the wool of the scarf. As he watched, the ice crystals that had been Saryn's breath fluttered to the powdery surface of the packed snow.

"Gerlich, the hunters," answered Saryn, "and Fierral, Ryba, and the scouts."

If Gerlich could master old-style skis, then Nylan could, he decided, as he bent down and fastened the leather thongs around his boots, boots lined with wool scraps and bulging somewhat at the tops. He had to take off the outer layer of his gloves because they were really leather mittens covering woolen gloves, and he couldn't handle the leather thongs with the fingerless mittens. Neither mittens nor the gloves beneath fit terribly well, since he'd done the cutting and stitching himself.

"Ready?" asked Saryn.

Nylan straightened and pulled the leather mittens back over his gloves, then took a pole in each hand.

"If I can do this, you can," said Saryn, slowly gliding up the ramp.