Fall of Angels

LXXIII

NYLAN GLANCED FROM the bed to the half-open tower window. Outside, the sun shone across the snowfields, and rivulets formed pathways on the snow, draining off the grainy white surface and into the now-slushy roads and pathways. In a few scattered places, the brown of earth, the dark gray of rock, or the bleached tan of dead grass peered through the disappearing snow cover. Despite the carpet of fir branches, much of the road from the tower up to the stables was more quagmire than path.

The east side of the tower was half ringed with meltwater that froze at night and cleared by day, so much that from the eastern approach to the causeway, the tower resembled the moated castle that Nylan had rejected building.

His eyes flicked from the window back to Ryba, whose own eyes were glazed with concentration and the effort of measured breathing. On the other side of the lander couch stood Ayrlyn, her fingers resting lightly on Ryba’s enlarged abdomen. Beside her was Jaseen.

“I’m hot,” panted the marshal.

The joined couches had been moved toward the window because the ice and snow melting off the slate stone roof had revealed more than a few leaks that dripped down into the top level of the tower.

Nylan used the clean but tattered cloth to blot the dampness off Ryba’s face, then put his hand on her forehead.

“That feels good.”

“Good,” affirmed Nylan.

“Just a gentle push … gentle …”

“Hurts … tight …” the marshal responded. “Dyliess?”

“She’s doing fine, Ryba,” said Ayrlyn.

“I’m … not …” Ryba shivered. “Cold now.”

After he drew the blankets around her shoulders, Nylan blotted Ryba’s damp forehead again. “Easy,” he said. “You’re doing fine, too.”

“Easy … for you … to say.”

“I know.” Nylan kept his tone light, although, with his perceptions, he could sense that Ryba’s labor was going well, if any labor, and the effort and pain involved, could be said to be going well.

“Push … a little harder.”

“Am pushing …”

“Stop …”

“ … tell me to push, then not push … make up your mind …”

Nylan held back an inadvertent grin at Ryba’s asperity. “We’re trying to do this with as little stress on you and Dyliess as possible.”

“ … little stress?”

Jaseen nodded, but said nothing.

Nylan patted away the sweat on Ryba’s forehead, then squeezed her arm gently.

“Push!” demanded Ayrlyn.

The marshal pushed, turning red.

“You have to breathe, too,” reminded Ayrlyn after the push.

“Hot …” gasped Ryba.

Nylan eased the blankets away from her shoulders.

“All right … get ready …” said Ayrlyn.

Through it all, Nylan stood by, occasionally touching Ryba, infusing a sense of order, though that order was not essential. In the end, a small head crowned, and Jaseen eased the small bloody figure into the light, and onto the Roof of the World.

“In a bit, you’ll need to push again,” said Ayrlyn.

“I … know … let me see her,” panted Ryba.

When the cord was tied and cut, Ayrlyn eased the small figure onto Ryba’s chest. Dyliess seemed to look around, then turned toward her mother’s breast, her mouth opening and fastening in place.

“You little piglet,” murmured Ryba.

“Like her mother,” affirmed Nylan. “She’s concentrating on what’s important.”

His senses extended over his daughter, taking in the hair that would be silver and the narrower face that was also from his Svennish heritage. In some ways, almost, she felt like Kyalynn, Siret’s silver-haired daughter.

Nylan swallowed, then looked away toward the window, back out to the spring, and the melting snow, back out to the few green shoots that hurried through the patches of white.

Not now, he thought, not now, and he forced a smile, which turned into a real one as he watched Dyliess, even though his chest was tight, and a sense of chaos swirled through his thoughts.

“They’re both fine,” Ayrlyn affirmed.

Jaseen nodded.

Ryba’s eyes closed, a half-smile on her face.