fussed about, taking his coat, drying him off, chattering in their musical language, making his face gentle with fondness. A white-haired man addressed Eldri with obvious respect. Others spoke as well. She needed no translation to see they were offering welcome and informing Eldri about the castle. Their affection and high opinion of him came through in their every gesture. She didn’t yet know the social hierarchies here, but she sensed none of the distance between Eldri and his people that in her universe set royalty apart from commoners. These people dressed in simple clothes and had work-roughened hands, but they treated Eldri as one of them.
Torches and antiqued oil lamps lit the hall. Actually, the lamps probably weren’t antique; they just looked that way to her. Although she doubted the plan of this building matched castles on other worlds, certain traits tended to repeat in human architecture, including windows and also artistry in great houses. Windward was no exception. Its arched windows were gorgeous, their borders engraved with intertwining lines and spheres, probably a stylized version of the bubble reeds in the plains. The openings were narrow, perhaps to make defending them easier. All had shutters in red, blue, green, or purple glasswood, which young people were closing throughout the hall. Roca could see why; the windows had no glass. Shutters provided the only protection against the storm.
People bustled around her and Eldri, drying the melted snow on their clothes. A huge fire blazed in a hearth at one end of the hall, defying the chill that seeped through the walls. Blue snow had scattered across the stone floor beneath the windows, as if the sky had fallen to the ground and collected in a pile. Two thoughts came to Roca, first that she understood the name of the world—Skyfall—and then that she didn’t understand at all. The sky of this planet was lavender. Snow here matched the color of the sky as seen from Earth, not from “Skyfall.”
Deep in conversation with his people, Eldri walked through the hall. He continued to hold Roca’s hand, keeping her at his side. The curiosity of everyone around them washed over her like a fountain, soaking through her shields. Although she knew almost nothing of their language, she was developing a feel for its cadences and sounds, aided by her node. It sounded as if Eldri was making arrangements of some kind. She earnestly hoped they included warm, dry clothes for the riding party.
Roca suddenly felt as if her shoulders heated up. Turning, she looked past the people around her. Across the hall, Garlin was coming through the entrance, his hair disarrayed from the wind. A woman in a red robe walked at his side. He was watching Roca with a scowl, but when her gaze met his, he turned back to his robed companion.
Eldri slowed to a stop and took Roca’s hands, drawing her to face him. “We will have a ceremony for Jacquilar in the morning. Then I will take you back to the port.”
“Jacquilar?”
His voice caught. “The man who died.”
She squeezed his hands, offering comfort with touch rather than words. His staff hastened off to take care of the arrangements, tactfully leaving their Bard alone with the unknown woman he had brought into his home.
Eldri curled his fingers around hers. “Tonight we will have a dinner in your honor.”
She spoke gently. “You need not do this.”
“But I must. I asked you here. It is not your fault we had a tragedy.” He released one of her hands and raked his fingers through his hair, tousling the shoulder-length mane. “Never before has it been such a problem to come up here.”
She ran her thumb over his thick fingers. “I wish I knew a way to make it better.”
“You do just by being here.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her knuckles. Then he lowered her hand, turning it this way and that. “You have beautiful fingers. Strange, but pretty.” A hint of his earlier mischief returned.
Torches and antiqued oil lamps lit the hall. Actually, the lamps probably weren’t antique; they just looked that way to her. Although she doubted the plan of this building matched castles on other worlds, certain traits tended to repeat in human architecture, including windows and also artistry in great houses. Windward was no exception. Its arched windows were gorgeous, their borders engraved with intertwining lines and spheres, probably a stylized version of the bubble reeds in the plains. The openings were narrow, perhaps to make defending them easier. All had shutters in red, blue, green, or purple glasswood, which young people were closing throughout the hall. Roca could see why; the windows had no glass. Shutters provided the only protection against the storm.
People bustled around her and Eldri, drying the melted snow on their clothes. A huge fire blazed in a hearth at one end of the hall, defying the chill that seeped through the walls. Blue snow had scattered across the stone floor beneath the windows, as if the sky had fallen to the ground and collected in a pile. Two thoughts came to Roca, first that she understood the name of the world—Skyfall—and then that she didn’t understand at all. The sky of this planet was lavender. Snow here matched the color of the sky as seen from Earth, not from “Skyfall.”
Deep in conversation with his people, Eldri walked through the hall. He continued to hold Roca’s hand, keeping her at his side. The curiosity of everyone around them washed over her like a fountain, soaking through her shields. Although she knew almost nothing of their language, she was developing a feel for its cadences and sounds, aided by her node. It sounded as if Eldri was making arrangements of some kind. She earnestly hoped they included warm, dry clothes for the riding party.
Roca suddenly felt as if her shoulders heated up. Turning, she looked past the people around her. Across the hall, Garlin was coming through the entrance, his hair disarrayed from the wind. A woman in a red robe walked at his side. He was watching Roca with a scowl, but when her gaze met his, he turned back to his robed companion.
Eldri slowed to a stop and took Roca’s hands, drawing her to face him. “We will have a ceremony for Jacquilar in the morning. Then I will take you back to the port.”
“Jacquilar?”
His voice caught. “The man who died.”
She squeezed his hands, offering comfort with touch rather than words. His staff hastened off to take care of the arrangements, tactfully leaving their Bard alone with the unknown woman he had brought into his home.
Eldri curled his fingers around hers. “Tonight we will have a dinner in your honor.”
She spoke gently. “You need not do this.”
“But I must. I asked you here. It is not your fault we had a tragedy.” He released one of her hands and raked his fingers through his hair, tousling the shoulder-length mane. “Never before has it been such a problem to come up here.”
She ran her thumb over his thick fingers. “I wish I knew a way to make it better.”
“You do just by being here.” He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her knuckles. Then he lowered her hand, turning it this way and that. “You have beautiful fingers. Strange, but pretty.” A hint of his earlier mischief returned.
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