A Mighty Fortress by David Weber Page B

hand gently on Merlin/Nimue’s forearm once more as she recognized the sorrow behind that smile.
    “I always knew I’d never have a child,” Nimue said quietly from behind Merlin’s face and mustachios. It was the most bizarre thing Sharleyan had ever witnessed, yet there was a strange, perfect “rightness” to it, as well.
    “I knew it was something that could never happen to me. But I never realized, never imagined, I’d be standing here today, watching someone who is going to become a mother.” Nimue laughed sadly. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I always expected to die young. Now I’m nine hundred years old, and—who knows?— I could be around for another nine hundred. And I’ll still never have a child of my own.”
    “Oh, yes you will,” Sharleyan said softly. “ This child is yours, Merlin... Nimue. This child will live, will grow up, only because of you. Cayleb and I would never have met without you. I would have died at Saint Agtha’s without you. Charis would be a burned and slaughtered ruin without you. The Group of Four would win— Langhorne would win... without you. The Writ says a child is more than just flesh of its parents’ flesh, and the fact that it lies about so many other things doesn’t mean it lies about everything. What ever else happens, Cayleb and I will always remember, always know, this is a child we share with you, as well as with each other. And I swear to you, Nimue,” brown eyes looked deep into eyes of sapphire blue, seeking the centuries- dead young woman behind them, “that one day, whether Cayleb and I live to see it or not, all the world will know that, too.”
    They looked at one another for several long, silent moments, and then Merlin smiled again. There was still sorrow in that smile, but there was more than that, as well, and gentleness, and the swordsman’s sinewy fingers patted the slender, female hand on his mailed forearm.
    “Well, in that case, why don’t we go ahead and get this done?”

.III.
    Castle Mairwyn,
    City of Serabor,
    Barony of Larchros,
    Princedom of Corisande
     
    D amn, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a mountain slash lizard, Sahlahmn Traigair, the Earl of Storm Keep, thought as he climbed down from the saddle at last.
    October was summer, not winter in Corisande, but no one could have proved it by the cold, icy rain pounding the streets and roofs of Serabor. The same icy mountain rain which had pounded him and his companions for the entire day just past. It wasn’t as if Storm Keep was unfamiliar with the local weather. His own earldom lay just to the northeast of Larchros, and he’d been a fairly frequent visitor here over the years. More than that, the jagged Marthak Mountains formed the border between Larchros and the Earldom of Craggy Hill. Despite the fact that the equator passed directly across the northern Marthaks, there was snow on their highest peaks almost year- round, and the Barcor Mountains, in whose foothills Serabor nestled, were even taller.
    It’s not really cold enough to freeze anyone, I guess, he admitted grudgingly, reaching back to massage his posterior as the rest of their sizable party of servants, retainers, and guards dismounted around him. It sure as hell feels that way, though!
    “Welcome to Castle Mairwyn, My Lord,” a voice said, and Storm Keep turned to the speaker. Rahzhyr Mairwyn, Baron Larchros, was just as wet—and looked almost as miserable—as Storm Keep felt, but he still managed a smile. “If you’re not too thoroughly frozen, I expect there’s a fire and hot chocolate—or maybe even something a bit stronger—waiting for us.”
    “Now that , Rahzhyr, sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day!” Storm Keep said with a smile of his own.
    “Then let’s go find both of them,” Larchros invited, and waved for Storm Keep to accompany him as efficient grooms led their mounts away.
    The earl nodded, and the two of them headed out of the brick- paved stable yard, across the