Winter Death Part 7

She loved her children, and for her children, she could sing. She remembered the sweet, gentle nature of her oldest, and the stubborn fury of her youngest, and for the first time since she had bid them farewell, she laughed in delight at their antics.

The man in the bed stirred.

She had survived their loss because of her vows, and she had found that sorrow, in the end, could not keep her from the other children in the Hold. They needed her. Their parents needed her. In the worst of winter, she could soothe temper, displace boredom, still fury; she could invoke the love her mother invoked.

Even after the deaths.

Even then.

"Gregori."

The sound of his name drained the room of light. But Daniel was safe; she felt his fear struggle a moment with her love. And lose.

Such a small thing, that fear.

She reached out to touch Gregori's forehead; his eyes widened in terror and he backed away. But he had been abed many, many months; he was slow. And she, mountain girl, miner's daughter, was fast. She ran her fingers through his hair and let go of all thought.

What remained was feeling.

Love.

Loss.

Gently, gently now, she brushed his hair from his face. She felt the raging fury, the emptiness, the guilt, and the horror that he could not let go. Not on his own.

But surely, surely she had felt this before? A child's emotions were always raw, always a totality. They existed in the now, as if the past and the future were severed neatly by the strength of what they felt in the present.

:Don't touch me! Don't touch me! I'll kill you!: But she continued to touch his face, the fine line of his nose, the thin, thin stretch of his lips.

"You need my song," she whispered, "and I had forgotten how to sing. I am sorry. I am sorry, Gregori."

She did not question; did not think. To do either was death. Instead, she gave in to her Gift.

To her mother's Gift. What she felt, she made him feel, just as he had made his enemies feel. :Don't-don't touch me: :Don't touch: :I'll kill you: :I'll kill you, too: :I don't want to kill you, too: She sat in the room with her younger child in her lap and her older child in his bed. :Hush, hush.: And when the older child began to weep, she held him.

Darius was a patient Companion. And a large one.

He did not complain at the weight of three pa.s.sengers, and had he, Kayla would have kicked him. After all, she was no giant, Daniel was less than half her weight, and the Prince, tall and skeletal, probably weighed less than the saddlebags.

The King had agreed to let his son go, but with misgivings; it was therefore decided, by Royal Decree, that a Healer, and three attendants, would accompany them.

She was grateful for that; the spring in Riverend had already pa.s.sed into summer, and in the winter, with a Healer, there might be no deaths. A winter without death.

"Kayla?" Gregori said, as the Hold came into view. She felt his anxiety.

"Daniel's fallen asleep and my arm's gone numb. I don't want him to fall-"

"You won't let him fall," she told the Prince gently. "And I won't let you fall."

"Will it be all right? Will they accept me?"

"I was so lonely here," she answered. "I was so lonely. I don't think they'll begrudge us each other." She smiled, and the smile was genuine. "Do you think you've learned the dawnsong well enough to sing it with me?"