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“You can’t wrap her up like that forever.”
Lan’s words gusted away on the crisp, winter air as he glided past, launching into his third circuit around the frozen lake.
Their firstborn raced proudly after his father, propelling himself over the ice without assistance. Maric was going to be be tall like Lan. It seemed as though the seamstresses were fitting him with new clothing every week.
Elnore—with her adorable brown ringlets, pink cheeks, rosebud mouth and large, dark eyes—was still little more than a baby in her mother’s eyes. She would suffer bumps and bruises soon enough—Light knew, they sprung up all over her brother constantly—but Nynaeve could not bear the sight of that little scrunched face and watery eyes each time their daughter needed a boo-boo healed.
She giggled as she wobbled in her bubble of air. Another gentle gust helped her find her feet. Keep moving, Lan had said during Nynaeve’s first lesson. Balancing is hardest when you’re still.
It was an old practice, he’d told her on that cold, wintery day. For hundreds of years, the men and women of Malkier had strapped blades carved from bone or wood to their boots, venturing out over the frozen lakes to hunt for game or fish from the deep, frigid waters through holes in the thick ice.
Bukama and the others had taught Lan as soon as could walk. Many Malkieri had held to the practice during their exile, passing it to their children and grandchildren. Still more had taken it up with repatriation to the motherland, now that the lakes were clear.
Nynaeve paused to survey the festive scene before her, surprised by a feeling of pride at the enhancements made with the One Power. Shining globes cast overlapping circles of light across the ice, allowing the skating to continue well after darkness had fallen. Following the King’s example, the people had embraced the activity as nighttime leisure. The shoreline was now dotted with fire pits, where skaters gathered to warm frozen fingers and partake in winter snacks or hot beverages offered by peddlers.
Word of Malkier’s rebirth (along with its receptive audiences) had spread, attracting gleemen from the south. The sounds of jovial music now drifted across the ice. Even the Illuminators had sent a contingent last month, mounting a spectacular show of fire-flowers over the lake every night for a week. Elayne and her brood had travelled from Caemlyn to see it, cajoling Moiraine and Thom to join them.
Despite the affection she now held for the Blue Sister, Nynaeve couldn’t help but be a trifle irritated that the flaming woman displayed more elegance during her first foray on skates, than Nynaeve herself could muster with six years of practice. Lan had murmured some nonsense about Cairhienin court upbringing, blah blah blah, as though that would assuage her mood! (He’d succeeded in assuaging it later, though, after they had retired to bed. That memory was more than enough to warm her, even in the depths of the Malkieri winter.)
Elnore’s gleeful yelp startled her back to the present, her daughter abruptly torn from her side and hoisted into the air to her favourite seat on her father’s broad shoulders.
“Lan!” Nynaeve hollered after the pair, “you be careful with her!” The girlish giggle chimed in concert with his rumbling chuckle as the pair whisked away over the lake.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Maric called, the edge of his blades carving a miniature snowfall from the ice as he whooshed to a standstill beside her. Tucking his bemittened hand into hers, his lips curved upward into a familiar, lopsided grin. “I’ll skate with you.”