The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Or is it a worry about the alternative? About having to face an unfamiliar outside world alone? He shook his head, again recognizing that there was something about the order fields that forced more self-examination, self-examination that was never exactly welcome.

  The smith’s eyes went through the darkness, no barrier to any of the silver-haired guards, to study Daryn. The blond young man fidgeted ever so slightly on the bench beside Hryessa. Hryessa, one of the first refugees to Westwind, had developed into a first-class guard, a demon with a blade according to Saryn. Her eyes were rapt and fixed on Ayrlyn.

  “A ballad,” called Llyselle. “The Sybran one.”

  The redheaded healer readjusted the lutar, touching the tuning pegs and strumming the strings before she began.

  “When the snow drops on the stone

  When the wind song’s all alone

  When the ice swords form in twain,

  Sing of the hearths where we’ve lain.

  “When the green tips break the snow,

  When the cold streams start to flow,

  When the snow hares turn to black

  Sing out to call our love back.

  “When the plains grass whispers gold

  When the red blooms flower bold,

  When the year’s foals gallop long,

  Hold to the fall and our song…“

  The stillness was almost absolute in the hall, punctuated by a scattered cough or two. The memory of Sybra was still too raw for the survivors, and the grief was too palpable even to the women from Candar.

  “Something cheerier?” suggested Huldran.

  Ayrlyn nodded, murmured to Istril, and began again.

  “All day I dragged a boat of stone

  and came home when you weren’t alone,

  so I took all those blasted rocks

  and buried all your boyish fancy locks…

  and took you for a ride in my boat of stone…“

  Nylan wasn’t certain how much cheerier the song was, but the locals especially loved it, perhaps because Ayrlyn had reversed the sexes in the verses.

  In the end, the last song was predictably the same.

  “The guard song… the guard song!” chanted the newer recruits.

  Ayrlyn looked wryly at Nylan; Istril just looked at the floor. Ayrlyn stood before the hearth, lutar in hand, adjusting the tuning pegs and striking several strong chords before beginning.

  “From the skies of long-lost Heaven

  to the heights of Westwind keep

  we will hold our blades in order

  and never let our honor sleep.

  “From the skies of light-iced towers

  to the demons’ place on earth,

  we will holdfast lightning’s powers

  and never count gold’s worth.

  “As the guards of Westwind keep

  our souls hold winter’s sweep;

  we will hold our blades in order,

  and never let our honor sleep…“

  Nylan still wasn’t sure about honor, since it seemed to him that people who talked a lot about it killed a lot of people and then paid a far higher price than anyone ever intended.

  He managed to stifle a yawn as he rose from the bench and rubbed his stiff backside. The benches were wood, and hard, after sitting for a long time, songs or no songs.

  He glanced around, but Ayrlyn was gone, and so were Istril, Siret, Huldran, and Ryba.

  He shrugged and headed for the jakes before bed. Tomorrow, there would be more smithing-more blades-and he still wasn’t quite sure they were a good idea, but he had none better.

  The rough form for Daryn’s foot was taking longer, far longer, than he had thought, since he had to squeeze it injust as Relyn’s handbook had taken longer and had had to be worked in between the endless weapons creation.

  He stifled another yawn as he turned toward the lower-level jakes, stifled a yawn and tried not to think about children and Ryba and the darkness that was Candar.

  VIII

  THE STOCKY GRAY-HAIRED man waited as Zeldyan knelt, patting Nesslek’s back until the boy’s breathing was regular. Then she eased him from his side to his back and covered him with the blanket.

  After a last look at her son, she rose, crossed the room, and sat opposite Gethen across the low table, where she filled both goblets that rested there. She took a small sip from her own, followed by a nibble from the pastry she had started earlier.

  “You were saying?” he asked quietly.

  “Father,” said Zeldyan slowly. “You remember Hissl, the wizard who tried to claim the Ironwoods by leading an expedition to defeat the dark angels?”

  “I heard about it. I was in Rulyarth at the time, you recall.” Gethen lifted the goblet and sipped the wine. “The angels destroyed them to the last man, despite Hissl’s wizardry. The angels had a black mage. I suppose they still do.”

  “He was the one who used the fires of Heaven…” Zeldyan broke off the sentence, and looked down at the table. “Just like Sillek, he probably didn’t have any choice. If he hadn’t killed… he would have died.”

  “You don’t hate him?” asked Gethen.

  “Why? You know who I hate.” Zeldyan toyed with her goblet, then set it down without drinking. “Hissl did not lead the first expedition, the one after Relyn’s, I mean. The leader was a big man from the Roof of the World.”

  “That seems strange, if true. Why do you mention that?”

  “For Nesslek’s sake, I have to think. I cannot be bound by old hates or tradition.” The blonde took another small sip of wine. “I doubt that there is a single land where everyone is happy. People come to Lornth from Jerans, or go from here to Westwind or Suthya.”

  “As far as I can see, only women go to Westwind.” Gethen refilled his goblet.

  “Once they came to Lornth from Cyador, those who weren’t slaughtered… according to the old tales.”

  “You still raise the disturbing questions, daughter, after all these years.”

  “I cannot be who I am not. That, too, is a form of… honor. I learned that from Sillek.”

  Gethen waited.

  “What do we know of Westwind, really know?” asked Zeldyan. “Except that they destroyed two armies?”

  “Not much,” agreed Gethen.

  “I think we should be alert to learn what we can. Perhaps the dark angels might have something we can use.”

  “Against Cyador? You were certain that it would come to battle when we discussed this before.” Gethen took another sip of the wine.

  “Unless matters change,” she said. “Fornal would fight. If he thinks he must fight, he will want to fight immediately.”

  “Sometimes that view is correct.”

  “Sometimes,” said Zeldyan without agreeing. “I would rather avoid battles.”

  “One cannot always do that. Sillek hated battles, but he was right to take the fight to Ildyrom.”

  “So long as he had Koric and a wizard to leave in Clynya. Now what will we do-add to the armsmen there?” The blonde lifted a small handful of nuts from the dish on the table. “I suppose we must. Fornal has fortified Rulyarth, and the people there would not submit to Suthya now. Our tribute to Westwind keeps the east safe. If Cyador brings trouble, we will need forces in the south anyway.”

  “You just said you would avoid battle. What do you seek from the dark ones?” Gethen laughed.

  “Do you disagree that battles are costly?” Zeldyan turned toward the window as the roll of thunder rumbled across Lornth, heralding more spring rain.

  “Hardly. But what has this to do with the dark angels?” Gethen frowned.

  “Perhaps nothing. I do think we should talk with any who leave, if any do, and set out word that they are to be treated kindly and escorted to Lornth.”

  “That will not set well with some,” pointed out Gethen. “Send those who wish to fight to Clynya.”

  “Including the Lady Ellindyja?”

  “I wish I could send her to Westwind or feed her
to Ildyrom’s dogs.”

  “That would not be good for the dogs,” said Gethen, “even if they do belong to Ildyrom.”

  IX

  NYLAN LAY ON his couch in the darkness, listening to the wind as it rattled the shutters.

  He’d scarcely seen Ayrlyn in the past two days, not since she’d sung the night before last. Was she avoiding him? Why?

  The shutters rattled again.

  What did he want? To live alone, to stay alone at the top of the tower he had built? To forge enough peerless blades to last generations-until Ryba needed his talents for some other form of mass destruction?

  What did he want from his life, this life that had changed so much in the blink of a ship’s powernet that had fluxed and crashed? Then, had he known what he had wanted before, or just let the service dictate things? Building the tower had been the first big thing he had wanted… and it was done, and building another wouldn’t be the same, even if it were needed.

  He shook his head.

  The shutters rattled yet once more, and the smith turned on his couch until his eyes rested on the closed window and shutters. He and Ayrlyn had started to get close before winter closed in around them, but the confinement of the tower hadn’t helped. Or had that been an excuse?

  He and Ayrlyn had agreed not to sleep together regularly because… because why? Because he was treading on thin ice with Ryba? Because he didn’t want to just drift into another relationship? Because he recognized that Ayrlyn needed a total commitment, and he didn’t want to be forced?

  With a deep breath, he turned back over, away from the rattling of the window and the low whistle of the wind.

  Plick! A drop of water splattered on the planked floor, probably from the slowly melting ice making its way through the slates of the tower roof, in places where two winters had frozen and crumbled the mortar they had used instead of the roofing tar they did not have.

  Plick!

  The smith took another long breath, then-paused at what sounded like a whisper outside his door-or bare feet on the cold stones of the tower steps. But Ryba’s door had not opened. He would have heard if it had, and he had had nothing to do with Ryba since before the great battle of the previous autumn.

  Plick!

  His own door opened, and Nylan glanced through the darkness, not that it hampered his view. The strange underjump that had translated the Winterlance to whatever world they had found-like all worlds, the natives merely called it “the world” or “the earth”-the underjump that had turned his hair living silver had also given him night vision that was nearly as good as his day vision.

  Plick!

  The figure that slipped into his room did not have Ayrlyn’s flame-red hair, but silver hair.

  “Istril?” he whispered, half sitting up.

  Her finger touched his lips and her lips whispered in his ear. “Just tonight. I talked with the healer, and we agreed.” There was a pause. “Unlike some, Nylan, I wouldn’t deceive you.”

  “But-”

  “I want a daughter, and I want you to be her father. This is one of my visions.”

  Before he could protest again, the slight and wiry figure eased out of the robe she had worn and under the thin blanket, her skin smooth and warm against his-except for very cold feet.

  “Your feet-”

  “They’re cold, but don’t make fun of me. This is hard…” Istril shivered, and buried her head in his shoulder for a moment.

  Nylan could feel the dampness of her cheeks on his bare skin. He eased his arms around her, even as he wondered. Ayrlyn? Istril would not have lied, not for anything.

  Ayrlyn? Why would she have agreed?

  He stroked Istril’s silver hair for a long time before he kissed her, gently, before her lips trembled under his, before he chose not to resist what had been offered.

  X

  LEPHI GAZED OUT across the polished white tiles of the Great Hall of Cyad and stifled a yawn. Just below the oversized malachite and silver throne, to the Lord of Cyador’s right, stood the white wizard Themphi. Farther below and to the left loomed Duhru, the Voice of His Mightiness.

  “We might as well get this facade over with,” muttered the Lord of Cyador. “Announce the receiving of petitions.”

  “His Mightiness Lephi the White, Lord of Cyador, ruler of all lands from the mountains of the skies to the oceans of the west, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, Son of the Rational Stars, stands ready to receive the petitions of his people. Those with worthy petitions, draw near with good conscience.” Duhru’s voice boomed across the great hall, and the three-story-high gilded doors in the rear of the hall slid open nearly silently, the hiss of steam merely a whisper lost in the vastness of the chamber.

  Three figures slowly marched across the white tiles and stood on the shimmering and spotless tiles beneath the throne.

  “Declare your petition,” rumbled Duhru, “if you are without darkness and a follower of the way of whiteness.”

  The first petitioner-a mid-aged man wearing the white surplice of a petitioner over heavy work trousers and tunic- bowed. “Most powerful Lord of Cyador, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, hear my petition.”

  “The Lord hears all,” responded Duhru. “State your petition.”

  “The officers of the Eighth Mirror Lancers have dishonored my youngest daughter, and I ask redress. Only you can restore her honor.”

  Lephi glanced toward Themphi.

  “They say they used no force, and that they offered a dozen silvers toward her dowry,” whispered the white wizard.

  “Those officers have honored your daughter,” declared Lephi. “I will also increase that honor by adding two golds to that dowry.”

  The stocky man bowed, his forehead slick with sweat. “I seek no dowry. I seek honor. I humbly ask that you dishonor those officers. No officer of the greatest lord should defile a young girl.”

  “The Lord of Cyador has heard your petition,” boomed Duhru. “You may go and tell all of his generosity.”

  “NO!” The white-clad man charged the steps to the dais. “Your officers are pigs. They are sows, and you slop them.” A flaming arrow flashed from the balcony gratework, the mark of an Archer of the Rational Stars, catching the man in the chest. The other two petitioners watched, mouths partly open as the first petitioner crumpled.

  After a nod from Lephi toward Themphi, a fireball arced toward the dying man, then exploded. Only a handful of scattered ashes sifted through the air.

  “Question the lancer officers. If they dishonored the girl, do what is necessary. If not, have her join her father.”

  “So it is with unworthy petitions and petitioners, and those who reject the generosity of the lord,” intoned Duhru. “Let the next petitioner offer his petition.”

  “Most puissant Lord of Cyador, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, the citizens of Wybar humbly beseech Your Mightiness for a token of his support for the blessing of the new river piers.” The elderly man in the white surplice added in a wavering tone, “Only a token, Your Mightiness.”

  “They are fearful because Wybar is downstream from the Accursed Forest,” Themphi explained.

  Lephi nodded. “You shall have such a token. May your piers bring all prosperity and good trade.”

  “May the next petitioner approach,” rumbled Duhru, “if he is without darkness and a follower of the way of whiteness.”

  “Your Supreme Mightiness… the peasants in Geliendra have presented a petition, and the regional governor has endorsed it.” The functionary in gold bowed twice. On the second bow, droplets of perspiration splattered on the polished white tiles of the floor.

  “Lick those up, Husenar. I don’t like the floors soiled, especially when my administrators are acting for others.”

  Husenar complied, then straightened, standing stiffly.

  “What about this petition? Why need it be brought to me? Why did they not present it themselves?”

  “The Accursed… Forest… rods and rods of the rice fields and
the bean fields-those not already flooded-they are gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “The forest has awakened-”

  “The Forest of the Nameless? Have the wards failed? The wards have never failed.”

  Husenar bowed again. “The wards are no more, and the forest lives.”

  “I have taken their petition under advisement, and I will act accordingly.”

  After the petitioners and Duhru departed and the doors closed, Lephi turned to Themphi. “About that mess with the Eighth Mirror-”

  “They could not so dishonor a peasant.”

  “Themphi… did you not hear what I said? When a man is so distraught he will die rather than accept two years’ wages for a dowry, something is wrong. She is doubtless a spineless wench, but when peasants believe such girls are innocent they do not pay taxes, except under duress, and we do not need that now. I tell you again: you will find the guilty parties. If they are the officers, they can also choose duty to protect the people of Geliendra from the Accursed Forest-for the rest of their lives.” Lephi smiled coldly. “I want every peasant to know that I heard and acted, and every officer to know that girls outside the households of officers or the pleasure class are to be left untouched. I do not care how many paid concubines they have, but they must be sure that the purchases of concubines are well witnessed. Well witnessed.” He paused. “Of course, if it is the girl, and you had best be very sure, then she should be publicly violated by at least a company of Mirror armsmen. Whatever happens, I want both punishment choices made public, so that I receive no more petitions such as this.”

  Themphi swallowed.

  “Send some of the engineers to check the forest, and the wards. How could they possibly have failed?”