The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You won’t change, Nylan. You’re just as deceptive as I am The difference is that I recognize it, and you won’t.” Ryba stood, waiting for Nylan to take Dyliess. “What I build will last, and only your name will remain, a vague legend about a mighty mythical smith, and that will be because I had Ayrlyn write a song about you.”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “So do you,” she answered. “Take Dyliess. Sing to her, and I will tell her you did. Yes, I will. For her sake, not yours.” Nylan stepped forward.

  “Ah… ooo…” Dyliess stretched her arms out to her father, looking up, a blanket wrapped around her waist and legs. Nylan picked her up, cradling her against his shoulder, and rocking back and forth, holding her tightly. Ryba slipped to the door. “I’ll be back in a while.” Still holding his silver-haired daughter, Nylan walked toward the trundle bed he had made and looked down. He stepped back across the smoothed plank floor to the rocking chair, where, cradling her against his shoulder, he sat down and began to rock… gently.

  “Oh, my dear, my dear little child,

  What can we do in a place so wild,

  Where the sky is so green and so deep

  And who will rock you to sleep?

  Your daddy is leaving; he’s going away

  There’s only a cradle and nothing to say,

  but when the stars shine over the western sky,

  try to remember that he once said good-bye.“

  The tears rolled down the smith’s cheeks, and his vision, his superb day and night vision, showed him nothing. Nothing at all.

  In time, he finally stood, laid the sleeping Dyliess in her cradle, and returned to his quarters to gather everything together.

  With a last look at the sleeping child, he started down the steps, loaded with all his gear, moving slowly to avoid tripping over the blade at his waist. The one in the shoulder harness would be easier to use, far easier, once he was mounted. Some of the customs of Candar made sense-usually those having to do with arms.

  As he trudged down to the fourth level, Siret glanced up after slipping on a work tunic. Her eyes took in all that Nylan carried, and, with a quick look to the bed where Kyalynn sat wrestling with a crude stuffed bear that Hryessa had made, Siret hurried across the wide planked floor to the stairs.

  The engineer paused.

  “Nylan? You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Her deep green eyes caught his.

  He nodded.

  “I could see it coming. Nothing you do pleases her.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not like Gerlich. I won’t be back, not that way.”

  “You won’t be back. This world needs you.”

  He blinked, not expecting such a comment.

  “Ryba will fight the world. She will make the men who rule come to her and be defeated-but they won’t. They’ll let us rule the mountains, and let the truly unhappy women come to us.” She smiled bitterly. “I’ve thought about it. People don’t think I do, but I do… a lot. The Marshal… and especially you… gave me that.”

  “Me?” Nylan was feeling totally confused, wondering what else he had done that he hadn’t seen.

  “I watched you, Nylan. You don’t talk much about why you do what you do. You do it. You push yourself, and… people take, and they take. I started asking why. So…” She shrugged, and her eyes were bright. “I had to tell you that I am grateful for all you’ve given… to let you know I wasn’t like so many of the others.” After a moment she swallowed. “Westwind is too small for you, and you’re not full Sybran so you can leave here.”

  “I’m not looking forward to the heat,” he said, trying not to choke up, and wondering if his decision to leave were such a good one after all.

  “The healer’s going with you, isn’t she? Some guards will suffer. And the children.” Her eyes darted to the bed where Kyalynn looked down at the bear that lay across her chubby legs.

  “Istril, Llyselle, even you have some of the talent.” He smiled wryly. “You’ll be able to do as well as we can, if you can’t already.”

  “We’ll manage, but we’ll never be as good. But I knew that it had to happen. Relyn said it would.”

  “Relyn? He’s been gone since the battle.” Not that Nylan hadn’t wondered about the one-handed man, especially after Blynnal had turned up pregnant-but Nylan had been the one who advised Relyn to leave before Ryba found a way to eliminate the former Lornian noble because he’d found religion.

  Nylan snorted to himself. The idea that he-a former angel ship’s engineer-was the prophet of a new faith of order was almost ludicrous. Even more absurd was Ryba’s contention that Relyn’s preaching such a faith would undermine Westwind. Not so absurd had been her intent to remove Relyn in the chaos that followed the great battle-except Relyn, warned by Nylan, had slipped off into the night.

  “Ryba said that he has already been preaching his new gospel of order.” Siret looked around. “I heard her talking to Saryn. Tryssa-she was one of the last new recruits to reach us before the snows-she was talking about the one-handed prophet in black who forecast the fall of the old ways and the rise of order. He’s also preaching about building a Temple of Order.”

  “Great.” Nylan glanced up the steps.

  “He said that, sooner or later, you would have to leave, and that the healer would go with you.” Siret smiled sadly. “I listen, you know?”

  “I know.” He shook his head. “But everyone seems to know what I’m doing before I do.” Then he added. “Thank you. I didn’t stop to have you make me feel good.”

  “I know. You’re a good man, a good person.”

  He dropped his eyes. Much as he appreciated the compliment, Nylan knew he wasn’t that good. If he were, so many things would have turned out differently. “Where’s Istril? I should say good-bye.”

  “She took Weryl out earlier. She was taking him on a ride. She had so many things I wondered if she were leaving, but she said she’d be back.” Siret frowned. “She never lies. But she looked sad. I wonder if she knew you were leaving.”

  “I don’t know.” Istril knew a lot, a lot that the wiry guard didn’t voice.

  “You need to go. You need to say good-bye to Kyalynn.” She darted across the room and scooped up their daughter, bringing her back to him.

  As Nylan hugged his daughter, his tears bathed them both, and he wanted to rage-against fate, against Ryba, against himself. Why was it that everything had so high a price?

  He finally eased his silver-haired daughter back to her mother. “Take care of her.”

  “I will. And I will make sure she knows who you are. A man and not a legend.”

  He half-walked, half-stumbled down the rest of the stairs and out the main door. Perhaps some guards watched, but Istril was not among them, nor Weryl, and he saw none of their faces as he forced himself up the road to the stable.

  Most of the guards were out in the fields, or down below the ridge in the timber camps. He heard the sound of hammers as he passed the smithy, but he did not stop. He wasn’t up for another emotional parting, and Huldran, of all people, would understand. Still… he put his feet forward, wondering where Istril and Weryl were.

  Under the load he carried, despite the muscles developed from smithing, he was sweating and panting when he reached the stable.

  Ayrlyn had both mounts saddled and waiting in the shade of the stable door. “You look like chaos. What happened?”

  “I had to say good-bye to Dyliess and Kyalynn…” He coughed. “I couldn’t find Weryl.” He dropped the gear in a pile, then lifted the saddlebags and began to strap them in place.

  At the thump of the dropped equipment, a chicken scurried away from the stable and uphill toward the shelter that had held the livestock through the long winter.

  Ayrlyn lifted the bow. “Won’t Ryba be a little angry about this?”

  “She said I could take what I needed, that I was so guilt-ridden I’d be fair.”

  “She has that right,” Ayrlyn said softly. “
I’m glad you brought it. You’ve done so much for everyone else. I brought six extra blades-two of your blades, and four small crowbars for trading. Ryba won’t miss the crowbars, and you deserve some of your own. You wouldn’t bring them, and you might not ever have the chance to forge replacements. They’re all packed away. And all my trading silvers.”

  “Practical woman. I don’t think I have more than a half-dozen silvers and a few coppers.” The engineer eased the bedroll into place. “I did bring one spare blade, besides the pair.”

  “Good. I also brought some water bottles for you. You’ll need them when we get down into Lornth.”

  “You still think that’s the right way to go?”

  Ayrlyn lifted her shoulders as she strapped a water bottle in place. “We go east and run into Karthanos and Gallos, and the easterners feel even nastier than the Lornians. Also, something about the west-”

  “Feels better?”

  The healer nodded. “I couldn’t say why.”

  “I’ll trust a good feeling over sterile reasoning any day, especially here.”

  “I don’t know,” mused Ayrlyn. “There’s more to the order magic of this world. It’s not just feeling. There’s a system, somewhere.”

  “You’re talking like an engineer, not a healer.”

  “Aren’t they really the same?”

  Nylan laughed, then began to readjust the shoulder harness that would hold his second blade. With one at his waist and the other in the shoulder harness, he should have access to one weapon in any situation. Even as he hoped he didn’t have to find out, he knew he would. Candar was that sort of place.

  After he tightened the harness and checked his ability to draw the blade easily, he looked at Ayrlyn. “Are you ready?”

  Ayrlyn glanced out the open stable door and down the narrow canyon. “I can’t believe Istril wouldn’t bring Weryl.”

  “I didn’t exactly broadcast our departure. Did you?”

  “No… but she would have known.”

  Nylan led the mare out into the sun and climbed into the saddle. “Maybe we’ll see her on the way out.”

  “Maybe.” Ayrlyn sounded doubtful.

  In the still-cool light of spring, they let the mounts carry them down the road and past the smithy.

  Ydrall and Huldran stood by the door to the structure that Nylan had designed and built-and where he had forged scores of the deadly Westwind blades. At least, he had managed to finish one more nondestructive item-a foot for Daryn, along with all the blades.

  “Take care, engineer… healer,” offered the blonde. “You, too,” said Nylan. His voice was thick. As they passed the causeway, a handful of guards in the bean field straightened. One pointed in their direction and waved. Nylan waved back.

  His vision blurred as he looked beyond the indistinct faces, as he saw the cairns in the background, with the dark green stalks that would bear starflowers rising from the rocks.

  When the mare’s hoofs struck the stones of the bridge, his eyes went to the tower, but no one stood on the causeway or waved.

  Nor was there any farewell from the watchtower as they crossed the top of the ridge and headed down, down to the road that would take them west.

  As the two rode past the scattered trees on the lower ridge and eased the mare onto the road to the west, the same road used by the Lornians and Gerlich the year before to attack Westwind, Nylan could sense a figure moving through the trees.

  “Someone’s coming,” said Ayrlyn.

  Nylan glanced back toward the ridge, though he could not see the tower beyond, and his hand went to the blade at his waist. With both eyes and senses, he tried to track the approaching rider.

  Beside him, Ayrlyn shifted in her saddle. “No chaos there.”

  Istril rode forward, out of the trees, Weryl strapped to her chest. She also wore twin blades. Her free hand patted Weryl on the back.

  “Nylan?” Istril’s eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and her voice was hoarse.

  “Istril? I looked for you and Weryl, but Siret said you’d taken Weryl off riding.” Nylan eased the mare to a stop, and Ayrlyn stopped the chestnut. “I didn’t mean to go off without saying anything.”

  “I knew.” Istril coughed as she reined up. “Knew you’d have to leave.” She turned to Ayrlyn. “I’m sorry for the trouble and the hurt I caused you, healer. But you’ll understand, I hope.”

  “Istril…” began Ayrlyn.

  “Hear me out, please, ‘fore you say anything.” The silver-haired guard turned to Nylan. “You have to take Weryl, ser. He’s your son. He has to go with you. I know he does.”

  Nylan winced. “He’s yours, too, Istril, far more than mine.”

  “What kind of life will he have here? He’s got your blood. The Marshal’ll drive him out before he’s even grown. He can live in the lowlands. I can tell that. I can’t. It’ll be all right for the next one. The Marshal’s not the only one who sees the future. I’ll call her Shierl. She’s a girl, and the Marshal looks fond on girls.”

  “Why?”

  “You saved my life, ser, more than once, and Weryl’s all I can give, and you’ll raise him right. You do everything right. You will.”

  Beside him Ayrlyn offered the faintest of smiles.

  “Da?” asked Weryl, stretching out his hands.

  Istril fumbled with the straps of the carry-pouch. After a slow and lingering embrace, she slowly eased Weryl away from her and lifted the silver-haired boy toward Nylan.

  Nylan stretched out his own hands, too, even though he knew that the single syllable meant little enough, and that giving him Weryl was the most painful action Istril could ever have taken.

  As the smith struggled to settle Weryl in place in the pack on his own chest, readjusting the sword harness and the blade itself, Istril dismounted and began to unfasten the two bags behind her saddle. Her cheeks were again tear-stained. “One’s food-the best I can do; the other’s clothes. They’re not much.”

  “I’ll carry one,” Ayrlyn offered.

  “You’ll be good to the engineer… and Weryl.” Istril swallowed and coughed. “… hate this… hate it… but I’d have nothing… without you two.”

  “You would have done fine,” Nylan protested.

  “Without you two, every last one of us’d be dead or slaves or both.” Istril cleared her throat. “This way… this way… I’ll have Shied and a life, and Weryl’ll have the best… he can, too.”

  Nylan didn’t know what to say, and he patted his son on the back and looked helplessly at Istril.

  “Won’t stand here weeping… like some fool.” Istril threw herself into the saddle, took a long look at Weryl, then urged her mount into a trot back up the road to the ridge and the tower.

  “Daaaa…” said Weryl, and Nylan wondered if the sound were as sad as he thought, or if the sadness were his.

  How did he get into such messes? Was it life, fate, or his own inability to see all the patterns? He could see enough to know that Westwind had needed a tower, and all the buildings, and the smithy and the mill, yet-where people were concerned-he felt so blind, so inadequate.

  He glanced at Ayrlyn, sitting stone-faced on the chestnut. “You haven’t said much.” The engineer looked at Ayrlyn. “I feel sorry for Istril, and I’m angry at Ryba. It didn’t have to happen this way.” The healer took a deep breath. “I need to think about all of this. If it were anyone but Istril… anyone-”

  “You’d leave me?”

  “Probably.” Ayrlyn shook her head. “No. I wouldn’t, but I’d be angrier, a whole lot angrier. Istril’s not the self-pitying, self-sacrificing type. She knows what would happen to Weryl, and it’s tearing her apart. And it would only be worse if you rode back to Westwind. So don’t even think about it. Istril didn’t mean it as a guilt-trip. But I’m angry. In effect, we have a child before we’ve really had a chance to sort anything out, and I can’t really even be angry at you. Except I am. Part of me says that it wasn’t your fault, and part of me wants to know why yo
u’re so frigging noble that you always end up picking up the pieces.” She flicked the reins. “We’d better get moving. Sitting here on the trail doesn’t solve anything.” No… it didn’t. Nylan cleared his throat, patted Weryl on the back, wondered how long before the boy would be hungry, and flicked the mare’s reins, beginning a journey whose end he didn’t know for reasons he could feel but not articulate, with a son he barely knew in some ways-and they were headed for a land where they were probably hated because he couldn’t stay where he had built a safe haven.

  Life was just so fair, so wonderfully equitable. His jaw tightened as he eased the mare after Ayrlyn.

  XIX

  THE BROWN-HAIRED man in the silver robes waited as the officer in the green uniform and white sash advanced into the small receiving hall-a marble-floored room merely large enough for two or three of the Cyadoran steam wagons whose numbers had dwindled from legion to a mere score or so.

  “Majer Piataphi?”

  “Yes, Your Mightiness?”

  “Sit down.”

  The majer glanced at the two padded stools, each armless and backless, that faced the table desk behind which sat Lephi on a high-backed stool. Finally, Piataphi seated himself on the front edge of the left stool.

  Lephi lifted the scroll. “This is the response we received from the Lornian barbarians. Do you know what it says?”

  “No, Sire.” A faint sheen coated Piataphi’s forehead.

  “It says nothing-except that we are discourteous. We of the land of Cyador, ancient and mighty, are discourteous. We of Cyador, who brought order out of disorder, cities out of . wild forests, we are discourteous. We who brought metal-working and the first trade ships to cross the oceans, we are discourteous. There is no remembrance of the daughters they enticed away generations ago, nor of the dangers to life our ancestors eliminated, such as the stun lizards that were everywhere.”