L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

There was too much to think about, reflected Nylan, from Ryba’s coldness to children to Ayrlyn, not to mention smithing. He’d still only rough-formed the prosthetic foot for Daryn-something for a man would certainly be low on Ryba’s priority list, he suspected, far below weapons.

“Got to run,” added Saryn. “We’re going to see what it’s like down below near that grove of hardwoods off the lower meadow below the brickworks. You remember those ironwood trees? They’re lousy for woodworking, but the healer says they’ll make good charcoal. You did say you needed charcoal.”

“I did. We can’t do much at the smithy without it.”

“Daaaa…” injected Dyliess, lurching toward Nylan’s mug again.

By the time he had intercepted her grasping fingers and had his tea under control, Saryn was headed out of the great hall.

“She’s a handful,” said Huldran.

“Saryn? She’s not bad.”

“I meant your daughter.” Huldran laughed. “Already, she has a mind of her own.”

Like her mother, Nylan thought, but he only said, “She does.” Then he finished the last of his own tea and a last morsel of cheese before standing and lurching off the bench and toward the stairs to the tower’s lower level.

Still carrying Dyliess, Nylan made his way down the stone stairs into the warmth below. Turning away from the heat of the kitchen, where Blynnal and her crew labored, Nylan found Ayrlyn in the corner of the lowest-level room in the tower-in the corner of the woodworking area, sitting on a stool and practicing chords on her lutar. She was not singing, and her eyes were puffy.

“I kept looking for you,” he said, shifting Dyliess.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I wanted to talk to you.”

“Ouuuu,” mimicked Dyliess.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, there is.”

“What?” Ayrlyn’s voice was flat.

“What about last night? Why? And why wouldn’t you come to breakfast?”

“Because…” Ayrlyn took a deep breath. “I don’t like sharing you, but I can’t do what Ryba did. First, there’s no technology left, and, second, I wouldn’t trick you. It’s not easy.” The healer took a deep shuddering breath. “Her daughter will be all Istril really ever has, you know? How could I deny her that? You’ve saved her life twice, and she worships you, and it…it has to be more personal…” Tears oozed from the corners of the healer’s deep brown eyes.

“What about Weryl?” Nylan shook his head. “I’m missing something. A lot of somethings.” He reached out and took her hand with his left hand, the free one. “That can wait. I’ve been thinking…”

“About time…” Ayrlyn swallowed once, twice, then spoke again. “How long can Istril count on Weryl staying in Westwind with Ryba’s distrust of men? Until he’s fifteen or twenty and slips off?” Ayrlyn coughed, trying to clear her throat. “He is your son. Do you really think he’ll buy all of Ryba’s propaganda? Especially with all the legends about you?”

“You talk as if I won’t be there.”

“You won’t. You and Ryba barely tolerate each other. Everyone sees it, but no one says anything. Ryba still needs more blades, and you feel responsible for Dyliess, and Weryl, and Kyalynn. How long can you hang in there for the children before…” The flame-haired healer shook her head. “Nylan…you’re sweet, but you’re dense about some things.”

“I know. I know.” Nylan glanced toward the end of the room where Murkassa entered, along with two other new guards-one called Jiess, Nylan thought. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Now?”

“Now,” the smith insisted. “Or as soon as I can hand Dyliess over to Antyl for a little bit.”

“Just a moment.” Ayrlyn eased the lutar into the case and then set the case up on one of the empty shelves that had held planks and timber earlier in the winter. “I’ll meet you at the end of the causeway. Don’t be long, or I’ll freeze solid.”

“It’s spring.”

“I’ll freeze half-solid.”

“I’ll hurry.”

Nylan trudged back up to the nursery and looked around, finally seeing Antyl in the corner nearest the north door that led to the bathhouse and laundry.

“Be wondering how long afore you’d be here,” said the mahogany-haired woman, extending her arms to Dyliess. “Jakon misses the silver-heads. He be telling when they’re not here. So’s Dephnay. It’s like they reassure the others. Like you do, ser.”

Part of their heritage? An earlier manifestation of sensitivity to the order fields-the black “magic” of Candar?

“Me?” asked Nylan involuntarily.

“You and the flame-healer. And the other silvertops. People settle down round you. Except the Marshal, but she’s the Angel, and that’s different. Don’t know as to what some of us had done, weren’t for Westwind. Now, don’t ye be minding me. Your little ones be fine.”

Nylan smiled and headed for the main door to the tower-the south door, pausing as Llyselle passed, carrying in an armload of stove wood for Blynnal.

“How’s the hand?” he asked.

“Almost healed.” The silver-haired guard shook her head. “So stupid. I just took my eyes off the saw an instant. You survive battles, and almost lose a hand to a saw, a frigging handsaw.”

“It happens.”

“It’s still stupid, but I was lucky you and the healer were near.” With a last smile, Llyselle headed toward the lower level. The engineer-smith closed the tower door behind himself and hurried out to the end of the causeway, his ship-jacket closed only halfway.

Despite the bright sun, the first green tendrils of the snow lilies rising through the melting whiteness, and the dampness at the ends of the snow piles flanking the road, Ayrlyn’s jacket was fastened all the way up, her gloved hands in the pockets of the worn heavy-weather parka that was one of the handful that had come down in the landers from the Winterlance .

“Cold?” he asked.

“I’m always cold here, even in summer.” Her brown eyes flashed in that way that conveyed a blueness, even though the smith intellectually knew that the blue flash he saw was more an order field manifestation than anything visual. Order field or not, it meant anger. “I’ve done pretty well for someone not raised in a freezer like the rest of you. I don’t hide in the tower, and I don’t crouch by the kitchen stove. Darkness knows, I feel like it. But I don’t.”

“I never said anything about that.”

“You don’t have to. You’re not as bad as the others, but all of you are so damned condescending about it. I’d love to get you down in the lowlands in summer, and then smile at you while the sweat pours off your forehead and you feel like you’re going to fall over from heatstroke.”

Nylan pursed his lips. Was he really that bad? “Am I that bad?”

“No. Not usually, but I’m in a lousy mood. And you ought to know why. That is something you should know.”

“You’ve been here for me…” he said slowly. “When no one else was…not anyone who understood.”

“There were others? You told me-”

“There weren’t any others. Except…for last night…there never have been…not since almost a season before the battle last fall. I told you that, and it was true. There weren’t any others, because I don’t get close to just bodies. I’m not a Gerlich. I never have been. And I can’t talk about it.”

“That’s been clear, and I’ve tried to be understanding.” Ayrlyn shook her head, her eyes glistening.

“Then…why?” he asked helplessly.

Ayrlyn walked from the causeway out to the road and turned toward the ridge, leaving Nylan standing by himself.

He turned to follow, repeating his question. “Why?”