L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Nylan studied the room again-lander couch, rocking chair, table, stool, bed-that was all. Stone walls…he’d laid almost every stone. Window casements-his design. The entire tower had been his dream, his way of making the Roof of the World safe for the angels, for the children he had known would come, if not as he had expected.

He glanced at the pair of blades on the couch, the single composite bow and quiver, and the two saddlebags-one filled with his few clothes and a spare pair of boots, the other with hard bread and cheese, and some dried venison.

His jacket was rolled inside the makeshift bedroll that lay on the saddlebags. In the bags were those few items he owned-after two lives, really. Two lives, and those few items were all. And-once again-he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing-not beyond escaping.

He took a deep breath and swallowed, hoping Ayrlyn was ready, knowing she’d been ready long before he had. Then, she’d never really been at home on the Roof of the World, and he’d been the one to build Tower Black. His eyes went to the open window, through which he could see puffy clouds marching out of the northeast across the green-blue sky.

The smith took another deep breath, squared his shoulders, crossed the landing, and stepped into the Marshal’s quarters.

Ryba-the Marshal of Westwind-sat in the rocking chair, Dyliess in her lap. Her pale green eyes fixed on Nylan. “You’ve finally decided to leave, haven’t you?”

Nylan nodded. “You knew all along. Your visions told you that I’d have to leave. You knew seasons ago, but you wouldn’t share them. You never have shared those visions, and you never will. You wouldn’t change anything because it might jeopardize Westwind. And you’d never jeopardize Westwind.”

Ryba’s arms tightened ever so slightly around her daughter. “I wouldn’t do anything to threaten Dyliess.”

The silver-haired girl wriggled as if Ryba were holding her too tightly. “Ah…wah! Wah!”

“I know.” Nylan’s voice was flat. “Nothing can be allowed to threaten her-or your dreams.”

“What about your dreams? Your mighty tower? What about your plans for the sawmill?”

“I’ve written them out, with sketches, and I’ve discussed them all with Huldran-even the gearing. She can finish building the mill. She’ll do what you want, just like all the others.”

“The smith and the singer…off into the sunset, leaving the hard work for everyone else.” Ryba’s lips twisted. Her eyes seemed bright, brighter than usual, and she looked down at the plank floor, then out the window. Her left hand stroked Dyliess’s hair.

“You have a strange definition of hard work, Ryba.” Nylan snorted. “I did the building, and you and everyone else thought I was obsessed, crazy. But this past winter, no one complained when they were warm and cozy, when they had running warm and cold water.

“You schemed behind my back. You used me to get Siret and Istril pregnant. Who knows who else you tried with? And I didn’t even see it. I should have, but I didn’t. In my own clumsy way, I trusted you.” He looked toward the empty trundle bed in the corner. The cradle he had made was down on the fourth level with the guards. He swallowed. Should he even try to say more? “You don’t trust anyone.”

“You’ve decided, haven’t you?” she asked again. “The words don’t matter. You’ve decided. You and Ayrlyn. Just go. Take what you need. I know you. You’re so guilt-ridden you’ll be more than fair. Just go. Let us get on with life.”

“Leave me some time with Dyliess.”

“Why? You’re leaving.”

“You owe me more than that. I’m only asking for a little time with my daughter. She won’t remember it-but I will.”

“You don’t have to leave.” Ryba’s voice was even, almost emotionless. “You’ve built Westwind. As you keep telling me.”

“No. I don’t have to leave. I can have every guard here pity me. I can live here for the rest of my life, wondering whether I can trust you. I can risk everything and then wonder if you care, or if it’s just for another monument or legacy for the future. Because I’ve come to care for someone else, what would happen to her? Would you drive her out or dispose of her?” Nylan’s voice remained level. “After all, nothing can be allowed to get in the way of your dream.”

“It’s not like that. I did what had to be done. Do you think that I liked killing Mran? Or seeing two-thirds of my crew wiped out? I relive that a lot. Do you think that I like seeing you leave, no matter what I’ve done? Do you think that I’ll enjoy looking at all those cairns at the end of the meadow for the rest of my life? It’s easy to criticize and to leave, Nylan. It’s a lot harder to build something and live with the pain.”

“ How you build is important, too,” the engineer answered. “I built you and the guards an honest tower. An honest bathhouse. An honest smithy. Honest stables. Even the beginning of an honest metaled road to the rest of the world. You built with deception. You deceived me. You deceived Istril, Ayrlyn, and Siret. And, in the end, however long Westwind lasts, that deception will bring down your work.”

“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.