L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

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 Shierl 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 you’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.

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.”