L. Modesitt: The Chaos Balance

“Not across their lands, but what will happen after he takes Spidlar? He will, sooner or later. Can he not move all his troops south into Analeria and swing through the southern passes into Cerlyn?”

Fornal stroked his black beard, rubbed his chin, then looked up as Zeldyan closed the door behind her. She carried the blond Nesslek, his eyes closed, cradled in her arms.

“You were speaking of Karthanos?” she asked, easing herself back into the wooden armchair. “Best we consider the scroll, first. How long has it been since word has come out of Cyador?”

“Almost a generation. Genglois found one scroll in the old library, and there are others, but I bid him cease searching,” said Fornal. “It also referred to the copper mines. Genglois said that Berphi-he was the Lord of Cyador then-died thereafter, and the Cyadorans never pursued the issue.”

Gethen lifted the scroll. “Do we ignore the demand? Do we ask for recompense? We cannot fight another land…not after last fall.”

“Why do we not send a polite answer that says nothing?” asked Zeldyan. “As if we totally misunderstood? They think we are ignorant forest-dwellers anyway.”

“It might buy time, and we can use much of that,” mused Gethen. “But why does the Emperor of Cyador trouble us now?”

“According to Skiodra and the other traders that frequent the outlying stations-”

“Outlying stations?” asked Fornal.

“They do not permit outsiders’ parties within Cyador-a few travelers perhaps, but certainly not traders, especially not after the Kyphrans tried to seize that isolated port town,” Zeldyan explained.

“Guarstyad,” confirmed Gethen. “It seems to have roused this Lephi against us all. What do we know of him?”

“Some of the Cyadorans have no great love of this Lephi. There was a struggle for the succession, and he ousted his beloved younger brother.”

“I recall that,” Fornal noted. “In the end, the older brother murdered the younger, but they called it a battle.” The dark-haired man smiled crookedly. “Younger brothers have a way of being loved, I gather. Especially after they’re dead.”

“I don’t think Relyn is dead,” said Zeldyan. “And I don’t appreciate the comment. I have always loved you both.”

Fornal looked down at the table. “I am sorry, sister. That was uncalled for.”

“What do you think about Zeldyan’s idea?” asked Gethen, his weathered face carefully impassive.

The younger man nodded. “If we make the response flowery enough, we can manage several exchanges of messages. Especially if we express our concerns that it has been so long since last we heard from the great and mighty land of Cyador.”

“We’ll have to give in or express defiance sooner or later,” the blond woman cautioned.

“It takes a fast messenger nearly two eight-days to reach Cyad,” said Gethen, “and we cannot be expected to respond the day we receive such a message.”

“Fine,” said Zeldyan, opening her blouse and easing Nesslek to her breast. “We can buy a season, perhaps a year. Then what?”

“Give the copper mines to Ildyrom,” suggested Fornal, “and let him cope with Cyador, except that wouldn’t be honorable.”

“Even if it were honorable, I would prefer another course,” said Gethen. “But the longer before we must face any other land in battle the better.”

The three nodded, not exactly in unison, but in agreement.

In the dim light cast by the fat candles-one on each of the six tables-Nylan pushed the platter away. He’d eaten too much, too quickly. Then he smiled at the irony. A year ago, they’d all been on the verge of starvation-that had certainly contributed to Ellysia’s weakness and the chaos fever that had killed her and left Dephnay an orphan. Now, Westwind had enough in its larders that Nylan felt comfortably full.

Blynnal’s cooking had also helped.

Ryba had pulled her chair to the side, and the glowing embers in the hearth added some light and a gentle warmth to the big room. The Marshal rocked Dyliess in her arms, gently.

“That was good,” Huldran said.

Nylan nodded.

Holding a sleepy Dyliess to her shoulder, and patting her back, Ryba pushed back her chair and glanced at Ayrlyn. “Could we have a song?”

“I’ll get my lutar.” The healer/singer rose. Behind her, so did Istril.

“It’s good Ayrlyn’s teaching Istril and Llyselle the songs,” the Marshal remarked quietly.

“I didn’t know that Llyselle was learning them.” Nylan took a long swallow of water from his goblet. He didn’t like the bitterness of the tea in the evening, not unless his muscles were exceedingly sore from smithing, and, despite his wiry frame, that soreness didn’t occur that often anymore. Then, after almost two years, he’d adjusted to a lot of heavy labor, from smithing to practicing with metal weapons designed to inflict maximum damage on other individuals-preferably while escaping the receipt of similar injuries.

“Like the songs…”

“…some of them…”

“…singer makes them sound so good…”

Ayrlyn did make them sound good-if she’d just refrain from ever performing the song she’d composed about the mighty smith Nylan. That one, reflected the silver-haired man, was truly awful. He shifted his weight on the bench and took another sip of the cold water, glad that he’d had a chance to take a warm shower-warm for Westwind, anyway-before the evening meal. His self-designed water system had not frozen once during the winter, and all the recruits who had helped with the repairs were even gladder than he had been. They hadn’t been so glad the previous fall when he’d insisted on greater cover for the water lines and a few other laborious details.

Ayrlyn slipped back into the great room almost unnoticed until she stood at the hearth, her flame-red hair glinting with a light of its own. Istril eased up beside her.

The two strummed a few chords, looked at each other, then began to sing.

“On the Roof of the World, all covered with white ,

I took up my blade there, and I brought back the night .

With a blade in each hand, there, and the stars at my boots .

With the Legend in song, then, I set down my roots .

The demons have claimed you, forever in light ,

But the darkness of order will put them to flight ,

Will break them in twain, soon, and return you your pride ,

For the Legend is kept by the blades at your side .

The blades at your side, now, must always be bright ,

And the Legend we hold to is that of the right .

For never will guards lose the heights of the sky ,

And never can Westwind this Legend deny…

And never can Westwind this Legend deny.”

“Good!” offered Ryba, amid the scattered applause. “Each time it gets better.”

Nylan had to agree with that, although he knew that Ayrlyn had more than mixed feelings about creating songs to fuel a female militaristic culture. So did he, but given the reception they had gotten from the locals, there weren’t many options, not on a planet where women had virtually no rights-at least anywhere the angels had heard of so far.

At the same time, Nylan reflected, he had, in some ways, even fewer options. His guts tightened, reminding him that he was deceiving himself. In Candar, any man had some options. He swallowed, wondering why his growing mastery of the local order fields was accompanied by an equal vulnerability to the pain of death and increasing discomfort with deception and untruth. And by increasing uneasiness with Ryba, he reminded himself, an uneasiness compounded by his feelings of responsibility toward his children.