L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Or is it a worry about the alternative? About having to face an unfamiliar outside world alone? He shook his head, again recognizing that there was something about the order fields that forced more self-examination, self-examination that was never exactly welcome.

The smith’s eyes went through the darkness, no barrier to any of the silver-haired guards, to study Daryn. The blond young man fidgeted ever so slightly on the bench beside Hryessa. Hryessa, one of the first refugees to Westwind, had developed into a first-class guard, a demon with a blade according to Saryn. Her eyes were rapt and fixed on Ayrlyn.

“A ballad,” called Llyselle. “The Sybran one.”

The redheaded healer readjusted the lutar, touching the tuning pegs and strumming the strings before she began.

“When the snow drops on the stone

When the wind song’s all alone

When the ice swords form in twain ,

Sing of the hearths where we’ve lain .

“When the green tips break the snow ,

When the cold streams start to flow ,

When the snow hares turn to black

Sing out to call our love back .

“When the plains grass whispers gold

When the red blooms flower bold ,

When the year’s foals gallop long ,

Hold to the fall and our song….”

The stillness was almost absolute in the hall, punctuated by a scattered cough or two. The memory of Sybra was still too raw for the survivors, and the grief was too palpable even to the women from Candar.

“Something cheerier?” suggested Huldran.

Ayrlyn nodded, murmured to Istril, and began again.

“All day I dragged a boat of stone

and came home when you weren’t alone ,

so I took all those blasted rocks

and buried all your boyish fancy locks…

and took you for a ride in my boat of stone….”

Nylan wasn’t certain how much cheerier the song was, but the locals especially loved it, perhaps because Ayrlyn had reversed the sexes in the verses.

In the end, the last song was predictably the same.

“The guard song…the guard song!” chanted the newer recruits.

Ayrlyn looked wryly at Nylan; Istril just looked at the floor. Ayrlyn stood before the hearth, lutar in hand, adjusting the tuning pegs and striking several strong chords before beginning.

“From the skies of long-lost Heaven

to the heights of Westwind keep

we will hold our blades in order

and never let our honor sleep .

“From the skies of light-iced towers

to the demons’ place on earth ,

we will hold fast lightning’s powers

and never count gold’s worth .

“As the guards of Westwind keep

our souls hold winter’s sweep;

we will hold our blades in order ,

and never let our honor sleep….”

Nylan still wasn’t sure about honor, since it seemed to him that people who talked a lot about it killed a lot of people and then paid a far higher price than anyone ever intended.

He managed to stifle a yawn as he rose from the bench and rubbed his stiff backside. The benches were wood, and hard, after sitting for a long time, songs or no songs.

He glanced around, but Ayrlyn was gone, and so were Istril, Siret, Huldran, and Ryba.

He shrugged and headed for the jakes before bed. Tomorrow, there would be more smithing-more blades-and he still wasn’t quite sure they were a good idea, but he had none better.

The rough form for Daryn’s foot was taking longer, far longer, than he had thought, since he had to squeeze it in-just as Relyn’s handhook had taken longer and had had to be worked in between the endless weapons creation.

He stifled another yawn as he turned toward the lower-level jakes, stifled a yawn and tried not to think about children and Ryba and the darkness that was Candar.

The stocky gray-haired man waited as Zeldyan knelt, patting Nesslek’s back until the boy’s breathing was regular. Then she eased him from his side to his back and covered him with the blanket.

After a last look at her son, she rose, crossed the room, and sat opposite Gethen across the low table, where she filled both goblets that rested there. She took a small sip from her own, followed by a nibble from the pastry she had started earlier.

“You were saying?” he asked quietly.

“Father,” said Zeldyan slowly. “You remember Hissl, the wizard who tried to claim the Ironwoods by leading an expedition to defeat the dark angels?”

“I heard about it. I was in Rulyarth at the time, you recall.” Gethen lifted the goblet and sipped the wine. “The angels destroyed them to the last man, despite Hissl’s wizardry. The angels had a black mage. I suppose they still do.”

“He was the one who used the fires of Heaven…” Zeldyan broke off the sentence, and looked down at the table. “Just like Sillek, he probably didn’t have any choice. If he hadn’t killed…he would have died.”

“You don’t hate him?” asked Gethen.

“Why? You know who I hate.” Zeldyan toyed with her goblet, then set it down without drinking. “Hissl did not lead the first expedition, the one after Relyn’s, I mean. The leader was a big man from the Roof of the World.”

“That seems strange, if true. Why do you mention that?”

“For Nesslek’s sake, I have to think. I cannot be bound by old hates or tradition.” The blonde took another small sip of wine. “I doubt that there is a single land where everyone is happy. People come to Lornth from Jerans, or go from here to Westwind or Suthya.”

“As far as I can see, only women go to Westwind.” Gethen refilled his goblet.

“Once they came to Lornth from Cyador, those who weren’t slaughtered…according to the old tales.”

“You still raise the disturbing questions, daughter, after all these years.”

“I cannot be who I am not. That, too, is a form of…honor. I learned that from Sillek.”

Gethen waited.

“What do we know of Westwind, really know?” asked Zeldyan. “Except that they destroyed two armies?”

“Not much,” agreed Gethen.

“I think we should be alert to learn what we can. Perhaps the dark angels might have something we can use.”

“Against Cyador? You were certain that it would come to battle when we discussed this before.” Gethen took another sip of the wine.

“Unless matters change,” she said. “Fornal would fight. If he thinks he must fight, he will want to fight immediately.”

“Sometimes that view is correct.”

“Sometimes,” said Zeldyan without agreeing. “I would rather avoid battles.”

“One cannot always do that. Sillek hated battles, but he was right to take the fight to Ildyrom.”

“So long as he had Koric and a wizard to leave in Clynya. Now what will we do-add to the armsmen there?” The blonde lifted a small handful of nuts from the dish on the table. “I suppose we must. Fornal has fortified Rulyarth, and the people there would not submit to Suthya now. Our tribute to Westwind keeps the east safe. If Cyador brings trouble, we will need forces in the south anyway.”

“You just said you would avoid battle. What do you seek from the dark ones?” Gethen laughed.

“Do you disagree that battles are costly?” Zeldyan turned toward the window as the roll of thunder rumbled across Lornth, heralding more spring rain.

“Hardly. But what has this to do with the dark angels?” Gethen frowned.

“Perhaps nothing. I do think we should talk with any who leave, if any do, and set out word that they are to be treated kindly and escorted to Lornth.”