L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

“That will not set well with some,” pointed out Gethen.

“Send those who wish to fight to Clynya.”

“Including the Lady Ellindyja?”

“I wish I could send her to Westwind or feed her to Ildyrom’s dogs.”

“That would not be good for the dogs,” said Gethen, “even if they do belong to Ildyrom.”

Nylan lay on his couch in the darkness, listening to the wind as it rattled the shutters.

He’d scarcely seen Ayrlyn in the past two days, not since she’d sung the night before last. Was she avoiding him? Why?

The shutters rattled again.

What did he want? To live alone, to stay alone at the top of the tower he had built? To forge enough peerless blades to last generations-until Ryba needed his talents for some other form of mass destruction?

What did he want from his life, this life that had changed so much in the blink of a ship’s powernet that had fluxed and crashed? Then, had he known what he had wanted before, or just let the service dictate things? Building the tower had been the first big thing he had wanted…and it was done, and building another wouldn’t be the same, even if it were needed.

He shook his head.

The shutters rattled yet once more, and the smith turned on his couch until his eyes rested on the closed window and shutters. He and Ayrlyn had started to get close before winter closed in around them, but the confinement of the tower hadn’t helped. Or had that been an excuse?

He and Ayrlyn had agreed not to sleep together regularly because…because why? Because he was treading on thin ice with Ryba? Because he didn’t want to just drift into another relationship? Because he recognized that Ayrlyn needed a total commitment, and he didn’t want to be forced?

With a deep breath, he turned back over, away from the rattling of the window and the low whistle of the wind.

Plick! A drop of water splattered on the planked floor, probably from the slowly melting ice making its way through the slates of the tower roof, in places where two winters had frozen and crumbled the mortar they had used instead of the roofing tar they did not have.

Plick!

The smith took another long breath, then paused at what sounded like a whisper outside his door-or bare feet on the cold stones of the tower steps. But Ryba’s door had not opened. He would have heard if it had, and he had had nothing to do with Ryba since before the great battle of the previous autumn.

Plick!

His own door opened, and Nylan glanced through the darkness, not that it hampered his view. The strange underjump that had translated the Winterlance to whatever world they had found-like all worlds, the natives merely called it “the world” or “the earth”-the underjump that had turned his hair living silver had also given him night vision that was nearly as good as his day vision.

Plick!

The figure that slipped into his room did not have Ayrlyn’s flame-red hair, but silver hair.

“Istril?” he whispered, half sitting up.

Her finger touched his lips and her lips whispered in his ear. “Just tonight. I talked with the healer, and we agreed.” There was a pause. “Unlike some, Nylan, I wouldn’t deceive you.”

“But-”

“I want a daughter, and I want you to be her father. This is one of my visions.”

Before he could protest again, the slight and wiry figure eased out of the robe she had worn and under the thin blanket, her skin smooth and warm against his-except for very cold feet.

“Your feet-”

“They’re cold, but don’t make fun of me. This is hard…” Istril shivered, and buried her head in his shoulder for a moment.

Nylan could feel the dampness of her cheeks on his bare skin. He eased his arms around her, even as he wondered. Ayrlyn? Istril would not have lied, not for anything.

Ayrlyn? Why would she have agreed?

He stroked Istril’s silver hair for a long time before he kissed her, gently, before her lips trembled under his, before he chose not to resist what had been offered.

Lephi gazed out across the polished white tiles of the Great Hall of Cyad and stifled a yawn. Just below the oversized malachite and silver throne, to the Lord of Cyador’s right, stood the white wizard Themphi. Farther below and to the left loomed Duhru, the Voice of His Mightiness.

“We might as well get this façade over with,” muttered the Lord of Cyador. “Announce the receiving of petitions.”

“His Mightiness Lephi the White, Lord of Cyador, ruler of all lands from the mountains of the skies to the oceans of the west, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, Son of the Rational Stars, stands ready to receive the petitions of his people. Those with worthy petitions, draw near with good conscience.” Duhru’s voice boomed across the great hall, and the three-story-high gilded doors in the rear of the hall slid open nearly silently, the hiss of steam merely a whisper lost in the vastness of the chamber.

Three figures slowly marched across the white tiles and stood on the shimmering and spotless tiles beneath the throne.

“Declare your petition,” rumbled Duhru, “if you are without darkness and a follower of the way of whiteness.”

The first petitioner-a mid-aged man wearing the white surplice of a petitioner over heavy work trousers and tunic-bowed. “Most powerful Lord of Cyador, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, hear my petition.”

“The Lord hears all,” responded Duhru. “State your petition.”

“The officers of the Eighth Mirror Lancers have dishonored my youngest daughter, and I ask redress. Only you can restore her honor.”

Lephi glanced toward Themphi.

“They say they used no force, and that they offered a dozen silvers toward her dowry,” whispered the white wizard.

“Those officers have honored your daughter,” declared Lephi. “I will also increase that honor by adding two golds to that dowry.”

The stocky man bowed, his forehead slick with sweat. “I seek no dowry. I seek honor. I humbly ask that you dishonor those officers. No officer of the greatest lord should defile a young girl.”

“The Lord of Cyador has heard your petition,” boomed Duhru. “You may go and tell all of his generosity.”

“NO!” The white-clad man charged the steps to the dais. “Your officers are pigs. They are sows, and you slop them.”

A flaming arrow flashed from the balcony gratework, the mark of an Archer of the Rational Stars, catching the man in the chest. The other two petitioners watched, mouths partly open as the first petitioner crumpled.

After a nod from Lephi toward Themphi, a fireball arced toward the dying man, then exploded. Only a handful of scattered ashes sifted through the air.

“Question the lancer officers. If they dishonored the girl, do what is necessary. If not, have her join her father.”

“So it is with unworthy petitions and petitioners, and those who reject the generosity of the lord,” intoned Duhru. “Let the next petitioner offer his petition.”

“Most puissant Lord of Cyador, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, the citizens of Wybar humbly beseech Your Mightiness for a token of his support for the blessing of the new river piers.” The elderly man in the white surplice added in a wavering tone, “Only a token, Your Mightiness.”

“They are fearful because Wybar is downstream from the Accursed Forest,” Themphi explained.

Lephi nodded. “You shall have such a token. May your piers bring all prosperity and good trade.”

“May the next petitioner approach,” rumbled Duhru, “if he is without darkness and a follower of the way of whiteness.”

“Your Supreme Mightiness…the peasants in Geliendra have presented a petition, and the regional governor has endorsed it.” The functionary in gold bowed twice. On the second bow, droplets of perspiration splattered on the polished white tiles of the floor.