Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (4 page)

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.

   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 holdfast 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 injust as Relyn's handbook 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.”

   “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.