Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (9 page)

THE WHITE WIZARD and the senior lancer officer rode side by side, the hoofs of their mounts clacking on the time-polished stones of the Lord's East Road.

   They passed a kaystone with sculpted and fluted edges, mounted on a tan stone platform that bore the inscription “GELIENDRA-3 K.” The lancer glanced at Themphi. “Ser wizard?”

   “Yes, Jyncka?”

   “One should not question His Mightiness, or white brethren, but could you hazard a thought as to why our punishment was so harsh?”

   “Harsh?” Themphi raised his eyebrows. “Harsh,” repeated Jyncka. “We are allowed to buy any peasant girl for a concubine, if we offer double her dowry. We can slay any peasant who raises a hand against us, yet for taking liberties with a peasant girl-and we did not hurt her- we have been destroyed: either executed, allowed to suicide, or condemned to spend the rest of a short life battling the accursed forest. How did this happen? Is our world slowly unraveling, and I cannot see it? Or have I been blind all my years?”

   Themphi frowned. “I can tell you what happened. The girl's father refused two golds and said that you were worse than sows. Then he ran toward His Mightiness. The peasant died. After that, our Lord turned to me and made his judgment. He said that when peasants defied his presence, matters needed attending to. And he sent me, his wizard of wizards, with the injunction that I should not return until the forest was contained.” The wizard smiled coldly.

   “So you are exiled as well?”

   “In effect.” Themphi shrugged. “Unless we can vanquish the forest.”

 
 “Is that likely?”

   “I do not know. I do know that it took all the might and skill of the ancients to contain it.”

   “And you must combat it alone?” asked Jyncka.

   “With your help and that of those living nearby-that is His Mightiness's command.”

   Jyncka raised his eyebrows. “I would not term that any great reward for service.”

   “Rulers do not reward for service, Majer, nor for realistic assessments. They reward for results.”

   “Times change,” murmured Jyncka. “A great ship rises in the works at Cyad, a ship like the ancient fireships. They say. the lancers ride north to bring the Grass Hills within the Walls of Cyad. Yet we are accorded less honor than before, and those who speak what they believe to be truth are dishonored.”

   “They do change,” agreed Themphi dryly. “That is because His Mightiness works to restore what once was Cyad's, and he has little patience for those who caution against such efforts.”

   “. . . for all that . . . unraveling from the great skein . . .” murmured a voice from the lancers somewhere behind. “Fewer steamwagons, fewer wizards . . .”

   Themphi hoped the voice was not Fissar's, but he did not turn in the saddle. His eyes flicked northward toward the smudge of green on the horizon, and he shifted his weight in the hard saddle.

   “Is the world of Cyador unraveling, ser wizard?” asked Jyncka. “Would you enlighten me?”

   Themphi shrugged. “You have seen more than I, Majer. Do you think so?”

   “I have not seen everything, but what I have seen disturbs me.”

   “It disturbs me as well,” said Themphi. His eyes went back to the horizon, and he did not speak for a long time.

Nylan studied the room again-lander couch, rocking chair, table, stool, bed-that was all. Stone walls ... he'd laid almost every stone. Window casements-his design. The entire tower had been his dream, his way of making the Roof of the World safe for the angels, for the children he had known would come, if not as he had expected.

   He glanced at the pair of blades on the couch, the single composite bow and quiver, and the two saddlebags-one filled with his few clothes and a spare pair of boots, the other with hard bread and cheese, and some dried venison.

   His jacket was rolled inside the makeshift bedroll that lay on the saddlebags. In the bags were those few items he owned-after two lives, really. Two lives, and those few items were all. And-once again-he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing-not beyond escaping.

   He took a deep breath and swallowed, hoping Ayrlyn was ready, knowing she'd been ready long before he had. Then, she'd never really been at home on the Roof of the World, and he'd been the one to build Tower Black. His eyes went to the open window, through which he could see puffy clouds marching out of the northeast across the green-blue sky.

   The smith took another deep breath, squared his shoulders, crossed the landing, and stepped into the Marshal's quarters.

   Ryba-the Marshal of Westwind-sat in the rocking chair. Dyliess in her lap. Her pale green eyes fixed on Nylan, “You've finally decided to leave, haven't you?”

   Nylan nodded. “You knew all along. Your visions told you that I'd have to leave. You knew seasons ago, but you wouldn't share them. You never have shared those visions, and you never will. You wouldn't change anything because it might jeopardize Westwind. And you'd never jeopardize Westwind.”

   Ryba's arms tightened ever so slightly around her daughter. “I wouldn't do anything to threaten Dyliess.”

   The silver-haired girl wriggled as if Ryba were holding her too tightly. “Ah . . . wah! Wah!”

   “I know.” Nylan's voice was flat. “Nothing can be allowed to threaten her-or your dreams.”

   “What about your dreams? Your mighty tower? What about your plans for the sawmill?”

   “I've written them out, with sketches, and I've discussed them all with Huldran-even the gearing. She can finish building the mill. She'll do what you want, just like all the others.”

   “The smith and the singer . . . off into the sunset, leaving the hard work for everyone else.” Ryba's lips twisted. Her eyes seemed bright, brighter than usual, and she looked down at the plank floor, then out the window. Her left hand stroked Dyliess's hair.

   “You have a strange definition of hard work, Ryba.” Nylan snorted. "I did the building, and you and everyone else thought I was obsessed, crazy. But this past winter, no one complained when they were warm and cozy, when they had running warm and cold water.

   “You schemed behind my back. You used me to get Siret and Istril pregnant. Who knows who else you tried with? And I didn't even see it. I should have, but I didn't. In my own clumsy way, I trusted you.” He looked toward the empty trundle bed in the corner. The cradle he had made was down on the fourth level with the guards. He swallowed. Should he even try to say more? “You don't trust anyone.”

   “You've decided, haven't you?” she asked again. “The words don't matter. You've decided. You and Ayrlyn. Just go. Take what you need. I know you. You're so guilt-ridden you'll be more than fair. Just go. Let us get on with life.”

   “Leave me some time with Dyliess.”

   “Why? You're leaving.”

   “You owe me more than that. I'm only asking for a little time with my daughter. She won't remember it-but I will.”

 
  “You don't have to leave.” Ryba's voice was even, almost emotionless. “You've built Westwind. As you keep telling me.”

   “No. I don't have to leave. I can have every guard here pity me. I can live here for the rest of my life, wondering whether I can trust you. I can risk everything and then wonder if you care, or if it's just for another monument or legacy for the future. Because I've come to care for someone else, what would happen to her? Would you drive her out or dispose of her?” Nylan's voice remained level. “After all, nothing can be allowed to get in the way of your dream.”

   "It's not like that. I did what had to be done. Do you think that I liked killing Mran? Or seeing two-thirds of my crew wiped out? I relive that a lot. Do you think that I like seeing you leave, no matter what I've done? Do you think that I'll enjoy looking at all those cairns at the end of the meadow for the rest of my life? It's easy to criticize and to leave, Nylan.

   It's a lot harder to build something and live with the pain."

   “How you build is important, too,” the engineer answered.

   “I built you and the guards an honest tower. An honest bath house. An honest smithy. Honest stables. Even the beginning of an honest metaled road to the rest of the world. You built with deception. You deceived me. You deceived Istril, Ayrlyn, and Siret. And, in the end, however long Westwind lasts, that deception will bring down your work.”

   “You won't change, Nylan. You're just as deceptive as I am The difference is that I recognize it, and you won't.” Ryba stood, waiting for Nylan to take Dyliess. “What I build will last, and only your name will remain, a vague legend about a mighty mythical smith, and that will be because I had Ayrlyn write a song about you.”

   “You have an answer for everything, don't you?”

   “So do you,” she answered. “Take Dyliess. Sing to her, and I will tell her you did. Yes, I will. For her sake, not yours.” Nylan stepped forward.

   “Ah . . . ooo .. .” Dyliess stretched her arms out to her father, looking up, a blanket wrapped around her waist and legs. Nylan picked her up, cradling her against his shoulder, and rocking back and forth, holding her tightly. Ryba slipped to the door. “I'll be back in a while.” Still holding his silver-haired daughter, Nylan walked toward the trundle bed he had made and looked down. He stepped back across the smoothed plank floor to the rocking chair, where, cradling her against his shoulder, he sat down and began to rock . . . gently.

   "Oh, my dear, my dear little child,

   What can we do in a place so wild,

   Where the sky is so green and so deep

   And who will rock you to sleep?

   Your daddy is leaving; he's going away

   There's only a cradle and nothing to say,

   but when the stars shine over the western sky,

   try to remember that he once said good-bye."

   The tears rolled down the smith's cheeks, and his vision, his superb day and night vision, showed him nothing. Nothing at all.

   In time, he finally stood, laid the sleeping Dyliess in her cradle, and returned to his quarters to gather everything together.

   With a last look at the sleeping child, he started down the steps, loaded with all his gear, moving slowly to avoid tripping over the blade at his waist. The one in the shoulder harness would be easier to use, far easier, once he was mounted. Some of the customs of Candar made sense-usually those having to do with arms.

   As he trudged down to the fourth level, Siret glanced up after slipping on a work tunic. Her eyes took in all that Nylan carried, and, with a quick look to the bed where Kyalynn sat wrestling with a crude stuffed bear that Hryessa had made, Siret hurried across the wide planked floor to the stairs.

   The engineer paused.

   “Nylan? You're leaving, aren't you?” Her deep green eyes caught his.

   He nodded.

   “I could see it coming. Nothing you do pleases her.”

   He shrugged. “I'm not like Gerlich. I won't be back, not that way.”

   “You won't be back. This world needs you.”

   He blinked, not expecting such a comment.

   “Ryba will fight the world. She will make the men who rule come to her and be defeated-but they won't. They'll let us rule the mountains, and let the truly unhappy women come to us.” She smiled bitterly. “I've thought about it. People don't think I do, but I do ... a lot. The Marshal . . . and especially you . . . gave me that.”

   “Me?” Nylan was feeling totally confused, wondering what else he had done that he hadn't seen.

   “I watched you, Nylan. You don't talk much about why you do what you do. You do it. You push yourself, and ... people take, and they take. I started asking why. So . . .” She shrugged, and her eyes were bright. “I had to tell you that I am grateful for all you've given ... to let you know I wasn't like so many of the others.” After a moment she swallowed. “Westwind is too small for you, and you're not full Sybran so you can leave here.”

   “I'm not looking forward to the heat,” he said, trying not to choke up, and wondering if his decision to leave were such a good one after all.

   “The healer's going with you, isn't she? Some guards will suffer. And the children.” Her eyes darted to the bed where Kyalynn looked down at the bear that lay across her chubby legs.

   “Istril, Llyselle, even you have some of the talent.” He smiled wryly. “You'll be able to do as well as we can, if you can't already.”

   “We'll manage, but we'll never be as good. But I knew that it had to happen. Relyn said it would.”

   “Relyn? He's been gone since the battle.” Not that Nylan hadn't wondered about the one-handed man, especially after Blynnal had turned up pregnant-but Nylan had been the one who advised Relyn to leave before Ryba found a way to eliminate the former Lornian noble because he'd found religion.

   Nylan snorted to himself. The idea that he-a former angel ship's engineer-was the prophet of a new faith of order was almost ludicrous. Even more absurd was Ryba's contention that Relyn's preaching such a faith would undermine Westwind. Not so absurd had been her intent to remove Relyn in the chaos that followed the great battle-except Relyn, warned by Nylan, had slipped off into the night.

   “Ryba said that he has already been preaching his new gospel of order.” Siret looked around. “I heard her talking to Saryn. Tryssa-she was one of the last new recruits to reach us before the snows-she was talking about the one-handed prophet in black who forecast the fall of the old ways and the rise of order. He's also preaching about building a Temple of Order.”

   “Great.” Nylan glanced up the steps.

   “He said that, sooner or later, you would have to leave, and that the healer would go with you.” Siret smiled sadly. “I listen, you know?”

   “I know.” He shook his head. “But everyone seems to know what I'm doing before I do.” Then he added. “Thank you. I didn't stop to have you make me feel good.”

   “I know. You're a good man, a good person.”

   He dropped his eyes. Much as he appreciated the compliment, Nylan knew he wasn't that good. If he were, so many things would have turned out differently. “Where's Istril? I should say good-bye.”

   “She took Weryl out earlier. She was taking him on a ride. She had so many things I wondered if she were leaving, but she said she'd be back.” Siret frowned. “She never lies. But she looked sad. I wonder if she knew you were leaving.”

   “I don't know.” Istril knew a lot, a lot that the wiry guard didn't voice.

   “You need to go. You need to say good-bye to Kyalynn.” She darted across the room and scooped up their daughter, bringing her back to him.

   As Nylan hugged his daughter, his tears bathed them both, and he wanted to rage-against fate, against Ryba, against himself. Why was it that everything had so high a price?

   He finally eased his silver-haired daughter back to her mother. “Take care of her.”

   “I will. And I will make sure she knows who you are. A man and not a legend.”

   He half-walked, half-stumbled down the rest of the stairs and out the main door. Perhaps some guards watched, but Istril was not among them, nor Weryl, and he saw none of their faces as he forced himself up the road to the stable.

   Most of the guards were out in the fields, or down below the ridge in the timber camps. He heard the sound of hammers as he passed the smithy, but he did not stop. He wasn't up for another emotional parting, and Huldran, of all people, would understand. Still ... he put his feet forward, wondering where Istril and Weryl were.

   Under the load he carried, despite the muscles developed from smithing, he was sweating and panting when he reached the stable.

   Ayrlyn had both mounts saddled and waiting in the shade of the stable door. “You look like chaos. What happened?”

   “I had to say good-bye to Dyliess and Kyalynn . . .” He coughed. “I couldn't find Weryl.” He dropped the gear in a pile, then lifted the saddlebags and began to strap them in place.

   At the thump of the dropped equipment, a chicken scurried away from the stable and uphill toward the shelter that had held the livestock through the long winter.

   Ayrlyn lifted the bow. “Won't Ryba be a little angry about this?”

   “She said I could take what I needed, that I was so guilt-ridden I'd be fair.”

   “She has that right,” Ayrlyn said softly. “I'm glad you brought it. You've done so much for everyone else. I brought six extra blades-two of your blades, and four small crowbars for trading. Ryba won't miss the crowbars, and you deserve some of your own. You wouldn't bring them, and you might not ever have the chance to forge replacements. They're all packed away. And all my trading silvers.”

   “Practical woman. I don't think I have more than a half-dozen silvers and a few coppers.” The engineer eased the bedroll into place. “I did bring one spare blade, besides the pair.”

   “Good. I also brought some water bottles for you. You'll need them when we get down into Lornth.”

   “You still think that's the right way to go?”

   Ayrlyn lifted her shoulders as she strapped a water bottle in place. “We go east and run into Karthanos and Gallos, and the easterners feel even nastier than the Lornians. Also, something about the west-”

   “Feels better?”

   The healer nodded. “I couldn't say why.”

   “I'll trust a good feeling over sterile reasoning any day, especially here.”