Chaos Balance
CXLV
IN THE LATE afternoon on the Roof of the World, the guards stood silent on the practice ground, their eyes fixed on the blackness rising just above the western horizon as Istril stepped out of the main door of Tower Black and crossed the causeway.
Ryba, wooden wand touching the ground, gestured toward the silver-haired guard and healer.
Istril continued her measured pace toward the marshal. The other guards waited.
The silver-haired healer stopped three paces from Ryba and inclined her head. “Marshal.”
“What do you think of that?” Ryba glanced at the pregnant and silver-haired guard, then gestured toward the west, beyond the ice needle that was Freyja. “That has to be the engineer.”
Darkness swirled into the sky, slowly turning the entire western horizon into a curtain of blackness that slowly enfolded the sun, bringing an early twilight to the Roof of the World. For a moment, Freyja shimmered white, then faded into the maroon blackness that covered the high meadows and Tower Black.
“I could already feel the shivering between the black and white,” Istril said slowly. “So did Siret.”
“And you didn't tell me?” asked the marshal.
“What could we have done? Besides, it's more than him. More than the healer, too. Something bigger, a lot bigger.”
Ryba shook her head before asking, “Do you still think it was right to send Weryl?”
“He's all right. I can feel that.” Istril paused. “That means Nylan is, too... but there's a lot of pain there.” Her eyes glistened even in the dimness.
“When the engineer gets into something . . . there usually is.” Ryba's voice was dry.
“He doesn't do anything unless it's important.” Istril continued to look past Ryba to the horizon.
“That just makes it worse, doesn't it?” Ryba's voice was rough.
“Yes, ser.”
After another period of silence, Istril nodded, then turned and walked swiftly back across the practice ground and the causeway into the tower.
Behind her, Ryba continued to study the growing darkness of a too-early night as the faces of the guards shone bloodred in the fading light.
The faintest of shivers ran through the ground beneath the marshal's feet, and the meadow grasses swayed in the windless still of unnatural twilight.
Another ground shudder passed, and then another, as the gloom deepened. The marshal waited . . . watched.