Chaos Balance
XXXIV
NYLAN GLANCED AT the winding road that followed the eastern bank of the river and that looked almost identical to innumerable other stretches of winding road between the low hills of Lornth and along the river-or it would have looked similar except for the misting rain.
He blotted the combination of sweat and rain off his forehead and peered through the falling water. “I don't see any way stations, and our reception in most of the towns hasn't been the warmest.”
“The weather's been good, at least for most of the time.”
“Except for the first hamlet, and that other afternoon.”
“Don't get picky with me, almighty smith.”
“Sorry.”
“Waaaaa . . . waa-daaa-daa!” said Weryl firmly. His silver hair was plastered to his skull, and he had squirmed almost continuously in the carrypak since the rain had drifted over the river from the northwest.
“There's a larger dwelling ahead, below that second rise, and some outbuildings. Maybe we can pay to get a shed or something over our heads.”
“If they don't slam the shutters in our face.” Nylan paused. “Are you still sure about this feeling you had? About Lornth being a better place?”
“I still have it.” Ayrlyn wiped moisture away from her own face.
“['wouldn't want to be any place that you had a bad feeling about.”
“Thank you, ser engineer.”
Nylan winced. “Sorry.”
“You should be. Again.”
The chestnut whuffed and shook her head, sending more droplets across both Nylan and Weryl.
“Nooooooooo...” said Weryl, waving his hands, and wiggling his legs, almost drumming them on the damp leather of the saddle.
“I don't care about child psychology,” said Ayrlyn. “He knows what 'no' means.”
Nylan had the feeling she was right. . . perhaps about too many things.
They rode downhill and then back up the low rise to the holding, centered on a plaster-sided house that had once been white, but now appeared gray. A line of gray smoke swirled from the stone chimney.
“Hello ... the house!” called Nylan.
“Hello the house?” asked Ayrlyn.
“What else could you say? Welcome, some angels?” Nylan shifted his weight in the saddle, wondering just how chafed he was going to be from riding in damp trousers.
A man with a red and gray beard opened the door and stepped onto the narrow porch. The rain rolling off the roof put a thin curtain of water between him and the angels.
“What ye be wanting?” His eyes went to Ayrlyn, then to Weryl. “Wet travel for a child.”
“We had hoped you might have a dry place where we could stay,” said Nylan.
“I be no inn,” said the man. “Herder in a hard land.”
“We're not asking for charity,” Nylan said. “Nor even that you open your house-just a dry shed.”
The man shrugged, then looked at Nylan intently. “You one of those angels?”
“I've been called that, but I'm a man who's had to travel with his son, and we're wet. I can offer you some coppers for a dry place-a shed, a barn.”
“I don't know.” The herder looked at Weryl, who looked back, somber-faced. “I suppose you would not harm the hay shed, and you could put the mounts in the animal shed. They be not nipping, do they?”
“They never have yet.”
“Fine.” The red-bearded herder looked at Weryl again.
“You get settled, and you can pay as you think is fit. A moment-need to get a waterproof.”
When he ducked back into the house, Ayrlyn looked at Nylan. The healer looked back, raising her eyebrows.
The smith shrugged.
“Follow me.” The herder stepped down onto the damp ground and into the rain. The angels followed him around the dwelling to a narrow structure, unpainted wood darkened by the dampness. The herder opened the door, little more than three planks fastened to two boards. “Hay shed.” He pointed to a three-walled shed with a slanted roof. “Animals there. Plenty of room. Flock's up in the lower pasture. Like the rain.”
Nylan dismounted and fumbled out three coppers. “Thank you.”
The herder took the coins. “Well is there.” He pointed to the stones mortared into a circular form midway between his house and the hay shed. Then, with a quick look at Weryl, he nodded, turned, and trudged back through the rain, now falling even more heavily.
Both Nylan and Ayrlyn were soaked by the time they had unsaddled the mounts and carried their gear, and Weryl, to the hay shed. The shed was still half filled with hay, stacked in small circular bales bound with straw braids. Dust swirled around them in the gusting winds that entered with them, despite the dampness of the air.
“At least, it has plank floors. And it's dry.” Ayrlyn closed the plank door, leaving them in the gloom that was not too dark for Ayrlyn, nor any bother for Nylan, not with his night vision.
“Lots of splinters,” added Nylan, pulling one from his finger. “Be careful when you put down things.” He rubbed his nose, once, twice, then sneezed.
“Daaa-daaa!” Weryl windmilled his arms in response to the sneeze.
“You can drape the bedrolls over that beam there for a while. It's dry enough.”
Nylan rubbed his nose again, thisx time holding back the sneeze, and then extracted Weryl from the carrypak, and then his son from soaking wet clothes. Once he had Weryl in a dry outfit, he straightened and looked to the bedrolls.
“I'll get some water, and hope it's not too bad. Trying to separate the chaos from it-I get tired.” Ayrlyn wiped more water from her forehead as she looked at the door, almost as if she dreaded going into the rain.
Weryl sat in a pile of hay, and tried to chew on one of the pale yellow-brown stalks.
As he eased the second bedroll over the thick timber, Nylan looked from Ayrlyn to his son. “I'll get the water. I can do that. It's better than getting sick. You watch our friend, and make sure he doesn't eat too much straw.”
The healer smiled faintly. “I need to get out of these clothes.”
Nylan smiled. “I hope you do.”
“You're impossible. You were impossible when you were wounded.”
“I'll get the water.” He eased open the door and hurried toward the well. Each impact of his boots sent mud flying.
After lifting the bucket, he took a deep breath and concentrated, trying to use the dark lines of force to separate out the unseen reddish-whiteness that was chaos-or infection- and trying not to think about the apparent engineering impossibility of what he did.
“Just think about different laws . . . different laws, that's all.”
The water didn't look that different when he poured it into the two bottles, except marginally clearer.
He headed back to the hay shed, closing the door behind him and then setting both water bottles on the plank floor. “The water wasn't too bad.”
“Good.” Ayrlyn, wearing only a dry shirt extracted from her pack, looked out the door before closing it. “It's raining hard.”
“I'd say so.” Nylan wiped water from his hair and face, then stripped off his shirt and walked to the corner where he wrung out a stream of liquid. Then he hung his shirt next to Ayrlyn's damp clothes. He pulled off his boots and did the same with the rest of his clothing, then extracted a shirt and trousers that were only marginally damp.
“Nice figure,” commented Ayrlyn.
“I notice you changed while I was getting water. That wasn't fair.”
“Some things aren't.” Ayrlyn spread some straw on the planks beside Weryl and eased herself down, very carefully.
Weryl reached for her, and she picked him up. “In a moment. Daddy will get out the food.”
Nylan pulled on the trousers. Then he emptied the food pack, taking out the last section of the yellow brick cheese that left an aftertaste of goats or... something, four travel biscuits, and three strips of dried venison. “Not much left to eat.” He sat on the straw between Weryl and Ayrlyn. “We need more food.”
“We should reach Lornth tomorrow.”
“Will anyone sell us food?” He broke off a section of biscuit and handed it to the silver-haired boy.
“I don't know. We'll have to see.” Ayrlyn sliced two thin slivers of the yellow cheese and handed one to Weryl, the second to Nylan. She cut another for herself.
“Tomorrow, let's see if we can buy anything from the herder. All he can say is no.”
“He won't if he can spare it,” Ayrlyn prophesied. “Hard coin is too hard to come by. It always is for agricultural types.”
“I hope you're right.”
They ate silently for a time. After that, in between chasing Weryl around the hay shed, Nylan packed away the remnants, remnants that were getting slimmer and slimmer. He paused. “It's still raining.”
“I'm not tired . . . and neither is our little friend.”
“Why don't you sing something,” Nylan suggested, “something that you'd like.”
“Do you think our friend would stand still long enough?”
“He's tired, but not sleepy.”
“I'll try.” Ayrlyn walked over to the lutar case and extracted the instrument before sitting on one of the hay bales.
Nylan picked up Weryl and sat on another bale across from her.
At the first sound of her fingers tuning, Weryl's eyes flicked toward the singer. “Ooooo . . .”
“I'm not that good, Weryl, but I appreciate the flattery.” Her fingers crossed the strings. “How about something cheerful?”
“Fine with me,” Nylan said, “and with Weryl, I'd guess.” Ayrlyn cleared her throat and began.
"When I was single, I looked at the skies.
Now I've a consort, I listen to lies,
lies about horses that speak in the darks,
lies about cats and theories of quarks ..."
“Aaaalaaan . . . daa, daaa,” said Weryl as she finished the tune.
“I think that translates as 'more.' ” Nylan laughed.
“Well. . . we'll give him a song about you.”
“Not that one.”
“Why not?”
“It's awful.”
“You'll just have to get used to it.” The healer grinned in the gloom, and her flame hair glittered with a light of its own.
"Oh, Nylan was a smith, and a mighty mage was he.
With lightning hammer and an anvil of night forged he,
From the Westhorns tall came the blades and bows of the night.
Their lightning edges gave the angels forever the height...
"Oh, Nylan was a mage, and a mighty smith was he.
With rock from the heights and a lightning blade built he.
On the Westhorns tall stands a tower of blackest stone,
And it holds back the winter's snows and storms all alone. ..."
“All right, all right,” said Nylan as he picked up Weryl and began to rock the child. “Something softer?”
“You don't mind the Sybran song?” He shook his head.
"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..."
Midway through the second stanza, Weryl lurched in Nylan's arms, his fingers grasping, and for a moment, Nylan saw the chubby fingers actually touch the silvered note that hung in the gloom.
The smith blinked, and only silvered dust motes shimmered in the air-and vanished.
The child was oddly silent, an enigmatic smile across his lips.
Ayrlyn glanced toward Nylan. “He saw the notes.”
“We saw the notes. Because of him?”
She shook her head. “Did we ever look?”
The question bothered Nylan. Where else had he failed to look? How much else was there that he had not seen because he had not realized it could be possible?
Ayrlyn's fingers flicked across the strings, and Weryl settled back as Nylan rocked him and the singer hummed gently.
Outside, the rain drummed on the shed roof.