Chaos Balance
L
NYLAN WOKE IN the bed he shared with Ayrlyn, damp cloths on his forehead. His head throbbed, but he nearly bolted erect. “Nesslek?” His voice rasped, and his eyes burned at the early morning light. Wasn't it morning?
“He'll be fine,” said Ayrlyn. “You almost weren't.”
“What about you? You were there with me.” Nylan could sense more pain in the wide bed than could be his alone. “How do you know?”
“Sylenia's been in and out with Weryl. She was in charge of getting us dragged back here and laid out.”
“How's Weryl?” Nylan closed his eyes, resting his head in his hands. Everything he wore smelled. Was healing getting more difficult?
“He's fine. She fed him and kept him last night.” Ayrlyn shifted her weight on the bed and eased a pillow behind her back. “You need something to drink. You're dehydrated.”
“What about you?” he asked again, opening his eyes for a moment, then closing them at the glare. Slowly he lifted the damp cloth off his forehead, and laid it over the edge of the carved headboard. He squinted into the mid-morning light. His nose felt dry, and dusty, and the murmurs of voices from the courtyard below and outside the room seemed to rise and fall, rise and fall.
“My head aches, and I feel like several horses rolled on me.” Ayrlyn lifted the mug and drank, then extended it to him. “Pardon me, but I'd rather not get up and pour another.”
The smith understood. He took a long swallow, leaving some water in the mug and returning it to her. There was a gentle rap on the door. Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances. He started to turn to put his feet on the floor, but the room seemed to tilt as he did. “My balance is better right now.” Ayrlyn handed him the mug, then eased her way onto the stone floor and walked slowly toward the door, each foot placed carefully one before the other.
“Not much ...” murmured the smith. Still, Ayrlyn seemed to have greater resilience in recovering from excesses in dealing with the order fields that permeated Candar, certainly greater recuperative powers than he did.
“Yes?” asked Ayrlyn, before opening the door. Zeldyan slipped inside the room, the malachite and silver hair band in place, her garments fresh. Only the circles under her eyes marred the impression of perfection. She inclined her head to Nylan, then to Ayrlyn, who had propped herself up on the back of one of the chairs.
“No one has ever healed a child of the chaos fever. You are angels.” The regent's eyes were bright. “Life balances. You took my consort, and you saved my son.”
“We would not have taken your consort ...” Nylan rasped, stifling a cough, and trying to ignore the headache that resembled a battle axe cleaving his skull.
“No, mage. I know that. He knew that. He was forced . .. into that battle. Had he ruled longer, he might have avoided it.” Zeldyan smiled sadly. “Were things other than they are ... we always hope, but they are not. This time, you were there, and Nesslek is already better, and drinking.” She paused. “This took all your strength-from two of you?”
“Pretty much,” Nylan admitted.
“I will not trouble you more, but I would thank you both.” Her eyes went to Ayrlyn. “In time, all Lornth may be grateful.”
“We're glad Nesslek's better,” answered Ayrlyn.
Nylan nodded in assent.
“So am I. So are we all.” With a wide smile, the regent inclined her head. Then she opened the door, and slipped out.
“It's hard to believe.” As the door thudded shut, Ayrlyn sat in the chair, heavily, with a deep breath.
Were her legs shaking? Did that mean she just exerted more willpower? Nylan felt almost ashamed. Ayrlyn had to be hurting as much as he was, or more. They'd shared the energy drain.
“What? That he's better, or that it took so much out of us?” asked Nylan.
“Both.”
“I tried just as hard with Ellysia. It didn't work. This time, you were here, and it did.” He closed his eyes for a moment. It didn't really help. His head still pounded. He opened his eyes.
Ayrlyn frowned. “I'd like to think that was the difference, but it wasn't. You handled the order flows differently, somehow.”
“Different how?”
“It was as though you weren't forcing things . . . weren't fighting them ...” Ayrlyn laughed softly. “You said something about trees.”
The tree images . . . how would they have helped? He remembered, vaguely, the feel. “I tried, I think, not so much to push out the chaos, but to wrap order around it, to contain it.”
“It felt different,” Ayrlyn repeated.
Had that been the difference? He rubbed his forehead. “Feel like road dung under a wagon-”
“Have some more water. You're still dehydrated.”
“So sympathetic you are.”
“Healers help those who help themselves.” Ayrlyn grinned, crookedly. “I hurt, too.” She rose slowly and lifted the water pitcher from the table, edging toward the bed.
Some water splashed on Nylan's hands as she refilled the mug, but he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut, and to start drinking.
Still ... he wondered about the trees and the business of binding chaos. He shivered as he swallowed, almost choking.
“Careful . . .”
Did he have to be careful in everything? In every little thing?
“Probably,” said Ayrlyn.
He stifled a sigh, carefully, then swallowed more of the water he needed.