"04 - The Chaos Balance.palmdoc.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

XVII

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.


XVIII

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.