The Chaos Balance by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

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