Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (20 page)

   “What can I say?” Nylan shifted his weight to catch a lunging Weryl, who grasped toward a chicken that scurried into the shadows of the stable wall.

   “Don't,” she suggested as Nylan made his way toward the doorway at the base of the tower within the keep. There was no lock, only an iron latch that squeaked as he lifted it.

   The circular stairs were narrow and steep, and the steps barely wide enough for one boot, even at the outside end. The pink stone walls were polished smooth by years of shoulders passing.

   Half-surprised to find that he wasn't even panting by the time he reached the top and lifted the hammered wrought-iron latch, which also squeaked, Nylan stepped out onto the parapet, a circular space not much more than ten cubits square, with chest-high crenelated walls.

   “Definitely for defense,” he said, shifting Weryl from his left arm to his right and moving to the south side of the tower. To his right, the river wound gradually to the southwest, presumably back toward the marsh and the ironwoods. Beyond the river, he could see the neatly cultivated fields, eventually giving way to the more distant grasslands. The reddish-brown strip that was the road to the Westhorns and Westwind followed the east bank of the river. Farther to the east were the rolling hills that concealed the Westhorns, although Nylan had no real idea exactly how far the mountains were in a direct easterly direction, since the road had brought them from the southeast. Westwind itself was probably east-southeast from Lornth, but good maps seemed to be another item in short supply.

   White puffy clouds dotted the green-blue sky overhead, but to the north the clouds were darker and thicker, with the sheeting gray beneath that bespoke rain.

   Nylan sniffed, but didn't smell the rain, not yet. He did smell something else. Weryl grinned at him.

   “Not until late afternoon or evening,” Ayrlyn hazarded. “The rain, not Weryl.”

   “We need to go back to the room.”

   “I can smell that, too.”

   Nylan took the stairs carefully. A misstep would mean a long bounce downward, a very painful series of bounces off hard pink stones. They had to go into the courtyard and then back along the cross-corridor and up the steps to the third level.

   As they neared their chamber, a shorter figure hurried toward them.

   “Ser and lady ... or is it ser and ser?” asked the blond page, looking from Nylan's smooth-shaven chin to Ayrlyn's face and back to Nylan.

   “We both fight, and we both take care of Weryl,” said Ayrlyn, “but ser Nylan is a man, and I a woman.”

   “Ser and ser,” continued the page, “tonight, the Regent Zeldyan has offered to have her nurse take care of your son and hers in the room adjoining the hall.” The youth bowed.

   “We appreciate her consideration,” Nylan said after a quick glance at Ayrlyn, “and we will bring Weryl with us.”

   “Your midday meal is on your table.” The page bowed again.

   After the page departed, Nylan looked to the healer. “It seems as though they're going to some effort for us.”

   “That bothers me.”

   “Because it means they've got big problems?” The engineer opened the door and stepped inside. The tray on the table held another heaping assortment of food, bread, cheese wedges, cold slices of meat, more fruit, and three pitchers, plus a small assortment of what appeared to be biscuits.

   “I have that feeling.” Ayrlyn took in the tray. “I keep eating like that, and I'll be as heavy as my mount.”

   “I doubt that.” Nylan set Weryl on the carpet to close the door, and the boy immediately began to race on hands and knees toward the lutar case.

   “It takes a lot of energy to keep warm on the Roof of the World, and now I don't have to.”

   “Lucky you. Unlucky me.” Nylan reached down to steer Weryl away from the lutar.

   “I'm still hungry, though,” she admitted.

   So was Nylan. Even as he reclaimed Weryl and carried him into the bath chamber, he wondered if he'd get over the worries about food that two lean winters on the Roof of the World had generated.

IN THE DIM light cast by the small oil lamp, the white wizard studied the scroll. Feeling the perspiration on his forehead, he quickly blotted his brow before the dampness beaded up and fell on the parchmentlike white paper.

   The words swam before him in the close confines of the small room, a room barely large enough to hold a narrow bed and the work table and stool.

   ... we have with great effort beaten the Accursed Forest back along the southern boundaries of the white wall. This has taken all of my resources, and those of the local company of white engineers, as well as the two companies of foot and conscription of all able-bodied souls in three villages. . . .

   ... I can sense great forces at work, perhaps the greatest since the binding of the forest in ancient times. ...

   . . . although we have recovered Geliendra and Forestnorth, for us to return the forest to its former boundaries will take more men and forces, and I am writing to request that you make known your desires in this matter. . . .

   The lamp flickered as a slight whisper of moist air, bearing the damp smells of the resurgent forest, slipped through the open and unshuttered window.

   Themphi massaged his forehead again, then blotted it once more before rolling the scroll, leaving it on the corner of the table for the morning. After a moment, he stood and stretched, then walked to the window that faced north.

   He gazed in the general direction of the Accursed Forest, sensing the flickers of white and darkness that not even the ancients could untwist, the flickers of white and darkness that had grown ever so much stronger.

   “You dare too much, Lephi, and no one can tell you otherwise.” The low words were lost in the rustling of vegetation.

   Then, in time, he took a deep breath and turned away from the window.

SER NYLAN AND ser Ayrlyn," announced the page.

   As Nylan walked into the small dining hall, Zeldyan stepped forward, wearing trousers and a doublet of sorts cut from a shimmering green cloth that resembled silk, yet did not.

   “Might I escort you and your son to the nurse, and to meet Nesslek?”

   “Thank you,” said Nylan, very much aware that even their best leather trousers and light linen shirts were plain indeed compared to Zeldyan's finery. Even in the light shirt, he was hot, though he knew Ayrlyn was not.

   Behind Zeldyan, by the cold hearth framed by a mantle of golden wood, stood two broad-shouldered men. Neither moved forward as Nylan followed the blond regent to a side door within the dining chamber. While the second room contained long trestle tables, they had been pushed aside, and two small beds placed within several yards of the door, a rocking chair between.

   The white-haired nurse in the chair talked to the blond boy on her knee. “Ride a fine charger to Carpa and back ...” She stopped. “My lady?”

   “Secora, here are ser Nylan and his son Weryl.”

   The nurse shifted Nesslek to her hip and rose. “Your pardon, ser.”

   Nylan smiled. “I appreciate your taking care of Weryl while we eat.”

   “It happens seldom that one can hold two handsome gentlemen, silver and gold, so to speak,” answered Secora. “Year from now, they'd hear nothing of it.”

 
 “I appreciate your arranging this,” Nylan said to Zeldyan as they re-entered the smaller dining hall.

   “I do not like to be that far from Nesslek,” answered Zeldyan, “and often make arrangements such as this when we must have dinners for outsiders, or when they would take askance at his presence.”

   “We would not.”

   “I had gathered that, ser, but we have much to discuss.”

   Nylan was afraid of that.

   “This is ser Gethen,” Zeldyan offered as Ayrlyn joined Nylan and the three walked toward the two men by the cold hearth that flanked the table. “Ser Nylan and ser Ayrlyn.”

   Gethen had jet-black hair streaked with gray, a short-trimmed gray beard, and green eyes, though the green was not so deep as that of Zeldyan's eyes. He stepped forward with an easy grace. “Gethen of the Groves, sometime regent of Lornth, and sire of these two-when they admit it.” His head inclined toward Zeldyan and then toward the other man. “My son Fornal,” he added.

   Fornal had the jet-black hair of his sire, without the gray, and his black beard was longer and fuller. “I have heard much of the angels, and I welcome the chance to hear more closer to the source.”

   “Let us be seated.” Zeldyan gestured toward the table.

   The places were set with two on one side and three on the other. A purpled linen cloth covered the trestlelike table, with a large oval platter and a crystal goblet for each diner. Light came from a single candelabra set at the head of the table and a half-dozen brass lamps set in sconces on the dark-paneled walls.

   Zeldyan seated herself in the middle of one side, and Fornal sat on her right. Nylan found himself across the table from them, while Ayrlyn sat across from Zeldyan and Gethen. The engineer waited.

   “You might try the wine,” suggested Zeldyan.

   Nylan poured some for the blond regent, then looked at Ayrlyn.

   “Just a little.”

   He poured half a goblet for each of them, wondering just how much their systems could take after two years of short rations and little alcohol.

   “Surely, you will drink more,” insisted Fornal.

   “A wine's excellence is not determined by how much is drunk,” said Ayrlyn.

   Fornal looked puzzled.

   “A good weapon and good wine are used sparingly.” Nylan lifted the goblet. “To the regents of Lornth.”

 
 Ayrlyn nodded and murmured, “To the regents.”

   “To our visitors,” responded Gethen.

   Nylan took the smallest sip of the wine. “It is excellent, almost better sipped than drunk.”

   Zeldyan turned and offered a fleeting smile to Fornal.

   “Very good,” added Ayrlyn.

   Two serving women slipped into the room, each bearing platters. One bore meat smothered in a white sauce, and another meat smothered in a brown sauce. A third contained long white strips of something flanked by green leaves, while the last bore sections of the fruit called pearapples.

   “The brown sauce is burkha, a hot mint,” Zeldyan said. “The other is a spice cream.”

   Nylan took moderate portions. His eyes strayed toward the closed door behind which were the children. He didn't like trusting the regents, but . . . what choice did they have? He could sense Zeldyan's honesty, but Fornal and the older man were harder -to read.

   Fornal filled his platter with burkha, and little else, while Zeldyan and Gethen took moderate helpings of everything.

   “You still do not like the quilla,” observed Gethen to his daughter.

   “I have not gained an appreciation of oiled woodchips, but I requested that Visen serve it because of your fondness for it.” The blonde offered a smile to the two angels. “Please do not feel you must eat everything for fear of offending. I do not eat quilla, and Fornal has an aversion to anything that resembles fruit, unless it is fermented and comes from a cask.”

   “That is the only way to serve fruit,” the younger man admitted.

   After a single moderate mouthful of the sour-sweet minty-tasting meat and sauce, the engineer felt the heat on his forehead. Blynnal had obviously toned down what she had served on the Roof of the World-greatly.

   “This is good burkha,” Nylan said.

   “You have had it before?” asked Gethen.

   “A cook who joined the angels makes it, but a far less tasty version.”

   “Angels are not used to eating liquid fire,” Ayrlyn said. “Our worlds are colder.”

   “So it has been said,” Fornal said. “Yet you are here.”

   “We are two of the three who can live in this heat,” Ayrlyn said.

   “Even now, it is as hot as summer where I was born,” Nylan added. “I do not look forward to real summer.” He blotted his forehead-warm and damp from both the burkha and the stillness of the room, then took another small sip of the wine, enjoying the tang, but not wishing to let it creep up on him.

   “I had thought the hall chilly,” admitted Gethen, “but Zeldyan had suggested that a fire might prove uncomfortable for you.”

   “We thank you, lady,” Nylan said. “At least, I do.”

   “Zeldyan has said you would help us against the Cyadorans,” Gethen ventured after a moment of silence.

   His mouth full, Nylan nodded, as did Ayrlyn.

   “Can you bring the fires of the heavens against them?” asked Fornal.

   “As I told the Regent Zeldyan,” the engineer said, “those fires cannot be used any longer. All our skills are at your disposal.”

   “Any information you have on Cyador . . . that would be helpful,” Ayrlyn said quietly. “What weapons they have . . . their tactics . . .”

   “Their tactics are simple enough,” said Fornal almost drolly. “They line up endless legions, and like soulless men their armsmen cut down their enemies. Many of their lancers do not bear iron, but blades and lances made of a white bronze. Their wizards, as with all white wizards, cannot bear the touch of cold iron.”

   So that was why the white wizard who had accompanied Gerlich had almost disintegrated when Huldran's blade had barely touched him.

   “Is there anything else?” Ayrlyn asked gently.

   “I fear much is buried in the scrolls of the Great Library,” said Gethen. “We have not had to cross blades with Cyador in generations.”

   “Where is that?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “Here, off the old tower, but it is written, and in the old tongue of the white ones-at least some is.”

   “That shouldn't be a problem,” said Nylan, again blotting his forehead.

   “You read the old tongue?” asked Gethen.

   “I read it and one or two others,” the engineer admitted. “Ayrlyn reads six or seven languages, isn't it?” Behind his words, he was puzzled. Hadn't Zeldyan passed on what they had told her? Or was the blonde playing a deeper game?

   “Five well,” the redhead said. “I can make my way in four others.”

   Zeldyan offered another small smile to Fornal, but her brother did not respond, from what Nylan could see.

   “You carry yourselves as warriors, yet you are scholars.” Gethen touched his beard. “I do not believe there are nine different tongues on our world.”

   Nylan nodded to himself-clearly a planoformed and colonized world, not surprisingly. “Languages differ, but in any language people fight.”

   “Do the Cyadorans still use the old tongue?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “So the traders say,” answered Zeldyan. “The white ones remain within Cyador.”

   “Except when they decide they want our lands.” Fornal punctuated his words with a hefty swallow from the goblet.

   “We are barbarians to them. So are all outsiders,” added Zeldyan.

   Nylan tried a helping of the milder lemon-creamed meat, then asked, “Do they have any of the older weapons?”

   “Who would know? No one who enters Cyador ever returns.” Gethen shrugged. “The old tales tell of lances of fire and great wagons that move without horses or oxen, and ships that needed no sails.”

   “And now?” prompted the engineer, pleased that the lemon sauce was but mildly tangy, rather than liquid flame.

   “The only ships that sail from Cyador are coastal traders, and they bear sails like any others.”

   “They may have lost those weapons,” Nylan mused.

   “That may be,” countered Fornal, “but Cyador is large and has endless waves of lancers and foot. We do not. That is why my sister offers you our hospitality, in hopes that you can help.”

   “We will do what we can,” affirmed Ayrlyn.

   Nylan hoped that would be enough, but his guts twisted. Even the order-forged blades he had developed would probably be useless against the reputed hordes of Cyador, and he'd pledged not to forge them because they'd more likely be used against Westwind-and his other children. He held in a sigh, and added, “Perhaps the scrolls in the Great Library will also help.”

   Zeldyan nodded politely. “How was your journey?”

   “We are here,” answered Nylan. “We had a little trouble with bandits in the lower part of the Westhorns.”

   Fornal glanced at Gethen, then answered, “I had thought the angels would rid-”

   “Those bandits will trouble no one,” Ayrlyn said. “They are all dead.”

   “How many were there?” asked Gethen.

   “Five.”

   “And they were all armed?”

   “They had those large blades,” said Nylan. His shoulder twinged sympathetically.

   “You see,” said Zeldyan, turning her head to Fornal. “Before long there will be few bandits indeed in the Westhorns.”

   Fornal picked up his goblet with a nod and took a deep swallow. “That was the agreement, I believe. Would that Cyador were so easily handled.”

   “There is some difference between an ancient land and bandits,” Gethen said smoothly. “Any assistance you angels can provide would be most welcome, and we will talk of that after you study the Great Library.” He smiled. “How have you found Lornth?”

   Nylan got the message. “It seems a pleasant land, and some have been most hospitable. . . .”