Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (21 page)

TURNING HIS HEAD from the dusty book, Nylan sneezed. Then, after rubbing his nose, he looked toward the high windows above the shelves, also dusty. The Great Library contained perhaps five hundred volumes-the older ones in scrolled form, the more recent ones in handbound volumes. He shook his head. Five hundred volumes for the greatest collection of written knowledge in the entire land-and most of it was history and myth, rather than an attempt at hard science. The books had been arranged by size and shape, not in any deeper order, and that meant at least thumbing through each one.

   The engineer rubbed his forehead, and stifled another sneeze.

   Ayrlyn had a pile of books beside her on the table and Weryl on her knee. Before long, Nylan reflected, he should reclaim his son.

   The engineer's eyes went back to the title of the volume in his hand-Concerning the Red Shield of Rohrn. From what he could tell from a quick skimming, the volume centered on the reputed exploits of Rohrn-whose small round shield had turned permanent red from the blood of various miscreants who had attempted to eliminate Rohrn without success.

   Nylan's only problem was that Rohrn seemed to have been a thoroughly disagreeable fellow, who killed people if they even suggested that murder was hardly useful or noble or even, in one case, because an old woman had suggested that the ancient Ceryl might have been as great a warrior as Rohrn. There, Rohrn had been relatively merciful-he'd only killed the old woman and raped her daughter, rather than slaughtering the entire household in the name of his honor as a great warrior.

   “How's it going?” he asked Ayrlyn as he lifted another volume, half-nodding as he saw the title-The Founding of Fyrad and the White Lands.

   “Slow. Very slow.” She set down one volume and rubbed her nose. “And dusty. No one's read some of these in years.”

   “Probably not since they were shelved.” Nylan flipped through the opening illustrations, faded into pale outlines, and began to read.

   “Some couldn't have been read before they were shelved,” answered Ayrlyn. “Listen to this.” She cleared her throat. “ 'So when the time came, and that time was in the summer in the first year after the death of Ceryl, that being also the first year after the winter when the goats' milk froze in their udders, Dos betook himself down to the marsh, and he saw the five times five white-legged cranes, and each crane had a silver chain about its neck, except that the mesh of the chains was so fine that it be like spidersilk, and so strong that not even the chisel of a smith might break it, not even the hammers of Clueuntaggt...' ” Ayrlyn smiled. “This is one of the more readable ones.”

   “I know.”

   “Wah-daaa?” asked Weryl.

   “In a moment.” Ayrlyn reached for another volume. “Do you think we'll find anything?”

   “I don't know . . . hmmm.” Nylan paused. “This is interesting.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and began to read. “Before the white ones crossed the mighty western peaks, all the land was covered by the Great Forest, even unto the Western Ocean.”

   “So what's unusual about that?” Ayrlyn frowned, trying to juggle Weryl on her knee, as she studied the faded ink of the book before her. “Most places are either covered with trees or grass or something. Here it was forest-pretty standard for planoforming.”

   “. . . and few indeed of the first white ones survived the Great Forest. And those who followed were wroth indeed, and turned their mirrors of fire unto the mighty trees that covered the skies, and there were ashes, and much of the Forest died-”

   “That does seem odd,” Ayrlyn admitted. “Burning an entire continent, or even a section of it after someone went to all the effort of planoforming it in the first place.”

   “How about this?” Nylan cleared his throat again. “Then the White Mightiness wrenched rivers from their courses....” He kept reading. “In time, there were ships without sails, and wagons that rolled themselves from one end of Cyador to the other along the white stone ways that linked Fyrad and Cyad, and the multitude of cities raised from the ashes of the Accursed Forest.” His eyes met Ayrlyn's.

   “Anything about how they worked those wagons-or the ships-:are we talking biotech or plain old steam?”

   “It doesn't say. It does say-” He stopped as the library door creaked open.

   Zeldyan, carrying Nesslek on her hip, stepped into the dim room.

   “Greetings, Regent,” Ayrlyn offered.

   “Greetings.” Zeldyan inclined her head to each angel in turn. “Greetings, young Weryl.”

   “Daaa . . .” answered Weryl.

   “. . . oooo . . .”suggested Nesslek.

   “Have you discovered what you sought?” asked the blond regent.

   “Perhaps.” Nylan held up the slim volume. “I just found this one, and it talks about the White Mightiness and great wagons that move by themselves, and some mighty weapon that leveled whole forests. The writer calls it the Accursed Forest. So far, it doesn't say much more. Have you heard of an accursed forest anywhere?”

   Zeldyan frowned. “I do not think so. I will ask my sire Gethen. If anyone would know, he might.” She shifted Nesslek to the other hip. “How long might your search through these volumes take?” Ayrlyn shrugged.

   “We can sift through the books today, and find the ones- if there are any-that might help.” In turn, Nylan shrugged.

   “I couldn't say how long it would take to study any that have detailed information. No more than a few days, I would guess.”

   “A few days?”

   “It does take time to read them in detail,” Nylan explained. “I see.” Nesslek lurched in her arms toward Weryl, and the regent swung her son onto her shoulder before continuing. “I would appreciate your letting us know of what you may discover.”

   “We will,” Ayrlyn promised.

   After Zeldyan slipped back out of the dusty room, Nylan picked up Weryl.

   “Thank you,” said the healer. “It's hard to concentrate.”

   “I know.” Nylan licked his lips. “There's another thing ... you remember that tree dream?”

   “What tree dream?” asked Ayrlyn. “The one where the trees were mixed with both the dark flows-the order fields-and the white chaotic stuff?” Ayrlyn nodded.

   “Well... I had it again, and it seemed really important, almost urgent, but I couldn't possibly say why.”

   “You think the things about the Accursed Forest are linked to your dream? That seems far-fetched.”

   “I don't know. Just keep it in mind. We still haven't found anything very helpful. If this account is true, Cyador has- or had-higher-level technology, but I can't tell if it's myth, order-control, chaos channeling, or steam-powered low-tech.”

 
 “Myth and steam technology, with a bit of that white magic stuff,” suggested Ayrlyn.

   “Probably, but let's keep looking. It can't take that long to peruse five hundred volumes.”

   “It seems that long.” Ayrlyn shook her head. “Most of this is awful. Awful,” she repeated. Nylan nodded.

THE THREE REGENTS sat around the table in the old tower room. Zeldyan fed Nesslek, her chair pushed back from the old and battered wooden table that held little more than a pitcher of wine and three goblets. A warm breeze blew through the open window, stirring the few ashes remaining in the hearth, and the dust motes sparkled in the column of sunlight.

   “I do not trust them,” said Fornal lazily. “They have used the fires of heaven, but now they say they cannot call them forth. They do not say what they can do, but they can read many tongues. And while they bear those devil blades, neither has even raised one. Nor has anyone seen them do so.”

   “Would you that they had-as guests?” asked Zeldyan, shifting Nesslek's weight in her arms but not removing him from the breast where he nursed.

   “They have the strange hair.” Gethen's eyes went to the open window that provided the panoramic overlook of Lornth, his lips pursed. “And there is a strangeness to them both.”

   “And to their son,” added Zeldyan.

   “The leader of the angels had black hair. Perhaps the strange hair is as foreign to the true angels as to us. We can confirm so little.” Fornal swallowed the rest of the wine in his goblet.

   Zeldyan lifted Nesslek to her shoulder, hitched the loose tunic back in place, and patted her son on the back. “They sound as though they tell the truth.”

   “No one tries to sound like a liar.” Fornal reached for the pitcher. “Where are they?”

   “In the Great Library.”

   “What have they discovered? Or was reading another skill that no one has yet seen demonstrated?” Fornal refilled his goblet, splashing droplets of wine across the battered table.

   “It would appear so,” Zeldyan answered. “The silver-haired one-ser Nylan-was telling me what was in one of the scrolls-something about an accursed forest. He was most intrigued. I'd never heard of an accursed forest.”

   “The old legends say that the forest fought the old white demons, and that the white ones bound it behind eternal walls,” said Gethen. “I'd forgotten that.”

   “What else have we forgotten?” Fornal shook his head. “Did they say anything else?”

   “Ser Nylan said that they would be able to determine which books are important by the end of the day. And to find any knowledge they hold within a few days.” Zeldyan paused. “There are hundreds of books and scrolls there. Not even Terek could have read them that quickly.”

   “The man bothers me,” said Fornal. “There's something about him. I don't know. He speaks well, but fine words are only fine words.”

   Gethen frowned. “Did you see his hands? They are callused, and his arms, slender as he seems, are heavily muscled.”

   “Muscles alone do not make an armsman. Many of our better armsmen could chop him in two.”

   “I recall that more than a few armsmen have thought the same of the angels. They are all dead,” said Gethen.

   “You make the case that they are dangerous, my sire. I submit that a good ally is also one who would make a dangerous enemy. How far should we trust them? And how can we ensure they work to our benefit?”

   “Fornal,” pointed out Gethen, “they travel with a child, and few do so without great cause. That alone makes them far more vulnerable.”

   The black-bearded man lifted his goblet once more. “I still do not trust them. In time, if not immediately, I worry that the angels will be our undoing. Perhaps not this pair, but certainly those in the Westhorns.”

   “That may be, my son, but unless we can raise more coin and more armsmen, we could be back under the lord of Cyador all too soon-or unless the angels can provide us with some assistance.”

   “I wish them well with those ancient scrolls.” Fornal laughed. “I need armsmen and fire lances or the like, not words.”

   “They have some skills,” said Zeldyan mildly. “Enough to destroy most of the armsmen who attacked them and to establish a presence where no others can even live. Let us see what they offer.”

   “True,” added Gethen. “It will cost little enough.”

   “It will cost too much if we rely on them and they offer nothing,” mused Fornal. “Perhaps we should have some proof of what they are.”

   “Proof?” Gethen raised his eyebrows. “You have something in mind?”

   “I would like to spar, or practice with one of the angels. All I have heard is rumor and tale. Then we could see firsthand.” He spread his hands. “I can see no harm in it. If they are as good as it is said, then word will pass, and those who would oppose my sister's allies will be quieted.”

   “Just spar?” asked Zeldyan.

 
  “Of course.” Fornal smiled. “With proof, everyone will be much happier when I leave the day after tomorrow for Rohrn.”

   Zeldyan frowned.

   “What harm can sparring do?” asked Fornal.

   “A great deal,” answered Gethen, “if you provoke the angel into taking off your head.”

   “I would not wish to prove their abilities with my own wounds. I will be most careful.”

   “I would hope so,” said Gethen.

   “As you wish, brother.” Zeldyan inclined her head.

   Gethen smothered a frown with a cough.

NYLAN SAT ON the end of the bed in the darkness, his stomach growling from the heavily spiced dinner as he looked down at his sleeping son. “At least this way he's not up all night.”

   “No,” answered Ayrlyn from the wash chamber. “He's on the go all day and leaves us exhausted.” She stepped into the bedchamber, wearing only a thin cotton gown.

   “I haven't seen that.” Nylan's night vision remained as sharp as ever, if not, he reflected, having become even sharper with practice-and he still didn't know why, except that he suspected it was linked to his perceptions of the fields of order and chaos that seemed to surround everything, including dreams of trees he'd never seen. “A gift from the regent.”

   “I like it, but I like the package more than the wrapping.” Nylan eased off the bed.

   “Good.” Ayrlyn stepped around him and sat cross-legged on the other side of the bed.

   “Are you upset at me?” he asked.

   “Darkness no.” She rubbed her forehead. “I just want to sit here for a bit. My head still aches.”

   “I'm sorry.” Nylan repressed a sigh and sat back down. “It's not your fault. Most of those books were pretty boring.” She yawned.

   “A dozen books or scrolls out of more than five hundred, and none of them say much except that the Old Rationalists had enough power to incinerate a magic forest, move rivers, and build horseless wagons and sailless ships.”

   “Well,” mused Ayrlyn, “the legends will say that you had enough power to destroy two mighty armies and forge magic blades and enchanted bows, and no one who writes them down will have any understanding of what really happened.”

   “Great. Except that Cyador is still here, and not too long ago, if you can believe Gethen, they still had the horseless wagons.”

   “If wagons are all that's left-”

   “I'm not worried about the wagons. I'm worried about a culture that's retained enough technology to keep building steamwagons.” Nylan shook his head. “I'm not a damned chemical engineer. Sure, I know that I could probably come up with some explosives-or blow us both up-if I could figure out a way to make nitric acid-but for it to be useful, I'd have to make a lot. Annies use a lot of explosives. That means an industry, and”-he gestured toward the open window that framed a Lornth showing but a handful of dim lamps-“what industry do we have here?”

   “Not a lot,” admitted Ayrlyn.

   “Even simple black powder-that takes potassium nitrate-and supposedly you can get that from bat guano, under manure piles, or as crystals in some kinds of soil. Seen any lately?”

   “Stop being so pessimistic,” said Ayrlyn. “We'll figure out something.”

   They had to, Nylan reflected, but he still hadn't the faintest idea what that might be.

   “It's not all a loss,” she added. “Legends are useful, in a way, because they tell about the land and the people.”

   “What about trees?” asked Nylan.

   “Those dreams must be pretty vivid.”

   “Not so vivid as other dreams,” he said with a laugh.

   “You have been deprived.”

   He looked down at Weryl again. “I'm learning more about parenthood. I think.”

   Ayrlyn took a slow deep breath.

   “Your head still ache?” he asked.

   “It's getting better.”

   Nylan looked at her and forced himself to take the same sort of long, slow deep breath she had. “So what do all these legends tell us about Cyador?” he asked, wondering whether she had a headache from reading in dim light or for some other reason.

   “I'd say it's a very formal, hierarchial, and almost brittle structure. It's also stronger than anything else around and has been for a long time. That might help.”

   “Stronger, and that might help?”

   “I'm guessing,” the healer admitted, “but rigid societies often don't take much to topple.”

   Nylan laughed. “I'm worried about coming up with some tool or weapon so we don't get disgraced in handling a minor invasion, and you're talking about toppling what amounts to an empire.”

   “Why not think big?” Ayrlyn grinned.

   He had to grin back.

   “And besides, my head is feeling better.”

   Nylan decided to worry about the wagons, the dreams of trees, and empire-toppling later.