Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (42 page)

   “I think one got away. Two actually, but one didn't even try to fight,” said Nylan. “That seemed strange.” He looked at Tonsar. “We can talk about that later. Let's get some drivers up here, and get these wagons moving. The sooner we're north of the mines and back in Syskar, the happier I'll be.”

   Ayrlyn nodded in agreement.

   LEPHI STOOD ON the balcony, facing the harbor, his light silvered robes billowing in the gentle breeze rising off the blue of the water to the south, the scent of leydar and orange mixing in the salt air.

   The late-afternoon sun cast the long shadow of the palace almost as far as the stone wharfs that had sparkled spotless white for all the centuries Cyad had stood, for all the generations of lords of Cyador. Each of the score of wharfs extended more than five hundred cubits out into the deep harbor waters; each was twice that from its neighbor. Beyond the wharves the harbor's greenish blue darkened into the far deeper blue of the Great Western Ocean.

   The Protector of the Steps to Paradise took in the white clouds rising over the ocean to the south, with their promise of rain, and then the wharfs again, where the seemingly endless expanse of white stone dwarfed the dozen small coasters seemingly tied at random.

   “Cyad will again be as mighty as ... even more mighty than before ...” he murmured. “No barbarians, no forests, no love of luxury ... no ...”

   Although the shadow of the palace covered the Great Avenue, all the way down to the wharfs, the white paving stones and curbs glistened with a whiteness that leapt out of the shadow, out of the dark green of trees and grass. Indeed, Lephi knew, without looking, that every avenue in Cyad was white, spotless and shimmering in late afternoon, in twilight, even through the nights under the glittering lamps of the avenues. And every avenue was safe, clean, pure.

   His eyes dropped closer to the palace, toward the hexagonal white market square to the southwest of his balcony. He frowned at the single blue awning among the green and white canvases.

   “Blue? Blue ... it will go, like the barbarians.”

   Lephi nodded, his eyes returning to the wharfs, and to the shipworks beyond where the superstructure of the first fire-ship in generations rose above the waves.

   “Cyad . . . forever.”

   The Protector of the Steps to Paradise smiled.

THE STILLNESS OF late afternoon had faded into the chirpings of twilight, and a light breeze swept out of the north, with the slightest hint of moisture. The insect chorus melded with the sounds of hoofs, clanking harnesses, and low voices.

   In the dimness of early evening, Nylan rubbed his neck, then his temples, as he rode at the head of the column beside Ayrlyn. Behind them rode the three squads of armsmen, followed by five riderless mounts, two bearing bodies, a dozen lancer mounts, and the three heavy wagons, which creaked and squeaked loudly enough that each squeak sent another shiver through Nylan's skull. Ayrlyn merely winced, although Nylan knew that her less severe reaction reflected better self-discipline, not less pain.

   “We can't keep doing this,” he finally said in a low voice.

   “No.”

   “Did you have any luck with the trees?”

   He got the sense of a shrug, and waited.

   “The trees we seem to dream about-they're a long ways south. There's a small grove to the northwest of Syskar- thirty kays, I'd guess-that feels somewhat like that.”

   The smith could feel Tonsar's puzzlement.

   “We have to do something,” Ayrlyn said. “You can't go out and fight another battle right now.”

   “Neither can you.”

   “No.”

   “Do we go to the closer grove?” he asked.

   “Do we have much to lose?”

   Ayrlyn was probably right. Had the lancers who had defended the wagons been first-rate, both he and Ayrlyn would have been dead or wounded during their increasingly violent reactions to the deaths they caused. Another skirmish, battle, fight, would have the same result. Yet they had everything to lose. How could they just ride away on the hope that a series of dreams, a sense of order, and a grove of trees might provide an answer, some sort of answer? Especially when Nylan wasn't even sure what the problem was.

   Overhead, the emerging stars, unfamiliar as ever to the angels, shone clearly, coldly, across the hilly grasslands, grasslands bleached into a faint white even to Nylan's night vision.

   “Will going to this . . . grove help?” he asked after a time.

   “I don't know. You want certainty at a time like this? It's certain we won't make it if we don't change something.”

   That made too much sense, so much sense he didn't bother answering, knowing that Ayrlyn understood. He massaged his temples again.

   The night darkened; the stars brightened; and the wagons kept squeaking and creaking.

   “That's Syskar,” Ayrlyn said.

   Nylan looked out into the darkness, catching the few glimmers of light ahead. “Tonsar... send a messenger to the camp. Let ser Fornal, Lewa, Huruc know that we're coming in, and that we've got copper and some more supplies.” Nylan rubbed his temples again, wishing the aching would subside.

   “Yes, ser.” The subofficer turned and called, “Kysta! Up here.”

   The angels rode silently as Tonsar explained the message to Kysta and sent the red-bearded young levy off at a canter.

   “You will not be gone long ... on this journey?” Tonsar ventured once Kysta had left.

   “It shouldn't take long,” Ayrlyn said.

   One way or the other, thought Nylan.

   “The men . . . they feel better when you lead them,” confessed the subofficer. “No one can stand against an angel.”

   “Right now, a one-armed Cyadoran could knock me off this mare,” Nylan said.

   “That is why you must-?”

   “Something like that,” Ayrlyn answered ambiguously.

   Tonsar nodded to himself as they neared the encampment.

   Torches burned on the stoop of the officers' dwelling and from the front of the shed barracks, adding a dim light to the area.

   “Fornal's over there,” said Ayrlyn, half-gesturing toward the left.

   The two rode toward the house and reined up, not bothering to dismount.

   “More banditry and murder, angels?” asked the coregent pleasantly.

   “Copper and supplies, and we got rid of another score of white lancers,” Nylan answered tiredly.

   “How many did you lose?”

   “Two,” said Ayrlyn.

   “We just filled the air with arrows and then charged. Very Lornian attack, ser Fornal.” Nylan could sense two figures in the shadows of the stoop-Huruc and Lewa.

   “Why ... the holders would be most pleased. You actually fought. . . directly.”

   “Yes, we did.” Nylan forced himself erect. “You'll need to detach some guards to accompany the wagons back to Lornth.”

   “Guards for what?” asked Fornal. “I had thought you brought more supplies.”

   “The wagons are filled with copper ingots. We'll keep the supplies here, not that there were a lot. But I assume you don't want to lose the copper to brigands, and the wagons themselves are worth something.”

   “You would not wish to take the wagons to Lornth yourself?”

   “Not particularly,” Nylan answered. “Even with the transfers from Huruc's forces, we still only have a score and a half,” added Ayrlyn tiredly. “The copper wagons need at least a squad as an escort.”

   “Guards for copper. That would make us like merchants, not warriors.”

   Fornal was more than that, reflected Nylan, more of a warring pain in the ass with his pomposity. No wonder Gethen kept his son at arm's length and then some. The engineer still wondered about heredity. How could one man have a daughter so bright and a son so dense? Or did the cultural imperatives stifle male intelligence?

   “Ser Fornal,” the engineer said slowly, “the copper on these wagons is worth several dozen golds, maybe more. Your sister and your sire need those golds to supply you. They also need to claim some victory to the holders, as you have pointed out. Sending the wagons to Lornth will do both.” Nylan paused and added. “Especially with your armsmen guarding them.”

   After a moment, Fornal nodded, slowly. “That does make sense, ser angel, and I could send a request for more armsmen to replace our losses, also.”

   Nylan could sense both the anger and discomfort from Ayrlyn, as well as a feeling of grim amusement.

   “The other thing is that we're going off for a few days- call it a magely quest.” Nylan held up his hand. “It's important, but I can't tell you why.”

   “You will be taking your squads?”

   “No. I'd thought perhaps three men, and, of course, Sylenia and Weryl. Three would not make a difference here.”

   “A magely quest-that I could scarcely deny. Not after such a handsome result from your arms.”

   And you 'II need us more than ever when the whites finally react. Which they will. Nylan locked eyes with Fornal, until the regent looked away. Then he turned his mount toward the corral.

   Ayrlyn followed, chill still radiating from her.

... AND WHEN THE white lancers of Cyad had come at last to the copper mines of the north, those of Lornth threw down their picks and shovels and their blades, and fled into the Grass Hills, for they well knew that the copper mines were not theirs, and they were sore afraid of the righteous wrath of the Lord of Cyador.

   The white lancers rebuilt and refurbished the mines, and brought order and discipline back into the Hills of Grass, nor did they afflict the peoples nor their hamlets.

   The wily Nylan, like the mountain cat who cannot face the well-prepared hunter in the light of day, advised the guileless council of Lornth behind heavy doors, saying, If the Cyadorans cannot eat and they cannot sleep, they will not hold to the mines that your fathers and forefathers have worked. And they will depart.

   The delvers and diggers of Cyad labored long and with great effort to bring forth the copper from the mines, trusting in the honor of the Lornians and in the forces of the most honorable white lancers.

   For in that time, none believed that even the wily Nylan would stoop to slaughtering innocent horses, nor to murdering hapless wagoners, nor to raising fireballs in the night and dropping them upon lancer and digger alike while they slept. All this did Nylan, and more, terrible and dishonorable deeds better lost in tumult of time. Yet remember we must, for this is how the dark angels came to power in Candar. . ..

         Colors of White

         (Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

         Preface

THE ANGELS REINED up at the crest of the low hill, where Nylan unfastened his water bottle and took a deep swallow. Sylenia twisted in the saddle and offered water to Weryl, who swallowed, splashed water across his tanned legs, and then thrust the bottle back before Sylenia was ready. The bottle slid off the saddlebags and bounced into the dust of the road.

   Even before Nylan could put down his own water bottle, Fuera had vaulted from his saddle and recovered the water bottle, handing it up to Sylenia. A dark splotch remained in the road.

   “Thank you.” The black-haired nursemaid smiled.

   “Just tell Tonsar that we looked out for you.” Fuera flashed an openly charming grin.

   Sylenia shook her head, but the smile remained as Fuera remounted with the same dash.

   Ayrlyn offered the faintest of ironic smiles. Nylan smothered his own smile, then looked at the vista before them.

   Under the mid-afternoon sun, and a green-blue sky with a few scattered and puffy white clouds, the road wound down the hill to the right, and then angled up yet another grass-covered hill, topped by a small grove of low trees. A flock of sheep grazed on the mostly green meadow west of the road, and beyond the animals were several low buildings and a sod-roofed dwelling.

   “Still that way?” asked Nylan, inclining his head in the general direction of the road ahead.

   “There's a hint of order. It's stronger that way,” suggested Ayrlyn.

   Nylan let his own order senses follow hers, feeling a thread of order, and something more, still to the northwest.

   “It's stronger now.”

   He nodded, restowing the water bottle and wondering if they would reach the order grove, if that was what it was, before sunset.

   Perhaps ten kays and three lines of hills later, the group reined up at the top of another low hill, looking out over the patchwork of continuing meadows and scattered flocks of sheep.

   “We're close,” Ayrlyn said.

   Nylan glanced downhill, and his eyes wandered back to the opposite hill crest. He frowned. He'd meant to look downhill.

   Rather than look, he listened in the stillness broken only by the hint of a breeze. Was that the gurgling of a brook or stream?

   He started to look downhill again, and his eyes blurred.

   “There's something there.” The redheaded healer frowned.

   “I know. It's shielded somehow.”

   “There are trees, pines of a sort, and they're tall.”

 
 Out of the corner his eyes, Nylan could sense Sylenia's puzzlement as she squinted out into the glare of the low sun, trying to make out whatever the two angels discussed.

   “Just a hillside . . .”

   “Why are we sitting here?” asked Fuera.

   “The smith and healer see something,” answered Sias.

   “Don't see anything,” added Buretek.

   “They see a lot we don't. He sees inside metal. She sees inside people.” The apprentice smith and armsman paused. “I'm not sure it be good to see everything they see.”

   “We'll see,” said Buretek cheerfully. “They see something, or they don't.”

   Except it wasn't that simple, thought Nylan. Nothing that involved the order and chaos fields was-that he'd already discovered, unfortunately.

   “There's nothing there,” said Ayrlyn. “I mean, no animals, no big ones. There are the trees, and the stream.”

   “Let's see.” Nylan turned his mount to the left and off the road, heading downhill.

   “. . . not even a road ...”

   “. . . knows where he's going . . .”

   “. . . so does she . . .”

   As they rode downhill toward the well-sensed but unseen valley, if a place that tried to fool human vision could be claimed to be unseen, Nylan noted a growing sense of calm, of balance before him, and a growing consternation in the saddles behind.

   “. . . something there . . . but my eyes . . .”

   “. . . told you . . .”

   Finally, he turned. “It's just a grove of trees. There's some sort of magic shield around it to protect it from being logged or destroyed. That's all.” Not quite.all, by a long shot, but nothing to harm them. Whether it might harm Ayrlyn or him was another question. And it isn't really a shield, either. He took a deep breath.

   “Not quite all,” murmured Ayrlyn as she eased her mount closer.

   “I know. I can feel it, but it's not harmful.”

   Abruptly, when the ground flattened near the base of the hill, they no longer had to use their order senses to force their eyes to see the grove.

   “Oh ...”

   “Where . . . the trees come from?”

   Even Weryl added an “oooo.”

   Less than a dozen huge and spreading pines formed a circle, shielding the needle-carpeted center area with a canopy of green. The area under and immediately around the trees was open, covered only with a deep carpet of pine needles.

   A narrow and fast-moving brook bordered the grove, appearing out of the tangled thorn bushes and redberry bushes to the southeast. Was it from some sort of underground spring? There wasn't a stream south of the valley. Of that Nylan was certain.

   Downstream, on the northwest side of the grove, the same stream vanished into another tangle of bushes, except far enough away to leave a clearing in the open.

   The cool and shadow of trees and the hills were more than welcome to the smith. He took a deep breath, a breath free from dust for what seemed the first time since they had left the Westhorns a long season earlier, a breath filled with the clean scent of pine.

   The smith turned in the saddle. “We'll camp in the open space at the end. We can sleep on the needles around the trees, but keep the fire clear of them.”

   Sias glanced up at the towering evergreens, and then at Buretek. “Did you see these up on the hillside?”

   Fuera reached out, leaning sideways in the saddle, and thumped the ridged and age-darkened bark. “Solid . . . most solid.” He shook his head.

   Nylan smiled slowly. Maybe there was something to the trees . . . and to the dreams .. . maybe. He hoped so.

   “There is,” Ayrlyn affirmed as she dismounted and led the chestnut to the downstream area just before the brook vanished into the thicket again. After a moment, as the mare drank, she added, “The redberries are ripe, and there are plenty here. But watch the thorns.”

   Watch the thorns-wasn't that the general prescription for life? What other surprises might there be?

   After a moment, he dismounted and followed Ayrlyn, as did the others.

   Overhead, the pine boughs whispered ever so faintly in the late afternoon breeze, a breeze that only the trees showed.