The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “What’s expected at dinners here?” Nylan tried for a less controversial subject.

  The two guards exchanged glances and shrugged.

  “You might ask Genglois, ser,” said the taller guard. “He’s the seneschal, and he has a study at the base of the stairs, but you’ll have to take the other steps-back up that way.” His head inclined toward the other end of the cross-corridor.

  Nylan got the impression that it was time to move on. “Thank you.”

  Ayrlyn smiled, and they retraced their steps back up the cross-corridor and down the steps, then back down the empty lower cross-corridor. No lamps or candles were lit, and the corridors were darker than early twilight.

  The door to Genglois’s chamber was open.

  “You be the angels, I see,” said the heavyset man in purple, looking up from the small table that served as a desk and, from the greasy shoulder joint and bread on the platter there, as a dining table as well. A single candle flickered in a wall sconce in the windowless room.

  “The guards suggested you might be able to help us.”

  “Me? I can get the pages to bring you food and more water, or to empty the chamber pots, or direct you to the stablemaster or armsmaster. That sort of thing-not much more.” The seneschal paused. “Fine child, there.”

  “Thank you,” said Nylan.

  “We don’t know much about Lornth or the regents,” offered Ayrlyn. “We’d rather not waste time when we meet with the regents asking questions about things everyone in Lornth knows.”

  “Some of that… some of that, I know.” Genglois gestured to the two stools. “Not that I’ve much room, but stools are fine for pages, not for warriors like you.” He paused, and the deep-set eyes centered on Ayrlyn. “You are all warriors, are you not?”

  “Yes. Some are better than others, though.” Nylan took the stool directly across from the seneschal.

  Genglois took a gulp from the greasy goblet on the table. “Jegel said that the head angel-”

  “The Marshal?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “He said the Marshal threw her blade, and it went right through Lord Nessil’s breastplate. That true?”

  “Yes,” Nylan sard.

  Genglois shook his head. “Jegel-he always said what was-but I wondered about that. Maybe… maybe you angels will keep old Karthanos in line, though. He be a devious one. Anything else you want to know?”

  “The other regent, Zeldyan’s sire?”

  “Old Gethen, you mean? He and Sillek-they took Rulyarth, and he reorganized the whole port. Had it making coins when the Suthyans couldn’t. Course, it took the two of them. That’s how Sillek met Zeldyan, they say-went to Carpa to talk strategy with Gethen-he was a friend of Sillek’s sire, too- and he met her there. Never saw a lord so in love with his lady. She still loves him, and it’s been more than half a year.”

  “What about the Suthyans?” pursued Nylan, easing a piece of chalk from Weryl’s hand, and looking at the characters on the slate-apparently a personal form of shorthand for a menu-that night’s meal?

  “The Suthyans-they’re traders, and coin is all that matters to them. Had a big banquet last year-every year, almost-for Lygon of Bleyans, except that the regents said he would not be welcome in the keep again. Seemed all right for a trader, and he even paid his respects to Lady Ellindyja. But you wanted to know about the Suthyans. They have ships, and they sail everywhere. Bled us dry when they had Rulyarth, but matters are better now, thanks to Lord Sillek. Poor man-did so much, and got pushed into fighting you angels. You know”-Genglois lowered his voice-“he didn’t want to. His holders pushed for it, and he was not ready to stand against them all-that’s hard for a lord even as old and respected as ser Gethen. Had Sillek lived longer, he might have. Then who knows… matters might have been different.”

  “They could have been,” Ayrlyn said. “We did not wish to fight, either. But there’s nowhere to retreat on the Roof of the World.”

  “Told that to Koric, and he just laughed. He be dead, and that says much. An old seneschal, and I prattle too much.” Genglois stopped and refilled the goblet with wine so vinegary that Nylan could smell it.

  “How do the protocols work for dinners here?” Nylan asked.

  “There be few indeed. No spitting at table, and no belching. Just follow the Regent Zeldyan. Most proper, she be, most proper without being all stiff like… anyway. Most bring their daggers, but I lay out some, dull ones. Eat hearty.” The seneschal smiled. “Anything special you like?”

  “Pastries,” admitted Nylan. “We see few on the Roof of the World.”

  Genglois laughed. “I will tell Visen.” He looked toward the empty hall behind the angels.

  “What can you recall about Cyador?” Nylan asked, ignoring the seneschal’s glance.

  “Not a great deal, ser.” Genglois shook his head, and his jowls wobbled ever so slightly. “The trouble with the mines- that was in the time of Lord Sillek’s grandsire or before.”

  “We’re strangers, remember?” Ayrlyn explained. “Could you explain what the trouble with the mines was?”

  “Oh… that was when Berphi was Lord of Cyador-must have been twoscore years back, maybe threescore. Lord Berphi asked for the return of the mines and the removal of all Lornians. Except he called us barbarians.”

  “What happened?”

  The ample functionary shrugged. “Nothing. Lord Berphi went to his ancestors, and there was some disturbance in Cyador, and the whole matter vanished.”

  “Until now?” suggested Nylan.

  “If you see troubles riding their pale horses toward you, angel lord, it often pays to wait to see how many actually cross the river bridge. Even I have found that few make it that far.” Genglois stood. “If you will excuse me, ser, I needs must visit the kitchen.”

  “Of course.”

  From the seneschal’s cramped place, they crossed the courtyard to the stables.

  “Ser and ser?” A slight youth in scarred leathers met them even before they had put three steps inside the stables. From the depths of the structure came the brawking of chickens.

  “We wanted to check our mounts,” Nylan said.

  “Good beasts,” the youth said. “They are in the second row.” He turned as if they would follow. “So is the gray you used as a pack animal.”

  Ayrlyn grinned. So did Nylan as they followed the dark-haired stable boy’s quick steps.

  “Here you be-the dark mare and the chestnut.” The youth pointed to the stalls. “Not like some that come in, so thin you know the rider has only grazed ‘em. Hoofs worn, and the dark mare, she be needing new shoes afore long, least that be what Edicat said. Chestnut be sound, shoes and all.” The boy glanced from Nylan to Ayrlyn and back.

  “Who are you?” asked Ayrlyn.

  “Merthek. Second stable boy, leastwise till Kielmer joins the armsmen.”

  “Do you want to be an armsman?” asked Nylan, wondering about the phrasing the youth had used.

  “Me? No, ser. Love the beasts, not cold iron. Cold iron loves none save blood, and that price is high.” He looked boldly at the smith. “Especially if one must fight angels.”

  “The price is high for angels as well,” Nylan answered dryly.

  Merthek glanced at Nylan’s blade. “A short blade, yet deadly.”

  “Deadly enough,” Nylan admitted. “I would rather it weren’t necessary.”

  “So long as men want what others have,” offered the youth, “blades be necessary.”

  “Unfortunately,” answered Ayrlyn. “Stick to your horses, Merthek.”

  “I will, ser and lady, and if you need anything here, ask for me. That is, if I do not find you first.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin, then offered a bow. “If I am not here, the stablemaster is Guisanek, and he is a good man, and one who knows all about the beasts.”

  “We will.” Nylan peered over the stall wall at the mare, who stood on clean straw and ate what looked to be grain from a wooden manger.

  After Merthek escorted t
hem back to the courtyard, Nylan took a deep breath. “I need a break. Let’s go up that tower and check out the surrounding terrain.” He pointed to the smaller tower that rose just to the south of where he thought their chamber was-not the larger square tower that held the room where they had met Zeldyan.

  “You sound like the engineer again.”

  “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.

  XLI

  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.

  XLII

  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.”