The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “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…”

  XLIII

  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 w
ritten 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.

  XLIV

  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.”