The Death of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Quiet, it is,” murmured Berli to Weldein.

  “Too quiet, far too quiet.”

  Justen looked over at me. “Too much fear. Fear never did anyone much good.” Then he chuckled. “I’m getting old. All people fear, but giving in to it is what causes trouble. Decisions ruled by fear aren’t usually good ones.”

  “Decisions forced by anything probably aren’t good,” I answered, my thoughts more on Krystal, more on her words and her desire to tell me to come back. I shivered. I just hoped Tamra and my father could add something to the defense of Ruzor, but how could mere storms stop steel-hulled, heavy-gunned warships?

  I could have asked the same question of us. How could an earth wizard and a druid-smith stop an army of thousands? We didn’t have to guess where the Hamorians were coming from, not when the routes were limited. The more direct route from Hydlen-the one through Sunta and Arastia-was blocked by the boiling lake that had grown from the impact of chaos on the brimstone spring and by the steaming waters of the Yellow River. That left the lower pass from Faklaar.

  To get there we had to make almost a huge half-circle, heading up the river road through the Gateway Gorge and then up the Sturbal to Lythga and through the pass toward Faklaar.

  Riding up the river road, I could see clouds of dust rising to the east, out over the High Desert, and my throat and nose felt dry and cracked almost before we had left Ruzor and long before we reached the cliff road itself.

  The section of the road through the Gorge was misty, as always, although the mist seemed not to rise as high, and the upper walls of the Gorge on both sides were red in the sunlight, and dry.

  “Dry this year,” said Weldein. “The river’s down a lot, more than I’ve seen in a long time.”

  Somehow, that figured.

  “Could be hard on the crops,” added Justen.

  “The orchards will be all right, the olives, anyway,” pointed out Berli.

  Since I knew little about any of them, I didn’t say much, though I wondered how the dry weather would affect the chickens.

  We arrived in Felsa at twilight, and stayed in the near-empty barracks there. Dinner was cold mutton and colder noodles, with water. Justen had a pitcher of ale-better, he said, than anything else on the table. He was probably right, but even if I were a gray wizard, ale still didn’t feel that good to me. Dayala ate only the noodles and some dried fruit that she had apparently brought. Even Gab-loch’s grain cakes seemed more appetizing than cold mutton, and I ate more noodles than meat, if slowly.

  Dawn came too early, but we were outside Felsa’s walls and on the road before the sun cleared the rounded slopes on the other side of the Sturbal that marked the edge of the High Desert.

  “There are fields here,” I said, “and over beyond the river is the High Desert. A few kays make a big difference.”

  “Sometimes, sometimes.” Justen clearly wasn’t in the mood for talking, and neither was Dayala, who rode bareback beside Justen. Mostly, she walked, barefoot, talking to the horse.

  After that response, I patted Gairloch on the neck instead of trying to continue a conversation. I looked over again, wondering if the two were conversing, silently, and if I had interrupted them.

  Justen could have been more gracious, anyway. I patted Gairloch again. At least, he whuffed back.

  Even though the road beyond Felsa was broader than most, from the time when the mining wagons carted copper down through Felsa to Ruzor for shipping around Candar, the surface was rough. Dust and clay filled parts of the twin ruts worn in the limestone paving blocks, and the road’s shoulders were uneven, and, in places, missing. After a morning of bouncing along, I was sore already. I let Gairloch pick his own way, and he did better than I would have.

  “Rough road,” I finally said to Justen.

  “That’s what happens when order is imposed on nature and then withdrawn.”

  “Another profundity.” I was getting more than a little tired of the obscurities. “Nature has an order of its own.”

  “Nature does not withdraw,” observed Dayala with a faint smile. “Men do.”

  While I wondered whether she had meant all she implied, she continued, apparently oblivious to the possible play on words. “Nature is really more of an intertwining of order and chaos. The results look ordered, but that is why meddling by people often creates terrible results.” Dayala smiled almost apologetically.

  “Because people disrupt either the chaos or the order more, and that leaves one force relatively stronger, and the Balance is thrown off?” I asked.

  “Yes. It is more complex than that, but that is what happens. That is why it is often so hard for people to live in harmony with nature.”

  I could see that. Some people would always do too much- too much order, too much chaos-and never understand. “And druids can?”

  “Druids can-but not all those who are born in Naclos become druids, and some who are born elsewhere do.” She grinned at Justen, and the expression made her look more like a young girl.

  “What happens to them-the ones who don’t understand? Do they get thrown out, as in Recluce?”

  “ Some leave. Some die.”

  “There is a trial,” Justen added. “No one has to undertake it, but you are effectively… excluded… from what goes on in Naclos if you don’t. Some people leave, rather than face the trial. Others face it and fail to survive.”

  I shook my head. How were the druids any better than Recluce?

  “You are displeased,” said Dayala.

  “Yes.” I was more than displeased. I was angry, though I wasn’t quite sure why.

  “Are all beings perfect?” she asked softly.

  “No. Of course not. Not even the mythical angels.”

  Whheeeee… eeee… Gairloch was letting me know he was thirsty.

  I patted his neck. “In a bit… in a bit.”

  “And if a being would hurt others, or nature, then what should those others do?”

  “I don’t know.” And I didn’t. If I imposed a forced order on someone, and I thought I might be able to, though I’d never tried, then that was violence against that person’s will. If I didn’t and they stole or hurt others, that was violence against those who had done no wrong. But exiling or killing someone because they might do violence didn’t seem right. Neither did waiting until after they did. Yet exiling or killing someone to prevent wrongness wasn’t right, either.

  “Let me explain,” she went on. “In Naclos, the trial is there to help someone come into understanding with the Balance. You have done this yourself, whether you know it or not. That you have done this is easily seen. Some people die because they cannot accept or understand the Balance. Others fear the trial, and we let them go live in the Empty Lands.”

  “You don’t send them out of Naclos?”

  “No. Some go, but they are not sent. We would prefer they remain in Naclos, for their safety and the safety of others. There is some risk to them, because they must live with others like themselves, but that is either their choice or because they are flawed.” She shrugged, even as she slipped off her mount and began to walk, guiding the horse behind Rosefoot and up beside Gairloch. She walked quickly, yet effortlessly.

  I knew what I didn’t like about it-an individual didn’t seem to matter at all. Only the community counted. Just as in Recluce, you either conformed or left.

  “Someone who is different-you just throw them out?”

  “No.” She gave a laugh that was half laugh, half snort. “We have many who are different. My father was quite different. He was a smith, and you can understand that was different for druids. He still lived in the Great Forest. Justen met him.”

  “He was a good smith, very good with tools,” mused Justen, as if his mind were kays away.

  “So were you.”

  Again, I had this feeling that I had missed something, but I plunged on. “If you accept differences, then why… ?”

  “Why do we exile or create death? That is only for those who
will not accept differences.”

  I pondered that for a time. Dayala, barefooted, kept pace with the horses without even breathing hard.

  Acceptance? Was that the key? But Recluce did not accept differences. Yet clearly Naclos had accepted Justen, and he certainly wasn’t a run-of-the-mill druid.

  “Why do you risk your life for the autarch?”

  “Because Kyphros accepted me, I suppose.”

  She shrugged, as if to suggest something, and waited, but I didn’t have any answers. Or all the answers I had were wrong. It was wrong, in my mind, to reject people who were different, but no group of people could accept those who would kill or disrupt a society… I shook my head.

  “Dayala, you’ve confused the poor man enough.” Justen’s voice was affectionate.

  “I confused you once, too. But not for long.”

  “I’m still confused, woman, and I know it. He’s going to have trouble dealing with the idea that there just aren’t any answers that don’t hurt people, often innocent people.”

  I wanted to take my staff and bash Justen. Except… except… I had the horrifying feeling that he was right, and maybe that was what had bothered me all along.

  Dayala handed the reins of her mount to me, and I took them, dumbly, and watched her stretch her legs and run. She was almost as frisky as a colt-a filly, I guess, really.

  “She could run down any horse, you know?” Justen said.

  “I didn’t know, but I see it now.”

  “It took me a long time to really appreciate her.” He shook his head, almost sadly, leaving something unsaid.

  I swallowed. Justen wasn’t exactly withdrawn. His eyes traveled every cubit of the grasslands to the west of the road, then swung back to take in the trees beside the narrow winding Sturbal. Yet he said little, less than he had said when I had traveled with him earlier.

  Behind us, Weldein and Berli talked in low voices.

  “… you’re playing with fire…”

  “…I know… but…”

  “Do you think she knows?”

  “Probably,” said Weldein. “How could she not?”

  “I don’t know, but it sometimes happens.”

  So we rode through the day, along the river and toward Lythga, and each kay we covered seemed to bring me closer to the white-red mass of chaos that seemed to lurk beneath and along the Easthorns.

  CII

  FOUR DAYS OF travel from Felsa found us nearing the high point on the pass through the Lower Easthorns. Each step eastward seemed to bring us closer to the chaos beneath, although I felt I was really the only one who sensed it. Still, I could feel the grrrrr… rrring in the deep rocks, sometimes so loudly I thought the ground would shake, but it didn’t. Once, when I felt it, I looked at Justen, but his face was blank.

  Dayala still walked more than half the time, and I marveled at her endurance.

  “Don’t you ever get tired?” I finally asked.

  “Not often,” said Justen.

  “The body is meant to work, and enjoy what it does-we are animals and need exercise.”

  They grinned at each other, and, again, they looked young, far younger than I knew they were, and I envied them. Why couldn’t Krystal and I understand each other like that?

  Gairloch put one foot in front of the other, and so did Rose-foot, and, in time, the road leveled out in a long flat valley filled with a mixture of high green grass, short cedars, and boulders barely concealed by the grass. The road was clay, not quite dry enough to be dusty, and with few tracks indeed on its surface.

  In places, the grass had been cropped short, but, as on my first trip, I could see no sign of sheep or goats, even when I could make out the ruined waystation where I had weathered the storm on my first trip into Hydlen.

  “There’s a spring behind the waystation.”

  “I can recall when that roof was fresh-thatched,” said Justen quietly. “It doesn’t seem that long ago.”

  “Thatch? It looks like sod.”

  “It is,” said Dayala. “How long ago was it, Justen?”

  “Wrong waystation,” he groused. “I’ve seen a few, you know. More than a few, in fact.”

  Dayala grinned at me, and I had to grin back.

  I dismounted and led Gairloch toward the spring. So did Weldein and his half-squad, and one of the younger troopers- Pentryl-led his mount up beside Gairloch.

  Gairloch and the other horses drank from the lower, wider pool. I took out my water bottle.

  “What are you going to do when we see the enemy, ser?”

  “That depends.” I hadn’t the faintest idea, really, and looked toward Justen.

  He shrugged.

  “Are you going to bury them in hot rock the way Berli said you did the last time?”

  “That was rather costly.”

  “But they’re the enemy, ser. They’d kill us as soon as look at us.”

  “Some would, and some wouldn’t.” I looked at the youngster’s face and realized he wasn’t all that much younger than I had been when I had left Recluce-older even, maybe. I didn’t feel just a little older than he was, though. I felt older, a lot older. Not any wiser, though, just older. I bent down and began to fill the bottle.

  “If you don’t kill them, then they’ll just keep trying.” The youngster was insistent.

  “You’re right. And if we do kill them, then all their relatives and everyone in Hamor will want to kill us even more.”

  “Always the problem with war,” offered Justen. “That’s why so many conquerors just didn’t bother to let anyone live.”

  “That was why the angels fled.” Dayala began to fill her water bottle as I was capping mine. “They did not wish to fight a war that would destroy both sides.”

  “Did it, Lady Druid?” asked Pentryl.

  “That is what the Legend says.”

  “One thing we also know,” added Justen as he took his turn filling his bottle. “If you fight, you eventually lose. If you don’t, you lose immediately.”

  Pentryl looked from Justen to Dayala to me. “But… ?”

  “What the mage means, I think,” I attempted to explain, “is that war is a necessary evil, to be avoided whenever possible, and to be won as quickly and effectively as possible when it cannot be avoided.”

  “Pentryl! Move that beast. There’s others of us need to water mounts.”

  “Stuff it, Huber,” retorted Pentryl, but he led his mount from the spring.

  Feeling guilty, I also led Gairloch away from the water and out under a low pine that offered some shade. Justen followed.

  “That wasn’t a bad answer, Lerris. I’m not sure I agree, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he doesn’t want you to stop asking questions,” answered Dayala. “There are no lasting answers.”

  “You keep reminding me of that,” said Justen, taking her arm for a moment.

  She tilted her head and kissed him, gently, and yet, I could feel the emotion behind that single kiss, and hoped that even in ten years Krystal and I would feel that strongly.

  Somewhere, deep in the iron beneath the Easthorns, chaos rumbled, and I swallowed.

  After looking away for a time, I finally asked, after making sure the rest of the Finest were still at the spring or out of ear- shot, “What are we going to do about the Hamorians?”

  “Do you want to know?”

  “Probably not, but I should.”

  “We’ll have to unbalance the Balance, raise order and chaos, and split them, and then let them reunite where the Hamorians are.” Justen snorted. “That assumes we can touch the Balance, that there’s enough chaos energy beneath us, that the Hamorians aren’t spread all over the countryside, and that they’re stupid enough to try an attack, or not retreat.”

  “There’s more than enough chaos beneath us, and it’s stronger.”

  Justen looked at me and shook his head, almost sadly. I wanted to ask why, but did not, and then Weldein rode up.

  “We’re wat
ered. Shall we go on?”

  Justen nodded. As I mounted Gairloch again, I looked over at the waystation where I had first found the cedar length I hadn’t really carved because I was still trying to determine the face beneath the grain. Why had I thought about the carving? Was the face Justen’s? Or Krystal’s? Or was it guilt that I hadn’t finished it?

  I shook my head, not having an answer, and looked beyond the half-ruined sod roof to the patches of snow higher in the low mountains. As Gairloch carried me upward, I glanced back once more at the old waystation, where the ancient door had rotted off the heavy old iron hinges. In the late summer, the part of the sod-grass roof that had not collapsed into the hut was not only green, but still dotted with sprigs of small white and blue flowers.

  The sun had almost touched the rocky peaks behind us when Dayala nodded, and Justen held up his hand. I reined up, and so did Weldein, his arm upraised.

  Below us, the road swung in a wide circle, and on the far side of the turn was the gorge where the road joined the Fakla River. For at least several kays, if my memory were correct, the road would run on the south side of the stream that would become a full river many kays downhill.

  “… about time to stop. Don’t want to make camp in the dark again…”

  “… stop complaining, Nytri…”

  “… you could be getting bashed by cannon in Ruzor…”

  Weldein gestured again, and the troopers fell silent. I could see the young faces of Pentryl and Huber straining to see what Justen was doing.

  “Lerris, where will that deep chaos be easier to touch? Here or farther downstream? Does it make any difference?” Justen frowned just slightly.

  I turned with a start. “I don’t know. Let me try to check.”

  All the troopers-even Justen and Dayala-seemed to hold their breath as I sent my senses out and down. How long it took, I didn’t know, only that the sun was half behind the mountains when I blinked and answered. “It’s about the same, but it’s a little easier to touch a kay or so downhill.”