The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Beneath the monolithic trees that rose more than a hundred cubits into the air grew shorter trees and bushes, each almost as if placed, never touching any other. Some were squatty, dark-trunked lorken, others oaks that seemed never destined to reach the heights of those Justen had known in the highlands beyond Wandernaught as a child, heights he had thought soaring until seeing the great forest of Naclos. The forest canopy turned the road and all beneath it into a green-lighted temple, almost demanding worship.

  Without the sun bearing down on him, Justen had tucked the woven cap into his belt. His head felt less sweaty without the cap, but die covering had clearly helped him across the Stone Hills and the grasslands.

  As they walked deeper into the great forest, Justen found himself speaking in whispers. “How much farther to Merthe?”

  “A while. It is not even mid-morning.”

  He shifted the heavy packs on his shoulder, glad he was neither a pack animal nor a soldier, not usually, and looked down the road, momentarily empty except for them.

  The dark-splotched form of a forest cat almost as tall as Justen’s waist slipped across the road a hundred cubits ahead of them, vanishing silently into the undergrowth. Justen felt for the knife at his belt, not that a knife would have done much good against such a monster. “Are you sure we’re safe?”

  “As long as you don’t start order-probing again.”

  “But what would stop-”

  “You are with me.”

  Justen swallowed, momentarily feeling like a stupid child, wanting to say childishly, “Yes, Mother.” Instead, he tried to receive some form of order-impressions-rather than trying to send or investigate. He had already learned the dangers there, as the soreness on his face and arms reminded him.

  The road followed, as it gradually descended, a stream that grew slowly wider and slowly noisier. On each side grew bushes and occasional flowers. He paused to study a purple trumpet bearing a stamen that seemed to flow like golden notes from the bell of the floral instrument. The purple flower had its own space, like every plant, no matter how narrow, no matter how frail.

  As he turned toward Dayala, who had stopped during his examination, Justen marveled at the unseen gardener who maintained the trees, even the flowers that peered from scattered beds, and the road-or roads. “Who takes care of all this?”

  “The great forest takes care of itself. As it should be.”

  As it should be? Justen did not voice the question as he strained to keep up with Dayala. The road followed the river, and they passed a few more souls, all adults and all walking with that determined stride that he had come to associate with Dayala.

  “Everyone walks.” He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to relieve some of the growing soreness from the heavy pack.

  “Except when we take the river. How else would it be?” How else could it be if the Naclans did not use animals for riding or pulling carts?

  It was near midday when the road turned and before them, a stone bridge crossed the stream. When they stepped onto the span, Justen saw on the other side of the stream a small dwelling, almost entirely shaded by trees, and beyond the smooth, dark walls, sunlight fell on the lower trees and the grass-grass he had not seen since they had entered the great forest.

  In the kay-wide circular space that appeared to be Merthe, there were none of the monolithic forest giants, but only a scattering of shorter trees, most set right against the low houses. More than two-score dwellings or other low buildings sat on curving, stone-paved lanes.

  A silver-haired man carrying a large covered basket nodded at Justen and Dayala as they took their last steps off the bridge and walked onto the sun-splashed road leading into the town.

  “Pleasant-looking place.”

  A faint breeze flowed from the great forest into Merthe, ruffling Justen’s hair from behind. He pushed the locks back off his forehead, aware that they were all too long, but glad that he no longer had to wear the woven cap. -

  “Why should it not be?”

  With no answer for that, Justen glanced toward the second dwelling they passed, where two children played a hopping game. The older girl nodded solemnly as they went by, while the younger waved cheerfully.

  Behind the house was a garden with neat rows and staked plants that grew as tall as Justen’s shoulders. The leaves in the garden were still green.

  “Does it never frost here?”

  “Seldom.”

  “So the plants grow year around?”

  “Most of them do.”

  Justen was pondering this as he saw a pair of cows chewing on the lush grass behind another dwelling, the animals apparently unstaked and unfenced. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to release the stiffness and soreness from carrying a pack far heavier than he had lugged before.

  Dayala walked toward a low building, with three oaks square against each side wall. “This is where we will leave the traveling equipment.”

  An archway, not a door proper, offered entrance to the shop. As they stepped inside, Justen glanced at the curtains that had been tied back, but no door lay behind them. He tried not to frown, but why was there no door? Were there no thieves? Even though Recluce had few thieves, if any, the dwellings and shops had doors.

  “Dayala! You found him! I’m so glad for you.”

  Justen raised his eyebrows as a squarish young woman bounded out from behind a small loom on a table in the rear of the building.

  “Justen,” Dayala gestured toward the woman, “this is Lyntha.”

  “I am honored.” Justen bowed slightly.

  “No. I am honored. So few ever make it to Merthe, or to the northern reaches of the great forest.” Lyntha grinned.

  Dayala slipped out of her pack with an ease Justen admired, an example he followed far less gracefully, if with more relief.

  “Here is the tent… and it is ordered… and the water jugs…”

  The engineer rubbed his shoulders as he watched Dayala unload items from the two packs. Some went on the nearly empty flat wooden table, while others, such as the big water containers, Lyntha carried into a back room.

  “We’ll put the other things away. You were weaving…”

  “My sister will be having a son, and she will need a comfort quilt for him.”

  “She has waited a long time.”

  “Not so long as you!” Lyntha laughed.

  Dayala flushed, so briefly that Justen almost missed the flash of color. “Some of us are just luckier than others.”

  Even as Lyntha returned to the loom, Dayala began to place items on the racks around the room. Justen fingered the wood on a staff, tightly grained and smooth lorken, almost glossy to the touch.

  “What about the travel bread?” he wondered aloud,

  “That will be used for the cows and chickens.” Dayala carried some of the sealed waxed containers back into the rear section of the building, and Justen followed with the remainder.

  When the packs were empty and placed on racks, Dayala turned to him. “It would be fitting if you would consider leaving your water bottle…” She inclined her head toward the wooden rack that contained only the bottle she had placed there and one other.

  Justen unfastened the bottle and leather strapholders from his belt. “What about the water? There’s still some inside.”

  “Lyntha?” Dayala gestured. “Justen forgot to empty this bottle. Could you take care of it?”

  “Just leave it on the end of the rack. He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last. Why, last eight-day, old Fyhthrem not only left a pack here full, but she had olffmoss in it. What a mess that was. She apologized and later brought by some dried pearapple flakes in wax for the travel food. But it happens. A little water, that’s nothing.”

  Justen set the bottle and straps on the end of the rack, glancing back at Dayala. She nodded and walked toward the table where the stocky, silver-haired woman was operating a small hand loom.

  “We must go.”

  “You’ll be back before long.”


  “Of course. At the proper time.”

  Justen bowed to Lyntha. The woman flushed briefly but returned the bow with a nod. Then he followed Dayala back into the warmth of the sun, loosening his tunic as they crossed what passed for a central square on their way toward another low building, also without any signs or indications of its function.

  Inside another doorless room, they stood amid a half-dozen chairs and tables, all empty, when a silver-haired youth, barely to Justen’s shoulder, stepped into the room.

  “Dayala!” He grinned at the silver-haired woman. “Mother said you’d-” He turned and bowed to Justen without finishing the sentence.

  Justen returned the bow.

  “You’re as eager as ever, Yunkin.” Dayala shook her head.

  “Someday I’ll be just like you.”

  “I hope not!” Dayala laughed and looked around the room.

  “You should sit at the corner table there. It’s the coolest, and I’ll get you something to drink.”

  They sat down, with Yunkin hovering at their elbows as they pulled up their chairs. “What would you like to drink?” The silver-haired boy looked from Justen to Dayala even before he finished the question. “Is he the order-mage from beyond the Stone Hills, young ancient?”

  “Yes. This is Justen. He was born in Recluce.” Dayala flushed.

  “Welcome to Merthe, Ser.”

  “What do you have to drink?”

  “Redberry, greenberry, light ale, and dark beer.”

  “The dark beer, please.”

  “And you, lady?” Yunkin attempted a more formal tone. “The light ale.”

  “Mother… I mean… we have…” the boy grinned, then forced himself back into a more composed demeanor “… cheese and bregan.”

  “That would be fine,” Justen said. Anything but travel bread. Anything.

  Dayala nodded, and after the boy had scurried through the archway toward the kitchen, she raised her eyebrows.“Anything else?”

  Justen looked at the smooth, wooden surface of the table, unable to detect the joins in the wood. Finally, he asked, “What did he mean when he called you a young ancient?”

  “It is a term of respect. He was being polite, I… am not close to being an ancient.”

  The youth scurried back, the dark brown of the beer and the gold of the ale clear through the thin crystal of the tall glasses he carried.

  Justen waited for Dayala to drink, then took a slow sip of the beer. Both the tang and the smooth power of the brew made him glad his first sip had been small. His body was now unused to any sort of spirits. “This is good.”

  “You are one of the few from Recluce who drinks beer, are you not?”

  “I suspect I’m the only engineer who does.”

  “That is good.”

  “The others don’t think so, especially my brother.” Jus-ten swallowed, wondering how Gunnar was, wondering if the others had reached Recluce safely. But they must have made the journey safely. He would have fell something surely had Gunnar been injured. Or would he?

  “They look only at the surface of the Balance.” She sipped from her glass more slowly than Justen.

  Before he could respond, Yunkin had arrived with two wide platters, one of which he slid in front of Dayala and the other before Justen.

  Justen took a deep breath, inhaling the fruity-nutty aroma of the pastry and the tang of the cool cheese. He had forgotten that cheese could be anything but warm, somewhat off-tasting, and mushy.

  “You look hungry.”

  “I am hungry.” Before he had realized it, he had finished both the cheese and the pastry, as well as most of the beer, without saying a word to Dayala.

  The boy appeared with a pitcher, half-filling the crystal goblet before Justen. As Yunkin walked back to the kitchen, Justen frowned.

  “You seem disturbed,” Dayala observed.

  “How did he know I only wanted that much?”

  “He did not. He just felt the Balance. Do you want more?”

  “No.” Justen sipped the cool and smooth dark beer. “No.” But he still frowned. Again, he felt as though he had missed something he should have understood.

  He held his empty glass silently until Dayala finished. She had said nothing further, and he had not felt like asking any more questions that would make him feel stupid or childish.

  “We should go. Rybatta is still a distance from here.”

  Justen frowned, realizing they had not seen Yunkin’s mother, and that something else had seemed odd.“Don’t we owe them something?”

  “Of course. I’ll send Duvalla some greenberry preserves or some juice. You’re a smith, aren’t you? Yual… needs to meet you, and I know he would let you use his forge. Not many can handle that, so anything decorative of iron would be welcome and appreciated.” Dayala stretched her legs and shifted her weight on the wooden chair.

  “But..: how can you make things work like that?”

  “Justen, do you remember how the great forest felt? How can it not work?”

  “I’m a child in some ways, remember? Please stop being quite so condescending and cryptic. Tell me as though I were the stupidest and slowest child.” That was certainly how he felt.

  “It’s the Balance. If you do not repay voluntarily, then others will respond to that imbalance,”

  “You mean… if I didn’t repay them in some way, a neighbor or someone would remind me?”

  “Only if you were a near-child.”

  “Near-child?”

  “One who has not passed his trial.”

  Justen took a deep breath. “All right, what is the trial? Plain and simple.”

  Dayala’s green eyes fixed on him. “That is when you become an adult, a druid. That is when you walk the great forest with your mind, alone, without help.”

  Justen shivered. “Like I tried to do the other night?”

  Dayala nodded.

  “And all druids do…”

  “People can leave Naclos, and some do. Those who stay must pass the trial.”

  Justen blotted his suddenly damp forehead. “So, assuming I passed my trial and I didn’t repay a service, what would happen?”

  She shrugged. “It does not happen often. Most of us, even forgetful ones, are reminded.”

  “But if I didn’t…”

  “I could not say. A forest cat, perhaps a white-mouthed snake… the great forest has its ways.”

  Justen shivered as though once again he stood on the edge of an enormous chasm. “You don’t get much choice.”

  “Why should we? Is it orderly that people should be allowed to cheat others or to eat more than they contribute?”

  “But a productive person-”

  “No. The great forest understands, and so do we. A sick man repays when he can. So does a nursing mother.” You know in your heart what is right, do you not?“

  “Not all people do.”

  “All those who live in Naclos do.”

  The cool certainty of Dayala’s words chilled Justen even more. He lifted the beautiful beer glass, studied the curves, and set it down.

  A system of unforgiving, absolute justice? What had he gotten himself into?

  “You are disturbed.” Her fingers reached out and touched his arm. “That is good, a sign of your good heart. The forest protects those of good heart.”

  “I wouldn’t have known.”

  “I do not doubt you would follow the Balance even so.”

  Justen was not so certain of that, but he fingered the beer glass without speaking.

  LXXVIII

  “This is my dwelling.” Dayala gestured to the wooden cottage in the clearing ahead. She shifted the pack on her back, which contained some bread and cheese from the market in Rybatta, the modesty of which she had apologized for three times since leaving the center of the town.

  In the dimness of the twilight, Justen peered at the low structure, seemingly set between four massive oaks. The oaks were lower than the soaring monoliths that reared into th
e sky. Then he swallowed, realizing that they actually formed the living corner posts of the cottage.

  How many houses had he looked at in Naclos without being consciously aware that they were part of the trees? What else had he looked at and not seen? He glanced sidelong at the silver-haired druid.

  “It’s…orderly.” Behind a narrow lawn to the rear of the house rose a number of low trees, almost resembling hundreds of bushes, that extended several hundred cubits back toward the great forest itself. “What are all the trees? Or are they bushes?”

  “They’re what I do.”

  Justen forced a laugh, pulled at his beard, uncertain as to how to proceed, before asking, “And what is it that do you, mysterious druid?”

  “I work in wood.”

  “You’re a carpenter?”

  Dayala shook her head. “No… I work with the Balance. I could not handle cutting tools.” Her hand held back one of the entry curtains.

  Fingering his beard again and feeling the itchy skin beneath, Justen wished she did. Where would he find a razor?

  “Yual makes such things. Perhaps he could help.”

  After inclining his head in embarrassed acknowledgment, Justen stepped through the entry and into a large main room. The walls were of smooth-paneled wood without visible seams, and the hardwood floor matched the walls and ceiling. Two long wooden benches formed a right angle in the far corner of the room. One archway showed a kitchen containing a compact stove of clay and iron. Justen looked at the stove, set in an alcove, and nodded, noting that the tree had grown, or been grown, to leave a space for the stove and the brick chimney behind it.

  A bathing room contained a tiled and freestanding tub, but a built-in jakes. Justen glanced at Dayala, then nodded. Certainly, trees could use such… waste products.

  He peered into the guest room, containing little more than a stool, a closed chest, and a wide bed on which lay a pillow and a folded blanket of the same warm and silky material that had covered him most nights on the journey to Rybatta-except that the blanket on the bed was black, as was the pillowcase. A woven rug, patterned in triangles, covered half of the smooth wooden floor. On the wooden chair was laid a set of brown trousers and a shirt, both looking to be his size. The garments made it clear where he was sleeping.