The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I thought you might need some clothes.”

  “Obviously, you were convinced that I would make it across the Stone Hills.”

  “Hope can often make it so.”

  Justen looked down at his ragged shirt, and then at Hers. “I trust you left some for youself as well.”

  “I do not need quite so much in the way of covering, but I am sufficiently provided.”

  “You are indeed well provided.” Justen attempted a leer.

  Dayala stifled a yawn.“If you would like to wash up, the well is out back, and so are the buckets. I will prepare some food.”

  “The bread and cheese are fine. You’re tired.”

  “I am tired.” Dayala smiled. “And bread and cheese and some fruit are what we are going to eat.”

  Justen grinned back and went to carry water.

  LXXIX

  Justen sat on the gray boulder, letting his bare feet dangle in the cool water.

  Whhnnn…

  Idly, he brushed away the tiger mosquito, then raised the faintest of order-shields to guide away the hungry female, and any other insects that might decide to nibble on him.

  “You’ve gotten much… better.” Dayala’s hand rested beside his on the stone. Her warm fingers glided over his wrist for an instant.

  “More delicate, you mean?” Justen grinned and turned his foot, kicking a small jet of water at her.

  “Delicate? I think not. Gentle, perhaps, but it will be years before your touch is…”

  “Refined?” Justen stretched. “Why did the mosquitoes out in the grasslands not bother me, and why do these still nibble?”

  “Because the grasslands are still.”

  “Oh. Here there is too much power of too many different kinds?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m hungry.” He yawned.

  “No… you’re not. Listen to your body. Does it really need food?” Dayala gave him a broad smile.

  Justen felt the blood rising into his face and looked over at the white edges of the stream, where the fast-flowing water broke around the rocks. Then he looked back at Dayala. Her eyes dropped,

  “You’re blushing.” He grinned. “You’re… blushing.” He twisted and slid off the rock onto the pine-needle carpet. He held out a hand.

  Dayala’s fingers closed around his as she flipped clear of the stone and jumped down beside him.

  “Not bad for an ancient druid.”

  “I’m a very young druid. Very young. Otherwise…” She disengaged her hand and smoothed her hair back.

  “Otherwise?”

  “I would not be here.”

  Justen frowned, realizing that while her words were true, more than a little had been left unsaid. “Only young druids travel after strangers in the Stone Hills?”

  “This is true.”

  “But… why you? You never have really answered that question.”

  Dayala looked down at the grassy patch on which she stood. “Let us walk back.”

  Justen followed her through the woods, which seemed nearly parklike. When they reached the gently curving road that would lead them into Rybatta and out again to the cottage that lay on the far side, he leaned closer to her. “You were going to tell me…”

  ‘ “This is a story that you must tell yourself in time, as you come to truly know Naclos and those of us who dwell here. But I will tell you another story.”

  Justen frowned, then took a deep breath and listened.

  “Once a young girl asked her mother what her life would be like. Would she have lovers, or just one special lover? Or would she serve the Angels, and listen to the giant trees, and to the voices under the ground, and to the winds that cross all Candar and whisper their secrets to those who can hear? How long would it be before she would know these things?

  “Her mother smiled but said nothing, and the girl asked again. What will my life be like? How will I know? But her mother said nothing. And the girl began to cry. She wept as only a child can weep, with great sobs. When she stopped weeping, her mother brought her an unripe Juraba nut. The green ones are so hard that they can be opened only with a sword or a sledge or a great, heavy mill. And her mother told her that her life was like the Juraba nut.” Dayala stopped speaking and nodded to a thin older man who carried a basket of green pearapples.

  The man nodded with a slight smile as he passed.

  “And?” asked Justen.

  “That is the story.”

  Justen pursed his lips and thought. “Your story seems to say that if you attempt to force an answer before it is ripe, you will destroy it, just like you would destroy that green nut.”

  Dayala nodded.

  “The question is… how does a stranger, or a near-child who has never seen a Juraba nut, know when the nut is ripe?”

  “The shell splits, and you can see the inner husk and the nut pod for yourself.”

  “Wonderful. Was that mother your mother?”

  “Of course. That is how I know the story.”

  “Have you seen the ripe nut?”

  “No more than you have, dear man.”

  Justen shivered at the warmth in the words “dear man” and the admission they contained. Ahead lay a narrow footbridge at the juncture of two paths. Beyond the bridge, the giant monoliths thinned and the cleared area that was Rybatta proper began.

  “Hello, young angels.” A small, silver-haired girl cradling a basket filled with waxed packages of cheese and a waxed honeycomb nodded politely, stepping aside to let them cross the narrow span.

  “Harmony be with you, Krysera.” Dayala smiled.

  Justen nodded, and Krysera returned the nod solemnly.

  After they were out of earshot, Justen asked,“ So now I’m a young angel? Just what does that mean?”

  “It’s a term of respect. She isn’t quite sure of what to call you. Because you live here with me and not in the strangers’ house, you’re not a stranger. You radiate order and power. So you must be a young angel.” Dayala shrugged as if the conclusion were obvious.

  “Strangers’ house?”

  “If we had a real stranger, he or she would stay with Yual or Hersa. She is the copper-worker. Diehl has a large strangers’ house, what you would call an inn. When we travel, we stay in guest houses.”

  “So why am I not a stranger?”

  Dayala touched his arm, the spot where only a faint scar remained. *You are not a stranger. Not now… not ever.*

  The force of the words, felt in his mind, staggered him, and he stumbled. Dayala’s hand steadied him for a moment, but her fingers almost seared his skin. He glanced sidelong at her and saw the dampness on her cheeks, and his eyes burned.

  What was happening? To him? To her?

  They had walked another hundred cubits when Dayala finally spoke again. “Let us go to the river pier.”

  “Any reason?”

  “I need to speak with… Frysa about how many boxes she will need.”

  They passed the small market stall with the neatly stacked pearapples, the closed barrels of grains. Down the open but narrow steps in the cooler cellar were the cheeses and the riper fruits. Dayala waved to Serga, the shopkeeper, and the rotund man waved back.

  “Boxes? Your boxes? What does she need them for?”

  “To trade. We do trade for some things, like copper, and your woolens from Recluce, although we do not need many warm garments, and mostly the wool is used for other things.”

  “So you provide boxes for trade as a way of repaying the great forest and the others in Naclos?”

  “Exactly.” Dayala laughed softly. “You see! You do understand.”

  “Sometimes.”

  Only a single boat was tied at the stone pier, and it was empty.

  Dayala led Justen past the pier and to a small, round building formed by a single tree-not an oak, but a species with which Justen was unfamiliar. Inside, on a stool sat a woman, also silver-haired and green-eyed, but deeply tanned. As she rose, she reminded Justen of Dayala,
although he could not say why.

  “Justen, this is Frysa.”

  Justen bowed. “I am honored.” And he felt that he was, just as he felt that Dayala had not fully explained who Frysa was.

  “You have a handsome soul.”

  Justen flushed, and he glanced at Dayala. She also had colored.

  “He is modest, and that is to the good, for both of you.”

  Dayala nodded before speaking. “I forgot to ask how many boxes you will need.”

  “A half-score would be enough for now. You will have more time… later.”

  Justen looked out absently at the river, smooth and nearly a hundred cubits wide between the tree-lined banks, and at the single boat. Smooth as the water was, paddling upstream would be difficult.

  “How do you find Naclos?” asked Frysa.

  “Seemingly peaceful, and very unsettling.”

  “He’s honest, too.”

  Justen tried not to blush again, and failed.

  “Already, except for your hair, you look more like us, inside at least, than those of Recluce.”

  Justen shrugged, unsure of how to react. “I cannot see that deeply into myself. So I must accept your observation.”

  Frysa reached out, and her fingers brushed his bare wrist. “Remember to trust yourself.” She looked at Dayala. “You must be going. Thank you. You have been very fortunate. Even so, it will be difficult for both of you.” She turned to Justen. “She is not so strong as you, though it seems otherwise now.”

  Without looking, Justen could feel Dayala blushing.

  The two women embraced, and as they parted, Justen bowed again. “It was good to meet you, and I wish you well.”

  “He is also generous.”

  “Yes.” *Generous of soul, and knows not why…*

  Justen swallowed at Dayala’s unspoken words, wondering if the stray thoughts mat passed between them would only grow stronger, wondering… He shivered.

  In silence, they walked back past the single boat.

  “How do the boats get upstream? I don’t see how they could paddle all that distance.”

  “Sometimes we can get the river people-the otters-to pull them, but only if the boats carry no people. The otters will pull light cargoes.”

  “So anyone who goes downriver by boat must walk back, or paddle themselves?”

  “Yes. But it’s not that bad if you can sense the currents.”

  Again, silence dropped between them as they passed the guest house on the square and the small dry-goods store that held linens and the fine, spider-silk cloth.

  “Frysa’s a relative?” Justen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Your older sister?”

  Dayala shook her head with an amused smile.

  Justen shook his. “Your mother? Doesn’t anyone get old here?”

  “Of course. Just more slowly. Aging is a form of chaos, and it can be balanced.”

  “Your mother, of course. How stupid of me.” He shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted her to see you as you are. You are honest and open.” *And that is rare…*

  Justen’s eyes threatened to water at the damning honesty of her unspoken words. What was happening to him?

  “The great forest insists that you recognize yourself, and that is very difficult.”

  “Difficult…” He laughed harshly.

  They had passed the long rows of bean plants at the edge of Rybatta proper before Justen spoke again. “How do you make your boxes? By growing them on those bushes? I know. It’s more complicated than that, but is that the idea?”

  Dayala nodded.

  “It’s work?” She nodded again.

  He shook his head as they walked up the curving path to her house. “AH this takes some getting used to.”

  “I understand.” Dayala stopped in the middle of the main room, dropping her hands.

  For a long time, Justen looked at her, at the silver hair, the green eyes, and the dark, open orderliness within that screamed out a terrible honesty. Then he eased his arms around her, and her arms went around his waist. Their lips brushed. *Want you… coming to love you…* Justen blushed at the boldness of his thoughts.

  For a moment, Dayala’s lips pressed his, and she squeezed him to her before easing back and holding him almost at arms’ length. She was breathing heavily. “The nut… isn’t quite… ripe.” Then she wrenched out of his arms and ran into her room. *So hard… unfair. Angels never said… love you. Not right yet. Don’t know… how long…*

  Justen staggered under the emotional barrage of words, as warm as summer and as pointed as arrows. He finally sank onto a stool.

  As quickly as he learned one thing, he learned more that he didn’t know.

  LXXX

  The center of Berlitos stood on the top of a low hill that swelled out of the forest, a forest filled with trees still gray in the winter cool. The Temple to the Angels-polished amber wood-rested beside a three-story structure. Even in the center of the hilltop city, a few gray-green trees blurred the outline of the low buildings.

  Beltar stood on the hastily erected log platform and cleared his throat. A light but steady wind blew from behind him out of the northeast and toward the city.

  Standing at Beltar’s shoulder, Eldiren glanced nervously toward the hill city and back at the relative handful of troops that flanked the platform, less than score fifteen hi all. And Zerchas wanted them to take most of western Sarronnyn?

  “Ready, Eldiren?” asked Beltar.

  “For what? You’re doing the work.”

  “You can help,” snapped Beltar.

  The slight White Wizard shrugged:

  Shortly, a firebolt slashed into a house more than a kay away, and the thatched roof began to burn. A second bolt arced into a closer structure in the valley below the hill, and a third flared farther and dropped onto the polished wood of the Temple. White smoke, followed by a black smudge, rose.

  A heavy bell tolled once, then again, and again, the leaden echoes ringing through the gray morning.

  Beltar grinned and wiped his forehead.“We seem to have gotten them a little stirred up.”

  Eldiren frowned and concentrated. A small, whitish firebolt spilled against the bottom of the hillside. No smoke followed the impact.

  A second large blast of flame plowed into the Temple, and another into the tall structure beside it. Tongues of flame licked at the wood.

  Flames began to spread from the thatched house, now engulfed in flame at the base of the hill.

  “Ser! There are troops headed this way!”

  Beltar looked at Eldiren. “You take care of them. You don’t have any range, anyway.” Then he looked at Yurka, now the lancer commander. “Form up in front of the platform.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Another firebolt arced across the sky, landing on the right side of the hill, where more smoke began to twist into the sky.

  Eldiren glanced at Yurka. “Get the archers ready-those we have. Before long, someone’s going to be marching up that road, such as it is.”

  “Yes, ser.” Yurka eased his mount back toward the north side of the hill. “Kulsen! Get your squads up here.”

  Eldiren concentrated, and another fireball arced toward the thatched houses below the center of the city. Shortly, another roof burst into flame. The White Wizard smiled grimly.

  Beside him, Beltar lifted an enormous sphere of fire into the sky, then let it fall like a meteor on the structure beside the Temple, where flames splashed in all directions.

  “See that?” Beltar grinned. “So I’m not as great as any Tyrant? Let them say that now!”

  Another firebolt followed.

  From the narrow road down toward the valley between the Whites and the outskirts of Berlitos, a thin, wavering trumpet sounded.

  A wedge of soldiers in iron-plated leather corselets and wearing blue sashes marched along the muddy road toward the White forces. Before them came a single youth with a faded blue banner.


  “Archers!” called Yurka.

  “First rank, release!” Kulsen’s voice was harsh, and a thin rain of arrows dropped into the Sarronnese soldiers. A handful staggered and two fell, but the Sarronnese pressed uphill.

  Another flight of shafts dropped into the Sarronnese, followed by two fireballs in succession. A blue-sashed soldier flared into a pyre of flame and greasy black smoke.

  “Second rank!”

  Another scattering of arrows sleeted to the southwest.

  “Lancers!” snapped Eldiren. “Third and Fifth!” He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. Another fireball blasted into the advancing infantry.

  The two-score lancers charged the Sarronnese behind a third flight of arrows and two more firebolts.

  Two larger fireballs dropped into the center of Berlitos. By now, flames-fanned by the growing wind from the northeast-were everywhere in the center of the city.

  Less than a score of Sarronnese infantry remained-none with halberds or pikes-as the White lancers swept through the Sarronnese and re-formed for a return sweep.

  “Poor bastards,” muttered Yurka. “Just out here without any idea of why or how.”

  “Like us,” said Eldiren curtly, almost under his breath. He winced, but another fireball flared into the Sarronnese. Three broke and ran, only to be cut down immediately by the returning lancers. Then only two of the Sarronnese foot troops remained standing. One lancer clutched his arm; the others seemed unscathed.

  The last two Sarronnese turned and ran.

  “Let them go,” said Yurka wearily. “There will be more.” His mustaches flared in the wind that had become almost a gale.

  “I don’t think so,” said Beltar. “Look.”

  Eldiren and Yurka turned to the west, where a wall of flame swept up the hillside to meet the flames that crowned what had been Berlitos. Eldiren dropped his arms.

  Crack! Eldiren turned. A lightning bolt forked out of a dark sky, and a patter of rain Slapped against the timbers of the platform.