Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (22 page)

NYLAN STEPPED OUT into the morning-shadowed courtyard, carrying Weryl. Ayrlyn followed, closing the heavy-timbered door with a dull thunk that echoed in the open space between the walls.

   Across the courtyard, outside the stables, were the three regents, as well as a muscular sandy-bearded armsman.

   Fornal was inspecting one of the big blades, but handed it back to the armsman as he caught sight of the angels. He stepped toward the two.

   “Good morning,” offered Nylan pleasantly.

   “A good morning to you, ser angel. I was talking to my fellow regents. Some here in Lornth have said that the angels hold their domain by wizardry, and that they could not stand up to cold iron,” declared the black-bearded man. “I would not dignify such a statement, yet in our positions as regents, we must act on what can be proven. It is regrettable.” Fornal shrugged. “And it presents a ... difficulty.”

   “I'm not certain I see the difficulty, ser Fornal,” said Ayrlyn quietly. “I do recall that the angels have been quite successful with cold iron.”

   “So it is said,” answered the black-bearded regent. “But all we have here in Lornth are words. Words are fine and necessary to us all, but our holders often find words less convincing than example.” Fornal smiled politely, then added, “And the color of the hair of those claimed to be angels is unusual, but hair color does not a warrior make.”

   “That is true,” Nylan said. “We never asserted that hair color made an angel.”

   “I myself believe you are an angel. But how am I to tell our holders and people that you are an angel?” Fornal shrugged. “As I said words are fair, but the holders hold to their belief in honor and cold iron.”

   “Words can be more deadly than iron if used properly.” Nylan frowned, shifting Weryl from one shoulder to the other, and steering one of Weryl's fists away from his chin. “I take it that you would feel more easy about matters if some proof-beyond mere words-existed?”

   “That would make our course easier, and your assistance would set easier with those who have lost much.” The younger male regent shrugged.

   “What do you wish, Regent?” asked Nylan, deciding to cut through the endless innuendoes.

   Fornal stroked his beard, almost indifferently. “You might call it a demonstration, some indication of your skill with a blade. Your blade against mine. Sparring only, of course.” He smiled. “To show some of our armsmen your skills.”

   Ayrlyn's eyes narrowed, and she looked to the impassive faces of Zeldyan and Gethen.

   “Just sparring?” asked Nylan.

   “With real blades?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “Of course,” said Fornal. “How else?”

   The redhead glanced at Nylan.

   The smith shrugged. “How else? That's one way of looking at it... if you choose.”

   “That is a curious statement, angel. How else would one spar?” Fornal's lips curled slightly.

   “We spar with wooden wands. It allows greater flexibility in teaching. We can also can recover from mistakes more quickly.” Nylan smiled. “When in Lornth, however, we shall do as the Lornians do.”

   “That might be for the best,” replied Fornal. “Huruc, here, will act as referee.”

   The sandy-bearded armsman inclined his head. “As you wish, ser Fornal. I would suggest that head blows be avoided.”

   “No head blows,” said Fornal.

   Nylan nodded and handed Weryl to Ayrlyn.

   “Think of him as Gerlich,” Ayrlyn offered in a low voice, so low that Nylan had to strain to hear the words. “Ready to bend the rules to maim you at any opportunity.”

   “I got that idea,” Nylan returned, shrugging his shoulders and stretching, scuffing his boots against the dusty pink paving stones of the courtyard, trying to gauge the footing. He glanced around the space, nearly three dozen cubits in width between the walls of the keep and the stable, and all in morning shadow. He wouldn't have to worry about the sun, at least.

   Finally, he unsheathed the dark gray iron blade he had forged, stepped forward and inclined his head to the black-bearded regent.

   Fornal lifted the big blade and held it before him. “Any time, angel.”

   “You may begin,” said Huruc.

   Nylan lifted his own blade, but did not move toward the taller man, just waited.

   So did Fornal.

   “A cautious angel,” said the black-bearded regent, after a moment. “So cautious. So strange for someone with a reputation so fierce.”

   Nylan waited.

   Fornal took another balanced step forward, leading with the big blade.

   Nylan circled right, wishing the smoothed leather of his boot soles offered better traction on the lightly sanded stone surface.

   Fornal stamped a foot, dipped the big blade, and then attacked. The heavy blade whistled toward Nylan-like a gray streak designed to pulp the smaller angel.

   As he had so many times with Ryba, Nylan slid the blade aside, but made no move to strike, stepping back, rather than moving forward, but keeping his full senses on the other.

   “Ha! You missed that chance,” said Fornal, recovering the big blade and edging forward again, with a half-thrust toward the angel.

   Had Gethen frowned? Nylan forced his concentration onto Fornal, continuing to let the order field flow around him, focusing on sensing and melding with it, and letting his blade be guided.

   “. . . holds back . . . why . . .” murmured Zeldyan.

   Ayrlyn held Weryl, brown eyes cold as they rested on Fornal.

   Fornal brought the huge crowbarlike blade around in a tight arc, another whistling arc that could have bisected the smith-except that the smaller black blade blurred like lightning, as did Nylan, and his shortsword swept over Fornal's guard and slammed the crowbar into the ground.

   Nylan's boot pinned the big blade against the stone, and the shortsword was at Fornal's neck.

   “I think we've sparred enough, ser Fornal,” Nylan said mildly.

   “That was an accident.”

   Nylan held in a sigh and stepped back, letting Fornal lift the blade, knowing what would happen.

   The black-bearded man swept the blade up and toward Nylan, trying to catch the engineer by surprise. For mere sparring, Nylan reflected absently, Fornal was putting in a lot of effort designed to kill Nylan.

   Even as the thought crossed his mind, the engineer was already accelerating into full step-up. He slipped around the arc of the hand - and - a - half blade, caught the crowbarlike weapon on the trailing edge, forcing Fornal to stumble forward or lose his weapon. Then Nylan turned the hand - and - a - half blade into the ground again, pinning it immediately with his boot. “Wizardry!” Fornal looked toward Huruc, who stood with his back before the stable door. “Did you see that?”

   “Ser Fornal,” said Huruc ponderously. “The angel struck only your blade, nor did he throw dirt or even spit.”

   “Fornal,” added Gethen firmly. “Had this been a battle, or a back alley brawl, you would have been dead three times. The angel smith is better than you are; he is quicker; and he is being exceedingly generous. Were I you, I would not test his patience any longer.”

   “Nor I, ser Fornal,” said Huruc slowly, as if the words were forced from his lips. “I would not willingly cross blades with him.” A smile crossed his face momentarily. “Unless they were wooden.”

   Fornal's eyes traveled from Huruc to Zeldyan and then to Gethen. Zeldyan's eyes were cold and green as they met Fornal's, and the oldest regent shook his head.

   Fornal took a deep breath and sheathed the big blade. “It appears, ser angel, that your blade skills are as reputed. We are indeed fortunate to have such allies.” He beamed a broad smile that Nylan distrusted.

   “You say that the leader of the angels is better?” asked Zeldyan, looking at Ayrlyn.

   “Yes. Nylan can usually keep from getting hit too often when they practice, but she is better.” Ayrlyn offered a faint smile.

   “How many are as good as the smith?”

   “Two,” said the redhead, “but nearly a dozen are almost as good. Ryba is a very good instructor. So are Istril and Saryn.”

   “I am beginning to see why it might not be the wisest idea to cross blades with an angel,” observed Gethen.

   “Wooden wands . . .” mused Zeldyan.

   “They are painful enough that those who fail realize their failures,” Nylan said dryly, “but they also allow the better blade-handler to use full skill without as much restraint.”

   “Hummmmpphhh . . .” mumbled Fornal, barely loud enough for Nylan to hear.

   Nylan turned. “Ser Fornal, perhaps blunted blades are better for those of Lornth, who have long experience in handling such massive weapons, but the angels have had success in training those less experienced with the wooden wands. Each force must find its own way.” The engineer eased the short sword into the belt scabbard, almost awkwardly. He still preferred the shoulder harness.

   “Well said, ser Nylan,” offered Gethen quickly. “Traditions and skills rest on long experience, and what works on the Roof of the World may take longer to effect in Lornth.”

   “Fornal,” said Zeldyan clearly. “We need to talk about your trip. Would you join me in the tower?”

   “I thought-”

   “The tower would be better,” Zeldyan insisted. “Do accompany me, brother dear.”

   “If you would, Fornal,” added Gethen, “I will join you both momentarily, after I talk to Guisanek about the roan.”

   Zeldyan took Fornal's arm, and the two started back toward the keep proper. Huruc vanished into the stable.

   “Ser Nylan . . . you looked disturbed,” said Gethen as the older man approached the smith. “You are scarcely the painting of an elated contestant. Might I ask why?”

   “I don't care for fighting,” answered Nylan. “It is often necessary, but I don't have to like it.”

   The older regent nodded. “I like that answer. Lord Sillek would have liked it as well. You are older than you appear, I suspect.”

   “I couldn't say how old I look.” Nylan shrugged, almost embarrassed.

   “Like a young man, perhaps in his early twenties.”

   “I'm a decade beyond that,” the smith admitted. “I thought as much. You have the look of a man who has seen too much death, the bored skill of self-preservation and the contempt for those who see glory in fighting.” Gethen offered a wry smile. “We older ones must stick together to keep the youngsters from killing themselves off before they learn that fighting is both necessary and evil. And, of course, we can never mention that in any public place, where some fool will trumpet that we are cowards and not honorable.” With another wry smile, Gethen nodded and turned toward the stable.

   “Interesting,” said Nylan.

   “Very,” added Ayrlyn. “He feels honest, all over. So does Zeldyan.”

   “Fornal doesn't.”

   “He probably wants to be lord, rather than just a regent.” Ayrlyn shook her head. “He's a fool. You were gracious there at the end. I'm not sure I would have been,” she said as they walked toward the rear of the courtyard.

   “Gaaa . . . dah,” added Weryl, thrusting a chubby fist toward Nylan.

   “I wasn't good enough to make the fight look better,” mused Nylan. “I didn't want to humiliate him, but when his pride is touched, he's as dense as a stone tower. Relyn was like that to start.”

 
  “All of them are, except the older man,” replied Ayrlyn.

   “Huruc seems to have some sense, too,” offered Nylan.

   “That's because he's no lord.”

   Nylan frowned. Now he had to worry about an offended regent, although it didn't seem as though he'd been given much of a choice. Then again, ever since they'd landed on this impossible world, it didn't seem like he'd had much in the way of choices, except trying to find the least damaging of a range of bad alternatives.

THERE ISN'T ANYTHING here.“ Nylan closed the book and set it on the table, his eyes straying to the window and the white and puffy clouds that dotted the green-blue summer sky. ”Nothing but rumors and implications, and none of those are very clear- except that a group of noble women once fled, and there was a lot of power involved once in creating Cyador. And that somehow, there was a magic and evil forest.. . and may still be."

   “I've read a lot in a lot of languages, but I've never come across a forest that was treated so much like ... an entity.”

   “Entity?” asked the smith.

   “Wadah, da-da?” asked Weryl, tottering on both legs, while holding on to the side of the big bed's footboard.

   The engineer stood and pushed the straight-backed chair from the writing table, then retrieved Weryl's cup from the sideboard that served as their meal table when they had not eaten with the regents. “Here you are.”

   “You know. The North Forest of Sybra-the poets say it's desolate . .. cold . .. terrible . .. but the dangers are from the yellowcats or the wind that sucks away life. The rain forests of Svenn-there it's the same thing. People talk about the knife lizards or the walking snakes or the rhombats. Here ...”

   Weryl took the covered cup, sat down on the hard stone floor with a plop, and slurped water from the spout, ignoring the stream that dribbled around the edges and out of his mouth.

   “It's as though this Accursed Forest were alive?” asked Nylan after deciding to let Weryl slurp and dribble as he pleased for the moment. “Isn't that just low-tech superstition?”

   “I don't think so. Besides, why are we both getting repetitive dreams about a forest, a forest filled with both order and chaos?”

   Nylan wasn't sure he wanted to think about it. “So we have to go off and fight an enemy that we don't know that comes from a land where there's a magic forest that no one understands that's sending us dreams?”

   “We don't have much choice,” said Ayrlyn, shaking her head as she watched the silver-haired boy drink. “Do you think so?”

   “Probably not, not unless we want to turn into fugitives unwelcome anywhere.”

   “So we'll go with Fornal and see what happens at the mines. Maybe we can figure out more as we travel.”

   “The whole business is shaping up as a mess,” said Nylan. “Sillek lost most of the disciplined armsmen on the Roof of the World, and Fornal is one of those types that distrust all strangers. And I'm certainly not one of his favorite people- not now. Yet we're stuck with him. He isn't going to want us to go with him.”

   “He's only one of the three regents,” Ayrlyn pointed out. “So we ask one of the other regents.”

   “Which one?”

   “Gethen,” said Ayrlyn. “Zeldyan has already stuck her neck out for us, and Fornal was ready to kill her when she hustled him out of the courtyard.” Ayrlyn paused and frowned. “She was trying to keep him from making a complete public idiot of himself, and he didn't even see it.”

   “Some of us men don't.” The engineer, his eyes half on Weryl, stood by the open window, where the hot afternoon breeze-bearing an unfamiliar fragrance, a combination of lemon, mint, and reisera-ruffled his hair.

   “Should we approach Gethen right now?” Nylan carted Weryl into the bath chamber.

   “There's something a smith told me about forging while the coals are hot.” The healer grinned as she followed him.

   Cleaning Weryl didn't take that long, and in time they stepped out of their chamber into the stone-walled inner corridor of the keep.

   The inside hall was stuffy, and hotter than their chamber by far. Nylan was damp all over within a dozen steps toward the old part of the keep where he hoped to find the oldest regent. Gethen wasn't in the old tower, nor in the armory. They did find him in the stable, beside the stall of a roan, talking to a square-faced but spare man with thinning mahogany hair.

   Whufff. . . uuuufff. . . The big horse thumped against the side of the stall, edging away from the regent as he stepped into the stall, followed by Guisanek.

   Nylan and Ayrlyn retreated to the shadows near the front doors, waiting not exactly silently, since Weryl continued to murmur, but far enough away from the two men that Nylan hoped they wouldn't seem too intrusive.

   The odors of horses, straw, clay, and manure drifted up around them as they stood waiting.

   A sandy-haired figure appeared and bowed. “Good day, angels. Your mounts are doing well,” said Merthek. “I persuaded Edicat-he's the farrier-to reshoe the one mare, not the chestnut.” The stable boy grinned. “Told him he could charge the merchant types more by telling them he'd shoed an angel mount. He growled at me, but he did it.”

   “Thank you,” Nylan said.

   “I did it for her, too, ser angel,” Merthek pointed out. “She is a good mare, and deserves solid shoes.” He paused. “Surely not just concern for your mounts brings you to the depths of our stables?” The boy wrinkled his nose suggestively.

   “Your stable is far cleaner than most,” Nylan said.

   Merthek gave a short bow. “Master Guisanek insists upon it... but still-”

 
  “We were waiting for ser Gethen,” said Ayrlyn.

   “He be talking with Guisanek, about the roan.” Merthek shook his head. “The stallion limps, and they find nothing. Edicat knows it lies in the pastern, but he can do nothing. We have no animal healers here.” His eyes flicked toward the stall where Guisanek and Gethen still studied the stallion's front leg. Then his voice lowered. “We had three wizards, and not a one could help a mount. Oh, they could cast fire and murder . . . and when all's said what good be that?”

   “No good,” answered Nylan, “but sometimes necessary.”

   “There be nothing... ser Gethen.” Guisanek's voice drifted toward the angels and Merthek.

   The stable boy bowed again to the angels and slipped away.

   “He might make a good stable master some day,” said Ayrlyn.

   “He's too practical and caring,” Nylan answered.

   “Cynical man.”

   They both stepped forward as Gethen strode away from Guisanek. “Good day, Regent Gethen.”

   “Good day, angels.” In scarred working leathers that could have passed for those of a stablemaster, Gethen surveyed the three. Then his eyes narrowed, and he focused on the redhead. “They say you are a healer. Can you tell me what ails the roan?”

   “I can look,” Ayrlyn responded.

   “Come then,” said Gethen.

   Nylan followed Ayrlyn, and Gethen frowned but said nothing as he turned back toward the stall.

   Ayrlyn stood by the stall for a moment, and Nylan could feel the waves of calmness radiating from her before she slipped up beside the roan stallion.

   The redhead ran her fingers across the roan's pastern. Even Nylan could sense the chaos there, and nodded. She stood and looked at him. “The two of us .. .”

   Nylan set Weryl on a pile of straw. “Stay right here.”

   “Da?”

   “Here,” the smith said firmly, before he slipped into the stall.

   As they knelt beside the injured forefoot, Nylan let Ayrlyn control the dark order flow while they channeled the chaos from the hoof.

   Sweat beaded on Nylan's forehead almost immediately in the closeness of the stall, and his nose began to itch.

   After a timeless period, they finally rose to their feet. Ayrlyn steadied herself on the stall wall for a moment. “Horses are big.” Her voice was low.

   “Makes it hard, even when the infection's small,” Nylan agreed.

   Ayrlyn patted the roan's shoulder, and the stallion whickered, tossing his head only slightly.

   “You'll be all right, fellow,” Nylan added, before easing out of the stall.

   “A way with mounts you have,” Gethen said, glancing at the redhead. “He has not been so quiet in days.”

   “The hoof will be tender for a day or two, I think,” Ayrlyn told Gethen, “but he should stop limping before long.”

   Nylan reclaimed Weryl, blotting his forehead dry with the back of his forearm to keep the sweat from running into his eyes.

   “That is all?” Gethen frowned. “All you did was stand there and touch his fetlock.”

   “There was an infection-chaos-where the bones met. I don't know what caused it, but it should heal now.” Ayrlyn offered a faint smile, then wiped her forehead.

   “I do not claim to understand your ways, angels, but we shall see.” Gethen's lips tightened.

   “We have a request of you . . .” Nylan offered as Gethen glanced toward the keep.

   “What might that be, ser angel?” Gethen's voice was neutral.

   “We have studied the scrolls and books in the Great Library, but they offer little insight into the ways of Cyador,” Nylan admitted. “There are tales of what might have been, but no explanations. To help you, we need to learn more. We thought it might be best if we accompanied Fornal on his expedition to the mines.”

   “You would accompany Fornal to fight the Cyadorans?” Gethen's eyes widened. “And leave your son behind?”

   “I hadn't planned to leave him, ser Gethen. I had hoped to beg your indulgence for the loan of a forge to craft a seat that would fit behind my saddle.”

   “The loan of a forge and fire might be accomplished, but children do not belong in the fray.”

   “Where else would he be any safer?” asked Nylan. “We wouldn't think of leaving him days away. An angel's child? In Lornth?” The smith wondered if he had gone too far, but he kept his lips firm.

   The gray-haired regent stroked his beard, but said nothing.

   Nylan and Ayrlyn waited.

   Then Gethen shook his head. “Times are such . . . many would wish you had not come. Like young Sillek, you ask the questions few would dare voice. Not asking such does not make them vanish. You learn that with gray hair. Some of us do, anywise. Others cling to the unspoken old ways like to a broken mount, fearing to change horses, even as the old horse falters.” He paused. “Some of us talk too much without answering the questions put.”

   The older regent frowned. “There will be cooks and wagoners . . .” He shrugged. “One wet nurse . . . who could also assist the healer here ... it might be done.”

   “What might be done?”

   “I will have a wet nurse who can also help you, healer,” said Gethen. “Or both of you. You are both healers, are you not?”

   “Ayrlyn's better,” Nylan said. “She has more experience.”

   “The smith is stronger,” the redhead added. “That's why we work together.”

   “So you are warriors, scholars, and healers. And you are a singer, and he is a smith. What other talents lie hidden?” snorted the oldest regent.

   “I can't think of any,” Nylan admitted. “Except a knack for getting people upset when I don't mean to.”

   “Somehow, I have found that a widespread trait - from those who have done nothing to those who have done everything.” Gethen shrugged. “Since doing anything or nothing upsets people, it is usually better to do something, if only for one's own self-respect.” The oldest regent gave a wry smile. “And then they all call your self-respect putting on airs.”

   Both angels could not help smiling slightly.

   “Times change, and I will change mounts as I can, hard as it seems.” Gethen looked at Nylan. “I will talk to Husta, the holding smith, and you may borrow such as you need. I also will speak to Zeldyan and Fornal.” He shrugged. “I am only one of three regents, but I would hope Fornal would see fit to use both your experience and your blades.”

   “Thank you.” Nylan inclined his head.

   “I suspect thanks be more due you two,” Gethen answered. “Few benefit by riding against the white ones, or even nearing them.” He nodded. “And if you can craft a saddle seat for your small one, Zeldyan might ask leave to have you craft one for her.”

   “I would be pleased to do so ... if I can make it work,” Nylan said.

   “You make things work, angel. Of that I have no doubts.” Gethen nodded again.

   Nylan wished he were as sure as Gethen - or even half so sure.