The Order War (30 page)

“You requested my presence?” Beltar bowed at the entrance to the room that had been the port governor’s office.

Zerchas continued to study the lower part of Rulyarth below the bluff, the part that contained the now empty harbor.

“I did. We’ve rested enough. Go meet your friend, what’s-his-name, in Clynya, or however close he got while chasing that Black engineer.” Zerchas drank the red wine straight from the bottle. “Go the inland route. I want you to take Berlitos, and we’ll both—”

“That seems a bit roundabout,” offered Beltar. “Just let Eldiren deal with Clynya. If I take Bornt and follow the river to Berlitos, that will leave Clynya and Rohrn cut off. I can swing up to Clynya if Eldiren has problems. Neither Clynya nor Rohrn’s that big. Or do you plan to take Bornt?”

“I like your idea better.” Zerchas grinned. “After all, if they don’t submit, why…you can treat them as you did Sarron. I’d rather leave Jera intact; it’s a pretty town, and the
port’s not bad. Later on, you and your friend can clean up the little places. You have a certain style. The locals already are calling you ‘The White Butcher.’” Zerchas laughed. “By comparison, I seem almost friendly.”

Beltar remained silent.

“You know, young Beltar,” offered Zerchas, “the problem with using force is that everyone expects it from you, and when you don’t use it, they think you’ve lost either your powers or your will. You can’t make—and keep—the amulet on power alone.” Zerchas shook his head. “You don’t understand. You won’t until it’s too late. Go on, destroy whatever you want to, but leave Jera alone.”

“I assure you that I will destroy only as much as is necessary, and no more.” Beltar bowed deeply. “I assume that the remainder of the lancers and the Certan and Gallosian levies are for this campaign.”

“You’re very perceptive, young Beltar.”

“And Jehan? Will he be accompanying me?”

“I think not. I have a few other…tasks for Jehan. He doesn’t need more corruption.”

“I see.” Beltar bowed again before leaving.

Zerchas thought about the younger wizard for a long time, his forehead knotted. “They never understand,” he murmured. Then he took another deep swallow of the red wine. “Bah. Turning already…”

Scrrittch…scrittchhh…

Justen’s eyes opened at the sound of the spike rat. For a moment, he stared into the darkness before his eyes completely adjusted. At least his night vision had returned.

By the time he could see clearly, both the sound and the spike rat had disappeared, but he did not feel immediately sleepy, perhaps because his feet still ached.

The only nearby sounds were the faint swish of a night breeze across the sands of the Stone Hills, still warm even in
the quiet toward dawn, and the even fainter whisper of Dayala’s breathing.

His eyes turned toward the woman, who lay uncovered on a woven mat; barefooted and bare-headed, wearing the same trousers and shirt, which never seemed to get dirty. Her lips were parted slightly, and the silver hair swirled around her broad shoulders.

Was she beautiful? Not exactly, at least not in the sense that Krytella had been, for Dayala’s face was too open, almost blank-looking in sleep, especially with much of the life supplied by her intense green eyes, now locked behind her eyelids. Her chin was almost elfin, but without the high cheekbones that Justen felt should have gone with such a chin. Yet, there was…something…about her.

He shook his head. Maybe it was just kindness he was responding to.

She twitched slightly and mumbled, a frown crossing her forehead.

“…my sending…”

Justen waited, but she lapsed into a deeper sleep. Before long, he did also.

Dayala woke before he did. That was obvious from the water, travel bread, and cheese waiting for him.

“You need to eat first.”

“Not quite.” He smiled crookedly and padded out of the tent, watching where he put his bare feet and wincing with almost every step until he stepped behind a low boulder. His chin itched with the scraggly beard he was growing, and he missed the razor as much as he did the knife.

When he returned, Dayala was eating a chunk of the bread. He sat down and brushed the sand from the bottom of his feet and picked a small pebble out from under the crook of his big toe. It had felt much larger. Then he looked at his left wrist, at a thin scab less than a span long, somehow more than a scratch, yet straight and clean. He shook his head. How had he done that? He frowned, shrugged, then sipped from the water bottle before breaking off a hunk of cheese.

“Wish I had my knife…”

Dayala looked at the ground, a faint flush rising into her face.

“What did you—” Justen began.

“It’s in the pack on the brown mare. I brought it. I’m sorry about the sword, but I just…just couldn’t.”

Justen stopped, still holding the cheese in his hand. “Couldn’t what?”

“You see…” The Naclan looked down again. “The knife is a tool, and we even have some knives. I did use yours, as I had to. But the sword isn’t. I mean…that’s not what it’s designed for, and I couldn’t. When you took the shovel, I thought you understood.”

Justen looked at the cheese and then at the silver-haired woman. Those impossibly deep green eyes met his. For a moment, neither spoke. Then his stomach growled, and Dayala smiled. He shrugged. “First things first.”

After the cheese, he chewed a piece of the travel bread, still nutty and moist. When he had sipped some of the water, he caught her eyes with his. “About the swords and knives?”

“We don’t fight, not that way. Swords sever things from their roots. Shovels do sometimes—only it’s not as bad here.”

“How do you fight?”

“You will have to see. It’s more a matter of…restraint and Balance.”

Justen chewed and swallowed another mouthful of cheese and bread, wondering as he did so if anything in Naclos were straightforward. Instead of talking, he just ate, somewhat more than the day before.

“The Balance is important to us, perhaps more so than to…others,” Dayala said, then sipped from her own water bottle. “Balance cannot be forced, not over time.”

“Why did you call me? That’s what it was, wasn’t it? You wanted me to come to Naclos. Did you have anything to do with that White Wizard chasing me?”

“No.” Dayala shivered. “You are…unbalanced, but they are…” She shivered again.

“Evil?” Justen pursued.

“That is your word, and it has some…accuracy.”

“What would be more accurate?”

“Unable to be Balanced…” Dayala left the words hang
ing, as if she were unsatisfied but lacked any way to explain.

Justen sighed, then looked toward his boots. “If men were made to walk this far, why didn’t the Angels give us hooves?” He rubbed the arch and then the ball of his left foot. “Feels good…” He repeated the process with his right foot before shaking his boots to remove any sand or insects that might have gathered.

“Would you really want hooves?” Dayala’s eyebrows arched. “The Demons of Light had hooves, they say.” She paused before adding, “You do sleep without those boots. That’s a good sign.”

“Why?”

“Any good Naclan needs to be in touch with the land.”

“But I’m not a Naclan.”

“You will be before you leave.” She grinned, but the expression faded into a sad smile.

Justen tried not to shake his head. No matter what questions he asked, every answer created even more questions, and he was still tired, too tired to try to straighten them all out. He pulled on his second boot, stood, then bent to recover the thick, woven sleep mat, which he shook out, rolled, and tied with the braided cords.

Justen put one booted foot in front of the other. His feet felt like wrought-iron lumps, or cast lead, and it was only a bit before midday. His eyes ran over the hillside, catching a few patches of brown grass, and he frowned. Were the hills not as steep? Could they actually be getting out of the damned Stone Hills?

They walked around another curve in the endless valleys between hills, the dull clumping of the horses’ unshod feet the loudest sound in the heat of the day. The hill before Justen looked just like all the others, maybe steeper, and heat waves shimmered off the dull brown rocks.

“We must climb. The valley goes too far north from here.”

Justen could not quite hold the groan.

“Do you need to stop?”

“Not yet.”

Although they had stopped and set up the tent for the midday period every day for the last three days, that was because of his weaknesses, not Dayala’s. Barefooted or not, she could walk longer and faster than he could, perhaps than he ever would.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Dayala’s long legs stretched as she angled up the hill. Justen grimly dug his boots into the sandy soil.

Whheeee…eeee
. The stallion trotted past Justen as if to chide him for being so slow.

“…only got two legs, thank you…” he mumbled.

The stallion’s head turned for a moment before the horse continued after Dayala. The bay mare also trotted past Justen’s slow steps.

He looked back at the roan, but the trailing mare’s steps were almost delicate, and she continued to follow him.

“At least not all the horses are out to prove a point…”

He continued to slog up the hill.

Dayala and the two horses waited at the top. She stretched a hand toward the south, where, beyond a mere dozen lines of undulating gray stone rises, a faint line of darkness appeared. “We don’t have far to go before we reach the grasslands. Tonight or tomorrow.”

Justen looked at the hills and then at Dayala. “Late tomorrow.”

“Perhaps. You are still not feeling well?”

“I’m…fine,” Justen snapped between gasps. He uncapped the water bottle and took a deep swallow. The water helped. Then he took the light hat off and fanned his face.

As he cooled off and caught his breath, Dayala poured water from one of the jugs into the flat pan and held it for the stallion to drink. She did the same for the mares, then repacked the pan.

“We’ll follow that one, more to the west, to begin with. There’s a spring just before the grasslands.”

Justen picked up one leaden foot and then another, half-walking, half-sliding down the slope toward the distant line of green.

Dayala walked beside him, breathing easily.

Up close, the grasslands were not so verdant as they had appeared from the hillside, existing more as discrete clumps of wiry grass only a few spans high.

Justen kicked at one of the clumps, then stopped and turned to Dayala. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Because it serves no purpose?”

She did not answer, but he knew that was the reason. What he didn’t know was how he had known that his action bothered her. He hadn’t even been looking at her.

The rolling hills were easier walking, or his legs were getting stronger, or both. By midday of the first morning on the grasslands, the Stone Hills had vanished behind the northern horizon, even when Justen stopped and looked back from the top of each rolling hill. Dayala had not looked back, but forward.

At the top of another low rise, he paused and took a drink from the water bottle and munched on the travel bread, which seemed endless. “How much of this did you bring?”

“Three-score loaves. We could live on it alone, but the cheese adds variety.” The Naclan brushed the fine silver hair off her forehead. “Most men like variety.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.

Justen nodded, then capped the water bottle.

“Does anyone live here?”

“A few people like the grasslands. They have wagons and follow the grass. I did not see any of them on my way to find you.”

Justen pursed his lips. “You haven’t explained how you found me, and why. You know, you haven’t really explained
anything much…just that the ancients helped you.”

“You helped also.” She smiled. “You have a strong…presence, even when weakened.”

“You druids must be rather sensitive.”

“Not compared to the ancients.”

“Ancients…you keep talking about the ancients. Who are they? Are they druids?”

“Druids? You talk about druids, and I have said little, assuming it was another word for those of Naclos. But…” She shrugged questioningly, even as she continued her steady pace up the gentle slope.

Absently, Justen noted that the grass clumps now grew closer together, almost touching. “Druids are people who love the trees. Supposedly, all druids are attractive women, and each has a…ah…special tree.”

“Why is that tree special?”

“If it dies…” Justen was reluctant to finish the sentence.

“…the druid dies.” Dayala stopped and glanced back in the general direction of the Stone Hills, looking for the stallion and the mares. The horses no longer traveled close to them. “You will find ancients and others in Naclos, and we all find the trees to be of value, especially as part of the great forest. There are even small parts of the great forest left in Sarronnyn, though few recognize them. And there are many males you would call druids.” She grinned. “In time, some will think you are a druid.” The grin faded. “And some of us are tied, the ancients most of all, but not to trees.”

“The ancients? You still haven’t explained—”

“You will have to meet them. They are part of your Legend, but which part, you must decide. But we will do no deciding if we do not keep walking.” As the three horses left off their distant grazing and galloped toward her, Dayala turned and walked along the low ridgeline.

Justen took a deep breath, somehow feeling hurt, or that she had been hurt, but not knowing why. He hurried after her, almost running. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…but you know everything, and I don’t know anything…except that a lovely woman rescued me and wants me to walk across all of Candar.”

“Not all of Candar, not even all of Naclos. Just to
Rybatta.” She tossed her head, and the cascade of silver rang like bells in his head. What was happening? Had she cast some sort of spell?

A smile, almost shy, crossed her face. “We don’t do magic here. It is far too dangerous, especially near the great forest.”

The horses swept uphill, running free, and Justen watched, just watched, marveling at their grace.

“You are a druid at heart, Justen…and I am glad of that. You feel what I feel when I watch the horses.”

“We haven’t seen any other horses.”

“No. Most of them live in the Empty Lands. The grasses are lusher there, and deeper.”

“How deep?”

She bent and drew an imaginary line at knee height. “Of course, they must worry about the steppe cats, and sometimes grass snakes.”

“The Empty Lands?” Justen replaced the water bottle.

“They are like the High Steppes of Jerans, but no one lives there save the horse people and the wanderers. There is little open water and few streams.”

The dark-haired man took a deep breath. “How can there be lush grass and no open water?”

“The grass has deep roots, and the rains are plentiful, but the soil is sandy in most places. Once it was a forest, before the coming of the…old ones, who cut the trees and made it a desert. The ancients turned it back into grassland, and each year, the trees move farther west, and…” she shrugged as she walked “…someday the forests will return.”

Justen matched steps with her for a time, an easier task on the downhill because his legs were a shade longer than hers, before continuing. “What about the grass snakes?”

“They eat the rodents, mostly, but some can kill a foal or a child.”

His eyes traversed the ankle-high grass in the gentle valley below. “How big do they get?”

“As big as they can, of course. The wanderers claim the king of snakes is twenty cubits long and nearly a cubit in girth.”

Justen shuddered at the thought of a snake that large, then glanced sideways.

“Since I have never seen the king of snakes, I could not say.” Dayala’s face remained open as she continued. “I have seen a large snakeskin, very large…” She waited.

“How large?” Justen finally asked.

“Oh, about two cubits long.”

Justen began to laugh. When he didn’t laugh, he shook his head. And he had thought she had no sense of humor. Finally, he gasped. “Someday…someday…”

“I am sure of that.” She grinned.

His feet were lighter as they crossed more hills, and as the sun, no longer the blazing ball it had been over the Stone Hills but still warm, shone through the near-cloudless sky.

The horses sometimes galloped off, circling, prancing, but always returning. At times, Dayala and Justen stopped, rested on a rise, and ate or drank.

As the sun neared the southwest horizon, Dayala pointed to the valley below, where a clear pool of greenish water lay between two smaller hills. “I had hoped we could reach this. I would like to bathe, to splash in the water.”

“You bathe, swim, a lot in Rybatta?”

“We all like the trees and the water.” She looked to the east, toward the grazing horses, and the bay mare lifted her head and trotted toward them.

Justen could feel the brief pulse of order and wondered if he could duplicate it.

The horses whuffed to a halt on the grassy slope overlooking the pond, and Dayala began to unload the stallion. Justen began with the roan.

“Easy, lady…”

The roan whuffled.

“She says she is a mare, not a lady.”

“What do I call her?”

“Threealla is as close as you could say it,” Dayala said cheerfully, trilling the name.

“All right, Threealla. How was I to know? I’ll get this off in a moment. Then you can drink or roll in the grass—”

Whheee…eeee…

Justen shrugged. Why was he talking to a mare?

He shrugged again. Why not? He’d always talked to horses, except that this one understood…or Dayala could understand the mare. He unstrapped the last of the bags and set them on the grass. In the time it had taken him to unload the roan, Dayala had unloaded both the stallion and the bay mare.

He watched as the horses trotted to the far end of the pond, near the rushes that marked a small, marshy area.

“Our clothes need washing, and so do we. We come first.” Dayala slipped off the shirt even as Justen watched. She wore nothing underneath.

He swallowed.

“Did you not want to bathe?” She glanced at him quizzically.

“Ah…yes…” He looked down and pulled off his tunic, then balanced on one leg to pull off one boot. He repeated the process with the other foot.

Dayala giggled.

Justen refused to look up. He yanked off his shirt, trousers, and drawers, folded them roughly and dropped them on the grass.

“You looked just like a grouchy old crane perched on one leg.”

Justen looked up at Dayala and swallowed, feeling almost unable to breathe as his eyes fell across her: the bronzed skin, small breasts, silver hair, and the deep-green eyes that sparkled with a light of their own. Helplessly, he looked down, seeing his own paler skin and a body that seemed covered with too much dark hair, a body too angular, too thin, for all the breadth in his shoulders. His eyes finally returned to Dayala, focusing on the sole blemish he could see, a faint white line across the inside of her left wrist. He still was breathing too quickly.

She smiled. “I see I please you.”

Justen gulped. “Yes…”

“You also please me, and that is good, but you need to go in the water.”

Justen did not need to look down to know that. He flushed, then realized that Dayala had also blushed.

Whheee…eeee
. From the end of the pond, the stallion pawed the grass momentarily.

Justen grinned and dashed into the water. Dayala followed, almost drawing abreast of him as his feet, then his legs, slowed in the resistance of the water. Then he plunged forward, surfacing in the waist-deep pool.

“Oooo…it’s cold!”

“You complain too much.” Dayala leaned back, letting her hair float on the surface, her shoulders just barely underwater.

Justen looked away, toward the horses grazing on the grass above the pool; then he paddled toward the small marsh at the far end, where reeds grew. He looked down as he paddled, but only greenish sand floored the pond, and a lone fish, smaller than his foot, flicked away through the clear water.

“The marsh is the heart of the pond.” Dayala had slid through the water like an otter, and eased along beside him. “If you try, you can feel it.”

Unsure about trying his perceptions of order and chaos while awkwardly paddling along, Justen nodded and followed her suggestion, ignoring the warm Blackness she represented beside him and concentrating on the marsh.

The reeds were thin, narrow spears of Blackness, and patches of White chaos nestled in the mud around them. Tiny black specks flitted through the water between the reeds. Some shelled creature tugged at chaos—a lump of something else dead—yet all the pieces seemed woven together, and the Black and the White seemed bound in a green web.

Justen stopped paddling, started to sink and swallowed a mouthful of water as his toes touched the sand below. He pushed himself into the air and blew out the water.

Dayala, too, almost swallowed a mouthful of water as she laughed. “You looked…so funny…can’t stop paddling…stay afloat…”

Justen spit out more of the clean-tasting water, remembering to paddle. “I’m not much in the water.”

“You do well.” Her smile was warm. Then she dived and flashed underwater.

Justen paddled slowly back to where he could stand, letting the water seep into him, enjoying the coolness as if trying to make up for all the days of heat.

After a time, he reclaimed his clothes, leaving his belt and purse with his boots. As he picked up the garments, Dayala, still dripping, handed him a piece of something green.

“Soap root.”

After washing their clothes, they pitched the tent and hung their clothes over cords strung from the tent posts. Justen tried not to look in Dayala’s direction, though he could feel her eyes upon him occasionally.

The horses stayed near the pond but close to the marshy end, where their snickers, whuffles, and neighs echoed off the water. As darkness fell, softer sounds rose from the marsh, punctuated by an intermittent croak.

In the cool night air, Justen and Dayala sat on the grass, wrapped in the silky blankets, munching on travel bread and sipping clear pond water.

“You are beautiful…” His voice was low.

“No,” she responded with an amused tone, “you find my body beautiful.”

He blushed, glad that the sudden color was not visible in the starlight.

“And I find your body beautiful. That is hopeful.”

He tried not to picture her diving, sporting in the water, sleek and graceful like some water animal. Finally, he took a long sip of water and leaned his head back, looking into the deep purple and the points of light overhead. “I wonder where Heaven is…”

“They say we cannot see Heaven from here, that it was lost forever.”

“Someday maybe we could find it.”

“They say that the Demons of Light destroyed it.”

“We’ll have to build a new one, then.”

“Are all engineers builders?”

“Mostly. I’m not that good an engineer…” he broke off, then finished “…except in destruction.” His words caught in his throat. “I didn’t realize how much that bothered me.”

Her hand touched his briefly, fleetingly, and the warmth crept up his arm. So he just sat and watched the dark silver of
the pond and listened to the night. With the faint buzzing from the marsh, Justen frowned as he realized that there were no mosquitoes.

“That is because they sense you could ward them off.”

“Huh?”

“The mosquitoes…they sense your power.”

“Must be different mosquitoes. Or Naclos is different, very different.”

“Naclos is different.”

With that, Justen could agree.

They sat quietly for a time. Justen fell silent and his eyelids grew heavy. Finally, he stood and eased his way into the tent, and after wrapping himself in the quilt, he slept.

Dayala slept an arm’s length away, yet somehow he could sense her presence as if she were next to him, and once his hand reached out in sleep to touch her…and touched nothing.