The Order War (33 page)

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.

“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 the 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.

“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.

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 that 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. “All 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.