L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Fydel had no answer.

Cerryl had questions, though, all too many, questions that swirled inside him even after he mounted and rode behind the other three. Why would the blues order a suicide defense so far from Spidlaria? Why were the blue traders so opposed to Fairhaven when the White City meddled so rarely in how other lands governed themselves? Why would Recluce force out people like the Black warleader-or the smith?

The smith was order in himself, a force so black as to be untouched by the slightest hint of chaos. And he was exiled from the isle of order?

Wearily Cerryl rode around the hill and after the High Wizard and Eliasar. He felt even more exhausted when they reached what remained of the battlefield. No Spidlarians emerged from earthworks, nor moaned, nor offered surrender-only bodies, everywhere, some splattered with blood, some not obviously touched, and others merely heaps of charred meat.

Anya’s head turned at one point, and Cerryl wondered why as her gaze lingered on a seared patch of ground just short of the crest. The Black leader? But why? She had never met him.

The sun was touching the western horizon as Jeslek reined up at the crest of the hill held that morning by the Spidlarians. Beyond lay a small city-Kleth.

Eliasar turned in the saddle and looked at Jeslek. “Honored High Wizard, we cannot afford another battle such as this.” The squat arms mage wiped his forehead as sweat oozed from hair plastered against his skull with dampness. “We have lost more than half our force.”

“Two-thirds,” suggested a voice from somewhere in the officers behind Eliasar.

“You won’t have any more battles at all,” Jeslek said. “Only a few skirmishes on the way to Spidlaria. They have no troops to speak of left.”

“I hope to the light you are correct.”

“I am,” snapped Jeslek. “We move to take the whole river valley first. Leave a small force here to guard the road to Diev. Once we secure Spidlaria, we’ll take Diev. We saved most of the best White Lancers.”

“As you wish.”

Anya and Fydel exchanged glances.

Although Cerryl’s face was politely impassive, he doubted that the battle for Spidlar was truly over. Not with the redheaded smith still somewhere beyond Jeslek’s control-and Anya’s.

UNDER A SKY that held both dark clouds and bright stars, Cerryl looked down at the pallet where Leyladin lay, either sleeping or insensible. The dark order that had flamed so strongly within her was but a faint shadow. Her breathing was shallow and ragged at times.

Three thousand Spidlarians had died, at least, and twice that many from the combined forces of Fairhaven under Eliasar. Unable to help or heal any more than the too many she had already saved, Leyladin had collapsed long before Cerryl had made his way back from the carnage, leaving Eliasar and Jeslek their triumph in entering the near-deserted streets of Kleth.

Cerryl sat by the end of the pallet and, with his eyes closed, massaged his forehead. Exhausted as he was, he found he could not sleep, unlike his poor healer. He could sense that sleep was beginning to restore her, but it might be days or weeks before she dared heal again.

Cerryl opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, ignoring the moans from the healer’s tent more than a hundred cubits away, hoping that he had moved Leyladin far enough that she would not be disturbed. He reached out and touched the covered pitcher of chaos-heated and purified water, just to make sure that he had it nearby should Leyladin wake.

Faltar…what have we done?

Sounds suffused the camp-the murmur of a sentry, the coughing of an armsman, the whuffing of a restless horse on the tie-lines to the west, the muted rush of the River Gallos as it flowed over the broken rocks above Kleth. Yet to Cerryl the sounds were as silence, compared to the clangor of the day-a clangor fueled by both chaos and order.

Chaos had held. The smith had fled back to Diev, and Jeslek’s mighty army would pour down the River Gallos to Spidlaria-and the presumed treasures it held-and Spidlar would fall under the shadow of the White City.

“Ohhh…”

Cerryl jerked upright, then patted Leyladin’s shoulder. “You’re all right.”

“Thirsty…”

He offered her some of the water.

She swallowed, several times, then murmured, “Thank you,” before dropping back into sleep.

His eyes went toward the star of the south, bright, green-tinged, and unblinking, watching as the fast-moving clouds covered it, then passed, leaving its light unchanged.

Is that life, being a star, no matter what clouds your light? Cerryl chuckled, bitterly but softly so as not to wake Leyladin. A light like a star? Hardly. He was but a mage with ideas that were less than popular, a mage with power and reluctant to use it after seeing how all who employed power seemed more and more to misuse such.

And yet…without power…nothing will change .

He closed his eyes and massaged his neck with his left hand, ears alert should Leyladin wake again.

GREAT AND MIGHTY Spidlaria,” snorted Fydel from the mount to Cerryl’s right as they neared the southern edge of the city. The city gates to Spidlaria were scarcely that-two featureless red-stone pillars less than five cubits high, without even brackets, set apart and not connected to any sort of walls. Unlike the river road from Elparta to Kleth, the road from Kleth to Spidlaria had been paved the entire way.

“They were great enough to cost us thousands.” Yet for all that, reflected Cerryl, perhaps Jeslek had been right. Nowhere on the ride northward to Spidlaria and the Northern Ocean had they seen another Spidlarian armsman or lancer. Cerryl’s efforts with his screeing glass had shown some scattered figures, but none gathered into a body, and the scouts had found none at all.

“Most were levies,” murmured Fydel. “No great loss. A gain, even, if we must fight those who supplied them.”

Faltar and Myredin weren’t just levies…and the levies were men as well. So was Bealtur, even if he hadn’t exactly been a friend . Cerryl looked up several ranks to the head of the column, where, behind the vanguard, rode Jeslek, his whites gleaming in the full summer sun, seemingly cool. Anya and Eliasar flanked the High Wizard, Anya as cool-looking as Jeslek, while Eliasar’s whites were damp with sweat.

Cerryl blotted his brow with his sleeve. He wanted to look backward to see if he could find Leyladin, even though he knew she was probably a kay behind him at the end of the column with the wounded who could ride, and far out of sight.

Once through the gates, Cerryl glanced from one side of the avenue to the other. More than half the buildings were of plastered planks and thick timbers, structures with heavy shutters and narrow windows-windows narrow to keep out the cold winter winds that blew off the Northern Ocean. Despite the growing warmth of the day, the shutters were closed, as were the doors.

“No one to welcome us,” said Fydel with a laugh.

The shadow from a white and puffy cloud passed across the column, offering Cerryl but momentary relief from the early-summer sun. “They probably don’t feel welcoming.”

“No, but some of their women will be, one way or another.”

Cerryl nodded sadly, recognizing the truth of Fydel’s statement, another inevitable result of war. All because the traders wanted to make more profit at the Guild’s expense . But was it? Even thinking about the complexities of trade and Recluce and the roads, he wanted to shake his head. No wonder everyone wants simple answers . But simple answers, he’d learned, were usually wrong, incomplete at best.