L. Modesitt: The Chaos Balance

“Here’s the engineer,” called Istril, holding Weryl and watching the sparring floor.

“Catch!” called Saryn.

Nylan’s hand reached out almost automatically and caught the hardwood wand, flipping it again and catching the hilt end. As he did, he absently wondered how he had gotten so proficient in handling antique weapons of destruction-except he wasn’t. He could defend himself against most, and he had killed more than a few raiders and attackers-one at a time, since, after the first or second killing, the white-infused waves of pain that flowed through him left him virtually incapacitated.

He wasn’t unique. All those who showed the innate ability to manipulate the order fields to heal-all the silver-haired ones and Ayrlyn-had the same problem. Ryba couldn’t heal, but she could certainly kill.

Interestingly, Nylan reflected as he flexed the wand, trying to warm up briefly, all of those who showed those healing traits had survived, even despite the battles they had been forced to fight.

“Watch this,” Saryn told the handful of recruits lining the chalked-off practice floor.

Nylan knew only about half the faces by name, and he wished they wouldn’t watch. He glanced to the corner where Daryn sat on a stool. The smith probably needed to craft some sort of prosthetic device for the youth’s foot, as he had for Relyn’s lost hand.

“Ready, Nylan?”

“Not really.” The smith lifted the hardwood wand, trying to let the feeling of unseen darkness and order flow around him and through him.

Saryn lifted her wand, a shimmering laserlike force that probed and slashed through the gloom of the fifth-level practice area.

As usual, Nylan felt awkward, barely parrying Saryn’s initial attacks, giving ground and retreating, trying to capture the sense of order that was his only salvation from bruises or, in actual combat, death.

As he melded with the hardwood wand that mirrored a blade, he finally surrendered to the flow of order and let the wand take its own course.

“…engineer’s so good…bet not even the Marshal could touch him…”

“…notice, though…he never strikes…all defense…”

But how long could he only defend? How long?

“Most Illustrious Lord, Protector of the Steps to Paradise, and-”

“Enough, Themphi. Enough,” answered the silver-robed figure who sat easily in the sculpted malachite and silver chair on the dais. “What is the problem? This time?”

The man in white bowed. “My lord Lephi…the snows were mighty, and the Great East River rises.”

“And all the rice fields in Geliendra will be washed away?”

“Yes, Sire. And those in Jakaafra.” The white wizard bowed again, more deeply.

“What of the northern dams, and the diversions?”

“The…storms…” stammered Themphi. “You were-”

“They destroyed those as well as the locks of Kuliat? Why was I not informed of that?”

“Your Mightiness received the scrolls in the field…” Themphi offered a stained scroll. “…as you did this one at Guarstyad-”

“I am supposed to remember details of waterworks when I am trying to rebuild the fireships? Or commanding an army? Or remember that I received a scroll in the midst of dark confusions?” Lephi’s eyes flickered toward the two sets of ornate open grillwork that flanked the dais and concealed the Archers of the Rational Stars. Then he leaned forward in the malachite and silver chair, his silver linens rustling. “Themphi, my wizard of the Throne of Reason, Emperor and heir to the Rational Stars I may be, but even emperors do not recall everything-especially in these times.” He paused. “Why do the eastern barbarian kingdoms no longer respect Cyador?”

“Sire?”

“You are thinking of rice fields, Themphi. We will address those in a moment. Why is mighty Cyad no longer respected?”

“Cyador remains mighty.”

“Yet barbarian traders attempted to establish a fortified enclave at Guarstyad, miserable corner of the word that it is. Why?”

“It is on the borders of Cyador, and there are no Mirror Lancers or Shining Foot there.”

“In my grandsire’s days, they would not have dared. Why do they dare now?”

The wizard frowned ever so slightly. “You routed them, Sire. They will not try again.”

“Had we the great fire cannons or were the fireship completed, they would not have dared.” Lephi leaned back in the shimmering throne. “The barbarians have short memories and respect little save force. We must restore our abilities to supply that force.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“You humor me, Themphi. You think I am erratic and obsessed. Perhaps I am. An emperor must be obsessed. How else can he guide his people?”

The wizard nodded.

“Answer me! How else?”

“Any ruler must guide his people.”

“You talk, and you say nothing. Would that I did not need you and your kind. Would that…but wishes are but fluttering breezes dashed against stone.” Lephi sighed. “Now…you may proceed with the rice fields.”

“I should have seen that you were informed once you returned, Your Mightiness,” offered Themphi.

“Someone should have. Someone should have.” Lephi eased back in his throne. “Can we send the White Engineers?”

“The Second is at hand…” offered the wizard.

“No…the fireship project comes first. I will not let those thieves from Ruzor or Lydiar or Spidlar…” Lephi let his words break off.

“The Third Company could go. You sent the first to Fyrad-”

“To rebuild the trading piers and the levees. I recall. With the Second engaged here…Yes, send the Third.” Lephi paused. “And send one of the Mirror Legions. Whichever one Queras can spare most.”

“Yes, Your Mightiness.” Themphi bowed as if to depart.