L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Ayrlyn grinned. So did Nylan as they followed the dark-haired stable boy’s quick steps.

“Here you be-the dark mare and the chestnut.” The youth pointed to the stalls. “Not like some that come in, so thin you know the rider has only grazed ’em. Hoofs worn, and the dark mare, she be needing new shoes afore long, least that be what Edicat said. Chestnut be sound, shoes and all.” The boy glanced from Nylan to Ayrlyn and back.

“Who are you?” asked Ayrlyn.

“Merthek. Second stable boy, leastwise till Kielmer joins the armsmen.”

“Do you want to be an armsman?” asked Nylan, wondering about the phrasing the youth had used.

“Me? No, ser. Love the beasts, not cold iron. Cold iron loves none save blood, and that price is high.” He looked boldly at the smith. “Especially if one must fight angels.”

“The price is high for angels as well,” Nylan answered dryly.

Merthek glanced at Nylan’s blade. “A short blade, yet deadly.”

“Deadly enough,” Nylan admitted. “I would rather it weren’t necessary.”

“So long as men want what others have,” offered the youth, “blades be necessary.”

“Unfortunately,” answered Ayrlyn. “Stick to your horses, Merthek.”

“I will, ser and lady, and if you need anything here, ask for me. That is, if I do not find you first.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin, then offered a bow. “If I am not here, the stablemaster is Guisanek, and he is a good man, and one who knows all about the beasts.”

“We will.” Nylan peered over the stall wall at the mare, who stood on clean straw and ate what looked to be grain from a wooden manger.

After Merthek escorted them back to the courtyard, Nylan took a deep breath. “I need a break. Let’s go up that tower and check out the surrounding terrain.” He pointed to the smaller tower that rose just to the south of where he thought their chamber was-not the larger square tower that held the room where they had met Zeldyan.

“You sound like the engineer again.”

“What can I say?” Nylan shifted his weight to catch a lunging Weryl, who grasped toward a chicken that scurried into the shadows of the stable wall.

“Don’t,” she suggested as Nylan made his way toward the doorway at the base of the tower within the keep. There was no lock, only an iron latch that squeaked as he lifted it.

The circular stairs were narrow and steep, and the steps barely wide enough for one boot, even at the outside end. The pink stone walls were polished smooth by years of shoulders passing.

Half-surprised to find that he wasn’t even panting by the time he reached the top and lifted the hammered wrought-iron latch, which also squeaked, Nylan stepped out onto the parapet, a circular space not much more than ten cubits square, with chest-high crenelated walls.

“Definitely for defense,” he said, shifting Weryl from his left arm to his right and moving to the south side of the tower. To his right, the river wound gradually to the southwest, presumably back toward the marsh and the ironwoods. Beyond the river, he could see the neatly cultivated fields, eventually giving way to the more distant grasslands. The reddish-brown strip that was the road to the Westhorns and Westwind followed the east bank of the river. Farther to the east were the rolling hills that concealed the Westhorns, although Nylan had no real idea exactly how far the mountains were in a direct easterly direction, since the road had brought them from the southeast. Westwind itself was probably east-southeast from Lornth, but good maps seemed to be another item in short supply.

White puffy clouds dotted the green-blue sky overhead, but to the north the clouds were darker and thicker, with the sheeting gray beneath that bespoke rain.

Nylan sniffed, but didn’t smell the rain, not yet. He did smell something else. Weryl grinned at him.

“Not until late afternoon or evening,” Ayrlyn hazarded. “The rain, not Weryl.”

“We need to go back to the room.”

“I can smell that, too.”

Nylan took the stairs carefully. A misstep would mean a long bounce downward, a very painful series of bounces off hard pink stones. They had to go into the courtyard and then back along the cross-corridor and up the steps to the third level.

As they neared their chamber, a shorter figure hurried toward them.

“Ser and lady…or is it ser and ser?” asked the blond page, looking from Nylan’s smooth-shaven chin to Ayrlyn’s face and back to Nylan.

“We both fight, and we both take care of Weryl,” said Ayrlyn, “but ser Nylan is a man, and I a woman.”

“Ser and ser,” continued the page, “tonight, the Regent Zeldyan has offered to have her nurse take care of your son and hers in the room adjoining the hall.” The youth bowed.

“We appreciate her consideration,” Nylan said after a quick glance at Ayrlyn, “and we will bring Weryl with us.”

“Your midday meal is on your table.” The page bowed again.

After the page departed, Nylan looked to the healer. “It seems as though they’re going to some effort for us.”

“That bothers me.”

“Because it means they’ve got big problems?” The engineer opened the door and stepped inside. The tray on the table held another heaping assortment of food, bread, cheese wedges, cold slices of meat, more fruit, and three pitchers, plus a small assortment of what appeared to be biscuits.

“I have that feeling.” Ayrlyn took in the tray. “I keep eating like that, and I’ll be as heavy as my mount.”

“I doubt that.” Nylan set Weryl on the carpet to close the door, and the boy immediately began to race on hands and knees toward the lutar case.

“It takes a lot of energy to keep warm on the Roof of the World, and now I don’t have to.”

“Lucky you. Unlucky me.” Nylan reached down to steer Weryl away from the lutar.

“I’m still hungry, though,” she admitted.

So was Nylan. Even as he reclaimed Weryl and carried him into the bath chamber, he wondered if he’d get over the worries about food that two lean winters on the Roof of the World had generated.

In the dim light cast by the small oil lamp, the white wizard studied the scroll. Feeling the perspiration on his forehead, he quickly blotted his brow before the dampness beaded up and fell on the parchmentlike white paper.

The words swam before him in the close confines of the small room, a room barely large enough to hold a narrow bed and the work table and stool.

…we have with great effort beaten the Accursed Forest back along the southern boundaries of the white wall. This has taken all of my resources, and those of the local company of white engineers, as well as the two companies of foot and conscription of all able-bodied souls in three villages….

…I can sense great forces at work, perhaps the greatest since the binding of the forest in ancient times….

…although we have recovered Geliendra and Forestnorth, for us to return the forest to its former boundaries will take more men and forces, and I am writing to request that you make known your desires in this matter….

The lamp flickered as a slight whisper of moist air, bearing the damp smells of the resurgent forest, slipped through the open and unshuttered window.

Themphi massaged his forehead again, then blotted it once more before rolling the scroll, leaving it on the corner of the table for the morning. After a moment, he stood and stretched, then walked to the window that faced north.

He gazed in the general direction of the Accursed Forest, sensing the flickers of white and darkness that not even the ancients could untwist, the flickers of white and darkness that had grown ever so much stronger.

“You dare too much, Lephi, and no one can tell you otherwise.” The low words were lost in the rustling of vegetation.