L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

“Anything about how they worked those wagons-or the ships-are we talking biotech or plain old steam?”

“It doesn’t say. It does say-” He stopped as the library door creaked open.

Zeldyan, carrying Nesslek on her hip, stepped into the dim room.

“Greetings, Regent,” Ayrlyn offered.

“Greetings.” Zeldyan inclined her head to each angel in turn. “Greetings, young Weryl.”

“Daaa…” answered Weryl.

“…oooo…” suggested Nesslek.

“Have you discovered what you sought?” asked the blond regent.

“Perhaps.” Nylan held up the slim volume. “I just found this one, and it talks about the White Mightiness and great wagons that move by themselves, and some mighty weapon that leveled whole forests. The writer calls it the Accursed Forest. So far, it doesn’t say much more. Have you heard of an accursed forest anywhere?”

Zeldyan frowned. “I do not think so. I will ask my sire Gethen. If anyone would know, he might.” She shifted Nesslek to the other hip. “How long might your search through these volumes take?”

Ayrlyn shrugged.

“We can sift through the books today, and find the ones-if there are any-that might help.” In turn, Nylan shrugged. “I couldn’t say how long it would take to study any that have detailed information. No more than a few days, I would guess.”

“A few days?”

“It does take time to read them in detail,” Nylan explained.

“I see.” Nesslek lurched in her arms toward Weryl, and the regent swung her son onto her shoulder before continuing. “I would appreciate your letting us know of what you may discover.”

“We will,” Ayrlyn promised.

After Zeldyan slipped back out of the dusty room, Nylan picked up Weryl.

“Thank you,” said the healer. “It’s hard to concentrate.”

“I know.” Nylan licked his lips. “There’s another thing…you remember that tree dream?”

“What tree dream?” asked Ayrlyn.

“The one where the trees were mixed with both the dark flows-the order fields-and the white chaotic stuff?”

Ayrlyn nodded.

“Well…I had it again, and it seemed really important, almost urgent, but I couldn’t possibly say why.”

“You think the things about the Accursed Forest are linked to your dream? That seems far-fetched.”

“I don’t know. Just keep it in mind. We still haven’t found anything very helpful. If this account is true, Cyador has-or had-higher-level technology, but I can’t tell if it’s myth, order-control, chaos channeling, or steam-powered low-tech.”

“Myth and steam technology, with a bit of that white magic stuff,” suggested Ayrlyn.

“Probably, but let’s keep looking. It can’t take that long to peruse five hundred volumes.”

“It seems that long.” Ayrlyn shook her head. “Most of this is awful. Awful,” she repeated.

Nylan nodded.

The three regents sat around the table in the old tower room. Zeldyan fed Nesslek, her chair pushed back from the old and battered wooden table that held little more than a pitcher of wine and three goblets. A warm breeze blew through the open window, stirring the few ashes remaining in the hearth, and the dust motes sparkled in the column of sunlight.

“I do not trust them,” said Fornal lazily. “They have used the fires of heaven, but now they say they cannot call them forth. They do not say what they can do, but they can read many tongues. And while they bear those devil blades, neither has even raised one. Nor has anyone seen them do so.”

“Would you that they had-as guests?” asked Zeldyan, shifting Nesslek’s weight in her arms but not removing him from the breast where he nursed.

“They have the strange hair.” Gethen’s eyes went to the open window that provided the panoramic overlook of Lornth, his lips pursed. “And there is a strangeness to them both.”

“And to their son,” added Zeldyan.

“The leader of the angels had black hair. Perhaps the strange hair is as foreign to the true angels as to us. We can confirm so little.” Fornal swallowed the rest of the wine in his goblet.

Zeldyan lifted Nesslek to her shoulder, hitched the loose tunic back in place, and patted her son on the back. “They sound as though they tell the truth.”

“No one tries to sound like a liar.” Fornal reached for the pitcher. “Where are they?”

“In the Great Library.”

“What have they discovered? Or was reading another skill that no one has yet seen demonstrated?” Fornal refilled his goblet, splashing droplets of wine across the battered table.

“It would appear so,” Zeldyan answered. “The silver-haired one-ser Nylan-was telling me what was in one of the scrolls-something about an accursed forest. He was most intrigued. I’d never heard of an accursed forest.”

“The old legends say that the forest fought the old white demons, and that the white ones bound it behind eternal walls,” said Gethen. “I’d forgotten that.”

“What else have we forgotten?” Fornal shook his head. “Did they say anything else?”

“Ser Nylan said that they would be able to determine which books are important by the end of the day. And to find any knowledge they hold within a few days.” Zeldyan paused. “There are hundreds of books and scrolls there. Not even Terek could have read them that quickly.”

“The man bothers me,” said Fornal. “There’s something about him. I don’t know. He speaks well, but fine words are only fine words.”

Gethen frowned. “Did you see his hands? They are callused, and his arms, slender as he seems, are heavily muscled.”

“Muscles alone do not make an armsman. Many of our better armsmen could chop him in two.”

“I recall that more than a few armsmen have thought the same of the angels. They are all dead,” said Gethen.

“You make the case that they are dangerous, my sire. I submit that a good ally is also one who would make a dangerous enemy. How far should we trust them? And how can we ensure they work to our benefit?”

“Fornal,” pointed out Gethen, “they travel with a child, and few do so without great cause. That alone makes them far more vulnerable.”

The black-bearded man lifted his goblet once more. “I still do not trust them. In time, if not immediately, I worry that the angels will be our undoing. Perhaps not this pair, but certainly those in the Westhorns.”

“That may be, my son, but unless we can raise more coin and more armsmen, we could be back under the lord of Cyador all too soon-or unless the angels can provide us with some assistance.”

“I wish them well with those ancient scrolls.” Fornal laughed. “I need armsmen and fire lances or the like, not words.”

“They have some skills,” said Zeldyan mildly. “Enough to destroy most of the armsmen who attacked them and to establish a presence where no others can even live. Let us see what they offer.”

“True,” added Gethen. “It will cost little enough.”

“It will cost too much if we rely on them and they offer nothing,” mused Fornal. “Perhaps we should have some proof of what they are.”

“Proof?” Gethen raised his eyebrows. “You have something in mind?”

“I would like to spar, or practice with one of the angels. All I have heard is rumor and tale. Then we could see firsthand.” He spread his hands. “I can see no harm in it. If they are as good as it is said, then word will pass, and those who would oppose my sister’s allies will be quieted.”

“Just spar?” asked Zeldyan.

“Of course.” Fornal smiled. “With proof, everyone will be much happier when I leave the day after tomorrow for Rohrn.”

Zeldyan frowned.

“What harm can sparring do?” asked Fornal.