L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

“A great deal,” answered Gethen, “if you provoke the angel into taking off your head.”

“I would not wish to prove their abilities with my own wounds. I will be most careful.”

“I would hope so,” said Gethen.

“As you wish, brother.” Zeldyan inclined her head.

Gethen smothered a frown with a cough.

Nylan sat on the end of the bed in the darkness, his stomach growling from the heavily spiced dinner as he looked down at his sleeping son. “At least this way he’s not up all night.”

“No,” answered Ayrlyn from the wash chamber. “He’s on the go all day and leaves us exhausted.” She stepped into the bedchamber, wearing only a thin cotton gown.

“I haven’t seen that.” Nylan’s night vision remained as sharp as ever, if not, he reflected, having become even sharper with practice-and he still didn’t know why, except that he suspected it was linked to his perceptions of the fields of order and chaos that seemed to surround everything, including dreams of trees he’d never seen.

“A gift from the regent.”

“I like it, but I like the package more than the wrapping.” Nylan eased off the bed.

“Good.” Ayrlyn stepped around him and sat cross-legged on the other side of the bed.

“Are you upset at me?” he asked.

“Darkness no.” She rubbed her forehead. “I just want to sit here for a bit. My head still aches.”

“I’m sorry.” Nylan repressed a sigh and sat back down.

“It’s not your fault. Most of those books were pretty boring.” She yawned.

“A dozen books or scrolls out of more than five hundred, and none of them say much except that the Old Rationalists had enough power to incinerate a magic forest, move rivers, and build horseless wagons and sailless ships.”

“Well,” mused Ayrlyn, “the legends will say that you had enough power to destroy two mighty armies and forge magic blades and enchanted bows, and no one who writes them down will have any understanding of what really happened.”

“Great. Except that Cyador is still here, and not too long ago, if you can believe Gethen, they still had the horseless wagons.”

“If wagons are all that’s left-”

“I’m not worried about the wagons. I’m worried about a culture that’s retained enough technology to keep building steamwagons.” Nylan shook his head. “I’m not a damned chemical engineer. Sure, I know that I could probably come up with some explosives-or blow us both up-if I could figure out a way to make nitric acid-but for it to be useful, I’d have to make a lot. Armies use a lot of explosives. That means an industry, and”-he gestured toward the open window that framed a Lornth showing but a handful of dim lamps-“what industry do we have here?”

“Not a lot,” admitted Ayrlyn.

“Even simple black powder-that takes potassium nitrate-and supposedly you can get that from bat guano, under manure piles, or as crystals in some kinds of soil. Seen any lately?”

“Stop being so pessimistic,” said Ayrlyn. “We’ll figure out something.”

They had to, Nylan reflected, but he still hadn’t the faintest idea what that might be.

“It’s not all a loss,” she added. “Legends are useful, in a way, because they tell about the land and the people.”

“What about trees?” asked Nylan.

“Those dreams must be pretty vivid.”

“Not so vivid as other dreams,” he said with a laugh.

“You have been deprived.”

He looked down at Weryl again. “I’m learning more about parenthood. I think.”

Ayrlyn took a slow deep breath.

“Your head still ache?” he asked.

“It’s getting better.”

Nylan looked at her and forced himself to take the same sort of long, slow deep breath she had. “So what do all these legends tell us about Cyador?” he asked, wondering whether she had a headache from reading in dim light or for some other reason.

“I’d say it’s a very formal, hierarchial, and almost brittle structure. It’s also stronger than anything else around and has been for a long time. That might help.”

“Stronger, and that might help?”

“I’m guessing,” the healer admitted, “but rigid societies often don’t take much to topple.”

Nylan laughed. “I’m worried about coming up with some tool or weapon so we don’t get disgraced in handling a minor invasion, and you’re talking about toppling what amounts to an empire.”

“Why not think big?” Ayrlyn grinned.

He had to grin back.

“And besides, my head is feeling better.”

Nylan decided to worry about the wagons, the dreams of trees, and empire-toppling later.

Nylan stepped out into the morning-shadowed courtyard, carrying Weryl. Ayrlyn followed, closing the heavy-timbered door with a dull thunk that echoed in the open space between the walls.

Across the courtyard, outside the stables, were the three regents, as well as a muscular sandy-bearded armsman.

Fornal was inspecting one of the big blades, but handed it back to the armsman as he caught sight of the angels. He stepped toward the two.

“Good morning,” offered Nylan pleasantly.

“A good morning to you, ser angel. I was talking to my fellow regents. Some here in Lornth have said that the angels hold their domain by wizardry, and that they could not stand up to cold iron,” declared the black-bearded man. “I would not dignify such a statement, yet in our positions as regents, we must act on what can be proven. It is regrettable.” Fornal shrugged. “And it presents a…difficulty.”

“I’m not certain I see the difficulty, ser Fornal,” said Ayrlyn quietly. “I do recall that the angels have been quite successful with cold iron.”

“So it is said,” answered the black-bearded regent. “But all we have here in Lornth are words. Words are fine and necessary to us all, but our holders often find words less convincing than example.” Fornal smiled politely, then added, “And the color of the hair of those claimed to be angels is unusual, but hair color does not a warrior make.”

“That is true,” Nylan said. “We never asserted that hair color made an angel.”

“I myself believe you are an angel. But how am I to tell our holders and people that you are an angel?” Fornal shrugged. “As I said words are fair, but the holders hold to their belief in honor and cold iron.”

“Words can be more deadly than iron if used properly.” Nylan frowned, shifting Weryl from one shoulder to the other, and steering one of Weryl’s fists away from his chin. “I take it that you would feel more easy about matters if some proof-beyond mere words-existed?”

“That would make our course easier, and your assistance would set easier with those who have lost much.” The younger male regent shrugged.

“What do you wish, Regent?” asked Nylan, deciding to cut through the endless innuendoes.

Fornal stroked his beard, almost indifferently. “You might call it a demonstration, some indication of your skill with a blade. Your blade against mine. Sparring only, of course.” He smiled. “To show some of our armsmen your skills.”

Ayrlyn’s eyes narrowed, and she looked to the impassive faces of Zeldyan and Gethen.

“Just sparring?” asked Nylan.

“With real blades?” asked Ayrlyn.

“Of course,” said Fornal. “How else?”

The redhead glanced at Nylan.

The smith shrugged. “How else? That’s one way of looking at it…if you choose.”

“That is a curious statement, angel. How else would one spar?” Fornal’s lips curled slightly.

“We spar with wooden wands. It allows greater flexibility in teaching. We can also can recover from mistakes more quickly.” Nylan smiled. “When in Lornth, however, we shall do as the Lornians do.”