L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Nylan set Weryl on a pile of straw. “Stay right here.”

“Da?”

“Here,” the smith said firmly, before he slipped into the stall.

As they knelt beside the injured forefoot, Nylan let Ayrlyn control the dark order flow while they channeled the chaos from the hoof.

Sweat beaded on Nylan’s forehead almost immediately in the closeness of the stall, and his nose began to itch.

After a timeless period, they finally rose to their feet. Ayrlyn steadied herself on the stall wall for a moment. “Horses are big.” Her voice was low.

“Makes it hard, even when the infection’s small,” Nylan agreed.

Ayrlyn patted the roan’s shoulder, and the stallion whickered, tossing his head only slightly.

“You’ll be all right, fellow,” Nylan added, before easing out of the stall.

“A way with mounts you have,” Gethen said, glancing at the redhead. “He has not been so quiet in days.”

“The hoof will be tender for a day or two, I think,” Ayrlyn told Gethen, “but he should stop limping before long.”

Nylan reclaimed Weryl, blotting his forehead dry with the back of his forearm to keep the sweat from running into his eyes.

“That is all?” Gethen frowned. “All you did was stand there and touch his fetlock.”

“There was an infection-chaos-where the bones met. I don’t know what caused it, but it should heal now.” Ayrlyn offered a faint smile, then wiped her forehead.

“I do not claim to understand your ways, angels, but we shall see.” Gethen’s lips tightened.

“We have a request of you…” Nylan offered as Gethen glanced toward the keep.

“What might that be, ser angel?” Gethen’s voice was neutral.

“We have studied the scrolls and books in the Great Library, but they offer little insight into the ways of Cyador,” Nylan admitted. “There are tales of what might have been, but no explanations. To help you, we need to learn more. We thought it might be best if we accompanied Fornal on his expedition to the mines.”

“You would accompany Fornal to fight the Cyadorans?” Gethen’s eyes widened. “And leave your son behind?”

“I hadn’t planned to leave him, ser Gethen. I had hoped to beg your indulgence for the loan of a forge to craft a seat that would fit behind my saddle.”

“The loan of a forge and fire might be accomplished, but children do not belong in the fray.”

“Where else would he be any safer?” asked Nylan. “We wouldn’t think of leaving him days away. An angel’s child? In Lornth?” The smith wondered if he had gone too far, but he kept his lips firm.

The gray-haired regent stroked his beard, but said nothing.

Nylan and Ayrlyn waited.

Then Gethen shook his head. “Times are such…many would wish you had not come. Like young Sillek, you ask the questions few would dare voice. Not asking such does not make them vanish. You learn that with gray hair. Some of us do, anywise. Others cling to the unspoken old ways like to a broken mount, fearing to change horses, even as the old horse falters.” He paused. “Some of us talk too much without answering the questions put.”

The older regent frowned. “There will be cooks and wagoners…” He shrugged. “One wet nurse…who could also assist the healer here…it might be done.”

“What might be done?”

“I will have a wet nurse who can also help you, healer,” said Gethen. “Or both of you. You are both healers, are you not?”

“Ayrlyn’s better,” Nylan said. “She has more experience.”

“The smith is stronger,” the redhead added. “That’s why we work together.”

“So you are warriors, scholars, and healers. And you are a singer, and he is a smith. What other talents lie hidden?” snorted the oldest regent.

“I can’t think of any,” Nylan admitted. “Except a knack for getting people upset when I don’t mean to.”

“Somehow, I have found that a widespread trait-from those who have done nothing to those who have done everything.” Gethen shrugged. “Since doing anything or nothing upsets people, it is usually better to do something, if only for one’s own self-respect.” The oldest regent gave a wry smile. “And then they all call your self-respect putting on airs.”

Both angels could not help smiling slightly.

“Times change, and I will change mounts as I can, hard as it seems.” Gethen looked at Nylan. “I will talk to Husta, the holding smith, and you may borrow such as you need. I also will speak to Zeldyan and Fornal.” He shrugged. “I am only one of three regents, but I would hope Fornal would see fit to use both your experience and your blades.”

“Thank you.” Nylan inclined his head.

“I suspect thanks be more due you two,” Gethen answered. “Few benefit by riding against the white ones, or even nearing them.” He nodded. “And if you can craft a saddle seat for your small one, Zeldyan might ask leave to have you craft one for her.”

“I would be pleased to do so…if I can make it work,” Nylan said.

“You make things work, angel. Of that I have no doubts.” Gethen nodded again.

Nylan wished he were as sure as Gethen-or even half so sure.

Nylan glanced out from the tower to the west. The thin clouds obscured the sun just enough that it was a golden ball hanging low over the green fields beyond the river. “We haven’t heard anything.”

“Matters of great import,” replied Ayrlyn ironically, “take time to settle, usually over wine or strong spirits late in the evening.”

“Ooooo…” offered Weryl from a sitting position by Nylan’s feet, where he pawed at the sandy dust that had drifted up in the angled space where the stone blocks of the tower floor met those of the parapet.

“I hadn’t thought that letting us fight their battles for them-or volunteer to help train or whatever-would be a matter of great import,” responded Nylan. “It’s not as though Lornth is exactly overflowing with trained blades.”

“Ooo, da,” concurred Weryl.

“Lornth is not exactly filled with love for angels, either, and it’s pretty clear that the holders have some considerable influence over the regents.”

Nylan nodded, recalling that those holders had apparently forced the late Lord Sillek into his ill-fated expedition against Westwind.

The sound of hurried feet on the stones of the tower steps rose from a murmur to a whisper-slapping rhythm. Then a young woman, black hair bound into a loose braid, burst out into the orangish afternoon light. Her eyes darted from Nylan to Ayrlyn.

“Healer! Please, it be young Nesslek.”

Ayrlyn looked to Nylan, then back to the black-haired young woman. “Nesslek? The regent’s son…what?”

“They say it be a fever.” She shook her head. “It be more-chaos fever-like as killed my Acora. Please…go to her. Go to the Lady Zeldyan afore it be too late.”

“She sent you?”

“I did not wait to be sent.”

Ayrlyn gave Nylan a wry smile. “It’s nice to be needed for something.”

Nylan scooped up Weryl and hoisted the boy up to his shoulder. “Lead on.”

Despite the woman’s urgency, the smith forced himself to take the narrow stairs carefully. The illness might only be a fever, but even if it weren’t, there was no benefit to anyone if the would-be healers crashed down the treacherous and narrow stone steps.

Then, too, what exactly could they do? Localized infections caused by wounds were one thing, but Nylan wondered about a systemic infection. He’d been less than spectacularly successful in his one attempt-Ellysia had died, and he hadn’t been in the best of shape for days afterward.

“This way,” urged the woman, turning and scurrying down the dim hallway toward the end of the keep that held the apartments of the regents.