The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I’ve read a lot in a lot of languages, but I’ve never come across a forest that was treated so much like… an entity.”

  “Entity?” asked the smith.

  “Wadah, da-da?” asked Weryl, tottering on both legs, while holding on to the side of the big bed’s footboard.

  The engineer stood and pushed the straight-backed chair from the writing table, then retrieved Weryl’s cup from the sideboard that served as their meal table when they had not eaten with the regents. “Here you are.”

  “You know. The North Forest of Sybra-the poets say it’s desolate… cold… terrible… but the dangers are from the yellowcats or the wind that sucks away life. The rain forests of Svenn-there it’s the same thing. People talk about the knife lizards or the walking snakes or the rhombats. Here…”

  Weryl took the covered cup, sat down on the hard stone floor with a plop, and slurped water from the spout, ignoring the stream that dribbled around the edges and out of his mouth.

  “It’s as though this Accursed Forest were alive?” asked Nylan after deciding to let Weryl slurp and dribble as he pleased for the moment. “Isn’t that just low-tech superstition?”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, why are we both getting repetitive dreams about a forest, a forest filled with both order and chaos?”

  Nylan wasn’t sure he wanted to think about it. “So we have to go off and fight an enemy that we don’t know that comes from a land where there’s a magic forest that no one understands that’s sending us dreams?”

  “We don’t have much choice,” said Ayrlyn, shaking her head as she watched the silver-haired boy drink. “Do you think so?”

  “Probably not, not unless we want to turn into fugitives unwelcome anywhere.”

  “So we’ll go with Fornal and see what happens at the mines. Maybe we can figure out more as we travel.”

  “The whole business is shaping up as a mess,” said Nylan. “Sillek lost most of the disciplined armsmen on the Roof of the World, and Fornal is one of those types that distrust all strangers. And I’m certainly not one of his favorite people- not now. Yet we’re stuck with him. He isn’t going to want us to go with him.”

  “He’s only one of the three regents,” Ayrlyn pointed out. “So we ask one of the other regents.”

  “Which one?”

  “Gethen,” said Ayrlyn. “Zeldyan has already stuck her neck out for us, and Fornal was ready to kill her when she hustled him out of the courtyard.” Ayrlyn paused and frowned. “She was trying to keep him from making a complete public idiot of himself, and he didn’t even see it.”

  “Some of us men don’t.” The engineer, his eyes half on Weryl, stood by the open window, where the hot afternoon breeze-bearing an unfamiliar fragrance, a combination of lemon, mint, and reisera-ruffled his hair.

  “Should we approach Gethen right now?” Nylan carted Weryl into the bath chamber.

  “There’s something a smith told me about forging while the coals are hot.” The healer grinned as she followed him.

  Cleaning Weryl didn’t take that long, and in time they stepped out of their chamber into the stone-walled inner corridor of the keep.

  The inside hall was stuffy, and hotter than their chamber by far. Nylan was damp all over within a dozen steps toward the old part of the keep where he hoped to find the oldest regent. Gethen wasn’t in the old tower, nor in the armory. They did find him in the stable, beside the stall of a roan, talking to a square-faced but spare man with thinning mahogany hair.

  Whufff… uuuufff… The big horse thumped against the side of the stall, edging away from the regent as he stepped into the stall, followed by Guisanek.

  Nylan and Ayrlyn retreated to the shadows near the front doors, waiting not exactly silently, since Weryl continued to murmur, but far enough away from the two men that Nylan hoped they wouldn’t seem too intrusive.

  The odors of horses, straw, clay, and manure drifted up around them as they stood waiting.

  A sandy-haired figure appeared and bowed. “Good day, angels. Your mounts are doing well,” said Merthek. “I persuaded Edicat-he’s the farrier-to reshoe the one mare, not the chestnut.” The stable boy grinned. “Told him he could charge the merchant types more by telling them he’d shoed an angel mount. He growled at me, but he did it.”

  “Thank you,” Nylan said.

  “I did it for her, too, ser angel,” Merthek pointed out. “She is a good mare, and deserves solid shoes.” He paused. “Surely not just concern for your mounts brings you to the depths of our stables?” The boy wrinkled his nose suggestively.

  “Your stable is far cleaner than most,” Nylan said.

  Merthek gave a short bow. “Master Guisanek insists upon it… but still-”

  “We were waiting for ser Gethen,” said Ayrlyn.

  “He be talking with Guisanek, about the roan.” Merthek shook his head. “The stallion limps, and they find nothing. Edicat knows it lies in the pastern, but he can do nothing. We have no animal healers here.” His eyes flicked toward the stall where Guisanek and Gethen still studied the stallion’s front leg. Then his voice lowered. “We had three wizards, and not a one could help a mount. Oh, they could cast fire and murder… and when all’s said what good be that?”

  “No good,” answered Nylan, “but sometimes necessary.”

  “There be nothing… ser Gethen.” Guisanek’s voice drifted toward the angels and Merthek.

  The stable boy bowed again to the angels and slipped away.

  “He might make a good stable master some day,” said Ayrlyn.

  “He’s too practical and caring,” Nylan answered.

  “Cynical man.”

  They both stepped forward as Gethen strode away from Guisanek. “Good day, Regent Gethen.”

  “Good day, angels.” In scarred working leathers that could have passed for those of a stablemaster, Gethen surveyed the three. Then his eyes narrowed, and he focused on the redhead. “They say you are a healer. Can you tell me what ails the roan?”

  “I can look,” Ayrlyn responded.

  “Come then,” said Gethen.

  Nylan followed Ayrlyn, and Gethen frowned but said nothing as he turned back toward the stall.

  Ayrlyn stood by the stall for a moment, and Nylan could feel the waves of calmness radiating from her before she slipped up beside the roan stallion.

  The redhead ran her fingers across the roan’s pastern. Even Nylan could sense the chaos there, and nodded. She stood and looked at him. “The two of us…”

  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.

  XLVIII

  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 Accra. 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.

  Still carrying Weryl, Nylan approached the guards, Ayrlyn matching him, step for step.

  The black-haired woman halted before the guards. “The angels are healers, and the Lady Zeldyan has need of them.”

  The two guards in green-trimmed purple tunics exchanged glances, one looking to the blades at the angels’ waists.

  Nylan glanced down. “Oh… sorry. We hadn’t planned to be here.”

  Ayrlyn unsheathed her blade and extended it, hilt first, then took Weryl as Nylan followed her example.

  The heavy-set guard, now holding two shortswords, looked puzzled.

  “Announce them,” ordered the thinner guard.

  The heavy guard rapped on the door. Muffled words issued from behind the heavy dark wood.

  “The angel healers are here.”

  After a moment the three-paneled carved door swung open, and a dark-bearded form stepped out into the corridor. “We have no need of angel healers.”

  “Your pardon, ser Fornal,” Nylan said. “We did not wish to intrude, but we were summoned.”

  ‘There is no need-“

  Zeldyan slipped out beside Fornal.

  “Lady.” Nylan bowed his head.

  “I did not summon you, yet…” the regent began, her blond hair disarrayed-the first time Nylan had seen it so. Her eyes went to the black-haired woman. “Sylenia?”

  “Your Grace… it be the chaos fever.” Sylenia bent her head. “I know. I know.”

  “It be nothing,” snorted Fornal. “The boy has but an unpleasantness. It happens to many young folk. It will pass. These matters do.”

  For a long moment, Zeldyan sur
veyed Fornal, the angels, the hallway, the guards, Sylenia, and finally Weryl.

  “Ahhh?” asked the boy.

  Zeldyan smiled faintly. “Angels… you may enter. Sylenia, you wait here with their child. If it be chaos fever indeed, he should not enter.”

  Nylan slowly eased his son into Sylenia’s arms. “You be good.” He couldn’t dispute the validity of Zeldyan’s point, especially in a culture without any real medical technology- but what was he doing in exposing himself-and Ayrlyn?

  “He will be fine.” Sylenia beamed down at Weryl. At her smile, the puzzled look on the boy’s face faded into a wary acceptance.

  Fornal scowled at Zeldyan. “Be you sure?”

  “Fornal, Nesslek is my son. Angels, if you would follow me.” Zeldyan turned, and the two angels followed the blond regent into the sitting room. Nylan nodded to himself at the quiet luxury-the matching and cushioned armchairs, the carved game or informal dining table, and the heavy purple and green carpet, worn enough, yet still thick, to indicate its age and considerable value. Beside the base of the candelabra was a malachite and silver hairband, lying there as if dropped or tossed carelessly.

  “He is in the small bedchamber,” the regent said, crossing the room and easing wide the already ajar door. “All children have their illnesses.” Zeldyan paused. “Healers are for wounds and cuts, not for fevers and the fluxes within. Those healers I have known, they bleed and mix potions, and it matters not.” The regent looked at Ayrlyn. “You would not cut or bleed him?”

  “Bleeding? Why do… no. Never”‘ the redhead added more strongly.

  Nylan shook his head as well.

  Nesslek lay on his back in the ornately carved bed of dark polished wood, his breathing labored, and his small forehead damp and flushed.

  Even from cubits away, both angels could sense the white ugliness of chaos and infection.

  Nylan knelt beside the small bed, his fingers going out past the silklike pillowcase with the green and purple embroidered edging to the forehead of the fevered child.