Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

“Maybe because Sarysta wanted Barrynt to be miserable for the rest of his life, and Johlana made him happy,” suggested Beltur.

  “From what everyone’s said, Barrynt was miserable for several years. That should have been enough.”

  “For someone like Sarysta…”

  Jessyla shook her head. “I don’t think that makes sense. It shouldn’t, anyway.”

  “So what do I do? From what I’ve seen, if I mention it to Barrynt, he’ll get really angry again, the way he was the other day. And I really don’t want to tell Johlana, because she’ll either get upset or tell Barrynt…”

  “If not both,” said Jessyla.

  “And I don’t want to put Barrynt in one of his moods again. Not right after he’s been so angry.”

  “Why don’t you just wait a day or two, then,” suggested Jessyla. “Let him calm down before you tell him something that will upset him.”

  “I don’t want to wait too long. I didn’t like the way Sarysta was talking about the mirror and Johlana.”

  “You could stop by there tomorrow after the healing house. That will at least give Barrynt another day to calm down. Come home and the two of us could go over there together.”

  Beltur nodded. “It might be better if you were with me.”

  “Then we’ll plan on that.”

  Beltur took a deep breath.

  “Do you feel better about it?”

  “Better. I still worry.” But the last thing Beltur wanted to do was to send Barrynt into a rage, and a day, really, even less than a day, to let things settle was probably a good idea. Beltur hoped so, anyway.

  LXV

  Eightday morning was slightly warmer than it had been on sevenday, but it was still clear and cold, not warm enough, nor cloudy enough to presage a northeaster. When Beltur entered the stable, he was surprised to see Frankyr there, saddling one of his father’s horses.

  “Good morning, Frankyr. Are you going riding?”

  “Just to give Starshine a little exercise. The horses need it, even if it is cold.”

  Beltur nodded, then asked, “How are you doing at the factorage?”

  “I’m learning. There’s more to know than I thought.” A rueful expression crossed the young man’s face.

  “There always is … in everything.”

  Frankyr gave a gentle laugh of agreement.

  “How’s your father doing?”

  “Well enough, ser.”

  Frankyr’s almost too calm and flat statement told Beltur that Barrynt still wasn’t a happy man. “Well … give him my best. I hope he’ll be feeling better soon.”

  “Thank you.” Frankyr smiled, partly out of relief that Beltur hadn’t pursued the inquiry, most likely, and added, “I’ll tell him … after I get back.”

  Frankyr’s words confirmed Beltur’s feelings that it probably had been a good idea to wait until that afternoon to talk to Barrynt. Even so, as he picked up the pitchfork and started for the end of the stable, he still worried somewhat about Barrynt, given that he’d heard earlier that Barrynt’s “moods” usually passed quickly … and the present “mood” definitely seemed not to be passing. But what else can you do, especially when it’s a family matter that Barrynt and Johlana aren’t sharing with you?

  Beltur tried to put aside his worries as he dealt with the stable. Before long, Frankyr finished saddling Starshine and rode off.

  The young man still hadn’t returned before Beltur finished his stable chores and headed off to the healing house, still pondering over everything. After his two encounters with Sarysta, he was beginning to see why Barrynt was so upset. On the other hand, it isn’t as though people are trying to kill him or his family, or even drive them out of Axalt. But then, he could recall the young Undercaptain Zandyr during the invasion, a man still really a youth, but one so involved with position and who consorted whom, and who wasn’t considered to have position—like Beltur—and who was.

  Given that, he could understand Barrynt’s being upset at the clear social jabs being leveled at Johlana. What he had trouble understanding was why people like Sarysta needed to be nasty to those they thought beneath them. Maybe they don’t even see themselves as nasty, but just as holding to their “traditional” standards. After all, Trader Alizant likely hadn’t even considered the hardship created for Jorhan and Beltur by his desire to control the trade of cupridium, and if he had, he certainly would have dismissed Beltur and Jorhan as undeserving inferiors. Even in Axalt, the Council had had difficulty with the “unprecedented” situation with which Beltur and Taelya had presented them.

  Beltur was still shaking his head when he walked into the healing house and took off his coat and scarf. Then he walked to Herrara’s study.

  “You’re looking thoughtful this morning,” said Herrara.

  “Just thinking.”

  “Jessyla told me what the Council said. They didn’t change their minds, did they?”

  “Oh, no. I was thinking more about how they decided and how close it likely was because we represented something new and unprecedented and how people don’t like change.”

  “Most people don’t. Do you?”

  Beltur laughed, then shook his head. “For the last year my life has been nothing but one change after another. Well … most of the last year. It’s not as though I ever had a choice.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.” Herrara’s tone was dry.

  “Some of the changes were terrible, and I didn’t like those. Some were for the best, and I knew that, and some weren’t for the best, but I learned from them.”

  “That’s likely the way most of us feel, but most people dread change when it looks to affect the way they’ve always lived. The Council’s no different.”

  “They seem to be fairer than the Traders’ Council of Spidlar.”

  “From what you and Jessyla have said and from what I’ve heard, that wouldn’t be hard.” Herrara paused, then said, “There’s another man found in the snow near the Traders’ Bowl last night. He’s upstairs in the room across from the stairs. I’d like you to take a look at him first.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, but come back here before you look at Klaznyt or the others.”

  Beltur nodded and took a basket of supplies from the shelf, just in case, then left the study and made his way up the stairs. Just when he was about to cross the hall and enter the room, Elisa stepped out of the adjoining room. Beltur stopped.

  “I’m glad the Council decided that you and Jessyla could stay in Axalt.”

  “Thank you. So are we.”

  “You’re both such good healers, different, but good.”

  “How would you say we’re different?” Beltur could immediately sense that his question had flustered the young healer-in-training and offered a warm smile.

  “Ah … you both care. She shows it more. You don’t … but … you both work so hard to heal people.” After a moment, she said, “You’re a powerful mage. I can sense that. You don’t say much, but you work so hard as a healer…”

  “And you want to know why?”

  Elisa nodded.

  Beltur smiled ruefully. “I’m not sure I know … except it’s important, somehow.” He shrugged. “That’s not much of an answer, but it’s all I can say.” And it was.

  After another hesitation, Elisa said, “You’re looking in at the old man there?” She looked toward the half-open door.

  “I am.”

  “We couldn’t get much water or even ale into him. I don’t think … it’s not my place to say…”

  “Wait here, if you would,” said Beltur.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I won’t be long.” Beltur crossed the hall and entered the room. He immediately understood what Elisa had meant. The man lying under the blanket drawn up to his neck was breathing, as evidenced by a labored wheezing, but otherwise unmoving. His salt-and-pepper beard was so tangled that a rat’s nest was doubtless better looking, and there were patches of frostburn on the exposed skin of his
face, as well as elsewhere, from the reddish wound chaos Beltur could sense. Most telling was the very low level of both natural order and natural chaos, as low and possibly lower than Beltur had seen before, even in those who were dying or had died soon after he’d sensed such levels. There were also scores of patches of reddish wound chaos spread within his skull, dull chaos, but so many that Beltur could have spent days trying to remove them.

  Yet as Beltur looked more closely, he could see that the man was likely not any older than Athaal had been, possibly even younger. He could also sense that both natural order and chaos were slowly seeping away … and that there was little or nothing that he could do. Neither free order nor chaos would help, and might actually hurt, so fragile was the man’s condition, and using Beltur’s own natural forces would only prolong the dying.

  He took a deep breath, then touched the man’s forehead, and offered just the slightest bit of order and warmth before stepping back and leaving the room.

  Elisa stood outside in the hallway, waiting, her eyes on him.

  “You’re right. He won’t last long, and there’s nothing I can do. I don’t think anyone could.” He paused. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded, then said, “It bothers you, too.”

  “Yes. It bothers Herrara, too. I don’t think you ever get used to it.”

  As he headed back downstairs, another thought struck him. And you shouldn’t ever get used to it.

  Herrara looked up from the ledger as Beltur entered the study. “What do you think?”

  “He’s dying. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. Elisa said you couldn’t even get him to drink.”

  “Not when they’re that far gone. That could have happened to Klaznyt, if they hadn’t found him as soon as they did.”

  “How often does this happen?”

  “Several times every winter. Three years ago, there were more than a half score, but that was the coldest winter than I can remember.”

  Beltur tried not to wince. The winter so far had certainly seemed bitter to him.

  “You might as well get to the others now. I just wanted your opinion.”

  Beltur nodded. He understood why.

  Taking his basket, he headed for Wurfael’s room. The young timberman would certainly be more cheerful than Klaznyt.

  Wurfael was indeed cheerful, possibly because he was getting used to the peg leg, and had learned that he could sleep in the tin shop once Herrara said he could leave. Klaznyt didn’t want to talk, and that was fine with Beltur, who found only a few new spots of wound chaos.

  More than a glass later, he had just finished putting a new dressing on the arm of a young girl in the welcoming room when Elisa appeared.

  “She needs you in the surgery.”

  Beltur hurried down the corridor and through the half-open door.

  A dark-haired and stocky man sat on one side of the surgery table. From his ruddy complexion and weathered face, Beltur would have guessed that he was perhaps ten years older than Beltur himself and that he was someone who worked outside.

  A woman stood beside him, talking to Herrara. “… not right, I say, not at all.”

  “I’m fine … just short of breath,” declared the man.

  “It might be more than that,” said Herrara, glancing toward Beltur. “Does your chest hurt?”

  As Beltur drew nearer, he saw that the man was sweating profusely, and that his face was pale beneath the ruddiness of his weathered skin.

  The man shook his head, then said, “Maybe a little.”

  Herrara took the man’s wrist, holding it for a time, before releasing it and asking, “Have you been working hard today?”

  “On eightday? No. Only day I don’t work.”

  “Have you been hurt recently?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?” The woman glared at him and turned to Herrara. “The log pile at the mill shifted on him, logs rolled over his legs, bruised him all over them.”

  “That was the pile of the smaller logs, not the big ones.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “An eightday back from sixday,” answered the woman. “He was so sore he could hardly walk for two, three days. He still walks like he’s sore.”

  “Just bruises…” The man’s eyes fluttered, and then he slumped forward.

  Beltur managed to catch him, and he and Herrara stretched him out on the table.

  Beltur immediately tried to sense what might be the problem.

  “What is it?” demanded the woman.

  “We’re trying to find out,” said Herrara tersely as she leaned down and listened to the man’s chest. “His heart’s still beating fast. Too fast.”

  The man shuddered slightly, and his eyes opened for a moment. He tried to speak, but all that happened was that a slight foam, tinged with blood, issued from his mouth.

  “Has he had any signs of consumption?” asked Herrara.

  “Bartrand? Never. Never even got the sniffles.”

  “What sort of chaos do you detect?” Herrara asked Beltur.

  “There’s nothing around the heart, but there’s a lot around his right lung, and, of course, in his legs and thighs, especially on the right side.”

  Abruptly, Bartrand stiffened. Beltur could sense that his heart had stopped beating. In moments, the black and chill mist of death that Beltur had felt too often drifted across him.

  “What happened? What did you do?”

  Beltur swallowed, then looked at the woman. “We didn’t do anything. He … he just … died.”

  “What did you do? Why couldn’t you do something? You’re healers!”

  “There wasn’t anything we could do,” Herrara replied. “The chaos from his legs, from all that bruising, rose through his body and got into his lungs and heart.”

  “He said they were only bruises. He only had a few scrapes and cuts.”

  “Sometimes, when chaos is inside someone, they don’t even know it,” Herrara said gently.

  “But he was so strong. He was good. Why did it have to happen to him?”

  “That kind of chaos,” said Herrara, her tone still gentle, “doesn’t care whether someone is good. It’s a hidden kind of wound chaos. I’m so sorry…”

  Tears seeped from the corners of the woman’s eyes. “Why Bartrand? He was so young. I told him yesterday … told him he needed to see a healer…”

  Beltur stood there unmoving. He’d seen more than enough death, but he’d always seen an obvious cause—a sword, an arrow, a chaos bolt, one of his own order confinements, or even a massive growth of wound chaos too great and too widespread to stop—but this…? A little chest pain, a small froth of blood, and bruising in the legs and thighs, and points of chaos in the lungs and chest? And a strong man was suddenly dead.

  “Sometimes … there’s nothing we can do,” said Herrara.

  Beltur could sense both sadness and fatalism from the older healer … and the swirling of order and chaos from the bereaved woman.

  “You can go, Beltur,” said Herrara. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Nothing at all.

  Beltur still felt numb as he walked from the surgery, and he wondered why. He hadn’t known the man. He’d only seen his last moments. But it was so sudden … and so seemingly without cause.

  Because he really didn’t want to see or talk to anyone for a time, he walked back to Herrara’s office and sat down on the straight-backed chair in the corner.

  After a time, Beltur wasn’t certain how long, Herrara walked into the study, closing the door before making her way to the desk and sitting down behind it. She looked evenly at him.

  “You’ve had quite a day, Beltur.”

  “So have you.”

  “I’m a little more used to it.”

  “I’ve probably seen more death than you have,” he replied, “but not … like this.”

  “Why is it different?”

  Beltur thought she honestly sounded interested.

&n
bsp; “In battle, you know people will die. You hope you’re not one of them. Except you really don’t think about it. You can’t afford to. Then … when it’s over, you’re relieved that it’s not you. Later, sometimes a lot later, you feel guilty about others, at least I did, about the ones you might have saved, and the ones … the ones you tried to save and couldn’t. But there were reasons, likely senseless reasons, but people did things based on those reasons. Here … is there any real reason why one man will survive with clumsy hands and another will die, and there’s nothing we can do about it? Or that another man dies, somehow, of a wound he never knew he had, and that we can’t do a thing about?”

  “That’s what healing’s all about. We often don’t know who will live and who won’t. Or why. We can only do our best … and hope.” She smiled sadly. “Isn’t that what life’s about?”

  Beltur nodded.

  After a long silence, she said, “It’s time to make another round. Spend a few moments with Wurfael. It will do you both good.”

  As he stood Beltur couldn’t but help smiling briefly at her no-nonsense tone.

  The rest of the day was, thankfully, far less eventful, and Beltur left, slightly before fourth glass, at Herrara’s behest.

  As he walked back to the cot, still thinking over everything that had happened during the day, he realized that the wind had indeed shifted to the northeast, and that he could see dark clouds just lurking at the end of the narrow canyon that led eastward to Certis. Definitely looks like a northeaster. At least it wouldn’t start snowing until well after dinner, and he and Jessyla could go see Barrynt before the snow started. He wasn’t looking forward to that, either.

  When he opened the door to the cot, Jessyla immediately was there to meet him by the time he’d taken off his coat. She started to speak, then paused for a moment before finally saying, “You look like it was a hard day.”

  Beltur nodded. “A man came in having trouble breathing and in less than half a quint he was dead…” He explained quickly, then said, “I’m sure you’ve seen things like that.”

  “Not since we’ve been here. It happened more often in Elparta.”

  “Somehow the chaos from those bruises in his legs got to his lungs and heart.”