The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Would you like some travel bread?”

  The sudden moisture in his mouth answered before he did. “Yes, please.”

  “I can see that you are recovering your manners, although you have not troubled yourself to let me know who you are.”

  Justen felt himself flushing. “I am sorry. I’m Justen, and I’m an engineer, a very junior one, from Recluce.”

  “Thank you, You need to eat.” Dayala placed a chunk of bread in his hands, her smooth fingers barely touching his skin.

  Justen chewed a small corner off the chunk of bread, which had a moist, thick texture tinged with the taste of nuts. Even chewing was an effort, but slowly he finished the bread and found the water bottle in his hands. He drank.

  “Tomorrow… if you improve… we will continue our travel.”

  “Where are we going?” Justen forced the question out before yawning.

  “To Rybatta.”

  “Rybatta?” He yawned again.

  “That is… my home. You will be welcome there.”

  Lying against the pillow, Justen half-shrugged, cutting the gesture short as his shoulders protested. His eyes closed.

  LXX

  Justen woke to the sound of the tent flapping overhead in a soft breeze, discovering that Dayala-or someone-had covered him with a soft blanket. For the first time, he realized that all of his clothes, except for his drawers, had been removed. He stretched gingerly, relieved that nothing cracked or sent sharp spines of pain through his body. Then he cautiously inched into a sitting position, his back against the pillow.

  From the flapping of the tent, and the cooler air that flowed across his face, and from the grayness that seeped through the bandage across his eyes, he sensed that it was sometime around dawn. He kept the blanket, softer than any he had ever felt, around him, wondering where his clothes were, or if they had been ruined beyond repair by his trek through the sand and the Stone Hills.

  He let his perceptions flow around him and discovered the water bottle. He reached out, fumbled a bit in uncapping it but eased it to his mouth and took a deep swallow of the liquid: water, mixed with something bitter. As he recapped the bottle, he heard steps.

  “You are awake. I was getting your garments. Repairing them was, shall we say, a challenge.” Dayala set a pile of clothing by his hand. “You should be able to travel some today.”

  “I’ll have trouble without being able to see.”

  “After you get dressed, we’ll take off the bandage.” She turned, and her steps receded.

  Justen shrugged. He ought to be able to dress without seeing.

  After reaching for his shirt, he discovered he had the tunic. Then he had the shirt halfway on before realizing it was inside out. Eventually, he managed to get himself together and to struggle into his boots.

  Breathing heavily, he lurched out from the tent, almost knocking over a side pole.

  “It might be wise to take the binding off your eyes now. You ought to sit down.” Dayala guided him to a boulder, warm even in the early light, where he sat as she loosened the knot that held the strips in place around his head and across his eyes.

  Justen’s still-swollen fingers fumbled with the cloth, and he squinted under the bandage at the distant light of the Stone Hills. Even before he had eased the last strip off his face, his eyes watered and he closed them, not daring to open them.

  But finally, when his eyes had adjusted to the worst of the glare, he blinked once, then twice, and peeped at the sand at his feet. His boots looked almost new, as did his trousers.

  Dayala stood by his elbow, but he did not look in her direction for a time; he was still squinting. Finally, he turned his head toward her.

  The woman’s face appeared haloed in light, and she wore what seemed to be a light-brown shirt and trousers, with a dark, woven belt.

  Justen blinked, squinting again. “Can’t really see you…” He looked more closely at her shimmering, shoulder-length silver hair. He blinked and swallowed again. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his fingers together, letting his perceptions inch toward her.

  He shook his head. She seemed to consist of a pillar of absolute blackness-yet there was something else, almost like chained chaos, beneath that darkness, strong and absolute as it seemed to be. His perception of her chilled him so much that he shivered. Finally, he opened his eyes to a slit and glanced toward her, taking a long, deep breath.

  “It wasn’t a dream, was it?”

  Dayala shook her head slowly. “Why do you find it so hard to believe that I am real?”

  “I’m not used to dreams coming to life.”

  She grinned and shook her head, as if what he had said were childishly amusing. Justen tightened his lips. His stomach growled.

  “You need to eat.” —

  The engineer grinned helplessly, betrayed by his body. “What about you?”

  “I ate already.” She bustled through a pack until she brought out a block of cheese and a half-loaf of bread and handed him both. After struggling with the cheese, he reached to his belt but discovered he had no knife. With a greater effort, he finally broke off a chunk of the cheese. While he bad struggled with the cheese, Dayala had retrieved the water bottle, and she set it down wordlessly, still capped, by his feet. He alternated the cheese and bread, but his stomach filled after only a few mouthfuls.

  “You have not eaten much in a long time.”

  Justen looked down at the long, loose end of his belt. “A longtime.”

  “I will pack up now. We should begin to travel while it is still cool.”

  Justen’s eyes glanced at Dayala’s bare feet. “Boots?”

  “Oh, no. They would separate me too much.”

  She walked over to the tent, leaving Justen to sip from the water bottle, and slipped the cords that held the side poles. With quick, deft movements, she had the tent on the ground before he had finished and recapped the bottle.

  “Wait a moment,” he said.

  Dayala paused, looking up at him from a kneeling position.

  “You rescued me. You sent those dreams to me. You knew exactly where I was. Not that I didn’t need rescuing, and not…” he swallowed “… that you’re not lovely, but I’d really like to know…” He shrugged.

  Dayala turned and sat crosslegged on the folded tent. “The Ancient One found you in the dreams of the Angels. This does not happen often, and a sending must be matched to… a suitable person. So the Ancient One summoned those who might be… suited.” The druid moistened her lips. “She helped me with the sendings. We did not know if you would come to Naclos.”

  “What if I had not?”

  Dayala looked down at the ground. “In some seasons’ time, I would have had to come for you.”

  Justen pondered. Finally, he asked, “Did you make me come to the Stone Hills?”

  “No! We do not compel… not ever.”

  “But how did you find me?”

  “One of the An-ancients helped me.”

  “But why?”

  “The Balance has a use for you. I do not know what it is, only that you… are special.”

  “So are sacrifices, I understand.”

  She blanched as if he had struck her.

  “I’m sorry.” He felt as though he had been the one struck. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. It just seems that everyone but me knows what’s going on and everyone is pushing me all over the world.”

  A shadow dimmed the intense green eyes. “I know that you are of great import, of more import than I will ever be. That is hard-”

  “Me? A junior engineer?” Justen laughed.

  “The power is not in the name, but in the actions, and in the ability to act. Have your actions not already changed the world?”

  The image of the dead Iron Guard, still clutching the black-tipped arrow, came to mind, and he shivered. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “The ancients do.”

  Justen shook his head. Was this real, or was he still dreaming, a
nd dying?

  As he sat there, Dayala slipped from her sitting position.

  “I can help you roll up your tent,” Justen pointed out, deciding that since he felt alive, he might as well act that way.

  “I am used to doing it alone.” Dayala smiled. “If you would hold this while I slip the cords around it?”

  Justen kept the tent fabric, somehow pleated to stay in its shape, compressed until Dayala had tied the cords. Then he rose. “Where does it go?”

  “You’re still weaker than you think.”

  “Fine. We can carry it together.” He picked up one end of the tent, now tied into a bundle less than four cubits long but almost a cubit and a half thick.

  Dayala picked up the other end easily.

  As they walked past the boulders to the still-shaded gully where the horses waited, Justen’s fingers rubbed at the fabric. For the size of the tent, the bundle was light. “What is the tent made from?”

  “A kind of… silk.” Dayala laughed as she spoke. “This goes on the brown stallion at the end.”

  Justen swallowed as he looked at three horses. None wore bridles, or even hackamores, and none bore a saddle. Instead, they wore soft, woven harnesses. The two mares were already loaded with thin packs. One carried several jugs. He stepped up beside the stallion, who turned his head to watch as Justen eased the tent over the harness. He found the cords and began to fasten one side.

  “Not too tight. Just enough that it won’t shift.”

  “Ah… how are we traveling?” Justen asked.

  “The same as they are. The same way you got here. On our feet.” She began to dig in one of the packs, finally lifting out an object that she unfolded and handed to Justen. “Here. This should help you with the sun.”

  Justen took the soft hat, apparently woven from some sort of grass, and eased it onto his still-sore head. Light as the hat was, his scalp did not protest, and his eyes stopped watering quite so much.

  “Thank you. This helps.” Justen adjusted the hat. “But I don’t understand. You have horses. And you’re barefoot. How can you walk through… this?” Was he still dreaming?

  “The horses have agreed to help me.” Dayala’s voice was matter-of-fact, as though she stated an obvious truth. “And I hope you will be all right in your boots. They seem so confining.” The woman shivered.

  “I hope Rybatta isn’t too far.” Am I saying this, Justen asked himself, while just assuming that I can walk to some town I’ve never heard of with a woman I only met in my dreams? He shook his head, but the dryness of the Stone Hills and the dull soreness of his feet added to the sense of reality.

  “An eight-day or so, I would say, although we will move faster as you get stronger.”

  Justen didn’t know whether he hoped his healing were fast or slow as Dayala marched out over the hot sand and rocky ground as if her bare feet were shod in the best of leather boots.

  They had wound around two wide curves between hills and Justen’s steps were slowing when Dayala paused. Her eyes narrowed, even more than required by the endless sun. Justen stopped, as did the horses.

  Finally, Dayala pulled a small shovel from the roan’s load and walked toward the shaded side of the hill, stopping near a dry and sandy patch. She lifted the shovel and forced it into the sand, almost as if it were an effort.

  Justen walked over. “Would it be easier if I did the digging?”

  “Yes. You and the horses will need water, but… even here…”

  Justen ignored the unfinished sentence and began to dig. After four shovelfuls, he was sweating. Four more, and he paused to catch his breath. He looked at the sand in the bottom of the hole, suddenly damp. He resumed digging. After perhaps another five or six shovelfuls, he stopped.

  The bottom of the hole had begun to fill with relatively clear water, and Dayala slipped a shallow pan with a tapered end into the hole.

  Justen watched as she used the pan to fill the two large jugs carried by the mare, and then filled both their water bottles. Something-like a pulse of order-tinged green- passed between her and the horses. Then she stood aside and let the horses drink, and the depression kept refilling.

  “Now we will not have to stop until later.”

  Justen cautiously sipped the water, but it tasted only faintly sandy, and his order-senses told him that it carried nothing chaotic. He took another swallow before capping the bottle and replacing it in his belt holder.

  The stallion neighed, and the horses moved away from the water. Even as Justen watched, the last of the liquid sank back into the sand. He swallowed, squinted, and turned to follow Dayala as she marched southward.

  LXXI

  “You requested my presence?” Beltar bowed at the entrance to the room that had been the port governor’s office.

  Zerchas continued to study the lower part of Rulyarth below the bluff, the part that contained the now empty harbor.

  “I did. We’ve rested enough. Go meet your friend, what’s-his-name, in Clynya, or however close he got while chasing that Black engineer.” Zerchas drank the red wine straight from the bottle. “Go the inland route. I want you to take Berlitos, and we’ll both-”

  “That seems a bit roundabout,” offered Beltar. “Just let Eldiren deal with Clynya. If I take Bornt and follow the river to Berlitos, that will leave Clynya and Rohrn cut off. I can swing up to Clynya if Eldiren has problems. Neither Clynya nor Rohrn’s that big. Or do you plan to take Bornt?”

  “I like your idea better.” Zerchas grinned. “After all, if they don’t submit, why… you can treat them as you did Sarron. I’d rather leave Jera intact; it’s a pretty town, and the port’s not bad. Later on, you and your friend can clean up the little places. You have a certain style. The locals already are calling you ‘The White Butcher.’” Zerchas laughed. “By comparison, I seem almost friendly.”

  Beltar remained silent.

  “You know, young Beltar,” offered Zerchas, “the problem with using force is that everyone expects it from you, and when you don’t use it, they think you’ve lost either your powers or your will. You can’t make-and keep-the amulet on power alone.” Zerchas shook his head. “You don’t understand. You won’t until it’s too late. Go on, destroy whatever you want to, but leave Jera alone.”

  “I assure you that I will destroy only as much as is necessary, and no more.” Beltar bowed deeply. “I assume that the remainder of the lancers and the Certan and Gallosian levies are for this campaign,”

  “You’re very perceptive, young Beltar.”

  “And Jehan? Will he be accompanying me?”

  “I think not. I have a few other… tasks for Jehan. He doesn’t need more corruption.”

  “I see,” Beltar bowed again before leaving.

  Zerchas thought about the younger wizard for a long time, his forehead knotted. “They never understand,” he murmured. Then he took another deep swallow of the red wine. “Bah. Turning already…”

  LXXII

  Scrrittch… scrittchhh…

  Justen’s eyes opened at the sound of the spike rat. For a moment, he stared into the darkness before his eyes completely adjusted. At least his night vision had returned.

  By the time he could see clearly, both the sound and the spike rat had disappeared, but he did not feel immediately sleepy, perhaps because his feet still ached.

  The only nearby sounds were the faint swish of a night breeze across the sands of the Stone Hills, still warm even in the quiet toward dawn, and the even fainter whisper of Dayala’s breathing.

  His eyes turned toward the woman, who lay uncovered on a woven mat, barefooted and bare-headed, wearing the same trousers and shirt, which never seemed to get dirty. Her lips were parted slightly, and the silver hair swirled around her broad shoulders.

  Was she beautiful? Not exactly, at least not in the sense that Krytella had been, for Dayala’s face was too open, almost blank-looking in sleep, especially with much of the life supplied by her intense green eyes, now locked behind her eyelids. Her chin w
as almost elfin, but without the high cheekbones that Justen felt should have gone with such a chin. Yet, there was… something… about her.

  He shook his head. Maybe it was just kindness he was responding to.

  She twitched slightly and mumbled, a frown crossing her forehead.

  “… my sending…”

  Justen waited, but she lapsed into a deeper sleep. Before long, he did also.

  Dayala woke before he did. That was obvious from the water, travel bread, and cheese waiting for him. “You need to eat first.”

  “Not quite.” He smiled crookedly and padded out of the tent, watching where he put his bare feet and wincing with almost every step until he stepped behind a low boulder. His chin itched with the scraggly beard he was growing, and he missed the razor as much as he did the knife.

  When he returned, Dayala was eating a chunk of the bread. He sat down and brushed the sand from the bottom of his feet and picked a small pebble out from under the crook of his big toe. It had felt much larger. Then he looked at his left wrist, at a thin scab less than a span long, somehow more than a scratch, yet straight and clean. He shook his head. How had he done that? He frowned, shrugged, then sipped from the water bottle before breaking off a hunk of cheese. “Wish I had my knife…”

  Dayala looked at the ground, a faint flush rising into her face.

  “What did you-” Justen began.

  “It’s in the pack on the brown mare. I brought it. I’m sorry about the sword, but I just… just couldn’t.”

  Justen stopped, still holding the cheese in his hand. “Couldn’t what?”

  “You see…” The Naclan looked down again. “The knife is a tool, and we even have some knives. I did use yours, as I had to. But the sword isn’t. I mean… that’s not what it’s designed for, and I couldn’t. When you took the shovel, I thought you understood.”

  Justen looked at the cheese and then at the silver-haired woman. Those impossibly deep green eyes met his. For a moment, neither spoke. Then his stomach growled, and Dayala smiled. He shrugged. “First things first.”