Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (23 page)

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 surveyed 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.

   “Definitely some sort of infection-”

   “No antibiotics, no anti-inflammatories . . .” whispered Ayrlyn.

   “This is tough . . . like the stuff that got Ellysia.”

   Ayrlyn winced.

   “Maybe we can ... he's small,” Nylan said in a low voice, all too conscious of the regent standing behind them.

   “We can.”

   Nylan wasn't quite so sure, but could sense Ayrlyn's determination. So he extended his perceptions, trying to ignore the regent, the ornate carved furniture, the woven carpet under his knees-frying to twist the chaos in the small figure, turn it somehow into order. The sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest, his back, the dampness soaking through his clothes as he struggled.

   Ayrlyn's hand touched his, adding some of the cool black order to their struggle, but the white ugliness seemed to be everywhere within the boy, with the dissonant redness of chaos shimmering dully, unseen.

   Nylan wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm.

   Although Nesslek breathed more easily, Nylan knew that respite was momentary, as it had been with Ellysia. They had done nothing to reach the cause of the infection.

   “Rest for a moment,” Ayrlyn suggested.

   Zeldyan backed up a step, but continued to watch, her eyes moving from her son to the healers and back again. “He's better, isn't he? Isn't he?”

   “For a bit, lady,” Ayrlyn said gently. “We've gained some time, but we need to do more.”

   That much was true . . . but what?

   For some reason, Nylan thought of trees, trees clustered in an ancient grove, surrounded and infused with an incredible depth of order-and of chaos almost as deep. Why? Why trees, for darkness's sake? He knew he'd never seen that grove.

   Then he shrugged to himself. As seemed to be the case all too often in Candar, he was left with going with his feelings and senses, not his engineering-honed logic.

   “What?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “Trees,” answered the smith cryptically. “Order. Patterns.” Would it work? Who knew, but what he'd been doing hadn't worked with Ellysia, and it probably wouldn't work with poor young Nesslek.

   He closed his eyes and tried to replicate the patterns, the flow of dark and light, trying not to eradicate that white chaos within the child, but to twist the flows, to contain the chaos within order, within the dark fields. As he struggled again, he tried to ignore the impossibilities, the feelings that everything was an elaborate illusion, that he might be just a fraud . . . but he kept ordering ... and struggling ... and patterning ...

   And beside him, so did Ayrlyn.

   In the end, they locked order over chaos, fragilely, gently. And after that lock, a different darkness rose up and brought them down.

YOU BRING ME a message such as this?" Lephi looked down from the white throne at the aging and balding figure.

   “I bring what was written.” The white wizard bowed.

   “What use is a white wizard if he cannot contain the Accursed Forest? Why should I cosset and coddle you and your kind if you cannot even retain that monstrosity within its ancient borders? Now . . . even the wizard you have provided me sends messages, rather than face me.”

   The figure in white robes did not respond, but merely waited.

   “No one will face me. Am I so terrible? Tell me, ancient Triendar. Am I so terrible?”

   “Themphi is not here, Your Mightiness, because he spends all his efforts to contain the Accursed Forest. Should he leave Geliendra, it would spread ever more rapidly.” Triendar bowed again, and a strand of wispy white hair drifted across his forehead, hair almost as white as the shimmering tiles on which he stood.

   “He dare not leave? Then why did no one notice the power of the forest rebuilding? That is your task, is it not?”

   “It is, and we are sending the young wizards to assist Themphi, those who are not already assigned to the Mirror Lancers, the sea watches ... or the fireship. You have laid many tasks on few of us.”

   “You did not answer my question.” Lephi glared at the older wizard.

   “Until it occurred, Your Mightiness, there was no increase in the power of the forest.”

   “How could that happen?”

   “Do you recall, Lord of Cyador, when we told you of the surge of white power that came from the Westhorns last fall?”

   Lephi rubbed his chin and squinted. “That I recall vaguely.”

   “We believe that power helped the forest subvert the wards, but the dark forces were sly, and did not show their renewed might until the spring growing season. We did not sense the forces, because, until now, there were no new forces.” Triendar bowed yet again.

   “There were no forces? Then from whence came the white blasts from the Westhorns?”

   “We know not, save by rumor and glass. The glass shows a dark hold, a small hold, on the Roof of the World, and the rumors from the traders talk of dark angels who have pushed back the barbarians.”

   “Pushed back the barbarians? That takes little skill. Nor to build a small hold on a mountain-as if any would choose to live there willingly. Talk to me not of distant and tiny holds.” Lephi snorted and stared at Triendar.

   The white wizard waited silently.

   “Come! What is your advice, ancient one?” Lephi finally asked. “Do I send every spare lancer and foot company, and every white wizard to Geliendra? Just because a forest has decided to grow outside its boundaries? Just because of rumors of dark angels on distant mountains?”

   “In the ancient books, and in the tablets of gold, it was written that the wards would not last forever, not even until twenty generations. Yet it has been nigh on thirty generations since the white walls were laid and the wards set, and the Accursed Forest has abided.”

   “I know my history. Tell me what you advise.”

   Triendar nodded. “Let us provide the wizards, and you a few more companies of foot. Themphi has beaten back the side of the forest that would threaten Cyador, almost alone. We will contain the forest.”

   “And the wards?”

   “Those were from beyond the heavens, and we cannot rebuild or replace them.” Triendar shook his head slowly. “We are having difficulties, as you know, with the chaos-engines for the fireship, and we have the plans for those.”

   “Let us not speak of the fireships. We must have them to teach the coastal traders a lesson. And the eastern barbarians. For too long, the people of Cyad have let their heritage lapse into laziness and dust. It will not continue.” Lephi took a perfumed towel and daubed his forehead. “I suppose this means that we must fight the forest each year from henceforth.”

   “Yes, Your Mightiness.”

   Lephi's hand jerked as if to summon the arrows of light, but, instead, he lowered it, the gesture incomplete. “Find me a better solution, Triendar. There must be a better solution.”

   “We will seek such, Your Mightiness.”

   “Best you find it. You may depart.”

   Triendar bowed and walked slowly across the shimmering tiles.

NYLAN WOKE IN the bed he shared with Ayrlyn, damp cloths on his forehead. His head throbbed, but he nearly bolted erect. “Nesslek?” His voice rasped, and his eyes burned at the early morning light. Wasn't it morning?

   “He'll be fine,” said Ayrlyn. “You almost weren't.”

   “What about you? You were there with me.” Nylan could sense more pain in the wide bed than could be his alone. “How do you know?”

   “Sylenia's been in and out with Weryl. She was in charge of getting us dragged back here and laid out.”

   “How's Weryl?” Nylan closed his eyes, resting his head in his hands. Everything he wore smelled. Was healing getting more difficult?

   “He's fine. She fed him and kept him last night.” Ayrlyn shifted her weight on the bed and eased a pillow behind her back. “You need something to drink. You're dehydrated.”

   “What about you?” he asked again, opening his eyes for a moment, then closing them at the glare. Slowly he lifted the damp cloth off his forehead, and laid it over the edge of the carved headboard. He squinted into the mid-morning light. His nose felt dry, and dusty, and the murmurs of voices from the courtyard below and outside the room seemed to rise and fall, rise and fall.

   “My head aches, and I feel like several horses rolled on me.” Ayrlyn lifted the mug and drank, then extended it to him. “Pardon me, but I'd rather not get up and pour another.”

   The smith understood. He took a long swallow, leaving some water in the mug and returning it to her. There was a gentle rap on the door. Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances. He started to turn to put his feet on the floor, but the room seemed to tilt as he did. “My balance is better right now.” Ayrlyn handed him the mug, then eased her way onto the stone floor and walked slowly toward the door, each foot placed carefully one before the other.

   “Not much ...” murmured the smith. Still, Ayrlyn seemed to have greater resilience in recovering from excesses in dealing with the order fields that permeated Candar, certainly greater recuperative powers than he did.

   “Yes?” asked Ayrlyn, before opening the door. Zeldyan slipped inside the room, the malachite and silver hair band in place, her garments fresh. Only the circles under her eyes marred the impression of perfection. She inclined her head to Nylan, then to Ayrlyn, who had propped herself up on the back of one of the chairs.

   “No one has ever healed a child of the chaos fever. You are angels.” The regent's eyes were bright. “Life balances. You took my consort, and you saved my son.”

   “We would not have taken your consort ...” Nylan rasped, stifling a cough, and trying to ignore the headache that resembled a battle axe cleaving his skull.

   “No, mage. I know that. He knew that. He was forced . .. into that battle. Had he ruled longer, he might have avoided it.” Zeldyan smiled sadly. “Were things other than they are ... we always hope, but they are not. This time, you were there, and Nesslek is already better, and drinking.” She paused. “This took all your strength-from two of you?”

   “Pretty much,” Nylan admitted.

   “I will not trouble you more, but I would thank you both.” Her eyes went to Ayrlyn. “In time, all Lornth may be grateful.”

   “We're glad Nesslek's better,” answered Ayrlyn.

   Nylan nodded in assent.

   “So am I. So are we all.” With a wide smile, the regent inclined her head. Then she opened the door, and slipped out.

   “It's hard to believe.” As the door thudded shut, Ayrlyn sat in the chair, heavily, with a deep breath.

   Were her legs shaking? Did that mean she just exerted more willpower? Nylan felt almost ashamed. Ayrlyn had to be hurting as much as he was, or more. They'd shared the energy drain.

   “What? That he's better, or that it took so much out of us?” asked Nylan.

   “Both.”

   “I tried just as hard with Ellysia. It didn't work. This time, you were here, and it did.” He closed his eyes for a moment. It didn't really help. His head still pounded. He opened his eyes.

   Ayrlyn frowned. “I'd like to think that was the difference, but it wasn't. You handled the order flows differently, somehow.”

   “Different how?”

   “It was as though you weren't forcing things . . . weren't fighting them ...” Ayrlyn laughed softly. “You said something about trees.”

   The tree images . . . how would they have helped? He remembered, vaguely, the feel. “I tried, I think, not so much to push out the chaos, but to wrap order around it, to contain it.”

   “It felt different,” Ayrlyn repeated.

   Had that been the difference? He rubbed his forehead. “Feel like road dung under a wagon-”

   “Have some more water. You're still dehydrated.”

   “So sympathetic you are.”

   “Healers help those who help themselves.” Ayrlyn grinned, crookedly. “I hurt, too.” She rose slowly and lifted the water pitcher from the table, edging toward the bed.

   Some water splashed on Nylan's hands as she refilled the mug, but he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut, and to start drinking.

   Still ... he wondered about the trees and the business of binding chaos. He shivered as he swallowed, almost choking.

   “Careful . . .”

   Did he have to be careful in everything? In every little thing?

   “Probably,” said Ayrlyn.

   He stifled a sigh, carefully, then swallowed more of the water he needed.