The Order War (29 page)

The tall man tossed one stone, then another, out across the sand and into the waters of the Gulf of Candar. He picked up a small, flat stone, dropped it, and walked down to the water’s edge, where in a thin line of white, the Gulf nibbled at the white sands of Recluce.

His eyes took in the heavy gray clouds, foretelling winter, that churned across the offshore waters toward him. Then he shook his head and began to walk southward, back toward Nylan. His booted feet kicked sand as heavy steps carried him down the narrow beach under the cliffs and toward the wider expanse of sand that in turn led to the breakwater of the harbor.

As he neared the breakwater, a figure in black joined him.

“Are you all right?” asked Altara.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s why you’re prowling the beaches all the time? That’s why you were talking to Turmin about whether Blacks could scry?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re worried. He’s your brother, wherever he is out there.” The chief engineer nodded toward the waters of the Gulf of Candar.

“At least you say ‘is.’”

“I think you’d know.”

“He’s in trouble, Altara, and I don’t even know where he is. I should have stayed with him.”

“You didn’t know.”

“He saved me from Firbek. If he hadn’t—”

“He’ll be all right. He is a survivor, Gunnar.” Altara laid a hand on the wizard’s forearm for a moment.

“Not many survive what he’s undergoing, I think.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Worse, probably.” Gunnar looked out toward the storms, the twilight, and thought of the long winter ahead. “Worse.”

Justen woke shivering in the dark. How could he shiver in the heat of the Stone Hills? Had he just imagined the water? What had happened to all the water? And to the Iron Guard? As he turned his head, a line of fire burned from his eyes to his neck, and he shuddered.

“Do not move yet,” a husky and musical voice told him. “You are still very ill.” The words were like high Temple, but somehow different—more lilting, more like a song.

“Where…” Justen’s voice was so dry that the single croaked word was all he could manage.

“Hush. Please drink this.”

Liquid dribbled onto his lips, and he licked it away, then took several small sips of the bitter-tasting drink. After a moment, his unseen rescuer placed the bottle against his lips. He drank some more.

The heat of the air that flowed across his face told him that he was still somewhere warm, if not hot, but he could not see. Had he gone blind? Or was he in the demons’ hell for his misuse of order?

He tried to reach his face, his eyes, but his arms would not move.

“Your eyes will heal. They are only swollen.” Again, the musical voice.

As if the struggle had exhausted him, he sank back, and the blackness welled over him again, just like the shade of the lorken he had never seen, save in dreams.

When he woke once more, it was cooler, darker even through his swollen eyelids. His body still felt like every cubit had been beaten and then left in the sun to rot.

Wordlessly, the bitter liquid was offered, and wordlessly, he drank.

The third time he woke, he could swallow more easily, but his eyes still felt puffy, and he did not try to open them, although his hand crept across his cheek to a filmy substance that covered his eyes and most of his nose.

An involuntary shudder sent another wave of white fire from his eyes to his neck.

“Please do not try to move quite yet.”

“My eyes…” Justen rasped.

“They will heal, but you must rest. Please drink some more.”

Justen slowly drank the proffered bitter liquid, feeling stronger as it seemed to flow through his body. Or was someone infusing order into his limbs?

Again, he slept.

When he woke, the air was hot with the heat of midday, and his eyes remained locked in blackness. Had he but dreamed of drinking and of the musical voice? Was he still lying against the rock in the middle of the Stone Hills?

He licked his lips; the swelling seemed almost gone, and when he swallowed, his throat did not bind with dryness. Remembering the pain when he had tried to move his head earlier, he let his fingers touch his face lightly, brushing what felt like scabs across his cheek and a bandage across his eyes.

“You feel better.” The musical words were not a question.

“Yes.” Justen swallowed.

“Can you hold this and drink?”

Justen took the water bottle, which felt like his own, and managed to drink from it with only a bit of the liquid drooling out the side of his mouth.

“Drink as much as you can. It helps the healing.”

When his stomach protested and even before he could speak, cool fingers lifted the bottle from his hands.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Where are we?”

“You may call me Dayala. We are in the Stone Hills.”

Justen frowned at the lilt to her voice, the tone that seemed somehow familiar, yet totally unknown. He moved his head ever so slightly, realizing that it was on a pillow and that he lay on some sort of mat.

“How…where did you find water?”

“I brought some, but you would have been able to find it in time. Do you wish to sit up?”

“Yes.”

The faint breeze ruffled his air, and the sound of gently flapping fabric passed him, confirming his suspicions that he lay within some sort of tent. The arms that helped him, though smooth, were as firm and strong as any engineer’s or smith’s. As he leaned back against whatever supported the pillow, he asked, “You are a woman?”

“You scarcely needed to ask that.”

“I can’t see.”

“Do you need to?”

Justen flushed, then reached out with his perceptions. Woman…yes, but a deep blackness surrounded her, like a well of order. He shivered. Never had he felt anyone with that much order or certainty. And yet, that order seemed to hold within it…something. Chaos? He shivered again.

“You…must be from Naclos.”

A faint sense of laughter swept over him.

“It may seem funny to you…” Then Justen had to grin, even though the gesture hurt the corners of his mouth. He had been rescued, and he was irritated because she was amused?

“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.

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 had 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 long time.”

“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, and 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.