The Order War (38 page)

The boat glided downstream with only occasional guidance from Dayala. Justen sat on the midships seat, watching the light play over her face as she kept the craft in the center of the unseen currents.

“Did the ancient tell you why we had to come to Diehl?”

“How else will you return to Recluce?”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“We have talked of this before. You cannot leave Recluce, if that is what you truly choose, without first returning. If you choose to return, I will be here. I will always be here for you.”
Always…

Justen swallowed at the poignancy of the shared thought and reached out to grasp her free hand, the one not on the mounted oar that served as sweep and tiller.

In silence they passed a grassy stretch on the west bank, where a single house, grown by two oaks, sat in a small clearing.

A girl on her knees in a garden patch waved, and Justen waved back.

“How much farther to Diehl?”

“At least another half-day.”

He squeezed Dayala’s fingers again.

As the boat left the clearing and the house behind, Justen let his senses drift beneath the surface of the water, catching the flashes of light that were the fish, or a bottom-feeding turtle, and, nearer to the bush-cloaked banks, an occasional otter.

“It’s a lot more pleasant than walking.”

“Even boating has its drawbacks.” Dayala eased the craft toward the eastern bank to center it back in the main current.

“Walking through the Stone Hills doesn’t?”

A hard pulse of reddish white glimmered deep beneath the dark surface off to the right of the boat.

“Oh…” murmured Dayala.

“Oh?” Justen sat up straighter.

The water exploded into a white froth, and the boat rocked as a pair of jaws as long as Justen himself ripped into the air, followed by a massive gray-green body covered with mossy scales. When the huge water lizard dropped back into the water, the second wave nearly capsized the boat, soaking both Justen and Dayala even as they had to brace themselves to keep from being thrown into the water.

Justen grabbed for the sword he had long since left in the Stone Hills, then snatched the spare oar, knowing it would
not do much good against the jaws he had seen.

Two eyes as big as water bottles fixed on the boat and its occupants, and an aura of chaos and hatred oozed over the river like a clammy rain. The water lizard, easily twice the length of the boat, churned toward them.

Remembering his ordeal at the edge of the great forest, Justen reached again for order and will, bending them toward the giant reptile.

Whhsssttttt…

A line of white light flared from the lizard toward him. The water roiled, the boat pitched, and Justen raised his hand, a hand that seemed to move impossibly slowly, to send a single line of darkness back along the white line until it passed through the giant lizard.

But the white light swept over Justen, and his head seemed to split into fragments even as the echo of his order-chaos shift reverberated in his brain and as the two mirrors within him reflected the sun back and forth down an endless corridor, a corridor stretching simultaneously deep into the earth and up into the heavens.

Then the darkness struck him into the bottom of the violently rocking boat.

The sun was low when Justen felt a soft hand on his aching forehead and cool air across his burning cheeks. “Oh…”

The boat rocked gently and he shivered, feeling chilled by the breeze that swept across his damp shirt. He opened his eyes and coughed. The deep gouges on the planks confirmed that the river lizard had not been imaginary. He shuddered again, wondering if he would ever be able to accept the strangeness of Naclos, where everything seemed so peaceful on the surface—just like the river itself.

His head turned, searching for Dayala, feeling that she were somehow absent, not there to his mind.

“I’m here. Someone has to guide the boat, at least some of the time.”

Justen tried to lever himself up, but his legs refused to move. “My legs…” He looked at them, unable to see any wounds. He called on his order-senses, using the pattern that Dayala had taught him, but he could sense nothing, as if he
were suddenly order-blind. “I can’t see. I mean…”

“It’s all right. It’s just a mind bruise, and it will pass.”

“Mind bruise?”

“That’s how the water lizards stun their prey. You have to maintain a barrier, a shield.”

“For how long? Days? Seasons?” Justen shivered again, not just from the cold, although the late afternoon sun should have warmed him. His head still ached.

Dayala had slipped behind him and wrapped herself around him, her warmth lifting the chill. “Just for a while. It never lasts more than a day. You might have a headache for longer.”

He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, gratefully accepting her warmth. “Every time I think I’ve learned something about this place, I run into another nasty surprise.”

“You do have a habit of attracting them. I haven’t seen a water lizard that big in a long time.”

“Why me?”

“Because you are a living fountain of order, and order in that quantity draws chaos, dear man.” She slipped back to the rear of the boat and reclaimed the tiller.

“You mean this will happen to me all the time?” Justen groaned.

“No. It won’t even happen after a while in Naclos.”

“Oh? Pardon me if I sound skeptical. What happened to our giant friend?”

“The lizard? The turtles and the carp are having a feast.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything. I’m not sure I could have. You stunned it, and it drowned.”

Justen took a deep breath. His legs were beginning to tingle. Probably a good sign, he supposed.

Dayala eased the tiller, and the boat lurched. “We don’t mind the ones that get as big as cats…but that one was older than Diehl, I think.” She shivered.

So did Justen, recalling the chaos light emanating from the lizard, a force stronger than that of any mere wizard. And he had thought that Naclos was so peaceful.

“Your dangers are more obvious.”

Justen rubbed his forehead, then realized that Dayala was
repeating his gesture. “Oh…my headache or yours?”

“Some of each, I think. You’ll know in a while.”

Justen took another deep breath and looked at the dark water.

“We won’t make Diehl tonight,” Dayala said.

“Somehow, I figured that out.”

Dayala laughed, and Justen reached out for her free hand.

Dayala guided the boat around the last turn in the river and toward the the single long pier in the harbor. Except for an uncrewed fishing boat, the pier was empty, though it was long enough for at least two oceangoing ships.

Standing in the prow, Justen held the line in one hand, waiting until Dayala’s deft motion with the sweep propelled the flat-bottomed boat close enough to the pier for him to scramble up. The pier smelled of seaweed and barnacles and long use.

After he had climbed up the slimy wooden ladder and tied the boat at the shoreward end of the pier, Justen reached down and took the packs Dayala handed him. Then he extended his hand for her. When she came onto the pier, his lips brushed her cheek. As he straightened, his hand rubbed his forehead.

“Your head still aches?”

“It comes, and it goes,” Justen admitted. “Less now.”

Her eyes focused on him for a moment.

“That feels better. Thank you.”

“I do not like headaches, either.”

Justen laughed and swung his pack onto his back.

Behind the long pier, of stone and timber, was the port-master’s single-story office, of smoothed and polished wood, roofed with clay slates. A chandlery, identified by a sign bearing crossed candles circled with rope, stood at the corner of two streets behind the port-master’s office.

A brisk breeze whipped off the bay and across the pier,
lifting sand and grit past the couple’s legs as they walked toward the chandlery.

“Where are we going?”

“To Murina’s. Her guest house is on the other side of Diehl, the side closest to the great forest.”

Justen nodded.

Two traders in purple trousers and gold tunics stood under the overhanging eaves shading the front of the chandlery. The man had a grizzled beard, while the woman’s hair was shorter than Justen’s, although her face was lined and she bore the white shadows of chaos and age within her.

“Another damned-handsome druid,” muttered the woman. “Never saw such standoffish men. Shame.”

“The women are beautiful creatures, too,” added the bearded trader. “But you can keep them both. I’d rather not be turned into a tree, thank you.” He laughed.

So outsiders saw them both as a druids? Did he really look that way, or was it his brown clothing?

They walked past a tavern, proclaimed by a sign bearing a silver bowl and an unfamiliar cooking odor that filled Justen’s nostrils. Heavy, almost rancid. Yet the smell was familiar. He frowned. Grilled lamb? But he had never thought of lamb as a heavy odor.

He pursed his lips, recalling that he had eaten no meat since he had come to Naclos. Nuts, cheeses, even eggs of various sorts, but not meat.

At the next corner, Dayala took a right-forking road that seem to angle away from the harbor. Justen followed, still drawing in the feel of the town, trying to explain to himself why it felt different from Rybatta and Merthe, or from any of the others in Naclos.

He glanced at a row of brick shops—the middle one shuttered against the strong afternoon sunlight—and then at the houses beyond the shops; they were more like those of Kyphros; heavy-walled and blank-faced, presumably arranged around a central garden courtyard.

Diehl seemed orderly enough, and there was no sign of chaos whatsoever in the area. So what bothered him about the place?

He rubbed his chin and looked sideways at Dayala. Did she feel the same way?

“Yes. You should know that.”

He should? Then he nodded, grinned, and shook his head. Part of the uneasiness he felt was not his at all, but hers, and he was still having trouble getting used to their overlapping feelings.

Shallow—that was the word that described Diehl. Shallow. The orderliness of the town—compared to the Balance between order and chaos that existed in the great forest—seemed without any real foundation. Would Recluce seem that way, too? He pulled at his chin, then readjusted his pack. Much of the weight in the pack consisted of small items such as the box Dayala had made for him, destined for Recluce, and included a smaller box that Dayala had insisted he take for Gunnar as well as several others to give as he saw fit. Certainly, one would be for Altara.

Unlike Rybatta, Diehl was compact, with the houses almost crowded together—until they suddenly reached the edge of the town.

Justen looked back. They had scarcely come a full kay, yet not two hundred cubits ahead, the first line of the giant trees began.

Nestled almost beneath those trees stood Murina’s guest-house, at the edge of the great forest that began just to the northeast of Diehl proper. The guest-house, as all proper guest-houses, suspected Justen, was grown from the oaks that formed each wall.

He had not realized that he was holding his breath until he released it. Then he laughed, sensing that part of his relief was Dayala’s as well.

They almost skipped up the stone-flagged path to the front archway, where Dayala jingled the bells that hung on a woven strap.

“Coming…”

Murina, like virtually all druids, had silver hair, but like Yual, her eyes were brown rather than green. Unlike Dayala, she was tiny, coming barely to Justen’s shoulder.

“Dayala…it has been a time.”

“It has. This is Justen.”

Justen bowed. “I am pleased.”

Murina laughed. “Not so pleased as I am to see you. I like Dayala, and it is clear that you are special to her.”

Justen flushed, surprised at the directness, then flushed again as he felt Dayala’s reaction.

“May you always feel so.” The guest-house keeper laughed softly once more. “Please come in. Shersha will show you to your room while I finish my baking, if you do not mind. Then perhaps you will join me for some juice on the terrace.”

Dayala and Justen nodded.

A tiny and solemn-faced girl stood in the hallway inside, beyond the archway.

“Shersha, you remember Dayala? This is Justen.” Murina gestured toward him, and Shersha inclined her head. “They will have the big room above the terrace, the one with the window on the garden.”

“That’s the best,” Shersha affirmed. Then she turned and led them around a corner, up a wide staircase with low steps and to a hallway with another archway.

“I hope you will like it.” The girl’s voice was shy.

Justen stepped through the hangings in the archway. Although modest, the room had a window overlooking the rear garden. There was but one bed, double-sized. He looked at the bed and then at Dayala. He could feel her blush even before he saw the color rise to her cheeks. “We like it,” Justen choked, trying not to laugh.

“Thank you, Shersha. Tell Murina that it is perfect.”

“We are glad that you are pleased.” Shersha inclined her head and turned to go.

“It is perfect,” Justen echoed. “I hope we will be able to stay for a while.”

“Mother would be pleased.”

From the archway, they watched the clear-eyed girl skip down the hallway. Justen lowered the hangings and slipped his arms around Dayala.

Her lips found his, and they moved toward the wide bed.

Late afternoon had come before Justen and Dayala rose and washed and dressed and descended to the terrace, where Shersha escorted them to a table with four chairs, then returned with three large brown mugs.

Murina pulled a chair up to the table and looked at Justen. “Much has been said about you. I can see why.” She grinned.

Justen blushed.

“You’re modest. I understand why Dayala likes you, and that is good.”

Justen felt once again that as much had not been said as said, but he answered politely, “I still feel somewhat like a child here. But compared to all of you, I am. So I suppose that’s to be expected.”

“Not exactly a child, is he?” Murina raised her eyebrows and glanced at Dayala.

“No. He knows more than he thinks he does…and more than either I or the ancients expected.” Her hand crept under the table and squeezed Justen’s.

“And less, I suspect,” Justen added wryly, his eyes following the flight of a brilliant green bird, with a black head and a yellow beak, that swooped past the corner of the terrace and lit on the edge of the kitchen roof below.

“I see my friend has arrived.”

“He comes often?” asked Justen.

“Every day before twilight. He sings a song or two and waits for a reward.”

“And you reward him?”

“Shersha usually does. I think he really sings for her, but I like his songs.”

The green bird cocked his head, then dipped it twice, as if bowing to the audience, and began to sing—a short series of notes somewhere between silvered bells and the golden-strung notes of the singer called Werlynn. Justen listened
and felt almost disappointed when the two short songs were done.

Shersha appeared on the terrace and tossed some berries toward the songbird, who caught one on the wing and then returned within moments to scoop the others off the terrace stones.

“Can you tell us what has happened in Sarronnyn?” asked Justen.

“The traders say that the Whites of Fairhaven hold all of Sarronnyn and that come spring, they will attack Suthya.”

“That would leave just Southwind and Naclos.”

“They will never come here.”

Justen nodded. “What about Southwind?”

“Southwind could fall. We could do nothing outside of the great forest.”

“That’s something I still don’t quite understand.”

“Most peoples have rejected the Legend and the truth behind it.” Murina shrugged. “Do we have armies? How could we help?”

“Yet no one here fears Fairhaven.”

“What is there to fear? Their wizards are so unbalanced that any attempt to use chaos in the great forest would destroy them.” The guest-house holder smiled at Justen. “The same would be true of your Order Wizards.”

“I found that out.”

Shersha carried out a long loaf flanked with a line of cut cheese and several pearapples. She set the platter in the middle of the table.

Justen raised his eyebrows at the evidence of the knife.

“Some of us can use knives,” said Murina with a smile.

“Just those of you with brown eyes?”

“It helps, but Trughal is a green-eyed smith.”

Dayala shook her head with a half-smile, then reached for a slice of cheese.

“Sit down, child.” Murina gestured to Shersha, who promptly perched on the fourth chair and reached for a pearapple.

After finishing the piece of cheese and breaking off a corner of the loaf, Dayala turned to Justen. “Tomorrow you
should talk to the traders, and I will talk to Diera. She is the…port-master.”

“Diera knows everything,” volunteered Shersha.

“Not quite everything,” corrected Murina with a smile.

Justen took a large chunk of the warm bread. “I suppose I should try to find out what else is happening in the world. Not that I expect things to have changed very much.”

“They never do,” said Murina. “But enjoy the bread. Warm bread is better than cold gossip.”

Dayala nodded, and Justen took another mouthful of the warm and crusty bread.