The Order War (41 page)

“Well…we’re almost there.” Severa tightened the reins slightly, and the post wagon slowed as it neared the post house. The Broken Wheel, the two-story stone-and-timber inn, looked almost the same as the last time Justen had been home, except that the cracked wagon spokes on the sign were now a darker brown. A man not much older than Justen, paint pot in hand, waved at Severa. She waved back.

“Who’s that?” asked Justen, grabbing the edge of the seat as Severa levered the wagon brake and the wagon lurched to a halt.

“Rildr. He’s old Hernon’s nephew. They’re slowly fixing the old place up. It wasn’t terribly run down, but you either fix inns up or they fall apart.”

“I think that’s pretty much true of everything.” Justen handed her the two coppers, slipped off the leather seat and reached into the wagon bed for his pack. He looked up at the high, thin clouds that cooled the afternoon without providing rain.

Severa put the coins in her purse, then lifted one of the leather post bags out and onto the stone walk beside the post house just as the young postal worker came scurrying out. “I’m sorry, Severa. I didn’t hear you.”

“If I woke the demons, Lorn, you still wouldn’t hear me.” Severa grinned at the young man, who looked sheepishly at the paving stones underfoot.

Justen shouldered his pack and lifted his hand to Severa. “Thank you.”

“I enjoyed the company, Justen. Give my best to your mother.”

“I will.” Justen turned and began to walk westward along the main street, past the coppersmith’s, and then past Basta’s Dry and Leather Goods.

Another wagon stood outside Seldit’s, where the cooper and the driver were lifting a large barrel up alongside three others in the wagon bed.

“Good afternoon, Seldit,” Justen said pleasantly as he passed.

“Justen! We…no one…when did you get back?”

“Yesterday…that’s when I got to Nylan.” Justen stopped.

“Your dad will be glad to see you.” The heavy-armed cooper coughed. “Your mom and sister, too.”

“I’ll be glad to see them.” Justen grinned. “Don’t let me keep you. I’ll be around for a few days, I think.”

“Just goes to show…” Seldit shook his head and glanced at the driver. “Engineers and wizards…never tell…”

“That’s right.” Justen forced another grin. “You never can. Just like bad coppers, we keep coming back.”

“Off with you. You’re still a young scamp…sort of.”

Justen waved and turned. Seldit, at least, was the same, even if Wandernaught felt somehow shallower, just as Diehl, and even Nylan, had—although Nylan was the most solid of the three. Yet, it was the most imbalanced, nearly drowning in a surfeit of order.

After he passed the house where Shrezsan had once lived, he came to a smaller structure, one that seemed so new that it was almost not there, where a blond young woman and a child were working in a small garden plot. So, Justen reflected with a smile, Shrezsan and Yousal had moved next to her parents’ house, to be close enough to carry on the family wool-and-linen business. Neither Shrezsan nor the child looked up as he strode past and toward the hills that held the cherry and pearapple groves.

Once beyond the first set of groves, its trees certainly as solid as any in Naclos, Justen began to look westward for a sight of the house. When he passed the last cherry grove, the familiar black-stone and slate-tiled house he neared looked no different. It, like Nylan, felt more solid. Was that because of those who lived there? Or because it had stood for longer than many? Justen could see his father’s wiry figure on a ladder at the far end of the grove, picking apples. Elisabet’s slender figure stood at the base of the ladder, handing up a basket.

She turned toward Justen and dropped the basket, break
ing into a pell-mell dash toward her brother. “Justen! Justen! Father! He’s back! He’s back!”

The violence of Elisabet’s hug almost knocked Justen into the low stone wall by the roadside.

“I knew! I knew you were coming!” She buried her face in his shoulder.

Absently, Justen realized that she was nearly as tall as he was, that she was no longer a gawky girl, but a young woman. He hugged her. “I’m glad I came.”

Horas had followed his daughter more deliberately, and he stood at the edge of the road, waiting. Justen disentangled himself from his sister’s hold and gave his father a hug.

“You’ve changed,” were Horas’s first words. “A lot.”

“Yes. It’s been a long year.”

“He’s still Justen,” said Elisabet.

“You might say that he’s more Justen than ever.” Horas’s words were tinged with warmth and irony.

“Where’s Mother?”

“She’s at Nerla’s, helping her lay out her own smithy. She said she’d be back by mid-afternoon. She wasn’t—she said—going to do all the hard work for a former apprentice.”

The three laughed at Horas’s mimicry of Cirlin.

“Of course, now she’ll have to find another apprentice, unless…” Horas looked speculatively at Justen.

“Who knows?” Justen shrugged.

“I think the apples can wait a bit. Let’s go have something to drink. There’s even some ale left, and—”

“There’s a dark cake, with real molasses!” exclaimed Elisabet.

“Will Gunnar be coming?” asked Horas.

“I think so, but not for a day or two. He had to finish something with Turmin, and he said that you ought to have me to yourselves for a bit. I think he was afraid I’d gotten better at Capture.” Justen offered a quick smile.

“Have you?” asked his sister.

“No. I haven’t played since I left Sarron, and that was a year ago. Anyway, I don’t think I’m any better.”

Horas turned, and his two children followed him up the stone walk toward the covered porch. He waited by the door
to the house as Elisabet and Justen stepped onto the porch. “Redberry and ale, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” Inside, Elisabet plopped on the stool by Justen’s knee and looked at her brother. “What happened?”

Justen laughed. “Wait until Father comes back. I’m sure he’ll want to hear as well, and I don’t want to tell the same story twice.”

“Then you’ll want to wait until Mother comes, and I’ll have to help with dinner, and then I’ll never get to hear it all.”

“You’ll get to hear it all.” Justen ruffled her short-cut sandy hair. “You cut your hair.”

“Long hair gets in the way, and besides, I don’t want to be just a brood mare, and that’s what all the girls with long hair are.”

“Strong words, young woman.” Horas extended the taller mug to Justen.

“True words!” Elisabet lifted one of the two shorter mugs from the battered wooden tray. “Lydya is already saying how many children she’ll have!”

Justen and his father exchanged quick smiles.

“And don’t smile like that. I know what I want.”

“That I believe.” Justen took a slow sip of the ale, holding it in his mouth for a moment. He was glad to find that his father’s brew was as smooth as any in Naclos, and he let the ale trickle down his dry throat.

“Well, I think your mother is at the turn,” said Horas. “So we’ll wait to hear your story until she gets here.”

“I told you so.” Elisabet looked at Justen.

“In the meanwhile, we can tell you what has happened here.”

“Not much,” suggested Elisabet.

“I’ve added some seedlings to both groves, and I suppose you saw Shrezsan’s and Yousal’s house.”

Justen nodded.

“They’re redoing The Broken Wheel, and Niteral has taken over old Kaylert’s spread. He says that it’s just to get it ready for Huntal—that’s the boy who went to Temple school with Gunnar. He and Mara have two girls, and they
didn’t like the fishing life of her family. So they moved back to the guest house at Niteral’s, but it’s really too small—”

“Fishing…ugh,” interposed Elisabet.

“Some people have to fish.”

“Orchards are better.”

“Not if you don’t have an Order Wizard in the family or if you don’t like bugs,” observed Horas.

Elisabet stood and dashed off the porch and down the walk to greet Cirlin. “Justen’s home! He’s back!”

Horas and Justen looked at each other.

“Still half girl,” Justen said.

“Not for long, I think.”

Justen stood and gave his mother a bear hug as she stepped onto the covered porch.

“What a welcome surprise! But then, Gunnar was always convinced that you’d be back.”

“He knew more than I did.”

Horas disappeared into the house for a moment, reappearing with another ale about the time that Justen and his mother disengaged themselves and Cirlin sat down in the narrow rocking chair in the corner.

“All right. I want to hear everything,” announced Elisabet. “I’ve waited and waited.”

“I think Justen’s hungry. Perhaps we should wait until after dinner…”

Justen caught the twinkle in Horas’s eyes.

“Father! You…you’re just teasing.”

Cirlin shook her head. “Sometimes you’re too eager, daughter.”

“Maybe so, but Justen promised I could hear it all.”

Justen patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll hear everything that everyone else hears.” He took a deep swallow of the welcome ale before beginning. “I’m sure Gunnar’s told you all about what happened in Sarron until the final battle. I’ll start there…”

The sun was touching the tops of the low hills behind the apple and pearapple groves when Justen finished his abbreviated tale of his travels across Candar. “…and when the ship pulled up at the pier in Nylan, there were Gunnar and Altara, waiting for me.”

Belatedly, he remembered and reached for his pack, digging out the three of Dayala’s boxes he had set aside for them. He handed the first to Elisabet. “Dayala sent these.” Then he handed one to Horas and one to Cirlin.

“This is beautiful! It’s mine? Really mine?”

Justen nodded. “It’s yours, Elisabet.”

Horas studied the woven grains in the box he held, then set the box gently on the table beside him. Cirlin set hers beside Horas’s box.

“She is quite accomplished, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And she rescued you from the Stone Hills, and made sure you got home safely? We owe her a great deal, don’t we?” Horas’s voice was low.

Justen swallowed. “Not so much as you think. We are all caught in the designs of the Angels.”

“You love her, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But she’s a druid!” protested Elisabet.

So am I
, thought Justen, but he did not speak the words immediately.

“She’s a druid, and you’re from Recluce!” Elisabet looked from Justen to her parents. “You’re not a druid. You can’t leave us.”

“I am a druid. Now.”

Horas nodded, as did Cirlin.

“You aren’t staying, are you?” asked Horas.

“Of course he is. He just got here,” insisted Elisabet. “He’ll change his mind. He has to.”

“I’ll be here for at least a few days. Altara says that the Council may want to see me.”

“I’m sure that they will.” Cirlin took a long pull from the tall mug. “That time comes for all of us, though. Are you going back to Naclos?”

“I don’t understand.” Elisabet looked from one parent to the other. “He was almost killed in Candar, and you both seem to think that he’s going straight back.”

“Not straight, I think. Is it just the druid?” asked Horas.

“She can’t have bewitched Justen. Tell me she hasn’t, Justen.”

“No. I’ll have to go to Fairhaven.”

Elisabet’s eyes grew wider. “None of this makes any sense. Can you all explain what you are talking about?”

“Look at me, Elisabet. Look at me with your order-senses.”

For a moment, Elisabet stared at her brother, then looked away. She shivered and stared down at the floor.

“Now, lass, tell me what you saw,” requested Horas.

“He…his order…there’s no chaos that’s not tied up. Gunnar, even, has flecks of…loose chaos. Justen doesn’t.” Elisabet stumbled through the words and finally looked up. “It’s something…” She swallowed without finishing the sentence. “You meant it. The druids did something. Why?”

“Yes, I meant it. But they didn’t do anything. It’s something I had to do. And it’s about…everything.” Justen knew how pretentious the words sounded, but that didn’t make them any less true. He hurried on. “I’m not going there for a while. I have a lot to do here.”

“Good!” exclaimed Elisabet.

“I can’t say I’m displeased either,” added Cirlin.

“Since we’ve disposed of that, how about some dinner?” asked Horas.

The growling in Justen’s stomach provided his answer, and he grinned.

“Justen!” cried Elisabet in mock outrage.

He shrugged and then grinned as his father turned toward the kitchen. But his eyes burned, and he looked out at the all-too-familiar and all-too-strange apple trees that were lined up in the growing gloom of twilight.

“I’m sorry I had to cut short your time with your family. The Council was very insistent—”

“Altara…” Justen cut off the chief engineer’s apology, at least the fifth he had heard on the three-day ride from Wandernaught. “You didn’t cut it short, and we’ll stop there on the way back. So don’t worry.”

“But I do. They haven’t seen you in more than a year.”

Justen took a deep breath, thinking about what lay ahead after his meeting the Council. Going back to Candar wasn’t going to be easy, but he did not see much choice, not when so much of the vaunted order of Recluce seemed so shallow…so one-sided.

“You haven’t told me everything.”

“No.”

“What happened to the carefree Justen, the one who called weapons obsolete?”

“I still don’t carry them, you’ll notice.” He tried to ease a light note into his voice.

“Then was a game. Now you mean it.” Altara pointed to the black structures on the bluff ahead to the right. “There’s the Black Holding.”

The five black buildings seemed rooted into the heavy rock that underlay most of Recluce, and yet, to Justen, they seemed somehow unbalanced, straight as they stood, as if they were about to tip sideways. He squinted and shook his head, but the feeling did not pass as they rode closer. He almost felt as though the ancient order embodied in the stones were about to fall on him.

He took a deep breath as he reined up outside the small and ancient stable. As he dismounted, he patted the horse on the neck, and the stallion whinnied gently.

“You’ve come a long way from that young engineer who could barely sit on a gray nag.” Altara laughed as she slipped off her bay gelding and handed the reins to the young man in black who had stood waiting as they rode up.

Justen handed his reins to a young woman, and the stallion whickered and sidestepped. Justen looked at the horse, sending the faintest pulse of order toward the high-spirited animal, and added, “Take it easy, fellow.”

The stallion whinnied and steadied. The young aide’s eyes widened and she moved back, even though Justen gave her a reassuring smile. He stepped across a shallow puddle held in the worn hollows of the ancient stones. The rain had not fallen as far south as Alberth, where they had stayed the night before.

“Which way?” Justen inclined his head toward the walkway to the right.

“This way.” Altara motioned to the left way, which circled the stable and took them on the south side of the holding, next to a raised terrace. The path ran between an ancient oak tree and the terrace. Before them, the Eastern Ocean glimmered silver in the morning light of summer.

“Do you think the Council is really interested in where I’ve been?” Justen took the steps up onto the terrace and crossed to the closed, dark-pine door.

“Of course not. You’re the only engineer or mage to have been beyond the port of Diehl in probably five generations. You’re one of the few people known to have survived the Stone Hills, and you’re the one whose design of ordered black arrowheads cost the Whites nearly an entire army. Why would they be interested in poor little Justen?” Altara grinned.

“I thought I’d ask.”

“If you have to play dumb, don’t play it quite that dumb.”

Justen returned her grin and rapped on the door, which opened even as he lowered his hand. A woman in marine blacks and wearing the double shortswords of ancient and fallen Westwind waited.

“Justen, from the engineers. I’m here to…” He looked at Altara.

“We’re responding to Counselor Jenna’s request. I’m Chief Engineer Altara.”

“Welcome to the Black Holding.” The marine smiled politely. “Do come in.” She stepped back and gestured toward a room beyond the small foyer. “If you would like to sit down, I believe that the counselors will be ready for you shortly.”

The foyer walls were plain, just as Justen had remembered them from the one time his tutor had shown him the holding years earlier. Clearly, the Founders had not been interested in decoration, and their successors had left the holding as plain, as drab, as it was originally.

The waiting room held nearly a dozen black-oak chairs
and a low table, but all the chairs were empty. Altara took one by the window, where she could see a corner of the Eastern Ocean.

Justen walked to the single bookcase, containing a score or more of volumes. His eyes ranged over the untitled black covers.

“Are you going to sit down?”

“We’ve been riding for five whole days. I’m not much better as a horseman than I was a year ago.”

“It’s been more than a year, and you’re a lot better.”

“Not much, but you’re right. It seems a lot longer.”

“You’re a lot older.”

“Crossing the Stone Hills does that.” Justen laughed. “I could use a dark ale now.”

“You still drink that stuff?”

“Why not? It tastes good.”

“But you’re more ordered now. You remind me more of your brother, or of Turmin.”

“I like beer.”

Clearing her throat softly, the marine stood by the door to the Council Chamber. “Engineers, the Counselors will see you now.”

Justen followed Altara into the dark-paneled room, his eyes flicking to the portraits that flanked the windows—Megaera and Creslin, the Founders—and back to the three figures who stood behind the Council table.

In the center was an older, dark-haired woman, flanked on the right by a man with brown wispy hair, and on the left by a redheaded woman who seemed close to Altara’s age.

The older woman nodded. “I’m Claris. I appreciate your coming, Engineers. This is Ryltar…and Jenna.”

The redhead acknowledged her name with a slight inclination of her head. Ryltar nodded abruptly.

“Please sit down.”

Justen took the right-hand chair, a comfortable but worn black-oak wooden armchair across from the redhead. Altara sat across from Claris.

“The chief engineer has told us of how you got to Sarron and of what happened there—the outcome of the battle—
but we don’t know what happened to you after the battle.”

“Where should I start? After Firbek tried to turn the rockets on us?”

“We’re familiar with that,” Ryltar said sharply. “Why didn’t you fall back with the others? How did you get separated?”

“The Whites came up the hill so quickly, and I didn’t have a mount. I also didn’t have much strength left at that point. So I pulled a light-shield around myself…”

Ryltar nodded for him to continue, and Justen detailed the way he had tried to get back across the River Sarron and how each attempt had pushed him farther into Sarronnyn, until he was south of Clynya.

“Why did you try to cross the Stone Hills?” asked Claris, the older counselor.

“I didn’t have much choice,” Justen began wryly. “There were several-score lancers and at least one White Wizard chasing me, and I couldn’t seem to avoid the damned vulcrow…” He went on to describe how at every attempt to reach the bridge at Clynya he was almost herded southward and eastward to avoid capture. “…and in the end, there didn’t seem to be much of a choice.”

“Were the druids…helpful? I mean, how did they receive you?” asked the younger red-haired counselor.

Justen frowned. “It’s hard to explain. They rescued me from the Stone Hills. I didn’t make it quite all the way across—”

“Just how far did you make it, young man?” interrupted the wispy-haired counselor.

“By the end, I wasn’t in much shape to measure, ser. If my memory is correct, I lasted somewhere between ten and twelve days before I fell.”

“And you had no special help?”

“It sounds stupid, I know. I walked into the Stone Hills with a blanket, the clothes on my back, and a water bottle. At the time, it seemed a great deal more reasonable than it does now. I suppose being chased by a White Wizard can do that to your reason.” Justen smiled briefly, noting the cool look from the older counselor toward Ryltar.

“You lasted twelve days on one bottle of water, and you’re not even a mage?”

“Ryltar—”

“Jenna, I’m just trying to see if our engineer is what he says he is.”

“No,” Justen said. “One kind of cactus—the green one—has water in the pulp. So do the gray ones, but they made me sick sometimes. Twice I found little pockets of water in the rocks. I do have some order-sense. I couldn’t be an engineer if I didn’t.”

“So you lasted for twelve days on what water you found?”

“It might have been ten…could have been fourteen. I wasn’t thinking very clearly by then.”

“And what happened?”

“I fell and couldn’t get up.” Justen shrugged.

Beside him, Altara grinned at his flat statement.

“And?” pushed Ryltar.

“When I woke up, someone had found me and was trying to get me to drink. It was one of the Naclans.”

“One of the druids?”

Justen nodded.

“So—just like that—they rescued you, fed you, and carried you back to Diehl and then sent you home to Recluce, healthy and healed?” Ryltar snorted.

Justen took a deep breath, paused, and instead of responding, extended his order-senses to touch Ryltar. A slight frown creased his forehead; it was not exactly chaos, he sensed, but…something. A disorder that verged on—

“You seem somewhat displeased, Justen,” said Claris.

“No…” Justen tried to gather himself.

“Could you explain what happened in Naclos?” asked Jenna gently.

“Well, we walked back. They don’t ride horses there. The horses will carry packs for them, but the druids say they have a bargain with them.”

“You walked to Diehl?” Ryltar’s voice rose again. “Across half of Candar…after barely surviving the Stone Hills?”

“Ryltar…”

“…asking us to swallow a lot…”

“You might be able to swallow if you talked less and listened more,” snapped Jenna.

“Jenna,” temporized Claris.

Justen took another deep breath. “First, I didn’t go anywhere for days after they found me. Then we walked only a handful of kays a day. We walked to a place called Rybatta. It’s on the river, and later we took a boat downriver to Diehl. It did take me a while to recover.”

“…should hope so.”

“What can you tell us about the Naclans?”

“They believe in a version of the Legend, I’d say, although they never quite explained it. They live in harmony with all living things…don’t take life, even of plants, without reason…appear to be long-lived…”

Throughout the explanation, the skepticism on Ryltar’s face became more pronounced.

Finally, Claris held up a hand. “You seem rather dissatisfied, Ryltar.”

“I am. How can we believe any of this?”

“I don’t sense any chaos. Do you?”

“How could we tell? We need an expert.” Ryltar snorted again.

“Is that why you have Turmin waiting?” asked Jenna.

Ryltar flushed.

“Justen, with all that is happening, and with what happened to his nephew, you can understand Counselor Ryltar’s concerns that somehow you are now tied up, perhaps unwittingly, with Fairhaven?” Claris’s voice was gentle.

“I understand the counselor’s concerns.” Justen grinned. “I take it you want the honored Turmin to check out my degree of…orderliness? I don’t have any problem with that.” Turmin might, reflected Justen, with a turn to his lips.

“You seem amused.” Ryltar had gestured to the marine by the door.

“I am. I think that Turmin will find me very…orderly. The druids wouldn’t have allowed me anywhere near Diehl if I hadn’t been.”

Ryltar’s lip curled as Turmin entered the chamber.

Justen stood, nodding to the black mage, as did the others.

“Would you?” Claris nodded at Ryltar.

“Justen, here, has apparently spent almost two seasons in Naclos, and has recently returned. I appear to be the only one concerned that he may not be what he seems.”

“That is perfectly understandable with your…responsibilities.” Turmin nodded to the counselor.

A faint flush colored Ryltar’s neck, and Justen suppressed a grin. Turmin wasn’t anyone’s tool.

The mage turned to Justen. “Do you mind, ser?”

Justen caught the frown that crossed both Claris and Ryltar’s face even before he answered. “No, ser.”

Turmin smiled as he extended his order-perceptions, and Justen could sense something—but it was far fainter than the black mist that had surrounded Dayala, and especially the ancient Angel.

The mage frowned briefly, then nodded. After a few moments, he turned to the three counselors behind the table. “Begging your pardon, counselors, but this young fellow shows more basic order than anyone on Recluce. Even being around him would make your average White squirm.”

“Could this be a trick of some sort?” pursued Ryltar.

“Counselor, again begging your pardon, but you’re far closer to the Whites than he is. I don’t know of any way to counterfeit order. Do you?”

“Thank you, Turmin,” Claris proffered. “We appreciate your help.”

“Any time, counselors.” Turmin nodded curtly, bowed to Justen slightly, and with his back to the three counselors, winked.

Jenna covered her mouth, and the faint smile.

“We have a few more questions,” added Claris as the door shut behind Turmin. “Do you think that the Naclans will fight the Whites?”

Justen took another deep breath. The morning was going to be long. “So far as I know, they have not fought in any recent time, but I would question whether Fairhaven would wish to invade Naclos. The forests are almost impassible,
except for hidden trails. The Stone Hills could not be crossed by an army, and the country produces little that the Whites could use.”

“How do they intend to escape the effect of chaos?”

Justen took a sip of water before considering his answer. How indeed? “They believe that the forces of the Balance will eventually right the situation…”
Helped by one engineer named Justen, I suspect
.

The questions continued, and so did his answers, all of them truthful, all of them as complete as he knew how to make them, and all of them misleading to a Council that could not understand that too much order represented as much of a threat as did too much chaos.