The Order War (42 page)

After shifting his weight in the saddle, Justen wiped his forehead, although the summer heat was far less oppressive than that of the Stone Hills in the late fall. Absently, he wondered how anything survived there in the summer. With the thought of the Stone Hills, an image of Dayala’s face floated into his mind. Should he write? How would he get a letter delivered? And what could he say in words?
Oh…Dayala. Miss you…

A faint shadow crossed the road as a puffy white cloud briefly covered the sun.

Had he sensed some warmth in return, or was he merely feeling what he hoped to feel? Justen’s stomach growled, and the stallion’s hooves clicked on the stones of the High Road, that memorial to the great Creslin. “Do you think that tavern’s open yet?”

Altara had remained silent since they left the stable at the Black Holding. Now she cleared her throat before speaking and glanced out toward the sheep meadows to the west of the road; each meadow was lush with the hardy grass that grew only in Recluce, each separated from the next by the low, dark stone walls. “The tavern—I suppose so.”

A farm wagon rolled toward them, filled with neatly stacked baskets of potatoes headed for the harbor at Land’s End. “Good day, Magister, Magistra.” The woman in the driver’s seat nodded as she spoke.

“Good day.”

“Good day.”

When the wagon was well past, Altara looked at Justen for a time, her green eyes focused intently, before speaking. “You’ve changed. Not in any way that’s obvious.”

“I suspect that being chased across half of Sarronnyn by a White Wizard and nearly dying in the Stone Hills might have had some effect.”

“It’s rather more than that, young Justen, except that you’re not nearly so young anymore.” Altara looked southward along the stone-paved High Road before continuing. “You certainly had Counselor Ryltar upset.”

“There’s something about him…” Justen’s hand idly stroked the stallion’s neck.

“You’re surely not intimating that one of our great and mighty counselors might be less than perfectly orderly?”

“Turmin did.” Justen laughed. “But I wonder how you’d ever prove anything like that. Or if it’s even the case.”

“You look too deeply, Justen. What about simple corruption? Someone from Ryltar’s family has been on the Council for the last two generations.”

“I can’t believe someone could buy a Council seat without people finding out.”

“Of course not. But if the great trading family of Nylan supports and contributes to the funding of the Council…”

“Oh…” Justen nodded. Still, Ryltar didn’t feel right. Corruption? Who would pay Ryltar for what? And why?

“What will the Council do about Suthya?” Justen patted the stallion on the neck again.

“Not a thing. Berlitos is nothing but cinders, and after the fall of Sarron and the firing of Berlitos, the Council doesn’t seem willing to act. Besides, the Whites haven’t made a move.”

“So the Council will do nothing? I wonder if someone has paid Ryltar to stop any action.”

“Justen…that’s a serious charge.”

“I’m not charging, just wondering. Besides, how would you find out? Profits on trading shipments are hard to track.”

“Whatever…” Altara shook her head. “I don’t think you’d have to pay Ryltar. He’s never wanted involvement with Candar.”

“Idiots…” muttered Justen.

“I agree. But why do you think so?”

“The Whites will consolidate their hold on Sarronnyn and send out their secret wizards and undermine the people’s faith in order, and Suthya will fall just as Sarronnyn did.”

“You want to go back to Candar to stop them?”

Justen smiled faintly, but did not answer.

“Darkness. You’re really thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“Do you think the tavern’s open?” Justen gestured toward the hamlet they approached.

“If your stomach can stand it, the public house in Extina is better, and it’s not quite midday, anyway.” Altara forced a chuckle. “And the dark ale is supposed to be among the best.”

“I could use a mug of good dark ale.” He patted the stallion’s neck once more, hoping the ale would not be too bitter with the aftertaste he had never noticed until he had tasted the ale of Naclos. “I definitely could.”

“Good night, son.” Horas waved vaguely as he headed down the hall to bed.

Justen closed the door and glanced at the lamp in the wall sconce. Did he need it, really? He walked over and gently blew it out to save oil. Then he pulled off his boots and piled up the pillows against the wall before he settled onto the bed.

Justen put his arms behind his head and stretched his feet out on the bed he had slept in for so many years before he had gone to Nylan to become an engineer. Now what was he? Part engineer, part druid, part healer, part who knew what?

As he heard the wind gust through the yellowing leaves of the trees outside, he frowned, recalling Gunnar’s long-ago words:
You have managed to turn order into chaos. But gray magic has to work both ways. Can you turn chaos into order?

Was working with chaos totally wrong—if the goal was order? He shivered. How many people had destroyed themselves in that way? But what if he held the chaos within blocks of order—just as the healing that Dayala had taught him held chaos twisted and locked in order inside his body?

False lead? Magistra Gerra had once mentioned that false lead linked order and chaos, but that false lead was dangerous. Even the yellow-powdered deposits that contained it were hard to find, and harder to break down into the metal itself.

Thrap…

He smiled, sensing Elisabet on the other side of the door.

“Come on in, Elisabet.”

“It’s dark.”

“You don’t need a light. No wizard does. Just look.”

“Oh, Justen. You spoil everything.”

“Just because I know you can see without much light?”

“Justen…”

“Does Mother know you’re up?”

“She won’t mind. Neither would Father.” Elisabet plopped onto the corner of the bed, and Justen moved his feet aside. “Tell me about Dayala. What’s she like?”

“Why do you want to know?” Justen grinned in the darkness.

“Justen, you’re in love with this druid, and I’m not supposed to be curious? Does she have a tree, like in the old tales?”

“Hardly. Most of the druids live in the great forest of Naclos and don’t like to leave it, but not all of them are like that. Dayala’s father is a smith who traveled to Sarronnyn several times in years past. And their houses are really made out of trees. She works with smaller trees to make the boxes.”

“You told me that already. What does she look like?”

“Well, she’s almost as tall as I am, and she has silver hair
and green eyes. And a very dry sense of humor that’s hard to describe. At first, it was a little hard to understand her, because the Naclans speak the original Temple tongue—”

“Does she look like that picture of Llyse that’s in the old armory?”

“Hmmm.” Justen tried to remember the picture that Elisabet mentioned, the one that showed the great Creslin’s sister in battle gear. “Her hair isn’t as curly as Llyse’s, and her shoulders are broader, I think. Oh, and she doesn’t wear boots or shoes. That’s so she can keep in touch with everything around her.”

“Does she wear clothes?”

“Elisabet.” Justen mock-chided his sister.

“She must have something that attracts you.”

“She wears clothes—trousers and a shirt, usually. A silvery brown color.”

“Is she a good lover?”

Justen tried not to choke.

“Well, is she?”

“Elisabet, I think that’s between Dayala and me.”

“She’s a good lover. How smart is she?”

“A lot smarter than I am about some things.”

“Oh, dear.” Elisabet drew her knees up to her chin. Finally, she asked, “How long are you going to stay?”

“A few more days, maybe less. At some point, I should be going back to Nylan.”

“I meant, when are you going back to Candar?”

Justen shrugged. “I don’t know. It won’t be soon. There’s too much to do. I don’t even really know how I’m going to do what needs to be done.”

“Good. I hope it takes a long time. Why doesn’t Dayala come here?”

“We talked about that. Until I finish my…task, I won’t be going back there, either.”

“Justen, you don’t sound very happy about this task.”

“I’m not. It has to be done, but I’m not happy about it.”

“Why do you have to do it?”

“Have you noticed anyone else besides Altara, Gunnar, or me very concerned about what Fairhaven is doing? Concerned enough to do anything except to ignore the Whites?”

“Father says that everyone thinks Recluce will be safe even if they take over all of Candar.”

“For a while, probably.”

“Then why—”

“I made order-tipped arrows, Elisabet. They killed a lot of innocent people. Sometimes I still have nightmares about them. That’s the problem with evil. Chaos isn’t necessarily evil, but the Whites are evil because they want to impose their ways on others through force. But the only way to fight evil is with force, and that makes the ones who fight it almost as bad as the evil ones. I don’t want the whole world becoming evil—those who are evil and those who must become evil to stop them.”

Elisabet remained silent.

“If you let evil grow, then it takes more force to stop it, and that means even greater evil in the world. That’s what’s wrong with the Council’s view.”

Elisabet crept up the bed and put her arms around Justen. “You’re very brave.”

“No, I can’t say that. I’m angry. I’m angry, and I hate the Angels and the Whites for putting me in this position. If I don’t do something, I’m a coward, and if I do, I become like the Whites, doing evil in the name of some ideal.”

His sister hugged him again.

Finally, he shrugged. “I suppose that’s life.”

“You’re different. You’re more serious.”

Justen forced a short laugh. “That’s life, too.”

Justen sat on the chair backwards, his loosely crossed arms resting on the curved back as he faced Gunnar. “What are you doing right now?”

“Listening to you.” Gunnar leaned back on the narrow bed, his head resting against the paneled wall of the Brotherhood’s quarters for senior wizards. The outer walls of Justen’s room were only of dressed stone.

Justen sighed. “I mean, for Turmin, for the Brotherhood.”

“Mostly scouting the high winds, trying to follow what’s happening in Suthya. Also, following the wind patterns for the fleet, letting the ships know what to expect, where there are likely to be storms. The usual.”

“There’s something wrong with that Counselor—Ryltar, I mean. It’s not chaos, but he just doesn’t feel right.” Justen pulled at his chin. “I wish I knew what he’s been up to. Could you find out?”

“You want me to spy on a Counselor?”

“It was just a thought.” Justen shrugged. “It’s probably too tedious.”

“You know, I always used to fall for that.” Gunnar sat up. “You’d tell me I couldn’t do something, and I’d have to prove I could.”

Justen grinned.

“All right. I’ll spend a little time at it. Just a little, though.”

“That’s all I could ask.” Justen sipped from the glass of now-warm dark beer.

“I still can’t believe you can drink that stuff and be as orderly as Turmin says you are.” Gunnar frowned.

“The druids have a saying about deeper order.”

“Right. What about this lady…this Dayala? You always avoid talking about her.”

“You’re right. I do.” Justen took a last sip from the mug and set it aside. “She’s hard to describe.”

“Well…what does she do, beside sitting around being a druid?”

“She makes things out of wood. She grows them, like that box I gave you.”

“Grows them? That’s a little much, even for a druid.”

“I thought so, too, but…it’s really hard to explain unless you’ve been there. On the surface, everything seems so orderly, and it is. But they make each druid balance order and chaos on a deeper level.”

“Make?”

“They have a trial. You either undertake the trial and survive, or you leave.”

“You…did their trial?”

Justen nodded, then added, “I almost didn’t make it. Sarronnyn was like a child’s game in some ways. Not that you couldn’t die in either place.”

Gunnar looked at Justen for a long time, and Justen could feel the order-probing. Finally, Gunnar shook his head. “This Dayala…was she the reason? Why you did the trial, I mean?”

“Partly. But I still felt I had to. I can’t tell you exactly why, except that I felt something was wrong in Recluce. Maybe that was because of Firbek.”

“There can be bad apples in the best orchard.”

“But they shouldn’t be put where they can spoil an entire barrel, should they?” Justen shifted his weight on the hard wood of the chair seat.

“What are you getting at, dear brother?”

“Why was Firbek the one leading the marines? I don’t believe in coincidences, as a rule.”

“You think…” Gunnar paused before continuing. “Is that why you want to know about Ryltar? Because he’s Firbek’s cousin?”

“Call it curiosity.”

“Curiosity, my foot.”

“Even the White Wizards don’t do things without reason.”

“What are you saying?” Gunnar scratched the back of his neck.

“Why are there so few White Wizards in Fairhaven? In a way, why has Fairhaven been even more successful since Cerryl the Great dispersed the great White Wizards to the capitals and the troop stations around Candar?”

“It might be because of the Iron Guard as well.”

“I’m sure that’s part of it, but the concentration of chaos is as dangerous to them as it seems to us, perhaps more so.”

“What are you getting at?” asked Gunnar. “You dance all over the place. This all started when I asked you about Dayala. Or maybe when…I don’t know. You bring up so many things that I lose track.” Gunnar sighed. “Oh, well, what do you mean about concentrating chaos?”

“I’m going to force them to concentrate all their chaos in one spot, and make sure that they do.”

“Just how will do you that? Send them a message begging them to do what you say they haven’t done in centuries?”

Justen grinned as he stood up. “You know, that might actually work.”

Gunnar rose from the narrow bed. “You leaving?”

“I’ve got to work in the hall in the morning.”

“You never did tell me about your druid.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.” Justen grinned and headed for the door, opening it and turning back to face Gunnar.

The older brother sighed. “Next time?”

Justen lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and grinned again.