The order war, p.32
The Order War, page 32
“That was gentle. You will make a good druid.” Dayala sat crosslegged on one of the sleeping mats set in front of the tent and motioned for Justen to sit on the other. Two clear cups sat empty between them.
As he sat down, she offered him a half-loaf of the travel bread. He poured water into the cups, noting that the blisters on her face had begun to lose their angry red color. His stomach growled again.
Dayala smiled. “Best you eat. Undergoing a trial makes you hungry.”
“Do all druids have to face that? Will the whole trip through the great forest be like that?”
“Oh, no.” Dayala mumbled the words through a mouthful of crumbs. “If you do not seek order or chaos, nothing will happen. It is the seeking that offers the invitation. If you remain within yourself…”
Justen nodded. Clearly, using order—or chaos—as an aide to perceiving or traveling would be fraught with great danger. He frowned. “But what if a jungle cat—”
“If it attacks you, then it is a form of chaos, and you may respond accordingly. If you attack it, the forest perceives you as chaos.”
“Not much hunting, huh?”
“No.”
Justen ate several more mouthfuls before speaking. “But cats have to eat? What can they attack?”
“Anything that is smaller or cannot escape. The whistling pigs, or the hares, sometimes a fawn.”
“That seems disorderly. Strength seems to rule, not order.”
Dayala licked her lips and drank from the clear cup.
“I’m still confused,” Justen told her. “What you seem to be saying is that any first action, by order or by chaos, meets a reaction, but that those who are strong enough can get away with it.”
Dayala nodded.
“Why wouldn’t the forest strike back at the cat?”
“It does not use pure order or pure chaos.”
“Oh. But if I respond to a physical attack, you’re saying that my response transforms the purely physical into a question of order and chaos?”
“No. You…any druid transforms the physical into a question of order-chaos Balance.”
Justen swallowed.
“That is why the great forest struck at you. Nature resists any attempt to separate its…Balance…into two levels of being. What you see and feel, and what you feel beyond that…”
Pondering, Justen munched through two more bites of the nutty and filling travel bread.
“So…separating order from the world that creates it is a form of violence?”
Dayala nodded. “Separating chaos, while easier, is also violent…and evil.”
“Wait a moment. You’re saying that separating either order or chaos from the…everyday…world is evil.”
The druid paused to finish another sip of water. “It is hard to explain. If you strengthen order in a tree, that is not evil, because a tree grows to strengthen order. Nor is it evil to allow chaos to exist, but to create order separate from the tree or to place chaos where it would not occur…”
Justen put his hands to his head, but let them fall away as they brushed his blisters. “Then…why the trial? I mean, if you’re not supposed to—”
“It is not that easy.” Dayala looked toward the faint gray remnants of twilight to the west. “We dug in the desert to find water. That did violence to the ground, but dying when water was there and when the digging created only a little chaos would have created more chaos. That is not quite right…but…”
Justen took a deep breath. “So the trial is to—”
“To show that you are strong enough to use order wisely. If you cannot resist the forest, then…” She shrugged, and Justen received a feeling of sadness and worry.
After a time of staring into the twilight, he asked, “How does one resist the forest? How did you resist it?”
“It was difficult. I bound chaos in order and walked through the fountains of each. Every person has a different way…those who return.” She looked down. “I am tired, and we must carry much tomorrow, as far as Merthe.”
Later, with the silky quilt drawn up to his chest, Justen lay back on the sleeping mat, staring at the tent fabric overhead. “Was that what you meant when you said that magic was dangerous in the great forest?”
“All unbalanced use of order or white force is dangerous. It is much more dangerous in the great forest.” Dayala shifted her weight, and Justen could almost feel the pain in her arms.
“I still don’t understand why you got burned and cut. You said it wasn’t dangerous. Didn’t you already pass your trial?”
Dayala was silent, so silent that Justen sat up, wincing at the pain in his arms as he levered himself about to look at her.
She winced as he did, although she had not moved, and tears streamed down her face, silver to Justen’s night sight, silver in the darkness.
“Oh, darkness.” His eyes burned, and he looked down at the scar on his wrist, the scar that matched the one on hers, and both scars seemed to flame with a matching blackness. “Darkness…” And ever so gently, he placed his fingers against hers.
Their tears continued to flow long after Justen laid his mat beside hers so that their fingers would remain linked, long after the low sounds of the great forest echoed gently over the hilltop.
LXXVI
Eldiren concentrated on the screeing glass, but despite the sweat on his forehead, he could not break through the white, swirling mists that covered the glass.
“One of those places…” he muttered as he released his hold. The glass shimmered with the blankness of a mirror. He cleared his throat.
“It’s all those trees,” Beltar said, gesturing toward the ancient forest in the valley below the White camp. “Isn’t that why no one can ever look into Naclos?”
“That’s what they say.” Eldiren patted his still-damp forehead with a square of folded cloth. “When are we supposed to link up with Zerchas?”
“After we take Berlitos.”
“How are we going to do that?” asked Eldiren. “I can’t even see most of their troops because of the order in the trees. Trying to attack would cost us whatever troops we have left. Can’t you shake it down?”
Beltar shook his head.
“The trees?” Eldiren prompted.
“I don’t know, but I can’t tap enough of the chaos-flows in the ground. All I get are little tremors. There’s a lot of old order here.”
“Still, you’re not doing badly. We hold Clynya and Bornt—only that little place, what’s-its-name, up on the first branch of the Sarron—”
“Rohrn,” supplied Beltar. “Forget it. That one will have to wait. We need to get through without losing any more troops. Clynya wasn’t exactly a pushover. If you hadn’t managed to circle back through the hills and start those fires—”
The herald entered the white-walled tent.
Beltar looked up. “Yes?”
“The Sarronnese refuse any terms, ser.”
“Oh?”
“They were most arrogant, ser.” Sweat streamed down the man’s face, and his blue cap, held at his waist in both hands, was dark with dampness. “They…they said that Berlitos had never surrendered, not even to the greatest Tyrant in history, and that they weren’t about to surrender now.”
“Idiots!” snapped Beltar.
The herald waited.
“No, they won’t surrender. Of course they won’t. Honor and all that crap!” Beltar paced across the tent, then back.
The herald glanced toward Eldiren.
“So now what?” Beltar asked.
Eldiren gestured toward the herald.
“Oh.” Beltar nodded. “You may go.”
“Thank you. Thank you, ser.” The herald fled.
“You seem to have them all terrified, Beltar.”
“I wish the order-damned Sarronnese were terrified instead. But no. It’s like they have to force me to use my powers.”
“You just said you couldn’t do that here,” pointed out Eldiren.
“I said I couldn’t shake down the damned city, and they probably know that.” The White Wizard fingered his chin. “You were saying something, or I was. Fires, that was it. I wonder what Berlitos is built of. There’s not much stone around here.”
“You’d burn it?”
“Why not? It’s better than losing an army. Jera is the only city I have to save.” Beltar smiled. “They can use all these damned trees to rebuild it…if there are enough of them left. Besides, the storms won’t hold off that much longer.”
“Burn it?” asked Eldiren again.
“Why not? I seem to be condemned to use force. So I might as well. Right now, Zerchas wants results. I’ll get him his results.” Beltar walked to the entrance to the tent and looked down at the forest city of Berlitos. “I’ll get him his order-damned results.”
Eldiren looked at the blank glass and then at Beltar’s back. He pursed his lips, but did not wipe the sudden return of sweat to his forehead.
LXXVII
The road was wide enough for a single wagon, not that Justen had seen any wagons since they had entered the great forest not much past dawn. He had seen handcarts, pulled by men or women, large, smooth-skinned buffaloes carrying bags or barrels attached to padded harnesses and following druids who used no apparent direct control, and nearly a score of people walking from one place to another under the green arches of the towering, brown-trunked trees.
Beneath the monolithic trees that rose more than a hundred cubits into the air grew shorter trees and bushes, each almost as if placed, never touching any other. Some were squatty, dark-trunked lorken, others oaks that seemed never destined to reach the heights of those Justen had known in the highlands beyond Wandernaught as a child, heights he had thought soaring until seeing the great forest of Naclos. The forest canopy turned the road and all beneath it into a green-lighted temple, almost demanding worship.
Without the sun bearing down on him, Justen had tucked the woven cap into his belt. His head felt less sweaty without the cap, but the covering had clearly helped him across the Stone Hills and the grasslands.
As they walked deeper into the great forest, Justen found himself speaking in whispers. “How much farther to Merthe?”
“A while. It is not even mid-morning.”
He shifted the heavy packs on his shoulder, glad he was neither a pack animal nor a soldier, not usually, and looked down the road, momentarily empty except for them.
The dark-splotched form of a forest cat almost as tall as Justen’s waist slipped across the road a hundred cubits ahead of them, vanishing silently into the undergrowth. Justen felt for the knife at his belt, not that a knife would have done much good against such a monster. “Are you sure we’re safe?”
“As long as you don’t start order-probing again.”
“But what would stop—”
“You are with me.”
Justen swallowed, momentarily feeling like a stupid child, wanting to say childishly, “Yes, Mother.” Instead, he tried to receive some form of order-impressions—rather than trying to send or investigate. He had already learned the dangers there, as the soreness on his face and arms reminded him.
The road followed, as it gradually descended, a stream that grew slowly wider and slowly noisier. On each side grew bushes and occasional flowers. He paused to study a purple trumpet bearing a stamen that seemed to flow like golden notes from the bell of the floral instrument. The purple flower had its own space, like every plant, no matter how narrow, no matter how frail.
As he turned toward Dayala, who had stopped during his examination, Justen marveled at the unseen gardener who maintained the trees, even the flowers that peered from scattered beds, and the road—or roads. “Who takes care of all this?”
“The great forest takes care of itself. As it should be.”
As it should be? Justen did not voice the question as he strained to keep up with Dayala. The road followed the river, and they passed a few more souls, all adults and all walking with that determined stride that he had come to associate with Dayala.
“Everyone walks.” He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to relieve some of the growing soreness from the heavy pack.
“Except when we take the river. How else would it be?”
How else could it be if the Naclans did not use animals for riding or pulling carts?
It was near midday when the road turned and before them, a stone bridge crossed the stream. When they stepped onto the span, Justen saw on the other side of the stream a small dwelling, almost entirely shaded by trees, and beyond the smooth, dark walls, sunlight fell on the lower trees and the grass—grass he had not seen since they had entered the great forest.
In the kay-wide circular space that appeared to be Merthe, there were none of the monolithic forest giants, but only a scattering of shorter trees, most set right against the low houses. More than two-score dwellings or other low buildings sat on curving, stone-paved lanes.
A silver-haired man carrying a large covered basket nodded at Justen and Dayala as they took their last steps off the bridge and walked onto the sun-splashed road leading into the town.
“Pleasant-looking place.”
A faint breeze flowed from the great forest into Merthe, ruffling Justen’s hair from behind. He pushed the locks back off his forehead, aware that they were all too long, but glad that he no longer had to wear the woven cap.
“Why should it not be?”
With no answer for that, Justen glanced toward the second dwelling they passed, where two children played a hopping game. The older girl nodded solemnly as they went by, while the younger waved cheerfully.
Behind the house was a garden with neat rows and staked plants that grew as tall as Justen’s shoulders. The leaves in the garden were still green.
“Does it never frost here?”
“Seldom.”
“So the plants grow year around?”
“Most of them do.”
Justen was pondering this as he saw a pair of cows chewing on the lush grass behind another dwelling, the animals apparently unstaked and unfenced. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to release the stiffness and soreness from carrying a pack far heavier than he had lugged before.
Dayala walked toward a low building, with three oaks square against each side wall. “This is where we will leave the traveling equipment.”
An archway, not a door proper, offered entrance to the shop. As they stepped inside, Justen glanced at the curtains that had been tied back, but no door lay behind them. He tried not to frown, but why was there no door? Were there no thieves? Even though Recluce had few thieves, if any, the dwellings and shops had doors.
“Dayala! You found him! I’m so glad for you.”
Justen raised his eyebrows as a squarish young woman bounded out from behind a small loom on a table in the rear of the building.
“Justen,” Dayala gestured toward the woman, “this is Lyntha.”
“I am honored.” Justen bowed slightly.
“No. I am honored. So few ever make it to Merthe, or to the northern reaches of the great forest.” Lyntha grinned.
Dayala slipped out of her pack with an ease Justen admired, an example he followed far less gracefully, if with more relief.
“Here is the tent…and it is ordered…and the water jugs…”
The engineer rubbed his shoulders as he watched Dayala unload items from the two packs. Some went on the nearly empty flat wooden table, while others, such as the big water containers, Lyntha carried into a back room.
“We’ll put the other things away. You were weaving…”
“My sister will be having a son, and she will need a comfort quilt for him.”
“She has waited a long time.”
“Not so long as you!” Lyntha laughed.
Dayala flushed, so briefly that Justen almost missed the flash of color. “Some of us are just luckier than others.”
Even as Lyntha returned to the loom, Dayala began to place items on the racks around the room. Justen fingered the wood on a staff, tightly grained and smooth lorken, almost glossy to the touch.
“What about the travel bread?” he wondered aloud.
“That will be used for the cows and chickens.” Dayala carried some of the sealed waxed containers back into the rear section of the building, and Justen followed with the remainder.
When the packs were empty and placed on racks, Dayala turned to him. “It would be fitting if you would consider leaving your water bottle…” She inclined her head toward the wooden rack that contained only the bottle she had placed there and one other.
Justen unfastened the bottle and leather strapholders from his belt. “What about the water? There’s still some inside.”
“Lyntha?” Dayala gestured. “Justen forgot to empty this bottle. Could you take care of it?”
“Just leave it on the end of the rack. He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last. Why, last eight-day, old Fyhthrem not only left a pack here full, but she had olffmoss in it. What a mess that was. She apologized and later brought by some dried pearapple flakes in wax for the travel food. But it happens. A little water, that’s nothing.”
Justen set the bottle and straps on the end of the rack, glancing back at Dayala. She nodded and walked toward the table where the stocky, silver-haired woman was operating a small hand loom.
“We must go.”
“You’ll be back before long.”
“Of course. At the proper time.”
Justen bowed to Lyntha. The woman flushed briefly but returned the bow with a nod. Then he followed Dayala back into the warmth of the sun, loosening his tunic as they crossed what passed for a central square on their way toward another low building, also without any signs or indications of its function.
Inside another doorless room, they stood amid a half-dozen chairs and tables, all empty, when a silver-haired youth, barely to Justen’s shoulder, stepped into the room.
“Dayala!” He grinned at the silver-haired woman. “Mother said you’d—” He turned and bowed to Justen without finishing the sentence.
Justen returned the bow.
“You’re as eager as ever, Yunkin.” Dayala shook her head.
