The Chaos Balance

CXXXVIII

“They have returned…as they promised,” pointed out Gethen.

“Yes, my sire. They keep their word. Always do they keep their word, and each time, Lornth changes.” Fornal’s words were slow, measured. One hand dropped to his waist, where his fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “What can I say? They have killed more of the white demons than any of us, yet still the white demons threaten to destroy all we hold dear. If whatever magic they have brought does destroy the Cyadorans, will it also not destroy Lornth?”

“Can we afford to lose their aid now?” asked Gethen, sitting upright in the old wooden chair, a chair pushed away from the table on which still rested a half a loaf of dark bread, a partly cut wedge of cheese, and an earthenware mug. The older regent’s blade, still in its sheath, lay half across Gethen’s knees. One hand was circled loosely around the hilt.

“Yet, in little ways, they will destroy Lornth. A nursemaid looks at me as though I were the serf. My armsmen question me silently. What will come next?” Fornal eased his fingers from the dagger’s hilt.

“If we win, we can work out something. We still hold Rulyarth, and Ildyrom is dead.”

“That may be true. Yet I say that should they bring down the Cyadorans, that success will bring down the Lornth I have known and given my life to serve. This I cannot prove, nor have they been other than honorable in their own way. But our Lornth will be no more.”

“If they cannot defeat the white ones, our Lornth will cease tomorrow.” Gethen touched his gray beard with his left hand.

Fornal shook his head. “For all that, my Lornth is perilously close to perishing.”

“The Lornth we grew up cherishing, Fornal, perished the day the angels landed. Whatever may come, it is better than having all Lornth burned and dying under the white hordes.”

“You will regret ever having listened to the silver tongues of these angels. For all their honor, they are as dark and evil as the white demons.”

“Do we have a choice of demons?” Gethen rose from the chair, right hand holding the hilt of the blade fully as long and heavy as the one Fornal bore. His eyes did not leave his son’s as he inclined his head but slightly. His lips crooked. “For that matter, in this life, have we ever had any choices, except to do what we have thought best?”