The Chaos Balance

XXXVIII

Lornth was farther than it looked, and larger. The sun broke through the hazy clouds and hung above the rolling hills to the west by the time the angels and their escort descended the last low hill leading into the town.

Like all the towns Nylan had seen in Candar, Lornth was not walled, and the houses went from a few widely spaced on large plots of ground to a point where they were nearly wall to wall, with occasional shops sandwiched between.

Tonsar guided them down the street that the highway had become, a street that pointed toward the tower Nylan had seen from a distance. At a closer glance, Nylan realized that the buildings he had thought were plastered white were a stucco or cement of a pinkish color, so pale as to appear white from a distance. Some few structures were stone, like the tower, a light red stone that resembled granite.

The streets were narrow, wide enough for perhaps three horses abreast, or a single wagon, and an unpleasant aroma rose from the ditch on the right side of the paving stones, a ditch that was an open sewer.

Nylan wrinkled his nose and looked at Ayrlyn.

She shook her head. “No lectures on deaths from poor sanitation.”

A puzzled look crossed Tonsar’s face. “Lornth is not poor.”

“Nylan worries about open waste ditches,” Ayrlyn explained.

“The people are required to wash them down every eight-day,” said Tonsar. “There is a fine if they do not.” He reined up as a cart half-filled with barrels rolled out of an alley, pulled by a single ox, and then slowed as the wheels dropped into the depression of the sewage ditch.

The squad waited as the cart lurched across the waste ditch, flinging dark slime onto the paving stones. Nylan winced, and then shrugged.

At the end of the row of houses was a wider area, with shops on each side and several pushcarts on the paving stones beyond the storefronts. A few handfuls of people, mostly women, turned as the squad rode into the small square.

“You are not exactly the most welcome of visitors,” pointed out Tonsar.

“I can hear that.” Nylan shifted his weight in the saddle, and studied those who stared at him, but none moved toward him as the party rode through the center of the small square and back into the narrower street.

Less than three hundred cubits farther, the street ended, and they faced an open green area, behind which stood the keep of Lornth. The keep was of the pale pink granite, as was the wall surrounding it, although the wall was low, not more than ten cubits high and only three cubits thick-a barrier more suited to a rural estate than the domain of a lord, Nylan would have thought.

The two heavy wooden gates were bound in iron and stood open, guarded by four armsmen on foot.

Tonsar reined up and nodded to the guards. “The angels to see the regents.”

The small thin guard with a halberd of sorts nodded back. “The Regent Zeldyan left word that she would see them in the tower room as soon as they arrived.”

Tonsar jerked his head in a quick nod, then urged his mount through the gates. The sound of hoofs echoed from the pale pink paving stones of the courtyard as the riders followed the lead armsman around the north side of the keep or palace.

Nylan noted the relative emptiness of the keep. Only a score or so of armsmen? Four gate guards?

The stables were in the rear of the keep, a separate building with a tile roof and swept clay floors that smelled more of straw and horses than of manure. Several clucks, brawks, and cheeps indicated chickens were located somewhere nearby, although the smith saw none.

Nylan gratefully dismounted from the mare, stretching his legs and shoulders, then his arms. His left shoulder got stiff more easily than the right. His hand brushed the weathered lintel beam, reminding him that ceilings were low indeed in low-tech cultures.

“You may leave your mounts here in the stable. Your things will be brought to your quarters.”

Ayrlyn unfastened the lutar case. “I’ll take this. It’s an instrument.”

“As you wish, angel,” Tonsar said with a laugh.

Nylan worried about the metal composite bow, but saying anything would draw more attention, and there was no way the locals could duplicate it. Besides, wrapped in oiled leather, it looked much like any other bow.

Again, those few in the courtyard watched intently as the angels walked back across the stones toward the keep building itself.

The armsman led the three up a set of stone steps and then into what appeared to be an older tower, stopping outside a dark and polished wooden door, guarded by a broad-shouldered man wearing a decorative breastplate and a shortsword. The shorter blade made more sense for an interior guard. Beside him was a page.

“Announce the angels to the regent,” requested the armsman.

The page slipped inside the door, but Nylan caught some of the words.

“Lady Zeldyan, the angels…”

Almost immediately, the door reopened.

“You may enter,” said the page.

“Leave your blades outside the room,” noted the guardsman.

“Do all warriors leave their weapons?” asked Nylan.

“If you prefer,” answered the guard, “you may lay them on the table inside the door. No one will touch them.”

“Thank you,” said Nylan. “I’ll have to draw the shoulder blade.” He looked at Weryl, who looked up sleepily.

“Why…oh.”

The page opened the dark door, and Nylan saw the table, dark and battered wood, waist-high. He placed both blades there, side by side, realizing that they could still be taken before he could ever reach them. Ayrlyn followed his example.

A slender blond woman with piercing green eyes stood waiting. She wore a purple tunic, trimmed in green, and green trousers. Her hair was swept back in a malachite hair band.

“I am the Lady Zeldyan. Please be seated.” The blond woman gestured toward the circular conference table, and her eyes went to Weryl. “Your child? How old is-?”

“He’s a little more than a year,” Nylan said.

“They like to explore. You may let him crawl, if you like. He might prefer that.”

“Thank you.” Nylan eased Weryl out of the carrypak and set him on the ornate but worn carpet. He followed Zeldyan’s gesture and sat, taking the chair closest to where his son sat.

Weryl’s fingers ran over the fabric, and he looked back at Nylan.

“You can crawl around,” the smith told the boy.

With a glance back at the now-closed wooden door, Ayrlyn eased herself into the chair beside Nylan.

The blond woman took the chair across from them, her eyes on Ayrlyn. “I was the consort of Lord Sillek. The holders were kind enough to confirm me, with my brother Fornal and my sire, as one of the regents for my son Nesslek.” Zeldyan gestured toward the pair of pitchers and the goblets. “The gray pitcher has greenjuice, the brown, wine. Would you like some?”

“I’d definitely enjoy the greenjuice,” Nylan replied.

“The wine,” answered Ayrlyn nearly simultaneously.

They both laughed, and Zeldyan smiled faintly, but poured the wine first for Ayrlyn, then the juice into the two remaining goblets.

“I am Nylan,” the smith said, as he realized he had never given his name, “and this is Ayrlyn. Weryl is the one crawling there.” Nylan watched as Weryl crawled away from the table toward a low closed chest. The boy’s fingers explored the brass fittings before he levered himself upright and stood, holding on to the chest for a moment before he sat down with a thump. Immediately, he began the process again.

What did Zeldyan want? Nylan had to wonder.

“Many would guess why two angels would choose to enter Lornth.” Zeldyan took a slight sip of the juice, and continued. “I have my own thoughts, but I would be honored if you would tell me how you came here.”

The two angels exchanged glances.

“Might as well,” Nylan said. “We were the crew of a ship that crossed the skies, a warship, and we were in a battle with the…demons of light, I’d guess you’d call them. The forces were so great that they carried us to the skies above Candar, but our ship was destroyed, and we were forced to land on the Roof of the World. We had to land in a cold place because most of the angels come from places far colder than Candar. Only three of us can really live for any long period of time in the warmer parts of Candar. Ayrlyn comes from the warmest place, and she finds the Roof of the World in the winter nearly as inhospitable as you do. Almost as soon as we landed, people started attacking us, and we had to fight back. They kept attacking, and we kept defending, until the peace agreement after the big battle last fall.” The smith shrugged. “Does that answer your question?”

“Our wizards had told me some of that, but it is good to know why you picked the Roof of the World. Still…why are you here? Do you bring some message, some demand?”

“Hardly.” Nylan held in a sigh. “You must know that Ryba is Marshal of Westwind, and that she is a mighty warrior. You also must know that there are few men in Westwind.”

“It is said you slaughtered most of those who tried to enter, although there were said to be some few from Lornth who survived,” said Zeldyan.

Nylan decided against addressing the issue of slaughter. “There were two,” said Nylan. “One was Nerliat, and he left and was killed when he returned with a wizard to attack Westwind. Ryba is not all that fond of men, and she has become less fond of them as time has passed. I am a man.” He shrugged.

Zeldyan frowned. “And what of the other man? Did he suffer her displeasure as well? Was he slaughtered as well?”

“That was Relyn. He attacked Westwind also, but he survived.” Nylan paused, sensing that Zeldyan’s interest was more than passing. “He left last fall to head east.”

“East? Why would he do that?” The regent sounded puzzled. “Why was he spared when others were not?”

Nylan wanted to wipe his forehead. “It’s not exactly simple. When he attacked Westwind, he tried to kill Ryba. She took off his right hand.” The smith paused.

“Nylan saved him from bleeding to death, and later made him an artificial hand, and helped teach him how to fight with a blade and a knife,” added Ayrlyn.

Nylan wanted to clarify that, because he hadn’t really done the teaching. He’d only made the hand/hook and the clamp that would hold a dagger and encouraged Relyn.

“Why did you do that?” asked the blond woman.

“It seemed like the right thing to do. He was pretty defeated. He said he’d never be able to return home, that he could never escape the humiliation of being defeated by a handful of women.” Nylan’s eyes turned to Weryl, who was working his way around the chest with tottering steps.

“Do you know why he left?” asked Zeldyan.

“I told him to,” Nylan admitted. “I was afraid that Ryba might harm him after the battle.” He took a sip of the sweet and sour juice.

“You could not protect him?”

“Nylan was injured in the battle,” said Ayrlyn. “He could not have protected himself, let alone anyone else. Because he worried about Relyn, he advised him to slip away in the confusion after the battle.”

“Scarcely honorable advice,” said Zeldyan.

“I’m a little confused about the definition of honor,” said Ayrlyn. “From what I’ve observed, it appears perfectly honorable to attack or try to enslave people who have nowhere to go. It appears perfectly honorable to offer rewards to have them destroyed, but it is dishonorable to admit that they are strong enough to defend themselves, and dishonorable to leave when the alternative is death at the blade of the greatest warrior in the world.”

“The greatest warrior? Who might that be?”

“Ryba,” said Nylan. “From what I’ve seen, no one comes close to her.”

“She does not rule by blood?”

“No. She rules by ability, especially ability with weapons.”

“Many in Lornth would find that disturbing.” Zeldyan took another sip of juice. “Why did you advise Relyn to leave? I am also confused. Did you know that you would be injured? Are you some sort of mage to predict such matters?”

“People have called me a mage,” Nylan admitted, “but I am a smith and an engineer first. I did not know that I would be injured, but we were greatly outnumbered, and it seemed possible that many would be injured. I told Relyn that, especially if I were injured, he should depart.”

“That candle adds some light.” Zeldyan paused, sipped her juice, and asked, “Are you the black mage that the wizards saw in their glasses? The one who defeated Hissl?”

“I don’t think I am a black mage, but I did manage to stop the wizards.”

“I would suggest, ser Nylan, that anyone who can defeat three white wizards is a black mage,” said Zeldyan dryly. “If you are so powerful, and needs must leave this…Westwind, then the Marshal must be even more powerful.”

“She is a mighty warrior,” said Ayrlyn, “and at times she can see what will be, or might be.”

“You, flame-angel.” The regent turned to Ayrlyn. “Do you believe that the black mage saved Relyn?”

“Yes. He saved his life, and helped him to regain his skills and confidence. Before Relyn left, he was a better blade, even left-handed and with a dagger over his hook, than he was when he came.”

Zeldyan was silent, then took another sip of the juice. “Why did you leave?”

“Because the Roof of the World was too cold for me, and because I love Nylan, and because he had to leave.”

Nylan slipped out of the chair to steer Weryl away from the table with the blades upon it.

“Yet he carries the child. Is this an angel custom?”

“Weryl is his. Why shouldn’t he carry his son?”

Zeldyan laughed, before a frown crossed her face. “I wish Sillek were yet here to listen to that. Still, you have done some good, not even knowing that you have.”

It was Ayrlyn’s and Nylan’s turn to look puzzled.

“Relyn is my brother, and while I would wish he could return to Lornth, I fear his judgment is correct. He would have to fight every day of his life for seasons to prove his honor.” She turned back to Ayrlyn. “Sillek shared some of your concerns about honor, with some justice.”

Nylan cleared his throat. “If it is not too impertinent, Regent Zeldyan, might I ask why you wished to see us?”

“Because I wanted to meet those who are angels to see if they were indeed black demons.”

“Why does everyone think of us that way?”

“How else would they, after all you have done?”

“And what do you want of us?” Ayrlyn’s voice was edged.

“Have you heard of Cyador, the ancient white land?”

“Only recently. There was a scroll that mentioned an ancient land where the builders channeled the rivers and built white cities, and then a trader mentioned the name,” said Ayrlyn. “He said traders from Cyador had bought enough wheat in Certis and Gallos to drive the price up. He also said they don’t let outside traders in.”

“They turn away all outsiders, and kill those they find within their borders.” Zeldyan was matter-of-fact. “Once, it is said, they controlled much of what is Lornth, including the copper mines in Cerlyn. They have demanded the return of the mines, and our scouts say that a mighty force of Mirror Lancers advances toward the Grass Hills.”

At the term “Mirror Lancers,” Ayrlyn and Nylan exchanged glances.

“You know of this?” Zeldyan’s voice sharpened.

“Not exactly. Those who destroyed our ship used Mirror Towers, and we’ve often wondered if the white demons of your legends were descended from the ancestors of our enemies.”

“Can you read?”

Nylan repressed a smile and answered. “We can both read your tongue and ours.”

“Scholars and angels and warriors-truly an odd combination.”

“No more than you, lady,” Nylan offered.

“Aye, and oddity pays a high price.” Zeldyan coughed. “You are welcome, once you are settled, to study the old scrolls in the tower. Some deal with the white ones, and you may find some information of use-that is, if you choose to remain in Lornth and aid us against Cyador.”

Nylan glanced at Ayrlyn, catching the tiniest nod. “We would be pleased to remain and offer what help as we can-”

“I would ask what assistance you might offer,” interrupted Zeldyan, as though she had forgotten to ask, almost as though she knew the answer.

Nylan kept getting the impression that the blond woman knew far more than she revealed.

“That may be slight,” Nylan said. “We have no destructive fireballs like the white wizards. I am a smith. Perhaps I can devise some weapons that might help, although I’m not too familiar with what you can do.”

“You were well acquainted enough to destroy two armies. That should offer some reassurance.” Zeldyan looked to Ayrlyn.

Nylan slipped from his chair again to redirect Weryl back to the chest, away from the blades.

“I offer less, lady. I am a healer and a singer, and I can defend myself with a blade.” Ayrlyn dropped her head.

“Enough to have killed a score, no doubt?”

“Half that, perhaps,” conceded Ayrlyn.

The blond regent laughed again. “Most armsmen do not slaughter that many in a life, yet you are apologetic.” She shook her head. “And you, smith?”

Nylan swallowed. “With a blade, a few more than the healer.”

“And how did you destroy the flower of Lornth? With what awful magic?”

Nylan decided to risk it and tell the truth. “With devices from the heavens that no longer work.”

“So…another army could take Westwind?”

“Perhaps,” Nylan said, “although the tower would withstand anything short of a large siege engine, and there are more guards at Westwind now than when we landed.”

Zeldyan shook her head. “I would scarcely hazard a single armsman against your Westwind. We gain nothing, and lose everything.” The piercing green eyes raked over the two. “Since you are here, will you aid us against Cyador?”

“Yes.” The answer was simultaneous.

“Good. I had hoped you might. I had taken the liberty of installing you in a guest room in the south wing. It even has a bath chamber. The wizards said that baths were important to angels.”

“You know far more than you reveal, Regent,” Ayrlyn said.

“That is the business of regents, and, I perceive, of angels.” Zeldyan rose. “Tonight, I will have a supper sent to your room. Tomorrow, you will join us-all the regents-for the evening meal. Lornth is open to you.” The blonde paused. “For now, I would suggest remaining within the walls of the keep. Most within Lornth are not that charitable toward angels.” Her lips quirked. “I have no doubts about your ability to defend yourselves, but I would rather not lose any more souls, and not all of our people have enough sense to understand the futility of crossing blades with you.”

Ayrlyn followed the regent’s example and stood, as did Nylan, but the engineer had to bend to reclaim Weryl, who had returned to the carved chest.

Both angels bowed.

Zeldyan rang a small bell, and the door opened. The page stepped inside.

“If you would escort the angels to their guest chamber-the one in the south wing.”

“The big one?”

“The big one, Nistyr,” Zeldyan affirmed.

“Thank you,” Nylan said quietly.

“I fear, angel, that thanks will count for little enough once Cyador moves against us.”

Nylan suspected she was right, but it was still good to have a solid roof and food-even if he still had no idea of where their future truly might lie.