The Chaos Balance

VI

The three-a blond woman, a gray-and-black-haired man, and a younger black-haired man-sat around a small and ancient table in the tower room that had belonged to the Lady Ellindyja before her exile to the Groves in Carpa. All three bore a resemblance to each other.

The older man lifted the scroll. “I told you both about this…”

The blond woman with green eyes glanced toward the window and the dark spring clouds framed by the dark wood, clouds looming over Lornth, and, as lightning flashed, then to the door.

“He’ll be all right, Zeldyan,” said the younger man.

“I do not like to leave him, not after…everything,” said Zeldyan.

“Get young Nesslek, then. He’s certainly not old enough to repeat what we say.” The older man laughed.

“I would feel better.” Zeldyan nodded and rose.

After she stepped through the door, the younger man turned. “Do you think she dotes upon him too much? She trusts no one with him.”

“In this time of uncertainty? Hardly, Fornal. Your sister knows that her doting is limited. It is those women who refuse to understand that-like Lady Ellindyja-who cause trouble. Darkness knows we have more than enough trouble, anyway.” The older man’s index finger touched the scroll. “We could use one of those white wizards that Sillek squandered on the Roof of the World.”

“He did not have much choice.”

“The greater price we pay for such folly.” Gethen shook his head. “And Sillek knew it was folly. We talked of it, but, no, he was young, and the holders would not accept that he had wisdom beyond his years. Nor would his most esteemed mother.”

“You hate the Lady Ellindyja,” said Fornal. “Yet she was only trying to uphold Sillek’s honor with the older holders.”

“I have no problem with honor, Fornal. Honor and trust are a man’s greatest allies, but the Lady Ellindyja used her idea of honor to destroy the holders’ trust in Sillek. He could have been the greatest lord of Lornth, and he loved Zeldyan in a way that the poets claim is common-and seldom happens in life. Yet his own mother incited her friends, and the old holders, to push for the war against Westwind. Where lies honor in that?” Gethen shrugged. “Now…we have a regent’s council, which is always suspect. We have Ildyrom free to nibble at the grasslands, and Karthanos protected by the demon angels and free to wreak his will on eastern Candar.”

Fornal frowned before answering. “He will not cross the Westhorns against the dark angels.”

“Not across their lands, but what will happen after he takes Spidlar? He will, sooner or later. Can he not move all his troops south into Analeria and swing through the southern passes into Cerlyn?”

Fornal stroked his black beard, rubbed his chin, then looked up as Zeldyan closed the door behind her. She carried the blond Nesslek, his eyes closed, cradled in her arms.

“You were speaking of Karthanos?” she asked, easing herself back into the wooden armchair. “Best we consider the scroll, first. How long has it been since word has come out of Cyador?”

“Almost a generation. Genglois found one scroll in the old library, and there are others, but I bid him cease searching,” said Fornal. “It also referred to the copper mines. Genglois said that Berphi-he was the Lord of Cyador then-died thereafter, and the Cyadorans never pursued the issue.”

Gethen lifted the scroll. “Do we ignore the demand? Do we ask for recompense? We cannot fight another land…not after last fall.”

“Why do we not send a polite answer that says nothing?” asked Zeldyan. “As if we totally misunderstood? They think we are ignorant forest-dwellers anyway.”

“It might buy time, and we can use much of that,” mused Gethen. “But why does the Emperor of Cyador trouble us now?”

“According to Skiodra and the other traders that frequent the outlying stations-”

“Outlying stations?” asked Fornal.

“They do not permit outsiders’ parties within Cyador-a few travelers perhaps, but certainly not traders, especially not after the Kyphrans tried to seize that isolated port town,” Zeldyan explained.

“Guarstyad,” confirmed Gethen. “It seems to have roused this Lephi against us all. What do we know of him?”

“Some of the Cyadorans have no great love of this Lephi. There was a struggle for the succession, and he ousted his beloved younger brother.”

“I recall that,” Fornal noted. “In the end, the older brother murdered the younger, but they called it a battle.” The dark-haired man smiled crookedly. “Younger brothers have a way of being loved, I gather. Especially after they’re dead.”

“I don’t think Relyn is dead,” said Zeldyan. “And I don’t appreciate the comment. I have always loved you both.”

Fornal looked down at the table. “I am sorry, sister. That was uncalled for.”

“What do you think about Zeldyan’s idea?” asked Gethen, his weathered face carefully impassive.

The younger man nodded. “If we make the response flowery enough, we can manage several exchanges of messages. Especially if we express our concerns that it has been so long since last we heard from the great and mighty land of Cyador.”

“We’ll have to give in or express defiance sooner or later,” the blond woman cautioned.

“It takes a fast messenger nearly two eight-days to reach Cyad,” said Gethen, “and we cannot be expected to respond the day we receive such a message.”

“Fine,” said Zeldyan, opening her blouse and easing Nesslek to her breast. “We can buy a season, perhaps a year. Then what?”

“Give the copper mines to Ildyrom,” suggested Fornal, “and let him cope with Cyador, except that wouldn’t be honorable.”

“Even if it were honorable, I would prefer another course,” said Gethen. “But the longer before we must face any other land in battle the better.”

The three nodded, not exactly in unison, but in agreement.