The Chaos Balance

LIV

Gethen rose as Nylan and Ayrlyn approached the table in the small dining room. Zeldyan, wearing yet another tasteful green and gray outfit, smiled. Her blond hair was perfectly in place, held there by another hair band, this one of silver and malachite.

Following Gethen’s gestures, Nylan seated Ayrlyn directly across the circular table, covered in a pale green linen, from Zeldyan, then took his seat across from Gethen, with Ayrlyn to his right.

Two twin-branched candelabra provided the light, and, thankfully, the small hearth was cold, and the high rear windows were open, providing a light breeze.

Nylan hoped Weryl and Sylenia were getting along, but he was glad for some time when neither he nor Ayrlyn was worrying about his son. He took a slow deep breath as he settled into the straight-backed chair at the table.

“The wine is one of Father’s best,” Zeldyan said brightly. “The brown pitcher.”

Nylan took the hint and poured some for each of them, although he had to lean forward and stretch to reach Ayrlyn’s goblet.

“This is very good,” the redhead said after her first sip.

“Thank you,” answered the oldest regent.

“Excellent,” added Nylan.

Two serving women entered with the heaping platters of food. Nylan could smell the spices before they reached the table.

“Wintermint all-curry,” Zeldyan said with a smile, “and no quilla tonight.” He glanced at her father. “Next time.”

The gray-haired Gethen smiled back.

One of the serving women returned with a basket filled with two hot loaves of dark bread, fueling Nylan’s suspicions that the all-curry was spicy indeed.

“You leave tomorrow?” asked Gethen rhetorically. “A long ride, as long as riding to Rulyarth.”

“The port?” asked Nylan politely.

“Such as it be,” said Gethen with a laugh.

“Father, you are too modest.” Zeldyan turned her head to Nylan. “My sire has practically rebuilt the entire port, and city, and we could not survive without the revenues from the traders there. The Suthyans are jealous.” She shrugged. “But they neglected the port when they held it, in favor of Armat. Now they wish they had not.”

“Lord Sillek-he acquired the port?” asked Ayrlyn.

“He had little choice. Lornth was beset on all sides. Ildyrom-the lord of Jerans and the grasslands to the west-had established a fort just across the river from Clynya. The traders were squeezing us because they controlled all the ports, and…” Zeldyan gave an embarrassed smile. “That be history.”

“Zeldyan speaks truth,” continued Gethen. “Lord Sillek needed security and coins. He drove the Jeranyi out of the grasslands west of Clynya, and then was successful in taking Rulyarth. He had hoped that the revenues from Rulyarth and the expanded trade would strengthen Lornth.” Gethen paused and took a sip of wine. “They did, except that the older holder families insisted that he take on Westwind before Lornth was strong enough. Both Karthanos of Gallos and Ildyrom sent thousands of golds to support the Westwind campaign, and made sure the older holders knew it.”

“It sounds as though they forced Lord Sillek to overreach himself,” Nylan said.

“Everyone only wanted him to do the honorable thing.” Zeldyan’s voice was overly sweet.

Gethen cleared his throat.

“We are sorry…” began Ayrlyn. “It must be painful…”

Nylan recalled his speculations about Sillek-that the man had been too decent for his own good and forced into an impossible situation. It appeared those speculations had been closer to truth than he had realized. Was trying to be good, decent, and even-handed always a formula for failure in government? Ryba would have said so.

“We cannot change the past,” Zeldyan said, “even if it be painful.”

“The future be the question,” Gethen added.

“Do you know where the Cyadorans are?” Nylan asked, his fingers on the goblet.

“The white demons have taken the mines,” Gethen said, “as I thought they would. We received the message yesterday from Fornal in Rohrn. He writes of his concerns. They crossed the Grass Hills and brought more lancers and foot than have been seen in Lornth in generations.”

“I believe I’d be concerned also,” said Nylan. “Did they bring any of their horseless wagons or anything like that?”

“No. They brought no strange devices, not that our scouts have reported.” Zeldyan served herself some of the creamy curry, filled with chunks of meat, before passing the platter to Nylan. Then she broke off the end of one loaf of bread and passed that.

Nylan’s eyes watered from the aroma of the curry as he served himself.

“How are you finding Sylenia?” asked the older regent.

“She seems very nice,” answered Nylan. “She and Weryl get along.”

“You would not consider leaving him in my care?” asked Zeldyan. “I would treat him as my own.”

“You are most kind,” Nylan said, “but who knows how long we will be wherever we end up?”

“I understand.” Zeldyan nodded. “I do not like leaving Nesslek. I am glad I am not in your boots.” She turned to Ayrlyn. “Have you any ideas how you might assist us in removing the white demons?”

“Well,” answered the redhead, with a slight laugh, “since it appears unlikely they will leave voluntarily, we’ll have to find a way to make life unpleasant. That usually means a better way to slaughter people. I don’t look forward to it.”

“For people reputed to be so warlike, you seem to dislike killing,” said Gethen.

“Most people respond only to force,” Nylan said. “That’s the way it is, and I’d be a fool not to accept that. I don’t have to like it.”

“That is why you are so dangerous.” Gethen shook his head. “That is why Sillek would have been a great lord.”

A faint smile crooked Zeldyan’s lips.

“Perhaps he was,” suggested Ayrlyn. “Most great leaders die before their greatness is known, or they’re hated while they’re alive because they want to change things.”

An awkward silence settled over the table.

“How effective has Fornal been in raising armsmen?” asked Nylan, abruptly, breaking off another chunk of the dark bread, and refraining from wiping his damp forehead.

“He will have twenty score in levies, and a quarter of that more in true armsmen,” said Gethen.

“And how many Cyadorans are there?” asked the engineer.

“We do not know for certain, but between five and ten times that number.” The gray-haired regent smiled grimly. “That is why we had hoped you might help.”

Nylan nodded. Gethen didn’t want help; he wanted divine intervention, and Nylan hadn’t the faintest idea of how to get it, only that he and Ayrlyn had to figure out something.

He glanced to his right and saw Ayrlyn nod, ever so slightly.

“It could be an interesting year,” she said quietly.

Gethen and Zeldyan exchanged glances, before Zeldyan lifted the brown pitcher. “Would you like some more of the wine?”

“A little,” answered Nylan.

“Please,” followed Ayrlyn.

The smith took another sip, wondering how a land that could create such good wine had gotten itself in such a mess.