L. E. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

IN THE DIMNESS of the hot twilight, with the orange glow at their back, the six-and Weryl-rode over the last hill. In the valley below, to the southeast, glimmered a few points of light-torches on the shed barn and the headquarters dwelling.

Against the purpling of the sky, against the openness and sweep of the dark brown hills, with its few lights the camp in the valley at Syskar appeared small, fragile ... insignificant. Then again, was anything particularly significant except to human beings who persisted in the search for significance?

Nylan glanced upward, as the still-unfamiliar stars began to appear. How were he and Ayrlyn any different? Wasn't everything they were trying insignificant? What difference did it really make? Wasn't Fornal's belief in honor, even when the black-bearded regent had to know honor was futile, as significant-and perhaps more understandable-as the angels' efforts to move Lornth toward a less repressive and oppressive society? Especially since honor had a clear meaning?

They're both insignificant, Ayrlyn pointed out quietly. In the greater scheme of things, anyway. Being human is the struggle to bring meaning into a universe where order and chaos normally create meaningless patterns that resemble a balance.

Cynical... Nylan laughed. Of course.

Wadah, Enyah? Wadah, pease? begged Weryl plaintively. Sylenia twisted in the saddle to give the boy a swallow from the water bottle.

They did not speak, nor did the three armsmen, on the rest of the ride back to Syskar. Even the sentries only nodded as the group rode slowly into the yard, and unsaddled and groomed their mounts.

Lewa stepped perhaps twenty paces from the barracks, surveyed them, and turned back into the dimness.

Nylan didn't like the silence, as ominous as the Cyadoran threat, in a different way, but he shouldered his saddlebags, picked up a sleepy Weryl, and started toward their quarters. Nylan and Ayrlyn walked up onto the stoop-hotter than the open yard. Nylan carried Weryl, and Sylenia followed, several steps back. The strap hinges Nylan had replaced creaked as he pushed open the door.

Fornal sat on the sole stool before the rickety table-alone. On the table were a mug, a bottle, the candle with the glass mantle, and a scroll. Welcome back, angels. Fornal glanced down at the half-empty bottle on the rickety table, then at his mug. You would be pleased to know that my coregents appreciated the copper.

We are glad to hear that.

Ser? murmured Sylenia.

Nylan turned and eased Weryl into the nursemaid's arms. With a quick inclination of her head to Fornal, she slipped around the angels and into their room; saddlebags slapped against the door frame before the door shut with a dull clunk.

The angels stepped toward the regent, then dropped onto the bench on the left side of the table.

A low murmuring came from behind the closed door, a lullaby. Nylan smiled faintly, momentarily.

The candle flickered behind its glass mantle with soot thick enough to block much of the dim light cast. The shadows on the blotched walls of the dwelling's main rooms wavered in the heat of the summer night.

Nylan wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm.

Even I am hot, angel mage, admitted Fornal.

You know how we feel about the heat. Nylan waited, then asked, What has happened with the Cyadorans?

Nothing. They squat there, Fornal said. They do not ride forth save in masses, in scores and scores, and their lances and their shields shimmer. Sometimes, they go far enough to raid. We do little. We have killed nearly half their force, and still they have five times the men I do.

Cyador's bigger than Lornth, Nylan temporized, wondering, fearing, where Fornal's words were leading.