Chaos Balance
CXV
NYLAN GLANCED FROM the back trail they took across the low fields toward where the main road was, roughly paralleling their track, but both roads were empty, although even the smaller trail they followed had heavy recent tracks. He rubbed his forehead, then blotted it. Now that the air was more humid, almost misting, if only slightly cooler, he was sweating even more, and not just from under his floppy hat.
From behind Sylenia's saddle came the plaintive plea, “Mah wadah, pease?”
An exasperated look crossed the nursemaid's face, and Nylan pursed his lips together as he turned in his own saddle. Weryl couldn't be that thirsty! Every kay the child asked for more water, and his own senses told him that his son was fine, and that meant he needed attention-or wanted it. Nylan knew he'd been neglecting Weryl some, but not totally, and certainly Sylenia paid more than enough attention.
“Stop feeling guilty,” snapped Ayrlyn. “You exude guilt, and that's exactly what he wants. Young children have no sense of ethics or restraint when it comes to getting affection, and your son's no exception.”
“Neither am I,” said Nylan.
“You have some restraint. I restrain you.”
The engineer grinned. “How far, do you think? I can sense something.”
“Just something?”
“Trees are easier for you; the ground is easier for me, and the forces underneath are getting fainter.”
“Somehow, that makes sense.” Ayrlyn cocked her head to one side, as if listening. “A couple of kays, I'd guess, probably over that low rise ahead.”
Although they'd been cautious and circled several towns, neither of them had sensed any pursuit. They'd been lucky enough to find a melon field, with a few nearly ripe fruits and a small orchard with something like apples.
Nylan had suffered a slight stomachache from too many of the apples, but they had almost been worth it after days of hard cheese and harder biscuits. He wished they'd had the presence of mind to search the saddlebags of the Cyadoran armsmen they'd killed, but neither he nor Ayrlyn had been in much shape to think of such.
He tried not to think of how they would eat on their return-or while they were investigating the forest.
A slight breeze cooled his face, and faint droplets of water began to fall, not quite rain, but more than mist. He shifted his weight in the saddle again, trying to relieve the soreness. Above the rise was a darkness in the distance, with a greenish cast.
“Will it rain harder?” asked Sylenia.
“No,” answered Ayrlyn. “It will probably stop in a while.”
Nylan frowned, looking again at the greenish darkness in the distance, wondering if Ayrlyn was right about the rain.
The three followed the road up the rise, past the deserted bean fields.
Ayrlyn reined up. So did Nylan.
Across the low depression from them, a depression filled with fields, perhaps two kays away, rose a wall of green, shrouded slightly by the misty rain.
Nylan shivered. Not clouds, but towering trees.
“The forest... never have I seen such,” marveled Sylenia.
Nylan's eyes went to the low expanse before them, and he studied the irregular lines of greenery that spilled across the abandoned fields. Then he tried to extend his feelings, those shadowy perceptions he used when smithing, toward the scene below.
Like two hammer blows, a line of darkness and a line of whiteness, unseen, only felt, lashed at him, and he swayed in the saddle, grabbing on to the front rim to catch his balance. His eyes watered and flashed, and he gasped, trying to catch his breath.
“What did you do?” asked Ayrlyn in a low voice.
Nylan rubbed his forehead. “Just tried ... tried to feel what happened down there.” He swallowed, still trying to massage away the throbbing in his skull.
“It's been abandoned.”
“Not for long.” He pointed. “See . . . those fields were turned, probably last fall.”
“But trees don't grow that fast. It would take several years . . .” Ayrlyn broke off.
“The enchanted forest,” Nylan reminded her. “Over there, it looks as though someone tried to burn it back.” He rubbed his forehead. “There's almost a faint overlay of chaos around there.”
Ayrlyn's eyes glazed momentarily. “That layer beneath the ground?”
“Not exactly.” Nylan took a deep breath. “The chaos is on top. The stuff underground is almost gone.” The smith closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. “I'm tired, and we need to think. Let's stop there.” He pointed toward a house on the upper part of the rise that was not quite a hill. Like all the others, it was brick, with a tile roof. Even through the continuing misting rain, he could sense that, behind the screen of bushes, the door hung open. There was a brick shed just downhill of the house, also empty, with its door ajar. The strain of trying to sense what he could not see intensified his headache, and he massaged his temples again.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded and flicked the mare's reins. Certainly, he was all right. Stuck in the middle of an enemy's land, at the edge of an order-enchanted forest that didn't seem exactly friendly, with almost no ability to defend himself, and little food, and a splitting headache and unreliable vision. Trying to protect his son and keep his word to Istril and keep faith with Ayrlyn, not to mention trying to find a way to stop an invasion by the most powerful nation in Candar. Of course, he was fine. Just fine.