Read Online The Order War by L. E. Modesitt Jr. - Free Book Online Page A

his short hair.
    “I think I miss the groves the most. Even the pearapples in Land’s End aren’t the same.” Gunnar stroked his bare chin. “Wandernaught’s a better place than either Nylan or Land’s End. It’s peaceful.”
    “I suppose you’d put a big temple here, and move the Council to Wandernaught.”
    Gunnar smiled. “Why not? Maybe I will.”
    Justen swallowed. Did Gunnar really think he was going to be on the Council?
    The blond man sighed and turned back to the road. “Elisabet’s already getting worried.”
    Justen wondered how Gunnar knew that. Did he feel it?
    The two resumed walking. They reached the fork in the road and took the left branch. The timbered, black-stone and slate-tiled house stood on the south side of the road, the smithy behind it in a separate building. Two small groves flanked the buildings. A wiry figure in brown waved from the base of a tree and began to walk toward the house.
    “Gunnar! Justen! Mother! They’re here.” Elisabet bounced off the wide porch and down the crisply cut stones of the walk. She threw her arms around Justen, squeezed, and released him, then offered Gunnar the same treatment. “You’re here. Right when Mother said you would be.”
    “Of course they are. Severa always makes the post house by mid-afternoon.” Cirlin, still wearing her leather apron, had quietly appeared behind her daughter.
    “Good to see you,” boomed Horas, his dark hair plastered to his skull. “I won’t give you a hug. I’ve been out working with the trees, and I’m dirty and soaked.”
    Elisabet, sandy-haired and slender, resembling Gunnar, reached for her brothers’ hands. “Let’s get out of the rain. I can’t push it away for very long.”
    Gunnar glanced at his mother and raised his eyebrows.
    “I think we’ve got three of you.” Cirlin’s voice was wry. “I’ll be in soon. I need to finish some latches.”
    “Do you need any help?” Justen asked.
    “I’m not running an engineering hall.” Cirlin laughed. “Nerla’s a good apprentice. It won’t take long.”
    Justen let his sister lead him up onto the covered porch, where he took off his waterproof.
    Elisabet waited for Gunnar to remove his, too, then took both garments and headed for the rear porch that served as a sheltered place for drying coats and laundry.
    “Some things don’t change. The youngest still gets stuck with the coats.” Justen grinned.
    “Not always.”
    “Dinner’s going to be late,” announced Horas, standing in a corner of the porch and shaking water from the short, oiled-leather jacket he had worn. “Late, but good.”
    “It’s always good,” Justen agreed.
    “Not always,” retorted Elisabet, sticking her head out through the open doorway from the parlor. “Not when he makes the fish stew.”
    “Fish has a long and honorable tradition, but I’m not fixing that tonight.”
    “What are you fixing?” asked Elisabet suspiciously.
    “A surprise.”
    “I hope it’s the spiced-lamb casserole.” Elisabet turned to their father. “It’s chilly. Can I heat up some cider with the spices?”
    “So long as you use the striker and not magic,” called Horas. “And would you start the kindling in the oven, please?”
    “Even if that’s not funny, Father, I will. I’ll make sure to use the striker for both. It might take all evening.” Elisabet squared her shoulders and marched back into the house.
    Gunnar raised his eyebrows.
    Horas grinned. “I just teased her about that. I tell her that if she’s not careful, I might find out that she’s a throwback to Megaera. Not that she’s got the slightest flicker of the White about her, at least according to your mother.” He nodded toward the parlor.
    His sons followed him inside and he closed the door, then moved to the ceramic heat-stove in the corner, where he used an older striker. “I can’t ward off the chill with all that order-mastery. An old man like me needs his heat on days like today. It’s almost like