Free The Order War by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

board.”
    “But you have to wash up, too, Elisabet.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    Cirlin shook her head. Justen eased his stool back into itsusual place and followed her into the kitchen.
    “Things are looking good,” announced Horas.
    Justen sniffed. Aromas of spices and lamb filled his nostrils. “You didn’t just fix that?”
    “Darkness, no. It’s been simmering all afternoon. It won’t be long now.”
    Gunnar carried two baskets of bread to the big circular table. “He’s even got the cherry conserve for you, Justen.”
    The younger brother walked to the corner pump and sink and began to wash his hands. Cirlin dried hers and motioned to Elisabet.
    “Can I help?” Justen asked Gunnar.
    “All this goes on the table.”
    Justen carried over the pot of conserve and the stack of plates, setting one plate in front of each chair.
    “Sit down, everyone,” Horas invited.
    “I get to sit between Justen and Gunnar,” Elisabet announced.
    When all five had been seated, Horas coughed, then spoke softly, so softly that Justen found himself leaning forward to catch the words: “Let us not take order so seriously that love and hope are lost, nor so lightly that chaos enters our lives, but live our lives so that each day reflects harmony and joy in living.”
    Horas set the casserole in front of Gunnar. “Help yourself. The dark bread just came out of the oven, specially for the lamb, and there’s the conserve, and a jar of pickled pearapples, and don’t forget the spice sauce in the pitcher…”
    After refilling his mug with warm cider, Justen waited for the brown stone casserole to be passed around. He ladled out a large helping for his mother and then one for Elisabet. He took and even larger portion for himself.
    “It’s a good thing I made plenty,” Horas observed.
    “You always make plenty. That’s why my forge is never cool.” Cirlin laughed. “Men householders feel like they have to feed armies, even when only the three of us are here.”
    Justen offered the bread to his mother, then to his sister. He inhaled deeply as he broke off a chunk and smelled the heavy warmth of the dark loaf. “Smells good.”
    “No one bakes the dark bread the way he does.” Cirlin dipped a corner of bread into the casserole and lifted it to her lips.
    Justen dipped his bread into the thick sauce, letting the spicy warmth, the mixed tang of rosemary and citril and bertil, ease down his throat.
    For a time, only the sound of eating rose from the table.
    “I can tell that no one was hungry.”
    “Not at all.”
    “Would you pass the casserole, Elisabet?” asked Gunnar.
    “You ate too fast, and you had a whole plateful.”
    “I was hungry. I’ve been working hard. Searching out the weather takes just as much food as smithing or engineering do.”
    “I suspect all good work takes energy.” Cirlin lifted the casserole dish and handed it to Gunnar.
    “Thank you.”
    Justen broke off another chunk of the warm, dark bread and slathered it with cherry conserve.
    “Something’s bothering you.” Cirlin looked at her younger son.
    Gunnar nodded in agreement.
    “I’m probably going to have to go to Sarronnyn,” Justen acknowledged.
    “You have to go?” The smith raised her eyebrows. “I thought the Council asked for volunteers.”
    “One of the master engineers has suggested that it would do me good.”
    “Altara?” mumbled Gunnar.
    “Not with your mouth full, son,” suggested Horas, “even if you are a great and mighty Weather Wizard.”
    “Of course.” Justen sipped the last of the hot cider and reached for the covered pot.
    “I can’t say as I’m surprised. We’ve played too loose with the Balance for too long.” Cirlin coughed and took a mouthful of cider. “You know that Dorrin warned about that.”
    “He did?” Elisabet sat up straight in her chair.
    The smith nodded. “But it doesn’t matter. He knew that people wouldn’t listen. They never do. That’s why I’m glad I’m just a simple