Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Westcort appeared with two plates, still so warm that Cerryl could sense the heat rising from them. The proprietor levered the white china onto the table, plates costlier than the heavy brown platters used in the main room below but far from the elegance of those Cerryl had seen in the back dining room at Furenk’s. “The special cutlets…with the rice and mushrooms.”

  The woman server who followed added a basket of bread, a jar of conserve, and a second, opened, bottle of the same wine as in the first bottle.

  Westcort placed a brass handbell on the table, equidistant from either, but on Anya’s right. “If you need anything more…”

  “Thank you, Westcort.” The red-haired mage lifted her knife and the fork.

  Cerryl followed her example, glad he’d had some experience with good cutlery, thanks to Leyladin, although, once again, the dinnerware was not so good as either that of Layel or that at Furenk’s. Neither were the cutlets outstanding, if far better than the fare served below.

  After taking several bites, Anya glanced at the younger mage. “You are surprising, Cerryl.”

  “I am who I am,” he answered, not quite sure what he could say.

  “Yes, you are.” She flashed the warm, winning, and insincere smile. “That is what is surprising. You are an orphan raised by a miner and his consort—I did find that out, you know? Yet your speech bears no roughness. You worked in a mill and then for a scrivener. Yet you handle cutlery well, and your manners would grace any table. It is not what you are that is so surprising. It is what you are not.” Another smile followed, less open, ironic, and more honest.

  “What am I not?” Cerryl offered a gentle laugh.

  “You are not rough, ill-spoken, and untutored. You do not—unlike others of a similar background—seek the more…violent avenues of advancement within the Guild.”

  “I was not aware I sought any.” Cerryl took another small sip of the wine. “My ignorance has made me cautious.”

  “Ah…yes…caution. You are wise to be cautious now. Even Myral has hinted that the times are changing.” She lifted the goblet and finished the wine in it.

  Cerryl poured her another half-goblet, to the level that Westcort had initially.

  “Myral is old, but more than a few times his visions have been true,” mused Anya. “Some may be true but do not matter.”

  Cerryl frowned, then cut another section of cutlet, making sure the meat was well coated with the pearapple glaze before he put it to his mouth.

  “They do not matter,” Anya continued after a swallow of wine, “because they will happen long after you are dust. Does it matter that Fairhaven will be melted by a second sun—or that mad White chaos wielders will roam all of Candar? Or that Recluce will be sundered in twain by one of its own?”

  “Perhaps it does. Perhaps, knowing such, we can change what might otherwise be.”

  “Perhaps.” The tip of her tongue curled just over her perfect lips, and in the glow of the lamps her eyes seemed to flicker from pale gray to pale blue. “And perhaps not. Perhaps our actions in trying to avoid his visions are what will make them happen.”

  Cerryl almost shivered at that thought. How could one ever know which was the right course, then?

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Anya smiled. “Better you enjoy the life you have than struggle to make right a future that your actions might equally make wrong.”

  Cerryl forced himself to take a slow sip of wine. “The wine is good.”

  “It is. There are better wines, but a good wine and a good life, lived now, are far more desirous than seeking a distant good that one’s efforts may destroy as easily as create.”

  Cerryl tried to keep his head from spinning at the implications of Anya’s words. She’s trying to upset you…and she’s doing it…demon-damned darkness! Finally, he said, “Do you think Myral is right about the times changing?”

  She laughed, gently and generously. “Cerryl, all times change. How can Myral be wrong?”

  “I know, but sometimes the changes are little, and sometimes…”

  “Sometimes, the entire world changes?” She ate several bites of the rice before continuing. “Jeslek has raised mountains. You know. You were there when he began. No mage has ever done that. So times have changed.” She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them theatrically. “Some things never change. Men will always want coins, and power, and beautiful women. Women will want what they want.” Her eyes fixed Cerryl’s. “What do you want from being a mage?”

  Cerryl remained stock-still for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know that I know.”

  “Best you find out before someone else chooses for you.”

  “It can be hard to choose when you know little of the choices,” he pointed out.

  “Well,” she began, her voice light, “you could ask Myral and Kinowin to help you become a trade monitor. You’d probably end up in Quend, freezing half the year and using your glass to scree through cargo of fish and more fish. Or you could ask Eliasar for arms training—”

  “And end up cutting off my own foot,” he interjected with a laugh.

  “Or you could work with Jeslek raising mountains and chaos, getting old before your time. Or you could spend the next half-score of years flaming old ladies from the gate ramparts…”

  “You make few of the choices attractive,” he pointed out.

  “Exactly. All paths have drudgery. That is the problem with seeking fulfillment through one’s skills in meeting the Guild’s needs.” Anya drained her wine.

  Cerryl replenished her goblet, emptying the first bottle in adding but a touch to his own goblet, more to distract from the fact that he had drunk little than from any desire for more wine. “What would you suggest?”

  “Ah…I won’t. Not now, dearest Cerryl. I’m a cruel woman. You need to think about what I’ve said. You and Faltar and Lyasa and Myredin and Heralt and Bealtur, you all have to make your own choices. But no one tells you enough.” Anya smiled the broad insincere smile.

  Cerryl stiffened within.

  “What I will tell you is that nothing is as it seems. Not the Guild, not Kinowin, not Myral, not Sterol, not even me. I’ll tell you that. They won’t.” She took another swallow of the dark red wine. “No matter what anyone says, best you question it within yourself.” Another swallow of wine followed. “Wine doesn’t lie, Cerryl. We lie to ourselves; we lie to others. Wine lies to none.” The bright smile was slightly off-center as Anya stared at Cerryl before lifting her glass once more and draining it.

  Cerryl refilled it, almost absently. There was less than half of the second bottle remaining.

  “You could be dangerous, Cerryl, but you’re too kind. Even with those you trust not, you are kind. Best you be careful of that as well.” Anya’s pale eyes had turned darker, almost owlish, as she cradled the goblet in both hands.

  Too kind? Cerryl swallowed a yawn.

  “You are tired, and confused. Or partly confused. Or less confused than many, but still confused.”

  Confused? Yes, but not in the way you think…dear Anya.

  “Run along, Cerryl. Run along back to your mine-cave-room.” Anya gestured broadly. “Go back and be a cautious miner, and think.” She laughed, this time almost raucously. “It won’t help. It won’t help at all.”

  Cerryl stood, then bowed slightly. “I am tired. Could I walk you back to the Hall?”

  “Yes. You could. I would like that.” Anya rose, gracefully despite all the wine she had drunk.

  Cerryl followed Anya down the stairs, half-ready to reach for her if she fell, but the redhead swayed only slightly more than normal and with a grace that was almost seductive.

  Almost.

  “Good night, Westcort.” Anya offered a head bow as she passed the proprietor.

  “Good night, Lady Anya…ser.”

  “Good night,” Cerryl added. Since Westcort had not asked for coin, either Anya was known to be good for the debt…or she had already paid.

  “You are wonde
ring, are you not?” asked the redhead as Cerryl helped her up the steps to the front Hall. “You are wondering. Well…I will let you wonder.”

  The two walked slowly through the deserted front Hall, the sound of their boots echoing in the gloom barely relieved by the handful of scattered wall lamps, burning low and providing but a dim glow. The slight bite of the water-cooled air in the fountain courtyard was welcome and fleeting as they entered the second Hall.

  “This way.” Anya turned down a side Hall past the commons, one Cerryl had walked occasionally but seldom, since it led nowhere except to the next courtyard and since other routes were more direct. “We do have quarters in our own wing. Our own wing. It makes the bathing and the jakes more convenient.”

  Suddenly Anya stopped in front of a door. The bronze door plaque read: “Anya.”

  “Good night, Cerryl.”

  Anya slipped inside, and the bolt clicked shut.

  Cerryl stood there for a moment. Had he heard a soft cry—or a laugh? He wasn’t sure. He turned.

  What had Anya wanted? To upset him? To find out more about him so that she or Sterol or Jeslek could manipulate him? She hadn’t wanted him in bed. That was the only thing he was sure about—the only thing.

  He walked slowly through the rear courtyard and into the farthest Hall, then up the stairs and along the corridor. He closed the door to his room slowly, wishing Leyladin were still in Fairhaven. He would have liked to talk to the blonde healer. Some things Anya had said about him had bothered him, accurate as they were, because they had been accurate and he wasn’t sure why they had upset him.

  Lyasa might help, but he’d have to be careful how much he said to the black-haired mage.

  He yawned as he slowly began to disrobe. The predawn bell would ring soon—too soon.

  XXIV

  …SOME TIME PASSED, while Candar burned under the unrelenting sun and cloudless skies, and while the great rains harnessed by Creslin slowly transformed the desert lands of Recluce into a green that the isle had never known.

  Even the banner of Recluce adopted by the Blacks was of darkness, that of a black blade and a black rose, crossed, as were the hearts and minds of Creslin and Megaera.

  For, despite all the rain, all the coins and the ships that plied the Eastern Ocean to gather goods under the banner of Recluce, the isle was blighted, and its people hungered.

  Once again, the Black leader of Recluce struck, a dark hammer of storms and ships that flowed through the Great North Bay under a fog that turned the day to night; and while the people of Lydiar struggled in the darkness, Creslin called down storms.

  Mighty storms they were, so massive that they shivered the very stones of the Easthorns and created swamps and bogs west of Lydiar where none had been before, so powerful that their lightning shivered the keep of Lydiar into pieces of gravel.

  The destruction rained upon Lydiar, and while it fell across every part of the city Creslin and his forces seized every ship and cargo in the port, and all the golds in the city, and all the food in the granaries, and all the dried fruits and meats in the warehouses.

  Laughing, the Black sorcerer returned to Recluce, where he and the evil Megaera rejoiced in their plunder and divided it among all, save for the ships, which he armed and armored with the protections of order and sent out to demand tribute to Recluce from all upon the seas of the world…

  Colors of White

  (Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

  Preface

  XXV

  HAVE YOU GRANTED any more medallions to farmers?” From where he stood with his back to the window Kinowin half-grinned at the younger mage.

  “Yes, ser. Another six…so far. Only one of them had ever had one before. At least on the carts they presented.”

  “Any more incidents like that farm woman?” The blonde mage touched his chin, then rubbed his jaw, his fingers remaining below the purplish blotch on his left cheek.

  Cerryl shook his head, still wishing he hadn’t had to flame the old woman, yet he doubted he could have done otherwise.

  Kinowin stepped toward the table at which Cerryl sat, then turned and looked at the blue and purple hanging. After a moment, he added, “How was your late supper with Anya?”

  “Disturbing, in a way.”

  “Why did you go with her?”

  “I didn’t think it wise to upset her too much.”

  A wry smile crossed Kinowin’s face. “Anything you do that crosses her will upset her. You know that, don’t you?”

  “That’s why I went. I’m sure to upset her sooner or later. I’d prefer later.”

  “Since you didn’t fall into bed with her, did she talk to you about her paradox? It’s not hers, really; it actually belongs to the first Black angel—Ryba. I find that rather symbolic…”

  Cerryl swallowed. Was Kinowin saying that Anya was using the words of the first Black angel—the founder of Westwind and all its depredations? “About when Myral sees the future…is that…?”

  Kinowin nodded, then quoted, almost in falsetto, “‘Perhaps our actions in trying to avoid his visions are what will make them happen.’”

  Cerryl winced.

  “It’s very effective,” Kinowin mused. “I even fell for it…for a bit.”

  Cerryl couldn’t imagine Kinowin falling for anything.

  “It’s very seductive. How can you know whether a vision is true? If it is not, and you oppose it, then do you bring it into being? Or…if it is true, and you oppose it, do you do the same? Because…if you can change things, how could the vision exist?”

  The younger mage shivered. “Did Ryba…?”

  “Oh, yes. At least, if you can believe the Book of Ayrlyn. Some call it Ryba’s curse.”

  “I thought that was a forbidden book.”

  “It is…until you’re a Guild member. In a season or so I’ll have you read it. You’re not quite ready.”

  “Is it filled with lies, and I don’t have enough knowledge to understand which are lies?”

  “No. It’s filled with truths, and you’ll have a great deal of trouble understanding how truths can be lies.” Kinowin snorted gently. “That’s always been the problem we’ve had in the Guild.” He eased away from the hanging and toward the single bookcase, stepping through the shaft of golden light wherein swirled white-golden specks of chaos dust. “A fact is. A stone exists.” The overmage walked over to the bookcase and lifted a volume, then replaced it. “You see this book. It is.” He laughed. “Sterol and Jeslek would die of mirth at rough-born and plainspoken Kinowin discussing truth. I have to laugh, too. What is truth? Oh, the philosophers will give you answers and words. But what no one—especially Myral—wants to admit is that there is no such thing as truth. That’s where Anya is right. We take a belief that what we do is the good thing to do, and we call it the true way. The Blacks do the same.”

  Cerryl’s eyes widened.

  “I’m not saying that I believe the Blacks. They’ve created more bloodshed indirectly than Fairhaven has with all its lancers. They talk of peace and order, but Recluce was founded on the blade of the greatest swordsman and weather wizard of all time, and to this day no other ruler has slaughtered so many in the name of peace and order.”

  Cerryl waited.

  “Men and women are not perfect. You have seen that. I’m certain Anya has told you about how all that most people want from life are coins or power or bodies in bed.” Kinowin shook his head. “She’s right. Those are what most people want. Where I differ from Anya is that I don’t think the members of the Guild are or should be ‘most people.’ That is what the Guild was founded on.” The overmage cleared his throat. “Did you know that in ancient Cyador, the first White land, west of the Westhorns, they had highways grander than ours, firewagons that sped tirelessly across them, and fireships that ruled the seas? Even the poorest of farmers had houses with stoves and water pumped from the ground. And the Blacks unleashed chaos and destroyed Cyador. They claim to be the supporters of order, yet they used cha
os to destroy the greatest land Candar has ever known.”

  “Colors of White tells some of that.” Cerryl’s voice was neutral.

  Kinowin walked to the window again, glancing out into the midafternoon light. “The idea of ‘truth’ is one of the most dangerous tools any ruler can use. The only problem is that declaring that there is no such thing as truth is even worse. Then people have no anchor and nothing to believe in.” Kinowin turned to Cerryl. “You hear my words, but you don’t understand. Not really.”

  Cerryl didn’t know what to say.

  “Has your healer friend talked to you about what she does besides healing?”

  “No. She’s still in Certis.”

  “I know that. Earlier, I meant.” Kinowin shifted his weight so that he could look out the window and still watch Cerryl.

  “Some things…like inspecting the water tunnels and using sleep spells on prisoners.” Cerryl frowned. “I can’t think of anything else.”

  Kinowin turned from the window to Cerryl. “Can you truth-read?”

  “Truth-read?”

  “‘Truth-read’ isn’t the right term, but everyone uses it. Tell when someone speaks what they believe to be the truth—or when their words do not match the chaos and order within them?”

  Should he tell Kinowin? Cerryl shrugged. If Kinowin could sense what Cerryl could feel, the overmage already knew. “Most times.”

  “That will do. Your skills are being wasted on gate duty, and you need to learn more of how Fairhaven truly works. Myral and I have discussed this.”

  Cerryl could feel his stomach tightening.

  “What do you know of the Patrol?”

  “Not much. They keep the peace. They supply the prisoners for the cleanup details at the gates.”

  “You need to work with the Patrol. You have the skills, and Isork could use another mage. He and Huroan have but nine other mages, and that is far from sufficient.”

  “What…do I do?”

  “Tomorrow will be your last day at the gates. The morning after, report to Isork. The main Patrol building is the two-story square building on the other side of The Golden Ram. He will be expecting you.”