Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I was lucky you were here.”

  “Fortunate, not lucky, that you’d asked me to be here.” After passing him a glass of wine and taking it back after he had swallowed some, she asked, “Do you know who did it?”

  “I was so angry that I lashed out. A bowman in blue, I think, but he’s ashes. He was nocking another shaft. Didn’t wait to find out.”

  “Blue…that’s the color of a half-score of houses.”

  “Not the blue Meridis wears, or Soaris. A brighter, deeper blue.”

  Leyladin’s eyes narrowed briefly, but she did not speak.

  “I think I’d better get back to the Halls,” Cerryl said.

  “You can stay here…” Leyladin insisted. “You should stay here.”

  Cerryl shook his head. “No…I’ll be fine in my own quarters.”

  “You weren’t fine walking here.”

  “It happened on the street, not in the Halls. I don’t think it would be good for me to stay here.”

  “Then I’ll tell Myral and have him look after you somehow. He can tell Kinowin.” The healer cocked her head to the side, then nodded. “You shouldn’t be going back, but you surely should not be walking. I’ll send Meridis to summon the carriage.”

  Cerryl didn’t argue that point, taking another swallow of wine as Leyladin scurried out to the kitchen. He was no longer dizzy, but the aching in his arm and his head had grown even stronger, more throbbing.

  “The carriage will be ready shortly.” Leyladin looked at the tray on the floor. “Can you eat more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should.” She handed him another slice of the white cheese.

  When Meridis announced the coach was ready, Cerryl had finished most of the bread and cheese, as well as a full goblet of wine. As he walked slowly through the front hallway, Meridis looked at him. “I can’t believe anyone would try to attack a mage. I can’t believe it. What is the world coming to?”

  “What it has always been,” said Leyladin crossly.

  Cerryl continued walking out to the coach, through the rain that had subsided to a drizzle, feeling slightly light-headed. Because of his use of chaos? The wound? The treatment? All three? He wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter.

  Soaris sat in the driver’s seat, studying both Cerryl and Leyladin as they walked toward him. A footman armed with a shortsword watched impassively as Cerryl climbed into the coach. Leyladin slipped inside, closed the door, and sat beside him.

  The carriage eased forward, gently, for which Cerryl was most grateful, and the rain began to splat more loudly on the roof.

  After the coach pulled up at the front entrance to the Halls of the Mages and they stepped out, Soaris announced, “We will wait here for you, Lady Leyladin.”

  “Thank you, Soaris.” She nodded before stepping up beside Cerryl’s injured left arm and shoulder, almost as if to shield the wound from casual view.

  Cerryl walked deliberately up the stairs and through the entryway to the front Hall, then through the foyer, Leyladin at his elbow. The two reached the fountain courtyard before encountering anyone.

  Lyasa, standing by the fountain, as if waiting for someone, turned. Her eyes widened, and she hurried toward Cerryl. “What happened to you?” she whispered, her eyes going to the dressing and the blood splattered across Cerryl’s tunic.

  “Later,” said Leyladin.

  Lyasa swung around and walked on Cerryl’s right. He was glad of both women’s help on the stairs up to the floor that held his quarters, and he sank gratefully onto his bed, where Leyladin arranged the pillow to prop him up slightly.

  “You stay with him,” Leyladin said to Lyasa. “I’m going to tell Myral.”

  As the door closed, the black-haired Lyasa pulled the chair over to the bed and sat down. “What happened?”

  “An archer shot me,” Cerryl said dryly from the bed. “He’s ash, but it took a little effort for me to get to Leyladin.”

  “An arrow—with an iron head—and you’re walking?”

  “Leyladin’s a good healer.”

  “Not that good.” She frowned. “An archer attacking a mage—in Fairhaven? That’s not good.”

  “It isn’t the first time,” Cerryl recalled the armed men who had attacked him when he had been an apprentice mage cleaning out sewer tunnels.

  “Cerryl, for someone so quiet, you upset too many people.”

  “I wasn’t trying.” Cerryl closed his eyes, but his head seemed to spin, and he quickly opened them.

  The door latch clicked, and both Lyasa and Cerryl turned their heads.

  Kinowin stepped into the room and glanced at Lyasa. The dark-haired mage rose from the chair, nodded, and stepped outside, closing the door.

  “How do you feel?” asked Kinowin.

  “I’ve felt better,” Cerryl admitted. “I was lucky Leyladin wasn’t that far away.”

  “It was more than luck.” Kinowin settled into the chair that Lyasa had vacated. “I’ve put a guard outside your door with instructions to admit only the healer, Myral, me, and of course,” he added sardonically, “the High Wizard. A guard wouldn’t stop any talented mage, but then Jeslek and I could quiz every member of the Guild, and that thought will stop anyone with any such thoughts.”

  Cerryl hoped so. He needed some rest, some sleep without worry.

  “Do you have any idea why this happened?” asked the overmage. “I talked to Isork, and he didn’t think it was related to your Patrol duties in the southeast section.”

  “Did he say it that way?” asked Cerryl.

  “Yes. I noted that. Do you want to explain?”

  Cerryl let his breath out with a slow sigh, ignoring both the throbbing headache and the dull soreness in his arm.

  “I think you’d best explain,” Kinowin suggested with a chuckle.

  “It all started with the purple cart,” Cerryl began, launching into a retelling of the chaos traces, the blood, and the fragment of silksheen. “When the messenger warned me, then I began to watch everyone. I just didn’t watch closely enough.”

  “Not many mages survive shafts with large iron heads,” said Kinowin. “Wasn’t that what struck you?”

  “I know it was iron. It hurt, and it burned. But he was nocking another shaft. So I ashed him first.”

  “This was during the rain, wasn’t it?”

  “That does seem odd.” Cerryl recalled the archers when he’d gone to Gallos with Jeslek. They’d never strung their bows in the rain. Then, they hadn’t been attacked in the rain.

  “Someone was out for you, and they knew about mages. We don’t handle chaos as well in the rain, and iron shafts often can kill some mages outright.” Kinowin raised his eyebrows. “I would let your inquiries about silksheen die away. For now, at least.”

  “I already told Isork that,” Cerryl said, fearing he sounded like he was whining. He hated whining.

  “Isork wasn’t ever the problem.” Kinowin rose. “Rest. I’d like you at the meeting the day after tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “It won’t be that bad.”

  No. It will be worse.

  Kinowin rose, giving Cerryl a knowing nod, and left. The door latch clicked shut.

  After a time, Cerryl closed his eyes.

  XL

  AT THE KNOCK on the door and the click of the latch, Cerryl sat up straighter from where he was stretched out on the bed and set down On Peacekeeping. “Yes?”

  Leyladin stepped into the room, and a cool breeze flowed from the open high window until she closed the door. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

  “I am. You’re a good healer.”

  “You helped.” She smiled.

  For a moment Cerryl just looked at her, amazed that she was the same woman he’d seen by chance in a screeing glass when he’d been but a child.

  “Let me see the arm.” Leyladin bent over Cerryl and examined his left shoulder, both with her eyes and with her senses.

&nbs
p; He could feel the dark shafts of order, slightly uncomfortable, but not painful.

  “There’s some leftover chaos there. Just hold still.”

  “I am holding still.”

  “There. I don’t think it will recur, but I’ll check tomorrow before you leave for the Guild meeting.” Leyladin took a slow, deep breath.

  “How—”

  “Because Myral told me to.” The blonde healer smiled.

  “Sit down for a moment. I know healing is work.”

  “Just for a moment. I still have to see Myral.” The healer eased into the straight-backed chair.

  “How is he?”

  Leyladin shook her head. “Not as well as I would like. Each day, the cough gets stronger, and he gets weaker, but there’s no illness. The chaos has taken its toll on him.” She shrugged. “He’s been more careful than most, at least in the recent years, but White mages don’t live that long.” Her eyes studied Cerryl.

  “I’m trying. I’ve followed his advice.”

  “You and Kinowin are about the only ones.”

  “Jeslek almost flaunts his power. He doesn’t have to; everyone knows he’s the strongest.”

  “Everyone does,” Leyladin said blandly, raising one eyebrow as she looked at Cerryl.

  “You—” Cerryl paused, wondering how she knew he was avoiding displaying his own abilities.

  “It’s hard to keep things from a healer.”

  “I’m discovering that.” Along with many other things.

  “You know,” she said quietly, “you’re not really a White mage.”

  Cerryl frowned.

  “You look White to most, but you’re not. There’s no core of chaos within you. That’s why that heavy iron arrowhead didn’t kill you.” Leyladin smiled. “You can handle chaos, but you can also handle order. You’re a gray mage.”

  Cerryl winced. “Don’t tell anyone. You know what Jeslek and Sterol would do to me if that came out. I’ve enough difficulties anyway.”

  “Myral and Kinowin already know. They won’t say anything. They’re like you. Why do you think they look out for you?”

  “Because I’m not always trying to prove I’m the master of chaos,” Cerryl suggested.

  “That doesn’t hurt.” Leyladin stretched, then stood. “I feel better, and I need to see Myral.” She walked to the bed, bent down, and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Once the door closed, Cerryl leaned back against the pillows. An iron arrowhead, a large one, and an attack against a mage. He nodded slowly to himself. If the attack succeeded, no one would trace the killer, because no one would be able to find the archer. If it failed, as it had, there wasn’t enough of the archer left to determine who had hired him. That meant some mage who knew Cerryl all too well, and Cerryl was fairly sure which one it was. But he still didn’t understand why.

  After a deep breath, he picked up On Peacekeeping. So far, he hadn’t found even veiled references to smuggling and stolen goods. Since it was his third time through the book, he doubted he would, but learning more about peacekeeping couldn’t hurt. Besides, he felt guilty about someone else having to take his duty, but Leyladin and Kinowin had insisted that a few days’ recuperation would be better for everyone.

  XLI

  THE FIRST ORDER of this meeting is to affirm Jeslek as High Wizard,” announced Kinowin, standing alone on the polished gold-shot marble dais of the Council Chamber. “Is there any member of the Guild who wishes to propose another member as High Wizard?”

  In the silence that followed, Kinowin studied the Council Chamber, his eyes covering the gold oak desks and red-cushioned gold oak seats at the front, then scanning the polished white granite columns at the sides for any mages who might be standing there under the swagged crimson hangings. Finally, he announced, “Seeing as no other candidate has been proposed, as overmage and representative of the Council, I declare that the new High Wizard is the honorable Jeslek.” The tall blonde mage gestured toward the front row, motioning Jeslek up to the dais.

  Jeslek bowed, then straightened. “Thank you all for your support.” He paused and studied the chamber. “I have two matters to discuss. The first is a tribute. I would like to announce that my predecessor, Sterol, will be honored for his service to Fairhaven and the Guild by having his image added to those facing the Tower. We can do no less for a great mage.”

  From his seat at the north end of the third row Cerryl watched, with Heralt to his right.

  “Second, this is a time when the Guild faces great dangers,” Jeslek announced. “These dangers do not seem real to some. Yet even one of our own Guild members has been attacked—in Fairhaven, less than two blocks from the Halls of the Mages.”

  Cerryl wondered if Jeslek would call him to the dais or give the impression that anyone could have been attacked by leaving the mage “victim” nameless.

  “Some of you know who was attacked; some do not; but a name matters little when a full mage is attacked with iron-headed arrows in Fairhaven itself. It could have been any mage…”

  Cerryl wanted to snort at that, but he kept his mouth shut and his face expressionless, his eyes on the center part of the second row where Anya and Fydel sat. Faltar probably would have been there, had he not been one of the very few not able to attend, because he had the evening gate duty.

  Myral sat in the front row, forward and to the right of Anya. He seemed healthy, despite Leyladin’s concerns. At the other end of the front row, almost in front of Cerryl, sat Sterol, quietly watching Jeslek, a cold and ironic smile on his face.

  “Why doesn’t he name you?” whispered Heralt to Cerryl.

  “More effective if he doesn’t,” Cerryl answered.

  “Why is this occurring?” demanded the new High Wizard. “It has happened because those in Recluce have never respected Fairhaven and because the traders of Spidlar would listen to the Black angels in hopes of filling their wallets with golds they deserve not.”

  “How do we know this had anything to do with Spidlar?” asked Disarj.

  Cerryl’s eyes went farther back in the chamber, settling on Isork, who nodded very slightly at the question raised by the frizzy-haired mage.

  “Nothing is certain,” Anya said, rising slowly from where she had been sitting in the second row of the Council Chamber. “But a fragment of a blue cloak was found, as was a bow of the type used by Spidlarian mercenaries. One of those mercenaries entered the city not long before Cerryl was attacked.” She shrugged.

  “…was Cerryl…was it?”

  “…why him?”

  A fleeting expression of annoyance crossed Jeslek’s face but vanished even more quickly. Cerryl wondered why Anya had named him, then nodded. By giving his name she had subtly linked him to an attack by Spidlar and strengthened the impression that Spidlar had been the absolute cause of the attack—even though Cerryl knew that was not the case, even if he had no way of proving otherwise.

  “This is something that should not be countenanced,” suggested Fydel, standing up from beside where Anya had reseated herself.

  “We need more proof!” came a call from the back, a voice Cerryl did not recognize.

  “What kind of proof do you want?” demanded Anya, turning to face the rear of the chamber. “Every eight-day, more Black ships and more Black goods pour into Spidlar. Every eight-day, the prefect of Gallos becomes more and more reluctant to pay the road tariffs. Every eight-day, our own traders complain more about how they cannot sell their goods and pay their taxes. Do you wish to wait until the lancers of Gallos seize the Great White Highway? Or until the Guild cannot pay your stipend?” The redhead’s voice dripped scorn.

  “Then how are we to deal with Spidlar?” asked Disarj.

  “How are we to deal with Recluce?” came from another voice somewhere near the front of the chamber.

  “Repeal the surtax,” suggested yet another anonymous voice from the midbenches of the Council Chamber.

  Cerryl brushed his m
outh with his hand, as if to cover a cough, rather than the smile he felt.

  Jeslek swiveled toward the voice. “Who suggested that?”

  There was no answer.

  “If you don’t want the Spidlarians or the Blacks making golds, then you’ll be making the Hamorians and the Nordlans rich,” suggested Myral from the first row. “Or the Suthyans and the Sarronnese. Trade is like water. It has to go somewhere.”

  “Why can’t it flow here?” demanded Jeslek.

  “That is easier said than done.”

  “Why not increase the tax on Recluce goods?” asked another White wizard.

  “Think again,” said Esaak, his voice rumbling. “That surtax is a hundred percent already.”

  “So? Those are spices, wines, luxury goods. Besides, who can wear their wool anyway? People will pay still more, and the Treasury will benefit, but not the Hamorians and Nordlans.”

  “Couldn’t we use the tax to build a larger fleet?”

  “We could build even more ships, but why do we need any more?” Cerryl found himself asking, amazed that he had spoken.

  “To cut off outside trade to Recluce, of course,” snorted Jeslek, young-looking despite the white hair and golden eyes. His eyes pinned Cerryl momentarily.

  Anya glanced sideways at Cerryl, as if to suggest silence might be better for the young mage.

  Her look irritated him enough that Cerryl continued. “That would have worked three centuries ago, but after Creslin we had neither ships nor money. It won’t work now. All Recluce is doing now is buying our grain from the Nordlans. The Nordlans pick it up in Hydolar and ship it to Recluce. Then the Blacks sell their stuff to the Nordlans in return. It costs them more, but we lose all that trade.”

  “That’s Jeslek’s point,” offered Anya in the silence that followed. “Unless we cut off trade to Recluce, we lose.”

  Heralt jabbed Cerryl in the ribs as Cerryl reseated himself. “You’re probably right, but Anya looks like she’d consider hiring the next mercenary archer to shoot you.”

  Cerryl refrained from answering that, just nodded at Heralt, then added, “I won’t say any more.”