Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Good idea.”

  “All that is fine in theory,” snorted Myral, wiping his bald pate with another of his gray cloths. “But I have yet to see something which will work. Nor did any of our predecessors. Do you honestly think, Jeslek, that previous councils have approved of the growing power of Recluce? Did they lose scores of ships and thousands of troops on purpose?”

  “Of course not.” Jeslek frowned, then smiled. “But, remember, the Blacks cannot use the winds now—even if they had a Creslin. What if we put more wizards on our ships?”

  “How many would that take?”

  “Not that many. That way, we could blockade Recluce. The Nordlans won’t make enough off the island to want to lose ships.” Jeslek’s face bore a smug look, the look of a man who has discovered a solution.

  In the third row the ponderous Esaak stood and offered a wide shrug. “That may be, Jeslek. Bring the Council a plan. For such an expenditure of coin, we should see a plan.”

  Cerryl shivered. Even for Esaak to ask Jeslek to justify himself to the Guild was risky indeed.

  Jeslek still smiled as he nodded. “I will indeed. In the interim, however, to protect our interests in Gallos, I will be dispatching the mage Eliasar with an honor guard of a thousand White Lancers to Gallos, in order to encourage the prefect Syrma to remit those revenues owed the Guild. I will be accompanying Eliasar.” The High Wizard smiled. “Now, we need to consider the selection of an overmage to fill the vacant position on the Council.”

  Anya smiled as well, her eyes on Esaak, but her smile was one for which Cerryl cared little.

  “Are there any suggestions for a new overmage?” asked Kinowin, stepping forward on the dais, ignoring the round of murmurs following Jeslek’s announcement.

  Cerryl wanted to shake his head. Jeslek was effectively announcing that, one way or another, he was going to ensure coins from Gallos, even if he had to use his chaos power to turn the city of Fenard into rubble. The so-called honor guard was large enough to protect Jeslek long enough for him to destroy Fenard, if need be. Cerryl was certain that the prefect Syrma would see it the same way.

  Kinowin waited for the whispers to die away before repeating his question. “Are there any suggestions for a new overmage?”

  Did Jeslek feel he had no choice? Were matters that bad? From what Cerryl could tell, part of the Guild’s problem lay in the basic structure of order and chaos—and the geography of the world. Recluce didn’t need as many armsmen as Fairhaven and the countries of Candar because it was an island and because the Black Order contained weather mages who could destroy the ships of any land that tried to invade the isle. So Recluce didn’t have to spend as many coins on armsmen. Likewise, Recluce simply exiled anyone who didn’t conform. On the other hand, the Brotherhood had to maintain highways and ships…and lancers and gate guards, and wizard envoys to the other lands of Candar.

  Still…he was missing something. There had to be a way to make it possible for the goods of Candar not to be costlier than those of other lands. There had to be a way.

  He laughed to himself. Why was he so worried? He was a Patrol mage, a very junior one, and no one was really going to listen to him, even if he did come up with a solution. Not right now, anyway.

  “What’s so amusing?” whispered Lyasa, sliding up to his seat, standing by the pillar to his left.

  “I was having great thoughts and then realized that it will be quite a few years before anyone will listen to such.”

  “Fewer than you think, the way things are headed.”

  “What do you mean?” he whispered.

  Lyasa shook her head. “Not now.”

  “The Council is asking for suggestions,” Kinowin stated even more loudly.

  “How about Disarj? He’s had a lot to say,” suggested Fydel.

  Disarj rose to his feet. “I lack the experience of, say, the honorable Fydel and so must decline. Perhaps Fydel should be considered.”

  “No one will want it,” murmured Lyasa. “They’ll have to choose between Kinowin and Jeslek on everything.”

  “I wouldn’t want to,” murmured Heralt.

  “You might be right,” Cerryl whispered back.

  “How about Esaak?”

  Cerryl didn’t see who asked the question, but Esaak stood more abruptly than Cerryl would have believed. “High Wizard Jeslek deserves someone with greater youth and vigor than these old bones can muster.” After a pause, he smiled. “Someone like the honorable Redark, who is young enough to provide strength, old enough to have caution, and deliberative enough to provide balance.” Esaak gestured toward the green-eyed and ginger-bearded Redark.

  Redark smiled, warmly.

  “That’s perfect,” hissed Lyasa. “He can’t decide what he wants to eat most days. He’ll do whatever Jeslek wants because he’s not smart enough to understand Kinowin and won’t admit it.”

  Cerryl looked at Lyasa quizzically.

  “Believe me. I know.”

  The bleak tone in the black-haired mage’s voice convinced Cerryl, as did the quiet and muted sighs that swept the chamber.

  “Are there any other suggestions?” asked Kinowin, turning to Jeslek.

  Jeslek offered the smallest of shrugs.

  “Since there are no other suggestions, and since the honorable Redark is a full and qualified member of the Guild, the Council accepts him as overmage.” Kinowin inclined his head to Jeslek.

  Is that blotch on Kinowin’s cheek more flushed? Cerryl wondered, admiring Kinowin for his poise in what had to be a strained situation, a very strained situation.

  Redark rose and stepped down the aisle toward the dais.

  “They threw him out of the Patrol, years ago,” Lyasa added.

  “How did you know that?” hissed Heralt.

  “Derka told me before he left for Hydolar.” She shook her head. “Some say he’s Jeslek’s cousin, but no one really knows.”

  Cerryl moistened his lips, his eyes on Anya, seeing the cold smile in profile—a very cold smile.

  XLII

  THE THIN DRESSING on his arm felt like it bulged even under the loose shirt. Cerryl glanced at his shoulder and the white tunic and shirt that revealed nothing, then studied the flat desk. Even though he’d been out an eight-day, the desk looked the same as ever—the two empty wooden boxes, the inkwell and quill stand, the lamp, and a stack of rough paper.

  Zubal peered into the duty room. “You all right now, ser?”

  “I’m fine,” he told the messenger. “I’ll spend a little time patrolling, with Nuryl, this morning, I think.”

  “Yes, ser.” Zubal bobbed his head and withdrew.

  After another look at the empty desk, Cerryl shifted his weight, put his white Patrol jacket back on, and then walked through the predawn gloom to the assembly room.

  “He’s back…”

  “…told you wouldn’t be long.”

  Cerryl beckoned to Nuryl.

  The area Patrol leader slipped away from his men and over to Cerryl. “You’re going with us, ser?” Nuryl’s eyes went to Cerryl’s shoulder.

  “It’s not as though I have to swing a blade,” Cerryl pointed out. “Besides, you’re all out there every day.” He grinned.

  After a moment, Nuryl smiled back, then nodded, and returned to his men. “Let’s go.”

  Cerryl listened to the comments from Fystl’s and Sheffl’s men, the only groups that remained, as he walked out of the assembly room beside Nuryl.

  “…wouldn’t go out after taking a war arrow…not that soon.”

  “…why they get the coins…”

  “…told you he was a tough little bastard.”

  Somehow Cerryl didn’t think of himself as tough in the way someone like Eliasar was, or even as Kinowin must have been in his younger days, both men physically imposing and appearing able to break smaller figures in pieces. Even Jeslek was fairly imposing, at least compared to Cerryl.

  Outside, the streets were still damp with water from the storm of the previou
s night, glistening almost silver in the gray light just before dawn.

  XLIII

  FAT WHITE FLAKES of snow drifted down, some sliding off Cerryl’s oil-polished white leather jacket, others melting when they struck the stones of the Avenue or the walkway. Cerryl glanced ahead and to the side, alert for anything unusual, his eyes and senses changing focus continually as he walked northward toward Leyladin’s.

  The Market Square was nearly deserted under the fall of fluffy snow, with but a handful of painted carts clustered in the center. As Cerryl turned westward just south of the square, he surveyed the wall from which he had been shot. The trees, with their shrunken and wizened gray winter leaves, now offered little cover. A thin layer of white covered grass and shrubs, but not stone roads, walkways, or tile roofs.

  He continued westward.

  A thin line of white smoke rose from the center chimney of Leyladin’s house, but the shutters remained open, the glass windows shut. Cerryl remained half-amazed at all the glass windows in Fairhaven—amazed and grateful that even the Halls of the Mages had them.

  Soaris opened the door. “How be the arm, ser mage?”

  “Much better, Soaris. Much better. I appreciated your handling of the carriage. I didn’t thank you at the time, but I trust you understand I wasn’t feeling as well as I might have.”

  “I understand, ser.” Not a trace of a smile crossed the houseman’s face, though his eyes betrayed a slight twinkle as he stepped back and opened the door fully. “Lady Leyladin asked that you wait in the right-hand sitting room. Her healing duties at the Tower took somewhat longer than she had thought.”

  Following Soaris, Cerryl sat down in one of the velvet upholstered armchairs, the one facing the silver-framed picture on the inside wall. This time he had a chance to study the portrait of Leyladin’s mother. The smile was warmer than Cerryl remembered and the blonde hair longer and more golden than Leyladin’s reddish-tinted hair. The gold threads on the green vest had been carefully reproduced by the artist, so faithfully that even a loose thread near the side pocket showed. The woman’s blue eyes held the same common sense and wisdom as her daughter’s, but not the laughter.

  Had life somehow been hard for Leyladin’s mother? Harder than for the daughter? Cerryl wondered, his own eyes meeting those of the painting. After a moment, he looked away, reviewing the elegant furnishings—the settee, the other armchair, the matching cabinets of polished dark wood, and the low inlaid table before him. All were spotless, as if the room were never used—and almost as though it never had been.

  The scent in the room was that of Leyladin, light and flowery, with a hint of depth.

  After a time, at the sound of leather slippers on the marble of the hall, he turned and stood. “You look beautiful.”

  “I look tired.” A fleeting and crooked smile crossed her lips, erasing for an instant the darkness beneath her eyes.

  “You still look beautiful.”

  “You’re kind.” In silklike green shirt and trousers, with a heavier but sleeveless vest of purple wool, the healer sat on the green velvet settee and touched the place beside her. “Sit by me…please.”

  “Don’t look so serious,” he pleaded as he settled beside her.

  “I am serious. I can’t laugh all the time.”

  Cerryl waited.

  “I know you care for me, Cerryl, and I care for you. We keep seeing each other, but we don’t say too much. We look like lovers to others, but we don’t talk like lovers.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to,” Cerryl said slowly. “I thought, because I’m White and you’re Black, we had to be very careful, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Leyladin’s eyes shimmered, as if she were close to tears. She tightened her lips, then turned so her eyes met his.

  Cerryl looked into her eyes, feeling again as if he were falling into their green depths.

  “Cerryl.”

  Although her voice was gentle, he almost jumped. “Yes?” He tried not to look at her so intently. “I’m sorry. Sometimes, I feel like I could get lost in your eyes.”

  “That sounds like you’re trying to be a poet. Or a lancer officer with a maid he’s just met.” The words were tempered with another smile, a gentle one with a hint of laughter.

  Cerryl winced. “That’s not what I meant. That’s how I feel, but I wasn’t trying…You’re getting…when you do that…but you don’t…” He sighed and stopped, finally shrugging. “I can’t say what I mean.”

  “Try it again,” she suggested gently. “Just say the words. Don’t try to impress me or convince me. Say what you mean.”

  He swallowed. “I did. I do feel like I could get lost in your eyes. I didn’t say it to make you feel anything. It’s the way I feel. I don’t know how to be a poet. Sometimes, I still feel like I have to watch every word so that I don’t sound like a miner or a mill boy.”

  “That is what makes it so difficult.” She looked down. “If only, if only you were not a mage and I a healer.”

  “We are what we are. Does it matter?” Cerryl reached out and took Leyladin’s hand. “I can hold your hand. Do you feel any chaos there? Any burning?”

  “That’s now,” she said quietly. “What about next season? Or next year?”

  “I’m doing everything Myral taught me, and you can touch him to heal him.”

  “Myral isn’t my consort.”

  “White mages can’t have consorts,” he responded. “You know that.”

  “But Black healers can,” she pointed out.

  Cerryl swallowed. “Are you saying, because I’m a White mage…” Cerryl swallowed once, then again, feeling his stomach turn in a sickening sense of despair.

  “I’m not throwing that at you. I’m not considering becoming anyone else’s consort, but whether it’s recognized or not, I want that sort of relationship.”

  Cerryl nodded, wondering how he could ever fill that role. How could she ever consider a mere Patrol mage as anything more than a friend? How could he have hoped for more?

  “Cerryl…dear one…you are dear to me.”

  “More like a friend, I fear,” he said hoarsely.

  “I would not hug a friend so, nor bestow the lightest of kisses.”

  “Then…?” He shrugged helplessly.

  “I want you, but I want you as though you were my consort. I want you to be able to hold me, no matter what you have done as a mage. I do not want a man who holds chaos and her power as his mistress while he says he is my consort.”

  Cerryl nodded slowly. With her words he could scarcely argue, yet…was what she wanted even possible?

  “Don’t look so downcast. You’ve barely over a score of years. We do have time to see if that is what you also wish.” She smiled warmly, her green eyes twinkling. “Besides, Meridis has fixed a pork roast, stuffed with apples and spiced bread dressing, just for us. And no quilla.”

  “Your father? Isn’t he here?” For the moment Cerryl was stunned, stunned at Leyladin’s directness and stunned at where all that she had said might lead them. He grasped at her father’s absence, at anything to give himself some space to let himself take in her earlier words.

  “Father remains in Lydiar, making arrangements for his ships.” She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her lips, then rose from the settee. “I’m hungry. Myral was worse, and it took a long time.”

  “I think the Guild meeting tired him. I talked to him the other night, and he almost fell asleep. It was barely dark.”

  “He has to sleep so much, these days.” She shook her head as she led the way to the dining hall.

  The room had two place settings, across from each other at the end toward the kitchen. The rest of the long white golden table shimmered in the lights from the wall lamps as the light from the windows faded with the coming of evening. Cerryl gestured to the white golden oak chair and waited until Leyladin seated herself on the dark green velvet upholstered seat.

  Then he sat, careful not to brush the pale white china that
rested upon a place mat of light green linen. Following Leyladin’s example, he took the green linen napkin and laid it in his lap. Since the amber wine bottle was already uncorked, he filled her fluted crystal goblet, then his own.

  Lifting his glass, he said, “To you.” What else can I say?

  “To you, dear one.” She lifted her glass in turn.

  They both sipped.

  The kitchen door opened.

  “About time it is…Much longer and it’d be dry as dust and as hard as bone.” Meridis set two platters on the table, then returned with another. “And there be honey cake for later. Enjoy.”

  “Thank you,” offered Cerryl.

  “No thanks to me, but thanks to the lady. Be her wish, only my doing.” The gruff words were belied by the broad smile before the cook vanished into the kitchen.

  Leyladin took two of the already-sliced sections of roast and stuffing, each covered with a clear apple glaze, then tendered the serving platter to Cerryl. His arm twinged as he took the platter, but he set the serving dish down carefully and served himself.

  Leyladin leaned forward and served the cabbage rolls to Cerryl. “I saw that.”

  “The arm’s better. That only happens every so often.”

  “Likely tale.” She flashed a warm grin.

  “Most likely.”

  After another silence that seemed to stretch out, he took a sip of the wine, then offered, “I didn’t know your father had ships.”

  “He has three. He uses them mainly for what he calls long-voyage trading. Prices change too quickly across Candar. He sends the three out for goods that can’t come from Candar or Recluce.”

  Cerryl frowned, trying to think what goods might not come from either, considering that the Black mages could reputedly grow just about anything. “Such as?” he finally asked.

  “There are some dyes…There’s a crimson one that comes from crushed insects that only live in the southern jungles of Hamor and a deep purple one that the Austrans get from some sort of mussel.” The blonde took a sip of wine. “And silver, now that the silver mines in Kyphros are worn out. There’s a dark wood, like lorken, very rare—that comes from Hamor.”