Recluce Tales

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  With her was a man dressed entirely in shimmering white. I had a hard time looking at him for long. He spoke to the woman. His words were not gentle.

  She said something to me.

  I shook my head.

  She kept talking. Her words meant nothing, whatever language she was using. I knew Black English and American English and what I learned in three years of lousy high school French. As she kept speaking and gesturing to the man in white, and he answered, in a tone of irritation, I had a pretty good idea they weren’t speaking French, not even close.

  Even though he was smiling politely, anger boiled inside him. Or something did. I could almost see it. Finally, after another exchange, he raised his hand and pointed to the wall. A tiny fireball flew and smashed against the stone. There was an acrid smell, like burning paint.

  He said something else, in the tone of a threat, and he and the guards left.

  She pointed to herself. “Kytrona.” Then she pointed to me and raised her eyebrows. Her eyes were a muddy green.

  “Cassius Barca Samuels.”

  That got me a frown.

  “Cassius,” I said.

  That was how my lessons began.

  In between the time spent with Kytrona in that locked room learning Low Temple, I had a lot of time to think about how I’d ended up in a different world. Or was I paralyzed, lying somewhere like Tripler, just imagining what had seemed so real? Either way, I hadn’t thought things would turn out like that. I thought I’d been smart when I’d enlisted in the Navy. As the recruiter had said—clean sheets and no foxholes and no patrols with Charlie shooting at you. He’d said VC. I learned about Charlie later, on The Sullivans, before I got transferred to the Forrestal and discovered the brown-shoe Navy.

  Pilots came in all shapes and attitudes, but most, especially Navy pilots, came in one flavor. That was vanilla. But, back then, black petty officers were almost as rare as black officers, sometimes rarer. My ma had just been glad I hadn’t volunteered for the Marines. She didn’t even mind that I’d struck for quartermaster … and made it all the way to second class. Chief Mangrum had told me I was crazy, that with my test scores and brains I’d already have been first class and eligible for chief if I’d gone ET. I didn’t want to be a tech, especially an electronic tech. The way technology was going in the Navy, the ETs really didn’t do that much tech stuff. They just figured out which black box didn’t work and replaced it, and some civilian in California was the one who actually repaired the box—unless they junked it.

  Chief Mangrum said that I was just copping out, that I was taking the easy way, that I just didn’t want to work hard. I hated being told that. I just didn’t want to be a black-boxer, but it still bothered me.

  Anyway, that was how I ended up on the flight deck of the Forrestal that January morning. We were doing the final ORI in the Hawaiian Islands before heading to SEASIA. Some of the crew called it “Nam.” That didn’t seem right to me, stuck in my mind like “boy” and “nigger.” For all that, I couldn’t say why I always said “Vietnam” rather than “Nam.”

  I didn’t see exactly what happened, except that it looked like a rocket somehow fired itself across the deck where it exploded into one of the F-8s—at least I’d thought it was an F-8, but with flames flaring everywhere, and with that part of the flight deck an instant inferno, I wasn’t sure. I was headed for the nearest hose.

  There were three of us there, and I took the nozzle. The biggest danger was wing-mounted ordnance on attack birds being cooked off, and stopping that meant putting water on any bird with weapons on its wing racks. Couldn’t help thinking about what had happened on the Forrestal. We had to keep things from getting out of hand.

  I’d turned the nozzle on an A-6 that was already so hot that the first blast from the nozzle turned to steam. Then there was another explosion and … something shoved me into the darkness.

  IV

  Over the days that followed, I kept wondering about the fire on the flight deck, and what had happened … and Kytrona persevered, and I did began to learn Low Temple. I also learned that she was from a place called Recluce, and that the ship I’d landed on had also been from there, bound for someplace called Ruzor when pirates had attacked her. The head of the pirates was Gaylmassen, and he held us both as captives. Because I wore blue, he was convinced that I belonged to Recluce. His keep was called something like Paraguna, and it was in Worrak. I didn’t know where any of the places were, but I’d won the grade school geography bee once, and I knew they couldn’t have been on Earth.

  I also knew there was no way I could be on another world … but with every day of cold meat and cheese and beer, and an occasional fruit that I’d never seen or tasted, I was getting the idea that I was either a total head case or imprisoned on another world. The other world idea was more acceptable, but barely so, because I didn’t know any way that people could throw firebolts when the technology they seemed to have was on the level of steam engines and swords. Also, I’d never tasted or smelled anything in a dream, and I certainly was doing both. And the burned spot on the stone was definitely there.

  One thing that wasn’t obvious at first was that I was bigger than most of the guards, and not just a little, but almost a foot. At times, it almost made me laugh, because at six four I’d been too short to play center and too slow to be a guard, and I’d gotten my ass waxed in the pickup games—until Da and Ma had put a stop to them.

  Kytrona kept talking about order. It had taken her most of an afternoon to get that idea across—along with the fact that the firebolt was chaos. She lined up little pieces of wood; she folded rags into patterns. She drew repeating designs in the dust. When I finally understood, then she kept repeating the word for “order” and then pointing to her black tunic, and to my skin.

  That bothered me, because it meant that, once again, I was being seen as something because of the color of my skin. I suppose it helped a little that a silver-haired woman was also seen the same way, but it was clear that I was on the other side from my captors—just because of the color of my skin. They’d attacked me on the merchanter for the same reason. From what little I’d seen, I was sure I didn’t want to be on the pirate side, but their view of me was another form of discrimination based on my skin color.

  I learned more words from Kytrona, but I was still having trouble with the idea that she and I were somehow linked to “order” and the raiders were linked to “chaos.” They seemed anything but chaotic.

  Just before she was escorted off at the end of one day, she looked at me. I could sense her anger and frustration with me. “Look at the guards. Look at them closely when they come for me. Then look at you and me.” She pointed to a small and recent scar on her forearm. “You have one, too.”

  I looked. I did have one, and it also was recent, but I had no idea how I’d gotten it, and what she had meant by pointing it out.

  I couldn’t do much about the scar, but I did study the guards when they came for her. There was a white mist or shadow around them, and when they brought Kytrona the next day for my endless language lessons, they still had the white mist. There was also a faint black darkness that shadowed her, but there were patches of reddish white at points on her body, and she winced when she sat on the stool. I felt twinges in the same places. How could that be, and how could people have colored shadows? Especially when there wasn’t any direct sunlight in the cell?

  Then I stopped. Ma had talked about people showing their colors, and how she could sometimes see them. I’d thought those were just words, but I hadn’t wanted to argue with her. No one argued with Ma.

  After a moment, I realized that the reddish white meant bruises where Kytrona had been hurt. She’d never said anything, either. I got off the bed and pointed. “You … sit … there.”

  She didn’t protest, and I took the stool.

  “The guards … a whiteness … You … are … black shade…”

  “White is the color of chaos. Black is the color of order. Recluce is
the home of order.”

  When she’d first talked about order, I’d thought she was saying that the good guys wore black and black hats, and the bad ones wore white. That wasn’t like anyplace I knew. Charlie wore blue or black, or so the Marines on the Forrestal had said. But it was certainly possible. Now … now … I was seeing people in those terms. Was I really in this other world? Or just hallucinating in sick bay somewhere?

  “You can see order and chaos. You are a mage.”

  “I am not a mage.” I had to protest.

  “You are. You can sense what others feel, can you not?”

  “Times…” I didn’t know the words.

  “At times … or … some times,” Kytrona supplied.

  “At times,” I said.

  She kept her voice low. “Before long, Gaylmassen will summon you. Do not let him know how well you speak. Because of your size, no one will believe you are a mage.”

  More frigging bias. If you’re big, you can’t be anything but dumb. I pushed away the anger. “What about you?”

  “I can sense what to do with a blade, nothing more. That is why I was a ship’s champion. That is also why Guillum linked us. He thinks it will help you learn to speak. Before long he will sense that you are a mage. That will not be good.”

  “Linked?”

  She lifted her hands and rattled the chains. “These are chains. You and I are chained together. The chains will grow stronger if we both live. If we live long enough, what kills one of us will kill the other.”

  There weren’t any chains linking us. She wore the chains.

  “I see … no chains.”

  She pulled back her sleeve and pointed to the scar on her forearm. “Look.”

  Was there a faint black line running from there? Where?

  My eyes—except I was feeling as much as seeing—followed the line … to my good arm and the scar there.

  “You see?”

  I saw, in spite of myself.

  “You must learn more about how to handle order.”

  How was I supposed to handle something like a shadow? I could buy the business of sensing feelings. Mamaw had been able to do that, but what could I do with a shadow … even if I learned how?

  V

  The very next day, the guards put me in chains and escorted me to see Gaylmassen. I expected to be dragged into a throne room like the ones in the movies. That didn’t happen. I was marched into a wood-paneled office or library. There were shelves of books on one wall, and a thick plush carpet laid over the stone floor. The windows were small, and the library was dark.

  Gaylmassen stood beside a desk. The workmanship was good, but every flat surface was covered with carvings, like a Chinese cabinet I once saw. That desk was the ugliest piece of furniture I’d ever seen. Gaylmassen only came to my shoulder, but he wore a sword at his waist, and it wasn’t decorated. His hair was brown and short. He wore a yellow silk shirt with a vest and funny trousers.

  “You admire the desk. You have some taste.”

  I didn’t think saying anything would be wise. I just bowed a bit. I hated bowing to anyone, but there were four guards, and my hands were chained behind my back.

  I didn’t bow deeply enough, and one of the guards clouted me on my good shoulder with something—the flat of his sabre, I thought. Two others forced me down to my knees. Even through the thick carpet, the stone was hard on my knees.

  Gaylmassen smiled and spoke. “A truly black man—that I had never thought to see. You were an expensive captive. My men tell me that you and the black bitch almost saved the merchanter by yourselves. Once you can speak well enough to be understood … then there will be a special place for you both in my personal guard. You would like that far better than the alternative. I could sell you as a matched pair to certain Hamorian traders.” He smiled again.

  I’d seen that expression before. More than once, but the one I remembered best had been on the face of Sheriff Shanklin back in Hebron, when he’d told Papaw that Papaw just had to be a good “boy” and leave things to those who knew better. I trusted Gaylmassen less than Papaw had trusted Sheriff Shanklin, but I followed Papaw’s example. I just inclined my head more deeply than before and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Ser, or Lord,” he corrected me.

  “Yes, ser.” I’d had to bow twice, been forced to my knees, and had to say “ser” twice, and someone would pay for all that.

  “Do you know who I am?” He spoke slowly and carefully, as if I were an idiot child.

  Remembering Kytrona’s advice, I replied haltingly, “You … Lord Gaylmassen.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Cassius … ser.” I almost didn’t add the title, but there wasn’t much point in getting clouted again.

  “Cassius … terrible name for a guard. We’ll have to think of something better. He needs to learn to speak better.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him away.”

  VI

  When Kytrona was shoved into my cell the next day, her lip was swollen, and her face was bruised. Her wrists were bloody under the manacles. From the reddish-white aura patches radiating from parts of her body, I could tell she’d been abused far more than was obvious.

  I’d followed her advice, and I was afraid she’d paid for it.

  I didn’t know how to tell her I was sorry. So I knelt and kissed her hand.

  Her jaw tightened. I could sense that was because she refused to show any emotion.

  “You are kind, but you must learn to be a mage … or you and I will be without thought, or dead. Or worse than dead.”

  I think that was what she said. I could understand more than I could say. She was right, but how would I ever learn something like that when I had no idea what a mage was?

  “Tell me … about order … what mages do…,” I managed.

  “All things are part order and part chaos…,” she began.

  My understanding wasn’t much better than my handling of Low Temple. What was clear was that magic—or magery—worked. The chaos types like Guillum could throw firebolts. I’d seen that. The order types could strengthen things and make them work better.

  I listened and tried to learn both words and about magery, and I worried when the guards dragged Kytrona off late in the day. Even if I could figure out how to do what Kytrona said I could do, how would that help? I was still behind stone walls and iron bars. The stone had certainly stopped Guillum’s firebolt, and he was an accomplished mage.

  Somewhere in the middle of the night, I sat up on the hard pallet. Strengthening and ordering things implied the ability to shift stuff. Could I strengthen things in the middle of the door in a way that weakened the wood where the hinges and the iron straps were attached? No matter how tough the iron was, if the wood got soft the way it was when termites got it, it would tear away from the hinges and locks.

  That was a great idea. I didn’t have any idea how to do it, though.

  I lay awake for a long time, without any ideas.

  I didn’t sleep well, and I woke early—still without ideas.

  In the gray light before dawn, I looked at the ragged sleeve of my shirt. Parts of it were so worn that it was practically falling apart. Too bad I couldn’t strengthen it, with whatever this order was that tied things together. A thought occurred to me. In my world, molecules and atoms were held together by unseen forces, valences and stuff. Did order work the same way?

  I ripped off a corner of the sleeve. That wasn’t easy, not one-handed, because I couldn’t lift my left hand high enough to reach the torn part. The old lady had changed the dressings on my shoulder several times, and the wound had scabbed over. It itched, but it didn’t hurt too much.

  Then I held the cloth in my good hand, and tried to look at it in the same way that I’d looked at Kytrona and the guards. I stared and looked and squinted. Nothing. I kept at it, trying to think of tiny pieces of cloth, sort of like atoms. Then I thought of them like needles. I tried with my eyes open, and my eyes closed. After a while, I tried picturing the
m as linked puzzle pieces.

  At that point, I felt so light-headed I had to put my head down. When I lifted it, sparkles flashed across my eyes. But I thought I saw shades of white mist where I’d just torn the cloth, and blackness more in the center. I tried to move the black away from the middle and strengthen the sides of the scrap of cloth. The sides seemed to get darker, and the middle had a whitish shadow—that was what I sensed. But was I just seeing what I wanted to see?

  I didn’t say anything to Kytrona about what I was doing after she was thrust into the cell that morning. I just tucked the scrap of cloth inside my shirt. I was relieved not to see any new bruises. I did ask her to tell me anything she had heard about order and mages.

  “There are many different kinds of ordermages … the first was Creslin…”

  As she spoke, she had to explain even more words, but somehow it had become easier for me to remember them. Although I seemed to understand each sentence, trying to make sense of the world she was describing was something else.

  Near the end of the afternoon, she murmured, “We do not have much time, Cassius. A few more days at most. Then Guillum will use his chaos powers to destroy your ability to think for yourself.”

  “What about you?”

  “They will do the same to me, because the link between us might allow you to regain your memories and thoughts. I am only useful as a tool to teach you—and because they wish to humiliate me … and Recluce.” Her words were matter-of-fact, and she was telling the truth.

  After she left, I took out the scrap of cloth and tugged on both sides. It practically fell into two pieces.