Dorrin flushes, but steps under the overhanging porch roof of the dining building and opens the door for Jyll.
“Thank you.”
Dorrin also holds the second door. The room contains six large circular wooden tables. At the far end of the room are two open doorways through which Dorrin can see the kitchen. A long serving table is set perhaps two cubits from the wall holding the doorways. Several of the other students from the introductory meetings are loading plates from the serving table.
Lortren sits at one of the tables, along with a thin older man, two other older students, Kadara, and the thin and gangly black-haired youth.
“You know her?” asks Jyll, her eyes focused on Kadara.
“Kadara? She is…was…my neighbor.” Dorrin forces a chuckle. “Right now, she thinks it’s my fault she’s here.”
“Oh?” Jyll steps toward the serving table.
Dorrin follows, his voice low. “I wanted to learn how to be a smith, like her father, but I messed up some of his iron by turning it into black steel. So he got to know my father better. When Hegl had trouble with her, he asked my father what to do.”
“All right.” The dark-haired girl grins. “I just thought I’d ask. Do you like her?”
Dorrin blushes again, caught off-guard by the question.
“Never mind. I think you answered the question.”
Dorrin follows Jyll’s example and picks up one of the heavy gray plates. From the serving platters, he takes two slices of heavy dark bread, some white cheese, a mostly ripe pearapple, and a large helping of a stew that probably has too much pepper in it. He passes by the platter of mixed greens, and pours himself a glass of redberry.
Jyll, on the other hand, takes only the smallest helping of stew and piles on the greens, sprinkling them with an apple vinegar. She sits at one of the two empty tables, and Dorrin, after glancing at Lortren’s table, where the gangly youth is leaning toward Kadara, sits beside Jyll.
He takes a sip of the redberry, warmer than he prefers. “If it’s not intruding…what’s your family like?”
She finishes crunching a mixture of celery and sliced fennel before answering. “My father is a trader in wools. My mother was a singer from Suthya. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, yet.”
Dorrin frowns. The words imply that her mother is dead, and that her father has another wife who may yet have children. “I take it that was a little difficult.”
“It was fun growing up, even if I only had a nurse. Father took me on his trips to Freetown. I had my own horses, and he even let me learn blades from one of the retired Guards. What about you?”
“My life was much less adventuresome. My father is an air wizard, and my mother is a healer. I’ve never been much farther from home than here, at least in person.” Dorrin takes a spoonful of the hot stew, followed by a mouthful of the black bread.
“In person?”
“…mmmhhh…” He waves a hand and swallows. “When you follow the winds, you send your mind out. Not that I’m very good at it. That’s the problem. Father wants me to work at being an air wizard, when I’m probably a better healer or a smith than an air wizard.” Dorrin sees Kadara’s eyes flicker from him to Jyll. The redhead’s face is impassive. Why should Kadara should be upset? She was the one who marched off and left him.
“Do you mind if we join you?” asks a petite strawberry-blond girl with pale green eyes. With her stand two others, plates in hand—a brown-haired youth as tall as Brede and a slender black-haired girl taller than Kadara.
“No…please do…” offers Dorrin.
“We should get to know each other. I’m Jyll.”
“Dorrin.”
“I’m Alys,” responds the strawberry blond.
“Shendr,” adds the brown-haired big youth.
“Lisabet.” The tall girl looks away from Dorrin’s direct appraisal and sets down her plate with a clunk.
“This isn’t much better than peasant fare.” Alys slides her chair up to the table.
“But there’s plenty,” mumbles Shendr with a full mouth.
Lisabet eats slowly from a plate filled, like Jyll’s, mainly with greens, cheese, and fruits. Her big hazel-green eyes seem unfocused.
Dorrin looks away from the tall girl and takes another spoonful of stew.
“…really can’t belief that they can get away with this…You think a thought of your own, and they want to throw you off the island…” Alys continues talking to Shendr as Shendr continues shoveling in his meal.
Dorrin munches on the not-quite-ripe pearapple.
“You never finished telling why your father sent you here,” prompts Jyll.
“I guess because he feels that all machines are linked to chaos. I think that you can blend order and machines, but everyone thinks that will lead to chaos. I know it won’t, but they don’t listen.”
Dorrin wonders what part her father’s new wife played in Jyll’s departure. “I take it your father found another woman?”
“Father? Let’s say that she found him. She’s also a singer, of sorts, and very devoted to him.” Jyll takes the last bite of greens.
Dorrin munches through the last of the black bread.
“Where are you from?” asks Shendr, from above a plate that is so clean the gray glaze of the earthenware almost glistens. “I’ve met Jyll before.”
“Extina,” offers Dorrin.
“I haven’t met her,” says Alys, adding quickly, “I’m from Alaren.”
“I’ve spent most of my time on Recluce in Land’s End,” answers Jyll.
“That’s a strange way of putting it. Have you traveled a lot?”
“I’ve been to Freetown and Hydolar and Tyrhavven,” explains Jyll.
Lisabet continues to chew slowly on the remaining greens before her.
Dorrin wonders at the odd grouping of the so-called students. Alys and Jyll both seem from a somewhat indulged background, yet Brede and Shendr seem almost common in background. Not dull, but common. And Kadara is bright and willful, but neither indulged nor privileged. Finally, he speaks. “Lisabet, why do you think you are here?”
The tall girl finishes her mouthful of greens, then takes a sip of redberry from her mug. “I would suspect that all of us are present because in our inner selves we do not accept the way things are on Recluce.”
“Rebels? I’m certainly no rebel,” asserts Alys. “I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I mean, in Hamor, they lock you up after you’re married…”
Lisabet continues with the greens on her plate while Alys expounds on the oppression of women in the Hamorian Empire. Dorrin takes another mouthful of stew.
IX
The walled city that serves as the key to the Westhorns shall not fall nor sleep so long as her ruler holds fast to the Great Keep, and that keep remains girded in three layers of stone.
The fields of Gallos, the groves of Kyphros, and the highlands of Analeria shall support the same great ruler; they shall support that ruler until they are sundered by the mountains of fire.
A man with a sword of white shall lift hills from the earth; he shall set a road of stone down their spine, yet none shall see that road, nor ride it, save the servants of chaos.
From the blackness of the stars shall come one like an ancient angel, building unto himself tools such as those forged by Nylan that first vanquished the reborn masters of light, and he shall be rejected by chaos and by order; neither shall give him refuge.
He shall make a city of black stone in a place where none dwell, north of the sun and east of chaos; and the hand of every power shall be against him; his tools shall prevail and shall anchor the course of order.
Yet chaos will prevail west of the black city, north and south of the sun; and those in white shall serve light and travel the hidden highways; they shall attain richness and every favor for their pleasure.
Those of the black city and in that place where it dwells shall remain girded; their ships shall travel the oceans great and small, and they sh
all prosper so long as they remain in their land.
For in time, the double sun will wax in the high sky and sunder the servants of light; their towers shall melt like wax upon a forge; and their highways shall be lost; men and women will revile their names, even as seekers quest for the knowledge of light.
Never shall darkness nor light prevail, for one must balance the other; yet many of light will seek to banish darkness, and a multitude shall seek to cloak the light; but the balance will destroy all who seek the full ends of darkness and light.
Then shall a woman rule the parched fields and dry groves of the reformed Kyphros and the highlands of Analeria and the enchanted hills; and all matters of wonders shall come to pass…
The Book of Ryba
Canto DL [The Last]
Original Text
X
The second bells still ring as Dorrin steps inside the classroom for the introductory session of the red group. Only Edil is missing, but then Dorrin has just seen the gangly youth hastily putting away his guitar. Lortren stands at the window, her back to the eight students on the pillows.
Dorrin takes his place on one of the three remaining pillows, the one next to Lisabet. As he does, Edil, a sheepish look on his long thin face, tumbles through the doorway. Edil scrambles for the nearest pillow, nearly throwing himself into place beside Kadara.
Lortren turns. Her face is composed. “I will begin with a warning.” She smiles wryly. “No…the warning is strictly for your benefit. I would suggest that what you learn here be shared only with others who have a similar background and understanding. This is only a suggestion, but it could make things a little less troublesome.
“Second, there are no tests. You may learn as you please. If you choose not to learn, at some point you will be exiled. If you work hard and it takes longer for you than others, then you may have that time, at least until it becomes apparent that you have learned what you can.
“Third, if you have questions, ask them. Otherwise, I and the others will assume that you understand what you have been taught.
“And last…any violence, except as instructed in physical training, any theft, or any other form of personal, physical, or intellectual dishonesty will result in immediate exile.”
Dorrin looks at Lortren. “Could you define intellectual dishonesty, magistra? That seems awfully vague.”
The magistra grins briefly. “It is vague. We do not have time or resources to deal with lying. What that amounts to is a requirement for complete and honest answers to any questions you are asked by staff members. It also means doing the best you can to learn. As a matter of principle, I would also suggest the same honesty between yourselves. There is a difference between honesty and tact.” Her eyes range across the group. “If you look like the demon-dawn, don’t ask someone here how good you look.” A few smiles greet her sardonic comment.
“Any other questions? No? Then, I will begin with a slightly different version of the history of Recluce, highlighting a few points which bear on why you are here.”
Dorrin shifts his weight on the heavy brown pillow.
“…common notion is that the Founders were wise, loving, and gentle people, that Creslin was a gentleman among gentlemen, a wizard who only used his power for good, and totally devoted to Megaera. Likewise, the stories say that Megaera was beautiful, talented, nearly as good with a blade as a Westwind Guard, utterly devoted to and in love with Creslin, and possessed of one of the greatest understandings of order ever seen. In a way, these are all true—but more important, they are all false.”
A low hum crosses the room.
“Creslin was perhaps one of the greatest blades of his generation, and his trail from Westwind to Recluce did not drip blood—it gushed blood. At first, every problem he tried to solve with a blade. He even killed a soldier in cold blood because the man threatened Megaera—who was well able to take care of herself. He was strong enough to be able to use order to kill—and he did. More than several thousand died under the storms he called. Of course, after his feats of destruction he was violently ill, often puking all over his own men.”
The silence of the ten young people is absolute. “As for Megaera, the sweet angel of light—she first was a chaos wielder who threatened her sister’s rule of Sarronnyn and who killed a good score with the fire of chaos before renouncing chaos for order. She did not renounce chaos willingly, either, but fought it the entire way, submitting to the rule of order only to save her life. She took up the blade with the sole aim of besting Creslin and proving that she could kill as effectively as he could.
“And our revered founders—what of their harmonious life together? They squabbled and fought the whole way from Montgren to Recluce. They refused to share bedrooms until well beyond a year after they were married, and the lightnings and storms of their final fight were seen from dozens of kays away. Admittedly, they seemed to have settled into a less conflicting relationship thereafter, but I can guarantee it was scarcely one of sweetness and light portrayed by your teachers or conveyed by the Brotherhood.”
Lortren jabs a finger at Edil. “What does this tale tell you?”
“…Ah…that things are not always what they seem…”
“You can do better than that.” The magistra fixes her eyes upon Jyll. “You, merchant princess, what does the story tell you?”
“I think you are out to shock us with the truth—”
“Be very careful when you use the word ‘truth,’ child. Facts and truth are not exactly the same.” Lortren looks at Dorrin. “You, toy-maker. What do you think the purpose of my story is?”
Dorrin tries to gather his scattered thoughts. “Besides trying to shock us, you’re trying to show that you, and I’d guess the world as well, doesn’t care very much who or where we came from, and that we have lived a very…sheltered life.”
Lortren smiles, coldly. “That’s not too bad, for a start. All of that is correct. I am also trying to make you think. To reason, if you will.”
Dorrin thinks about how cool and detached Lortren appears, and wonders whether his father has seen this side of the magistra. Then he recalls how carefully the weather wizard had addressed Lortren.
“Remember this. There are two sides to reality. There is what is, and there is what people believe. Seldom are they exactly the same. Why not?” This time the magistra’s eyes fix on Tyren, the shaggy and brown-haired young poet who had attempted to charm Jyll the night before after dinner.
“Is it…because…people find what is…real…I mean, what is…I mean, is it too hard for them to believe in it?”
“That is correct.” Lortren’s voice softens. “All of us find some aspect of reality too hard to see as it is—even when we know better. That usually isn’t a problem when it remains personal, but it can be a problem when a village or a duchy all accepts unreality.”
Dorrin’s eyes flicker to the window and to the deep green-blue and fast-moving white clouds. His thoughts move to the question of machines and the unthinking belief by his father and Lortren that such devices are of chaos.
“You do not agree, Dorrin?”
“No…I mean, yes. I agree, but I was thinking that even people on Recluce might have beliefs like that.”
“I just gave you some, didn’t I? About the Founders?”
Dorrin nods.
“You look doubtful. Did you have something else in mind?”
“That’s different,” Dorrin stumbles, realizing he does not want to state the machine argument, but he is unable to find another.
“What about the rest of you?” Lortren’s eyes sweep the others.
Finally, the tall dark-haired girl—Lisabet—clears her throat, then begins in a voice so quiet that Dorrin leans toward her. “Maybe Dorrin is saying that what we believe about the past and what we believe about today are two different kinds of beliefs.”
“Huhhh…” The involuntary grunt comes from Shendr.
“I’m not sure it matters,” answers Lortren. “Whatever the
cause, people have trouble accepting certain actions, events, or behaviors. Part of what I hope to teach you is to learn your own weaknesses and to guard against them.”
Dorrin tries not to frown. He is more interested in learning how to get other people to change their minds about their weaknesses than in learning about any more of his own weaknesses.
“Now,” continues Lortren, “why is the difference between what we have heard about the Founders and the sort of people they actually were important?”
Dorrin isn’t sure he cares. People are people, and others believe what they want to. Still, he watches the magistra and listens.
XI
“What is the social basis for the Legend?”
The social basis for the Legend? What does the Legend have to do with understanding anything? Dorrin looks around the small room. The Academy of Useless Knowledge and Unnecessary Violence indeed—but it is better than the alternative of immediate exile.
Kadara twirls a short strand of red hair around the index finger of her right hand, her forehead faintly creased. Brede shifts his weight on the battered leather cushion that serves as his seat. Arcol swallows and glances toward the half-open window and the morning fog outside.
“Come now, Mergan.” Lortren’s low voice carries an edge. “What is the Legend?”
“Well…it says that the women Angels fled and came to the Roof of the World. They founded Westwind and the Guard and the western kingdoms…” The pudgy girl looks at the polished graystone floor tiles.
The magistra clears her throat. “You come from Recluce, not from Hamor or Nordla. You should certainly know the Legend. We’ll try…Dorrin, what was unique about the Angels who fled to earth—to our world, if you will?”
Dorrin licks his lips. “Unique? Well…they fled from Heaven, rather than fight a meaningless war with the Demons of Light.”
The Magic Engineer Page 4