The Magic of Recluce

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  One thread of memory, then another, and for all that I did not look as each was replaced, with each thread grew the sadness. With each thread grew the river of tears that should have flowed from the Westhorns to the Easthorns and emptied into the Great North Bay or into the Gulf of Candar.

  With the return of each original thread, a false thread floated free, moaning as another part of Sephya died, somehow clutching to remain as I plucked it away from the underlying sadness and the hard-plated gentleness of the redhead I had never really known or seen.

  With each thread, I severed my ties to Recluce, for I was destroying a soul to save another.

  The last threads I replaced by feel, for even the eyes of my mind were filled with tears.

  Then I stepped back into the amber light of that damned white palace. That was all I could do before my knees buckled and my own private darkness buried me.

  Yeee-aaaahhhh…

  Yee-ahh…

  It would have been nice to be wakened by a beautiful lady, or even a friendly one, but it didn’t happen that way.

  Yeee-aaahh…

  My mouth was dry, dust dry, and an invisible smith was using my head for an anvil.

  Yee-ah… yee-ah…

  My forearm burned and ached simultaneously.

  Yeee-ahh…

  My knee throbbed, and sent shivers of pain to my already beaten skull.

  Yeee-ahhh…

  On the roof above the open window, a vulcrow complained that he couldn’t get to the raw meat that was me.

  After lurching into a sitting position on the rough marble floor, I slowly looked toward the pile of white garments and the white boots that had been Antonin. The white shoes were gone, and the remnants were still remnants.

  Then I looked toward the woman who had been both Sephya and Tamra. She had curled into a ball next to the white-oak table that was already beginning to sag. In the diffused light, her hair was the red I remembered.

  A cool wind blew through the open windows, and the weaker late-afternoon light and the shadows outside told me I had been lying on the stone too long. My sore body agreed.

  … uuummmmmmmmm… uuummmmm…

  The sound of strained stone transformed my too-leisurely observations into motion- slow motion.

  First I gathered myself together, standing carefully. Then, after walking to Tamra, I stretched out a hand, gingerly, and touched the bare skin of her forearm. Nothing. Nothing but the lingering odor of chaos, and an overwhelming sense of pain and loss.

  Slowly, gently, I pried her limb-by-limb out of her ball and onto her feet. Like a puppet she allowed me to, her eyes open but blank, almost like a china doll. Such a physical coercion wasn’t a great idea, I could tell, but I could not carry her. With Antonin’s castle sounding near collapse around us, my options were limited.

  Together we tottered step-by-step out of the great hall, down the circular staircase, and out the sagging double doors.

  Creeeakk… scrunch… creaakkk…

  The heavy fir bridge creaked and sagged, but held long enough for us to cross. My heart was thumping loudly enough to hear, and my mouth was so dry I could not close it by the time we stepped back onto the road on the other side of the ravine.

  Yee-ah…

  I ignored the damned vulcrow and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, taking a deep breath after every other step. My steps got shorter when we reached the slope up between the hills.

  Tamra walked more easily, copying my pace, unthinkingly.

  The shadowed spot by the brook where I had left Gairloch was no longer shadowed, but Gairloch was there, looking up from the water.

  Wheeee… eeeee…

  “Yes, I know. I took too long,” I mumbled as I struggled to open the water bottle. The liquid helped, enough for me to realize that it would have been a lot easier to drink from the brook.

  The brook water was colder, and Tamra followed my example, after I told her to drink.

  Then I got out my meager store of food, mostly travel bread and the yellow cheese I didn’t like all that much. I sat on a small boulder by the brook to open the packages. My stomach didn’t seem to mind the taste of either, and some of the shakiness left my legs.

  I offered a piece of bread to Tamra. She took it, looking at it blankly.

  “Go ahead. You can eat it.”

  She did, mechanically, those eyes still china-doll blank.

  It was going to be a long trip back to Kyphrien, a long trip indeed. Slowly, I chewed enough of the bread and drank enough of the water that my head cleared and some of my strength returned-enough for me to touch that scar on Tam-ra’s neck and begin the healing process. She didn’t need any external scars. The ones inside would be great enough.

  Tamra didn’t protest when I boost-ed her onto Gairloch.

  Wheee… eeee… He objected, skittering aside, nearly pulling the reins from my hand.

  “Easy there,” I mumbled.

  Wheeeee… eeeeee…

  “I know… but help me out…”

  Long wasn’t the word for the ride back toward Kyphrien. Until close to sunset, when I finally found another brook and a semi-enclosed spot off the wizards’ road, Tamra and I had alternated riding Gairloch, except that he got nasty if I didn’t stay close by. She just looked blankly into space, whether riding or walking.

  After we dismounted and struggled off the road, we ate- more travel bread and the bitter yellow cheese, plus some very dried sourpears that I had to wash down. Tamra didn’t even pucker her lips when she ate them.

  As the light died, I put up double wards, which took most of my limited strength-wards against Tamra, and wards against any other outside intrusion.

  Neither was necessary. When I woke the next morning, Tamra was looking blankly into space, sitting on my bedroll. So tired I had been that my cloak had been enough for me.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. She wasn’t, of course, but I had to ask. She said nothing, china-blue eyes taking in whatever she faced, but seeing nothing.

  She would eat if told, as well as do anything else, including rather necessary functions. That part was hard for me.

  The second day was better, but only physically. Tamra remained silent, puppet-like. I could sense no active chaos around or within her, and somewhere deep inside was a coil of tight-sprung order that I dared not touch, though I could not say exactly why. I hoped Justen, the healer as well as gray wizard, could help. In some things, gall was no substitute for experience.

  So we rode on, and on, past the narrow gap once guarded by the ghost knight. I saw only the greened copper of a lance tip lying on the left side of the wizards’ road, but not even dust or ashes of the knight. The bones and ragged fabrics from packs and clothes remained.

  The second night, in the hills outside the Westhorns themselves, was worse. I woke more than I slept, and I swore Tamra just lay on the bedroll staring at the dark clouds overhead, clouds that never rained, never thundered, just shut out the stars.

  Before mid-morning on the third day, after we had reached the old road to Kyphrien, a familiar figure appeared on the road, moving quickly toward the Westhorns. Two familiar figures-one on a charger, one on a shaggy pony, accompanied by an armed squad of the Finest. I didn’t recognize any of the other riders. They had two riderless horses, just in case.

  “Yelena… Justen…” My voice was rusty, flat. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see Justen, as if somehow seeing him meant I had failed somewhere.

  “Congratulations, Master of Order-Masters.” He inclined his head as if he meant it.

  Yelena did not meet my eyes, instead looking at Tamra. The subofficer’s hand remained close to her well-ordered iron blade, and her lips were tight. “What did… what happened? Is she captive… or what?”

  I looked at Justen, without words. Finally, I spoke. “White prison. I did what I could, but her soul is twisted into the tightest order-knot within…”

  He looked back at me, levelly. “Did you hear me?”
/>
  “I did. I did it anyway.”

  He shook his head. “She cannot live with those memories.”

  “I know that!” I snapped. “Why do you think I restored her old memories? She may not remember anything.”

  “How did you do that?” His words were carefully spaced.

  “I just did it. It’s like weaving light or energy, except it hurt more, and I didn’t get all the pain, just the memories. The pain’s separate.”

  “Order-masters?” began Yelena.

  I understood. “Yes. We can talk as we ride, and Tamra needs better care than I can provide.”

  Justen looked away from me, not even meeting my eyes. Instead, he rode next to Tamra, talking to her in a low voice. Even when we stopped for a midday break, he barely looked in my direction.

  No one else looked in my direction, either, not when they thought I was watching, except when we stopped. Then they would offer, most politely, some fresh travel bread or white cheese or fruit. The yellow cheese supplied by Brettel had served me well, but its limited and bitter taste left much to be desired, and that was a charitable way of putting it. So I appreciated the white cheese and dried apples.

  Once back on our mounts, though, everyone kept a comfortable distance from Gairloch and me, as if I were contaminated or something. Hell, they even talked to Justen, and he was a gray wizard. Not even Justen seemed comfortable near me. So I rode quietly, drawing into myself.

  How was I any different from Antonin? I had used every power I knew and some I had only guessed at. Was I going to be another gray wizard? Or worse?

  LXVI

  ONCE AGAIN, I watched the sun rise and the morning unfold from a balcony in Kyphrien. I stood alone in the early morning. This time the winter sun was chill. The cold refreshed me as the brisk wind whipped up from the city, bringing the odor of fresh-baked bread, as well as the odor of goats. Somehow the goats didn’t bother me so much any more, but that might have been the result of an eight-day’s worth of meals centering on roasted, stewed, brazed, and baked goat presented with equally diverse spices and side dishes by the autarch’s chef.

  At least the breakfast rolls I had brought up from the mess-staying in the guard mess for any length of time created a profound and drawn-out silence as every single guard seemed to look at me- contained no goat meat.

  My balcony was the one next to {Crystal’s, with an iron grillwork doorway between the two. Though there was no lock, I had not opened the door since I had yet to see Krystal.

  The sub-commander had not been in Kyphrien when we had returned, but, instead, had used the disruption I had created to destroy the remainder of the prefect’s border force. Without the backing of chaos, the young Gallian troops were no match for the Finest, or even for the better local outliers. I hoped that the talkative Shervan had managed to weather the action, though I wasn’t certain I was ready for conversation with him any time soon.

  Whether I was really ready.for another conversation, the one with Krystal, was another question. Like me, she wasn’t the same person who had left Recluce. Like me, she had forged herself in her own fires into a different kind of steel. I had no doubts that, even with a black staff in my hand, her blade would have proven superior. Then, again, no one was a match for Krystal there, except perhaps Ferrel, and I wondered about that.

  Justen had taken Tamra under his wing, as I had hoped, and she had begun to respond. I had only seen them from a distance, but the gray wizard had himself another apprentice. It might do them both good.

  Thrap!

  I wanted to ignore the knock on the door, but did not, instead walking back inside to the iron-bound red-oak door. The order arrayed on the other side could only have been one person. I lifted the latch.

  Justen stood there. “May I come in?”

  “Be my guest.” I stepped back, aware that the gray wizard had the slightest hint of wanness about him. All the bowing and scraping was already getting to me, and it had barely been an eight-day since I had stumbled from the ruins of Antonin’s castle. You would have thought that I had done something great-like leveling a few mountains, or even craft-ing the most beautiful chest ever seen in Kyphros.

  Bravado, luck, and applying whatever skill I had-that was what I had done, not quite like the effort to do a chest or table perfectly, though they were far more alike than I would have guessed when I had first apprenticed to Uncle Sardit.

  The other thing I had done, almost unconsciously, was to be honest with myself. Not that I really had much choice otherwise, but that was the other difference between Antonin and me. It had taken a while, most of the ride back to Kyphrien, to figure out the answer to my question. How was I different from Antonin? Even Justen had been different from the white wizard. Could I have ever imagined Antonin working with smelly sheep? And that was the real sin-the real evil-of the white wizards. Pride. The conceit that they would impose their will on the world. Without even mentioning it, Justen had made his point with the smelly sheep of Montgren. And I hadn’t even realized that I had learned.

  “May I come in?” he repeated.

  “Oh, sorry. You reminded me of something.” I moved aside.

  Justen stepped inside. I gestured toward the balcony.

  Click.

  I shut the door. We walked in silence outside into the chill, since I didn’t feel like being closed in. The. granite of the guard buildings was also getting to me.

  “So why does everyone have to skitter out of my way? Uncle Justen?” I added.

  He nodded. “Was it that obvious?”

  “Probably, but I didn’t see it until I went after Antonin. I’m still angry as hell at Talryn and Recluce. And my father.” And I was. The idea of being sent out as his penance, so to speak, grated on me. While I could understand-now-why the answers I had sought were not possible, Recluce had no excuse for the excessive secrecy.

  “Talryn’s probably quaking in his sandals.” Justen’s voice was not quite tongue-in-cheek.

  “I doubt that. He’s probably happy to be rid of me.” Strangely, although I was angry, I wasn’t that angry, and I was less concerned about Recluce than about Kyphros and Gallos.

  “Could I ask how you-” Justen’s tone was deferential.

  “Luck, bravado, stupidity-the usual ingredients of so-called heroism.”

  “Lerris.”

  I shrugged. “Chaos-order balance. Simple-enough.”

  Justen looked bewildered for the first time.

  “Chaos is concentrated anarchy, if you will. Order is diffused by nature. They have to balance. Recluce has gotten stronger by letting Candar create more chaos, in effect letting…” I was the one to shake my head. “You know that. You’re the one who pointed it out to me.” I stopped as Justen shook his head slowly. “I swear you did. But after making Antonin stronger, helping him create more chaos, I didn’t have any choice.”

  The gray wizard looked even more… appalled. That might have been the best word.

  I tried to explain what he already must have known. “Order, except in special circumstances, can’t be concentrated. I’m not talking about reinforcing already-ordered people-or sheep-or chairs, but pure order. Chaos can. In effect, because order and chaos must balance, the higher the diffuse order in an area, the greater the potential for chaos. So my efforts to increase order in Gallos just allowed Antonin to create more chaos.” Another thought struck me. “I suppose that meant an overall decrease in order-chaos energies somewhere else, but I haven’t worked that out. Anyway, once I figured the balance and my contribution, I didn’t have much choice. I was as guilty as Antonin for the destruction.”

  My guts protested. “Not as guilty,” I corrected myself, “but I helped.” Justen shook his head, and I ignored the gesture, just wanting to finish answering the question.

  “Anyway, all I did to Antonin was throw a reversed shield around us, to reflect energy away from as small a circle as I could hold. He maintained himself by drawing from the chaos-forces around. With the shield up, he coul
dn’t draw, at least so long as I could keep him from taking my order-energies.” I shrugged. “Without that energy, he just died.”

  Justen nodded. “How many people could build a screen like that?”

  “Probably any good order-master… I didn’t think about it.”

  He nodded again. “How many blackstaffers could and would break their only defense in front of a white wizard?”

  “That was stupid, I guess. I didn’t know if it would work, but holding onto it wouldn’t have protected me for very much longer, and the staff kept getting in the way. Besides, that’s what the book said.”

  “You’re right. But… no one else, not since before Frven, has stood face-to-face with the highest of chaos-masters and triumphed.” Justen gestured out at the town. “You wonder why everyone bows and scrapes and won’t look at you? That’s why. You wonder why Talryn is quaking in his sandals? Every chaos-master and order-master in the Western Hemisphere heard Antonin fail-”

  “That’s fine, except I’m not an ancient order-master. I’m even ready for Tamra’s bitching. At least that’s real. I’m ready to go back to crafting. That’s real, too.”

  Justen smiled. “Who said you couldn’t?”

  “Right! Good old Lerris is so smart… so why didn’t I at least pick up some of Antonin’s ill-gotten loot before I dashed out? I might have three gold pennies left in my pouch. That’s not enough even for tools.”

  “I suspect that the reward the autarch is about to confer-”

  “Another ceremony?” I groaned. Having half the city lined up at the gate and waving banners-very quietly-had been bad enough. Even Yelena had looked in my direction and grinned.

  “Your burden to bear. That’s another price for heroism.”