Ordermaster

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Kharl kept concentrating, reaching for the link between wizard and chaos, between power and the depths from which it came beneath the earth. He had eyes and senses only for that link, even as he rode forward, ever closer to the figure that glowed eerily in more chaos than Kharl could ever have imagined, could ever have wanted to imagine.

  Time seemed frozen, with chaos towering over him, ready to fall and crush him.

  Kharl struck, twisting through that undefended back linkage, opening it and letting all the chaos that had been gathered from the depths rush to and through the white wizard.

  As the whiteness of that chaos burned more brightly than the sun for that instant, Kharl threw up an order shield, one that held all the strength and will that remained in him, one to block out the fires that seemed hotter than any forge, any boiler, any sun.

  NO!!!!

  Kharl shuddered under the assault of will and chaos, under a wave of heat that stopped somewhere short of him, but still burned. The very earth groaned, twisted, and heaved. Sheets of flame flared skyward from the ground.

  As fire flared everywhere, as Kharl could feel himself toppling in the saddle, and someone grabbing for him, he also realized something else. The greater white wizard had been a woman. How he knew that... he did not know, but the thought flashed through his mind, just before the blackness slammed across him.

  Somewhere in that hot blackness, ashes and death sifted down across him, and distant voices he could not make out called out in languages he could not understand. Then, there was a silence, and he could feel that he was on his back.

  “Eyes moving ...”

  The first thing Kharl felt was water, warmish water, across his forehead and face, as he lay on his back on a hard surface-the road, he thought. “Ser Kharl?”

  He opened his eyes, but the light seared them, and he closed them immediately. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a growl, followed by a paroxysm of coughing. After a moment, he coughed out matter, perhaps fine ashes. Then, as the coughing subsided, he managed to sit up, assisted by someone he could not see.

  Slowly, he tried to open his eyes again, slitting them and squinting against the light. The all-too-familiar daggers stabbed into his skull.

  “Ser .. . best you drink some water.”

  Kharl didn’t argue, either about the water or about eating the bread and cheese that a lancer handed him in small morsels. Everything tasted like ashes-again-but he put the food in his mouth and chewed, methodically. He swallowed the water in between mouthfuls. Finally, he slowly rose to his feet on legs that felt as weak as water.

  “You think you should be standing, ser?” asked Undercaptain Demyst from his mount.

  “No. I probably ought to get mounted and let the horse do the standing.”

  A lancer laughed, quietly, but the laugh died away as Demyst turned his head and glared to his right.

  Kharl closed his eyes for a moment. That helped relieve the pain and the glare, although he knew that the sun wasn’t that bright.

  “Just a moment, ser,” said another voice. “Janos is bringing your mount.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kharl stood there, waiting, his eyes still closed, with the odors of ashes and death swirling around him. There was no sense of chaos. He still could not quite take in what had happened, or the stillness around him.

  “The lord-chancellor’s on his way down, ser. Had to go around the back side of the hill, a long way. That’s what Stevras said. Sent him as a messenger.”

  “I’d better get mounted.” Kharl slit his eyes again. The pain daggers were still there, but he tried not to wince as he turned and took two steps toward the gelding. Mounting was easier than seeing what he was doing.

  Once in the saddle, he had to cough again, and, for a moment, he thought he might not be able to hold down what he had eaten, but he closed his eyes, and the coughing subsided. As he sat in the saddle, waiting for Hagen, he realized that he could sense no chaos. None. That was good, he supposed.

  After a time, he slit his eyes again to look around him, first uphill to the southwest, then along the road to the south. Everywhere he saw gray- ashes, smoke and ashes, and with the faint breeze came even more strongly the stench of burned flesh, both of men and mounts. The entire front of the hill beyond the northeast road and the flat below were smoldering charnel heaps, and the gray of ashes as fine as dust had settled over everything.

  Farther west, the top of the hill shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, shimmered like a mirror, a glassy surface of red and black, a surface created by the chaos blasts of the dead white wizard-or should she have been termed a sorceress?

  Kharl had heard of the Legend, and the tales of Megaera, but... those had always just been stories. Who could have believed that such a mighty sorceress had existed in his own time? Or that she had been sent to Austra?

  Slowly, he eased the mount along the road toward the ragged column coming from the west along the river road.

  When he caught sight of Kharl, the lord-chancellor motioned for the other lancers to halt, then rode alone toward Kharl.

  “I’ll meet the lord-chancellor alone,” Kharl said to Demyst.

  “Lancers halt! The mage and the lord-chancellor will meet alone.”

  Kharl forced himself to take another swallow from the water bottle. The water still tasted like liquid ashes, but he swallowed with a gulp, then put it back in the looped holder above his knee.

  Hagen reined up, letting Kharl come the last few rods to him. The mage eased the gelding to a halt a rod or so from the lord-chancellor.

  “Ser Kharl... What.. . what did ... ?” Hagen could not finish the question.

  “What was necessary.” Kharl’s voice was flat. “Both the white wizards are dead. From their own chaos.” He closed his eyes. Talking intensified the sight-daggers jabbing into his skull.

  “That last... it seared everything below the hillcrest-except your squad. We lost a third of ours then. It’s all glass-a hillside of glass.”

  “And ashes.” Kharl paused. “We lost more than that. We lost all of the lancers in Lord Fergyn’s forces.”

  “I see ... why few would wish a war with either Hamor or Recluse.”

  Kharl offered a weary smile, except the expression was more grimace than smile. “No. That is clear. I am certainly not as great a mage as those of Reduce, and the white wizard could not have been the greatest in Hamor.”

  “No. The emperor would not send his greatest,” Hagen agreed.

  “Will this end the rebellion?” asked Kharl.

  “I would judge so.” Hagen glanced to his right, out across the grayness and devastation. “One can never tell, but all those who led it or were in the councils of the rebels are dead. The lancers and armsmen who followed them are dead.”

  Kharl just nodded. Then, a wave of weakness and dizziness swept over him, and he lowered his head until his forehead was almost resting against the gelding’s mane. “Kharl... are you all right?”

  “Be ... a while ... before ... I get my strength ... back.” Even those few words seemed to exhaust him, and he sat in the saddle, his eyes closed, trying just to hang on. After several moments, the worst of the dizziness passed, and he gradually straightened.

  “Are you sure?” asked Hagen.

  “I’ll... be riding . .. slowly.” Kharl managed a faint smile.

  XXVIII

  Ihere is a Balance, too, among those who can master order or chaos. There are few who have the talent and the discipline to claim even minor skills in handling such forces. There are even fewer who can boast of some limited degree of mastery, and fewer still who attain great mastery, especially of order, for mastery of chaos is far easier than the same level of mastery of order ...

  The balance is this: A mage may have a wide range of skills, but his breadth of skills will limit great skill in one area of mastery. Conversely, a mage may have great mastery in one area, but most limited abilities in others, where lesser mages may in fact show greater skill.r />
  This Balance of mastery, then, must be considered in all things. A great weather mage may not be able to spur the slightest growth in plants nor heal the simplest cut. A mighty metal mage may not be capable of even sensing when the weather will change.

  Yet a possessor of minor order abilities may be able to heal a cut, strengthen the wool of sheep, find the bad pearapples from among the good without touching a one, and always know when the weather will change. But he can do no great mageries, though he can accomplish some magery in all areas where order may be fruitfully used.

  That often is the weakness of those of great single magely skills, that they fail to understand that they cannot be great in all areas, and that they may make great errors if they fail to recognize that the Balance applies to them as well as to the relation between order and chaos.

  As in all matters of order, chaos, and the affairs of men and women, there is a Balance, and a price to be paid for greatness and great accomplishments.

  • The Basis of Order

  XXIX

  Kharl slept poorly on fourday night, even though they had not reached the Great House until after sunset, what with the clouds and the downpour that had swept in, seemingly from nowhere, turning the roads into muddy quagmires and extending a journey of perhaps two glasses into one three times that long. By the time he reached his quarters, he was soaked and shivering. Even before the fire in his small hearth, a good glass had passed before he had been warm enough to climb into bed.

  Then, after he had dropped off, uneasily, the image of the white sorceress appeared before him, time after time, then vanished in a swirl of chaos and ashes. Twice he woke, drenched in sweat, with every muscle in his body aching. Even in the darkness of his quarters, when he opened his eyes, the sight-daggers jabbed into his skull. In fact, in the darkness it was worse, because each dagger exploded in a flash of light.

  Morning was not much better, although a visit to the bath chamber and breakfast improved his being somewhat. The egg toast only tasted lightly of ashes. The pale ale might have helped as well. Then he went back to his quarters, to rest. Outside the windows of his quarters, the rain continued to fall, almost in sheets at times.

  Rest eluded him. Too many thoughts swirled through his skull. Why had the Emperor of Hamor sent a white sorceress? She had been far more powerful than any of the white wizards, and the emperor had risked her on a revolt in Austra? Did Hamor have that many whites so powerful? Or had she been a danger to the emperor? Every time Kharl thought he had learned something, he found that there was so much more he did not know.

  So far as Kharl knew, how he had applied order had seemed straightforward. He’d read from The Basis of Order, then tried to work things out. Some things hadn’t worked. Some had, but had almost prostrated him, or worse, and one or two others had worked well. In most magely things, Kharl had just been middling, and only good in a few. That was life. The same had been true when he’d just been a simple cooper. “Ser Kharl?”

  Even without much effort, Kharl could sense the blackness of Lyras beyond the door. His order-senses were sharper than ever, but that sharpness was so clear that it was almost painful. He did not want to think about what it might feel like to deal with another white wizard.

  “Come in, Lyras. It’s unbolted. Unbarred, too.”

  Lyras, in the browns he always wore, opened the door and stepped inside.

  Kharl motioned to the other chair and watched as Lyras seated himself.

  “You’re feeling better?” asked Lyras.

  “Not sure I could have felt worse ...” Kharl closed his eyes as the sight-daggers jabbed into his skull even more sharply. “I feel better.”

  Lyras laughed. “The more powerful a black mage is, the harder it is to say something that is not accurate. You have become very powerful, ser Kharl, and in a shorter time than perhaps any mage since the great Cres-lin.”

  Kharl wanted to deny the other’s words, but... was there any truth in them? He finally spoke. “I would not know. I do know that it is uncomfortable not to tell... what is accurate.” He was having a hard time with the word truth and wanted to avoid using it, at least aloud.

  Lyras smiled. “You have not had the time to become accustomed to the results of power.”

  “That is so. Unfortunately.” While Kharl still wasn’t certain how much real power he had, there was no doubt that he had not had time to become accustomed to dealing personally and directly with those of power. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Too much use of power, especially in dealing with chaos, often affects a mage’s sight. Creslin lost his, on and off, for much of his later life.”

  “When I look at anything, there are daggers stabbing in through my eyes,” Kharl admitted.

  “Hmmm ... that’s one I never heard of. Then, everything about you is ... a little different.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “No ... you wouldn’t,” Lyras agreed cheerfully. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Lord Hagen, he said ...”

  Kharl waited.

  “You said that you were far from the great mages of Reduce.”

  “I did. I’ve been a mage something like a year, Lyras. I can do a few things passably, and one or two fairly well. The great mages of Reduce certainly can do more than that.” Kharl felt confident about that statement, and his eyes certainly didn’t pain him any more than they had.

  “I hesitate to tell you this, ser Kharl, but what I have to say ... there is no one else who has seen what I have and knows what it portends.” Kharl didn’t like the words, or the caution behind them. “What are you going to tell me?”

  “You are the greatest mage-or the most powerful in what you do-in two generations, and possibly among the handful of truly great order- mages.” “Me?”

  “Not since Fairven fell has a black mage faced the kind of chaos that I felt yesterday.”

  Had it been only yesterday? Just yesterday? Kharl shrugged, helplessly. “I wouldn’t know. I find that hard to believe.”

  “A stretch of hillside almost a kay square was fused into glass. More than six companies of lancers and two white wizards were burned to ashes. People will ride by there for generations to come and marvel. Not many mages can handle that kind of power.” Lyras gestured to the rain outside. “Out of a clear sky this torrent swept in. That happens when mighty order and mighty chaos meet. Crops all across eastern Austra will be washed out if it continues.”

  “But... I didn’t create it. The white wizards did. All I did was turn it against them.”

  “All?” Lyras’s laugh was warm, rather than hard, and somehow sad. “Those were great white wizards. The greater one was, I think, perhaps even a chaos-focus. He was probably sent here to keep him out of Hamor. No ruler likes that kind of power too close.”

  “I had thought about that.” Although Kharl could understand that, he wondered if he was the only one who had realized that the greater wizard had actually been a sorceress, and if he should correct Lyras. He decided against saying anything. What difference would it make whether the white had been man or woman? Power was power. The more important point was the one about rulers distrusting great wizardry too near to them. “I had hoped to return to Cantyl as soon as I can.”

  “That is a good thought.” Lyras smiled again. “You need time to rest, and to consider what you have learned and how it has changed you and how it will continue to change you.” He stood. “Until later.”

  “You’re going home.”

  “Lord Ghrant does not need me. Nor does the lord-chancellor. They have you. I

  would rather spend my efforts on my berry bushes.” “Give my best to your consort,” Kharl offered. “Oh, I will, and we’ll send you some of the best preserves in the fall. It’s the least we

  can do.” With those words, and another smile, the black mage was gone. Kharl closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. Thrap!

  He jerked awake at the rap on the door. He’d doz
ed off, but from the light coming through the window, it couldn’t have been for long. “Ser Kharl?” “Yes?” The word came out as a croak. Kharl cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes?”

  “The lord-chancellor wanted to know if you would join him for a private midday meal in his study.” “Now?”

  “He had thought so.” “I’ll be right there.” Kharl eased himself out of the chair and to his feet. He walked slowly to the door, and the armsman who stood outside waiting. Neither spoke on the way along the corridor and down the stone steps, although Kharl

  could sense the young man’s gaze falling upon him more than once. The two guards outside the lord-chancellor’s study stiffened as Kharl approached. “He’s expecting you, ser Kharl,” said the older one, half-opening the door. “Thank you.” Kharl managed a smile he hoped was warm and friendly. As Kharl stepped inside Hagen’s study, the lord-chancellor stood. “Kharl. Please join

  me.” Set on each side of the table desk was a platter, and a beaker of lager by each. As

  Hagen seated himself, so did Kharl. “How are you feeling?” asked Hagen. “Passable,” Kharl admitted. “A bit tired, too. How about you? How are things going

  here? With Lord Ghrant?”

  Hagen laughed, sardonically. “All the leading rebel lords are dead. The others have all sent messengers and messages, pledging their allegiance and claiming that they had no choice, because, like Lord Vertyn and Lord Lahoryn, they would have lost everything had they not reluctantly agreed to support the rebellion.”

  “For some it was probably true.” Kharl took a swallow of the lager, enjoying it

  mainly just because it did not taste like ashes. “But what about lords like Azeolis?” “He was one of the first to pledge allegiance and to offer reparations.” “And Lord Ghrant will accept both, I take it.” “For now, blaming the dead makes for a convenient apology and explanation.”