The Magic of Recluce (22 page)

I sipped my cool tea. Justen had long since finished his.

After saying nothing, I finally stood up and added a small log to the fire.

“Did you mean what you said about choosing a path?” I finally asked.

“You are magister-born, a born magician if you will, like it or not, and all magicians must choose a path—black, white, or, for a few, gray.”

“Me? A magician? Hardly. Not a good woodworker, and not a potter. But a magician? My mother's a potter, and my father…well, I always thought he was just a householder.”

This time Justen shook his head. “Humor me, young Lerris, and you
are
young…”

—Humor him? Why should I? What did he expect, insisting I was some sort of magician in secret?—

“…but you have to make a choice.”

“Why? I could refuse to choose anything. Even assuming I'm what you think I am.”

“Refusing to choose is a choice. In your case, your choice is more limited because of what you are.”

“Huh?”

Justen squared himself on the bench, looking more and more like Magister Kerwin, though Kerwin was white-haired and frail-looking, and Justen was brown-haired and thin-faced, with smooth skin. “If you choose the white, you can never return to Recluce, for the masters bar anyone associated with the white from your island nation. Second, your soul screams for order and explanation, even though you want to reject it. And your desire for order would keep you from mastering more than the simplest of chaos-manipulations.

“While you are now in effect stumbling through the gray, in the end the conflict of balancing order and chaos would destroy you. So…you either choose the black, or risk destruction in white or gray…or you reject all three…and become a soul for a white master like Antonin to feed upon.”

“Wait a moment! Just like that? Thank you very much, and I should become a black master on your say-so?”

Justen pulled his cloak around himself. “No. You can do whatever you please. You are not my apprentice, only my traveling companion. Doing the wrong thing will kill you; but then, doing the wrong thing will kill anyone, sooner or later. You just have to decide earlier. You can decide I am totally wrong. You can walk out of here tonight, and I will understand.

“If you wish to travel with me, you must decide on something. Because, undecided, you are a target for every free spirit, and every chaos-master, in Eastern Candar.”

“Where were they before?”

“That was before you used the staff.” Justen rolled over, and was asleep before I could find an answer.

If there was an answer. I looked at the fire for a long time. Then I checked the horses, then the fire again. Finally, I pulled my own cloak about me, determined that I could not sleep.

Once again, I was wrong.

T
HE MAN IN
white sits back in the light-colored wooden rocker. His eyes flicker in concert with the flames from the fireplace, absently, as though he is unaware that his room is the sole one in the inn with its own source of heat. “What have you seen so far, lady, of the goodness of Recluce?”

She purses her lips, but says nothing.

He does not press her, instead remains waiting in the chair, as if content to let her consider his question fully.

Her eyes slowly move from his lightly-tanned face to the fire, and back again. “I have seen suffering, but that scarcely can be attributed to Recluce,” responds the woman in gray leathers, the blue scarf setting off the brilliance of her hair and the fairness of her complexion. Standing as she does by the low table, she looks taller than she is. Her eyes turn momentarily toward the other woman, who sits quietly in the ladder-backed chair to the left of the hearth.

“Have you watched the rains turn and turn again, soaking the life out of the fields? Did you see any ships bringing foodstuffs into Freetown?” His voice remains level, mild.

She considers the import of his words. “You seem to indicate that the Masters of Recluce created the suffering.”

“I would think it was obvious, lady. But perhaps you should take some more time to watch and reflect upon what you have seen.”

“I don't think that we need to fence with words,” adds the dark-haired woman. Her voice is throaty, but businesslike. “You would like to learn how to wield your powers for good. We believe that we can help you.”

“What do you want?” asks the redhead, still looking at the man in white. “You're not exactly offering your help out of the mere goodness of your heart.”

“I could say so, but either I would be lying or you wouldn't believe me.” The corners of his mouth crinkle, and his eyes lighten for an instant. “You have noticed, I am certain, how reluctant the Masters of Recluce are in using their powers for good beyond the isle itself. And I am equally certain that you have asked yourself why they do not help alleviate the suffering that exists. Why do they blockade Freetown?” His arm moves languidly toward the darkness beyond the curtains. “Such blockages seldom trouble the powerful. Only the poor, and those who work, suffer the lost wages and the shortage of food.”

The redhead shifts her weight from one foot to the other, so slightly that she does not move. “You talk nicely, Master Antonin, but what have you done to help the poor? Besides ride around in a golden coach?”

“You saw me warm those who were cold, and I have fed those who hungered.”

The truth rings in each of his words like silver, and the redhead steps back. “I need to think about this.”

“By all means, but you are welcome to travel with me to see first-hand what I do to lift the suffering imposed by Recluce.”

The redhead frowns, but says nothing.

W
ITH THE DAWN
, Justen looked almost as young as he had when we had met at the Snug Inn, except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tiredness in his voice.

He supplied the packages; I got the water and cooked up some porridge that looked like mush but tasted more like a good corn pudding. We drank some more of the senthow tea.

Justen made no effort to hurry, and that alone told me the wizard was still exhausted.

As I rolled up my bedroll—much more comfortable, even on the hard-packed clay floor of the wayfarers' hut, than the scratchy straw of the Snug Inn's stable—I caught sight of the corner of a book, its black leather cover worn from obvious use, protruding from the edge of Justen's pack. While the volume bore no aura of either order or disorder, an impression of great age permeated the leather and its parchment pages. My eyebrows lifted, wondering what sort of book the gray wizard had carried for so long, whether it contained spells, or procedures, or what.

Justen caught my glance, reached down, and eased the book out. “Here. You can read it if you want.”

“What is it?”

“
The Basis of Order
is what it's called. All of the black magicians use it.”

I tried not to swallow. “Is it that important?”

Justen smiled. “Only if you intend to become an order-master.”

“Is that an old book?” I was trying to recover.

“My father gave it to me when I left home.”

“Where are you from, Justen?”

He waved me off. “No place I really want to discuss. Do you want to borrow the book?”

“No…not right at the moment…I don't think…”

“Any time…” He lay back, letting his eyes close, appearing, again, far older than the mid-thirties I had first supposed.

I looked at the ashes in the not-quite-ruined fireplace. The age of his book and the white hair after fighting off the demons of Frven showed Justen was more than he appeared, and far older.

The Basis of Order?
Just what had my father given me? Was Justen from Recluce, or from a Candarian family of order-masters?

Still tossing the questions around in my mind, I re-rolled my bedroll and tied it tightly into its cover, setting it beside my pack before heading into the morning to check on Gairloch and Rosefoot.

Outside the air was chill, the dark featureless clouds high overhead, and the wind out of the north. The sparse fragments of brown grass crunched underfoot.

The two pomes had clipped the grass by the greaseberry bush, as well as chewed some of the less-dried leaves from the bush itself. Then they had moved toward some higher grass in a depression closer to the brook, where they continued to browse.

After watching the two munch, and Gairloch toss his head and amble to the brook for a drink before returning to eat more of the long brownish grass, I finally walked back into the hut.

Justen's eyes opened. “Are you ready?”

“To leave?”

“No. I'm not ready for that. I meant ready to learn how to protect yourself from wizards like Antonin or demons like Perditis.”

“Fine with me.” I just hoped it wasn't too boring. Even if it were deadly dull, the alternative was worse.

Justen sat up, leaning his back against the wall and ignoring the grime that touched his fine gray linen tunic. “All it takes is practice. What you have to do is concentrate on being yourself. Say something like, ‘I am me; I am me,' over and over if necessary.”

“Why?”

Justen sighed. “When someone wants to invade your mind, they want to take away your ego, your sense of being a unique individual. You have to fight that. And there are two steps to fighting. First is to recognize that you are being tempted, and second is to assert yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'll just have to show you.” His voice tightened as he looked at me. “Don't you really want to know the real answers to things, Lerris? Why the masters forced you out without explaining? Aren't you more than a little bit tired of being put off and told to find things out for yourself?”

“Of course! Haven't I said so often enough?”

“Then look at me. Look for the answers.” His voice shook, but he was offering what no one else wanted to offer.

So I looked at Justen, watching as the distance between us seemed somehow to decrease.

Now…just think about the answers you deserve…

The words were gentle, and I did, wondering why I had been thrown out before I even knew what I was.

Justen stood next to me.
What wouldn't you give to know the answers? Just reach out with your thoughts, not your hands, and I will show you the answers…

My thoughts? Why not? Thoughts were just thoughts, and I might yet find out…

I tried to cast my thoughts, like my senses, toward the figure next to me.

White!

A white fog that curled around me so tightly that I couldn't see. I couldn't speak—trapped somewhere in nothingness; a nothingness bright enough to burn my thoughts.

Answers…answers…answers
…The words echoed without sound through my head, but I could not speak, could not see.

Was I standing? I couldn't even see my arms, or move, or even feel whether my muscles
could
move.

Justen? What had he done? Why?

…answers…answers…answers…

In the white fog, that mind-blinding light, were shafts of yellow, red, blue, violet—all spearing me, slashing at one thought, then another.

…answers…answers…answers…

Finally, I remembered what he had said about insisting that I was myself. But had that been a trick also? Another way to gain my confidence? To catch me in a web of white?

…answers…

Was Justen really the one who needed the new body? Why had I trusted him?

I…am…me…me…

Had the white retreated a shade, become not so blinding?

…answers…

I…am…me…me…Lerris…Lerris…

I kept thinking the words, repeating them until I felt myself come together somehow.
I…am…Lerris…Lerris…

“…Lerris…” The words stumbled from my mouth as I crashed to the floor of the wayfarers' hut.

Thud…

This time, blackness reached out and grabbed me.

When I woke, I was still lying in a heap on the dusty clay, and it was well past midday.

My head felt as though each of the colored light-spears had ripped through it trailing barbed hooks, and my tongue was swollen, my mouth dry. Still, I slowly eased myself into a sitting position, wondering what had become of Justen.

I looked over to the bench.

“Oh…”

The gray wizard lay there, his hair thin and silver, wrinkles across his face; he was breathing unevenly. I glanced at my own hands, but they were still mine, if shaking.

My legs wobbled as I half-stumbled, half-crawled to Justen's pack and fumbled out the red pouch. When I grasped my staff to help me stand, the reassurance from the wood helped, and I tottered out and toward the brook.

Wheee…eeeee
…Only Gairloch whinnied, but Rosefoot raised her head as well, and both watched me as I filled the kettle, trying not to feel like each chill northern gust would topple me into the water.

Justen was still breathing, but still old, and unconscious, as I rebuilt the fire and heated the water.

Whatever the potion was that smelted like senthow, it killed my shakes and returned me to the realm of the living—the tired living. Then I eased a drop or two onto Justen's dried lips.

“Oooo…” His eyelids fluttered.

Another few drops, and he was able to swallow.

In time he croaked, “…some stew…the blue pouch…”

So I made that. This time, hearing my steps to and from the brook, neither pony even lifted a head from grazing.

After a mouthful of stew, which despite its blue tinge tasted like a venison pie, I looked at Justen. “Did you have to show me so convincingly?”

He shook his head slowly. “Strength rises to strength. If I had really tried to take you over, not just isolate you, one of us would be dead.” Some of the silver hairs had darkened and his hair seemed thicker. A few wrinkles had eased, and the gray wizard merely looked old, rather than ancient. “Did you learn?”

“Uhhh…” I thought for a moment. What had I learned? “I think so. That wanting something badly can let someone else enter your thoughts or body…”

“Just your thoughts. Once they control your thoughts, the body comes next.”

I shivered. “Would I have stayed in that white forever?”

“For a long time. An isolated personality dies over time, or goes mad and then dies. The white wizards don't talk about it, but it takes several years, and I once did restore someone. He avoided me thereafter.” Justen took another sip of the tea, followed by the stew.

“Does insisting on being yourself hold off that whiteness if you realize it soon enough?”

Justen frowned. “That depends on the wizard. With someone like Antonin, you have to reject his temptations from the first. Give him the slightest edge, and he'll manipulate your emotions like a minstrel uses a song. With a less determined master, or one less skilled, you can even break free from isolation if you were tricked into it. When that happens the energy recoils, and the spellcaster gets it back negatively. That's what happened to me. You were so interested in getting answers, so easily manipulated, that I didn't see how much strength you had underneath.”

I didn't know whether to be pleased at his acknowledgement of my strength, or irritated at my gullibility.

“Will and understanding are the keys, Lerris. Not just to mastering order, but to mastering anything.” Justen leaned back as he finished the cup of stew.

“I take it we're not going on to Weevett this afternoon?”

“You'll collapse in three kays, and I couldn't even get on Rosefoot. Does traveling seem like a good idea?”

Put that way, it didn't.

“Besides, you need to do some reading.” He was holding out
The Basis of Order
. “Trying to teach you by showing you could end up making me permanently old, or killing you.”

I reached for the book.

“After you clean up. At the least you owe me that.”

Back to the brook I trudged, still wondering why I trusted the gray wizard. Every time I thought about that whiteness where he had almost entrapped me, I wanted to shudder. Yet I could tell that he hadn't particularly wanted to put me there. And he had paid a greater price than I had—twice.

That left his reasons untouched.

No answers came as I used a damp cloth to wipe the cups clean after having rinsed them in water so cold that it hurt my hands to the bone.

Justen was stroking Rosefoot's nose as I walked back to the wayfarers' hut, and providing the pony—both ponies—with something they ate from his open palm. I didn't want to talk to him right then and kept walking.

Inside the hut, I could see the book laid on my folded bedroll, but I set the damp cups on one end of the bench to dry. Then I put another log on the fire, picked up the book, and sat on the bench where Justen had been.

With not a little resentment, I opened to the first page.

Fine. That I knew, if not expressed precisely that way.

My head was aching after less than two pages, and I closed the book. How did the philosophy I had just read have anything to do with escaping the whiteness in which Justen had attempted to trap me?

Closing my eyes, I tried to reason it out.

First, when I wasn't thinking clearly, either in Frven or when Justen offered me answers, I could be tempted. And temptation meant letting my mind open to someone. Whoever controlled a body's thoughts, then, must control the body.

But…if that were so, anyone could take over anyone else, and that didn't happen.

So…it took talent…but that talent could be blocked or thrown out…

I opened my eyes and looked for Justen. He wasn't in the hut, but outside brushing Rosefoot. With a sigh, I closed the book and trudged back outside.

The wind had died down, and a hole in the clouds to the south let in a stream of sunlight on the hills to our left.

Justen had stopped brushing and was watching the light play on the gray and brown and white of the hills.

“Justen, is self-knowledge the same as stonework, good stonework, when it resists chaos?”

He nodded. “There are dangers.”

I must have frowned.

“Not even Antonin can control a poor shepherd who fiercely resists, but his power is great enough to destroy him or her.”

“But you said that Antonin could control me?”

“Through temptation.” Justen kept brushing Rosefoot as he talked. The gray wizard's hair was now mostly dark, with only traces of silver, and only a few wrinkles remained. “He would take you as his apprentice, show you how order works, and how you could control chaos. He would intoxicate you with the power of destruction—always for good. Feeding the poor, clearing the roadways—until the internal conflict between order and chaos built and destroyed your self-image. By then, you'd not want to take responsibility, and Antonin would relieve you of that burden. Sephya and Gerlis are more direct.”