Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I’ve watched her. I have to do it outside myself. It’s harder that way, and I couldn’t do enough. If she’d been here…if she had just been here…”

  The overmage shook his head. “Perhaps a few days more, if she had been here. No more than that. Even the best of the Blacks can but retard death. Perhaps someday…perhaps…but not now.”

  “I tried,” Cerryl added. “I did.”

  “I know. What did you tell him at the end? That you were more than you seemed?” asked Kinowin.

  His eyes burning, Cerryl nodded. “He deserved to know that…he did.”

  “No one else will know,” Kinowin said. “I’m glad you told him.” The older mage covered the vanishing white dust that had been Myral with the heavy white blanket. “You can’t do more here; best you go for now. Do not seem to grieve for Myral though you do. Leave the Halls until you are calm. Jeslek and Anya would use that against you, and Myral would not wish that.”

  “What of you?”

  “I am older, and all know I grieve. Let them sense my grief.”

  Cerryl could see the wetness on the older mage’s cheeks. Finally, he turned. “Only because he would wish it.”

  “I know.”

  Cerryl blotted his face and somehow managed to keep his expression blank through the entry Hall and until he was on the Avenue, marching northward through the early twilight.

  You should have spent more time with him. He knew so much, and no one else cared—except Kinowin and Leyladin, and she couldn’t even be there. You should have looked in on him more. You promised Leyladin…but it happened so suddenly…

  He kept walking up the Avenue, eyes not quite seeing, but his senses instinctively extended, looking for chaos or danger—the habit a result of the attempt on his life the year before and the skills he’d had to develop as a Patrol mage.

  Myral was gone…not even a body, nothing but sparkling dust that had sifted into nothingness before his eyes. Nothingness. Was that what happened to all White mages?

  He stepped aside for a woman and a child, not really seeing either, and kept walking.

  XLIX

  ALL LIVING THINGS are composed of order and chaos; this has been since the beginning and will be until the end.

  Likewise, every single thing under the sun which has form must partake in some degree of order, for without order there is no form.

  In similar measure, every object which lives, or which has lived, or which gives heat or sustenance, must embody some element of chaos, for without chaos there is not heat, nor light, nor life.

  Chaos itself, were one able to apply the lost and Great Mathematicks of vanished Cyador, could be described in symbols as precisely as those used in calculating the forces a building or a bridge must endure; yet even with such precise calculations, chaos would never appear the same in any situation, no matter how minutely all the objects it entered were shaped, weighed, and measured.

  That is the nature of chaos, that it can be described, precisely, yet never predicted.

  Order, contrariwise, can never be precisely described, for order creates a form dependent upon the objects wherein it is found and the amount of chaos present; yet the result of more and more order being introduced into an object remains always the same, for if of unliving material, the object will cease to change while that order remains, and if living, the excess of order will lead to death.

  Thus, order can be predicted but not described.

  In living creatures, excessive order will result in death, yet because a creature cannot live without embodying chaos, once it dies, for lack of adequate chaos, the body will collapse into small segments of ordered objects.

  If the creature embodied great chaos, suddenly lost, this collapse will occur so speedily that the body will seem to vanish into dust. If great order exists, the same will occur, as a gathering of great order into a small compass cannot be maintained without the influence of chaos…

  Colors of White

  (Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

  Part Two

  L

  CERRYL STOOD, WEARILY, as Gyskas stepped into the duty room.

  “You look tired,” said the older mage.

  “It’s been a long day. I’m spending more time on the streets. It’s the only way to keep the small theft down.” Cerryl eased from behind the table-desk.

  “So am I, in the early part of the shift. People almost look the other way when it’s a loaf of bread or a few pieces of fruit.”

  “Except for the baker,” said Cerryl, “and people don’t lift things when the merchant’s looking.”

  “Coins are getting scarcer, and they’re hungry. Between the problems in Hydlen and the Spidlar and Recluce business, it could be a long winter.”

  Cerryl nodded.

  “I heard old Myral died. You know, the sewer mage?”

  “I know. I learned much from him.” Cerryl managed to keep his voice even. “I hadn’t seen him much lately.” And you should have, and now it’s too late. “He was sicker than anyone thought.”

  “I guess so. He was around forever. It seemed that way.” Gyskas offered a brief smile. “Good fellow—even taught me a trick or two.”

  Good fellow…taught me a trick or two, and before long no one will remember except in a vague way. “He was good.” Cerryl forced a shrug. “It’s all yours. I’ll wander through the section on my way back to the Halls.”

  “Suit yourself.” Gyskas smiled. “Make my duty easier. Thank you.”

  Out in the street, the air was hot—and still—more like late summer than early fall. Cerryl turned southward.

  “…the mage…the little one.”

  “…the tough one.”

  Cerryl smiled at the two youths on the porch but kept walking. Was he thought tough because he was often out on the streets? He didn’t feel tough, not at all.

  The street was hot, and the sweat began to ooze even more down his neck and back.

  Why did Myral’s death upset you so much? He shook his head as he turned westward along the Way of the Masons—anything to avoid going back to the Halls too early. Because his is the first death of anyone who believed in you when you’ve been there? He wondered. He’d loved his uncle and aunt, but they had died in a fire, kays and kays away, and he hadn’t even found out for half a season. He’d never seen their bodies, and there wasn’t even a place he could call theirs. Dylert, the sawmill master, he’d died sometime two years back, but while Cerryl had respected Dylert, he hadn’t loved him. He’d seen enough death. He’d dealt death. Death always happened to others…but it doesn’t, does it?

  A figure in brown dashed from the side street, followed by a man in blue, who grasped the youth practically in front of Cerryl.

  “No!” The youth saw Cerryl’s white and the red belt, and the color drained from his face.

  “Ser mage, this one—he stole a half-basket of potatoes right from the kitchen door.” The gray-haired man glared at the boy, then turned to Cerryl, not loosening his grip on the dirty brown-haired figure—scarcely ten years old, Cerryl guessed.

  The Patrol mage repressed a sigh and looked at the trembling but defiant boy.

  “I don’t care. You mages don’t be doing anything for us. My sis, she’s wasting, and Ma, she scrubs all day and can’t get coppers for bread, not enough.”

  “That’s what they all say,” snapped the man.

  Cerryl could sense the truth of what the boy said and his fear. What could he do? If he took him in, it was surely the road crew…a warning?

  Almost without thinking, Cerryl concentrated, forming chaos, focusing it into a tight circle, then extended it toward the wide-eyed youth, who tried to move.

  “Hold still, or I’ll blind you!” snapped Cerryl.

  The youth swallowed but stopped squirming.

  There was a faint sizzle as the chaos touched the boy’s forehead.

  “NO!” The youth slipped into a dead faint.

  The man’s face blanked as he looked at the circular b
rand on the boy’s forehead.

  “Did you get your potatoes back?” Cerryl asked tiredly.

  “Ah, yes, ser.”

  “I’ll take care of the peacebreaker.” Cerryl bent and lifted the thin figure.

  “Ah, yes, ser.”

  Behind the blankness of the other’s face Cerryl could sense the fear, close to terror, as the man backed away.

  What have you done? You can’t let him go, not without all of them risking a mere brand for food. Idiot! What were you thinking?

  He started walking, carrying his burden, until he reached the corner. Now what? With a sigh, Cerryl turned northward, in the direction of the section Patrol building. Already the thin figure was weighing him down.

  The boy stirred, moaned.

  Even after four blocks, Cerryl could feel his eyes burning and his stomach churning as he carried the half-conscious figure into the section building.

  Gyskas stepped out of the duty room. “What have you there?”

  “A peacebreaker. Child tried to steal potatoes because his family was starving.”

  “You truth-read that.”

  “Yes. Unhappily.”

  “That burn is chaos fire.”

  “Yes,” Cerryl admitted. “A bad idea of mine. I thought about letting him go with the burn to mark him. Now…I don’t know.”

  “We’ll have to send him to south prison.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “We don’t have much choice,” pointed out the older mage.

  “I suppose not.” Cerryl took a deep breath.

  “I can handle it from here,” Gyskas said.

  “Maybe you’d better. I’m not thinking very well.” Is that the truth!

  “It’s not…” Gyskas broke off his words.

  “I know. We can’t afford not to think. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hope.

  Cerryl walked slowly out of the building and turned westward, toward the Avenue, toward the Halls of the Mages, his stomach still churning, his heart feeling pressed by lead on all sides, each step an effort.

  How could you have been so stupid?

  Because you were upset.

  That’s not good enough.

  He kept walking, walking until he reached his room and sank into the chair before his desk. After a time, he looked up, then down at the screeing glass on his desk, reflecting only the ceiling. How had he made such a mess of the day? Just because you were upset…because Myral died? There had to be more.

  Thrap.

  Out of a blind need to practice, to do something, he focused on the glass. Lyasa waited outside.

  “Come in, Lyasa.” He stood by the table, waiting.

  She opened the door. “You know, Cerryl, I hate that.”

  “People screeing to see who’s there? I’m sorry. I’ve just been trying to practice using the glass. I don’t do that much in Patrol work. Not that I’ll be doing that much longer, I suspect.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged tiredly. “I made a mistake. I was too hard on a child caught stealing. I mean, I was trying not to be, but it didn’t work out that way, and he’s going to end up on the road crew, and it’s my fault, and there didn’t seem to be anything else I could do.”

  “They won’t get rid of you for that.”

  “I don’t know. I touched him with chaos, meant to warn him, but I burned him, and I shouldn’t have tried it.”

  Lyasa winced. “You didn’t mean to.”

  “No. Not exactly. But rules are rules, and I didn’t do what I was supposed to, and I’ll have to pay for that.”

  “Outside of the…burn, was anyone hurt? Did you do…?”

  “Anything else stupid? No. I should have thought about things, should have taken him to the section building, but I was thinking about Myral, and I was upset, and then I thought about this…child…on the road crew.” He lifted his hands helplessly. “I just didn’t think, and I’ve tried to be so careful.”

  “Cerryl…you can’t be so careful that you never feel.”

  “Feeling—that’s what caused the problem. If I hadn’t been feeling…”

  “About Myral?”

  He nodded.

  “Does Leyladin know? That was what I came to ask you about.”

  “I sent her a message scroll about Myral. There wasn’t much else I could do. I wish Leyladin could use a glass.”

  “Blacks can’t—not easily—and healers especially have a hard time.”

  “I know. It sounds simple in Colors of White. ‘Screeing is the gathering of chaotic light patterned by the order of the world…’” He shook his head.

  “You’re still upset about Myral.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t know why. I mean, I know why I’m upset, but not why I am so upset. So upset that I couldn’t even remember the rules of peacekeeping.” He laughed bitterly.

  “Because you respected him and you haven’t found many mages to respect,” suggested Lyasa.

  “That’s probably part of it. Except why did I go out and do something he wouldn’t have respected?”

  “Were you trying to break the rules?”

  “No. Yes. How can I say? I didn’t want the boy to go on the road crew. But I didn’t want to—I couldn’t—let him go. If you let one get away with stealing, with all the hunger, they’ll all be stealing.” Cerryl shook his head. “I don’t…Maybe I’m not meant to be a Patrol mage. That…demons! I probably won’t be much longer.”

  “You’re making too much out of this. You still brought him in, didn’t you? And he’ll go on the road crew?”

  “I’m sure he will.” Cerryl couldn’t tell Lyasa of the horrified look in Gyskas’s eyes or the sickening sense of despair he himself had felt. He just shook his head.

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “You don’t break the rules, not if you’re a Patrol mage. How can anyone trust the mages if we don’t keep the rules we make? Things are bad enough already, and it’s harvesttime. What will they be like by midwinter?”

  “Worse,” admitted Lyasa. “But you didn’t make them that way. You made a mistake. We all make mistakes.”

  Cerryl just shook his head. “Sometimes…sometimes, you can’t afford mistakes.” Not me…not if everyone’s watching to see if you do…hoping you will.

  She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. Not now.” He straightened. “I did what I did. We’ll have to see what happens. I just hope it’s not too bad.” How can it not be bad when discipline is going to come from Jeslek and Redark?

  “If you need anyone to talk to, I’m around.”

  “Thank you.” He swallowed. “I mean it.”

  Lyasa offered a soft smile before she left.

  Cerryl sat down heavily, half-staring at the blank screeing glass.

  LI

  CERRYL LOOKED UP from the table-desk as Isork appeared in the doorway. As the chief Patrol mage shut the door to the duty room behind him, Cerryl stood. “Ser.”

  “Cerryl…” The chief Patrol mage’s voice was soft, almost regretful. “Gyskas reported what happened yesterday afternoon.”

  “I thought he would, ser.” Cerryl lifted a sealed message from the desk, stepped forward, and extended it. “Here is my report. I doubt they differ in any great degree.”

  Isork continued to stand as he unfolded the sheet and read it. Seemingly he read it a second time; then he handed it back to Cerryl. “I prefer Gyskas’s report, and I think you would as well. He was somewhat more charitable to you than you have been to yourself. That speaks well of you, but there is no sense in making matters worse.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl folded the report into his belt.

  “Cerryl, I am sorry. But we cannot change the rules of peacekeeping.”

  “I understand that, ser. Especially now. But nothing seemed to fit. He didn’t resist taking, and he didn’t attack me. He was telling the truth. Am I supposed to put him on the road gang because he had t
o choose between letting his sister starve or stealing?”

  “We cannot let peacebreaking occur.” Isork offered a half-smile. “No matter what the reason. People often have good reasons to break the peace. Sometimes, as now, the Guild may even be partly at fault. It’s easy to keep the peace when times are good. It’s harder when times are bad. Yet it is even more important that Fairhaven remain calm in the troubled times.”

  How can it remain calm when more and more people cannot find enough to eat?

  “I know you were upset by Myral’s death. Kinowin told me when I saw him early this morning. But you have to do your duty, according to the rules, no matter what you feel. I can’t have mages branding people. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking, ser. For a moment, I thought of just using the brand to remind him, but I realized that wouldn’t work. So I carried him back here. I should have put him on the refuse crew, I suppose, but I wasn’t thinking. It happened so quickly.”

  “No…what you should have done was send him to the south prison for transfer to the road crew. Without branding him.” Isork smiled. “Then, we could have arranged for him to escape on the way to the highway work. We will anyway, but we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t escape until he is well, well away from here, probably into Kyphros.”

  Cerryl’s mouth opened.

  “That’s the second lesson. We’re not totally unfeeling—but what we do has to look like it is totally unfeeling, totally impartial. The adjustments have to be made in a way that doesn’t appear to compromise the system.”

  “Now what do I do?” Cerryl sighed. “I’m sure the word will be out that there is a crazy Patrol mage.”

  “We could get around that, in time, after a disciplinary assignment and relocation to another section. What this points out is that you’re too young and too creative,” Isork said, “to stay as a Patrol section mage. You think too much. Sooner or later, the thinking will push you into doing something else. You’ve already made a few decisions that were a bit creative, like putting people on the refuse crew that other mages would have sent to the road crew.” Isork shook his head. “The Patrol doesn’t air its refuse or its laundry in public. You won’t see open disciplinary hearings for Patrol mages—or patrollers. That sort of thing only undermines public trust. It’s simple. Patrol mages and patrollers are fully accountable, and all know they are.”