Recluce Tales

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She does not appear to be in the least surprised. “Of course. Call it one of my … foibles.”

  He waits.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I can get word to him.”

  She purses her lips ever so slightly, then nods. “That might be best.” A faint smile appears. “It might, indeed.” After a moment, she goes on. “It was my mother. She died almost ten years ago, but the years after she … heard that singer … she always said they were the best of her life”

  “I can tell him that. What about you?”

  “I cannot complain. In fact, I have little to complain about … except perhaps envying her a bit.”

  “It’s best not to envy.” His words are quiet. “What you envy may not be what you think.”

  “I think I see that. Thank you … for her.” Her smile is brief before she stands and slips away toward the guards. She does not look back as the guards follow her from the public room.

  Bard can feel more than a few eyes turn in his direction. Once Rhianna has left the room he stands and fingers the strings of the guitar.

  Catch a pretty girl, and keep her in your heart,

  Never let her go, for love may keep you two apart …

  A half glass later, he sets down the guitar and takes a last swallow of ale. Then he lifts the guitar and steps away from the table. He fixes his eyes on the hard-eyed young man still waiting to join the bones game. When the man looks up, Bard shakes his head.

  The would-be gambler looks away immediately.

  Bard hides his sigh. Those who cannot recognize a quiet warning won’t accept a stronger one. He turns and makes his way up the narrow stairs to the tiny garret room with the single pallet.

  He will not dream … he hopes.

  V

  Bard reins up and shudders as he looks at the white tower that dominates the white city and stands across the square from him on sixday afternoon. “Such beautifully ordered chaos…” His words are low and spoken only to himself.

  He turns the mare and has her proceed at a walk toward the artisans’ quarter, where he will stay at the hostel before making his way to the tavern new to him that he has yet to visit, although enough years have passed that revisiting any of those he once frequented would raise no memories. None at all.

  Three glasses later, as the sun hangs low over the hill to the west of the city, he walks past the inn, which has no name, to the adjoining tavern. The oval signboard over the whitened oak door to the tavern itself reads LAVENDER ROSE, and a carved rose, painted lavender, is positioned under the curved letters.

  The server just inside the door glances at him … and at the guitar he holds.

  “You can’t sing for your meal.”

  “I had not planned on that.” He smiles almost shyly. “Is there any objection to my singing after I’ve eaten and drunk … and paid for both?”

  “You get one song. If no one complains you get another. It’s like that these days. No magery in the music. The white guards will flame you faster than grease on hot coals.”

  “The only magery I know lies in my voice and the strings of my guitar.” That is not quite true, but those will be the only magery he would ever show or use within the white city—in public or anywhere he can be overheard … and that is almost anywhere, given the mirrors that the white mages use.

  “Keep it that way, minstrel.”

  There are two small tables that are empty. One has but a single chair, because there are five men at the adjoining table. Recalling what happened in Jellico, he chooses that table and places the guitar on its side under it, leaning against the wall.

  “What’ll you have?” The server is like so many, worn beyond her years, but she offers a smile that has a tiny trace of warmth.

  “What is there? Besides stew?” In the white city, there is always stew, and often burhka, because the spices mask the tinge of chaos that is everywhere.

  “Burhka, and papparoiles.”

  “Papparoiles.” The large, flat noodles with brown sauce are peppered just enough to mute the ever-present chaos, a chaos unnoticed even by the few healers and blacks tolerated by the white mages.

  Close to a glass later, he rises and strums the guitar. Those at the nearer tables look in his direction. A man and a round-faced woman dressed to look younger than she is exchange glances of resignation.

  I’ll go no more a riding, not under the staring stars

  Or by the silent seas.

  I’ll not be the one to sing, not outside your window bars,

  Or by the tulip trees …

  When he bows at the end of the song, there is a scattering of applause. He looks to the tall woman by the archway to the back. She nods.

  Given that modest encouragement, his fingers find the strings once more, this time to sing the almost, but not quite, nonsensical contrary song.

  When masons strive to break their bricks

  And joiners craft their best with sticks …

  When rich men find their golds a curse,

  And Westwind’s marshal fills your purse,

  Then sea-hags will dance upon their hands

  And dolphins swim through silver sands.

  Hollicum-hoarem, billicum-borem …

  The bard can see a few smiles as he finishes the second song, and the tall woman nods again. Even the round-faced woman inclines her head, if but slightly.

  He offers two more songs before seating himself, even though he has continued to see approval. Four songs should be enough … more than enough. Especially since he might have to perform for days before what he seeks might occur.

  VI

  Bard eats at the Lavender Rose again on sevenday, eightday, and oneday. Each night he sings four songs, and only four. On twoday night, when he enters the tavern, the tall woman murmurs, “Be careful. Fellow in the corner looks like a white guard.”

  Bard nods. “I’ll be very careful.”

  After eating, he begins with the setting out for Lydiar song, and follows it with the contrary song. After that comes “Maid So Fair.”

  As the silvered notes die away, he can see that the white guard has left. Perhaps his waiting is over. Perhaps.

  He shifts the guitar slightly and begins the last song.

  The minstrel knows what’s brewing

  For the pair hearing his tunes

  He knows well they’ll be ruing.

  The love he’s sparked with his runes …

  And tell me it’s love, sweet love,

  Not just a hand in a glove …

  When he finishes, he takes a last bow, then walks to the table, where he replaces the guitar in his otherwise empty pack, knowing from the miasma that few in the white city even sense that white guards wait for him outside the Lavender Rose. Then he nods to the tall woman and makes his way to the door.

  Outside, standing on the white stone sidewalk that borders the street paved in even larger white stones, wait two white guards and a white wizard.

  “You’re to come with us, minstrel,” declares the wizard.

  Bard doubts the wizard has reached twenty-five, if that. But then, most die young. “Of course.”

  After walking several blocks, the wizard turns toward a white stone building. For the first time since entering the city Bard is surprised. He is less surprised when he is led to the chamber whose walls are made of precise white stones. He has seen that inside wall on too many nights. The pleasant-faced man seated behind the white wooden table is clad entirely in white, except for certain items of white bronze, and the true bronze starbursts on the collar of his tunic. His eyes are sun gold.

  Bard nods, both in politeness and in affirmation of the image he has already seen too many times.

  “You were very careful, minstrel. With your words. No one—not in years—has managed four songs a night for more than half an eightday. You could have continued for eightdays, could you not?”

  “At four a night, I know enough songs for a time.”

  “What is your name?”r />
  “‘Bard’ will do as well as any.”

  The white mage laughs harshly. “I could force you.”

  “You could. Would it please you if I recited all the names I’ve gone by?”

  “A few of them might be useful.” The mage’s tone was cold but wry.

  “Nylson, Naharl, Hylchant, Lied, Vatyr, Tynor…”

  “You seem to be telling the truth.” The mage smiles.

  “I am. It’s much easier that way.”

  “So it is, but what is true is not necessarily all the truth. There is another name that comes to mind.”

  “I’ve been called more than a few.”

  “Since you do not wish to be named, I will not. You sing well, Bard. Were it not so clear who and what you are, you could almost pass for a renegade black, at home nowhere in Candar or anywhere else.”

  “Home is foreign to a bard.”

  “Oh?”

  “If I do not sing in a way true to myself, then what I sing will turn on me. If I do, sooner or later some listeners will. That’s another reason to limit what I sing.” Bard shrugs. His laugh is of quiet amusement. “You are among the highest. Why do you trouble yourself with a poor singer?”

  “You’re scarcely a poor singer. I doubt there’s one better in all Candar. We both know you’re far older than you look. You sought me out. It does not appear that way, but you did so in a fashion that made sense for me to take an interest. Why?”

  “There is too much order in the Westhorns,” Bard says bluntly. “It might be best if that changed.”

  “I cannot believe that you would even intimate that the white city invade the Westhorns … or Westwind.”

  “I cannot believe you don’t understand that Westwind poses problems for you.”

  “We can deal with Westwind.”

  “I’m certain you can. That’s the last thing I would want. Or that any beyond the Westhorns would wish. Wouldn’t another kind of change be preferable.” Since as Candar has begun to change, Westwind’s end must come.

  “Oh?”

  “Think about it.”

  “I already have. There are … possibilities…”

  “They will take resources you could better use closer to the white city.”

  “You could do whatever you have in mind without even coming here.”

  Bard shakes his head. “No. If I do what I must without your knowledge … and then you were to do what you feel necessary … instead of too much order in the Westhorns, there would be far too much chaos…” He goes on for several sentences.

  “How do we know—”

  Bard’s laugh is harsh, at least for him. “You know that we do not lie, and we do not break our promises. You will also know in less than a year.”

  “You may not lie, but seldom do you tell the whole truth unless it suits you.”

  “If you agree, I will do exactly what I have proposed.”

  “But what that will cause, you say…” The white mage’s lips purse. “That is a long time to wait.”

  “You would spend half that time just readying a force … and you would lose thousands of men. Far better for you to let events take their course. Just think … a beloved first-born son … there. Is that not chaotic enough for you?”

  A faint but hard smile crosses the mage’s lips.

  VII

  The skies are cold and clear, and harvest has faded into autumn when Bard finally reaches the stone guard post that marks what had once been the border between Westwind and Gallos. While the lower lands to the north also belong to Westwind, the Westwind Guards patrol them less frequently. On the rocky peaks to the south beyond the guard post there is already a dusting of snow on the open ground, but none on the needles of the evergreens or on the stone-paved narrow road that leads to the heart of Westwind.

  He reins up as two guards step out of the small stone building into the chill wind.

  The two guards, each with twin blades in shoulder scabbards, study him.

  “What is your business here?” asks the older.

  “I’m on my way to Clynya. I thought that some might like to hear a minstrel. I know that this is not a place where many men linger, but news and song might find a welcome for a day or so.”

  “Lute or guitar?”

  “Guitar.” He gestures to the pack fastened over the saddlebags behind his saddle.

  “Weapons?”

  “There’s an old horn bow and a quiver in the pack. No blades except a belt knife.”

  “Bronze or iron?”

  “Black iron.”

  The older guard studies his hair, then says, “The duty guard captain can decide. You’ll have to wait for our relief. Then we’ll escort you to our post. That will be a glass or so. You can sleep there tonight. If the captain passes you, tomorrow you can ride with a courier to the keep. That’s a dawn-to-dark ride and then some.”

  “Thank you.” Bard does not mention that he has made that ride before, if many, many years ago.

  “You can tie your mare in the shelter behind the post and wait there.”

  Bard accepts the dismissal and rides slowly to the rear of the post.

  VIII

  Two days later, Bard enters the great hall at Westwind, carrying only his guitar, and accompanied by a junior guard captain named Heldra. It is late afternoon, but well before the evening meal, and the hall is mainly empty, except for the four women seated at the table on the dais at the far end, three in the center of the table and a silver-haired woman at the end.

  As he approaches, he studies the three. The black-haired and tall woman in the center wearing black leathers must be the Marshal, for all that she appears too young, in her late twenties at best. Looks can be deceiving, however, as Bard well knows. The grayed and weathered woman to Bard’s left and the Marshal’s right is likely the arms-master. The other woman? Someone of import, but of what import, he has no idea.

  “This is the minstrel, Marshal,” announces Heldra after she and Bard halt before the dais.

  “What is your name?” The Marshal’s voice is strong, but not unpleasant.

  Bard bows, then straightens. “I’ve had many names. That’s because not all have liked what I’ve sung. Those you may have heard are Naharl, Nylson, Lied, Hylchant, Vatyr, Tynor…”

  The Marshal glances to the silver-haired woman seated at the end of the table, clearly a healer with order skills.

  “He’s speaking the truth. He’s mostly druid from what I can tell. Possibly all druid.”

  “How did you come here?”

  “Most recently, I traveled through Gallos. I did not stay long in Fenard. The Prefect has forbidden public song. He says it creates chaos.”

  The Marshal looks to the older woman. “Blynna?”

  “Where else have you traveled in the last year?”

  “From Clynya I made my way through the southern pass. I tried to stay in the Analerian lands of Gallos. I stopped in many small towns. I sang in Arrat, Desanyt, and Meltosia. I ran into brigands when I camped with traders outside of Vryna. I also sang in Jellico and Vergren, and spent a few days in the white city before leaving and heading west again.”

  “Not Lydiar?”

  Bard shakes his head. “I heard that Lydiar wasn’t all that safe, and that the Duke’s armsmen have gotten into the habit of killing bards whose songs they didn’t like.”

  A quizzical look appears on the face of the woman who has not spoken.

  “You have a question, Aemris? Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” Aemris turns to Bard. “Why did you spend time in the white city? Isn’t singing there dangerous, especially for someone like you?”

  “Singing anywhere can be dangerous, but people pay for news as much as song, and the larger cities are where the news is. In the white city, I never sang more than four songs a night.” He offers a wry smile. “I did learn a few things, and I managed to leave without more than a few questions from the white guards.”

  Aemris looks to the healer. The healer nods.
<
br />   “What did you learn? Especially matters that might affect Westwind?”

  “It can’t be a surprise to you that the white mages are working to control all of Candar. They feel that Westwind will keep them from ruling the lands beyond the Westhorns. I got the impression that they’re thinking about doing something—”

  “Got the impression?” asks the Marshal coolly. “How?”

  “I heard a white mage talking. He said that the white city could deal with Westwind and there were several possibilities. He didn’t mention what those were. I wasn’t in a position to ask him.”

  “Where exactly did you hear this?”

  “In a white city patrol building. I was waiting to be questioned.”

  “And they let you go?”

  “Provided I left the city immediately.”

  “You were fortunate,” observes Blynna. “What else did you learn there or elsewhere in your travels?”

  “That Sarronnyn has re-opened the old copper mines, and that copper and timber are getting dearer…”

  The questioning lasts for more than a glass when the Marshal gestures. “You may stay here for a time. There is more that we would know. We would appreciate a few songs after dinner.”

  Bard nods. “Thank you, Marshal.”

  He is waiting in an alcove off the main hall when he hears a sound from an adjoining chamber, then a cry. The guard beside him shifts her weight as the cries grow louder.

  “Let me sing…”

  “You’re supposed to wait here.”

  “I can stand in the doorway.”

  “I don’t…”

  Bard eases to the door, slightly ajar, and peers in. A young girl is rocking a cradle, cooing to the infant, but the cries continue.

  He opens the door slightly and, lifting the guitar, begins to sing.

  Oh, my dear, my dear little child,

  What can we do in a place so wild,

  Where the sky is so green and so deep

  And who will rock you to sleep …

  By the end of the second stanza there is a soft “coo,” and when he finishes the lullaby, the small chamber is again quiet.

  The girl tending the infant looks up with an expression of gratitude.