“That’s spelled out in the Legend. But…” She draws out the word. “What was supposedly unique about those particular fallen Angels?”
Kadara lifts a hand.
“Yes, Kadara.”
“Weren’t they all women?”
“That is indeed what the Legend says. Why is that patently incorrect?”
“Incorrect?” stumbles the normally silent Arcol.
“Ah, yes…incorrect. Why?” repeats Lortren.
As the silence draws out, Dorrin answers. “Because they had children, I suppose, but…”
“You were going to say something else, Dorrin?”
“No, magistra.”
“You were thinking something else.”
“Yes,” he admits, wishing he had not.
“And?”
Dorrin sighs. “According to the Legend, the Angels had weapons that could shatter suns and whole worlds. Why couldn’t they have had machines that allowed women to have children without men?”
“Perhaps they did have such machines in Heaven, Dorrin…but…if they had such machines, where are they? Even more important, how did these powerful Angels, who had the supposed ability to shatter worlds, end up in a simple stone hold on a mountaintop with no weapons beyond the shortsword?”
“They renounced machines as the mark of chaos,” asserts Arcol, the round face and pug nose somehow incongruous with the dogged belief in the Legend.
“Ah, yes, the answer of the true believer.”
Arcol flushes, but his chin squares. “Destruction is the mark of chaos, and the Angels fled to avoid becoming the tools of chaos.”
“Shall we consider that?” asks Lortren.
Why bother? Even Dorrin knows that machines do not last forever, and that anything built long centuries ago would have broken or been reused for the metals or made into simpler artifacts—or even lost under the snows and ice of the Roof of the World.
“What’s the point of it all, magistra?” The voice is Brede’s, the deep mellow tones more appropriate to a graybeard than to a fresh-faced and muscular youth with hazel eyes. “I mean, some women wrote down that they escaped from a bunch of crazy men. They built a kingdom on a mountain top. They used their blades to chop up anyone who got in their way and claimed that the reason was that men were all weak and silly.”
“Blasphemer…” mutters Arcol.
Kadara’s mouth quirks as if she suppresses a grin.
Lortren does in fact grin, but the expression is more the look on the face of a hill cat who has discovered a meal than a look of amusement. “Brede, you raise an interesting question. Do, by chance, you happen to know the only country in Candar that had the same government and the same power from its inception until its destruction at the hands of the White Wizards?”
“That has to be Westwind, or you wouldn’t have asked the question.”
Dorrin wishes that he could think as quickly as Brede, or handle a blade as deftly, or…He catches his thoughts. Wishing will do no good.
“And what is the only country in the world that truly followed the Legend?” Lortren pursues.
“Westwind.” Brede is matter-of-fact. “That only proves the Legend held together a country based on female might of arms. It doesn’t prove the truth or untruth of the Legend. And, in the end, the white magic won out.”
“Where did Creslin come from? And why do you enjoy freedom from chaos?”
“Westwind. But he was rebelling against the Legend.”
Lortren smiles, faintly. “Brede is correct in his reasoning—so far as it goes. We will deal with that later, however. Back to the question of the moment—why is the Legend patently untrue on its face?” The black eyes scan the room. “Kadara?”
The redhead with the clean profile and clear skin nods momentarily. “Unless they had special wizardry or special machines, they couldn’t have had children. If they had chaos wizardry, that doesn’t fit, and the Legend doesn’t mention machines or men…”
“So you are saying, in effect, that the Legend lies by omission?”
Kadara nods.
“For now, that is enough about the truth of the Legend. We’ve avoided the Legend’s social basis, although Brede spelled it out rather bluntly.”
The blond youth looks at the floor, as if displeased at the attention.
Kadara smiles. Dorrin swallows as he watches her eyes light on Brede.
“Why is the Legend effective?” Lortren points at Mergan.
Mergan glances helplessly at the floor, at the window, and finally back at the white-haired magistra before mumbling, “I don’t know, magistra.”
“Think about it,” suggests Lortren. “Arcol is sitting there ready to strangle Brede, nearly twice his size, because Brede doubts the truth of the Legend. Westwind was the longest single continuing stable government in Candar, or in the world, and the only one which was guided since its beginning by the Legend. The next most stable and long-running is that of Recluce, founded by someone raised in the Legend. What do those things tell you?”
“I don’t know.” Mergan looks at the stones in front of her leather pillow-seat.
“Dorrin?”
“Is that because people believe in it?”
“Correct. Any government supported by a deep and widely-held belief will remain effective and stable so long as that doctrine remains widely believed. Why did Westwind hold to the Legend, despite the clear factual inaccuracies?”
“Because the Legend worked for Westwind.” Brede’s polite words are almost sardonic, but not quite.
Dorrin shakes his head. Beliefs! Machines and tools are much more solid than all the talk about governments and cultures. Even weapons are more solid than beliefs. He wishes he were back in his room, where he could work on the drawings of the new engine. His eyes turn toward the red-headed young woman, whose eyes, in turn, are upon the athletic and poised Brede.
“…then why are the Whites so successful…?”
Dorrin purses his lips. Lortren doesn’t understand, either, though she knows more than his father. Beliefs and blades are not all that can move the world, yet how can he prove that?
“…most people in Fairhaven are pleased with their lives. Why? Tell me why that might be, Arcol?”
Dorrin looks toward Arcol, whose mouth is open like a dying fish. He ignores the glimmer in Kadara’s eyes as she watches Brede, who, in turn, disregards that warmth bestowed upon him.
XII
“Why do I have to study weapons?” protests the wiry youth.
“First, we live in an uncertain world,” says the muscular white-haired woman. “Second, because the skills will improve your physical condition and mental processes. And third, because you will need them in Candar.”
“What? I’m not going to Candar. It’s dangerous there.”
The white-haired woman smiles, and her eyes twinkle. “You’re not going today, but you will go—along with a few others, like your friend Kadara.”
“Why is Kadara going?”
“For the same reason you are.”
“Because we don’t understand what a wonderful place we live in?”
“Not exactly. Because you don’t understand why it is a wonderful place.”
“But I do.”
“Then why do you use every free minute to sketch machines or build models of things that do not fit into our world?”
“But they could. The ones I think about are the ones you could use with order. I mean, you could forge them with black steel—”
“Dorrin…listen to what you’re saying. You’re admitting that there is no place for them. Who could build these machines? What smith could handle that much black iron? And who could use them?”
“You could,” Dorrin states.
“But why? Our fields are more bountiful than any in the world. Our healers keep us healthy and happy. Our stone and timber homes are solid and warm and proof against all elements. Our crafts are becoming known as the finest on the Eastern Ocean. And chaos is excluded.”
“Bu
t things could be so much better.”
“Better in what way? Would your machines make people happier or healthier? Would they make the crops stronger? The trees straighter or taller? Or would they require ripping open the mountains for more iron? Or digging through fertile fields for the coal that lies beneath?”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way.”
“Listen to your own words, Dorrin. Each time that I have said something, you have said ‘but.’ Doesn’t that say that you believe my words, but feel that the machines are worth more than the pain they will create?”
Dorrin cannot dispute her, yet something is missing, something he cannot exactly name or place. “It isn’t that way at all, but I cannot tell you why.”
Lortren shrugs. “You may be right. Darkness knows that you’ve taught me a thing or two. But—and it’s my turn to admit things—you cannot object to what is. You must find the understanding within you not just to build your machines, but to ensure that they improve our way of life. You will never gain that understanding here on Recluce.”
Dorrin looks helplessly at the desk in the corner of the study, with the row of texts. The faintest of breezes bearing the tang of the Eastern Ocean cools the dampness on his forehead.
“Now…off to the practice hall. You need to start on your weapons training.”
Dorrin’s steps are slow as he leaves, Lortren’s eyes hard upon his back. Even more deliberate are his steps into the room to which Lortren’s words have directed him.
“You’re Dorrin?” asks the guard. She stands next to a small table and chair, and her dark eyes pin Dorrin to a spot just inside the dark oak door.
The redhead nods, his eyes going past her to the racks of weapons that line the space, which is less than twenty cubits square.
“Well…the first thing is to wander around and pick a weapon that feels right.” The guard offers a lopsided smile that may conceal humor.
“I’m not particularly fond of weapons.”
“If you’re serious about traveling in Candar, you’re going to have to learn something about how to defend yourself,” says the thin woman in black. She gestures toward a rack of weapons on the armory wall. “We can give you some basic training in any of those.”
Dorrin steps toward the arrayed bows, blades, and other assorted tools to deliver force upon other individuals.
“Try a blade first.”
Dorrin takes another step. He recognizes the shortsword that many of the Brotherhood prefer, especially the women, perhaps because of the traditions established from their Westwind heritage. Or perhaps because the blade works.
His left hand grasps a plain hilt, and he lifts the blade. Somehow, the coldness of the metal, the feel of the edge—whatever the reason, the blade feels oily, almost unclean. He studies the weapon for a time, not only with his eyes, but with his senses, as a healer might study a sick person. Shivering, he sets it in the rack. Farther along he sees a battle axe. His eyes pass over the double-bladed weapon, as well as the broadsword, and the other bladed weapons, for his senses register the same uncleanliness.
At the end is a long staff, the wood polished smooth, although worn in places. His finger tips touch the wood, then grasp it. He nods as he picks up the staff.
“You a healer?” asks the guard. “Should have told me. Most healers have trouble with the edged weapons.”
Dorrin wants to protest that he is not a healer, but stops. He is nothing in particular, but a healer comes closest. That, or less than an apprentice smith. At least, that is what he thinks, and thinking so does not give him the throbbing in his skull that misstatements and evasions do.
“That’s as close as anything, but that’s the problem.”
“Oh…one of those…” nods the guard sagely, as if she has seen his kind before.
Dorrin finds himself flushing.
She gives an embarrassed grin in return. “I didn’t mean it badly. Besides, a staff is a better weapon for most travelers.”
“Why would that be?” He recalls the deadly feel of the blades.
“Most people don’t think of it as a real weapon, for one thing. For another, you can generally hold off two blades if you know what you’re doing. In time, a good blade can get you, though.”
“Then you must be a very good blade to know so much.”
The guard flushes. “You start here at the second morning bell.”
“That’s all I do today?”
“That’s all. You’ll make up for it on the days to come.”
XIII
The chill breeze riffles through the youth’s hair, and, to the east, when the wind dies, he can hear the winter waves crashing on the eastern shore. In his left hand is a small length of spruce, in his right, a knife.
Whiicckk, whiccckk…
The low clouds seethe, grayness moving within and around grayness, but no rain has fallen since they rolled over the Academy after the second bell.
“Hello…”
At the sound of the bright voice, he looks up.
Kadara, wearing the faded blue of her heavy exercise clothes, stands by the black stone wall where he sits. “Carving again?”
“I don’t have a forge, and I get tired of reading all these theoretical arguments about the basis of order and the inherent conflict between…” He flicks off another bit of wood. “I still don’t believe that machines and metals are the tools of chaos…”
Kadara grins. “They aren’t. A sword is a tool, and they teach us bladework. Woodcrafters use saws and chisels.” She brushes a wisp of the short hair back over her right ear.
Dorrin looks into the blue eyes of the redheaded girl he has known ever since he can remember. “It’s just the complex ones, anything that might use something besides water or muscles to operate.” He opens his hand. “See?”
Kadara frowns at the object which resembles three carved triangles joined at one end. “What is that?”
“This? It’s a fan, a mechanical one. I got the idea from a drawing showing the Imperial Court at Hamor. This is just the blade, but if you put a handle here, and ran it through something like an axle hoop, you could turn it with your hand. If you put a simple gear here…”
“Dorrin…”
“Sorry. I know—you half-believe that garbage about machines.” He lowers the carving.
“I’m going to the practice hall. Do you want to come? Gelisel says—”
“I know. I need more practice. A beggarman does better with a staff, and I make a one-armed, white-haired bandit look like a master blade.”
Kadara shrugs her broad shoulders. “Practice would help, Dorrin.”
“I know.” He sheathes the knife, tucking the length of spruce into the pack lying on the stone beside him. “I know.”
“What are you working on?”
“Just an idea.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Even Brede?”
“Dorrin.” The lilt leaves her voice.
“Sorry…but Brede…”
“Brede is a good person. He’d never say anything. It’s not as though I’d tell him anyway. He feels everyone should do what they want as long as no one gets hurt.” Her stride lengthens as the paved stone walk steepens. “But don’t ask me to keep things from him.”
“I’m sorry.” Dorrin takes a deep breath. “It’s just that Lortren…well, she’s not very happy about my toys.”
“Toys?”
“That’s what she calls them.”
“Hmmmm…I hadn’t thought of that.”
Dorrin has to stretch his legs to keep up with Kadara, though she is only slightly taller than he is. “Thought of what?”
“Why don’t you just make toys?”
“I don’t want to make toys.”
Kadara stops. “You’re not only stubborn, Dorrin. You’re slow. You make models of machines. What’s the difference between toys and models except the name?”
“But that’s not honest.”
“Your toys, models, machines—
even I know they’re not chaotic or evil. So call them something else if it will make Lortren happy.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Dorrin purses his lips.
“I promised Brede I’d spar with him. You want to join us?”
“All right. It probably won’t be much of a challenge, though. You’re both a lot better.”
“Maybe we’ll try staffs. Gelisel has started us with them.”
“Why?”
“She says that you should learn something about all the other weapons.”
“Kadara!”
Both Dorrin and Kadara look up at the sound of Brede’s voice.
XIV
Jeslek walks along the edge of the hot springs, wrinkling his nose at the faint odor of sulfur. Finally, he brushes the snow from a small boulder and seats himself less than a dozen cubits from the springs.
The White Wizard frowns as he sends his perceptions into the water, tracing the warmth and the fire of chaos that feeds the springs. His thoughts flow ever deeper into the rock and heat beneath.
From under a pine that has been twisted and buffeted by the mountain winds until only the limbs on the southern side have retained needles, two White guards survey the cloudy afternoon.
The gray-bearded one glances from the rocky hillside behind the ice- and snow-strewn expanse back along the road leading down to the plains of Gallos. “This one’s a great one, light take him!” His voice is barely above a whisper.
The woman, her hair under the cold cap shorter than the man’s, smiles. “You don’t like the great wizards much, do you?”
“Demon’s flame, no. They do great deeds, and most everyone else gets scorched. We’re still paying for the great deeds of Creslin and Jenred the Traitor.”
As if to underscore his words, the ground trembles.
Both guards look toward Jeslek, who stands beside the boulder. Steam rises from the spring, yet the heat wells away from the figure in white, circling upward into a funnel that spreads into a white cloud.
Jeslek smiles, and his eyes flash.
The two guards exchange glances. The man takes a deep breath and shrugs; the woman smiles a smile of resignation.
The Magic Engineer Page 5
