The Magic of Recluce

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Gairloch didn’t wait for my heels in his flank, but began to trot, then gallop, through the still-open gate. The gate couldn’t be closed, not in the instants Gairloch took me past the second guard and through the gate gap in the wall.

  Cloppedy, cloppedy, doppedy… Gairloch’s hooves rang on the stones, and I dropped the reins and grabbed his mane with my right hand, trying to keep from hitting anyone with the staff, hanging on as we careened down the causeway.

  “Look out!”

  “Runaway horse!”

  “Thief! Traitor!”

  A set of peddlers scrambled off the causeway into the mud-filled trench on the right, and Gairloch angled around a slow-moving wagon pulled by a single plodding horse which barely lifted its head. I could have reached out and touched the dusty harness, so close did we pass.

  The traffic on the causeway probably saved us from an arrow in the back, but by the time we cleared the causeway where the day’s incoming produce and shoppers all funneled toward Freetown, we were out of range of all but the strongest of crossbows, assuming any were ready and in place on the guard-tower parapets.

  The clippedy-clop of Gairloch’s hooves changed to a muted drumming as he carried me along the packed clay of the highway. No stone roads or highways in Freetown, it seemed. We galloped past a crossroads, which carried more traffic than the road we traveled, and kept heading into Candar.

  Before too long, I reined in Gairloch, keeping in the middle of the road, which was surprisingly firm considering the continuing rain and dampness of the night before. Gairloch dropped to a trot, then a walk.

  “Good horse.” I thwacked him on the shoulder, careful not to touch the welt raised by the liveryman.

  Whnufff…

  “I didn’t like them much either.”

  I glanced at the causeway and the dark spot that marked the gate. Nothing seemed to have happened. No other horses had followed us. The intermittent stream of people, horses, and wagons still headed up the stone pavement toward the city.

  Then I realized I was still holding the staff in my hand. The wood had cooled until it was no longer warm to my touch. Half of the leather thong I had used to tie the staff in place was missing, ripped in two when I had grabbed for the staff to defend against the guard. I replaced the staff in the lance cup, tying it in place with the remaining leather.

  Looking from the staff to the road, my eyes fixed on the rectangular stone post by the road. “Hrisbarg-40 K” proclaimed the weathered stone.

  I let go of Gairloch’s mane and straightened up in the saddle, chucking the reins lightly as we headed down the rise on the road to Hrisbarg.

  Already it had been more of a day than I had planned. Assaulted by a thief, attacked by the duke’s gate guard and probably declared a criminal in Freetown-all in the first day. I didn’t know where I was going, except I knew that Hrisbarg was where I had to go first before I could get to the roads leading to the Easthorns and eventually the Westhorns.

  Would the Freetown guards spread the word? Or would they take it out on the other dangergelders? Or had the others left while I had been haggling with Cerclas to get Gairloch?

  My guts wrenched a little, wondering if I could have left Freetown without causing so much of an uproar. I shrugged, knowing I couldn’t undo what I had done, but also knowing I might end up paying for it somehow, some way, when I really didn’t want to. So Gairloch and I started the long walk toward Hrisbarg.

  Thrummmm… thrummm…

  Above us, the clouds thickened and rumbled, promising more rain.

  XX

  THE MAN IN white smiles, a warm and reassuring smile that spreads through the coldness of the public room, which the dying embers in the dark hearth barely warm. “Innkeeper! Could we have some warmth?”

  As the woman in gray leathers watches from the dark corner table, a heavy-set man lumbers forward. He wears shapeless leather trousers, a worn brown tunic, and a soiled linen apron over which protrudes a sagging gut. “Your lordship, there’s no wood and no coal, naught but the little we got on the grate. The black bastards cut us off, and there’s none to be had for us working folk.”

  A hissing whisper of agreement wafts across the scattering of men and the few women who huddle at the tables closer to the near-dead embers on the hearth.

  “Bring me some stones, then.”

  “Stones?”

  “Yes, stones. You wish to warm your inn, do you not?”

  Confusion and hope war upon the innkeeper’s face, but he retreats from the still-smiling man in white, who turns to the veiled woman beside him and says something in a voice low enough that not even the hovering serving-girl can catch the words.

  At the kitchen door, the innkeeper motions, then speaks quickly to the pregnant girl who responds. He remains by the doorway, surveying the dim and chilly room.

  In the shadows, the redhead in gray leans forward and the hood of her cloak slips back, revealing the clean lines of her face and the fire of her hair.

  A thin-faced man grins through his straggly beard and eases from his seat toward the table where his prey waits. His hand touches the hilt of the sharp knife at his belt.

  Even before he has reached the shadows, the redhead has turned toward the thin-faced man.

  “You look like you need a man.” His voice is ingratiating.

  “In that case, you aren’t the one.”

  Only the dark-eyed and veiled woman who sits beside the man in white watches as the thin man edges toward the redhead.

  “Uppity wench, aren’t you?”

  “No. Just pointing out the obvious.” Her voice is cool, detached, and her eyes go right through him.

  Oblivious to the confidence behind her words, he reaches for the empty chair.

  “I didn’t invite you to join me,” she observes.

  “Don’t need no invitation.” He leers and begins to sit.

  Her staff and foot move simultaneously.

  Cruump… Both chair and bearded man crash to the gritty plank floor.

  “Bitch!” His hand reaches for the knife.

  Before he can reach her, she is standing, dark staff in hand.

  Thud… crack… thump…

  He pitches forward onto the floor.

  The innkeeper lurches from his post by the kitchen door. “There’ll be no fighting…”

  “You’re right. There will be no fighting,” declares the redhead. “When this idiot wakes up, tell him to be more careful.” She stands while the innkeeper drags the unconscious man toward the doorway, then resumes her seat to finish the bread and cheese upon her table.

  Across the room, the dark-eyed woman nods and leans toward the man in white. In turn, he nods and smiles.

  Shortly, the pregnant kitchen-maid struggles to the hearth with a basket full of dripping stones, looking from the innkeeper to the man in white. “The stones you wanted, your lordship.”

  “Stack them on the grate, if you would.”

  The girl complies, her eyes darting from the slender lord in white to the hulking innkeeper.

  “Thank you, girl. Here.”

  Her eyes widen as she takes the silver, but she inclines her head as she covers the silver and thrusts it into the hidden pocket in her wide belt. “My thanks, your lordship.”

  The man in white stands and turns to those at the tables. “All of you are cold. Would you like some warmth?” His fingers point at three figures at a table near the wall.

  “I can tell you have come in from the winter rains. The warmth is on me.” He turns and gestures toward the stones, cold and damp upon the grate.

  HSSSSSSSSSSssssss! A flare of white sears from the grate.

  Even the redhead in the shadows winces, and a hush drops over the tables.

  When the brightness fades, steady coals glow from the heap of coal that has appeared on the grate, and the warmth begins to radiate across the public room.

  The dark-eyed and veiled woman rises and walks toward the redhead’s table.

  “Lor
d Antonin and I would like to invite you to join us,” she offers.

  The redhead cocks her head, thinking. “Why?”

  The dark-haired woman looks at the staff and smiles pleasantly. “Should we discuss it here?”

  “I suppose not,” answers the redhead with a wry smile as she stands and follows the dark-haired woman.

  “I am Sephya, and this is Lord Antonin,” offers the veiled woman as she resumes her seat.

  “Be our guest,” offers Antonin.

  “Why?” asks the redhead.

  “Why not?” he answers. “You doubtless have some questions, and we may be able to provide some of the answers.”

  As the redhead eases the battered chair toward the table, she studies Sephya. Despite a fine figure, the veiled woman is older than she had first looked, with fine lines radiating from the corners of her eyes and the color in her face supplied by rouge.

  “Why don’t you start by explaining why you flaunted your power? And why you invited me to join you?” Her tone is half-humorous, half-sharp.

  “A deed is a deed. Do you believe that appearances can really deceive, young lady?”

  “Go on,” suggests the redhead.

  “Actions speak louder than words. There are those here who shivered from cold. Did the righteousness of Recluce warm them? Will the innkeeper feed his fire for them from the goodness of his heart?”

  “That is a well-used argument, Antonin. One good action does not make a man good. Nor does a single wrong action make a good man evil.”

  The outside door opens, and a gust of wet chill air momentarily disperses the warmth from the hearth-until the door closes with a thud.

  “Actions do speak louder than words,” Antonin insists, his voice melodious. “Tell me why it is wrong to warm those who are cold.”

  “I don’t like answers that are questions. How about a straight answer?” The redhead looks toward the back wall and the door.

  Antonin shrugs, as if to deplore such directness, then looks her in the eye. “What use is a good thought if it does not translate into good action? I’m sorry,” he grins. “Let me rephrase that. The purists of the world of magic, such as the Masters of Recluce, believe that the form of magic determines whether it is good or evil. They insist that the use of chaos-magic to warm those who would die of cold or to feed those who would starve contributes to evil. I cannot accept that reasoning. Is not a human life worth more than a label?” He shrugs again. “I ask you to think about that. Think about the beggars you saw in the cold streets outside. In the meantime, share our meal.”

  “And?”

  Antonin smiles warmly. “I have certain business with the duke. If you’re interested in working with us, I will be in Hydolar in somewhat less than an eight-day from now. At the Grande Loge. Either meet us there, or leave a message.”

  He takes a slice of meat from the platter and nods toward the empty plate before her. “You need to see more of Candar, and to reflect upon what you would do with your abilities. Enough of talk. Enjoy the meal.”

  The redhead glances from Sephya to Antonin, but no glances have passed between the two, nor have any of the twisted energies that she has seen in Recluce. Shortly, she spears a slice from the platter, and the three eat.

  XXI

  COMPARED TO THE High Road of Recluce, or even to the lesser East-West Highway, the way from Freetown to Hrisbarg seemed little more than a narrow lane. Straight, but narrow. Right outside Freetown the road had split, going north, south, and west, and I had taken the one road that had not paralleled the coast.

  Hard-packed clay comprised the center of the road, perhaps as wide as a farm wagon. The years of travel had created a surface that seemed to resist the light rain, at least in the center of the roadway. Heavy ruts and churned ground surrounded the hard-packed and level central section of the highway.

  I had tried to unstrap my cloak from the top of my pack while riding and had almost fallen off Gairloch in the process, saving myself with a desperate grab at the front edge of the saddle.

  Whheeee… uhhhh…

  “All right… I’m sorry…” So I reined to a halt in the middle of the road, looking behind again. We had covered more than five kays without seeing any pursuit, and the rain was threatening to change from a fine drizzle into something heavier.

  As I clambered off Gairloch, the insides of my legs twinged. After only a fraction of the distance we would have to travel, my body was protesting, not exactly a promising sign.

  Thrummmm… Overhead the clouds continued to darken, threatening more than mere drizzle. Behind the tumbled stone walls beside the road, the meadow grasses bore only a tinge of green amid the tan of the end of the season. The washed-out brown of the long scraggly blades at the base of the wall testified to more than casual rain, as did the puddles in the middle of the unmowed field beyond. At the base of some of the grasses were blackened stalks, showing rot from the continual rain.

  The stony outcroppings even in the middle of the fields, the shorter grasses on the other side of the wall, and occasional breaks in the walls and the trampled hoofprints leading across the road from one wall break to another, all pointed toward the fields as sheep or cattle pasture. I had seen neither, unless a few grayish blurs to the south were scattered sheep or goats.

  Thrummmm… thrumm…

  Splatt… splattt… The cold raindrops on my head prompted me to complete my recovery of the cloak and to replace the pack behind the saddle.

  My legs twinged again as I climbed back onto Gairloch.

  “Let’s go.”

  Wheee… eeee…

  Thrummm… thrumnmm…

  Splattt… splatt…

  Things were going just wonderfully. After being assaulted, threatened by a city guard and having to flee, we were now headed through a cold and miserable rain to a town I knew nothing about, on the way through more towns about which I also knew nothing, in order to reach and cross two mountain ranges I had no great desire to reach, let alone cross.

  Wheeee… eeeee…

  Ahead, a shapeless lump appeared on the road, resolving itself into a coach drawn by a pair of huge horses. From a short pole beside the driver, who was covered from head to foot with a hooded and shiny gray slicker, drooped a reddish flag.

  I looked for the less muddy side of the road, and nudged Gairloch toward the right onto a patch of grass that rose above the churned road-edge mud.

  “Geee-haaaa!”

  Crack!

  A chill accompanied the coach, almost like a cold wind, that blew softer, yet colder, as it approached.

  Crack!

  “Gee-haaa!”

  The hoarseness and the mechanical nature of the coachman’s call twisted every nerve in my spine as the coach rumbled along the level center of the road toward me.

  The coach itself was of polished white oak, varnished heavily until it was nearly gold, supported not by iron springs, but by heavy leather straps. Even the axles and wheels were totally of wood. Yet the coach’s workmanship could not be obscured by the mud streaks upon the wood or by the mist and water droplets which sprayed from it on its headlong journey toward Freetown.

  “Gee-haaa!” The coachman never looked aside as he drove past.

  Behind the coach rode two men, seated side-by-side on chargers that mirrored the chestnut gelding I had seen at Felshar’s. All the horses moved at a quick trot, as fast as seemed possible for a longer trip.

  Both soldiers wore the shiny gray slickers like the coachman’s, but shorter, more like jackets that allowed them to use either their white lances, secured in holders like the battered lance cup which held my shorter staff, or the whitescabbarded swords they bore.

  The soldier closest to me glanced from under the hood, but his scrutiny was mechanical, as though he had not even really seen me, or as though he had seen a figure and passed on that information as he watched-although his mouth did not appear to open.

  For the moment that the coach passed, midday seemed more like a stormy night.
Then all that remained was a dissipating sense of disorder, the soft rumble of the wheels fading away, and a hoarse “gee-haaa!”

  I shook myself and chucked the reins, hoping that Isolde had completed whatever she had to do and had found the black ship that doubtless waited unseen somewhere near the harbor.

  Tamra-I hoped her procrastination hadn’t left her open to the chaos-wizard that had ridden in the white-oak coach, but there wasn’t much I could do. Not then. I swallowed, wiped the water off my forehead, and watched the road, noting absently that the coach’s passage had left only the faintest of indentations on the road.

  Splatt… splatt… The cold rain gusted in icy drops from an ever-darker sky, and I looked for some sort of shelter, but the road stretched straight ahead, level, for at least another five kays, bordered by the same tumbled stone fences, the same withered grasses, and the same distant and scattered sheep. Not one house nor homestead had I seen since crossing that first hill outside of Freetown. Yet the sheep indicated that someone lived somewhere-and that said that no one wanted to be close to the road I traveled. I shivered again.

  Wheeee… eeeee… Gairloch tossed his head and droplets flew back onto my cloak and face.

  “I know… it’s cold and wet. But there’s no place to stop.”

  Wheeeee…

  “No place. Nowhere…”

  So we kept plodding along the road.

  No wagons, no more coaches, and a steady beating flow of water from overhead. Finally, when my cloak was nearly soaked through, its treated leather heavy on my shoulders, we reached the first low hill at the end of that near-deserted meadow valley. By then, the rain had eased to a mere chilling mist.

  Some scattered pines bordered the road, and the stone walls lapsed into tumbled low piles of rock. On the hilltop, more of a hillock really, sat another pile of stones, the remnants of what had clearly once been an extensive farm or estate.

  There was no immediate sense of chaos or disorder, only a feeling of age… and maybe under it all some sadness, although my father, Kerwin, and Talryn would all have assailed me for ascribing an emotion to a description of order or its lack thereof. At least Gairloch couldn’t comment on sloppy logic.