Beltur just hoped that the knock was that of the healer and not a white mage, but as soon as the door opened, he could sense the solid blackness of two people.
After a short time, and a quick conversation Beltur could not hear, the two entered the kitchen, followed by Jessyla.
“Beltur, Jessyla tells us that Arms-Mage Wyath killed your uncle and that you escaped.” Margrena paused, then gestured to the stocky man at her side. “Oh … this is Athaal.”
Athaal wasn’t at all what Beltur expected. Despite the fact that he was clearly less than ten years older than Beltur, he was already balding on the top of his head, although his black hair was thick at the sides, and he had a full black beard, if well-trimmed. He offered a concerned look, one not in conflict with the basic blackness of order that suffused him. “How did this all come to be?”
“I know what happened, but I still haven’t the faintest idea why it happened. It certainly wasn’t something unplanned, not with all those white mages and archers with iron shafts waiting for us when we left the audience with the Prefect—”
“Stop there.” Athaal smiled ruefully. “It might make more sense if you gave a quick history of what happened after you left Fenard. Margrena said that you and your uncle and his assistant Sydon were going to Analeria to do something for the Prefect.”
“Yes, ser.” The “ser” was unplanned, but it felt right.
“I’m no more a ‘ser’ than you are.” Athaal looked to Margrena. “This will take some time. Would it be acceptable if we went into the parlor where we could all sit down?”
“Of course,” replied the healer.
When Beltur stood to follow the others, he realized that he was still a little shaky, but the feeling seemed to pass after several steps.
The parlor wasn’t all that large, perhaps four yards square, but there were a long backed bench with a pad on it and three straight-backed chairs, as well as several side tables. A braided rug with a design of green and brown was on the floor. There was a single wall lamp. Margrena and Athaal sat on opposite ends of the bench with perhaps a yard between them. Beltur took one of the chairs that faced the bench, and Jessyla took the chair to his right.
“Now,” said the black mage, “go ahead and give us an idea of what led to what happened at the palace.”
Beltur cleared his throat slightly and began. “Uncle said that we were to look into the reasons why women were leaving the raiders to go to Westwind and why that was causing more raids—except it wasn’t like that at all.” He shook his head and went on, “We left Fenard on the last threeday of summer…” From there he gave a quick recounting of what had happened on the journey until they returned to Fenard three eightdays later. “… when we got to the palace, Uncle went to see Wyath, and then he came back and told us we had to meet with the Prefect the next morning at ninth glass because we’d returned two days earlier than the Prefect had anticipated. We didn’t even get to use the horses to carry our gear home. We had to lug it back on foot.”
Both Margrena and Athaal frowned.
“What happened at the palace the next morning? Tell us everything, no matter how unimportant it seems.”
Beltur did just that, finishing with, “… and once I got out of the palace I used a concealment until I reached the Great Square. I knew about where you lived”—he nodded to Margrena—“and I walked to the black quarter and kept asking until I found your house.”
“It would have been better if you hadn’t asked, but that can’t be helped,” said Athaal. “At least, no one saw you go from the palace to the Great Square. Now let me get several things clear. You don’t know what happened to Sydon.”
“No … I don’t.” Beltur almost said “ser” again.
“And you don’t know if Wyath actually knows that you escaped? And you didn’t sense anyone following or looking for you?”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s good.” Athaal nodded, then turned to Margrena. “They might have been trying to sense him, but he doesn’t carry that much free chaos, and most whites have trouble sensing anything but chaos at any distance.”
Beltur almost winced at Athaal’s almost casual appraisal of his minimal ability in holding chaos, but simply asked, “Have you heard anything that might explain what happened to Uncle and me?”
Margrena and Athaal exchanged glances. Beltur noticed that Jessyla was watching them both intently.
Finally, Athaal spoke. “We’ve been hearing that the Prefect wants all the white mages under the control of his Arms-Mage. Until the last eightday, we had thought this was just a suggestion or a plan. One the healers and the blacks didn’t like at all.”
“Then in the last few days, after two white mages vanished,” added the stocky blond healer, “several lesser white mages left Fenard hurriedly. Your uncle was the strongest of those who had opposed the idea of all the white mages obeying Wyath.” She frowned. “Didn’t he say anything about that to you?”
Beltur had to think a moment before he recalled what his uncle had said. “He said it would be good to get out of Fenard for a little while. He also said that Wyath was trying to persuade the Prefect to have more mages in the palace … and that he didn’t want to be one of them because he’d have to bow all the time to Wyath. But he never said anything about opposing the Arms-Mage. He just didn’t want to see him very often.”
“Apparently, Wyath decided to make an example out of your uncle,” said Athaal. “He might not even want to pursue you … so long as you don’t say anything and don’t remain in Fenard … although I wouldn’t take that for granted, were I you.”
“What good would saying anything do?” Both anger and despair colored Beltur’s words … and probably his chaos-order balance as well. “But where could I go?”
Athaal offered a sympathetic smile. “You could come to Elparta with me. That’s assuming you’d be interested in learning how to better handle order.”
Go to Elparta with a black mage he didn’t even know? Even one that his uncle had grudgingly approved of … at least in a backhanded way. Beltur wasn’t sure what to say … or do. But Uncle is dead … just like that.
“Better handle?” questioned Margrena.
“He’s already been using far more order than any white I’ve run across.” Athaal looked to Beltur. “Haven’t you?”
“It was the only way I could come up with strong enough shields when we were being attacked by raiders. I got the idea from Jessyla. She said something about order being better to handle chaos.”
“I don’t know about ‘better,’” replied Athaal. “Using order to manipulate chaos is certainly better for the health of the mage, but usually a strong chaos-mage can create more unfocused destruction with minimal use of order.”
“More order is always better,” declared Jessyla firmly.
“From our point of view,” said Athaal. “Wyath doesn’t agree. He’s killing or driving out any white mages who question him or dispute his authority. Once he does that, he’ll start on black mages.”
“Why didn’t he start by going after black mages first?” asked Margrena.
“Because he’s cunning. Most black mages don’t and can’t use power in destructive ways, but they often have better shields. There are also fewer of them because it takes more time and effort to master order, and the benefits aren’t as obvious. If he starts by consolidating his power over the whites, then many blacks will leave of their own accord. Several already have, you’ve told me.”
Thinking about his efforts to use order to project chaos, Beltur found himself nodding.
“Is that nod because you agree with what I said?” asked Athaal. “Or because you’re considering accompanying me to Elparta?”
“Ah … both, I think. Uncle did say you were one of the better blacks…”
Athaal laughed. “Only in having a more tolerant attitude, I fear. There are quite a few others who are more powerful. That’s one reason why Elparta suits me.” He paused. “Before I agree to take
you with me, and you make a final decision to accompany me, we need to go over a few things.”
“I don’t know that I’m suited to being a black mage,” Beltur said.
“You may not be. But if you learn more about handling order you can’t help but become a more effective mage.”
“You wouldn’t try to make me black…”
Athaal shook his head. “We have to be what we can be. The only question is whether we’ll work to be the best at what we are, rather than trying to be something we aren’t.”
Beltur was still thinking that over when Athaal spoke again.
“I will insist that you try certain techniques just to see if they might prove useful. I also want your personal word that you will not use chaos against anyone or any living thing except in self-defense or in defense of others.”
As he thought about what Athaal had requested, Beltur realized the second condition wasn’t even difficult. “In fact, the only time I’ve used chaos that way was when we were attacked. Even Uncle … so far as I know … he didn’t either.” Beltur swallowed.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Margrena. “Your uncle was a good man.”
“Even if he looked down on women,” added Jessyla.
Margrena gave her daughter a hard glance.
“I’m sorry.”
Beltur could tell what Jessyla wanted to say but didn’t. “What she said was true. I don’t know why. He never talked about it.” And I never asked.
“Sometimes, there’s a time for truth, and sometimes it can be saved for later,” said Margrena, her eyes and words aimed directly at her daughter.
Athaal nodded, but did not comment.
“Do you really want to go with Athaal?” asked Margrena.
“I think staying in Fenard would be dangerous and stupid,” replied Beltur. “Also…” He swallowed again. “Uncle’s last words were … he wanted me to escape. Staying here…” He shook his head because, for a moment, words wouldn’t come.
Athaal looked at Margrena. “I think we should leave tomorrow. I know…”
“You’d planned to stay longer, but it would be better for both of you to leave Fenard as soon as you can.”
“What about you and Jessyla?” asked the black mage. “After what happened to Beltur’s uncle…”
“I’ve been making plans. I was thinking that … Kleth is a pleasant place, isn’t it? Grenara wrote me that it is.”
After a slight pause, Athaal asked, “How soon?”
“We were going to wait until you left anyway, and there are a few things I need to finish. We could leave by next fiveday or sixday, not this one. Hogarth has said we could accompany one of his wagons to the river at Maeryl. They leave every sixday, and most people go to Portalya because it’s closer.”
“The Prefect may not wish to lose healers,” cautioned Athaal.
“We’ll go to the herbalist and meet the wagons well beyond the outer gates. What about you?”
“I’m an assistant mage in Elparta for the Spidlarian Council. I have a safe-conduct. For now, anyway. Beltur looks young enough to be my apprentice.” Athaal grinned. “You will have to wear dark gray, though.”
“I can manage that.” In truth, Beltur wasn’t certain he really ever wanted to wear a white tunic again, not after what had happened in the Prefect’s palace.
“Good.” Athaal stood. “If we’re to leave tomorrow, I need to change the arrangements, and that will take the rest of the day. I might not be back until sixth or seventh glass.” He looked to Margrena. “If you could see about a gray tunic and trousers for Beltur … and staining those boots gray or anything but white.”
“We’ll come up with something,” affirmed Margrena.
As he sat there, Beltur almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing—two healers and a black mage working to get him safely out of Fenard, and, if it worked, to change his entire life.
He still couldn’t quite believe that Wyath and his mages had killed his uncle. Or that he’s dead.
XVII
Beltur woke up with a start, and for a moment everything ached, and he had no idea where he might be. Then he realized that he had been sleeping on the floor in Margrena’s parlor, lying on the bench pad that the healer had placed there. She had insisted that he stretch out, that he needed to rest. The fact that he’d dropped off to sleep so quickly suggested she had been right. He also realized, again, that his uncle was really dead.
For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Then he sat up slowly.
Almost immediately Jessyla appeared, coming from through the archway from the tiny front hall, presumably from the room on the other side. “How are you feeling?”
“A little stiff and sore.” Beltur stood, then lifted the bench pad and replaced it on the bench before sitting there.
“It’s been a day for you.”
That was so much of an understatement that Beltur was silent for several moments. He’d lost his uncle, his only living relative, as well as the place that he’d called home for over ten years. The Prefect of Gallos and the Arms-Mage wanted him dead, and to survive he was going to have to go to a strange city with a black mage he’d just met. Finally, he managed a rueful smile. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“You’re really not that calm.”
How did she expect him to act? He managed a shrug.
“I understand, Beltur. You don’t have to say anything.”
Margrena appeared in the archway that led to the kitchen. “Athaal should be back before long. I have some clothes here. We’ll see what we can do to make you look like a black apprentice.” She extended a dark gray tunic. “Try this on.”
As Beltur pulled off the white tunic he became well aware of just how rancid it smelled, and probably himself as well. “I really should wash up before trying on things.”
“Already spoken like a black,” murmured Jessyla.
Margrena darted a sharp look at her daughter. “There’s a fresh pitcher of wash water at the corner table in the kitchen. You can use the towel and cloth there. We don’t have a razor, though. Jessyla and I will be in the bedroom going over a few matters. Just leave the white tunic on one of the wall pegs.”
“Thank you.” Beltur carried his tunic into the kitchen and hung it on the peg closest to the wash table, then proceeded to wash up as thoroughly as he could, at least from the waist up, before drying himself.
The parlor was empty when he returned, but he immediately tried on the dark gray tunic, which fit well enough, although it was a shade looser than his own had been.
“That fits well enough,” observed Margrena when she returned. “Try on the trousers as well.” With that she turned and left.
The trousers were a bit larger in the waist, but not enough to worry about, especially after Beltur tightened his belt.
Jessyla reappeared first. “You look better in darker colors.”
“I’m glad you think so. It might take some getting used to. I’ve worn white for the past several years.”
“You’ll find it suits you, I think.”
“Anything that keeps a person healthy suits one,” said Margrena wryly from behind her daughter. “You do look better in the gray. We’ll need to do something about those white boots, though. I’d like to try something. I’ve got some oak gall ink, but it won’t stick well to tanned leather. I was wondering if you might try doing something with order and seeing if you can put the ink into the leather if I spread it on top.”
“I’ve never done anything like that. I can try.”
“Maybe if I put a dab on the top edge … You’d better take your boots off, though, and we’d best go to the worktable in the kitchen.”
Beltur pulled off his boots and followed the healer.
Once they were at the table, Margrena poured a small amount of the black ink into a bowl, then took a smooth and narrow wooden rod tipped with a bit of wool and touched it to the ink, transferring the ink to the top edge of Beltur’s left boot where he had put
it on the table. Even that small amount just sat on top of the oiled leather that was really, if Beltur had to admit it, a slightly yellowed white.
The first thing he tried was to sense the leather, something he’d never attempted. That really didn’t tell him much except that the oil had formed almost a fine net over the order of the leather itself. Still … what if he tried to open or widen the net? But how? He couldn’t use chaos. That would just destroy the net. And he’d never tried to use order to move anything.
No matter what he tried, that didn’t seem to work.
What about lifting the whole oil net just a bit and letting the ink spread under it?
After three or four, perhaps even five attempts, abruptly the ink droplet seemed to flatten and then spread, covering an irregular space roughly three digits by three.
“I think you’ve done it,” said Margrena. “I hope we have enough ink.”
“You could dilute it a bit,” said Beltur. “Where I spread it is still black.”
Margrena did so, and, bit by bit, they dyed Beltur’s boots a shade of gray slightly lighter than the tunic and trousers … except for the first black spot that Beltur had created. It also took more than a glass, and when they finished, Beltur was surprised to see Athaal standing just inside the kitchen. He also had a slight headache.
“You were just using order,” said the black mage.
“Chaos would have weakened the leather.”
“You actually strengthened it a little, it seems.”
“Why don’t you two go into the parlor,” suggested Margrena. “We need to prepare some things to go with the ham that Athaal kindly brought for dinner. That is, if you don’t want to wait until ninth glass to eat.”
Beltur hadn’t actually thought about food, but he immediately followed Athaal through the archway and into the parlor.
“The grays make you look younger, and that’s for the best.” Athaal took one of the chairs.
Beltur took one of the other chairs and turned it to face Athaal before sitting down.
“When you arrived earlier today, it looked like you’d tried to discard the chaos around you. Did you?”
The Mongrel Mage Page 16
