The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Did it show that much?”

  “Only because I know you practiced chaos magery.”

  “You think I’m as much a black as a white, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you are. Not yet. I do know that you’re really not a white. You were handling small bits of order in the kitchen without any trouble. You could be a black, or you might be a gray.”

  “It left me with a bit of a headache,” pointed out Beltur.

  “That’s more likely because you haven’t had much to eat and you’re not used to working with just order alone. Initially, it takes more concentration.”

  “I’m not a white? A gray mage? The worst of both?”

  “Is that what your uncle said?”

  “A few times.”

  Athaal sighed. “Most whites and, indeed, most blacks worry about and fear gray mages. They both have reasons. Some are good reasons. Most are not.”

  “Should I avoid being a gray mage?”

  “I cannot say whether you will be black or gray. Not yet. What I can say is that you will never be a powerful white mage and that if you continue on the white path, you will die young. You already suspect that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Raise a shield first, the strongest that you can.”

  Beltur felt apprehensive about doing so, but Athaal certainly didn’t seem as though he wished Beltur harm … and what harm could come from a shield?

  Athaal did something—it felt as though a shaft of order touched the shield—and asked, “What do you feel?”

  “That you’re using order to probe my shield.”

  “I’m going to use a bit more force.”

  Again, Beltur could feel an impact, but certainly not with the force with which all the raider arrows had struck his last shield in Analeria.

  “You can drop the shield.”

  Beltur waited to see what the black mage would say.

  “Your shield is one of the stronger ones, and it’s almost all order. Can you put one shield around yourself and hold a totally separate one around something else?”

  “I’ll have to see. I’ve never tried that.”

  “It can come in useful for restraining cutpurses or dealing with malefactors without causing them harm. But you have to be careful. So you want to try? Put a shield around that empty chair and hold one around yourself.”

  Why not? “I’ll see what I can do.” Beltur concentrated. The shield around himself came even more easily, and, after several moments, he found that he had managed a circular shield around the chair.

  He could feel Athaal’s probes were equally strong against both shields, and he had the feeling that a really strong blow against the second shield would hurt just as much as one against his own personal shield.

  “You can drop them.” Athaal frowned momentarily. “That’s not bad, but you need to practice that more. It took you too long to get the second shield in place.”

  For a moment, Beltur wondered why Athaal was so concerned. Then he realized that, since blacks didn’t use chaos-bolts, not that he knew, being able to use shields that way against people who might be a danger would be even more important to blacks.

  “You mentioned concealments. Would you raise one?”

  Beltur did so.

  “Good. You can drop it.”

  “That was almost like yours, Athaal,” said Jessyla from the archway. “In terms of order.” She looked to Beltur and added quietly, “I did say you were more of a black than you thought.”

  “You could sense that?” asked Athaal.

  “Mostly. I can feel order even more than Mother can. Chaos, too.” She shuddered slightly.

  “Chaos isn’t evil,” said Athaal. “Often destructive, but not evil.”

  “You don’t think Wyath is evil?” asked Jessyla.

  “You’re confusing the tool with the user. You and your mother never thought Kaerylt was evil, but both Kaerylt and Wyath were whites.”

  “Wyath still is,” corrected Jessyla, “and he’s evil.”

  “That he is. Now … I need to keep working with Beltur. We don’t have that much time, and I need to know more.”

  Jessyla retreated to the kitchen.

  Athaal returned his gaze to Beltur. “In some ways, it will be easier for you to be considered black than I’d thought, but you’re too accomplished to pass as the usual apprentice. I think I’ll be saying that somehow you essentially trained yourself, and I’ve taken you on as an apprentice in order to help you improve your order skills.” He smiled humorously. “That’s even truer than saying you’re just an apprentice so that I won’t be lying or misstating. That will also help with the black council of Spidlar, should it come to that, although it probably won’t.”

  “Do blacks have the same kind of examinations whites do before one can be truly called a black mage?”

  “Not in the same formal way. Not in Spidlar. Two black mages have to agree, but if another black objects, at least two more blacks have to support the determination of the first two. I think it’s the same in Gallos, but there are so few blacks here that I’m not sure you could find four or five.”

  “I don’t know any. Uncle said there weren’t many here, and most were in Sarronnyn. He also mentioned you.” Beltur paused. “Won’t they notice the chaos around me?”

  “We all have chaos and order around us. If you keep working with order, by the time we get to Elparta, you may not be showing that much more chaos than some blacks. You’ll likely never be called the blackest of blacks, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  Athaal laughed softly. “Too much order can make a mage rigid in thought and act, just as you’ve seen how too much chaos can make a white mage far too destructive.”

  Beltur hadn’t thought of it in that way.

  “Now … while we’re waiting for dinner, you need to tell me about yourself. If you’re to pass as my apprentice, and for other reasons, I need to know more than you lived with your uncle. I’m not talking about magery, just what you remember about your family, where you grew up, who taught you your letters and numbers and the like.”

  That also made sense, even as the request made Beltur a little uneasy.

  “I’m not asking for deep personal secrets, just what any good acquaintance ought to know.”

  Somehow that helped, and Beltur began, “I’ve spent my whole life in Fenard. I don’t remember much about my mother except she had long blond hair, the same color as Uncle Kaerylt did, well … until his began to turn silver. I must have been six when she died. I don’t know how, except I got the impression it was some kind of flux. Neither Father nor my uncle would ever talk about it. I was only nine when my father died of a flux. My uncle said it was so bad that even the healer couldn’t save him. I don’t think the healer was Margrena, but I don’t recall…”

  Athaal just listened as Beltur talked.

  XVIII

  Beltur did not sleep well. When he woke, lying on the bench pad on the floor in Margrena’s small dwelling in the gray before dawn on fourday morning, he was again stiff … and worried. Was going to Elparta with an unknown black really a good idea? Yet with Wyath after him, what else could he do? If he went to Elparta, he would know someone, and he wouldn’t know anyone anywhere else. His uncle …

  Beltur swallowed at the thought of his uncle, even as he recalled how Kaerylt had said that Athaal was one of the better blacks, at least in terms of character.

  He dressed quickly and made his way to the kitchen, where he found Margrena already with pots suspended over the coals in the hearth. The fact that the healer had no stove was another indication that she was not all that well off.

  “Can I help?”

  “Just sit down at the table. Jessyla’s still sleeping. Or she was. Athaal went out to make sure that the wagon would be here at seventh glass.”

  “Wagon?” Beltur took a seat on one of the stools at the table.

  “Much as we like to see
Athaal, he came to buy certain goods that are hard to get in Elparta or much, much less expensive here. The wagon will carry them, and the two of you, to the River Gallos, where you’ll get on a flatboat that will carry you downstream to Elparta.”

  “He mentioned the flatboat, but not the wagon, last night. I thought we might be riding to the river.”

  “Hiring horses costs almost as much as buying them, and you know how much use a mage has for horses in a city. There are always wagons for hire to go to the river and back.”

  “What sort of goods?”

  “You’d have to ask him. Some things are for magery. Some he buys for others and makes a few coins on. The rest…” The healer shrugged.

  “Can I ask why you and Athaal are being so good to me?”

  “Because you have no one else, and it’s the right thing to do. Also, your uncle, in his gruff and sardonic way, was often helpful and kind to us. You also have great promise, and it would be a shame to see it wasted. You also have been appreciative and undemanding.”

  “Also,” added Athaal from the archway, “the loss of someone so talented would be a terrible waste.”

  “So talented? Me? A third-rate white?” If that.

  “That’s because you’re not really a white. Trying to be something you’re not always makes one weaker. As I told you last night, I don’t know what you’ll turn out to be, but you’re definitely not a pure white, or really any sort of strong white. Your shields are very strong, as strong as any I’ve seen, but they’re a dark gray that’s almost black.”

  Beltur wondered why Athaal hadn’t said that the day before. Because he was still deciding whether to help? “And you’d like it black?”

  Athaal shook his head. “It would be weaker, not stronger, if you tried to make it all black.”

  “Even Athaal’s shields aren’t pure black,” added Jessyla as she followed the black mage into the kitchen.

  “For someone who’s going to be a healer,” said Beltur in an amused tone, “you seem to know a lot about black magery.”

  As Athaal seated himself across the kitchen table from Beltur, Jessyla started to say something, then closed her mouth. Finally, she said, “I’m not strong enough to be a good mage. In handling order, I mean. I can see it as well as Athaal does, but I can’t make it do things, except little things.”

  “Oh…” Beltur immediately felt sorry for her. To be able to sense and understand order and chaos … and to able to do very little with it …

  “Don’t give me that look!” Jessyla snapped.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that … I do understand. I really do.”

  Abruptly, Jessyla turned and strode from the kitchen.

  “I didn’t mean…” stammered Beltur.

  “No,” said Margrena gently, “it’s obvious that you understood immediately … and completely. But she took that for pity, and she hates being pitied.”

  “That’s another reason why she has to be a healer, isn’t it?”

  From where she worked at the hearth Margrena nodded. “She is already more accomplished than I am in some ways. Healing is all about the mastery of small bits of order and chaos within a person. There are few mages who are also healers, and few healers ever become mages.” She set a pitcher on the table, then raised her voice. “Jessyla, we’re ready to eat.”

  Several moments later, the younger healer eased back into the kitchen, and seated herself, then looked at Beltur. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “I’m sorry also. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Now that we have that out of the way,” interjected Margrena cheerfully, “could we get on with breakfast so that Athaal and Beltur can eat before the wagon gets here?”

  Breakfast was hot porridge and hot bread, along with warm ham strips, left over from what Athaal had provided for dinner the evening before, along with a golden ale that was somewhat heavier than the amber Beltur usually preferred but far better than the dark brew of his uncle’s preference.

  Before all that long, Athaal led Beltur out toward a two-horse wagon that had pulled up outside, driven by a bearded man who looked to be about the same age as the mage. “Carmanos, this is my apprentice, Beltur. Beltur, Carmanos is one of the best teamsters in Gallos, and he actually prefers to work for a black mage.”

  Carmanos grinned. “Black mages pay fair. I never have to worry about being cheated. Also, don’t need to hire a guard or two.”

  After that brief introduction, Athaal and Beltur went to a small storeroom at the back of the house, one seemingly filled from floor to ceiling with items. From there they carried bundles wrapped in rags and other forms of well-worn cloth out to a waiting wagon. There were also baskets and small bales. Beltur carried one particularly heavy long roll, long enough almost to extend from one end of the wagon bed to the other. “What is this?”

  “That’s a carpet. It’s a design out of fashion here. I got it very cheaply. I know a trader who can sell it for a great deal more in Spidlaria.”

  “You trade as well as are a black mage?”

  “Just like your uncle, I need to make a living. Helping healers doesn’t pay well unless it’s for someone wealthy, and there aren’t that many people that well off in any town or city. So I do lots of things. We can talk about those on the way.”

  When the wagon was loaded, Athaal walked back to the stoop where Margrena and Jessyla stood.

  Beltur hurried after him, but didn’t hear Athaal’s first words to the healer.

  “… a good four days to the river. If I hear anything, I’ll send a message back with Carmanos. Promise me you won’t stay here much longer.”

  “We’ll do what we must, Athaal, just as you do.”

  “I know.” The black mage offered a rueful chuckle. “That’s what worries me.”

  “Just get the two of you to Elparta.”

  Athaal nodded.

  Beltur stepped up and said, “I can’t thank you enough for everything. I just wish I could give you something or do something in return.”

  “You can,” replied Margrena. “Just help Athaal and help others when you can.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. Both of you take care,” said Margrena warmly.

  “Beltur,” added Jessyla, “listen to Athaal. Don’t be stubborn.”

  Beltur grinned at her. “With you telling me that, I wouldn’t dare.”

  Athaal gave a cough that Beltur suspected was a muffled laugh, then said, “We need to be on our way.”

  As the two walked from the doorway of the small dwelling out to the wagon, Beltur offered, “If it would be better, I could just sit in the back of the wagon under a concealment.”

  “What if Wyath posts white mages at all the gates?” countered Athaal, stopping immediately, as if he didn’t wish Carmanos to hear. “Last night you told me that only one would likely recognize you, if he is still alive. Any white mage would sense a concealment. That concealment would identify you immediately. If it looks like there is a white mage at the north gate, I’ll shift some free order over you. It won’t last long, but it should hold up enough. Any white mage strong enough to pose a problem is going to have difficulty probing beneath an order cover. That’s if he even thinks it’s necessary. Also, most whites would think you a black, possibly what they would call a corrupt black, because your inner being is largely black.”

  “It is? Uncle never said anything about that.”

  “How could he? He wanted you to be white.”

  “But how did he believe I was a white if there’s so much order there?”

  “We all must have both order and chaos within us to survive. Surely, you have sensed that.”

  Ashamed as Beltur was to admit that he’d never probed or observed other mages that closely, he said nothing, just listened as Athaal went on. “Whites are not all chaos, and blacks are not all order. Also, it’s harder for whites to delve into order, just as it is harder for blacks to delve into chaos.” After an instant of silen
ce, he said, “We do need to go. We can talk about this later.” He motioned to the wagon bed. “There’s a space there for you behind the seat. Once we’re on the road outside of Fenard, we’ll be doing a fair amount of walking. That makes it easier on the horses.”

  Beltur climbed up and sat on a narrow board seat, against the side of the wagon roughly behind Athaal. He had the feeling that walking might be more comfortable. He could only hope that if there happened to be a white mage at the north gate, it wasn’t Sydon. He couldn’t explain why, but he had the feeling that Sydon was alive and that Wyath had “summoned” him to keep him safe.

  Yet Sydon had clearly been surprised. Or did Wyath think he could bring Sydon to support him? There was so much Beltur didn’t know. And so much you may never know.

  Carmanos flicked the leads lightly, and the wagon began to move. He turned to Athaal. “What will the weather be like?”

  “What is the weather always like in harvest? There are no clouds. So we will not see rain today, and not tomorrow. What I can tell you is what you can see.”

  “I see today. You see tomorrow,” replied the teamster with a laugh.

  Beltur had heard that some black mages could predict the weather and that some could even change it. Was Athaal one of those? He decided not to ask, not for the moment.

  Not quite a half glass later, they neared the inner gate on the north side of Fenard. Despite the difficulty of sensing with all the buildings and structures, Beltur could sense that there was a white mage posted there, something he had never seen before in the city. That alone was enough to worry him, but as they neared the gate, he could tell that the mage was only moderately powerful—and not Sydon.

  Carmanos followed another cart that the pair of guards waved through. Behind them, on a seat mounted on a tall framework shaded by a small awning, sat a black-haired white mage whom Beltur had never seen before.

  “Stop the wagon!” called out the white.

  “They do this all the time with me,” murmured Athaal.

  From what Beltur could sense, Athaal was telling the truth, and Beltur knew that lies disturbed blacks more than they did most whites.