L. Modesitt - Ordermaster

Kharl wasn’t looking forward to another audience, but he could see the reasons for Hagen’s request-or command. “When will these audiences be?”

“An eightday or so from now. It will take Lord Azeolis some time to reach Valmurl, and somewhat longer for my scouts to report. In the meantime, enjoy your food.” Hagen smiled.

Kharl returned the smile. He could use the time to recover more fully-and the lamb was excellent.

On sixday and sevenday, Kharl did little but rest, eat, sleep-and reflect. Trying to read hurt his eyes too much. After two days, the torrential rain had subsided into gray mist and fog that matched Kharl’s melancholy. He told himself that he shouldn’t feel that way. He’d helped put down a rebellion that would have left Austra in far worse shape. He’d stopped-for the time, anyway-the Emperor of Hamor from taking the first steps to subdue Austra, and he’d preserved his own lands and future, lands he would never have dreamed of having a year before. He’d bested some of the most powerful white wizards seen outside of Hamor in years. Weren’t those worthy accomplishments?

Yet, with each accomplishment, he felt more distant from those around him. The guards stepped back and stiffened. Some people who once smiled bowed thoughtfully. Others stepped into side corridors, as if they had errands elsewhere.

He eased himself out of the chair in his sitting room and turned to facethe window, looking out into the gray afternoon. He could still see the face of the white sorceress, and hear her single word of protest, as if what he had done was not supposed to have happened.

Was Lyras right? Certainly, the older mage had believed he was telling the truth. That Kharl had sensed. But … how could that be? How could a former cooper, who had not even studied magery, have gained that much power?

Kharl laughed softly. He had not gained that much power. He had mastered one or two abilities well enough to turn chaos-power against its users. At the risk of blinding himself, he could release some chaos by loosening order bonds, and he could shield himself and a small group. That was power, but it was limited power.

Lyras disliked using power. According to legend, the mage who had brought down Fairven had survived and vanished. Creslin had seldom used his powers in later years. Kharl himself worried about what might happen if he faced more white wizards. At some point, did a black mage become strong enough that the greatest bar to his use of power was his understanding of what that power could do?

At the same time, Kharl had seen enough to know that most people respected only power. Was that why power so easily came to be abused, reflected the mage, and why the great mages of the past had vanished, or become recluses? He paused. Did the very name of Recluce signify something like that? Was that why it had a council, rather than a ruler, because it had been created by Creslin, supposedly the greatest air mage of all time? Because shared power was less easily abused?

Kharl turned away from the window, closing his eyes to relieve them, his thoughts still swirling within his skull.

Not until eightday did the weather clear fully, and by then Kharl was able to see more distinctly, and the frequency of the sight-daggers knifing into his skull had diminished, although each jab felt as painful as any of those he had endured earlier. He had not seen Hagen, and he knew few withinthe Great House, and those he did not know were both polite, friendly-and distant. That was to be expected, he had come to understand.

Late on eightday afternoon, Kharl strolled through the formal gardens on the south side of the main building, gardens enclosed by a four-cubit-high redstone wall. Despite the wall, the winds and rains had taken their toll on the flowers and the more delicate shrubs. Stems and leaves littered the white gravel pathway. Not a single one of the maroon bellflower stems remained erect, all flattened before the buds had opened.

He stopped before a bed of early pink roses. Beneath the plants was a carpet of petals, still damp from the rain. A single bloom remained largely intact, if with a disheveled appearance, and it drooped on a lower branch, slightly sheltered. Kharl could smell but the faintest scent.

He studied the bedraggled pink rose, still waterlogged. It might have opened into a perfect blossom, once, but the wind and rain of the previous days had put a stop to that. Even so, the rosebushes held the faintest of black auras, the same order that had infused the red pear orchard. He stood on the path, sensing that particular rosebush. He shifted his weight, and the white gravel under his boots crunched.

He had been able to sense the order and chaos within people for some time, an ability that had begun almost the moment he had taken Jenevra’s black staff and fled from Egen’s Watch. The feeling for other aspects of living order-he had become aware of that only recently, and most dramatically, when he had drained the pear orchard of its life order to stop the white wizard supporting Hensolas.

At a cough coming from his left, Kharl straightened and turned.

Hagen stood there.

“Lord-chancellor.”

“Ser mage.” Hagen inclined his head, somberly. “How do you feel?”

“Better, each day.″

“That’s good. Lord Ghrant has set the first audience for fiveday. For Lord Deroh.”

Kharl remembered Hagen mentioning Deroh, but he didn’t recall anything about the lord.

“His estates are midway between Dykaru and Valmurl. He didn′t raise men or arms for the rebels, but he did send golds to Hensolas. He has pleaded that he had to do that in order to keep from having his lands ravaged.”

“It sounds like his lands were in no immediate danger,” Kharl observed.

“I doubt they were. I’d wager a few of the audiences will be like that. You will be there, of course.”

“This time, I’ll whisper what I think to you.”

A sardonic grin crossed Hagen’s face. “I had already suggested that to Lord Ghrant. He agreed most readily.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“No. It’s probably better if you don’t know about the backgrounds of any of the lords who will be appearing.”

“You don’t sound like their backgrounds speak well for them.”

“For them, perhaps, but not for their support of Lord Ghrant.” Hagen shook his head. “I should not even have said that. The less said the better.” After a moment, he looked to the battered roses and the single remaining bloom. “The gardens will be spectacular later in the year after so much early rain.”

“If there isn’t too much more rain,” Kharl replied cautiously. With all the flattened plants and stems he had seen, he had his doubts even if the summer days to come were temperate.

“Lyras said that there wouldn’t be. Not unless you have to deal with more white wizards. That appears unlikely.” Hagen laughed sardonically, a trace more bitterness in the sound than usual, even recently.

“Why do you say that?”

“Lord Ghrant received a message from a Lord Fynarak.”

From the sound of the name, Kharl suspected that the lord was Hamorian. “What did it say?”

“It was vaguely worded, something to the effect that he was conveying the solicitude of the emperor about the internal difficulties that Lord Ghrant had recently faced, but congratulating him on his fortitude and resourcefulness in dealing with the rebel lords. This Lord Fynarak went on to say that the emperor was committed to measures that would ensure peace between Austra and Hamor.”

Kharl smiled, somewhat faintly.

Hagen continued. “The message also conveyed the news that the ship taken by Lord Joharak and his assistant Fostak had apparently been lost at sea with all aboard perishing, and that, shortly, the emperor would name a new envoy to Austra, one who would be committed to ensuring warm and cordial relations.”