L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

There were trees, tall and green, and open areas of grass, also green at a time of year when most grass in Nordla was brown. The buildings and dwellings were set in their own greenery, and placed much farther apart than in Brysta, spreading the city out and giving a feeling of spaciousness.

Kharl looked at the open area, a rectangular paved square, separating the piers from the warehouses and buildings, then picked the widest-looking boulevard and walked toward it, his staff in hand. He stopped at the corner where it intersected the square and walked toward a man in a black-and-tan uniform, a patroller, from what Bemyr had said. “Could you help me? I’m looking for the Brethren.”

“All of Nylan’s got Brethren. Any ones special?” The man’s accent was so clipped it took Kharl several moments to piece together what the fellow had actually said.

“The ones…the place that sends people to other lands…”

“Where they train the dangergelders, you mean? Up the hill, almost three kays, and there’s a building on the left, with a green triangle on a stone marker outside. That’s the place. Only one with the green triangle.”

“Thank you.”

The patroller nodded in response.

As he continued uphill, Kharl noted something else. Almost all the buildings were but one story, and most of those near the harbor looked newish, certainly not more than a generation old, and some more recently constructed than that. Yet the port had a feeling of being much older.

He had walked no more than a block when he realized that several passersby and others in the street had taken a quick glance at him and the staff, and looked away. No one said anything, but they definitely looked at him strangely. Because of his clothing, not that of a typical sailor? Or the staff? Or both?

He was breathing harder by the time he reached his destination, nearly a glass later. The structure was more than just a building. From what he could tell, looking over the low stone wall at the green grass and neatly trimmed hedges and well-kept flowers, he was looking at an estate.

Finally, he stepped through the two black stone pillars that served as gateposts, although there was no actual gate, and made his way to the covered porch and the doorway beyond. After a momentary hesitation, he rapped on the door.

Shortly, the door opened, and a young woman stood there. She wore gray all over, except for a shimmering black scarf and a silver pin on the collar of her tunic. The pin was a lightning bolt crossed with a staff. “Might I help you?” Again, the accent was strange, but understandable.

“I hope so,” Kharl said. “This staff…it’s not mine…I didn’t know what to do with it.”

For the first time, the woman, who had been studying the cooper intently enough to make Kharl uneasy, actually looked at the staff. She frowned, briefly. “If you would come in, I think you should see Magister Trelyn.” She held the black oak door open wider.

Kharl took the invitation and stepped inside, finding himself in an upper foyer, separated from the lower one by three black stone steps that ran the width of the foyer.

“There are benches below…if you would like to rest…?”

Kharl stepped down to the lower level and the benches set almost against each wall. His eyes were caught by a painting hanging over one of the benches. The woman portrayed wore black, and her hair was brown. Her eyes were black, and somehow very alive. She didn’t look like anyone Kharl knew, yet she reminded him of Jenevra, the blackstaffer.

He studied the walls, black oak panels set between heavy black oak timbers, and the floor, also of the black slate. Only the ceiling was light, a white plaster tinged bluish gray. There were three doors that led into other parts of the building. Two were closed, and the third was just ajar.

Kharl could hear voices.

“…doesn’t look like a dangergelder…accent…but the staff…it’s not corrupted…more ordered than it should be…”

“…just have to see…”

Kharl turned and watched as the woman and a man dressed in dark, dark gray appeared. His hair was silvered, but his face was that of a younger man. Kharl had the feeling that he was older than he looked. He wore black boots, well polished. Like the woman, he wore a silver collar pin, but his looked like a sprig of a plant crossed with a staff. The cooper also realized something else. Just as the wizard in Brysta had been surrounded by a whitish fog that Kharl had sensed more than felt, this man was surrounded by a blackness, a darkness, but the darkness didn’t feel cold or evil. Instead, it felt almost warm…solid, like well-made tight cooperage.

“I’m Magister Trelyn.” The magister smiled. “How could I help you?”

“The staff,” Kharl said. “It’s not mine. It belonged to a blackstaffer named Jenevra. I thought I should return it.”

Trelyn frowned. “Could you tell me what happened to this blackstaffer, and where it happened?”

“Her name was Jenevra, and she was from Recluce. She came to Brysta, she said, because she had to take a trip to learn something. She was attacked and beaten badly, and I took her into my shop.” Kharl shrugged helplessly. “She was getting better, and was almost well. Then someone set a fire next door, and while I was helping fight it…she was killed. The justicers said my consort did it, and they hung her, but she was innocent.”

“You left Brysta just to return this?”

Kharl laughed, almost harshly. “No. I left Brysta because, after they flogged me, and increased my tariffs so much that I could not pay them, someone murdered my neighbor, who was the only one who stood up for me against Lord West and his son. I went into hiding until I could get on a ship away from Nordla. The ship ported here, and I thought I should return the staff.”

“Has it been the cause of your ill fortune?”

“No. I can’t say it has. It wasn’t mine. I had barely touched it when everything began to go wrong. I had to use it to save myself and someone else.”

The magister nodded more. “Might I see it?”

Kharl might have balked at others touching it, although he could not have said why, but he readily handed it to the older magister. “Here.”

Trelyn ran his fingers over the wood and the black iron, his eyes almost closed. After several moments, his eyes opened wide, and he studied Kharl intently. Then he handed the staff back to Kharl.

“It’s not mine,” Kharl said.

“It may have belonged to Jenevra, and we are sad to hear what happened to her, but it is now yours. It would be useless to anyone else, and it would have to be destroyed. That would not be good for you, either.”

“Not good for me?” Kharl didn’t want it destroyed, but it had not been his. “But…I’m just a cooper…”

Trelyn smiled, an expression almost sad. “One of the hardest tasks in life is to discover that we are more than we think we are. Whether you can discover truly what you are…that I cannot say, but you are more than a cooper.”

Kharl smiled ruefully. “Always be a cooper, I think. Headed to Austra…in time.”

“I did not say you were not a cooper,” Trelyn said quietly, “but that you are, or could be…should be…more than that. If you have the courage to look into yourself. You have a great affinity for order, and for instilling order.”

The words made Kharl uncomfortable, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t stay too long. My ship will be sailing.”

“Not that soon,” Trelyn observed.

“No,” Kharl admitted.

“Were you younger and raised on Recluce, you might have been an engineer or an order-master. Even so…are people pleased with your barrels?”

“Always have been, those that buy ’em. Some don’t, though.”