L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“Because it’s better for us, and better for you. We’ll explain afterward.”

Kharl nodded.

“It’s easier if we touch you. Do you mind?”

“As long as you don’t jab,” Kharl said dryly.

Their touch was so light that the carpenter almost did not feel either of their hands, hers on his wrist, and Justen’s on the back of his neck. What he did feel was a golden warm darkness flowing into his chest, then an easing of a tightness that he had not even realized was there.

The two lifted their hands from Kharl.

“Your own order can finish the healing, and that will take time,” Dayala said. “Try not to injure yourself for the next eightdays.”

Kharl frowned.

“You can sense order and chaos, can you not?” the woman asked.

Kharl looked to her, then to Justen.

“It could be that you haven’t recognized them that way,” Justen went on. “Sometimes, when you see a person, is there a whitish fog or mist around them, one that others don’t see? Or a darkness? The white means that someone is using chaos, the dark that he or she is using order…”

“Like you do?” asked Kharl.

“I’m somewhere between a druid and a gray mage,” admitted the druid. “You seem drawn more directly to order. You work with both wood and iron, do you not?”

“I was a cooper.”

The druid nodded. “You must have been very good, and I daresay that the better you got, the poorer your business became and the more unseen enemies that you gained.”

“Something like that.” Kharl had the feeling that the other could see inside his head, and his feelings. “What do you want with me?”

“Dayala and I don’t want anything from you or with you. She feels that you are an ordered soul who could do much good wherever you go. It’s obvious that you don’t quite understand what has happened to you. Not totally, anyway. It’s simple enough. You want order and what you’d call truth in your life, and you try to create it. Most people have trouble with that kind of directness, and because you don’t understand your power, you haven’t yet figured out how to be direct and ordered with yourself without unintentionally imposing that order on others.”

Kharl was still wary, but he could sense none of the white chaos about the druid. What chaos the druid had was bounded in strips of golden black, or perhaps they were wound together. “Most times when I’ve tried to do the right thing, in recent years, it has not gone well…”

“It is often that way when one such as you discovers himself,” Dayala said. “You must try to learn more about who you are and what you can do…”

“You also need to understand,” Justen added, his tone sardonic, “that order, fairness, and justice, all those things you value, generally are less well regarded than gold, coins, and possessions by most people, and especially by those in power.”

“How do you know so much about me?” asked Kharl.

“It is written within you,” answered Dayala. “Your spirit holds the honest darkness of order, and your thoughts the power of chaos. Your back and your ribs bear witness to the cruelty of others. Your captain is a good man, and he thinks well of you.”

“But the sea is not your home,” added Justen, “although it can help you find where you belong.”

“Where might that be?”

Justen laughed. “That’s up to you. But…if you choose to leave where you were born, you will need to return there before you depart to make a new home. Otherwise, both will war within you.”

Dayala frowned.

“Did I say something wrong? Again?” asked Justen.

Kharl looked from Justen to Dayala.

“In time,” she said, “when you are sure, return home, and do what you must do. Do it with care, and with thought, and not with hatred. Hatred will destroy you.”

The two druids looked at each other and nodded, then stepped away.

Kharl felt so dazed that he just watched for a moment, then started to follow them.

From the ladder she was descending, Dayala looked at Kharl. “We all must find ourselves by ourselves. Only after that can we find others.”

Kharl stopped, then waited a time before descending and walking back to the quarterdeck.

Furwyl appeared. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Surprised, a little dazed.” Kharl shook his head. “They did something to my ribs…took away most of the pain.”

The first smiled, wryly. “Lucky man. Most folks they leave alone. Only heard of them healing a few. All of ’em lived to a healthy old age.” He paused. “Good omen for the rest of the voyage.”

It might be, but was it a good omen for Kharl? The idea of having to return to Brysta-for any reason-wasn’t exactly appealing. Not at all.

The next trading leg-from Diehl to Southport-was the longest yet between Candarian ports, taking seven days, partly because of the tacking required, and because Hagen used the Seastag ’s engine sparingly to avoid burning any more coal than he had to. It was also busier for Kharl and Tarkyn, with all the rigging repairs necessitated by the Gallosian cannon, repairs that they had put off because of the rough seas between Ruzor and Diehl and had not finished in Diehl.

The Seastag neared the outer edge of Southport harbor in midmorning, under harbor rigging and with the paddle wheels providing a good portion of the ship’s headway in the light quartering breeze. Kharl stood on the foredeck, enjoying the luxury of not having to be a part of the winch or deck crew and looking out across the blue waters of the harbor toward the dwellings scattered on the hillside above the harbor, white structures set amid the greenery. While the buildings of Southport looked far more recently constructed than any of the Candarian ports where the Seastag had so far docked, the port had a very different feeling-at least to Kharl. Was that because he was finally feeling healed?

Kharl couldn’t help but frown as Hagen brought the Seastag past the outer breakwater, a long rampart of white stone stacked together, but not mortared or joined. Cut stones, he realized, but stones later broken, then piled to form the breakwater. Or had the breakwater once been a white stone wall against the Eastern Ocean, a wall broken by time-or cannon? Or the remnants of something else piled into the offshore waters?

Tarkyn stepped up beside Kharl. “Good to be in a warmer port. Not so gray and chill here. Not too hot, either, not like Swartheld.”

“Is all of Hamor hot all the time?”

“Some of it’s just warm. Mostly, it’s hot.” Tarkyn snorted. “Atla’s the worst. Like standing between a pair of coal stoves. Happy we’re not going there this voyage.”

Kharl saw four long piers, two without ships tied at them. He didn’t see a pilot boat, but the Seastag continued toward an empty pier. “How does he know which pier? Or does it matter?”

“In Southport? It matters. The Marshal’s Arms’ll make you move your vessel if you’re three rods off center in your berth.” Tarkyn pointed. “See the white banner with the green square? And the flag with the number one? Tells the captain he’s got the first berth on that pier.”

The paddle wheels slowed as the Seastag neared the designated pier, where two line-handlers waited.

“Forward line!” ordered Bemyr. “Aft line.”

Once the lines were secured to the white bollards, the paddle wheels thwupped to a halt, and the deck crew walked the Seastag in toward the pier.

“Double up! Make it lively!” ordered Bemyr.

The Seastag was soon snug against the fenders that cushioned her planks from the pier, a long solid structure entirely of white stone, all of the same shade, but with stones of differing lengths and thicknesses. Kharl could also sense something odd about the way the pier felt, as though it were ancient. He looked to Tarkyn, standing beside him. “What do you know about Southport?”